by P. R. Adams
Lopez stood in front of his seat, quietly watching his team from beneath heavy black brows.
“You ready for this?” Lopez nervously bit his lower lip.
Rimes nodded. “Let’s get this going.” He turned to his team. “Settle in, people.”
The teams secured their weapons and buckled into their harnesses, filling the bay with rattling, clanking, and a few frustrated curses. Rimes synced his earpiece with the shuttle’s systems and brought up the BAS, then overlaid the unit’s data. Figures flowed in from the other shuttles as the remaining teams synced up.
An inbound communication alert caught Rimes’s eye. It was Weatherford. Rimes looked at Kleigshoen to see if she might be available for the call. She was again absorbed in her display. Rimes opened the channel with Weatherford.
Weatherford’s face filled the display.
“Go ahead, Colonel,” Rimes said.
“Sergeant Rimes, your signal is clear,” Weatherford said. He looked to his right for a moment, then looked back at Rimes. “I wanted to let you know we’ve moved to the operations center. You’re cleared to launch in … five minutes, twelve seconds.”
“Is the mission a go, sir?”
“The launch is a go,” Weatherford said with an annoyed squint.
Launch, not mission. Shit.
Weatherford’s annoyance manifested as a frown. “We’ve got Legal and Civil Affairs en route to Ops. General McNabb will be joining in a few minutes.”
“General McNabb, sir?”
“Things went all to hell while you were heading out to your shuttle, Sergeant. The owners have denied us access to our target.”
Rimes blinked. “Come again, sir?”
“Intelligence says with ninety percent certainty the Seville Jameson Group SJG-6 orbital is our target,” Weatherford said. He squinted again. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean we can secure the owners’ permission to insert your unit. They’ve brought in their lawyers. But we’re launching.”
“Sir, don’t they understand that this is a matter of international sec—”
“I have my doubts they care, Sergeant,” Weatherford said. He looked into the distance for a moment. “But they provided us a little data to keep us occupied. SJG-6 came online three months ago. That means all the latest safety measures and monitoring systems are in place. That’s going to make our job a lot easier once we get approval.”
“Occupancy?”
“Just under two thousand. When we get the names, we’ll work with IB to eliminate anyone unassociated with this Perditori—apparently, he’s a known element there. We’ve already asked SJG to prepare communication channels for us to reach the occupants we clear, pending approval.”
Rimes’s communication display split in half. Weatherford’s face filled the right half, and the pilot’s face filled the left.
“If you’ll check your displays, folks, you’ll see a new amber timer in the bottom right corner,” the pilot said cheerfully. “We’re cleared for launch in three minutes, thirty seconds. If you’re not strapped in, you won’t be in any shape to do anything when we arrive, so get those harnesses on tight.”
Rimes waited for the other sergeants to acknowledge, then did the same. He opened a channel to the other team leaders. “System checks—suit integrity, tactical overlays, the works. No one goes into this without full functionality.”
As the team leaders relayed the message to their teams, Rimes passed the same on to his.
He kicked off his suit’s diagnostics, then closed the pilot’s channel. Weatherford’s face filled most of the display again.
“Colonel, these genies are just a big bundle of hurt. Without surprise …”
“I’ve made exactly that point, Sergeant. General McNabb is … a practical soldier,” Weatherford said, looking to his left. “And on that point, I need to sign off and get some visitors here spun up on our situation. We’ll be in touch once you’ve reached your first coordinates. Enjoy the ride.”
“Rimes out, sir.” The display shifted, filling with the other channels that had previously automatically shrunk. All teams showed green. Rimes nodded at Lopez, trying to project confidence. Another glance down the row, and Rimes pulled on his headgear to check suit integrity.
“Same shit, different day,” Lopez muttered before Rimes’s helmet sealed. It was the Army’s centuries-old, unofficial motto.
Rimes opened a private channel to Kleigshoen. “Put your headgear on.”
