by John Ringo
“Okay, the cops are pulling up,” Rune said, counting units. “Five cars. The ground party is under ten, they are leaving a significant group with the vehicles.” Paul used the optical zoom feature on the mast mounted camera to scan faces closely.
“I don’t see Dominguez. Looks like the third or fourth guy to hold a deputy chief spot, instead. Only light arms in view.”
A few double clicks on the speaker informed him that Smith, Durante, their team leads and drivers were all hearing him clearly.
* * *
Oldryskya wasn’t wearing the tactical outfit that she had come to prefer. The decision was not hers.
“You don’t need body armor and boots,” was Tradittore’s least profane comment. “Put on something nice. I don’t want anyone thinking that we have a thing for cop chicks.”
Matricardi had endorsed his objections. Neither had ever been aware of the details of her experience prior to leaving Central Asia and neither particularly cared about the recent polish applied by the BotA’s security team.
The late summer sun kept the rooftop park from being too chilly, but the thin material of her cocktail dress combined with the breeze off the river wasn’t helping. She remained in character, playing the part of the dumb bimbo. It let her ignore Tradittore, who so far had managed to spend most of his time leering. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much that made her skin crawl.
On the roof of the Acre, matters developed quickly.
Risky had been to her share of meetings, but none had devolved as rapidly as this one. Overture’s goons began pointing fingers at the team from MetBank, whose BERT had tangled with both a very large number of infected and Overture’s BERT early in the day. The kicker was a moment later.
* * *
Tom Smith knew that his team was on overwatch. It didn’t stop him from feeling like he was missing something, somewhere.
During their last call Kohn had connected him to the mayor’s office. The current deputy assistant was on point for the meeting. Nominally three levels down the hierarchy, he was the seniormost official who remained in the city. He wasn’t particularly delighted with the situation either, and was happy to have Smith kick things off.
Tom heard Rune’s commentary, and he heard Durante check in with his teams’ status. Since Tom had been the one to call the meeting, it was his to start.
“Everyone, please take your seats,” Tom said. “I have talked to His Honor the Deputy Assistant Mayor Sphalos, and he has graciously allowed me to expedite this meeting. There will be only two agenda items, a summary of the MetBank and Overture BERT response on 96th and Lex and a discussion on what we are going to do differently to ensure further safe operations. The term the U.S. military uses is ‘deconfliction.’ We need to smooth things out on the subject of the encounter and ensure we don’t conflict in a similar manner again.”
He had planned to skip the usual preliminaries in order to get straight to the point. Immediately after his introduction the general yelling and mob scene started. Everyone was tense and everyone started shouting and pointing fingers at once. That wouldn’t do.
He moved his microphone closer to one of the speakers mounted to the forward edge of the table, generating painful squeals of feedback.
“There will be a complete discussion of the tactical situation, the Rules of Engagement and discussion on asset territory,” he said, looking around the table. “That does NOT mean a shouting match. As the largest financial services BERT operator here, may I confirm that this agenda suits Mr. Overture. Sir?”
He looked straight at Overture, who was frowning at the painfully loud sound.
“Sure, sure,” he said. The big Jamaican was digging unproductively in one ear with a spatulate finger. “As long as you get clear on why da fuck there so many zombi and why my boys got shot!” At the mention of the shootings, more yelling started in Overture’s group, quickly matched by MetBank and other groups.
More amplified feedback.
“Fuck, stop yelling already!” yelled Overture. This time it sounded a little more heartfelt, and his group instantly quieted, followed eventually by the rest.
Tom allowed himself a single, internal smile.
Ah, there we go, back on track.
* * *
Paul kept scanning the group, which was adding people even as the meeting started. The rooftop was about as full as they expected. He saw a number of people clap their hands over their ears just as the slightly delayed audio of distorted feedback sounded in his headset. Paul smiled. He had seen Smith use the same technique during a testy Occupy protest.
