The Last Good Man

Connections

Miles doesn’t like the idea of military companies. Private armies operating without legitimate authority are dangerous. Destabilizing. National armies have political and economic motivations to pursue peace, but private armies rely on a system of eternal war—and their rapid adoption of robotic weaponry only makes them more dangerous, more likely to engage.

Even so, even knowing that someone is paying Requisite Operations for the actions they’ve taken tonight, Miles is goddamn grateful to be out of that cell. Dano was right to say the maneuver with the NDA was coercion, but True was right too. It’s a damn small price to pay.

He jumps down to the sand, dragging Dano with him, just in case the Brazilian is thinking of lodging another protest. But Dano stays quiet. Persuaded? Not likely. Probably in sensory shock from the ongoing engine noise, the stinging sand, the reek of dust and exhaust fumes jammed into their desiccated nasal passages by the wind.

Rohan waves at them to get moving. “This way to Liberty Air, gentlemen! Best service in the region, but we operate on a tight schedule, so double-time it!” In his night camo, he is a soft-focus shadow warrior.

Miles shifts into a jog, following Rohan around the still-idling DF-21. The pavement is cold and harsh against his bare feet, the whipping sand no kinder. His skull vibrates from the roar of the H215’s engine as the transport helicopter’s main rotor turns menacingly overhead and he’s eager to get inside. It’s just a few steps to the dull red light spilling from the open door.

But Rohan holds up a hand for them to stop.

The other soldiers jammed with them in the back of the DF-21 exited as soon as the truck jerked to a hard stop, disappearing into darkness, but now Miles sees them again, shadowy uniforms limned in red light as they move in unison to board the helicopter. They carry Hussam’s body, still hooded and secured in a brown canvas bag. Rohan waits until they’re aboard, then gestures for his charges to follow.

The cabin is cold and only faintly illuminated by the red lights. Every surface, the air itself, vibrates with the rumbling engine. Dust shimmers and dances on the seats, on the floor, in the air, a soft-focus filter that blurs every boundary.

The cabin is configured with rows of canvas seats. There’s a pair of seats to the right of a narrow aisle and, in most of the rows, a single seat to the left. Near the door the single seats are missing, leaving an open area with cargo tie-downs. Hussam’s body has been laid out partly in that space, his legs blocking access to the rear aisle. Miles is stunned to see a soldier crouched over him, unzipping the body bag.

The hood hides the body’s face but the torso is revealed. It’s unclothed. There is thick black hair on the chest and arms; the red light gives the skin the color of old bronze.

Miles’s shock ramps up when he sees the body move. His heart jumps. He was sure Hussam was dead, but no. There’s no mistake. Hussam’s sinewy arms strain against the zip ties holding his wrists together and the Velcro restraints pinning his limbs to his body.

Rohan gestures Miles forward. A glance in that direction reveals a makeshift partition of casualty blankets that conceals the first pair of seats from the rest of the cabin. Dano and Ryan are settling into the seats behind it.

Miles feigns cooperation, moving a couple of steps, but he wants to know what’s going on with Hussam. So he lingers, watching as the black hood is yanked off. Nothing gentle about the way Hussam is being handled. His neck arches, his mouth opens wide as his bloody, bearded face gasps for air. A black elastic band covers his eyes. His nose is swollen. He flops onto his side, coughing and retching.

Miles stiffens as a hand squeezes his arm. “Get your flight helmet on, Dushane,” Rohan shouts over the engine noise. “And get strapped in.”

Roger that, he mouths. But he delays still, watching as Hussam’s naked body is hauled up and out of the bag. The man is limp, his head lolling. He’s manhandled into a seat at the back of the cabin. A blanket is draped over him, the seat harness clipped over it. He sags, blindfolded head drooping. A man edging in and out of consciousness.

Miles decides he’d better sit before Rohan gets annoyed. He takes the seat behind Dano, swapping the combat helmet he’s been wearing for a flight helmet. When he plugs it in, he finds himself party to a conversation.

A male voice, stern: “Road traffic approaching from the south at high speed, estimated four minutes out. Civilian traffic from the north, twelve minutes away.”

Miles hesitates. He knows that voice. It’s older now, raspy and scarred, and still, he remembers. He trained under that voice in Ranger School. Lincoln Han. So much has happened tonight that his mind has lost its capacity for surprise. He is a machine, taking in information. No room for anything else. Not yet.

