Ghost-ARC

by John Ringo

  "There are some bits of stainless steel around, too," Wilson said. "I'd wondered what those were. They must have enclosed it in a sleeve, then poured the lead around it."

  "That is going to make it a bitch to disarm," Forester said.

  "Nicht scheiss," Mike replied. "No shit. What's going on in Europe right now?" he asked rhetorically.

  "There's always something being covered by the press," Northcote said, shrugging.

  "Any American officials going to a summit?" Mike asked. "Anything like that?"

  "The G-8 meeting in Zurich!" Forester said, slapping his forehead. "Shit, that's in a week!"

  "Could be that," Mike said. "Let's not get too tightly focused. But it's a good beginning. We need to start looking at potential targets and make it clear what we're dealing with. The nuke is in play and prepped." He pulled out his cell phone and looked at the time. "Okay, I'm going to go find someplace that has a TV. Is there . . . well . . . a 'real' hotel in town?"

  "Not really," Northcote said. "Not something like a Hilton or whatever. There are some in Sarajevo."

  "Okay," Mike said, sighing. "Northcote, get somebody coming up with a target list. But I'm going to go watch TV in Sarajevo and try to go on hunch. It's been working so far."

  He keyed his cell phone and punched in the number the pilot had given him.

  "We're going to Sarajevo next," Mike said. "Just a hop. We'll probably be going somewhere after that."

  * * *

  Mike walked out of the warehouse thoughtfully, then down to the brothel.

  "You again," Kovacic said. The brothel was in full swing and Mike could see several military uniforms in the room.

  "We need to talk," Mike replied, putting his hand on the man's arm and leading him to the back rooms.

  "I want to buy Magdelena," Mike said when they'd entered his cluttered office. Apparently running a brothel was like any business, because most of the clutter was paper and there was a computer on the desk.

  "You won't be able to take her out of the country," Kovacic said, frowning.

  "Yeah, I will," Mike replied. "Trust me."

  "And she is very expensive," the pimp added. "I had to pay very much for her."

  "How expensive?"

  "Fifty thousand euros," Kovacic replied.

  "Pull the other one, it's got bells on it," Mike said, laughing. "I can buy a girl just as good in Eagle Market for five thousand. And younger. I'll give you ten."

  After a good bit of dickering, with Kovacic referring to Magdelena as his daughter and Mike threatening to leave twice, they got the price down to twenty-five thousand euros.

  "Fine, fine." Mike sighed, lifting his bag onto the desk and dipping into it. "Go tell her to get ready to leave."

  When Magdelena came in the room, her eyes widened in fear at the sight of him. Which wasn't anywhere near where he was going, but it would work for the time being. She was carrying a small duffel bag and the hand holding the strap on her shoulder twitched nervously.

  "Here you go," Mike said, pointing to a pile of mixed dollars and euros. "The dollar is over the euro at the moment, but I went with even so you're a bit ahead."

  Kovacic pulled some of the notes out at random and checked them for counterfeit, then pulled apart a couple of the bundles and started counting.

  "Can we go?" Mike asked. "I have a plane to catch."

  "I suppose," Kovacic said, frowning at the pile. "You were planning on buying girl?"

  "No," Mike replied. "I tend to carry a good bit of cash on me. It's not as if anyone was going to take it. They can feel free to try." He took Magdelena's hand and led her out of the office and out of the brothel to the street, then looked around for a taxi.

  "Magdelena, I treated you horribly," Mike said, not sure if the girl was understanding what he said or not. "I can't take that back, but I can try to improve things for you. I won't do what I did to you again. But you have to promise me not to try to run away. Not right now. If you want to leave once we're out of Bosnia, you can. But if you stick with me, I'll try to do the right thing by you."

  "Where we go?" Magdelena asked, confused.

  "Right now, Sarajevo," Mike said. "I need a hotel with a decent TV connection."

  He finally managed to get a taxi and directed it to the airport. Once there he went to the plane and was pleased and surprised to find that the pilot had gotten there before him.

  "We've completed preflight," Hardesty told him, nodding as Mike stepped to the plane with Magdelena's hand still in his. "Pick up a girlfriend?"

