Hey guys, welcome to Chapter 11. (Not affiliated with Finger 11.) For future reference, this is the absolutely nastiest I'm willing to let the descriptions go to, but given the subject matter, there really wasn't a way around it. I don't think it's excessively lurid, though. Also, a meditation on the psychology of combat, which is, like, totes relevant to the ongoing plot.
I think I can wrap this up by Chapter 13, though I have been known to be off on my estimates. I don't know about you, but after almost a year of working on this, I'd like to be done with it and get to the next story. After all, there's grandiose plans and character arcs to execute once I get clear of Jaime's first freaking day on the job. Also, pretend I inserted the standard review beg here.
On with it!
---
Even through the ear muffs, Jaime heard the helicopter. It was a disconcerting sound melange, a steady whine from the twin turboshaft engines, the main rotor digging through the night sky and the instrument noises from the cockpit.
"Final approach," someone said through the earmuffs; Jaime suspected the pilot. "Interior going dark in three."
One, two, three, Jaime counted out for herself. The lights in the cabin went out, and her bionic eye switched to its night-vision mode. More sounds - hydraulics actuating panels, pushing the landing gear out and locking it in the downward position. The feeling of the whole machine tilting backward, a different pitch from the main rotor above. And finally, the thump of the helicopter touching solid ground and sinking a little into the shocks of its landing gear.
"Everybody ready?" Ginsburg asked.
"Check."
"Check."
"Check."
"...check," Jaime said. The noise of the twin turbines settled down quickly.
"Clear for egress," the pilot said.
The cabin door slid open; Calavera was the first out, being closest to the exit. Jaime watched him climb out and dart clear off the helicopter's danger zone, crouching well clear of the drooping rotor blades. Jordan was the next to jump and skedaddle; a tap on the shoulder from Ginsburg reminded Jaime to take off the earmuffs and unhook her seat harness. Sagabaen went next, and Jaime instinctively took the place at the exit. When he was clear, she ran, one hand on her head as if to push it down. By the time Ginsburg climbed out, the rotors had spun down enough for him to get to the rear of the helicopter, underneath the tail boom, and unlock the rear cargo hatch. The other soldiers walked back toward him. Jaime followed and wondered what the deal was.
Between Sagabaen and Jordan, three large hardshell cases were removed from the helicopter's rear. Some morbid streak in Jaime pegged them as just the right size to bury a twelve-year old in. Ginsburg unlocked them, swinging out the top and the front on hinges with several trays following their motion, like an absurdly oversized toolbox. The variety of military-grade equipment inside gave Jaime a slight headache, but after a moment their names were in her head. G36C carbines - she'd seen those before in the hands of Berkut soldiers. A Benelli M4 shotgun, the precise details of which Jaime was spared, MBAV tactical vests, AN/PRC-148 sets with laryngophone attachments, and -
"Sommers!" Ginsburg said; she whipped around to see him crouching next to one of the cases, handling several SIG P226 pistols and a worryingly large pile of things supposed to go with them. "Am I correct in assuming that you're not hiding a vest or a holster under that leather jacket?"
Wordlessly, Jaime dropped her Berkut bag, took off her jacket and grabbed one of the vests from Jordan; it was heavier than it looked, but she managed to slip it over her head. Her hands reached for the hidden adjustment straps all by themselves and pulled them taut in a single smooth movement. Ginsburg tossed her a smaller piece of gear. It was an L-shaped shell of stiff fabric with a long strap on one end and smaller fasteners on the other. The fasteners easily hooked into the lower "belt" of the tactical vest; the strap found its way around her right thigh.
"That's a drop holster," Ginsburg explained. The importance of this precise naming, if there was any, escaped Jaime. She simply nodded and transferred her own pistol into the holster, gaining a satisfying click sound from the retention mechanism. The headache was getting worse.
I'll sync you to the team's radios in a moment, Nathan said. You're spiking a little. Do you feel okay?
"Everything is under control," Jaime repeated.
"Hmm?" Ginsburg said.
Jaime's eyes focused on him, and after a moment as comfortable as a shower of boiling lead, she answered. "Office on the other line."
"Does that...hurt?" he asked with a distinct lack of confidence in his train of thought.
"No," Jaime said. "Doesn't hurt."
Ginsburg blinked silently. Then, just to prove that he could, he did it again.
"...comms on two-zero-six-niner," he announced loudly, "set for AES, second key."
Got it, Nathan said after a second. Come on, try it.
