by P. R. Adams
The crawler came to a stop, its motor destroyed. Ahead of them the lead crawler lazily drifted off the road and came to a stop.
Seconds passed with more gunfire, more windows shattering, and more bullets hammering the crawler. Rimes covered Kleigshoen with his body, jerking as more rounds struck him, not all of them absorbed by his armor.
Finally, the firing stopped.
Rimes listened, hopeful but unsure. He stayed motionless, only his eyes moving. His face was centimeters from Oswald’s, close enough to see his reflection in her dead eyes.
It’s over. I’m sorry.
Light—flashlights, headlights, flares—lit the vehicle interior. Crawler motors whined to life. Footsteps sloshed in the muddy ground. Voices shouted. Rimes heard German, Nordic, and Slavic accents.
“Trang, you okay?” Rimes called softly.
“I’m okay, Colonel,” Trang said, his voice calm. “I guess it was a trap after all?”
“Yeah. Dana?”
“My neck hurts.” Her voice was shaky, close to cracking. “That’s…that’s all.”
“Oswald’s dead.” Rimes wiped his face; his hand came away with blood and brains and something gummy. He thought he might have been hit but couldn’t find a wound and didn’t feel pain or numbness anywhere. Slowly, it dawned on him that the gummy matter was a piece of Oswald’s face. He flicked it away.
Shouting voices ordered them to exit the crawler, hands above their heads. They complied, moving slowly, carefully. Rimes couldn’t put much weight on his left leg and realized he’d taken a round in the hip and shin. Neither was life-threatening, but his leg burned.
“Colonel Rimes?”
Rimes surveyed the ring of mercenaries, searching for the familiar voice. The bright lights shining past the circle of bodies made it hard to pick out much, but he finally spotted the face. Tymoshenko was older, heavier, and his features strained as if in pain.
“Anton?”
Tymoshenko stepped forward, smiling broadly. “None other, Colonel.”
He looked from Rimes to Kleigshoen and Trang, forcing a smile. Tymoshenko grunted when he spotted Oswald’s corpse, then glanced at the other crawler and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Quite fortuitous,” Tymoshenko said. “For both of us. This is terrible weather for me to be out in. That you can do this at your age—at any age—is beyond me. Come, we can talk inside.” He nodded at Kleigshoen and Trang. “Take their earpieces and check them for weapons, then bring them.”
25
3 March, 2174. Bermuda Colony.
* * *
Rimes struggled to keep his footing in the slick mud. His leg was badly damaged, but he did his best to keep up with Tymoshenko. They marched a few hundred meters, Tymoshenko cursing loudly after a few minutes. Unlike the poncho-covered mercenaries he wore a trench coat. It didn’t seem up to the demands of a northern Bermuda late winter storm.
Tymoshenko headed for an area bathed in pale light. Rimes recognized the area as the southernmost maintenance building. They supposedly also served an administrative function, if Go’s intelligence was to be believed.
A few meters shy of the door Rimes’s leg failed him, and he fell. Two of the mercenaries poked their assault rifles into his back.
“What are you doing?” Tymoshenko shouted impatiently. “You think he’s an idiot? He’s unarmed and outnumbered. Let him up.”
The mercenaries fell back. Rimes slowly got to his feet. Tymoshenko stood inside the building doorway, waving Rimes forward and smiling, as if welcoming an old friend in for a cup of tea on a miserable night.
“Come inside, Colonel.” Tymoshenko laughed as Rimes stepped through the doorway.
The room beyond was dimly lit, a common area littered with molded desks and chairs, battered cabinets, and grimy display terminals. Tinted windows lined the southern wall. Everything smelled of grease and stale sweat, but it was warm and dry. The mercenaries stopped at the door, leaving only a handful of cold-faced men in trench coats to follow Tymoshenko and the prisoners into the building. From their appearance and demeanor, Rimes assumed the men in trench coats were EEC security, Tymoshenko’s personal bodyguards.
Tymoshenko rolled his eyes in disgust as he removed and shook out his coat. “These Bermudans live like pigs. They should thank us for taking over, but they are bitter and lack any sense of appreciation. You must see the tragedy in that, Colonel.”
