The rest of the Black Reichswehr had thought Ritter a weak young fool and hadn’t seen fit to guard their speech around him. He’d soon learned that Kopp and Schwarze had hidden stashes of fuel, ammo, cash, and other looted valuables all over the continent. Ritter had made a point of memorizing several sets of relevant GPS coordinates.
One of Kopp’s caches lay buried beside a lonely desert road south of Algiers. Ritter had meant to raid the hoard and settle his debt after his last mission with the Reichswehr. He’d been delayed, but thankfully the Scorpion had allowed him a grace period.
Ritter clipped the canteen back on his belt, adjusted his assault rifle’s shoulder strap, and resumed digging. Soon his excavation resembled a grave, and when he brought his shovel down again, its tip thudded into something solid.
His heart leapt. Ritter cast his shovel aside and crouched down to dig with his hands. Sweeping away a few more centimeters of sand revealed the black lid of a hard plastic case.
The whiny, syncopated strains of Moroccan dance music drifted on the hot wind, underscored by the rattling growl of a poorly maintained engine. Ritter threw the sand-colored tarp he’d brought over the hole. He gripped his rifle and crept toward the pit’s edge as the source of the noise bore down on him.
The car skidded to a halt a stone’s throw from Ritter’s hole. The strident music ceased. Four doors opened and were quickly slammed shut. Four sets of feet hastened to the back of the car. The trunk popped open, unleashing muffled but familiar cries of rage.
Ritter popped up from hiding. Standing on the crate, his upper body just cleared the pit’s rim. A sun-faded banana yellow taxi festooned with gaudy beads and garlands sat in the dirt road. Four umber-skinned men stood gathered around the open trunk, which held a bound and gagged Zane Dellister. His short white hair clung wetly to his scalp, and his gray eyes widened in surprise.
Zane’s four captors stared dully at the young man in dusty fatigues who’d sprung up from the desert. All four held weapons ranging from machetes to shotguns. Ritter mowed them all down with a clattering spray of automatic fire before they could move.
One corpse slumped into the trunk. Zane cut his bonds on the machete still clutched in its hand. He leapt out, bolted to the driver’s side door, and jumped behind the wheel.
Shock left Ritter acting on impulse. He sprang from the hole, which the tarp mostly covered behind him. He slid across the cab’s searing hood and climbed into the front passenger seat. Zane hit the ignition, gunned the engine, and pulled a U-turn, kicking up a dusty rooster tail. The two of them tore down the road to the wailing thump of Moroccan club music.
Naryal descended the stairs from her private jet to the desolate airstrip. Leaving the air-conditioned cabin for the afternoon heat was like walking toward a firing afterburner. She adjusted the wide brim of her cream-colored hat to shade her eyes and studied the colossal cargo plane parked across the runway.
A burly man with light brown skin wearing a three-piece sharkskin suit stepped from the shadow of the cargo plane’s wing. Naryal strode across the cracked pavement to meet him, holding down the skirt of her yellow dress in the salt-scented wind.
“What can I do you for?” he asked in a vulgar accent of the American upper Midwest.
He’s the embodiment of the Coalition’s meddling on Earth, Naryal mused. “I am Governor Prem Naryal. Tell His Highness the Dauphin I desire an audience.”
The giant wiped his enormous hands on an oil-stained rag. “I know who you are. The Dauphin’s occupied with important business. I can check his calendar if you’d like to make an appointment.”
“It’s alright, Benny,” a youthful male voice spoke from the open hatch leading to the transport’s cockpit. A young man in white pants and a matching cotton shirt with his brown hair tied at the nape of his neck emerged. He held her gaze with fathomless blue eyes. “Your Excellency. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.
“The pleasure is mutual,” said Naryal. “I’ve been eager to meet you for some time. How fortunate that we’re both in the market for Carlos’ wares. I have no idea what’s keeping him, but thankfully you’re here to greet me.”
Jean-Claude du Lione stepped down from his perch and crossed the blistering hot tarmac to stand before her. “To paraphrase my friend’s question, how may I be of service?”
“It is I who would offer my services to you,” said Naryal. “You are aware of Sekaino Megami’s recent installation as Coalition Secretary-General?”
