Michael Williamson: When Diplomacy Fails…

Aramis gave an inquiring look, Alex translated it and nodded assent for him to talk.

“What’s the word on weapons?”

“They’re approved.”

“Approved?” Aramis asked, disbelieving. Yes, they actually had weapons.

“Yes, armor with spares, two armored transport vehicles. Full commo suites. Knives, Jason’s hatchet, pistols, carbines, two squad weapons, that autocannon you like, a couple of sharpshooter rifles.”

“And explosive?” Elke asked.

“It’s supposed to be coming.”

“Then I shall raise our principal’s standing in my portfolio.”

Aramis flared his eyes. Alex could read his thoughts. Real weapons, and no one whining about what the locals might think. There had to be a catch, but he’d deal with it. Elke, of course, used explosive for things people never anticipated. They always assumed big blasts, and she could do that, including low-yield nukes. However, she started with firecrackers and smoke and escalated as needed. The only problem was that she used geometric or logarithmic progression. They tried not to share that fact.

Alex said, “Jason will be waiting on the ground, with Cady, and they should have a minimum battlefield kit ready for us. They’ll bring it in before we go out.”

Aramis said, “I like this gig better all the time.”

“I’m just wondering when it will go south,” Alex said guardedly. “We aren’t getting a big check for nothing.”

On his right, Shaman said, “Not all our contracts have been dangerous. Only about one in four. Though they tend to make up the difference in value. I’m considering that she certainly has a strong opinion of her value, and until the last ninety days before the election, she’s not eligible for Special Service Branch protection. If she thinks there’s a threat, we are arguably better than BuState security, and she’s not the one covering the tab.”

“There is that,” Alex agreed. “And she’s certainly made a lot of claims of enemies.”

Aramis asked, “You think there’s more to those stories than grandstanding?”

Alex shrugged. “There may be, which would justify us being here. It could also be that our presence is supposed to suggest there’s more to those stories, for campaign purposes.”

Bart said, “Let’s hope that’s the case, and run a tight operation. Either way, it’s what we’re paid for.”

Aramis said, “And no quibbles over weapons. So it’s certainly not one of our worst assignments.”

Jason didn’t like the plan. Even inside the driver’s compartment of a nicely climate-controlled Improved Attack Resistant Personnel Carrier outfitted as an executive transport. He watched the putatively secure feed of the landing shuttle, and fidgeted. He sweated in his suit.

Tactically, everything was sound. The rest of the team would land with their principal in a few minutes. He had good leads in the area and an advance recon.

The strategic questions were what triggered his senses. BuState had security guards, and there was no spoken, outright threat to her at this point. Keeping it in house would make political and economic sense. The only reason he could come up with for using Ripple Creek was to make them some sort of cover. Either they expected threats of a level that would be politically infeasible to handle themselves, or they planned to toss the team to the wolves. Or both.

Of course, it was possible she was just using their image for political gain.

It seemed unlikely, though. They weren’t popular in the press, so she wouldn’t pick up votes from their presence. The perceived threat level, however…

In the compartment behind him were Agent Jace Cady and two of her people. It was possible to shimmy between the two areas, though not easily.

Cady always looked exotically elegant, and if you didn’t know she’d started out male, you’d probably never guess. They’d even adjusted her wrist angles, as well as her hips. If you watched, though, she had the residual habits of someone raised male.

Malcolm Lionel and Roger Edge were just suited goons to look at, but very good at their jobs. Malcolm was from Antigua, Roger very English.

“You seem agitated,” Cady said.

He said, “Yeah, and I shouldn’t be. Except there’s no good reason for her to use us.”

“It could be they’re both cautious and wanting distance. They can blame us for being excessive and have it forgotten in the news a day later.”

“True. I hope that’s all it is. We’re paid to take the blame.”

Cady said, “Well, our perimeter, their perimeter and all nonphysical perimeters are secure. I’ve got our own bugs in the commo, and they’ll shriek if anyone else touches the lines.”

“You always do a fine job. I’ve got no concerns about that.” He idly ran hands over the controls, eager to do something.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I am worried about a less than friendly principal and unseen threats.”

“Of course. You’re also missing your accomplices.”

He smiled. “Yeah, Elke’s great company, and Aramis, even if still a bit cocky, is the man to have at your back. I like how the company has let us sort into teams and stick there.”

She said, “It works with five hundred employees. It wouldn’t work with five thousand.”

“Exactly. Though we wouldn’t be any more capable or earn any more, either. The smaller structure helps. Now I realize you’ve got me distracted from stressing out alone, and the lander’s on its final approach. Thanks.”

She giggled very softly. “You’re welcome. Guys, check weapons and prepare to open up.”

A moment later she said, “Jason, check your phone. Tag for Highland and live feed.”

“Uh? Okay.” He dug it from the pouch on his shoulder, spoke into it, thumbed it and let the feed load.

JessieM: We’re here on the ground with Ripple Creek Security. Alex Marlow in charge, looking ruff.”

JessieM: Agent Sykora, Ripple Creek bomb expert.-photo. Ms. Highland should be well-protected.

Oh, holy shit. Did she really churp their IDs into the seething morass of the nodes, openly and directly attached to the company and Highland? With current whereabouts?

“Good thing this vehicle is EM proof. It’s unfortunate there’s something wrong with the outside transmission antenna.”

Behind him he heard a ripping, cracking noise.

“You know, you’re right,” Cady agreed.

He’d need to arrange some sort of personal scrambler for them to wear, and they might want to consider something to obscure their faces.

Then they waited patiently while the gull-like white monster was ferried across the apron, hosed in a nimbus of steam that carried the dreadful heat away to condense and rain out in an oval a half kilometer downwind, and was prepared for debarkation.

A private signal chimed softly, and he kicked the ARPAC engine to life. IARPC was too clunky an acronym to pronounce, so it had been mutated.

He pulled in a broad curve, slowing more than he liked to get around a tug, a cargo can crane, and some other vehicle. The ground crew hadn’t been told to expect him and didn’t know how to react. They did the next best thing; stayed still and let him work it.

Once through those, he turned and backed, bringing the rear of the vehicle right up to the edge of the obligatory red carpet. She’d want to make a speech first, of course.

Alex untensed as the craft rolled out. He was always nervous on landing, for no other reason than that was when most problems were likely to manifest, and there was no way to do anything about them for those few minutes.

It would take several more minutes for the craft to maneuver to the departure area. There was no modern gate here; they’d have to cross open apron. That was a prime time for an attack because it was a clear, predictable window. He was ready for that. Before then, though, the craft would have to cool a bit, then be hosed down, so the remains of the incandescent passage through the atmosphere didn’t roast them on exit.