by Jim Roberts
"It's Tribune, actually." Titus said, correcting the President on his earlier linguistic mistake.
"What is this word?"
"It is the rank given to those in command of a battalion strength of our force."
"Ah, different from General?"
"Yes...a bit," Titus said, knowing what the President was getting at. He's wondering why the Imperator only sent a Tribune, rather than a general.
"Well, tell me sir Tribune, what security has my six billion dollars purchased me?"
"Setup operations are nearly completed. We are fortifying this building as we speak. In total, we have one battalion so far on the ground, with two more coming within the week. We will begin a process which we call Urban Pacification. As the fighting is less intense in the north, we shall set up patrols and keep this section of the city totally secure, forcing any fighting to remain in the south where it can be contained. Checkpoints and patrols will begin immediately to aid in securing this area."
Musabe listened intently for a few seconds, but as Titus continued, his eyes began to wander, as if what the young Olympus commander said bored him. Titus pushed through, laying out the basics of his plan as simply as he could. He made no mention at all to Project Prometheus.
"There is something very important we must discuss, Mister President. There is still a danger that the insurgents have targeted you for assassination. To be safe, my superiors wish for you to relocate personally to a safe location where we can better−"
"Never!" The President roared suddenly, catching Titus off guard. "I will not leave! This is my home, my city. My family is here. My children will grow up here, just as I did. No one shall push me out." He pointed at Titus, his casual attitude long gone, "You are the world's greatest Private Military, or so your lawyers kept telling me. It is time you act like it."
Titus didn't know how to respond. He simply nodded and said, "Of course Mister President."
"Have arrangements been made to protect my family?"
Titus nodded. "As we speak, Mr. President. I have arranged an offsite location in the north district for your family, as you requested in our contract. They will be escorted there within the hour."
"Good. You must understand, Mister Titus, my people do not know anything about how to rule themselves. They must be cowed to obedience. Is that understood?"
"Of course," Titus lied. This man was going to be a major problem, he could already tell. The President was obviously a man accustomed to getting his own way, come hell or high water. According to the contract, the President had equal say in all matters of tactical importance. Titus had to acquiesce for the time being.
"I want results quickly, Mister Titus. Only yesterday the insurgents captured the city's only airport. I wish it to be reclaimed immediately."
Titus felt his stomach tighten, "Mister President, I don't have enough troops yet for any kind of−"
"Enough!" The President shouted, holding up his hand. "You will do this. Then perhaps, I will listen to your council. Until then, make certain my money is well spent and regain control of this country for me."
Titus felt his face flush with rage. It took all of his self control to swallow his anger.
The President was about to sit back down when he suddenly remembered something, "Oh, before I forget, there is a small personal favor I wish you to do me."
"What is that, Mister President?" Titus asked.
"I have ordered a communications blackout of the city, as you know. However, there is a person aiding the rebels in getting transmission through to the west in order to gain sympathy for the rebel cause."
"Who is it?"
"Her name is Sarah Anders, I believe. She is a journalist for CNN who, as I am told, was filming a, what is the word...document about my country before the war began. I need you to find her and...silence her. She is your priority. Have someone else handle the airport."
Why don't you just ask me to hand you the moon as well? Titus was livid, but could do nothing. For now...
"I'll see what I can do, Mister President. If that is all, I will take my leave." Happily, Titus added silently.
He thumped his right arm against his breast in the traditional Olympus salute, then turned and walked back towards the elevator.
AFTER A brief ride Titus was in the building lobby. Falco had been sitting just outside the door, probably going out of his mind with worry.
Titus walked past the old veteran, motioning for him to follow. "Come. There is little more we can do here."
Falco fell in step with his ward, always staying slightly behind the heir. "What did the President say, my lord?"
They walked into the hot afternoon sun, stuffy with moisture. The smell of jet fuel hung heavy in the air, mechanics working quickly to refuel the high tech VTOL aircraft via fuel trucks on loan to them from the military airfield to the north.
"I want you to take three Cerberus drones, two platoons of Centurions, and three Manticore helos. You're to join up with a unit of the President's soldiers and retake the airport on west section of the city."
"Begging your pardon sir, but your father said I must never leave your si−"
"−My father is not here," Titus said sharply, cutting off the veteran warrior. "Is what I asked too much for you Falco? I'm asking you because I want someone I can depend on. The President wishes that we begin to root out the insurgency immediately. That is my mission right now. Can I count on you or not?"
Falco seemed about to protest again, but thought better of it.
"No my lord," he said, restrained.
"Good. Get to work. From what the President told me, the airport is not heavily guarded. Take the force there now and see that my orders are carried out."
Falco nodded and left to form his unit. Titus took a deep breath of the muggy African air. As he slowly let it out, he pulled a cellphone from his pocket. The Olympus techs had designed an interworking phone system for the PMC's private use. The phone resembled an Apple knockoff, but actually was capable of far better reception than the real thing, as well as being completely impossible to tap by outside sources. He dialed a number. After two rings, the line picked up.
"Titus?" Octavia's voice came through the line. She sounded tired.
"Everything is proceeding here. What is Prometheus's status?"