He listens as another man speaks, impatient: “Let’s go, True. Get that gear aboard.”

“Working on it.”

True Brighton. Miles ponders her full name. It’s started to seem familiar, like Lincoln’s voice. Something he’s heard in the past. He’s sure she’s former army, though he can’t remember why he knows that. He aches for a tablet that will let him question the Cloud.

Movement outside the door. A young man, an Arab. Dressed as a civilian, though the MARC visor he’s wearing leaves Miles unconvinced. He comes in carrying a cargo net of supplies. Looks like gear stripped from the truck. True and the big soldier, Jameson, come in behind with more gear, which gets strapped to the cargo tie-downs.

Lincoln Han speaks again. “Go to work on the merchandise, Chris. I want him in shape to answer a few questions while he’s still in our possession.”

“I’m on it, Lincoln,” Chris snaps. Miles recognizes the impatient voice, the one who was pushing True to hurry. Now Chris’s tone communicates irritation—at the close oversight of command?

Been there, brother, Miles thinks.

The engine noise ramps up. A third male voice on the intercom, pilot or crew chief maybe: “Doors closing. Everyone take a seat.”

Miles looks up, to see True eyeing the empty seat beside him. She’s got a rangy build, bulked up by her armored vest, although in the dim light her uniform’s adaptive camouflage works to blur her boundaries. Even the skullcap that confines her thick hair is night camo, leaving only her face to focus on. She takes off her MARC visor.

The red light, he decides, does her no favors, deepening the shadows around her mouth. He is curious to know how old she is, though he’s not dumb enough to ask.

She drops her pack on the floor, unbuckles the flight helmet strapped to the empty seat, and flashes him a thumbs-up and a slight smile as she straps in beside him.

The helicopter lifts, swaying under the pressure of the buffeting wind. Out the window he glimpses the DF-21, headlights muted by dust, heading north again, no one at the wheel.

Once the transport is airborne, Tamara Thomas leans back in her chair in the ReqOps command post and allows herself a tired sigh. She’s worn out from the stress of shadowing the mission. But it’s almost done. Their preparation paid off. The equipment worked fine, and they got away with no casualties.

She waves off her two young assistants, telling them, “Take a break. Friday will let you know if we get busy again.”

“You should go too,” Lincoln says, not taking his eyes off the wall monitor.

“Not while Blackbird’s in the air.”

Tamara doesn’t anticipate problems with the autonomous helicopter but she wants to observe its behavior and correct any perturbations that might show up. She also wants to review an event that took place in the courtyard.

The photovoltaic boxes were an unknown going in. Tamara guessed they housed the components of a defensive swarm. True had come to the same conclusion, so Blackbird was instructed to take them out before the QRF went over the wall. Only a single component survived long enough to launch. True saw it. It targeted her—and that gave her MARC a chance to capture it on video—a streak of motion moving too fast for details to be perceived.

Tamara hunts down that scrap of video, replays it on a desk monitor, slowing it down, studying each frame.

None of the frames are clear, but she makes out a flattened diamond-shaped fuselage, and tilt rotors on long swept-back wings.

The design stirs a sense of recognition. She runs an image search, trying to identify the model, but finds no matches. She tries a relational search, looking for UAVs that share a design heritage. That produces several results, all based on an early kamikaze developed more than five years ago by the Chinese defense contractor Kai Yun Strategic Technologies. Back when Tamara’s colleague, Li Guiying, still worked for Kai Yun. It was possible, even likely, that Guiying had contributed to the design.

Tamara hisses softly, troubled at the way ideas travel and how they evolve. The Kai Yun device had a larger fuselage, and shorter wings set on ball joints. Its reported top speed didn’t come close to the device in the video—but it’s been five years.

Tamara considers sending the video segment to Guiying. She might be curious to see how the design has advanced. Tamara hesitates only because Guiying is sure to ask about the origin of the recording: where and when it was captured, under what circumstances, how the device performed, and if it was successful…

It came close to being successful.

Tamara shivers, frightened by what might have been. In an alternate timeline, where the PV boxes were hidden, the swarm might have survived to launch an attack. Under that scenario, the QRF could not have reacted fast enough to successfully defend themselves. They would have been overwhelmed.

She holds off on sending the video to Li Guiying.

Better to wait until after news of the raid goes public.