When Diplomacy Fails… fc-3

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Yes,” Alex agreed.

  Twenty minutes later, they trooped to the rec center. He figured that despite the friction with the troops, a change of scenery was good, and perhaps they could plug into a game or two. In the meantime, someone might let slip some intel.

  The new push for “equality” meant there were no distinct areas for officers, NCOs and enlisted members. Tradition maintained, though. The enlisted troops gathered near game pads. The NCOs sat in groups to talk and drink dealcoholized beer, though Jason was quite sure some of them had found ways to doctor the beverages. The officers had trivia and logic puzzles, though honestly, most of the problems weren’t that hard, and only a handful of the officers seemed to actually care or be any good. They had definitely doctored their drinks.

  The team found an alcove off the main lounge, so they could soak up some noise, ambience and hints of music. It wasn’t Jason’s thing, but it was an escape from their apartment. He might suggest trips to the chapel and theater as well. Anything to break the rut. He took a chair with his left side to the room, back to the wall. Aramis faced into the room. Elke faced Jason. At an angle, the other three took a couch. It gave them good view and some distance.

  While others might be violating regs on intoxicants, and they could claim immunity under BuState, though not officially on this side of the base, he agreed with Alex that to do so was to invite trouble. He had a ginger ale. Elke actually took a Coke. Caffeine was as rarely her thing as it was his. They shortly were all gathered around a drink table, slumped in chairs and soaking up atmosphere.

  Aramis said, “Thanks. I needed this.” Jason followed his eyes to see a very shapely Malaysian woman in snug workout clothes. Yes, that was nice.

  A clean young man walked past and asked, “What’s the uniform?”

  It took Jason a moment to realize it was addressed to them, in their basic pants and company shirt. It had the logo on the chest. Theoretically, they’d prefer blank clothes, but uniforms were required over here, for a combination of security and international agreement.

  “Hey, what’s the uniform?” the kid repeated. He wore the new camo, and it looked brand new. He hadn’t been around much.

  “We’re Minister Highland’s personal security detail.”

  “Ah, them,” was the snide response.

  Some troops really respected them, or at least had a case of hero worship. Some just treated them as any other contingent that wasn’t their own. Some of the young ones, though, believed too much propaganda.

  “Yup. Them,” was all he said.

  “I sure wouldn’t mind making ten times what I’m earning to slouch around in chairs.”

  “Well, put in an application.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yup. We’re always hiring.”

  The kid wanted an argument. “You make it sound like I won’t make it.”

  Jason gave him a neutral, interested look and said, “We prefer Recon veterans, or those with two years executive protection experience. Special skillsets like paramedic, demolition or encryption help. So if you’re not one of those, your odds are reduced, but it never hurts to apply.”

  The kid snorted derisively.

  Aramis said, “We might be the best.”

  That didn’t help, but it was pretty clear this kid was looking for escalation.

  Aramis put his drink down and rested his hands on the chair arms. Jason knew it was so he could be on his feet and at a sprint in under a second. Shaman, Alex and Bart stayed back on the couch, not commenting.

  It was clear the troop was young enough to have been impressed by his instructors, and to not pick up on social cues from anyone outside his narrow peer group.

  “And I’m the guy fighting this war so you have the right to say stupid things like that, civilian.”

  It took a moment for Jason to process that. It was ridiculous in so many levels.

  His brain decided to ignore the comment, to defuse things. His sense of the bizarre responded faster, and he laughed hysterically.

  “Thanks,” he said, and turned back to the conversation. “So,” he said to Aramis, “when you get a chance, you really need to try the new mods on the autocannon.”

  Then the kid clamped a hand down on his shoulder.

  There were still ways to defuse this, but Jason was getting pissed. He glanced sideways, saw the kid opening his yap to talk, and went for the object lesson.

  He reached over with his right hand, gripped the kid’s wrist and twisted, followed it with an elbow bar, and pushed him grunting down to the ground. He placed one foot casually on the kid’s shoulder blade, leaned into the wrist, and bent the elbow back against his left knee.

  The kid’s voice was muffled with his mouth against the ground and pink fabric against his chin.

  “Let me go, cocksucker.”

  “Not until you learn some manners around your betters, son,” he replied, while putting just a little pressure on the wrist, until the troop squirmed and grunted.

  However, he was not at all fazed. Through the carpet, the kid said, “I’ll fucking pound your ass when I get up.”

  “Well, I guess I shouldn’t let you up then, if I know that’s your strategy. Aramis, will you please find someone to take charge of this?” He pointed down. The only direct pressure he had on the kid at this point was two fingers. The rest was all leverage.

  Aramis was still smirking, and said, “Sure, just a moment. Would you like a soda while I’m up?”

  “That would be great. Ginger ale with vanilla, please.” A beer would be nice, but while the ban was annoying, it wasn’t nearly as troublesome as some other issues.

  The kid seemed to finally deduce he was outclassed, and lay still. Jason wasn’t injuring him, they were at least semi-public, and while a crowd wasn’t forming, several snickering gawkers gathered across the lounge. They didn’t act offended.

  A familiar voice spoke a little too loudly.

