Major (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 5)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  He turned to his left and started out at even a quicker pace than usual. He would be back at his apartment in 20, then after changing into his workout clothes, he could start his first set by 1830. Two hours of exercise, then a shower, then maybe a visit to The Fresh Solution, a salad bar restaurant a block over from his apartment—yes, that sounded good. Hannah would be proud of him.

  He patted his belly, which had grown four centimeters since his arrival. He was in his Charlies, the short-sleeved khaki shirt and dark green trousers that made up his daily uniform, and he’d already let out the waistband on the trou once. His blues, though, which he wore to formal functions, were getting rather tight. The never-ending receptions and dinners, coupled with not enough exercise, were taking their toll.

  The streets in Vishnu didn’t make too much sense to Ryck. The blocks tended to be rather long with few connecting streets. Traffic could get bad at times despite huge cryocomputers that monitored the flow and made recommendations to vehicles. The Confederation citizens, though, had a rather ornery streak that had most of them ignoring autodrive and keeping in manual control of their hovers.

  About 250 meters from The Alibi, however, a small alley cut through the block, and Ryck could take this to connect to Robinson Avenue, saving several minutes of walking. He reached the alley and turned in—colliding with a man coming out and knocking him down.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” Ryck said, reaching down to help the older man up.

  As the man took Ryck’s hand, Ryck felt something small and hard against his palm, something that remained after the man was back on his feet. Ryck’s training kicked in, and he closed his hand, not looking.

  “Watch it,” the man scolded before stepping around Ryck and continuing on his way.

  Whatever was in Ryck’s hand was crying out for attention, almost as if it was burning him.

  Is this it? he wondered excitedly. Was this a brush pass?

  He longed to look in his hand to see what was there, but the hours of training walking the streets of Brussels had made their mark, and he studiously ignored his hand. He was probably going overboard, he realized. He was acting too nonchalant, and that was just as bad as acting suspiciously. Ryck knew that the city surveillance had him in its databases, and it supposedly could identify when he was acting differently. It could flag him for someone in the counterintelligence branch of the FSSC, the Free State Security Commission, to take a look.

  Grubbing hell, he thought. I’m a Marine, not a spy!

  The more he tried to act normally, the more awkward he felt. Finally, he just decided to speed up his pace and get into his apartment, ignoring his meager repertoire of trade craft, such as making sure he was not being followed. Fifteen minutes later—fifteen stress-filled minutes when he kept expecting a hand on his shoulder and a voice telling him he was under arrest—he gratefully entered his apartment.

  The residences of the foreign delegations were traditionally sacrosanct from surveillance. Ryck didn’t trust that, however, and neither did the embassy. Each apartment and the ambassador’s residence were scanned daily for bugs. Despite his lack of trust, though, Ryck was not going to wait to go to the embassy and into the vault before seeing just what was in his hand. He was dying with curiosity.

  He unfolded his hand, and there, stuck to his palm, was what looked like a fat grain of rice. Ryck’s heart fell. Could this simply be the remnants of the guy’s lunch that had accidently transferred to Ryck when they collided?

  He took a closer look, and he didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed when he saw a slight seam in the small item. He went to his kitchen drawer and took out a small knife, edging its tip into the seam. The tip slid in a millimeter, and the small object suddenly unfolded.

  Could they make the writing any smaller? he wondered as he squinted his eyes and tried to read what was written there.

  He gave up and looked for anything to magnify the writing. He had nothing. He could take it to the embassy, but he was burning with curiosity. Finally, he took his PA and shot a picture of the writing, then blew the image up. He knew he should not have recorded the image in any way, but he figured that he could give his PA to Sherlynn in security, and she could erase all trace of the image in it.

  As he read the words on his PA, his heart started pounding.

  O’Brien Park. In back of the dolphin fountain. 0125, Wednesday morning. I have some information you will want to know.

  Chapter 3

  “I don’t like it,” Agent Volker, the station chief said. “With all due respect, Major Lysander is not trained in this type of operation.”

