by John Ringo
Later, Tommy could never precisely describe the sequence of moves in that cramped, desperate fight. At least, he never told it the same way twice. All he was really sure of was that by the time Papa O’Neal came through the door to find him sitting beside Jay’s body, catching his breath, his groin was on fire with pain and Jay was missing an eye, had two broken fingers, a broken neck, and was suffering from a severe and permanent case of dead.
“Did you send it through to Earth yet?” the older man asked matter-of-factly, stepping over the corpse to get to the communications equipment.
“No, not yet.” Tommy shook his head, getting up and easing gingerly into a chair.
O’Neal harrumphed and tapped at the keys for a few moments, encrypting the data and sending it through a roundabout system of radio relays that sent it out to Earth as a three times repeated squeal of noise embedded in a routinely intercepted voice signal.
“What do we do with him?” Tommy nodded at the body.
“Put him in the cargo hold. It’s nice and cold in there. He’ll keep.” He rummaged through a shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch. “Never waste a perfectly good corpse if you can avoid it. You never know when you might need one.”
“What about Cally?”
“You obviously didn’t see the end of the message. Warm up the engines just in case, but…” His face was bleak as he inserted a plug in his cheek and repocketed the pouch.
Tommy picked his AID back up and had it display the file so he could read it, this time thoroughly, down to the codes at the bottom that meant, in the judgment of her PDA, that capture of the agent was imminent, rescue or escape unlikely, presume any future transmissions compromised.
“Hey, buckley’s always pessimistic, right?” he said.
Springfield, Tuesday, June 18, 19:55
Given the Bane Sidhe’s experience of thousands of years of the Darhel playing hell with their communications security for any form of electromechanical data transmission, face-to-face meetings were regarded the most relatively secure and safe means of passing information the organization had, and was mandated as a major part of SOP. It had only taken a few catastrophic losses from the ranks of the Cybers in the early days of cooperation to convince them of the wisdom of the policy. One consequence of the policy was that in addition to specific high-impact ops, teams like Hector and Isaac were routinely rotated through information gathering assignments that involved traveling an assigned circuit and picking up physical reports from agents in place.
While it was generally the best use of limited resources, where practical, to split the team and send each agent on a segment of the route, effective coordination of efforts required periodic face-to-face meetings during the field cycle. Good intelligence had an unfortunate tendency to become stale quickly. The meeting allowed one team member to collect the take of the entire team and pass it upstream to a base courier before returning to his own circuit.
Levon liked the Wexford. Not so much this particular pub as cheap little dives that attracted a such a mixed bag of people that as long as you didn’t get loud or dance on the tables, nobody looked at you twice. They never used a particular place for a field face-to-face more than three times in ten years if they could help it. This was the Wexford’s second time for that dubious honor.
Automatically, he scanned the bar with his eyes as he came in, taking a quick visual overview and mentally cataloging what he’d seen as he picked an empty table against the wall and sat in a seat that gave him a good easy view of the door. A man and woman at the bar, looks like he’s trying to pick her up and possibly succeeding. A couple of gentlemen in a booth, very fit, but also obviously interested in each other. A man drinking alone at a table by the window, staring out at the street. A man and woman in the back booth, holding hands across the table somewhat furtively. Path past the kitchen to the back exit was clear.
A determinedly cheerful waitress came over and he ordered a pitcher of hard cider and a cheeseburger. Okay, so it was junk food. At least it didn’t have any corn or soybeans in it.
Barry got there before the cider did, so he was able get his food ordered and pour himself a cold pint, using the cover of looking through the menu to pass a cube out onto the table, blocked from prying eyes by the various items on the table. Levon lit a cigarette, palming the cube while adjusting the ashtray. He wasn’t, personally, all that fond of the taste of the things, it just made such a damned good cover for moving your hands around.
Sam came in almost on Barry’s heels, a short, gently rounded girl with mouse brown hair curling around her ears. He felt her cube drop in his jacket pocket as she leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek before walking back around to sit by Barry.
George, predictably, was late. You could set a clock by his son-in-law. When you saw him walk through the door, it was invariably twenty minutes after he’d been supposed to be there. He swore he didn’t do it on purpose, and he could always spin you a yarn about whatever it was that had delayed him. The only time he was on time was when he had to make a hit or coordination was absolutely mission critical — then he was there on the dot. His wife liked to tease him about it. Personally, Levon thought he just got so caught up in his cover role that sometimes he acted like the teenager he was supposed to be.
The first sign he had that something was wrong was when everybody but the waitress and bartender started moving at once. He barely had time to dump the cubes in his cider before one of them was on him, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to jab something into his thigh. He tried to get his pistol in play from under his shirt, but the man knocked it from his hand. Barry and Sam each had their first man on the floor by the time he recovered his balance enough to snap the neck of his. And he doubted he would have taken him down that soon if the man hadn’t hesitated, obviously expecting whatever he’d injected to have an immediate effect. The ring of shots told him that at least one of his people had gotten a pistol into play, but the dead man’s ten seconds worked against them, the shots ending after the first two.
