by Linda Nagata
I turn to look. The Stonewall Home Defense 9-millimeter is designed to be consumer friendly, with sound suppression built into the extended barrel, ensuring the concussion can’t cause permanent hearing loss. The barrel makes it an awkward size, but we’ve got shoulder holsters to fit.
“Bring ’em.”
Not that I’m expecting trouble.
We grab weapons cases and then return to the barracks to collect our HITRs.
I’m stepping out of my room again when my network icon goes green. I’m automatically logged into gen-com, but I get icons only for Logan, Tran, and me.
Tran is waiting in the hallway. You linked? I ask him.
He doesn’t speak out loud, but his response arrives over gen-com. Roger that.
“I’m linked too,” Logan says as the door to his room opens.
We head downstairs to find Kanoa waiting for us. He looks grim, worried. No one else is in the building, so he goes ahead with an impromptu meeting, standing in front of the watch desk. “I don’t like the way this came together, but I believe it’s a legitimate mission. Abajian’s ambitious and he knows how to play hard ball, but he’s a good commanding officer, and he’ll back you as far as he can.”
“Meaning he will cut us loose if he has to?” I ask.
There’s still a little artificial Christmas tree on the watch desk. It casts a red light on Kanoa as he crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s how I read it. He’s protecting the president first, as he should. But you need to make this work, Shelley, regardless.”
“We will. Are you going to be linked to gen-com?”
“No. You’re not going to have a handler. A continuous link would be suspicious—and you probably won’t have connectivity anyway.”
It’s easy to see he’s worried about it. I surprise myself by trying to reassure him. “I’ve worked without a handler before. We’ll be okay.” I eye Logan and Tran. “We’ll back each other up.”
“The job will get done,” Logan agrees. “And if we get lucky, it won’t even be a fighting mission.”
Tran cracks a half smile. “You mean if they get lucky, LT. You ask me, it’s going to be hard to walk away without finishing the mission.”
Logan gives him a dark look. “We do what the situation calls for.”
“You do what you need to do,” Kanoa says. “Just make sure you’re focused on this mission. Do not worry about your status or what the future of ETM 7-1 will look like going forward. We’ll figure that out when you get back. Until then, good luck.”
He offers his hand. I put my pistol case down on the watch desk long enough to shake it. “I’d like to see the rest of the squad, sir, before we go.”
“Negative. That won’t go over well, especially with Fadul. I’ll fill them in on what they need to know after you’re gone.”
He shakes hands with Logan and Tran, and then he gestures with his chin toward the barracks door. “Move out.”
It’s 0522 when we board one of the Black Hawks. We are the lone passengers. I stow my pack and the gun cases, then strap into a canvas seat between Logan and Tran. I look for the green network icon, which brightens under my gaze. I’m toying with the thought of calling Delphi, but when I play it out in my head, I know it’s just a stupid fantasy. Yeah, hi. I’ve got another mission. I might not be back.
I left her for a reason. I’m not going to put her through that again.
The Black Hawk’s crew chief hands out flight helmets and then closes the side door. After a few minutes, we lift off, flying northeast toward Dallas.
Another mission. Another opportunity to do what I was put on this Earth to do. That’s how I look at it. Shit. Maybe I do have a messiah complex. People used to call me King David. But it’s not God I serve. Not directly, anyway.
I never used to spare a thought for God, but I’ve read most of the Bible now. That shit doesn’t make any sense to me, but I think a lot about God anyway—a mystery figure, moving in mysterious ways. Guiding me, maybe.
I guess I trust God more than I trust the Red, which isn’t saying much.
I want to do the right thing, but there are so many wrongs in the world. There are so many people we need to get rid of, so many means of bringing Armageddon down on the billions who only ever wanted to live their own quiet lives, make something of themselves, see a fucking movie now and then, and get drunk with their friends.
I want to give them that chance.
NONLINEAR WAR
“HOLY SHIT,” TRAN WHISPERS. “THEY’RE serious, aren’t they?”