"Unsteady. We are rushing him. He shouldn't even be outside of the Acceleration Chamber."
"It's not my call. We will be needing him sooner than we thought."
"Titus...you know the pressure his mind is under. If we force the Code on him too quickly, we could overload his memory. All of this could be for nothing."
"Don't worry your pretty head. Just be ready. The operation will proceed as planned the day after tomorrow."
Chapter 7
A Message for you Colonel
Washington DC, November 21st
The evening breeze from the window was about the only comforting thing Colonel Walsh had going for him right now. He had been booked into the Hyatt Regency Hotel on Capitol hill, a place he preferred to stay while in the city. A clean, eleven story building just two blocks from the Capitol building, it was, above all else, affordable. The room was dark; the flat screen television tuned to a Pro-Wrestling match that he was only barely aware of as he leaned back in the barely comfortable evening chair. A half filled glass of bourbon sat on the nightstand beside him. His trench coat was tossed on the bed, along with his Colt Python .44 and shoulder holster. The Colonel now sat trying to decompress, the sleeves of his white button up shirt rolled to his elbows.
The day had been absolute hell. Fourteen solid hours of the same shit, dumped on him pile by pile by every manner of lackey, bookman and whatever deputy-director-of-waste management the CIA higher ups could throw at him to keep the Colonel out of their hair.
No matter what he tried, the CIA suits were unwilling to OK the Unit's re-activation. The DCI was withholding the figurative keys to the budget, pending some sort of bullshit reason Walsh didn't understand
. Every moment he wasted here was another tentacle Olympus dipped into a new pool somewhere in the world.
He had to try harder. He couldn't leave it like this.
His Unit was temporarily disbanded, maybe for good. Joe and Danny were in Canada, Brick and Isabella had taken some time to visit New York, and Krieger had been confined to the Barbarian at Joint Base Andrews until further notice. Walsh knew the Russian would be stewing in his juices, but until the Unit's future was certain, he needed to keep the unpredictable mercenary where he could find him.
The only thing the office of the DCI was willing to give the Colonel were a few more soldiers; two special ops troopers that had been in special training for the CIA for different reasons. Walsh said he would take them if the Peacemakers got the go-ahead to reassemble.
As the Colonel lit his umpteenth cigarette of the day, he stared past the TV into space, trying to focus his thoughts. He had deactivated the smoke detector in the room with a small gadget Doctor Yune had given him to help disable common alarms. He only felt slightly bad using it in this way.
He looked out the window, over the lights of the beautiful city of Washington, calm and unaware during the night.
Fifty-four goddamn years. I've been fighting for fifty-four years. All of my adult life.
He shook his head and grasped the bourbon, taking a long drink. Self doubt was not in the Colonel's vocabulary, but events as of late had had the aged soldier thinking more and more about the purpose of the over half century of time he had spent locked in battle against Olympus.
Or Olympia, as they had once been called. As far as he knew, they still went by that name behind closed doors. The Olympia Brotherhood. He chuckled to himself, taking another drink. He wiped a hand across his bushy moustache, smoothing it out.
He knew he wasn't getting any younger. He played the part of the hard-edged Colonel well enough, but time would catch up with him and put him down. It may be a heart attack, a stroke, perhaps something more benign. For some reason, he knew he wouldn't die in battle. The time for that had long since passed. A quote from General Patton crossed his mind: “There's only one proper way for a professional soldier to die. That's from the last bullet, of the last battle, of the last war.”
The Colonel was in a never-ending war, one that would take countless more lives before it could take his own.
A steady stream of madness...
Was this his fate then? To come all this way, to fail now and have his Unit taken from him in an ignoble bureaucratic defeat? So much had been lost. His personal sacrifices were legion. The Colonel knew he couldn't give in; stop fighting and let Olympus continue on its road to wage war across the world its own way.
The Colonel closed his eyes.
You're an old man, Jackson. Maybe it's time to pack it in. Let others take up the fight. You know you've earned a proper rest. Braddock can be trusted to lead the charge. He has the heart and strength to carry on and face those bastards down.
A thought made the Colonel come to with a slight jolt−a thought that sometimes hit him during these rare times of inaction.
What if want this war? What if this war with Olympus is why I have lived so long? It's been my purpose, day in and day out: fighting a silent cold war against something far bigger than myself.
Walsh took a halting breath, forcing down a cough. He extinguished the cigarette.
It was a fact that he kept only to himself. He needed this war. He needed to continue the fight. The thought scared Walsh and made him feel physically ill. It was morally repugnant to hope a conflict continued for as long as possible.
But that was the truth of it.
Fighting is all I know. Without it, I don't even exist. I'd be a never-was.
The Colonel drained the rest of the bourbon and stood up. He didn't want to sleep, but knew he needed it. He was going right back at it tomorrow and he had to be at the top of his game.
The cell phone he had placed on the nightstand suddenly rang. Irritably, Walsh picked it up.
"This is Walsh, go ahead."
"Colonel Jackson Walsh?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"You may know me Colonel, my name is Sarah Anders. I'm a journalist with CNN."
