by Adams, P R
He leapt out of the building. Four stories up, and he leapt.
Rimes ran through the office door, then cut through a sea of furniture.
At the window, he risked a glance down. His target limped toward a four-meter-high security wall, then leaped to the top.
Rimes fired three short bursts, and the target fell.
“Two targets down,” Rimes said as he ran back to the stairwell door. “Pachnine’s dead.”
“Target down,” Nakata said. “Uber is badly wounded.”
“No sign of the fourth target,” Tendulkar said after several seconds. “I saw him moving toward the door, but nothing after. His icon, it just vanished.”
A quick check confirmed that it had.
Rimes closed his eyes and played out where the fourth target could go without Tendulkar seeing him. There weren’t many options. “No visual?”
“No,” Tendulkar said.
Rimes heaved Pachnine over his shoulder and scanned the area for any magazines, but Pachnine had died without getting a shot off. Rimes groaned under the corpse’s weight. The mission was becoming messier with each second, accelerating toward a nightmarish disaster.
His BAS alerted him that Pei Fu security teams were now approaching and would arrive in less than a minute.
“Check the target just inside the north wall,” Rimes said. “Suttikul confirmed.”
“Trang confirmed,” Nakata said.
That leaves Wen and Kwon, the brains and the mystery man.
Rimes descended the stairs, ready at any moment for the missing LoDu agent to open fire on him. As Rimes approached the second floor, Nakata burst through the second-floor door with Uber over his shoulder. They hustled down the stairs to the first floor with Rimes in the lead, carbine at the ready. He opened the door to the corridor, half-expecting the missing target to attack.
The corridor was empty.
“Wen confirmed inside the north wall,” Tendulkar said.
We lost Kwon. With security rapidly closing in, they couldn’t risk searching for him.
Rimes ran through the first floor toward the door. Nakata kept up, but he was clearly struggling with Uber.
“North wall,” Rimes said. He kicked open the exit and burst through.
Something—luck, instinct, training—caused him to pull up and twist as he cleared the door. Even as quick as he was, the attack connected. Pachnine’s body took the worst of the blow, but the force knocked Rimes backwards. He lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, shrugging Pachnine off as he fell.
Rimes recovered and rolled to put some distance between him and his attacker. He came up in a crouch and again barely managed to deflect the flurry of kicks and punches that came at him, some striking his raised arms, some catching his shins. Wherever they landed, they tested the armor’s limits and left the limb slightly numb.
Finally, the attacker lost his footing on the broken ground and a kick went wide. Rimes landed a punch. It was clumsy and feeble, but it was in the groin. The attacker stumbled backwards, and Rimes rose to his feet.
He was looking at Kwon, the missing target. He’s bigger than his data would imply.
“Rimes?” Nakata called.
Rimes backpedaled and shifted to a defensive posture. His limbs felt sluggish and responded only stubbornly. “I’ve got Kwon. West courtyard.”
Kwon closed, and again the blows came, stunning in power. They were blurs that drove Rimes backwards, testing his balance and resolve.
A shot rang out, and the round ricocheted off the west wall. Kwon turned, saw Nakata, and bolted, running for the west wall. He leapt and cleared it with ease.
Nakata ran toward Rimes.
Rimes waved Nakata back. “Go!”
They gathered up Pachnine and Uber and ran for the north wall. The numbness was fading, replaced by tingling, then aching. Rimes fell behind.
Tendulkar lay atop the wall in a gap of cut concertina wire, flat on his belly, arm extended to help them up. Getting the giant Pachnine over the wall proved a challenge, but they were quick enough that Rimes, the last one over, dropped to the other side of the wall just as Pei Fu security opened Building 5’s western gate.
They were in the forest east of the complex by the time the security team raised the general alarm.
An hour later, they were aboard a Japanese helicopter carrier, the living and the dead, Australia-bound.
3
20 February 2164. JSS Okazaki.
* * *
Rimes sat alone outside the infirmary watching the seconds pass on his earpiece’s projected display. The waiting area was a tight space, with a cheerful facade—white paint, plastic plants, bright lighting, and two thick-cushioned chairs. He could just as easily have been squeezed into the belly of the ship for all it mattered.
