by P. R. Adams
Martinez had been mentoring Barlowe for more than eight months. There was no better mentor to have, yet Barlowe hadn’t progressed much.
We’ve all had to cover for Barlowe just to keep him in the unit. Some of us more than others.
Martinez looked at Rimes. Rimes could see the annoyance in Martinez’s eyes until he slowly closed them. Martinez shook his head once; no words needed to be spoken.
This is Weatherford’s team. No one else would have made these choices. If he’s involved, this has to be serious.
Pasqual leaned in from his seat behind Rimes, drawing him out of his thoughts. Pasqual traced an hourglass in the air over Kleigshoen’s figure with his stubby index fingers.
“Any regrets now, baby?” Pasqual asked. “Little girl’s all grown up since her Ranger days.”
Rimes scratched the back of his head with an extended middle finger in reply. Pasqual chuckled and slapped Rimes on the back.
At the head of the table, Kleigshoen bent to speak quietly to Captain Moltke, who nodded and stood. The lieutenant commander to Moltke’s right also stood, and Kleigshoen stepped back from the table. Moltke exchanged a mysterious smile with Kleigshoen, then turned his attention to the seated Commandos.
The lieutenant commander cleared his throat, silencing the room.
“Gentlemen, thank you. For those I haven’t met yet, I’m Lieutenant Commander Cross. As the Sutton’s Deputy Ops Chief, it has been my unfortunate duty to inform many of you of canceled leave. I don’t expect that’s earned me any friends.”
A chuckle ran through the room; Moltke grimaced uncomfortably.
In that moment, Rimes couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the two officers. Moltke had been an operator for three years and was extremely fit. He had close-cropped, brown hair, tanned, bronze skin, and a strong jawline. Cross was pale and had little chin to speak of, just a stretch of pock-marked skin where his face and neck met. He was soft, the first hints of a paunch visible under his khaki shirt.
Cross continued: “I want to welcome you to the Sutton. I believe you’ll find her to your liking. She’s a good ship with a good crew. If you need anything, I want you to come straight to me. Now, I think I’ve wasted enough of your time, so I want to turn you over to Captain Moltke. Captain?”
Moltke moved away from the table, coming to a stop in the shadows near Stern. Moltke cleared his throat. “Thanks, Commander. All right, let’s get to it. You’ve got eyes, so you’ve already seen we’ve pulled out all the stops on this one. It’s big. The IB has a physical presence here with Agent Kleigshoen. We’ll be running three teams—Red, Green, and Blue. Marty, you’ve got Red; Kirk, you’ve got Blue. Rimes, Green.”
Martinez gave Rimes a quick elbow to the ribs.
It would be Rimes’s first formal team lead, something he’d dreamed of since becoming a Commando. He normally operated on Martinez’s team or ran solo. He’d have to tell Molly. Running a team was part of the path to promotion, to better money, and to a better life.
“I’ve already worked out rosters. I’ll upload them after Agent Kleigshoen’s briefing. We’ll take questions at the briefing’s conclusion. Agent Kleigshoen?”
Kleigshoen stepped forward. She activated the conference room’s briefing system, which automatically dimmed the lighting. A simple graphic appeared, noting the Sutton’s position relative to accepted political boundaries.
“Thank you, Captain, Commander. As you’re no doubt aware, we’re in the Bay of Bengal, 200 klicks off the Indian coast. Three days ago, we intercepted some troubling communications between T-Corp management from off-world and their main facility in Mumbai about a secret research facility near here.”
The graphic transitioned to a hi-res satellite image of a forested area bisected by a wide north-running river and criss-crossed by several smaller ones.
Two callouts highlighted areas of interest. The first was a surprisingly large compound with several buildings. The compound, labeled “T-Corp 72,” was integrated into the forest’s natural contours; it could have slipped past the imaging analysis software on an older satellite, before advanced confluent inference systems had been installed. The second was a clump of small forms labeled “T-Corp Ops.”