It looks that way.
Abajian’s Black Hawk delivered us to Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, where we were met on the tarmac by an army major with no interest in conversation. A short ride in the backseat of an SUV has brought us to an immense open-front hangar.
I lean forward to get a better look out the front windshield.
Sunrise is still half an hour away, but the hangar is bright with artificial lights that illuminate the dual fuselage of a gigantic carrier plane. Each of the carrier’s two aircraft bodies look like the long, narrow fuselage of a normal jet, but they’re fused together by a shared wing. Suspended from the center of that wing, two meters above the hangar floor, is a sleek little suborbital plane. Ground crew wearing Sidereal Transit Systems shirts are working in calm haste to clear tubes and cables from beneath it. A steep staircase leads to the suborbital’s open door.
A suborbital is a dragon’s transportation: fearsome speed at fearsome cost. A lifetime of earnings for many, burned up in a single transit to the other side of the planet.
The major turns to issue terse instructions: “This is a chartered military flight. The other passengers aboard are on business of their own. They will not question you. You will not question them. Understood?”
I study the plane and wonder: Who are they? Why are they in a hurry to get to the other side of the world? Are they involved with our mission? Who the hell is paying for this anyway?
But all I say is “Yes, sir.”
“After exiting this vehicle, you will proceed without delay up the staircase. Once inside, take the three open seats and strap in. Your gear will be loaded separately and returned to you in Riyadh, where you will transfer to a private jet. Your requested civilian clothing has been placed in the overhead bins. You will change in-flight, leaving your current uniforms behind.”
The premission support is damned impressive, I have to admit. I just hope Abajian has got a plan to handle us post-mission too.
“Go,” the major says. “And good luck.”
• • • •
There are eight luxury seats aboard the suborbital, four on each side. It’s the first three on the left that are open. The other passengers all have the outward appearance of civilians, but they are hard-bodied and hard-eyed. We glance at each other and look away.
My face is well known and I suspect they recognize me, but they won’t get any confirmation from facial recognition, and my own automatic routine doesn’t come up with any names for them. None of us are in the usual databases. It’s an absence that conveys critical facts about our occupations and our connections.
I take the front seat—and realize there is no cockpit. I can see straight ahead, out through the narrow windshield.
Logan is sitting behind me. His synthetic voice comes over gen-com. Is this a robotic plane?
I answer in the same silent way. Looks like it.
I flinch as a voice, female and friendly, issues from the cabin speakers: “Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen.”
The cabin door closes on its own and the carrier plane begins to roll, ferrying us with it.
We don’t know if any of the other passengers are using amplified audio, so Logan plays it cautious, shifting from gen-com to text. He sends a group message to me and Tran. The army can’t be paying for this. There’s no way this could be hidden in a black budget.
I put together a text of my own without speaking. We’re flying on dragon money. It�
��s got to be. They’re scared of Broken Sky and they want it stopped.
Tran whispers his response over gen-com. “I’ve been thinking. This is really just another look-and-see mission.”
Logan doesn’t like that idea at all. “Bullshit. We’re going to find bad guys behind the door for sure this time, and we know what we’re looking for.”
“But do we know what we’ll find?” Tran asks. He shifts to text to make his point. Anything could be in that UGF. The BXL21 might not be our only target.
I turn to look out the little round window beside my seat. Outside, I can see the left fuselage of the carrier plane and the runway beyond it. The sky is glowing, but the sun is not quite over the horizon. We’ve been looking for something these past months—something a lot smaller than a missile launcher. It is possible we’re still looking. “Tran could be right. We’ll know when we get there.”
Another text comes in from Tran. IF we get there. It’d be ironic if this vehicle turns out to be the next target for Broken Sky.
This pisses off Logan. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, loud enough to be heard on and off gen-com—but I laugh. I can’t help it. Because it would be ironic. I’m not too worried though. We’re suborbital—a one-shot deal with a trajectory and timing that won’t be known to the enemy until it’s too late to aim.
