Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

“Elke, I did not know that, at all. I’ve heard nothing on limits.”

She stared, he stared.

He wondered now. They’d both been given different stories. “So, they lied to us about the availability, or rather, deliberately concealed the information. And lied to me about rules of engagement. Just a moment.” He thumbed his phone.

“Intel, Captain Das.”

“Jason, Jason.”

“Hi, Jason,” Das replied, sounding cheerful enough.

“Can you confirm for me the military ROE with weapons?”

“Yeah, patrol commander key for nonlethal release. Lethal weapons require shift commander approval from here. Support weapons restrained for two minutes, then only by shift commander approval. The colonel can release earlier on personal authority. Explosive munitions restricted to artillery, Aerospace Force air assets, and Special Operating Units or allied equivalents, which we agree means you.”

“Thanks. Just needed to confirm.”

“Understood.”

He clicked off.

Elke said, “So the military would allow us to do whatever BuState authorizes, as is proper. Meaning Highland’s people blocked the shipment.”

“Can we ask her to intercede?”

“Please don’t,” Elke said.

“No?”

“No. I and Aramis shall make a shopping expedition.”

He thought that over. They needed Elke, but they also needed her with best gear. Aramis needed to stash more stuff, too. They’d fill in temporarily.

He said, “I’ll clear it with Alex. Go.”

Aramis was still a bit surprised that Elke trusted him that much. Serving together seemed to have smoothed out their differences. She was a disturbing flake, but incredibly good at her job, certainly courageous, and tough enough.

The vehicle they were in was a combination truck and passenger escort vehicle, with an improved chassis. It would handle rubble just fine. It wasn’t a track, and it wasn’t proof against anything above pistols. Still, they hoped to blend in enough. Their clothes were generic unless one looked closely at the armor thread, and no one should notice one vehicle of thousands. As war-torn as this hole was, it was still much richer than Celadon had been, or still was.

“I find religion useful,” Elke said.

“Oh? Are you religious?”

“Not very. I am nominally Lutheran through my grandmother. I was christened, and I have been to a friend’s church wedding.”

“So what’s useful?”

“Half of the people here are either rabidly worshiping today, or pretending to. The other half will worship on Sunday, or prepare to.”

“Except for the ones on Earth’s clock, who will worship at two random times next week.”

“And those few extremists who will worship on Tuesday, and the splitters from them who will use Earth Tuesday.”

“It’s also near shift change for the military.”

“Oh, how convenient,” she said, failing to hide her smile.

“So how do you plan to do this?”

“The really old fashioned way,” she said.

“Shoot someone and take it?”

She shook her head. “Sadly, no. We shall bribe them far too much. These Grainne coins and a small amount of gold will attract plenty of attention.”

“That’s potentially a problem.”

“It is for the person attempting to cash them in, which will not be us.”

“Ah, enough to get them to say ‘yes,’ not enough to point at us, but too much for them to easily dispose of.”

“And unmarked to us.”

He checked the map-printed map, so it couldn’t be tracked by anyone, though there were still ways to follow the vehicle. Jason assured him the module on the dash would fuzz and distort their location so they’d be only very generally locatable.

“Left here,” he said. He saw what lay ahead and added, “and forward.” There were police set up near the building. He wasn’t going to stop.

“It would make sense,” she said, “that a warehouse selling precursor chemicals would have a police post, on this planet.”

“What next?”

“Vehicle store, pharmacy, standard hardware store.”

He looked around at the business signs. “This way seems to be lighter industrial and commercial.”

Another five kilometers found all types of stores. Elke grabbed a paper pad, printed very rapidly, and handed him a list.

“You are working on a swimming pool for a wealthy client,” she said.

“Understood.”

Inside, he felt nervous about the amounts in question, but piled them on a dolly and nudged it into motion. It followed him.

“Hydrochloric acid,” he said.

“Aisle Three R,” it replied in passable English, though the accent was both simulated and British with an overlay of Turk.

“Chlorine pool shock.”

“Aisle Five M.”

“Heavy grease.” And so it went.

He reached the exit and the dolly scanned, but a clerk checked the contents by hand against the screen as well.

“You are working on a pool?” the man asked with a smile.

Damn, Elke’s good. “Yes,” he said. “Wealthy client up north.”

“Tessekur.” Thanks, in some dialect of Turkish.

“And you,” he said.

He loaded it into the truck, climbed in, and Elke asked, “Did you get it?”

“Yes. What’s next?”

“I will take the vehicle and engine store.”

He drove to it, she slipped out, and he sweated in tension. He stayed in the vehicle surreptitiously watching all angles. It was twenty minutes before she returned, and loaded more cartons in the bed.

Once in, she said, “I will not be able to fabricate at the compound. I will need a safehouse.”

“Jason has two. I’ll also be adding supplies.”

“Better equipped, more private, closer, are my needs, in that order.”

“Luckily one of them fits all that.”

“Good. I badly want caps and detonators, but I will have to improvise.”

“You aren’t going to try to buy some?”

“They are too obvious and they are alert here.”

She flipped open her phone and keyed it, voice only.

“Argonaut,” was the answer.

“We’re going to need a rest at the apartment. We’ll catch up later,” she said.

“Understood. Can you be back in fifteen hours?”

“Yes.”

Sleep well.”

She keyed off.

“Resting?” he asked.

“Manufacturing,” she said.

“I’ll do what I can to help.” Manufacturing explosives on a remote planet full of factional violence. That was a beer story.

It took several minutes to drive to the safehouse, and several more to find it, without being traced. Paper maps were secure, but often harder to read, especially in this poorly laid out ratmaze.

True to form, Highland didn’t really notice two substitutions in her escort. Horace really wondered just how many issues the woman had. Her anger, introversion, smugness, ego and greed were all indicative of any number of dysfunctions or disorders.

He was sure the backfills were competent. He even knew them slightly. He still would rather have the regulars. However, there was a promise of actual explosives when they returned.

JessieM was clearly shaken and nervous. She was holding up, but likely due to being a subordinate to Highland. On her own she’d be a wreck. If they were to cover her in an engagement, she’d need hands-on escort, and possibly carried. Mass around sixty kilos, he estimated. Doable.

Still, this evening’s mission was with limos. They’d roll from the compound, out the back gate guarded by a mixed force of Army and State with Cady monitoring both and gibbering in rightful paranoia at the potential risks. Once out, they would have an Army escort, this being one of the few official BuState meetings.

It went well enough. They’d tested weapons inside the garage, and the Army seemed to actually accept it, with grumbling. The gate was ahead, and he counted three Grumblies with mounted guns.