As he traded blows with the woman from the back booth, he had an instant to reflect that whatever was in the needle must have been one of the things his nannites were programmed to sweep out immediately, thank God. This girl was pretty good, but she lacked the strength and power of one of the Bane Sidhe’s upgraded female agents. After years against agents in the gym, and men in the field, it was easy to forget how low on upper body strength unmodified women were.
The two gay guys joining in against him made it a real fight, and as he saw and heard the uniformed Fleet Strike troops pouring through the front and back doors, the bar staff having wisely disappeared behind the bar, he knew that this wasn’t one they were going to get out of. Fighting that many without maneuvering room it was impossible to block everything. He saw the fist coming towards his head for just a second. Oh, fuck…
* * *
Afterwards, Bobby was real proud of his agents. They’d patiently waited until all three of the targets — the fourth one hadn’t shown — were clear of the building before taking their shots. The first two were in near unison. The third had taken a couple of seconds too long and as a result needed three shots to put his target down.
Fortunately, his backup men were good enough to use their own rifles to confuse the Fleet Strike pukes about the direction of incoming fire long enough to cover their withdrawal.
The only bad thing was that the no show kept the mission from being a complete success. Some things just couldn’t be helped.
* * *
Cheryl Martin barely restrained herself from throwing her PDA to the floor of the cab and stomping on it. Bare seconds after the shots started, the damned thing had beeped at her.
“Yes?” she snapped.
“Pinwheel. Pinwheel. Repeat, pinwheel.” It had that slight colorless quality she associated with synthesized voices.
“Kevin, is there something I can kill around here?” she said.
“Cheryl, I’m so sor — wait!
” He spun the cab up on the sidewalk, blocking the forward progress of a short, brown-haired man. “Grab him. Gently.”
The rear driver’s side door of the cab swung open and the man stopped in the middle of what had been a smooth, rapid motion, swaying a bit as he recovered his balance from suddenly aborting whatever he’d been going to do.
“Cheryl?” he croaked.
“No time, get in. Trade codes on the way.” She yanked him, unresisting, into the back of the cab, which didn’t even wait for the door to finish closing before backing up and finishing its U-turn, speeding off into the night.
“Pumpernickel. It all went to hell. We think you’re the only one that got out. Good to see you, son, but why the hell weren’t you in there?” She fidgeted with her purse, coming up with a pack of tissues she knew she was going to need any minute now.
“The rest of my team?”
“Not good. Come on, George, answer her.” Kevin met his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I was… I was late.” His shoulders slumped.
“And you were walking because?” the other man prompted.
“I… I… ah, hell, I got stuck behind the second big fucking wreck I ran into on the way here just a mile up the road, and it was so screwed up I figured I’d get here faster on foot. If I’d been there…” He trailed off numbly.
“It wouldn’t have helped,” Cheryl mumbled.
“You don’t know that.” His voice was bitter.
“Yeah, we do. Unfortunately.” The cab drove on.
Titan Base, Tuesday, June 18, 20:00
The Tir was awakened out of a sound sleep by the melodious chiming of his AID. It took the usual three measured breaths to fight down the urge to kill something. The AID, out of long experience, heard and correctly interpreted the change in the pace of his breathing, waiting patiently until its master was more controlled.
“Intercept of local transmissions indicates the live capture of an enemy agent. Agent is in the custody of Fleet Strike personnel, currently in transit to the Detention Facility Dome for processing and interrogation,” it said.
“Get me the Human Minister of Defense. Date a resolution of a Council of Ministers’ vote from now appointing me an authorized observer for the Council based on the commercial ramifications of the espionage. Cite appropriate precedents and get the signoffs of the other Ministers’ AIDs, of course. Forward the resolution to the Human Minister.” His ears pricked in sudden alertness, whiskers twitching in barely leashed excitement.
“Resolution transmitted. Stand by for the human Li.” The cool, melodic voice combined with his breathing exercise to restore him to his usual full control.
“Cancel that personal contact. Instruct him to pass the relevant orders down the line. Have his AID ensure that it is done immediately. Monitor the passage of orders and inform me when they get down to the guards at the detention center.” Avoiding personal contact was better in this case. The more intelligent and competent the human underling, the more nervous they tended to be as recipients of direct, personal Darhel attention. Normally, this was a plus, but at the moment he needed efficiency more than intimidation.
He motioned with one hand for his body servants to attend him. He hated going out late at night, but it couldn’t be helped. They had his sleeping robe halfway over his head when the AID chimed again.
“Traffic analysis data, Your Tir.”
“Report.” At least he was already awake.
“Our human service providers report the unfortunate demise of three hostile agents. Traffic records a transmission immediately prior to the capture of local enemy agent by Fleet Strike personnel. Area of transmission was department that initially provided the intercepted data revealing these specific enemy agents. Projected transmission and processing times suggest this leak as the probable cause of the fourth identified hostile agent failing to meet as scheduled with our human service providers,” it said.
“One in the hand here, for one out of reach there. A favorable trade.” He stalled the Indowy with the waking robe with a brief gesture, motioning for another to bring a plate of food. After it left, he allowed the first to resume robing him. He would need to eat before transit to the Detention Center. He would also have his traveling attendant bring stimulants. It was likely to be a long night.
