by Myke Cole
“He did what he had to, sir. The naga are . . . tough to figure out.” Walsh’s eyes narrowed. Apparently that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“So, you agree with Colonel Bookbinder’s assessment?”
He’s being clear on what he wants to hear. Too bad. Thorsson was an officer. He owed it to his superiors to be honest with them, whatever the cost.
“I believe him, Mr. President. I was at FOB Frontier. The war season is gearing up now as winter fades, and they’re going to be seriously hard-pressed come spring. If there’s any chance that Britton would be willing to help us, we have to try.”
Walsh’s face narrowed until it looked positively pinched.
“This is Oscar Britton we’re talking about, Major. This is the man who nearly killed you. The man who nearly wiped out that FOB you’re now talking about using him to save.”
“He’s the man who saved my life,” Thorsson said. “He returned our dead to us, laid them respectfully in Arlington Cemetery, sir. I’ve thought a lot about Oscar Britton since the last time I faced him. He’s a loose cannon. He marches to the beat of his own drum. He’s dangerous, no question. But he was a good officer. He put his men first. He took care of them. That’s not affectation, that’s character. Oscar Britton cares about soldiers. If we ask him, I believe he’ll help.”
“That’s one hell of a risk to be taking, Major. Moving a division’s worth of military members, support personnel, and equipment through a gate operated by a convict currently being tried for treason?”
Thorsson held Walsh’s eyes. “Respectfully, sir, that’s better than letting those same military members and support personnel die.”
“We don’t know that they will die,” Walsh answered immediately, looking irritated. “And I’m not sure that you’re right about Britton. Regardless, we can’t put the option before him; it’s way too risky. We’ve got less than a year before the election, and I don’t think the public is ready to handle FOB Frontier, Shadow Coven, and everything else we’ve got going on there.”
“Sir”—Thorsson gritted his teeth—“ the staff understand the OPSEC requirements of being posted to FOB Frontier, they know better than to talk. They know the consequences.”
“Sure, in ones or twos,” Walsh answered. “But a mass evacuation? Treated at a single medical facility? Without proper time to debrief them all? And with Oscar Britton as the principal logistical element? Leaks are hard enough to contain normally. This would be a disaster. We’re already reeling from the press coverage from when he gated you onto the White House lawn.
We can risk an op after the election. The FOB will have to hold until then.”
Thorsson choked on his rising anger. This is the President of the United States. Be careful. “Sir, respectfully—”
“Spare me that, Major. We’re both public servants here. Speak plainly.”
“Mr. President, Colonel Bookbinder assures me they’re not going to last eight more days, let alone eight more months.”
Walsh took a step toward him, his posture giving the lie to his talk about being a public servant. “And I can assure you that this administration is the only one equipped to handle magic in this society. Would you prefer a Fareed administration? His so–called ‘real magic’ legislation?”
I wouldn’t have. Until now.
Thorsson didn’t bother answering. This whole conversation had been an excuse for Walsh to monologue. At least Fareed wouldn’t be willing to sell out a division’s worth of men and women just to win an election. He carefully kept his face neutral.
Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “I can trust you on this, Major? Can’t I?” He’s doubting my loyalty, Harlequin thought. Worse, he’s worried I’ll blow the lid on this, or do something crazy.
Because he knows he’s wrong.
Walsh put his hand on Thorsson’s elbow, his voice going soft and smooth. “Sometimes being in charge requires you to make hard choices, and sometimes those choices cost lives. If you hesitate to make those calls, you can lose more lives than you save.”
“Sir, you asked me to speak plainly. We’re talking about a division here.”
“I know precisely what we’re talking about, Major. We’ll lose a lot more than a division if we don’t keep a lid on what the Reawakening has unleashed on the world. You’re not seeing the forest for the trees. I’m going to have to be able to rely on you here. Can I do that?”
Thorsson inclined his head. This man wanted obedience. “Of course, sir.” Inside, he seethed.
