Then I see the children, and the image I’m forming collapses. Children and women are tumbling from the house. The sound of the flier, the crackle of the flames, they paint a picture in my mind that doesn’t involve children. But the truth is unfolding. There were civilians in there! The camera captures their terrified, wide-eyed stares, but it can’t capture that weeping, keening noise they make. It can’t capture the lurching realisation that someone just made a huge mistake.
I see the look on the sergeant’s face, that sheer animal joy, and I turn the camera away. That’s not what I’m after, but my hand turns back of its own accord. If I had time, I’d try and sketch it right here and now. There is something about the feelings of the moment, getting them down in pencil.
The sergeant sees me looking at him, and he laughs. “So? Innocents get hurt. That’s what happens in war.”
I make to answer him, but he’s concentrating on his console. The green light of the computer screen illuminates his face.
“That’s St Mark’s church at the top of the hill,” he says. “There’s a square beyond it with a town hall facing it. We occupy those two buildings, we have the high ground.”
He runs his finger across the screen.
“Big rooms in there, wide corridors. A good place to make our base.”
A woman screams. She’s pleading for something. I see a child; I see a lot of blood. A medic is running up, and I photograph that. The gallant liberators, aiding the poor civilians. That’s the problem with a simple snap. Taken out of context, it can mean anything.
But that’s why I’m here. To choose the context.
We make it to the top of the hill without further incident. The cries of pain are receding from my ears and memory. I focus on the scene at hand.
A wide square, littered with the torn canvas and broken bodies of umbrellas that once shaded café patrons. Upturned tables and chairs. Panic spreads fast when people find their mobile phones and computers have stopped working. They’ve seen the news from other countries; they know that the rioting is not far behind. Across the square, a classic picture: the signs of money and authority, targeted by the mobs. Two banks, their plate glass fronts smashed open, their interiors peeled inside out in streamers of plastic and trampled circuitry.
The town hall is even worse. It looks like a hollow shell; the anger of the mob has torn the guts out of this place, eviscerated it.
This is what happens when a Denial of Service attack hits, wiping out every last byte of data attached to a country, smoothing the memory stores to an endless sequence of 1’s.
Everything: pay, bank accounts, mortgages, wiped out completely. The rule of law breaks down, and armies are sent in to help restore order.
That was the official line, anyway.
“Funny,” says the woman at my side. “We seem to be more intent on securing militarily advantageous positions than in helping the population.”
“Shut up, Friis,” snaps the Sergeant.
“Just making an observation, Sergeant.” The woman winks at me.
“Tell you what, Friis, you like making observations so much, why don’t you head in there and check it out?”
“Sure,” she says, and she looks at me with clear blue eyes. “You coming, painter boy?”
“Call me Brian.”
“Aren’t you afraid he might get hurt?” laughs the Sergeant.
“I’ll look after him.”
I pat my pockets, checking my cameras, and follow her through the doorway, the glass crunching beneath my feet.
A large entrance hall, the floor strewn with broken chairs. The rioters haven’t been able to get at the ceiling though, and I snap the colourful frescoes that look down upon us. The soldier notices none of this; she’s scanning the room, calm and professional. She speaks without looking at me.
“I’m Agnetha.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
She has such a delightful accent. Vaguely Scandinavian.
I’ve heard it before.
I see strands of blonde hair curling from beneath her helmet. Her face is slightly smudged, which makes her look incredibly, sexy.
We move from room to room. Everything is in disarray—this place has been stripped and gutted. There’s paper and glass everywhere. Everything that could be broken has been broken.
“Always the same,” says Agnetha. “The data goes, and people panic. They have no money to buy food, they can’t use the phone. They think only of themselves, looting what they can and then barricading themselves into their houses. They steal from themselves, and then we come in and take their country from them.”
“I thought we were here to help!”
She laughs at that, and we continue our reconnaissance.
Eventually, it’s done. Agnetha speaks into her radio.
“This place is clear.”
I recognise the Sergeant’s voice. “Good. We’ll move in at once. There are reports of guerrilla activity down at the Via Baciadonne.”
“Baciadonne.” Agnetha smiles at me. “That means kisses women.”
She’s clever as well as pretty. I like that.
The area is quickly secured, which is good because outside the random sound of gunfire is becoming more frequent. I feel the excitement of the approaching battle building in my stomach. The flier comes buzzing up over the roofs, turning this way and that, and I watch the soldiers as they go through the building, filling it with equipment bundled in pink tape.
We find a room with two doors that open out onto a balcony with a view over the city beyond. Agnetha opens the doors to get a better field of fire, then leans against the wall opposite, her rifle slung across her knees. She smiles coquettishly at me.
“Why aren’t you taking my picture?” she asks.
I point the camera at her and hear it click.
“Are you going to use that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Keeping it for your private collection?”
She stretches her legs and yawns.
“You don’t mind me being attached to your group, then,” I say, “not like your sergeant.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“He doesn’t speak for all of us. I don’t agree with everything the government says, either. We’re sent out here with insufficient equipment and even less backup, and when we get home we’re forgotten about at best. I think it’s good that we have people like you here.”
She frowns. “So tell me, what are you going to paint?”
“Actually, I don’t just paint. I use computers, software, all those things. It’s all about the final image.”
“I understand that. But what are you going to paint?”
I can’t keep evading the issue. For all my fine words about reflecting the war as it really is, the Sergeant had it right. I’ll paint whatever Command wants me to. I like to paint a picture of myself as a bit of a rogue, but, at heart, I know the establishment has me, body and soul.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here. I need to experience this place, and then I can try and convey some emotion.”
“What emotion?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
There’s a crackle of gunfire, sharp silver, like tins rattling on the floor. I ignore it.
“You’re very pretty,” I say.
“Thank you.” She lowers her eyes in acknowledgement. I like that. She doesn’t pretend she isn’t pretty; she takes the compliment on its own terms.
“How did you end up in the army?” I ask.
She yawns and stretches.
“I worked in insurance,” she says, and that seems all wrong. So drab and everyday. She should have been a model, or a mountaineer, or an artist or something.
“I lost my job when Jutland got hit by the DoS attack. Everything was lost, policies, claims, payroll. The hackers had been feeding us the same worm for months; the backups were totally screwed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. Really sorry. So that’s why her accent sounded so familiar. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.