The missile came with no more sound than a light breeze passing through a stand of trees, the glow of its exhaust like the glare of distant headlights.
Ahmed saw it flash by, so low that he threw himself to the ground, fearing that it might knock him down on its way to whatever target the infidels had selected. He had barely regained his feet when the earth jumped, throwing him off balance.
There was a sound so deep in pitch that he felt it as a low thrumming in his chest, followed by a clattering like hailstones on a metal roof.
A moment later, the screaming started. The cries of the wounded blended with the wailing of terrified children, and the curses of others whose homes had been shattered, like the voices of a choir in Hell.
A choking cloud of dust and smoke swept over Ahmed, blinding him and raking his throat and lungs with fiery claws. When his breath and his vision returned, he moved quickly toward the center of the village, where the voices of the crowd were loudest.
The missile had struck near the market square. A few hours earlier, almost half the people of the village had been there, haggling over what little food and goods were available in the midst of the war. Whether by luck or by the mercy of Allah, the square had been almost empty when the fist of Shaitan descended.
Almost empty — but not quite. Ahmed saw the ruins of the shops and homes of families he had known since childhood, neat structures of brick and mortar only minutes before — now jumbled piles of broken rubble. And under the rubble —
Ahmed screamed in rage and grief, his fists beating at the sky as if to punish the distant enemy by the sheer force of his hate. All around him, people dug frantically in the ruins, seeking survivors where Ahmed knew they would find only the dead. Others tended the wounded as well as they could — but bandages of torn linen could do little for shattered bones and shredded flesh.
The wailing of sirens announced the arrival of ambulances — too little, too late.
Ahmed sank to his knees in the dust, weeping for the dead and the dying, mourning lives lost and dreams destroyed by a random act of the faceless enemy. His hands, moving aimlessly over the dirt, came upon a tiny bundle of rags, and he picked it up, thinking that he had found a child's doll.
Then his fingers sank into still-warm flesh, and he began to scream again, this time in horror. He let the tiny body fall to the ground, and looked at his bloodied hands, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed —
"End simulation," said a voice.
The village dissolved in a swirl of colors, and spiraled into darkness, like a chalk painting washed down a drain.
"Ahmed" opened his eyes and tore off the full-sensory virtual reality helmet. Around him, a dozen other men and women did likewise.
They wore the uniforms of the United Nations Peace Force. They came from five continents, and spoke twice that number of native languages.
They had received the best training available in every form of combat, to be the equal of any soldiers in history. This was their final lesson before they began active duty.
Some of them swore, and some of them wept, and one continued to scream, until a medic slapped a tranquilizer pack against his neck. "Ahmed" — Lieutenant Aaron Stein — watched as the unconscious man was gently removed from the simulator chair, and carried to the infirmary.
Of all people, he would never have expected John M'buto to snap. M'buto had seemed to possess a deeply rooted, quiet strength; the calm of a man born to face the vast fury of mountain and jungle.
M'buto had accepted death as a natural thing, to be resisted, but never to be feared — but the blood of an infant — a simulated infant — had broken him.
Still, Aaron reflected, if the simulation had continued much longer, he might be with M'buto now, bound for the psych ward instead of a potential battlefield.
Major Picardo, the chief instructor, entered the room. Aaron enjoyed watching Picardo in motion, as he enjoyed watching dancers and athletes. Even when he marched, Picardo seemed to glide.
Picardo was the most dangerous — and the most peaceful — man that Aaron had ever known.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Picardo said, "You have now had a taste of war from the wrong end — the receiving end.
"You've all trained with the latest and greatest war toys, from smart bombs and cruise missiles to particle beams and micronukes. Now you know a little bit of what it feels like to be a target."
He paused, looking at each student in turn, then nodded, satisfied.
"We have trained you how to fight, but your job will be to not fight, and to do whatever you can to convince others to do likewise. That's why you've spent so much of your time in language labs and workshops on mediation and negotiation techniques."
Picardo smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, you will be armed. Too many of the forces you'll be dealing with will only respect someone who can hit as well as talk — so you'll have weapons as good as or better than the people you'll be keeping apart."
"We're hoping that this final lesson will stay with you when you're tempted to use those weapons."
There were a few nervous chuckles, quickly silenced by the sudden anger on Picardo's face.
"It isn't a game out there, ladies and gentlemen," Picardo growled. "The weapons are real. The blood and the pain are real."
He began to pace back and forth at the front of the room, his finger pointing at each of the students as he spoke.
"When the bullets and the missiles are flying, and your finger is on the button, remember Ahmed. Remember Yasmin. Remember Yuri and Ludmilla, Hank and Mary, Wai Sun and Mai Li, and all the others whose lives you've tasted today.
