Petrie’s fleet was hand-me-downs of the worst variety, outdated military supplies covered with dents and welds. His fuel supply was stored in aboveground tanks, twenty-foot metallic cylinders that no saboteur could ignore. Freeman had rockets and automatic launchers; the depot would definitely go.
A half dozen men guarded the area, all of them carrying M27s. Petrie had his own men here, men who carried their weapons with the casual indifference of the severely untrained. One guy stood leaning against a fence. He held his M27 by its muzzle.
The other men displayed signs of slightly better intelligence. One had his rifle laying flat in the dirt beside him, but he’d had the good sense to point the shooting end away from himself.
Freeman moved on, working slowly, hiding just below the crests of the ridges. The sound of the shooting grew louder. He belly-crawled to the top of a ridge and peered out from between two trees, staying low so that his body was hidden in shadow, his heat signature distorted by sun-heated rocks and mounds.
He spotted a potential point of entry, a dirt road that ran along the edge of the camp, bending and winding around the fence before finally entering. A dry creek bed ran along one side of the road, the banks waist high, offering a measure of concealment. These features had not gone unnoticed. Either Petrie or his benefactors had strung razor wire along the banks of that creek. If the Unifieds placed that wire there, they’d probably electrified it.
As he scouted the area, Freeman finally spotted the shooting range. A dozen men stood near the fence targeting holographic figures of commandos that ran and dodged across the creek. Petrie’s men guarded and trained at the same time—an efficient but worthless use of manpower. They didn’t take either task seriously. Freeman could have performed jumping jacks with yellow flags tied to his arms without their noticing, but their target practice was equally unimpressive. They missed the target most of the time and made jokes about each other’s accuracy like hunters more interested in drinking beer than killing game.
As he watched them, Freeman spotted sensors along the fence, three hundred yards from the fence and hidden behind trees and rocks. Freeman didn’t need to worry about tripping the sensors, but they would detect him long before he could reach the camp.
From this purchase, he could see deep into the camp. Looking between buildings and down alleyways, he could see both the road that led to the motor pool and the one that led out of the camp.
He climbed back up to the crest of the ridge. Beyond this point, there were semibarren fields, some overgrown with grass, some almost bare. He surveyed the peaks and ridges that ran to the horizon. Escape would be impossible in a land like this, but this mountain terrain also meant a single man could fight a small army.
By this time, Freeman had already scraped together the first elements of his plan. He knew where he would attack and how he would distract the enemy. He still needed to find and identify Petrie. Destroying the entire camp would mean nothing if Petrie survived.
And then, as if by magic, the target presented himself. A flock of men walked into view. Freeman tracked them using the scope from his rifle. He sighted the men at the front of the pack, stooges, big men with big muscles and pistols hanging from shoulder holsters.
Most of the men were thugs, but Freeman spotted a team of natural-born soldiers in their shadows. They wore fatigues, not armor, and carried M27s. Freeman counted five of them. He noted the way they ignored the men around them.
In the center of the herd walked a tall man with brown hair, brown eyes, and an angular, narrow face. He had the confident smile of a man who finds himself the center of attention. Petrie. Not a dangerous man, Freeman decided. Not on his own. Surrounded by armed friends, anyone would be dangerous.
Freeman recognized the man standing beside Petrie—a short man with blond hair and a snigger instead of a smile. The thugs belonged to Petrie, but the soldiers belonged to the other man. Freeman knew this because he knew the man. It was Franklin Nailor.
By reflex, Freeman pulled his rifle and attached the scope. He tripped the safety, becoming aware of himself only as he wrapped his finger across the trigger. He would not fire, not yet.
Freeman targeted Franklin. He trained the crosshairs a few inches ahead of Nailor’s ear. The bullet in the chamber had a hollowed ballistic point filled with enough explosive gel to split an oak tree. A well-aimed shot might flip a jeep. If he hit Nailor, the only parts of the man not destroyed would be below his navel.
Tracing their path, Freeman spotted the waiting transport in the distance. Nailor’s bird had landed deep in the middle of the camp, in an area protected from snipers.
Freeman ran the calculations automatically. He doubted he could shoot Nailor and escape with his life. Which mattered more to him, preserving his own life or ending Nailor’s?
Freeman didn’t cling to life. Fear didn’t enter his calculations.
What would he accomplish by killing Nailor? That Nailor tortured and killed without remorse did not figure into Freeman’s calculations. His concerns were strategic, not moral. If Nailor died, it would take the Unified Authority a long time to find another sadist of Nailor’s caliber. They would find one, though. Sooner or later, they would find one.
In another five steps, they would pass behind a row of buildings, and Freeman would lose his shot.
He had come to kill Petrie. If he arranged things properly, he thought he might be able to kill Petrie and walk away with his life. Survival played a very small part in his calculations, however; success mattered more.
But Freeman admitted to himself that he wanted to kill Nailor, and allowed that desire to figure into his calculations. Nailor was a bastard. Keeping his scope trained on Nailor’s head, Freeman tracked him as he moved toward the transport. The entourage turned a corner and Freeman lost his bead. Buildings blocked his view. Freeman caught one last momentary glimpse of Nailor as he strode up the ramp of his transport.
