Better to Beg Forgiveness (30 page)

Alex felt panic. He locked it down and carried on. They wouldn't die. Lots of ammo, deadly force authorized, adequate defensive position with backup en route. All cool, except for those two guys running in tossing rocks and dodging, acting as if they'd faced troops before. He raised his carbine to shoot.

He heard the ear-stabbing scream of a small motorcycle being revved.

No, not a motorcycle. Bishwanath burst out of the utility building with a fifty-centimeter chain saw, screaming threats and profanities in three languages.

For a moment, Alex thought he was the target and his guts clenched, bowels trying to empty themselves.

Then the President was past him and caught one of the mob across the chin with the zinging metal blade. The resultant scream was louder than the small engine, and blood and bone splashed for a second as the victim dropped, kicking, crying, blubbering, and thrashing in convulsions.

With that, the rest of the toughs disappeared, sprinting to do credit to Olympic athletes, weapons abandoned behind them.

Alex was shaking, shuddering, and couldn't speak. He pointed at the gyrating casualty and Shaman stepped forward. He glanced Bishwanath over, nodded, and proceeded to the bloody mess.

Bishwanath was greasy and dusty but unhurt. He switched off the saw and placed it down. The capacitor latch was loose. He'd had to force the old one out for a fresh one, Alex saw.

"Chain saw?" Alex asked, trying to sound relaxed.
Holy shit. A
fucking
chain saw!

"It was that or a pickax. This took longer, but I decided the delay was worth the psychological effect." His voice was muffled by the mask. He raised his hands as Elke patted him down for wounds.

"Indeed." There wasn't much more to say, and the screams weren't getting quieter. Generally, you didn't want the principal to try to help. Best if they just went limp and let you move them as needed. In this case, however, the help had been quite useful and clearly thought out.

The victim shrieked and screamed, but lost consciousness quickly. Shaman shook mystical powders into the air and chanted something. So far, all he'd done for treatment was to pour alcohol onto the wound. Or maybe it was peroxide—it foamed, and burbled up pink with spots of oil. That had to be one of the more gruesome wounds Alex had ever seen. Flesh was ripped and shiny white, fresh-cut bone exposed. Teeth, too.

"Aramis, stay here, deliver the prisoner to Weilhung when done. Bart, Jason, get the door. Elke, we're taking Dishwasher inside." They moved at once, up the hill, over the rock garden that had been one of the reasons for taking cover, because it would have been a pain to tackle, and then across the cleared green grass. "Unmask," he ordered, and gratefully tore the rubber octopus off his face. It was greased with sweat.

They entered the building as a rotating mechanism of pointed weapons with Bishwanath as the hub. Everyone took a deep breath.

"Okay, we're going to have regular soldiers here now, as we should have," Alex said.

"Yes, we must," Bishwanath agreed. "Though I fear the insult it offers, as valid as it is, will make things worse."

"It can't get much worse than this, sir," Alex said. "But I am seriously fucking impressed, pardon my language. That was awesome thinking, and fast, and just what we needed."

"Yes. Will the man survive?"

"Huh?" It took Alex a moment to decipher that. "Uh, if he can be saved, Shaman will do it. He didn't look to have suffered any life-threatening wounds. You missed the subclavian and carotid arteries and it didn't look as if you got the lungs. What I saw was just horrifyingly messy, disfiguring, and painful for weeks on end."

"That is unfortunate," Bishwanath sighed, looking sad.

"Sir, no offense, but he tried to kill you, and not even man to man. He brought five thousand of his cowardly friends with him because he couldn't do the job alone. He's just a punk from a mob."

"Yes, and I will gain much credit for fighting as I did in some groups, and be reviled as unmanly in others. A good treatment for him is diplomatic."

"If he can be saved, Shaman will save him. He just won't be gentle about it. You can ensure he gets . . . sir, are you okay?" He suddenly interrupted himself because Bishwanath was shaking like a rattle. Heart?

"Stress," Bishwanath nodded. "Weak, faint." He was pouring sweat and looking pallorous.