  Ryck started to protest, but Volker held up a hand to stop him before continuing, “Yes, I know you had Kindergarten in DC, but two or three weeks hardly makes you an expert. I think that for this, Assistant Secretary Adomshick is far better suited.”

  Alden Adomshick, officially the Assistant Secretary for Agriculture, but in reality Volker’s number three man, nodded his agreement, as did LTC James and Major Rychmont, the two FDC reps at the meeting.

  The chargé d'affaires looked at the gathered men from over his folded fingers, and then asked CAPT Franks, “What do you think, George. He’s your man, after all.”

  “Major Lysander does not have the experience as a spook, that’s true. But as you know, sir, the major has a unique reputation. It is very likely that this contact occurred only because of that reputation. If someone is willing to come to our side, then it makes sense that he would approach the major. And if the Assistant Secretary of Agriculture, a nobody—no insult intended, Alden—shows up instead, then he might bolt. He approached Major Lysander for a reason, and I don’t think we can ignore that. I think that the major should make the meeting. Then, if this is a live resource, the handling can be turned over to someone less, shall we say, conspicuous?”

  “I still think it’s a bad idea. It’s too dangerous,” Volker stated.

  “And you think Major Lysander is afraid of a little danger?” CAPT Franks asked dryly.

  Even the two FCDC officers had to hold back a smile as Volker stammered out “Of course not! He’s proven himself. It’s just that he might be a little out of his league here.”

  Frankly, Ryck was out of his league as far as being a super duper spook, he knew. But he didn’t like Agent Volker pointing that out. Besides, how hard could it be to simply go to the meeting and listen to what was being said? And to have his courage even obliquely questioned got his blood boiling.

  Ryck looked around the vault. The chargé d'affaires and his first secretary sat at the head of the table. The two FCDC officers and the two spooks sat across from Ryck, CAPT Franks, and CDR Terry Philbin, Ryck’s counterpart assistant naval attaché. Volker could argue all he wanted, but the decision was Mr. Lamonica’s, the wizened Charge de Affairs. He might look like a jovial grandfather, but he was whip-smart and brooked no nonsense. He ran the embassy, not Ambassador Tsung, a former Top 100 CEO and political neophyte.

  “And you, Major? What do you think? You up for this?” he asked Ryck.

  “Yes, sir, I am. Of course, I welcome Agent Volker’s assistance. In fact, I request it. But I think I can be trained up for a simple contact. And his people will be listening in. Whoever this is, he requested my presence, and we have to honor that. It might turn out to be nothing, but then, all I’ve wasted is an early night’s sleep.”

  “It could be a trap,” Volker said, obviously not willing to let Ryck have the last word.

  “And if it is, what of it? Major Lysander will simply report back, and we can decide how to use him for feeding the Confederation what we want,” CAPT Franks said.

  “I was speaking more in terms of a physical threat,” Volker said.

  That got Ryck’s attention.

  “You mean the Confederation would sanction an actual assault on a certified diplomat?” Franks asked incredulously.

  LTC James cleared his throat before saying, “Actually, we have heard whispers about that. Not the from the Confeder
ation government, of course, at least nothing from official channels, but there are groups within the government who feel that Major Lysander’s presence here is a slap in the face.”

  “And is there any indication that there is anything planned against him, or is this anonymous grumbling?” The chargé d'affaires asked.

  “Well, nothing concrete, sir, but we think it is a possibility.”

  Mr. Lamonica leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling for a few moments as he considered that. The others sat quietly, waiting to hear his decision.

  Finally, he leaned back forward and said, “We have had a dearth of new assets, so any opportunity has to be examined. I’m going ahead and authorizing this meeting, but I want the good major wired to his short hairs. Nothing will be left to chance, and I want personnel ready to move in if need be. That’s you, Crest,” he said to Volker. “And if there is any sign that the meeting is going south, you’ve got the authority to pull the plug.”

  “I understand, sir,” Volker said, obviously not pleased with the decision.

  “And if that is all, gentlemen, then I’ve got another meeting to get to.”

