Backshot (7 page)

“A laser rifle!” Long barked a laugh. “That’s old technology, nobody’s used laser rifles in a couple of centuries.”

Marcus Berentus nodded solemnly. “Armies stopped using lasers because the technology to deflect and disperse the beams became inexpensive, making the lasers ineffective as military weapons.” He paused and looked around the room. “Nobody uses that deflection and dispersal technology anymore, either, so that makes lasers viable military weapons again.”

Inside, Chang-Sturdevant made a face, but didn’t show it to the people in the room. “What’s the other last thing you wanted to mention?” she asked Adams. The DCIO gave her a smug smile. “Two, Madam, we have a very reliable agent on Atlas who will be making a report soon. That report should convince you our option is justified.”

Chang-Sturdevant felt a mighty surge of anger, but her long years of experience in public life allowed her to suppress it. How, she raged inwardly, could Adams know the report would convince her to authorize an assassination before it had even been submitted to the CIO for evaluation? “Well, Jay, let me see it, then, when it’s fully evaluated,” she responded coolly and swirled out of the room.

“Madam,” Berentus closed the door to Chang-Sturdevant’s private office behind him, “did you hear what old stuffed-shirt Porter said? Because of the weather he had to call for a starship to get over here this morning?”

Chang-Sturdevant looked at her Minister of War blankly for a moment and then burst into laughter. They both laughed. “Marcus,” she exclaimed, slapping her thigh, “the old boy does have some life in him after all! Now,” she plopped into the nearest chair, “I’ve some free time before I meet with the,” she waved a hand vaguely, “the Great Wazoo of Tubegador or whomever, so let’s have a cuppa java.”

“That is very presidential of you—Suelee,” Berentus smiled, taking a seat opposite Chang-Sturdevant. She smiled at him, deciding she liked having Marcus call her by that name, then said, “One final thing, old friend. That analyst. The one who knows this Lavager. Find out who she is for me, would you? For her I might grant a private interview.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Organization, Hunter, Earth

J. Murchison Adams cursed so foully once they were back in the privacy of his office at CIO headquarters that Palmer Lowell actually winced. When Adams was upset he resorted to gutter language using words not even the crustiest drill sergeant would employ with the dumbest recruits. Where he’d learned to curse so eloquently was a mystery to Palmer, considering the DCIO’s upbringing by people who wouldn’t have said “garbage” if they’d had a mouthful of it.

“That rotten sonofabitch, useless goddamned—” Adams paused to catch his breath.

“Well, Gustafferson’s report will clinch matters for us, old boy,” Lowell volunteered, hoping to calm the director down.

Adams gasped and wiped his forehead. He was quiet for a moment, trying to get a grip on himself. Then his face reddened again and he slammed a fist onto his desk. “And that goddamned bitch!” he screamed.

“I asked for a private meeting and she went and brought in those, those—” He broke into a fit of coughing.

“Ah, you refer to our illustrious Madam President Chang-Sturdevant and her advisors, old man? Quite distressing, the whole affair, I must admit. Have some of this Paté Munchausen, old chap? Settle you down a bit.”

“Goddamnit, I don’t want any Paté Munchausen!” Adams shouted, but he made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. He drank a mouthful of the Club Klinko ’76 the servo had just poured. “Who ordered this vinegar?” he asked, then said, “Pretty good for vinegar, though.” He drained the glass and the servo poured another. He was getting back in control of himself now. “Gustafferson. Yes, Palmer, quite, quite. He’s on to something out there, you can bet on it. Yes, his report will be decisive.” He spooned up a bite of the Paté Munchausen. “Umm. Very good, Palmer.” He activated the intercom on his desk. “Get Somervell in here, would you?” he ordered his secretary. As he entered the director’s private office, Somervell P. Amesbury, CIO Chief of Staff, exchanged a rapid glance with Lowell, who shook his head ever so slightly, indicating the blowup was over and didn’t concern anyone at Hunter. The rest of the director’s immediate staff had heard the row coming from his office and everyone was walking on eggshells. Good people were known to have been summarily fired when the director got into these moods.

“Somervell, old boy,” Adams began, “what’s the name of that analyst, the one who served on Atlas and knows Lavager personally? Odd sort of name. You know her?”

“Yes, sir. Anya Smiler. She’s been with us a long time and is a very good—”

“Yaass, I’m sure. Have her taken off the Atlas desk, would you? Assign her somewhere else. When the next agent report comes in from Atlas, I want it sent directly to me. I don’t want anyone else messing with it. Particularly not her. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, sir,” Amesbury nodded. “Will there be anything else, Jay?” He did not need to ask how the meeting with the President had gone.

“No, no. Take care of that little matter at once and then join us back here for lunch, will you? You really should sample this Paté Munchausen. Delightful.”

