The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Yes, isn't it?" replied McLachlan with a beaming smile. He'd missed the insult totally.

  We turned our attention back to our meals, and it was halfway through dessert before the glimmer of awareness seeped into his brain. Moron. We didn't discuss any further UN hegemonic stupidity. He felt insulted at last, and dropped the issue. We finished in near silence, frostily said our goodbyes and left.

  * * *

  Within a week, we were in the Alsatian embassy as escorts for our ambassador, Citizen Maartens. We accompanied her gracefully, Captain Carvalho as senior was her official escort, and the rest of us milled around and socialized with the guards and attachés from other nations. We would be seeing much of each other that week, as it was Landing Festival in Caledonia.

  The Alsatians in general strike me as snobbish. For example, while we were never seated at the head table at a function, it was a bit annoying to be considered background. And the correct etiquette in their culture is to ignore the servers, just pretend they don't exist. It strikes me as rude, but when in Rome and all that. I prefer to speak to the help when I can. One can acquire much additional intel that way.

  The next night we visited Novaja Rossia, who prepared a wonderfully tart roast beef, pies, and heavy pastry. They drank vodka by the liter. The bread was black and heavy, the caviar black and salty and the beer black and bitter. I could barely move after it all. We toasted to them, they to us and both of us all around. It was considered rude to stay sober. I was very polite.

  After that, the Prime Minister of Caledonia had us in for a real treat: curried yearling elk shanks and pears. He personally struck me as a rabbit, wincing and edging away from us military types, including his own troops. His cook however, was a genius. The creamed banana trifle was cloyingly sweet and refreshingly mild at the same time, and their beer was a fine ale. We toasted the Queen, the Crown Princess, the Royal Family, and the Royal Military. They didn't drink as much as the Novajas.

  Things were tense late in the evening, presaging something interesting. Shortly, the Crown Princess arrived. Her guard detail looked picturesque in their archaic uniforms, but I recognized their motions and coordination as professional. They were not recruited for their looks alone. A receiving line was formed for the official personages, while we goon types stayed back and sized each other up as potential threats. There were definitely some competent people there among the uniforms, but unless someone could act harmless better than we, my compatriots and I were the deadliest creatures within reach. I didn't rule out the possibility of a good actor, though.

  Crown Princess Annette is more sophisticated and wise than anyone has ever given her credit for in the press. She'll make a great queen someday. She made a point of spending a brief time in conversation with each of the Freeholders. I kept an eye out and followed her movements, and turned as she approached. As soon as we made eye contact, I bowed gallantly. As a foreign soldier under arms—we were all wearing swords and sidearms—I was not required to bow, but a courteous nod seemed appropriate as a diplomatic courtesy and I had orders to that effect.

  "Your Highness," I said, smiling politely. She extended a hand and I shook it firmly but not excessively. She was sixteen of our years old or twenty-four standard, neatly built, attractive without being glamorous or overdone and very poised and controlled.

  "Corporal . . . ?" she hinted.

  "Chinran. Kenneth Chinran, Madam," I replied.

  "It is 'corporal,' then?" she asked, leaning slightly closer, tilting her head and lowering her voice. "Not Operative?"

  I kept my face straight, and replied, "Corporal will do, Madam."

  "You aren't denying the other, though," she noted. This was a bit disconcerting. We stared for a few seconds, each gauging the other. She resumed, "Perhaps I should mention that I did an exchange tour with Second Mobile Assault Regiment. I hold a cornet's commission in aviation support."

  I knew that. Apparently, she'd heard at least rumors. I made notes. I knew she knew I was making notes. And if she knew that . . .

  Okay, that type of reasoning is silly. This was a hint, and I needed to decide if it was something for me to deal with or to relay higher up. "If you need the services of an Operative, Madam, I'm sure the Freehold could arrange it." This was dangerous, but I couldn't brush her off without looking like a junior level flunky, which I was, granted, but I wasn't going to look like one.

  "If it ever becomes necessary, I'll keep that in mind . . . Corporal," she replied with a bare wink and emphasis on "Corporal."

