by Linda Nagata
He’s sitting with hunched shoulders, but when he notices my gaze, he reacts. “You’ve changed, Captain Shelley. I don’t deny your heroism and that you’ve saved tens of thousands of lives, but that does not give you the right to dictate to others—”
“Mr. Helms,” Abajian interrupts in a tired voice. “No one is innocent in this operation, and we have another mission to discuss.”
My skullnet icon winks on, its appearance reflecting the ignition of a program in my head, one that tells me, Listen. Because this matters. This is the reason for tonight’s raid. It’s the reason Abajian was allowed to come here.
I hear a catch in Logan’s breath. We look at each other. I see my own ready state reflected in his eyes. “You operating?” he asks, mouthing the words.
I nod a subtle yes.
This mission Abajian has come to discuss—it’s our mission. Or the Red wants us to believe that anyway.
Kanoa doesn’t feel it. He’s looking puzzled. Abajian has no idea at all as he proceeds to explain why he’s come to me.
“My analysts have examined your records, your conduct, Shelley. They have identified in you something of a messiah complex, but they assure me that despite this, you are quite sane, and that you continue to be both a bold and intelligent officer. All of these characteristics recommend you as the ideal candidate for the mission in question.”
A messiah complex? I look to Kanoa for an explanation, but he won’t meet my gaze.
“This mission would involve you,” Abajian continues, “and at most two others. You would not be operating as a squad. You would not be operating as a military unit. You would not be anonymous.”
“What does that leave? Is this a PR deal?”
This induces a snort of amusement. “No, it’s not a PR deal. I need you on a field team tasked with locating a missile launcher that may be next in line to target LEO.”
So. Kanoa warned we’d be heading out soon. Maybe he was operating too.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified information, not for dissemination,” Abajian says. His eyes narrow in an imitation of an ironic smile because it’s a joke. Everything I’ve been involved with over the last year and a half is designated classified, legitimately or not.
That’s as far as the joke goes.
“There are at least three missile launchers still at large in the hands of rogue operators associated with the Shahin Council. We know where two are housed. Allied powers are preparing operations against them. We know less about the third launch platform. Though we feel certain about the general region where it’s located, we need an operative who can go in, confirm its presence, and communicate its precise location. It has been suggested that you are the person best suited to do that, Captain Shelley.”
“Suggested by who?”
“A consultant.”
FaceValue doesn’t flag a lie, but none of this seems likely to me. My existence isn’t entirely unknown, but that doesn’t mean my name shows up on anyone’s roster of available personnel. I trade a look with Logan. The suspicion in his eyes reflects my own.
“Slide it back, Shelley,” Kanoa warns. “There is a reason your name was put forward.”
“What reason?” Logan wants to know. “If this is an official mission, it can be carried out by official troops, legitimate special forces operations, or CIA operatives.”
“No, we’re the best ones for it,” I say, “because they expect this mission to fail. And when we don’t come home, who’s going to notice we were even gone?”
“You are oversimplifying, Captain.” Abajian glares across the length of the table. “Time is of the essence, and if we expected you to fail, I would not waste time recruiting you. This mission has highest priority. Highest. You will receive all the support we can provide.
“That said, there are political considerations. The election that followed Coma Day shook up Congress and brought in a large contingent of non-interventionists who want to abandon all American military action abroad. They’ve left us operating under a severely weakened Authorization for Use of Military Force. We will do what we need to do to prevent another orbital strike, legal restrictions be damned. But it’s essential that we obtain solid intelligence on the location of the missile launcher before we act. We cannot afford a mistake. If we don’t get this right the first time out, an impeachment hearing will be called against the president. Monteiro is vulnerable—an unelected president with no political base, and with many potential enemies.” He raises an eyebrow. “I trust you don’t count yourself among those enemies, Captain Shelley?”
“No sir, I do not.”
Before Susan Monteiro was appointed to replace the sitting vice-president, she was Colonel Monteiro, who presided as the judge over the court-martial of the Apocalypse Squad. When the president resigned, she became his handpicked successor. She has tried hard to impose the rule of law instead of the rule of money over the country, and I admire her for that.
Abajian gives a short nod and continues:
“We believe the missile launcher has been transported in pieces to its current location—probably a UGF, an underground facility—where it’s been reassembled, ready to be rolled out when the stars align.” Another joke. He cracks a half smile. “Once you pinpoint for us the location of this facility and confirm the presence of the launch platform, we will deliver a cruise missile strike to permanently close the facility’s doors.”
“That’s all?” Logan asks. “You just want confirmation of the location?”
“And of the presence of the missile launcher.”
“It’s hard to believe the Red doesn’t already have that information,” Logan says.
“Do you know something I don’t, Lieutenant? Is the Red behind this mission?”
“Why else would you be here, sir?”
Cory speaks up in a soft, uncertain voice. “Lieutenant Logan, you can’t assume this is the Red’s mission.”
I answer for my lieutenant: “It’s not an assumption.” Then I turn to Abajian. “Colonel, I want to know how this target can remain unknown. An underground facility big enough to hide a missile launcher must have attracted notice when it was under construction. There’s got to be a history somewhere.”
