When Diplomacy Fails . . . (11 page)

From the front, Bart said, “We have escort from respectable armies.”

“Yes. I’m glad to see them.”

Highland asked, “Who are they?”

“Brazilian troops in one, Finnish in the second, Kazakh in the third.”

“I like the Finns. They have such an earnest, hardworking culture. The Brazilians are very mixed and equitable.”

Alex said, “Yes. Though in this case, they’re good soldiers first.”

“Of course.”

Then they rose over the first speed hump and stopped.

Bart swore in German, threw the vehicle into reverse and tried to work it back.

Alex said, “We’re supposed to have sufficient clearance. What happened?”

Horace looked around. There were no apparent threats, but this was not good. He saw a camera crew outside the fence zooming in. They were exposed and stuck.

Bart said, “I believe the surface collapsed from the mass of heavy vehicles. The difference is enough, with our load, to cause this.”

“Will debarking help?”

“It is worth a try.”

“Right. Ms. Highland, please remain aboard.”

“Of course I will,” she said, sounding incredulous someone would expect her to walk.

“Lionel, stay with her. Everyone else out. Bart, I’ll drive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Horace bounced out and took another survey while breathing the clean air, tinged with exhaust next to the car. Bart took his frame out, Alex slipped in, and tried again. The car scraped and dragged, but made it over the hump. It shrieked over the next two. That got them outside the gate, though.

Horace jogged forward. The gates locked behind them, Bart resumed his position, and they all slid back in.

Highland looked offended.

“It seems no one cares about the dignity of my office,” she muttered loudly enough to be heard.

Alex had his phone out and was almost certainly demanding engineers fix those depressions at once. Whether military, BuState contract, local hires or several Company people with shovels, someone had to fix it fast. It was an accidental choke point, now revealed on camera.

“Shaman, radio link with the escort, please.”

“Radio, roger.” He grabbed the small encryption module and clicked it on. “Patent Three to Roller Six, over,” he said. The call signs were good. There were neither three nor six vehicles in either contingent.

“This is Roller Six, go ahead Patent Three, over.” If that was a Finnish accent, it was very interesting.

“Patent Three to Roller Six, please advise on weather, ongoing, over.”

“Clear, visibility at five zero, no storms. Expect light precipitation throughout, over.”

That translated as no current combat, no traffic snarls for five kilometers, but some traffic expected. They had a feed from State’s traffic scanners, and their own, and now the military’s.

“Understood, Roller Six. Patent Three listening, out.”

“Roller Six listening, out.”

Of course, all the OPSEC was for naught with JessieM churping away.

She spoke to Highland. “Ma’am, we’re getting churpcades all along. The crowd should be drastic.”

“Good.”

Alex said, “I thought this was a private meeting?”

“The meeting, yes, but I always like to make time to greet the people who matter.”

Horace watched his quarter. At this point, everyone with any kind of node access knew where she was. It was irritating. Could they arrange to exclude Jessie?

He was most nervous when they slowed, though they never quite stopped. The military vehicles used sirens and PA to keep the way clear. This was one of the more prosperous areas, only fifty years out of date, or three centuries ahead of Celadon. The buildings were extruded concrete with little variation save size, featureless overall. The people were apparently mostly of the conservative Muslim sects, in robes and headgear. Though as they traveled the peoples’ appearance grew more western.

“Patent Three, this is Roller Six, over.”

He raised the small box and said, “This is Patent Three, go ahead, Roller Six, over.”

“Arriving in nine zero seconds, over.”

“Understood, Roller Six. Thanks for the ride, out.”

“Anytime, Patent. Roller Six out.”

Horace was out first, followed by Lionel and Corcoran. Highland and Jessie stepped onto the walk, and Alex and Jason filled in the rear. Bart would stay in the vehicle.

There wasn’t a lot of attendance outside. This was a basic, boring policy meeting, and there was no reason for it to be public, nor even face to face. Diplomats and politicians liked their formal traditions, though.

It was anticlimactic. They strode in through a cordon of guards, all with beards and bushy mustaches. A wave of cool, dry air washed over them as the doors opened. There was a receiving line, and they parted so Highland could shake hands with dignitaries. An usher appeared and led them to a waiting area with sandwiches, water and soft drinks, and they weren’t even asked to disarm.

They had a choice of vids, and the locals and some of the other details seemed absorbed. The Ripple Creek team mostly stood, snacked lightly, and kept to themselves, while following news and updates. They could see Highland, though it was amusing to know that image was sent to a satellite and back even though they were perhaps a hundred meters away. JessieM sat back with other escorts, associates, factota and significant others. He caught a brief glimpse of her churping away.