He counted the number of people in each delegation. Overture’s group was nearly as large as the rest of the meeting, combined. He passed that along on the shared channel.
The pan-tilt-zoom camera that he was using was really good.
“Hey Durante,” Paul said as he double-checked a familiar face in Matricardi’s little group. “I spotted your buddy Khabayeva. She is back to playing for her team. I think that I like this outfit better than I liked the one that you picked out for her.”
“You see her?” Durante came back right away.
“Yep,” Paul said. “Third row, behind Matricardi. Next to the guy with the suspiciously large exercise bag hanging from his shoulder. Which he has declined to set down.”
“Ah. Yep. Copy. She doesn’t look happy.”
Kaplan was with Smith.
“Could we spend more time on the ‘suspiciously large bag,’ please?” he asked.
“Don’t get your tits in an uproar, Kap.” Durante’s laconic voice both reassured and irritated Paul. “There are at least three guys in that meeting carrying bags big enough and heavy enough to be holding a belt-fed. Each of them is going to be dropped in the first quarter second if someone starts a drama.”
“Wait,” Kaplan commed. “Did you guys catch that?”
* * *
By prearrangement, Tom asked the MetBank Chief Security Officer to give a short rundown on the incident that had yielded massive numbers of infected. The CSO didn’t get very far before objections and profanity from Overture’s contingent drowned him out. One stood up and started yelling, but sat again when a more dapper man stood and addressed the crowd.
“We are sure sorry that one of MetBank’s people got shot,” the well-dressed ganger said reasonably. “I used to work there, I know those guys. But you know, I am even sorrier that I lost two good men because the MetBank BERT couldn’t and wouldn’t coordinate their operations, although I tried to talk to their lead several times.”
Tom recognized a pitch when he heard one. This wasn’t a spur of the moment speech. The Overture man continued.
“I am sorry that their team lead, standing right there, had one of her boys, also standing right there, put a bullet in the head of one of mine, without checking the diagnosis of infection,” the gangster continued. “I am sorry that their lack of capacity placed everyone at risk. The good news is that we are ready to completely coordinate and ‘deconflict’ the city wide BERT management.”
“Boss, the guy speaking and waving his hands is Gutierrez.” In his ear Tom heard Rune’s calm voice. “Army vet and the tactical brains behind Overture’s BERT organization. Used to work at MetBank. I think we are about to hear the real reason that Overture looks so smug.”
Tom nodded his head as if acknowledging the speaker. Several others tried to drown Gutierrez out.
“No, please, let him finish,” Smith said after he overrode them with the microphone. “Everyone just hold on for the moment. Mr. Gutierrez, please continue.”
* * *
“I don’t see Dominguez,” Matricardi whispered to Tradittore. “Do you know the cop next to the guys from the mayor’s office?”
“No,” Tradittore replied, scanning from side to side. “I don’t see Kohn, either. If Smith wasn’t sitting there, as exposed as we are, I would say that this is a setup.”
Khabayeva agreed. Their little group was
far outnumbered. She was scanning the crowd and briefly looked at Smith. She couldn’t tell if he recognized her or not. She rather hoped that he hadn’t, but the impossibility of her situation prevented her from even articulating why that was.
In front of her, Matricardi palpably stiffened. Tradittore spoke a single phrase under his breath.
“Porca troia!” He must have keyed his radio because his next comments were even lower, but distinct. “Ralph—get the car running. Georgie—be ready with the big gun. I think we are going to be leaving in a hurry.”
She snapped her attention back to the meeting. One of Overture’s goons was talking now.
* * *
“Our organization will oversee and coordinate all the BERT efforts,” Gutierrez continued. “We can embed NYPD observers from the NYSI into our operation center to provide top oversight.”
“We recognize that we have been harvesting more…raw materials for the critically needed medicines that all of our organizations and indeed the entire city must have. We propose to sell your companies up to thirty percent of our total production at cost if we can directly manage all of the BERTs and are given access to the facilities and staff at Mt. Sinai.”
