Cally's War lota-6

by John Ringo

  So, all that being true, why, when she was out in the field, did he always feel like a nervous father whose daughter was out on her first date?

  He stifled the impulse to stand and pace, strangling and dismembering it for good measure. Cally was long past her first date. That was something of the problem. You could teach a girl how to reliably hit an eight inch circle from a thousand yards, you could teach her how to run and recognize booby traps, you could teach her nine different ways to kill a man quietly in the dark, but you couldn’t teach her how to cope with the stresses of the job. That was something each assassin had to learn for herself, or himself.

  Cally had always been a natural. He remembered the first time he’d put a pistol in that kid’s hand. She couldn’t hit the side of a barn, of course, but after she’d fired her first magazine downrange and the slide locked back, she’d turned and looked at him. She’d been a skinny kid, the blond hair tangled and stringy practically every time she shook her head. And there had been a smudge of soot on the side of her nose where she’d scratched. The earmuffs had been big and bright green on the sides of her head, and the safety glasses tended to slip down the bridge of her nose, but the grin she’d given him had lit up her whole face. And as time went on it became clear that besides enthusiasm she had two other crucial traits. Her eyesight was unusually sharp, and her hands exceptionally steady. He’d taken care to protect both — the first from eye strain in bad light, and the second from vices like caffeine. There were vices more workable in budding warriors.

  And, of course, she’d been stubborn. Couldn’t imagine where she’d gotten that from. He chuckled, spitting again into the spare cup. And the way she’d taken out the kneecap of that rotten punk who’d tried—

  The door slid open and there, finally, was his baby granddaughter — but what in the hell was she wearing? The one-piece black leather-looking jumpsuit would have suited her cover tonight as a good-time girl just fine — if she had had her own measurements. As it was, the zipper of the black tank-style top half could barely be tugged halfway up without her busting out of it. And in his opinion, that was still an imminent danger. It made him want to get up and throw a blanket around her.

  “Hey, sweet thing, what can I order for you to drink?” He spat again as she sauntered in, straddling a chair and leaning her arms across its back as the door slid closed behind her. There was a noticeable bounce in her step that he didn’t think was the role. Whores weren’t bouncy. At best they were blasé.

  “Black Bush, water back. Life’s too short to drink cheap booze,” she said. The toe of one foot tapped rapidly at the floor, as if she couldn’t quite sit still, even though it was late and she must have been tired.

  “You’re chipper,” he said. Life’s too short? Cally hadn’t thought life was too short for anything in a very long time. Something’s up.

  “Progress report?” He took a sound damper out and set it on the table, turning it on. “I’ve already swept.”

  “I haven’t found jack. I did confirm that a clandestine operation is being run out of the office. Probably the clandestine operation, but that’s all I’ve got. Getting the general into bed wasn’t a problem. Probably would have been a problem if I hadn’t, in fact. He’s that type. I’ve searched everything I’ve got access to and I’m working on the aide de camp, who has access to the places I don’t,” she said.

  Was it just his imagination that her voice had gotten a bit husky there at the end? Oh, crap, what now?

  “So, tell me more about this aide.” He spat, considering. “You’re planning to get access to the rest of the brigade headquarters space how?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” She bounced, blue eyes twinkling mischievously at him. “When those are the only places left in the office that we haven’t done it, somehow I think he’ll be… receptive to suggestion.” The way she licked her lips reminded him of the cat that ate the canary.

  “You’re not supposed to mix business with pleasure.” Oh shit.

  “You’re the one who wanted me to get a boyfriend.” She shrugged, examining the nails of one hand minutely.

  “I hesitate to say this, Granddaughter, but don’t get in too deep.” Fuck. She’s not going to listen. Too late.

  “Oh, I won’t. I’ll let Pryce do that. Really, Granpa, I’m not twelve. Could you order that drink? I wasn’t kidding about enjoying something good. Might as well, I’m already here.” She changed the subject, turning the chair and settling back into it so she could lean back and relax for a few minutes.

