Better to Beg Forgiveness (24 page)

"Son of a bitch!" he muttered in annoyance and awe.

Aramis popped the sky roof and stood on the seat, legs spread for balance. Jason handed up the Viper, and there was a reassuring
clack
as he dropped the safety. That was the perfect position for the kid, Alex figured. He could waste anything he wanted in a messy fashion and no one was likely to object. This was where the youthful exuberance came in.

The ride got rough. They were on curb, then riding over carts, the oversized wheels throwing debris and splatting vegetables against the side. The odor started entering, and it wasn't a pleasant one. Most of that produce had been overripe.

Bart closed up to ride perhaps a half meter off the bumper of the Presidential limousine. That made the two vehicles effectively one for defensive purposes, allowing the EPs on front and rear to swing to the side. So far, the only response was panicking, running locals, but that could, even would, change. Two of the armored vehicles charged ahead. One from the rear pulled up alongside the rear limo and poured fire into the attacking vehicle there. Whether or not the threat was intentional, the occupants of that vehicle were now dead and splattered.

They went through the crowd and carts, through some tattered and ragged building awnings, and a cafeteria's tables, followed by two slams as the vehicles crashed in the close quarters, then they were in an intersection and turning left. Rahul was a decently competent combat driver, among his other talents, and it was good to have him along.

"We're split," Weilhung said. "Want to pick a meeting spot?"

"Meet at Joe's," Alex said.

There was a pause. "Confirm . . . Joe's?"

"Joe's."

There was another, longer pause. "Understood. Update us soonest."

It had taken a bit. There was no Joe's. Alex didn't feel like broadcasting a plan at the moment, even on scrambled radios. He was still formulating the plan, and didn't want to give bad information or anything that could be used against them. Likewise, it was never a bad idea to confuse the enemy.

Three sections of convoy were going in three directions, and would attempt to regroup. Everyone knew the President's section had gone left. The Army could call AF for satellite tracking and catch back up. The locals probably couldn't. There was nothing to indicate they had that level of technology, but Alex was increasingly suspicious. There were lots of off-planet groups taking an interest in things.

And now they had two limos and only small arms to get back through the city with.

"I vote for revehicling," he said.

"Concur," said Jason, with Bart a moment behind.

"But we need to stay in here for now. Where should I go?" Bart asked.

"Ultimately back to the airfield. As to route, I'm not sure. Best guess. We need to let Rahul lead for a while. He's more familiar with things."

"Can we trust him?" Aramis asked vocally, shouting down through the roof.

"Mic off," he said in warning as he thumbed the button. "That's a damned good question. I assume we have to, and the President does. Hard for us to argue, and we have no evidence he's not on our side."

"Just that three attacks have happened since he joined us," Aramis said, ducking his head in. "Call me paranoid."

"The attacks are increasing in frequency and threat level. I think it's coincidence."

"Could be. Keep it in mind."

"Yeah. Mic on. Rahul, you lead, get us back to the airport by any route, try to avoid concentrations.

"Yes, sir!" came the reply.

"How's fuel?" Alex asked.

"Fine. I think we'll be okay if we can keep moving," Bart said, laconic even in the midst of battle. "Aramis, you keep the route clear. I don't want us to have to stop."

"How serious about that are you?"

"Mic off. Kill anyone who might cause us to stop. Is that plain enough?" Bart's voice was clear and slow.

"Sweeet." The kid sounded reassured rather than pleased. Good. He even glanced down at Alex for confirmation. Alex nodded. Not stopping was essential. Enough people could roll a limo, or block it in with chocks and then beat it or fire it.

"Bad route," Bart said tersely. Alex looked ahead.

"Fuck." There was nothing else to say.

Ahead was a fuel tanker, with some kind of petro or methane derivative that was combustible, even explosive, and they were going to pass it.

"I'd like to keep our distance from that, if we can," Alex said. "Rahul, we want to guide past that tanker, or parallel it, something, ASAP."

"Understood. I'll stay back for now."

"I agree," Bart said, and changed lanes while braking. "I don't believe it will be a problem, but why take chances?"

"Yeah." Alex didn't want to admit he was nervous. Sure, the odds were slim, but enough slim odds eventually came up to a good probability. Murphy said that this was the moment it would cut loose.

