by Adams, P R
“How’re you feeling, sir?”
“Like hell,” Uber said with a strained smile, then bit his upper lip for a moment. “The nurses tell me I will make it, whether I like it or not. I cannot complain.”
They both laughed quietly, even though it wasn’t funny.
Rimes looked at the equipment displays again. He was no expert, but Uber’s vitals seemed weak. His eyes were watery and tired. Uber’s wound was close to the heart; he was lucky to be alive.
They all were.
Uber wheezed, sounding even weaker than before. “You stop by to say hello or goodbye?”
“Goodbye, sir,” Rimes said. Not heading home to Molly hurt. “Orders just came through. I’m being redeployed.”
“It can be demanding, this life.”
Rimes grunted.
Uber extended his right hand. “I wish you good luck, Jack.”
His hand trembled.
Rimes gripped the hand gently and shook.
Uber gripped back hard, then pulled Rimes close.
“We were compromised,” Uber whispered. “Not me. Not you or the Russian.”
Rimes nodded once. “We know Nakata.”
Uber raised an eyebrow. “Whichever one it was, LoDu got to him. There is money to be had, a lot of it.”
Rimes glanced at the doorway. “The Special Security Council assigned Tendulkar.”
Uber released Rimes’ hand. “They assigned us all. Watch yourself, Jack. It is a complex world, and you are too trusting for your own good.”
Rimes shrugged. He’d heard the accusation before, but without trust, he couldn’t perform his job.
No soldier could.
“Get better, sir.”
Uber winked, then winced. “I think it is time to sleep now. Pleasant dreams await me, no doubt. Thank you, Jack.”
Rimes started to leave the room.
Uber called after him, his voice a whisper. “What we discussed? Think about it, please.”
4
20 February 2164. JSS Okazaki.
* * *
Rimes stepped out of the room. Ensign Watanabe straightened and adjusted her uniform. Everything about her said she was ready to be done with this. Rimes wondered if she saw him merely as an inconvenience, or if the quiet moment at the coffee bar had been closer to her true nature.
They stopped by his quarters to gather his kit, then took several flights of stairs up before reaching the flight deck. Rimes scanned the horizon as he stepped into the open air, watching for any sign of the CH-121. He checked his earpiece’s data feed: the helicopter was due in twenty-four minutes.
“Sergeant Rimes, I must return to duty now,” Watanabe said, bowing slightly. “You wait only on your transport?”
Rimes saluted. “Yes, ma’am. You have been a most helpful and gracious host.”
Watanabe returned the salute before smiling and waving awkwardly, then disappeared inside the ship. Rimes watched after her for several heartbeats, wondering at the way bridges could so easily be built. It seemed even easier to destroy them.
He returned his gaze to the sky. The ship moved beneath him, tons of steel driving through deep, blue waves. Each movement vibrated through his feet. He counted the waves until he saw the CH-121 in the distance.
A crew chief ran his team out to the forward landing pad, readying for the helicopter’s landing. Rimes watched them as they waved the bird down. The engine’s whine died, and the rotors began their slow spin down.
Rimes walked forward, saluting the pilot as he exited the aircraft. Rimes tossed his kit into the passenger bay and looked the bird over. “She’s a beauty, Lieutenant.”
The pilot returned the salute. “She is. Not even three years old.” He gave the fuselage a loving rub.
“Is the Sutton new, sir? I’ve never heard of her.”
“New enough,” the pilot said. He pulled off his aviator glasses, then began chewing on one of the legs and twirling the glasses as he watched the crew connect the fuel hose.
Rimes looked the cockpit over for a few minutes. “What package does she have installed, sir? Looks like long-range transport?”
The pilot nodded distractedly at the extra fuel tanks slung beneath the belly. “That’s enough fuel to get us wherever we need to go.” He turned to look at Rimes. “We’re not here for sub hunts or search and rescue, Sergeant. I think you know that.”
“I’ve been on a few helicopter carriers.”
“Not like the Sutton,” the pilot said with a wink. He saluted the crew chief, who signaled the bird was ready to go. “She’s a special ship. You’ll see.”
