Better to Beg Forgiveness (40 page)

"It has worked before," he grinned. "But will take a bit of money or theft."

"We're tight on money. What do you need?"

"I need a case of good beer and some schnapps."

"Nothing like armed robbery to add to the excitement. Any liquor store?"

"No, only a couple will have what we need. But it's safer than trying to fight our own allies."

"There is that." That was something they really hoped to avoid. "That should be within our budget. Spend the money."

"I had hoped for the robbery, too," he said.

"Spend the money," Marlow reiterated, looking half amused and half stern.

Bart couldn't blame him. You never knew with this crowd.

Shaman went out at Bart's direction, with very clear instructions on brands of beer. Belgians, Germans, and French were the main patrols in this area, and they would not be impressed by the ice cold goat piss Americans passed off as beer, or the urine-warm bitter rot the Brits offered. This would be a rough task as it was. Good beer was essential.

Actually, Bart reflected, good beer was essential to almost any human endeavor. At least in this one, he would get to drink on duty and it would be sanctioned.

Well, on unofficial duty. There was still that minor point of the regulations to deal with.

Shaman was the logical choice. Europeans and Americans from Earth would stand out too much. Bal was of course the closest racial type, but there were obvious reasons he could not be seen. That left Shaman's features as the closest to the local genotype, even if his skin was far too dark.

He came back shortly, with several large crates.

"I have the beer," he announced with a wide grin. "But it was expensive."

"How expensive?"

"Two hundred marks."

"Fuck me what?!" Vaughn near shouted.

"Imported, scarce, of no interest to the locals because of the price. I think it was there for months. Very dusty. Obviously just for tourists, especially as it was at a place called Celadon Imports."

"Ouch," Bart said. He'd considered keeping seven beers out for them, as a goodwill gesture, but with that much money disappearing, he'd better get results from it.

"I will need the vehicle," he said. "I had thought of taking Elke, but she is too distinctive. Vaughn, will you go with me?"

"Delighted," Vaughn agreed.

Bart had Vaughn drive, and navigated. There wasn't much to this step, really. Drive around, looking like some kind of contractors or hires, hoping to God they weren't entered into some recon drone by DNA or face, and look for appropriate troops.

Of course, the hard part was driving the worst
scheisse
"contractor truck" on the planet. With one window missing and well dented, it was fine for the locals but not nearly good enough for anyone under UN cover, but it would have to do. It was the best they'd been able to steal.

It wasn't hard to avoid most official vehicles; there weren't many. The trick was to only approach the right one so as not to be questioned. Also, to avoid any existing roadblocks and checkpoints.

Forty minutes later, wrung out and sweating, he found what he was looking for: One of the ubiquitous grumblies with UN overpainted on a Canadian base. Excellent. He was about to steal half of Canada's military mobility.

The three troops inside were Macedonian, which must have left their country defenseless. The joke got old quickly, but there were so many nations with token militaries, and all wanted to play. Canada's best bet was to accept the American offer of a confederation, and Macedonia should just stop pretending to dignity it couldn't afford and join the Federated Yugoslav State of Europe. In the meantime, there were these soldiers, and this beer, and this thing to be done.

"Harr!" he called out, waving.

The troops grinned and waved back, prepared to keep rolling on patrol. He gestured down with his palm and they came to a stop, cautious but attentive.

"Drive alongside," he said to Jason.

"Of course."

Once alongside, he said, "Lunchtime,
ja
?"

"About that," one of them replied. A sergeant. Good, no one too high ranking or experienced. Though they were all young and tough.

Bart held up a bulb of beer.

"Join us?"

"We're on duty."

"We, too! Want beer?"

"
Ja!
" the sergeant replied uncertainly.

He made a quick call on the radio, in English, giving coordinates and saying, "We will take lunch now."

That was a potential minor problem and meant moving up their timetable. But it might work out well.

The patrol followed them to a nearby park. It wasn't much of a park, but it did have shade and nonpaved surface. Bart was sure it couldn't be this easy.

Vaughn was a good actor. He was at once into lip smacking and grabbing a beer while driving. He made as if gulping it, but the bulb Bart got back was near full.