“T-Corp 72—” Kleigshoen circled the compound with a wave of her finger, and a yellow circle highlighted the compound. “—was a T-Corp research facility illegally built in the Sundarbans. It was abandoned nearly thirty-six years ago, after a joint Europe-Africa military raid unleashed a virus that Eurica agencies estimate killed more than fifty thousand in India, Egypt, Turkey, and Italy.
“Officially, T-Corp shut the facility down because of international treaties protecting the region from any form of economic exploitation outside tourism. Unofficially, there’s very strong evidence T-Corp was conducting illegal genetics research.”
“Weapons?” Martinez asked, ignoring Moltke’s briefing protocols.
“We believe it was early genie research. The virus was likely an unfortunate incident after accidental release of some of the research materials.” Kleigshoen circled the “T-Corp Ops” forms with her finger. “Apparently, something has renewed T-Corp’s interest in the facility. As you can see, as of 0200 this morning, a team of T-Corp operatives approached the facility in clear violation of the agreements signed following the outbreak.”
The graphics transitioned again, this time showing gruesome images of outbreak casualties before changing to a close-up of T-Corp 72 itself. There were six buildings, each identified by callouts.
“Thanks to the Eurica agencies sharing intelligence from that previous raid with us, we have two areas of interest. The first is the research building, here.” Kleigshoen circled the compound’s largest building. “The second is the operations center, here.” She circled the next largest building, south of the first. “We believe whatever T-Corp is going after would be in one of those two buildings.”
Moltke spoke from the shadows again as Kleigshoen stepped aside. The Sundarbans map returned to the screen. Moltke’s earpiece projected an interface in the darkness. His fingers manipulated an application, tracing a trail across the interface, and two helicopter icons appeared at the map’s southern edge.
“We will receive the standard proactive treatments—general immune system boosters and restoratives. However, this is considered an NBC environment, so we will also be provided anti-viral injectors.”
“Since it’s not likely that T-Corp team sneaked a nuke in, are you saying that the biological agent’s still a problem, sir?” Martinez asked.
Moltke sighed. “Biological is our main concern, yes. Please hold your questions to the end of the briefing, Sergeant.”
Martinez looked at Rimes and rolled his eyes. Rimes tried not to smile.
“Commander Cross has provided us two 121s. We will proceed north along the Goashaba River.” Moltke traced their path in the air and a line appeared on the map, following along the winding river. “We’ll exit the 121s here, on the northern shore, and proceed on foot. I’ll direct the operation from the insert point.”
Moltke traced a northern path along a slender river until it reached the curve of a slightly larger one that angled west, then north. He followed the larger tributary with his finger. “You’ll keep this tributary on your left flank, then proceed on the western bank of this second tributary until you reach the target. This route is approximately ten klicks. We’ll have one hundred fifty minutes to cover it.”
Kirk shook his head. “In NBC gear, sir?” His drawl stretched the question out. He quickly glanced at Stern, then back at Moltke.
“Hydrate, people. For … political reasons, our insertion can’t happen until 0130. Arriving at the compound after 0400 puts the mission at extreme risk. We will have sixty minutes to clear the compound. The 121s will touch down here, in this old parking lot, at 0500. If the LZ is not clear by 0500, the next opportunity for the 121s to land … will be 0130 the next morning.”
At Moltke’s hesitation, Marti
nez and Kirk exchanged a glance.
Rimes already knew what they were thinking: there would be no second opportunity.
Moltke always hesitated when lying; it was his tell when they played poker.
The operation was happening without explicit consent, and T-Corp would pressure the Indian government the second they detected the intrusion. As Bhatia had warned, the Indian government was still among the most corrupt and ineffectual in the world.
It would buckle at the first hint of pressure from T-Corp, the country’s single greatest employer.
While Rimes had grown used to the hollow promises and outright lies the military casually told its troops, he’d never approve of it—even though he understood the necessity.
