You may remember it, though what made the news wasn't that dramatic. Some separatists were killed by an UNSEC team before they could release biologicals. There was more to it than that.
They called themselves the Hands of Freedom. They wanted to accelerate the Libertarian Revolution by shutting down the federal government entirely and getting the U.N. out of the U.S. They had a side issue of shipping all chimeras to Oklahoma and leaving them there to fend for themselves. The main thing that made the Hands different from nuts in any state is they apparently had a modified anthrax virus and enough missiles to deliver it to every major city on the eastern seaboard.
UNSEC learned about the Hands when one of the guys who sold them missiles decided to cut a deal. So one night shortly before Thanksgiving, I was sitting in the back of a Durga Eleven, flying low over the Atlantic with a team under my command that consisted of Sergeant Eddie LeFevre, Sergeant Lupe Rivera, Lieutenant Anne Lassiter, and a Model XL-5 commandobot.
I remember the mission too clearly. You tell yourself you want to forget something, but you keep going over it to try to figure out where you went wrong. I don't know how many times I went over it. Maybe if I lay it out here, this can be the last one.
I doubt any of us talked in the Durga. I was listening to Colonel Ngarré handle the press on my helmet radio. He sidestepped the question of whether the Hands had biologicals by going to issues: "Threats like these bring home the madness of nationalism. But this is exactly the kind of problem that UNSEC exists to deal with. We can't allow a handful of extremists to hold the world hostage." When a reporter asked if a response was in progress, you could hear Ngarré's smile as he said, "You know I can't answer that."
We flew low above the waves. When I saw a few house lights across the moonlit sea, I gave the signal. One by one, we jumped.
Swimming underwater, we gathered at my beacon one hundred yards offshore. The commandobot surfaced first in chameleon mode. When it gave the all-clear, we rose. In the night, with our suits mimicking the rippling darkness of the water, we were effectively invisible. If Death has angels, they probably study UNSEC's techniques.
According to my helmet readout, we were on time. The mission status hadn't changed. I gave a movie-hero "move 'em out" forearm wave toward the nearest house with lights on, and we swam silently toward shore.
When we were close, I motioned for everyone to stop. While we bobbed just beyond the breaking surf, the others drew their rifles from the sheaths on their backs. I kept an eye on our target, where a security light illuminated a wooden deck and the pale sand around it. At the bottom of the steps, a large bearded man in a floppy beach hat sat in a lounge chair with a blanket tucked around his neck and a portable HV on his stomach. The night was too cool for sitting outdoors. He could only be a guard.
A second man came out of the house, spoke to the first, then went back inside. The HV flickered as the guard in the chair changed channels. This was the Hands' fifteen minutes of fame. They weren't going to miss a moment.
I would've prefered to wait for the lights to go out, but we didn't have that luxury. I led the others close to shore, then pulled off my helmet, gave it to Rivera, and peeled off my suit. That's a shock in the Atlantic on a November night, but cold doesn't bother you when you think you're saving millions of lives.
Lassiter squinted at my purple, orange, and blue swim trunks and whispered, "Jesus! Who issued those?"
I said, "They're mine," to let her know no one could match my sense of style, ducked underwater to wet my hair, then said, "Okay, team, let's do this without waking the baby."
I splashed loudly ashore and trotted toward the bearded guard. On his HV, Ngarré stood at a podium, listening to a reporter say, "If the Hands do have a modified anthrax virus—"
Ngarré cut him off. "Haven't you heard? UNSEC always gets its man. Or microbe."
While the reporters laughed, I jogged into the light and waved at the guard. Wondering what weapons his blanket hid, I called, "Hi, neighbor! How's it going?"
He sat up. His voice was a deep growl. "Who're you?"
"Chase Maxwell, but everyone calls me Max. The wife and I just moved in down the beach—" I stopped as light fell on his face. He wasn't just bearded—he was half-covered with brown fur. His lips pulled back from long, sharp teeth. I said, "You're a critter!"
"This is private property. Beat it."
I kept walking toward him. "Hey, tell your owner to lighten up. What're you, part bear?"
He glanced back at the house, then nodded. "Grizzly. This is your last warning."
"Or what? Can't eat the neighbors, y'know."
"Don't make me call the police."
