by John Ringo
“You wouldn’t believe the tab that Fagan is running up,” Mike agreed, looking over at the colonel. “I’m surprised he can still stand with all the blowjobs he’s been getting.”
“Oh, thanks very much,” Fagan said, shaking his head. “You realize all those calls are recorded.”
“So is most of what goes on in the lap dance rooms,” Mike replied. “I wish we could get access to the tapes; it would make this a lot quicker.”
Chapter Eight
They crossed the street, dodging traffic, and headed to the next strip joint. This one was rather seedy: the cover was only three euros and the girls were pretty worn out. The crowd was also different, running a lot more to Middle Eastern males. Mike spotted on that looked a bit like Assadolah and did a double take. But he was pretty sure it wasn’t him. And there was no evidence of a phone on the guy. He looked like a day-laborer and was staring at the girl on stage like she was the Holy Grail.
He passed around the stage and back to the front, meeting up with Fagan, who had also noticed the guy and dismissed him, then headed to the champagne room with one of the halfway decent-looking women.
This champagne room had larger cubicles, with couches that were wide enough to be beds, and Mike caught more than one guy going at it when he looked behind the curtains. Most of them didn’t notice, but the girls under them did. In the third cubicle he saw the target. He was sitting on the couch, lying back with his eyes closed, being fellated by a naked redhead. Her hair was obviously out of a bottle since her exposed pubic tuft was dark brown and flecked with gray.
Mike dropped the curtain disinterestedly then took one step forward, drawing his sidearm, and stepped back to the cubicle. He stepped through the curtain, took a double-handed grip and carefully shot Assadolah Shaath in the right shoulder, covering the whore in front of him in blood-splatter.
The whore backed away, screaming, as Mike crossed the room and grabbed the terrorist by his shot arm, dragging him to the floor, face-down, as he screamed in pain.
“Which one is the disconnect code?” Mike growled, stepping on the terrorist’s wounded shoulder to hold him down and socketing the .45 into his ear. “Which one?”
“Fuck you!” Assadolah shouted, then switched to Arabic for a long, solid, curse.
Mike plucked the phone off the terrorist’s belt and pitched it across the room as the first bouncer came into the cubicle in reaction to the shot and screams.
“Back off,” Mike said, pulling out his diplomatic passport and holding it up. “This is a terrorist we’ve been looking for. Call the police, they know all about it.”
“Put the gun down and I will,” the man said, drawing his own sidearm.
“This is a diplomatic passport,” Mike said, waving it at him and then tossing it across the room. “You shoot me, for any reason, and you’re going to jail for the rest of your life. Put your own gun down, call the police, and in the meantime I’m going to talk to this gentleman.” He leaned his weight into his foot as the terrorist screamed, and then shifted his pistol to the other shoulder. “I can go for two. Which one is the disarm code?”
“ICE!” Assadolah screamed. “Ice. Fire for the explosion, ice for the disarm. Ice.”
“Thank you,” Mike said, lifting up his weight. “Don’t try to move or I’ll gladly shoot you some more.”
* * *
“He said ‘Ice’ was the disconnect.” Mike was back in the airplane, his chair reclined, a drink in his hand and the headset of the sat phone plugged in his ear. The Dutch police had been less than happy about the shooting, not to mention the torture of the suspect. But it was amazing how well diplomatic passports worked. He was, however, persona very non grata at the moment. Which was why he was sitting in an airfield in France, well away from Paris.
“So we heard,” Pierson said. “Along with how you got the information. You’re a regular one-man coalition breaker, you know that?”
“Hell, the Dutch couldn’t even hold Sbrenica,” Mike said. “What do we need them for?”
“What’s the chance the information was good?” Pierson asked.
“Zero,” Mike admitted. “I just wanted to see what he would say. Look something up for me on the Internet, will you? Google: ‘Some say the world will end in fire.’ ”
“Robert Frost,” Pierson replied. “I know the poem: ‘Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.’ That one?”
