3rd World Products, Inc., Book 5

by Ed Howdershelt

  "The answer to what, Ed?"

  Sighing, I sipped my beer and gave her question some thought before I said, "Restlessness, I guess. Retirement was killing me as surely as a slow cancer, I think. I was about ready to rent the house through an agency and haul ass, then the Amarans came and Linda put me back to work. After Ellen left, I spent three months buzzing around the world, camping aboard the flitter. The one place I didn't go was Landstuhl, because I knew what I'd find there."

  The SG1 team found themselves on some Eden-like world and immediately ran into trouble with the natives and the usual baddies, who'd been expecting them. Again. Better luck next time, guys. I keyed the console screen off and turned to Sue.

  "You knew?" she asked, "How? Extrapolation?"

  "Nope. TV and the Internet. Remember when the Gulf War casualties were airlifted to Ramstein, then taken to Landstuhl? That sort of reminded me the place was still there. A few years later there was a crash at Ramstein AFB, only a few miles away and a place where we used to pick up airlifted patients. By that time I was on the net, so I ran a search and found a website with pictures of the new hospital."

  I took another sip, then continued, "Well, anyway, the aimless wandering thing after Ellen got old and I went back to Florida and let Linda know I was available for work. Every few months since, Linda's found a use for me. I spend a few days or a week on some assignment and that's been enough... well, I thought it was enough."

  Sue asked, "May I make an observation?"

  Gesturing with the beer bottle, I said, "Sure. Have at it."

  "Promise you won't get upset?"

  "If I do, so what? I never stay upset long."

  She met my gaze and said, "This is the first hint that I've seen that you've been less than generally content. I submit that -- despite what you said earlier -- you're simply unhappy that so much had changed during your absence."

  I let her stew by just looking at her for a few moments before I asked, "You 'submit' that, do you?"

  "Yes," she said, then a bit more firmly, "Yes, I do."

  Sipping my beer without taking my eyes off her, I let her wonder how I'd take it for another few ticks before I shrugged and said, "Yeah, well, maybe you're right. They replaced everything I gave a damn about with a big-assed white box. But for the other part, sometimes it does get kind of boring between Linda's little errands."

  She eyed me for a moment, then said, "You could do something about that. Take up a hobby, perhaps?"

  "I have hobbies. Gliding and writing."

  "Apparently they aren't quite enough. What else interests you?" She laughed and asked, "Cooking?"

  "You know so much better than that, lady."

  "You own a gun. How about shooting?"

  Shaking my head, I said, "A very noisy way to poke holes in paper. A necessary periodic evil performed only to maintain competence and placate those who sign my checks."

  "I see. What about flying? Not gliders, of course."

  "Sit in a bucket seat and drive across the sky. I can do that in the flitter without seat belts and have a beer while I do it."

  Sue shot back, "Fishing."

  "Used to be a way to get away now and then, but now my phone can ring anydamnedwhere. Never kept the fish 'cause I prefer hamburgers and steaks. What else ya got?"

  Eyeing me narrowly, Sue asked, "Would it really matter what else I might suggest?"

  "Probably not, if you keep suggesting stuff like that. You know what I've been missing most lately? Being able to go right up into space like Steph and I used to. That hundred-mile ceiling really sucks."

  With a short laugh, Sue said, "I never realized you found it so confining, Ed."

  Swigging some beer, I added, "And you know what else? We -- speaking in the sense that anyone who knows what really happened will view us as a group, that is -- 'we' just blew up a mountain, Sue. 'We' made that sucker just go the fuck away. Didn't even leave 'em ashes; just a nice, clean incision and a company logo where it used to be. Tell me that most of the high muckity-mucks on Earth aren't suddenly scared shitless of Amarans and anyone who hangs out with 'em."

  "That's possible, but how is the flight ceiling related to peoples' fear of Amarans?"

  "Oh, that. Well, I was thinking that 3rd World could simply refuse to be involved in anything they regard as suspicious and the muckity-mucks would know they have to accept 3rd's decision. As I see it, there's no further reason for the ceiling and there may never have been a good reason at all."

