2344 Hours; Zone Time, October 31, 2008
The fourth of the Ospreys boomed past the top of the high rise. Climbing steeply, its engine pods swiveled to horizontal flight mode. Anti-IR flares rained down in its wake, underlighting the ground smog of tear gas and chemical smoke.
Sweat burned hot and slick under Stone Quillain’s chemical warfare hood, and he urgently wished he could perform the simple act of swiping his arm across his face.
The Barrett Big Fifty had fallen silent, the sniper team manning it surrounded
by a half-circle of smoking shell casings. “We’ve learned ’em, Captain,” the spotter reported. “They’re keeping their heads down.”
“Keep ’em there. When they start pullin’ the Embassy garrison out, we’re goin’ to lose the suppression fire from ground level.”
There was a sudden shock against the soles of his combat boots and the hollow thud of a nearby contained explosion.
“We got activity!” The yell came from one of the cover team at the hotel’s roof access. A couple of protracted bursts of M-8 carbine fire followed.
“Maintain the cover!” Quillain yelled over his shoulder to the snipers as he cut back across the roof to the top of the stairwell. A thin haze of explosives smoke leaked out of the stair house. The Beret guards were kneeling on either side of the open door, aiming down into the darkness.
“What’s happenin’?” Quillain demanded, dropping down beside the team leader.
“Somebody just yanked open the fire door at the bottom of the well. We had it
wired – whoever it was got a Claymore right in the face.”
It had only been a matter of time before the Indonesians figured out what was going on over their heads.
Stone took a cautious look down the well. Through his night vision visor he could make out a blast-buckled fire door and what appeared to be a combat boot. The foot in it was no longer attached to a leg.
Over the whine of the idling Little Bird, Quillain caught the sound of orders being shouted on the floor below.
Stone unhooked an M-67 fragmentation grenade from his MOLLE harness and gestured the Beret to stand back. Expertly gauging the angle of the partially open door at the bottom of the stairwell, he pulled the pin. Allowing the safety lever to flick away, Stone hurled the grenade down the well with all of his considerable strength. The metal sphere whanged off the door, skittering and bouncing down an unseen corridor. There was another shock against his boot soles and Stone ducked back as shrapnel ricocheted up the well.
“We should be able to keep ’em off the roof, sir,” the Beret commented.
“Yeah,” his partner added. “As long as they don’t lug explosives up here and blow the whole roof out from under us.”
The United States Embassy, Jakarta
2346 Hours; Zone Time, October 31, 2008
The last Osprey lifted off from the Embassy helipad carrying the final handful of civilian refugees. No one remained within the compound walls save for the security details and the Intelligence unit, fewer than seventy-five people in all.
The civilians were all outbound for the RIF fleet and, eventually, for Australia. The Embassy garrison was to be routed to a different, much closer destination.
Crouching down behind the firing parapet on the compound wall, Christine Rendino
tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke into her lip mike. “Star Child, Star Child, this is Point Man! The last of the civvies are clear! We’re ready for flight two.”
“The first of flight two is inbound, Chris.” Amanda’s calm reply was as steadying as a drink of cool water. “We’re on the downside now. We’ll have you out of there on the next bird.”
Christine forced a swallow down her dry throat. “Negative. I’m … I’m on the last ship.”
Amanda’s voice lifted slightly. “Chris, the Intelligence detail is the next out.”
“I know, Boss Ma’am. But I’m senior officer present. This is my watch. I go out with the last flight.”
There was a hesitation at the far end of the circuit. “Acknowledged. Carry on, Commander.”
“Thanks. Fa’sure I hope you know this is what you get for being such a damn good role model.”
A rueful chuckle came back. “Thank you for the compliment. Take care, Chris.”
With its side hatches open and landing gear extended, the first of the Shenandoah’s SPEED Hawks dipped down into Merdeka Square. Side-slipping past the MONAS spire, it swept over the Embassy wall, slewed in line with its escape route and settled onto the helipad. The posed members of the Intelligence detail scrambled aboard and the SPEED Hawk was on its way out.
“First and second squads, off the wall!” the FAST Platoon leader yelled over the tactical channel. “Chalk up to lift out!”
The volume of fire streaming from the embassy shrank and the first stars
glittered through the thinning smoke screen.
Drone Control Center, USS Shenandoah
2345 Hours; Zone Time, October 31, 2008
Over half of the Eagle Eye and Hell Eye control stations had been powered down. The “dead” drone pilots, their virtual reality helmets tucked under their arms, loitered in the control bay, studying the repeater screens of their fellows still in the fight, critiquing them under their breath.
“Sandy’s sure got the moves with that Eagle Eye of hers.”
“Yeah, we gotta get her flyin’ a Hell Eye. She’d kick ass.”
“What we gotta get is a way to carry more goddamn ammo. This two rail limitation
sucks!”
“You’re too frickin’ impatient, Tyrone. You got to learn to wait for the fat shots, man!”
These young enlisted SOs were the first generation of the warbot warrior. Although they had no realization of it, any more than the first aviators, tankers or submariners, they were building a database and a set of traditions for a whole new way of warfare.
Then, at one of the still active control stations, an operator stiffened, looking “down” over Jakarta. “I have hostiles! Major hostiles! Glodok sector!”
