In the dawn light, Remy could see the Qatari peninsula jutting like a sore thumb into the Persian Gulf. The base was a square piece of real estate, isolated from civilian cities by open desert, bermed barriers, and drones on patrol. With final clearance granted, their pilot swung to his assigned pad and landed the ship with textbook precision.
The ramp at the rear of the ship descended with a hydraulic whine. A wave of scorching atmosphere blasted the manufactured air from the bay.
“Helmets on, people,” Rico called. “Good luck!”
Remy slid his helmet over his head, locking the base with his collar. A heads-up display gave him a readout of his armor status and vitals. The other twelve members of the team were tiny green icons along the base of his vision.
“Comms check, secret agent man,” Rico said, unwilling to drop the snark even in a professional situation.
“Comms check sat,” Remy replied. He would be the adult in the room.
Rico stepped down the ramp. He led the column toward the hangars. Once out of sight of the landing pad, the diversion squads hustled off in opposite directions. Rico and Remy continued toward the heart of the compound. Early morning foot traffic was light.
“Shouldn’t we remove our helmets?” Remy asked. “Look like friendlies?”
Rico chuckled. “Check the outside temp, Sam. Most of this base is underground now. ”
Remy scanned his readout for the external temperature and blushed. One hundred twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit, even this early in the morning.
“That’s the target,” Rico said, indicating the squat brick building ahead. “We have a man on the staff entrance at the rear. He’ll get us inside, then it’s up to our compadres to cause some confusion.”
Remy’s chest tightened. There was a lot about this operation that had been left out of his briefing package.
Following Rico’s brisk pace, they left the ground level, walking down a steep ramp to a pair of soldiers guarding a set of double doors. “Sergeant Ernest Rico, reporting for duty,” he said to the guard.
After a curt nod, the guard activated the doors. “Elevator’s at the end of the hall, Sergeant.”
Rico punched the man on the arm as they entered. “Lock it down behind us.”
“Her will be done.”
“You got it, man.” Rico waited until the door shut behind them, then said: “All squads, this is Rico. You are a go for playtime, people. Let’s make it count.”
Rico’s pace took on a new urgency as they marched down a wide concrete hallway. A sharp right turn brought them to a reinforced elevator, flanked by another security team. One guard stepped forward with his hand up. “Stay behind the yellow line and scan in, Sergeant.”
Rico nodded, placing his forearm under the scanner.
Nothing happened.
“Step back. Try again,” said the soldier, annoyed .
Rico did like he was told, with the same result.
“Dammit,” the guard said. He turned to his partner, saying: “Call maintenance, will you—”
Rico stepped across the line, drawing his Glock at the same time. He pistol-whipped the first guard, who went down hard. The second soldier lunged for the alarm, and Remy clocked the man in the head with the butt of his M24. The guard dropped to the ground, unconscious.
“Well, how about that, you’re not just a pretty face, Sam.” Rico sighed. “I hate this part.”
He shot both men in the head.
Remy gasped. “What—was that necessary?”
“Cassandra said no witnesses.” There was a note of regret in the sergeant’s voice. “We do what has to be done for the cause.”
He dragged the bodies to the security station and keyed the elevator door open. A slight tremor shook the floor. “That’ll be our boys. Right on time.”
• • •
CENTCOM command center was a bunker buried a hundred meters beneath the Qatari desert. Set up arena style, the room housed two dozen operators outfitted with high-tech data visors and hand manipulators facing a massive wallscreen. When Rico and Remy stepped off the elevator—the only entrance in or out—the room had already been placed on red alert.
Rico fired a rifle round into the ceiling.
“Everyone, may I have your attention, please!” he shouted over the blaring Klaxons.
The room stilled .
“Stand up, take off your headsets, and step away from your workstations. Now.”
A young woman in an Air Force uniform reached forward and Rico fired a slug into her workstation. “The next one goes in your ear, little lady.”
She ripped off her data visor and scooted back.