So he took one good swallow and passed it along to the sergeant as he climbed out of the vehicle. The bulb made the rounds as he grabbed two more from Vaughn, and then a couple of fresh apples and a block of cheese. Yes, this was expensive, but if it worked . . . 

In ten minutes, all the soldiers were sitting under the shade of a tree with long oblong leaves in sheaves. They were working on a third beer each. A good start. The food disappeared steadily and Vaughn, the former engineer, regaled them with tales of some construction project somewhere else that had nothing to do with here and now while he picked at corklike tree bark. He occasionally tossed a piece to a nearby birdile that seemed to enjoy it.

"So I'm hanging on the side of the building, harnessed, but some idiot from the team next to us comes and borrows our ladder, leaving me hanging, and . . ."

Bart pushed one more beer on them for the road.

The story continued as he walked over to his burned out vehicle and fiddled with it. He only really cared about one thing: disabling it so it wouldn't show, and doing so unseen. Since it was a diesel, there weren't many options on that. He had to fake a fuel flow or a starter problem. One large screwdriver across the injector terminals and a flash that wouldn't be seen in daylight, and their transportation was kaput.

Which really left them no choice. They were committed to a theft.

He made a visual point of fiddling a bit more, then tried to start it and got nothing but a grinding sound.

To the looks he got, he shrugged and walked back, where Vaughn was saying, "But he'd left, so the ladder they had was too short by about a meter. I could barely reach it in my harness. Now, you know how safety personnel feel about nonstandard ways of doing things."

With everyone looking at him he said, "Our vehicle has failed. Is it possible you can drive us to our site?"

"Yes," the sergeant agreed. "Least we can do for your hospitality. Shall we depart?"

"Take the rest of the beer," Bart suggested. "It was paid for by the company."

There were cheers, and at a finger point, Vaughn grabbed the beer and joined the soldiers climbing into their vehicle. Bart went back to get their "tools" by which he meant "incapacitance grenade," which in this case was mercifully not one to release the bowels. It was still a very fast-acting hallucinogen, sedative, and reaction inhibitor. The problem being that Vaughn was in the vehicle with them.

Of course, the windows were open, which was not ideal, and the wind was from that direction . . . 

As he walked alongside, one of the soldiers said, "Other side. We're full here."

"Thank you," he said. "Would you hold this?" as he popped the spoon, dropped it into the footwell, and took a deep breath.

The soldier shouted, bent over, and got a faceful of the vapor bursting from the grenade as Bart yanked his baton out of the tool bag, zapped the soldier in the seat behind him, and ducked fast, still holding his breath. Vaughn grabbed the driver and tried to pin him in his seat. Said driver fumbled for a gas mask while trying to hold his breath.

No shooting
, Bart thought. That was good so far. He pointed the baton and fired, but the smoke grounded the plasma carrier the stun would ride on. He took a breath carefully, and waded in through the window, over an unconscious body.

Well, it was not a neat job, but shortly, all three were unconscious and stuffed in the back. Vaughn had been taken by surprise and was woozy, but alert enough to restrain the troops with cable ties.

"I swear, you could have warned me," he muttered. "I could have . . . could have . . . done somethinhng."

"Are they tied?" Bart asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Yeah, tied and out. I should crash until we get back. Have to have Shamu give me an antidate." With that he fell over.

Not a perfect operation, Bart reflected as he shoved it in gear. They didn't have long to exploit the window. But they had a vehicle. Now for Step Two.

"On the way," he called on his radio. "Ready to load for the beer run. I need a wakeup call."

"Roger," was all he got. He hoped Marlow understood him.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up behind the hotel.

"We must go right now," he said. "They will be missed within the hour."

Anderson and Marlow quickly unloaded bodies into the room. Shaman pulled out syringes and ensured they'd be out for hours. He took one glance and handed another to Elke, who slipped it to Vaughn quite professionally and shook him awake.

"Yeah, I'm up, bastards," he replied muzzily, coming back to the present.

Marlow tossed a bag of gear in as Anderson darted around to the front, already dressed in the best fitting of the uniforms. They were the new UNCAM camo pattern, which simplified things a lot, as his ID said he was U.S. military, not Macedonian.

