When Diplomacy Fails . . . (19 page)

Three rounds had been fired so far. Bart was in the vehicle and sparking it. Aramis and Jason flanked Elke behind the shield, close together and spilling out. She drew back a bit so they could get friendlier, trusting on her earbuds to have correctly reported direction.

The crowd was in chaos, running in all directions. That was mostly good. They’d disrupt a gunman. However, they would also conceal him if he ran, as he probably was.

The image flashed up on her glasses and showed nothing useful in that small format. It did, however, show the local police well-mixed with the crowd and subduing apparently at random. Clicking off the image, she could see it live. They had stunners, obviously scaled up to maximum, old-fashioned batons, and boots. There were a lot of them.

A faint smile crossed her face while she scanned for active threats. This wouldn’t do Highland’s image any good at all. She wondered, in fact, if it were deliberate.

It had been an entire nine seconds since the shooting started, and Alex’s voice said, “Withdraw.”

She replied, “Babs moving,” and skittered back, with the shield between her and the last known threat direction.

She reached the skirt, swung behind the ladder’s plate and said, “Babs covering.” Jason acknowledged, rose to a crouch without using his hands, then did that silly-looking dance step to slip back, feet never leaving contact with the ground. Silly looking, but very effective.

“Argo covering.”

“Musketeer moving,” Aramis said, and bounded back holding the shield. They scurried up the ramp in turn, though Elke found herself very clumsy moving backward. The steps were serrated for traction, and caught on her boot sole pattern. She noted that for followup.

They boxed around Highland and coaxed her into the vehicle. As soon as they were inside, Bart engaged the drive and they rolled away, as another platoon of police arrived to break heads.

Elke shrugged to herself. She’d seen it in so many places she couldn’t keep track. The only difference was how the power was applied. In some places they used hands, fists, sticks and stunners. Some used incapacitance gas and blinding lights. If need be, they had stun fields and pain stimulators. In the nicest societies, it was all done with money and political power without the need for violence.

But the peasants were always kept in line.

As hirelings, they had many of the advantages of the upper castes, without most of the ties. It was a system that worked for her.

The cops here popped some kind of clear gas that emanated in shimmery waves. Ahead of it, people clutched at their faces. It seemed to be some kind of sulfide thiol that carried a tremendous stench, similar though less potent than their own variety. Then the cops waded in swinging sjambok-style whips, using the stinging, flicking tips to herd people, slowly at first, but faster. A second echelon had stunners set to a strong tingle. They did seem trying to avoid actual injury.

Highland looked amused for just a moment, then started to protest, accompanied by mild histrionics. She obviously had no concern about troublemakers getting smacked. She only cared that she be seen as compassionate. There were truly two complete sides to her, and one was a pure façade.

Still, so far Ripple Creek wasn’t taking the blame, and Elke didn’t see a need to use any significant force.

Once seated, the woman took a breath and said, “Well, that was positive.”

Jessie said, “They weren’t a friendly crowd.”

“Not at all, but the imagery is good.”

That confirmed it for Elke. The woman craved headlines, and would manufacture them if there weren’t enough. However, that suggested a possibility.

“Ma’am, regarding the harassment incidents.”

Highland looked up, and looked curious. “Yes?”

“If we are able to completely destroy incoming devices, then there’s no way for the press to scale them. They will be reported only as potential explosive devices in our log.”

Alex was paying attention, but letting her take the discussion.

“That’s true,” Highland said. “Would you be able to report for my releases as to the level of danger?”

Yes, she would want to claim the points. “I can report the range of possibilities to your staff,” she said, indicating JessieM. “Our own files are kept secure unless officially requested.”

Highland twisted her brow and thought. Elke was offering the opportunity for them to exaggerate to the limits of feasibility, unhindered.

“That sounds worthwhile. If we only report the information, it’s up to the media how they interpret it. I know one or two who’d enjoy having their own experts comment.”

She looked over at Alex, who nodded.

“We can give you a properly phrased release after each mission. Please understand we will not be confirming it officially. It will be ‘based on information provided by her detail.’ ”

“That’s fair enough,” she said.