  He grunted noncommittally, turning off the damper and stepping over to the console by the door to punch the drinks in. When he sat back down and she pulled her chair over and snuggled up against him, draping his arm around her shoulder for the benefit of whoever delivered their drinks, he had a few tough moments as he reminded his body that while this very well-built and nubile young woman did not look like his granddaughter, she in fact was his granddaughter. Now, if only this Pryce young man had not been met on a mission, he’d be welcoming the guy with open arms. Well, okay, if he measured up. Still, they were trained for extractions, and it wasn’t as if Fleet Strike actually needed all those lieutenants. On second thought, strike that. Any man worth his salt could be counted on to react poorly to being kidnapped. Well, maybe. The bait was considerable.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Titan Base, Saturday, June 15, 10:00

  Fleet Strike was different from the old United States armed services in many respects. The fondness of the organization’s senior officers for the game of golf was not one of those differences. During the design phase of Titan Base, a bright and ambitious young life support engineer had noticed a way to fulfill a design requirement for hardy, nonfood perennials while simultaneously scoring a vast number of brownie points with senior staff. Hence, the entire lowermost deck of the Fleet Strike and Spares and Fabrications quadrants was very high-ceilinged and devoted to a lush lawn of specially bred grasses and turf. Getting the Indowy to sign off on the absolute necessity of the ceiling configuration had required the importation of a small herd of miniature horses from Kentucky. For some reason, getting all the signatures for the transport of the livestock had gone amazingly easily. The fans for computer randomized wind patterns had been more difficult, but still possible. After all, what was the use of generating so much oxygen if you didn’t have the ability to mix it with the rest of the station air?

  Cally watched with carefully disguised amusement this morning as Beed cursed the headwind as he approached the tee for the third hole. Golf was a challenging game for her, especially in this environment. Upgraded muscle density, still there under the surface mods for Sinda, and her own inherent spatial awareness and finely honed martial training combined to make her easily one of the top three golfers on Titan Base.

  Sinda Makepeace had nothing in her record to indicate that she’d ever even visited a golf course, much less played the game.

  Beed needed flattering, convincing him that he was teaching her to golf.

  The upshot was that on the golf course her acting challenge was more exacting than usual as she had to constantly evaluate precisely how lousy she needed to be.

  The odd part was that a couple of times this morning she’d gotten the bizarre impression that Pryce was also holding back to avoid beating the general. She smiled fondly. Get a really great lay or two from the guy and all of a sudden I’m imagining all sorts of new virtues for him.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him trip over the strap of the golf bag and barely catch himself by the edge of the cart. Next she’d be envisioning him as the world’s next great orator. Geez.

  “All right, Sinda, dear, your turn.” Beed leered at her as she smiled back brightly, wondering how even a cover role had allowed her to see him even temporarily as less than the worm he obviously was. “Did you notice how I was still for a moment after making my swing? That’s called ‘follow through,’ and it’s important in this game.”

  She nodded, hands c
lasped in front of herself, listening carefully, eyes bright, cheerful, earnest, and empty. She watched Beed smile indulgently without a spark of recognition on her own part, reaching out and blithely selecting a putter, smiling gratefully at Beed when he traded her for a better club.

  “Pay attention, dear. Club selection is very important,” he said.

  With her upgraded hearing, she could hear Pryce gritting his teeth as Beed wrapped his arms around her to guide her swing. She hoped Beed couldn’t hear it, even though it sounded loud to her against the background of the golf course, unusually empty this morning and silent except for the distant whir of the fans. The freshly cut grass was sweet in her nostrils and she could feel Beed’s erection against her buttocks as he adjusted her grip on the club. Hell, there goes my afternoon. Not that I didn’t expect as much. Unfortunately, the general has an average juv libido. Horny as hell all the damned time. Too bad the BS would be pissed if I killed the bastard. Okay, so he’s a human life and I wouldn’t kill him for no damned reason, but I swear if he keeps getting on my nerves I might succumb to the temptation to… bruise him a bit… on my way out. Slimy paper-obsessed son of a bitch. Against some personality traits, looks just aren’t enough. Well, hell, I knew it was part of the job when I took it. I have to admit I have done worse. The poor bastard can’t help it that he suffers by comparison.

