POSTHUMAN

Chapter Eight

Kindu was a town near enough to the eastern border to be under threat of rebel assault. A fuel depot been placed a few years before the rebel threat, it was a convenient spot for military convoys crossing the country from Kisangani to Kinshasa or Lubumbashi to refuel. Kindu Airfield came to be when hangars were built next to the depot.

        Marcus arrived yesterday evening. Since sunrise, the garrison ran through drills and manoeuvres. He stood behind a row of snipers in training. Automatic sniper rifles are not wasted on unskilled shooters; a 60-round clip was not an invitation to squander bullets. What Marcus saw was proficient, efficient application of powerful death-dealers. Three-shot bursts tore fist sized holes in the moving plywood targets positioned 700 metres down range. Any rebel foolhardy enough to directly engage these snipers would be dead before they'd brought their scope to up.

Marcus should have left Kindu Airfield that evening after he monitored the arrival of several cargo aircraft from within the control tower. The warrant officer in charge of the airfield, Kitengi Washikala, was monumentally pleased to show off how operationally perfect his station was.

        "Very impressive, Officer Washikala, I'll make a point of mentioning to my superiors how organised things are out here," Marcus watched Washikala; he imagined the man would be jumping up and down if other people weren't around.

        Obviously this moment of levity had no business existing, and as such was swiftly ruined by the quick intervention of a sniper. She rushed into the control room and whispered urgently in Washikala's ear.

        Washikala's face lost any trace of joviality. "Colonel Sewell, we have a problem, a Kisangani-style problem," the warrant officer walked briskly out of the room as he spoke, his last few words delivered as he entered the corridor. Marcus followed Washikala and the sniper out towards the barracks. Balls of fire flared outside the airfield as surface-to-air missiles met mortars and rockets, keeping the base safe from rebel heavy weapons. Snipers had taken to their nests; the rattle of automatic gunfire was everywhere. Aircrew ran about the base, preparing for direct contact with nationalist rebels. Shouts of consternation in several languages echoed loudly in the evening air. "Staff Sergeant Tshombe! How many hostiles?" Washikala called up to a sniper in a tower by the entrance.

        "There are about a hundred confirmed rebels advancing toward us. Though we think there's more we haven't –" Tshombe turned away from Washikala and fired off a burst into the scrub, "Spotted yet."

        "Colonel?" Washikala deferred to Marcus, hard pressed to formulate an effective plan of attack.

        Marcus mulled over a few facts before he replied, "We need covering fire from our snipers until we get inside those woods over there." Marcus pointed at an outcrop of trees where the rebels attacked from. "My team should be enough to drive away the senior rebel officers; that's the only way a force this size sneaks up on a Providence base: with leadership. They're going to need Oracles though," Marcus paced the length of the entrance gate, peering out at the woods, his natural ability to see at night much improved by posthumanisation.

        The Mv31c Oracle was a night vision goggle with both active illumination and thermal imaging capabilities. Oracles were deployed when absolute surety was a necessity in a low light operation, the ability to quickly outmanoeuvre an enemy in the dark could mean the difference between life and death.

        A forty man detachment had assembled at the entrance gate. Washikala issued a call to the soldiers, "Rafiki, je, kusikia nini kuja?" ~ Friend, have you heard what's coming? ~

        A response came from everyone on the base, even the snipers, "Nini anakuja, rafiki yangu?" ~ What comes, my friend? ~

         Washikala, "Hapa ni dunia!" ~ Here is the earth! ~

        The base, "Sisi kushinda!" ~ We overcome! ~

        Washikala, "Hapa ni mbinguni!" ~ Here are the heavens! ~

        "Sisi kushinda!"

        "Hapa ni kifo!" ~ Here is death! ~

        "Sisikushinda! Sisi kushinda! Sisi kushinda!"

        "Kweli rafiki yangu ni hawaogopi!" ~ Truly my friend is fearless! ~

        "Hakuna kitu kuacha ushindi wetu!" ~ Nothing will stop our victory! ~

        Washikala bellowed, "Kweli rafiki yangu ni hawaogopi!"

        The base thundered, "HAKUNA USHINDI WETU!"

        The wire gate trundled to the sides on rollers. The detachment was furiously energised, wild for blood. His men charged and Marcus set off at a furious pace; he stormed across shrubby flats, and caught quite a few rebels unawares.

        His troops fanned out, most ignored startled rebels who were soon dispatched by beady-eyed snipers. Their fast approaching goal was clear, to eliminate rebel commanders likely hidden in the woodland. Flashes of gunfire gave away rebels previously hidden among densely packed trees. He and his men sped up whilst returning fire, they knew once they were in amongst the rebels in that small forest it would be far easier than if they fought out in the open. The rebels knew this too. Fierce resistance poured from the trees, Marcus went toe-to-toe with several rebel soldiers. He slammed one in the face with his rifle butt and another in the stomach. He smashed his rifle's body into the nose of another rebel. This gave him time enough to bound back, unleashing a storm of bullets. His enemies fell and he drove ahead into the trees.

        Even with an Oracle, the forest was a confusing arboreal muddle; Marcus heard the rattle of machine guns but could not see the originators. He moved cautiously. The snapping of twigs and artificial thunder of automatic gunshots made him tense. Marcus stilled; a group of rebels had walked right out in front of him but obviously could not see the colonel. He crouched and searched for any indication of their importance. He found none, so promptly opened fire on the people before him. To say they were surprised would have been a gross understatement. His prey was so shocked they barely had time to decide on a direction to fire in before death claimed them.

        Confidence grew with every step as he crept through the undergrowth, stealthily ending dozens of rebel lives. The five squads he had taken with him into the forest now served as more of a distraction. They busied the rebel soldiers while he searched for the rebel officers, and subtly whittled away the enemy back line. He had heard less gunfire lately, which meant one of two things. Either there were fewer rebels to kill or his detachment was dead. Marcus knew which explanation he preferred. This rebel raid could not sustain itself for much longer. Most of the attackers were dead and their leaders would be concerned about the daemons in the trees.

        Then he was on the edge of a clearing, at the centre of which was a dozen people, a folding desk and several light utility vehicles. The people were gathered around the folding desk, he supposed there must be a map on the desk. A radio was on the table, probably for issuing group commands and allowed the rebel officers to listen to updates together. Marcus pulled the pin from a frag grenade and threw it at the rebel command. His luck was good today, the grenade landed in a truck. The truck exploded and the resultant carnage saw many officers tossed about like ragdolls.

        He was allowed to bathe in the wonderful glow of success for approximately six seconds. A flurry of incredible movement dropped down from above Marcus. He didn't have time to properly assess his assailant before Marcus realised he had been launched upwards by a tremendous kick. A game of pinball ensued where Marcus took on the role of a human ball-bearing.

        His attacker had chased Marcus into the air and elbowed the colonel into a tree. Marcus felt bark break apart against him, he tumbled toward the ground – under the foolish illusion his suffering might be over quite so soon. A hand grabbed a hold of his ankle and Marcus hurtled backwards at another unyielding tree. This time he was snatched up by the collar almost the instant he rebounded off this next tree. Marcus rocketed high into the air; he noticed he had cleared the tree tops. Time slowed momentarily, that blur of movement shot from out of the trees and drop kicked him. He barrelled insanely back through the trees, his body snapped innumerable branches.

        The last sensation he felt before he blacked out, thanks to another collision with a tree as he later found out, was a blinding pain in his left side.