Cassandra Kresnov 5: Operation Shield (45 page)

Poole liked that one better. That one, you couldn't argue with.

“Sir,” said another agent, a woman whose name Poole hadn't learned, in a calming voice, “it's obvious we're at a serious impasse here. Why don't we go inside and talk about this?”

Singh shrugged, indicating he was willing. But showing no sign of putting his gun away. Chandrasekar calculated furiously. If he'd lost Singh and Widjojo, he'd pretty much lost SWAT. And short of calling in the Feds with A-12s and heavy firepower, there wasn't much he could do about that. If he declared SWAT in open rebellion, the entire CSA became a paralysed
laughing stock…and who actually arrested SWAT troopers who defied the law? The police? What could the poorly armed cops do about it? And in current circumstances, how many Tanushan cops would be willing? SWAT weren't even openly defying “Operation Shield” yet, just arguing with the way it was implemented where CSA personnel were concerned.

In fact…Poole blinked as the connection came clear in his head. SWAT rebellion could become a rallying point in a broader Callayan opposition. Not that most of the Callayan population were yet suspicious of the coup claims, many of them not trusting GIs or FSA spec ops, but that could change. So Chandrasekar now had to find a way to keep it all under wraps before it blew up into something much bigger that could hurt his true master—Callayan President Singh.

Funny how Sandy had always said all this stuff was connected, popular opinion, political forces, and eventual breakouts of shooting and violence. He'd never really seen it before, and never found the prospect that interesting. Funny how all this complicated stuff became much more interesting when the shooting started.

Finally Chandrasekar jerked his head toward the buildings, turned and walked. Relief swept the landing pad, mostly amongst the non-SWATs. Singh de-chambered his pistol round and put it away, walking up to the most notably relieved Agent Varghese.

“Sorry, Vargie,” said Singh with an easy grin. “Hairpiece left me no choice. Would have just been a flesh wound, I promise, nice scar to show your grandkids.”

Varghese did not look convinced.

Spec ops armoury was walled up tight. Amirah wondered at it, following the Director along the armoury bay floor, past heavy secured door after heavy secured door, electronically locked and sealed. The entire practise range was off limits, full security exclusion activated—it ran on the FSA's private security network; Amirah doubted even Kresnov could have broken into it.

The Director was carrying now, an automatic in a shoulder holster and a backup on his ankle. He'd even put on a light vest under his shirt at Amirah's suggestion when she'd half-expected him to reject it. The Director was not a man to object to sensible things on points of personal pride. Amirah had no
idea where all of this was going, but she was glad that her role in it was to protect this man. As a CSA trainee, CSA instructors had spoken privately of their respect for Ibrahim and their uneasiness at his departure. Following him around the past twenty-four hours, she was coming to see what they meant.

In the hall ahead, some spec ops soldiers were gathered in conversation—two GIs and two not. They straightened as Ibrahim approached, almost attention, which was not an FSA thing; FSA were technically civilian, if only in the sense that they were not military.

“Sir,” said one of the GIs. “Do you require any further personal protection?” With a glance at Amirah.

Ibrahim stopped, with a faint smile. “You don't think Trainee Togales is up to it?”

“Not that, sir. But wouldn't some more guards be safer?”

Ibrahim considered. “Probably, Sergeant Pinto.” Pinto looked pleased the Director knew him—the FSA was a big organisation, and Ibrahim new to the job. Amirah suspected he knew everyone by sight already. “Probably I could have one hundred armed GIs with me at all times and that would be safest of all. But it would be dysfunctional for my current tasks. Should I require more, I'll be sure to ask you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“In the meantime, stay patient, and be alert. You may be required to act at a moment's notice, but which moment I cannot say.”

Several others came to walk with Ibrahim on his way back up to his office and talk about things. Amirah was locked into the outer layers of his personal construct for security purposes, something of a privilege for a no-rank like her. She could see him monitoring multiple channels simultaneously, with a freedom here in FSA HQ that he would not have anywhere else. From the frequency of those private conversations, the content of which she did not know, she guessed that Ibrahim had a lot of wheels in motion.

