Better to Beg Forgiveness (32 page)

She nodded and finished gearing up. She didn't look feminine once clammed in and in a helmet. She did look deadly, though, with her shotgun slung.

"Elke, demolitions is your job, but how do you know about nukes?" he asked softly. Bishwanath was actually dozing at last.

"I was trained as a nuclear qualified munitions disposal technician," she said.

"Impressive," Bart said. "It strikes me that you should do something that pays better than just EP."

"I do get paid better than EP," she said.

"Oh."

Everyone had just assumed she was one more blaster in a field that had one for every twenty to fifty regular operators. They got a small bonus for the skill, and another for each "event" they dealt with, either setting or disposing of explosives. If Elke was a nuke, she had to be making a fortune.

Of course, for that money, all she had to do was crawl into a hole with some illiterate amateur's attempt at a nuclear device and assess or remove it as called for.

Maybe that wasn't such a great contract after all.

Alex took over guard the next day, after he had crashed for ten hours. He felt guilty about it, but he'd needed it after hours of prep, dealing with a nuke, hours of conference and more maneuvering.

He'd just started to grab his armor when his phone buzzed.

"Marlow."

"Get in a private location for this discussion," Massa said.

"Stand by," he agreed, and left the room. Elke raised an eyebrow at him. He raised one back. This was an interesting occurrence. If by
interesting
, of course, one meant "probably dangerous."

"I'm secure," he said, once he was in his empty room with a security oscillator up. The gear on the desk and his baggage on the floor were the only signs of occupancy. The room was neat and decorative and he was afraid of disturbing anything.

"Please state for the record," deWitt said. Alex hadn't realized this was another conference call.

"Sure. Agent in Charge Alex Marlow, Ripple Creek Security Detail assigned to President Bishwanath, confirming a secure and scrambled connection for this conversation."

"Agent Marlow, we have a situation none of us like," Massa said formally.

"That's putting it mildly."

"You've noticed, of course, the escalation in force, from skirmishes to frontal attacks to outright mobs and now a more potent device."

"Yes, I heard about the device." If they weren't going to say
nuke
even here, he wasn't either.

"This has caused us to have a change in strategy," Massa said.

"I don't like where this is going." He was getting agitated now. They weren't just giving him orders. They were laying a lot of background. That was ass-covering.

DeWitt said, "We're pulling out and regrouping. We'll try again with a different candidate."

There were several ways to take that. None of them were good.

"Sir, I respectfully disagree."

He was cut off. DeWitt said, "Marlow, I respect your opinion. The problem is, the people calling the shots don't. They're four or five echelons up. I've got my orders, and you've got yours. You'll need to commit this to memory and not record. Ready?"

"No, sir, but I'll remember what you say. Go ahead."

Alex made notes anyway. He had a code unlikely to be broken, and unlikely to be looked for, the way he wrote it. He'd burn them later. He also recorded on a second circuit Jason had rigged up and attached through the mic jack. He wanted a record of this bullshit. They could pull his contract, but no way was he going to take any blame, or let anyone under him take any crap.

Thirty seconds later he broke his pen. It was rated for combat use, but he was gripping, pressing, crushing it in outright rage.

He said nothing until it was all done, then replied with, "Understood, sir."

DeWitt said, "Marlow, I wish I could do something. There is not a fucking thing I can do about this. I can't even get drunk over it."

"Doesn't help me at this end, sir."

"I know. If I had anything to offer, I would."

"Do you know a diplomatic way to tell them to eat shit and die, sir?"

"It would give me a warm feeling and nothing else. Sorry."

Disconnecting, Alex swore. He went on for several seconds, very ungrammatically, obscene, profane, and stuttering. This was not only unconscionable, it was . . . he didn't have words strong enough.

He walked back in to the common room and looked evenly around at everyone. They weren't going to believe this. He wasn't sure he did himself. He closed his door behind him, as if that would close him off from the conversation he'd just had.

"The President is dead," he said.

"Say again?" Jason asked.

