The Drone Wars

The Village

Sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes, drenching the black ski mask she wore. She blinked several times to bring the rural farm and its nearby plantain trees into focus.

"You go in from the east, we'll take west" whispered Martin to the group of six facing him. They used first names; they were friends and it helped keep their normal work separate from this unsanctioned op. He turned to the five behind them and motioned for them to come. He looked monstrous, more cyborg than man, wearing night vision glasses. Being of higher rank, only his salary was sufficient to afford the expensive black-market glasses. The rest used the light from the gibbous moon to see their way to the village.

Each group of six was assigned into three pairs. "You're with me, Princess," Martin said to her. He always called her that whenever they were not being recorded and the name had spread to the rest of the team. Nearly fifty years of U.S. women in combat and the chauvinism wouldn't go away. It made her blood boil and she couldn't let him get away with it.

She glared at him and gave him a sharp elbow to his rib cage. "We done yet, you old blowhard?" He would stop insulting her soon and the rest of the men would follow.

Soon all the others had dispersed to their assignments and they approached the first house. She could hear voices coming from inside. Neither she nor Martin knew Yoruba or any of the other local languages of Nigeria, she couldn't tell which one was being spoken.

The house's walls were largely masonry with a corrugated metal roof which was lined with several of the cheapest looking solar panels that she'd ever seen. Old plastic toys, dirty and well-worn by two or three generations of use, were scattered near the house. Her heart was pounding. Killing unarmed civilians was wrong. Probably a war crime, though a class had taught her you'd never be sure unless there was a trial. Even if these people had helped the Chinese like Martin said, this was vigilante justice at best.

"We can't do this," she whispered letting her gun slump. "Those who helped the Chinese kill our guys can be brought to justice legally."

"We don't need girls on this team!" Martin replied in a furious whisper. "I've seen too many murderers go free to trust the law. These people harbored the enemy who killed our people. That makes them the enemy. Now you will go in there or there'll be a bullet in your brain too."

There were only a couple of dozen houses in the village. It wouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Martin broke down the door with a stern kick.

She'd heard in the bar about the soldiers in her platoon who'd been killed over the last couple of months: Steve and George. Good men by all the accounts she'd hear, with families back home. Martin had told them about the Chinese who had visited this village and been provided aid and comfort by the villagers. She questioned ill intentions by the locals, but her objections had been dismissed. All of them, Martin's best, were thirsty for revenge. When they had arrived in Nigeria, they had been trained in Yoruba culture. Indications were that the locals were hospitable, warm-hearted people who would often treat guests with extraordinary kindness. Probably that's all it had been, guests needed help, and they got it, no questions asked.

When the door came down, she saw the kitchen: cheap plastic dinnerware and a wallet sized old laser projector with an African TV show flickering on the irregular surface of the wall. A wide-eyed man and woman sat at the table. She figured if they'd knocked politely and been wearing something other than semi-military garb, the man and woman have gladly shared their meager dinner with the visitors.

The brief flash from the muzzle of Martin's gun was the only indication a shot had been fired because Martin had made them put had suppressors on their weapons. The startled look on the man's face faded only slightly as the life went out of him.

Martin fired the next bullet into the woman's abdomen before she could comprehend her situation. She gave a weak scream and reached futilely at the wound. She died too quickly to do anything else.

"Don't just stand there! Make yourself useful and don't let anyone escape." Martin commanded. Two doors led to the back of the house. Most likely there were more people in this house. Martin went towards one door, she went to the other. She heard another shot from Martin's room and the death toll went up again.

She blinked the water from her eyes and went into the dark room. She passed through the empty bathroom and the other door into the back room. There was a hint of movement. The back room had a door that emptied out into the jungle behind the house and the door was open.

The light revealed a man wearing bed clothes carrying a young child. He moved like silent lightning, his back turned to her. She would never fire at an innocent child. Martin had been clear that there were to be no witnesses, but she didn't care about the old fool's orders.

She waited a moment until the man had vanished into the night. She crossed the room and closed the door and started to walk out. Martin appeared in the doorway, backlit by the kitchen light. "Clear," she said.

"Get the gasoline," he ordered. "We burn it all."

Just a few minutes later the whole group of soldiers stood among the plantains. They were wilting from lack of rain. She looked at the burning house. Smoke ascended from the whole village.

"Did anyone get away?" asked Martin.

As expected, the locals had no idea they were coming. All the soldiers in the op were present and accounted for. "No one," replied each person in turn.

"I already confirmed that information, sir," she said when he pointed at her.