Siege Line

by Myke Cole

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I—”

  “Don’t,” Cort cut him off. “It’s the job. That’s all it is.”

  Schweitzer thought of mentioning that his own brother had been a SEAL, gunned down on an op. Schweitzer had even lost his own life to his profession. But the look in Reeves’ eyes stilled his tongue. Reeves kept up the stare until Schweitzer nodded and turned away.

  “What the fuck are you?” Sharon asked, her grief nearly drowned in barely concealed rage.

  “One of the good guys.”

  “What the hell makes you different from those things we—”

  “Secure that,” Reeves barked. “He’s one of the good guys. Getting in his shit isn’t going to bring anyone back to life.”

  Sharon snapped her eyes forward and gritted her teeth. Schweitzer opened his mouth to say something and thought better of it. He could only make things worse.

  A National Guard Black Hawk helicopter made loops of the site, guns conspicuously visible through the open bay doors. In the few minutes since it had arrived, Schweitzer had heard it warn off at least two news helicopters. Schweitzer could hear more rotors beating in the distance, too fast and carrying too much weight to be civilian news helos. Probably more military airframes to make sure the cordon covered the air as well as the ground.

  They found Ghaznavi and Hodges in the command trailer, a white double-wide with the CDC logo painted on the side. It was as good a comms center as Schweitzer had ever seen. Banks of computers were staffed with watchstanders, foreheads creased in concentration and faces slick and white in the glow of the monitors. One wall of the trailer was entirely covered with a bank of screens, each showing a different news channel, and a computer plotter overlaid with the positions of SAD assets, civilian homes, facilities of public interest—churches, schools, water and power stations.

  Ghaznavi and Hodges had their eyes glued to a newscast. A plastic-looking woman was talking in worried tones about a sudden outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease that had already claimed two lives. Hodges sighed in apparent relief. “Guess all those gunshots didn’t sink us after all.”

  “Jury’s still out on that,” Ghaznavi said. “It’s early days.”

  “Sorry, boss,” Reeves said.

  She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “Sorry for what?”

  “Everything got fucked up.”

  “The macho-operator act curries exactly zero favor with me, Reeves. You know that. You went in blind. You got jumped by an enemy with supernatural ability. You were surrounded and pinned down and it all unfolded before I could get the QRF into position. You and the rest of your team have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Reeves said. “Still, it’s my responsibility—”

  “It’s now your responsibility to stay frosty and be ready to get back in there on a moment’s notice. Later, it’ll be your responsibility to help me through the grieving process. We lost good people today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Reeves looked at his feet.

  Schweitzer thought of the cordon outside and felt some satisfaction. They had lost operators, yes, but in the space of a few short days, he’d gone from fleeing the Cell to surrounding it. Now who’s on the run?

  “All right, cordon’s up,” Ghaznavi said. “Press seems to be buying what we’re selling for now. Force Protection is absolutely swearing to me that the battlespace is completely clear of civilians. Looks like we have this contained.”

  “Just give us a few hours to regroup and give me another team, a bigger one,” Reeves said. “Let me get back in there, ma’am. I can—”

  “Absolutely not,” Ghaznavi cut him off. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m letting you go back in there blind.” For the first time since Schweitzer had met her, Ghaznavi looked shaken. “I rushed it,” she whispered, eyes still on the screens. “I got excited and I rushed it. I haven’t done that since I was in my twenties.”

  “It’s understandable, Jala,” Hodges said. “It’s not every day you come face to face with stuff like . . . this.” He gestured at Schweitzer.

  “Thanks,” Schweitzer said.

  “Still on me,” Ghaznavi said. “I’m not losing any more people. We keep it contained and we don’t send another team in until—”

  “Until what?” Reeves asked.

  “Until we know what we’re going up against. Until my Measures and Signals people can get some kind of idea of the layout of the structure. We can use infrared thermography to give us some kind of a map, and I need to figure out a way to understand how big the garrison is.”

