The Scarab

by Rhine, Scott

  I felt like a general giving his battle plan to the troops. I drew an orange arrow on the map. “But, the river is not covered by satellite. They’ll be blind. We hover over to the river, and take a barge north to this little town. The sled will rendezvous with us there. Only then will we reappear on the tactical displays. They’ll never find us, and we’ll be closer to Munich. Questions?”

  Nigel went first. “What if we don’t find a barge?”

  “Then we float downstream while recharging and end up in this town here. We won’t be as close to Munich, but we’ll gain a little ground, and still be set up for the next phase of the operation,” I announced.

  “Which is?” Mare asked, impatiently.

  I was rather proud of this part. “Both towns have excellent high-speed rail links to North Munich. We hop on after we rejoin and ride the rail all the way. By the time they figure out what we’re doing, we’ll be ahead of the pack again. We’ll miss all the traffic and obstacles that they’ll have to plow through the hard way.”

  “How does this help us with GEDM,” wondered Nigel.

  “To quote a famous tactician, the best defense is not to be where your opponent strikes,” I said. “I know I said I’d kill him, but I’m hoping this will work. If it doesn’t, someone leaked the information to them, and we’ll be able to prove conspiracy.” I had a good card up my sleeve, but wanted to keep it a secret for now. While checking some of the corporate structures to find who bought Mark Waters, I noticed that Miss Valencia’s record label was owned by Muramatsu Multimedia, a subsidiary of Muramatsu International, our Japanese competitors. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but like Playfair said, the fewer people who know, the safer the secret stays.

  “Won’t this cost extra time?” asked Mare.

  “Actually, the longer we spend on the mission, the better off we’ll be. We’ll need every minute of mercy bonus we can get,” I explained. “Nigel, you ever driven a high performance floater before?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Only every November for the past twenty years. I always test drive the newest Porsche, but Celeste makes me keep the Volvo.”

  At exactly noon, our interfaces tied into the game for a scouting and repair session. When I connected with the laptop, I noticed that the set up on the screen was exactly the same as I had when my last session was cut short. I was still logged through Minos, the judge’s super-user account. I told nobody. Nigel wouldn’t know any better and Mare had her own account at the Sansui. According to the strictest interpretation of the rules, if they started me this way, I could keep the login till they caught the mistake. Mare would make us waste valuable time reporting this to the judges. I didn’t plan to use this to cheat; I just wanted more options available if someone else bent the rules.

  Pretending everything was normal, I put the laptop interface into practice mode and reviewed the basics with Foxworthy. “Steer it with the joystick. As a rule of thumb, to turn 40 degrees, you bank twenty. Nose up to slow, and down when accelerating. As you go faster, you’ll tend to get closer to the ground just like any other floater. The power output of the grids will increase to maintain a good buffer, but watch out for things like rocks, stumps, and fireplugs.” I also went over some of the special features of the Ghedra.

  In a matter of minutes, Nigel had the hang of it. “This is easy. A child could pilot this. My boy’s video games were more complicated.”

  I shrugged. “I’m a lazy mechanic. More complicated means it’s harder to fix.”

  Just then Mare, who had been in charge of damage control on the Sansui, called for my attention. “Ethan, we have a problem.”

  I ran to look over her shoulder. If I interpreted the error code correctly, it was a new one. Because we had no pilot, we also had no mechanic. With no mechanic, we couldn’t do the repairs. Someone was trying to screw us. I was tempted to jump immediately to the Minos account to eliminate this hurdle, but I wanted to exhaust mundane avenues first.

  “Call up LAS. See if they can send over a pair of hands. They’re about fifty meters away,” I told her.

  The LAS crew was polite, but Antonio turned us down. “I could lose my job and the race. The repairs to our own grid are so severe, it will take us at least an hour. Frankly, I don’t think we have the budget.”

  “What’s the big deal, you never field-stripped a grid before?” I asked over my headset, tying into Mare’s channel.

