Arc Riders

by David Drake

  “Tim, I’m sorry, too. You and Chun are both critical to this team. Let’s go get this toad Bates and his girlfriend Rhone and be out of here before dawn. Then I’ll forget the whole thing. You and Chun can prove each other’s trust by succeeding. Do that, and life and the world as we know it can go on. All right?”

  “Just what I had in mind,” he said with real fervor.

  In lieu of any more best-laid plans which might go awry, they were going to confront Bates at a Democratic fund-raiser he was known to have attended on March 1, according to Chun’s data on the recent past of Timeline B circa March 15, 1967. The local newspapers had reported their names among the socialites gathered at the Hay-Adams Hotel to hear the President speak. Lucky Bates was political. Lucky Chun was such a good researcher.

  Maybe too lucky. But Roebeck didn’t want to think that way.

  He couldn’t talk to her about his reservations, so he said, “Nan, we’ve got to go somewhere to get the appropriate local clothes for this.” Coveralls could do only so much. Over them, he was going to need black tie. Nan was in worse straits: you couldn’t wear coveralls under most mid-20th century evening gowns. She was going to need something of the sort a Muslim woman might buy if required to attend a formal dinner in the West. Lucky this was Washington.

  Grainger hated luck. He didn’t trust it. There was too much of it showing up on this mission. The bell curve was going to catch up with them: all the bad luck they weren’t getting might fall on their heads like an avalanche.

  The matter of access to the fund-raiser had nothing to do with luck. It was a simple case of buying into power: you paid your money, you got your ticket. That was what fundraisers were about. Chun had already registered both of them from TC 779 before she phased out, charging the door fee to Grainger’s credit card. She’d been told that there would be an “opportunity to contribute further to the cause by check.”

  So now they had manual checkbooks: pieces of paper on which you wrote the amount by hand which you wanted debited, and the payee’s name. Somehow, Chun had assured them, the name alone provided a destination for the debited funds. All without having to know the routing numbers. It was amazing that the local banking system kept things straight.

  Chun had quizzed them on the procedure until they could write the paper debit creditably in the new checkbooks she’d made for them, which carried the appropriate numbers of a local bank to which actual funds had been transferred from some luckless bastard’s offshore account by her manipulation. So the checks were good, at least for the next few weeks. After the 15th of March, it wasn’t going to matter to him and Roebeck whether anyone caught the banking manipulation.

  If they were still here on the Ides of March, they’d cease to exist before the end of the night.

  Getting the proper clothes for a black tie fund-raiser was harder than Grainger had anticipated, and more costly. They used up nearly half of the checks Chun had given them doing it. When they had finally purchased tuxedo (alterations promised for later that day at an extra charge), bow tie (which he was taught to tie in the store), dress shirt, suspenders, shirt studs, collar stays, cuff links, socks, shoes, overcoat, long-sleeved and high-necked evening dress (so that Roebeck could wear her coveralls underneath), pantyhose (!), high heels, evening bag, and fur coat, they had visited five stores and raised their visibility considerably. Worse than that, it was getting late and Grainger hadn’t yet collected his altered tuxedo.

  His instincts were telling him they should get invisible, fast. He was exhausted from watching crowds and passersby for repeating faces and scanning every establishment they visited for possible traps.

  He flat didn’t want to go back to the store to pick up the dinner suit. He told Roebeck that. “Returning someplace at a scheduled time window? I just don’t think we should.”

  “Well, you’re not going to that fund-raiser dressed like that.” Roebeck, now an expert on contemporary customs, looked him up and down critically. “You look like a hippie. We’re lucky we pulled this off. Let’s go to the hotel and send someone for your things, then.”

  It wasn’t a much superior option, but Grainger agreed. Driving the big car without incident through early evening’s impossibly congested traffic arteries to the hotel opposite the White House was about as much as he could handle right now.