Alex gritted his teeth and Elke knew he was angry. To protect themselves, they were assisting this woman in her campaign, by fabricating a myth of her being heroic in stature, and an underdog in a power struggle. Somewhere between professionalism and duty to the team, detachment had gone for a raft trip down the rapids. Still, the compromise helped them do their jobs with less hindrance. And all politicians lied.

Jason was frazzled when they delivered Highland back to the compound. It had been a long, bathroom-short day with little food, some borderline combat, and the media circus was in full swing. “Shots fired” had turned into “major battle around the Minister’s investigation,” though it was hard to tell if she’d exaggerated or the press had, and if the latter, from incompetence or bias. She certainly wasn’t going to dial them down, though, when she derived benefit.

To be fair, the team wasn’t going to issue any corrections either. They had no intention of giving intel to the enemy, and if it was perceived as a more dangerous event, that was good for their PR. Two could play that game.

In the armory, everyone cleared weapons, ran basic cleaning, and parked them. They slid off their file cards and Jason logged them into their secure archive. It was as uncrackable as they could make it, shielded, and never connected outside. Those records were for intel, legal protection, and, hypothetically, counter for anyone trying to blackmail them.

He counted weapons easily enough, accepted the tallies on rounds fired—recon and smoke for Elke, none for the rest. That was something else they had different from the troops. While their rules of engagement allowed looser fire, their discipline kept them down. Even the six of them were out-heavied by a mob. Never out-classed, though.

“When this is done we should hit the rec center. Fresh air without armor, and hot food among people will be good for us.”

“Concur,” Alex said.

Aramis said, “Yeah, as crappy as those pocket pastries are, I could use one right now.”

“There is no beer,” Bart lamented.

“Yeah, we’ll take the bad with the worse.”

Elke asked, “Casual uniform?” She had her blouse halfway off. She didn’t like being touched, but she was perfectly comfortable disrobing among her teammates. She had not a bad figure at all, too.

“Yes,” Alex agreed.

Twenty minutes later, they trooped to the rec center. He figured that despite the friction with the troops, a change of scenery was good, and perhaps they could plug into a game or two. In the meantime, someone might let slip some intel.

The new push for “equality” meant there were no distinct areas for officers, NCOs and enlisted members. Tradition maintained, though. The enlisted troops gathered near game pads. The NCOs sat in groups to talk and drink dealcoholized beer, though Jason was quite sure some of them had found ways to doctor the beverages. The officers had trivia and logic puzzles, though honestly, most of the problems weren’t that hard, and only a handful of the officers seemed to actually care or be any good. They had definitely doctored their drinks.

The team found an alcove off the main lounge, so they could soak up some noise, ambience and hints of music. It wasn’t Jason’s thing, but it was an escape from their apartment. He might suggest trips to the chapel and theater as well. Anything to break the rut. He took a chair with his left side to the room, back to the wall. Aramis faced into the room. Elke faced Jason. At an angle, the other three took a couch. It gave them good view and some distance.

While others might be violating regs on intoxicants, and they could claim immunity under BuState, though not officially on this side of the base, Jason agreed with Alex that to do so was to invite trouble. He had a ginger ale. Elke actually took a Coke. Caffeine was as rarely her thing as it was his. They shortly were all gathered around a drink table, slumped in chairs and soaking up atmosphere.

Aramis said, “Thanks. I needed this.” Jason followed his eyes to see a very shapely Malaysian woman in snug workout clothes. Yes, that was nice.

A clean young man walked past and asked, “What’s the uniform?”

It took Jason a moment to realize it was addressed to them, in their basic pants and company shirt. It had the logo on the chest. Theoretically, they’d prefer blank clothes, but uniforms were required over here, for a combination of security and international agreement.

“Hey, what’s the uniform?” the kid repeated. He wore the new camo, and it looked brand new. He hadn’t been around much.

“We’re Minister Highland’s personal security detail.”

“Ah, them,” was the snide response.