Behind them, a solid sheet of steel slammed down over the elevator doors.
“Who did that?” Rico’s voice was casual, which made him seem even more dangerous. He appeared unconcerned about the fact that they were now sealed in the bunker.
“I did.” An officer in her mid-forties raised her hand. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and her jaw was set. “I put us in lockdown. You’re trapped here, you piece of—”
Rico shot her through the heart.
The room froze as one, the alarm pulsing like a grating heartbeat. The officer’s mouth hung open as if she might continue, then she crumpled to the floor. A younger woman moved to catch her.
“Nope!”
Rico aimed his rifle at her. The woman stopped midstride.
“Anyone else want to play the hero? Anyone?” He waited. “All right, then.” Motioning with his rifle, Rico said, “Everyone into the meeting room, back there.” He followed the personnel and closed the door behind them, then slid his M24 rifle through the door handles to lock them in.
Remy’s mind reeled as he followed Rico back into the main bay. Security footage from the rest of the base played on the massive wallscreens. One outside camera showed a column of smoke rising into the brassy yellow sunlight. A full platoon of armored soldiers engaged a Neo squad in a heavy firefight. Drones crisscrossed the sky overhead.
“What do we do now?” Remy asked.
“We put on a show.”
“What?”
Rico gestured at the ceiling-mounted cameras. He leaned in close to Remy’s ear. “We try to upload the virus, we get frustrated, I shoot you and you shoot me. Bing-bang-boom.”
“I don’t understand,” Remy said.
“It’s theater, Sam,” Rico said. “Think of this as making a film for posterity.”
He extracted a slim probe from his belt and inserted it into the nearest workstation. After a few moments of supposed effort, he slammed his fists down on the console and cursed for the cameras. Then, to Remy in a low voice, “Okay, Sam, you ready for your big moment?”
“Ready for what?”
Rico spun around, drew his Glock, and fired point-blank into Remy’s chest armor. The shot lifted Remy off his feet, slamming him backward. He slid to the floor.
Remy’s mouth worked in the dry, conditioned air of the bunker. The cement floor was cool against the back of his head. Remy pawed at the fasteners on his armor, anything to be able to catch his breath. When he pulled his hand back it was slick with blood. His blood. Frantically, he probed at the armor and felt his fingertip slip into a hole.
Rico’s shot had penetrated the Dragonskin armor. How was that possible ?
Rico’s face floated over him. “Stay with me, buddy.”
Rico turned his back to the nearest camera. Remy felt him unfasten the restrictive armor, then Rico inserted something into the wound. A spike of chill in his chest, and all at once, he could breathe again.
“That should stabilize you for now,” Rico whispered. “Buy you enough time for them to open the bunker. It’s not too bad. We only weakened your armor in that one spot. Cassandra did the calculations herself. She’s never wrong.”
“Why?”
Rico gave a low chuckle. “To sell the defector story. You just got betrayed on camera. You’re as pure as the driven snow now, secret agent man.” He pressed
two fingers against the chest wound and a bolt of pain made Remy’s eyes snap open. “Stay awake, now. I need you to do one last thing.”
The world was swimming. Rico’s face faded in and out.
“What?”
Remy felt Rico unholster his sidearm and guide the muzzle under Rico’s chin. There was a strange trembling light in Rico’s eyes.
“You need to kill me. Cassandra says no witnesses, remember?”
“No—I can’t,” Remy gasped. “Won’t.”
Lips quivering, Rico said, “Her will be done.”
One of them pulled the trigger. Maybe it was him; Remy wasn’t sure. All he felt was the dead weight of Rico’s body on his, and blood everywhere.
Then blackness.
Chapter 6
Anthony Taulke • En Route to Mars
After his extended stay in the Alcatraz of the Rockies, Anthony Taulke deemed himself a changed man.
He spent the first entire afternoon of the three-day trip to Mars in the galley of Adriana Rabh’s yacht, the Staff of Isis , sampling dozens of organic fruit juice combinations just to see how the different flavors mingled on his tongue.
