Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

The stench was mostly gone, or at least the egg stench. Aramis felt it get sticky and dry, then Shaman handed him a bleach wipe. A daub with that and he felt physically clean and emotionally dirtier. But he’d do his job.

They convoyed, Cady’s team and the military in their own vehicles, split and rolled into the next location from three directions. They were a few minutes early.

Highland said, “Early is fine. We’ll avoid some of the planned response. Is the press ready, Jessie?”

“They were when I churped before the hatch closed.”

“Good.”

And there went OPSEC again. He almost wished someone would shoot her, except he was contractually obligated to jump in front of the attempt.

So here I am, protecting our principal, her pet, exceeding the contract by working on her campaign rather than her officially requested mission, getting tired, sore, pelted with rotten eggs by her detractors and taking the blame for it because we do our job well for pay.

He’d had exciting missions and hated them at the time, but they were exhilarating, and even the roughing ups he’d taken were okay in hindsight. This, though, was dirty.

They bailed out three ways, waited for her to step daintily down the steps, smiling and waving as people gradually realized she was someone important, and then realized who she was, before her banners unfurled. So some group of supporters had been ready.

At no point did she mention a bid for SecGen. He’d give her that. It was blatantly obvious what she was doing, but she was sticking to the letter of that law, and only promoting her current task at this event.

He moved out to help keep a perimeter, and between the real and intimidating camouflage, armor and weapons, the crowd assumed he was some sort of ass kicker and pulled back.

There was no particular mood to the spectators. Some looked snarly, some thrilled, some showed that minor interest of seeing someone famous, or something different from the routine. They were probably here more to skip work than from any care about politics. He could see three types of turbans, two of keffiyeh and the bulbous knit caps that marked the Amala sect, along with the basic round caps favored generally. There were women in everything from hijab to slacks with bare midriffs. This area was mostly Muslim. He understood the Christian areas were less varied.

“… what Mtali needs is a debate that treats each of its cultures with the appropriate respect…” Okay, that was off the environmental and trade path a bit, though certainly trade would be easier if they weren’t constantly shooting at each other. Shooting at, not shooting, the incompetent tweets.

He kept an eye on the crowd. That man with the asymmetric beard was very interested, and looked hostile, but he seemed to be recording on a hat-mounted camera. He probably wasn’t a direct threat, but it was entirely possible he was feeding someone else.

“Jason, I have a man with a cam.” He pressed the button in his hand that let the image be shared.

“Got him,” Jason replied. “He’s recording nothing now.” Directional jamming made him smile.

He saw that Elke had wandered several meters west and upwind. She was probably prepping smoke charges in case they had to extract in a hurry.

Still, there was movement within the mass, as people grew bored and left, and others migrated forward. Placards and signs in English, Arabic and Turkish proclaimed support or opposition.

Politicians, competent ones at least, always wanted to meet the public, and their guards always wanted them not to. In this case, it was even more risky. She’d had more expressed threats than the baseline, and was clearly angling for a SecGen position. There were people who’d try to preempt her.

Jason muttered back, “There are so many damned things that present as possible weapons I’m getting twitchy. ‘Anything longer than it is wide’ is a fine definition for a Freudian, but too broad for physical threats.”

He chuckled back. “As long as we only have to look at weapons and not dicks.”

“Depends on if they’re pump action or single shot.”

Aramis faked surprise and said, “Woah, that’s between you and the goat, man.”

The jokes broke the boredom, but they were on duty and resumed silence. The important message was that eyeballs would have to do more work than the electronics.

Right then, Shaman said, “Incoming.” His voice was trained, and conversational. The team triggered on it and moved. Aramis jumped forward with Bart. He heard Elke tackle Highland, Jason open the door, and Alex call for backup as Elke stuffed the principal into the ARPAC.

He could see the projectile falling, and his sphincter puckered. From its trajectory, it was dense and brick-sized. Then he caught a slight reflection off a protrusion, probably a fuze. So it was more than a brick. It was a large grenade or small block charge.

Once the hatch closed he leapt over to the front wheel, rolled backward while tucking his carbine, and dropped behind the mass of the engine and wheel. Bart chewed up dust to his right with a thump of a landing.

Whatever the projectile was, it far overshot and went behind something, then popped with a cracking noise. Had it squibbed and failed? Or was it gas? There were two more in the air, and he’d IDed the point of origin, even as his goggles blinked a location. There was the dirtsucker.

That detached feeling hit him as he stood, clambered up the ladder and switched the cannon to manual. It was more important to take out the source than hide. Someone was starting to move the vehicle, so he swung the gun, splayed his legs, guessed at point of aim and cut loose a burst. It was high, he adjusted, and shot again.

The shooters realized he was targeting them and dodged, first back, then upon realizing the first burst was overhead, toward him, and right into the second spray. Three bodies tore, disconnected limbs flailing, and their launcher shattered.

Jason fired a long, stuttering string that crossed both remaining projectiles. They broke up and fell… oddly. Liquid? Green?

He kicked the hatch and dropped inside, as Bart shimmied up through the rear hatch, cursing in German. At least he presumed so. He didn’t speak German, and he couldn’t hear the man anyway, over Highland’s total meltdown.

“You murderous fucking mercenary retards! You egotistical male jerkers! And you… AFRICAN! You worthless bunch of-”

She was cut off as Shaman slapped a contact patch on her throat. She turned and smacked, connected only with his armor and harness, and started to slur.

“You weren’th hiredh to dop me, youuu…” and trailed off. She was still awake, but very lethargic. It must be a fast-acting tranquilizer.

Jason said, “Jessie, I’ll connect the external antenna to your MoodMod in a moment. What are you going to send?”

Her voice trembled and cracked as she said, “Uh, that we were attacked and had to defend ourselves, but no one is hurt.”

“Very good. It’s important that you send that message first.”

“Okay,” she agreed, sounding unsure. She waited for his nod of assent, and loaded the comment.

Aramis sweated and buzzed from adrenaline and leftover fear. It was always a rush to survive combat, even when it was one-sided. He looked quizzically at Jason, who signaled over to Alex, who looked around at everyone and replied.

“They were shooting paint canisters with bursting caps. Green paint.”

Oh, shit.

“They were political agitators?” he asked.

“Yes. And you opened fire with an autocannon.”

In half a second, scenarios ran through his head. Jason or Elke had enough connections to get him out of the system fast. Caron would stand up for him. He wouldn’t get brain wiped. He might do a decade in prison. He did have that stash of money for emergencies that they couldn’t seize because he’d hidden it on Salin and Grainne. The company would back him up; he’d acted in good faith.