They passed what had been the local conference center. That moment was
the
moment, and the tanker just disappeared, replaced by a huge fireball laced with black, oily smoke; a massive, crushing blow; a deafening, stomach-churning boom; and a heat front that was painful through the sides of the car.

The collision curtains deployed, Aramis dropped inside and cursed, the vehicle bounced and came down hard enough to jar spines from coccyx to atlas. The engine stuttered from that shock wave. The short convoy slewed to a halt.

"Holy
shit
!" Jason said.

"Damn. You called that one right," Aramis said. He slapped at his hair, patted himself, checking for damage. The kid was always smart after the shit hit the fan. Get him to think ahead and he'd go from operator to team leader. He was also bleeding from both lips. Likely he'd bashed his face on the roof as he came down. His skin was flushing red from heat damage.

Bart accelerated and drove
into
the receding and rising fireball that was mushrooming out and spreading above, darkening the sky. Oily, burning streams were raining down, but the road was moderately clear, with vehicles blown off, or stalled from various aftermaths of the detonation.

"I don't think a second one will go off at this time, so let us get through," he said. Something crunched and the vehicle bucked and rose, dropped and dragged. Wheels screamed. Thick, fluffy soot, some of it still glowing red, fell through the open roof.

"I have clear sky," Rahul said. "Watch for threats."

Aramis shook himself then rose back up to man the gun that was leaning against the roof lip. He swung it out and scraping could be heard on the plastic and metal of the canopy top.

"Think it was on purpose?" Alex asked. He assumed it was. The timing was too cute.

Bababababababang
! Automatic fire lashed out and raked the right side, starring windows but not penetrating. Aramis swung over and cut loose with a return burst from the Viper that made shit explode. Bart accelerated, Rahul said, "I do," and Alex grinned and cussed.

In the lead vehicle, Elke leaned out a window and fired grenades, and tossed what could only be small mines into the gutter. Jason was out the top with a machine gun and laid down . . . well, not indiscriminate fire. He aimed well, but he didn't seem too worried about collateral damage. Above, Aramis took that as a cue and added to it. They chewed apart some ratty storefront that had definite military gear set up in a clear space.

"Playwright, this is Calico actual, over," said a female voice, Captain Berit Lyngstad, a blonde Norwegian paratrooper who was running one of the reinforced local platoons.

"Go ahead, Calico, over," he said over the clatter of guns.

"Stand by for backup. Indigenous unit to your right, one block, over."

Whatever had happened, this area was way past hot.

"They can best stay where they are to cover the flank, over," Alex said.

"They're trying to link up to reinforce the convoy, over."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. However, his jurisdiction ended outside the limos. He could direct them anywhere Bishwanath wanted. He couldn't control the military. Bishwanath could, but it would screw things up worse to even try that.

"Understood, over," he said. Things couldn't get that much worse, he thought, as they growled over debris, bouncing only slightly in the massive vehicle.

Lyngstad spoke again. "Playwright, Snow White informs us the enemy has commo, over." Captain L. was definitely easy to understand and calm under fire. Pity the bitch only had bad news.

Then Aramis poured fire down the cross street as Bart tried to run faster.

"Those are good guys, dammit!" Bart said. At least on paper.

Alex was all set to make an apologetic ass-covering comment when Aramis said, "Mic off. One: cover your ass. Two: get paid first."

"Hold fire," he said instead. Blast it, the kid was right, but the timing and phrasing sucked. At least he'd killed his mic.

Aramis looked down and said, "Boss, you didn't want them along. I didn't kill any, dinged a few vehicles at most. Now they're not along. Ream me later."

"How does our route look?" he asked, just as Captain L. cut back in.

"Playwright, please control your fire. Friendlies, say again, friendlies, over." She had iron control, he had to give her that. Why weren't there more like her?

"Confirm friendlies," he said. "ID problem, now resolved, over." Yeah, she'd believe that.

But they hadn't planned on the collapsed building blocking the street.

"That was not on the map this morning," Bart said, looking from the wreckage to the dash. "And is not . . . wait, it's updating. From our input."

"Well, I'm glad we can provide recon for everyone else," Jason muttered aloud. Both drivers forced their vehicles around in hard, traction-breaking turns.

The hostiles didn't seem to be entirely interested in the cornered President, though there was some sniper fire.

