12
Matt Burke:
No. Oh no.
I get back in out of the freezing German air, so cold my eyes don’t want to focus right, and he’s waiting for me like a flashback.
Gray trench. Gray hat. Grayman.
“No…”
But Michael just looks at me with this almost-embarrassed grin, like he’s been dressed in drag for a joke. But it’s not a joke (even though Attila is grinning ear-to-ear behind him).
“What the fuck…?”
He’s wearing the same damn hat and coat he was wearing when he personally tore through the South-Central EU last year. But once I get over the initial shock and take it in, it’s not exactly the same, not quite:
The coat is bigger, cut to fit over the black bulk of the stripped-down SENTAR “low profile” armor (Abbas’ own design) and still leave room to pack weapons under it—he looks even more like he’s wearing a cape than he did before.
And under the wide (wider?) brimmed hat is a topline set of frag-proof interface goggles (with sensor arrays built into the temples) that effectively shields half his face and gives him full feed and link.
Then I realize Richards has come in behind me. I expect him to do a similar freeze and double-take, but he just stands there locked-up and doesn’t say anything. The look on his face is fighting not to be sour (or sick), but he can’t help gnawing at his lip a little and just barely shaking his head as his breath snorts in and out of him. Surprised, he’s not—he knew this was coming…
“What—?” I try again to say. Between the residual hypothermia and the sudden sense I’m having some kind of a sim flashback, I’m not sure I can speak a coherent sentence.
“Psy-op,” Michael just comes out with, all pro-cool. “Something to divert their attention.”
Then I remember from the briefing: Attila saying that Hatif fled Turkey about this time last year because he must have gotten word through the Wab netlinks that the Grayman—Michael, in his not-so-former life—was cutting a swath across Europe and headed in his general direction.
“I thought the whole point of that little pseudo-snuff video you starred in was to separate you from the whole Grayman thing?” I manage to burble out. Richards shoots me a hard glare that says it’s not the time or place to discuss it, and tells me to “Suit up, Major.” Then he just turns and walks off back to his “command center.”
“Change of script, Major Burke,” I hear Doc chirp in over my link (I’m assuming he made the channel exclusive), sounding a little fried himself. “They ‘killed’ Palmeri a year ago. They figure having Gray resurface now will finish selling that Palmeri wasn’t the Grayman.”
Despite the chill, I slip back outside to answer him.
“Or maybe since Grayman made such an impact on Euro-Terror, they decided to keep the legend alive.”
“Or they figure any Rad who sees him tonight won’t be living to tell the tale,” Becker comes back with uncharacteristic cynicism. This seems to have him near as bent as I am.
“I guess I better get dressed,” I give in. “Do I get a cape, too?”
Back inside, Attila is helping Michael adjust his “costume,” making sure it doesn’t interfere with his gear, especially the rappellers. Apparently they want their superhero—sorry: action hero—to be able to fly tonight.
“Ten minutes,” Richards is bitching when I get my suit sealed.
No costume for me: I just get the standard heavy black rig. And apparently I get volunteered to lug an extra helmet on top of it.
“You ready?” I ask Michael—it’s all I can think of to say to him. He just grins under his hat and goggles, the way I don’t like, and his gauntlet gives me a thumbs-up.
“Just like old times,” he purrs, disturbingly cooler than he should be.
“Move it out,” Richards orders like he’s the one in charge. Dee has already flashed our marching orders on our heads-ups.
“Rock and roll,” Manning chimes in. Redneck dork.
“’This ain’t Rock and Roll…’” I counter with a situation-appropriate quote from an old favorite song (“Diamond Dogs” live by David Bowie—a classic). But then Michael suddenly turns to face me, swirling his cape of a coat, gives me that grin and finishes for me in perfect time:
“’…This is… Genocide…’”
He knows my friggin’ song…
Grayman Book One: Acts of War Page 44