"Can you hear me?" Jaime whispered; the looks of the rest of the team confirmed that yes, they could hear her. Ginsburg gave her a belayed thumbs-up and then his eyes darted from her to the rest of the team. Jaime's headache receded slightly. There were now green, translucent diamond shapes hovering in her vision on top of the Berkut soldiers. At least it was a fairly subtle effect, not the sensory assault of the full augmented reality demonstration Nathan had given her earlier that day.
They gave her additional ammunition for the pistol. They offered her a rifle, which she turned down quickly. Then there were nods. They ran off, heading for the target, and Jaime followed. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
Becca.
---
In the hour since Jaime had left, Becca had made more of a dent in the sofa than in her investigation. In her defense, the couch's springs had long since lost all semblance of tension, turning the dominating piece of furniture in Jaime's living room into a poor man's beanbag. (Though at least it didn't smell like stale beer.) But the couch wasn't the problem - the lack of any evidence to sustain her suspicions was. No matter how hard Becca stared at the search engine results plastered over her netbook's screen, it was clear that she was looking for something that just wasn't there to find.
"Rebecca has to know," she said, though there was nobody around to hear it.
The voice of reason was grinding down her resolve to keep looking; even the strong hunch that she had seen part of the Bledsoe interview somewhere else was turning out to be one of those times where hunches were just wrong, a misfiring neuron here, a twisted association there. Pattern recognition running amok. Becca was fairly sure that this was the recipe for a conspiracy theory - take one obsessive weirdo, add disparate morsels of information and let simmer over a low heat.
Get it through your head. It's not there.
Becca yawned, and together with her headache, that was a strong enough argument for sleep. Becca closed the search result tabs in her browser, calling off the electronic bloodhounds one by one. The cursor hovered over the last tab's "close" button, waiting for her command. She tapped the touchpad, the tab closed, and just like that her evening disappeared in a puff of smoke.
"Bang," she said.
She tapped the netbook's power switch and put it down on the couch, where it duly sank a little into the upholstery. Her eyes hurt, and blinking didn't help much. God, only fifteen minutes from Midnight. This was officially way too damn late. She shambled into the apartment's bathroom and flicked on the lights. The room wasn't all that big, with a little bathtub that was just big enough for her to lie in (but wouldn't fit Jaime unless she pulled her legs in), with a shower curtain pulled to the side. There was the toilet, and right next to it the sink, with a bathroom cabinet hovering over it. Becca opened the mirrored door, pulled out a plastic cup and filled it with lukewarm water. She brushed her teeth as quickly as she could manage, swished a gulp of water and spat it back into the sink. After rinsing off her toothbrush under the faucet and putting it back into the cabinet, she grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen pills, swallowed one and chased it with the rest of the cup's water. The cabinet door closed with a slight creak, bringing Becca face to face with her reflection.
Definitely way too damn late.
Becca dumped her now well and truly lived in day clothes into the laundry basket and made her way back to her room. She had just enough energy left to put on her pajamas, climb into bed and draw the blanket over her head. Sleep was painfully slow in coming.
Jesus, Rebecca, let this one go. Be happy for her, she thought as forcefully as she could. Just be happy for her.
---
Sommers? Sommers? Earth to Supergirl, are you receiving? Sommersby? Summertime?
It took Nathan's formidable skill at prodding and annoying Jaime to bring her attention back to the present moment. The problem with those little blackouts was that Jaime couldn't be sure what caused them: was it another maladjustment in the system? Residual effects from the car crash? Jaime squeezed her eyes closed. Her breath was steady, her footsteps in perfect sync. Everything was working just fine, except for, well, Jaime.
"I'm here," Jaime said, opening her eyes again. They were about halfway to the target, Ginsburg in front of her and the three other soldiers moving on the opposite side of the road. The five of them looked spectacularly out of place. In a way, that made the total absence of any witnesses on the streets at this time beneficial, but it also made their bounding overwatch approach seem like overkill on the wrong side of hilarious.
I've come up with something, Nathan said. Check it: what if Finlayson wasn't the only one with a suicide implant? You might run into more people with one.
"So, what - you figured out how to -"
I think I know how to trigger them. We have the transmission recorded and the right frequency, so all we need to do is push a button. Classic replay attack.
"Ambrose...that's the most idiotic thing you've said to me so far."
