by John Lumpkin
“Cap, it’s Lopez,” said the private’s voice in his ear. “Ruiz says someone’s trailing us.”
“Copy,” Rand said. He raised his fist and did a quick chopping motion, and crouched down, moving quickly to a fallen tree and looking in the direction they had come from. Kelley and Aguirre quickly moved beside him.
They heard a shout.
“Don’t kill me!” someone pleaded.
“Then shut the fuck up!” said Lopez, her voice carrying through the trees.
A minute later, she and Ruiz pushed a third figure into view. He was thin, young, American, and scared.
“It’s all right,” Rand assured him, before anyone else could harass him further. The team is in a bad mood, and they might just take it out on him. “Who are you, and why are you following us?”
“My name is Michael, Michael Bannerjee,” he said. Rand had the feeling only his mother called him “Michael.” “I’m from Sycamore. But you know that. Sorry. I followed you because … I’m from a group that doesn’t agree with Moira Tobin and her allies. We’re … we’re ready to fight the Hans.”
“You?” Kelley looked dubious.
Michael’s words came out in a rush. “I know; I’m not a soldier. I’m in training, or, I was in training to be in the terraforming corps, and I spent a lot of time out in these woods, and I found your secret base when I was out exploring, before the Hans invaded. So I knew the trail you’d be following to meet the rest of the soldiers.”
Rand said, “You haven’t told the Chinese where the base is, have you? Or told anyone who might have told them?”
“No! I haven’t told anyone. My organization knows I know, but I didn’t tell anybody, I swear.”
“All right, then, tell me about your organization.”
“Well, there are a lot of us, but I don’t how many – we’re organized in cells that don’t know each other, but we’ve got hand signals and recognize who’s on our side.”
“Any weapons or military training?”
“A few rifles and pistols the Hans didn’t find. We were hoping you could help us with more. All of us had colonial wilderness training, and some of us can hunt.”
“You do realize you’re up against several brigades of the People’s Liberation Army, right?” Rand asked. “They’re hardened professionals. This won’t be a Saturday out popping deer.”
“Look, we know that, all right? But they took our homes! Everyone knows somebody who died because there isn’t enough medicine or doctors. Most of us grew up here, and we don’t want to leave.” He straightened himself up. “We’re ready to fight. Just lead us, all right?”
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
After an hour of failing to raise Commander Raleigh, Neil met with Tippy Griego and Das for a late breakfast. He was grateful to learn that the transportee was doing fine in his new job as a server with Tippy’s catering company; Das was now able to afford a bed of his own in one of the workers’ dormitories near the city’s industrial section. He was walking taller, his gaunt frame filling out – Tippy loved to feed people, including his staff.
And, after hours, they often sampled opened bottles of wine and tapped kegs, figuring it would be a tragedy to let even mediocre alcohol go to waste. Last weekend, deep in his drink, Das had started telling tales.
Now, he looked nervous and perplexed.
“This story isn’t going to get me in trouble with the cops, will it, G-Man? Like I told you, I don’t do politics.”
“Of course not, Das,” Neil said. “We know how to keep secrets.”
“Tell Neil what you told the crew,” Tippy prompted.
Das recounted overhearing a conversation near the presidential palace not long after he arrived in Tecolote, in which a woman was threatening a man unless he gave some kind of medical treatment to a third person. The woman he didn’t recognize. But he recognized the man by his outfit, which he described.
“I know every person who can cook worth a damn on this island, and there’s only one of them who wears traditional chef’s whites,” Tippy said excitedly. “That’s Auguste Desroches. He was trained in France, and he wants to make sure everyone knows it.”
Neil was utterly bewildered.
Tippy Griego’s voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “Neil,” he said, “Gus Desroches is President Conrad’s personal chef. Someone is using him to poison the president!”
