"That's it?" he asked.
"That is the third bailout plan, per the manual," she said. "We already went through A and B and figured they were no good. But the manual does cover this so I'm sticking with it for now. It says to assist allied military, Bureau, and contract personnel if possible. Since I have not been ordered to do anything shitty, I'm on clear ground."
"But one minicar," he said. That was a staff vehicle, not a tactical vehicle.
"Right. I can't take you all. I could take the President."
"Call him Bal. And the problem is, I can't let him go detached. I'm in a serious bind if I do, contract or no."
"I understand." Yes. She understood. She wasn't going to budge.
"Can you detach your men to me and let me put mine with you?" he asked.
"Negative," Buckley said. He'd been silent if attentive until now. "Our transport, our assets, and we have to escort Tech White until she is secure, or prevent capture of the intelligence assets she has."
"Prevent . . ." Alex stared at her. Holy shit. Did that mean . . . ?
Yes, it did. The NCO didn't look happy, but he too looked determined to carry out his orders.
"So we travel together," she said. "You'll have to travel separately, though we can cover you if it does not interfere with our mission. That's pushing the regs, but I don't give a damn."
Alex nodded. "Bart, go down and get us transport. Jason, go with him. One at least, two if you can. Fast, goddamit, be fast."
"Sir," they said, and moved.
White and her escorts left. "I'll stay in touch by phone," she said on the way out.
****
Everything always took longer than planned. Alex had said three minutes. White had said six. Fifteen minutes later, they were still gathering gear. Elke made three trips back grunting under piles of explosive. Rahul returned with a cart and some personal valuables that could prove useful. Bart and Jason admitted there was nothing nondescript that fit their needs for transport. Most of the vehicles had been taken by palace staff. "We risk it in a Mercedes limo or we go on foot," Bart reported. "I like Mercedes, but here I think it would be an attraction."
"Damned straight," Jason agreed. "We're safer on foot. Blend into the mob."
"I concur," Alex said, reluctantly. He remembered last week's convoy. Damn. So how to get to the real convoy, the one with the weapons and free-fire orders . . .
Weilhung finally called. "Marlow, I know you got the same orders I did. I know it sucks. Where is Bishwanath?"
"I have no idea, Major. Haven't seen him since I got called away for that phone call. Nor his assistant. I gather he figured what was going on and split back to his people."
"Don't bullshit me, contractor. Where is he?"
"Major, if I knew exactly where he was at this moment"—Alex was carefully facing away from the group and didn't know Bishwanath's exact location—"I'd tell you. There's a very good chance he's still in the palace. But I was ordered to stop guarding the President, and pulled. So I'm not guarding him. Look somewhere else." I'm guarding Balaji Bishwanath who is not the President. So it's all true.
"Maybe I better come up and take a look myself," Weilhung said. His tone made it obvious he meant to come up in force.
"If you insist, just call from outside and knock. We're getting pretty antsy waiting for transport."
"Yeah, I'm sure. You haven't even called for transport yet."
Well, that was an interesting admission, Alex thought.
"I have plans for transport," he said agreeably. "Thanks for asking. So I don't need to take your offer." The offer hadn't been made. Shit. Weilhung had been a straight shooter and a decent guy, but he did have to follow his orders and he did have to protect his own ass, literally and politically. Now they were certainly not allies, even if not quite enemies yet.
"I'll be up shortly."
As the carrier dropped, Alex checked his own phone was off and said, "Well, that just fucking sucks. How fast can we move?"
"Not too fast. There are firefights on the palace grounds now," Jason said.
"Really? Excellent. Elke, can you make them a door, right now?"
She turned to her computer, plugged in her phone. She checked to make sure he was serious, tapped in a password, a filename, another password, and hit Return. There was a sharp bang from two floors down.
"Awesome. Can you still collapse the staircase?"
"Not as effectively, but yes." She tapped in a bit more and the floor shook with the next report.
And the phone rang.
"Marlow."
"You cocksucking bastard, I am going to fucking deal with you," Weilhung said. He was careful enough not to make an actual threat, but he was pissed.
"Major, now is not the time. The palace is taking fire and we've had two explosions in this wing. You might want to consider evacing now and not worry about us. We'll be fine."
"Yeah. You're a son of a bitch, Marlow. You have been a constant pain in my ass from the word go, and I wanted to get along. You've got your wish. You're on your own. I can't and won't risk any of my men to check up on you."
"Is that all?" Alex asked.
"Almost. Good luck."
Carrier dropped.
So, Weilhung was not going to be an active hostile. That didn't mean he might not decide to apprehend Bishwanath if he saw him. Noted.
The phone rang again. "Snow White here," she said. "How are you, Streambed?" White and Creek. Good.
"We're fine. Go ahead."
"We heard explosions. Are you able to make rendezvous?"
"We should be. The explosions were outgoing. The local guards seem to be putting up a fight." It was an absolute lie and piece of misdirection to anyone listening.
"Do you have transport?"
"The basic kind," he said. Did she . . . ?
"We're secure on this channel. We're on foot, too," she said. "Someone chopped the locks on our vehicle and took it."