Elke and Jason each grabbed an arm, raised it, and started running, Bishwanath's toes barely brushing the ground. Alex passed them to get the door, only to be beaten by Rahul. The man was bearlike but fast.

"White, anyone with AF, I need help now! Recon, medic, anyone!" He shouted as well as transmitted, because he believed it was stress. He also knew it might not be, and had to be handled at once.

Up the elevator, as Jason slapped a sensor on Bishwanath's neck. The fat little black case matched the supplemental earbud he clapped to his ear.

"Pulse rapid but strong, breath shallow and fast, blood pressure high," he reported aloud. "Getting heart . . . rapid, fluttery."

"Fluttery's bad?"

"Can be. Isn't always. Consistent with stress and shock."

"Arriving," Elke said.

The door opened and they ran, as two AF personnel came down the hall the other way at a steep sprint. One was Sergeant Buckley, but he didn't recognize the other. Buckley had a medkit, half open and was already reaching into it.

Elke stretched out and coded the door with a swipe, kicked it open as the latch clicked, and led the way to the couch. She ran around the back, Jason twisted under Bishwanath's shoulders as Alex lifted his legs. Elke reached over from the back, grabbed his suit and split it, buttons popping, then ripped his shirt. The sheen of sweat could be seen on the skin here, along with a variety of scars. Yes, this man had been in other fights.

But those were years past, and this was now. He wasn't young, was taking a physical and emotional beating, and might be dying.

They were out of the way before Buckley could say anything. He slipped between them, skidded to his knees and slapped his own earbud in and sensor on Bishwanath in one motion.

Horace demanded an update as soon as he heard. The punk on the grass had suffered no life-threatening injury, though he would have gruesome scar tissue inside and out of his mouth, with some loss of jaw function. His gums were a torn mess. Truly, it was disturbing.

"And what of the President?" he asked again as he entered the room.

"Hyperventilation," Buckley said, standing to face him. "He was breathing hard, and taking the mask off dramatically increased available oxygen. Especially as the partial pressure here is a little higher than either Earth or the high-altitude district he comes from. He'll be fine."

"Excellent," he nodded. "You will understand that I will confirm your diagnosis?"

Buckley grinned. "Of course. Rahul found him a mild sedative and I approved it. He is awake but resting."

Things had to be bad if Alex authorized a drink, Bart thought. Though two good shots did make him feel a little more relaxed. For now, the grounds were crawling with soldiers, while an engineer unit threw up a berm and some defensive positions. The wall was being reinforced, too, and the voltage increased from an annoying level to one that was lethal with the current involved. The military hadn't been hard to convince. BuState was, as always, the peaceninnies who prevented things from proceeding.

"Everyone ready?" Alex asked, indicating their computers. Bart sighed, as did the rest. Lethal force had been used, and now they had to do the paperwork. Rounds fired, hits made, warning shots . . . Elke's video from the time they hit the gate on departure was running on the wall, edited to chop out the time waiting in the car. Time ticks showed when gas was first used, when they debarked the vehicles, and her POV moving back to the palace, with occasional sweeps to take in the others. That, and radio records plus audio would allow reconstruction of the events. It was necessary, but not something Bart cherished after a fight with a mob.

It took two hours and one more grudgingly authorized drink to come up with a review that would be satisfactory to BuState, Army, and Corporate. Luckily, he had shot only one man at the shed, and none on the way in. He wondered if he'd be criticized more for the probably lethal hit, or for the forty-seven rounds of cover fire he had expended. At this point he didn't care.

"The next week is cancelled," Alex told them after they'd all rolled through and gotten the info swaps they needed. "All events are moved here. We will be doing boring-ass guard duty outside his apartment door and standing behind him at the conference table downstairs."

"That actually sounds good," Aramis commented.

Bart wasn't so sure. Safe got boring in a hurry. He knew that from backstage work.

"Well kick it over in the morning," Alex said. "For now, great job of protection, everyone is healthy, and it's time to sleep."

"I will cover first shift," Bart volunteered.

"Thanks," Alex acknowledged. "Take your time in the morning."

"I will." He needed to stay up for now. There was a lot to think about.

Nice of those contract assholes to kill protestors," leMieure bitched.