Abajian responds with admirable patience. “Shelley, Intelligence is searching for that history, for any kind of data, but we are talking about a region where secret projects have been undertaken for the better part of a century. A large, rugged, remote region. Given time, we might be able to find it, but we don’t have that time. This mission needs to go tonight.”
“That’s a tight schedule.”
“But we could do it,” Logan says.
My messiah complex must be in remission, because doubt is pushing out my initial programmed enthusiasm. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”
Abajian complies. “A terrorist cell codenamed Northern Sword is known to be affiliated with the Shahin Council. Northern Sword operates within the target region and we believe they are in control of a BXL21 road-mobile missile launcher.
“Mission ‘Arid Crossroad’ has been adapted from a plan already under development. It calls for you to work with a civilian asset who will put you in contact with key elements of Northern Sword. Our analysts have modeled the personalities of those elements and they believe that you have a good chance to gain access to their facility—but there is an issue of timing. We cannot hold off the strike indefinitely. The political situation in the host country is unstable and we will be operating there without permission. We prefer to act only after we receive your confirmation that the launch platform is present, but we will act in any case at the slightest sign of hostile intent.”
Logan follows the subtext as easily as I do. “So, the plan is to track us to the facility, and if we’re still there when you start shooting, oh well?”
“It gets better,” I say. “If things go south, no one will be able to prove we are legitimate US soldiers operating under orders, because we’re not.”
Abajian doesn’t
deny it. “You are correct, Captain Shelley. You will be presenting yourselves as private sector, minimizing risk to the president.”
I appreciate that he’s not lying to me, but I don’t like the setup.
I feel like we’re being set up.
Arid Crossroad is a rogue mission, ultra-dark, and there’s no guarantee Abajian is on our side. He might decide the best course is to track us to the facility and take his shot as soon as we enter. Waiting longer, waiting for us to get out with confirmation of the presence of the missile launcher, is a risk he might decide not to take. Maybe he already has decided.
Kanoa watches me. I feel like he’s reading my mind.
“This is not how we operate,” I tell him.
He nods. “The element of trust is missing.” Leaning back in his chair, he says to Abajian, “Let’s get it all out front. Bring her in.”
A spike of fear slams through me. I turn toward the door, certain it will be Delphi walking in. Not here, I think. Not like this.
The door opens—and I breathe again. It isn’t Delphi. It’s an older woman, fiftysomething; I should know her, but my shocked brain doesn’t come up with a name right away. My overlay is more efficient. It consults the onboard encyclopedia and tags her after just a couple of seconds: Yana Semakova. She is dressed in a finely tailored blazer and brown pants. There is only a little makeup on her face. Her brown hair is short, styled in a simple perm.
She looks straight at me and without waiting for a formal introduction, she says, “We can be allies, Captain Shelley. We have a shared interest. I suggested you for this mission, and if you are willing to do this, I will prepare the way. They already know your name. They know you killed my father and stole his money. They respect that—and they will let you in.”
Abajian holds up his hand. He doesn’t want her to say more—not yet. “Will you consider the mission?” he asks me.
I look at Semakova, shake my head, and say, “No.”
It’s gratifying, seeing the surprise, the consternation on their faces. They thought they had me modeled with that messiah complex—but my fanaticism is strictly limited.
To my surprise, Cory is the first to argue. “You said the Red’s behind it!”
“I don’t care if the Red’s behind it. I don’t care if Ms. Semakova has a way in. This parses as a suicide mission, and that’s not going to work for us. I need to believe we have a real chance to get out.”
Abajian’s answer is both straightforward and grim. FaceValue confirms the sincerity of his words. “We are all allies here, Captain Shelley. Not enemies. This is not a suicide mission, but I won’t bullshit you. Given the nature of the enemy, this operation is extremely high-risk. But we will do everything we can to support your extraction. You are a creative officer. You have a knack for survival. This is your mission—if you are willing.”
I look at Logan. I might have a knack for survival, but I’ve led good soldiers to their deaths. “What are you thinking?”
He shrugs. “Never trust the Red. That’s what we always say. But if it gets behind us—”
“No,” Semakova interrupts. “Where you are going, there is no outside influence, no Red. You will be on your own.”
“We haven’t agreed to do it,” I remind her.
She turns her eyes briefly skyward. “I am not here on some little chance that you will agree. I have made a study of you since you visited my father. I have spoken with those who worked with you on that mission and before. And I say to you that this is only a dance of words. You will do it. The only one who pretends to doubt is you.”
• • • •
I don’t know if Logan has a messiah complex, but after more discussion, we agree together to do the mission. Abajian wants to limit it to the two of us. I want to take Escamilla.
“Broken ribs,” Logan reminds me.
“Fadul, then.”
“No women,” Abajian says. “Not where you’re going.”
“The army doesn’t restrict where women can fight.”
“You won’t be army,” he reminds me. “You’ll be private sector—and they’re a hell of a lot more conservative than we are.”
Semakova has taken a seat at the table. “This mission is not a political statement,” she says. “It is a slam.”
No women. So Roman is not an option. Kanoa’s back is too fragile for field duty, Dunahee has a broken shoulder, and Julian is still hospitalized, which leaves—
“Alex Tran?” Logan asks doubtfully.