  The chargé d'affaires got up without another word and left the vault, followed by the first secretary.

  “Well, OK, we heard the man,” Volker said. “Major, if I can see you later this afternoon, around 1600, I’d like to get you briefed up and prepared.”

  The gathered men stood up to leave the vault, but MAJ Rychmont caught Ryck’s eye, motioning him to hang back. Faustus Rychmont was the embassy’s second-ranking FCDC officer, and while Ryck was not overly found of the organization as a whole, Faustus was an OK guy. Ryck had played him in five several times, and they’d often eaten lunch together at the embassy commissary.

  “What’s up?” Ryck asked as the last of the others left the vault.

  Faustus reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handing it to Ryck. Ryck took it without looking, but immediately recognizing the familiar shape of a handgun, probably a snub-nosed 10mm.

  “I expected this was going to be the decision,” Faustus said, “and I knew a Marine would not want to go into harm’s way unarmed.”

  Ryck slipped the handgun into his pocket, surprised and more than a little grateful. For a diplomat to carry a weapon was highly verboten and could—no probably would—rescind any diplomatic immunity. Faustus, as security rather than a diplomat, could carry a weapon, which was probably how he could get a hold of whatever he’d given Ryck. By passing it to Ryck in the vault, there would be no record of the exchange.

  Ryck risked a glance down. The low profile of the handgun barely made a bulge in his pocket, and Ryck doubted anyone would notice it. It had felt slick, too, when he touched it, so it was probably a meshed-ceramic, impervious to most common surveillance means. It was most likely a Bianchi or Sylvington, both sweet weapons that packed a lot of punch at close ranges.

  “Thanks, Faustus. I appreciate it,” he said as they both turned to leave the vault.

  Ryck hoped he would not have to use the little handgun, but it sure felt good to have it and know that if the shit hit the fan, he could at least go down swinging instead of being a lamb at the slaughter.

  Chapter 4

  Ryck stepped out from his condo and started stretching. His senses were on high alert, but he tried to act calm and inconspicuous as he scanned the shadows. He knew his people were out there, but he couldn’t pick them out.

  Volker had slammed a month’s training into three short hours at the embassy, it seemed to Ryck, going over exactly what was expected of him. Then he had gone home, only slightly later than normal, with orders to remain inside his condo. He’d been surprised when two men he didn’t recognize were already in his condo when he arrived. With only a few words—more like grunts—they had him get into his workout clothes and then wired him up. The Charge de Affairs had mentioned Ryck getting wired up “to his short hairs,” and the two men must have taken him seriously. One sensor was perilously close to his jewels. Why it had to be there, or what anyone hoped to pick up with it, was beyond him, but Ryck just stared at the ceiling, slightly embarrassed but still trying not to laugh, as the first man bent over with some sort of scanner pointed at his crotch.

  When they were done, Ryck excused himself to hit the head, and expecting the men to barge in on him any second now, he pulled the small Bianchi Faustus had given him and taped it under his waistband. He wasn’t sure if the two men knew about the handgun or not, but he didn’t want to take any chances with them.

  One of the men was gone when Ryck came out of the head, but the other stayed there with Ryck for the next several hours while he waited until the appointed time. With the guy there, Ryck didn’t feel as if he should turn on the holo, so the two of them sat in silence, Ryck getting more nervous.

  He wasn’t sure why he was getting nervous, though. He’d been calmer going into combat, for grubbing sakes. He thought it might be because despite his training in Brussels, despite Volkers cram session, he was not a bond, not a spy. He was just a dumb grunt pretending to be more than he really was.

  Underlying the nervousness, though, was a high degree of excitement. He may not be a bond, but this was like the flicks. What kid hadn’t played secret agent? And here he was, getting ready to do just that.

  He was relieved when his minder got the call and nodded to Ryck to get going. He took the elevator to the lobby, nodded at the woman coming in (and immediately wondering if she was some sort of agent), and stepped outside where he commenced his stretching. A minute or two later, he stepped off into an easy jog.

