The Orion Assignment

by Camacho, Austin S.

  “You seem to be able to appreciate these jets,” Morgan said, keeping his voice casual as he freed his hand. “Who do you represent?”

  “Just here as a tourist, I am,” O’Ryan replied in a thick lazy brogue. “And although the big planes and missiles are fascinating, I find hand to hand weapons more interesting.”

  “Really? I was here looking for some personal things myself. Maybe you could help me.” O’Ryan looked as if he was about to ask why, then reconsidered. Morgan hoped the man’s curiosity was peaked. With luck he would play along long enough to find out what this crazy black man was up to.

  “Why don’t we head over to the pavilions?” O’Ryan said. “Some of the small arms companies have booths set up. You might see something there that interests you.”

  From the corner of his eye, Morgan saw the horror on Claudette’s face as he and Ian O’Ryan walked out of the chalet like old friends. They entered the nearest pavilion, a huge hangar converted into a showroom, holding three or four dozen exhibitors. O’Ryan steered him to the noisiest spot he could find. One small American company advertised its machine guns using a bank of a dozen television screens. Each video monitor extoled this one submachine gun’s virtues. It was a loud, blasting assault on the senses and in the middle of this, O’Ryan turned to poke Morgan’s chest.

  “I’ll bet you’re licensed to carry weapons, even here,” O’Ryan said. Denial seemed pointless to Morgan, considering the trouble he had gone through to get authorization through his security business. He replied with a nod.

  “Let me take a look at what you’re carrying now,” O’Ryan said. Still smiling, Morgan moved close and handed over his nine millimeter Browning Hi-power and the Randall Number One fighting knife with its seven inch blade. O’Ryan looked at the pistol’s walnut grip and checked its weight and balance. He rubbed the knife’s black micarta handle, admired the brass guard and tested its shaving-sharp edge. Then he handed them back with appropriate respect.

  “These are very personal weapons indeed,” O’Ryan said. “They say a great deal about you. I would assume you’ve used them both for their ultimate purpose.”

  “I’m a soldier by profession,” Morgan said. “An independent operative. I had the feeling you might be, too.”

  “Me?” O’Ryan chuckled. He was the only man Morgan had ever met who had a sinister laugh. He heard them on television and in movies all the time, but this was his first sinister laugh in real life. “I’m just a hunter,” O’Ryan said. “And a racer. In fact, I’ll be competing in the Belgian Grand Prix in a couple of weeks.”

  “Race cars?”

  “Oh no, my friend,” O’Ryan said. “Motorcycles. Nothing between me and the wind. Or the other riders, eh?”

  “I see you’re the type who likes to handle things up close and personal. Did you come to the show looking for new weapons? I’m after a sniper rifle myself.”

  “As I said, I’m a hunter,” O’Ryan reminded him. “I’m looking for hunting arms. Such as…ah, here we are.” O’Ryan had led them to the Mossberg exhibit and was reaching for one of the demonstrator models. The representative seemed to recognize him and smiled as the Irishman picked up the sleek weapon at hand.

  “This one is a beauty. Mossberg’s model 712 Auto. Four shot, twelve gage, twenty-eight inch barrel, seven and a half pounds weight.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” Morgan said, picking up another display model. “Light, fast, easy handling. What about the elevator?”

  Sighting down the barrel, O’Ryan looked up, apparently surprised by the question. “Stainless steel. I see you know something of shotguns. Why did you attach yourself to me, Mister Stark?”

  “You stood out in the crowd and I liked your style. Two extractors?”

  “Yes,” O’Ryan answered, keeping his eyes on the gun. “I don’t believe you. I think maybe you’re connected with the British police.”

  “Right. I bet I sure look British. And sound like it. Can you hit anything with that thing?”

  “I’m the best there is with this type of long arm,” O’Ryan said, swinging the gun as if he were tracking a flock of geese.

