by Jay Posey
“Hey, this stuff’s all beyond me,” Mike said. “You just call me again when something needs shootin’.”
“This is getting outside of the intelligence business,” Thumper said. “Falls more in line with counterintelligence.”
“Yeah, well…” Lincoln said. “I can talk to Mom about a name change for the unit if you like.”
“Let’s see how it goes first,” Thumper said. “All right, I’m sold.”
“How do we make it happen?” Lincoln asked.
“Get back to base camp, for starters,” Thumper said.
“I’m thinking we better do it on the jump,” Wright said. “It might buy us a little more time on the job, but a little misdirection isn’t going to solve the problem on its own. If this were a democracy, I’d vote we run it parallel to the groundwork, from inside the MPCR. But it’s not a democracy.” She turned meaningfully to Lincoln. Again, the expressionless faceplate somehow managed to highlight just how much her body language and tone of voice could communicate. Lincoln thought it over for a few moments, weighed the options.
“I agree, Amira,” Lincoln said. “First order of business is to track down command-and-control, inside the Collective Republic. Anything else we can get is a bonus. Let’s wrap it up here. We need to get the actual Marshals out here to see about these people. Once we’re back to base, we’ll pack up everything we can, and prep to move. I’ll get a line back to the colonel asap, and see how he wants to get us on the inside.”
They hadn’t gotten exactly what they were after here, but at least it wasn’t a total loss. Lincoln knew his team was used to working with whatever scraps they could come up with on their own, and figuring it out on the fly.
Unfortunately, he also knew they were running out of time.
EIGHTEEN
“You tell them about the feed we left open?” Lincoln asked, on a secure line back to the colonel. On the projection, Almeida shook his head as he sipped from his tea.
“I didn’t tell them anything I didn’t have to,” he said. “I gave them everything you gave me, but I didn’t tell them a thing. Figured I’d let them draw their own conclusions. Of course, given the quantity of material you pulled from the site, I think that might have made it all a little easier on me. After that, they were fairly eager to help. I basically just told them you’d tracked the culprits to the MPCR, and asked them how they wanted to get you inside. Didn’t even give them the opportunity to consider whether or not you should be going inside.”
“And how’s that going to work?”
“Excellently,” the colonel answered. “I hope.” He smiled his crooked half-smile, and then said. “NID’s got a man on the inside, one of their best, according to them. I don’t know about best, but he’s a long-time officer operating in there, so that’s a point in favor. And the Barton boys are coming in commercial. They’ll be on standby in a neighboring colony in case you need to leave in a hurry. I’m afraid they won’t be available for close air support on this one, though.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Lincoln said. “Considering we can’t even take the suits in.”
“I know your pain,” Almeida replied. “I’d wear my old one around the office if they’d let me.”
“You still didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh, yeah, getting you in. NID Special Logistics is supposed to be handling it, but, here’s the glorious part: I worked a couple connections on your behalf. I don’t like to brag, but… Papa Charlie Bravo’s going to take care of you. You’re welcome.”
Colonel Almeida said it with such gravitas that Lincoln knew the words must have had special significance; he just didn’t know what that was.
“Papa Charlie Bravo?” Lincoln said. “Should I know him?”
Almeida gave him a look as if his joke had fallen flat. It melted to genuine surprise when the colonel realized Lincoln wasn’t joking.
“That’s the Directorate’s west coast ninja squad. You’ve never heard of them?”
“No, sir I haven’t. Though if they’re a ninja squad, I guess that shouldn’t really be a surprise. What do they do?”
Almeida smiled again. “Make things happen.”
“Good things, I hope,” Lincoln said.
“Good, bad. Depends on the need,” the colonel answered. “But whatever they do, they do well. Absolute pro status. I figured you guys might appreciate having at least one thing you didn’t have to worry about for a change.”
“I do,” Lincoln said. “What’s our timetable looking like?”
“You tell me. Papa’s already got people working, should be able to get out to you by mid-morning at the latest. After that, it’s go as fast as you can without getting caught.”
“Wait, they’re picking us up out here?”
Almeida nodded. “They’re a full-service operation. They’ll get you where you need to go … though, uh, I can’t guarantee you’ll like how you get there.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve getting shot at, I’ll be good.”
“They’ll get you linked up with NID’s fella, and he’ll run you from there. Codename is WHITEHALL.”
“And he knows what we’re in town to do?”
“Enough,” Almeida said. “I don’t believe he knows about SUNGRAZER, but he knows you’re helping the Directorate track a high-value asset, under time pressure. The way NID sold him to me, sounds like he’s got networks inside networks. Most anything you need, he should be able to get for you. But you probably ought to avoid mentioning the ship, just to be safe.”
“Understood,” Lincoln said.
“Any update on the civilians at the facility?” the colonel asked.
Lincoln shook his head. “We know the Marshal Service sent a team out. Haven’t been able to pick up any word on the outcome yet. No idea what kind of story they’re going to have to tell. But they’re not stuck out there on their own anymore, at least.”
“Oh that reminds me,” said Almeida. “The Ava Leyla.”