Rimes snorted. “People can be so shallow.”
Tymoshenko roared with laughter. “It is true.”
He waved for Rimes to follow through the common room and then continue to a hall on the right. A few meters later Tymoshenko stopped at a door. He pushed it open, and a light flickered to life, revealing a private office that held a desk and two chairs. He pointed to the chair just inside the door.
When Rimes settled into the chair Tymoshenko gave a satisfied nod, then unbuttoned his trench coat to reveal an expensive business suit. The hems were soaked. Sighing resignedly, Tymoshenko made his way around the desk and settled into the chair pushed flush against the opposite wall.
Tymoshenko threw up his hands as if exasperated. “Can you believe it? After so many years, here we are, you, me. Honestly, I can’t help but feel that I am responsible for your career. And now…” He shrugged meaningfully.
“I wish I could say it’s good to see you.” Rimes could hear the fatigue in his voice. He leaned back in the chair, shoulders slumped slightly. What would it be like, to abandon the struggle and just give in—to the nightmares. Accept failure, find peace?
Tymoshenko chuckled. “Lying was never something you were good at, right?”
“How long has Go been working for you?”
“For me? A day, maybe two. I hope you will forgive me for seeming vague. I just returned to this dump, and I am trying to get used to its days and nights. Mr. Goonetilleke is a businessman, just like me. We have a history. I know how he operates and how he thinks. A man like him, he has his needs. My predecessor was paying too little. You know, this backwater place, it’s where my career took off. Well, after you put me in the spotlight to begin with—credit where due, Colonel—and then I came here, and after four years running this place I am vice president of marketing for 3V. You have heard of 3V?”
Rimes shook his head.
“Tailored pharmaceuticals. You’re not the target demographic, so you should not worry. It is the fast track, my friend. 3V is one of EEC’s most profitable corporations. Or it was, until the UN decided to push us out of the colonies. Do you know what happens when you are a vice president of marketing at a company that has no markets? You are no longer on the fast track.” The humor left Tymoshenko’s face and was replaced by cold menace. “Let me tell you, Colonel, in the metacorporate world, you are either moving forward or your career is over. My career is not over. I will not let it be.”
Rimes studied Tymoshenko, noting the toll time had taken on him. His brown hair was now shot through with silver. Crow’s feet and heavy bags gave his eyes an age greater even than the wrinkles on his brow. He’d packed on some pounds, something visible in the fingers that noticeably shook as he spoke.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It looks like you really paid the price.”
Tymoshenko opened his jacket and stared at his gut. “The hours and the demands. It is a hard life, just like yours. But different, I know. What you do…”
“You came here to kickstart your stalled career?”
Tymoshenko nodded once, and his eyes twinkled with excitement. “Yes, exactly. You, Colonel, are my rabbit’s foot. The amateurs at T-Corp and MDC and Riesigfirma, they have no idea what they are up against. They don’t know you, not like I do.” He poked at his temple as he spoke, as if to emphasize the brain that had set the trap that had finally captured Rimes. “And I know you quite well, even if you look like a shell of the man I met so long ago.”
Rimes closed his eyes. Despite the pretense at camaraderie, there would be no mercy at Tymoshenko’s hands. The ending might
be simple—maybe a dragged-out beating with brass knuckles and metal pipes, maybe prolonged electrocution—but it would be an ending. Voices roared in Rimes’s head—furious, betrayed, hurt. Kwon’s primal urge was to charge and go down with Tymoshenko’s blood spurting into the air.
Rimes told the voices that there would be no reckoning. He had failed them. He opened his eyes, and the voices went silent. “Was it all a sham?”
“A sham, Colonel? The troop movement, you mean?”
“The collapse. The alliance. How could it have held up so long after it looked so fragile? I don’t understand.”
Tymoshenko chortled. “Held up? The alliance? Colonel, it was failing from the moment it was formed. Before the first warship was launched, we knew we would be using them against each other one day. We all knew. It was just a matter of time.”