  “We’re on the phone with the engineers now, but they keep telling us they’ve never tried it with this design before,” Antonio whined.

  “A floater is a floater,” I stated. “If I can get you under way in under an hour, will you give me a mechanic for the time remaining?”

  When he vacillated, I threw in, “I’ll split the salvage on the North Korean vehicle with you.” He had to realize that I could take whatever I wanted from the dead tank and scrap the rest. But if he played ball, I would share the loot. That did the trick; Antonio agreed. Thank God Josie didn’t say hi to him over the channel. I motioned Nigel to keep everyone in the suite quiet while I dealt with the crisis.

  “Show me your schematics,” I ordered the LAS pilot. “I’m not going to steal them.” Even with my assurances, it took two minutes before the detailed drawings arrived. Evidently, the engineers didn’t have a better idea.

  “I need a close up of the mine damage as well. Meanwhile, we need to get you some repair budget. First thing you have to do is sell back your airbag, air-conditioning, anything you can think of that isn’t critical for the rest of the race. It will also help lighten the load and improve your lift ratios.” Once this instruction had been acknowledged, I continued. Someone slipped me a fresh glass of pop. The damaged section appeared on a pop-up window soon after.

  “Ouch. It looks worse than I expected, but still patchable. You’ve got to prop that corner of the vehicle up firmly. Remove all the damaged skirting material and all the shrapnel you can find. Sell it as recycling. You’re going to need every Lira by the time we’re through.” I paced the room, in my element. “You should probably send that cutter crew over now.”

  “Worried I won’t keep my bargain?” asked Antonio, sounding hurt.

  “No. We’re going to scavenge everything we can off this tank. Be careful not to touch the computers. You don’t want what they’ve got. The strike hit the top rear of the North Korean; we can still use his front lifter panels if your impellers aren’t too badly mangled. Somebody get a repair manual for their model from last year and tap into Jane’s. If we’re lucky, they weren’t too original this year, and it’ll speed the conversion,” I said.

  “Roger.”

  People were scrambling. Mare put Ghedra into recharge while we waited. This would help later. For now, she picked over the tank inventory for any items we wanted. Nigel contacted our friends on the net to get the Korean repair manuals. Steve had scraped together some kind of team uniforms for the costume party. He pinned a white cape with a giant sunburst around my neck. “Try this,” he said slipping my arm through a hidden sling he had rigged inside.

  I laughed. If I had been wearing one of these during the rescue, I would have been committed for sure. “Perfect,” I told him and resumed pacing. I liked how the cape flowed behind me. The team was hitting all cylinders, and I felt great.

  Half an hour into the repairs, the Swiss hospital contacted us with details on the heart transplant. The ambulance would sit at the border and the first qualified courier who came by would get the mission. They had to do this to be fair. I was also reminded that any use of weapons on the mission would disqualify me. I agreed to the terms for the record, and thanked them for their kindness. I asked Foxworthy to send them a donation once the race was over and told Mare she could plug the tool company any time she felt like it.

  Once we had stripped the tank, Antonio figured that his team was going to make it. To borrow a phrase from the Chicago slaughterhouses, we used everything but the squeal. LAS sent someone over to help us repair. Of course, the first thing the
y wanted me to do was send them a schematic. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine? I don’t think so. “I don’t need that level of repair work. Porsche and North Ameri-Car would fry me if I showed you. The damage is really just a windshield, a rinse, and a few minor dents. Just loan me the body and I’ll do the rest. I’m deleting your schematics even as we speak.”

  Antonio was just happy to be in the race again. Evidently, the media in Italy had gotten wind of his predicament, and millions of fans were listening. Members of parliament had called, telling him national pride was at stake. The repairs were not elegant, but they were sufficient for today. Several design changes were already in the works to prevent problems like this in the future. “Too bad you’re engaged,” he said when he signed off. “My sister, Angela, should meet a guy like you.”

  “Word spreads fast,” I said.