Really, Sommers? What was that for? You want to tell me that you have a better idea, then? So, what the hell do you know about remote-controlled hardware? Do you have a degree in computer engineering? Do you have DVD Jon on your speed dial? No? Then show some damn gratitude I got you this far - it's better than nothing, is what I'm saying. I mean, sure, it could be ineffective if they rotate frequencies or use individually coded transmissions -
"You think this is about the technical details? Seriously?" Jaime asked. "I've got exactly one problem, and it's that the whole concept of a remote death switch is about the most horrible thing I can imagine! You seemed to agree not twenty minutes ago, so I'm having a hard time figuring out why you're suddenly cheerleading for it."
Yes, but -
"Oh, I guess it's okay when we get to push a button and make the baddies die. After all, it's just like a video game, right? Do we get extra points for catching them with their pants down?"
Woah woah woah, Sommers, back up. Let's make this clear, I am not in any way condoning doing this as a first strike.
"And if we warn them first? 'Oh, fyi, we're going to detonate your aortas in five seconds!' Is that okay, then?"
No, it's not okay, I know, but - Nathan said, audibly taking a few deep breaths. Look. If you get there and they start shooting at you, you need to take them out somehow - fists, guns or this, in descending order of risk to you. It's self-defense! No matter how - you'll have to kill them. And by, uh, by you I mean you guys, you and the team, not you specifically because I know you're not twigging to the idea of taking lives for Uncle Sam and apple pie and that's cool with me, I respect technical pacifists! I mean, yes, you're totally right on your point, we need to hunt down the assholes who built those things and make sure nobody else ever uses them again, but at the moment I'm trying to tilt the situation back in our favor every goddamn way I can! I'm trying to keep you and our tactical team and any potential innocent bystanders as safe as humanly possible here, okay? And if we can do this without risking any stray bullets...
"Forget stray bullets - what about stray radio waves, Mr. Genius? What if there are innocents with that implant? This is a fucking death lottery. At least you can aim a gun, but you can't aim a signal."
Well, yes. Hm. Yes, that's a point, though technically -
"Save it," Jaime snarled. "I didn't let myself be talked into this just to find out we're no better than the other guys. If you want to help me, find a way to neutralize those damn things."
Yes, Mistress, Nathan replied dejectedly. Doing thy bidding, Mistress. Sticking to moral high ground, Mistress.
"Ambrose..."
Shutting up now. Mistress.
It was all Jaime could do to keep from groaning.
"We're there," Sagabaen said, right into Jaime's head from across the street. Coming in via the tactical radio, his voice was deformed in a way subtly different from Nathan coming through the phone, but she wasn't in the right frame of mind to appreciate it. As a special bonus, her bionic ear picked up his original spoken words, too, shifted just milliseconds behind the radio transmission. The effect was like the world's smallest echo.
"Go to NVGs," Ginsburg said. Standing right next to Jaime, the sound of his voice more closely matched the radio transmission of the same. She had received no night-vision gear, for want of a compelling need: her bionic eye did a better job than the blocky goggles the rest of the team was busy strapping to their faces. AN/PVS-7D Night Observation I really don't need to know that.
The target, as she understood it, was a small industrial building, with a loading dock, corrugated steel roofing and the visual parameters of any of a dozen similar buildings right next to it.
Jaime glanced over at Ginsburg; he had his rifle slung and his back against the wall of an empty security hut, offering her a leg up. Jaime simply tilted her head sideways and pointed at her bionic arm in response. It came to be that she boosted Ginsburg onto the shack's roof and then pulled herself up behind him, which seemed to be a small but important victory on that evening. Ginsburg crawled close to the edge of the shack's roof, then set up his rifle, the Mark 14 Mod 0, Caliber 7.62x51mm Can you give it a rest already?. The rifle, as configured, seemed ridiculously front-heavy to Jaime, sporting a collapsible bipod, a laser sight and a vertical foregrip in addition to an intimidatingly big scope, all of which seemed only poorly made up for by the almost skeletal shoulder stock. Ginsburg spent a few seconds fiddling with the scope, then clicked a switch on the laser sight and scooted close enough to get into a prone firing stance. Jaime took this as her cue to crawl up on his left side and take out a pair of binoculars from her carrying vest.
"Lead in position," Ginsburg radioed. "Clear line from here, everybody have eyes on target?"
"Check," Sagabaen replied. Calavera, Jordan and finally Jaime concurred.
"Setting up," Ginsburg said, and his rifle swayed as he tested his potential field of fire. "Everybody see my sign?"
It took Jaime until her turn to say "Check" to see the small dot dancing over the walls of the target building - no doubt from the rifle's laser.
"Designating Red" - the laser danced over the large sliding door of the loading dock, "Black" - a personnel door on the other side of the dock - "and Gold." That one was a little further away, probably the main entrance. "Windows negative." That part was easy - Jaime couldn't make out any obvious windows from this side, either. "Sage, you're clear to Black. Bound on my mark...now!"