  Okay, so she knew, and wanted us to. I'd relay that.

  She continued, less intensely, "And what do you think of the food?"

  "Excellent, Madam," I replied. "The pear was an unexpected touch. I hope you'll be joining us later in the week?"

  "I plan to. I admire the efficiency of your cooking," she said. It begged the question.

  "Yes, Madam?" I replied.

  "Because you use enough spice that the food cooks itself." She delivered it deadpan. We stared, waiting to see who would crack. I could have held longer, but this wasn't a negotiation. I laughed heartily.

  We spoke for a few more seconds, then she said, "I must greet the other guests. Please enjoy the party."

  "Than you, Madam," I said, bowing. "I will." A truly fascinating young woman.

  The Ramadanians served a tasty lamb with mint sauce and sekanjabin to drink. Grape leaf salad and delicately seasoned rice added to it. Jellied rose petals for dessert was a new treat I'll never forget, and I buy it in boxloads whenever I can find it. It's great for scoring women, too. There was no alcohol of course, but the food was delicious.

  We removed our boots as we entered the embassy of Hirohito. It wasn't required, but they were appreciative of our respect to their customs. The chefs were delighted to have an appreciative audience, and served the more daring of us smoked tuna and raw squid sashimi. Fantastic! The mere sight of dead animals made the effete snobs from Earth run for the restroom to heave. Rabbits. The sake was the best, too. For some odd reason, they served tequila in broad variety. Good tequila, not the stuff you buy in stores, ranks up there with Silver Birch and old Scottish Talisker. Really. That was a great subject of conversation that kept me distracted until it was time to leave. I got little intel.

  In response, we had invited the lot over for good Freehold food. We served an appetizer of jalapeno mango-lime ice, vinegar steamed crab legs and spinach salad with asiago garlic dressing. After flat bread and crusty bread with herbed honey-butter, we started on the entrée: peppercorn and garlic crusted prime rib au jus, crisp and dark outside, red and juicy inside with chilied and gingered peaches, minted baby potatoes, and steamed fresh green beans with onion, mushroom and bacon crumbles. It was real beef, from a cow, not that vat raised stuff. A few were bothered by that, but the taste is worth it. The side dish was jalapeno chicken salad with lime wedges, and fresh cilantro and chili salsa with cheese stuffed into jalapeno shells. There was a side of satan pepper salsa for the adventuresome. We had rich red peppered ginger beer and garlic wine to wash it all down. The tears in their eyes I assume were of joy. We took a break with thick dark chocolate and sub-zero Silver Birch. Jhondo's Raspberry Mead with the vanilla bean and chocolate layered cheesecake was a hearty cap to it all.

  * * *

  By the end of the week, our "souvenir" photos of all the embassies yielded a wealth of intel. That everything would shortly change to account for them was irrelevant; our unofficial photos and observations also boosted the data. Each of us had at least once gotten "lost" while slightly drunk, and wandered into less public areas of the embassies and residences for a peek. It was all part of the game. I loved it. It was one of the most pleasant aspects of the job, while still holding a challenge.

  I had mentioned the conversations with Princess Annette to the chain of command. Captain Carvalho took notes and nodded, thanked and dismissed me. It was the week after all the pomp that I got a message to meet with her. Carvalho informed me, "She wants to disc
uss Operative training and operations." He briefed me as to what I could and could not discuss, told me to do a good job, and sent me out.

  I dressed in Class A, not mess dress, and was driven to Park Royal. Most of it is open to the public, but some sections are reserved. Those had been swept for bugs, I was sure, by the Lifeguards. It was possible her own people were spying, and that was assumed for intelligence sake. What we wanted was to avoid casual third parties from snooping.

  I walked in through an amazing rose garden that must have more staff just to maintain it than most embassies. She was waiting, in uniform, near a thick hedge. "Operative Chinran," she greeted me, extending a hand.

  I bowed briefly, shook hands, and replied, "Under these circumstances, yes, Madam," I replied.

  "Cornet Stewart will suffice," she replied.