The heat and humidity were worse than on any ship he could recall. Sleep was an undertow, dragging him out to the deep. The adrenaline rush had passed, and the stimulants were wearing off. His shoulder ached where Suttikul had slashed him, and his forearms and shins were tender and bruised from Kwon’s strikes.
The team was gone.
Pachnine was dead.
Fortunately, Tendulkar had stabilized Uber before they’d reached the waiting inflatable boats. Uber had seemed fine when the helicopter had lifted them from the ocean, but an hour had already crawled by, and each time Rimes asked, he was told that he couldn’t visit.
Nakata and Tendulkar had disappeared shortly after boarding the Okazaki. Nakata had received several stitches before being released to bed rest, and Tendulkar had headed off to give his briefing to the Special Security Council.
Uber should’ve been the one to give the executive brief to the Special Security Council. What if I missed something? What if Nakata or Tendulkar contradict me in their reports?
At twenty-five, Rimes was the team’s youngest member. He was a highly decorated American Army Special Forces operative—a Commando—and the Council had made no secret of its regard for his perspective in the past. Still, he was the team’s most junior member.
Rimes sighed. It’s just the fatigue. I didn’t miss anything. They aren’t going to contradict me.
Rimes’s leave was slated to begin in two days. Thanks to bio-restoratives and healing accelerants, he’d be largely healed by then. Only sleep could deal with the fatigue that was dragging on him.
He thought of home—Oklahoma: Fort Sill, Lawton, Grandfield. It was a long-overdue trip. Seeing Molly, visiting friends he hadn’t seen for too long. And family. He fought off another sigh.
Bad with the good.
“Sergeant Rimes?”
Rimes looked up, alarmed that he hadn’t heard approaching footsteps, much less the door opening, but he recognized the pudgy nurse who’d met him upon arrival, a man with thick glasses and greasy hair. Perspiration glistened on his brow and dampened his surgical grays along the ribs and chest.
“Your friend, Major Uber, he will be fine,” the nurse said with a reassuring smile.
Rimes stood. His tall, wiry frame contrasted with the nurse’s shorter, wider one. “Thanks. Can I see him?”
“The doctor says two hours.”
“Great. I’d like to freshen up and catch a nap.”
“I will call Ensign Watanabe. She will see to your quarters.” The nurse’s oily hair glistened brightly. He bowed and left through the infirmary door.
Now that he knew that Uber would be all right, Rimes could feel a crash coming. He’d faced them often enough to know the signs. He paced, clenching and unclenching his hands, biting his tongue, breathing deeply. He shook his head violently, did several deep knee bends. It was enough for the moment, but the moments kept creeping by.
Finally, the waiting room door opened, and a seaman entered. He looked like a wire frame with a crisp blue uniform hanging off it.
“Sergeant Rimes? Ensign Watanabe sent me. You need quarters?” The young man’s accent would have been a challenge even if Rimes weren’t in the middle of a crash.
Rimes grunted acknowledgement, and the young man darted back through the door. Rimes gathered his kit and followed the man down several corridors. Rimes was too tired to keep track of where he was and just trusted that the young man wouldn’t lead him astray.
Finally, they stopped outside an open hatch.
“The head,” the seaman said, then pointed at another hatch down the corridor. “Your berth. No one here now. You can rest.” He disappeared around a corner.
The bathroom was a modest affair—open shower bay, a few toilet stalls. The quarters were slightly better, even with four bunks squeezed into a relatively tight space. Everything looked clean. Rimes stowed his kit beneath the foot of a bunk, fished out his field hygiene kit, returned to the head, relieved himself, and showered.
Rimes took a moment to brush his teeth, then checked himself in the mirror as he repacked his kit. Bruises discolored light cinnamon skin, and a shallow scrape—already healing—stood out on his left cheek, more noticeable because of his prominent cheekbones.
