Bruce Sterling - Islands in the Net

"Just the kind of guy I am," Hesseltine admitted.

"That's it?" Laura said quietly. "You saved me just on a whim? After killing all those people?"

Hesseltine stared at her. "You're gonna piss me off in a minute... . Don't you think they'd have killed me if they knew what I was? That wasn't just your mickey-mouse indus- trial espionage, y'know. I spent months and months in a deadly deep-cover operation for the highest geopolitical stakes!

Those Yung Soo Chim guys had background checks like nobody's business, and they watched my ass like a hawk."

He leaned back. "But will I get credit? Hell, no, I won't."

He stared at his cup. "I mean, that's part of the whole undercover biz, no credit

"It was a very slick operation," said Baptiste. "Compare it to Grenada. Our attack on the Singapore criminals was surgical, almost bloodless."

Laura realized something. "You want me to be grateful."

"Well, yeah," said Hesseltine, looking up. "A little of that wouldn't be too out of line, after all the effort we put into it."

He smiled at Baptiste. "Look at that face! You should've heard her in Parliament, going on and on about Grenada. The carpet bombing took out this big mansion the Rastas gave her. It really pissed her off."

It was as if he'd stabbed her. "You killed Winston Stubbs in my house! While I was standing next to him. With my baby in my arms."

"Oh," Baptiste said, relaxing ostentatiously. "The Stubbs killing. That wasn't us. That was one of Singapore's."

"I don't believe it," Laura said, sagging-back. "We got a

FACT communique taking credit!"

"A set of initials means very little," said Baptiste. "FACT

was an old front-group. Nothing compared to our modern operations.... In truth, it was Singapore's Merlion-Commandos.

I don't think the Singapore civilian government ever knew of their actions."

"Lots of ex-paras, Berets, Spetsnaz, that sort of thing,"

Hesseltine said. "They tend to run a little wild. I mean, face it-these are guys who gave their lives to the art of warfare.

Then all of a sudden, you know, Abolition, Vienna Convention.

One day they're the shield of their nation, next day they're bums, got their walking papers, that's about it."

"Men who once commanded armies, and billions in government funds,"

Baptiste recited mournfully. "Now, nonpersons. Spurned.

Purged. Even vilified."

"By lawyers!" said Hesseltine, becoming animated. "And chickenshit peaceniks! Who would have thought it, you know?

But when it came, it was so sudden...."

"Armies belong to nation-states," said Baptiste. "It is hard to establish true military loyalty to a more modern, global institution.... But now that we own our own country- the Republic of Mali-recruiting has picked up remarkably."

"And it helps, too, that we happen to be the global good guys," Hesseltine said airily. "Any dumbass mere will fight for pay for Grenada or Singapore, or some jungle jabber

African regime. But we get committed personnel who truly recognize the global threat and are prepared to take action.

For justice." He leaned back, crossing his arms.

She knew she could not take much more of this. She was holding herself together somehow, but it was a waking night- mare. She would have understood it if they'd been heel- clicking Nazi executioners ... but to meet with this smarmy little Frenchman and this empty-eyed good-old-boy psychotic.

... The utter banality, the soullessness of it ...

She could feel the iron walls closing in on her. In a minute she was going to scream.

"You look a little pale," Hesseltine remarked. "We'll get some chow into you, that'll perk you up. There's always great chow on a sub. It's a _navy tradition." He stood up.

"Where's the head?"

Baptiste gave him directions. He watched Hesseltine go, admiringly. "More tea, Mrs. Webster?"

"Yes-thank-you ..."

"I don't think you recognize the genuine quality of Mr,

Hesseltine," Baptiste chided, pouring. "Pollard, Reilly, Sorge

... he could match with history's finest! A natural operative!

A romantic figure, orally-born out of his own true time....

Someday your grandchildren will talk about that man."

Laura's brain went into automatic pilot. She slipped into babbling 'surrealism. "This is quite a ship you have here.

Boat, I mean."

"Yes. It's a nuclear-powered American Trident, which cost over five hundred million of your country's dollars."

She nodded stupidly: right, yes, uh-huh. "So, this is an old

Cold War sub?"

"A ballistic missile sub, exactly."

"What's that mean?"

"It's a launch platform."

"What? I don't understand."

He smiled at her. "I think 'nuclear deterrent' is the concept you're searching for, Mrs. Webster."

" `Deterrent.' Deterring what?"

"Vienna, of course. I should think that would be obvious."

Laura sipped her tea. Five hundred million dollars. Nuclear powered. Ballistic missiles. It was as if he'd told her that they were reanimating corpses on board. It was far too horrible, way off the scale of reason and credibility.

There was no proof. He hadn't shown her anything. They were bullshitting her. Magic tricks. They were liars. She didn't believe it:

"You don't seem disturbed," Baptiste said approvingly.

"You're not superstitious about wicked nuclear power?"

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak aloud.

"Once there were dozens of nuclear submarines," said

Baptiste. "France had them. Britain, U.S., Russia. Training, techniques, traditions, all well established. You're in no danger-these men are thoroughly trained from the original coursework rework and documents. Plus, many modem improvements!"

"No danger."

"No."

"Then what are you going to do with me?"

He shook his head, ruefully. Bells rang. It was time to eat.

Baptiste found Hesseltine and took them both to the officers'

mess. It was a nasty little place, next to the clattering, hissing racket of the galley. They sat at a solidly anchored square table on metal chairs covered in green-and-yellow vinyl. Three officers were already there, being served by a cook in an apron and crisp paper hat.

Baptiste introduced the officers as the captain-lieutenant, captain second rank, and the senior executive officer, who was actually the junior of the bunch. He gave no names and they didn't seem to miss them. Two were Europeans, Ger- mans maybe, and the third looked Russian. They all spoke

Net English.

It was clear from the beginning that this was Hesseltine's show. Laura was some kind of battle trophy Hesseltine had - won, -blond cheesecake for the camera to dwell on during slow moments in his cinema biography. She didn't have to say anything-they didn't expect it from her. The crewmen gave her strange, muddied looks compounded of regret, spec- ulation, and some kind of truly twisted superstitious dread.

They dug into their meals: foil-covered microwave trays marked

"Aero Cubana: Clase Primera." Laura picked at her tray.

Aero Cubana. She'd flown on Aero Cubana, with David at her side and the baby in her lap. David and Loretta. Oh, God ...

The officers were edgy at first, disturbed and excited by strangers. Hesseltine oozed charm, giving them a thrilling eyewitness account of their attack on the Ali Khamenei. His vocabulary was bizarre: it was all "strikes" and "impacts"

and "targeting," no mention at all of burned and lacerated human beings. Finally, his enthusiasm broke the ice, and the officers began talking more freely, in a leaden jargon consist- ing almost entirely of acronyms.

It had been an exhilarating day for these officers of the Red

Crew. After weeks, possibly months of what could only have been inhuman suffocating tedium, they had successfully stalked . and destroyed a "terrie hard target." They were going to get some kind of reward for it, apparently-it had something to do with "Hollywood baths," whatever that meant. The Yel- low Crew, now on duty, would now spend their own six-hour shift in a boring escape run across the bottom of the Indian