  The Hay-Adams was comfortable, antique even in its own time, and full of staff eager to please. As they checked in, Grainger held his breath. No problem. His local credit card worked fine. The receptionist agreed to send someone to pick up his tuxedo and deliver it to their room.

  They had three hours to rest, dress in the complex clothing, and do recon on the site of the fund-raiser.

  In the suite furnished with antiques, soft divans, and a four-poster bed, he nearly fell asleep to the sound of Roebeck enjoying an unlimited H2O shower. At this level of society, people lived well enough to envy, even in 1967.

  He turned on the television to keep awake, but couldn’t find the news channels. He mastered the phone system and ordered coffee by voice from a person with a slow southern drawl. He swept the room for bugs and found nothing electronic whatsoever, not even a hotel-generated RF security scan.

  Then the tuxedo and attachments arrived, and he was at pains to remember how to put all the pieces of the evening wear together. He was still struggling with the bow tie when Roebeck came out of the shower in a towel.

  “You’re not going to bathe?” Her hair was wet and she shook it at him.

  “Is it part of my job?” He was dressed. He didn’t want to go through all this again.

  “It should be obvious to you that a bath or at least a wash would improve your ability to… blend in,” she said scathingly.

  Roebeck standing wet in a bedroom wrapped in only a towel was different from Roebeck his boss in uniform. He knew it and she knew it. They both needed to ignore it for the sake of the mission. He’d never realized how pale her skin was, or how freckled.

  He said, “I’m going downstairs to get a look at the room.” He had his acoustic pistol, his handheld scanner, and that was it. “You’ll have to handle all the sensory sweeps.” He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I’ve got my gear inside my hat, but you evidently don’t wear those hats indoors. When you’re ready, come down in your coat and we’ll go outside. Then we can come in again and take the opportunity to do a thorough spectral sweep.”

  Best he could do. He had to get out of there.

  He wandered around the hall, found the elevator. In the lobby he drifted down the stairs into the dining room, and up another flight until he was stopped by a very polite waiter dressed just as he was, who told him this room was for a private party.

  He said, “I know. I’m a guest.” Just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken for part of the staff.

  “Staying with us, sir? I see. Well of course, if you wish to look around…” Now the waiter thought he was some sort of special security.

  Grainger was unsure whether to take the opportunity to walk the room, and the concomitant chance that the waiter would mention it to someone, or to leave as unremarkably as possible. He had his hat in his hand so he could see the telltales of his commo system, and his overcoat on his arm to hide the bulge of his acoustic pistol against his thigh. Just in case. “Thank you, I’ll do that.”

  He drifted around, turning his hat in his hands as unobtrusively as possible. The waiter ignored him. Maybe it would be all right. There wasn’t an Oriental waiter in sight. The room was scanning pretty much as it should….

  Then two big guys in gray suits with hearing aids came up to him, one on each side, lighting the RF telltale jammed into his hat. He was willing to bet that 1960s hat bands didn’t light up and blink at you. He flipped the disabling switch as if flicking a spot of lint, then looked up at them, hat held against his chest.

  Before they opened their mouths he knew he was in trouble.

  The President was going to speak here. The Secret Service advance team was on sit
e hours before, even in 1967, on behalf of their soon-to-arrive “protectees.”

  “Can we help you, sir?”

  “I was just looking for my name tag,” he said lamely. “My wife likes to know where she’s going to sit before she decides what jewels to wear.” Did that sound like 1967 snobbery? He hoped so.

  “And what’s the name, sir?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Rainer.”

  One of the beefy Secret Service men stood in Grainger’s way while another stalked off to check the seating list. He was going to have a real problem if Chun hadn’t successfully gotten them on that list.

  As it was, he didn’t want to explain the hardware in his hat. He let the hand holding it drop casually to his side.

  Just then Roebeck’s voice called out, “Tim, dear, come on, please! You can talk to your friends later. I want to get a little air.” Imperious, demanding. Just perfect.

  The beefy Secret Service agent looked past him. Grainger looked, too. The woman in the fur coat and the evening gown was tapping her fingers on crossed arms.