Still hidden in his blind, Freeman watched the transport rise into the air. Cradling his rifle against his body, he slipped between the rocks and the trees, hiding himself from the pilot’s view as he watched the transport float into the hazy distance.
He would make his move in the early evening, under the cover of night.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Location: Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
Date: July 23, 2519
“Franklin Nailor was here.”
Watson recognized the name and instinctively his pulse jumped. The specter of Nailor lurked like a ghost in his nightmares—both waking and sleeping.
He asked, “Did you shoot him?”
Freeman said, “No.”
“You should have shot that bastard,” said Watson.
“That’s not what I came for.”
“Who cares why you went. Look, Freeman, if you bent down to pick up a nickel and you saw a hundred-dollar bill, you’d grab it. Speck Petrie; Nailor’s the enemy.”
Freeman said, “Nailor flew here in a transport. I need to know if our satellites tracked the transport and where they first detected it.”
“It had to have come in from space,” said Watson. “The Unifieds have spy ships. They probably broadcasted in a few million miles out, crept up to the atmosphere, and released the transport.”
“That’s one possibility,” said Freeman.
“Do you have another?” asked Watson.
Freeman didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “Does Naval Intelligence have tracking data on the gunship that attacked the jail in Oregon?”
“I’m sure they do,” said Watson. “That’s Cardston’s area; I don’t have much to do with it.”
Freeman said, “Have him find out where that gunship first appeared and tell him to keep a watch on the area. Traffic could pick up once I make my move.”
Irritated that Freeman was giving him orders, Watson, the acting president of the Enlisted Man’s Empire, asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Ask Tas
man about clone factions,” said Freeman.
He’d asked the question as a sarcastic jab meant to put Freeman in his place, but the jab had gone unnoticed. Now, hating himself for acting like an office assistant, Watson switched on his pad and jotted notes. “Clone factions? Anything else?”
“Yes,” said Freeman. “Once I hit Petrie, things might get hot down here. I’ll make a run for my plane, but I might not make it.”
“I can have Ritz send some Marines,” Watson offered.
“Not yet. I don’t want to draw attention until I make my move.”
“I’ll have him send them to Mazatlán. They’ll be close by, armed and waiting for your call,” said Watson.
“That will work,” said Freeman.
Watson nodded to himself, and repeated his message, “They’ll be ready.”
• • •
Watson called Colonel Ritz. He said, “How soon can you get men to the New Olympian Territories?”
“Down to Mars? Depends how many and what you need ’em for.”
Frustrated by Ritz’s attitude, Watson said, “They might need to fight.”
“Fight who?” asked Ritz. “Are we talking Unifieds or Martians?”
“I don’t know,” said Watson. Ritz was beginning to irritate him. The worst part about him was that he seemed to enjoy getting under other people’s skins.
“When you say ‘the Territories,’ which part are we talking about? It’s a big place.”
“Do you have a map in front of you?”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you stage in Mazatlán?”
“Isn’t that where Harris disappeared?”
“Yes,” said Watson.
“Does this have anything to do with Harris?” asked Ritz.
“Indirectly. It has more to do with a man named Ray Freeman.”
“Freeman? I know him,” said Ritz.
“So how quickly can you get men down there?”
“That depends. Do you want me to send a squad, a platoon, or a division?”
“How many men are in a squad?” asked Watson.
“Twelve.”
“Not enough.”
“Next step up is a platoon.”
“How many men is that?”
“That’s three squads plus a few additional hands.”
“More. You’re going to need more men.”
“A company? That’s three platoons.”
“How many men?”
“A hundred men more or less,” said Ritz.
“Anything bigger?”
“I can send a battalion. That’s three companies.”
“Three hundred men?”
“Now see, that depends on their element. I have companies with over five hundred men.”
“How soon can you get a battalion down to the Territories?” asked Watson.
“What kind of battalion are you looking for? I have battalions that specialize in everything from heavy artillery to dental hygiene. It just so happens that the Second Dental Battalion is on alert right here in Camp Lejeune as we speak. If the problem down there is gingivitis, I got the perfect battalion.”
Watson felt himself losing his temper and went silent. He took a deep breath and reined himself in. Speaking in a stiff voice, he said, “I’m not interested in the dental situation of your Marines, Colonel.”
Ritz said, “President, I got recon battalions, tank battalions, armor battalions, and a whole lot of infantry. What is the mission, sir? You tell me what you want us to do, and I’ll tell you who I think we should send.”
“Freeman is about to attack . . .”
“You have a civilian leading a Marine assault?” asked Ritz. “The Second Dental maybe . . .”
“Do you consider Freeman a civilian?” Watson asked. The notion surprised him.
Ritz stopped to consider the question. “Is he attacking a Unified Authority location?”
“New Olympian, but there are . . .”
“You know, sir, them boys in the Second Dental do have combat experience, Mr. Watson.”
“Freeman says the Unifieds are guarding it.”