Chapter 12
BEIJING – Chinese Foreign Minister Yu Qi lashed out at what he called “state-sanctioned abuse” of Chinese citizens working in Russian territory, pointing to the recent crackdown on labor movements in Siberia that has left fourteen guest workers and six security personnel dead. He said Beijing would not rule out using force “to protect Chinese citizens, anywhere in the world.”
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
Neil barely noticed his surroundings as he walked back to the consulate.
President Conrad is being poisoned. It doesn’t follow. If one of his enemies wanted him dead, they could have killed him with the first dose. So the poisoner must want him alive. Are they trying to control him by giving him the sort of poison that requires a regular antidote? If so, why hasn’t anyone detected it? He thought about what else Das had said, about the drug making Tecolote a “happier place.”
And he thought about what he had been told about Conrad, and how that differed from what he had observed. The briefings had said Conrad was obsessed with maintaining his power and often employed violence to that end. A dictator of the worst type. But Conrad had refused advanced weaponry and was now seeking negotiations with the rebels, even as he had the upper hand. Meanwhile, the rest of his junta – Naima, Vargas, even Colonel Aziz – all pushed a more aggressive posture, and they all were questioning Conrad’s decisions.
That’s it. He’s lost his violent edge and become passive and accommodating. They aren’t giving him poison – they’re giving him some kind of anti-psychotic treatment, probably tailored to his genome. Because it’s medicine, the off-the-shelf poison snoopers wouldn’t pick it up. And it’s working. It’s made him less aggressive – made him more stable. But he’s not aware he’s changed.
Who would do it? Who benefits from a more empathetic Conrad? The boot doesn’t fall as hard on the public, yes, but the rebels can grow stronger thanks to Chinese supplies, while Conrad keeps his security forces on a tight leash.
His handheld buzzed: a transmission via the allied military communications network. He stepped into an alley and took the call.
It was Commander Raleigh, his normally composed visage disheveled. He was reclined in a bed, with a fresh red scratch running down one cheek.
“Mercer! I’m in the hospital. Damn building fell on me during the hurricane. Broke my leg in three places. Guess we don’t know as much about Entente’s weather as we thought.”
“I can be there as soon as I can get a flight,” Neil said.
“No, that’s all right. I’m in good hands,” he said. “Listen, these comms are secure but my hospital room isn’t, so don’t tell me anything interesting, got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ardoyne’s dockyards are smashed. We’re dropping in the Seabees on a mercy mission to help rebuild, but it will be a year before Ardoyne can handle the type of traffic you and I talked about in the past. Look, Tecolote was our backup, a redundancy and bargaining chip that we could threaten Ardoyne with if they balked. But Tecolote can be up-and-running in a month, if they’re willing to take us. I need a government there that’s friendly to our mission, and soon. Nothing else matters. Got me?”
Neil could think of a number of ways to interpret that. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good.” Raleigh cut the connection.
Easily accomplished, Neil thought. All I have to do is turn a psychopath loose on his country.
He called General Naima.
Chita, Transbaikalia, Russia, Earth
Finn Kintsel seemed out of breath as he gave his report on the
security forces’ chase and Chinese labor leaders’ escape to Donovan and Gardiner Fairchild. I remember that sort of high, thought Donovan, remembering the adrenaline rush from his first successful operation. There’s no feeling like it.
“I slowed us down enough that we only caught up with them on Skyway One-Sixty-Six just south of Borzya, when the local cops and some of the Russian Ground Forces’ MPs from the nearby base joined us,” Finn said. “Our Chinese friends sped up and made the hundred klicks and crossed the border, and the cops were stupid enough to follow them! The Chinese shot down two of the police cars, so the Russians called in some drones to strike the Han laser sites.”
“Fantastic,” Fairchild said. “Your efforts are already bearing fruit. Russia has accused the Hans’ Second Bureau of organizing the miners’ uprising, and they’re sending a full division of MVD troops to Chita. China’s threatening to retaliate and announced PLA maneuvers near the border.”
Finn smiled widely.