  “My cousin, Enzo, makes bridal gowns. Promise me you’ll talk to him first. He will design one especially for the young lady. I have never needed his services, but I hear he is very good. He will do it for free,” said Antonio.

  “I think she’s already got one, but I appreciate the sentiment. Tell you what; if we decide to honeymoon in Europe, you can have us over for dinner and show us your home town.”

  “Done,” he concluded, and we parted ways once more, counting down the final minutes till the race began. I was suspicious about how easily Antonio had given up until seconds before the race resumed. Two open-date round-trip plane tickets to Venice arrived in our e-mail box, courtesy of the Italian board of tourism.

  Mare’s face lit up. “Can we? I mean, is it legal?”

  Foxworthy nodded. “Completely. It would be an insult to refuse.”

  “Last chance for a bathroom break,” I announced after ordering all our special munitions. “Everyone reloaded and ready?”

  At my mark, the right submarine waldo decoupled, and the two vehicles took off in separate directions as fast as they could.

  Chapter 25 – Operation Rubber Duck

  I told Steve and Josie to watch both GEDM blips on the overhead. If either got close to us, they were to tell me immediately. To the media, I broadcast a clip from an old war movie in German, which said, “Rig for silent running.” However, I didn’t waste the power to cloak. About five minutes later, everyone was surprised when the main unit disappeared into the dead zone. I did this mainly to draw attention away from the sled which we had programmed to retrace its steps back to Switzerland at its highest stable speed. Mare was only there for emergencies, which happened almost immediately.

  The radio sent out an urgent warning to all drivers. Some fool was traveling at breakneck speeds down the wrong side of the Autobahn. It took a second before I figured out they were talking about us. We were zipping south at full speed down the north-bound lane of a divided highway. The closest opponent was the BW. Thor’s hammer saw our blip closing, and slowed to anchor and sight their main guns.

  “Find a ramp!” I shouted to the navigator. Then I realized I was the navigator. Rushing to the map, I cursed. “We can’t cross back for another ten kilometers, less than twenty seconds at this speed. If we turn now, we’re a little tin target. Wait. Stay on this side,” I improvised. “Flip to manual and accelerate. Arm the paint balls.”

  Steve watched in awe as his little sister, decked out in data gloves and a VR head set, pushed buttons in mid-air to take control of a virtual vehicle traveling in excess of 320 km/h. She brought the targeting crosshairs onto the main screen while I selected another message to broadcast. I hadn’t planned to use this till later, but I had it ready. We closed on the BW so fast they didn’t know what hit them. Since we weren’t using live ammo, they didn’t bother to take evasive measures.

  “Spray them on full automatic as we pass, then get the hell out of Dodge. There’s another clover-leaf two minutes away. We can jog over there,” I told Mare.

  “No barges,” said Foxworthy. “Commencing Operation Huck Finn.”

  Mare plastered the BW’s long flank with blue paint balls as I broadcast the image of the Road Runner uttering his trademark “Beep, Beep” just before streaking away from the Coyote. The message was that we were simply too fast for them to hit and we could moon them like this any time we wanted. What I didn’t count on was that paint balls impacting about twice the speed of sound can Swiss-cheese fiberglass quite nicely. It seems BW had armored their front and rear heavily, but neglected to reinforce the sides. It had been deemed too heavy, expensive, and unnecessary.

  Since he had been partially out of the vehicle at the time, Mare had also scored their forward observer. Fortunately, the mission of mercy rules didn’t apply until we actually possessed the football. Doing a fast bit of damage control, I made BW promise not to come after us if I promised not to tell the media I had holed them with what was effectively a child’s toy. Our style points jumped as the judges rated the difficulty and execution of our high-tech mooning.

  Once we crossed over to the proper side of the road, it was smooth sailing. There were no simulated cars to dodge on the south-bound side of the Autobahn. The simulation builders never thought anyone would use it. “We’re making great time,” Mare said. “Let’s come back this way, too.”

  I agreed.

  About the time we hit Austria, Steve announced, “GEDM is turning south, full speed.”