  “Guess you can go along, sir. I’m sure we’ll—”

  “Right here,” called the second agent, pointing to a seat directly in front of the raised dais which held the head table. “Mr. and Mrs. Rainer.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Grainger, and turned on his heel.

  Under his overcoat, his hand relaxed on the pistol that had somehow slipped into it when he wasn’t paying attention. When he reached Roebeck, he was sweating.

  “I owe you one—darling.” He pecked her chastely on the cheek and guided her toward the doors and the relative safety outside with one hand in the small of her fur-clad back.

  As they were bowed out of the doors by staff, he wondered how many chinchillas had died for that coat. Outside, Roebeck asked, “What happened in there?”

  “I met the Secret Service advance team.” He shrugged. “At least I know who they are. And no, I didn’t show any ID.”

  “Walk, damn it,” Roebeck hissed. She put her arm in his and nearly dragged him along. Then he saw why.

  A presidential motorcade was turning this way, flags on the front fenders, motorcycle escort, flashing lights, and all.

  From nowhere, press was coalescing. The ARC Riders had to get out of sight.

  This operation was sliding quickly into the dumper. Between sirens and motorcycles, you couldn’t hear yourself think. He put on his hat and stepped into the shadows near the wall of the building so that he could slide his commo gear into position. “Nan, this isn’t going to work.”

  “Tim, I’m getting that feeling, too. But—look.”

  He turned to look where she pointed.

  The presidential limousine was pulling into the circular drive of the hotel. Secret Service swarmed the car and kept back press with cameras that still had flash attachments. The effect of the flashing cameras was nearly blinding until Grainger pulled down his membrane and enabled his eye protection. Then everything was murky, but he did see the President and his wife get out of their car. Those ears were unmistakable.

  That car drove away. The next one held the National Security Advisor. After the advisor and his wife got out of the car, another couple followed.

  Bates and Rhone.

  “God help us,” Roebeck groaned. “Chun didn’t say they were that well connected.”

  “They’re that well funded. You want to give up now, or you want the expensive dinner we paid for?”

  “No, we’ll go in. Maybe something will happen that will give us a shot.”

  “Give a big contribution, and make an appointment,” Grainger said dourly. “That’s the only shot, unless you want to let me take down a roomful of history-worthy locals with acoustics pushed to levels that may be indiscriminately lethal, or try breaking into Bates’ house again.”

  Bates was better looking even than his photograph, tall, black-haired with bold, intelligent eyes that swept Grainger and Roebeck as a matter of course. The eyes didn’t pause when they encountered Grainger or Roebeck, but Grainger had the feeling he’d been acquired and logged. Not as an enemy, only as a datum.

  As planned, the ARC Riders toughed it out. They drank the cocktails, ate the shrimp canapés, and sat through the five-course dinner with attendant speeches.

  The President was saying, “My dear friends, the Founding Fathers gave us a proud legacy. That legacy demands that we act to ensure the future of the United States for our children and grandchildren against an increasing threat to our national security. I’m telling you here today that the buildup in Southeast Asia cannot be allowed to continue. This war cannot be lost, or with it we’ll lose our own freedom. And to protect that freedom, we need every one of you. Your contributions will help us fight the divisive factions in this country that want to give our future to the Communist enemy. Here at home, and abroad, a Democratic America must prevail.” The President frowned, looked at his notes, and took a step back from the lectern as if he’d forgotten why he was there.

  At the head table, Bates leaned back in his chair and flung an arm over its back. In his hand was a napkin. Under the napkin was… something. Something pointed at the President.

  The President took a step sideways, then forward. He rubbed his nose with his thumb and forefingers, and looked down again at his speech.

  Then he continued reading from where he’d left off.

  “That’s it, Tim, did you see?” Roebeck leaned close and whispered in his ear. No hats in this place.

  “I saw. What do you want me to do? Start spraying the head table with acoustics?”

  “No, of course not. But now we know.”