“Good.” Walsh didn’t look like he trusted him at all. “Tell me about the refugees. I’ve got two SF operators and an air force Terramancer, is that right? My staff tells me they’re cooperative, signed their nondisclosure agreements, and passed polygraphs. They’re confident they can be trusted. What’s your take on them?”
Thorsson’s tongue felt thick in his mouth, his stomach sick with anger. He had sworn to obey this man who was effectively condemning an entire division to death. What did the rule book say about this? You know what it says. It says you do what you’re told.
“I’d concur, sir. They’re company people.”
“Good.” Walsh nodded. “What about this administrative colonel, the one who took command when Taylor was killed? I hear that Britton’s father is here as well. Can you deal with them? We can’t have them stirring up the media. The last thing we need are any father-son reunion sob stories. You’ve got them on lockdown at Quantico still? That was quick thinking.”
“Leave them to me,” Thorsson heard himself saying, his voice coming as if from far away. “I can handle them.”
Walsh nodded. “You do what you feel is necessary. I would prefer to have them cooperative and released back to their families if you can make that happen.”
The rest of the order was left silent, hanging in the air. And now you want me to commit murder?
“Leave it to me, sir,” was all he said.
“I intend to. You’ll have a full report ready for Senator Whalen by the weekend?”
“Absolutely.”
Walsh touched Thorsson’s elbow again. “I appreciate being able to rely on you, Major. It’s important for me to have a presence in the ranks that I can trust. The Joint Chiefs are political animals. I need a real soldier I can reach out to get things done, especially in the SOC. Gatanas is far too much of a public figure to be getting his hands dirty. But I served twenty years in the army, and I know that dirty hands are precisely what war requires. That’s rough sometimes, but this nation doesn’t stay safe because men like us shied away from roughness.”
“Roughness.” That’s what he calls condemning people to die. Thorsson felt filthy. “Of course, sir.”
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Major. I see bright things in your future.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Thorsson executed a perfect about-face and pushed his way back through the fire doors, falling into step with his Secret Service escort. He was completely numb, transiting the Pentagon’s foyer and the parking lot in a fog, barely remembering the trip.
The rule book says I should obey my commander in chief. But it also says something about illegal orders.
And a lot of soldiering wasn’t found in any manual. No chapter laid out how to be valorous, or honorable. No text told ever told him that on the battlefield, saving lives was every bit as important as taking them.
But he’d learned it just the same.
Thorsson stared for a long moment at his car, then put his keys in his pocket and radioed his intention to fly to the tower at Reagan National Airport. The SOC controller there approved him instantly, filing the flight plan on his behalf, and he was airborne in a matter of minutes, wrapping himself in an envelope of heated air as a buffer against the cold. His dress uniform fluttered in the wind, wrinkling, catching bugs, likely ruined.
As he blasted over the Potomac Mills Mall, he noticed a plain blue air force helicopter dispatched to escort him, keeping pace to h
is left. The pilot shot him a thumbs–up and he waved back, managing to force a smile. They hung in formation over the gridlocked traffic on Interstate 95 until Quantico’s training range came into view, dotted with FBI recruits, probably doing push-ups, far below. The helo peeled off as Harlequin descended to land before a low, gray concrete building ringed with plain chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. The sign at the front read, marine corps brig, quantico. secbn quantico—criminal investigative division—provost marshal.
The guards on duty saluted and waved Thorsson in without checking his ID again, for the second time in his military career.
Having friends in high places helps, Thorsson thought as he made his way to the elevator and waited through the long descent to the holding facility. A Suppressor stood just outside the thick, windowless steel door at the far end of the passage. The Marine sergeant outside the door glanced up from his laptop and frowned. “You look like hell, sir.”
“Long day,” Thorsson answered. “How are our guests?”
The sergeant smiled and punched a button on his desk. There was a puff of air as the lock disengaged, and door eased open a crack. “Compliant,” he said.
