SNAFU: Hunters

A network of Dragonflies gave Matt real-time data of the Mako Kings’s turf, the quad-copter drones blanketing the area with sonar, visual, and infrared surveillance. Coupled with his own infrared and ultraviolet vision, the HUD removed the fog of war and replaced it with stark, robotic clarity. The overlay projected an image that saw through brick walls and even assessed the likelihood that any particular person was a target or a civilian.

Pointy, as Conor had taken to calling him, had left a blood trail from the wreckage of Matt’s rented Impala through the back alleys to an abandoned shopping plaza now known as ‘Spanish City’, a lawless haven for derelicts, junkies and people who didn’t want to be found. A wall of wrecked vehicles surrounded the parking lot and included a crude gate made out of the burned-out carcass of a double-decker bus rigged to an old crane.

The reek of unwashed bodies, burning garbage, and urine combined into something not unlike ammonia-soaked charred bananas left to rot in the sun. Matt couldn’t imagine what it smelled like in the midday heat and humidity.

Dozens of people wandered the asphalt, or warmed themselves at fires set in rusted steel drums. Junkies lay on the ground, or on each other, sharing needles and pills and body heat in the midnight chill. Sentries wandered the rooftops, armed with long rifles and binoculars that may or may not be night-vision capable.

Too many civilians. A squad of Augs could make mincemeat of the hostiles without the use of heavy ordnance, but the civilians would pay a heavy toll. Besides, if Jade wasn’t involved it wasn’t their purview, and while some Jade dealers found their way to Spanish City it was not, according to their intel, a pipeline worthy of ICAP’s attention. Yet.

Karle had operational control – former rank meant nothing in ICAP – but ultimately the plan came from Washington. Washington, Karle, and Flynn would storm the gates, loud and proud, with flash-bangs and drone support to crack a hole in the wall. As the civilians ran and the guards engaged, Rowley, Platt, and al-Azwar would eliminate Pointy. Conor had complained, citing “dibs” which Washington ignored, mollifying him with a chance at the fifth bonk the Dragonflies had pegged near the gate.

Mission parameters authorized deadly force for the bonks and anyone identified as a Mako King. Between the baby-blue bandannas and facial recognition, the quad copters had added eleven human-sized targets in addition to the two bonks. Matt’s HUD outlined them with double red triangles, the suspected civilians with orange triangles, and his own team with green circles. In the age of Jade, collateral damage had become a price of law enforcement, and the DHS hoped the joint UN/NATO strike force would bring so much firepower to bear that they could minimize or at least contain the destruction . . . but this somehow wasn’t a ‘military operation’.

Peace through superior bureaucracy.

The timer hit zero, and the bus-gate disintegrated in a roar, the fireball rising skyward as the drone banked toward home.

Screams. Panic. Weapons-fire pinging off the wreckage from jittery, untrained gangbangers wasting their ammo—and precious time reloading.

Pointy’s hulking form, bright yellow on the infrared, bolted from his mattress in the abandoned Macy’s sales floor, joined by several others. The huge blob raced through the open space toward the loading dock a hundred feet from their position.

Platt charged, screaming, before the bay door had opened. Matt opened his mouth to countermand, and closed it, angry. Platt came to a halt inches from the unmoving metal.

Pointy’s blob faded, then disappeared.

“What the hell?” Platt put his fist through the loading-dock’s side door, pivoted, and ripped it off its hinges. Staccato pops sounded from inside, and chips of cinderblock lashed into Platt’s face.

“Hold position!” Matt moved up, his HUD tracking for targets simultaneously on the Dragonfly feed and the helmet camera, the ‘Identify Friend or Foe’ lighting up at several weapon profiles sticking out from around pillars and decrepit, half-burned display cases.

He fired three times on approach, eschewing the Groucho technique he’d learned as a Tennessee police officer in favor of a thirty-mile-per-hour sprint and superhuman strength to keep the recoil-suppressing weapon aimed true. The fin-stabilized microgrenades auto-aimed toward the identified targets, skimming past the makeshift defilade and exploding downward and sideways. Men screamed. A pair of legs kicked out from behind a cracked marble pillar, the IFF fading from red to black as a pool of blood spread across the filthy tile.

He grunted as a round rocked his shoulder back, the gel under the dragon skin hardening to dissipate the energy before turning soft again. Behind him, al-Azwar’s NATO-issue REC7 chattered, spitting ceramic composite ‘bonk killer’ rounds with unerring accuracy.