When Diplomacy Fails . . .-eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  He said, “I’ll clear it with Alex. Go.”

  Aramis was still a bit surprised that Elke trusted him that much. Serving together seemed to have smoothed out their differences. She was a disturbing flake, but incredibly good at her job, certainly courageous, and tough enough.

  The vehicle they were in was a combination truck and passenger escort vehicle, with an improved chassis. It would handle rubble just fine. It wasn’t a track, and it wasn’t proof against anything above pistols. Still, they hoped to blend in enough. Their clothes were generic unless one looked closely at the armor thread, and no one should notice one vehicle of thousands. As war-torn as this hole was, it was still much richer than Celadon had been, or still was.

  “I find religion useful,” Elke said.

  “Oh? Are you religious?”

  “Not very. I am nominally Lutheran through my grandmother. I was christened, and I have been to a friend’s church wedding.”

  “So what’s useful?”

  “Half of the people here are either rabidly worshiping today, or pretending to. The other half will worship on Sunday, or prepare to.”

  “Except for the ones on Earth’s clock, who will worship at two random times next week.”

  “And those few extremists who will worship on Tuesday, and the splitters from them who will use Earth Tuesday.”

  “It’s also near shift change for the military.”

  “Oh, how convenient,” she said, failing to hide her smile.

  “So how do you plan to do this?”

  “The really old fashioned way,” she said.

  “Shoot someone and take it?”

  She shook her head. “Sadly, no. We shall bribe them far too much. These Grainne coins and a small amount of gold will attract plenty of attention.”

  “That’s potentially a problem.”

  “It is for the person attempting to cash them in, which will not be us.”

  “Ah, enough to get them to say ‘yes,’ not enough to point at us, but too much for them to easily dispose of.”

  “And unmarked to us.”

  He checked the map—printed map, so it couldn’t be tracked by anyone, though there were still ways to follow the vehicle. Jason assured him the module on the dash would fuzz and distort their location so they’d be only very generally locatable.

  “Left here,” he said. He saw what lay ahead and added, “and forward.” There were police set up near the building. He wasn’t going to stop.

  “It would make sense,” she said, “that a warehouse selling precursor chemicals would have a police post, on this planet.”

  “What next?”

  “Vehicle store, pharmacy, standard hardware store.”

  He looked around at the business signs. “This way seems to be lighter industrial and commercial.”

  Another five kilometers found all types of stores. Elke grabbed a paper pad, printed very rapidly, and handed him a list.

  “You are working on a swimming pool for a wealthy client,” she said.

  “Understood.”

  Inside, he felt nervous about the amounts in question, but piled them on a dolly and nudged it into motion. It followed him.

  “Hydrochloric acid,” he said.

  “Aisle Three R,” it replied in passable English, though the accent was both simulated and British with an overlay of Turk.

  “Chlorine pool shock.”

  “Aisle Five M.”

  “Heavy grease.” And so it went.

  He reached the exit and the dolly scanned, but a clerk checked the contents by hand against the screen as well.

  “You are working on a pool?” the man asked with a smile.

  Damn, Elke’s good. “Yes,” he said. “Wealthy client up north.”

  “Tessekur.” Thanks, in some dialect of Turkish.

  “And you,” he said.

  He loaded it into the truck, climbed in, and Elke asked, “Did you get it?”

  “Yes. What’s next?”

  “I will take the vehicle and engine store.”

  He drove to it, she slipped out, and he sweated in tension. He stayed in the vehicle surreptitiously watching all angles. It was twenty minutes before she returned, and loaded more cartons in the bed.

  Once in, she said, “I will not be able to fabricate at the compound. I will need a safehouse.”

  “Jason has two. I’ll also be adding supplies.”

  “Better equipped, more private, closer, are my needs, in that order.”

  “Luckily one of them fits all that.”

  “Good. I badly want caps and detonators, but I will have to improvise.”

  “You aren’t going to try to buy some?”

  “They are too obvious and they are alert here.”

  She flipped open her phone and keyed it, voice only.

  “Argonaut,” was the answer.

  “We’re going to need a rest at the apartment. We’ll catch up later,” she said.

  “Understood. Can you be back in fifteen hours?”

  “Yes.”

  Sleep well.”

  She keyed off.

  “Resting?” he asked.

  “Manufacturing,” she said.

  “I’ll do what I can to help.” Manufacturing explosives on a remote planet full of factional violence. That was a beer story.

  It took several minutes to drive to the safehouse, and several more to find it, without being traced. Paper maps were secure, but often harder to read, especially in this poorly laid out ratmaze.

  True to form, Highland didn’t really notice two substitutions in her escort. Horace really wondered just how many issues the woman had. Her anger, introversion, smugness, ego and greed were all indicative of any number of dysfunctions or disorders.

  He was sure the backfills were competent. He even knew them slightly. He still would rather have the regulars. However, there was a promise of actual explosives when they returned.

  JessieM was clearly shaken and nervous. She was holding up, but likely due to being a subordinate to Highland. On her own she’d be a wreck. If they were to cover her in an engagement, she’d need hands-on escort, and possibly carried. Mass around sixty kilos, he estimated. Doable.