“Palmer,” Adams began after Somervell departed, “I am not going to let this go. Lavager is a threat to the Confederation, pure and simple. This government’s policy must rigorously follow the rule of balkanizing certain member worlds into nation-states so they can pose no threats to the Confederation’s vital interests. I do
not
understand why this woman cannot see that.”

“Well, Gustafferson’s report will swing things our way, I’m sure.”

“Yaass,” Adams drawled. He finished his wine and refilled his glass. “But if it doesn’t?” He held his hands out toward Lowell.

This was no rhetorical question and Lowell knew what the answer was his chief wanted, but he paused before answering. “If it doesn’t, then, um, ah, we do it on our own?”

Adams smiled broadly and leaned back comfortably. “You said it!”

Analysis Directorate, CIO Headquarters Anya Smiler sat at her console, reviewing incoming intelligence reports. They were voluminous and full of detail, mostly analyses submitted by agents on the scene reporting the latest political gossip, changes in government personnel and policy, economic statistics, evaluations of military force structures and so on. But over the years she had learned how to winnow out the important material in these reports and to condense it into a few succinct paragraphs that would give busy intelligence bureaucrats what they needed to know. She and her colleagues were always available to give full briefings if asked for more details.

Anya was involved in a report from the station chief on Wyndham’s World about the sexual escapades of various members of a prominent Wyndhamian religious sect when her console bleeped that a very important, highly classified message was being relayed from the communications center. Her screen went dead and then the incoming message flashed across it. It was from the station chief at the embassy in New Granum on Atlas. It was a verbatim transcript from a report filed by Gus Gustafferson and it concerned the Cabbage Patch, the alleged weapons facility. Anya caught her breath as she read it. She had just gotten to the last paragraph, a standard element in these messages where the local station chief added his own interpretation of his agent’s report, when she sat bolt upright at what was written there. Impossible! They hadn’t lost an agent since—The screen went dead again and then the following message flashed across it, COMMUNICATION WITHDRAWN. ACCESS DENIED. SPA

“SPA” were the initials of the CIO Chief of Staff, Somervell P. Amesbury. “What the—?” Anya muttered. She knew that the recent meeting with the president over the Atlas situation had not gone the way the director had wished. Some things just weren’t kept secret around CIO headquarters. She also knew how the director would use this report. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Office of the Chairman, Combined Chiefs of Staff, Fargo

“Gentlemen, I give you the staple of the North American peasant for centuries—the hot dog!” Admiral K. G. B. Porter announced, holding a steaming sample of what naval personnel called “tube steak” on his fork. He popped it into a bun, doused it with condiments, and took a huge bite. “Umpf!” He shook his head with pleasure and chewed vigorously. The other three officers, members of the Combined Chiefs, unenthusiastically regarded their plates as the Chairman swallowed and followed the mouthful with a long draft of ale. “Come on, come on, eat up! It’ll be a long afternoon, gentlemen!”

White-garbed messboys stood at attention around the small dining room, the Chairman’s private mess. He refused to use servo-robots but instead employed selected navy ratings as stewards to attend his meals.

“I prefer the cheeseburger,” Army Chief of Staff Blankenship remarked, taking a tentative bite of his “hot dog.” “Umm, well, not bad,” he said.

“Cheeseburger?” the chairman exclaimed. “Capital idea! Sibuco,” he turned to the senior messboy, a first-class rating, “put cheeseburgers on the menu for tomorrow’s lunch, would you?”

“I like spaghetti,” General Anders Aguinaldo, the Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps said.

“But hot dogs are good too.” He took a bite of his.

“They’re a bit, um, ‘plebian,’ though, aren’t they, General?” Admiral Sela, who had replaced Porter as Chief of Naval Operations, said.

“Everything I like is,” General Aguinaldo replied. “That comes from living on field rations most of my life.” The other officers laughed politely.

“Gentlemen, the hot dog has a venerable history. Actually, they were originally a sausage called ‘Frankfurter’ or ‘wienerwurst’ in German. Some referred to them as ‘dachshund sausage,’ after a breed of dog with short stubby legs and an elongated body, because the animal somewhat resembled the hot dog, but also because Americans, with their zany sense of humor, implied the sausages were actually made from canine meat, ha, ha. But the Americans of the early twentieth century liked them. They became the ‘national meat dish,’ if you will. They were actually made of pork and beef, though.”

“What are these made of?” Aguinaldo asked. “I’ve eaten dog meat. When I was a corporal, on Katusa. These sure don’t taste like dog.” He stuffed the remainder of the roll into his mouth and smiled around it.

“Those Katusas really know how to slice and dice a dog for chow. Ummm.” He winked at the army general.

The two admirals quickly put down their utensils and reached for their beer. “Well, Commandant, ah, these hot dogs are vegan, actually. If you want hot dogs with real meat in them you’ll have to go some place like Atlas, where they have vast herds of meat-producing ungulates. And that brings me to the subject of our meeting with the President this afternoon. You’ve all been furnished read-ahead reports on the situation there. Comments?”