“Then…” Rimes’s voice faded. “Why?”
“It is business.” Tymoshenko opened his hands in front of him, as if he could offer no other explanation and none should be needed. “But you, you managed to keep us together. For now. Just as other things must surely be pulling us apart. That is good for you, is it not? Look at me. I am in a hurry, moving on to the next big thing, all because of you. So, we do a quick recording of your execution, and I take lead on the project that will catapult my career. And it is a big project, let me assure you. You have no idea how big! You are not being replaced by some trivial thing. That is good to know, right?”
Rimes stared, sensing the moment, feeling the approach of a critical point in time. He shifted his wounded leg, saw the blood pooling in the seat. His eyes returned to Tymoshenko’s. When Rimes spoke his voice was barely audible. “Do you ever regret your actions, Anton?”
“Regret?” Tymoshenko roared with laughter again. “Who has that luxury? It’s such a waste of time, regret. Never look back. That is what I say. Now, come. Those wounds look painful. We have a little studio set up just down the hall. Bright lights, a fairly comfortable chair, a top-of-the-line camera from my old production department, a tarp so we don’t leave a mess. I’ve got a pistol.” Tymoshenko opened his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster. “One shot, back of the head, over in seconds. No pain. You look like you have suffered enough already. Haven’t you, Colonel?”
Rimes nodded.
Tymoshenko held up a chubby finger. “One thing before we conclude this. I am sorry, of course, but we will need to round up the rest of your soldiers. They will be given an opportunity to surrender and join us. We need qualified people for what is coming. It won’t be simple execution, as my predecessor favored. Making things personal…” Tymoshenko shrugged. “I am sometimes simultaneously baffled and encouraged by the incompetence of my competitors.”
“They’re all here.” Rimes sagged, resolved.
“Your soldiers are all here? Those two out there, the two you left at the gate, the corpses in the crawlers?” Tymoshenko sighed. “Please, Colonel. Time is valuable to me. We know the approximate numbers. You may mourn the loss of those we killed, but they do not represent even ten percent of your force.”
Rimes blinked slowly and took in measured breaths. “You have my answer.”
“Look, Colonel, I do not take any particular delight in the screams of torture victims,” Tymoshenko said with almost believable sincerity. “My delight comes from promotions, raises, and recognition. This is not something you would find so deplorable, is it? You too are a professional. Unfortunately, I have those in my employ who do relish torture. Can’t we agree to leave them unsatisfied?”
“Torture isn’t going to change anything.”
“I guess we will have to see about that.” Tymoshenko rose, the gentlemanly veneer replaced by the angry petulance of a metacorporate executive brat. He opened the door and shouted an order in Russian before slamming the door again. He glared down at Rimes and started to speak, but his words were drowned out by an explosion.
Tymoshenko flinched, confused. Another explosion, this one shattering glass somewhere nearby. Then another. A series of explosions sounded in the distance. “What—”
“I told you—” Rimes launched himself upward, one hand grabbing Tymoshenko’s throat, the other seizing his gun hand. “They’re already here.”
With a quick twist Rimes snapped Tymoshenko’s wrist; Tymoshenko gasped, but once again explosions drowned him out. He struggled desperately, kicking, flailing with his damaged arm while trying with the good hand to break Rimes’s choking grip. But even without the broken wrist, Tymoshenko was no match.
Rimes squeezed until Tymoshenko’s tongue protruded and his eyes bugged out. When the kicking stopped, Rimes felt for a pulse. There was none.
He lifted Tymoshenko’s torso, cradled his head, then snapped his neck just to be sure. Rimes retrieved Tymoshenko’s earpiece and pistol, then fished out two spare magazines.
Another explosion went off nearby, and the building’s lights flickered before winking out completely. The windows and walls rattled for a second. Rimes opened the door cautiously and scanned the hall beyond. It was empty. He slipped out of the room and quietly edged toward the common room, pistol held at the ready.
Four forms stood near the common room’s windows. They looked out into the darkness, tensed. Cursing filled the air, most of it in Russian. Rimes scanned the floor and spotted Kleigshoen and Trang ducked beneath one of the desks.