“That’s it,” Mike said musingly. “Both of them could be a disconnect, but I don’t think so. If the pope got held up, if something happened to slow down the crowds, they’d want to wait. There’s probably a timer, with the cell phones as backup controls. The output isn’t going to him, is it?”
“Nope,” Pierson said. “It goes to a phone in Germany which is connected to a webserver. Then it posts a text message to the webserver. Anybody can view it. NSA cracked the server and took a look at who was visiting. All the links have been coming out of Iran. But we know some of the Al Qaeda leadership are still there. The circuit on the phone is set to detonate if the phone doesn’t connect to the right number. The French are talking about spoofing the server and the phone output system, but it’s a bit tricky. Frankly, they don’t want to fuck with it if they don’t have to.”
“I looked at his cell phone before it got taken away by the Dutch,” Mike said. “He’d only called the sentry on the bomb and he hadn’t received any calls in two days. So I don’t think the take-down is going to cause a problem. Sunni bombers. Shia supporters and fighters. Who says the Sunni and Shia can’t get together to fight the jihad?”
“Democrats,” Pierson said. “Academics. The Council on American-Islamic Relations.”
“Wise people, all,” Mike said. “We’re down to less than a half an hour. I’m calling Chateauneuf.” He hit the disconnect and dialed the colonel.
“Mon cher,” Chateauneuf said after they were on scrambler. “I understand you had an interesting time in Amsterdam.”
“I’d like to say it was enlightening,” Mike replied. “But it wasn’t. How goes it?”
“Oh, it goes so very, very well,” Chateauneuf said lightly. “The bomb is clustered with antitampering devices. There were movement detectors, X-ray detectors, ultrasound detectors and even a motion detector inside the casing. They managed to find a part that wasn’t covered with some sort of detector and have now managed, finally, to get a drill into the inner casing of the bomb. This is as far as they have gotten. We have less than thirty minutes until the pope arrives. And he has refused to forego his arrival, stating that if all of his children must die, than he shall go with them.”
“Nobody ever said the pope was a coward,” Mike replied, picking up the sentry’s phone and regarding it with interest. “Where are you?”
“Oh, I’ve moved to the press van,” the colonel said. “It won’t matter if I am here or at the command center. So I thought I would watch the proceedings. The men are very cool. They know how perilous is what they do. But they proceed. Ah, the senior technician tells me they have gotten to the stainless steel. Now they must change drill bits, yes?”
“Yes,” Mike said.
“They begin to enter the bomb casing,” Chateauneuf said calmly. “They can only drill slowly. It will take some time. Perhaps as long as ten minutes.”
Mike looked at the time readout on his cell phone and shook his head. It was seventeen minutes until four.
“So, you got any family?” Mike asked.
“A wife, Josee, and three children: Claude, Colette and Danielle,” Chateauneuf replied as if discussing the weather. “They, fortunately, live well outside Paris. Josee was going to come into town to go shopping, but I managed to dissuade her. Danielle is just starting school. They study English in the primary, yes?”
“Probably learning whatever the equivalent of ‘Frere Jacque’ is in English,” Mike said, just as calmly.
“It is, I believe, ‘Yankee Doodle,’ ” Chateauneuf said, sighing painfully. “At least, she was singing it a great deal when I
was home last.”
“That makes sense,” Mike said. “Although I’ve always wondered about the macaroni line. I don’t think macaroni was a major food group in colonial America.”
“I would think not,” Chateauneuf agreed. “It was probably another word and got changed. Do you have any family?”
“No,” Mike admitted. “I was married, once. It didn’t work out.”
“That is unfortunate,” the colonel said sadly. “With what you and I do, it is always possible we will not be able to leave children behind if we do not do so early.”
“Well, I’ve got some people that don’t like me very much,” Mike pointed out. “I’d hate for them to take that out on any kids, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Chateauneuf replied. “Your exploits in this adventure alone would cause some angry reactions.”
“I’ve done worse,” Mike said, looking at his time readout. Six minutes. “Where we at?”