"Remember the blood of an infant on your hands — because when somebody pushes the button, somebody else dies. And whether it's a baby, or an enemy commando, it's a waste."
"That's all I have to say. As of this moment, you are active members of the UNPF"
Picardo's posture changed only slightly from his normal stance, but he was suddenly standing at attention. In unison, the eleven students stood, straightening their uniforms and flattening hair tangled by the simulator helmets.
"Ten-shun!" Picardo barked, and the students snapped into position, spines straight and chins held high. The class saluted as one, and Picardo returned their salute with drill-field crispness.
"Dismissed," Picardo said, and turned to leave. He paused for a moment as the class broke into applause, but did not look back.
Aaron quickly exchanged congratulations with his classmates, then followed Picardo out of the room. He found the Major where he had expected him to be: in the infirmary, beside John M'buto's bed.
M'buto's head was covered by a VR helmet — presumably running therapeutic programs as a first step toward bringing him back from the simulated battlefield that had broken him.
Aaron cleared his throat. "Sir, I —"
Picardo silenced him with a gesture. "Your first casualty," he said grimly. "And probably not your last."
He looked closely at Stein, and said, "If you have doubts, Lieutenant, you can resign your commission. There's no shame in it — the UNPF isn't an army, despite the uniforms and weapons."
Aaron blushed and shook his head. "No, sir. I knew what the UNPF stood for, and I knew the risks, before I volunteered. I still believe that it's worth it."
Picardo nodded. "All right, Stein. All right. Why don't you go back to the celebration? You all have a lot to be proud of."
Aaron grinned. "Thank you, sir. I wanted to ask you to join us. Any good we do will be because of what you taught us."
Picardo sighed and shook his head. "Any mistakes you make will also be my fault — at least partly. I'm not really in the mood for a party."
He looked down at M'buto. Even under sedation, with his body cocooned in restraints, the big man was trembling, his arms and legs twitching, like a dog chasing dream rabbits — or fleeing from a nightmare.
After Aaron left, Picardo whispered, "Protect the innocent, Stein. But don't be a victim yourself."
His big, scarred hands gripped the side railing of the bed, squeezing until his arms shook from the tension. Then he relaxed, his chin dropping to his chest and his shoulders slumping.
"I've seen enough victims for one lifetime."
****
Aaron had hoped for more leave time before his unit had to be deployed. As it was, he had barely had time to say exchange greetings with his parents and siblings before his satphone buzzed.
"Lieutenant Stein, urgent message from UNPF regional HQ." The caller pronounced the acronym as "unpuff", which Aaron had always thought sounded like an anti-smoking organization.
"This is Stein, IF3927-05-227B. Go ahead."
"Sir, there is an urgent situation developing in Gaza Zone 5. Small arms fire has been reported between unidentified snipers and one of the hold-out settlements. Israeli and Palestinian forces are on alert status, but UNPF has requested that we be allowed to go in first."
Stein grimaced. Gaza Zone 5 had been simmering for decades, with violent incidents gradually escalating as more arms were smuggled in by factions supporting both the Israeli settlers and the Palestinian Arab majority. Officially, the Israeli government had withdrawn its support for the Jewish settlers, advising them to relocate in accordance with the 2015 peace accord. Unofficially, someone was providing them with medical supplies and the latest in Israeli military hardware, from Mark XI Uzi flechette guns to DNA-keyed smart grenades. The Palestinian militia had a mixed bag of weaponry, from Vietnam-era Russian, Chinese, and American assault rifles to (again) some of the best ordinance outside the UNPF arsenal.
"Understood. I’m uploading my GPS locator code – I’m ready for pickup as soon as a mobile unit can get here."
Within five minutes, a blocky, heavily-armored UNPF mobile unit had rumbled to a stop in the street outside the building where Stein had been visiting his family.
"I have to go now, Papa, Mama," Stein said. "Don’t worry about me – both sides know that UNPF is neutral."
"Neutral, but with fangs, Mama," his father said. "Those terrorists won’t dare to hurt our boy."
Stein sighed. "Not terrorists, Papa. Just people, angry because we haven’t treated them very well."
Yitzak Stein snorted. "Five thousand years our people suffered – "
" – But that doesn’t mean we should treat others as we were treated," Sara Stein interrupted. "Go, Aaron. Make them stop shooting at each other."
"We’ll do our best, Mama," Aaron said.
In the mobile unit, he pulled body armor and weapons from his locker module, strapping them on with practiced ease. Across from him, Oded bin Ladin was already in full gear, one eye concealed by the heads-up display monocle. Aaron could hear him muttering as he worked his way through the communications and sensor checklist – there was always at least one peace of hardware that refused to work properly without coaxing.
