by John Ringo
Somewhere in the middle he managed to palm the flash paper sticky-note stuck to the bottom of the bench. Under cover of crumbling a bit more bread, he tore off the corner of the paper that held a few tiny dots of film that would yield up their data later, under magnification. The rest of the note simply said, "Plus one hour for Joe."
He kept it palmed while he finished feeding the birds and disposed of it before he left by the simple expedient of burning it as he lit a cigarette, covered by the flare of his lighter. The baggy with the data dots went into his pocket. Wonder what in the hell Barry has going on that necessitates pushing back the mid-cycle meeting? Not that it matters.
There were various people in the square or on the walkways this Sunday afternoon, but none of them stood out. There was nothing to distinguish the sidewalk sweeper from any of a couple of dozen other people going about their business in plain sight.
Martin walked back out to his bus stop, arriving five minutes before the next scheduled pickup at that stop. After a short wait, he boarded his bus and was gone.
* * *
Chicago, Sunday, June 15, evening
Peter Vanderberg contemplated the young major in front of him, from the slightly long for regulation hair to the precise fit of his silks and liked what he saw. What he primarily liked about David Morrison couldn't be seen on the surface. Alert, competent, smart. Attentive to detail without getting bogged down and overcome by trivialities. Good delegating authority. All these were reasons for the man to have obtained the exalted rank of major at the unusually young age of thirty-six.
His 201 file was virtually perfect, as was true of almost all of the new breed of young Fleet Strike officers.
"So. Now that our intel is confirmed, I expect a finalized operational plan for capture of the targets ready to brief in the participants by eleven hundred tomorrow. You can use my briefing room, since I'll want to be there. Look at me, David." He caught the major's eyes as they dropped slightly to meet his own. "I can't emphasize enough how important this mission is. Use whatever you need to get it done."
"Yes, sir." He nodded. "My preliminary plan is for a solid team in civilian clothes backed up by a substantial number of uniformed MPs who can be thoroughly concealed and held under radio silence until and unless needed."
"Reasonable. Get on it. I'll see you tomorrow. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." The about face was clean, but relaxed, confident. Good man. As soon as Stewart was out in the open, he was definitely sending him a mixed case of Havanas and good scotch, and damn the cost.
* * *
Titan Base, Monday, June 17, evening
"So he didn't notice that you had your buckley do all those time-wasting reports he wanted?" Stewart had doubled back to the office, since Sinda didn't have to be at the asshole's quarters until his wife left at nineteen hundred.
"Well, he did comment that they were a bit pessimistic." She trailed a finger down his chest, grinning conspiratorially. "I blamed it on PMS.
"So," she took a finger and tapped him on the chest, "we've just about exhausted the possibilities of the regular office but you," she tapped him again, "have access to the locked room off of Beed's office. Is there any . . . interesting furniture or anything in there?"
Her breasts were just barely brushing against his chest, and he could feel her nipples hardening through the thin fabric. Her breath was warm against his jaw line and smelled of cinnamon.
"Well, there is a recliner back there. And a large vidscreen. I don't think he wants the rest of the office to know he uses them." He ran a hand through that silky, bright hair. She had great hair.
"A recliner? Lead on, Macduff," she said.
If she thought she was going to be in the driver's seat like last night, she was in for a surprise. Not that it hadn't been fantastic, just, well, they didn't have a lot of time and he didn't like why. Oh, it wasn't her fault at all. Which was why he was in the mood to wring every last bit of sensation from her and leave her sated and limp as a rag doll. The asshole might get her acting ability, but he had her real passion, and he knew it. It was his aim to make her unable to forget it for a second of her sad pantomime with that unfit, corrupt flake who he was more and more looking forward to relieving of command and career.
The promised recliner was upholstered in a rather hideous green and black plaid. A faded leopard-print pillow scavenged from who knew where was squashed into one corner of it. A couple of other pillows and a red and white blanket with a soft drink logo were piled neatly to the side of the chair. A box of holocubes with the logos of commercial entertainment companies sat by itself on a small end table. The color scheme was the same institutional green and battleship gray of the rest of the office.
As the door slid shut behind her he pulled her hard against him, kissing her deeply. He didn't know what it was about this woman, but a kiss or a touch and he was just gone.
Now her legs were up around his waist and the drive came boiling up in him. It turned out that the pillows and blanket combined to provide just the right height boost to support her when he bent her over the arm of the chair. He had both hands free, and he could reach everything, and did, as he felt the convulsions begin to take her. Yesterday had been pretty great, but all in all, Stewart preferred to drive.
He had worked his way through two and was recovered and starting on three, gotta love that juv stamina, when he thought he heard a noise in the outer office. He clapped one hand over Sinda's mouth, "Shhh!" and they both dived for their PDA's. She made it first.
"Buckley, who's out there?" she hissed.
"It's Sergeant Franks! He'll tell the general and we're all gonna die!" it whispered back.
Only Franks. Wonder what he's up to? Stewart breathed a sigh of relief and put a finger over his lips.
Sinda nodded.
