Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Bart interrupted the scene with, "Another issue to take care of is getting Bal up to speed on weapons. He's rusty. By 'rusty' I mean he never learned proper tactics. Brave, but unschooled."

  "Just like the Skinnies?" Aramis asked.

  Bart shook his head. "No, not that bad. He knows about cover, concealment, maneuver and the need to work as a unit. It is not like he's a twenty-five-year-old child. He just never got taught the proper way to go about it."

  "So what are you giving him?"

  "Everything. Fire and maneuver, both advance and retreat under cover. Panic reaction. Room clearing."

  "Do you think we'll need that?" Shaman asked. He looked bothered.

  "No, but it is good training for handling weapons and following orders. He's a merc for the time being. He must move and act like one."

  "True," Alex agreed. "As to assets, we've got the weapons we have, one shitty vehicle that we can't use much more, and a small amount of money we'll have to save for food and possible bribes. Though not much in the way of bribes. Once we hit Kaporta we'll need a lot of stealth, because we don't have the requisite levels of cash."

  "Maybe I can help with that," Bishwanath said, standing in the doorway. Alex looked him over. He'd obviously had another couple of drinks. Good, he needed it.

  "With what, si— Bal?"

  The ex-president reached into an inside pocket and drew out a small but bulky sack. Alex had assumed the bulge was a weapon.

  "I brought some additional funds," Bal said, as he stepped forward and dumped the contents on the bed. "Six ounces of gold, some jewelry and two watches, an uncounted wad of marks Rahul was able to grab, and some more miscellaneous stuff." He went through his pockets drawing out assorted chains, rings, bullion coins, and some more cash.

  "Excellent," Alex said, looking impressed. "Well done, sir. That'll help. That will really help."

  Bal nodded. "And if Rahul has made it to safety, he will deposit into a small account I keep under another name. There could be a few thousand there."

  "Keeping in mind that transporting us anywhere is going to run in the thousands per movement, that's a great asset that we didn't have."

  Aramis fondled one of the gold bars. "PAMP Suisse has such beautiful stampings," he said.

  "Strikes," Jason corrected. "Coins and bullion are struck. Though I rather think the cash is better, being less noticeable. Bullion bars will not swap for even close to metal value down here, except maybe in barter."

  Aramis realized he was correct.

  "It's cash we didn't have before," Bart said.

  "No." Jason shook his head. "It's potential cash we didn't have."

  Shaman asked, "What's wrong with the exchange rate? We can visit any proper dealer or jeweler, once we clean up. I'm sure Elke can look appropriately professional."

  "We cannot take any of that to a legit dealer," Jason said.

  As people looked confused, Alex said, "Assay numbers."

  "Oh, right."

  Every bullion bar was coded with an assay number, attesting to its purity. Once scanned for confirmation, there'd be a file number in the bank. Most of it was Swiss or Canadian bullion, the finest available, and very discreet. But both PAMP and RCM records could be accessed by the UN with a warrant. They would have to go into black market circulation, at no more than seventy-five percent of actual market price, possibly fifty percent.

  "Well, it's still a big help. Thanks, sir," Alex offered. "Anything we can get will be an asset. So let's talk about transport and weapons."

  * * *

  Weilhung was pissed. It didn't matter how many times a bureaucrat stuck his dick in a vise, he had to repeat the lesson with each new disaster to be certain that it was, in fact, a stupid idea and would hurt. He just wished he could do some of the cranking to apply that lesson.

  This meeting was BuState and Army, and not only was it about a jurisdictional dispute, but issues close to conspiracy, misuse of authority, and even treason were being discussed. As the junior man present and a deniable asset as part of Recon, a cynical part of him was seeking some kind of deniability of his own, fast. He considered that deWitt was not a backstabber, Weygandt could be but hated BuState, but that fat bastard leMieure, present only on vid, thank God, was a self-serving pig.

  "So we don't actually have a concrete location on Bishwanath, or his six hired thugs," Weygandt bitched.

  DeWitt said, "That might be best. I was never happy with the concept of just denying the man. If they can get him somewhere quiet, he can just disappear quietly back into his tribe. If he reappears in a decade, or even a couple of years, it's not a big deal."

  "I don't share your optimism," Weygandt said.

  "Nor do we." Michel LeMieure was a disgusting, bloated toad. Seeing him on vid didn't do justice to the reality. What Weilhung knew of him was just as unpleasant. What was rumored about his personal habits was disgusting. It was also believable. There was that invoice for a crate of mayonnaise. That the man actually showed up to talk with soldiers and dirty himself said he was having serious misgivings about the stupid, morally corrupt plan he'd sent down. Good.

  "If he shows up suddenly, it's not just a mistake," leMieure said. "We have to be very clear on this. Bishwanath disappears, dead in the fighting, so certain agendas can be aided."

