What was Orosco like?
As if to answer that thought, the comlink readout began to flash on his desktop. Mike straightened up and pulled a vike headset from a drawer.
Showtime!
4
Special Agent Biana Oristano tapped her manicured nails on the desktop and frowned into the screen.
“How should I know what the delay is? These things never come off the way they’re planned. You know that.” She brushed at a stray lock of hair that hung over her eyes and leaned back slowly. “Besides, why worry? If the mission is a deep-six, it actually makes our job easier. That much less to investigate.” Her smile was prim.
“Very funny.” The expression on the weathered face of her boss showed not a trace of humor. “Uncle Sam’s already sunk a bundle into this little surveillance trick. We’re gonna go way over budget. So unless you want to get yourself canned, we’ve gotta show some results.”
Was he actually as worried as he sounded? Oristano shrugged inwardly. Had no guts at all. How he’d ever risen so high in the bureau hierarchy was a complete mystery.
“Look, Darnel, we’ve been over this a hundred times. You know as well as I do that in our line of work you’re a fool to count on anything. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not paid to be philosophical. It’d be a whole lot better if we had something substantive to report.”
“Agreed. But what do you expect me to do? We could bust into their headquarters with guns blazing, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. If we’re ever going to find out what’s going on with this mission, we have to sit back and see what our gamble brings us.”
Her china doll features curved into a half smile. “Look, why do I even need to say this? You’ve done plenty of operations bigger than this before. You know the game. Worst case, we lose our man before anything interesting happens, and we start over on the next mission. At least we’ve got some minor dirt. More likely you’ll be patting yourself on the back and shaking hands with the President in a couple weeks. Another high-profile bust. So relax a little.”
She winked.
He muttered under his breath and glared at her for a second. “Just keep me posted,” he grunted, and abruptly broke the connection.
Oristano exhaled slowly, her smile gradually melting into disgust. Why’d the arrogant old coot have to pick this operation to get nervous? That was all she needed.
Using a fingernail and the reflection of her desktop, she repaired a bit of lipstick that had strayed from the perfect outline of her lips and glanced at the clock. Six twenty. Bruce would be idling in the Mercedes outside, fuming like the simpleton he was.
Well, he could wait a little longer.
From a small leather satchel beneath her desk she retrieved a ghost phone—a piece of bureau equipment that piggybacked onto nearby broadcasts and allowed snooping and untraceable transmission—and dialed a number.
“Go ahead.” The masculine voice on the other end was clipped, cool, and quite clearly unhappy to be disturbed.
“How’s tricks? Got anything new and juicy and underhanded to report?”
“I thought you were supposed to know that sort of thing and hold it over my head to bleed me dry.”
“I don’t claim to know everything—just enough to make your life a bit more complicated and expensive. But I’m always one to trade the latest gossip. Why don’t you give me the official story and I’ll correct you when you bend the truth? I wouldn’t want you to think I’m irrelevant now that the mission is underway.”
The phone was silent.
“Well?” Oristano finally prodded. When there was no response, her voice became hard and biting. “You were hoping I didn’t know the mission had begun. Well, sorry to disappoint you. You’ve had a busy week. You skipped most of the prep work, bribed a safety inspector to rubber-stamp your project plan without even a glance at the details, and unlawfully took possession of your proposed claim ahead of schedule. Seventy-two minutes ago, to be exact. Have you killed off all your vikings yet? That might be nice—I could raise my premiums for manslaughter.”
“I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but it’s distorted. We didn’t skip any training; we just did it en route. That’s perfectly legal. And we didn’t bribe the safety inspector. We paid him extra because he was working on short notice and on a weekend.”
“You’re a lousy debater, Bezovnik. Nobody pays the piper unless they have to. Whitewash all you want—it won’t get you off the hook. How are you going to make everything look prim and proper when you’re so eager to get on-site that you kill your whole crew?”
“We didn’t kill anyone. We just haven’t made contact yet. There was a heavy storm front over the blink point. Looks like it’s held them up pretty seriously.”
“Go on. With a bit more rehearsal you might be convincing.”
“They’re alive and well. They should be setting up the booster equipment as we speak.”
Oristano laughed softly. “You’ve got to control those instincts for prevarication. Let’s try it again from ‘They’re alive and well.’”
There was a long pause.
“Okay, we did get some blips from the emergency transponder. They lost a few people right off. But in a way, that’s a good sign. Means the rest of the crew is okay—otherwise we’d be hearing about it. And we know their equipment’s working, at least a little, since we got those signals.”
“Better. What’s next on the agenda?”
“I’ll let you find that out the hard way.” The sarcasm in his tone was obvious.
“Okay,” she responded sweetly. “The hard way it is. But let me warn you that the more demanding my little intrigue becomes, the more I charge to keep discoveries under wraps. And don’t think your future secrets are safe. So far I’ve done pretty well the hard way.”
Her lips curved into a tight smile at the renewed silence in her ear.
It was nice to remind these people who held all the cards. When this was all over she could always shut him down, just to teach him a lesson. He would squawk, of course. Might even suspect she was with the bureau.