  "Something like that," Mike replied. "I saw a TV in the plane. Can it get satellite?"

  "Of course," Hardesty said, as he boarded. "Use the remote for channel changing. Anything from the Playboy channel to CNN."

  "CNN is what I'm interested in," Mike said. He settled Magdelena, her eyes wide at the sight of the plane, in one of the rear seats, then sat down opposite the large TV mounted in the rear bulkhead. He keyed it on as the plane's engines began to whine and had found Headline News, Fox and Skynews by the time the plane was finished taxiing. His interest was Europe, and Skynews had more about Europe than Fox or Headline News. He switched around, looking for current updates.

  "I need an Internet connection," he muttered. "I don't suppose you have a laptop with an Internet connection on it, do you, honey?" he asked rhetorically.

  "No," Magdelena said. "What are you do?"

  "You understand more English than you let on," Mike replied. "I'm trying to figure out what event a terrorist attack is most likely to be against," he continued, flipping back to Headline News. It was at the top of the hour and he listened to the news, ignoring most of the underlying commentary. President Cliff did this, what a horrible person, deaths in Iraq, Syria swearing it's not a source of terrorism, the pope visiting Paris . . .

  "Wait," Mike said, swearing, as the seven seconds devoted to the pope's visit cycled off. Apparently the pope had suddenly become aghast at the state of Catholicism in European countries and after traveling the world had decided to work nearer home. But that was all that Mike could get in the brief bit that Headline News mentioned. And there wasn't anything on the other channels about it, just commentators nattering about how horrible President Cliff and America were, except on Fox, where they were nattering about how horrible the other channels were.

  "Crap, crap, crap," Mike muttered. "I need info." He picked up his cell phone and called Northcote, but all he got was voicemail. The pope would be a perfect target; Catholics from all over France would be gathered to see him. Sure, France was increasingly an Islamic country; Muslims made up about ten percent of the population with an enormous immigration and birthrate while ethnic "French" were barely reproducing themselves. But he was sure that the incidental few hundred thousand Muslims that would be killed in a nuke strike would be of no real issue to Al Qaeda, if that was who was running the show. He thought about the terrorist "engineer" who was at the top of the list to have refurbed, and likely armed, the nuke. He wouldn't bat an eye at killing a few hundred thousand Muslims if he could take more Christians with them. They would simply be martyrs to Allah.

  He thought about it some more and decided that his gut was telling him this was the target. So he picked up the sat phone again and dialed OSOL.

  "Office of Special Operations Liaison, Colonel Johannsen, Duty Officer, how may I help you, sir?"

  "Go scramble," Mike said, punching in his code.

  "Scrambled."

  "This is Mike Jenkins," Mike said. "Pull up my file if you don't know who I am. I need somebody to brief me on where the pope is going to be in Paris and when. I also need access to France in a private jet for myself and one undocumented female." He felt the jet begin to reduce power, as if preparing to land, and stopped. "Wait one." He keyed the intercom for the cockpit and whistled.

  "Sorry about this," Mike said. "I don't suppose we have fuel to get to Paris?"

  "We do, sir," Hardesty replied. "I take it I should divert?"

  "If
you please," Mike said. "I have to get back to the other line.

  "Sorry about that," he continued. "We were landing in Sarajevo. Can you get somebody to run point for me by the time we get to Paris? We'll probably be going into DeGaulle, at a guess."

  "I can do that," Johannsen said. "Is this about the item?"

  "Yes. I'm running on gut. Everybody else can run around to whatever event they want, but I'm guessing it's the pope. The timing is right, the target is right. So I'll need high-level access."

  "What's the name of the undocumented female?" Johannsen asked.

  "Magdelena Averina," Mike said, pulling the first Russian name that came to mind. "And I'm under the cover name, Michael Duncan."

  "Got that, too," Johannsen said. "I'll put out the word that you're headed there and give a heads-up to the locals."

  "Thanks," Mike replied. "Out here."

  "We are not go Sarajevo?" Magdelena asked.

  "Nope," Mike said, leaning back. "We're on our way to the City of Light."