Weygandt almost laughed. He figured their mistake was in not killing a lot more. Which was the problem with having BuState lay down wimpy regulations. Real soldiers would have handled it faster. The Recon unit, with all its weapons, had not been molested to speak of. They'd killed a few, but that was also charged off to the contractors for stirring the pot. On the whole, it kept getting better for the Army with this fat clown trying to run things. That would be the case until he started getting soldiers killed. Then he'd have to go. Weygandt had his own emergency procedures for that.

That he refused to meet with troops, whom he referred to as "those filthy dropouts and macho-laden fools," or contractors, whom he didn't deign to gift with an epithet, said lots. A presidential appointment didn't make him anything other than a glory-seeking suck-up.

A dangerous one. Who was still ranting.

"I don't suppose anyone has thought of treating these people like human beings, with respect and dignity."

Bishwanath's been doing that
, Weygandt sneered silently.
Look what it's getting him.

"The problem is, I can't pull their contract. Not yet."

That was interesting. So the man was tied by authority or necessity he wasn't admitting. However . . . 

"What can I do to assist with that?" It wasn't that he hated the contractors personally, but they were in the way, played fast and loose, and the conflict between BuState and Mil would be much easier with them gone.

"I need reports that show them for what they are," leMieure said with a grin. "Every bent rule, illicit purchase, foul insult, everything. You were supposed to help with that."

"The information is coming." Weygandt smiled. Everyone always had a stack of violations, if you cared to list them. The problem was finding anyone to waste the time on bullshit. If this man liked the taste of bullshit, Weygandt would serve him a feast.

"I do not believe we are going to try this again," Aramis muttered.

"I do," Jason snickered. "And I have to hand it to you, sir," he said to the President. "You've got guts."

Bishwanath shrugged. "I do what I must. If I hide, then I have lost any hope of accomplishing my task."

Everyone was speaking into headsets. This trip was being made in an armored car. Bishwanath had acceded to the need, and even that fat asshole from BuState had approved. Of course, he claimed credit for it, even though it had been deWitt who'd promoted it.

It was obvious though, Alex realized, that the plan was to make the team redundant. They were in a military vehicle, surrounded by military personnel. Most of them were not trained to do EP, but that was a fine point most people wouldn't recognize. The next step would be to put Recon troops in suits and have them replace the team. He hated to fight against a rational idea, but he was in the process of doing so. He was on the phone with District Agent in Charge Massa.

"We do have our own armored transport. I'll be getting it there ASAP. You made the right call, but we've got to get on it quickly, or our whole justification disappears." It was odd, hearing a voice clearly in one ear and engine rumble in the other.

"Right," Alex replied, "image versus reality, with image managed by BuState, the press, and the military."

"We knew from the beginning this would happen. Put on the best show you can. You say the President does believe in us?"

"Absolutely, sir. All the way," Alex said.

"Roger. I'll work that angle. Also that we cut soldiers loose to be soldiers, not guards. Cady is promoting the BuCommerce mission she has. Apparently, the Army hadn't considered it would have to guard playboy investors, but seems to think that will lead to more chicks. I'm sure the investors are playing that angle, but they'll never deliver women to anyone below general rank."

"Yes, sir. I think they want to hog it all. If we were contracted through MilBu, it might not be so bad."

"But we'd be stuck using their doctrine. Thwack, ugh, hit hard with hammer. Even Recon suffers from that." Massa sounded a bit derogatory, but who could blame him? And he'd been Recon.

"That they do, sir. Anything specific for this run? We're getting close now."

"Keep close in, and try to exercise more solitary protection."

"Yeah." Alex grimaced. Don't call for backup. Prove you could do it alone. That wasn't a great idea operationally.

"Yeah, I know," Massa said, reading his tone. "Look, you work that end, I'll work this end. I think we'll hold onto the lower echelon contracts regardless."

"Roger. Got to get to work. Later."

"Out."

"Three minutes. Look sharp," he said. There was a clatter of weapons checks. He faced Bishwanath and said, "We're going to stick around as long you need us, sir."

"Glad to hear it," Bishwanath replied. "I like the professional and nonmilitary presence you offer."