After his incarceration, Anthony figured Mars was the best option to ensure his continued freedom, but even that was debatable. If the governments of Earth really wanted to seize him, they had the military capability to do so. Taulke Industries wouldn’t be able to protect him.
Teller wanted Anthony free to find a solution to the “climate problem,” as the president called it. Anthony had to laugh at that euphemism. There was no climate problem —the governments of Earth were being held hostage. Someone had stolen Viktor’s cryptokey and used it to wreak weather havoc all over the planet. But who was doing it, and why ?
Viktor had joined them before they departed Earth’s orbit. Anthony felt a strange rush of nostalgia upon seeing his rumpled friend—another indication that his time as a jailbird had permanently changed him.
Viktor laughed at his reaction. “You were in jail for two months—”
“Seventy-four days,” Anthony snapped back. “I counted.”
“You counted! In Russia, you can get six months for a traffic ticket. And real jail, not a holiday in the mountains.” Viktor let his native accent slip through to emphasize his point, but Anthony could tell he was glad his friend was safe.
After the Lazarus disaster, Viktor had been returned to his homeland for trial and sentencing. But Viktor Erkennen had many friends in Russia, and his incarceration had been more like home arrest—with full access to his lab.
At dinner that evening, Anthony tried to turn the meal into a working session. “I want to be ready when we get to Mars,” he said as Adriana’s servant poured white wine for each of them. “We need to hit the ground running.”
“There is bad news and worse news,” Viktor said, taking a healthy pull from his glass.
“That’s a 2082 Pinot Grigio,” Adriana said with a look of frustration. “Part of the last of the wines produced in the Lavaux vineyards overlooking Lake Geneva, before the region went fallow.”
Nodding appreciation, Viktor slurped another mouthful.
“So, tell me, Viktor,” Anthony said.
“The bad news is that the cryptokey was stolen from my Moon facility— ”
“Your super-secret, impenetrable Moon facility,” Adriana interjected.
Viktor grimaced.
“We already know the bad news,” Anthony said. “What’s the worse news?”
Not waiting for the manservant, Viktor refilled his own glass. “The nanites are working as designed.”
“That’s not a headline you want to see on YourVoice,” Adriana observed.
“Indeed not,” Viktor said. “Someone is controlling local gradients to cause these disasters. These climate insurgencies are quite localized—and deliberate.”
“But who’s behind it?” Anthony said. “That’s what we need to figure out.”
Viktor set his glass down. “My government says it’s your government.”
“Teller?” Anthony said. “That makes no sense. Weaponizing the weather has rallied every other country on Earth against the United States. And why would he break me out of jail to try to fix the problem if he’s the one causing it?”
Viktor curled his lip, a sign that he had achieved a state of inebriation where words were fungible. “Maybe his hands are ignorant.”
“What does that even mean?” Adriana asked. Her voice had an edge of impatience.
Fortunately, Anthony spoke fluent Viktor-ese. “He means the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”
Adriana rolled her eyes, then took comfort in her wine.
“Maybe it’s not Teller,” Viktor mumbled. “Maybe someone else inside your government—”
“Russian conspiracy theories,” Adriana said. “Look at the facts: who benefits from all this chaos? No one. The world economy is in shambles, including the US. No one is making money off this situation, not even the climate change industry. There’s too much anarchy cascading too rapidly. Countries can’t keep up with the costs of resettling refugees anymore.”
She moved the Pinot Grigio out of Viktor’s reach and spread her hands on the snowy-white tablecloth. Her red nails gleamed in the soft, tasteful light of the dining suite. “Well?”
The Russian eyed the wine bottle. “I’m a scientist, not a political philosopher.”
“It puts every country in the world at each other’s throats,” Adriana continued. “Think of it like a business takeover. What’s the first thing a smart businessman does before cornering the market?”
“Undercut the competition,” Anthony said.
“How?”