Jean-Claude’s tanned face fell. “I am aware that she staged a coup d’état.”
“Some in the SOC likewise view Megami’s ascendancy as illegitimate,” Naryal said. “Governor Troy has declared Western Europe an independent territory under his sovereign rule. Megami is mobilizing a second invasion force even larger than Operation N. Officially she intends to quash Troy’s rebellion, but I believe her true motive is more sinister.”
“How do you mean?” Jean-Claude asked.
“I have caught wind of certain high-level movements,” said Naryal. “Rumors, mostly, but from sources I’m inclined to take seriously. There are whispers of secret arms projects—terror weapons capable of destroying whole colonies.”
Jean-Claude raised an eyebrow. “Why would the Secretary-General of the Coalition want to destroy a space colony?”
“Not all space colonists support the Coalition,” said Naryal. “And many in the SOC will oppose Megami’s excesses. I fear she intends to hang a sword over our heads to keep the earth and the colonies in line.”
“You have indeed rendered valuable service, Mademoiselle,” Jean-Claude said. “When I have finished my errand in Algiers, I shall report the matter to the EGE General Staff.”
Naryal took the Prince’s unexpectedly coarse hand. “I propose something more,” she said, “an alliance between my office and the EGE.”
Jean-Claude gently clasped her hand in return. “Considering the urgency of the threat you’ve brought to my attention, I am willing to defer my current business for the sake of our alliance.”
Naryal smiled. “I have an apartment in town. Perhaps you—”
A blue flash blazed through the warehouse district across the bay, accompanied by a thunderclap that silenced Naryal in mid-sentence. Whole buildings went up in flames as the sapphire light cut a swath through the dockyards and continued out to sea, raising a trail of steam taller than the city’s highest building.
Naryal gaped. “That blast came from a plasma cannon!”
Jean-Claude rounded on his hulking servant. “Benny, bring the Governor aboard and lower the cargo ramp while I prepare to sortie.”
Benny moved behind Naryal. His bearlike hands encircled her shoulders. She stabbed her finger toward the west, where a wall of fire stretched to the sea. “You don’t plan to fight whatever caused that!”
Jean-Claude strode toward the tail of the plane. “If my surmise is correct, I bear some responsibility for this disaster. It is my duty to intervene.”
Naryal let Benny guide her toward the stairs leading up to the plane, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the Prince as he strode into mortal peril.
Ritter stood at the work mount’s controls, keeping a lonely vigil over the destruction he’d unwittingly wreaked. He still stared at the flame-wreathed hole in the warehouse’s north wall long after Zane had fled in his commandeered cab.
He’s welcome to it, Ritter thought through the numbing fog that had settled over his mind. He doubted he’d ever wash the smells of spiced mutton and stale tobacco from his clothes. The reedy strains of foreign dance music drifted through his mental haze.
Ritter tried to pinpoint when matters had gotten out of hand. He and Jean-Claude had flown to Algiers for a meeting with Carlos the Scorpion in the hope of getting a lead on their AWOL comrade Zane. The Scorpion had issued an ultimatum, and Ritter had gone digging for an old Black Reichswehr stash to pay him off.
Zane’s sudden arrival in the trunk of a Moroccan gang’s cab had been a surprise. Rit
ter had gunned down the gangsters to save his friend’s life, and Zane had sped them both back to the gangsters’ warehouse. He’d planned to cannibalize the experimental plasma rifle to fix Dead Drop, but they’d decided to test the mysterious weapon before Zane retrieved his combat frame.
The cinder-colored gun had unnerved Ritter on sight. He and Zane had cobbled together a backstop from Dolph armor plates found in the same warehouse and hung it against the wall. Ritter had learned the reason for his fear when their test shot instantly vaporized the thick armor plates, the wall, and everything from the warehouse to the sea in a path of ruin that still held him enrapt.
I’d better run, he thought. Someone would arrive at ground zero soon—if not the local authorities; their criminal counterparts or someone worse. Yet his legs refused to move. He’d still been shaken from killing Zane’s would-be killers when he’d fired the plasma rifle. Now thoughts of innocent people suddenly reduced to pink mist by sapphire light haunted him.
