by Myke Cole
‘You are, no doubt, familiar with your nation’s Cuban Missile Crisis, Lieutenant Colonel?’ Tan asked.
Now it was Harlequin’s turn to say nothing.
‘Your country reacted with great . . . expediency in dealing with a strategic threat well inside its sphere of influence, in fact, on its very border.’
Tan lowered his head, looking at Harlequin from under his furrowed brow. ‘The Source is on everyone’s border, Lieutenant Colonel. And the threat proposed by the mightiest of your so-called prohibited magical schools is very strategic indeed.’
Tan straightened, folded his arms. ‘The Asian Bloc of this body is currently undergoing an intensive examination of India’s involvement in the Gate-Gate incident. Restoring this body’s trust in the good faith and transparency of both of your nations is going to take some time. I’ve commissioned a fact-finding mission to your Breach Zone to ascertain the nature of the incursion. We’re also sending a team to Mescalero. Until such time as the results of that commission are determined and analyzed, I cannot in good conscience concur with directing armed intervention on your nation’s behalf, especially armed intervention with arcane units.’
Harlequin’s heart sank. He had known this was coming from the moment he’d first seen Tan’s expression, but the reality of it hit home. ‘Sir, respectfully, whatever you may think of my government, please consider my people. We are facing an enemy in overwhelming numbers in the nerve center of our homeland. We need help, and we need it now. Without it, people are going to die. I would be delighted to stand for whatever atonement you think my nation should pay to make right for our failing to disclose our presence in the Source . . .’
‘. . . Lieutenant Colonel!’ Hallert broke in. ‘That’s not a commitment you can make! I’m sorry, sir . . .’ he said to Tan, but Harlequin cut him off.
‘. . . but that’s for later. The fight is right now. People are dying right now. By the time your commission gives its results and you reach a determination, it will be far too late.’
He turned to the Guatemalan ambassador. ‘I need you to pass our request on to Mexico. We need their help in Mescalero if not in New York City.’ He turned to Desmarais. ‘Canada as well. Like it or not, this is your fight, too, or very soon will be if you don’t get involved while we still have a chance of controlling it.’
The Guatemalan ambassador looked from the floor to Ambassador Tan, refusing to meet Harlequin’s eyes. Desmarais met his gaze steadily, then inclined his head to Hallert. ‘I will relay your request to my government and to the Western European and Other Nations Bloc.’
Tan looked furious. ‘I think we’ve heard everything we need, Lieutenant Colonel. Thank you for your time.’
Harlequin knew better than to press the matter. ‘Sir,’ he said stiffly.
Hallert escorted him back out into the hallway as the rest of the group exited by another door. ‘I would really have appreciated a chance to pregame that with you, sir,’ Harlequin said.
Hallert took his elbow. ‘You did fine, better than fine, in fact. You have to remember that things like this are usually already decided, and the real work is going on in the background.’
‘So you’re saying I’m screwed.’
‘Quite the contrary,’ Hallert said. ‘Mexico is under a lot of pressure, but Mescalero is right on top of them, and we’re their biggest trading partner no matter what pressure the LAC puts on them.’ He looked up at Harlequin’s blank expression. ‘Sorry, the Latin America and Caribbean bloc. We can work on them.’
Hallert’s voice was placid, attentive, carrying that subtle undercurrent that made you feel like you were the only other person in the world. He wanted to trust that voice instinctively. It was the voice of government, of big institutions like the Army, of the structures that had been his home and career since the National Guard youth-challenge program he’d joined in high school. But he’d heard that voice before, and the memory sent a chill up his spine.
Former President Walsh sounded like that. So did Scylla.
‘And Canada?’ Harlequin asked.
‘We’ve already got Canada. Desmarais assured me privately they’re scrambling a support unit out of Quebec. Their Loup-Garous. Terramancy like you’ve never seen.’
Harlequin felt an ember of hope in his chest, cautiously fanned it. The Québécois were famous for flouting the Geneva Convention Amendment’s prohibition of Whispering. If there was any arcane fighting force that wouldn’t balk at the stigma of Probe magic, it was them. But Hallert was a politician, and Harlequin had been learning a thing or two about them since Oscar Britton went rogue.