Kleigshoen cast a curious glance at him from two seats down before complying. “What is it?” she asked once she had the headgear on.
“Dana, no one else needs to hear this. For this to work, you need to act like you’re in charge. I’m about to pass along status to you. When I do, you’ll need to acknowledge.”
Kleigshoen stared at Rimes for a moment. “Jack, this is your operation. Weatherford wants you to run it. I’m okay with that.”
Rimes gave an almost-imperceptible headshake. “Operations don’t work that way. This is IB’s mission. You’re in charge; I’m your second. I’m going to bring you in on the colonel’s next call. He’s not used to dealing with women in his chain, so you’ll need to be a little … forceful.”
Kleigshoen hesitated. “Okay, but this is a joint operation in name only. I would’ve been fine with any other officer taking the mission.”
“Wasn’t even about to happen. They were all too close to Moltke. Look, don’t panic. These guys know exactly what they’re doing. Your job is to provide situational awareness and general direction.”
“I know what the job is,” Kleigshoen said with a frosty glare.
“Good,” Rimes said with the faintest of smiles. “That means you should be okay. Don’t let it eat you up. It doesn’t even look like we’ll receive a go.”
“They’ll green-light this operation,” Kleigshoen said.
“You sound awfully confident.” The diagnostics chimed. Rimes looked at it; his EVA was ready. “Is the Bureau working an angle?”
Kleigshoen frowned. “They have to approve it. The stakes are too high to do nothing.”
“Let’s hope someone realizes that.” Rimes removed his headgear. A final check of his harness, another nod at Lopez, and Rimes relaxed. The counter sat at two minutes, twenty-nine seconds.
41
20 March 2164. The thermosphere over the Pacific Ocean.
* * *
Somewhere in the darkness twenty kilometers out, SJG-6 floated among a pool of lights marking a dozen loosely aligned orbitals, three hundred and seventy-five kilometers above the Pacific Ocean.
No security force protected the orbitals. The only weapons available to them were small, explosives-laden satellites designed to shatter or redirect approaching astronomical objects and debris.
Yet, thanks to the fragile state of international alliances and agreements, they’d managed to hold off thirty-six of the world’s deadliest soldiers.
Rimes sighed. The mission was fast approaching impossibility, assuming they even received approval. Rimes’s earpiece chimed. It was Weatherford again—or, more accurately, the operations center.
Weatherford was running the show, but General McNabb was present, ready to override anything that bothered him. Rimes synced with Kleigshoen and the other non-coms, then accepted the communication. He nodded at Kleigshoen; she nodded back.
“This is Agent Kleigshoen, Colonel. Go ahead.”
“Agent Kleigshoen,” Weatherford said after an awkward pause. “I wanted to provide the latest update.”
“Good news, Colonel?”
“No,” Weatherford said, his brow wrinkling. “Not really. Things have escalated. We have the president and SecDef syncing up. They’ll be on at any moment.”
Rimes and Lopez exchanged a troubled glance. Rimes had never been on an operation the president was even officially aware of; most Commando operations were structured to allow some level of plausible deniability.
“SJG continues to deny us access to their systems,” Weath
erford said. “However, we have a few tidbits, including the fact that SJG-6 was leased in its entirety weeks before it became officially available. The transaction is a dead end, though. No cooperation from the banks.”
“Can someone bring any sort of legal pressure on the banks?” Kleigshoen asked with an exasperated sigh.
“They’ve got the Justice Department looking into that,” Weatherford said. His expression made clear that he held out no hope from such an approach.
“What about checking travel patterns?” Kleigshoen asked.
Weatherford squinted and leaned closer to the camera. “We still don’t have the residents’ names, Agent Kleigshoen. SJG won’t budge on the confidentiality agreement they’ve been standing on.”
“What about tracking backwards, looking at the destinations and doing some sort of check on where the arrivals are coming from?” Kleigshoen asked.
“How do you propose we do that without their names?” Weatherford asked.