If there was one skill the locals seemed to possess, it was bypassing locks through brute force.
"It's only a couple of klicks. Are we going together?"
"We're in the basement heading up," she said. "Come down and meet us at the Informal Entrance?" she asked.
"Agreed," he said. "We'll be there."
He closed the phone, checked radio, and got acknowledgment back from everyone.
"We're on foot," he said. "Rope for rappelling, one ruck each, one carried personal bag you may have to abandon. Marching order as given, break out the Medusa. Jason . . ."
"No drones, the network could be compromised or hacked."
"Yes. We're risking it with these." He tapped his earbud. "I don't see an alternative, though."
Since White had admitted being able to crack their encryption, that meant any video they had might not be secure. It wouldn't do to have potential hostiles locate their principal by their own gear.
Alex started shuffling cash, split it into six stacks with a handful of bullion. "Everybody take one," he said. "We can pool it again later, but in case we don't all make it, the survivors need assets."
"We will make it," Bart said. He sounded confident.
"I think so too," Alex said with a grin. "Take the money."
Aramis and Bart pried open the crate next to the arms locker and brought out the Medusa. As combat equipment went, it was bulky, cantankerous, and horribly inefficient, which was why the military didn't use it. Of course, it was also intimidating, loud, and put out a lot of fire, which is why it was perfect for a mob.
Bart donned the headset, shrugged into the harness, and started tugging at straps. Aramis plugged and wired everything in until Bart nodded.
"I am good," he said. He looked like some mad scientist with a helmet wired into his brain, wearing bizarre spectacles and carrying a footlocker on his back. The Medusa needed a large operator. Also, it took practice, as became apparent when a weapon popped out above his shoulder while he was setting recognition protocols.
Everyone ducke
d, but it withdrew.
"Sorry," he said with a slight expression of embarrassment. "Getting used to it. Let's go."
Alex nodded. "Aramis, move."
Elke lit an incendiary above the pile of computers and other gear. The bright jet started scorching straight down through them, and would continue through the puddle of plastic until it hit the table and carpet, setting them on fire.
Chapter Nineteen
Aramis wasn't thrilled at being point, and really ticked about the reference to "autonomous mobile biological mine clearing device, single use," that Jason made. Still, it was his job and he was suited for it. He just determined that he would be such a badass on point they had to credit him. Aramis had reluctantly left the bulky Viper behind for the mere firepower of a carbine. Damn, he wanted to take that bitch, but it was too bulky and too massive for this. Bart was the support fire.
Of course, being good would mean he'd be stuck on this detail. If he failed, either he'd be dead, or not trusted for anything more complex, and stuck on this detail.
"Goddamit, I am not the plucky comic relief," he muttered.
"But you do it so well," Bart commented.
Bart was strapped into the Medusa. Even on him the bastard looked huge. The sensor eyes poked over his shoulders and around his visored head. The straps met across his chest and pulled even at his shoulders. The man was a carved chunk of granite, and the device was a strain. It made him that much larger and the quarters tighter.
"Everyone ready?" Alex asked from behind. A chorus of "Ready" came back on air.
"Good," he continued. "Jason, please go over the carbine with Bal and check his gear. Bal, follow along with us. If one of us points you somewhere, move and expect that we will catch up. Remember, I want you just to point that weapon to your right and spray if we do. We're going to waste some ammo to make a lot of noise and get through the crowd. Then we can use finesse."
"I understand." He nodded and looked a mix of agitated and eager.
"Ready, and go."
No one noticeably moved. Aramis waited that interminable half second as pressure built behind him, then the goose on his ass told him they were ready.
"Go!" he snapped and shoved the door.
He swung right, that being the shorter section of passage. Nothing. Bart had the left. Nothing. There were sounds of looting and vandalism elsewhere, and shooting in long bursts from locals, and short, controlled bursts from the military. There were no sides anymore. Anyone with any brains was vacating, and anyone stupid was fighting for personal gain.
"Elevator is working!" Jason said. He was still unscrewing the control panel and prepared to take control if there was a problem, and Elke had a hand in a pocket of her vest that indicated she was prepared to blow a hole in the floor so they could rappel. She grunted and heaved for breath with the extra explosives, her regular gear and her share of Bart's gear he couldn't carry with the Medusa.
"You okay there, Elke?" Aramis asked.
He really was trying to be concerned, but she looked at his face and snarled.
"I can carry it. Get on with your job," she snapped. Her face was hard.
"Easy, and will do." No need to fight. Then he thought that easy might come across wrong. Fuckit. He'd do his job, she'd do hers. She'd been good enough so far.
The power failed, leaving them in near darkness.
"Elevator is not working," Jason said needlessly. He had an H&K, a slung carbine, some archaic relic he must mean to use as a dump gun, and a rocket launcher. Aramis didn't say anything, but he didn't need a reiteration of the danger. His pulse went through the roof and nausea tickled at him. He slipped down his goggles, but even thermal only showed the immediate bodies, looking ghostly and ethereal.
"All right, we go through the palace," Alex said. "Could mean some rappelling. What does the map look like?" Alex clattered under a carbine, two Bushies to dump and a pair of pistols. Even Shaman had extra weapons.