Rimes climbed in and buckled up. The engine started, rising from a whine to a thunderous whipping of the air. It was a comforting, familiar sound.
Rimes looked around the empty bay. No crew chief, one pilot—it wasn’t a normal flight. The mission was becoming more troubling each passing second.
He tried to get some sense of where he was going and why. The first thing he considered was the location. The Pacific was simply too large a region, filled with too many potential targets, even when considering the whole team had been scrambled.
It’s big, whatever it is, but that just takes some of the minor powers out of the picture. Maybe they’ve located Kwon already? Maybe LoDu flexed a bit too much muscle for its own good?
He connected to the helicopter’s communications system and began downloading available regional intelligence and news feeds. That didn’t help, either. Names, situations, and places merged into gibberish.
He yawned and stretched, trying to fight off his need for sleep. A moment later, his head fell forward and he realized it was hopeless. He nodded off.
He woke to the pilot’s voice in his earpiece. The Sutton was visible far below, speeding west. It was afternoon, the ocean a brilliant sparkle in the sunlight. To the north, Rimes could make out the bend of a distant shore. He linked into the Sutton’s systems with his earpiece and confirmed he was looking at the Indian–Bangladeshi coastline.
A knot formed in his stomach as he considered the implications.
When the UN Special Security Council had recruited him for their previous mission, he’d spoken with the Indian representative, Deepa Bhatia.
Representative Bhatia’s sorrowful description of her Indian homeland came back to him clearly. She had described it as a land dragged down by the weight of its own former greatness and the insistence on worshiping that same greatness. For more than a century, its government had been caught up in a cycle of corruption and ineptness, collapsing before transitioning to some semblance of order, always driven by wealthy and corporate influences.
The Special Security Council seemed intent on reshaping things. They wanted to protect and to correct the global landscape. Eventually, they hoped to extend that to the colonies. It was inevitable they would bump against the rival influences, the same wealthy and corporate powers that had led India to its collapse.
Rimes sighed. Why would we want to get involved in India’s affairs? We can’t even handle our own.
Rimes returned his attention to the flight deck. The Sutton was a helicopter carrier, larger than others he'd seen. It must have been a relatively new class, because he wasn't familiar with the design. He spotted a few unique weapons systems. The configuration was clearly even more expensive than the helicopter carriers he’d been aboard before.
A crew chief guided them in. Several meters back, Rimes saw four men. As the CH-121 settled to the deck, the men advanced, and Rimes recognized his fellow Commandos—Martinez, Pasqual, Wolford, and Chung.
Edward “Marty” Martinez was nearly as tall as Rimes but with hints of gray in his dark hair; Rick Pasqual was thick through the chest, copper-skinned, and handsome; Lewis Wolford was broad-shouldered and bald, intimidating even when he gave his friendliest smile; Patrick Chung was a ball of energy, even while standing still.
Another figure joined them on the deck, a woman.
She wore a jungle boonie hat secured by its straps;
it fluttered in the rotor wash. A simple, loose-fitting uniform made it impossible to gauge her by her physique. Large sunglasses hid the rest of her identity.
Nevertheless, something about her seemed familiar—and troubling.
Rimes stepped out of the helicopter and made his way over to his friends, greeting each as appropriate: a handshake for Martinez, a slap on the shoulder for Pasqual, a fist bump for Chung, a bear hug for Wolford. He’d trained with them, been on missions with them, said goodbye to the fallen with them. They were friends, brothers.
Martinez, with his gruff voice and uncertain gait brought on by more wounds than even he could recall, was like a father to the rest of them.
“You got someone waitin’ for you, Jack,” Martinez said, jerking his head back toward the woman as he shook Rimes’s hand. “How the hell did you let this one get away?”
Rimes looked over Martinez’s shoulder at the woman, frowning. “A lot of fish got through the net before I closed it, Marty. You know how it is.”
“Not like this one.” Martinez released Rimes and turned to the woman, nodding at her.
The woman approached, her curves becoming more apparent with each step, despite the baggy uniform. Curly, golden-brown hair peeked from beneath the boonie cap. She held out a pale copper hand in the fading afternoon sun.