Waiting for him outside his office were two distinct groups, one nervous and out of place, the other in busy internal conference on ongoing matters, a tight huddle of chairs in a corner. The head of the nervous group came up to Ibrahim—a woman, youngish, with shoes and bracelets that suggested to Amirah a GC staffer, from across the green canyon, as that division between FSA and GC was now called.

“Director, I'm Norah White, Assistant to the Chief of Staff, Ambassador Ballan's office. Can we have a word?”

Ibrahim seemed to size her up in a split second. Whatever his conclusion, he kept it off his face, as always. “Very well.” And stood in the middle of the waiting room.

Norah White looked flustered. “Privately, if you please.”

“No,” said Ibrahim. “I didn't invite you. I'll only hold private audience with people who can act directly upon what I tell them.”

Ms White pulled herself up. “Very well. Ambassador Ballan orders that the FSA shall remove its security detail from the Supreme Court Justices. OID will now take that security under its own jurisdiction.”

Ibrahim nodded. “Ambassador Ballan informed me of this himself. My answer remains the same.”

White looked quite tense. “You mean you do not intend to comply?”

“No.”

Silence in the waiting room. The second group paused in their little huddle of chairs and watched the drama.

“May I ask why?” White ventured.

“You may,” said Ibrahim.

White took another deep breath. “Director, I do hope that you fully grasp the gravity of this decision, the OID…”

“Has no jurisdiction to overrule the FSA on the matter of security for the Supreme Court and its Justices,” Ibrahim cut her off, clean like a sword. “Furthermore, I also hope that Ambassador Ballan recognises that I am not playing at some game of career advancement. I am fulfilling my life's mission. Please tell him so, those exact words. That will be all.”

White took her leave with more relief than grace. “Yes, Director.” And hurried away, several assistants in tow.

Ibrahim beckoned the other waiting man into his office. As they went, Amirah saw the looks of approval on the faces of surrounding agents, the barely restrained grins at having witnessed something cool. “We'll give you gravity, bitch,” she heard one say at the retreating White. Ibrahim, she'd overheard another agent say earlier in the day, was the only person in the FSA who could beat the shit out of someone without touching them.

“Ms Togales,” he called over his shoulder, “with me please.” Amirah followed
the two men in and closed the door behind, surprised at being invited. Usually she waited outside, as personal security would.

The other man was Herman Cassillas, Chief of Domestic Affairs Bureau. That meant the entire Federation civil society, anything that did not include military or paramilitary forces, which were the responsibility of the Strategic Affairs Bureau. Cassillas was responsible for dealing with threats to Federation security coming from everything else, from civil uprisings to lone individuals, political crises to worrying social trends.

Amirah took her stance by the side of Ibrahim's desk, side-on to the two men as they sat, so she could talk if Ibrahim required, while still watching the door and ready to move. Cassillas gave her a sideways look, perhaps curious.

“Ambassador Ballan,” Cassillas announced with the air of someone resuming a previous conversation. “My best analysis is fear. The assassination attempt by Pyeongwha radicals gave him post-traumatic stress, the psych reports bear that out…tape can cover the immediate effects, but only so much. And then the political scene on Nova Esperenza changed; there are some big local disputes the public there feel the Feds screwed them on, then Pyeongwha attacks happened, the atmosphere has become quite anti-Federal, and thus pro-2389. Ballan is publically identified as the man who orchestrated Pyeongwha, he was hoping to retire home in a few years, take up a prestigious university post, public speaking, etc. All that's in jeopardy now, so when whoever's
really
behind this came leaning on him, he folded like a pack of cards. Possibly more than his career is being threatened, but we've no proof of it.”

Ibrahim's mouth may have drawn down a little behind steepled fingers in disgust. “And have we yet any idea who is really behind it?”

“Oh, the usual suspects.” With another glance at Amirah.

“One of the many features of GIs that I find admirable,” Ibrahim said, “is their general lack of deviousness. Trainee Togales is sworn not to share sensitive information, and I am certain she will not break that oath.”

Strange concept that an oath was to any GI, Amirah thought. Was it the very deviousness of normal people that required them to take oaths, like some kind of internal-psychological choke hold?