Anthony thought for a moment. “Destabilize the market. Play one competitor off another.”
Grunting, Viktor said, “Like a criminal syndicate. Get the competition to eliminate each another, then step in and take over.”
“Exactly. Criminal empire or business conglomerate or international politics, the strategy is the same: divide and conquer.”
The three fell silent. Adriana ticked her nails on the table. Viktor stared at his nearly empty wineglass. Anthony turned to the window, centering himself in the vastness of space .
Adriana broke the silence. “My sources tell me the attacks on the US bases were all Neos, except for one soldier, and they captured him.”
“The religious cult?” Anthony said. “You think they’re behind all this weather manipulation? That seems farfetched to me.”
“There are two billion followers of Cassandra in the world,” Adriana said. “She promises them a new Earth, but she never promised them they’d live to see it.”
Anthony sat forward. “Fine, it’s worth looking into. But I don’t want to make the same mistake that happened with Lazarus. When we solve this nanite problem, I want us to be in control of the solution.”
Adriana folded her hands. She knew a business pitch was coming. “What did you have in mind?”
“A council that can protect our interests, made up of the people in this room: business leaders with vision and resources who don’t kowtow to every shift in public opinion. Adriana, you bring the financial backing and the relationships with Earth’s governments at the United Nations. Viktor brings the R&D capabilities. I bring Mars and the resources of Taulke Industries. Once we deal with the Earth problem, there’s Mars, the Moon, asteroid mining, even Titan as a refining colony. We can be the invisible hand that guides humanity’s growth.”
Adriana jerked her head and the manservant departed the suite. “You’re forgetting one thing. We need to solve this Earth problem first.”
“I have idea,” drunk Viktor said, tapping his glass.
Anthony waited as Adriana relented and filled it. The Russian drank deeply before he spoke. “I can make new nanites to kill the old nanites. Then we’re back where we started.” He toasted himself.
“Bold,” Adriana said. “Expensive, but bold.”
Viktor shrugg
ed. “Lab research is the next step. Like before, I will need Qinlao Manufacturing to help me.”
Anthony realized with a pang of guilt that he hadn’t thought of Ming Qinlao since being incarcerated. “Where is Ming? Is she safe?”
Adriana toyed with her wineglass. “Unknown. Her aunt—with backing from the Chinese government—moved against her, but she escaped. Xi Qinlao is the de facto CEO in her niece’s absence.” She eyed Anthony. “We’ll have to deal with Xi.”
Anthony stood and paced the room. They didn’t really need Ming, but part of him wanted her to play a role in this grand plan he was enacting. She was the kind of leader who could help shape the new world Anthony wanted to build. “Get the design done, Viktor. I’ll handle contact with Qinlao. In the meantime, Adriana and I will focus on taking back control of the current situation.”
Adriana folded her arms. “How do you suppose we do that? I have some of the best networks out there and we’re coming up dry.”
Anthony spun his seat around and straddled it. “You said the US military sustained a Neo attack. We start there. There’s a reason why the Neos are on the offense. Find the reason, find the Neos.”
Adriana nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
A soft whistle sounded. “Ms. Rabh, this is the captain.”
“Go ahead,” Adriana replied .
“Mr. Taulke asked to be notified when we were within visual range of the Mars magnetic shield generator. You can view the generator from the observation lounge now.”
Rising, Adriana said, “Shall we?”
Viktor brought his wine.
They made their way to the observation lounge, a bubble at the very top of the yacht, free of the ship’s structural lines.
“It’s the key to terraforming the Martian surface,” Anthony said, climbing the winding staircase to the lounge. “The MSG uses a magnetic field to deflect the solar winds, protecting the atmosphere. It should be finished by now and undergoing stress-testing—”
He halted on the top step so fast Viktor bumped into him. The shield generator, which should have been bright with activity, stood dark, almost invisible in the blackness of space. Parts of the massive device had been cannibalized.
Cassandra's War: A Sci-Fi Corporate Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga Book 2) Page 5