  "There were undoubtedly political considerations, Ed."

  Grinning, I said, "Like I said, no 'good' reason. Just an excuse for that particular moment, and I think that moment may have passed. What time is it in Carrington?"

  Before she could answer, I took my feet off the console and said, "Nah, never mind the time. It's the middle of the day there. She'll be at the office."

  Keying my implant, I created a field screen and pinged Linda's datapad. She answered a few moments later with her usual, "Hi, Ed. Hi, Sue."

  "Hi, Linda," I said, "Is the flitter flight ceiling still necessary after today?"

  Her expression betrayed no surprise as she regarded me for a few moments before answering, "I can't wait to hear your reasons for asking."

  "Okay. We made a mountain disappear today. Making and exporting flitters for Amarans has become the world's ladder to the stars. In short, if 3rd World doesn't want to help put questionable stuff in orbit, who's gonna make 'em?"

  Linda's left eyebrow went up. She solemnly asked, "Would you like to be the one to tell the President of the United States that 3rd World flatly won't cooperate in such efforts?"

  I pretended to consider her words, then equally solemnly asked, "Would I have to wear a tie? I hate ties."

  Sue looked a little startled. Linda gave me a wry look.

  "Well?" I asked, "The non-factory flits that can fly that high can't achieve orbital speeds. NASA's toys can't slow down or they'll fall down, so the two systems can't link up in space. Beyond that, there's no way in hell anyone could sneak a weapons system or parts for one aboard a flitter. The whole issue is a non-issue if all we're going by is plain ol' facts."

  "Has it occurred to you that there may be other issues to consider, Ed?"

  "Sure. Briefly. But facts are facts, so if anyone's feelings are hurt, either someone hasn't explained things well enough or someone is trying real hard to have hurt feelings."

  Linda was never one to dither about making decisions.

  She said, "Okay. Lift the ceiling. Let me pass the word to those who need to know, and I still want this to be considered classified information among those who don't already know. We'd be inundated with requests for space rides."

  Before I could answer, she added, "Don't be surprised if you wind up ferrying people upstairs now and then."

  I sighed as if disappointed and said, "Yeah, I figured you'd say something like that. Can I sell tickets?"

  Linda chuckled, "No, and accept tips only if they're offered. Is there anything else, Ed?"

  "Um... Well... Are you still going with that Navy guy?"

  Rolling her eyes, Linda sighed, "Yes, Ed. I'm still going with 'that Navy guy', Ed. Now, is-there-anything-else, Ed?"

  Glancing at Sue, I asked, "You got anything else?"

  She gave me a 'you're asking me?' look and said, "This was your idea."

  Turning to Linda, I said, "Guess not, ma'am."

  With a droll expression, Linda said, "Wonderful. Later, Ed."

  "Okay. Thanks, Fearless Leader."

  Her gaze had narrowed, but a small smile formed on her lips as she poked her 'off' icon.

  "Sue," I said, "Can you lift the lid on flitters, or does Steph still hold the keys on that?"

  "Those 'keys' were issued to me with this job, Ed. I've removed the altitude restriction."

  "Thanks, milady. When we get back to the house, I'll see if Toni and Tiger are up for a trip to the stars. I already know what Selena will say about being able to go up there again.
"

  Sipping my beer, I asked, "How about you, Sue? Would you have any interest in coming along?"

  Looking at me somewhat archly, she said, "At the moment, I find it interesting that you included everyone else before you asked me."

  Returning her look, I took her hand, kissed it, and said, "For your information, lady, I caught myself assuming that you'd come with us and realized that you might appreciate an actual invitation."

  Canting her head slightly as Selena might, Sue said, "You were right. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. So what's your answer, ma'am?"

  With a small smile, she said, "I'd be happy to accept your invitation, sir."

  Chapter Twelve

  Less than thirty minutes before we were to land in Spring Hill, Linda called back. I answered her pad-ping by switching the console screen from the Internet to her pad link.

  She appeared and said, "Well, that was quick. Sorry, Ed, but you're on standby alert as of now."