The fact that the one situation had reminded the colonel of the other was a pinprick through Lincoln’s heart. He thought he’d sufficiently detached from the experience on board the vessel, but the words revealed how raw the emotions still were.
“Thumper did a little work while you were on board, you mentioned? Something to make it easier to keep track of?”
“Yes sir,” Lincoln answered.
“Sounds like it paid off,” said the colonel. “Report came in that the crew got picked up by port authorities when they came into dock at one of the hops out there, under a different registration. Recovered fourteen children from a hidden cargo hold.”
Lincoln grunted at the number. Fourteen. Of seventeen. He couldn’t help but wonder if the little girl from the storage room had been among them.
“That’s good news,” Almeida said, off Lincoln’s reaction. “You and your team ought to feel good about that.”
“I’d feel better if it had been all seventeen, sir.”
“It’s a whole lot more than zero, son. You didn’t have to do anything. You made a tough call, did what you could. Fact that you got the job done and helped those kids, that’s above and beyond. Take the win.”
“Yes sir,” Lincoln said. He nodded, and tried to take the colonel’s words to heart. They just wouldn’t sink in, though, not so that he could feel it. Maybe in time. For now, he found himself stuck hoping that little girl had made it out. “Anything else for me?”
Almeida gave him a look for a moment, but had the sense and courtesy to recognize Lincoln didn’t want to discuss it further.
“I don’t believe so,” the colonel said. “Check back in once you get to the Republic and get a read on the situation. Let me know you got there, and all that.”
“Will do.”
“Oh yeah, and the folks from Papa. When you meet them, tell ‘em I said hi.”
“Friends of yours?”
“They’re all friends of mine,” Almeida said flashing his smile again. Obviously a history ther
e he didn’t plan to elaborate on at this time.
“Roger that,” Lincoln said. “Talk to you soon.”
“Look forward to it,” the colonel replied. “Out.”
Lincoln killed the feed, and sat in the dark of the mini-habitat for a few minutes, thinking through what lay ahead, and how they’d gotten this far. Maybe the colonel was right. Fourteen out of seventeen wasn’t so bad. It was a little bit of good they’d done, anyway. It was, in a way, the only noticeable difference they’d made during this whole operation.
Thinking about it that way didn’t make him feel so much better after all.
There was still plenty of work on Lincoln’s plate, but sitting there in the darkness, he felt the weight of weariness settle on him. Not just tired. Lincoln lived tired. But he’d learned to tell the difference between wanting a rest and needing one. And he needed one.
He shook his head at himself. The op tempo hadn’t been all that high, all things considered. He’d been in situations before that had required him to run two, sometimes three hits a night, for weeks on end. This scenario was a different sort of challenge. The physical exertion was the easy part. It was the constant mental churning, paired with the relentless sense that they were short on time and weren’t moving fast enough, that dragged and wore him down, even when he was able to grab an hour or two of sleep. Lincoln couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept and dreamed of anything other than the job.
He needed to take care of himself. But first, his teammates. Tempting as it was to crawl over to a corner of the mini-hab and rack out until someone found him, Lincoln knew he couldn’t disappear like that. He got to his feet, and took a few minutes to visit each team member, updating them individually or in pairs on what he’d discussed with the colonel. They all expressed a mixture of relief, gratitude, and disappointment similar to Lincoln’s at the news of the rescued children.
Once he’d completed his rounds, Lincoln double-checked some final planning details, and then, shortly before midnight, finally allowed himself to crash.
The team was up well before the sun to break down their camp. They hadn’t quite finished when two men showed up in the pre-dawn hours, in a massive six-wheeled, manually-operated ground vehicle. The thing looked like a survey-exploration rig, a dump truck, and a garbage truck had all smashed into each other and decided it’d be easier if they all just went the same direction from then on. The two men hopped out, both sporting environmental suits typical of workers on outer territorial drillers and excavators. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they pulled right up to the Outriders’ concealed base camp, Lincoln wouldn’t have been sure these were the right guys.
“Subtle,” Lincoln said, pointing to the vehicle as the men approached.
“Short notice,” the driver replied. He extended his hand. “Owen Kahn. Papa sent me.”
“Lincoln Suh,” Lincoln said, shaking Owen’s hand. “Mom told me to tell you hi.”
“Lincoln,” said Owen, with a nod. “Guess that makes us brothers.”
“Evan Garcia,” the other man said, offering his hand in turn. “Nice suit.”
“Thanks,” Lincoln said. He’d popped the faceplate open so they could see his face through the transparent shield. It seemed rude to greet the men otherwise. “Sounds like you’re going to be taking care of it for me while I’m out of town?”
“We’ll keep it locked up for you, don’t worry,” Evan said. “And we’ll even give it back when you need it.”
“Yeah well, if you decide you want to try to take it for a spin, you probably want to wash it first. I’ve been in it for a couple of days.”
“We don’t do laundry,” Evan answered, and then added with a smile, “and it wouldn’t fit me anyway.”
Thumper came over to greet them, and Lincoln made the introductions.
“You fellas are Logistical Support Officers, huh?” Thumper said.
“That’s right,” Owen said.