But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t trace her calls, had never seen her face, didn’t know about the distorter screening her voice. He couldn’t prove anything. Seeing him locked up would be almost as fun as spending his money.
Almost.
Maybe she would let him off instead. He could pay again next time he found some exotic mineral deposit that he didn’t want the government to know about. Or for that matter, he could cough up whenever she wanted additional undocumented income. Why bank on his timetable?
“Look, I admit you’ve got me pinned and squirming. And I’ll pay what you asked.” He sounded depressed, desperate.
“Yes. You will.”
She punched a button to terminate the phone call before he could respond, then tucked the device neatly into her purse.
So much for business.
As predicted, Bruce was waiting in the broad turnaround outside the lobby. He glared at her, looking tanned and camera-ready as usual, while she minced over the cobblestones and slid into the gently yielding passenger seat.
She ignored him.
Eventually he stomped around the front of the car and slammed the door that she had left conspicuously open. Then he climbed in his own contoured seat, turned the key, shifted, and soared smoothly into beltway traffic. She suppressed a smile as she watched him struggle with his emotions. Finally he spoke gruffly.
“Had a good day?”
“More or less. The case I’m on right now is full of Machiavellian twists and turns. How about you?”
“The IRS is auditing me. They called this morning.”
Oristano felt a prickling along the back of her neck. Bruce had inherited fat coffers from his senator father. That’s how he’d shown up on her radar thirty months ago. His careless, wanton spending provided a perfect excuse for the lifestyle she led—one that was impossi
ble to legitimize on the chicken-feed salary the FBI doled out—and his political connections had easily maneuvered her into power under Geire in Houston. As soon as she moved in with him, she’d begun laundering payoffs through his accounts.
Behind his back, of course.
Maybe it was time for another tryst with that hormone-crazed accountant. She was confident her own transactions couldn’t be traced, but had Bruce done some clumsy bungling of his own?
Bruce ploughed ahead, oblivious to her silence. “It’s ridiculous. How do they expect me to have all that stuff? It’ll take months to get it together. They want everything—deposit records, complete account dump, contract paperwork. Even my phone records.”
She slid her hand onto his knee and squeezed encouragingly, smiling at his ticklish flinch. “Relax, Tiger. Let the number crunchers worry about it.”
Bruce’s face softened visibly. “I know. No use getting all worked up. After all, I’m clean.” His eyes flicked over to hers, then back to traffic. “But it galls me to pour good money and time into an IRS sewer, just because some nosy auditor raises an eyebrow.”
“Maybe I need to raise an eyebrow of my own,” she said, her voice as suggestive as she could make it.
Bruce smirked.
5
It took four endless hours to get the satellite uplink online.
First they had to fight their way through the jammed hatch to get to the communications equipment. After burning out the main servos, one of the vikings spent thirty fruitless minutes trying to rewire the emergency mechanism while the rest of them battled growing claustrophobia. The air purifiers were failing, and a growing haze of perspiration, smoke, and vile chemicals choked their lungs and burned their eyes.
Finally the ad-hoc electrician stumbled back to the crew quarters swearing wildly and clasping his arm. Chen treated him for electrical burns while they searched the equipment manifest database for a welding torch. Yes, a complete welding kit had been packed: it was in the equipment bay, along with nearly all of the rest of their tools.
Heward grimly organized a sledge hammer and crowbar crew. Nobody relished the prospect of beating through the door, but they had to get outside.
A team was working on the purifiers, with nothing to report. Bryzinski had grown quiet. The bodybuilder, Fazio, was sleeping off the anesthetic from a tracheotomy, his neck swathed in bloody gauze. Chen had slipped into a trance, moving steadily from one prone form to another, checking vital signs and adjusting medication.
The crew took turns slamming the unyielding steel alloy around the doorway, hammers rising and falling in a steady, weaving rhythm of flashing arms and dripping sweat. Every few minutes they would pause to heave with the crowbars, the veins popping on their smoke-blackened faces.
Rafa’s shoulders and back quickly tired. His hands blistered and began to bleed. The strained metal bowed outward, but the door refused to give.
He choked and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Each blow crashed deafeningly in his ears, setting his teeth on edge. The far side of the equipment hold had ruptured in the mud slide. When they broke the door, their last shield against an alien world would be destroyed. They’d be breathing alien air, gasping in lungfuls of unknown bacteria and pollen and who knows what else.
Chemically speaking, it was unquestionably breathable. But it wasn’t supposed to work like this. They had probes beyond the door that could have sampled the biosphere for several hours at least, automatically cataloging potential parasites and dangerously compatible DNA, before the human crew abandoned remote controls and first exposed themselves to the outside world...
Rafa’s hammer swerved in mid-swing; he narrowly avoided smashing Whemper’s foot. Whemper leapt backward and tripped over some ductwork, falling to his knees with a curse.
“Sorry.” Rafa dropped his hammer and reached out a hand.
Heward was glaring at him, panting heavily. “C’mon. Let’s keep going.”
“Wait a minute.” Rafa was also struggling for breath. He swallowed. “Had a thought. Can’t we activate some of the machinery in the hold by remote?”