A loud whine overhead and a tremor running through the steel platform under his feet startled Ritter from his brooding. He fought to stifle a scream when a gothic monstrosity of bronze and burgundy crouched down beside the singed hole in the wall and leered at him with a giant, gargoyle-like head. His ears were still ringing from the blast, so he didn’t know if he succeeded.
“Ritter!” Jean-Claude’s amplified voice cut through Ritter’s tinnitus. The monstrous combat frame gripped the hole’s edge with a clawed hand. “What in heaven’s name happened here?”
“I—” Ritter stammered. “We—Zane and I found this plasma rifle. He wanted it for Dead Drop, but we thought we’d better test it first.”
“Such destructive power does not belong on Earth,” Jean-Claude said. “I must confiscate this weapon for the EGE to study. Perhaps they can devise some defense against it.”
The clawed metal hand reached into the warehouse to seize the rifle from the disembodied CF arm’s grip. Another impact on the ground outside stopped Jean-Claude short.
“The EGE promised me the parts to fix Dead Drop,” Zane’s indignant voice echoed from a PA speaker. “You broke your word and murdered thousands of my brothers.”
“Your brothers?” Ritter and Jean-Claude asked at the same time, though the gargoyle CF’s speakers drowned Ritter out. His feet finally came unstuck from the floor, and he ran to the breached wall. Dead Drop’s sleek black form stood in the street facing Jean-Claude’s winged CF.
“The colonies aren’t like Earth,” said Zane, “where everybody has a mother and a father. The Coalition makes batches of workers to order. I grew up in an industrial colony with the other mass-produced laborers in my block. We had more than a brotherly bond. I could feel them even when we were apart. I felt them die when we shot those shuttles down.”
“It would appear Captain Darving was right,” Jean-Claude said. “Secretary-General Megami has played us for fools.”
“Yeah,” said Zane. Dead Drop advanced a step and pointed a black finger as thick as Ritter’s torso at the mounted rifle. “So tell me why I should let you get your hands on next-level weapons like that.”
Jean-Claude’s CF raised the delta-shaped shield on its left to its chest. “You have my condolences, M. Dellister, but I cannot surrender the weapon to you; especially not in your current agitated state.”
“Duel you for it,” said Zane.
Silence fell. Ritter held his breath.
“Your combat frame is still damaged,” Jean-Claude said. “My Veillantif is in peak condition.”
“Then you might have a chance.” Dead Drop’s left arm swept toward Veillantif with plasma cannon deployed. Jean-Claude’s shield blurred in a rising arc that knocked the black CF’s forearm up and to the right. The cannon’s purple beam blazed skyward through the lingering smoke, barely missing its target’s gargoyle-like head.
Veillantif spread wine-colored wings lined with barbed teeth and jetted backward beyond sight. Dead Drop followed in a burst of rocket exhaust that would’ve left Ritter’s ears ringing if they weren’t already.
“Men and their foolish honor,” a lightly accented female voice said from behind Ritter’s left shoulder.
“Only a certain kind of man,” Carlos the Scorpion spoke from the corresponding position to Ritter’s right. “Others know how to resolve disputes without violence.”
Ritter turned. Carlos stood in his partially buttoned EGE uniform next to a cinnamon-skinned woman in a yellow sundress and a floppy hat. Both stared through the ruined wall. “How?” Ritter exclaimed. “When?”
“Carlos’ helicopter,” the woman said. “Shortly after Jean-Claude arrived.”
“Where are my manners?” Carlos chided himself. He gestured deferentially to the woman beside him. “Private First Class Tod Ritter, allow me to introduce Coalition Mideast Region Governor Prem Naryal. Governor Naryal, Private Ritter.”
Naryal smiled wolfishly. “A pleasure, Private. I’ve heard much about you.”
“You’re with the Coalition?” Ritter looked from Naryal to Carlos. “And you’re in a warehouse owned by a rival gang. Shouldn’t we get out of here before the police or more gangsters show up?”
Carlos gave a derisive snort. “The local gendarmes will do as they’re paid. Zarai’s police do not always stay bought, but they will since you have removed my only competition—which answers your other question, also.”
