Linda Nagata: The Last Good Man

True continues: “The beetle recorded an image of a figure in the courtyard that facial analysis identifies with eighty-nine percent certainty as Mr. El-Hashem. But Fatima Atwan was not observed. So we authorized DNA collection—”

“We got time to analyze that, Mama?” Marine Corps veteran Rohan Valeski wants to know. He’s thirty-five, a lanky, ginger-haired mischief-maker with a scruffy beard who delights in questioning everything. “DNA takes hours to collect and process.”

True’s eyes narrow. When the desert wind subsided after midnight, Khalid signaled the modified beetle to set loose its cargo of off-the-shelf mosquito drones. The tiny devices went hunting for infrared heat signatures. Most were lost, but a few returned to the beetle with ghostly low-res images and, more importantly, with DNA samples collected from within the house.

“Don’t worry, son,” True tells Rohan. “Our contractor has spent the local day running the chip tests. The analysis is done.”

He gives her a wink and a grin. “Good to know.”

“Even better,” True says, with satisfaction in her voice, “we’ve confirmed one of the collected samples belongs to Fatima Atwan. It’s a perfect match for the DNA record provided by her parents.”

Another soldier, Juliet Holliday, sounds impressed: “So we’ve got her.” Juliet is sweet and neat, lean and dusky. Like True, she was an army warrant officer who flew for Special Forces. Also like True, she was pushed out of the army by the growing dominance of autonomous flight systems.

In contrast with Juliet, Jameson Adams is skeptical. He’s a family man. Dark black skin, physically gifted. He was offered a football scholarship out of high school but became an Army Ranger instead. Like Lincoln and Chris, he’s a Rogue Lightning veteran. “You mentioned complications, Mama. Let’s hear them.”

“That’s right,” True says. “Complication number one: We’ve got additional individuals in the residence known or suspected of having been kidnapped by Hussam El-Hashem.”

“Ah, fuck,” Felice Farr says. Like Rohan, she’s a Marine, and intimidating as hell when she wants to be. She sums up the situation nicely when she says, “That makes it harder.”

“It does,” Lincoln agrees, speaking for the first time.

Both Lincoln and Chris have already seen the reports, and they’ve made their decision.

Lincoln says, “The additionals complicate our task. They also make the mission more expensive. We are being hired to extract one individual. But given multiple prisoners at the location, we are morally obligated to go after all of them. If we leave them behind, it’s certain they’ll be executed quickly and dramatically to discourage future recovery missions.”

“How many additionals?” Jameson asks.

True tells him, “Four.”

“ Damn ,” Rohan says. “That’s a lot of bodies to move.”

“It is,” True agrees. “And it brings us to the next complication—timing. It’s night now in the TEZ. This is the fifth night Hussam will have been in residence. We’ve seen various reports speculating that his usual pattern is to remain in a given place for five or six nights, because that makes it more difficult to do what we want to do: stage a mission against him. Our target could be gone before we get there—and the cost of the mission will escalate if we have to track him down again. So from a financial perspective, we need to move quickly. We have to decide if we like the setup, if we can work with the current situation. If so, we deploy in the next few hours and finalize mission planning in transit. One point in our favor, since this is not a permanent residence: the security system is likely to be ad hoc and easy to penetrate.”

Renata raises a hand, a gesture that instantly captures the attention of everyone at the table. True smiles to see it. Renata knows how to turn a knack for getting noticed to good advantage. “Aerial assets are in line,” she reports, “for now. We’ve juggled schedules so the Hai-Lins will be available to provide air cover—but only during a narrow window. We’ve got contractual obligations coming up that have to take precedence.”

“Our obligations don’t end with the war birds,” Chris says. “We’ve got a round of classes starting, students due in. That gives us a hard deadline to get the job done and get home. If we’re not here when classes are scheduled to start, it’s going to be a hit to our reputation, and we’ll be digging ourselves a financial hole with the cancellation fees.”

Lincoln nods. “Agreed. We need a quick go/no-go decision.” He turns to True, a white reflection from the ceiling lights catching in his artificial eye. “You’ve heard from the State Department?”

“That’s complication number three,” she admits. “I’m in communication, but I haven’t received confirmation one way or another.”

Though it’s a policy that will never be codified in law, the State Department generally responds with a hands-off attitude whenever a US-licensed PMC engages in a white-hat mission within any region lacking a functional or recognized political authority—an ungoverned territory—assuming the mission doesn’t interfere with any official activity. By that standard, large regions of the Tigris-Euphrates Zone are wide open for engagement.

Lincoln turns to the assembled soldiers. “If State has an imminent mission into the same area, our operation is no-go. Competing missions would endanger both teams and endanger our license to operate as a US government contractor. So be ready, but know that we are not going to move until we hear from State.”

This draws a soft chorus of acknowledgments.

“In the meantime,” True says, “I’m emailing a detailed intelligence report to each of you. Read it. Consider it. We’ll meet again in two hours.”

Another night:

Sitting in darkness, Miles feels the concrete wall at his back tremble as fighter jets thunder overhead.

Dano mutters profanities in Portuguese.

Noël starts praying. Maybe his prayers work, because no bombs fall.

Twenty-two days ago they were locked up in an empty office in an abandoned cigarette factory when precision-guided bombs took out two adjacent buildings. But for some unfathomable reason to do with the vicissitudes of war, their location wasn’t on the target list. Following the concussion of the bombs and the avalanche roar of collapsing buildings, there came screams and shouts and wails of grief, rage, and pain that went on and on in a slowly diminishing chorus until evening. Darkness brought silence. Only then did Hussam feel safe enough to move his entourage to a new hiding place.

Tonight maybe, the jets came only as a show of force… as if anyone on the ground still needed convincing of the deadly threat of aerial bombardment.

The retreat of the roaring engines reveals another, more ominous, sound: voices from beyond the door. They are male and oddly gentle, discussing soccer scores. Miles tenses as a key slides into the lock. The deadbolt retracts with a grinding click. The steel door opens, admitting a clean white electric light.

A fellow named Abu Khamani looks in. He’s a skinny guy who has worn the same stained brown cargo cammies and loose muslin shirt every fucking day since Miles was placed under his custody. Abu Khamani smiles his usual friendly smile. “Aloha!” he exclaims. It’s his standard greeting.

“Aloha, asshole,” Miles mutters.

Noël whispers, “Salaam,” and Dano replies with, “Ciao.”

It doesn’t matter what they say; Abu Khamani just insists that every man say something. Ryan sits up, inching backward on his ass to put himself a little farther from the door.