"Holy crap. I'll take it. Three hundred?" he offered.
"Yeah, sho." Jim seemed happy.
"Jim, I misjudged you. You're all right."
"Thanks. We friends?"
"Indeed we are. Where can I call if I want more?"
Jim scrawled on a card, and his writing was passably literate.
"Thanks. We'll wait in our car."
"Gotcha." The slang word was identical, even though so many proper words weren't. Jason smiled.
They walked toward the vehicle, feeling occasional wafts of breeze in the oddly humid air. All this dust and there was no real moisture, just humidity. Sucky climate. Humid one day, dry the next, but little actual rain.
Elke asked, "Are you sure that's safe? What if they decide to take the cash?"
"Small risk," he explained. "This guy makes his egg by selling. If he starts stealing, word will get out not to deal with him. Someone would take a hit. Someone else might see us in this luxury monster and try something. Can't be helped. But Jim we can trust to sell us stolen weapons and bad parts at an unfair price and keep his side of the deal."
"Right. There isn't much arms smuggling in Europe. Mostly explosive, drugs, and banned animal products. It is a more sophisticated, classy crowd." She said it with deadpan delivery. Her accent was a little noticeable, and her phrasing a bit too formal at times, but she knew English well enough to crack jokes.
Shortly, a rattly old truck with no windows drove up. It had once had windows, of silica glass, fragments still clinging on.
"Man. I didn't know you could find things like that anymore. Must have been easier to set up a foundry than a capacitor plant." Jason was impressed rather than amused. A certain amount of smarts was necessary to use low tech.
"Is that the engine I smell? Petrochemicals?" Elke asked.
"Yeah, diesel fuel, I think. I've encountered it . . . here and there." No need to mention that trip. Officially, it hadn't happened.
"Clever, resourceful. Also toxic and inefficient," she said.
Jim's friends unloaded a crate and two canvas bags that contained the weapons. The containers were open, and the friends were armed. Jason looked the packed weapons over and decided they were good. Elke stood back, covering everybody. He figured the hand in her pocket was near explosives of some kind. Jim stood anxiously, but relaxed when Jason smiled and eased out money. Then it was time to haggle over the appropriate amount of local cash, UN marks, and gold. Jim didn't want silver. Silver was of more use industrially than gold, and slightly cheaper, so easier to split. But gold was what Jim wanted, along with UN marks. Local cash didn't interest him. Since the local currency had been remonetized twice, at a hundred and a thousand to one, and was still lousy in exchange, Jason didn't blame him. The prices had been in UN marks and Jason had assumed that.
The deal acceptable to all, the friends heaved the hardware into the back of the Volvo, thoughtfully not scratching the car, though that would have made it blend in better. Then they were in and driving as the locals evaporated, pretending nothing had happened. Dust, trash, and ruined road kicked up under the vehicle and Jason was off.
He clicked his mic and reported to Alex. "Yeah, got some groceries. Not much in the deli, but some basics that are better than packaged."
"Sounds good. Are we cooking out tonight?"
"We can cook out anytime you like."
"Roger. When are you due?"
"Three zero minutes. Tell the gate."
"Understood. Out."
"Out."
Turning, he said to Elke, "So far, so good. You'll need to move to the left in three turns."
"Oh, why?" she asked.
"So you can take a shot at that cocksucker who threw the rock at us, if he shows his head."
She grinned widely. "I like you," she said. "That's very illegal."
"Yup. Going to do it?"
"Of course," she purred as she shifted over into the back and rolled the window down. That was potentially dangerous, and revenge wasn't smart, but the little bastard had pissed Jason off and he wanted some himself. She reached over and snagged her shotgun.
Three minutes later, he said, "Here we go." Nice house. American Old South style. Antewhatever it was called, in poor repair now.
"I see someone," she said. "Stand by . . . bastard, you mine." Her accent came through under stress.
There was the pitch, a high lob, breaking slightly inside, and there was the shot, and the kid spun around on the balcony clutching at himself as he died. The rock missed the truck this time, and Elke was a bloodthirsty bitch, because she switched to shotgun and took out three windows on the house as they barreled by, then climbed back into the passenger seat without a word.