  "Very well, ma'am," I agreed. We sat on a bench near a display of annuals in a riot of reds, yellows and violets, and led into the subject of covert operations.

  "Have you had the opportunity to work with our SAS teams yet?" she asked.

  "No, ma'am, but I'm eager to if we get the chance," I replied. I wasn't to discuss particular operations. We'd had very few real engagements, and didn't want anyone to consider our actual capabilities. "I did train with the Chersonesi at their ACAC," I replied.

  "My brother James went there," she commented. I knew that. "What did you think of the course?"

  This I could discuss. "Excellent technical training, sufficient rehearsal, adequate physical training, adequate shooting," I replied.

  "Adequate," she noted. "You shoot more then?"

  "More than our regular troops," I admitted.

  "That's an expensive ammo budget," she said.

  I said, "Cheaper than replacing troops, by any accounting."

  "True." There was brief silence. "Tell me of your training. Your personal impressions, not the technical details."

  I did, and she asked questions. Only twice did I have to say, "I'm sorry, Madam, but I cannot discuss that."

  A lunch was brought, light sandwiches with hot mustard on the side for my benefit. I prefer peppers to mustard, but can eat anything.

  Within two days there was a tabloid station with a load headlined, "Princess Annie Being Courted by Freehold Corporal?" That wasn't good. Not only was I ribbed over it, we had to consider if it was just a snoopy cameraperson, or if there had been spying. Video would allow lipreading, and would give away our discussion. The picture of me was grainy, distant and from a bad angle fortunately. It's impossible to stop all photos, we simply try to minimize publicity. It revealed nothing that we weren't sure was already common knowledge in the spook community.

  * * *

  A week later I got tasked with an . . . interesting gig. I'm sure I'm not supposed to discuss it, but I don't see what it matters after all this time. Anyway, it's not hard to figure out and I'll leave the details hazy.

  Captain Carvalho called me into his office. I reported and he asked, "Ken, can you handle another mission, late tonight?"

  "Sure," I replied. He could order me, of course, but it wouldn't be necessary. I always volunteered.

  "Good," he said. "We had an abrupt schedule change. You're going with me."

  "Yes, sir," I agreed. Going where? I didn't ask, because I figured he'd tell me.

  But first, we got dressed in local clothes, bought used by our Special Projects' network. We had false ID, local cash and a few accoutrements to make us blend in. "No weapons," he told me.

  Wow. When Operatives don't carry weapons, it means things are very important. "Okay, sir," I agreed. This was definitely going to be a war story at some point.

  Then he briefed me on what we were doing. "We're setting up a new cache of equipment for emergency response," he told me. "Most of the gear is already there. We're just adding a bit to it. You'll do the grunt work, I'll supervise and guard, and I'll help as needed. Verstadt?"

  "Oui," I agreed. He actually smiled. I think it was the first time I'd seen him do that.

  "Good. Here's our gear. Sign here," he said, handing me a pad. I noted that it simply read, "Mission Essential Equipment Package Number X-247, Three Containers." I scrawled across the screen, he signed after me. There were no details as to content mentioned anywhere. The package was in three boxes. One was a crate that most likely contained four M-5 weapons and extra clips. The second was a commercial backpack stuffed full of what felt like local clothes, body armor and accessories, probably including some basic ID with holos of generic-looking blonds, brunets and redheads that would serve to get any Operative past most cursory checks while he arranged for better ones. And the third one . . .

  I recognized the container. I'd dealt with them during training. It was a crated Q-36 Explosive, Special, Medium. They're designed to take out dams, headquarters, major transport junctions and similar targets.

  I had just signed for a nuclear weapon.

  Well, it was only a small one.

  Out the back we went, me lugging the Q-36 and backpack, he with the weapon crate. We ducked through the trees that are carefully maintained on the Embassy grounds for their green prettiness and their effect as concealment. There, along the wall, leaned a ladder that been thoughtfully placed by one of the guards, who sat nearby with a carbine to ensure only we used it.