Jaime watched Sagabaen run from his hiding place to the building's entrance, at a speed that both seemed greater than she'd expected from his large frame and tragicomically slow from a distance. The soundtrack of passing cars from the nearby highway added its own absurd note to the performance. Doing all those maneuvers without being shot at - it seemed to Jaime like performing a grand ballet without an audience.
"Cal, clear to Black. Bound on my mark...now!"
Another running soldier. The green diamond shape that identified him as a friendly unit to Jaime's bionic vision covered most of his torso. Ginsburg's orders were unrelenting in Jaime's ears.
"Jordan, clear to Black. Sage, when Jordan reaches Black, proceed to Gold. Bound on my mark...now!"
After a few more seconds, it seemed like everybody was finally in position; Jaime alternated between free looks and watching for details through the binoculars. Both Jordan and Sagabaen had attached small packs of what Jaime assumed to be explosives to their respective doorlocks; Calavera simply held his shotgun at the ready.
"Lead ready," Ginsburg said.
"Point ready," Calavera said.
"Breach ready," Jordan said.
"Breach ready," Sagabaen said.
"Spotter ready," Jaime added. It seemed like the thing to do.
"All elements ready," Ginsburg confirmed. "Breaching on my mark - 3, 2, 1 -"
Jaime held her breath.
"NOW!"
Two small explosions, barely muffled by the distance, pinged Jaime's ear. The door's had flown open to the tune of a small flash of light followed by a few lungfuls of smoke; within seconds, the Berkut soldiers disappeared into the building. For a handful of seconds, there was silence, only the giddy anticipation that twisted Jaime's stomach into a knot of semi-Gordian intricacy. In a way, the start of the gunshots was almost a relief. Automatic fire echoed dimly out of the building, failing to accurately convey the biblically awesome might of fill-power muzzle blasts in confined spaces. When the shooting lulled, the radio calls became even terser, if that was possible.
"Two tangos down," Calavera said. "Room clear."
"Three tangos down," Sagabaen said, sounding short of breath. "I'm hit."
"Fuck," Ginsburg whispered, all too audible over the radio. "Cal, Jordan, hold." In the same breath, he added "Sommers, clear to Gold."
"- what?" Jaime protested.
"Bound on my mark...now!"
It wasn't precisely at "Now!", but when Jaime's heartbeat surpassed 140 bpm, she found the strength to let go of the binoculars, spring up and jump down from the roof, easily hitting the ground running. The three seconds of open ground felt like forever, even if the building's wall closed in way too quickly for her taste. With a final jump, she cleared the steps leading up to the entrance, glued her back to the wall next to the doorframe and wrenched her pistol free from the holster.
---
Everything is under control. You are standing under a willow. It is summer. A soft breeze is moving the branches above you.
Jaime's in the building, a simple office right behind the door. A desk, a punchclock, a wall-mounted shelf for time cards, a busted coffee pot, coat hooks. A hallway, Sagabaen on the floor bleeding from his leg. Someone at the other end, leaning out with a pistol Beretta M9, Caliber 9x19mm Parabellum, 4.9 inches of barrel, 15 round magazine. Jaime's own pistol rises by itself, firmly gripped in her bionic hand. Her left hand sits high on the grip, index finger butting up against the trigger guard. Keep your thumb clear. The dot unflinchingly wanders across her vision all the way to the unknown man's head. She feels the pressure of the trigger against her right index finger, coming up on 12 pounds, just a little more and it will break cleanly. Pull smoothly, follow through. Let the shot surprise you.
The smooth taste of chocolate ice cream lingers on your tongue. Everything is under control.
---
No
---
At the last moment, Jaime forced the gun out of alignment. The shot broke, sending a bullet down the hallway just past the attacker's head. He drew back, out of sight, behind cover. Jaime stood out in the open, gun still aimed downrange, shock slowly conquering her face. Her chest heaved from exertion, shallow quick breaths, trying to snare oxygen. That was - not just like on the range, the dryfire exercises. It was loud, so incredibly loud, that it still rang in Jaime's natural ear. The push of the gun recoiling, the small din of the cartridge case hitting the ground swallowed by the dragon's roar of the muzzle blast.
I almost killed him, Jaime wanted to scream through clenched teeth. I almost killed him!
"What are you doing?" Sagabaen shouted in the distance. "Keep shooting!"
