Robert Asprin: The Cold Cash War

Finally his diligence was rewarded-a small flicker of movement by the third hut. Moving slowly, the major loosened the strap on his pistol. His gamble of carrying the extra bulk of a silenced weapon was about to pay off. Drawing the weapon, he eased it forward and settled the luminous sights in the vicinity of the movement, waiting for a second tip-off to fix the guard's location.

Suddenly he holstered the weapon and drew his knife instead. If there was one, there would be two, and the sound of his shot, however muffled, would tip the second guard to sound the alarm. He'd just have to do this the hard way.

He had the guard spotted now, moving silently from but to hut. There was a pattern to his search, and that pattern would kill him. Squat and check shadows beside the hut, move, check window, move, check window, move, hesitate, step into alley between the huts with rifle at ready, hesitate three beats to check shadows in alley, move, squat and check side shadows, move...

Apparently the guard thought the intruder, if he existed, would be moving deeper into the compound and was hoping to come to him silently from behind. The only trouble was the intruder was behind him.

Tidwell smiled. Come on, sonny! Just a few more steps. Silently he drew his legs under him and waited. The guard had reached the but even with the turret he was crouched behind. Squat, move, check window, move, check window, move, hesitate, step into alley...

He moved forward in a soft glide. For three heartbeats the guard was stationary, peering into the shadows in the alley between the huts. In those three heartbeats Tidwell closed the distance between them in four long strides, knife held low and poised. His left arm snaked forward and snapped his forearm across the guard's windpipe, ending any possibility of an outcry as the knife darted home under the left shoulder blade.

The guard's reflexes were good. As the knife blade retracted into its handle, the man managed to flinch with surprise before his body went into the forced, suit-induced limpness ordered by his belt computer. Either the man had incredible reflexes or his suit was malfunctioning.

Tidwell eased the "dead" body to the ground, then swiftly removed the ID bracelet. As he rose to go, he glanced at the man's face and hesitated involuntarily. Even in the dark he knew him-Clancy! He should have recognized him from his style. Clancy smiled and winked to acknowledge mutual recognition. You couldn't do much else in a "dead" combat suit.

Tidwell paused long enough to smile and tap his fallen rival on the forehead with the point of his knife. Clancy rolled his eyes in silent acknowledgement. He was going to have a rough time continuing his argument that knives were inefficient after tonight.

Then the major was moving again. Friendship was fine, but he had a job to do and he was running behind schedule. A diversion can only last so long. Quickly he backtracked Clancy's route, resheathing his knife and drawing his pistol as he went. A figure materialized out of the shadows ahead.

"I told you there wouldn't be anything there!" came the whispered comment.

Tidwell shot him in the chest, his weapon making a muffled "pfut," and the figure crumpled. Almost disdainfully, the major relieved him of his ID bracelet. Obviously this man wouldn't last long. In one night he had made two major mistakes: ignoring a sound in the night, and talking on silent guard. It was men like this who gave mercenaries a bad name.

He paused to orient himself. Up two more huts and over three. Abandoning much of his earlier stealth, he moved swiftly onward in a low crouch, pausing only at intersections to check for hostile movement. He had a momentary advantage with the two quadrant guards out of action, but it would soon come to an abrupt halt when the roaming guards made their rounds.

Then he was at his target, a but indistinguishable from any of the other barracks or duty huts in the compound. The difference was that Intelligence confirmed and cross-confirmed that this was it! The command post of the compound! Inside this but was the nerve center of the defense, all tactical officers as well as the communication equipment necessary to coordinate the troops.

Tidwell unslung his pack and eased it to the ground next to him. Opening the flap, he withdrew four charges, checking the clock on each to insure synchronization. He had seen beautiful missions ruled invalid because time of explosion (TOE) could not be verified, and it wasn't going to happen to him. He double-checked the clocks. He didn't know about the communications or oil companies, but the Timex industry should be making a hefty profit out of this war.

Tucking two charges under his arm and grasping one in each hand, he made a quick circuit of the building, pausing at each corner just long enough to plant a charge on the wall. The fourth charge he set left-handed, the silenced pistol back in his right hand, eyes probing the dark. It was taking too long! The roaming guards would be around any minute now.

Rising to his feet, he darted away, running at high speed now, stealth completely abandoned. Two huts away he slid to a stop, dropping prone and flattening against the wall of the hut. Without pausing to catch his breath, his left hand went to his throat mike.

"Decker! They're set! Blow it!"

Nothing happened.

"Decker! Can you read me? Blow it!" He tapped the mike with his fingernail.

Still nothing.

"Blow it, damn you..."

POW!

Tidwell rolled to his feet and darted around the corner. Even though it sounded loud in the stillness of night, that was no explosion. Someone was shooting, probably at him.

"Decker! Blow it!"

POW! POW!

No mistaking it now. He was drawing fire. Cursing, he snapped off a round in the general direction of the shots, but it was a lost cause and he knew it. Already he could hear shouts as more men took up the pursuit. If he could only lead them away from the charges. Ducking around a corner, he flattened against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Again he tried the mike.

"Decker! "

The door of the but across the alley burst open, flooding the scene with light. As if in a nightmare, he snapped off a shot at the figure silhouetted in the door as he scrambled backwards around the corner.

POW!

He was dead. There was no impact of the "bullet," but his suit collapsed, taking him with it as it crumpled to the ground. Even if he could move now, which he couldn't, it would do him no good. The same quartz light beam that scored the fatal hit on his suit deactivated his weapons. He could do nothing but lie there helplessly as his killer approached to relieve him of his ID bracelet. The man bending over him raised his eyebrows in silent surprise when he saw the rank of his victim, but he didn't comment on it. You don't talk to a corpse.

As the man moved on, Tidwell sighed and settled back to wait. No one would reactivate his suit until thirty minutes after the last shot was fired. His only hope would be if Decker would detonate the charges, but he knew that wouldn't happen. It was another foul-up.

Damn radios! Another mission blown to hell!

The major sighed again. Lying there in a dead suit was preferable to actually being dead, but that might be open to debate when he reported in. Someone's head would roll over tonight's failure. As the senior officer, he was the logical choice.

"Hey, Fred! wait a minute!"

Fred Willard stopped with one hand on the glass doors and turned to see Ivan Kramitz waving at him from the sidewalk. Forcing a smile, he waved back and waited to see what the son-of-a-bitch wanted.

He hated Ivan with a passion, and knew it was reciprocated. Their dislike for each other was not particularly surprising as the men were physical and cultural opposites competing successfully in identical positions. Ivan was a recent immigrant to America-some said a refugee from the Russo-Chinese War-while Fred was from a long line of fringe-poor Americans. Where Ivan was the image of a Hungarian fencing master in appearance, poise, and arrogance, Fred knew his rounded figure and rolling gait brought to mind a beer-swilling, red-necked cop. Add to this their age difference-Fred in his mid-fifties, Ivan in his early thirties-and the fact that they were employed by rival corporations, and it was inevitable that each saw his rival as the personification of everything he hated and fought against.