“I’m going to have to move them in a few minutes,” Thorsson said. “That’s coming from the president.” He turned to the Suppressor. “You can let him go, Lieutenant.”
The Suppressor nodded, and Thorsson felt his current shift as he pushed through the door, closing it behind him. Bookbinder was stepping off his bunk, shaking his head in surprise at the sudden return of his magical current. Stanley Britton stepped out from the corner to Thorsson’s left, fists clenched.
Thorsson turned to him, amused. “Were you planning to jump me? You wouldn’t have gotten very far.”
“I still would have had the pleasure of punching you in the face.” Stanley smiled. “Tell me you’ve got good news.”
Thorsson shook his head.
“What did Whalen say?” Bookbinder asked.
“Not Whalen,” Thorsson replied. “The president himself. We’re on our own.”
“You mean that FOB is on its own,” Bookbinder snarled.
Thorsson took a deep breath, let it out, then glanced up at Bookbinder. “You ready to commit high treason, sir?”
Bookbinder paused, looked at Stanley, looked back.
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” Thorsson answered. “I didn’t join the army so Walsh could get reelected while a whole division goes up in smoke. Let’s go get Oscar Britton.”
Chapter XXVI
Jailbreak
If you can heal with a touch, that’s an easy call. You have to do it. But what if you can kill just as easily? Aren’t there times when you have to do that too?
—Howard Dienst, Director of Compliance,
National Counterterrorism Center
Fifth Annual Conference on Magic and Military Ethics,
Geneva, Switzerland
They stepped out past the thick door and into the hallway, Bookbinder and Stanley nodding at the guards, who nodded back as Thorsson went up to the sergeant’s desk. “Call over to Charlie Block and let ’em know we’re coming? President wants a tete–a–tete with Prisoner One and these two. I’ll be mediating.”
The sergeant nodded, picking up a phone. “You want me to send someone to take notes?”
Thorsson produced a pad from the breast pocket of his bug-spattered, wrinkled uniform jacket. “I’ve got it, thanks. I want the surveillance booth empty. No recordings. This is on my pad and in my head only. Got it?”
“Aye, sir,” the sergeant said, dialing numbers into the phone.
He looked at Thorsson, a little starstruck. It still made Thorsson uncomfortable after all this time. “My wife wanted me to tell you that she’s seen you on TV, sir. She didn’t believe it when I said I was working with you.”
Thorsson ignored the fact that the sergeant shouldn’t be telling anyone that he was working with him and smiled. “That’s great. Give her my best.”
The Suppressor moved to fall in with them, but Thorsson waved him back. “I’ve got it,” he said, interdicting Bookbinder’s flow.
“You sure, sir?”
“This man is a colonel in the United States Army, Lieutenant. He’s not charged with anything. He’s being held here for his own safety and to facilitate the debriefing process.”
The Suppressor blanched and nodded to Bookbinder. “Of course, sir. Sorry about that, sir.”
Bookbinder nodded back. “No problem, Lieutenant. We all just do our jobs.”
“This way, sir.” Thorsson gestured to Bookbinder, who stepped in and led the way down the hallway. When they reached the elevator, Bookbinder turned to him. “Where the hell are we going?”
Thorsson smiled. “Around the corner, actually. Do me a favor and stay in front. People tend to give you less crap when they see a full bird leading the way.”
Bookbinder smiled back. “Don’t I know it.”
Stanley fumed. “You mean my son was just a few feet away from me all this time?”
Thorsson shrugged. “You’re going to see him in about five minutes, Mr. Britton. Just hang with me. If we make it through this, you can kick my ass later.”
“Are we going to make it through this?” Bookbinder asked.
Thorsson followed them into the elevator and punched the button for the brig’s main floor. “Highly doubtful, sir. But I’m not going to be able to live with myself if we don’t at least try. If you’d rather opt out, I’ll take you back to your cell.”
“I’m already dead if you believe the newspapers,” Stanley said. “Makes no difference to me.”