"Dammit, I forgot ammo for the palace guards," he said.
"Didn't you plan to?" she asked.
"Yes, but I have to get them something. Liquor? Shoes?"
"I'll keep an eye out," she offered.
They settled on cheap Scotch and some cigarettes and chocolate. The chocolate was locally produced, and there was no telling how good it was. The smokes were Players from Earth. The liquor was a house brand. Again, the transaction had been UN marks.
"Should tell the boss local currency's effectively worthless," Jason said. "It's going to affect our deals."
"Yes. Want me to help hand over the stuff?" she asked. They were pulling into the palace grounds.
"Sure, after we clear security. Hope the bastards got the word."
"Yes, this could suck."
"Wait. Marines." The uniform resolved as they approached.
Jason slowed when the NCO raised his hand. Five U.S. Marines under UN flag were watching the post, weapons loaded and held ready. The perimeter was built of concrete blocks with cameras and remoted weapons. He had the window down and both IDs out as he stopped. "Vaughn. Sykora. Ripple Creek Security, contracted to Mister Bishwanath's personal guard."
The sergeant in charge nodded as he took the ID. "Your name is on the list. You know your last four backwards?"
Jason gave it a moment's thought and said, "one-eight-seven-one."
"Good. You have the countersigns and duress signs?"
"They haven't told us anything, Sergeant," he said with a head shake. "You can call up and Marlow will vouch for us." He indicated his radio mic.
"I believe you. It's been pretty screwed up so far." The NCO was young, but knew what he was about. "Countersign is any exchange equaling fifteen today. Plus, minus, multiply. I'd watch the dividing or roots or whatever. You'll confuse some people."
"Like the Army? Sorry, that was mean," he replied. "Fifteen. Got it." And Elke echoed "Fifteen" next to him.
"Yeah, but I wasn't going to say that." The grin vanished and the Marine said, "Duress words are sombrero or flugelhorn. 'Try to work the duress words into a conversation rather than using them without preface, in order to make them sound innocuous. Security personnel will be alert for their use.' " He quoted from some manual with obvious bemusement.
"Repeating. Sombrero, flugelhorn. And I'm supposed to work them into a normal conversation. Who the fuck came up with those? Army again?"
"Aerospace Force actually. How, I have no idea."
"Ah, well. At least we get to share the stupid. Is the rotating list of those with our people?" Jason asked.
"No, but it will be encryptmailed before midnight. If not, call down and ask."
"Thanks. I'll let our people know."
The radio said, "I heard. I'm tied in through Tech White's board at present. We'll get the words."
"Roger that and have a good day," the sergeant said to the air and waved them through. The other Marines moved back.
The local guards sighed and accepted the gifts with some enthusiasm. They really had wanted ammo, and may or may not have known why no one else wanted them to. Jason had guessed correctly that booze and tobacco would always welcome. They waved thanks as Jason climbed back in the vehicle and rolled the few meters to park it.
Caution was
called for even inside. The weapons needed to stay hidden from anyone who might claim them.
"Alex, can you come down here?" Jason said. "Got some stuff."
"Already waiting in the back." More locals guarded the entrance to the large garage and maintenance bay, with an occasional Army patrol.
"You know what's scary?" Jason asked as he pulled into cool shadow and saw Alex and Aramis in back, looking casual.
"What?" Elke asked.
"These are U.S. soldiers. Anyone else would be worse."
"Europeans are still good," she said. "Also Japanese and Koreans and Turks. I agree on most of the rest. Those countries that are good are too few in number to deploy here."
"Right. That's part of it. The U.S. pretty much has to be along to make it stick. It's still frightening how bad things are. You always hear the old guys complaining about how much better they used to be, but it's true. Discipline, morale, and skills suck."
Elke shrugged. "That's why they pay us." She opened her door and stepped out.
"Yup. Though I'd rather consult and have better regular forces," he called as he did also.
