“Where you see troublemakers, I see innovators,” Zevkov said as he moved into the hard sell. “I’ll need people with grit enough to tame an entire world. The anti-government people on Arethusa have fire in their bellies. Troublemakers and rebels, eh? Many of them will jump at the chance to leave you and your military friends behind. You can keep the sheep—I want the wolves.”
It was a tempting offer. The SSB and OMI had both estimated that there were only a small number of hardcore dissidents causing anti-government strife, and most of them seemed to be located on Arethusa. If she could rid herself of even half their numbers…
Seconds dragged into more than a minute as she considered the proposal. “The prisons,” she said finally. “You need to recruit the prisons and detention camps on Arethusa as well. If any of these so-called ‘dissidents’ want to go with you, I will commute their sentences. In fact, we may send some of them with you even if they don’t want to go.”
Zevkov gave her a shrewd look. “See what I told you?” he said holding up his hands. “Dirtier and dirtier.”
30: Deerwalk
Planet Kition
Eupraxa system
Carr and his companions were lucky to catch one of the first shuttles to the surface of Kition. As the Nets spread the word of the Union fleet’s incursion into the system, the orderly evacuation of the Kition orbital starport degenerated into a panic as people literally fought each other to board the planet-bound shuttles, fearing that the enemy would attack the station. The hysteria caused more casualties than the Sarissans ever would have. Union military doctrine considered the targeting of a civilian starport to be a waste of missiles.
Once on the surface, Hanley Pascoe rented a groundcar at the shuttleport, and the three of them drove toward a rural settlement some thirty miles from the Kition capital city. Pascoe explained that Dr. Acree was being treated for an anaerobic bacterial infection in a small government clinic there.
“They moved him here about a week ago. Thought if they stowed him away somewhere out in the boondocks, no one would find him,” said Pascoe as he drove the electric car along the terracrete polymer highway. In most of the Commonwealth’s large urban areas, self-guided cars shuttled people from place to place. However, driving to a rural area like Deerwalk had to be done the old-fashioned way.
“How did you find out about it?” asked Carr from the back seat.
“I could feel my position slipping away. Geldart and the others were starting to slide me out of the loop, so I set up some taps on intra-office memos.” Carr could see Pascoe’s face in the rear view mirror—it wore an expression of extreme satisfaction. “I worked for those people for over twenty years. During that time, I picked up a lot of useful skills—things they didn’t know I could do.”
“But won’t they just notify this clinic that we’re coming?” asked Sanchez, seated in the front passenger seat.
“They’ll try,” Pascoe replied smugly. “But I left a little program in the system back at headquarters. Any communication with this site gets killed, and the folks at HQ receive an automated acknowledgement that their message has been received. Factor in the confusion being caused by your fleet’s arrival in system, and I don’t think we’ll have to worry about the clinic being prepared for us.”
“Eden was right about you,” said Sanchez. “You’re a sharp operator.” Carr cringed inside. Sanchez had been complimenting Pascoe for hours now, practically flirting with the man. She was stroking Pascoe’s ego, and almost any man would enjoy having Sanchez heap praise on them. Carr only hoped she wasn’t overdoing it.
“Speaking of Eden, when will we meet up with her?” Pascoe asked.
Neither Carr nor Sanchez answered. Things had happened so quickly last night on Gerrha that they didn’t have the opportunity to speak with Eden Southwell on the particulars of what they should or should not say to him.
“We go to her after you help us with Acree,” said Carr. “That was the deal.”
“Sure,” said Pascoe. “At least tell me where we’re meeting her.”
“What?” asked Carr, pretending not to hear.
“Where? Where is the rendezvous with Eden taking place?”
After a brief silence, Carr again spoke up. “Essadon.” He immediately knew he had screwed up. Damn it! Focus, man, focus!
“That’s odd,” said Pascoe warily. “I thought we were going to Galba.”