Tom didn’t let his alarm show on his face. If the NYPD agreed, then it was the end of the cartel, or at least of the bank’s ability to steer it. It also meant the loss of control over their own teams.
Not good.
Outwardly, Tom remained relaxed and replied. It was time to end the meeting, which had spun entirely out of his control.
“That’s a very interesting offer, and provides a lot of things for us all to think about,” he said with a polite nod directed towards Overture. “However, speaking for the financial services groups now present and for those whose proxies we hold, I think we need a day to confer with our regional officers and respond authoritatively.”
Overture agreed and waved expansively even as other teams protested. Tom picked out one manager that he knew and tried to reassure him. He really wanted to hear what Overture was saying to the mayoral contingent, but missed most of what was said.
The details might not matter as much as what seemed clear. Overture was in. The cartel was out.
He spoke into his radio.
“Gravy, as soon as we get back in the car and roll, break down the teams and get back to the barn.”
* * *
“Look, Sergeant, I’m ready to get out there,” Astroga said. “And you’re down two guys. I need to get outta this TOC,” she added, referring to the Tactical Operations Center that was surrounded by tall sandbag and concrete barriers.
“I know that I’m a seventy-three Lima,” she added. “But I’ve got the soul of an eleven Bravo.”
Copley and his depleted team were thirteen Bravos, which was Army speak for artillery specialists. Astroga was a clerk-typist, and while Copley was willing to concede that she was the most un-clerky private that he had ever met, it was a long stretch to bringing her on a presence mission under the worsening conditions. And between a few unexplained absences and yesterday’s casualty, they were shorthanded…
“Who got you guys the best rooms at the Hyatt?” asked Astroga, pursuing her perceived advantage. “Who kept colonel whatshisname from dragging your team even further uptown by losing the paperwork and radio traffic? Who scrounged up some extra ammo?”
“All right, Astroga, all right.” Copley was tired. “You can come. But you stay close to Randall, see? And you keep your chamber empty and don’t shoot anything unless he or I say to shoot. Got it?”
“You got it, Sarge!” Astroga said happily. She pulled a partially rigged plate carrier out from behind her desk while Copley stomped out.
In the background, Randall grinned. He had been sharpening his personal knife, working on the oversized blade with a funny bend in the middle. Randall had previously defended his preference for an honest-to-god Himalayan kukri, winning every argument with his sergeant. As a result, he had a good sense for Copley’s temper and patience and had seen noncom’s capitulation coming from a mile away. Some days it was good to be part of the E-4 mafia with none of the headaches of a sergeant.
“Hey Specialist Randall, how many mags do you think I should carry?” the irrepressible private asked. “Three or six? I’ve only got three.”
“‘I brought too many bullets,’ said no one ever,” replied Randall. He fished around in the large para bag at his feet and slid four more magazines over to her before returning to his chore. “One extra to keep in your rifle.”
“How are you carrying your CamelBak?” Astroga went on, referring to the water bladder with a drinking tube that troops could use while staying in motion, without fiddling with a belt canteen and pouch. “Is it worth the weight?”
“Ditch the shoulder straps and clip it directly to the back of your carrier,” Randall said, stropping his knife, still smiling. “If I don’t need it, I can dump it. After ammo, water is the second thing that you can’t have too much of.”
The private began manipulating her rig before bothering Randall again.
“You got any extra MOLLE clips?” she asked, pronouncing the word for the Army’s standardized attachment system like the common girl’s name.
Randall dipped back into his bag and tossed Astroga a ziplock filled with black plastic clips.
Astroga shoved magazines into the pouches on the front of her carrier before fiddling quietly with the back of her platecarrier and her drinking bladder. Next she looked at her issue bayonet, which was much shorter than the kukri that the larger man was honing. Then she looked back to Randall. Her eyes gleamed.
“Hey, Randall, can I borrow your knife?”
Randall suspended smiling instantly.