"I agree."
Aramis was jittery excited, so as soon as Jason opened the back, he handed the crate over.
"Upstairs," he said. The kid grabbed the crate and moved. The young bastard was strong, that was for sure. Wiry, clean-cut handsome, highly intelligent, and a great shot. His only really bad trait was his ego. Of course, that sort of came with being good-looking, strong, and a damned good soldier.
Elke moved ahead, checking for foot traffic, while Jason followed, handling the doors. Aramis grunted with the crate but never put it down, even though it was close to forty kilos, a load even in point nine-two G. Alex slung the two duffel bags over his shoulders and shuffled a bit from the encumbrance. The only question was whether or not they'd be seen on video and if anyone would want to stop them.
Tech White called down briefly, and Alex clutched awkwardly at his mic. No problems, no worries, no, we don't need help, and a few painful minutes later they were back in their suite.
Everyone was eager.
"That's more like it!" Aramis said as he pried open the crate. "Three belt feds, a grenade launcher each, and some bammy bombs." That was a newer slang for hand grenades than Alex had heard. "Elke, can you even throw one of these fifteen meters to clear bursting radius?" It was a legitimate question. Most females couldn't. But his delivery was rude.
"If I have to. I generally hide behind hard cover up close, or soft cover at a distance. Like a dead Army puke. Or a living one, if I can't find a dead one." The grin on her face was not friendly, though it wasn't threatening death. She was just warning him that he'd crossed a line.
He looked about to say something, but Jason shook his head and said, "Don't," and he didn't. Smart move.
Jason turned to Alex. "How are we going to issue these?" he asked.
"I'm checking with Bishwanath. If he okays it, we'll be carrying the launchers mounted and have a machine gun here, one in the trunk and one in the passenger compartment. No luck on rockets, though?"
"No, I'll have to find another source. But hey, we're much better off now."
"Oh, yes. We can put out some fire instead of just stinging. Not a bad price, either." He frowned slightly. "So, palladium and local cash are nonstarters. UN marks and gold are preferred, it seems, and not sure on silver. Tobacco and booze trade well. Got it."
"I expect medicine and ammo would do real well, too," Jason offered.
"Yeah. They do so well they're banned and would get us jailed. Some logistics NCO got busted for that last month. He was getting food, capacitors, and luxuries his unit needed, like night vision and body armor. Then he got nailed anyway. Something about nonmedicinal drugs sneaking into the mix."
"Right." Yup. The Chain would overlook legitimate barter, until some asshole screwed it up with contraband. Then it all had to stop for at least a while. The moron in question had screwed things up for a lot of people.
"There is good news," Alex said. "Our gym is being set up. Came in on a Space Force logistics flight."
"Excellent. What do we have?" Shaman asked.
"Environment treadmills, so we have scenery to run with. Weights and tension machines and boards for push-ups and sit-ups. An interactive strike machine. Just the basics."
"At least we can do some exercise," Jason said. He didn't really care for exercise, but he cared for not exercising less.
"Yup. Down the hall on the right. The small function room."
Chapter Seven
Alex actually didn't mind the morning conferences down the hall. They were practical, which might be a first. Of course, most of the attendees were military, and not high enough rank to wax poetic. He was close to start time, and nodded to Tech White, Major Weilhung, and Mister deWitt as he entered. He grabbed a cup of real coffee, as opposed to the stuff that wasn't coffee but pretended to be that was served most places, and sat down. A moment later, Bishwanath arrived.
They all stood to attention, and of course he asked them not to, and they'd both keep playing their manners. Rituals were comforting. They sat back down around the long table. Alex wondered why there was wood grain to the artificial material. There were much nicer patterns possible by not pretending injection molded plastic was walnut.
Bishwanath wore an odd expression, part elated, part disturbed.
"Mister Marlow, I have changed my official bodyguard," he said, directly and without preamble.
"Sir?"
"The drunken rabble you've seen outside are gone. I have replaced them with more professional hires."