  He's going to be a martyr, endorsing Dhe and other scumbags from the grave, Weilhung thought. Well, that really wasn't his problem. However, he did have a problem with exterminating a man over political differences. Bishwanath had been a good man. Hopefully still was.

  "Sir," he said, addressing Weygandt. "The Army cannot be party to an assassination. If you want to track him down and recover him, that we can do. Any 'accident' will be serious bad PR. We can't do it," he reiterated.

  LeMieure cut in, "We'll use what we need to, Major. There's more at stake than any bullshit 'honor' or other military crap."

  Weygandt looked stunned for a moment. "Ah, sir, I'm afraid I must concur with Weilhung on this. As senior legal officer for this operation, I—"

  "I'm sorry, Colonel, I thought you followed orders in the military." LeMieure had a snarl to his fat, sweating visage.

  "Absolutely," Weygandt said. "Get those orders from my chain of command, with valid exemptions to the existing Laws of War and the Geneva Conventions, and I'll follow them."

  LeMieure stared at him, then at deWitt, who said, "Don't look at me, sir. Same applies to BuState. We don't have troops, we don't need the hassle, and I will not relay any orders to that effect."

  "You can be relieved of your position, deWitt." LeMieure was frothing now.

  "Have at it," deWitt said with a tight voice. "I'll be happy to comment on why. You may be the press's darling, but they'd love to take you down, too. Celebrity status doesn't protect you." DeWitt wasn't having any of it.

  Weilhung kept quiet. This was turning very ugly very fast. Best he not be dragged in. There was nothing good that could happen to his career if these scumbags started fighting. DeWitt caught his eye, and the two of them obviously agreed.

  "Do you even understand the problem here?" leMieure shouted. "We have announced the President is dead—"

  "You have announced," Weygandt insisted.

  "—and if he somehow survives we then have to put a good spin on it. He'll come out a hero."

  "I warned you not to make assumptions about the effectiveness of a mob," Weygandt kept pushing.

  LeMieure slammed his fists down on the desk below camera view. "You could have just fucking done the job yourselves and saved the hassle!"

  "This military does not engage in assassination," Weygandt repeated, standing and getting face to face with the holo image. "I am not setting up any of our people to be your bitch after doing your dirty work."

  Okay, this was getting interesting, Weilhung thought. Also very dangerous, and there was no way to sneak out.

  On the other hand, he mused, Weygandt did have a level of courage under the bureaucrat.

  LeMieure bac
ked off, just a tad.

  "That's not the plan," he said. "All I—we want, is for there to be an accident. Find the reneging bastard, make sure there's a mob nearby. The graphic video will make it popular and martyr him for the right reasons."

  "Well, first we'd have to find him," Weygandt replied.

  Then everyone in the room was looking at deWitt.

  Eying the incoming fire, deWitt said, "The possibility exists, with enough resources. I'll need moving backup from Major Weilhung."

  Then everyone was looking at him.

  "If the assets are there, through AF intelligence, and our intelligence, and BuState," he admitted, trying to reswallow his guts, "it's possible we could locate him. That's as far as I can commit."

  "Well, we appreciate your moral courage, Major," leMieure said with a sneer and gritted teeth.

  Weilhung promised himself that the scumbag would pay for that comment at some point, somewhere.

  CHAPTER 22

  The first problem was to acquire a functional military vehicle. Local troops were unlikely to offer one, or part with one. Nor were they likely to not notice one missing.

  "I believe I have an idea," Bart said. He found the wall more comfortable than the abused furniture, and was sitting back against it.

  "Is it a reliable one?"

  "It has worked before," he grinned. "But will take a bit of money or theft."

  "We're tight on money. What do you need?"

  "I need a case of good beer and some schnapps."

  "Nothing like armed robbery to add to the excitement. Any liquor store?"

  "No, only a couple will have what we need. But it's safer than trying to fight our own allies."

  "There is that." That was something they really hoped to avoid. "That should be within our budget. Spend the money."

  "I had hoped for the robbery, too," he said.

  "Spend the money," Marlow reiterated, looking half amused and half stern.

  Bart couldn't blame him. You never knew with this crowd.

  Shaman went out at Bart's direction, with very clear instructions on brands of beer. Belgians, Germans, and French were the main patrols in this area, and they would not be impressed by the ice cold goat piss Americans passed off as beer, or the urine-warm bitter rot the Brits offered. This would be a rough task as it was. Good beer was essential.

  Actually, Bart reflected, good beer was essential to almost any human endeavor. At least in this one, he would get to drink on duty and it would be sanctioned.

  Well, on unofficial duty. There was still that minor point of the regulations to deal with.