Sanchez tried to reassure their uneasy ally. “Ahem… You are, Hanley, you are, but we’re taking you to Essadon first. You change flights there for Galba.”
Nice save, Etta—I owe you one…
Pascoe took his eyes off the road and glanced suspiciously at Sanchez.
“Look, Hanley, your people are going to be looking high and low for you. We thought Galba via Essadon would be a safer trip, that’s all. It will cost you an extra week, but when you finally get to Eden, you two will have a lifetime together.” Sanchez was smiling at Pascoe but also raking her hand through her hair, a mannerism she often did when stressed. Carr understood how unclean she felt right now. The dirtiest weapon in the espionage game was love—he preferred the honesty of a gun anytime.
As they traveled into the countryside, the three of them almost had to shield their eyes—not from the sun, but from the jacaranda trees. The bright purple flowering trees were everywhere.
“When they colonized this planet, they went overboard with two things—jacarandas and deer,” Pascoe explained. “Now both of them are everywhere.” He was right. The transplanted flora and fauna from Earth were abundant, and Pascoe had to slow the car several times to avoid hitting the four-legged whitetails as they darted across the roadway.
“They don’t fear humans anymore,” he said as he maneuvered the vehicle around a small group of the creatures that refused to move from the middle of the road.
The clinic was located on the edge of the aptly named village of Deerwalk, a settlement of only a few hundred people. As they drove up, Sanchez gave a low whistle of admiration for a craft parked on the small shuttlepad near the clinic’s main building.
“Hello, gorgeous!” she purred. “An Aquila DX—now that is one sweet ride. Who would be using a personal shuttle like that in this little town?” she asked, holding her gaze on the sleek spacecraft.
“I don’t know—maybe the physician they brought in to treat Acree,” guessed Pascoe as he parked the car. “He’s some big time doctor from Beresford.”
It was the middle of the afternoon, but only a few people were milling around the village. Pascoe speculated that most of the residents of Deerwalk were employed in the planetary capital, so the town was nearly deserted during a midweek workday.
The clinic was a two-story structure on the edge of the community. “Here are your security passes,” said Pascoe as he handed Carr and Sanchez plastic chip cards. “I hope they work.”
As they took the passes, an apprehensive look passed between the Sarissans. “All right, Pascoe—what’s the play?” asked Carr.
The Gerrhan flinched. “Hell, I don’t know,” he said sharply. “You two are the hotshot secret agents. I can get us in, but it’s up to you to get us out.”
“We’ll get us out,” assured Carr. “How many people inside?”
“The clinic is on a skeleton staff. The only patients would be Acree and maybe a few others who couldn’t be relocated. My information is that there is a platoon of Marines on guard detail.”
“A platoon,” repeated Carr, trying to think how he and Sanchez were going to take out twenty or so Marines. “Well, a platoon’s not too bad,” Carr said lightheartedly as he got out of the vehicle. “We can handle a platoon, right Sanchez?”
“No problem,” she said sarcastically as she opened the car door. “The more the merrier.”
As the three of them walked toward the clinic, Sanchez was scoping out the scene. “I see two sentries patrolling the outside of the building.”
“The entire platoon won’t all be on duty,” said Carr. “I make
two more standing guard on the rooftop. If they are working in three watches, that means there are probably about six Marines inside the clinic right now.”
Carr was watching Pascoe. The man had been putting on a front of false bravado during the journey from Gerrha, but the facade was starting to melt away. He was breathing faster now and chewing on his lower lip. His eyes were darting all over the place.
Carr placed a hand on the man’s elbow. “You all right?”
“Sure, sure… Boy, if my wife and son could see me now, they’d never believe it. I’m practically a field agent,” Pascoe said with a nervous chuckle.
Frank slapped him on the back. “Eyes on the prize, man. Being together with the woman you love, now that’s something worth fighting for,” Carr said as he glanced over at Sanchez.
* * * *
“I’m sorry Mr. Pascoe. I can’t let you have access to the patient without approval from Captain Stoneman, but he went to the capital with Dr. Varma.”