“They are through the casing,” the colonel said. “They are inserting a camera into the hole.” There was a pause and Mike heard the colonel sigh. “It is never a good thing when you hear a bomb disposal expert curse.”
“Nope,” Mike agreed lightly. “What’s the problem?”
“There are more antitamper devices,” the colonel said to a background of muted, and remarkably calm, French. “And a timer. It has less than four minutes to go. Three minutes and forty seconds.”
“Wonder why they set it so early?” Mike asked, humming a Pat Benatar song.
“Perhaps they mistook the time zones?” Chateauneuf said, chuckling grimly. “The Palestinians did this once. They had the timer set for Palestinian time and it went off as the bomb was being carried to the target. Very sad.”
“Terrible,” Mike agreed, mentally adjusting the time left. “Mon Colonel, you’ll forgive me if I don’t stay on the line? The static…”
“I understand,” the colonel said. “I have a call to make as well. Adieu.”
“Au revoir,” Mike said, killing the call and picking up the terrorist’s phone. He brought up the speed-dial list and hit the “Fire” number.
* * *
Cedric Jalabert had been an EOD technician for ten years. He had been chosen as the “point” disarmer of the device due to his experience and the fact that he still had “it.” There were techs that had been working with demolitions for longer. But those with real world experience, handling actual explosives, tended to lose the edge after a while. They had seen too many of their fellows blown to bits over time. He knew of one Brit bomb tech who had stood up in the middle of a disarm, walked far enough away to be outside the blast area and then had a complete, raving nervous breakdown. So it was always a trade-off between experience and edge.
Cedric still had the “edge,” but he knew he was losing it as he watched the timer count down. He had to penetrate the arming device to disarm the bomb, but it was loaded with antitamper devices. The visual timer was totally unnecessary. Whoever had put it in place had done so purely to screw with any technician who got this far, as it was screwing with him.
He put the countdown out of his mind and manipulated his driver, which was at the end of a long, mobile wand, into place on the first screw to remove the control panel. He had several of the wands running through the narrow hole they had drilled in the lead and steel surrounding the bomb; it was somewhat like trying to disarm it through a straw. He loved pressure — he ate it with a spoon. He also knew he didn’t have time; the timer was down to less than two minutes. But he was going to keep working the problem until the device detonated.
“Incoming call,” Master Sergeant Mimoun said. He was the team leader, but not the point, and he had been watching the various monitors double-checking Jalabert’s progress. “The ‘Fire’ circuit.”
Jalabert froze as the phone rang. They had been unable to disconnect it, due to its output, and now, it seemed, the terrorists had jumped the gun. Perhaps they had finally become aware that the police had the bomb.
“It’s the sentry’s number,” Mimoun snarled. “The phone we gave the American agent.”
Jalabert switched to watching the countdown timer as the phone in the bomb, audibly, rang once, twice…
“The timer has stopped,” he said, reapplying his screwdriver to the screw.
“’Fire’ was the disarm code,” Mimoun said, sighing. “But it can still be detonated on the other circuit.”
“Not anymore,” Jalabert replied, switching to another tool and cutting the appropriate wire. “We have ten minutes, maximum. But I can finish in that time.”
* * *
Mike walked into the suite and looked around.
“Magdelena?” he called, tossing his jump bag on the table in the living room.
In his room, on the bed, he found a note written on the hotel’s stationery.
Dear Mr. Duncan,
I met a nice older gentleman down at the pool. He is very sweet and likes me very much. I have agreed to travel with him. I thank you for getting me out of where I was.
Magdelena
“Well,” Mike said, letting out a breath. “That’s one problem solved. I had no idea what I was going to do with her.”
He pulled his sat phone off his belt and dialed a number.
“Hardesty? Spool ’er up. Since Amsterdam is out, we’re headed back to Russia.”
Epilogue
“Michael Duncan is very not welcome in Holland and France,” Pierson said. “And they’re well aware that it was a cover identity, so I’d suggest staying out in your own person.”