Ritter’s throat went dry. “You mean, those men in the desert…”
“Were the leaders of the Moroccan gang that had forced out the local operations,’ Carlos said. “Along with some of the gentlemen in the other room who let their passions interfere with business.”
The memory of why he’d been in the desert crashed down on Ritter like a cold wave. “I was going to pay you back! I just got sidetracked. Give me one more hour, and I’ll bring you enough to settle my debt, plus interest.”
Carlos raised his finger. “Such topics are not fit for mixed company. But you are young, so I am sure the lady will not take offense.”
“I used to be a Commerce Ministry accountant,” Naryal said from below the looming gun’s barrel, which she was studying intently. “Trust me, I am incapable of being offended by discussions of debt.”
Carlos clicked his tongue. “A most unladylike occupation. In any event, my men already found your roadside stash. Have no fear. They withdrew funds sufficient to cover what you owed; no more. They even filled in the hole and left an extra deposit of four Moroccans.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ritter said, “but I can’t believe a gangster would leave money on the table like that.”
“Normally I would have robbed you blind, but I am thinking you are a useful associate to keep around.” Carlos wrapped his arm around Ritter’s shoulders. He smelled of hair gel and bitter wine. “Also, you and Dellister plucked a thorn from my side, and I too pay my debts.”
“I never meant to rub out a gang of arms dealers,” lamented Ritter. He feebly gestured toward the ticking hot hole in the wall. “Or to do that.”
Carlos gave Ritter’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It is difficult to face one’s youthful errors.”
“What is that weapon, anyway?” Ritter asked.
“Trouble,” said Naryal. She straightened her hat and returned to the platform. “It’s derived from the Dolph series’ plasma rifle but far more refined. A better question is, what’s it doing here?”
“The Moroccans were funneling hardware to Kisangani,” Carlos said. “And the Socs are scrambling to purge all traces of Operation N, which is why they ordered a hit on Dellister.” He cast a sidelong glance at Naryal. “Don’t pretend you did not know.”
Naryal’s brow knotted. “I didn’t. If I’d wanted Dellister dead, he never would have made it to his combat frame. He honestly hadn’t caught my notice, but in light of what he said to Jean-Claude, I’ll have to keep my eye on him.”
“Telling white lies is a woman’s prerogative,” said Carlos, “but I have my means as
well. The price on Dellister’s head was placed by your own Security Chief Davis.”
“Commander Davis is dead.” Naryal frowned pensively. “Megami had him killed before her installation as Secretary-General.”
Carlos shrugged. “I have men who check the legitimacy of such transactions. Their lives depend upon their accuracy. These men assured me the order and associated account numbers resided within a secure folder on a General Affairs Ministry server labeled ‘Elizabeth’. The data in question was uploaded using a command authorization code matching the birth date of Davis’ bastard son.”
“Friedlander accessed the same folder,” Naryal thought aloud.
“You know Sieg?” marveled Ritter.
Naryal’s expression darkened. “We’ve met.” Her dark eyes fell on Ritter’s EGE patch. She dashed across the warehouse floor to the front office. Ritter took off after her, and Carlos strolled along behind them. Naryal searched the grisly crime scene, producing a satellite phone from the cash-stuffed bag. She dialed a long string of numbers and pressed the speaker to her ear.
“What’s she doing?” Ritter whispered to Carlos.
“I have no idea,” the Scorpion said, “but I expect it will be good.”
Naryal seemed to reach whoever she’d meant to call, and she spent several minutes conversing rapidly in an incomprehensible language. A long pause interrupted the discussion, which finally resumed only to reach a perfunctory end.
“Admiral Kei Omaka is Friedlander’s EGE contact,” the Governor said, her face beaming. “Multiple transmissions have been sent between the same office where the ‘Elizabeth’ folder is stored and Omaka’s flagship the Lloyd George.”
Ritter felt as if he’d stepped in quicksand. “How do you know?”
“Controlling practically all satellites in Earth orbit has its advantages,” said Naryal. “I knew Davis was exchanging information with an unknown agent in the Secretary-General’s office. I’d suspected that he leaked my security protocols to Sieg through a third party, but I didn’t have proof. Now I know all three players in our little drama were in contact with Admiral Omaka.”
Combat Frame XSeed Page 18