  I laughed, "Oh, damn! Oh, bummer! Y'know, Linda, I can't remember being off standby alert more than three hours or so since the day you called me back to work."

  "Well, be that as it may, we just got word of probable retaliation by members of Hamas."

  "They're a Palestinian outfit. Are they exporting, now?"

  Nodding, Linda said, "They're based in Palestine, but they sell suicide bombers for a few thousand each plus postage."

  "A service industry, huh? What's their company slogan? 'On time - and total destruction - or it's free'?"

  With a wry sigh, Linda said, "If they actually have some kind of company slogan, it's buried under tons of bullshit rhetoric."

  "That's because it wouldn't do for the peons to realize they're being marketed as exploding meat puppets. Did they come right out and name a target, milady?"

  "Oh, yes. Definitely. They told a reporter that the destruction of 3rd World has been put at the very top of their agenda."

  "The real top? Even above destroying the Jews?"

  "Possibly so, at least for the moment."

  "Well, damn. I guess they must really be pissed off, then, but that mountain wasn't a piece of Palestinian turf. Do you think they're pissed enough to send out freebies?"

  Shaking her head, Linda grinningly said, "No. We've been tracking money transactions from six main sources. Hamas isn't doing any freebies for anybody. Look, I have to give a briefing a few minutes. I just wanted to tip you and the teams here at Carrington before anyone else. Later, Ed."

  "Okay, Linda. Later."

  I poked the Internet icon and visited a newsgroup that wasn't on my usual list; OSINT. The first two messages had Hamas in the subject line and provided links to news stories with excerpts from those articles.

  Upshot: More than half a dozen Middle Eastern nations and groups were financing Hamas in an effort to destroy 3rd World or to "drive it off the face of the Earth", which I took to mean that they meant to force 3rd to move to the factory station.

  "Absolutely amazing," I said. "They're upset because we made a mountain disappear, right? Hasn't it occurred to them that threatening 3rd World might be somewhat dangerous?"

  Sue said, "While I realize that was a rhetorical question, I think they haven't realized any such thing. They know as well as everyone else on Earth that Amarans are conditioned against killing and that those employed by Amarans are prohibited from killing except as the most dire form of self-defense."

  "Yeah, and your evacuation of the bunker proved all that."

  Sue had been watching my Internet activities, but my comment caused her to glance sharply askance at me.

  "Yup," I said. "It did. I would have hauled our own people out of there, then zapped the place with all hands still aboard. We're dealing with sociopaths and social primitives, Sue. As dramatic as blowing up that mountain was, it was only a half-assed effort as an example to Hamas and their ilk. They'll see your concern for their lives as a weakness they can exploit."

  Giving me an arch look, she asked, "Need I ask what course of action you'd pursue?"

  "Gee, I surely do doubt it, ma'am. Just look up what I said the last time the subject of terrorism came up. I think it was something like 'Hunt 'em down and kill 'em like rats.'"

  Sue disappeared as we descended to my driveway. I grabbed my stuff and hopped off the flitter, then the flit rose to its usual parking place far above and I went into the house.

  Tiger hopped onto the kitchen counter and greeted me with, "Elkor let me view your great accomplishment today as it occurred. I greet you proudly."

  Since he usually spoke in much more abbreviated terms, I figured he'd asked Elkor how to say that and practiced it a few times. Even with his PFM collar to translate cat to English through the flitter's core, he still sounded like a Hollywood Klingon most of the time.

  I picked him up and patted him as I replied, "Thanks, Tiger, but Steph, Elkor, and Sue did all the hard work."

  Canting his head slightly, he said, "The guards. They tried to kill you. In that little room."

  Shrugging, I said, "Well, yeah, they did. So how was your day, friend Tiger?"

  "Quiet. There were no intruders today."

  I almost laughed as I flicked open a kitty treat packet and put a few on the counter, but only almost.

  "Excellent," I said, putting Tiger down near the treats, "I'm glad you had a safe, quiet day."

  He solemnly said, "We must remain vigilant," before he began nibbling the little fish-shaped cat-candies.