  “What the hell are you doing to my troop?”

  “Well, Lieutenant, let’s say I don’t like having a hand on my shoulder unless it’s a proctologist or a close friend. Then he threatened violence. Now, I’m sure there’s a record on one of our monitors.” He tapped his glasses meaningfully, though they weren’t set to record right then. “However, I really don’t have time to argue the point, and would simply like to add some separation. Can we do that?”

  The lieutenant looked very irritated, though whether at Jason or his recruit who had instigated the incident was hard to say.

  “We can. Come with me, soldier.”

  Jason relaxed his grip and pulled his foot free. The kid scrambled up and tried to put on a show.

  “That’s once. I give anyone once. Next time, you and me-”

  “Private!” the lieutenant snapped, and the kid jerked. He’d probably just realized that regardless of who the officer blamed, he’d be the one downhill from the shit.

  Very quickly, the team had the alcove to themselves. He sighed. Sure, that was good tactically, but long term, it sure would be nice to get along with allied forces.

  Elke said, “Let’s not do this again.”

  Aramis said, “We’re just not the diplomatic type.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Alex woke, wondering if there’d be any complaints about an almost fight in an almost bar. It seemed the lieutenant was wise enough to realize he didn’t want the attention. There would be propagating rumors, though, some positive, some negative. There was nothing to be done about that. Some personalities just clashed. Ripple Creek had press visibility and a certain amount of notoriety. That led to fallout.

  He and Jason had an appointment with Captain Das, then Highland had another promotional run later.

  The whole point of zones on base was to hinder infiltrations and threats. They signed out of State, who were finally taking such things seriously under Cady’s management, but the military side waved them in. It seemed to vary on which troops had the detail. Aerospace Force was by the book. Marines wer
e firm but polite. Army varied by nationality. The more troubled nations took it seriously. America, China and Europe, less so. At least there weren’t any locals this far in. MilBu was resistant to suggestions from BuCulture.

  Not being stopped and cleared made things faster, but he’d rather be delayed and secure. The drive was short, but his brain ran through a lot of comments in that time.

  At the Operations Building, they were expected, and a sergeant led them straight into Das’s office.

  “Gentlemen, good morning,” he said.

  “Hello. Thanks for seeing us.”

  Das didn’t mention the rec center, and he would have, so it was a nonissue officially. Good.

  “You’re welcome. I’m hoping you can offer some input.”

  Jason said, “What do you have?”

  Das said, “Here’s the weapon. It contains four unfired cartridges. They’re old style, with metal cases.”

  Jason took it and Alex let him. He was the expert. He opened the breech as a precaution, then started examining it.

  “It’s a shame I can never keep these things for my collection,” Jason said as he turned the weapon in his hands, rubbing, manipulating. “They’re always so interesting. This is a century old, give or take, a Bridemore Pocket Lion, and someone has stippled the grip by hand, filled it and grooved it. Then it’s worn mostly smooth. The barrel’s been replaced, and it was an aftermarket job. Someone milled the outside themselves, and the rifling looks electrochemically etched after a pantographic stencil laid it out. Cheap, but not very durable compared to forge-rifling or beam cutting.” He seemed to finally notice Das’s grin, and finished with, “Sorry. You were saying?”

  Das said, “That’s farther than we’d got, and I’ll add that information in, with thanks. We also found the empty cartridges. The interesting thing is there is no residue in the barrel to indicate bullets.”

  Jason nodded slowly.

  “They’d definitely leave debris in this material. So it was fired with blanks?”

  “It was fired with sintered polymer alloy of some kind I don’t remember.” He flipped up his desk screen. “Here, ‘Duralon particle-cast densiform.’ It’s about half the mass of lead, which is more than enough to cycle the weapon, but it would fragment to dust within a meter from twist rate.”

  Alex said, “So someone was instigating a riot for the purpose of getting police brutality involved.”

  “Have you seen the alleged wounds? Quite a few are self-inflicted. The cops were not gentle, but they didn’t do some of the stuff we’ve seen. There are razor slashes, bruises, chemical burns and the latter two had to be done ahead of time. So some group of masochists showed up with the intent of getting roughed up.”

  Alex said, “We have the twofold problem of protecting Ms. Highland and not reacting in a fashion that can cause bad publicity when any attack might be real. That could easily have been real bullets. The odds of a hit are remote like that, but obviously the threat of worse exists.”

  Das said, “She refuses to allow us to scan the crowds. Cultural sensitivity issues to their religious beliefs.”

  She also may be hiding further instigations for PR, but this probably wasn’t one, because it backfired if so, he thought. “It’s also not practical to search that many people when she wants a large crowd, and it would work against her stated policies, and the diplomatic issues. Of course, ideally she’d do everything only inside this compound surrounded by us. In the real world, however, she has to meet people.”

  Das nodded back. “Well, I have to both investigate these, attempt to prevent them, and and try to get the locals to work with us. That’s more than a ‘both. ’ ”

  “I appreciate the information, Captain. We’ll do our own digging.”

  Back at their quarters, the team discussed the updates, with drinks and snacks at hand.