‘Why would they help us if the Mexicans won’t? Mescalero’s a lot closer to Mexico than New York City is to Canada.’
‘I already said, don’t count the Mexicans out. Besides, we’ve got a deal in the works to help them extract oil from the tar sands they’ve got up there. Promising nearly all of the Army Corps of Engineers Terramantic Support Element. It’d be an economic hit for us, but it’ll help move them on the issue. The Chinese already do Terramantic engineering at home, and this will give us an excuse to get in that game.’
He stopped, clapping Harlequin on the shoulder and smiling.
‘What?’ Harlequin asked, amazed.
‘This is your doing, Lieutenant Colonel. I don’t think you fully appreciate how your actions at FOB Frontier changed things. You changed the conversation. Things’ll move slow, but they’ll come, sure as the sun rises. Amazing. I know you don’t get a lot of support for what you did, and I can’t honestly say I don’t have mixed feelings about it, but I wanted you to know that I, for one, am happy you’re on the job here. There’s a lot I’ve been wanting to accomplish that is only now becoming possible because of what you did.’
‘Because of what a lot of people did,’ Harlequin said, faces flashing through his mind. Oscar Britton, Alan Bookbinder.
Hallert shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘You want to thank me for all that? Get me help, Ambassador. Convince them that it’s in all of their interests to help.’
‘Sit tight,’ Hallert responded, clapping him on the shoulder again. ‘Convincing people is what I do.’
Chapter Ten
Don’t Give Up The Ship
The real value in Probe magic is its power as a force multiplier. With the exception of Rending, pretty much every Probe school results in an increase in applicable battlefield assets or firepower. This is what makes the Shadow Coven program so incredibly important to our continued dominance in the arcane domain. That said, there are limits. A Portamancer employing GIMAC can only manipulate a single gate at a time. An Elementalist must Bind his or her magic to sustain the noncorporeal ‘body’ of an elemental, greatly limiting the number that can be commanded at once. A Necromancer has it easier. Dead bodies already have cell cohesion, granting them the power to raise and command armies. But unlike elementals, zombies have no will and cannot act of their own accord. They are flesh automatons, requiring the Necromancer’s constant attention and direction.
– Chief Warrant Officer-4 Albert Fitzsimmons, Inputs to quarterly report on the progress of the Shadow Coven (C4U-Umbra) program
For the moment, the buoy deck was clear, while the aquatic goblins busied themselves with the sailors from the Giffords. Bookbinder watched their heads disappearing beneath the water as long as he could stand it, but the scene finally overwhelmed him, and he looked around the bridge on the pretext of assessing the damage.
The giant wave hadn’t swamped the ship, but the Breakwater was listing badly to port, the ball and hook from the giant crane rocking threateningly over the bullet-riddled deck.
Bonhomme stood with his fists propped against the helm console, eyes locked on the carnage churning around the Giffords’s overturned hull. Rodriguez watched him, looking like she wanted to say something, but thinking better of
it. Bonhomme finally said, ‘We can’t go after them.’
Bookbinder hated the words, couldn’t deny the truth of them. ‘No, we can’t.’
What do we do? Bonhomme mouthed, jaw quivering.
‘What’s your recommendation, skipper?’ Bookbinder asked.
Bonhomme shook his head. ‘We can’t fight them.’
‘We’ve been fighting them,’ Bookbinder said, ‘winning, too.’
‘Maybe they want in on whatever’s going down onshore,’ Rodriguez said. ‘We could head out to sea, stand off, and wait for help. We’re oceangoing, sir.’
‘No way,’ Bookbinder said. ‘That thing swamped two warships. It’ll flood the southern tip of the island just as easy. We can’t let that happen.’ Whatever is going on there, Harlequin needs my help. I should be there, damn it. He bit down on the frustration.