"The President is dead," he repeated. "It went out on the news this morning. 'Died during renewed violence near the palace.' "

"He looks very much alive from here," Bart said, looking at Bishwanath.

"Only an illusion."

Aramis asked, "So what the fuck does that mean? Sorry, sir." He nodded at the President.

Bishwanath didn't say anything. He just looked tired.

"It means our contract is cancelled and we're being pulled out. BuState is working on a new concept to implement later. The Army is going to pacify the capital again."

"But there's a discrepancy between alive and dead," Shaman said. "How is that resolved?"

"I spoke to Mister deWitt. He had no information but agrees with the discrepancy. He's as pissed as we are. However, I gather that the plan is that Bishwanath
will
have died in the fighting, one way or another."

"Like that, eh?" Aramis asked.

"Like that," Alex nodded. "Major Weilhung has already been pulled, and his troops are trickling out in squads. That leaves the regular palace guards and us."

Bishwanath saw everyone looking at him and finally responded. One could only handle so many shocks, and he'd had plenty.

"Gentlemen, lady, I am sorry to have been a burden for you. You have my thanks for your exemplary and, ah,
creative
service, and I wish I could properly credit you as you deserve. Do please take my thanks . . ." He stood and offered a hand to Alex.

Alex didn't take it.

"While on contract, we have a noncompetition agreement with Ripple Creek. Currently, the six of us are off contract. As the presidential detail is no longer a RC contract, there is no competition. Would you, Mister Bishwanath, like to hire us on an interim basis to protect your person?" There was just the faintest trace of smile on his lips.

Elke and Aramis both snickered and exchanged looks. They'd come somewhat to terms, and common enemies have a way of building bonds. Bart was still reticent but cracks could be seen in the façade. Shaman chuckled deeply. Jason stifled a smile by looking away.

Bishwanath said, "I'm afraid I have no assets with which to pay you." He was smiling now, too, though his eyes were watery.

"So we'll just have to get you to where there are assets."

"Then I accept."

Alex stuck out his hand. "It is a pleasure to assist you, sir. Again."

The door opened, and Rahul came in. He held still, apparently unafraid, as six EPs holstered and slung weapons, after determining he wasn't a threat.

"I apologize but I bring bad news," he said.

"New bad news, or an update on existing bad news?" Jason asked. To the puzzled expression he said, "Never mind, what's the news?"

"The guards are leaving. Not all, but many. They are returning to their homes. They were told they would not be paid further."

"Who said that?" Bishwanath shouted. "Dammit, who said that?
I
am President and I take care of my staff! They will be paid as they deserve, and . . ." He trailed off. His face had the empty look of overpowering rage and sadness.

It struck a chord with his Alex, and from expressions, the rest. They'd all been military. They were all professionals. Certainly, the money was important, but beyond that was trust and integrity. You didn't call someone on their word without reason, and you didn't abandon your own, your mission, or your buddies for anything.

"Bad news from outside, too," Aramis said.

"What is next?" Bishwanath asked. He sounded beyond surprise.

"An angry mob with torches to see you, sir," he said and pointed.

As Bishwanath moved to look, Alex placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Come on, sir. We have to relocate at once, and decide on a course of action. You also need to stay away from windows."

He had no idea what that course might be.

But you didn't abandon your word or your mission—or your buddy—for anything.

He brainstormed aloud. "First, we get out. Now. Grab weapons, explosives, any cash, barter goods like booze and jewelry if they're small. Whatever we can carry. Wear basic gear, carry two bags, be prepared to toss them somewhere discreet to avoid looking like we're scramming."

He didn't need to tell them to move. They were stripping the room as he started.

"Mister Bishwanath, we'll need you to help carry gear and try to look like one of us."

"Absolutely," he agreed, some color returning to his face. "May I pack a personal bag?"

"I'd really recommend not going back in your apartment, and I plan for us to leave in about three minutes. I'll have two bags for you. Jason, you're about the same size, hand him any spare gear."

"Roger. Sir, take this." Jason helped him don a vest with food and water. There was some extra ammo onboard, but Bishwanath was basically a bearer in camouflage. He had some combat experience, Alex knew, but not how extensive or how well trained. Still, anything he could carry might help.

