Major (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 5) (2 page)

Chapter 2

“That’s just not true,”
Capitaine de vaisseau
Silas Beignet, the Greater France naval attaché, insisted with fervor.  “Football players have the best stamina of any athlete.  You Federation slaves to your so-called football don’t realize your sport is ridiculous.  You stop after every set piece because you need a rest!”

“And your soccer, oh excuse me,
football
players flop on the ground like beached salmon when anyone comes within a meter of them,” Ryck retorted, taking another sip of his beer.

“What about five?”  Rear Admiral Forsyth, the Brotherhood military attaché and the senior military man in the foreign delegations to New Mumbai asked.  “They never get to rest.”

A shower of crumbled-up napkins flew from around the table to bombard the man.  Admiral or not, rank did not matter much at The Alibi, especially when the conversation centered on sports.

Ryck had never played football, but he was an avid five player, and he actually thought the admiral had a good point.  Even Beignet had a good point, at least in as far as stamina.  But with NFL football being the game of choice in the Federation, he was duty-bound to stick up for it.

He took another sip of his Knossis Ale and simply looked around the long wooden table.  The Alibi, with its close proximity to the Slab (the nickname for the Confederation military headquarters), had become the ad hoc meeting place for the various military attachés and observers from the foreign embassies.  It was a place to unwind, exchange ideas, and meet informally with their shadows or other Confed personnel.

Admiral Forsyth rarely made an appearance at the pub, but Captain Beignet was a mainstay and always a center of attention.  Ryck’s boss, Captain Franks, was usually there, and he encouraged Ryck to spend as much time in the pub as possible.  Micah was at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Col Lim, a Confed logistician.  Major Buko and Commander Trieste of the Liberty Alliance had their heads together, ignoring the rest of them.  Hans Baker, from the Rottwilhelm Trust, was not technically in the military, but as a level five security manager, roughly on par with a Marine lieutenant colonel, he was a welcome addition to their little group, even if he was at the moment trying to push some sort of weird electronically-augmented sport they played out in the far reaches as having more fit athletes than five, rugby, clipperball, or either form of football.  No one was even responding to him, which made Ryck chuckle.  Hans’ argument held about as much weight as had Ryck been pushing Marines in PICS playing battleball as being the fittest.  It might be fun to watch, but it would hardly tax a Marine’s stamina.

Ryck actually liked Hans, and his conversations with the man had probably produced the most Intel that Ryck had been able to gather in his six months on New Mumbai.  “Most” was all relative, though.  It wasn’t much, and nothing super-secret.  It was more of an alternative way of looking at things and dealing with threats.  In the Far Reaches, piracy was more prevalent than closer to the core of human space, and being a business more than a government, the Rottwilhelm Trust went about its security in a different manner than that of the actual governments.

Group Captain Ali from the Advocacy, Junior Regimentist Csonka from New Budapest, and Master Sergeant Biralee from Outback made up the rest of the late afternoon group.  Top Biralee was loudly proclaiming the superiority of rugby over the other sports, even shouting down the admiral.  The top was officially the Outback military delegation’s admin chief, but it was a poorly kept secret that he had an unofficial rank high up in the independent planet’s intelligence service.

Ryck almost snorted up his beer as he took in the scene.  A master sergeant was browbeating an admiral, and no one batted an eye.  Sitting at the table in apparent comradeship with him were two men whose forces had fought the Federation, and Ryck had personally killed men from both of their forces.  Add in someone from the Soldiers of God, and maybe a trinocular, and it would all be complete. 

As a Marine in combat, Ryck knew his enemy.  He faced them and joined in combat.  Here, while he individually liked many of the men around him, they were all his enemies, in a way.  They were all maneuvering against each other in the never-ending attempt to gather that elusive piece of Intel that would put their government on top.  Liquor and smooth talking were their weapons.  And Ryck’s most valuable personal weapon might be the Sober Up pills he took to keep his buzz at a minimum.

Ryck suddenly couldn’t take it anymore.  He needed a hard session at the gym to clear his mind—and take out some pent-up aggression.  He stood up and waved his PA over the terminal to pay his bill.  Micah, still in conversation with Maj Lim, gave him a wave as Ryck turned to walk out.

New Mumbai’s sun was still up as Ryck left the pub, but it was not as blindingly hot as it had been a few hours before.  Ryck ignored the waiting autocabs, deciding that a walk would do him some good.  After Captain Franks had warned him during his initial brief that all autocabs were bugged, he had initially avoided them.  Now he knew that almost everywhere was under surveillance, and taking a cab was fine.  If nothing of import was said in one, then no harm, no foul.  But Ryck still liked to walk.  Titus had tried to walk with him once, but Ryck’s pace had been brisk, and his shadow had never attempted that again.  So walking gave Ryck a feeling of security, even if that feeling was misplaced.