  She sighted carefully down the course and made the very slight adjustments that would send the ball straight into a sand trap.

  “Look how hard I hit it! Wow!” She jumped up and down in excitement, generating a range of mesmerizing jiggles for the two men. Out of the corner of one eye she saw Pryce swallow, hard, and suppressed a grin.

  “Is that good?” She cocked her head to one side and beamed at the hapless general.

  * * *

  Titan Base, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  “An intercepted signal has come in that meets your specified criteria for your attention, your Tir.” The voice of the AID was melodious, like all Darhel voices, but had an indefinable extra intensity to it. The hair on the Tir’s back lifted slightly as his ears relaxed outward, just a bit, in unconscious response.

  “Play it,” he said, shifting a bit towards the Indowy body servant who was scratching a troublesome itch behind his right ear, but not enough to disengage from the other servant who was currently working out some tension cramps in his shoulder muscles. There were, of course, no true windows in these quarters, although they were quite spacious, with simulated windows displaying vistas from any of several dozen worlds. The gravity and lighting, being artificial anyway, were pleasantly adjusted to homeworld’s conditions. He pressed the pads of his bare feet into the deep pile appreciatively. For temporary quarters, the suite maintained in the human-free sector of Titan Base was quite adequate.

  “Memo to Lieutenant General Peter Vanderberg, OFSI, Chicago, from First Lieutenant Joshua Pryce, assigned as aide de camp to Brigadier General Bernard Beed, 3rd MP Brigade, commanding. Subject: Hartford. Message: Have the opportunity to accelerate acquisition of essential project supplies. Supply source is code named Hector by the supply depot. Contact information follows. As these particular supplies are in your area of operation, suggest your people pursue local acquisition. Have taken the liberty of paying a deposit on the supplies to Mr. Jones, balance pending on acquisition. Negotiated price is well within assigned budget for this project. Memo ends. There is a file attached that appears to be a list of four names, several aliases, DNA code samples, and several locations and times per name.”

  The Tir was now sitting bolt upright, whiskers trembling. He took a moment to breathe carefully before speaking.

  “Forward the information to Mr. Stuart. Tell him we would prefer as much information regarding these… supplies… as possible, but in no case should Fleet Strike have them. Having the supplies disclose information in uncontrolled circumstances would be… adverse to our interests,” he said.

  “Yes, your Tir. It is done,” it replied.

  The Indowy body servants continued their ministrations uninterrupted. One disappeared briefly into the kitchen, reappearing with an ornate tray set with fresh vegetables from three different worlds. As always, the personal service made the food marginally less distasteful.

  Somewhere under Indiana, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  Nathan O’Reilly looked up as his office door slid open with no announcement, surprised to see the Indowy Aelool in his doorway. The muscles around the eyes were crinkled and the ears turned slightly inward in an expression that was either grave, worried, or both.

  “My goodness, what’s wrong?” He got a bottled water from a small cooler and poured it into a fresh glass, setting it on the end table and backing away. His friend usually affected unconcern around human carnivores out of politeness, but the priest felt it might be a bit much to expect of him in his clearly distressed state.

  “Team Hector is compromised. Our leak, as you call it, has sprung again.” He sat in a human-sized chair absentmindedly, perched on the edge, legs swinging nervously, plucking absently at the green tendrils of his left leg.

  “When and what can we do about it?” O’Reilly pulled up the team’s schedule with an aside to his AID.