  “Respectfully, ma’am, what’s the plan? How are we going to do that?” Reeves asked.

  “I don’t know, okay?” Ghaznavi answered. “I just know that I’m not sending you back down there and that’s final. Now, everybody out of here except for Schweitzer.”

  “Ma’am, I—” Reeves began.

  “Did I stutter?” Ghaznavi asked him. There was a pause as they locked eyes, and finally Reeves dipped his head. “Aye aye, ma’am.” He shuffled back out of the trailer, the rest of the team behind him. Cort looked sidelong at Schweitzer, but Schweitzer ignored him. Being the only undead guy around had some privileges.

  No sooner had they left than one of the watchstanders held out a phone. “Ma’am. It’s the air boss.”

  Ghaznavi rolled her eyes. “Is it a fucking emergency?”

  The watchstander wasn’t cowed. “He says you’re going to want to talk to him.”

  “Excuse me,” Ghaznavi said to Hodges, picked up the receiver. “This better be good.”

  The color drained from her face before Schweitzer could dial his hearing in to eavesdrop on the conversation. Ghaznavi listened for another moment before asking, “You’re sure?

  “Okay. Keep me posted.” She handed the receiver back to the watchstander. “I need to sit down.” She slumped into a chair, put her head in her hands.

  “What is it?” Hodges asked.

  “West access point says they saw a transport helo westbound before we closed the air cordon. Said it looked like an old Russian Hind, only bigger.”

  “Does SAD fly old Russian Hinds?” Hodges asked.

  Ghaznavi shook her head.

  “Fuck,” Hodges said. “Do we know which way it went?”

  “Don, I have the best air boss in the business. If that helo can be found and intercepted, he will find and intercept it.”

  “Will he be able to find and intercept it?” Hodges voice had taken on a panicked warble.

  “No,” Schweitzer answered for her. “Sky’s a big place.”

  “Fuck,” Hodges whispered. “Word of this reaches the President, and who knows what the fuck he’ll do? We’re lucky it’s stayed quiet thus far.”

  “It might be time to bring the President in on this,” Ghaznavi said.

  Hodges’ mouth gaped. “What? Are you kidding me? Why would you do that?”

  “Don’t you remember what we learned down on the farm? Never be the senior person with a secret,” Ghaznavi said.

  “You run SAD, Jala.” Hodges’ voice was an even timbre between anger and fear. “You keep secrets for a living.”

  “You’re right,” she said, raising her voice. “I do keep secrets for a living, and that means I know that when you can’t keep a secret any longer, you’d best be the one to blow the whistle.”

  “Jala,” Hodges began.

  “Reeves is the best,” Ghaznavi spoke over him. “I know his record before he got out of JSOC, and he has been my man on the ground for pretty much every mission I’ve personally overseen since I took over. He accomplishes the mission, always. Nothing stops him. And he just got his ass handed to him, Don. He got kicked around like a schoolkid. And they squirted. They got out. There is a helo somewhere out there carrying god knows what and headed god knows where.”

>   “That’s not a reason to go telling tales out of school,” Hodges said.

  “Don, I am telling you that after what I just saw, I am not convinced that we’re going to be able to keep this contained. We need to be planning for the possibility that the bad guys are going to break out of there.”

  “Jala, I don’t think you understand what’ll happen if you invite executive scrutiny,” Hodges said.

  “You’re right, I don’t. But I do have an idea of what’ll happen if I don’t invite executive scrutiny and he finds out anyway,” Ghaznavi said. “It’s an option we have to consider.”

  “Damn it,” Hodges said, punching his fist into his palm, pacing.

  “This is bigger than my job or yours, Don. We have to do this one right.” Ghaznavi’s voice was placating but flinty enough for Schweitzer to understand that she would go to the mat on this issue.

  Hodges stood, hands on his hips, and glared at her. Schweitzer felt the tension mount as the time stretched out.