“No.”
* * *
“No, I can’t suspend at this time, Tom,” Bateman said, frowning.
Richard Bateman was torn.
He trusted his managing director for security. Tom had been right to initiate Zeus when he called and Bateman, now, knew it had been…unwise to throw Tom to the sharks instead of supporting the security decision. And he knew that the situation had gone from bad to worse. Everybody knew that even if they didn’t have the details.
Still, the bank was running. The entire system was still lurching along. He had his own contacts in the government. Just last spring he had hosted both New York senators to a very nice sit down at Per Se, where table reservations ran out weeks in advance. Just this week, that same pair and others in a position to know assured him that the CDC was on top of a vaccine that didn’t involve “processing higher-order primates.”
He hadn’t shared the fact that he already had a vaccine, of course.
Still, the extra National Guard troops, the relatively smoothly functioning backup trading sites, the manageable drops in the major indexes—things were still survivable. Not good, mind you. But not apocalyptical.
“Rich, it’s time to go.” Tom Smith replied, making it plain that he didn’t agree. “We no longer have visibility into what City Hall is going to do next. We can surmise that Overture has the whip hand and is in control, or about to be in control, of both the remaining police and the National Guard. That means they will control access to roads, rivers and heliports. If they salvage the situation, which I don’t think is likely, then I don’t want us to be the public example they make for ‘bad guy who made a vaccine.’ Someone else can have that honor.”
He grinned, the wry expression suddenly taking years off of his age.
“And if they don’t salvage the situation in time to prevent a complete break, then I still don’t want to be caught in the city without an assured way out.
“Either way, we don’t want to be here.”
“What do you recommend?” Bateman said thoughtfully. “I mean, the details.”
“We do this per plan, in phases,” Smith replied. “The last noncritical staff, such as had stayed, were released on paid leave last week. All remaining personnel move out of Manhattan and Jersey Cit
y and immediately shift to a combination of the two complete refuges and the alternate trading sites. The remaining market volume can be handled from the those two, anyhow. Tomorrow we pull the handle, and you, the family, the remaining leadership and staff all get out.”
“Are you sure?” the CEO said, still pensive. “Because, Tom, you need to be really sure. I look out the window, and sure there are fires, but not any more than I remember from last week, or the week before that. I am still reading fresh copy from the NYT and the FT. Most importantly, the Fed hasn’t issued an official caution yet.”
He referred to the U.S. Federal Reserve, which was part of the government system that oversaw financial markets based in the United States. During times of crisis, the “Fed” could suspend markets temporarily. During periods of expected interruption due to extreme weather, for example, they could issue a “caution” that they might intervene in normal trading as the result of an emergency.
Smith shook his head decisively and pointed out the window, where the glow of a large fire was visible, miles away on Staten Island.
“Rich, that fire has been burning for three days,” Tom said, dropping his hand to his side. “It looks the same cause it’s slowly consuming half of Staten Island. No one in City Hall is even mentioning that it exists. If we tried to get a Gold call it’s even money that the secure phone bridge wouldn’t hold because telecoms are screwed. The CDC updates have been a cut and paste job for the last two weeks. The National Guard commander went back to Albany ‘for consultations’ and the local deputy has withdrawn his troops from anything but ‘presence patrols’ near their laagers. What else do you need to know?”
Rich Bateman could sense that his man Smith began to push the discussion and then deliberately paused. This was his first time dealing with “Train” Smith in full “go” mode. While he watched, Smith appeared to reach an internal decision and picked up a red intelligence binder.
“Boss, the few sources of information that we retain will be gone in a day or three,” he said, dropping the binder on the table, making a slapping sound. “Those sources of information drive our ability to monitor the expiration date of the very expensive evacuation option that the bank has purchased. I can guarantee that tomorrow I’ll still have access to the means for us to evacuate. The day after, I can’t. Using the option now costs you a little margin. If you wait, the option will expire, and that could cost us everything.”