Jaime hesitated, but when she saw movement on the other end, she fired again, and again. It was easier. The dot hovered firmly against a wall, nowhere near anything human. Nobody to hurt. This was just to scare them away. A voice was in her head again - she'd lost the ability to tell if it was Ginsburg, Nathan or even the system, but she was being told to drag Sagabaen behind cover. Jaime obeyed, too busy keeping the gun aimed at the wall and her lungs in one piece to not act automatically on that polite suggestion. She pumped more shots down the hallway, suppressive fire, each impact stenciling a neat hole through the wall at the end. Her left hand slipped off the pistol's grip naturally, reaching for the collar of Sagabaen's vest while she crouched over him. My God, what am I doing? He was heavy and the law of friction opposed her efforts, but there was no alternative. She was trapped. Fire. Fire. Her left hand had a death grip on his vest, strong enough to hurt if the system hadn't filtered that. With a mighty effort, she dragged him back into the office. Fire, fire, fire - Jaime didn't keep count, pulling the trigger until there were only clicks instead of bangs. Her brain wouldn't tell her how to do anything else.
Sagabaen brought up his own rifle, burst-firing the remains of his magazine to keep the suppressive fire up. It wasn't much, a handful of bullets, but the sound - the pressure - from an automatic carbine in a confined space like that crashed against Jaime's head like a jackhammer. She winced, closed her eyes, hearing only the clicking of her own gun. She was still pulling the trigger, over and over. With a final effort, they were behind cover, insofar as the interior walls of the building might be expected to stop a few rounds. Jaime forced her eyes open and her mouth closed. The world around her moved like it had been drowned in molasses. Her nostrils flared, her body still trying to suck in all the air it could get.
To reload your weapon, the voice helpfully chirped, press the magazine release and remove the empty magazine. Your actions are helping to save lives. Everything is under control.
---
No I don't
---
In a single smooth move, she dropped the magazine free of the weapon, letting it fall to the ground, and pulled the magazine from the left pocket of her pants. Buttplate of the magazine against the palm of her left hand, she shoved it into the pistol's magazine well. It didn't click into place. Jaime pulled it free, realizing that it rattled freely in the pistol's grip. It took a second of looking at it to determine that it was, in fact, not the right magazine for the P226. Behind her, she heard the meaty sound of a magazine successfully snapping into place, followed by the bolt of Sagabaen's carbine springing forward to chamber a round. Jaime looked at the useless magazine again, then simply dropped it and reached for another one from her vest. Her left hand dragged the magazine out of its pouch but dropped it on the floor. It went skittering, out in the open. Jaime backed away from it, further behind cover, pressed herself into the corner and finally lost control over her mouth, gasping loudly. She wasn't breathing any longer; that had made way for hyperventilation, a rapid mechanical sequence of compressing and expanding her chest. Her head was swimming.
Shots. Not from Sagabaen, but from the attackers. Their turn for suppressive fire. Jaime saw the exit door throw wood splinters from the bullet impacts.
What happens if they shoot me?
Sagabaen's carbine knocked her for a loop again, the sound banging against her head. Metal against metal, a precise detonation, the supersonic shockwave of the bullet exiting the gun. The noise reverberated in Jaime's bones. She drew her arms up against her face.
Everything is under control, it told her. Backup is on the way - Jaime saw the green diamonds of Jordan and Calavera through her closed eyelids, slowly creeping closer - and you will be fine.
---
No no this is all wrong this is all
---
Jaime, the voice asked, what's there to be afraid of? Everything is under control.
More shots - another carbine, like Sagabaen's, but farther away. A single shotgun blast. Then, silence. Only the ringing in her ears remained.
Jaime slowly opened her eyes and rose from her crouch. Her hand was clamped around the pistol as if she wanted to be buried with it. The slide was still locked back, the magazine well empty. As if by reflex, she opened her hand, as fast as she could, letting the gun drop to the ground. She looked around the room. She saw Calavera rush in, blood that wasn't his own splattered over his face. He told her to help him with Sage, and so she followed him numbly, knelt down next to the wounded soldier and followed orders. She might have said that Sagabaen's leg wound bled like a stuck pig, if she had ever seen one slaughtered; as it was, Calavera smirked.
"Looks worse than it is," he said. "Lie back and keep your leg up. Sommers, I need you to put some pressure on that. I'll be right back with the kit."
"Ice cream," Jaime said, putting both hands above the wound. "I could go for some ice cream right now."
"You buying?" Sagabaen asked, still sounding detached. "That was okay."
"What was okay?" Jaime asked with a forced smile.