"Okay, you want to be left alone, fine." I pointed at the round scar on my forearm. "Know what this is?"
He shook his head.
I extended my right arm toward him as if to give him a better look. "An Infinite Pocket." The air went wild around my wrist. The SIG flew into my hand. "And you're under—"
The grizzly brought his arms up under the blanket—not as if he was going to surrender. The cloth draped over something cylindrical in his hands.
I threw myself aside and fired as the grizzly got off a short burst. Our shots made muffled
whumpfs!
like stones landing in the sand. I hit the bear at least twice, but nowhere vital.
Then Lassiter stepped from the darkness behind him, triggering open a monomolecular knife that she waved across his throat. He spasmed and went limp, his neck nearly severed. I lunged forward to grab the rifle as he let go.
He fell back in his chair. Lassiter adjusted his head on his shoulders, jerked his hat down to hide the staring eyes, then adjusted the blanket to obscure his bloody chest. The HV continued its chatter—oddly jarring after the flurry of violence.
Lassiter and I crouched in the shadow of the deck, listening for a hint that we'd been overheard. I pressed a hand against my waist, then realized why: Blood seeped between my fingers. The bear's shot had grazed me. As it began to hurt, Lassiter passed me a medipatch. I slapped it over my wound and motioned for her to stay where she was.
I crept up to a window and peered inside. In a kitchen that hadn't been remodeled since the year 2000, a heavy blond woman and a thin, crewcut man ate pizza and watched HV. An automatic rifle lay on the table by their dinner.
I slipped back over the deck rail, told Lassiter, "Thank God for mass entertainment," and sent the signal to continue. Eddie, Rivera, and the commandobot dashed through the pool of light to crouch beside us. Rivera brought my combat gear, so I returned the SIG to the Pocket. I jerked my thumb toward the roof, then put my suit and helmet back on while Rivera and Eddie shot climbing cables into the eaves and scrambled up.
Lassiter pulled a plate-sized silver disk—a field anchor—from her pack. She set it at a corner of the house and tapped its switch to activate it. Above us, Rivera and Eddie were placing similar disks at each corner of the roof. I pulled an anchor from my pack and started for the front of the house. The bot was crouching by the rear corner with its steel hands against the foundation. "Sir. There is a basement."
I gave the only reasonable response. "Shit."
Lassiter picked up the anchor she had set down. For the first time, I could see uncertainty or maybe even fear through her faceplate. "If the lab's down there—"
I nodded. "Tin Man and I'll go in. Give us two minutes."
The bot took Lassiter's anchors, and we went around the house. Mounted by the side door was a numeric keypad with a faintly glowing display that read "Secure." The bot held its hand up to the keypad. A laser projected from its palm to shine on the panel above the keys. Numbers flashed on the security stystem's display, too quick to read, and the door's status changed to "Open."
I followed the bot into a dark hall. The door to the main part of the house was closed. Someone was watching HV in the living room. Our briefing had been vague on the number of people in the Hand. We were told to expect as few as three or as many as twenty.
I led the bot down the basement stairs. Everything looked crisp and colorless through my helmet's nightsight, which seemed appropriate for the way I felt. Toys and games and sports equipment were piled along the walls. The bot and I were strange intruders in what looked like the basement of any family on vacation.
Then I saw the makeshift lab on the pingpong table: a pocket computer, racks of chemistry equipment, an open hard-shell suitcase. In the suitcase were explosives and canisters of gas. It could've been a place for Junior to practice science homework, but it looked to me like a place to brew killer bugs.
The bot and I put anchors at each corner of the basement. As we placed the last two, the ceiling light came on. The man from the kitchen stood at the top of the stairs, rifle in hand. He said, "Oh, man—" and brought his rifle up.
The bot swiveled its right arm toward him. I reached over my back to draw my rifle and knew we were both too late. The Hand squeezed off three muffled shots, ripping open the bot's chest and head. It toppled as I shot the man twice. When he fell and didn't move, I ran upstairs.
I met Lassiter coming in the side door, rifle ready. I gave her a thumbs-up for success. She nodded and turned to leave. If we'd gotten out of there an instant sooner, I probably would've been doing Ngarré's job when Zoe Domingo came looking for a detective.