“Sergeant Rimes,” she said, with a smile that brought back memories he had no interest in revisiting.
“Dana.”
“Special Agent Kleigshoen, if it makes you more comfortable,” she said. “I’m with the Intelligence Bureau now.”
“IB?” Rimes shook her hand.
It was softer than he remembered. The last time he’d held it, it had been calloused and strong. Her hair had been shorter back then, the curls tighter. She’d put on weight that had softened her face and filled out her form.
It suited her—extremely well.
“They’re ready to brief us.” Martinez gave Rimes a warning glance. “The captain’s on edge about this one.”
“Shit,” Wolford said, his face breaking out in a broad grin. “He’s spittin’ fire.”
Chung tsked. “They pulled him off leave while he was rolling down the runway at Heathrow. He’d already gone through two of those little airplane whiskey bottles. He was one angry son of a bitch.”
Rimes chuckled. “He loves his whiskey. I don’t know how he can afford it.”
“Man’s got to have his priorities,” Martinez said.
Wolford sneaked a peek at Kleigshoen, then looked at Rimes. “You got priorities of your own, right?”
Rimes winced. Wolford always said that he would have bailed from Army life years before if not for the crippling debt of marriage and divorce. Rimes didn’t want this—he thought of Molly, of being away from her. “Makes you wonder why we do this, doesn’t it?”
Martinez snorted. “That’s not how I taught you to think, Sergeant. Duty and honor.”
“Hoo-ah,” the men shouted in unison.
Kleigshoen pointed toward the stairs. “I think we can proceed now, Gentlemen? You’re going to want to hear this.”
Martinez waved Kleigshoen ahead. Chung and Pasqual fell in behind her, each watching her swaying hips. Wolford looked back at Rimes and mouthed a whistle. Rimes held up his wedding band and shook his head. Wolford gave him a dismissive wave and moved past.
“You don’t need woman trouble,” Martinez whispered in Rimes’s ear.
“It’s all in the past,” Rimes said.
“Uh huh. She’s still trouble,” Martinez whispered in Rimes’s ear. “I hope you know that.”
Rimes sighed.
5
20 February 2164. USS Sutton.
* * *
Rimes settled in between Martinez and Wolford as Kleigshoen made her way to the head of the conference room table. Nearly twenty people were seated around the table or in rows along the back wall. The air was warm and smelled of boot leather and freshly scrubbed flesh.
Rimes recognized most of those gathered. He nodded and smiled at those he knew best. He hesitated when he saw Barlowe and Stern.
Stern was one of the better Commandos, a sturdy, strong-jawed, respected soldier. But he was still rehabilitating from a serious knee injury that at one point Rimes had heard had been a serious threat to Stern’s career. He was coming along, but his mobility was limited. His inclusion didn’t make a lot of sense.
Barlowe’s involvement was even less understandable. He was a good kid, and he was brilliant with computers, but he was a project. Slight of build, baby-faced, and uncomfortable in his own skin, he never seemed at ease. Everyone knew he’d completed the qualifying course with the lowest score possible and was a Commando only after intervention from Colonel Weatherford, the Special Forces Group commander at Fort Sill.
Martinez had been mentoring Barlowe for more than eight months. There was no better mentor to have, yet Barlowe hadn’t progressed much.
We’ve all had to cover for Barlowe just to keep him in the unit. Some of us more than others.
Martinez looked at Rimes. Rimes could see the annoyance in Martinez’s eyes until he slowly closed them. Martinez shook his head once; no words needed to be spoken.
This is Weatherford’s team. No one else would have made these choices. If he’s involved, this has to be serious.
Pasqual leaned in from his seat behind Rimes, drawing him out of his thoughts. Pasqual traced an hourglass in the air over Kleigshoen’s figure with his stubby index fingers.
“Any regrets now, baby?” Pasqual asked. “Little girl’s all grown up since her Ranger days.”
Rimes scratched the back of his head with an extended middle finger in reply. Pasqual chuckled and slapped Rimes on the back.