“And some Russian cops don’t get to watch their kids grow up,” Donovan said.
The smile vanished. Fairchild looked sideways at Donovan and frowned.
“You did a great job, kid,” Fairchild said to Finn. “Go get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”
After Finn left, Fairchild went to the hotel room’s bar cabinet, and poured them both drinks.
“Jim, I must say that your tone with young Finn was a bit uncalled for,” Fairchild said.
“This was one hell of an operation, Gardiner. Make sure you write him up for a commendation. His undercover work was superb. But he’s still pretty green, and he had a feral look in his eye. He was starting to dehumanize everyone around him. That will make him less able to read people, and less effective overall.”
“Necessities of the craft,” Fairchild said. “If you have him dwell on the costs of every operation, he’ll become gun-shy and full of self-loathing, kind of like you.” He grinned to show he was joking.
Barbed humor, there, Gardiner, Donovan thought. Fairchild went on, “Anyway, your work here is done. No reason for you to stick around and risk detection. Sonya says you can head home. Now, a toast! Discord and confusion to our enemies.” He held up a shotglass of high-grade vodka.
Donovan clinked his own glass – an old-fashioned, bearing scotch – to Fairchild’s. Home. Virginia, the empty condo and eternal commute to the Hill. No more fearing arrest or being shot at. And I’ll be able to see Jacob before his seventeenth birthday.
“Discord and confusion,” he agreed.
Fairchild nodded and drank down the shot, and Donovan sipped his own glass. Even with so many forces tied up elsewhere, China would have the edge if it came to war with Russia. Then again, more than a few empires have died thinking they could take land from the Russians. Either way, it would sap China and therefore help our war effort. But it would be better if the Chinese could scare the Russians into running to us as allies. We need their fleet.
His handheld buzzed with a message.
GENERAL SINGH ASKS YOU JOIN HIM IN ORBIT AS SOON AS IS CONVENIENT. MUCH TO DISCUSS. RAMESH
Donovan took another sip of scotch and felt the pleasant burn spread through his innards. “I need to call Sonya. Looks like I’m not headed home after all.”
Near Sycamore, Sequoia Continent, Kuan Yin
Rand was quietly relieved when Violet Kelley departed with the young Michael Bannerjee to return to the internment camp, where she was to assess and possibly take command of the nascent civilian rebellion. She had spoken minimally to Rand since they had left the camp, and when she did, her voice was ice. I finally crossed her, after all this time, and she immediately decided I was part of the problem. Maybe she’ll get along better with a bunch of kids who want to kill Hans as badly as she does. Of course, the risk is the guards will capture and interrogate her, and she’ll give up the location of our base.
The location of our base …
“Hey, guys, let’s hold up a minute,” Rand said. Aguirre and Lopez stopped and looked at him quizzically.
“I’m trying to work some things out about what we saw in Sycamore. What do you both think?”
“Think, sir?” Aguirre had an exaggerated look of surprise on his face. “I’m just an artillery sergeant from Detroit. I don’t think. I just react.”
Rand laughed. “Yeah. We’ve been doing a lot of just reacting lately, haven’t we? Going with the flow.”
Ruiz, who had been watching their rear again, caught up with them.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Everything’s fine, Sarge,” Lopez interjected. “Captain Castillo wants our thoughts on Sycamore. He does this from time to time. We have to do his thinking for him.”
Ruiz nodded and smiled grimly. “Something’s bugging you, too, sir?”
“Yeah. Let’s review: Tobin said they were expecting us, in fact, expecting us sooner. They first offered the Chinese plan, then tried to order us to surrender to the Hans.”
“They’re collaborating with the Chinese!” Lopez said. “Fuckers. We’re out here risking our lives to rescue them, and they want to sell us out. Could they have tagged us, used us so the Hans can find the base?”