Chicago, Tuesday, June 18, 20:25
AIDs were both a blessing and curse. Peter Vanderberg’s wife tended to be a bit jealous of Jenny. Oh, she hadn’t been at first, but a wife could only hear a female voice reminding her husband of personal appointments, time to take his medicine, errands to run, interrupting casually at even the most intimate moments for just so long before beginning to get just a bit ticked off. The crowning indignity was, of course, Peter knew, her having to watch his own growing emotional attachment to Jenny. Explaining that it was a normal design feature for greater efficiency did not help.
Ultimately, a separation had been his only recourse. He hadn’t been willing to lose his wife, and he’d finally seen that the only way to preserve his marriage had been to ensure that his wife virtually never had to endure contact with Jenny. Strangely, although his AID had resented the exclusion from certain portions of his life and had gotten quite snippy at first, ultimately she had seemed happier, too. But an AID couldn’t be jealous of the other woman, could it?
Anyway, the compromise meant that instead of his AID chiming in whenever a message came in, she very lightly vibrated if the message was urgent, so he could excuse himself, and otherwise he checked in once an hour or so. And usually he followed up immediately if she indicated he had an urgent message. Tonight, it being Jane’s birthday, he had known better and had had to wait a few minutes before excusing himself. When Jenny buzzed him a second time, he figured it must be pretty important. He tactfully excused himself for the restroom. Jane’s eyes narrowed a bit as he left. He doubted she was fooled.
“Jenny, I hope this message really is urgent. Jane’s birthday is very important to me.” Okay, not getting Jane pissed at me by her thinking I’ve slighted her birthday is important to me. Same difference. I was hoping to get laid tonight, not be in the doghouse.
“I’m sorry, Peter. You have two urgent messages. Morrison unfortunately has to report failure. They had them, but snipers on the roof killed the prisoners before they could be fully secured. Colonel Tartaglia on behalf of General Stewart reports a success, however. They have captured an enemy agent alive and transported her to the Detention Center on Titan Base for interrogation. Oh, third message. Defense Minister Li advises you and your subordinates that a Darhel delegation under the leadership of the Minister of Commerce and Trade, the Tir Dol Ron, will be observing the interrogation. Your orders are to ensure that your people give the Tir’s delegation every assistance,” it said.
“That’s weird.” Um… better think about that in private. “Jenny, relay the orders to General Stewart and Colonel Tartaglia. Uh… Jenny, does the message say why it was sent by the Colonel and what happened to General Beed?”
“General Beed is deceased, at the hands of the prisoner, one Captain Sinda Makepeace, his secretary. Or a Jane Doe masquerading as a Fleet Strike captain, although Fleet Strike biometric procedures make that impossible, of course. General Stewart was injured in the conflict and is currently unconscious and undergoing medical treatment. Full recovery is anticipated.”
“Thanks, Jenny. Again, please hold any messages unless they are urgent.” Or I may not get to sleep in my own bed tonight.
“Certainly, Peter. I understand,” it cooed softly.
Under a cornfield in Indiana, Tuesday, June 18, 20:30
The Indowy Aelool took a small sip of his water and returned to a socially acceptable state of quiet contemplation. Normally, in Nathan O’Reilly’s office he tried to interact a bit more in the human custom of little talk. It seemed to put his friend at ease.
Given the present situation and the continuing repercussions of the Cally O’Neal debacle, and the presence of the Indowy Roolnai,
more traditionally decorous behavior was the better political move.
Roolnai had left his water untouched, disdaining to interrupt his contemplation, perhaps as a subtle rebuke to Aelool. Perhaps just to control personal nervousness. It was, after all, a tense situation they were gathered to monitor.
It was not turning out to be a good night for the Bane Sidhe.
Roolnai’s AID chirped a rapid rush of Indowy. Roolnai raised his head and turned to O’Reilly.
“It is confirmed that the Human Cally O’Neal has been captured alive. It is confirmed that none of Team Hector was taken alive, neither due to our intervention nor their competence, but instead due to the Darhel’s unwillingness to let Fleet Strike have those live agents. We presume the reason is that there are no Darhel currently on Earth to monitor or control the interrogations. Such is not the case on Titan. The Tir Dol Ron will preside there. We are also extremely fortunate that the perhaps precipitous action to retrieve one agent from Team Hector was adequately covered by the O’Neal transmission. Our information sources have not been compromised.” As Roolnai spoke, Aelool hoped that O’Reilly was not enough of an adept at their language to catch the very subtle patronization in the tone. He was not confident in that hope. There was a slight glint in O’Reilly’s eye that often accompanied human perceptions of subtleties.
“Thomas, please display a hologram of the military detention facility on Titan Base. Analyze defenses for possible weaknesses,” he instructed his AID.
“Visual, or structural image?” it asked.
“Structural please,” he said.
“Excuse me, Base Commander O’Reilly, but might I ask the purpose of this exercise?” Roolnai’s voice was cool.
“To evaluate the possibilities for an extraction, of course,” he replied absently, obviously already absorbed in contemplating the image.