"You," Sagabaen said. "Okay for your first knife fight."
"That's - wind moves the branches - "that's slang, huh?"
"Something like that. You get hit?"
"No, I'm - I'm fine, I didn't get hit," Jaime said. "But I don't know whether to giggle or throw up."
"It can be like that. It'll pass."
Within a minute, Calavera was back, spreading a first aid kit onto the floor. His first stop was a pair of latex gloves, then a pair of scissors. The leg of Sagabaen's uniform yielded easily, exposing the whole bloody mess. Jaime's internal barometer took a wild swing towards the "throw up" side of the equation, but she kept it together. Calavera grabbed a large shiny foil packet and easily tore it open at the top. Carefully, he lined up the packet with the wound and poured the contents onto it - a white powder that disappeared into the crevice of blood and torn meat, leaving a light sprinkling of pale flakes on Sagabaen's skin. Jaime noticed Sagabaen's breath picking up, from what she could only imagine to be the pain catching up with him; she looked away just long enough for Calavera to press a sponge-like wound dressing on top. A second, smaller package - still sealed - found its way on top of that, in turn, and then he broke out the wrap and fixed the entire affair to Sagabaen's leg, as tightly as he could.
"How's Sage?" Ginsburg asked; Jaime's head snapped around to see him kneeling almost right next to her. She hadn't paid attention to the situation. That was bad, they would go on to tell her. In those types of situation, she would be told, keeping your awareness going was paramount. Jaime's only concern was that Sagabaen didn't bleed out under her.
"He needs MedEvac," Calavera said, "but other than that he's still a lucky bastard."
"Funny," Sagabaen replied flatly, "didn't see you get shot."
"Well, there's lucky," Calavera quipped, "and then there's good."
"Are we done now?" Jaime asked.
"Well, are we?" Ginsburg shot back. "Jordan, how are we doing?"
"I found what the old man's looking for," Jordan radioed back, "and, uh, yeah. It's pretty big. I need Sommers for this."
---
Jaime followed Ginsburg deeper into the building. The man who'd shot at her - the man she had almost killed with her first shot - was sprawled onto his back. He was wearing nothing fancier than dress slacks and a blue shirt, the latter of which had been torn to shreds by the cloud of steel shot that had made his chest their new home. The pool of blood underneath him was large enough to require stepping over, and there seemed to a fine cloud of crimson on the closest wall, too, sprayed out by the force of the impact. There was only one concession to good taste: he'd been considerate enough to fall in a way that concealed the exit wounds on his back.
Ginsburg acknowledged her stare and tapped her on the shoulder. "Come on," he said, "nothing to see here."
He can no longer harm you, the voice whispered. Jaime's late-night hot dogs moved another notch upward.
"I'm gonna need new pants," she finally said, pointedly looking away from the body.
The bottoms of her jeans had caught splatters, while her shoes had gotten a full dose of the puddle. The knees and the calves were similarly bloody from her kneeling next to Sagabaen. The blood on her hands was still slick, leaving more stains in the places Jaime touched without thinking. Two years ago, those jeans had been a treat, a little something Jaime just did for herself when she saw them on sale. Now they were only fit for the inevitable biohazard trash bag.
"I think you can expense those," Ginsburg said, trying to lighten the mood.
In response, Jaime lightened her stomach. The floor really didn't deserve it; neither did the unlucky guys who would be called for crime scene cleanup after the fact. Ginsburg stood to the side, still wondering just what the hell he could do to help Jaime through this part.
"I'm -" Jaime hacked out, "I'm good. I just...ugh. I couldn't -"
"Would you...do you need a moment?"
"Oh no, just - I need this to be over, so I can get out of here and...you know, not think about this for a while. You got a tissue?"
Ginsburg did, in fact, have a tissue, and handed it over without further coercion. Jaime grabbed it without sight or thanks and wiped her mouth. Jordan's location was behind just one more door, so Jaime steeled herself and made her way over, chased by Ginsburg's concerned look.
Everything is under control.
Jaime's breath was quick, no doubt about it. It wasn't speeding, but there was exertion behind it, drawing more oxygen into her lungs. The world was in sharp focus, the stench of industrial grease heavy all the way into her throat. Jordan was huddled next to a device that reminded Jaime of nothing so much as a whiskey distillery in miniature. There was a central, large pressure vessel surrounded by a jungle of smaller piping, and to judge from the number of fittings penetrating the building's roof, those were feeding into enough nozzles to equip a whole air wing of cropdusters. The front of it bore a control mechanism straight out of a Sharper Image catalog, all stainless steel and beveled smoke glass in front of a large display.