“That’s it, people,” Moltke said, shutting down the briefing system. “I’m uploading maps and relevant overlays to your systems now. I’ll be running Horus from my position. Take the standard jungle kit: CAWS-5 assault and shotgun mix, six magazines, one frag each, two liters of water, and energy bars. Keep it under twenty kilos, or you won’t make it.”
Rimes relaxed slightly. Horus—an unmanned reconnaissance vehicle—often made the impossible possible. It carried extremely high-resolution optics and sensor packages and fed real-time data through each soldier’s system. The systems interacted with feedback from each user, constantly updating intelligence and imagery. Paired with their full-blown BASs, the data could turn the tide in an engagement. It wasn't as advanced as the systems he used when on Special Security Council operations, but it was better than anything anyone else used.
“Any questions?” Moltke looked around the room, no one said a thing. “All right. Report to the dispensary for your injections and injectors. Rest up and hydrate.”
Moltke nodded to Cross.
Cross stood. “Dismissed, gentlemen.” He exited the conference room, followed by Agent Kleigshoen.
Rimes watched the rest of the team filter out, blushing when Pasqual and Wolford congratulated him, but stayed behind with Martinez and Kirk.
“Congratulations, Rimes.” Kirk squeezed a pinch of dip into his mouth. He was a few years older than Rimes, but had also trained under Martinez and was considered the natural choice to replace him when he finally moved on. Kirk was a good soldier and a more than capable team lead.
Moltke circled the desk and approached them, his face a mask. His breath carried the slightest hint of whiskey.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
“Ten klicks through jungle in NBC gear in two-and-a-half hours,” Martinez said. “It seems like a bit much to ask, sir.”
Stern’s going to have a hard time of it. Barlowe, too.
Martinez looked at Kirk. They seemed to reach an agreement without speaking. “Especially with the likelihood we’ll be on our own for some time if we run into trouble.”
Moltke hesitated a moment, then said, “I don’t like it any better than you do. This one’s big, though.”
“They’re all big, Captain,” Kirk drawled. “They don’t send us in for the little shit.”
“This is bigger than most. As big as it gets. That facility was built for genetic engineering research before T-Corp had the capacity to get an orbital station up.
“You heard Agent Kleigshoen: they were designing genies there. It’s the last physical presence on-planet of potential materials of incalculable value.” He hesitated again, his eyes jumping from Rimes to the other two. “You know I don’t have all the details. I’m sharing what I can with you.”
Rimes’s forehead furrowed. “This is about money, sir?”
Moltke paused, then rubbed his jaw. “Everything’s about money, Sergeant. When you get down to it, nothing else matters. Currency drives enterprise; enterprise drives politics. In this case, the currency is genetic materials—possibly the secret to the first significantly advanced wave of our genetically engineered friends. It doesn’t get much more valuable than that.”
Kirk squinted at Moltke. “If it was worth so much, why didn’t we just take it before?”
“The agreements they signed thirty-six years ago were a mess. T-Corp agreed to shut down the facility and pay a fine. They also helped deal with the outbreak. They probably saved tens of thousands of people and millions of dollars by sharing critical data, too. In exchange, India extracted guarantees from every international body imaginable that the facility would be treated as Indian sovereign territory so long as T-Corp honored their end of the deal.”
“India would go to war over something like this?” Rimes asked, trying not to sound too skeptical. “What sort of research could be so valuable, thirty years on?”
Moltke chewed his lip for a moment. “Just about two years before that facility went up, exploration vessels discovered an alien ship around the Epsilon Eridani system. That’s pretty much common knowledge. What isn’t common knowledge is just how close we came to war over that discovery.
“T-Corp and LoDu got their hands on alien DNA, and they weren’t about to share it. Not with the international science community, not with universities, not with their host nations, not with anyone. And they applied enough economic pressure—threats to send every last asset and job off-planet—to just enough of those host nations to put us all at each other’s throats. They ended up sharing the DNA with ADMP to get them onboard. With those three metacorps making threats …”
“So T-Corp’s violation of the agreements gives us an opportunity to seize this alien DNA?” Rimes already knew the answer, but he had to hear it from Moltke.