Jason said, “I’d like to hear from our other contingent.” He meant Aramis and Elke.

Alex nodded. “Babs pinged a note. They’re still working.”

“Good, that was my concern.” He looked relieved.

Lionel said, “You guys operate seamlessly. You’ve been at this as long as we have, yes?”

Horace said, “About the same. We started when the company first got launched, when the military deployed to Salin and needed protection for diplomats.”

“This is much more interesting than facilities. Apart from occasional device threats and rockets, we have a consistent routine, or else it means something’s gone east.”

“This is a quiet one so far. I’d like it to stay that way. You noticed the baggage we have?” He meant JessieM of course.

Lionel nodded. “Yes, that’s inconvenient. We were advised to extend all courtesies.”

“Yes. It’ll get settled on the tab afterward.”

Lionel sipped his drink and faked watching the screen. “That’s hard for you to deal with, though, I presume.”

“Hard enough. We have ROE to cover it.”

“I’m interested in more of that.”

Horace grinned. “It pays a little better, but it’s not routine.”

“Yes, I know. I don’t particularly crave adventure, but it’s something I want to pursue.”

He wanted to offer something positive, even though this was just time-wasting chatter. “Well, good luck. We don’t seem to want for business. You’re steady and seem mature.”

“Thanks. Any antics you can share?”

“We stayed in a cave off a mine once, on Govannon. Carved rock, shelf bunks, vacuum-evacuated toilet. It was big enough for one and we had seven. Porn on the walls, processed worm meat and stabilized rice to eat.”

Lionel grinned. “Wow. That’s something we don’t get on the perimeter. The worms weren’t optional?”

“No. Chewy, a bit like squid, but beefy tasting.”

“And now I know.” He chuckled, but seemed put off as well.

Two hours later they embarked, convoyed and returned. Lionel looked amused rather than bored, and still paid attention to his threat sector.

So far, this was mission was aggravating, but quiet.

CHAPTER 10

“WHAT NOW?”
Aramis asked.

“How are you at cooking?”

“Um . . .”

In minutes he was very carefully monitoring four double boilers heating over the induction coils of the range. Elke had several tubs full of goo, which seemed to be plasticizing. Aramis wasn’t an expert on explosive, but he knew that hexamine, nitrates, phosphates, acids and ionized metals led to stuff that went boom.

“How is the soap and chlorate?” she asked.

He carefully drew a spatula from each and gauged the runoff. “Fully liquid,” he said.

“Good, I’ll take them.”

One tub was a gray mess of ammonium nitrate and some liquid booster. One was a translucent greenish mess. One was white.

“Dare I ask?”

She indicated without flicking the gray stuff off her gloved hands. “Low-order plastique of potassium chlorate and petroleum gelatin. Improvised but unstable dynamite of nitroglycerin in ammonium nitrate base, which I will entube. The semi-crystalline stuff is RDX. You’re going to help me take rifle cartridges apart and place them in the copper tubing, using the propellant and chlorate mix, as priming caps.”

“How unstable is ‘unstable’?”

“Just don’t get in an accident on the way back, and don’t inhale the fumes.”

They’d shopped most of the day, and cooked most of the night, with the kitchen curtained off and the outside windows curtained as well. There was enough light leakage to indicate occupation, and Jason had set controllers to cycle the lights on a randomized but standard schedule to indicate habitation. There was not enough visibility for anyone to spy on them.

Aramis realized how tired he was.

“Money and determination,” he muttered.

“What? Oh, yes,” she said, obviously distracted. “I need explosives for my part of the mission. I will have them. These will suffice until I can find better materials. I’m quite sure a construction site will have what I need.”

“Are we actually resting before we leave?”

“Do you need to?” she asked, quite seriously. “Return trip should be under an hour.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. He squinted through the curtains. “I just wanted to confirm. It looks dawnish out there.”

“Yes, so it does,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “Oh five twenty-seven. Highland has a movement in four hours. I suppose I have what I need for now. I’ll destroy some of the partials and stow the rest, tragic as it is to waste material.”

“You can buy more. Money’s not an issue.”

“Money is not the issue,” she said as she carried the first tub into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. “Wasting material is the issue. Explosives are supposed to detonate, not flush down the drain.” She sighed as she turned on a trickle of water.

In five minutes, she had a large box neatly filled with devices and claylike blocks, and a bag of the improvised caps, including some with electrical leads for remote or keyed detonation.

There was no traffic on the stairs, though sounds and smells indicated residents awake and preparing for work. Aramis smelled tea, coffee, pastries, some meat that was probably not pork, given the cultures here. There was occasional music and news chatter. All in all it was quite homey and reminiscent of a century long passed. Earth buildings had much tighter soundproofing and seals, and audio was always focused or through personal devices.

