The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  Rimes stepped into the communications room and asked a young man to call Ensign Watanabe. She arrived so quickly, Rimes wondered if she’d been waiting outside the door the whole time.

  Once they were away from the communications center, she stopped and looked at him with her arms folded across her chest. “Where do you need to go, Sergeant Rimes?”

  Rimes tried to smile charmingly. “I could really use some coffee, ma’am.”

  She tapped her fingers on her arm impatiently.

  He sighed. “And I’d like to swing by the infirmary if it’s possible to visit Major Uber before leaving?”

  Wantanabe’s brow furrowed. “There’s no hurry. We won’t be close enough to fly you to Darwin for some time.”

  “I won’t be heading to Australia, unfortunately, ma’am. Look, I was serious about the coffee, and I’d very much like to see the major if he’s awake.”

  Watanabe spun and walked quickly down the corridor. Rimes waited a moment, admiring the swing of her slender hips. He’d been away from Molly for far too long, and he was starting to feel it, even in his fatigued state. With a shake of his head, he fell in behind Watanabe.

  The officer’s mess was surprisingly small, but compared to what he’d seen on other ships, he was impressed. In one quick glance, he’d noticed a great deal of attention to detail—personalized bamboo trays, ranks engraved into tabletops, a cart for serving saké, and a sushi bar.

  Even the coffee bar was impressive, its gleaming stainless steel brewing machine surrounded by matching sugar and creamer dispensers. The shelf below held rows of silver-framed, intricately cut crystal cups. A teal-colored Japanese tea set and matching tray with a painted beach scene rested on a shelf immediately beneath the cups.

  Rimes helped himself to one of the crystal cups and stared at the coffee machine for a moment.

  Watanabe pointed to a button on the machine’s base.

  He pushed the button. A seam in the side of the machine opened to lower a spout. Rimes quickly caught the steaming coffee in his crystal cup before it spilled.

  “This is quite a setup.”

  Watanabe lifted her chin and almost smiled. Her voice softened. “You know Major Uber well?”

  “He and Captain Nakata and I have worked together a few times—Minsk, Montevideo, Tunis.” Rimes stirred sugar into the cup with a tiny silver spoon, enjoying the coffee’s aroma. His saliva glands woke from their slumber. He sipped from the cup and was pleasantly surprised at the burst of flavors. Real coffee. They live a different life. “I just want to let him know I’ll be in touch.”

  “Your work,” Watanabe said, pausing uncertainly, shifting from question to statement. “It is dangerous.”

  “It can be, just like yours,” Rimes said, smiling around a sip. “The better you are at it, the safer it is.”

  Watanabe returned the smile, hesitantly. “You were in Singapore?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was no value in denying what was common knowledge.

  “It was about the Indonesian Finance Minister assassination?”

  Rimes stared into his coffee cup.

  Watanabe quietly cleared her throat. “LoDu has filed a protest with the United Nations. They deny any involvement with the assassination. They claim stories of their displeasure with Indonesian policy are greatly exaggerated.”

  Rimes looked at her. “Do you believe that, ma’am?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Well, it's typical metacorporate behavior—denial, obfuscation, misdirection, and if none of that works, offer up one of the smaller corporate entities to take the blame and scapegoat some low-level executive. At least it wasn't ADMP or EEC. Or SunCorps. I don't want to even think about how SunCorps would handle something like this. Probably tell the Council to take a walk. I can't believe what the metacorporations have done to us.”

  “I want to work for a metacorporation one day. Wang, HuCorp, maybe even LoDu.”

  “Oh, sorry, ma’am!”

  “No. I am not blind to their behavior. They can do …” She lowered her head. “Terrible things. And there are rumors about their ambitions in the colony worlds. It seems the larger they get, the worse they might behave?”

  Rimes took another sip of the coffee, mulling the sophisticated blend of flavors. There were contrasts and complements, strong and subtle differences.

  Complicated. Like us.

  Finally, he said, “We’re all capable of terrible things.”

  Watanabe blinked slowly. “The coffee, you like it?”

  “It’s wonderful.” Rimes drained his cup and set it down on a nearby table, relieved. The awkward moment was over. He felt an immediate boost, but he knew it was really psychological. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Watanabe bowed her head slightly, then adjusted her uniform and picked up the cup and spoon, setting them in a nearby plastic tub, then quickly led the way out of the room and through the ship.

  They arrived at the infirmary a couple minutes later. Watanabe spoke to the nurse, then left Rimes alone outside Uber’s room, peering through the door at the only occupied bed.

  “Jack?” Uber, looking every bit the corpse warmed over, beckoned Rimes into the room. “Come in.”

  Rimes crossed to the bedside, his eyes playing across the equipment and displays before settling on Uber’s pale, strained face. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and latex.

  “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 s
aid 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.