The sergeant at the reception desk was being polite but firm. Pascoe was trying to pass the trio off as an interrogation team from the homeworld, here to work on Dr. Acree.
“Sergeant, do you know when the captain will be back?” asked Pascoe, not quite indignant enough to be the top-level bureaucrat he was supposed to be, thought Carr.
“Not sure, sir. With everything that’s happening—you have heard about the invasion, haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes, sergeant. We actually saw the Union ships just before we landed,” put in Carr, asserting himself, “which makes our interrogation of the prisoner even more imperative.”
“Still sorry, sir—nobody gets to see him until the captain says so. I have my orders.”
Sanchez took a step closer to the Marine. “We respect that, Sergeant. Is there a place where we could wait for the captain? We’ve had a long trip, and I don’t know about anyone else but I’m exhausted.”
Eventually, the sergeant’s eyes worked their way up to her face. “Ah, yes, ma’am. There’s a waiting room down that hall, then turn to the left.”
The clinic seemed as deserted as the town—eerily so. They spotted only one nurse on their way toward the sergeant’s waiting room. Carr spied a door marked ‘Medical Supplies’ and stopped the group.
“Etta, snoop around and see if you can find out where Acree’s being held, then meet us back here. Pascoe, step into my office.” Carr didn’t get far, as the door to the supply room was locked, which prompted a small giggle from Sanchez.
“Your bag,” he said to Sanchez, prompting her to open her purse. Diving in with one hand, he grabbed several mini-explosive devices, which were only about five centimeters square. Transferring a few of them to his coat pocket, he placed one on the door near the lock and carefully slid a switch on the device to prime it.
“What is that?” asked Pascoe.
“We call these things Mighty-Mites—they’re mini-explosives. Sticky on the outside, a tiny grenade on the inside. You can slap one of these babies on anything and… boom! Now stand back while I blow it with this remote,” said Carr, holding up a key fob in his right hand.
“Wait! Isn’t that going to make a lot of noise?” shouted Pascoe in a near panic.
“Not as much as you’re making right now,” said Carr as he pushed the button on the key fob, which set off the Mighty-Mite. There was a muffled whoosh, and the door crept open a few centimeters.
Carr took a deep breath—partly out of frustration with Pascoe and partly out of relief that the mini-explosive wasn’t as loud as he feared it might be. Slapping Pascoe on the back, the two men ducked into the supply room.
“Do you have to keep slapping me on the back?” asked an annoyed Pascoe.
“Just trying to keep your confidence up,” said Carr with a wink.
While waiting for Sanchez to return from her reconnoiter, Carr carefully looked around at the medicines and supplies in the storage area. His eyes moved over shelves of various medications, test kits, monitors, braces, and the like. “For a medical establishment, they sure don’t go to a lot of trouble securing the drugs.”
“Said the man who just used a bomb to open the door,” quipped Pascoe. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I see it.”
The supply room door started to open, and Carr reached for his pistol, his hand stayed by the sight of Sanchez slipping quietly into the room.
“I found Acree,” she said. “Four Marines guarding a corridor down the hall and then right.”
“Did they see you?” asked Carr.
She shook her head. “No and neither did anybody else. This place seems totally deserted except for the Marines.”
“Better and better,” Carr said, his eyes still running over the stock of medical wares. Finally, his gaze locked on a particular item. “And we have a winner,” he smiled, turning to Sanchez. “Hand me a pair of those surgical gloves, and both of you put some on as well.”
Gloves on, Carr took a small white container marked ‘Benzodiacord Powder’ off one of the shelves. “Pascoe—hand me a few small bottles, containers, it doesn’t matter what they are as long as they’re lightweight. Sanchez, take off your blazer and get into one of those lab coats.”
“What are you doing?” asked Pascoe.
Carr winked. “Making an appointment to see Dr. Acree.”