As he corkscrewed his way into his own helmet, Aaron grunted, "Any situation updates, Oded?"
Oded held up one hand while he poked at the control panel on his wristband with the other. Finally, he said, "I win again, stupid machine," and looked up at Aaron. "Nothing good, my friend. Still sporadic small-arms fire – old stuff and modern stuff on both sides – from different locations, so we can’t be sure where the shooters will be when we arrive. Probably only a handful of men – or women, or children, who knows these days – moving around to confuse us and each other."
"Any casualties? Damn this infrared thingy, it always gives me trouble."
Oded laughed. "Hardly worth fixing. In this heat, everything’s so bright in IR, you can’t really make out any human targets. And no, no casualties, or at least no wounds more serious than nicks and scratches from debris kicked up by all the bullets and flechettes flying around."
Aaron nodded, thoughtfully. "That might make things easier for us. It’s always harder when there’s fresh blood to be avenged."
"Fresh blood, old blood, to some of these people, it doesn’t matter. They could teach the Italians something about vendettas."
"I heard that, Oded. And nobody can teach an Italian anything about holding grudges." Lieutenant Vittorio Giordano, who had drawn chauffeur and communications duties on this run, was famous for "defending the honor of the Italian people". He knew more bad Godfather jokes than anyone in the UNPF, and was fond of injecting them into otherwise grim conversations.
"Coming up on the hot zone, gentleman – you too, Oded," Vittorio said. "My panel shows all your gear is up and running, except for your IR scanner, Aaron. And like Oded says, in this heat, you can’t see a damn thing in IR anyway."
Aaron and his partner braced themselves as Giordano brought the big vehicle to a shuddering halt. Clouds of dust obscured what little view the small, armored windows provided.
Suddenly, the steel-and-kevlar shell of the mobile unit rang with the impact of high-velocity projectiles.
"This always happens," Giordano complained. "They know we’re neutral, but they also know we’re here to spoil the fun. Plus, anything that would actually damage this beast would level half the neighborhood." He tapped a key on his communications panel, and a recorded message began to play through the powerful external speakers. In English, French, Russian, Hebrew, and Arabic, the voice repeated, "Please hold your fire. This is a United Nations Peacekeeping Force unit. We are neutral parties here only to provide mediation services before anyone is hurt or killed."
"They have another message recorded for situations where there are already casualties," Giordano remarked. "Sometimes I wish we had one that said, ‘We’re better armed than you and we’re here to kick the asses of anyone who doesn’t stop screwing around.’ But I guess that wouldn’t be very peacekeeper-ish."
After a few minutes of random fire, the snipers seemed to lose interest in the UNPF vehicle. The shooting continued, but none of it seemed to be aimed in their direction.
"Well, my friend, it looks like it is time for us to stick our heads up and see if anyone tries to play Whack-an-Unpoofer," Oded said.
"Unpoof. I hate that," Aaron moaned. He moved to the rear hatch and thumped the release button with his gloved fist. The hatch opened slowly on its pneumatically-damped hinges, revealing still-settling dust and glaring sunlight.
"Maybe they’ll shoot us, and you won’t have to hear it any more," Oded said.
They climbed down from the mobile unit and turned slowly, familiarizing themselves with the area. They were parked in the middle of a small square, with low, blocky buildings scattered around the perimeter. A few buildings showed scars from small arms fire; one had a gaping hole where more powerful weapons had punched through stone or brick that had probably withstood centuries of wear and weather.
"It looks pretty open here," Aaron said. "I don’t know how the snipers can be moving around without exposing themselves."
"If any attractive women start exposing themselves, let me know," Giordano’s stage whisper hissed through Stein’s helmet speakers.
"I’m serious, Vito," Aaron snapped. "This is beginning to smell like a setup."
"But we’re nooo-oo-tral, Aaron. None of these people would want to hurt us."
Oded exchanged nervous glances with Aaron. It was apparent that he shared Aaron’s doubts.
The random fire had died away.
Aaron keyed his helmet mike to transmit to the mobile unit’s loudspeaker system. "We are here to ask you to stop shooting for now," his amplified voice said. "For now. Not forever. We don’t expect to settle the problems that have led to this situation in one day, or a thousand days."
Aaron nodded to Oded, who activated his own microphone. "I am an Arab," Oded said, "born in the Gaza Strip. My friend is an Israeli. But we are both in the United Nations Peacekeeping Force because we believe that human life is precious, and not to be stolen or thrown away, no matter what the justification." He gestured to Aaron, signaling him to speak again.