  Still, this evening’s mission was with limos. They’d roll from the compound, out the back gate guarded by a mixed force of Army and State with Cady monitoring both and gibbering in rightful paranoia at the potential risks. Once out, they would have an Army escort, this being one of the few official BuState meetings.

  It went well enough. They’d tested weapons inside the garage, and the Army seemed to actually accept it, with grumbling. The gate was ahead, and he counted three Grumblies with mounted guns.

  From the front, Bart said, “We have escort from respectable armies.”

  “Yes. I’m glad to see them.”

  Highland asked, “Who are they?”

  “Brazilian troops in one, Finnish in the second, Kazakh in the third.”

  “I like the Finns. They have such an earnest, hardworking culture. The Brazilians are very mixed and equitable.”

  Alex said, “Yes. Though in this case, they’re good soldiers first.”

  “Of course.”

  Then they rose over the first speed hump and stopped.

  Bart swore in German, threw the vehicle into reverse and tried to work it back.

  Alex said, “We’re supposed to have sufficient clearance. What happened?”

  Horace looked around. There were no apparent threats, but this was not good. He saw a camera crew outside the fence zooming in. They were exposed and stuck.

  Bart said, “I believe the surface collapsed from the mass of heavy vehicles. The difference is enough, with our load, to cause this.”

  “Will debarking help?”

  “It is worth a try.”

  “Right. Ms. Highland, please remain aboard.”

  “Of course I will,” she said, sounding incredulous someone would expect her to walk.

  “Lionel, stay with her. Everyon
e else out. Bart, I’ll drive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Horace bounced out and took another survey while breathing the clean air, tinged with exhaust next to the car. Bart took his frame out, Alex slipped in, and tried again. The car scraped and dragged, but made it over the hump. It shrieked over the next two. That got them outside the gate, though.

  Horace jogged forward. The gates locked behind them, Bart resumed his position, and they all slid back in.

  Highland looked offended.

  “It seems no one cares about the dignity of my office,” she muttered loudly enough to be heard.

  Alex had his phone out and was almost certainly demanding engineers fix those depressions at once. Whether military, BuState contract, local hires or several Company people with shovels, someone had to fix it fast. It was an accidental choke point, now revealed on camera.

  “Shaman, radio link with the escort, please.”

  “Radio, roger.” He grabbed the small encryption module and clicked it on. “Patent Three to Roller Six, over,” he said. The call signs were good. There were neither three nor six vehicles in either contingent.

  “This is Roller Six, go ahead Patent Three, over.” If that was a Finnish accent, it was very interesting.

  “Patent Three to Roller Six, please advise on weather, ongoing, over.”

  “Clear, visibility at five zero, no storms. Expect light precipitation throughout, over.”

  That translated as no current combat, no traffic snarls for five kilometers, but some traffic expected. They had a feed from State’s traffic scanners, and their own, and now the military’s.

  “Understood, Roller Six. Patent Three listening, out.”

  “Roller Six listening, out.”

  Of course, all the OPSEC was for naught with JessieM churping away.

  She spoke to Highland. “Ma’am, we’re getting churpcades all along. The crowd should be drastic.”

  “Good.”

  Alex said, “I thought this was a private meeting?”

  “The meeting, yes, but I always like to make time to greet the people who matter.”

  Horace watched his quarter. At this point, everyone with any kind of node access knew where she was. It was irritating. Could they arrange to exclude Jessie?

  He was most nervous when they slowed, though they never quite stopped. The military vehicles used sirens and PA to keep the way clear. This was one of the more prosperous areas, only fifty years out of date, or three centuries ahead of Celadon. The buildings were extruded concrete with little variation save size, featureless overall. The people were apparently mostly of the conservative Muslim sects, in robes and headgear. Though as they traveled the peoples’ appearance grew more western.

  “Patent Three, this is Roller Six, over.”

  He raised the small box and said, “This is Patent Three, go ahead, Roller Six, over.”

  “Arriving in nine zero seconds, over.”

  “Understood, Roller Six. Thanks for the ride, out.”

  “Anytime, Patent. Roller Six out.”

  Horace was out first, followed by Lionel and Corcoran. Highland and Jessie stepped onto the walk, and Alex and Jason filled in the rear. Bart would stay in the vehicle.

  There wasn’t a lot of attendance outside. This was a basic, boring policy meeting, and there was no reason for it to be public, nor even face to face. Diplomats and politicians liked their formal traditions, though.

  It was anticlimactic. They strode in through a cordon of guards, all with beards and bushy mustaches. A wave of cool, dry air washed over them as the doors opened. There was a receiving line, and they parted so Highland could shake hands with dignitaries. An usher appeared and led them to a waiting area with sandwiches, water and soft drinks, and they weren’t even asked to disarm.

  They had a choice of vids, and the locals and some of the other details seemed absorbed. The Ripple Creek team mostly stood, snacked lightly, and kept to themselves, while following news and updates. They could see Highland, though it was amusing to know that image was sent to a satellite and back even though they were perhaps a hundred meters away. JessieM sat back with other escorts, associates, factota and significant others. He caught a brief glimpse of her churping away.