Walsh had indeed heard the name. Sarah Anders, longtime CNN correspondent in the Middle East and more recently, Africa.
"I've heard of you Miss Anders. How did you get this number?"
"That's not important right now Colonel, you need to listen to what I am about to tell you."
"Miss Anders, I really don't think I can help you. I'm retired." A lie, but still he had a cover to maintain.
"Wait, please don't hang up Colonel, you have no idea how difficult it was to make this call!"
Walsh was indeed about to press the 'Hang Up' button on his cell, but something in her voice made him pause.
"Your team killed the arms dealer, Maximillion Decimus in Darra, Pakistan, correct? I have sources in the CIA that say you took an item from his corpse."
Walsh was on edge. This woman knew way too much about everything. The Colonel kept his cool.
"I can honestly say I've never been to Pakistan, Miss Anders."
"The item you retrieved is a noclist, correct? Your man, Doctor Toshiro Yune, can't figure out how to decipher the argot the device is coded in, am I right?"
Walsh grit his teeth. The security threat this posed was so great, he ought to end the call immediately. But instead, he found himself going along a bit further, humoring the reporter, hoping she would reveal her true intentions.
"I will ask again: what is it you want, Miss Anders?"
"I know you don't trust me, but I need your help. All Olympus noclist's are coded in a Latin Argot derived from an ancient Roman school of mercenaries known as the Brotherhood of Orpheus. Tell your Doctor Yune to cross reference the Argot slang in the noclist with that of the Orpheus brotherhood. He should be able to find detailed files about the organization on Usenet. If it works, you'll know you can trust me."
"How do you know all of this?" Walsh asked, still feeling the woman out.
Sarah's voice answered, this time more guarded.
"Because...your son told me."
Walsh's hand quivered slightly. A cold sweat flashed through his body as his mind raced at the implications of what he'd just heard.
"What the hell do you know about my son?" There was an air of cold menace in the Colonel's voice that few ever heard.
"Your son is Daniel Walsh. Army Intelligence. He was my informant for the past three years before he...disappeared."
"You are going to tell me everything you know about my boy, right now!"
"I'm sorry Colonel, but you are just going to have to believe me when I say I know him very well. I will call you again in two hours, on this phone. By then, I hope you will be ready to trust me."
"Wait don't hang−"
An audible click. The line had hung up.
"Damn." Walsh said, lowering the phone. He stood for a moment, in the middle of the room, feeling as if his world was closing in on him, the new revelation having shattered through his so-well constructed emotional defense.
Shaking it off, he quickly dialed the number of Mason Whitwer, one of his technophiles aboard the Barbarian. Several of the techs, including Doctor Yune, were staying aboard the aircraft for the time being, parked in a hanger at Joint Base Andrews, in order to do testing and experimentation on the Whisper suit.
The young man picked up, still not having gone to bed at this late hour, "Hello?"
"Whitwer, this is Walsh. I need you to do a trace on the last number that phoned my cell. Can you do it?"
"Of course sir, just a minute."
"Do it fast, Whitwer!"
The Colonel grabbed his coat and beret and tossed them on, heading for the door to the hotel hallway. The receiver on the other end bounced around as the tech presumably followed Walsh's commands in doing a trace. Walsh flew down the hall towards the elevator. He was in the lobby by the time the young tech go
t back to him.
"Ok Colonel, I have the phone files pulled up. Let's see..." There was a pause as the tech sorted through the calls. "Ahh, here we go. The last call was sent from...Sadoma, Zimbala."
Walsh frowned, "Africa? What the hell are−"
"Is there something wrong Colonel?"
Walsh marched quickly through the lobby of the hotel, narrowly missing an errant luggage cart coming his way pushed by a very surprised valet.
"No, no. Who's there with you right now?"
"Um...Doctor Yune, Jordan, that Krieger fellow, Michaelson..."
Walsh opened the door of the hotel and walked into the cold night. He raised a hand. Immediately, from down the street, a black four door unmarked SUV turned on its lights and pulled up to the front of the hotel. The two men inside were Walsh's CIA minders while in the city, having parked for the night to keep an eye on the Colonel. As Walsh opened the back door and pulled himself inside the vehicle, he spoke into the phone, hurriedly.
"Have Krieger and Doctor Yune meet me in the Barbarian in−" He checked his watch, "−thirty minutes."
"Of course Colonel. We'll be waiting."
Walsh hung up the cell. The minder driving in the front seat looked through the rear-view mirror at the Colonel.
"Where are we going, sir?"
"Andrews Airforce base. Hanger Five."
As the SUV sped down the road towards its destination of Joint Base Andrews, Walsh's mind was on fire with questions. He prayed he would get them when he reached the base.
It was going to be a long half hour.
* * *
The Barbarian, Joint Base Andrews
"Colonel Walsh, come here please!" Yune called over from his work terminal.
For the past hour, Walsh had been glued to the main LED screen of the Barbarian's main tactical hub room, where the underlings of the Peacemaker unit worked their magic in making certain the ground operatives came back in one piece from whatever mission they were on. At the same time, Yune had taken the information and worked his magic to decrypt the USB drive taken from Decimus.