  It was a warm, dry night, the air rather fresh. Despite the heavy load, I felt great physically, and bouncy-nervous from the mission. Carvalho climbed the ladder silently, the steps having been wrapped in tape to prevent clatter. I stretched out my ears and listened above the chitter of bugs and birds.

  Car. Closing. Slowing. "Now," I heard and I tossed the backpack. He caught it and swung over. I dragged up the crated nuke and we muscled it across and down. Damned thing massed nearly fifty kilos with the shielding that reduced its trace, and was awkward to move.

  "Hurry," he said, slipping down the wall with a thud. I scrambled over, dropped and rolled down the slight embankment into the drainage ditch behind the compound, getting scraped on the wall, an angry welt along my right arm. Then we had to clamber back up the other side, toss the gear into the trunk of a waiting ground car and pile in the back seat.

  We'd scratched both the car and ourselves getting in. The driver, Sergeant Coonce, handed back a kit with bandages and disinfectant and we cleaned up the ones that showed actual blood. My arm was going to need nanos or else it would scab badly. "No sign of any pursuit," he said. He was one of the diplomatic drivers, trained to handle special circumstances.

  "Good," Carvalho replied.

  I don't know where we drove. I still don't. Not my worry. It was outside the capital about a local hour, in a remote spot. Some utility shed for power was our landmark. It was in a fenced off area. At the edge of that area was a treeline, then a farmer's field. We figured that treeline was safe from excavation until such time as the power grid underwent major changes. Any adjustment of property boundaries or easement access would register on our comms and to our staff tasked with such, and the cache would be relocated. For now, it would be here. And it might be here for fifty years. We had no plans to use the equipment in the immediate future. It's just something Operatives do wherever possible, so we have backup if we need it.

  I did most of the digging, and it's not easy to do it with just a shovel and pick. I was soon sweaty and caked with dirt. I'd dig, flick the occasional bug off and occasionally sip at a bulb of "pop" I'd brought along that actually contained water. Soft drinks aren't good for one doing heavy work.

  I was pondering the smell of the local earth, lower in minerals than what I was used to, when my spade struck something.

  Carvalho said, "That's it. Now, find the lid."

  I carefully scraped dirt away until I had a clear area about a meter square. It rose easily to my prying, and inside was similar packaging to what we carried. We replaced the older styled clothes and ID with the new kit, added the weapons to the one container already there, and topped it all off with the nuke. Or rather, bottomed it. W
e wanted that as deep as possible, even shielded as it was.

  The hard part was covering everything back up. Dirt always mounds too high when replaced, then slumps as it compacts. Lacking power tools, we stomped it as hard as we could after each layer, and carefully replaced sod on top. This left us with a small pile of topsoil that we scattered around the area, trying hard not to damage local plants, trip over roots or get poked by branches. We were hurrying, because it was near dawn. We could see occasional flashes of gray against the black.

  Coonce should be circling by soon, and since we only had shovels and one backpack to worry about now, we crawled to the road rather than risking him re-entering the access trail. He had to drive by twice, because there was some local wandering along behind him, refusing to pass even when he slowed down. He feigned a confused look, drove down to the next county road, came around the block and we jumped in.

  Back at our compound, dawn well on its way, we timed our departure, rolled out of the slowed car through the passenger door, and he closed it with a burst of power and disappeared with the tools. We slipped through the trees, loving the dawn because the shadows would make us all but invisible, and were met by a ladder that mysteriously appeared from above.

  Inside, showered, cleaned and dressed, we signed off on the comm that Item X-247 had been placed in secure storage.

  No need to worry. We've never had trouble with Caledonia, and that package is still there.

  But remember: if we ever do have problems, that package, and others like it, are still there.

  * * *

  It had to be related to the princess' interest that the Freehold got invited to send a team of "Operatives, or if Operatives are unavailable, an Embassy security detail" (sarcasm dripping from the screen) to a security exercise at Mountbatten Royal Space Force Base. Captain Carvalho called us in, warned us not to be caught being smartasses and sent us to have fun. Heeding his warning, we vowed not to get caught being smartasses.