“There must be a bunch of them if Freeman is calling for backup.”
“What kind of troops would you use?” asked Watson.
“Infantry . . . maybe light armor,” said Ritz, “but I’d hold some tanks and fighters in reserve.”
“Tanks and fighters? Are you serious?” asked Watson.
“Mr. Watson, those bastards nearly beat us on Mars. If we’re really talking about the Unified Authority, we might want a fleet of fighter carriers in ready reserve.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Watson entered Tasman’s lab at 19:30 that evening, with three bodyguards in tow.
Acting president or not, he submitted to the voice-and-eye security procedures as well as passing through the posts for a DNA scan.
Tasman waited in his motorized wheelchair just beyond the posts, an amused grin on his wrinkled-linen face. He asked, “Do you have a problem with the posts?”
Watson said, “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
Tasman smiled all the more. “Perhaps you weren’t built for running empires.”
“I didn’t ask for the job,” said Watson.
“And yet, you have it. Interesting that a natural-born with no ambition has become the president of a synthetic empire.”
Several of Tasman’s assistants remained in the lab. They were scientists, but they behaved more like mathematicians, relying on computers more than microscopes.
Watson said, “Maybe we should go to your office.”
“Travis, this is the most secure area in the most secure building in the Enlisted Man’s Empire. What could possibly be so important that we can’t discuss it here?” asked Tasman.
“It’s about Freeman.”
“Maybe we should go to my office,” said Tasman. He led the way, steering his wheelchair with the little joy lever built into the right armrest. Tasman’s chair rode on six free-axle wheels, almost like a tank running on treads. Tasman’s wheelchair weighed nearly three hundred pounds.
As they moved toward the office, Tasman looked back, and said, “I’ve never understood why you and Harris place so much faith in Ray Freeman.”
He steered through the door, waited for Watson, then sealed the door by pressing a button on the armrest of his wheelchair.
Watson said, “Hold it.”
“What?”
“I’m keeping my security with me.”
He said, “You’re bringing bodyguards into my office for a chat? Travis, I’m flattered. A big man like you, I shouldn’t think you’d need protection from an old man like me.”
Knowing he should ignore the comment, Watson took the bait. He said, “They go with me wherever I go.”
Then Watson changed the subject, and said, “Freeman saved your ass on Mars. You’d be dead or working for the Unifieds if he hadn’t saved you.”
“Ray Freeman is a wealthy man. Did you know that?” Tasman didn’t leave Watson time to respond. “He’s one of the wealthiest men alive. The Unified Authority paid him one billion dollars for his participation in the war against the aliens. He made millions killing Morgan Atkins’s believers before the Avatari arrived.”
“How do you know the Unifieds didn’t take their money back when Freeman joined the clones?” asked Watson, not that he thought it mattered. He didn’t care if Freeman was rich; more power to him. He would let Tasman play his mental games for another minute or two, then he would ask about factions. He had come at Freeman’s direction, but he had questions of his own. He wondered if possibly there might come a day when the converted clones would return to the Enlisted Man’s Empire.
Tasman said, “I looked into that. It’s amazing what you can find out using Pentagon computers.
“The Unifieds haven’t touched Freeman’s money. He’s still a billionaire, so the question remains, Why would a mercenary like Freeman risk his life fighting for
clones?
“Why did he come to Mars? At first I thought that the clones had hired him, but they didn’t know he was there.”
Watson confessed, “I thought you hired him?”
“Me? I didn’t know he existed.”
Watson searched for explanations, but none came to mind. “How did he know about you?” Watson asked. “You’re highly classified.”
“Good question,” said Tasman. “Harris and Cutter didn’t know about me. They didn’t send him. Unless you know something I don’t, I think we can both agree that no one but Harris and Cutter had the authority to hire him. That means that Freeman decided to go to Mars on his own.”
Watson thought about it and saw the logic. If nobody sent him, he must have gone to Mars on his own, he agreed. “What’s your point?”
“He’s not in this for the money.”
“Probably not,” Watson conceded.
“If he’s not after money, then perhaps he’s doing this for sport,” suggested Tasman.
Watson dismissed the idea. “Maybe it’s his moral compass. Harris told me he joined the EME because they were evacuating planets that the Unifieds abandoned to the aliens. Harris used to call him a ‘homicidal humanitarian.’”
“Did he go to the New Olympian Territories to save lives?” asked Tasman. He smiled as he asked this, his teeth the color of a stormy sky.
“He went to look for Harris.”
“And what is he doing now?”
Watson felt cornered. Rather than lie, he changed the subject. He said, “Freeman heard something about converted clones fighting against the Unified Authority. He says that the clones who attacked Harris were reprogrammed clones who were fighting against the Unifieds.”
Tasman knitted his fingers and furrowed his brow. He asked, “Wouldn’t they have been working for the Unified Authority? I mean, if anything, wouldn’t the Unifieds want Harris dead?”
“Freeman says they were working against the Unifieds.”
“Working against the Unifieds . . . and they weren’t working for us, not if they attacked Harris. Their programming would have prevented them from attacking Harris,” said Tasman.
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