He led outside, since Elke was hindered with the box. A couple of backpacks would have been easier, but far less discreet.

Elke placed the box carefully in back, and slipped in with it. Aramis ignited the turbine and pulled slowly out into the rising traffic.

They were two kilometers down the road when his phone chimed.

“Musketeer,” he said.

Alex said, “Are you carrying smelly stuff?”

“Uh, maybe?” he looked back at Elke, who said, “Fumes are outgassing, yes.”

Jason cut in on the other end. “Their sniffers have it, reporting a threat, and they’re responding.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The official mil types.”

“Response?”

“We’re calling Das. We’ll try to clear it. Stand by and out.”

“Will travel and stand by, out, waiting.” He twitched his eyebrows, felt a flush and said, “That’s not good,” to Elke.

“They have better sensors than I anticipated. I should have triple wrapped and sealed.”

“They’d find it sooner or later.”

“Car coming up fast behind,” she said. He heard her fumble with weapons.

“Pursuit? Police?” He glanced at the rear screen.

“Armored sedan, looks semi-official,” she said. “I wonder if they’re plugged into the milnet.”

“Not good. Evading.” He swung the wheel to send them straight down a side street, thankful there were no zone controls to worry about here.

However, that sedan braking hard in front of them wasn’t in his plans.

“Entrapment,” he said, amazed at how cool he sounded. There was an alley on the left just past. He flung the car into a turn, gunned it, fishtailed twice and went down what was apparently a service lane, slaloming through trash and pallets.

Elke said, “I’m loaded, tell me if you need support.”

“I expect so, soon. Call for backup.”

Mild precombat nausea gripped him, and fatigue didn’t help. He was out the alley, back onto a street, but it was crowded and slow.

Elke said, “Hostiles attempting to herd us. Request backup soonest.”

“Working. We have your location, keep your line open.”

“Line open, roger.”

No good. They were penned in by traffic, and there were men getting out of a car thirty meters back. He wasn’t going to find an opening.

“Proceed on foot, we need a bughole,” he said.

Elke was out the door in a second, wearing her backpack and with the box looking a bit lighter. Good woman. A moment later a sharp bang accompanied a brilliant flash and a directional cloud of smoke. She pulled alongside him.

“Did you secure the car?”

“I did not boobytrap it but it is locked. The burst was just distraction.”

“Hostiles?”

“Delayed, but there are some ahead.”

“I see them,” he said. “Move into a building.”

“This one.”

It was a closed office that hopefully had a rear exit, or a roof, or some way to barricade themselves while backup arrived. Aramis reached the door at a sprint and kicked it. The latches shattered and they were in.

“That wouldn’t work in a more modern world,” he said, as they dodged between dividing walls.

“Two distractions behind us, set for vibration.”

“Not lethal?”

“Allies may come.”

“Roger. No upstairs access I can see. Out the back.”

There was clattering behind them, then a
bang
, and another.

Elke stepped aside and let him take the lead. He flipped the latch, kicked the door open and slipped through, raising his pistol.

His brain exploded inside his skull and he went down.

Bart drove, though usually he was in a limo, not a Grumbly. The rotary-diesel was turning fast enough to have a smooth hum, not a grumbling lope. They were in a hurry.

As he understood it, they were also in violation of contract.

Their mission was Highland’s safety. Cady’s mission was compound security. Recovery of missing personnel was properly the military’s tasking. However, that would take time, and they knew Aramis’s and Elke’s location now.

Elke’s voice came through the channel. “Musketeer is down, probably captured.”

Bart felt chills. That was bad. Peripherally, he saw the others swapping glances.

Alex asked, “Understood. Are you covered?”

“I have created a safe zone.”

That sounded bad, too.

“We’re arriving in six minutes.”

“I can hold—
BANG
!” her voice cut off with an explosion, but the signal was still live. “Do hurry, though.”

Another voice came through, “Alex, this is Das.”

Alex said, “Alex here, go.”

“We have an extraction team en route. Fifteen minutes will get them there.”

“That’s ten minutes behind us.”

“Understood. I must advise you that you are not on military contract and do not have engagement privileges.”

“Meaning we will observe as long as feasible, or the lawyers will have lots of work to do.”

Das sounded tense but sympathetic. “I understand your concern but there will be trouble if you breech status of forces.”

Bart cursed. Yes, rules existed for a reason, but this was not a military engagement, it was a criminal incident. It was probably even harder to find a political agreement regarding that.

Before Alex could reply, Elke said, “Hostiles are gone.”

“Retreated?”

“Yes. They have Musketeer, as far as I can tell.”

“Shit.”

Bart’s chills turned to burns. This was unprecedented.