  “What’s in the Yukon?” Schweitzer asked.

  Whatever Hodges and Ghaznavi had expected him to say, that wasn’t it. “What?” Hodges asked.

  “You guys look at the plotter in that helo we stole?” Schweitzer asked. “It had a waypoint set for the Great Slave Lake. Isn’t that in the Yukon?”

  “That’s the Northwest Territories,” Hodges said. “It was in the helo plotter?”

  Schweitzer nodded. “Someone had the route set. Wanted to save time on flight checks, I guess. Why would they set a waypoint there?”

  “I have no idea,” Hodges said.

  “Could be a red herring,” Ghaznavi said.

  “I don’t think so,” Schweitzer said. “They were waiting for us. They were ready. They knew they had overwhelming force. They weren’t expecting us to make it out. They sure as hell weren’t expecting us to steal a helo.”

  “Get the team back in here,” Ghaznavi said.

  Schweitzer nodded and opened the door. He turned back to Hodges and Ghaznavi, smiling as much as his rigid face would permit. The team stood clustered around the trailer’s small metal staircase, doing their best to look as if they hadn’t been trying to listen in.

  “She wants you to come back in,” Schweitzer said.

  Reeves had the decency to look ashamed as he led the team back inside. “You knew we were out there?”

  “The whole time,” Schweitzer said. “Heard your heartbeats.”

  “Schweitzer said there was a waypoint in the helo you stole,” Hodges said. “Heading to the Northwest Territories. Anybody catch that?”

  The team looked shamefaced again. “I was kind of busy flying the bird,” Sharon said.

  “You sure?” Reeves asked Schweitzer.

  “Positive.”

  “So, they were going to the ass end of Canada,” Reeves said.

  “Why the fuck would they be heading to Canada?” Cort asked.

  “Cache? Citadel?” Sharon asked.

  “Guesswork,” Ghaznavi answered. “We can leave it to the analysts. In the meantime, we’ll get answers directly from the source.”

  “What source?” Schweitzer asked.

  “Northwest Territories are in Canada, right? We ask the Canadians.” She walked to a conference-call phone squatting between two the computers. “Any reason I shouldn’t do this, Don?”

  Hodges shook his head.

  “Okay,” Ghaznavi said, and hit a button.

  “Watch,” a voice answered.

  “Jake, it’s Jala again. Doesn’t anyone else answer the phone over there?”

  “What can I say, ma’am? I love my job.”

  “Can you put me through to the CSIS watch floor?”

  “I can indeed.” There was a click and another voice answered. Schweitzer heard the rising vowel shift of a Canadian accent. “Canada, how can I help you?”

  “This is Jala Ghaznavi of SAD. I need to speak with General MacDonald.”

  “Thanks for calling, ma’am. General MacDonald isn’t available.”

  “If he’s asleep, I need you to wake him up. This is an emergency.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Can you tell me what this is regarding?”

  “It’s under . . . What the fuck’s the code?” She looked down at the table, and a watchstander scribbled something on a sticky note, sliding it into her field of vision. “Crystal,” Ghaznavi said. “It’s about a possible Crystal evolution in the Northwest Territories.”

  Schweitzer could hear the breathing on the other end of the phone quicken. Keys tapped. “I just want to confirm here, ma’am. You want to speak to General MacDonald regarding a Crystal occurrence in the Northwest Territories.”

  “Near the Great Slave Lake,” Schweitzer added, drawing a dagger glance from Ghaznavi.

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “Hold, please.” Another click. Silence.

  “They’re probably looking up the code word themselves,” Hodges said.

  “No,” Schweitzer said. “Her heart rate increased. I could hear it. She knew what it meant.”

  A moment later, the phone clicked again. The voice that answered had a slight French accent. “Joint Task Force. Desmarais.”

  “Des . . . Colonel Desmarais?” Ghaznavi asked.

  “Yes, this is Director Ghaznavi?”