"We offer the services of UNPF mediators from neutral countries, men and women who have been approved by both the Israeli and Palestinian authorities." Aaron pronounced the acronym as you-ehn-pea-eff, prompting a lopsided grin from Oded.
The grin faded, replaced by a look of bewilderment. Oded opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead of words, blood poured from his mouth. Aaron moved by instinct, rushing to catch his friend even as the wounded man’s knees buckled and he fell toward the sun-baked dust of the square.
He saw the wound in Oded’s neck at the same moment that he felt a tremendous impact between his own shoulder blades. Whatever the projectile had been, his body armor had stopped it – but the force of it still drove him face-first into the dirt and knocked the breath from his body.
"Hold your fire! Hold your fire! We are neutral UNPF personnel!"
Vittorio’s amplified voice was suddenly overwhelmed by a blast that made the ground shake under Aaron’s prone body. Scorching heat swept over him, mostly deflected by his protective uniform, but searing his flesh through every seam and gap. Gasping, Aaron rolled onto his back in time to see the mobile unit – almost five tons of metal and advanced composite materials – crash to the ground perhaps twenty meters away. He could see fire raging through the driver’s compartment, and knew that Giordano was dead, or dying.
Shaking, Aaron closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do; state-of-the-art weapons and sensors could not save his life against multiple snipers, against weapons that could destroy an armored vehicle designed to survive attacks using anti-tank missiles.
What hurt more than his own injuries – only bruises, scrapes, and minor burns so far – was the knowledge that they had failed, failed before they had even arrived on the scene. The shots that had killed Oded and had knocked Aaron himself off his feet had been fired with silenced guns, assassins’ guns. There were forces at work here that were so committed to violence that they would not tolerate anything that – how had Giordano put it – anything that spoiled their fun.
His friends – both classmates from the UNPF training school group under Major Picardo – were dead. Aaron had little doubt that he would join them soon. He tasted his own blood and the ubiquitous yellow-brown dust, and was only a little bit sorry that they would be the last things he ever tasted. His pulse thundered in his ears, the only thing his blast-deadened hearing could register, hammering like –
A sudden wind slapped him in the face, raising huge clouds of dust and grit. An instant later, the heat of the sun was cut off as a familiar shape swept in above him. "Gunship," he muttered. "Israeli? Or does UNPF have Apaches now?"
Sparks flew as flechettes and bullets struck the light armor of the helicopter. Automated turrets on the wing hardpoints and below the nose swiveled with inhuman speed and launched shells at the multiple sources of the attack.
"No," Aaron groaned. "Don’t kill – we can’t kill – " His voice trailed off as the shells burst in mid-air, spreading clouds of oddly-colored smoke over the areas from which the most recent shots had been fired. Almost immediately, the attacks on the helicopter ceased.
A few minutes later, the gunship rose higher into the air, making room for a second helicopter, this one a refurbished Blackhawk troop carrier, to land near Aaron.
"Lieutenant Stein, are you all right?"
"M’okay," Aaron choked. "But Oded and Vito – Lieutenants bin Ladin and Giordano – they’re dead."
"We know, Lieutenant. Giordano managed to hit the panic button before they hit him."
The panic button triggered a burst transmission of compressed video and audio from the mobile unit’s onboard computers, ensuring that a record of any attack on a UNPF vehicle was recorded in a safer location. It used a combination of focused laser and microwave frequencies that had been – so far – impossible to jam.
As medics removed his gear and dressed his wounds, Aaron said, "We killed them, didn’t we. We killed the ones who attacked."
One of the medics paused in his efforts, shaking his head. "They may have deserved death, but that isn’t what they got."
"Non-lethal nerve gas," the second medic confirmed. "Anything short of a hazmat suit, you wind up blind and puking your guts out for anywhere from a few hours to a few days, depending on how much you’re exposed. But it does wear off."
"Good," Aaron murmured. "No killing. No killing."
He still remembered Picardo’s final lesson: The Other is not a goose-stepping, baby-killing caricature; The Other has a face and a name and a family and a heart as strong and as fragile as your own. To kill The Other is no different than killing your own brother.
But for a moment, as the Blackhawk lurched into the air, Aaron imagined the feel of his assault rifle vibrating in his hands as it sent a storm of lethal flechettes at the faceless killers who had slain his friends, and he bared his teeth in a smile as old as the human race – the smile that Cain wore when his brother lay bleeding on the ground.
His smile faded as he realized that his rage only proved Picardo’s point. "We are all the same," he murmured. "All capable of love – and all capable of hate."
Thus endeth the lesson.
Robert is a systems analyst working at Pearson International Airport in Toronto. He has published work online in Titan Webzine, Dementia, as well as Aphelion.
E-mail: BMoriyama@aol.com
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