“Arriving in two minutes,” he said, as calmly as he could.

Alex said, “Babs, can you meet at your reported location?”

“I am two hundred meters from there and prefer to meet at this location. Advise when you need directions.”

Bart nodded, and said, “Tell me in twenty seconds, which turn to take.”

Elke coolly guided him in to a stop next to an alley. She darted out with a box and ruck and was aboard at once.

She heaved for breath and there was a chemical stink of explosive over the perspiration. Her hair was greased with sweat, she was scuffed and dusty, but alive and intact.

“Reporting,” she said. “We were corralled by four vehicles at the same time you reported notice of us. Either the military has a leak or the hostiles have similar sensors. We entered the building ahead, where the traffic jam and dust is. I left a distraction device outside, two inside. There was no good barricade or roof, and pursuers triggered the devices. We attempted to leave out the back. Aramis was hit with a combination of two heavy stunners and an impact projectile. I shot and hit two hostiles, outcome unknown, then shot and blasted through the wall into the crawl alley to the south. I made a short chimney ascent, entered a first floor window, exited the rear behind the hostiles. I covered in a trash abutment and held them with fire. I made my report, then they departed, presumably with Aramis.”

That was so precise it was frightening, Bart thought, but not as much as Aramis’s abduction.

“Can we trace him with that stuff?” Alex asked.

“He will have residue, yes. His clothes especially will be impregnated.”

“They’ll probably ditch those if they smell them. Channel, Das, sir, what’s the recovery unit ETA?”

“Three minutes.”

“This is our location,” he said, and pinged it through. “We need to search the contact site.”

“They see you and are arriving.”

Aramis awoke nauseated, in throbbing pain, stripped to underwear, wrapped in cargo tape restraints at wrist and ankle, sitting on a cold floor. He could vaguely identify others. Two people were in front of him, well-built, probably military. One lurked behind. Two others were off to the left.

Ohshitohshitohshit. It kept tumbling through his brain.

No way out. Not a chance. The restraints wouldn’t yield, and he was quite sure the one at the back would happily shoot anyone he tried to grab as a shield. Assuming he could see anything. He wasn’t sure how he knew the man behind had a gun, but he knew.

His wrists ached, his head had that burning pain that felt as if it were bleeding from trauma, but often meant only a concussion.

A voice from the left said, “He’s awake, get to it.”

Another voice, in front, said, “I need her movements.”

He understood that was addressed to him, and replied, “They’re chosen at random, even when there is a schedule, and I am not told until we are en route.”

A tremendous slap rocked his cheek and jaw, like fiery gravel. He’d been hit with some kind of heavy glove.

“Ridiculous. You have to know.”

He sweated and teared up through the bursting pain, which was triggering his pulped skull again. “The Agent in Charge knows, or his deputy. The rest of us do as we’re told.”

He stood there. He knew what was coming, and it terrified him. Combat was one thing. To be bound helplessly and . . .

The blow felt as if a car hit him in the cheek. He grunted, convulsed and lay out on the floor, trying to get into a fetal position to protect himself. His ears rang, eyes blurred, he thought his cheek probably broken. The pain was a lance, and then a suffusing pulse of agony, fading slowly to a burning sting.

Someone hauled him to his feet, and he tried to clench his abs, just in time for a massive punch that paralyzed his diaphragm. He gaped like a fish and did nothing for what felt like hours while boots and sticks thudded and cracked his ear, shoulder, spine, all over. The pain was warm and sharp.

Then he was hauled to his feet again.

“What is tomorrow’s schedule?”

He was angry and hurt. He cried and sobbed. “Dammit, I don’t know. Even if I did, it would have changed by now. This is fucking stupid.”

The pain, the disorientation, the fear were beyond anything he’d ever felt. Nausea collided with anger, terror, and he hyperventilated. They helped him with that, with plastic over his face until he passed out watching purple blotches as he surged against it in panic. He’d stayed still to conserve oxygen as long as he could, but there were limits, and his left cheek was stabbing agony . . .

He woke upright, his hands now bound on an overhead rail, helpless to protect his torso from crashing impacts. Blindfold off, he saw a stick line up and was too restrained and hurt to cringe. He watched in slow motion as it arced full force up toward his crotch.

He didn’t pass out, but he did throw up. A heated rush flooded his brain as his panicking body tried to compensate.

It was terrifying and surreal, like falling off a cliff.

It didn’t end with that, and he never got past it all feeling like a dream, an hallucination, an unreality that he couldn’t wake up from and desperately wanted to.

He took a full look at each of the three attackers. They were local, muscular and southern European in ancestry. That might make them Christian or Muslim, no way to tell. He memorized their faces. Then . . .