That display, in turn, chose this moment to tick down to 7:00. Jaime's implants insisted that this was, indeed, an accurate countdown to Midnight. Alas, Jaime had more important things to do than appreciate the accuracy of a doomsday device's timing mechanism. Jordan had already removed a lower panel, showcasing some of the mechanism's internals. Jaime went over to look, but after a few seconds had to concede that this was a bit more sophisticated than a "red wire, green wire" type of setup.
"That looks like -" she began.
"- no explosive device I have ever seen," Jordan finished. Jaime gave him a "You're supposed to be the expert here!" look and felt her chest tighten.
You are experiencing a minor chemical imbalance. Everything is under control.
"Ambrose," Jaime coughed, "are you seeing this?"
Blowing up the stills now, Nathan answered.
"Word choice, Ambrose," she said, "I'm standing next to a bomb."
Nope! came his reply. I don't think so. See, the good news is, it's not a bomb, probably.
"Probably not a bomb, huh, that's a real relief."
Everything is under control.
"But of course now you're going to tell me the bad news, what it is instead, and it'll be worse."
I hate being predictable almost as much as saying that you're right, but yes, that was what I was going to get to, the bad news part, which is really 'no good at all' very bad. Uh, not to scare you, Sommers, but you're looking at a high-pressure chemical dispersal system, designed to spray a really nasty chemical weapon right into the prevailing winds over the City. And it appears to be -
"On a clock, yes, I can see that for myself! How do we disarm it?"
"I've got it," Jordan threw in. "Mechanism for the pressure vessel, right? I can see some piping behind the PCBs, and this thing looks like a servo. If we can block the servo's movement, it can't open the valve."
Tell Sergeant Smartass that we can't be sure this is the main valve, the only main valve or even really a valve, not to mention the servo itself could be a red herring.
"Ambrose thinks you're full of shit," Jaime slurred, a trail of saliva running down from the left corner of her mouth. Her eyes were half-closed.
"Helpful as ever," Jordan replied. "Hey, are you okay? You look like crap."
"I'm -"
Jaime looked at Jordan, then at the drool dripping from her chin. When she tried to raise her arm to wipe it off, nothing happened.
Everything is under control.
"Can't control," Jaime gasped, almost falling over backward. Jordan recoiled in reflex, having brought up his arm just in time to intercept spittle, and he watched Jaime struggle back onto wobbly feet. She was holding her head, stumbling around, and the only thing that prevented Jordan from jumping up and steadying her was that the impulse came too late: she fell backwards, hit the floor and sprawled out.
Sommers, listen to me, this is very important...
"Get out of - of -" she giggled.
What? I'm sorry, but...oh, fuck me. Bledsoe! She's crashing!
---
Everything is under control. You are going to the movies with your parents. Your father offers you a bag of popcorn. It smells very good.
Ginsburg puts his hand on Jaime's shoulder. Tears stream down her face. Her breathing becomes shallow and slow, and the air that passes through her throat is a mere whisper. The shivers are too much for the system to filter out. She's cold. She's hot. She's smiling.
Sommers, you have to calm down and listen to me, Nathan says. Calm down. You're the only -
"It's in here," Jaime says, bobbing her head to the tune of a quiet orchestra. "I love this song."
She opens her eyes again and sees Jordan and Ginsburg crouched over her. They're shouting at her without words - first there is gibberish, then sounds, then it all slowly fades out.
"My head is killing me," she says softly. "Doesn't hurt."
Jaime stops breathing.
Everything is under control. Everything is under control. Everything is under control...
Tradecraft Commentary: A (very brief) look at the psychology of combat
One of the most stressful situations you can find yourself in is ongoing combat. You are exhausted, performing at a painfully high level that quickly saps your strength. You are scared of being killed, or of your friends being killed, in the wink of an eye. You are being shot at and in turn shooting at other people. There's chaos, loud noises and bright flashes all competing for your attention. And to top it off, you've suddenly lost all fine dexterity and grace, your hands are shaking and you can't think straight. As Jarhead puts it: welcome to the suck.