Elke sounded icily calm as she projected a dull green map on the wall from her camera. He found that irritating.
She said, "With the stairwell down, they will be funneled in both directions. We should retreat toward the rear, north on this floor. That will be of less interest to the looters. To reach the Informal we will have to go back through the left center of the building."
"Aramis, lead the way rear, we'll reconsider as we go. I prefer to avoid the vehicles. Bound to be surrounded early."
"Concur," Jason said. "Might have to proceed on foot."
Aramis tensed up. That was one thing with a hefty paycheck to offset things, or some kind of government sanction. Even if the reasons weren't great, you knew you had some moral support. But this now was a fight for survival, and they didn't have any friends. He had his pulse under control, sort of, maybe 130 a minute now, and the tunnel vision was gone. He figured that was from training. The nausea and sweats were still there, though, and worse.
So he stepped back out of the elevator and along the hall. The grand stairway was still venting dust, and the crowd below could be heard smashing and stealing, breaking, tearing, and throwing.
That was the part that ticked him off the most. Much of the décor didn't appeal to him at all, but he recognized it for its historical and artistic value. Stealing it would make sense, for people with no money or no food. Though there weren't many outlets to sell it. Destroying it . . . Scat-flinging monkeys behaved better.
It was pitch black, and there was little thermal. He took careful, flat steps, skating forward. He fumbled and clicked on an IR diode just as someone else did, and they had plenty of light for them. Bishwanath was silent, allowing himself to be led, and a glance showed him to be radiating tremendous heat, flushed with panic reaction.
That someone else was as shaken as he, was reassuring to Aramis, and he got some additional semblance of control.
Turn right, down the long corridor that led back. The initial security assessment had led to choosing a smaller apartment and office for Bishwanath. Back here was the official residence for the President, which was open and broad.
No damage yet, no indication of anyone present. On the other hand, the Recon guys were the best the Army had, and there was every possibility they were setting up an ambush that would kill them all. Plucky comic relief? No, he was point, to trip said ambush while the rest pulled Bishwanath back. Lowest ranking, least trained individual. That was him.
Fuck, it sucked.
There were noises, but telling the rustle of gear behind apart from the clash and thud below or the potential faint sounds of impending death from an assault team nearby was impossible. His earbuds couldn't resolve anything like that, and his own senses hadn't had time to learn it all yet. Still, the rest of the team were behind him, so the front was his only concern.
They passed into the broad, open plain of the Presentation Room. The soft earth tones were all harsh green in this artificial glow, fuzzy and dark toward the edges, the pool of vision fading into a black nothingness. No heat sources, no obvious threats. A line of brightness flooded from under the doors ahead.
They skittered along, silent apart from breathing and the swish of gear on fabric.
Aramis's pulse hammered at the sight of heat distortion, but it was just that—heat, rising from somewhere below.
The door was heavy wood, double, a lovely piece of carving. None of that showed in this enhancement.
He flipped up his goggles as he reached the door, felt the team stack behind him, then turned the handle gently, just enough to let pressure off. He used his foot as a pressure guide, waiting to feel the slip where the latch released just a little . . . there.
He pulled it open and was through, hearing it slam against the frame behind, the seven of them boiling through.
Nothing.
He realized it was likely there would be nothing on this floor. He was stressing over the initial stages, before contact was even made. Cursing himself, he led the way on.
Through the official suites, now largel
y bare or abandoned to dust, to a back service stairwell that led down to servants' quarters on the third floor.
Those stairs were narrow, tight, and had small landings. Aramis was first, and an effective shield for the rest of them—he filled the space almost completely. Behind him, Bart swore in German. The man was large enough it had to be awkward, and more so in gear.
Then they were on the ground floor.
"Standing by on doors," Jason said. These were the inside doors to the large gallery that was the reception area for the Informal.
"Go," said Alex.
"Opening."
The doors slid open and five muzzles poked out. Bart lurked back with the Medusa, and Bishwanath was in the middle for safety. There were figures at a distance, but no one nearby worth worrying about. Ahead was the large hole Elke had just blown in the wall. No one was coming in that way. Yet.
"Risk exiting there?" Alex asked. "Or out back and go around?"
"Shorter is better," Aramis said. "I vote for speed."
"I do," Bart said.
Alex looked around, met Aramis's eyes again, and said, "Go, Aramis."
He did. Straight ahead at a lope, weapon at high ready, fake to the right, and kick off to the left through the gap.
The crowd outside wasn't stacked deep. They were milling about, aimlessly, drunk and stoned and largely just there for the sheeplike feeling of being part of something. There were still dust and haze from Elke's blast, and the people here seemed reluctant to push the issue until things settled more. The dozen shredded bodies right outside might have had something to do with that. There were a handful of people sitting on the broad patio, snoozing, talking, eating, and they were perfect targets, but the goal right now was to move. Aramis cleared them in a leap and panned around. There was Bart, the rest, and a confused-looking, scattered crowd.
He ran as straight as possible, individuals unconsciously moving out of his way. He dodged around clusters and groups, all of whom stared in surprise. So far, no one had made any hostile moves. Most of this crowd didn't intend direct violence.
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