by Rick Partlow
“That’s something I am going to have to check out,” Shannon nodded. “And it’s going to be a bitch doing it without the President finding out. But the reason I came to you has less to do with the why and more to do with the how.”
“Right, like if they actually think they have a chance of succeeding, they gotta have an inside guy,” he said. “Unless they’re planning on crashing a cargo ship into the President’s mansion out of orbit, and even the CeeGees can’t be crazy enough for that. So who has access and opportunity that we think would want to do it?”
“And do they plan on getting away with it?” Shannon pondered, rubbing a hand on the back of her neck tiredly. “If you’re willing to sacrifice yourself, you can use any method…hell, a sharp stick would do it.”
“But if you want to get away with it,” Crossman amplified, “you have to use something undetectable, something that can’t be traced back to you. So let’s take three approaches here…what could you use if you wanted to get away with it, what could you use if you didn’t care and what couldn’t you use at all?”
“Well, this stuff’s out the window,” Shannon laughed, kicking at the stack of fake hyperexplosives. “There’s chemscanners all around the President, wherever he goes, and there’re too many different people running them to fake them all out. Same goes for conventional firearms.”
“Most poisons too, and those aren’t sure kills, not with the medical facilities he always has available around him. So, we’ve ruled out bombs, guns and poisons,” he ticked off on his fingers. “You could try for a long-range, coldgas-launched missile, but the automated defenses the Security Service sets up wherever the President goes should be able to detect those and shoot them down. Maybe,” he mused, “a Gauss gun could do it, if it was powerful enough and you could set it up far away enough to escape detection during the security sweep. No way the defenses could shoot down a tungsten penetrator going that fast. They wouldn’t even detect it till it was past.”
“Getting a clear shot from that far away would be difficult to set up though,” Shannon pointed out. “That’s one of the things the Security people look for right away when they’re scouting a location.”
“Wouldn’t necessarily have to be a clear shot,” he pointed out. “A penetrator slug launched from an electromagnetic cannon could go right through a couple buildings and take out the President easy.”
“You’re right,” she nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, we’ll mark that down as a possibility. We can always have Security widen their scans and look for power readings that could fire a gun that big. Anything else? Anything that could get him when he’s at home? In Capital City?”
“Well, we’re back to a sharp stick or an orbital strike there,” Tom shrugged. “I just don’t see a way for the killer to get away, so it would have to be either up close and personal and he doesn’t care if he dies in the attempt, or it’s something so big that it’s more a coup than an assassination.”
Shannon frowned and her eyes narrowed. “That’s an interesting thought, Tom.” She shook her head clear, then smiled warmly. “So, how’s this class looking?”
“Lots of promise in this one,” he told her, accepting the abrupt change of subject without flinching. “Gonna’ be hard to keep the normal cull rate. I’d like to graduate half of them, to be honest.”
“Take them, then,” she told him. He raised an eyebrow. “If Jason does find Antonov somewhere out there…well, we may need all the help we can get.”
* * *
Shamir watched the line of Colonial Guard officer candidates through his binoculars as the camouflage-clad, armored men and women moved through the tall grass of the wide, open plane, their weapons held listlessly, fatigue plain in their gait and pace as the afternoon sun beat down on their heads. They’d been in the field for three days, little of it spent sleeping, and they were not used to it. They were only three weeks into the four-month training course and most of them had never even picked up a weapon before their trip to the range in week one, much less humped one through the boonies.
“Sergeant Chen,” he transmitted over the ‘link microphone attached to his collar, “whenever you’re ready.”
“Yes, sir,” came the laconic reply from the training NCO. Less than a minute later, the tall grass parted in a dozen spots arrayed in a semicircle to the front of the trainees and he could faintly hear the chatter of simulator rounds as the platoon of officer candidates scattered, some running, some hitting the ground, others standing where they were and returning fire. Only three did the correct thing: they charged into the ambush, laying down suppressive fire as they bounded forward. But there were too many attackers and eventually they were overwhelmed, the joints of their body armor locking up and freezing them in place when the lasers from the simulator guns hit the sensors built into the armor.
“All right,” Ari sighed, “let’s get down there for the After Action Review.”
He jumped into the open-topped utility groundcar, taking a seat beside the enlisted driver. Behind him, Captain Adedotun Odawale and First Lieutenant Alida Hudec climbed into the rear seats and the driver set off down the hill toward the ambush site. Odawale was a tall, somewhat gangly African male, his skin dark as ebony, his head clean-shaven and his eyes harsh and business-like. Hudec was a dark-haired, dark-eyed eastern European woman with an athlete’s build and piercing green eyes. Ari had just met them both yesterday, but his first impression was that they were professionals…probably more of Kage’s new breed.
By the time the groundcar arrived at the site, training NCOs were already freeing the officer candidates from their armor-induced paralysis and the thirty-six men and women were mostly resting on the ground, helmets in their laps, some gulping down water, others merely grumbling in low voices. The other platoon, the ambushers, was in much better spirits; laughing, trading stories and slapping each other on the back. Ari stepped into the midst of them, trailed by the other two officers.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, hands clasped behind him. “Can anyone tell me what the proper response to an ambush in open country is?”