  “Starting off,” he subvocalized, hoping his collar mic would pick it up.

  “Got you,” a voice replied through the tiny ear bud (which looked like nothing so much as a small piece of ear wax).

  Ryck jogged down Tyson Ave, which was mostly quiet at this hour of the evening. His condo was located in a nicer residential area in the embassy district, and with traffic light, he could jog in the street itself. It wasn’t until he turned right onto Peake and its restaurants and pubs that he had to retreat to the sidewalk and dodge late-night pedestrians. No one seemed to give him a second glance, however, as he wove through the groups and single walkers. A young woman jogger accompanied by a huge dog on a leash gave him a wave as they met and passed each other.

  O’Brien Park was a good seven klicks from Ryck’s condo, and Ryck was glad the night was cool as he ran at a brisk pace. It was almost 25 minutes before he ran under the arched entrance and into the park. He’d never been in the park, but he’d seen the map and knew where the statue was. With his Neulife bridges and augmented hippocampus, a handy souvenir from his tour in recon, it was child’s play for him to navigate to pretty much anywhere without his PA or any navigation aids.

  The statue, an oversized bronze dolphin dedicated to Delphinus, Neptune’s servant and matchmaker (having convinced the lovely water nymph Amphitrite to marry the suddenly shy god), was still a good klick away in the back of the park. Ryck had rolled his eyes when he’d read about the statue’s origin. The whole Roman-thing was getting rather old.

  Ryck jumped over a bench to take a shortcut and almost landed on a couple who were on the ground and locked in each other’s arms. He avoided them with an acrobatic twist, landed, and kept running, although he wondered if the two were really young lovers or agents from the Federation or the Confederation. He looked back to see if they were moving and was surprised to see someone else running as well, someone who looked determined to catch up to him. Ryck sped up, veering off to the right and away from the path leading to the statue. He ran a hand along his waist band and felt the comforting heft of his small Bianchi.

  “Ryck!” the man in back of him called out.

  Ryck picked up the pace again, swinging back towards the arch.

  “I’ve got company!” he spoke into his mic, ignoring subvocalization.

  “We’re on it,” his unseen minder said.

  “Ryck, stop, it�
��s me!”

  Ryck recognized the voice. It was his shadow, Titus.

  Grubbing hell! he thought. And it all comes crashing down.

  He didn’t think Titus was going to harm him, merely tell him the gig was up and he was getting his accreditation pulled. His tour was going to come to an embarrassing end.

  Fuck it. Get me back to the fleet. I’ve had enough of this shit.

  He came to a stop, somewhat embarrassed by the amount of heaving his lungs were making. The diplomatic circuit was doing his fitness no favors. He tried to control his breathing as Titus slowed to a stop in front of him. Ryck took a small degree of pyrrhic pride that Titus was sucking wind more than he was.

  Ryck stood tall when all he wanted to do was bend over and gasp for breath.

  “Don’t come,” Ryck subvocalized into his mic. “It’s Major Pohlmeyer.”

  “Roger. Wait for instructions,” came through his earbud.

  “Sparking hell, Ryck,” Titus gasped out. “You’re early, and I almost missed you.”

  “OK, you caught me, and I’ve breached my status. What now?” Ryck asked sourly.

  “Not yet, you haven’t. And you won’t. Do not go to your meeting,” Titus said.

  “What?” Ryck asked, not expecting that.

  “Your meeting. Your rendezvous. It’s a trap. If you go, you won’t come back, a victim of Vishnu’s rising crime rate.”

  Ryck didn’t even bother to protest what he was doing, that he didn’t have a meeting.

  “I . . . uh, why are you telling me this?”

  “You are somewhat famous, even infamous, Major, and more than a few people think you should not be here. Some of them are in high places, and they might have exceeded their authority in ordering your, shall we say, removal?”

  Ryck had often thought that his presence was more of a gadfly than a peace dove, but he never thought anyone would actually resort to violence. Marines reacted with deadly violence, but diplomats preferred less sanguine solutions.