Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

“That was a power play.”

“Yes. He wants us to know how connected he is, and that he thinks he’s better thereby.”

“How long are we staying?”

“Thirty minutes. Want to play a game of pool?”

“Sure. I’m terrible at it and will laugh at myself.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Aramis was eager to get on with the mission, but there was always groundwork. He knew it was important, and he took pains to make sure it was done properly.

In addition to the bailout bullion and cash, he’d been assigned discreet assets to use for his part of the groundwork. He was expected to furnish maps of as many areas as possible, with photos, on a non-connected system or actual paper. He usually went for both. Basic supplies of food, water, clothing and rucks would be stashed in several safe locations, along with weapons as they were able to acquire them by purchase, trade, battlefield pickups or outright theft from anyone who on paper wasn’t allowed to have them. Once, they’d even robbed a military armory. That had been life and death at the time, though. Planning ahead meant it might be unlawful, but shouldn’t come at a cost to anyone.

Cady and Jason had two safehouses arranged already, but he would like a third. No one else needed to know about it.

He reflected that three years before he’d been a pure mercenary, attracted by gobs of cash and the potential excitement. It now was more home to him than the military had been, still better paid, but with fantastic esprit de corps and a better sense of accomplishment. They kept people alive when no one else could. He took the task seriously. Still, there was a thrill of ancient gunslinging and swordselling in acquiring the assets they needed. Weapons, explosives and bullion made for a fine simulation of an adventure game, in the real world.

The beer wasn’t very good, but he finished it rather than waste it. He finished cutting the current map, saved it on both the “phones” he had wire-connected to the unit, and ran six copies through the printer on tough polymer sheet. The phones had no circuits for communication, only memory storage and display. One printed copy would go to each bugout location, and one each to Jason, Alex and himself.

At some point he’d have to make a shopping trip.

Elke rose early. She was about to try something she hadn’t much experience with. Diplomacy.

Neatly dressed complete to a blazer, she took an apple and a chunk of havarti cheese for breakfast, and went down to the vehicle apron.

They had access to several, but for now, that little three wheel runabout was fine. It was different from the military’s, but State had several. Dressed like this, no one should remark on her. She rolled for the gate.

The guard held up a pad, and she nodded, slowed and printed out.

It took only minutes to reach the engineer compound. It had nice landscaping and a proud sign they’d milled themselves. That was a positive indicator. She drove in carefully. There were no shop markers. That was decent OPSEC, but she’d know what she was looking for, and yes, that was it. She parked.

The shop in question was separated slightly from the others, had additional cofferdamming, and two items that were trophies. One was a section of nose cone off an H-17 rocket, the other a twisted corkscrew of metal that most people might take for mere fragmentation debris, but she knew had been explosively formed in a combination of practice and recreation. It was a reasonably good job, though she could do better.

She pushed the button and waited patiently. It was a full two minutes before someone opened a physical hatch and looked through. He was early thirties, lean and unremarkable.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

“I’m Eleonora Sykora, Executive Protection Agent and Munitions Disposal Specialist in Charge, Ripple Creek Security. I will be operating in your area and need to consult with your shop chief.”

“One moment. And can I see your ID, please?”

She handed over her primary ID-she had a duplicate in case of emergencies, and several local and Earth IDs in case evasion was necessary. There was no reason it would be necessary here, but Jason issued the instructions and she concurred.

The man glanced it over and said, “Very well, please stand by.” He closed the hatch.

Another full minute elapsed before the door was opened. The greeter stood next to a woman, a master sergeant.

She said, “Agent Sykora? I’m Master Sergeant Corbelle.” She sounded French, though the accent was unusual. Caribbean? Quebecois?

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Tea?” Corbelle indicated an office.

“Thank you.”

Elke adjusted her seat to keep her back from the door, accepted a cup from the assistant.

“I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“Sorry. Sergeant Lang. Welcome to Mtali.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, Agent Sykora, you’re rather well known in some circles.”

“More than I would like, on this tour, unfortunately.”

“Yes, I figured that wasn’t intentional publicity. What can I help you with?”

“I wish to be polite so that you know I am operating in your area. I am available for disposal work if not on post with my principal. I’m available for consult.”

“We appreciate that. It’s been quiet, though your last tour had an interesting outcome.”

“Which do you mean? I’ve had several.” Did they mean Govannon, where she’d used a small nuclear core as a distraction? Or…

“Celadon, where you did recovery work after that home-brewed device.”

“Ah, yes. A poorly executed contraption that was most exciting for a while.” She smiled slightly, then sipped her tea. It was quite good.

Corbelle said, “ ‘Most exciting,’ indeed. I wish I’d been there, but I’m also glad I wasn’t.”

“Are there any special rules or restrictions on operations here?”

“As far as demolitions?”

Elke nodded.

“The near range, outside the South Gate, is limited to two hundred kilos per shot. The far range is outside the city, and I mean outside. The city comes to a stop and the wilderness begins. Very colonial. Out there, we’re unlimited.”

“What about military engagements? Are they restricted on munitions?”

Corbelle took a long drink, then said, “Very. They require patrol commander approval for any release. He has a key. Lethal weapons require shift commander approval from here. Support weapons may not be unlocked for two minutes.”

“And explosive munitions?”

“Prohibited except for artillery and Aerospace.”

“There seems to have been a mixup. I have need of small charges for emergency escapes, disabling pursuit vehicles, entering safe buildings during emergencies. My request apparently got rolled into the military logistics, and was cancelled.”

Corbelle smiled and shook her head. “No, Elke, ‘Demigoddess of Destruction,’ I am unable to furnish you with explosives. While I could obviously make some disappear, the tagants are unique and fresh and would positively identify the source. If any is stolen, I will have to mark you as a suspect.”

Elke grew tight and cool inside. Kurva drat. That was not how she’d wanted to start the negotiations, nor end them. There was nothing she could do, however.

She stood and said, “I remain at your disposal if need arises. Thank you for the tea.” She offered a hand briefly.

She kept the cool lump inside until she exited the building, at which point it became incandescent.

They’d lied to her all along. Even if they’d not known until arrival, Jason was the advance man, and would have had this information.

This would mean a shopping trip.

Alex didn’t sleep well. He rarely did the first night, had a lot to worry about, and had few allies to back him up. There were the twelve Ripple Creek operators here, and another team of four protecting Ahmed Anjari, but while he was that team’s putative boss, he was mostly liaison and would sign off on any logistics issues. Unless an incident called for lawyers, they weren’t his problem.