He quietly murmured to his AID-in-drag to listen for Franks until he left the headquarters complex. He and Sinda sat very quietly, staring at each other, until it announced softly that Franks was gone and, other than themselves and the MP standing guard in the outer corridor, the headquarters area was now empty.
"You get damn good performance out of your buckley," he said.
"Yeah, so do you," she observed absently. "Boy that took the mood right away, didn't it?"
"Yeah, but I bet we could get it back pretty quick." He looked down and shrugged, running a finger up her thigh.
"We already damn near got caught once tonight. Let's not make that a certainty, okay?" She stopped his hand with one of her own and grabbed her silks, smiling regretfully.
"Yeah," he agreed reluctantly, grabbing his own clothes. It really wasn't her fault. If it was anybody's fault it was his for having the power to relieve the bastard and failing to do so. Okay, so his own orders didn't allow it yet, but if he wanted to get her out of the asshole's bed all he had to do was hurry up and catch Franks or whoever the sonofabitch plant was. As soon as that was done, he could relieve Beed and ship his scumbag butt back to Earth and away from her.
He kissed her and waved her on out to go do what she had to do as soon as she had her hair and clothes straightened while he finished cleaning up.
It wasn't actually impossible. It wasn't as if working in CID or an MP Brigade was her life's ambition. He could get her a transfer somewhere on base. Once they were no longer in the same chain of command, and she was in a job less outright crazy than this one, there wouldn't really be anything to keep them apart, would there?
* * *
Titan Base, Tuesday, June 18, 16:30
On the shuttle for the freighter, Jay and the others generally wore liners of the same material as military silks under their heavy cotton jumpsuits. They had to. Landing control wouldn't have tolerated the heat leakage that would have resulted if they'd kept the inside at a comfortable temperature.
Besides, they weren't supposed to be sleeping on it in the first place. Covering that had meant renting a transient's room and having someone in it enough of the time to make it look well used. Jay liked this a
rrangement because it gave him excellent cover for his independent ventures when it was his time to use the room.
And his turn was supposed to be today, but Papa O'Neal had asked to swap, and he hadn't had a graceful excuse to say no.
So here he was stuck on the shuttle freezing his buns off with Sunday. Well, okay, the silk longjohns helped a lot. He'd still rather be alone and warm and ready to go. Not that Sunday was a bad guy, it was just that he had so much money he couldn't possibly understand what it was like to grow up in the lousy BS. Oh, most of the kids had just accepted it. They never knew any better. But him being a doctor's kid, he'd seen the difference between himself and the other doctors' kids. He knew full well what his life would have been like with a lot less fucking BS. Sunday could have never understood, but he was just getting back the life that always should have been his in the first place. And if the BS suffered, well, it just balanced the scales, didn't it?
He surreptitiously checked the outbound passenger shuttle schedules. Fuck! Two hour mechanical launch delay. This totally sucks. Okay, not a real problem. It was still well within the effective span of his diversion, it was just that the other launch time was so sweet.
His change of clothes and ID was in a locker with the money and minimal luggage, all ready to go. He had another couple of hours to kill, that's all.
"Hey, Sunday, wanna play me a battle or two of Warlord?" He wiggled his PDA.
* * *
Tuesday, June 18, 19:00
Cally sat on the closed seat in the lone stall of the office women's room. The only problem with this diuretic was it tended to lose potency and acquire an aftertaste if you mixed the water-soluble combination too far ahead of time. She was pretty sure she could make an opportunity to get into that last, guarded room tonight. Which meant she'd need this within a couple of hours. One eyedropper full in his beer would guarantee sending him running out.
She stowed the bottle in her purse, pulling out a data cube for her PDA. No telling what cracking programs she'd need. Best to have them all on tap. Still, she checked the seal on the small, wide-mouthed jar of vinegar, just in case.
Back in the office, she puttered around her office waiting for Pryce to get back with dinner. She had asked him to get beer and hot wings. Everybody drank beer with wings.
Tonight they had no preset time limit. Beed's wife had apparently finally insisted on at least one quiet evening together at home. It was a damned shame to waste it by drugging Pryce, but she couldn't let her hormones get in the way of her job. Besides, when she found the identity of the leak, and sooner or later she would, it would be all over without a goodbye, anyway.
But maybe she wouldn't find it tonight. It could be wherever Beed went on those long inspection walks of his. Maybe even over at the detention center. It was certainly secure enough.
Persuading Beed to take her along would be easy enough. All she'd have to do was provide him with even a thin excuse. The horny bastard would jump at the offer of more time to get his hand in the cookie jar.
She smiled sadly as she heard the outer office door. It really was too bad she had to do this, but it was the best way she knew to cover her search time while leaving him totally unharmed. Well, other than his dignity. She pulled her game face firmly on, grinning wickedly at him as he came in her open door.
"Mmmm. Something smells good." She inhaled appreciatively. "Dinner smells pretty good, too."
"Cute." He gave her a sidelong glance as he took the beer bottles and to-go boxes out of the bag. "Did you want to get to the food at all? I mean, if you're not hungry . . ." He trailed off with a slow, predatory grin.