Granted, I’ve been wrong before.
• • • •
The initial flight feels the same as any passenger jet taking off. Suspended between the dual fuselage of the carrier plane, we are far from the engines doing the heavy lifting, but the cabin is still noisy with a dull, distant roar.
Once we’re away from the airport, I get up and check the overhead compartments, where I find duffels labeled with our names. A couple of our fellow passengers eye me as I head to the back of the plane, but no one speaks out loud. I change my clothes, putting on heavy khaki slacks and a long-sleeve athletic shirt—quality garments, appropriate for a fledgling dragon heading into the field—and then I put my army boots back on to cover my robot feet. There’s a coat, but it’s too warm to wear now. My uniform gets stuffed into the duffel, and then I return the bag to the compartment.
Logan and Tran change clothes after me.
By the time Tran comes back, we’ve received the mission briefing for Arid Crossroad.
I read it on my overlay while we climb higher into the atmosphere. At first I just skim, then I go back to read for detail. The mission begins with a flight from Riyadh to Islamabad, where we will be met by Leonid Sergun, our agent in this fictitious arms negotiation. In this scripted drama, I am a newly minted and ruthless dragon, out to expand the fortune I stole from Eduard Semak, while Logan and Tran are hard-ass mercenaries in my employ.
Sergun has brokered a deal that will allow us to purchase a mixed lot of missiles, explosives, and programmable automatic weapons being offered at a bargain price to a buyer willing to close right away—because Maksim Abaza and his Northern Sword soldiers are on a tight schedule.
You really think anyone’s going to believe this shit? Tran texts.
Logan is not convinced either. Backstory seems a little thin.
I compose my own text. Look at it from Abajian’s point of view. Story only needs to hold up until we get there. By then we’ll have shown him the way.
Logan: IF we get there. If they don’t kill us on the road.
I try to put a positive spin on it. Sergun thinks it will work.
Tran: I don’t get why we trust HIM.
I don’t know either. But if we’re going to do this mission, we’ve got to trust somebody.
The intelligence team feels that the rush to conclude this arms deal is strong evidence that Northern Sword actually does possess the missile launcher, and that they intend to use it very soon. Afterward, they will need to abandon their present location. Better for them to turn unused armaments into cash—which is why we are being allowed to visit at this critical time.
Leonid Sergun claims to be well known to Abaza and trusted by him. Abaza has agreed to transport us from Islamabad to … wherever it is we are going. Intelligence believes it’s a UGF in a sparsely populated region to the north.
The cabin’s disembodied voice speaks again. “Please confirm that all of your personal items are secure. Launch will initiate in two minutes, thirty seconds.”
Camera eyes watch us, confirming that we aren’t doing anything stupid or leaving any gear lying around. The warning repeats every thirty seconds, until the last thirty seconds, when we’re treated to a countdown. The synthesized voice bubbles with excitement as we reach the final seconds. “… three, two, one, zero!”
The rockets fire. Their force slams me back into the seat—maybe not as ferociously as my flight aboard Lotus, but it’s a thrilling demonstration of power all the same. The cabin shakes, the clouds race past and then disappear, and soon the sky goes dark. As we reach our maximum altitude just above the top of the atmosphere, the exhausted rocket engines fall into silence—and with nothing holding us up, we begin to fall.
Free fall.
The sensation of weight disappears as I float against my harness.
“Holy shit,” Tran murmurs in a high-pitched voice. He’s not the only one. Our stoic fellow passengers are whispering excitedly too.
But not Logan. “Ah, fuck,” he says.
“If you’re going to puke,” I warn him, “puke into a bag.”
“You are free to leave your seats,” the cabin’s joyful voice announces, “and enjoy the wonder of zero gravity!”
So we do, while the suborbital glides through a long, smooth arc back to the constraints of Earth.