  Leaving him to his treats, I cleaned up a bit and went to bed with Brahms' 2nd piano concerto on the CD player. It had been a longish day. Sleep came almost immediately, and with it, a dream I hadn't had in years.

  * * * *

  Crossing the sun-baked parking lot on my way to a nine o'clock appointment with Marine Major Cohn, I looked up at a palm tree and almost tripped over a miniature sand dune that had formed by a drainage gap in the concrete median.

  Stopping between cars, I leaned on a van as I dumped sand out of my right shoe and watched other people step over or trudge through the little dunes on their way to work.

  Drainage. What a laugh. This place hadn't seen a drop of rain in two thousand years. Someone had just re-used a parking layout from a building of about the same size in a more temperate region of the world.

  The tiny dunes were formed by the capricious winds from the surrounding desert. In an hour or two they could be facing another direction or be gone altogether.

  Mopping my face with one of my paper-towel handkerchiefs, I checked my watch. Only eight-thirty and already hot as hell. Screw the Middle East. As soon as this job was done, I'd...

  A single sharp clap of thunder sounded from well beyond the sedan and I dropped flat as hard little bits of debris moving at high speed showered the parking lot, ricocheting off cars and starring and collapsing windshields for another hundred yards or more beyond me.

  Some of the people who'd stopped to stare at the explosion were hit, some weren't. Those who'd been hit either lay still or made some effort to stop their bleeding. One man slowly went to his knees, fell face-forward, and didn't move again.

  When more than ten seconds passed with no secondary blast, I went to see if the man was alive. He had a head wound and no pulse. A woman sat on the ground nearby, apparently in shock and bleeding from half a dozen small wounds. I pulled her into the small shade of a car and leaned her against it.

  She looked at the front of her blouse and began screaming hysterically. She'd been peppered. Small, seeping holes, but no gouts of blood. I couldn't do anything for her except grab her face and yell at her to calm down and wait for help. She stared at me in silence briefly, then began screaming again.

  I dragged four other people out of the path of traffic and used belts, shoelaces, and neckties to tie off bleeding arms and legs as required, then noticed a plywood sign the blast had thrown across the lot.

  Using the roofs of two cars to support the ends of the sign, I rigged a shelter from the blazing sun
for the wounded. One of the guys began tending the other people, so I went looking for more wounded.

  As I was dragging an unconscious man to the shelter, three Marines in a jeep rolled up. They helped me move the guy and briefly checked the others as one Marine asked who I was.

  "State Department," I said, showing him my ID.

  "Right," he said, knowing a spook ID when he saw one. Gesturing at the sign, he said, "You're doing great. We'll call in and get some medics out here, so just hang on and hold things together a little longer, okay?"

  They jogged back to the jeep and he got on the radio as they moved on down the line of cars. In the next row over, a car had swerved and hit another car.

  The engine was still running, but as I got closer I saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel. When I tried to open the driver's door, I discovered it was locked. I climbed onto the hood and reached in to turn off the ignition, then checked the guy's pulse. He didn't have one.

  I found two more wounded people in that row -- a man and a woman -- but both were able to walk to the shelter with a bit of help. She was a nurse and took over caring for the others as I made another trip into the surrounding parking lot.

  Two more dead were all I found. I moved them out of the driveway and looked for my car. My little blue Fiat 124 Spyder convertible had been shielded by a white Ford sedan. Well, almost. There was a fist-sized hole in the ragtop. I looked inside and saw a broken car door handle on the back seat.

  Opening the trunk, I took out my .45 and shoulder rig and strapped it on, then put on my light green windbreaker. As I adjusted the fit of the jacket, I wondered why I'd bothered with the gun.

  If there'd been an assault team ready to follow-up the explosion, they'd have been well past me by now. They'd also have used a more direct route than a side parking lot, more than likely. Still, I didn't take off the .45 before heading back to the little group under the sign.

  Two ambulances arrived with the same jeepful of Marines. Medics checked people in a cursory manner, then loaded them and left me standing with the same Marine who'd checked my ID. He eyed my .45, then asked if I'd been coming or going.