‘We don’t have any stores laid in,’ Bonhomme said. ‘This was supposed to be a day cruise. I’m not even sure what the hull integrity looks like.’ He gestured to the obvious slope of the buoy deck. ‘I need a damage report, but I sincerely doubt the desalination unit is up and running right now. We’ve got wounded crew. This ship may not be stable. We need to get to shore.’
Bookbinder knew this as well, but it didn’t make him feel any better to hear it.
Screams reached him from the churning water around the Giffords. The goblins were taking their time only because they saw the Breakwater wounded and limping. There was no need for them to hurry.
‘Once the navy knows their ships went down, they’ll send helos. Maybe they can airlift us off,’ Rodriguez added, ‘drop depth charges on that thing.’
‘It’s going to take time,’ Bonhomme said.
‘Well,’ Bookbinder said, ‘let’s make it easier on them and head inland. You’ve tried the radios ag . . .’
‘They’re dead. Shore’ – Bonhomme pointed past the Giffords – ‘is that way. I’m not sure what our engines will do right now.’
You’re not sure because you’re standing here whining and not calling for a damage report! Bookbinder’s mind shouted. Rodriguez spared him the need to say it. ‘I’ll get an engine room SITREP, sir. See what casualties we have.’ She grabbed a phone receiver off the console before remembering the loss of comms and slamming it back into its cradle. She jogged out of the hatch, while Bonhomme turned around and punched the console.
‘We’ve got to go back around that giant . . . thing . . . whatever it is in the water that let those monsters in.’
‘It’s a gate,’ Bookbinder answered. ‘I have no idea how it got here, but that’s what it is. It bridges our world and the Source.’ If I name the thing, maybe it will frighten him less.
‘You were there,’ Bonhomme said.
Bookbinder nodded. ‘I was. It’s not all that different from our world. If anything, it’s simpler. There’s no more reason to fear it than you would a desert. The worst thing we’ll have to do is tangle with more of these water goblins, and we’ve already licked them once.’
Bonhomme shook his head. ‘We won’t last another round. We’re not geared for warfighting. None of us have the training, we sure as hell don’t have the equipment. You know who did? Those guys!’ He stabbed a finger out the bridge window at the Giffords’s vanishing hull.
Bonhomme was shouting now, using anger to cope with fear. Bookbinder had seen it before. It never helped. ‘We’re trained to pull buoys out of the water, tow broken-down yachts, and maybe arrest someone for having a nickel bag of weed. Christ, the most dangerous thing we’ve ever done was lay boom around a chemical spill.’
Rodriguez stuck her head back in as Bonhomme built up steam, saw what was unfolding, and stepped back out into the passageway. Bookbinder excused himself and stepped out after her, catching her elbow. ‘Ripple . . .’
Rodriguez looked at the deck, shook her head, left.
Bookbinder’s heart sank. Just a kid. The long line of whatifs began to blossom in his head, already doing the blame dance that held himself responsible for each person under his command. He’d lost people before, his first on the journey to the Indian FOB in the Source. They were all volunteers, and they knew what they’d signed up for, but it never got any easier. Ripple was his minder, but she was also his subordinate and reminded him of the woman his own daughter might someday become.
He thought of the corpses of the Marines, smoking in the hallway behind him as he made his way to Oscar Britton’s cell. Harlequin bears those deaths, he thought. I’m responsible for enough without taking that on. But he couldn’t help turn the scenario over in his mind. Was there something he could have done to save them? They were already dead when you stepped out into the hallway. They would have stopped you, killed you. Remember that.
Bookbinder stepped back onto the bridge. Ripple was dead, and it wasn’t going to be for nothing.
‘The Coast Guard is still part of the military,’ Bookbinder said, ‘no matter what the mission is.’
‘Horseshit,’ Bonhomme said. ‘We’re not ready to handle monsters from another dimension.’
Bookbinder took a step back, giving the man his space. A smile slowly blossomed across his face. The more he tried to control it, the more it spread. After a moment, he shook his head and laughed.
Bonhomme blinked. ‘What . . . what’s . . .’
The ship listed and the goblins churned in the water and Bookbinder laughed until he had to wipe his eyes. ‘Sorry about that.’
