John Ringo: Ghost

“Steve” let out a grunt of surprise and plucked his cell phone off his hip.

“Not happenin’,” Mike said, grabbing his hand and twisting it so hard he heard a crack.

The man let out a cry and dropped the cell phone, cradling the wrist as one of the police officers stepped forward. The officer slid plastic cuffs on him, broken wrist and all, then a hood over his head. The man was hustled into a police car, which drove sedately away.

“I think you may be right,” Chateauneuf said, blowing out and picking up the cell phone gingerly.

“May I?” Mike asked. When the colonel handed it to him, he scrolled through the speed dial list. Most of them were names, all European sounding and almost certainly false. But one was listed as “Fire” and one as “Ice.”

Mike noted down those two numbers and handed the phone back.

“And now,” Mike said, “I think you’d better call your very best EOD people.”

“We cannot afford to move it,” the senior EOD tech said.

The hurried meeting was taking place in one of the police vans. It included Madame LaSalle-Guerinot, who was looking pissed as all get out, the colonel, a couple of senior police officers and Mike, who had forced his way in through sheer chutzpah.

“There could be tremblor switches,” the tech continued. “There could be a locator system. They could be watching, for all we know. It could be detonated at any time.”

As he said that, the terrorist’s cell phone, which was in the middle of the table, began to buzz.

Most of the people around the table looked at it like it was a snake. Mike just leaned forward and picked it up.

“Yep?” he said in his very best Southern drawl.

“How is it going, Steve?” a man said. He had a faint British accent underlaid with something else. Mike recalled that the “engineer” had been trained in British boarding schools. He was talking loudly since there was music in the background. Mike recognized the tune as being a current dance hit. He mainly recognized it because it was the sort of thing you heard in strip joints a lot.

“Turr’ble,” Mike answered, half shouting. “Jist turr’ble. Generator’s still broke. D’ju call that technician?”

“Yes, I did,” the man said in a puzzled tone.

“Talkin’ to a guy from the embassy ‘bout it now,” Mike drawled, rolling his eyes. “Hope he gits har befur the pope.”

“Ah,” the man shouted understandingly. “He will, I’m sure. Or about the time the pope arrives. When he gets there, you can go, of course.”

“Weel thankee,” Mike yelled, his eyes cold. “Thankee kindly. Gotta go now. Later.”

“Later,” the man said.

Mike hit the disconnect and counted.

“One, two, three…” He closed his eyes and waited and then sighed. “I think he bought it. One Southern accent sounds about the same as another to a foreigner. They can’t tell the difference between Alabama and North Florida.”

“Are you INSANE?” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot shouted. “He could have decided that the operation was blown and blown us all sky!”

“Oh, higher,” Mike said. “Which was exactly what he would have done if the phone wasn’t answered. With, more or less, the correct voice. I know this bastard. He loves to see things go boom. He set the timer on the nuke in Andros, for example, rather than have it fall into our hands. If he gets a sniff that there’s anything wrong, he’ll set it off just to see the pretty lights on TV.

“Look,” he continued to the EOD tech. “Go in looking like repair technicians. That is what everyone in the area is expecting. Enter the forward part of the van; I’ve seen him use the door, so it can’t be rigged. You have his keys. Set up in there, out of sight. Do your magic. Get cracking, though. It’s going to be a tough nut.”

“That will work,” one of the senior police said, to nods. “We can give you cover clothing. You’ll have to pack your gear so it is out of sight.”

“Don’t bother with carrying pads,” Mike said, chuckling. “If it goes up, you won’t need them.”

“ You need to leave,” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot snapped, turning to the senior inspector. “I want him out of this area in fifteen minutes,” she continued, standing up. “I am going to go brief the president.”

“Well, I wonder what got her titties in a twist,” Mike said, sighing. “And who, exactly, is going to answer the phone if I leave?”

“You are,” Colonel Chateauneuf said, standing up. “She said you have to leave, not that you couldn’t take the phone with you. Does anyone have a specific use for it?”

“We’d like to check the directory,” one of the civilians at the table said. He had a faintly military bearing and Mike had pegged him as DGSE. “Run down some of the phone numbers.”

“We have a list of all of them already,” the senior inspector said.

“Does that mean you don’t want me to keep it?” Mike asked, waving it in the air.

“Oh, no,” the DGSE agent said, smiling. “By all means. And… try to be as convincing as you just were.”

“Will do,” Mike replied in a Southern accent. “Gentlemen, much as I respect the capabilities of the French security establishment, you wouldn’t mind if I watch the goings-on from, say… twenty klicks away or so, would you?”

“Not at all,” Colonel Chateauneuf said somberly. “I will escort you to your car.”

“I take it you’re not leaving,” Mike said as they walked to the sedan.

“No,” Chateauneuf said, shrugging. “My place is here.”

“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” Mike said. “I’ve got to introduce you to a song called ‘Winter Born.’ ”

“Crüxshadows,” Chateauneuf said, grinning. “A very good band. You will not tell people that I Goth, I hope? It is so hard to retain respect when people know you Goth.”

“Of course not,” Mike replied as he got in the car. “When it comes down to popish time, give me a holler and give me a play by play, okay?”

“I shall,” Chateauneuf said, holding out his hand. “ Adieu .”

“Even I know that much French,” Mike said, shaking his hand. Adieu meant Go with God ; it was a permanent farewell. “Let’s go for au revoir .”

“So what did you find out?” Bruce asked as they drove away.

Mike didn’t bother to answer, just picked up his cell phone and dialed OSOL.

“Pierson.”

“Go scramble.”

“Scrambled.”

“It’s here, Bob,” Mike said, breathing out. “Notre Dame. The embassy driver and I are getting the fuck out of Dodge.”

“We heard,” Pierson replied. “Along with a very sharp message about your encounter with Madame Two-names.”

“Gabby LaSalle-Guerinot?” Mike said. “What a nice gal. We got along so well.”

“So I heard,” Pierson said dryly. “I believe the term ‘insufferably arrogant’ was used.”

“What? About the French?” Mike said.

“No, about you,” Pierson observed. “But, yes, arrogant is a good word. Not to mention lacking in leadership skills. The entire government is quietly evacuating. The president and Madame Two-names are already gone, taking their families. The president was supposed to be attending the pope’s high mass, but he sent his regrets. Some minor stooge, clearly not in the loop, is going instead.”

“Ah, French heroism at its finest.” Mike sighed. “All joking aside, we’ve got ourselves one fucked-up situation here. I don’t know for beans about EOD, not at this level, so I’m leaving it up to the experts. And, as I said, getting the fuck out of Dodge; I don’t see how they can prevent it from detonating.”