  To paraphrase Monte Python, we had a rat in the wainscoting. “How long till he intercepts?” I asked.

  “He’s moving about the same speed the main unit is. It’s hard to say,” said Mare.

  “How’s the battery power,” I asked Nigel.

  “Three-quarters,” he answered.

  “Wait till it hits 80 percent and then gun the engines. Working with the current, we should outrun him easily.” I turned to Mare and asked, “What’s our ETA look like, baby?”

  “Pick up will be five minutes from now. Add twenty more to reach the branch point, more with a pilot. I’m guessing forty minutes till we can hook up,” Mary Ann said.

  “GEDM just disappeared from tracking,” Steve said. “They’re in the dead zone.”

  “No problem, we can make the railroad tracks before he catches us,” I said, to myself more than anybody.

  Once we picked up our pilot and packed the heart safely away in the Duratech mini-vault, I spent a few seconds removing the safety governors from the sled’s floatation grid. Our simulated pilot weighed seventy kilograms the same as everyone else’s, and I wanted to make adjustments so that this added weight wouldn’t hinder us on the return trip. “You know, we put kids in jail for this sort of thing,” Mare lectured. “You’re being a terrible role model.”

  “It will get us another twenty km/h. I have a bad feeling about this GEDM thing. I want to get back there fast,” I explained.

  She agreed reluctantly. “But you’re not showing our kids how to do this sort of thing.”

  I promised. After all, no one had showed me. Our kids would figure it our by themselves if they had a mind. “Kids? How many?” I asked as an afterthought. We hadn’t discussed this before, but we seemed to be in agreement so far.

  “Two, three, the usual. Stand back, hon’. I’m going to break some laws.”

  I went back to Steve. “Give me the data sheet on the enforcer who’s after us.” I used a hockey term, because it seemed to apply. We were about to be body-checked out of the game by the biggest bad boy on the rink.

  I scanned the sheet again. “Crap. They have JATO in five minute bursts.”

  “Jet assist?” Steve asked. “So we won’t make it?”

  “I don’t know, but neither do they. Exciting, isn’t it? We’ll lay an ambush in town, just in case. We’ll plant the nerve gas to distract them,” I responded.

  “Mare’s right, you do change when you’re Scarab. I’ve watched you go from Mr. Rogers, the friendly neighbor, to Joseph Stalin in the span of half an hour,” Steve said.

  “I’ll seek help after we dust these candy asses,” I said.

  He mouthed a
n encouraging profanity as he slapped me a high five.

  Fifteen minutes later, we watched from cover on the pier as the GEDM enforcer rolled up out of the water in our exact path. “How disappointingly predictable,” I sighed.

  I gave Nigel the go ahead to send a message to the enforcer. “Yuck. What did you just step in?”

  They spotted the canisters ahead, but momentum carried them over the trap any way. When enough weight settled on them, the canisters ruptured, spraying North Korean nerve gas over the entire dock area. Wind would take the poison through two towns before it dissipated, killing hundreds, and contaminating the river for many more.

  “Any luck?” I asked Nigel.

  “They have scrubbers, filters, and masks. Who expects this sort of greeting?” Nigel wondered.

  “Someone with inside information,” I said. “Now for the surprise. Hit function two,” I ordered.

  “Commencing Operation Rubber Duck, sir,” he said as he activated one of the extra weapons I’d purchased this morning.

  “Make it count, because I could only afford one dose. Besides, once we do this, he’ll do a trace-back on the trajectory and blast us,” I warned.

  Nigel did us proud. The disposable launcher tossed a small plastic drum directly under the enforcer’s main muzzle. Once its contents hit the air, foam erupted to surround the entire front of the GEDM tank.

  Steve announced, “Anti-submarine foam, used by helicopters. It keeps the sub from going back down, moving, or firing back if you’re lucky.”

  Once I was sure the foam had solidified completely, we broke cover, and I had Nigel bump the enemy tank into the river. A cheer broke out in the room.