Somewhat refreshed, he made his way to the bunks, shirt slung over his left arm, boots and socks gripped tightly in his left hand. He tossed his shirt onto the top bunk opposite the hatch, set his boots and socks at the foot of the lower bunk, and slipped under the covers, immediately drifting into sleep.
Too soon, someone shook him awake.
A female ensign in tight Navy whites squinted at him intensely from a half-crouch at his shoulder. She was cute despite the serious, borderline-angry look on her long face.
It took Rimes a moment to realize he was staring at her. He looked away.
The ensign straightened up and adjusted her uniform. “Sergeant Rimes, you have a call in the comm room.”
Rimes searched for his earpiece and panicked.
Lost it. I can’t connect to the Grid, can’t—
He found it and glanced at the time display. Just over an hour of sleep. He was shaking. He needed coffee.
“Thanks, ma’am. The comm—”
“I will take you there.”
“I appreciate it, ma’am.”
“Ensign Watanabe,” she corrected.
Rimes spun around on his butt until he was sitting, closed his eyes, and let the dizziness pass. He pulled on his socks and boots, stood, and tested his balance. He looked toward the hatch, grabbing his shirt. “After you, ma’am.”
Watanabe adjusted her uniform again and headed out the hatch, walking stiffly.
By the time Rimes got his bearings, he was outside the communications room with Ensign Watanabe walking swiftly away.
Crewmen watched him curiously from their workstations. Rimes stepped inside, for the first time truly feeling like the outsider he was. One of the crewmen pointed to a small office off the main room, not even bothering to ask who he was. Rimes muttered a “thank you” and crossed between the staring crewmen to the office, closing the door behind him.
Nobody was there.
The office was empty except for a desk that held a portable, secure communications terminal; it was flashing, indicating a held connection.
Rimes synced his earpiece with the device and sat on the desk.
His earpiece buzzed and chirped—the telltales of encryption negotiation—and then he was connected.
“This is Lieutenant Commander Derrick Cross of the USS Sutton. Who is this, please?”
“Sergeant Jack Rimes here, sir.”
“Sergeant, we have a 121 en route to you, ETA fifty-seven minutes.”
Rimes blinked. “I don’t understand, sir. I’m supposed to fly to Darwin this afternoon. I have a flight back to the US tomorrow.”
“Your leave’s canceled,” Cross said. “I’m sorry to have to report that, but we’ve had an incident hit the radar. Your Commando team is already en route to the Sutton. Captain Moltke said he needed everyone for this one.”
Rimes bowed his head and rubbed his forehead. “Understood, sir.”
It was his third leave canceled in the last two years.
He’d managed a short weekend with Molly in Italy three months ago, but since then he’d had to rely on electronic communications, only a few of them semi-private vids.
It was tough on a marriage, but he’d become used to that sort of sacrifice since enlisting. Molly, on the other hand, was becoming less patient with each passing month, but at least she was realistic enough to know there weren’t a lot of other job opportunities for someone who didn’t have a graduate degree and whose work experience amounted to killing people.
“We’ll see you on the Sutton, Sergeant.”
The connection terminated.
Rimes unsynced his earpiece. Whatever was up, it was big.
He couldn’t recall any information about the Sutton, but he’d been on a dozen ships in his relatively short career, all of them helicopter carriers. If the Sutton had its own CH-121, it had, at minimum, a modest flight deck.
Rimes stepped into the communications room and asked a young man to call Ensign Watanabe. She arrived so quickly, Rimes wondered if she’d been waiting outside the door the whole time.
Once they were away from the communications center, she stopped and looked at him with her arms folded across her chest. “Where do you need to go, Sergeant Rimes?”
Rimes tried to smile charmingly. “I could really use some coffee, ma’am.”
She tapped her fingers on her arm impatiently.
He sighed. “And I’d like to swing by the infirmary if it’s possible to visit Major Uber before leaving?”
Wantanabe’s brow furrowed. “There’s no hurry. We won’t be close enough to fly you to Darwin for some time.”
“I won’t be heading to Australia, unfortunately, ma’am. Look, I was serious about the coffee, and I’d very much like to see the major if he’s awake.”