Ruiz said, “I’ve worked with them for months, and I think they were being honest about their motives. They may not be behaving in ways that maximize our ability to win, but they wouldn’t deliberately sell us out. They just want off this rock. They’re raising families in shitty circumstances and want to have lives again. They were pretty straightforward: The Chinese made them an offer and set conditions, and they are trying to fulfill those conditions.”
“And they want a reply in one week,” Rand said.
“A week doesn’t give DiMarco and Cruz and the rest much time to consider their offer,” Aguirre said.
“That’s it!” Rand said. “The timeline! It’s too perfect. It’s like they know Falcon is three days from Sycamore – three days out, one day to decide, and three days to deliver the message. Violet was right. They already know where our base is.”
“Then why haven’t they hit it?” Lopez said.
Ruiz looked thoughtful. “‘To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.’”
“Sun Tzu, right?” It felt like a lifetime since Rand had taken that strategic theory course. Ruiz nodded. Rand said, “So they want us to surrender, but they probably expect us to try to disappear among the civilians.”
“If they accessed the JTF Sequoia database when they took Kuan Yin, they know what we all look like,” Ruiz said.
“Yep. Everyone except Violet.”
“So they can pick us out of a crowd while they’re loading up launches for the transports. We wouldn’t be returning to the fight.”
“The Hans probably view this as a longshot, but one worth taking,” Rand said. “If we go back and tell them we’re not surrendering, then they hit us. If we don’t show up in seven days, they hit us. If we lie and tell them we are packing it in, we buy maybe three extra days, until the Hans figure out we’re not, in fact, surrendering. That’s what we have, people. Ten days until the hammer falls.”
San José, Republic of Tecolote, Entente
Like many other buildings in the city, this one was surrounded by a featureless gray concrete wall. That it was topped with shiny barbed wire instead of the usual shards of broken glass was the only clue that something atypical might be within.
This was General Katherine Naima’s territory, Neil knew. She had invited him and Gomez to observe some interrogations.
They left Harkins outside with their car, and they were escorted to an elevator. It went down two floors and stopped to let someone on. A man in uniform walked by the open elevator door, carrying a long metal spike in one hand and a cordless power drill in the other. As the door closed, they heard a long, sustained scream. Their escort didn’t flinch. Neil glanced sideways at Gomez, who stared straight ahead.
They got off on the next floor down, the last floor. Their escort led them into a hallway of
gray cinder block walls, a concrete floor, and a ceiling of pipes. Guards lined the hallway, more guards than Neil would have expected for even this facility. They went around a corner and into a bare room, with opaque glass walls to the right and the left.
Inside, General Naima greeted them. She was wearing the olive jacket and red beret of the paramilitary forces she commanded. Seated behind her at a table was President Lawson Conrad. He wore the same brown, collared shirt Neil had seen him in before, but the top button was unfastened, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. His eyes were cold, calculating, furious.
“Mister President,” Gomez said.
Naima coughed. “The correct honorific is ‘Your excellency.’”
It wasn’t when I met him before, Neil thought.
Gomez said, “My apologies, your excellency. I am surprised and pleased to see you here.”
Conrad smiled momentarily. “General Naima’s work here is of utmost importance to the security of my republic. We are in great jeopardy, and I am keeping my movements secret. After all, my own chef tried to poison me. Thankfully, you warned us of the danger.”
Naima pressed a button on her handheld. The glass walls brightened, revealing a one-way view of two interrogation chambers, one to each side.
Through the window on their right was a white man in white clothes. He was apparently sobbing, his head in his hands.
“This is Auguste Desroches, the president’s former chef,” Naima said. “He has proven quite susceptible to our efforts, although, sadly, he doesn’t appear to know much.”
Gomez asked, “Have you learned who was supplying the chef with the drug?”
“He said it was a woman, with East Asian features. He never learned a name. We suspect the Chinese, of course.”
“Why did he do it?”
“He claims they threatened his family,” Naima said. “We have been unable to locate them.”
She turned to the window to their left. “This one has been no help at all.”