  “Well, maybe second best.” Morgan turned to aim a conspiratorial wink toward the demonstrator.

  “Really?” O’Ryan lowered his weapon to lock eyes with Morgan. “And who’s to be my better, eh? You?”

  Morgan’s answer was a nod and a smile.

  “You’re an arrogant man, my friend. You claim to be American? Well than I have one thousand American dollars in my pocket that says I cannot be defeated.”

  “Yeah?” Morgan asked. “And how we going to prove it? A showdown at twenty paces?”

  “Well, there’s the rapid fire demonstration this evening,” the Mossberg representative said, speaking for the first time. “The Scots have set up a Starshot competition out on the center field. Should be great fun to watch, and you can sign up for it right here, if you wish.”

  “That sounds to me like a lovely way to spend the evening,” O’Ryan said. A smile split his face, flashing big, even teeth.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Morgan maintained his jovial tone, but he was not pleased that it proved so easy and convenient for O’Ryan to call his bluff.

  “I’ll need two of these,” O’Ryan told the company representative. “One for my friend here and one for me. On my bill, please. We must be equally equipped if I am to teach this arrogant cobber how to shoot.”

  - 11 -

  At two a.m., Felicity O’Brien’s eyes popped open. Her internal alarm clock never failed her, so even without Max Grogan’s heavy snoring she would have been awake.

  Lifting her head from the thatch of hair on his chest, she turned a smile on her bed partner. He had been passionate, there was no doubting that. Or perhaps earnest was a better word. He had tried his best. She had not reached her ultimate release in her first rough encounter with Max, but she made all the appropriate noises and gave him all she could. A couple of hours later they tried again and this time she found the satisfaction she had missed before. Max showed genuine delight at having brought her real pleasure.

  Overall, however, she had to admit to herself that, like the local food, she now found the attentions of the local men rather bland. Not enough spice. Her sexual palate had been cultivated on more continental cuisine. She just had to face the unfortunate fact that Irish lovers resembled their diet, mainly meat and potatoes. In contrast, French lovers seemed like pastry men to her. They were light, and sweet, and a little flaky. And Germans she found to be like their chocolate cakes, heavy, thick, and dense. Ireland, perhaps significantly, did not have its own hallmark dessert. Men like Max were potato men, solid, filling, but somehow lacking in flavor.

  But, hell, his intentions were good. She had come to really like the big lug. Still, she had a job to do.

  She slid out of bed and dressed in seconds. Her first stop would be the bathroom for her camera. Then she would search the palatial building, room by room if necessary, for O’Ryan’s private office.

  The wing she was in appeared to be the servants’ sleeping quarters. She started searching on the ground floor in the center of the house and got luckier than she expected. Right there, off the main dining hall, she found her objective.

  Even in the dark she realized she was stepping from one world into another. The dining room was done in baroque decor, all white and gold, with a harpsichord in one corner. Stucco work imitating the Georgian period decorated the upper part of the walls. In harsh contrast, the office beside it was cold and contemporary in steel and black enamel.

  The lock on the door was a joke to someone with her ability. The lack of security might have meant that O’Ryan had complete trust in all his employees. More likely it implied that no cash or negotiable securities were kept here. All the better, in her mind. What she wanted would interest few local thieves.

  As further evidence of his confidence, a small combination safe stood in plain sight against the wall behind the desk. Opening it
required no more than for her to put her ear to the lock while turning the knob. It was child’s play for a woman of her skills. Inside she found a large photo album, bank records and a small stack of pound notes which she assumed was his petty cash fund. After taking a second to memorize the position of the contents, she removed everything but the cash. It would not do to take anything O’Ryan would miss. Such a discovery might not go well for Max.

  What she was after would be in the bank records. Not the book of personal checks, which would be missed, but some deposit slips. Almost no one keeps track of them. Like in the States, these were preprinted but not numbered. Two from each account would do. O’Ryan kept his money in three different banks. One was local, one in Northern Ireland, and the other in London.