“Filter out the names you can get,” Kleigshoen said. “The shipyards and mining operations have contracts with us. Force them to reveal their employee and contractor data. It’s either going to come back with their residence information or not. Anyone who comes back blank can be researched as a suspect.”
Weatherford nodded off-camera, then squinted at Kleigshoen. “You think IB can pull something like that off?”
A picture of a mix of uniformed and civilian people appeared in the corner of Weatherford’s image.
“This is General Del Toro,” one of the uniformed men said. “I’m with General Shue, Admiral Fodor, and General Wendt of the Joint Chiefs, Director Vaughn of the IB, Counselor Yost, Attorney General Hadad, Defense Secretary Jordan. We’re in the situation room with President Lazaro. General McNabb, we understand there’s been little progress?”
McNabb, a dark-skinned man with a thin patch of salt-and-pepper hair, adjusted a pair of black plastic glasses and stood. The operations center’s camera refocused to capture a wider angle. While Weatherford sported a combat uniform, McNabb wore his dress uniform. He had a reputation for political gamesmanship and drama.
McNabb coughed. “We’re still on hold pending approval, General Del Toro.”
A middle-aged civilian woman with red hair leaned in to whisper into President Lazaro’s ear. He nodded, then looked into the camera. “General McNabb, we’ve been in contact with the Special Security Council. We’re hoping to receive some level of support here in the next couple hours. Can you give us the most current status?”
“We have three orbital shuttles in position twenty kilometers out from the suspected orbital station, Mister President,” McNabb said. He pulled his glasses off, crossed his arms, and began tapping the frames on an elbow. “Thirty-six of Colonel Weatherford’s Commandos are spread across those shuttles. It’s being run by Intelligence Bureau Agent Dana Kleigshoen.”
Lazaro looked across at a man. “Glenn, is this your mission?”
“It’s a joint mission, Mister President,” the man who must be Director Vaughn said. “Agent Kleigshoen has been working closely on this mission for quite some time now.”
Lazaro extended a hand as though he were giving a campaign speech. “Colonel Weatherford, are you comfortable with Agent Kleigshoen running this operation?”
Rimes glanced at Kleigshoen, who seemed impossibly serene.
“We’ve seen remarkable results from our joint effort with the Intelligence Bureau, Mister President,” Weatherford said.
Lazaro nodded. “I agree, Colonel. If it’s any help, I’ve asked General Del Toro to put together a force to supplement yours.”
Weatherford stiffened. “Sir?”
Del Toro’s face was strained. “That’s right, Colonel. We’re scrambling Bravo Company of the 82nd Airborne. They’ve been through orbital combat simulation. They should be at your position in ninety minutes.”
“All due respect, sir, but we were hoping for rapid insertion, operating on speed and agility rather than firepower.”
Lazaro smiled beatifically. “It was my idea, Colonel. This is Captain Singh’s group; he’s an extremely experienced soldier with a great deal of potential. He also has relatives in the Special Security Council apparatus.”
Secretary Jordan and General Del Toro exchanged a quick, embarrassed glance.
A serious-looking man in his mid-forties stepped into the situation room; Rimes had seen him before but couldn’t place him. The serious-looking man whispered to Lazaro and the woman next to him, whispering softly. Surprise played over Lazaro’s face.
Lazaro focused on the camera again. “We’ve just received word from the Special Security Council that they’d like a bit more input on this operation.”
Weatherford frowned. “Certainly, Mister President.”
Lazaro folded his hands in front of him. “I understand you have a Sergeant Rimes involved?”
“He’s Agent Kleigshoen’s second on the mission. Sergeant Rimes, are you receiving?”
“I’m receiving, sir,” Rimes confirmed.
Lazaro blinked rapidly and offered a fatuous smile. “Apparently, Sergeant Rimes, the Special Security Council places a great deal of trust in your opinion. They’d like your input. As they’ve requested, we’re going to add them to our channel in a moment.”
Rimes took in a deep breath. “Understood, sir.”