One of the men in his platoon, a handsome young Argentine, raised his hand. “You are to assault through the ambush, Captain Al Masri.”
“That is correct, Candidate Matienzo. And you did just that, as did Candidates Calderon and Maathai. It didn’t work, however…because the rest of Fourth Training Platoon seems to have forgotten that lesson. At least a few of you bothered to return fire, although standing in the middle of an open field and returning fire is a quick form of suicide. The rest of you either hit the ground and hid or ran outright. Tell me, ladies and gentlemen, what do suppose the punishment is for doing such a thing in actual combat?”
Maathai raised his hand. “Court-martial and possibly execution, sir, if your actions caused the deaths of your fellow Guard troopers.”
Ari nodded. “At the very least, you would be kicked out of the Guard for good, and sent back to your homes with your tails between your legs, any respect you may have had now gone forever.” He spread his hands before him demonstratively. “You have only been here a few weeks. I can forgive a mistake…that can be rectified with training, with practice. I cannot forgive innate cowardice. We will forget this happened, just this once. If it happens again, those in question will be sent home and it will be a minimum of six months before they are again allowed to re-apply for training.” He looked them over, back and forth. “Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” came the disjointed mumble of replies.
“I said,” he barked, louder, “am I clear?”
“Yes, sir!” The response was louder and more uniform. He smiled thinly.
“You are tired,” he went on. “You are hungry. You are hot, your muscles ache, your weapons are heavy. You are not used to this. That is why you are here, my children. To get used to it. Let me ask you, do you suppose that a Panamanian Liberation Front terrorist will allow you the luxury of a rest break before they attack? I can per
sonally assure you that they won’t…they are without mercy and without remorse. They are worse than animals, for at least animals have rational, logical needs and follow predictable means to achieve them. If they get the upper hand, they will not hesitate to kill you. You must not allow them to have the upper hand. If you give in to fatigue, to pain, to confusion, you are defeated before you fire a shot. If you want to kill these terrorist bastards, you must be harder than them.”
“Now,” Lieutenant Hudec stepped forward, “as for you, Third Platoon. You executed the ambush well…but when the three members of Fourth did the proper thing and assaulted into the ambush, how many casualties did you take? Candidate Ramirez?” She addressed the platoon leader.
“Five, ma’am,” the young man admitted. “Two dead.”
“And if more than three had assaulted, if they had been better organized, how many casualties do you think you would have received?”
“At least twice that, ma’am.”
“So tell me, how do you prevent that? How could you set up your ambush to prevent it?” Her question was met with silence. Finally, she looked to Ari. “Captain Al Masri, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“There are two ways,” he told them. “The first, and simplest, is to array your forces in an ‘L’ shape, so that to attack either arm of the ‘L’ requires exposing your flank to enemy fire. The other is to set up in a broad ‘V,’ which would do the same for both flanks. When you put the bulk of your ambushing force in one spot, as you did, you invite an assault and you have no counter to it.”
“So we see,” Captain Odawale spoke up for the first time, his voice clear and full, “that both the ambushers and the ambushed have made mistakes today. But do not allow this to frustrate you, or make you angry. This was not a test that you pass or fail, this was a lesson, as much as any you have received in the classroom or simulator, and it was meant to teach you. The tests will come, both here and later in the field, where to fail is death. Think on this and learn, and you will pass these tests.” He looked up, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand, towards the horizon and a cloud of dust raising on a dirt track. “And I see the transports are here, to take you back to the barracks.” That drew a ragged cheer from the trainees. “Platoon leaders, take charge of your platoons and load them onto the trucks. Weapons maintenance and then dinner.”
“And what are your plans for dinner, Captain?” Lieutenant Hudec asked him quietly as they watched Odawale see the troops loaded onto the vehicles.
He glanced at her with unfeigned curiosity in his eyes. “I had thought to take it in the Officer’s Mess,” he admitted.
“I know of a place in the city that has excellent Moroccan fare,” she smiled, and he couldn’t help but notice the way her face lit up when she smiled. “Do you like Moroccan food?”
“Surely I do, Lieutenant,” he smiled in return. “I would be most grateful if you would be willing to show me this place.”
“I have a flyer on call in the motor pool,” she told him. “Meet me there at 1800 hours…sir.”
“So, Lieutenant Hudec,” Ari said conversationally between bites of lamb, “tell me…how did you wind up as a trainer here?”
“We are away from the base,” she took a sip of wine. “Is it permissible to call me Alida?”
Ari watched the shadows of the candlelight play across her face, not conventionally beautiful but still alluring. “Yes, Alida,” he savored the name as it came off his lips. He was a bit surprised that he had to remind himself not to ask her to call him ‘Ari.’ “I would tell you to call me ‘Mohammed,’ but no one calls me that. My full name is Mohammed Abed Al-Masri, so back home they call me ‘Abed.’ But when I joined the Fleet Marines, my fellow officers all called me ‘Mo.’ This is not something a Muslim would do…you do not shorten the name Mohammed, it is disrespectful.” He shrugged. “I am not so religious as my parents, or especially my grandparents. Which is, I suppose, why I am here rather than in charge of the family fortune, as my elder brother is.” He smiled and lifted his wine glass, inclining it toward her. “You can call me ‘Mo.’”
