John Ringo: Ghost

“Oh, it goes so very, very well,” Chateauneuf said lightly. “The bomb is clustered with antitampering devices. There were movement detectors, X-ray detectors, ultrasound detectors and even a motion detector inside the casing. They managed to find a part that wasn’t covered with some sort of detector and have now managed, finally, to get a drill into the inner casing of the bomb. This is as far as they have gotten. We have less than thirty minutes until the pope arrives. And he has refused to forego his arrival, stating that if all of his children must die, than he shall go with them.”

“Nobody ever said the pope was a coward,” Mike replied, picking up the sentry’s phone and regarding it with interest. “Where are you?”

“Oh, I’ve moved to the press van,” the colonel said. “It won’t matter if I am here or at the command center. So I thought I would watch the proceedings. The men are very cool. They know how perilous is what they do. But they proceed. Ah, the senior technician tells me they have gotten to the stainless steel. Now they must change drill bits, yes?”

“Yes,” Mike said.

“They begin to enter the bomb casing,” Chateauneuf said calmly. “They can only drill slowly. It will take some time. Perhaps as long as ten minutes.”

Mike looked at the time readout on his cell phone and shook his head. It was seventeen minutes until four.

“So, you got any family?” Mike asked.

“A wife, Josee, and three children: Claude, Colette and Danielle,” Chateauneuf replied as if discussing the weather. “They, fortunately, live well outside Paris. Josee was going to come into town to go shopping, but I managed to dissuade her. Danielle is just starting school. They study English in the primary, yes?”

“Probably learning whatever the equivalent of ‘ Frere Jacque ’ is in English,” Mike said, just as calmly.

“It is, I believe, ‘Yankee Doodle,’ ” Chateauneuf said, sighing painfully. “At least, she was singing it a great deal when I was home last.”

“That makes sense,” Mike said. “Although I’ve always wondered about the macaroni line. I don’t think macaroni was a major food group in colonial America.”

“I would think not,” Chateauneuf agreed. “It was probably another word and got changed. Do you have any family?”

“No,” Mike admitted. “I was married, once. It didn’t work out.”

“That is unfortunate,” the colonel said sadly. “With what you and I do, it is always possible we will not be able to leave children behind if we do not do so early.”

“Well, I’ve got some people that don’t like me very much,” Mike pointed out. “I’d hate for them to take that out on any kids, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Chateauneuf replied. “Your exploits in this adventure alone would cause some angry reactions.”

“I’ve done worse,” Mike said, looking at his time readout. Six minutes. “Where we at?”

“They are through the casing,” the colonel said. “They are inserting a camera into the hole.” There was a pause and Mike heard the colonel sigh. “It is never a good thing when you hear a bomb disposal expert curse.”

“Nope,” Mike agreed lightly. “What’s the problem?”

“There are more antitamper devices,” the colonel said to a background of muted, and remarkably calm, French. “And a timer. It has less than four minutes to go. Three minutes and forty seconds.”

“Wonder why they set it so early?” Mike asked, humming a Pat Benatar song.

“Perhaps they mistook the time zones?” Chateauneuf said, chuckling grimly. “The Palestinians did this once. They had the timer set for Palestinian time and it went off as the bomb was being carried to the target. Very sad.”

“Terrible,” Mike agreed, mentally adjusting the time left. “ Mon Colonel , you’ll forgive me if I don’t stay on the line? The static…”

“I understand,” the colonel said. “I have a call to make as well. Adieu .”

“ Au revoir ,” Mike said, killing the call and picking up the terrorist’s phone. He brought up the speed-dial list and hit the “Fire” number.

Cedric Jalabert had been an EOD technician for ten years. He had been chosen as the “point” disarmer of the device due to his experience and the fact that he still had “it.” There were techs that had been working with demolitions for longer. But those with real world experience, handling actual explosives, tended to lose the edge after a while. They had seen too many of their fellows blown to bits over time. He knew of one Brit bomb tech who had stood up in the middle of a disarm, walked far enough away to be outside the blast area and then had a complete, raving nervous breakdown. So it was always a trade-off between experience and edge.

Cedric still had the “edge,” but he knew he was losing it as he watched the timer count down. He had to penetrate the arming device to disarm the bomb, but it was loaded with antitamper devices. The visual timer was totally unnecessary. Whoever had put it in place had done so purely to screw with any technician who got this far, as it was screwing with him.

He put the countdown out of his mind and manipulated his driver, which was at the end of a long, mobile wand, into place on the first screw to remove the control panel. He had several of the wands running through the narrow hole they had drilled in the lead and steel surrounding the bomb; it was somewhat like trying to disarm it through a straw. He loved pressure — he ate it with a spoon. He also knew he didn’t have time; the timer was down to less than two minutes. But he was going to keep working the problem until the device detonated.

“Incoming call,” Master Sergeant Mimoun said. He was the team leader, but not the point, and he had been watching the various monitors double-checking Jalabert’s progress. “The ‘Fire’ circuit.”

Jalabert froze as the phone rang. They had been unable to disconnect it, due to its output, and now, it seemed, the terrorists had jumped the gun. Perhaps they had finally become aware that the police had the bomb.

“It’s the sentry’s number,” Mimoun snarled. “The phone we gave the American agent.”

Jalabert switched to watching the countdown timer as the phone in the bomb, audibly, rang once, twice…

“The timer has stopped,” he said, reapplying his screwdriver to the screw.

“’Fire’ was the disarm code,” Mimoun said, sighing. “But it can still be detonated on the other circuit.”

“Not anymore,” Jalabert replied, switching to another tool and cutting the appropriate wire. “We have ten minutes, maximum. But I can finish in that time.”

Mike walked into the suite and looked around.

“Magdelena?” he called, tossing his jump bag on the table in the living room.

In his room, on the bed, he found a note written on the hotel’s stationery.

Dear Mr. Duncan,

I met a nice older gentleman down at the pool. He is very sweet and likes me very much. I have agreed to travel with him. I thank you for getting me out of where I was.

“Well,” Mike said, letting out a breath. “That’s one problem solved. I had no idea what I was going to do with her.”

He pulled his sat phone off his belt and dialed a number.

“Hardesty? Spool ’er up. Since Amsterdam is out, we’re headed back to Russia.”

“Michael Duncan is very not welcome in Holland and France,” Pierson said. “And they’re well aware that it was a cover identity, so I’d suggest staying out in your own person.”

“Wasn’t planning on going to either,” Mike admitted, negotiating his way around a pothole. He had his earbud in his ear and both hands on the wheel to negotiate the lousy Russian roads. “Well, maybe Amsterdam. I’ve got a date with a hooker there.”