"Um, actually I am hungry. For food, I mean. First." She let her eyelids droop a bit, letting how much she wanted him show on her face. There was a tight pain in her chest. Sometimes she hated her job.
"Okay." He opened the beer bottles and went to get his desk chair. She didn't need the ruse she'd planned, after all.
It only took a second to reach into her desk drawer and put a dropper-full of the drug into his beer.
Chapter Fifteen
Springfield, Tuesday, June 18, 19:30
Where the hell are they? Morrison was becoming more and more certain, as he avoided checking his watch for the tenth time, that they had been played. He had been in place for one hour, two and a half pints, one shot of whiskey, and two sober pills. He'd taken the first before coming in the door, and the second just now. They'd break down the alcohol in his stomach before it got to his bloodstream. Well, most of it. Ten percent did get through, but his liver could handle that.
The Wexford Pub was a little hole in the wall that served lamb stew, soda bread, and greasy fish and chips, accompanied by beer or booze as cheap as it came or as good as you could afford. From the smell, what most patrons afforded most nights was cheaper than shit.
He carefully avoided looking at the three men and two women scattered around the pub who were his, and pretended an interest in the soccer game on the ancient television mounted on one wall. Boring sport—no good fights at all. And he couldn't even hear it over the piped music, which, as far as he could tell, was mostly ancient recordings of folk songs. It wouldn't have been so bad if they hadn't chosen the cheesiest and most stereotypical of the surviving renditions. If they played "Toora Loora Loora" once more he didn't know what he'd do.
He could come up with a dozen reasons, all of them bad, why the targets hadn't shown. Unfortunately, hard as it was to do, their go to hell plan specified waiting in place two hours past the rendezvous in case of a no show, on the theory that they had nothing better and might still get lucky.
He resisted the urge, again, to glance at his people or his watch.
Morrison hated waiting. It made the back of his neck itch.
* * *
Where the hell are they? Bobby shook the cramp out of his right hand before moving it back and snugging the rifle butt up to his shoulder again.
He devoutly hoped the other three shooters Johnny had come up with were doing the same. They'd better be. Still, they'd seemed competent enough.
It was looking more and more probable that something had spooked the targets.
Still, as long as the Fleet Strike pukes waited, they had to. His instructions were very specific. He was not to let Fleet Strike take any of the targets alive, regardless. The targets were not to escape alive, regardless. If they could somehow get one alive themselves, that was a bonus. He had a medical team standing by, but he didn't think that bonus was going to be possible.
Damn, but this waiting was a bitch. Especially with no way to know how long the Fleet Strike pukes would wait before giving up and going home, themselves.
* * *
"Where in the hell are they?" Kevin Collins, head of Team Jason, stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray of the taxi, looking back at his "fare" half-accusingly, as if he thought the other agent could somehow pull the overdue team out of her pocket.
"Hell if I know, and it's not my fault!" There was a sheepish tone to her voice, though.
"Ah, hell, Martin, I know it's not. I still think you shouldn't be on this mission."
"Well, you were overruled. When the word comes down I want to be on the spot getting Levon and the others out." She pulled out a compact and touched up her lipstick nervously.
"And if it doesn't come down?" His voice was flat.
"Then I follow orders even though it sucks. Levon would do just the same. We both know the risks and the stakes." She wiped away a small smudge with the tip of a finger.
"You're too close."
"Yeah, I know. I'll deal." She snapped the compact shut, putting it and the lipstick back in her purse.
"You'd better." He lit another cigarette and made another turn on the circuitous route winding them around the perimeter of the objective.
* * *
George Schmidt routinely spent his time in the field as a teenage kid. That meant that when he needed to be an adult it took some very old-fashioned appearance changes.
His ID that claimed he was in his mid-twenties was now believable.
He was running right about on time, having spent Barry's extra hour playing holo and VR games at a local arcade. One of the things about being a perpetual kid was he not only had to know about what the current fads were for kids, he had to be able to do them. He could fake incompetence if the cover needed to be a screw-up, but competence was awful damned hard to fake.
Well, time to go. He looked around at the drab, messy efficiency apartment that was the kind of place an emancipated teen might have—right down to smelling of cheap pine air freshener and dirty socks. Definitely not the comforts of home. He flipped out the lights and left.
Twenty minutes later he was still swearing at the jack-knifed semi and cluster of ambulances and emergency vehicles. Nothing for it—he was going to be late again.
* * *
Titan Base, Tuesday, June 18, 19:15
Cally nibbled on Pryce's earlobe as she pulled down on his arms trying to get him down to the floor.
"Thanks for having a word with Simms." She gestured at the door outside which the MP still stood guard. "It helps to know we have the evening all to ourselves, no fear of getting caught or interrupted."
"So why are you pulling me towards the floor?"
"I thought it might be fun to be on top," she breathed against his neck between kisses.
"That kind of presumes I'm going to let you direct the show, doesn't it?" He picked her up and put her back to the wall, pressing up very close against her, kissing her hair. "How about right here?"
"Mmmph." Her legs snapped up and around his waist, teasing him with the silks that were still in the damn way. "Okay."