Moltke nodded. “For all we know, they may intend to unleash a weaponized viral agent against someone. So even though the Indian government won’t act, we can and we will. We have key support in this.”
Kirk hissed a curse. “But not enough to back us if things go wrong.”
Moltke said, “You three need to get some rest.”
Martinez muttered his acknowledgement, a signal to Kirk and Rimes to do the same. They headed for the door.
“Jack,” Moltke said.
Rimes stopped. The three men looked at each other. Then Kirk shrugged, and he and Martinez left without him.
“Look, Jack,” Moltke said. “I think you’re ready for this mission. You have high potential and top marks. You’ve proven yourself in the field over and again. You’re a by-name operator for the Special Security Council. Even so, I’m assigning the most experienced operators to your team. I expect we’ll be relying on your team pretty heavily.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Success opens doors. You have a lot of doors ahead of you. You’ll have to start making decisions soon. I know you’ve got some pretty big plans.”
Moltke considered Rimes for a moment. He gave a satisfied grunt, then left. A hint of whiskey lingered in his wake.
Rimes’s head buzzed. He desperately needed to talk with Molly. You have a lot of doors ahead of you.
6
20 February 2164. USS Sutton.
* * *
There was nothing to do but wait as the Sutton’s communications system synchronized with the civilian network, so that’s what Rimes did. From what the tech had said, the ship’s connection was fine; the difficulty was in dealing with an overloaded civilian Grid circuit.
“Sergeant Rimes?” The crewman’s thinly-mustached face reappeared in the vid display.
“Good news, Chief?”
“You should be good to go,” the tech said. “Give it a few seconds.”
“I owe you,” Rimes said.
The tech scratched his mustache. “Not a thing, Sergeant.” He signed off.
On Rimes’s display, a digital clock counted down: three, two, one … the earpiece made a few clicks, and then another display opened.
Molly’s face came into view. “Jack?”
Rimes smiled. He could see sunlight streaming through the apartment’s kitchen window in the background. Molly had her hair up in a bun; several frizzy, coppery strands sprouted out defiantly.
She looked tired. She wore
a tattered cleaning shirt that hung loose on her lean frame, and the glow in her green eyes that made it impossible for him to look away was missing.
His throat tightened. “Hey,” he said, unable to get out anything further.
She squinted, trying to make out the background behind him. “Are you at the airport? I thought you wouldn’t be home for a few days.”
“No, not at the airport. I wanted to call as—”
Molly closed her eyes for a second, then stared at him. “They canceled your leave again?”
Rimes broke eye contact. Tears were threatening, and he wasn’t about to break down in front of her and anyone who might see him from the common area.
“You know how it is,” he finally managed.
She bowed her head to hide wiping a tear away. “I should’ve known. Karen said Chris was pulled off a plane in London.” She looked at him, her lips pressed together. “So when are you coming home?”
Rimes winced at Molly’s casual reference to Moltke and his wife by their first names. They all shopped at the same stores, went to the same events. Molly had never accepted the military’s officer and enlisted separation. It chafed at her even more than it did Rimes.
“No more than a few weeks. I’ll let you know the moment I know. It won’t be long, and we’ll be rotating back soon.” Six months forward-deployed, six months back at Fort Sill. That’s how it worked—in theory.
Molly knew better.
Her image broke up for a moment.
Rimes squinted. “You there?”
The image returned.
“Molly?”
“I’m here.” Molly said. She wasn’t even trying to hold back the tears now. “I was gonna make it a surprise, Jack. I had planned …” She wiped her face.
Rimes sat back in his seat. His heart accelerated. Every time he talked to Molly, every time he saw her … he was always braced for the inevitable breakup message.