  “Identities and itineraries over the next few days are in Fleet Strike and Darhel hands. Names, aliases, DNA patterns. The whole team,” he tutted lightly. “Unfortunately, as large a loss as an entire team will be, it pales next to the value of our sources of information close to the Tir. We can do little. Nothing, without a plausible cover story for how we know.”

  “We can put an extraction team in place on hold status. Activate them if we get any kind of cover we can use, leave them if not. Who knows, the other side might get sloppy.” The priest didn’t sound very confident.

  “Is there anything new from Team Isaac?” the Indowy asked.

  “Since we last talked? No, unfortunately not. Harris in traffic analysis is bright. I’ll set her to work looking for anything we can leak back to point in a plausible wrong direction for how we knew. I think that’s all we can do.” He walked over and stared out of his virtual window.

  “As long as you are absolutely confident that if they do not get direct authorization the extraction team will remain inactive. I do not need to remind you that the stakes here are very high,” Aelool was just a bit shrill.

  “So — do we risk a message to Papa O’Neal that now would be a good time for results?” He tapped his fingertips on the glass.

  “I would suggest no. They know the stakes and the risks. I would be correct in thinking they are already as motivated as it is possible to be? Then there is no gain and some risk. Don’t you have a phrase? Jostling the elbow? I think better not.” He walked over beside his friend and looked up at the fake window. Like all the Indowy, he probably found it difficult to understand why humans needed to pretend to be close to the outside and empty spaces, even when they were cozily packed together with their own clans and very best friends.

  “Agreed,” the priest said.

  “You still pray, do you not? Perhaps it would be a good time.” Looking a bit bewildered, most likely at the virtual window, Aelool left.

  Chicago, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  “Peter, you have an urgent memo coming in from General Stewart, covered as Lieutenant Pryce on Titan Base,” his AID chimed.

  “He got a live one?” Vanderberg sat bolt upright in his chair.

  “Not exactly, Peter. What he got was four names and identifying information including DNA, itineraries, aliases, and current physical descriptions of agents in the Chicago area,” it said.

  “Holy shit! DNA, too?” Somebody up there likes me.

  “That’s what he says, and the file attached has all of that.” The AID even sounded pleased.

  “Wow. Show me the file.” He shook his head as he scanned the details. “Shit, Stewart hit the jackpot. Get me Morrison.” He stood and walked over to the window, tapping his lips with one finger.

&nbs
p; “I’m sorry, Peter. Morrison is out of pocket. He has a dental appointment,” it said.

  “Dental appointment?” He turned, looking at the AID on his desk as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “He broke a tooth. He’s in for a replacement.”

  “Geez, did something happen? Is he all right?” he asked.

  “No accident. I believe it was a statistical certainty sooner or later. He chews ice.” The AID’s voice had that prim note they took on when they disapproved of something. The AID personalities had odd notions of propriety sometimes. In this case, he suspected the cause of disapproval was that anyone would do anything so inconsiderate as to engage in a habit that would eventually necessitate taking time off from work. Every once in a while, AIDs were really strange.

  “Okay, have him come in first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I don’t think this can wait. Send in Lewis, I guess. No, cancel that. I’d rather lose a day than bring in an extra person on something like this. Shit. Tell Morrison I want him in here tomorrow at seven thirty. We can at least get an early start.” He locked his hands behind his head and began to pace, already turning possible scenarios over in his head.

  “You are aware that tomorrow is Sunday, right?” it said.

  “Yeah. I hate it, but this can’t wait.” He waved one hand impatiently and kept on pacing.

  “That’s fine, Peter. I’m just following your standing order to remind you.”

  “Yeah, that. Thanks, Jenny.” Wow. What a break.

  Titan Base, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  There were so few public access terminals these days. Everybody and his sister had a PDA, well, except for the lucky bastards with AIDs. Well, clean ones, anyway. But PDAs sometimes broke, or people lost them — anyway, thank god for public access terminals.