As we turned to go, the door to the main part of the house opened slowly. Lassiter and I raised our rifles. The door opened wider. My finger tightened on the trigger.
And a sleepy pajama-clad bear cub, about the size of a four-year-old, peered through the opening. It said, "Daddy?"
I grabbed the cub and clamped a hand over its mouth. Warily, I pushed the living room door wide. Lassiter and I looked in.
A bear woman in a maid's uniform slept on the couch, cradling a gently breathing teddybear in diapers. Sleeping on the floor, wrapped in blankets, were two more bear children. Like the grizzly, they looked as much human as animal.
Lassiter grabbed my shoulder and whispered, "Let's go!"
I closed the living room door, then tapped my helmet for the radio. The cub struggled in my grip as I spoke, "Colonel, there are non-combatants in the target. Repeat, non-combatants in the target."
Ngarré's translucent face appeared in my visor. He looked unhappy, which I expected. We weren't supposed to break radio silence until the mission had been completed.
I said, "Sir, there's a servant critter here and some cubs. We haven't searched—"
He interrupted. "Are there human non-combatants?"
"Not that I've seen. But—"
"Proceed as planned, Captain."
"Sir, those are innocent—"
"Captain Maxwell, you're relieved of command. Lieutenant Lassiter, complete the mission."
Lassiter said simply, "Yes, sir." In her place, I would've done the same.
As Ngarré's image disappeared from my visor, Lassiter stepped between me and the living room, her rifle not quite pointed at my chest. Furious, I hauled the struggling cub out the door.
Eddie and Rivera waited in the shadows beside the house. I thrust the cub into Eddie's arms and headed for the house.
Lassiter caught my arm. "They're critters, Max. Eddie, status."
He said, "Anchors live and in place up top, Lieutenant."
The cub twisted in Eddie's grasp. Its claws cut through his combat suit, drawing blood. Eddie grunted and dropped the bear. It ran back toward the house, screaming, "Momma!"
I lunged after the cub. The side door opened as Momma Bear looked out. She saw us, then reached for her child and cried, "Joey!"
The cub leaped into her arms. She pulled him inside and slammed the door.
At the back of the house, a window broke. A Hand poked a rifle out and fired a burst at us. Rivera screamed and fell. The Hand yelled, "It's UNSEC!"
We dove for cover. On the second floor, another window shattered. Gunfire from another Hand stitched the ground by my head. I rolled aside, then fired a burst upward. That Hand fell from the window.
Lassiter jabbed buttons on her wrist pad. An eerie hum arose from nowhere, building rapidly in volume. On the roof, the silver disks glowed. Rays of light raced out from each disk to its fellows, enclosing the house in a shimmering cube of light. Only the peaked roof lay outside the cube.
Space within the cube warped, like the Infinite Pocket effect magnified ten thousand times. People in the house began to scream. One Hand—the crewcut man—realized what was happening and dove out a window, just a moment too late.
The screaming ended abruptly as the cube of light disappeared with everything inside it. The roof peak fell into the empty basement with a crash. So did the head, shoulders, and arms of the Hand who tried to leap from the containment field.
I got to my feet, yanked off my helmet, and stumbled to the pit where the beach house had stood. The air smelled like ozone. Eastern North America had been saved. It was a glorious day for UNSEC.
Near me, Rivera groaned and clutched her thigh. Eddie ran to her and began first aid. Lassiter spoke into her radio. "Mission completed. Rivera, LeFevre, and Maxwell need minor medical attention. We lost the bot. Thank you, sir."
She pulled off her helmet and walked over to me. She was an attractively hard-looking woman, thin and brown with light brown eyes and a wide mouth. I had seen that mouth contort in pleasure, one night when we were both lonely. She said, "Give me one good reason, and I'll back you at your court-martial."
I looked at her, then away. I'm still working on the answer.
There was no court martial. Ngarré accepted my resignation. I gave up my pension, but UNSEC agreed not to put me through the risk of an operation to remove the Infinite Pocket. For months, I thought about telling the media the full story of what happened in Long Island—there's always a story when the good guys kill kids, even if they're kids covered with fur. But when I joined UNSEC, I had signed a non-disclosure agreement covering all its operations, and, besides, I'll never know whether my desire to change the plan would've resulted in the loss of the Eastern seaboard.