“Drone recon shows military and civilian casualties,” said someone from Intel.
“For Oba’s sake!” shouted the Legion point. “Of course we have casualties! A damned bird just went down in the middle of an exercise in civil demonstration. Our biggest problem will be if any of the protestors were killed on the ground. If that happens…”
“Pilot’s dead.” She said the words into the ether of the comm during a pause in the point’s rant. All discourse stopped for a few seconds. Then she added: “Not from the crash. Someone shot him.”
She’d watched it all through her scope.
Most of the frenzied protestors had looked to be there for the experience. Some had been trying to tear away souvenirs from the twisted and broken craft. Others showed compassion and shouted for aid and help. Not only for their own, but also for some of the marines. They squared off briefly, warring among themselves, some of the masked Soshies pushing others. Protectors trying to stave off wolves who wanted nothing more than to kick a marine while down.
The pilot had survived the crash, and Reaper Actual had looked on as a pair of Soshies helped him from the SLIC’s broken canopy, his arms around their shoulders. It was an endearing scene that hinted that maybe the Republic wasn’t as fractured as the media might lead you to believe.
And then a pro walked up, produced a small Python blaster—a holdout version perfect for concealing on an ankle—and blew the pilot’s brains out.
The sudden blaster fire had sent several rioters fleeing. Those who stayed behind seemed to mix well with the pros. There for blood. A few ran up and kicked the pilot’s corpse, but they were awkward, unpracticed kicks. As though they understood the concept of physical activity but lacked the ability to execute.
“I still have a sight picture on the shooter,” she continued.
“Do not engage!” shouted the point. “Repeat, do not return fire. All elements, hold your fire.”
Reaper Actual watched as the co-pilot, the weapons system operator for the gunship SLIC, was hauled from the aft cargo deck. She was unconscious, and one arm was badly mangled. Reaper Actual scanned the waiting, throbbing crowd surrounding the wreck. The merciful ones, the sane ones… they were gone now. Gone, or waiting far in the back. Away from their peers whose feet had run swiftly toward blood and violence.
Away from the shooter.
As he pressed forward toward the unconscious weapons system operator—probably some second lieutenant from the aviation branch serving to get money for college—Reaper Actual made up her mind, right then and there, that she’d pull the trigger on the N-18 if the pro made a move to repeat his murder of the pilot. Maybe she could save the shavetail’s life. Maybe.
“What’s your sitrep?” asked Oh-Two from the flight deck. “I’m getting the order to return to base. Services no longer needed, Amanda.”
“I’m watchin’ him,” she grunted.
“The guy?”
“The guy who shot the pilot, yeah. He’s waiting for something. Not close enough to shoot her yet, but he’s watching her.”
Oh-Two knew what would happen next. And he didn’t like it. He wasn’t a hero. Just a guy who’d once been a boy who stood at the edge of a star port gripping a mesh wire fence just to get close to the ships out there on the pads. All he’d ever wanted to do was fly. No, he wasn’t a hero, but he knew the difference between right and wrong. So he held station and ignored the order to return to base.
Reaper Actual followed the shooter’s eyes to the approaching unit. That was the only word she could think of to describe the group that was moving in through the crowd, pushing through everyone. Violently. Moving fast and hard to reach the weapons officer being dragged down off the wreck of Outlaw Nine.
“Got something…” she said.
“What is it?” asked Oh-Two. His voice was nervous and harsh. A little desperate to not have to do the right heroic thing for too much longer. He was thirsty and barking at her because this was about to get bad and he knew it. He took his hand off the lift collective and quickly wiped the sweat there onto his flight suit.
“Group of pros. Moving in quickly. Organized and looking to extract.”
“How do you know they’re pros?”
She didn’t reply for a long second as she watched them through her scope. They moved together, watching all the angles. They had weapons held low—maybe subcompact blasters, but the crowd was getting in the way and preventing her scope from tagging them for identification. The men moved like they had military training. Hence the notion of them being a unit.
“They’re operators. Mercs or something. Maybe MCR? Sense of urgency and on a mission. Not losing their sket like all the kids around them. They’re up to something, and they mean to get it done.”
She continued to watch the men through the N-18’s scope.
“Uh… Command, this is Reaper Oh-Two,” said the pilot over the comm. “Actual says she’s got something funny going down at the crash site, over.”
The shotcaller came back instantly. “Define funny, Oh-Two.”
“Says she thinks there are some bad actors mixed in with the crowd and trying to extract one of the crew. Is the Legion in the mix?”
“Bad actors” was marine code for professional paramilitary types acting on behalf of the rioters or an unidentified foreign source.
There was a long pause.
“Legion QRF is inbound to the crash site. You should have traffic at your two o’clock. The shuttle is at altitude two thousand feet heading two seven zero.”
Oh-Two tracked the inbound