“Yeah. So what?” Heward looked annoyed.
“Don’t we have a bulldozer or something that could take this door out for us?”
Understanding flooded across Heward’s face. “Maybe.” The hammer slid from his weary hands as he crossed to a computer terminal embedded in the bulkhead. Craning his head to read the inverted monitor, he flicked through several screens of information, then jabbed a button and flipped on the intercom.
“Montaño, get up here on the double. Bring those remotes you were using.”
The rest of the crew slumped against the cool metal bulkhead. Nobody looked at Rafa. Whemper closed his eyes and for once had nothing to say.
* * *
Several of the robots responded to remotes, but could not free themselves from the tight steel brackets anchoring them to the upside-down deck.
Finally they tried the mining machine. It had telescoping arms and legs and was able to pivot and brace itself to avoid a fall as its gleaming carbide drills sliced it free. Soon it began boring through the hatch. Within a few minutes the hinges groaned and the steel collapsed with a resounding clang.
The smell of ozone and mud swept through the cramped corridor, chilling their sweaty faces. One by one, the tired men staggered through the battered hatch and looked around. The room was filled with bulky insect-like shapes of probes and vehicles. Most were still bolted securely in place, but the entire left side of the bay was a shambles where a skimmer had ripped from its cradle and tumbled unrestrained during the mudslide. Two portable generators and a backhoe were mixed with the wreckage of the vehicle.
Through a ragged rent in the far wall, a stream of muddy water drizzled down the bulkhead to a murky puddle in the corner.
“Where’s the com setup?” Heward’s voice was matter-of-fact.
The kid with the nose ring had been studying his touchpad. He gestured to the right. “Up there, I think. Locker A-37.”
A quick inspection with the flashlight identified the door they wanted. It had been thoughtfully stowed at what should have been ground level but was now almost five meters overhead. They could get at it from the deck of the mining machine. They moved it carefully around some smaller machinery, positioning each spidery leg with great deliberation. When it was in place Rafa climbed up to the door and began handing down equipment.
They spread it out for inventory. A fission battery, good for several decades of continuous operation. The dish and mounting assembly. Computer console to control the motor and tracking mechanism, and to process the incoming and outgoing signals. A small toolkit with laminated instructions. Connectors and cables...
The group lapsed into silence.
Heward suddenly recognized the tension and snapped back into the commander role. “Okay. Begay was supposed to go out with Abbott. Any volunteers to replace him?”
They all stared at the floor. They’d already drawn straws once to choose their guinea pigs. And a nominee was dead before they even opened the door.
Nobody spoke.
After a long pause, Heward cleared his throat. “Okay. Orosco, you’re volunteered.” Rafa’s head snapped up. “Get a level two biosuit and head out as soon as you’re ready. You’ll take the miner. The rest of us are going to work on opening the main hatch so you can get out.”
Rafa clenched his jaw. He could see the relief of one man’s face, the studied attempt at nonchalance on Whemper’s.
Abbott was a lanky black man with grizzle on his temples and a hint of Jamaica in his voice. He met Rafa’s gaze squarely. “Come on. Last one out’s a rotten egg.” He smiled briefly and turned to the hallway to look for a biosuit. After a moment, Rafa followed, an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
* * *
By the time they returned with biosuits, Heward’s crew had loaded the communications equipment and opened the doors at the far end of the hangar enough to allow passage of the bul
ky mining machine. A bank of headlights bored outward to featureless midnight. Rainwater slurry was rapidly pooling in the lowest corner of the deck, where some of the men waded up to their knees, salvaging odds and ends of supplies and machinery.
Rafa zipped the vulcanized overalls and pulled on his gloves and helmet with care. They had already checked the radio connection. Little remained to be said. Heward approached with a touchpad.
“We checked through the robot footage. Looks like the best location for the unit is at the top of this ridge to the northwest. The miner’s already programmed with the location.”
Abbott nodded, and the two men labored up the steps into the waiting robot. It rose on hydraulic legs and clanked purposefully out of the ship. There were some simple controls that operated the machine, but neither was familiar with them. They let the autopilot take over.
Outside, rain smacked a blur on the windshield despite the flailing wipers, downgrading the glare of arc lamps to a pallid flicker. The floor was slick from their boots; they braced as the machine’s legs pistoned irregularly, tilting the cramped cabin. Once they seemed mired. But the miner eventually righted itself and forged ahead, its legs chugging through the ooze of rocks, dirt, and water.
Heward’s voice crackled in Rafa’s ear. “How are you doing out there?”
Abbott answered. “Fine. Slow going, though.”
“Can’t see much,” Rafa added.
“Bryzinski’s dead.”
There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response.
“Looks like we’ll be able to salvage most of the equipment,” continued Heward, his voice matter-of-fact. “We’ll only have two skimmers, though.”
The robot had reached more rocky ground; now it lurched as a large boulder rolled underfoot. Rafa’s head banged painfully against his helmet. In a moment the whining servos had righted them, and they began to move uphill. A flicker of lightning showed the ridge only a hundred meters ahead.
Viking Page 3