  Jason said, “I’d like to hear from our other contingent.” He meant Aramis and Elke.

  Alex nodded. “Babs pinged a note. They’re still working.”

  “Good, that was my concern.” He looked relieved.

  Lionel said, “You guys operate seamlessly. You’ve been at this as long as we have, yes?”

  Horace said, “About the same. We started when the company first got launched, when the military deployed to Salin and needed protection for diplomats.”

  “This is much more interesting than facilities. Apart from occasional device threats and rockets, we have a consistent routine, or else it means something’s gone east.”

  “This is a quiet one so far. I’d like it to stay that way. You noticed the baggage we have?” He meant JessieM of course.

  Lionel nodded. “Yes, that’s inconvenient. We were advised to extend all courtesies.”

  “Yes. It’ll get settled on the tab afterward.”

  Lionel sipped his drink and faked watching the screen. “That’s hard for you to deal with, though, I presume.”

  “Hard enough. We have ROE to cover it.”

  “I’m interested in more of that.”

  Horace grinned. “It pays a little better, but it’s not routine.”

  “Yes, I know. I don’t particularly crave adventure, but it’s something I want to pursue.”

  He wanted to offer something positive, even though this was just time-wasting chatter. “Well, good luck. We don’t seem to want for business. You’re steady and seem mature.”

  “Thanks. Any antics you can share?”

  “We stayed in a cave off a mine once, on Govannon. Carved rock, shelf bunks, vacuum-evacuated toilet. It was big enough for one and we had seven. Porn on the walls, processed worm meat and stabilized rice to eat.”

  Lionel grinned. “Wow. That’s something we don’t get on the perimeter. The worms weren’t optional?”

  “No. Chewy, a bit like squid, but beefy tasting.”

  “And now I know.” He chuckled, but seemed put off as well.

  Two hours later they embarked, convoyed and returned. Lionel looked amused rather than bored, and still paid attention to his threat sector.

  So far, this was mission was aggravating, but quiet.

  CHAPTER 10

  “WHAT NOW?” Aramis asked.

  “How are you at cooking?”

  “Um . . .”

  In minutes he was very carefully monitoring four double boilers heating over the induction coils of the range. Elke had several tubs full of goo, which seemed to be plasticizing. Aramis wasn’t an expert on explosive, but he knew that hexamine, nitrates, phosphates, acids and ionized metals led to stuff that went boom.

  “How is the soap and chlorate?” she asked.

  He carefully drew a spatula from each and gauged the runoff. “Fully liquid,” he said.

  “Good, I’ll take them.”

  One tub was a gray mess of ammonium nitrate and some liquid booster. One was a translucent greenish mess. One was white.

  “Dare I ask?”

  She indicated without flicking the gray stuff off her gloved hands. “Low-order plastique of potassium chlorate and petroleum gelatin. Improvised but unstable dynamite of nitroglycerin in ammonium nitrate base, which I will entube. The semi-crystalline stuff is RDX. You’re going to help me take rifle cartridges apart and place them in the copper tubing, using the propellant and chlorate mix, as priming caps.”

  “How unstable is ‘unstable’?”

  “Just don’t get in an accident on the way back, and don’t inhale the fumes.”

  They’d shopped most of the day, and cooked most of the night, with the kitchen curtained off and the outside windows curtained as well. There was enough light lea
kage to indicate occupation, and Jason had set controllers to cycle the lights on a randomized but standard schedule to indicate habitation. There was not enough visibility for anyone to spy on them.

  Aramis realized how tired he was.

  “Money and determination,” he muttered.

  “What? Oh, yes,” she said, obviously distracted. “I need explosives for my part of the mission. I will have them. These will suffice until I can find better materials. I’m quite sure a construction site will have what I need.”

  “Are we actually resting before we leave?”

  “Do you need to?” she asked, quite seriously. “Return trip should be under an hour.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. He squinted through the curtains. “I just wanted to confirm. It looks dawnish out there.”

  “Yes, so it does,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “Oh five twenty-seven. Highland has a movement in four hours. I suppose I have what I need for now. I’ll destroy some of the partials and stow the rest, tragic as it is to waste material.”

  “You can buy more. Money’s not an issue.”

  “Money is not the issue,” she said as she carried the first tub into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. “Wasting material is the issue. Explosives are supposed to detonate, not flush down the drain.” She sighed as she turned on a trickle of water.

  In five minutes, she had a large box neatly filled with devices and claylike blocks, and a bag of the improvised caps, including some with electrical leads for remote or keyed detonation.

  There was no traffic on the stairs, though sounds and smells indicated residents awake and preparing for work. Aramis smelled tea, coffee, pastries, some meat that was probably not pork, given the cultures here. There was occasional music and news chatter. All in all it was quite homey and reminiscent of a century long passed. Earth buildings had much tighter soundproofing and seals, and audio was always focused or through personal devices.

  He led outside, since Elke was hindered with the box. A couple of backpacks would have been easier, but far less discreet.

  Elke placed the box carefully in back, and slipped in with it. Aramis ignited the turbine and pulled slowly out into the rising traffic.