Some troops really respected them, or at least had a case of hero worship. Some just treated them as any other contingent that wasn’t their own. Some of the young ones, though, believed too much propaganda.

“Yup. Them,” was all he said.

“I sure wouldn’t mind making ten times what I’m earning to slouch around in chairs.”

“Well, put in an application.”

“Huh?”

“Yup. We’re always hiring.”

The kid wanted an argument. “You make it sound like I won’t make it.”

Jason gave him a neutral, interested look and said, “We prefer Recon veterans, or those with two years executive protection experience. Special skillsets like paramedic, demolition or encryption help. So if you’re not one of those, your odds are reduced, but it never hurts to apply.”

The kid snorted derisively.

Aramis said, “We might be the best.”

That didn’t help, but it was pretty clear this kid was looking for escalation.

Aramis put his drink down and rested his hands on the chair arms. Jason knew it was so he could be on his feet and at a sprint in under a second. Shaman, Alex and Bart stayed back on the couch, not commenting.

It was clear the troop was young enough to have been impressed by his instructors, and to not pick up on social cues from anyone outside his narrow peer group.

“And I’m the guy fighting this war so you have the right to say stupid things like that, civilian.”

It took a moment for Jason to process that. It was ridiculous in so many levels.

His brain decided to ignore the comment, to defuse things. His sense of the bizarre responded faster, and he laughed hysterically.

“Thanks,” he said, and turned back to the conversation. “So,” he said to Aramis, “when you get a chance, you really need to try the new mods on the autocannon.”

Then the kid clamped a hand down on his shoulder.

There were still ways to defuse this, but Jason was getting pissed. He glanced sideways, saw the kid opening his yap to talk, and went for the object lesson.

He reached over with his right hand, gripped the kid’s wrist and twisted, followed it with an elbow bar, and pushed him grunting down to the ground. He placed one foot casually on the kid’s shoulder blade, leaned into the wrist, and bent the elbow back against his left knee.

The kid’s voice was muffled with his mouth against the ground and pink fabric against his chin.

“Let me go, cocksucker.”

“Not until you learn some manners around your betters, son,” he replied, while putting just a little pressure on the wrist, until the troop squirmed and grunted.

However, he was not at all fazed. Through the carpet, the kid said, “I’ll fucking pound your ass when I get up.”

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t let you up then, if I know that’s your strategy. Aramis, will you please find someone to take charge of this?” He pointed down. The only direct pressure he had on the kid at this point was two fingers. The rest was all leverage.

Aramis was still smirking, and said, “Sure, just a moment. Would you like a soda while I’m up?”

“That would be great. Ginger ale with vanilla, please.” A beer would be nice, but while the ban was annoying, it wasn’t nearly as troublesome as some other issues.

The kid seemed to finally deduce he was out-classed, and lay still. Jason wasn’t injuring him, they were at least semi-public, and while a crowd wasn’t forming, several snickering gawkers gathered across the lounge. They didn’t act offended.

A familiar voice spoke a little too loudly.

“What the hell are you doing to my troop?”

“Well, Lieutenant, let’s say I don’t like having a hand on my shoulder unless it’s a proctologist or a close friend. Then he threatened violence. Now, I’m sure there’s a record on one of our monitors.” He tapped his glasses meaningfully, though they weren’t set to record right then. “However, I really don’t have time to argue the point, and would simply like to add some separation. Can we do that?”

The lieutenant looked very irritated, though whether at Jason or his recruit who had instigated the incident was hard to say.

“We can. Come with me, soldier.”

Jason relaxed his grip and pulled his foot free. The kid scrambled up and tried to put on a show.

“That’s once. I give anyone once. Next time, you and me—”

“Private!” the lieutenant snapped, and the kid jerked. He’d probably just realized that regardless of who the officer blamed, he’d be the one downhill from the shit.

Very quickly, the team had the alcove to themselves. Jason sighed. Sure, that was good tactically, but long term, it sure would be nice to get along with allied forces.

Elke said, “Let’s not do this again.”