“Sort of like we’re Information Support Technicians?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am,” Owen said, though the smile he flashed said otherwise. “But yeah, something like. Looks like you’ve got a lot of gear to pull out. Probably better get to it. Long drive back.”
After the initial introductions were made, the seven set to the task of getting all the gear loaded up. The vehicle had a small crane arm on one side, and with it Evan unloaded what looked like a shipping container from the vehicle. Owen interacted with a panel on one side, and the container separated in two, about a quarter of the way from the back end. On closer inspection, Lincoln discovered it was in fact two containers; the rear quarter of the length was empty, but the rest was already loaded with equipment typical of speculative drilling operations. They packed all of their gear into the smaller section. Getting the dropsuits arranged was the trickiest part; they resorted to having Thumper walk them all in one at a time, since she was the most limber and had the least amount of trouble getting back out. The hardest part, though, was when it came time for the Outriders to part with their recon armor. The men from Papa Charlie Bravo had brought civilian clothes and e-suits for the five team members, matching the rugged ones they themselves were wearing. Lincoln knew it was for the best. The kind of work they’d be doing inside the MPCR wouldn’t allow for anything so conspicuous. And the risk of one of the suits falling into the wrong hands… well, Lincoln didn’t even want to think of what kind of repercussions that might have. Even so, he hated seeing it packed up. For him, it was like watching a lion forced into a cage. He knew well what the suit was capable of, what it had been made to do. Hanging in storage was exactly the opposite of its purpose. He managed to restrain himself from saluting as the door to the suit’s container closed, but only just.
Once the equipment was secured and the Outriders had all changed into the clothes they’d been brought, they loaded into the monstrosity that Evan and Owen had driven in and got underway, as the sun crept over the horizon and daybreak began in earnest.
As it turned out, though they’d never actually met before, Wright and Sahil both knew who Owen was; apparently they’d run in some of the same special operations circles before Owen had officially transitioned out to civilian intelligence support work. It wasn’t unusual for the Directorate’s Special Logistics Division to recruit from Army Special Forces, and not a surprise that such a man would end up in the apparently highly-regarded Papa Charlie Bravo unit. And, as fate would have it, both Owen and Evan had been childhood friends of Will and Noah Barton. It really was a small world, and the special operations community made it even smaller. With all the common connections, the rapport was almost instantaneous.
“Guessing NID doesn’t pay you to drive, huh?” Mike said to Evan, as they bounced across the trackless Martian terrain.
“Nah,” Evan answered from behind the wheel, “they mostly pay me to clean up after jokers like you. The driving’s just a hobby.”
“Oh, so you’re a janitor then,” Mike replied, with a smile.
“From what I’ve heard of your work,” Evan said without missing a beat, “I’d say we’re more like septic system repair.”
The cab of the vehicle was large enough to hold ten in three bench rows, the back row being slightly wider than the others. There wasn’t a lot of leg room, but at least they didn’t have to sit shoulder to shoulder the whole ride.
“So what’s the plan for infil?” Wright asked from the middle row, right behind Evan. He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder.
“Basehead first, then over to Shukaku Station,” he answered. “Our man WHITEHALL will take it from there. Not sure how he’s planning to move you into the MPCR proper yet, but I’m sure he’ll get you squared away.”
“We’re not driving all the way to Basehead?” Thumper asked from the back, loudly, and more of a statement than a question.
“Not in this thing,” Evan said. “It’s a good couple more hours to the excavation rig we used as an excuse to come get
you, and then we’ll be hopping a smoother ride out from there. We should be able to get you into Shukaku in time for dinner.”
“And WHITEHALL?” Wright asked. “What’s his story?”
Owen shook his head. “Don’t know much about him, except he’s undeclared and been running around the Republic for something like a decade.”
“Must be pretty good at his job, if he’s survived this long,” Mike said. He was in the back row with Thumper.
“Or pretty bad,” Thumper replied.
“From what I understand, he’s the good kind,” Evan said. “I’ve seen some quality stuff come over the cable with his stamp on it.”
“You’ve never met him, though?” Wright said.
“Nope. Don’t even know what he looks like,” Owen answered. “Or, for that matter, that he’s even a he.”
“Hey, how do you guys know Mom?” Thumper asked.
“The colonel?” Owen replied. “Never had the honor of meeting him, ma’am. Reputation only.”
“Everybody at Papa loves him, though,” Evan added. “Word in the halls is he’s one of the few truly good people out there. Pretty rare in our line of work. That’s why we were so quick to volunteer when the news popped up on the wire that you guys needed a hand.”
“You guys volunteered for this?” Lincoln said.
“Yep,” Owen answered. “Soon as we heard.”
“Well, more like we just hopped a flight and let the Directorate know we were handling it.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Colonel made it sound like he’d pulled a few strings.”
“Oh he did,” Owen said. “A few years back. We’re still returning the favor.”
They spent the remaining hours of the trip swapping stories of operating in the shadow world. Both sides were careful to maintain operational security, hinting around enough without ever explicitly naming names. Once again, if you knew, you knew. And for the most part, they all knew. To Lincoln’s disappointment, though, he never did learn why Colonel Almeida and Papa Charlie Bravo had such an affinity for one another, nor how Mom got his nickname.