Palehorse Keep was Tran’s first mission with us, but he proved himself.
“Bring him in. See if he’s willing.”
Tran arrives, his dark face drawn and worried. He takes a second to scan the room. I know what he’s doing. He’s counting up friends and enemies. He likes the odds. When his gaze lands on me, he mouths the words We on?
I give a slight sideways shake of my head.
Kanoa doesn’t miss this little drama. In an irritated voice, he says, “Sit down, Alex.”
Tran waits for my nod of approval, and then takes the seat at my right hand.
“We’re being offered a mission,” I tell him. “Just the three of us.”
“High risk,” Logan adds. “You in?”
To my surprise, Tran looks uncertain. His gaze shifts between me and Logan. He’s got FaceValue, but he still has to ask, “This is real? You’re not joking?”
“Of course we’re not joking,” Logan says.
That’s all Tran needs. He lights up with a smile. “Then hell, yes. I’m in.” He hooks a thumb in Cory’s direction. “Just tell me why Bilbo is sitting here, after he gave us up.”
“Mr. Cory Helms is consulting,” Kanoa says. “Now shut up and pay attention.”
Colonel Abajian explains the mission profile.
“Northern Sword is a small but financially sophisticated organization of anti-western activists eager to see American freedom and power erased from the world. They are ostensibly interested in installing a new government in central Asia, one with the usual draconian religious restrictions to be applied to everyone but themselves. A Russian citizen known as Maksim Abaza is their leader. It’s believed he’s a key figure in the planning and development of ‘Broken Sky’—what we in the West call the Kessler Syndrome. It’s his assertion that without satellite surveillance and communication, drone warfare becomes far more difficult to carry out successfully, requiring costlier face-to-face engagements—”
“He is right about that, at least,” Semakova interrupts.
Abajian scowls. “It’s not as simple as that, but it makes a solid sound bite.” He turns back to me. “Here’s the story. Maksim Abaza is imaginative and ruthless. That’s what’s allowed him to thrive. But he’s also arrogant and ambitious, eager to advance his own name by whatever means, and that’s where you come in. He’ll want to benefit from your celebrity. You, James Shelley, the Lion of Black Cross—a warrior as clever and ruthless as Abaza himself. You proved that when you took down Eduard Semak. You went dark after that conquest, but now you’re back and ready to strike out on your own in the business of war. The money you stole from Semak will let you develop an inventory of arms at a time when Northern Sword has armaments to sell and is in need of cash. The broker bringing the two of you together is Leonid Sergun—Ms. Semakova’s uncle. He is the individual who suggested this mission and he’s well known to Maksim Abaza.”
“Well known for what?” I ask, certain I won’t like the answer.
“Leonid is an arms broker,” Semakova says. “And for many years, he was my father’s ‘fixer.’ He did what needed doing. ‘Not on the side of the angels,’ as you are known to say, Mr. Shelley, but he is changed. He is not a young man anymore. Now he lights candles and kisses the icons and makes promises. He wants the angels and the saints on his side—and he will do what he must to buy their favor.”
“He’s afraid of death?”
“He’s afraid of Hell.”
Is it possible to make up for a lifetime of
murder and terror with acts of contrition in your last years? Fuck if I know, but if Sergun wants to bribe the angels by showing us the way into Northern Sword’s den, I won’t be the one lecturing him on too little, too late.
“Leonid Sergun has worked with us before,” Abajian adds. “He’s reliable. Now we need to get this operation launched. You’ve got twenty minutes to collect your gear. Weapons are acceptable, but leave your rigs behind. Do you have civilian clothing suitable for outdoor use in cold weather?”
The three of us share a suspicious look before I answer. “No, sir.”
“Noted. Suitable clothing will be provided en route, along with the Arid Crossroad mission plan.”
He starts to stand up, but I have one more question. “Colonel Abajian, in the hypothetical case that we see an opportunity to destroy the missile launcher ourselves, are we authorized to take such action?”
Abajian settles back into his chair, his hand resting on the table. He speaks carefully. “All we are asking you to do is to play your role. Locate the facility, confirm the presence of a BXL21 missile launcher, and leave. That said, you are the commander in the field and it is up to you to determine how best to serve the overall goal of this mission.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.” I can work with that.
He stands up. We all stand up, even Semakova, with a cacophony of chair legs scraping. Abajian holds his hand out to Kanoa. “If anyone questions your operation again, send them to me.” They shake hands, and then we salute. “Twenty minutes, gentlemen,” he reminds us. “I want Northern Sword’s missile launcher taken out of the equation before they have a chance to use it.”
• • • •
We scramble to collect what we need from the armory and the supply closets: ammunition, first aid, food, water, communications gear. Abajian ordered us to leave our rigs behind. Without helmets, we won’t have tactical AIs, so I pick up an optical scope for my HITR. I make sure Logan and Tran do the same.
“With no helmets, we aren’t going to have hearing protection either,” I add. “So grab earplugs. Maybe we’ll get a chance to use them.”
“We’ve got these HD pistols,” Tran reminds me.