The impact of psychological factors on a soldier's fighting ability was recognized as early as the American Civil War, where diagnoses of "Nostalgia" or "Soldier's Heart" were common enough to be notable, but at the time psychological factors were poorly understood and thought to stem from either poor training or a general, ill-defined "weakness". It took until the First World War to get to the term "Shell shock" and the first implementations of psychological triage, pulling afflicted soldiers from the trenches and allowing them to recover near the front on light duty. Today, all three of those illnesses are understood to be manifestations of what we call Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. As advances in protective and medical technology drive down casualties with physical wounds, the suffering of PTSD-afflicted soldiers gains more weight in our perception. In a way, it still seems strange that healthy young people with no prior indications of any mental sickness can return from military service as shells of their former selves with not a mark on them, their life destroyed by something that's - to put it dismissively - all in their head.
Now, those long-term consequences can be dire indeed, but what you go through in the moment when the shooting starts isn't a walk in the park, either. So, let's look at what happens in short-term stress response. Stress activates the sympathetic nervous system, with an increase in adrenaline/epinephrine. Adrenaline, essentially, boosts all bodily functions relevant to fighting or fleeing while shutting down non-essential processes. Heart rate and glucose level shoot up as the body tries to prepare the skeletal muscle groups for maximum performance. At the same time, blood vessels near the surface constrict, and both digestion and the immune system are suppressed. The latter effects are a major part of why constant stress has negative effects on health, but in a limited timeframe, the reaction can be beneficial.
In concert with another chemical, dopamine, high levels of adrenaline can actually induce a drug-like state known as "combat high". The effect has been compared to cocaine, and leads to a general feeling of disconnection and invincibility. Some also report a change in temporal perception and sensory efficiency, describing that they were capable of reading the stamping on the base of a cartridge case flying past or the world slowing down to allow them to easily line up a perfect shot. It's not quite clear whether this is entirely a function of the altered brain chemistry filling in "blanks" and coloring memories, or if sped-up processing within the brain actually grants faster reflexes and a subjectively slowed perception of time. But combat high is far from a good thing: it adds to the psychological damage by creating a reward mechanism from the stress situation, leading those who are susceptible to it to seek out high-stress situations - the stereotypical "war junkie". Turning to drugs to replicate the high is also widespread. Further, even within a combat high, the feeling of being completely in control of a situation can be very dangerous, as it destroys situational awareness and leads to risk-seeking behavior that can easily get the sufferer killed. It is not quite clear how combat high relates to more common self-induced highs such as the "rush" experienced by people engaging in some extreme sports, or the runner's high, which appears to be more of a pain management strategy after sustained exertion that also happens to trigger reward centers. Although the phenomenon is fairly well known, it is nigh impossible to replicate in an ethical laboratory experiment, and therefore most commentary on it is necessarily based on the accounts of those who have experienced it, rather than more objective testing methods.
A lot of research on human psychology under stress has been done by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman, who wrote On Killing and the later On Combat. One of Grossman's models describes stress as a function of heart rate, dividing different states of agitation by their effects on the human body. Following that model, a certain level of stress response is beneficial and indicative of a trained professional in action, whereas higher states of stress are encountered by those without training/experience, which degrades their performance. The red zone, found at 115 to 145 beats per minute, provides the best balance between heightened physical ability and control, whereas going above 175 beats per minute lands you in the black zone, where you experience deterioration of gross motor skills (fine motor skills go even before the red zone), loss of peripheral vision (the dreaded "tunnel vision") and auditory exclusion. Experience in law enforcement and military circles shows that the best way to reduce stress response to a useful level is training. Unfamiliar events and surroundings increase stress, while "thinking it through" becomes hard to impossible at the upper levels of stress response. On the other hand, thorough and realistic training allows complex movements to occur with minimal mental effort, lets you to get used to the sights and sounds of a combat encounter and increases your confidence in your own skills, all of which increase your ability to prevail. As the saying goes: train like you fight, fight like you train.
But even with the best training, the aggregate stress of combat can easily lead to lasting psychological scars if it is not treated promptly. For this reason, every modern military places some emphasis on unit rotation, ensuring that soldiers - if possible - do not remain in the fight for a prolonged amount of time. Once a soldier returns home, counseling is often the best way to deal with the experience of combat, giving the soldier a safe place to talk about his actions and feelings. Even so, it can be difficult to provide long-term care, and the increasing operational tempo in recent conflicts can stretch the psychological resources of an army just as sure as it taxes the equipment and the logistical capacity. In the field, psychological help for acute cases must also be combined with ample recreational activities that help soldiers work off stress and strengthen social bonds. Base exchanges, shows, a decent internet connection - all of those can help you keep your head on straight while deployed to a combat zone.
In a war that is 99% boredom and 1% sheer terror, the high-intensity engagements may be what books are written about, but Movie Wednesdays in the mess tent might just be the ounce of prevention that's worth a pound of cure.