Watanabe spun and walked quickly down the corridor. Rimes waited a moment, admiring the swing of her slender hips. He’d been away from Molly for far too long, and he was starting to feel it, even in his fatigued state. With a shake of his head, he fell in behind Watanabe.
The officer’s mess was surprisingly small, but compared to what he’d seen on other ships, he was impressed. In one quick glance, he’d noticed a great deal of attention to detail—personalized bamboo trays, ranks engraved into tabletops, a cart for serving saké, and a sushi bar.
Even the coffee bar was impressive, its gleaming stainless steel brewing machine surrounded by matching sugar and creamer dispensers. The shelf below held rows of silver-framed, intricately cut crystal cups. A teal-colored Japanese tea set and matching tray with a painted beach scene rested on a shelf immediately beneath the cups.
Rimes helped himself to one of the crystal cups and stared at the coffee machine for a moment.
Watanabe pointed to a button on the machine’s base.
He pushed the button. A seam in the side of the machine opened to lower a spout. Rimes quickly caught the steaming coffee in his crystal cup before it spilled.
“This is quite a setup.”
Watanabe lifted her chin and almost smiled. Her voice softened. “You know Major Uber well?”
“He and Captain Nakata and I have worked together a few times—Minsk, Montevideo, Tunis.” Rimes stirred sugar into the cup with a tiny silver spoon, enjoying the coffee’s aroma. His saliva glands woke from their slumber. He sipped from the cup and was pleasantly surprised at the burst of flavors. Real coffee. They live a different life. “I just want to let him know I’ll be in touch.”
“Your work,” Watanabe said, pausing uncertainly, shifting from question to statement. “It is dangerous.”
“It can be, just like yours,” Rimes said, smiling around a sip. “The better you are at it, the safer it is.”
Watanabe returned the smile, hesitantly. “You were in Singapore?”
“Yes, ma’am.” There was no value in denying what was common knowledge.
“It was about the Indonesian Finance Minister assassination?”
Rimes stared
into his coffee cup.
Watanabe quietly cleared her throat. “LoDu has filed a protest with the United Nations. They deny any involvement with the assassination. They claim stories of their displeasure with Indonesian policy are greatly exaggerated.”
Rimes looked at her. “Do you believe that, ma’am?”
“I am not sure.”
“Well, it's typical metacorporate behavior—denial, obfuscation, misdirection, and if none of that works, offer up one of the smaller corporate entities to take the blame and scapegoat some low-level executive. At least it wasn't ADMP or EEC. Or SunCorps. I don't want to even think about how SunCorps would handle something like this. Probably tell the Council to take a walk. I can't believe what the metacorporations have done to us.”
“I want to work for a metacorporation one day. Wang, HuCorp, maybe even LoDu.”
“Oh, sorry, ma’am!”
“No. I am not blind to their behavior. They can do …” She lowered her head. “Terrible things. And there are rumors about their ambitions in the colony worlds. It seems the larger they get, the worse they might behave?”
Rimes took another sip of the coffee, mulling the sophisticated blend of flavors. There were contrasts and complements, strong and subtle differences.
Complicated. Like us.
Finally, he said, “We’re all capable of terrible things.”
Watanabe blinked slowly. “The coffee, you like it?”
“It’s wonderful.” Rimes drained his cup and set it down on a nearby table, relieved. The awkward moment was over. He felt an immediate boost, but he knew it was really psychological. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Watanabe bowed her head slightly, then adjusted her uniform and picked up the cup and spoon, setting them in a nearby plastic tub, then quickly led the way out of the room and through the ship.
They arrived at the infirmary a couple minutes later. Watanabe spoke to the nurse, then left Rimes alone outside Uber’s room, peering through the door at the only occupied bed.
“Jack?” Uber, looking every bit the corpse warmed over, beckoned Rimes into the room. “Come in.”
Rimes crossed to the bedside, his eyes playing across the equipment and displays before settling on Uber’s pale, strained face. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and latex.