* * * *
Sanchez walked down the hallway wearing an unbuttoned lab coat and carrying a tray loaded with bottles and containers. As she turned the corner, four Marines who had been slouching against the wall suddenly stood upright. Before she got close, one of them was walking her way with a hand extended, palm out.
“Sorry, ma’am, you can’t come this way—this corridor is restricted.”
“Oh, it’s all right, Captain. I am Dr. Sanchez, Dr. Varma’s new assistant.”
A small smile broke over the Marine’s face. “I’m a corporal, ma’am, not a captain.”
“My mistake,” said Sanchez. “Sorry, but I’d swear you were an officer.” Even Sanchez had to admit she was overdoing it with the false flattery today. Being in the military herself, she knew that most enlisted men would not take being mistaken for an officer as a compliment. “But anyway,” she continued, “As I was saying, I work with Dr. Varma, and he wants me to check in on the patient.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” insisted the corporal. “No one said anything about a new doctor. I’ll have to check with my sergeant.” The corporal started to reach for his communicator. If he contacted the sergeant, the game would be up.
“Oh, but I don’t want to trouble you,” said Sanchez as she moved forward, awkwardly brushing against the Marine and fumbling the tray, its contents scattering on the corridor floor. The corporal temporarily forgot about his communicator and reached out to steady her. Sanchez made certain he had an opportunity to grab any part of her he wanted in his attempt to save her from falling.
“Oh, so clumsy of me,” she whined. “I’m from Haojing, and I’m just not used to Kition’s gravity yet.”
“No problem, ma’am,” said the corporal, blushing a bit as he removed his hands from her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m OK but my supplies seem to have taken a tumble,” she said, forcing a ditzy giggle.
“Marines, let’s help the doctor with her supplies,” said the corporal to the other three guards. Sanchez held out the medical tray while the Marines gathered up the fallen containers and returned them to their place. The two men appeared delighted to assist, while the female guard was less enthusiastic. As they were returning to their sentry posts, one by one the Marines staggered and fell to the floor.
The corporal watched as his comrades tumbled, then wheeled on Sanchez. “You bitch! What did you do?”
“Catch!”
As he was reaching for his sidearm, she quickly tossed him one of the bottles off the tray, which he instinctively caught. The corporal glanced at the bottle in his hand, then at the containers on the
tray, then at the gloves on Sanchez’s hands.
“Worked it all out, have you?” Sanchez said to him just before he passed out.
Carr and Pascoe had listened to the entire drama from just around the corner. Now they hustled down the corridor and quickly began moving the sleeping Marines into the nearest unlocked room.
“What the hell was it that you coated the bottles with?” asked Pascoe as he and Carr carried the corporal to join his detail.
“It’s a powder sedative—goes right through the skin into the bloodstream. They use it on people who can’t stomach oral sedatives. We use something like it on transdermal skin patches, but there was no way we were going to get close enough to slap a patch on all four of these Marines.”
After the bodies were stashed, the men joined Sanchez in the hallway.
“He’s in there, and the door’s locked,” she said. “It’s a biometric lock—could be keyed to anyone’s palm print. I told Dr. Acree to keep away from the door while we blow it.”
Carr reached into his coat pocket and extracted a Mighty-Mite, placed it on the door, and detonated it with the key fob. Pascoe was looking more anxious than ever, muttering “Come on, come on” under his breath. After the door blew, Carr slapped him on the back and smiled. “Nothing to it,” he said, extending a hand for Pascoe to enter the room and greet Dr. Acree.
Sanchez was already at the older man’s side. He was in his early sixties with a receding hairline, followed up in back by a thick crop of gray hair that flowed to his shoulders. Acree’s face was somewhat pale, but otherwise he looked to be in reasonably good condition. He eyed his visitors warily.
“Dr. Acree, we are friends from the Sarissan Union. Your son sent us to rescue you,” Sanchez said, taking the man by the hand to put him at ease.
“Goran did that?” the scientist asked as Sanchez nodded.
The Rampant Storm Page 25