  Shaman was the logical choice. Europeans and Americans from Earth would stand out too much. Bal was of course the closest racial type, but there were obvious reasons he could not be seen. That left Shaman's features as the closest to the local genotype, even if his skin was far too dark.

  He came back shortly, with several large crates.

  "I have the beer," he announced with a wide grin. "But it was expensive."

  "How expensive?"

  "Two hundred marks."

  "Fuck me what?!" Vaughn near shouted.

  "Imported, scarce, of no interest to the locals because of the price. I think it was there for months. Very dusty. Obviously just for tourists, especially as it was at a place called Celadon Imports."

  "Ouch," Bart said. He'd considered keeping seven beers out for them, as a goodwill gesture, but with that much money disappearing, he'd better get results from it.

  "I will need the vehicle," he said. "I had thought of taking Elke, but she is too distinctive. Vaughn, will you go with me?"

  "Delighted," Vaughn agreed.

  Bart had Vaughn drive, and navigated. There wasn't much to this step, really. Drive around, looking like some kind of contractors or hires, hoping to God they weren't entered into some recon drone by DNA or face, and look for appropriate troops.

  Of course, the hard part was driving the worst scheisse "contractor truck" on the planet. With one window missing and well dented, it was fine for the locals but not nearly good enough for anyone under UN cover, but it would have to do.

  It wasn't hard to avoid most official vehicles; there weren't many. The trick was to only approach the right one so as not to be questioned. Also, to avoid any existing roadblocks and checkpoints.

  Forty minutes later, wrung out and sweating, he found what he was looking for: One of the ubiquitous grumblies with UN overpainted on a Canadian base. Excellent. He was about to steal half of Canada's military mobility.

  The three troops inside were Macedonian, which must have left their country defenseless. The joke got old quickly, but there were so many nations with token militaries, and all wanted to play. Canada's best bet was to accept the American offer of a confederation, and Macedonia should just stop pretending to dignity it couldn't afford and join the Federated Yugoslav State of Europe. In the meantime, there were these soldiers, and this beer, and this thing to be done.

  "Harr!" he called out, waving.

  The troops grinned and waved back, prepared to keep rolling on patrol. He gestured down with his palm and they came to a stop, cautious but attentive.

  "Drive alongside," he said to Jason.

  "Of course."

  Once alongside, he said, "Lunchtime, ja?"

  "About that," one of them replied. A sergeant. Good, no one too high ranking or experienced. Though they were all young and tough.

  Bart held up a bulb of beer.

  "Join us?"

  "We're on duty."

  "We, too! Want beer?"

  "Ja!" the sergeant replied uncertainly.

  He made a quick call on the radio, in English, giving coordinates and saying, "We will take lunch now."

  That was a potential minor problem and meant moving up their timetable. But it might work out well.

  The patrol followed them to a nearby park. It wasn't much of a park, but it did have shade and nonpaved surface. Bart was sure it couldn't be this easy.

  Vaughn was a good actor. He was at once into lip smacking and grabbing a beer while driving. He made as if gulping it, but the bulb Bart got back was near full.

  So he took one good swallow and passed it along to the sergeant as he climbed out of the vehicle. The bulb made the rounds as he grabbed two more from Vaughn, and then a couple of fresh apples and a block of cheese. Yes, this was expensive, but if it worked . . .

  In ten minutes, all the soldiers were sitting under the shade of a tree with long oblong leaves in sheaves. They were working on a third beer each. A good start. The food disappeared steadily and Vaughn, the former engineer, regaled them with tales of some construction project somewhere else that had nothing to do with here and now while he picked at corklike tree bark. He occasionally tossed a piece to a nearby birdile that seemed to enjoy it.

  "So I'm hanging on the side of the building, harnessed, but some idiot from the team next to us comes and borrows our ladder, leaving me hanging, and . . ."

  Bart pushed one more beer on them for the road.

  The story continued as he walked over to his burned out vehicle and fiddled with it. He only really cared about one thing: disabling it so it wouldn't show, and doing so unseen. Since it was a diesel, there weren't many options on that. He had to fake a fuel flow or a starter problem. One large screwdriver across the injector terminals and a flash that wouldn't be seen in daylight, and their transportation was kaput.

  Which really left them no choice. They were committed to a theft.

  He made a visual point of fiddling a bit more, then tried to start it and got nothing but a grinding sound.

  To the looks he got, he shrugged and walked back, where Vaughn was saying, "But he'd left, so the ladder they had was too short by about a meter. I could barely reach it in my harness. Now, you know how safety personnel feel about nonstandard ways of doing things."

  With everyone looking at him he said, "Our vehicle has failed. Is it possible you can drive us to our site?"

  "Yes,"
the sergeant agreed. "Least we can do for your hospitality. Shall we depart?"

  "Take the rest of the beer," Bart suggested. "It was paid for by the company."