He turned to his left and started out at even a quicker pace than usual.  He would be back at his apartment in 20, then after changing into his workout clothes, he could start his first set by 1830.  Two hours of exercise, then a shower, then maybe a visit to The Fresh Solution, a salad bar restaurant a block over from his apartment—yes, that sounded good.  Hannah would be proud of him. 

He patted his belly, which had grown four centimeters since his arrival.  He was in his Charlies, the short-sleeved khaki shirt and dark green trousers that made up his daily uniform, and he’d already let out the waistband on the trou once.  His blues, though, which he wore to formal functions, were getting rather tight.  The never-ending receptions and dinners, coupled with not enough exercise, were taking their toll.

The streets in Vishnu didn’t make too much sense to Ryck.  The blocks tended to be rather long with few connecting streets.  Traffic could get bad at times despite huge cryocomputers that monitored the flow and made recommendations to vehicles.  The Confederation citizens, though, had a rather ornery streak that had most of them ignoring autodrive and keeping in manual control of their hovers.

About 250 meters from The Alibi, however, a small alley cut through the block, and Ryck could take this to connect to Robinson Avenue, saving several minutes of walking.  He reached the alley and turned in—colliding with a man coming out and knocking him down. 

“Oh, sorry, sir,” Ryck said, reaching down to help the older man up.

As the man took Ryck’s hand, Ryck felt something small and hard against his palm, something that remained after the man was back on his feet.  Ryck’s training kicked in, and he closed his hand, not looking.

“Watch it,” the man scolded before stepping around Ryck and continuing on his way.

Whatever was in Ryck’s hand was crying out for attention, almost as if it was burning him. 

Is this it? he wondered excitedly.  Was this a brush pass?

He longed to look in his hand to see what was there, but the hours of training walking the streets of Brussels had made their mark, and he studiously ignored his hand.  He was probably going overboard, he realized.  He was acting too nonchalant, and that was just as bad as acting suspiciously.  Ryck knew that the city surveillance had him in its databases, and it supposedly could identify when he was acting differently.  It could flag him for someone in the counterintelligence branch of the FSSC, the Free State Security Commission, to take a look.

Grubbing hell, he thought.  I’m a Marine, not a spy!

The more he tried to act normally, the more awkward he felt.  Finally, he just decided to speed up his pace and get into his apartment, ignoring his meager repertoire of trade craft, such as making sure he was not being followed.  Fifteen minutes later—fifteen stress-filled minutes when he kept expecting a hand on his shoulder and a voice telling him he was under arrest—he gratefully entered his apartment.

The residences of the foreign delegations were traditionally sacrosanct from surveillance.  Ryck didn’t trust that, however, and neither did the embassy.  Each apartment and the ambassador’s residence were scanned daily for bugs.  Despite his lack of trust, though, Ryck was not going to wait to go to the embassy and into the vault before seeing just what was in his hand.  He was dying with curiosity.

He unfolded his hand, and there, stuck to his palm, was what looked like a fat grain of rice.  Ryck’s heart fell.  Could this simply be the remnants of the guy’s lunch that had accidently transferred to Ryck when they collided?

He took a closer look, and he didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed when he saw a slight seam in the small item.  He went to his kitchen drawer and took out a small knife, edging its tip into the seam.  The tip slid in a millimeter, and the small object suddenly unfolded.

Could they make the writing any smaller? he wondered as he squinted his eyes and tried to read what was written there.

He gave up and looked for anything to magnify the writing.  He had nothing.  He could take it to the embassy, but he was burning with curiosity.  Finally, he took his PA and shot a picture of the writing, then blew the image up.  He knew he should not have recorded the image in any way, but he figured that he could give his PA to Sherlynn in security, and she could erase all trace of the image in it.

As he read the words on his PA, his heart started pounding.

O’Brien Park.  In back of the dolphin fountain.  0125, Wednesday morning.  I have some information you will want to know.

Chapter 3

“I don’t like it,” Agent Volker, the station chief said.  “With all due respect, Major Lysander is not trained in this type of operation.”

Ryck started to protest, but Volker held up a hand to stop him before continuing, “Yes, I know you had Kindergarten in DC, but two or three weeks hardly makes you an expert.  I think that for this, Assistant Secretary Adomshick is far better suited.”

Alden Adomshick, officially the Assistant Secretary for Agriculture, but in reality Volker’s number three man, nodded his agreement, as did LTC James and Major Rychmont, the two FDC reps at the meeting.

The chargé d'affaires looked at the gathered men from over his folded fingers, and then asked CAPT Franks, “What do you think, George.  He’s your man, after all.”

“Major Lysander does not have the experience as a spook, that’s true.  But as you know, sir, the major has a unique reputation.  It is very likely that this contact occurred only because of that reputation.  If someone is willing to come to our side, then it makes sense that he would approach the major.  And if the Assistant Secretary of Agriculture, a nobody—no insult intended, Alden—shows up instead, then he might bolt.  He approached Major Lysander for a reason, and I don’t think we can ignore that.  I think that the major should make the meeting.  Then, if this is a live resource, the handling can be turned over to someone less, shall we say, conspicuous?”