  Chapter Six

  "The pope is going to do a large audience at the Stade de France and a high mass on Sunday at Notre Dame. The high mass is the culmination of a seventeen-country European tour."

  Colonel Mark De'Courcy was one of three military attachés in the U.S. embassy in Paris. He had graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point, served as a junior officer in the Twenty-Fourth (later Third) Infantry Division, then up the chain, mostly in staff positions, until he had managed to wangle this assignment. And as with everyone associated with military or security work in Europe, he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep in the past two days. So he was less than thrilled about meeting some high-level, no-real-names-I'm-special agent at two in the morning at Charles DeGaulle.

  "French police are all over both events like flies," he continued as he, the agent and the agent's Russian hooker-girlfriend walked to the waiting embassy car. It was a Peugeot with diplomatic plates. "We've got the call on the van and they're looking for it. So why are you here?"

  "Because I've been lucky every step of the way," Mike replied. The colonel was a starchy regular Army SOB who clearly thought he was hot shit for getting such a choice assignment as military attaché to the French. Of course, the French military had sunk to such a low ebb, they'd be hard pressed to defend their country from a troop of well-trained Cub Scouts. So being a military attaché was less than impressive to Mike. "I got lucky in Russia, I got lucky in Bosnia and if this is where it's coming, you'd better hope I get lucky here."

  "Well, we put the word out to the French security guys that you were inbound," De'Courcy said, sighing as they got in the car. "They're less than thrilled but willing to work with us. What are you planning on doing?"

  "The events are tomorrow, right?"

  "Yeah," De'Courcy said. "The audience is at noon and the high mass is at four PM. Then he goes on to Berlin. That's closer to Bosnia, I might add."

  "I know that much geography," Mark replied dryly. "But the longer this item is in play, the more likely we are to pick it up. And if they didn't know we were tracking, they do now with the way that IFOR took down the warehouse; that stood out like a sore thumb. I'm surprised it's not all over the news."

  "There was a squib about it," De'Courcy said. "We covered it with a suspected bomb-making facility."

  "Like that's going to hold with NEST running around in coveralls that say NEST," Mike said irritably. He thought for a moment and then shrugged. "Where's this stadium?"

  "Southwest of Paris, out in the suburbs," De'Courcy replied, pulling a map out of his briefcase. "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere away from the stadium," Mike said. "And away from Notre Dame. Northeast of Paris is there a good hotel?"

  "There's a Hilton up there," De'Courcy said. "Will that do?"

  "I dunno," Mike said. "Is it outside the radius of a ten-megaton blast?"

  De'Courcy shot a look at the girl and his jaw worked, but he nodded. "Yeah."

  "Suits," Mike answered. "Leave the map, give me some contact info and I'll cut you loose. Where do you want to be dropped? I take it I can keep the car and driver?"

  "At the embassy," De'Courcy said grumpily. "It's going to be an all-nighter. And, yeah, the car's yours."

  * * *

  Mike checked into the Hilton, taking a suite that he insisted be on the north side, and led Magdelena upstairs. They attracted looks from the late-night staff, especially since he was pretty travel-worn and both of them were carrying single bags, but he could care less about the looks.

  When they got to the suite, and got rid of the entirely unnecessary bellhop, Mike showed her the two rooms.

  "You can have either one you like," he said.

  "Which one will you use?" she asked, confused.

  "The one you don't," Mike replied. "Look, I know I messed up in Bosnia. I'm sorry. I'm not carting you along to use you again. Maybe we'll have time to get together. If we do, I'll try to show you the more pleasant side of me. But for right now, I have to get moving. Stay in the room. Order room service if you want food. Don't go out. You can run away if you'd like, but I don't suggest it. And don't call anyone. Just . . . watch TV or something. Okay? If we get a chance I'll take you shopping. But I don't think we'll get a chance."

  Mike put his dirty clothes in the bag provided, called down and asked the management to try to get them cleaned by tomorrow, and walked out.

  "Where to?" the driver said, leaning his seat upright as Mike walked to the car.

  "You know this stadium the colonel was talking about?" Mike asked.

  "Yes, sir," the driver said, putting the car in gear. "There?"