Cassillas nodded slowly. “It's very high level. And it's definitely coming from the lateral connectivity, the political groupings beneath the actual representative
level. I've recommended some of the best readings on this, Choi, Wellsworth, Jayapura.”

“I read Jayapura and Wellsworth,” said Ibrahim. “And I met Ms Choi personally two years ago when she gave that lecture tour. In the context of recent events, very alarming.”

With her degree studies, Amirah had read some of the same. They discussed the process of electing Ambassadors to the Grand Council, and the mechanisms on different worlds to do so. Ambassadors were not popularly elected for the most part, they were appointed by bipartisan political bureaucracies. The problem with bipartisan political bureaucracies was that they lacked accountability. Certain academics had lately been warning that such unaccountable bureaucracies were beginning to deal with each other in ways that created an enormously powerful network of unaccountable people, controlling appointments to the GC, deciding on the fate of the Federation. Previously they had stayed out of deciding policy, but a few had warned that this might change.

Ideologues and media clowns crowed with delight at displays of bipartisanship, but too much bipartisanship was deadly. Autocracies were bipartisan.

“You can layer political power in human civilisation as many times as you like,” said Cassillas. “It still functions, so long as each layer is independently accountable and interactive. But the layer that appoints the GC has become an independent entity, and you network all those independent entities together, they start to serve themselves above anyone else.”

“Or conflate their own success with the people's success,” Ibrahim murmured. “Well, we can't deal with it now, most of them are too far away. We'll have to sweep them up later, but our response window today is too small, the amendments could be voted on in a week on the present schedule.”

“Sir…” Cassillas winced, as though anticipating Ibrahim's response. “A public revelation, by you…”

“Now is not the time,” Ibrahim said firmly. “I understand the temptation, but the OID currently control the Grand Council, every opponent of 2389 is too afraid to speak or conveniently will not speak without authorisation from their homeworld. The GC is a soft institution, but this current power wearing the cloak of 2389 is a hard power, a wolf among sheep. They have constructed a web of deceit, and we must position ourselves first to weaken it before moving.”

“Yes, sir, but it seems to me that their power increases…”

“Herman, I cannot unilaterally declare war against the Federation's ruling authority in the knowledge that one orbital artillery round could make a large smoking crater here just as easily as it did on the GI camp down south.” And to that Cassillas said nothing. “Besides which, truth revealed too early runs the very real risk of civil war, as different worlds line up on different sides of the equation, backed by different Fleet captains of different warships. We act when we're certain we can win, not before.”

He looked up at Amirah. “Ms Togales, I know how competent GIs are at multi-tasking. In addition to your duties as my bodyguard, do you think you could give me an analysis of possible options for a rescue and acquisition mission?”

“Yes, sir.” He was right, she could review schematics and make plans while performing security duties with no loss of concentration. “Who is the target?”

“The Supreme Court Justices. All nine of them.”

Just as well she was new here, Amirah thought. Probably if she'd been a Federation citizen for longer, the sheer gravity of that proposal would have knocked her sideways. If a GI of her designation could get knocked sideways.

“Sir, FSA have current jurisdiction over the Supreme Court Justices, yes?”

“And OID are likely to try and take it away. In which case, there are several scenarios that I'm sure you can envisage, in which we will need plans to get the Justices from there, to here, under hostile conditions. The Supreme Court remains the last institutional barrier between the OID and passage of those amendments, thus they become the next center of battle.”

“Yes, sir. Why me and not a higher rank?”

“Commanders Kresnov and Rice have assessed your planning ability and judged it superior to all currently serving GIs save Kresnov herself. She's not here, and fortune has delivered you.”

“Planning, yes,” Amirah warned. “Combat, no. I'm capable, but there are a dozen better than me, at least.”

Ibrahim smiled. “Kresnov's assessment also. You are a thinker, Ms Togales. Right now I need thinkers.”

“You did better than okay in HDM tower,” Cassillas added.

“I got shot full of holes,” said Amirah, repressing a shudder. “Kresnov,
Jin, Pinto, Chu, Bujan, Poole, Halloran, all would probably have had barely a scratch.”