“I still think it’s a bad idea.  It’s too dangerous,” Volker stated.

“And you think Major Lysander is afraid of a little danger?” CAPT Franks asked dryly.

Even the two FCDC officers had to hold back a smile as Volker stammered out “Of course not!  He’s proven himself.  It’s just that he might be a little out of his league here.”

Frankly, Ryck was out of his league as far as being a super duper spook, he knew.  But he didn’t like Agent Volker pointing that out.  Besides, how hard could it be to simply go to the meeting and listen to what was being said?  And to have his courage even obliquely questioned got his blood boiling.

Ryck looked around the vault.  The chargé d'affaires and his first secretary sat at the head of the table.  The two FCDC officers and the two spooks sat across from Ryck, CAPT Franks, and CDR Terry Philbin, Ryck’s counterpart assistant naval attaché.  Volker could argue all he wanted, but the decision was Mr. Lamonica’s, the wizened Charge de Affairs.  He might look like a jovial grandfather, but he was whip-smart and brooked no nonsense.  He ran the embassy, not Ambassador Tsung, a former Top 100 CEO and political neophyte.

“And you, Major?  What do you think?  You up for this?” he asked Ryck.

“Yes, sir, I am.  Of course, I welcome Agent Volker’s assistance.  In fact, I request it.  But I think I can be trained up for a simple contact.  And his people will be listening in.  Whoever this is, he requested my presence, and we have to honor that.  It might turn out to be nothing, but then, all I’ve wasted is an early night’s sleep.”

“It could be a trap,” Volker said, obviously not willing to let Ryck have the last word.

“And if it is, what of it?  Major Lysander will simply report back, and we can decide how to use him for feeding the Confederation what we want,” CAPT Franks said.

“I was speaking more in terms of a physical threat,” Volker said.

That got Ryck’s attention.

“You mean the Confederation would sanction an actual assault on a certified diplomat?” Franks asked incredulously.

LTC James cleared his throat before saying, “Actually, we have heard whispers about that.  Not the from the Confederation government, of course, at least nothing from official channels, but there are groups within the government who feel that Major Lysander’s presence here is a slap in the face.”

“And is there any indication that there is anything planned against him, or is this anonymous grumbling?” The chargé d'affaires asked.

“Well, nothing concrete, sir, but we think it is a possibility.”

Mr. Lamonica leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling for a few moments as he considered that.  The others sat quietly, waiting to hear his decision.

Finally, he leaned back forward and said, “We have had a dearth of new assets, so any opportunity has to be examined.  I’m going ahead and authorizing this meeting, but I want the good major wired to his short hairs.  Nothing will be left to chance, and I want personnel ready to move in if need be.  That’s you, Crest,” he said to Volker.  “And if there is any sign that the meeting is going south, you’ve got the authority to pull the plug.”

“I understand, sir,” Volker said, obviously not pleased with the decision.

“And if that is all, gentlemen, then I’ve got another meeting to get to.”

The chargé d'affaires got up without another word and left the vault, followed by the first secretary.

“Well, OK, we heard the man,” Volker said.  “Major, if I can see you later this afternoon, around 1600, I’d like to get you briefed up and prepared.”

The gathered men stood up to leave the vault, but MAJ Rychmont caught Ryck’s eye, motioning him to hang back.  Faustus Rychmont was the embassy’s second-ranking FCDC officer, and while Ryck was not overly found of the organization as a whole, Faustus was an OK guy.  Ryck had played him in five several times, and they’d often eaten lunch together at the embassy commissary. 

“What’s up?” Ryck asked as the last of the others left the vault.

Faustus reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handing it to Ryck.  Ryck took it without looking, but immediately recognizing the familiar shape of a handgun, probably a snub-nosed 10mm.

“I expected this was going to be the decision,” Faustus said, “and I knew a Marine would not want to go into harm’s way unarmed.”

Ryck slipped the handgun into his pocket, surprised and more than a little grateful.  For a diplomat to carry a weapon was highly verboten and could—no probably would—rescind any diplomatic immunity.  Faustus, as security rather than a diplomat, could carry a weapon, which was probably how he could get a hold of whatever he’d given Ryck.  By passing it to Ryck in the vault, there would be no record of the exchange.

Ryck risked a glance down.  The low profile of the handgun barely made a bulge in his pocket, and Ryck doubted anyone would notice it.  It had felt slick, too, when he touched it, so it was probably a meshed-ceramic, impervious to most common surveillance means.  It was most likely a Bianchi or Sylvington, both sweet weapons that packed a lot of punch at close ranges.

“Thanks, Faustus.  I appreciate it,” he said as they both turned to leave the vault.

Ryck hoped he would not have to use the little handgun, but it sure felt good to have it and know that if the shit hit the fan, he could at least go down swinging instead of being a lamb at the slaughter.