Bonhomme’s panic gave way to a hint of anger. That was something.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bookbinder said again. ‘It’s just that, this happened to me. I thought it was this big . . . cross to bear, like Job in the Bible. But I get it now.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Bonhomme asked.
‘Do you know what I did before I became your branch LNO?’
‘Only what I heard on the Internet. That you pissed off the government to save that FOB. That you’re some kind of a folk hero.’
Bookbinder laughed again. ‘Right. That’s me, a fucking folk hero. No, skipper, I was a J1. I pushed paper. Before I came up Latent, I’d never pulled a trigger off a range. And then came FOB Frontier. First I had to fight. Then I had to lead. I was suddenly responsible for thirty thousand men and women and a couple of billion dollars of equipment in the middle of a war zone. I kept shaking my fists at the sky, and crying, “I wasn’t trained for this! I’m the admin guy!” I compared my insides to other people’s outsides. I kept thinking that the 11B types around me were spit out into the world steel-eyed and ready to kill.
‘And now I’m standing here looking at you, salty as hell, running cutters for what? Ten years?’
Bonhomme’s eyes narrowed. ‘Thirteen.’
‘Thirteen years.’ Bookbinder nodded. ‘Master of his element. I’m realizing that everyone has this experience. All of a sudden, you’re in the hot seat, and you feel like a fucking fraud. Am I right?’
Bonhomme said nothing.
‘Of course I’m right. But that’s everyone. We’re all frauds. We’re all just pretending that we know what we’re doing. The trick is to pretend so well that you convince yourself long enough to get through the rough spot.
‘This is your crucible moment, only you can’t see it because you’re in it.’ He reached out and gently put his hands on Bonhomme’s shoulders again. ‘But I can see it. Because I just went through it myself. And I can tell you, the guy who comes out on the other side isn’t going to recognize the guy you are now. But that guy needs the guy you are now to pull the fuck together. You can do this. Believe me. I know.’
Bonhomme stared.
‘I was a paper-pusher, skipper, and I saved a division. You clean buoys for a living? Fine. You can save this ship.’
He stepped back, folded his arms. ‘Now, skipper. I’m a landlubber. You’re
the cutterman. Tell me how we get out of here.’
Bonhomme shook his head, looked at the deck. ‘Engines at full can do sixteen knots, depending on how bad they’re damaged.’
‘Why are we . . . leaning over like this?’
‘Listing,’ Bonhomme corrected him. ‘Could be a flooded compartment. Could be level problems with the ballast tanks. Could even be that a lot of gear slid around when we got hit. Question is whether or not we’re taking on water. I’ll know as soon as Rodriguez gets the report from engineering.’
Keep him talking. ‘Okay. So, what if the goblins come back?’
Bonhomme frowned. ‘I can put the rifles in the radar mast, they should be able to sight down the bow from there. I can put a rifle in each of the boat cranes to cover the stern. Keep the shotguns and pistols on the hatches into the superstructure.’
Bonhomme was warming to the task. ‘We’ve got the Mark-79 flares, and those are practically incendiary bullets right there. The Mark-127’s would probably start a nice fire if the bad guys are packed onto the deck . . .’ He looked up at Bookbinder’s blank expression. ‘They’re illumination flares, burn hotter than hell. We use them to light up the water when we’re searching for people.’
‘Right,’ Bookbinder said. ‘How many do we have?’
‘Depends on how much water we’ve taken on and where, but either way, not enough.’
They both went silent at that.
Bonhomme looked up suddenly, eyes widening. ‘OC!’
‘Okaaaay,’ Bookbinder drawled.
‘Sorry. Oleoresin Capsicum. Pepper spray. We use it on boardings.’
‘I know what pepper spray is. I don’t think you’re going to get away with handcuffing those goblins, skipper.’
Bonhomme smiled. ‘You ever been exposed?’
Bookbinder shook his head. He’d been shot at, blown up, punched, kicked, and even stabbed, but nobody had ever sprayed him with OC.
Bonhomme’s smile widened. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking, sir. It’s like having your skin held to a hot frying pan for hours, while your eyes are filled with ground glass, and you suffocate.’