At the head of the table, Kleigshoen bent to speak quietly to Captain Moltke, who nodded and stood. The lieutenant commander to Moltke’s right also stood, and Kleigshoen stepped back from the table. Moltke exchanged a mysterious smile with Kleigshoen, then turned his attention to the seated Commandos.
The lieutenant commander cleared his throat, silencing the room.
“Gentlemen, thank you. For those I haven’t met yet, I’m Lieutenant Commander Cross. As the Sutton’s Deputy Ops Chief, it has been my unfortunate duty to inform many of you of canceled leave. I don’t expect that’s earned me any friends.”
A chuckle ran through the room; Moltke grimaced uncomfortably.
In that moment, Rimes couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the two officers. Moltke had been an operator for three years and was extremely fit. He had close-cropped, brown hair, tanned, bronze skin, and a strong jawline. Cross was pale and had little chin to speak of, just a stretch of pock-marked skin where his face and neck met. He was soft, the first hints of a paunch visible under his khaki shirt.
Cross continued: “I want to welcome you to the Sutton. I believe you’ll find her to your liking. She’s a good ship with a good crew. If you need anything, I want you to come straight to me. Now, I think I’ve wasted enough of your time, so I want to turn you over to Captain Moltke. Captain?”
Moltke moved away from the table, coming to a stop in the shadows near Stern. Moltke cleared his throat. “Thanks, Commander. All right, let’s get to it. You’ve got eyes, so you’ve already seen we’ve pulled out all the stops on this one. It’s big. The IB has a physical presence here with Agent Kleigshoen. We’ll be running three teams—Red, Green, and Blue. Marty, you’ve got Red; Kirk, you’ve got Blue. Rimes, Green.”
Martinez gave Rimes a quick elbow to the ribs.
It would be Rimes’s first formal team lead, something he’d dreamed of since becoming a Commando. He normally operated on Martinez’s team or ran solo. He’d have to tell Molly. Running a team was part of the path to promotion, to better money, and to a better life.
“I’ve already worked out rosters. I’ll upload them after Agent Kleigshoen’s briefing. We’ll take questions at the briefing’s conclusion. Agent Kleigshoen?”
Kleigshoen ste
pped forward. She activated the conference room’s briefing system, which automatically dimmed the lighting. A simple graphic appeared, noting the Sutton’s position relative to accepted political boundaries.
“Thank you, Captain, Commander. As you’re no doubt aware, we’re in the Bay of Bengal, 200 klicks off the Indian coast. Three days ago, we intercepted some troubling communications between T-Corp management from off-world and their main facility in Mumbai about a secret research facility near here.”
The graphic transitioned to a hi-res satellite image of a forested area bisected by a wide north-running river and criss-crossed by several smaller ones.
Two callouts highlighted areas of interest. The first was a surprisingly large compound with several buildings. The compound, labeled “T-Corp 72,” was integrated into the forest’s natural contours; it could have slipped past the imaging analysis software on an older satellite, before advanced confluent inference systems had been installed. The second was a clump of small forms labeled “T-Corp Ops.”
“T-Corp 72—” Kleigshoen circled the compound with a wave of her finger, and a yellow circle highlighted the compound. “—was a T-Corp research facility illegally built in the Sundarbans. It was abandoned nearly thirty-six years ago, after a joint Europe-Africa military raid unleashed a virus that Eurica agencies estimate killed more than fifty thousand in India, Egypt, Turkey, and Italy.
“Officially, T-Corp shut the facility down because of international treaties protecting the region from any form of economic exploitation outside tourism. Unofficially, there’s very strong evidence T-Corp was conducting illegal genetics research.”
“Weapons?” Martinez asked, ignoring Moltke’s briefing protocols.
“We believe it was early genie research. The virus was likely an unfortunate incident after accidental release of some of the research materials.” Kleigshoen circled the “T-Corp Ops” forms with her finger. “Apparently, something has renewed T-Corp’s interest in the facility. As you can see, as of 0200 this morning, a team of T-Corp operatives approached the facility in clear violation of the agreements signed following the outbreak.”