“Wasn’t planning on going to either,” Mike admitted, negotiating his way around a pothole. He had his earbud in his ear and both hands on the wheel to negotiate the lousy Russian roads. “Well, maybe Amsterdam. I’ve got a date with a hooker there.”
“The President, however, is pleased, despite the diplomatic repercussions.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mike said tersely.
“He wondered how you knew it was the Fire circuit,” Pierson said.
“Tell him to read Robert Frost,” Mike replied. “Or listen to Pat Benatar.”
“Seriously,” Pierson said.
“Honestly it was less than fifty-fifty,” Mike replied. “But it was going to go off, anyway. So I thought about Assadolah’s interests. More than the poem, the song caught me. In the song, the guy comes on with fire, but the cutting part, the damaging part, is ice.”
“That’s it?” Pierson asked, aghast.
“That’s it,” Mike responded. “Paris was doomed, anyway. I probably would have let the damned thing go off if it wasn’t for the kids that would get killed. And, hell, Chateauneuf is the exception that proves the rule that all Frenchmen are bastards.”
“Well, there’s more money coming your way,” Pierson said, wondering at the response. “Another five mil. Arguably, the French should be paying it, but they’re unwilling to admit that you kept Paris from being obliterated.”
“Normal for them,” Mike replied.
“And I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an after-action report, this time?” Pierson said diffidently.
“Nope,” Mike replied. “Don’t care for them. Staff officers pee in them.”
“Where are you now?” Pierson asked, sighing. Just once, he’d like an AAR out of Ghost. Was that too much to ask?
“Russia,” Mike said, glancing at the sky, which was gray and pregnant with snow. “But the weather is really getting crappy so I’m headed south. Probably to Georgia. There are lots of cute hookers from Georgia. I’m going to go see what the original quill looks like.”
“Switzerland of the Caucasus,” Pierson said, a grin in his voice. “I was there for a few months training their local commandos and the girls are, yeah, spectacular. Try not to get caught in that border war that’s building down there. The Chechens use Georgia as a base of operations against the Russians, and the Russians are getting tired of it.”
“I’m going to stay well away from the C
hechen area,” Mike agreed. “As well as Ossetia and all the rest. I’m actually sort of looking for someplace to settle down for a while. I liked the Keys, but the action was just too hot for me.”
“Gotcha,” Pierson said, his grin evident over the circuit. “So you’re heading for a country that’s on the edge of war with Russia, to an area where terrorists move freely and through which both weapons of mass destruction and lesser evils are transported. Too hot. Gotcha.”
“No, really,” Mike protested. “I’m just looking for a safe place to lay my head.”
“Whatever,” Pierson said, chuckling. “Take care.”
“Don’t I always?” Mike asked, hitting the disconnect.
He was on a small back road that was headed in the vague direction of Georgia, according to the Michelin map. But what he was mostly looking for was peace, quiet and aloneness. Finally, he spotted a barely graveled road that headed into the interminable birch forests that had been covered in an early winter snow.
He turned the late-model Mercedes sedan down it until he was fairly sure he was completely and totally alone. Then he pulled it over to the side, got out, and started pulling out supplies, tossing his sidearm in the back of the sedan.
First there was a comfortable reclining chair. Then a cooler with some cold Pepsis. Then a poncho liner, since it was bloody cold. Next he pulled out a couple of plastic cups and a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon. He filled one of the cups with ice, then poured Pepsi over it, setting it in the holder of the chair. Then he sat down in the reclining chair, pulling the poncho liner over his legs and tucking it in. Last, with shaking hands, he removed the cap from the bottle of Maker’s Mark and put the bottle to his lips, chugging.
“Why the fuck do I do these things?” Mike asked quietly. “I go charging in to save some girls that could care less about ‘my kind.’ I get shot up stopping a nuke for a country that doesn’t even know I exist? I took it on myself to DESTROY PARIS! WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?” he ended in a shout that was very near a primal scream.