• • • •
Our stop in Riyadh is brief. I check in with Kanoa, and then we move with our gear to a chartered jet. The pilots are non-uniformed, but facial recognition identifies them as American Air Force officers. We settle into the seats. This time, we’re the only passengers. That makes it easier to relax. I take my boots off. Flight time is six hours, so we sleep.
It’s 0400 local time when we finally approach Islamabad. As the plane descends toward the runway, I gaze out the window at a vast, well-lit city. We won’t be staying long.
After we land, the plane taxis to a hangar apart from the main terminal. The hangar is open on one side, the interior lit by dim red lights. We roll under the roof and stop. I turn on the record function in my overlay and then peer through the window. No one around. “Tran, you’re communications for as long as it lasts. I want you to turn on your satellite link.”
“Yes, sir.”
We crowd the aisle as we get our gear out of the bins. Tran wakes up his satellite relay. As soon as I get a signal, I check in using gen-com. “Kanoa, you there?”
He responds in just a few seconds. “Roger that. Status?”
“Stage two. No welcoming committee.”
“Instructions are to go through the passenger lobby. The civilian asset is on the way and will meet you on the other side.”
I get my coat on, shoulder my pack, grab my gun cases, and wonder: Are we being set up? The money and effort that have been expended to get us here argue against it. If the point of this operation is to kill us or create an international incident … well, there are cheaper ways to get it done—and that’s a twisted substitute for a comforting thought.
Logan is behind me in the aisle, loaded with his own gear. “You going barefoot?” he asks.
I flex my robot toes. “They wanted the fucking Lion of Black Cross. I want them to know for sure that’s what they’ve got.” And anyway, I don’t like wearing shoes. They inhibit the usefulness of the feet.
The pilot and copilot emerge from the cockpit. We shake hands and they wish us a gruff “good luck.” Then they get the door open and we disembark under the shelter of the hangar’s roof.
Outside, the temperature is a few degrees above freezing, but the wind is light, so it’s not too bad. According to the mission plan, we are “prescreened” for customs. I guess it’s a dragon�
�s privilege to pay off officials and enter a country, no questions asked.
There’s a glass door with Arabic script. My overlay translates it as a welcome message, so that’s where I lead my squad. The door is unlocked. On the other side is a richly furnished lounge lit by dim cocktail lamps. Again, no one is around. I’m hoping that’s on purpose, that Abajian paid for privacy.
We stop long enough to enjoy the gilt restrooms and to get our weapons out and loaded. Then we move to the main doors. I go first. I hear a lock disengage as I push one of the glass doors, opening it just a few inches. Outside is a patio lit with daylight bulbs and furnished with marble benches. Twin formal gardens are on either side, each with a small fountain. A portico shelters the patio and the gardens, extending over an elegant driveway that branches from a wider road running past the main terminal.
Sunrise is hours away, but Islamabad is awake. As the scream of a departing jet fades, I hear a dull, river roar of distant road traffic and, closer, the squeal of brakes from the main terminal, and the shout of eager voices.
Logan steps up beside me in time to see a large vehicle turning from the main road into the driveway. It stops at a closed steel gate beneath the blue halogen glow of a streetlight, so that I get a good look at it: a battered brown American-made LTV—a light tactical vehicle—basically an agile armored truck.
“You with us, Kanoa?”
There is no insignia on the LTV and I find myself imagining that it was bought, stolen, or captured from the Afghan National Army.
“Roger that. Confirming your welcome.”
I am on edge, standing in the partly open doorway. From the mission briefing I know that this vehicle and the men inside it—other than Leonid Sergun—are part of Northern Sword and loyal to Maksim Abaza. My grip on my HITR tightens as the gate rolls back. The LTV surges into motion. It rumbles around the curve of the driveway. I imagine a gunner leaning out the window, hidden behind the glare of headlights.
“Take it easy, Shelley,” Kanoa warns.
I make sure the muzzle of my HITR is pointing at the ground. “It’s all about trust, right?” The LTV comes to a stop in front of the patio.
