In their success column, though, they’d hijacked existing technology to cancel out wind noise, and an app that muted all voices except the one from the person you were looking at was starting to show real promise. On the downside, the directional aspect of the sound coming at him was still almost completely nonexistent. Despite almost two months of work, everything sounded like it came from just ahead and slightly to the right.
Smith scanned left, letting the cameras mounted on his helmet pan over a group of men paying a little too much attention to the American team in their midst. It was broad daylight under a blue sky so most visual enhancement was shut down. The two exceptions — facial recognition and weapon outline enhancement — were coming up empty.
His vision shook when he faced forward again and he gave his chin strap another tug. He’d commandeered the helmet from a Recon Ranger and it had been custom-molded for the Ranger’s larger head. Still, it was an amazing piece of gear. If Smith had any say in the matter — and he did — the bicycle mechanic who’d fabricated it would soon be a very wealthy man.
“Right or left, Colonel?” his point man said as they approached a cross street.
Smith expanded a satellite photo hovering in his peripheral vision and checked the layout of the village before responding. “Right.”
It would be the fastest way back and Smith had to admit that he’d had about enough of this exercise. The sixty-thousand-dollar seventeen-pound camera perched on his right shoulder seemed to be doing nothing but bending his collarbone. A little more tinkering might make it worth bringing out again but he was going to stick someone else with wearing it.
His man approached the corner and Smith swept left, lifting his rifle to provide cover should it become necessary. He left the satellite image up and watched the green dots that represented his people fan out behind him. Both the smoothness and resolution of the image had been significantly improved from his game of capture-the-flag three months ago. Even more important, though, his mind was growing accustomed to all the input, letting him register the flood of information without taking too much away from the reality around him.
“Rick,” he said in a voice that would be virtually inaudible to anyone around him but was easily picked up by his tooth mike. “You’re wandering a little far northeast. Tighten it up.”
Smith picked up his pace, keeping a line of sight on his point man while examining a section of ground along the edge of the road thirty-two meters away. The heat overlay that had been lurking in the background was now coloring an area about the size and shape of a manhole cover hazy orange, suggesting that the dirt had been churned up recently and was now absorbing sunlight at a slightly different rate than was the ground around it.
His man saw it too and, despite it probably being nothing more than some recently buried garbage, diverted through the increasingly dense crowd of pedestrians.
A tall man in a blue robe came out of a building just past the suspicious patch of dirt and after only a few seconds’ delay, started flashing red.
“Terry!” Smith said, raising his rifle and activating his targeting system. “Behind you!”
The soldier spun, but a fraction too late. The man the Merge had identified as a hostile knocked him to the ground before shoving his way through the people packing the street. Smith tried to follow him in his crosshairs, but the crowd started to panic and he couldn’t get a clean shot.
“We’ve got a target running south,” Smith said as the man disappeared around a corner. “Everyone behind me backtrack and try to intercept. Terry and I will flush him toward you.”
On his overhead display, he saw his people comply as he started running forward.
“You all right?” he said as he came alongside his man.
“Didn’t see him in time, sir.”
“My fault. Now let’s go get him.”
The heavy camera on his shoulder was limiting his speed to a fast jog and Terry quickly outpaced him, following the wake their target had left in the terrified throng.
As the street emptied, a hastily coded beta app kicked in and painted a woodpile just ahead of his man fluorescent orange.
“Terry! Trap!”
Too late. The sound of the explosion was heavily filtered by his unit’s processors, but the blinding flash wasn’t. Smith dove to the ground, causing the massive camera anchored to his shoulder to slam painfully into the side of his flimsy helmet. Visual enhancement kicked on, penetrating the smoke and showing his man and a number of civilians down.
The only thing moving was a hazy human outline coming directly at him. He struggled to get his rifle sighted but when the figure emerged from the smoke, it morphed into a tall, athletic woman wearing jeans and a formfitting black tank top.
She stopped and looked down at him, waving impatiently at the smoke. The tactical overhead view still running in his peripheral vision showed three of his team moving in on his position and another two moving south fast — probably in pursuit of their target. He concentrated on the word “time” and a dim display overlaid the woman’s elegantly curved torso.
4:48 p.m.
“All right,” he said, struggling to his feet with the shoulder camera teetering on a broken strap. “Let’s call it a day.”
Bystanders began appearing from the cover they’d fled to and burqas started coming off, revealing women in U.S. Army fatigues and the occasional smaller-than-average man that their system was still failing miserably to identify.
By the time he’d dusted himself off, the only people left on the street were the woman in front of him and Terry, who was still sitting next to the woodpile where the flash grenade had detonated.
“Congratulations,” Randi Russell said, pointing at the massive camera on Smith’s shoulder. “You may have invented the least practical piece of combat equipment in history.”
“It’s a spectrum analyzer that can identify explosive residue to about fifty meters. And believe it or not, it actually seems to work.”
“Yeah, all fifty pounds of it.”
“Seventeen. And we think we can get it down below four, with most of it in your pack.”
Her skeptical expression remained for a moment but then she looked around and broke into a dazzling smile. “I gotta hand it to you, Jon. This place is pretty impressive. There’s actually a real donkey back there.”
“Only the finest when the taxpayer’s footing the bill. Simulations are all about the details.”
The smoke had cleared and she sniffed at the air. “Doesn’t smell right, though. Still smells like Nevada.”
Smith considered that for a moment. “You make a good point. I’ll work on it.”
They looked at each in silence for a few moments before she spoke again. “I’m not sure I like this new world, Jon.”
He reached a dirty hand out and brushed back her short blond hair. No studs. “Still holding out?”
“You know me. If I had my way it would be daggers at dawn.”
She was only half joking, he knew. The world they lived in was one where you could have world-class skills, the best gear, and near-Olympic-level fitness, only to be killed by a fertilizer bomb built by an illiterate twelve-year-old. It was hard not to romanticize a time when the best man — or woman — won.
“I hear you. But the clock’s never going to turn back, Randi.”
“Tell me about it. I can’t swing a dead cat without hitting someone with one of your little gadgets screwed to their heads.”
A typically colorful metaphor but fairly accurate. At the outset, he’d argued passionately that the military didn’t have the right to order people to get the Merge body modifications, but his moral stand had turned out to be completely pointless. After seeing what the unit could do, soldiers were lining up to get them.