  “Next move, boss?”

  “Write that check you were talking about. See if we can get an appointment to see Bates in his office—he’s deputy chairman of the Democratic Reelection Committee, isn’t he?” Nan Roebeck leaned even closer and looked at him hard. “Nothing else. Nothing now. We can’t risk it.” There were strangers on both sides of them, listening to the President intently—or so Grainger hoped.

  “So it isn’t a suicide mission, after all? Thanks, Nan. I’m glad to hear it.” He’d have done it, if she ordered. Right then and there. He didn’t see any choice.

  But she did. She kissed him softly on the cheek, for appearance’s sake, and murmured, “We’ll get a shot at them. You’ll see.”

  At the head table, Rhone was sipping champagne and slipping her arm over Bates’ shoulder. She was either drunk or pretending to be, while she tweaked whatever device Bates was holding. The President of the United States continued to read his speech.

  Not until the President was done did Bates sit forward, putting both hands under the table before he raised them to clap enthusiastically. Neither of Bates’ hands, nor either of Rhone’s, held so much as a napkin any longer.

  Over Northeastern

  Virginia

  Timeline B: August 24, 1991

  “Well, my goodness, that’s how they did it,” Barthuli said. He beamed at Weigand in the aisle seat beside him. “The weapons that our counterparts used on us!”

  Weigand nodded to show he was listening. The analyst had been working all through the long flight, but the flickers Weigand saw of the air-projected hologram display gave no hint of the subject. Weigand hadn’t wanted to disturb Barthuli with a pointless question—Gerd would tell them if there was anything he thought they needed to know.

  The other reason he hadn’t questioned Barthuli was that Weigand had disconnected himself from the world he couldn’t affect for the time being. If he engaged Barthuli, or Carnes, or even Watney on the other side of the aisle, Weigand’s brain would cast over the decisions he’d made and would have to make in the future; knowing that he didn’t have enough data to decide intelligently, nor enough resources to act with any reasonable hope of success. Deciding and acting anyway.

  Better not to think. Best of all, never to have been born.

  Barthuli had hoped for more enthusiasm at his announcement, but the a
nalyst wasn’t a man who depended on others for his pleasures. “Their weapons suppress acetylcholine production!” he said proudly. “The target’s nervous system shuts down entirely because the messenger chemical isn’t released.”

  “The guns inject chemicals?” Weigand said. He’d been so sure the weapons were electronic—and thus destroyed by the electromagnetic pulse as surely as the suits—that he hadn’t bothered to appropriate one or both. A mistake, another mistake?

  “Oh, no,” Barthuli said. “That couldn’t be or we wouldn’t have come around so quickly when the stimulus was removed. Cholinesterase in the bloodstream would have taken some while to decay, hours perhaps.”

  Weigand couldn’t remember the event precisely. He’d noticed the forearm of the displacement suit crooked toward him when it should have been straight, the gun that shouldn’t have been in the hand. After that—white fuzz around the edges of his vision, heat, his skin flushing as though he’d been seared. Those were the normal concomitants of having fainted, as was the patchy amnesia regarding the few moments before and after.

  Carnes leaned forward to catch Weigand’s eye past the analyst. “We’ve been descending,” she said. “My ears wouldn’t pop until just now.”

  “Squad leaders, prepare your men,” the PA system crackled. “Landing in ten minutes.”

  The old aircraft was noisy, and its speakers were so ill-tuned and rasping that you virtually had to know what was being said to understand it. That was all right. They did all know what was coming. Carnes’ weren’t the only ears to have felt the descent into the target area.

  Watney, the team’s nominal squad leader, stood up in the aisle and began checking his equipment. The revisionist carried a ten-pound charge of TNT, three light anti-tank rockets, an M16 rifle with a 40mm grenade launcher beneath the barrel—much the way Anti-Revision Command EMP generators clipped to fléchette guns, and what Weigand would have given for proper ARC weaponry at this moment—and bandoliers of both rifle and grenade ammunition.