Элизабет Мун - Into the Fire

“How many people, how many locations?”

“We know the number of people, but not the locations. And that’s the first task we’re working on. Rafe and Teague have both surveillance and computer skills, but they’re not from here, and we can’t use anything in the Defense Department.”

“Not exactly my field,” Rodney said. “But you know the origin point of their travels… should be possible to track transport patterns using a program developed by Vatta for tracking its shipments. Pretty common sort of program; shouldn’t arouse any suspicions.”

“Excellent,” Rafe said. “I used something similar to track movements when my family was abducted years ago.”

Teague shifted but didn’t say anything.

“Secure communications here, right?” Rodney asked.

“Yes. And a dedicated line to Vatta’s servers.” Rafe answered before Ky could.

“Perfect. I’ll need the originating site, and any intermediate sites you’ve identified. Also any information about which people are where.” He looked around. “But what did you want first, the house security made more secure, or your people found?”

“House security,” Rafe said, Teague a beat behind him.

“Find the people,” Ky said. Rodney looked back and forth among them all. “Rafe, you or Teague could upgrade the house security with the supplies Rodney brought, but he’s the only one who knows the Vatta program for tracking shipments. We can do both.”

“Ky—I just wanted—” Rafe began, but Teague interrupted.

“I can do it, Rafe. I’ll call if I need your help. You left the stuff on our list upstairs, Rodney, right?”

“Yes,” Rodney said, with a glance back at Ky.

“Rafe and I are both qualified. No putting things in upside down or the wrong order.” Teague smiled.

“But if—”

“I’ve got this,” Teague said, sketching a salute to Ky on his way out.

Rafe moved closer to Ky. “All right then—let’s find the people. Do your magic, Rodney.”

An hour later, with visuals up on three different screens, Rodney had broken through the first problem. “They’re supposed to have their locators on—you’ve cited the military code—but they turned them off to hide from normal tracker activity. But we’ve got visual as well, and they might as well have painted themselves bright orange. Vehicles without locators traveling from or through the points you defined on the days you defined are now showing up as outliers.”

Colored lines now originated at the airfield near where a flight from Miksland could have landed. Rodney pointed to one particular trace. “Four vehicles without locators departed your starting point A on the date you suggested, spaced ninety minutes apart. Three took one route; one took another. That jibes with what you said about the more senior enlisted being separated from the rest early on. Vehicle one, registered to Slotter Key Defense Department, headed southwest on Highway 21W to a destination fifteen kilometers outside Marlotta, with a label of TRANSFER SUPPLY STATION.”

“The trace goes beyond that,” Ky said.

“Yes, but someone could have been offloaded at that station. Can’t be sure. It was there four hours and twenty minutes, at least. Then it ended some twenty-two kilometers past Egger’s Crossing, at Clemmander Rehabilitation Center. Not defined anywhere as a military installation. Was there for an hour and a half, then drove back to Egger’s Crossing where the locator was turned back on.”

“So you think some of them are there?” Ky asked.

“Very good chance,” Rafe said before Rodney could. “We need to find out who owns the rehab center and what kinds of patients it takes.”

“Did that,” Rodney said, pulling up another image. “This is what Clemmander looks like.” A brick building set in green lawns, fronted by a paved approach with three vehicles sitting on it. “It’s listed as a facility under Rehabilitation Services, Ltd., a subsidiary of Slotter Key Medical Services Incorporated. They have at least one facility on each continent; several here on Arland. Site says they have contracts with ‘major employers, private and governmental, to provide residential rehabilitative care for employees suffering from a variety of mental and physical impairments. Not open for uncontracted services.’”

“Very handy,” Rafe said. “A way to hide people you want hidden… do we have any satellite imagery of the place?”

“Yes, but it’s sited in an awkward location, so there’s not nearly as much satellite coverage as we’d like. For details, the local planning authority’s authorization, eighteen years ago when it was built, may be more useful. Included was the site plan, building plans and elevations, and at least some of the security measures. Here’s the only satellite view I could find; the standard mapping image blurs out, like you said it did for Miksland itself. But here’s the authorization paperwork.”

“Looks exactly like a small prison,” Rafe said. “Four pods holding five prisoners each in isolation. Staff security—guards, essentially. Kitchen, exercise area… a mini-prison. Except—” Rafe looked at the images of proposed client room décor. “—this is more like a private clinic. Beds, not steel shelves. Chair. Recreation area with tables, chairs, couches, bookshelves.”

“Pods aren’t equal,” Ky said, scowling at the tiny figures in the drawings then back to the descriptive text. “And there’s another level. Look—the ground-level rooms have the nice beds and so on… the upper one, the rooms are smaller, thicker-walled, no windows. Described as ‘treatment rooms for more severe conditions.’”

“Perfect for isolating problem people,” Rodney said.

“What about the other vehicles?” Ky looked at Rodney.

“Traced for two days. The first went north, up the east-coast road, no locator, then turned west at Sarl Harbor, then north again to a psychiatric residential facility within five kilometers of an AirDefense base, and a hundred thirty kilometers west of Port Major. Eleven days after that, a locator-free prison transport left there headed for Port Major, and arrived at the Joint Services HQ base west of the city. It lists a military prison sited near the east margin of the base, well away from any other buildings. That must be where the women here escaped from. The others turned west earlier—look here—” He pointed to the image. “Almost all the way across the continent, one to another rehab center a hundred and ten kilometers north of Portmentor, and the other to a rehab center two hundred thirteen kilometers south of Portmentor. And yes, all the rehab centers are operated by the selfsame Rehabilitation Services, Ltd.” Rodney looked pleased with himself, and Ky thought he had reason.

“We need more people on the team,” Rafe said. “Three sites—we’ll never get them all if we start with one: they’ll know we’re on the move.”

“Four sites. There could still be prisoners incarcerated here in Port Major.” Ky stared at the trace on the screen. “But you’re right, Rafe. We’re going to need more personnel.”

“There’s got to be an equivalent specialist on this planet, if I only knew—” Rafe said. He stopped as Teague came back into the room.

“I’ll check,” Teague said. “But how do we know who they’re working for? We’re not natives here; we don’t have the networks. Nor Sera Ky; she’s been gone too long.”

“Hostage extrication?” Rodney said. “Sera Grace had a list, but none she really trusted, she said. Though maybe since then—”

“It would take all of—” Teague paused, clearly editing what he’d been about to say. “That other person’s full team, all of it, to pull off multiple extrications involving the same source.”