  "There first," Mike replied, looking at the map. The stadium was circled in red. He first checked the legend, then made some circles with his fingers. Unless he was much mistaken, a blast there would take out the stadium and some of the burgeoning suburbs around it. But that was about it. However, a blast near Notre Dame would completely gut Paris. And the bomb was a big one, one of the nasty "city busters" from the 1960s before the era of Multiple Independent Reentry Vehicles.

  "You're American," Mike said, putting the map away and leaning back.

  "Yes, sir," the driver said. "I'm one of the diplomatic protection drivers. They figured you might have to have secure conversations."

  "You know what we're looking for?" Mike asked. "And what is your name, O genie? I'd hate to have to call you James."

  "Bruce Gelinas," the driver said with a chuckle. "And, yeah, I know what you're looking for. The colonel briefed me on the way to pick you up. You really think it's coming here?"

  "This is the target I'd pick if I was a terrorist," Mike replied, frowning. "The French are big into appeasement of the rifs. But you'd think they'd have learned from 1939 how well that works. Yeah, it might be headed anywhere in Europe; the American option is pretty much out the way they rigged it. But the pope is the right target in the right place at the right time. They don't have nearly as much of a hard-on for the Germans as they do the French. And waiting for Berlin just gives us more time to find it. So, yeah, I think it's going here."

  "Great," the driver said. "And I suppose I have to be there while you look for it."

  "Well," Mike pointed out, "if it goes off at Notre Dame, it's going to get the embassy, too. So sitting on your butt there won't get you anything. You don't have any family in town, do you?"

  "Nope," Bruce said. "I'm single and fancy free, now that my last wife filed the papers. And she's in Texas."

  "I think I'd rather be in Texas," Mike admitted, picking up his phone. He dialed the number for the pilot and was answered in a rather surly fashion.

  "What do you bloody want now?" Hardesty snapped. "Sorry, sir, I'd just laid my head down. Are we up again?"

  "No," Mike said. "But in the morning, get the plane up and to a dispersal field away from Paris."

  "Might I ask why?" the pilot said curiously.

  "No," Mike replied. "But you can come to your own conclusions.
At least sixty kilometers from Paris. To the south or east."

  "Very well," Hardesty said cautiously. "Given that information, perhaps I should move it now."

  "Up to you," Mike replied, hitting the disconnect. "I'd hate to have my wings shot off by this."

  "That wasn't exactly the most secure conversation I've ever heard," Bruce said. "You could get your ass in a sling over that."

  "You'd have to find someone with a big enough sling," Mike said, leaning back in the seat and folding his arms.

  * * *

  The more Mike looked at the stadium, and the area surrounding it, the less enthusiastic he became about it being the likely target. Yes, if they hit it they would get international coverage; that was guaranteed with any nuke. But the only people they would kill would be sixty thousand or so attendees, the pope, and a few hundred thousand people in the surrounding area. And the closest dense population was high-rise "low-income housing" that was mostly populated by Muslims. They'd definitely kill more Muslims than Christians. And it wouldn't gut the City of Light.

  TV vans were already setting up, with Klieg lights running and the works. He regarded them balefully as the sedan drove past. There were dozens of the damned things, any one of which could hold the nuke. With the lead wrapped around it, there was no way that there'd be a radiation trace. There was a small particle given off by nukes, a nucleotide or somesuch. That would get through the radiation shielding. But the detectors for it were huge, giant tanks of cleaning solvent of all things. He wasn't sure there were any that were mobile. He'd have to ask NEST. On the other hand, if there were any, he was sure they were in use.

  "This isn't it," Mike said, shaking his head as they passed through the security cordon. "Or if it is, I'll take the hit. Head to Notre Dame."

  By the time they got there the sun was rising and they had to fight traffic. French drivers weren't the worst in the world—Italians had them in Europe, and the entire third world had Europeans for bad driving—but they were pretty damned bad. Bruce negotiated the traffic expertly, however, with only an occasional curse, and got him to the security cordon alive.

  Security was tighter here than at the stadium, but their plates, and especially Mike's passport, got them into the area and he had Bruce park. He looked around at the buildings and nodded. This was a much superior target.