  Notes lay scattered across his desk. Felicity thought some of them could prove important. She closed the door and turned on the desk lamp. Yes, these notes mentioned an important shipment. Maybe useless, but it would be better to be safe. She took the camera from its pack and clicked over every piece of paper on the desk. Each sheet she moved she replaced in its exact original position.

  The bank records and check books went back into the safe with equal care. Felicity lifted the photo album to replace it also but, as an afterthought, she took a look inside. The only pictures inside were on thin yellowed paper. O’Ryan was using the album as a newspaper clippings scrapbook. If they were what she suspected, they might be good incriminating leverage if things got sticky later. She photographed the first few pages, and then replaced the album in the safe. She slipped her camera back into the portfolio with the deposit slips. Once her carrying pack was on her thigh, she slipped out of the room, locking the door behind her.

  She planned to slip past the dining room and out the door at the end of the far wing. However, as she passed the next room its ornate door drew her attention. A small brass plate above the transom labeled the room “The Gallery.”

  The room was secured, but again the lock offered little challenge to Felicity. Thinking about the well known effects of curiosity on cats and other creatures, she eased the door open. It was indeed a gallery of some sort. She should have hurried to leave, but she thought she had plenty of time before anyone in the building would awaken. Her curiosity was peaked by speculation of the kind of collection a man like O’Ryan might have. She couldn’t resist exploring the room.

  She stepped inside, closing the door without making a sound. When she flipped up the light switch, three gigantic double tiered chandeliers flooded the room with brilliance. She caught her breath.

  The long gallery was decorated in Pompeian style. It was such a perfect representation of the style of the period that if not for the electric lights she could have believed that the room was designed two hundred years ago. Two cabinets filled with curios stood against one wall. The hand worked wood and glass cabinets were separated by a statue of a lovely toga clad woman standing on a three foot pedestal. The statue was at least eight feet tall from floor to head. The walls of the alcove behind it displayed fine and delicate carving.

  Above the cabinet and statue stood a marble cornice, much like a mantelpiece, but covered with intricate engraving. A painting imitating the period hung above the cornice. The painting, in the shape of a hemisphere, seemed to depict several people milling about in horror as Mount Vesuvius erupted in the background.

  Along the rest of that wall, on either side of the statue and cabinets, a low platform projected from the wall. This held a row of life size marble busts, four on each side. They stood about a meter apart.

  Was all this a reflection of O’Ryan, or simply a show to overawe his rustic visitors? If the former, what did a fascination with lost Pompeii say about the man?

  Two tall bookcases stood against the far wall, separated by a small fireplace. Above it, a large oil painting depicted another imaginary Pompeii scene. The other long wall held two narrow tables displaying gold, silver and carved jade objet d’art.

  She was admiring a golden, jewel encrusted chalice when her internal alarm went off. It figured that this room would be guarded, and someone was coming toward it now. The approaching footsteps would have gone unheard by almost anyone else. She sprinted to the switch to kill the lights, but what next? There were no closets, no drapes, hardly any furniture it seemed, no hiding place. Desperation gripped her heart as she did a slow pan around the room looking for any kind of concealment.

  Two minutes later, a key turned a heavy dead bolt and the door to the Pompeii gallery swung slowly open.

  - 12 -

  The night was as black as the bottom of an abandoned mine, the air clean, and crisp as a gunshot. The dry grass covering the field crackled under O’Ryan’s booted feet. With an arrogant stride he approached the firing line, twenty meters from the semicircular target area. He was backlit, the same floodlight illuminating his form and making the tubular steel frame beyond him glow.

  The target grid was shaped like half a dart board, twenty-six meters across. Each target area in the top row was labeled with yellow iridescent numbers. From left to right they were three, one, two and four. The row below was marked seven, five, six and eight. The four targets nearest the ground, closest to the “bull’s-eye”, were numbered eleven, nine, ten and twelve. The blackness beyond made the spaces between the red florescent lines of the “dart board” seem solid.

