Shadowrun: Blackbird Three: Hollow Point by Russell Zimmerman

Author:Russell Zimmerman [Zimmerman, Russell]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Catalyst Game Labs

At 02:37, a full twenty-three minutes ahead of projected operation schedule, Camp Grafton North was under our command. Operation Razorwire was well underway. Captain Sharp Bear deployed a platoon to secure the north armory, two majors took walks with us in the snow to personally disarm and secure the surrender of every MP on duty, and the order spiderwebbed through to junior officers and NCOs, that they were all, officially, captured enemy combatants and weren’t to resist.

Four carotid artery chokes, a live stream, and one long conversation was all it had taken.

Camp Grafton North was ours!

A few SDF troops let out wild, joyous cries, and one danced a high-step in a circle. Sharp Bear silenced them with a stern look and a mutter in Lakota about noise discipline, but as he turned away from them I could see him smile with pride.

All that remained was to get their colonel over to their comms system and relay the orders to Camp Grafton South, and Razorwire would be finished without a sing—

Sharp Bear, who I was pretty sure was about to grudgingly admit I’d done an acceptable job, tilted his head and glanced down a little, a tell-tale sign he was getting some radio chatter I wasn’t.

Since I was snubbed from the conversation, I could hear the explosions in real life, instead.

“Tally, climb. Fonte, Mare, give me eyes, you two, on me.” Sidewinder and Loblolly followed me south at a trot, and we occupied an MP pillbox at the edge of the base, sweeping the lake and its bridge for targets. In the distance, far outside of our range, more blasts lit up the night sky.

The big guns of Grafton South were lighting up Goldbug, Greengrass, or both. Hitting them hard. Aztlan/Amazonia War hard. The thunder rolled for long minutes.

“Friendlies incoming,” we heard from Tally, and I watched via Fonte’s drones as IR heat signatures stood out against the December cold, and a ragged formation of SDF paratroopers came hauling hoop towards the bridge across the lake.

“Red, this is Black,” I cut in myself, “Blue and Gold withdrawing past Red Reaver Alpha, say again, those are friendlies crossing the water. Hold your fire and do not blow the bridge.”

I got nothing but a green-light confirmation from him, and I imagined the argument Captain Sharp Bear was having with the majors and Colonel Grier, just then, the yelling, the accusations, the demands that they order their troops to stand down. I knew his comms would be filled with casualty and action reports from Greengrass and Goldbug, knew his comms officer would have their hands full.

But I had to add to the cacophony, trying to make sure some excited sapper didn’t see ‘hostiles’ coming up and blow the bridge. Friendly fire isn’t, whether it’s gunfire, artillery, or demo charges.

Sidewinder and I squatted in that pillbox and scoped our machine guns in behind the retreating, bloodied, shell-shocked SDF paratroopers that came past us. Loblolly was on station there to help the worst of them—the ones

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