"Oh, good." He looked at deWitt. There was obviously more going on here.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Alex, Major, and so is the President," deWitt said. "The improvement comes with some strings."
"Hit me," he said.
"What are we facing?" Weilhung asked.
Bishwanath's voice was so melodious and pleasant, even when he relayed bad news. The man was a natural politician. "The new hires are from three different clans. This was to promote the idea of cooperation. None of them are from my clan. This was to show that I trust other groups. However, I cannot say that I am thrilled and comfortable with this, my press releases to the contrary."
"Understood." Right. Reality took another bite as maneuvering took center stage.
"Awkward, but good to know," Weilhung offered.
"Also," deWitt said, "besides the obvious potential for interfactional violence, they still aren't up to the standards we'd like. They can be bought, and they lack the training of you or the Recon unit." He nodded to both leaders. "Hell, they aren't even up to the standards of regular infantry. You can't bet your life on them."
"It is entirely possible," Bishwanath said, "that they will rout, accept a bribe, or prove unable to offer the protection they claim. That latter is most likely. They may also brawl amongst themselves. I don't expect them to do more than brawl, having given their words, but fighting is considered both manly and recreational. I don't trust them, but I must pretend that I do for diplomatic reasons."
He paused for a moment, hesitating. Then he said, "To be fair, my own clan would not prove to be as well trained." He seemed embarrassed.
"Sir, I will not be under- or overestimating anyone if I can help it," Alex replied. "I do appreciate the info, and will keep it under advisement."
"There's another thing," deWitt said.
"Yes?"
"Officially, they are trusted. Therefore, they will be trusted to handle patrols and security. Including incoming vehicles."
Weilhung started. "Oh, no! Hell no! Not a fu— dammit." He looked pissed again. "I'll deal with that as I have to," he said, sounding sheepish and offended.
White said, "I have security issues with our intel equipment, sir. It can't be left unattended and can't be left accessible to people not cleared and clearanced by Aerospace Force." She looked as uncomfortable as the others. Despite her low rank, she spo
ke easily enough at high level. This was obviously a problem for her.
"Right," Alex agreed. "I propose an authorized personnel list for access to different areas, and badges. We can discipline and boot them if they get into needed-for-duty areas."
"Excellent idea, and I will endorse it," Bishwanath said.
"Yeah," Weilhung said. "I'll have to limit some of my people, but they've been exploring. Can't blame them, and ordinarily a good thing, but this helps."
"Good," Alex acknowledged. Yes, that was better. Not having even Recon skulking around meant he could better deal with security and Elke could wire more mines. He didn't have a problem with that at all.
And what was White's function? He wasn't sure if he could trust her or not. Did she work for Bishwanath, the UN, the Army on a share program, or some private AF operation? Or a combination?
She was the most inscrutable of the bunch, and it unnerved him. She was not a combatant, she was more than an admin type, clearly some kind of intel. She was of low rank but high position. She wasn't sharing information with him generally, so what was her function?
White felt his gaze and stared back, emotionless. No, not quite. She made a quick appraisal of whether or not he was a threat and what type, then seemed to rule him safe and ignored him. She was the junior military person here, but she obviously held some strings in addition to her position. What strings, though?
The three Army officers were another matter. Alex knew politicians when he saw them. These were them. He'd been read the riot act over Elke "stealing" a weapon, and a protest had been filed with BuState, quashed, and was now being appealed. They didn't want to let that go. There were ongoing disputes over guarding Bishwanath, and insistence that the military could handle all of it.
And he was required to be polite to these gentlemen, if they could be called that, out of both courtesy and a need to get the job done.
"I must prepare for some video conferences. If you gentlemen will excuse me?" Bishwanath said. Everyone stood to attention and waited while he departed.
As soon as the door closed, the temperature seemed to rise.
Colonel Weygandt said, "Mister Marlow, we need a chart of all your explosives and other booby traps in the palace, and keys so we can disable them until the appropriate time. It's not safe to have them armed constantly, even if they could be a useful tool in certain circumstances." His tone made it clear he didn't think they were useful at all, but in fact scared him.
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