The image split to display the Special Security Council gathered in their chamber at the UN building. Rimes recognized most of them; he most often dealt with military attachés, but he’d briefed the council members a few times before.
“President Lazaro, thank you,” Representative Bhatia said, bowing almost imperceptibly. “The council has reviewed your request, and we have a few questions. We appreciate you making Sergeant Rimes available.
“Sergeant Rimes, is this action related to the action taken at the T-Corp facility in the Sundarbans?”
“It is,” Rimes said, amazed at the relative directness of the question; Bhatia was usually diplomatic to a fault.
“You reported LoDu agent Kwon Myung-bak killed in an addendum to your Singapore operation, yet we’ve been told he is somehow involved in this action. Please explain.”
Rimes saw only blank stares from Lazaro and Weatherford. “We determined Kwon was working in concert with several other genies. Although he was killed in Australia as I tried to take him into custody, we were able to connect him to numerous other suspects. Those suspects led us here.”
“And those suspects include this ‘Perditori’ mentioned in the report?” Bhatia asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bhatia glanced at another representative. At the other representative’s nod, she continued. “Sergeant Rimes, in your opinion, do your discoveries implicate the LoDu metacorporate entity in illegal activities?”
Rimes glanced over at Kleigshoen, who bit her lip and nodded.
“Among others. But the true criminals here would seem to be the genies, ma’am.”
Bhatia bowed slightly again. “President Lazaro, we hope to have the Special Security Council’s official position for you within the next two hours.”
Official position and unofficial political pressure. We need them if we’re going to get the metacorporations to budge.
The Special Security Council connection closed. Rimes watched Vaughn, Lazaro, and the woman next to him discuss something in hushed tones.
Weatherford appeared on the screen. “Mister President, I believe we have a problem.”
“Go ahead, Colonel.” Lazaro smiled patiently and folded his hands in his lap. He fidgeted uncertainly for a moment before settling.
“Shortly before you joined us, Agent Kleigshoen recommended a potential backdoor research method to help identify who is in the SJG-6 orbital. The Bureau has identified seventeen residents already; we’re sending those records to everyone now.”
Chatter flooded the line.
Rimes opened the data packet. On the sixth record, he stopped. He’d seen the man
before. A moment later, he recognized another. All told, he found four men he’d seen in Mumbai and Seoul. He flagged the records and sent them to Weatherford, Kleigshoen, and the other non-coms.
Finally, Lazaro looked up and coughed. The chatter died off.
Lazaro raised a hand again, once more ready to deliver a speech. “Colonel, Director Vaughn has just shown me something troubling. Forty-six of the people from the SJG-6 are on our Genie Watch List.”
Rimes cocked his head. After decades of abuse, failure, and lawsuits, most organizations had abandoned the watch list concept.
“Mister President,” Weatherford said, “we’re getting employment records on these genies now. None of them hold long-term contracts with any of the orbital operations. Each and every one has held a mixture of short-term positions in the shipyards—security, engineering, construction.”
“I can see that,” Lazaro said irritably.
They’ve been inside every one of the shipyard facilities. Why? It wouldn’t make sense they’d need the money. Would they hide the X-17 there somehow? Do they have weapons systems installed they could use to launch it?
The situation was surreal, absurd. They were twenty klicks out from an orbital that probably held enough nerve gas to kill fifty thousand people, yet the politicians somehow saw this as an opportunity for debate. Rimes pinched himself and rolled his head, simultaneously trying to work out the nervous tension and ensure he was awake. He wanted another stim.
Kleigshoen slipped her headgear on and signaled Rimes to do the same. Over a private channel, she said, “Jack, the Special Security Council is going to approve the operation.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Rimes glared at her. “What’s going on now?”
“I … I contacted my father.”
“Does the president know?” Rimes demanded. What were you thinking? There’s going to be hell to pay.
Kleigshoen shook her head. “What matters is that we’ve got clearance from the Special Security Council. Lazaro has to give us the green light.”