Bart and Vaughn squeezed into pants and T-shirts with their own boots, as the vehicle started rolling. The kid could drive fast and eagerly. He wasn't as dangerous as the natives, but Bart did have to say, "We're not wearing restraints."

"Ah, right, sorry."

Though the shifting vehicle did cause their makeup to be sloppy, which was good. They wanted to look half dead.

"We'll meet at the far side, as planned," Bart said into his radio as he splashed on more "camouflage."

"Roger. Where's the old truck?" Alex asked. They hadn't discussed those details yet. No time.

"It was disabled and I was in a hurry." That seemed to be the most concise summary.

"Right. We'll steal another one. What's one more vehicle theft among friends?"

Back in the hotel, there was much action and preparation. Alex liked having a team who could all react to shifting situations quickly and intelligently. Now if he could just get certain elements, like Elke, to not measure success by the size of the cleanup bill . . . 

"Are we just leaving the soldiers?" Bal asked.

"Yup. Right where they are. They'll either wake up and call, be found by the manager and woken, or rolled, or someone will try to track them with a recon drone." He went back to preps and was jolted back again when Bal asked again.

"But they'll be okay?"

"To be perfectly honest, I really don't give a shit, sir," Alex said. Really, the man was too nice and it was aggravating. To the stunned expression he said, "They were incautious, drinking on duty, didn't keep control of the situation and didn't even ask for ID. They're alive. That's more than the Skin— locals would have given them."

Bal nodded. He seemed to get it. Possibly he recalled that BuState's original plan had been for him to be guarded by such, and there were still elements in the Assembly who complained about the cost of Ripple Creek.

Of course, he thought, they had good reason to, now.

Back to business
. "Okay, we're meeting the others on the far side of the base. We need transport. Ideally, we'd buy one from a peasant or rent one. There are none for rent except inside the White Zone where we can't go and don't have time. They're too valuable for anyone to want to sell one."

"So you'll commandeer one," Bal acknowledged. "Mister Marlow, I may occasionally ask for elucidation, but I am in your hands. It's unlikely I'll object to your actions. So far, you've demonstrated wit, originality, flexibility, courage, and iron discipline. I trust your judgment."

"Thank you, sir," Alex said. Damn, that was real praise. Although things could have been better planned—more wit and less flexibility.

Aramis swerved on purpose, driving erratically. They had to believe he was panicking when he got there. He pushed the envelope of speed and recklessness until he saw a warning burst fired into the air, whereupon he braked abruptly. He drove with more apparent control, but still at a vigorous rate. The MPs were all jittery when he arrived.

"Let me see your
holy shit
, guy!" the one at the window exclaimed.

Aramis waved his ID card. "Quick, I'm Sergeant Anderson, Logistics. I've got to get them through."

"Will do. Wassen, check that side fast! Casualties."

"Hurry!" Elke said from under a helmet worn backward in torn clothes that made her look small and helpless without actually showing a lot of skin. A hint was all it took. She'd acquired a completely broken handheld video recorder and audio mic to add to the image. Her micro gear was running for record purposes. They still believed they might need the evidence at their court-martial.

"Please hurry," she blubbered. Her eyes were red from rubbing and weeping from a touch of tear gas. Just wiping a finger across the nozzle and her eyelids was enough. Aramis thought she was nuts, but hard-core. She was okay, for a woman. "Ohgodthey'rehurt!" she squealed.

In the back, Bart and Jason writhed and moaned, stuck with black gunk and tar that would look like shrapnel at a glance, and covered with a half liter of pig's blood. A couple of well-timed twitches added to it.

The MP said, "Roll, guy. Clinic's that wa—"

Aramis was already spitting gravel.

"Stand by, maneuvering," he said, and started taking turns. The idea was to head generally toward the clinic so no one would question it, make it possible they got lost so no one would panic for a few minutes, and slow down on the way so as to blend into existing traffic. Bart and Jason wiped off with rags and chemical towels to look no dirtier than troops fresh off patrol. Elke changed into uniform pants and T-shirt, showing a lot of skin that Aramis would like very much to appreciate, but dammit, work came first.