  Morgan, standing with several other shooters several meters behind O’Ryan, admired the Irishman’s concentration. The silence and tension were enough to unnerve anyone. There was an occasional murmur from the crowd, hushed comments from people who recognized O’Ryan the racer, O’Ryan the hunter. A buzz of recognition rose from the press as well, and Morgan heard one or two remarks about O’Ryan the suspected IRA leader, made in still quieter tones.

  Yet, O’Ryan focused on the four traps in the ground in front of the target grid. His gun was mounted, and he stood leaning a little to the right for the best view of the target and the traps.

  “This game is too fast for me,” Claudette commented. She clung to Morgan’s arm. “No one’s made it `round the clock’ yet.”

  “No one’s got more than seventy points so far,” Morgan replied. “Those four bottom targets are too quick for the average trap shooter.”

  “Think you can do it?”

  “I’ve got a hidden advantage.” He winked at Claudette. Then he examined O’Ryan’s body English and wondered if he also had an instinctive edge.

  All eyes were on Ian O’Ryan and the air was electric with anticipation. Without a warning the first florescent clay target flew almost straight up into the air. O’Ryan tracked it as accurately as radar locked onto a target, seeming to pull his shotgun’s trigger at the same time as the launch. In front of the number one space, the clay pigeon exploded.

  “That’s one point,” Morgan whispered.

  The second target flew and O’Ryan caught it dead center of the number two area.

  “Two more points,” Morgan said. “That’s three so far.”

  The third target popped up and this time, O’Ryan missed it. Clay pigeons five and six flew straight into the Irishman’s shotgun blasts. Then number seven came out. O’Ryan caught it, but in the higher number three space. No score.

  “Each shot is worth the number of points in its target area,” Morgan said. “He’s weak on the left, and he knows it. If he misses the other left hand spot it’ll cost him eleven points. Then I can beat him.”

  O’Ryan’s stance was rock solid. He swung his shotgun’s barrel all the way to the right to shatter the clay bird in the number eight space, and swung back anticipating the next target. He squeezed the trigger before the disc flew and nailed the number nine target, then the ten, which was nearly next to it. Bending further forward, holding his gun sideways, he blasted the number eleven target just before it flew out of the designated area.

  “Damn,” Morgan said.

  Ian O’Ryan had no trouble catching the clay pigeon in number twelve. Then the two extras were t
hrown, worth five points each. The shooter chooses where he hits them, and the Irish marksman burst them in the one and two spaces. He turned and walked to Morgan’s position, arrogance covering him like a cloak.

  “I believe that a seventy-eight puts me in the lead my American friend. Tell your associates in The Company that I don’t miss much. Especially those who come up behind me.”

  “The Company?” Morgan said, amused. “Now you think I’m CIA.? Look pal, I’ve been a full service independent operative for too long to hook up with those amateurs.”

  “Well, you’re the last shooter. Let’s see if you’re as good as you say.”

  “Just get your dollars ready,” Morgan said in a terse, grim tone. After giving Claudette a quick kiss he turned on his heel and strode for the firing line. He slipped hearing protection like headphones over his head and shook his arms out to loosen them. Before mounting his gun he glanced over his shoulder. He met O’Ryan’s confident stare. Then he saw the Irishman turn to smile at Claudette.

  Morgan’s pulse quickened as he watched her step backward a few feet, then turn and almost run away. He did not think she was in any real danger, but it grated on his nerves to see her threatened, even if the threat was subtle. He took three deep breaths, faced forward, and began tuning out the entire world except the target area.

  His focus was not even on the target grid, standing like the top half of a huge dart board sunk deep in the dry ground. As he brought the new shotgun to his shoulder his senses were forming a link with the four hidden traps imbedded in the earth in front of the target. They were the source of the targets that would soon fly through, or more accurately in front of, the target grid’s various zones.