Bookbinder was silent so long that Thorsson expected him to turn around and head back. “No, you’re right,” he said at last.
“I want to see my family again, but so does every man and woman on that FOB. We swore to give our lives if we had to, right?”
“That we did, sir,” Thorsson said.
“I just really hope we don’t have to,” Bookbinder said, as the elevator chimed, and they stepped out into the lobby.
“Feeling’s mutual, sir,” Thorsson said.
Charlie Block turned out to be on the brig’s opposite side, a plain concrete lobby furnished only with a guard desk manned by four tough-looking Marines and guarded by a locked door that opened easily to Thorsson’s badge and thumbprint.
“Major Thorsson,” the desk sergeant said, punching a button that chimed the elevator, sliding the doors open. “Prisoner One is prepped for you.”
“Thanks,” Thorsson said. “Keep that recording booth clear. That one comes all the way from the top.”
“Booth clear, aye, sir,” the sergeant said to his back as the elevator doors slid shut behind them. A similar long and featureless hallway greeted them at the far end, with an identical desk occupied by two identical guards and a Suppressor. The door was already unlocked and cracked open behind them.
“Here we go,” Thorsson whispered. “Hope you guys are ready.”
“Not sure you can be ready for something like this,” Bookbinder said, as Thorsson nodded to the guards, and they pushed through the door. Oscar Britton sat on his bunk. He looked exactly as Thorsson remembered him, tall, well built, shaved head shining under the dull fluorescent lights. He quirked a smile at them as they walked through the door, straightening his orange prison jumpsuit as he stood to greet them. “Well, well,” he said.
“The dreaded Harlequin comes to visit me.” He didn’t so much as glance at his father. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Oscar,” Stanley said, but Britton didn’t look at him, and Bookbinder cut him off, saying, “We don’t have much time, we’re here to get you out. We need your help.”
Britton snorted. “For what?”
“The FOB . . .” Thorsson began.
“The FOB is cut off,” Britton said, shaking his head. “I saw to that personally.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Oscar Britton I know,” Thorsson said. “We’ve
got a chance to save them, and you’re the only one who can get them out of there.”
“Fuck them and fuck you,” Britton said. “Maybe you should have thought about how much you needed my help before you threw me in this place.”
Thorsson took a step back. “Jesus, Oscar. Is this what all that time on the run did to you? A lot of people, a lot of soldiers are going to die unless you help us.”
“Did I stutter?” Britton asked. “Fuck. Them. And. Fuck. You!”
Bookbinder jumped backward as if he’d been bitten by something.
“Major, he’s not a Portamancer.”
Thorsson turned to Bookbinder. “Wait, how can you tell . . .”
He reached out for Britton’s flow, and felt it strong and steady.
He spun back to face him. “You’re not Suppressed.”
“And you’re not very bright, you fucking traitor,” Britton said, reaching forward. His hand blurred, melting. A long bone spike shot out, Britton’s arm thinning as it reached across the room. Harlequin dove out of the way, and the spike caught Stanley Britton, piercing his upper chest, pushing through his shoulder and pinning him to the wall.
His face melted, the black man’s skin blurring and re–forming, the torso slimming down, until the orange jumpsuit adorned a man with corpse gray skin, slick black hair plastered to his forehead. “Fucking amateurs,” he said.
Thorsson knew only one contractor on the SOC payroll whose Physiomancy was so talented that he could impersonate another person.
The Sculptor. President Walsh must have suspected that he might try to break Britton out. This was his insurance policy.
Thorsson Drew hard and Bound lightning to his fists, only to feel a Suppressor’s current flow through the wall to roll his own magic back. He cursed, ripping his pistol from inside his jacket and fired twice into the Physiomancer’s torso, which oozed sideways as the bullets opened ragged holes in the flesh. The Sculptor grimaced in pain as another arm sprouted from its wounded side to grab Thorsson’s throat. “Give it up,” the Physiomancer hissed. “I’ve got orders to take you alive, but I can make it hurt as bad as I want to.”