“Ah, those drips at CIO are always trying to dip their oars into the water,” General Blankenship snorted.

“As far as I can tell, there’s no threat to us from this Frankfurter guy, er, I mean Lavager, isn’t that his name?”

“Well,” the CNO interjected, “it’s high time we invaded somebody, otherwise the fleets are likely to get rusty. The last time we had a full-scale combined operation was that operation on Diamunde.”

Aguinaldo snorted, “Yeah, and on that operation the army general in command proved incompetent. No offense, General,” he added in an aside to Blankenship. “And the admiral in overall command was so stupid he couldn’t even spit unless he had a senior chief standing by to shove a rag in his mouth. It was my Marines who had to save everybody on that one and I’m against another bloodbath like that.” He didn’t mention that it wasn’t until he, a lieutenant general at the time and in command of the Marine forces in the command, was placed in command of ground operations that the Diamunde campaign turned around and the Confederation forces began winning. “I agree with the army on this one,” Aguinaldo said.

“Besides, we’ve got a lot of fish to fry as it is, and you gentlemen all know what I mean. We can’t be sending an expedition to this place without a compelling reason, and I don’t think the intelligence that CIO has gathered on events there is all that compelling.”

“Lavager, from what I can tell, is what the early Americans would have referred to as a ‘hot dog,’

gentlemen,” Admiral Porter said. “In the slang of the day that meant anyone who was exceptionally capable, outstanding in his field, et cetera. Well,” he wiped his lips, “J. Murchison Adams claims to have fresh intel that will change our minds, thus this emergency meeting with the President. Before we go over there, cigars, anyone?” They all rose to follow Admiral Porter into the lounge. On the way out the door he turned to Aguinaldo. “Andy, you mention eating dog. Ever eat a kwangduk? Well, I did once, when I was an ensign on the CNSS
James Aspby
. Didn’t know what it was at the time, of course. Damned thing was pretty tasty, actually. We were on liberty on . . .”

Office of the Director, CIO

“So they think we’re ‘drips,’ do they?” J. Murchison Adams laughed and shook his head. First Class Sibuco had wasted no time making his report after the chairman and his party had moved from his private mess into the lounge. Adams had trusted agents in almost every government office and all had his direct number to call when they had information that might be of importance. “Human intelligence, Palmer, that’s always the most reliable! Hang all these technical devices anyway.” He changed the subject. “How long before Sibuco’s enlistment is up? We can’t afford to lose him over there.” He arose from the table, finished the glass of La Gran Chateau-du-Vichy ’42, and reached for his tunic.

“We’ll increase his stipend out of our agent fund, Jay, boost his pay up to the equivalent of a navy full commander. That’ll keep him around a while longer, I’m sure.” In former years the CIO had recruited agents from among young people who wanted to serve the Confederation; now they were recruited from those who wanted to be served
by
the Confederation.

“Palmer, let us make haste! Madam President awaits our imminent arrival and we await the presentation of the late Gus Gustafferson’s report. Ah, fortuitous indeed, my dear Palmer, that someone murdered him, because that act is the final nail in Jorge Liberec Lavager’s long overdue coffin!” He shrugged into his tunic. “Damn, Palmer, when are we going to get someone on the inside in Chang-Sturdevant’s office, eh?”

Office of the President, Fargo

“You,” Madam Chang-Sturdevant addressed a scoop of rich chocolate ice cream, “are my one indulgence.” She smiled and put a spoonful into her mouth. “Marcus, a world without ice cream is a world without a soul.”

“Speaking of things without souls, Suelee, we meet in twenty minutes with Adams and his deputy. They really think they’re on to something this time, otherwise why did they ask for the Combined Chiefs to be present, as well as the AG and ‘anyone else you deem interested in affairs on Atlas.’ They’re about to make an announcement, is what it is.”

“Your ice cream, Marcus, you haven’t touched it!”

“Ah,” Marcus regarded his melting scoop of strawberry, “no appetite, I guess. Look, the news is full of Gustafferson’s murder. You know how the media is, they report the massacre of a million souls with total equanimity but let one of their own get killed and they go into a mourning frenzy. GNN’s been broadcasting Gustafferson’s face and biography all over Human Space. There’ll be a call for an inquiry in the Senate, you can bet on it. If it develops that Lavager had anything to do with it, and you can be sure the CIO is going to leak that to the media, there’ll be a call for a full-scale invasion of the planet. It’s happened before, you know? ‘Remember the Maine!’ and all that. Well, I have pretty good information of my own that the late media maven Gus Gustafferson was one of CIO’s agents. I really think we’re going to have to take CIO’s views on Atlas seriously this time, and we should be prepared to consider their request for—”