Seconds passed with occasional whispered voices. Another explosion lit the night, and Rimes moved into the room. Bright fire flared outside the building, silhouetting the bodyguards.
Rimes fired, dropping two before the others were even aware someone was shooting. The other two spun, machine pistols in their hands.
Rimes dropped them before they got a shot off.
Gunfire erupted from behind him, and a round clipped his shoulder, numbing it. Rimes dropped and spun, looking down the hallway. Muzzle flashes gave away the last two bodyguards. Rimes fired, holding the pistol with his good hand. His accuracy suffered, but not so much that he couldn’t drop the targets.
He stood and walked down the hall as quickly as his wounded leg could manage. The last two bodyguards were down, but they were only wounded. He finished them off and retrieved their weapons and ammunition. Then, he returned to the common room. Trang had a knee pressed into the throat of one of the fallen bodyguards. Kleigshoen gathered machine pistols and spare magazines while Trang gathered earpieces.
“It would appear Captain Meyers found the ordnance depot,” Rimes said.
Kleigshoen looked at him, confused. “Ordnance depot?”
“It was the lure,” Rimes said. “They wanted us to come here, so they massed their forces and moved the explosives and heavy weapons. We took the opportunity and turned their advantages against them.”
“I thought we were after their gunships?” Kleigshoen’s brow wrinkled.
“Absolutely, but I figured it was even odds this was a set-up, and finding the ordnance would be our best alternative.”
“Oswald died so you could trick them?”
“No. She died trying to get us to the gunships. Now let’s finish the job so she didn’t die for nothing. We get one of those gunships airborne, we can finish this.”
Kleigshoen’s eyes narrowed. “It’s already finished, Jack. I’m through after this.”
26
3 March, 2174. Bermuda Colony.
* * *
The rain intensified, providing cover that even Rimes’s BAS had trouble getting completely through. His breath misted as he blew into his shaking hands. He assured himself they shook from the cold, not from regret and self-loathing. Rain trickled into his mouth, but it was bitter and salty, not sweet, as if just touching him fouled it. Explosions lit the gray twilight, and the roar brought him back to the moment.
Focus. So close now. So close to ending it.
Go had at least been right about the quality of the mercenaries—young, inexperienced, and poorly equipped. Many of the ones Rimes could make out shivered beneath cover and f
ired blindly. Some dropped their weapons and ran screaming from the explosions and fires, while others blindly charged into friendly fire or into other explosions.
Meyers had deployed the weapons—mortars, grenades, and rocket launchers—brilliantly. But even with those heavy weapons, the battle was far from decided.
Rimes opened a channel to Meyers. “I need a path to the gunships. We’re moving out of the maintenance building.”
Nearby, explosions lit the darkness with fiery flashes, revealing a scene every bit as horrifying as those that plagued Rimes’s daydreams—body parts rained down, the wounded screamed, and the living cowered in terror.
Meyers said nothing at first, then his voice exuded calm on the channel. “Due north, fifty meters. First hangar. Fire on hold, but it’s going to be sloppy. They were packed tight in there. Watch yourselves.”
Rimes signaled Kleigshoen and Trang forward. They stopped twice to collect assault rifles and ammunition off corpses, careful to check that the weapons were still functional. At the hangar entry, Rimes signaled for Kleigshoen and Trang to hold and collect ammunition from the dead.
Meyers’s description hadn’t captured the half of it. There were easily thirty dead just in the area immediately around the hangar, some blown to pieces that were now sprawled on the ground in front of the hangar door. Rain pooled in several places, black in the twilight. Here and there pale objects bobbed atop the pooled water. Rimes looked away from the grisly sight and crept forward. He compensated as much as he could for his wounded leg, but there was only so much he could do. While some of his limp had been acting to fool Anton, the wounds were real, and they did slow him.
Once again, he connected to Meyers. “Do we have a spotter?”
“We see you,” Meyers said. “No visible targets, but the odds we got everyone aren’t very good. I’m synchronizing optics now.”