People were zipping bags, the weapons locker was much depleted, and others were standing ready. Bart came back from the windows and observation. Jason had the rest of the weapons in pieces ready to be destroyed, with key trigger group components to scatter outside.

"Not good, boss," Bart said. Alex walked over.

It only took a few moments to ascertain the palace was surrounded by factional firefights and mobs. That trouble had been building all day, but the Army had been ordered to pull back and it was increasing.

"We are going to have to fight our way out." Bart said. "Long odds."

"What heavy gear do we have?" Alex thought aloud. "Explosives, three machine guns, an auto launcher, ten rockets . . ."

"The problem is," Jason said, "heavy gear for us is light for an army or a mob."

"We have the Medusa," Bart commented.

"That we do," Alex agreed. "Psychological effect. Okay . . ." He stared into space then continued.

"Aramis first. You're point and trip. Bart second with the Medusa to throw down fire. Mister Bishwanath will be escorted by Elke and myself . . . and Rahul, of course. Shaman and Jason bring up the rear. Comments?"

"If I'm to be discreet, please call me Bal," Bishwanath said quietly. He sounded scared, but he also sounded determined. From president to refugee in one phone call.

"Noted, Bal. Anyone else?"

"Sounds workable. How many vehicles?" Jason asked.

"I'd say two. It's discreet and gives us a backup."

"I concur," Bart said.

"Elke, how much boom do we have?"

"I have boom," she grinned. "Throwable, droppable, delay, remote, and some mines. I'll make more as we drive. If you can load it, I can get two hundred kilos right now. If you want to strip our emplaced stuff from down the hall, I can get another five hundred."

"Start with the two hundred," Alex said. She nodded and ran out at a double-time. "Rahul, can you perhaps get us a cart or dolly on this floor? And of course, you haven't seen the President, and are very agitated if someone asks."

"So he's not here either. This is most disturbing," Rahul muttered as he turned and slipped out.

Bishwanath said, "Young lady . . ." and she paused. ". . . Elke, am I to understand you have
half a tonne
of explosives mining my palace?"

"No, sir," she said, and he seemed to relax. "I have half a tonne in this wing. Total amount throughout the palace is one thousand, one hundred, twenty-three point seven kilos." With that, she turned and strode briskly out the door.

As she left he muttered, "I'm not sure if the exact amount reassures or scares me."

"Elke's like that," Jason said. Then he grinned. "God, I love her."

"You realize we must get through the palace and not get stopped?" Bart said.

"Yeah, that could be a problem all by itself. We don't want to fight any of our theoretically own forces." He had no idea what to do if they got caught, and he needed to. Dammit, time was short.

Alex's phone rang. He jerked, swore, fumbled it, and said, "Marlow."

"This is White. I'm coming down."

"Uh, Tech White, now is really a bad time, if you don't mind."

"Of course it's a bad time. That's why I'm coming down."

He wanted to reply but she'd gone.

"White's coming down. Everyone act casual," he said. "Bal, hide in Elke's room, please."

"Yes, sir," he said, taking orders at once in a way that surprised Alex. The man was good. Dammit, this was not only unfair, it was contemptible.

Everyone dove onto chairs and grabbed entertainment. Their timing was good. There was a knock at the door and Tech White came in. She had three men with her. A quick glance showed them to be Security Techs, in full gear with carbines and vests stuffed with ammo: Technical Sergeant Buckley, one specialist sergeant and one Tech 1. They looked nervous.

She looked around, and Alex's blood pressure spiked. He started sweating.

Calm. Calm. If they've been monitoring, nothing we can do except maneuver or fight. If not, we can bluff, as long as you look calm.

White was dressed in battle gear, too, including helmet with visor up, all quite new and hardly worn. She carried a standard rifle slung on her shoulder.

"Well, where is he?" she asked, looking around. He hoped she didn't see the microtremors on the team, who were ready to take his orders either way.

"Who?" he asked back, stalling.

She stared straight at him with an expression that would freeze lava.