  “Please, call me Jala. I think there’s been a mistake. I was trying to reach General . . .”

  “No mistake, Jala,” Desmarais said. “I just need to confirm. You have evidence of a Crystal evolution near the Great Slave Lake? Because if you do, I’m about to get on a helicopter to wherever you are.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Okay,” Desmarais said. “Where are you? My aide is telling me you’re not in your office.”

  If Colonel Desmarais’ knowledge of her comings and goings rattled her, Ghaznavi didn’t show it. She glanced up at Hodges, who nodded. “I’m in Colchester.”

  “England?”

  “Virginia.”

  That stopped Desmarais in his tracks for a moment. “Okay, no helicopter. I guess I’ll drive. Can you send an address to my aide?”

  “No, I need this quiet. Go to my watch floor; I’ll have a duty driver bring you in.”

  “Okay. I’m heading over there now.”

  “Keep it quiet,” Ghaznavi said.

  Desmarais snorted. “Quiet is what we do. See you in an hour or so.”

  • • •

  Desmarais hadn’t been kidding about keeping quiet. When he stepped out of the Centers for Disease Control van Ghaznavi had sent for him, Schweitzer was amazed. Most spies and Special Ops types made only a perfunctory effort at disguise, like the careless woodsman look that Reeves sported. That veneer relied on the casual observer being too busy or too unconcerned to spot the obvious lean muscle and hard eyes, not to mention the tactical applications of the brim that shaded the shooter’s eye from the sun, the extra pockets on the cargo pants for magazines, the hiking boots that could see you through a forced march over broken terrain.

  Desmarais had gone full CIA, right down to the fake belly under his stained sweatshirt and the fake butt filling out his dad jeans. Schweitzer could smell the makeup adhesive that held a scattering of beard to his clean-shaven face, could see the lift under his left shoe, forcing him to walk with a slight limp.

  A young woman came behind him. Her costume was more perfunctory but still convincing, a white lab coat and fluorescent orange pelican case marked MEDICINS SANS FRONTIERS.

  Schweitzer slumped in his folding chair, shrugging the blanket over his shoulders, making sure the saw arm was concealed. The hood drooped over his brow, keeping him well covered. The weave of the fabric was tight but not so tight that Schweitzer’s magically augmented vision couldn’t make the colonel out as he strode into the room, extending his hand to Ghazn
avi. “Director, thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

  She smiled. “I told you to call me Jala; please sit down. Have you met Senator Don Hodges?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Colonel Desmarais said, “but your reputation precedes you, sir.”

  Hodges smiled. “Oh, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “This is my aide, Nicole. She’s read on,” Colonel Desmarais said.

  “Read on to what?” Hodges asked.

  Desmarais smiled. “I have to say I wasn’t expecting a Senator to be here. It’s . . . unusual.”

  “I have a personal interest in this particular evolution,” Hodges said.

  Desmarais looked around, giving Schweitzer a good look at his eyes. They hit the corners, probing for danger areas. When he looked at the watchstanders, at Ghaznavi and Hodges, he looked at their hands, not their faces. He was an operator, or had at least been trained as one; that much was obvious. His eyes settled on Schweitzer and lingered for a moment. Schweitzer made sure to lift and lower his chest slightly, mimicking breathing. “And would you mind telling me what this evolution is, exactly?” Desmarais asked. “An outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease that’s got you quarantining an office park an hour’s drive from your office? That’s also . . . unusual.”

  “Colonel.” Ghaznavi tapped the table. “I appreciate your curiosity, but you weren’t even the guy I called, so you’ll forgive me if I ask you to lay your cards on the table first.”

  Desmarais smiled. “Jala, I’m not Israel or Russia here. I’m Canada. We’re practically the same country.”

  “There’s no such thing as a friendly service,” she said, “even among allies. Especially among allies.”

  Desmarais’ smile faded into a pensive look. “Can you at least tell me why you think there’s an arcane development near the Great Slave Lake?”