She nodded, returned the toast and took a sip. “To answer your question, Mo, I came to be here because I embarrassed the hell out of my parents.”
He laughed sharply. “Ah, a direct woman. So, what did you do to scandalize the Hudec family?”
“I was a silly, teenage girl, in my first year at university, rebelling against my parents, who are career diplomats. I was smitten with a boy, who was a neo-Marxist.” She sighed. “I knew nothing of politics other than that he horrified my parents. Unfortunately, he had friends who were not hesitant to use violence to further their beliefs, and I was a convenient pawn. They attempted to kidnap me, to use me as a tool against my parents. It…did not end well for them. While young and stupid, I was not a helpless waif. I disarmed one of them and killed them all.”
“Khara,” he swore softly. It was Arabic for “shit.”
“It was a huge story for a while, and my parents suggested that I might consider going off to college somewhere far away from there. I saved them further mortification by joining the Guard. I finished my schooling in my off time, and went through this course myself only two years ago. Then…” She hesitated, taking another sip of wine. “I was on Kali when the Moro People’s Army attacked the capitol at Pithapuram.”
“Blood of the prophet,” he shook his head. “That was a nightmare.”
“Only four of us survived,” she said softly, staring somewhere past him. “We held out in the armory for three days until reinforcements arrived.”
“Well, I suppose that answers why you are here,” he raised an eyebrow. “Yet, I wonder, Alida, whether anything we can teach them will be enough.” Seemingly casually, he glanced around at the dark, cozy restaurant, its walls decorated with colorful mosaics. There were only a few other people eating and they all seem deeply involved with their own conversations. “Things are bad out there, and they are going to get much worse. O’Keefe is a bloody fool, and our troops are going to be the ones to pay the price.”
“So you are not a fan of the new emigration policies, Mo?” She asked him, her mouth curled into a sarcastic smirk.
“History shows us that revolutions happen in times of increased expectations. That moron is creating the perfect atmosphere for revolution, and then trying to tie our hands and keep us from preventing it. And it’s not just the colonies I worry about,” he expanded. “Without the ability to remove troublemakers and provocateurs from the population, we will be faced with violent uprisings right here on Earth, the same sort that led to forced exile in the first place.” His expression grew dark. “I tell you truly, Alida, I feel that our whole civilization is in danger of burning. And I do not know what I can do to stop it.”
“You are not the only one who feels that way,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to meet his as she hid her mouth behind a sip of wine.
“I am certain of that,” he shrugged. “But unless they wish to get drunk together, I do not see what good it does.”
“You should talk to them,” she suggested. “Then you can judge what good they can do.”
“If you think well of them, I would be happy to, of course,” he said, trying mightily not to show the eagerness he felt. “Though I should tell you, I have little experience speaking with politicians.”
“These men and women are not politicians, Mo. I think you will find them easy to relate to. But I will tell you more once I have had the chance to talk to them. For now…” She cocked her head to the side and grinned. “The night is young. Let us speak of more pleasant things…”
Ari felt his heart beat a bit faster as she laid a hand on top of his.
There were some advantages, he realized as he grinned back at her, to being married to your job…
Chapter Six
Shannon Stark stepped out of the flyer and onto the soft loam of the clearing. The valley and the lake at its center were remnants of the glaciers that had swept through nort
hern Minnesota 12,000 years before, but the cabin and the dock behind it were more recent, dating back only three hundred years. The bass boat floating next to the dock could have been a year old or a hundred…the design for such things didn’t change much. The man dressed in casual clothing, fishing off the dock could have been from anytime in the three hundred years the cabin had existed, though he had definitely changed in the years she had known him.
Glen Mulrooney still had the same wavy, blond hair and the same youthful look to his rounded, pleasant face, but that face seemed less driven than when she’d first met him and more at peace with himself. As she came closer, Glen reeled in his line and dropped the pole into the boat, then turned and strode over to meet her.
“Hey Shannon,” he smiled, taking her hand. “You’re looking good.”
“So are you, Glen,” she said. “Nice place you have here.”
“Isn’t it?” He looked around, as if appreciating it himself for the first time. “Val loves bringing Natalia out here…there’s no roads, no one around for a hundred miles.” He laughed. “I’d never gone fishing before, you know that?” His eyes went thoughtful. “I wonder how many people go fishing. Probably not a lot…most people live their whole lives in the cities.” He shook his head clear. “But I don’t think you flew out all this way to talk about fishing.” He waved at the cabin. “Let’s go inside.”
The interior of the cabin was more modern than the outside; a full holographic communications hub occupied one corner, appropriate for the getaway vacation house of a Republic Senator. Glen gestured to the kitchen table and sat across from her. Running a hand across its smooth surface, she noticed that it was real wood.
“Val said you wanted to talk someplace private,” he said. “I couldn’t think of anyplace more private than this.”