Then there was mortar fire and more sniper fire.

"It would be good to have more than the single fighter overhead, and one transport," Alex said.

"Playwright, this is Calico. Be advised incoming fire is not targeting you. You are discreet if you can break out, over."

"Understood, over." Yeah, the fight was going on regardless, they just happened to be here. Which still sucked. They were boxed in, valuable bystanders in the middle of a war, ripe to be anyone's hostages, targets, or punching bags.

Aramis fired another heavy burst back at some shooter and fire erupted from a window. Jason pulled a rocket out and put an exclamation on the burst that took out a section of wall for massive overkill, which made a point that would hopefully be taken.

"Boss, I recommend moving up here, over," Jason said.

"Good idea," Alex said, and reached through the hatch to the trunk. Get all the hardware out and use it now. Clear an area around them and wait for backup.

Bart took weapons like firewood, kicked open the door and ran as Aramis fired bursts of suppressive fire. Alex followed with three rockets and two dump guns. Then he and Jason provided suppression for Aramis. That put everyone in one vehicle, for better protection of the President and better outgoing fire.

They hunkered down. The vehicle wasn't a great redoubt, but it was armored.

"Suggestions on retreat?" Alex asked as he shot at another threat. It was just some punk, but a threat if ignored.

"Recon," Elke said, and leaned out with her shotgun. She fired four shots in four high arcs to the cardinal points, her body bent at odd angles out the window, then handed a cord to Alex. He plugged it into his computer and opened the video.

The slugs she fired had cameras aboard. Their resolution wasn't great, but they were for battlefield recon, not glamour shots.

"I don't see anywhere not filling up with hostiles," Alex said. "Bad. Hope they get here quick."

"Arriving," Calico said. "We took a wrong turn, over."

The punctuation was a roar of noise on a psyops speaker, followed by pops of some kind of nonlethal gas.

"Ah, shit," Bart said. "Close the vehicle?"

"Yeah, all we can manage. Fucking morons."

They scrabbled back and rolled the windows. With seven in back, the limo was fairly tight. Bart crawled up front to get the engine going. The ignition wasn't responding to Rahul's attempts. The turbine might have inhaled something during the debris-throwing chase.

"Shit gas," Elke reported. "Full bore incapacitance agent."

"Calico, we do not have filters, over," Alex said. He was amazed how calm he sounded.

"Why not? Dammit, you're supposed to have filters at all times! Over." Lyngstad sounded panicky now.

"Well, we're supposed to have a lot of things at all times, but there's this image you want us to maintain!" Alex snapped. "Don't fucking worry about it, just deal with it fast, over."

"Roger, Playwright. As fast as we can. I have called for vertical, over."

"Yeah, great. Out."

The engine didn't start, but the capacitor bank had enough juice to close vents and the roof.

"Are we to be affected?" Bishwanath asked. He was a fantastic principal. Did as he was told, stayed out of the way. At least it wasn't their screwup.

"Yes, sir. As soon as that gas enters, we're going to be spewing from every orifice, hallucinating, and twitching. It's messy and undignified, but not long-term harmful. But they'll have to carry us out and either deliver an antidote or wait for it to wear off."

"Thank you," he said. No sarcasm, just understanding of the facts.

"Getting some whiffs," Elke said. "Not bad yet, but rising nausea."

"Better than outside," Shaman said. "Look at that." He pointed.

The crowds half a block away had disappeared at a hint, but the few who'd missed the warnings were convulsing heavily, anything from twitches and shakes to staggering and dancing. Then they started vomiting, snotting, drooling. Stained clothes indicated sphincters cutting loose.

"The good news is the threat is now gone ohhhh erp!" Aramis said. His face bore the panicked look of someone who knows he's about to be sick. Violently sick.

"Here it comes," Alex said. "Calico, it's hitting us, you're in charge of recovery. Thanks for clearing the areurllph!" and he was vomiting, spewing, guts alternately clamping tight with cramps and then jerking. Fear reflex hit, and he could see Elke whimpering, head in hands, curled up tight on the floor. Jason was kneeling over the seat and clutching at it for support as the car rolled over, tossing Alex sideways . . . or was that disorientation from the gas? No, the car was . . . no it wasn't, couldn't be, but the President was falling atop him and . . .