  Jason said, “We have her admission of instigation action for PR purposes. She knows we disapprove. We’d also play along, but it’s better if we’re deniable. ‘Better’ from her point of view, of course. So that’s one element that won’t directly be a real threat, but could be infiltrated.” In front of him was a timeline and chart of events they’d dealt with.

  Alex said, “There are just too many factions. It could be her own employees’ union. Unlikely, but possible. There are three factions here who could afford those pros, who apparently weren’t that pro. Skilled wannabes.”

  Aramis said, “There are enough groups who outright hate her. Some of the religious factions have declared moral war based on her visible support of Cady, and the rumors of her being gay.”

  Alex said, “Yes, and Cady knows the score and is holding up. She’s more of a pawn than we are.”

  Elke said, “I would assume that the actual hostiles will try very hard to get into her confidences, and would find out about the staged attacks. They’ll try to use those as cover.”

  “Yes,” Alex said. “Which is why I want Aramis to keep treating every threat like an invasion force and responding with violence. It will have a deterrent effect.”

  The man grinned and said, “I cherish my role as a preemptive violence technician.” He grabbed a handful of cookies and started munching. He seemed to be recovering well.

  Jason said, “Yeah, it keeps her safer and us safer. Nail any and all threats first, then ask questions if there’s anyone left.”

  Bart said, “So we have friendly idiots, and unfriendly schemers who will make use of them. What about other groups?”

  Shaman said, “I’ve seen some of this before. You must understand now you will never get inside information from the groups, especially as to how they ally. But, they will attack her so they can blame another group, or to claim credit and show their mettle. They’ll do so against her influence, or Earth’s influence, or because they don’t like some group she spoke with. That glove of hers was nauseating, but brilliant, I’m ashamed to say.” He slumped a bit and reached for his tea.

  Elke said, “So any group who hates any other group might attack her for or against them.”

  “If they think the cops will rough up their competition, yes. Then there are the gangs and their smuggling operations.” Alex sighed.

  Aramis said, “Translation: no chart we can put together is going to help.”

  “The idiotic thing,” Shaman said through tight lips with a tense face, “is that many of these groups had these same petty squabbles on Earth, and moved here to separate, but all moved here. Then they found the planet isn’t as conducive as they’d hoped, and are all stuck here in the temperate zone on one continent.”

  “What is our approach, then?” Bart asked.

  Jason said, “Attack all threats; try to coordinate with Das for intel from interrogations. If we can catch a live one without undue breakage, we ask the best questions we can then turn them in, undamaged, for the military to question further.”

  “We can monitor residue,” Elke said. “Also, some of these incidents might take money. We can narrow down the focus on which groups would be willing to spend it, and have it available.”

  “I want to follow up on her ‘dear friends’ and ‘former employees.’ They might have reason to hate her, or might be plants. Or just suborned, as happened with Caron and her servants.”

  “That’s the ongoing problem in this business. We can keep someone safe locked in our dungeon with no contact. Beyond that, there are threats.”

  Bart said, “I would also watch current events. Any large swings in the economy, or to any nations or groups, will affect her presence.”

  “This is why BuState has its own security and its own intel.”

  Aramis asked, “How is the intel from intelguy? Any good?”

  “It’s not bad, but not great. I don’t know if that’s par for the course, par for him, incompetence, brilliance or deceit. We’re getting more from Das. Obviously, though, that’s directly military.”

  “And her friend?”

  “Yes, I will have to talk to her about him
. Let me cue up standard spiel about how enemies may use friends for intel.”

  “Do you think that’s going to work?”

  “No, but I am required to try.”

  He pinged a link to Jessie’s private line.

  “JessieM.”

  “Miss Jessie, it’s Agent Marlow.”

  “Yes, sir, how may I help you?”

  “I need to discuss a communication security matter with Ms. Highland. It should be in person, at her convenience.”

  “Stand by, please.”

  It was only a few moments before she came back on. “Ms. Highland says she can see you now.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be right over.”

  Cady’s people checked him in, and she was waiting at the desk she’d had installed in her parlor. Really, he wished she’d stop with the fake smile. Though it was probably both automatic and a matter of constant practice for her.

  “Chief Marlow, what can I do for you?”

  “Thanks for seeing me on short notice, ma’am. This is a secondary security concern, regarding communications.”

  “Should Jessie be here for this, too?”

  “She can be, but it’s not a technical concern.”

  “Go ahead, then, what do you have?”

  “This concerns Mr. Huble.”

  “You can’t be serious!” she said with a half laugh, half protest.

  “I have no reason to suspect him directly,” he said, to get that in there. “The concern is that any consistent, predictable communication outside can be compromised, either en route or at the far end.”

  “We use PrivatProtocol.”

  “I’m told that’s very good. I also know it can be compromised. That’s the first concern.”

  “There’s more?” She seemed derisively amused, which wasn’t the worst possible response, but certainly not good.

  “Mister Blanding is connected to certain groups that would enjoy information about you.”

  She laughed more nervously. “He would never offer information like that.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest so, without knowing him. But, it’s entirely possible for someone to look for messages from you to him, and crack those. Especially while you are here.”