Michael Grant - Bzrk Apocalypse

She was intercepted on her way up the road by a tall, not-bad-looking man with a full beard, sunglasses and a big grin. Jim Tanner was Lockheed security. Lockheed ran McMurdo. But it was well known that Tanner was former Naval Intelligence. And it was widely assumed that he was the US government’s eyes and ears on the base. Or at least, one set of eyes and ears.

“Well, hello there, Suarez. Whatcha got in the bag?”

“What, this bag?” Suarez asked innocently.

“Wouldn’t be contraband booze, would it?”

Suarez stopped, unzipped the bag and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. “Huh,” she said. “I wonder how this got in there? And look, it has a twin. You here to help me destroy the evidence, Jim?”

Alcohol was sold at McMurdo, but it was also rationed. Nobody begrudged you a drink, but there were supposed to be limits.

“I would like nothing better.” Tanner took one of the bottles, held it up to read the label. “Ah, the Macallan 16. You’ve grown and matured, Suarez. You have grown and matured.”

“If you’re nice to me and let me get to sleep eventually, I’ll share.”

Tanner handed her back the bottle, grinned, looked away a bit sheepishly and said, “Sadly, I am here in an official capacity.”

Suarez’s eyes narrowed. “Your official official capacity? Or your unofficial official capacity?”

His smile thinned out. “This will be a conversation that involves you signing a legal document promising not to disclose the nature of the conversation. The document in question is not a company document. It’s a company document.”

The company was Lockheed. The company was the CIA.

“What the hell did I just step in?” Suarez demanded, no longer in a joking mood.

Tanner’s office was tiny—space was always at a premium in a place where Home Depot was ten thousand miles away. It was overheated, so neat that no piece of paper could be found, and seemed to have been furnished entirely with the kind of office furniture that a self-respecting Goodwill store would reject.

The document he had for her was on an iPad. If it had been printed out it would have taken up four pages. Pages full of threats and requirements and official language. The long and short of it was that if she spoke of this meeting to anyone not properly cleared for Top Secret or better, she would go to jail.

“I’m going to remind you that even though you have been separated from the Marine Corps, Lieutenant Suarez, the Corps still owns you.” Tanner turned the pad to her. She scribbled a fingernail signature and at his prompting spoke her full name to the camera.

“And now do we get to the reason for this cloak and dagger, Captain Tanner?”

He was behind the desk in the good chair, the one that swiveled. She had a steel-frame chair with the stuffing half blown out. The bag of booze was at her side on the floor.

“Cathexis Base,” Tanner said.

“Okay. What about it?”

Cathexis Base was a facility built by Suarez’s corporate masters. It was used as a transshipment point, a storage facility, a rescue facility for the Celadon and her sister ship. There were repair facilities for the LCACs there, as well as for the helicopters and planes Cathexis used on the ice.

“Well, let’s start with this: have you ever seen anything suspicious at Cathexis?

No, she had not.

“What about at the satellite facility. What do they call it? Forward Green? Good grief, sounds like a golf course.”

“I’ve never been there.”

Tanner nodded. “Know anyone who’s ever been there?”

Suarez shrugged. “I imagine a lot of the support people have. Must have been to handle construction.”

Tanner shook his head, and watched her. “No. In fact the crews have been kept almost entirely separate. There’s very little crossover. There’s Cathexis Base and its people, and there’s Forward Green and its people.”

Suarez looked at him expectantly, waiting for some kind of clue. When all he did was look back at her, she said, “So?”

“So, it’s odd.”

“Okay.”

He was an experienced interrogator and had mastered the trick of waiting. But Suarez had nothing to offer, so all she could do was wait as well.

He nodded as if he’d satisfied himself on some point, then leaned forward on his elbows. “Anyone at Cathexis ever suggest you might want to try piloting a new kind of hovercraft? Something faster?”

“Well, the Navy already has—”

“I’m not talking about a piece of Navy equipment.”

“Then what are you talking about, because I’m tired, I need sleep, and before that I need a drink.” She was bouncing one leg, a habit when she was impatient.

He opened his laptop, hit a few keys, then turned it so she could see. “The video is just seven seconds long.”

The film was obviously taken from a great distance. It shook and wobbled. What it showed, or seemed to show, was a sleek, low-slung object shooting across the ice.

“Do you recognize that?”

“Do I recognize what? Something going zoom across the ice?”

He laughed. “We did a bit of enhancement and a bit of informed speculation, and the best guess from Langley is that it’s a hovercraft, quite small, so not designed for cargo. There appears to be a bubble canopy large enough for one, possibly two people. Speed in excess of a hundred and twenty knots. And it appears to be armed.”

“Armed?” That stopped the bouncing of her leg.

“Mmm. Armed. With a type of Russian missile, essentially an anti-tank weapon, although obviously it would work even better against a tractor or a Sno-Cat or a shelter.”

The thing that came to her mind was obvious and a bit stupid. But she said it anyway. “Weapons are forbidden on the ice. Nothing beyond a couple of handguns for the security people.”

“Yes.”

“Why would somebody need missiles? On some souped-up hovercraft?”

“That’s the question,” Tanner agreed. “Why would they? Speculate, Suarez.”

She pushed back, tilting the hind legs of her chair. “If it’s as fast as you say, it would be tough to hit from the air. White-on-white, going one hundred twenty knots? You’d see a hell of an infrared signature, so if you went after it in an Apache you could use the thirty mil, but an Apache’s top speed is one hundred fifty knots, so you don’t have much of an edge in speed.”

“I knew a good pilot like yourself would see it all clearly,” Tanner said. “A pilot with SEAL training, and right here close at hand. Let’s have that drink, Suarez.”

She hefted a bottle, unwound the capsule and poured into paper cups. “Am I going to need it?”

“Lieutenant Imelda Suarez, I am informing you that pursuant to a special directive of the Department of Defense, you are hereby returned to active duty.”

“Whether I like it or not?”

Tanner raised his cup. “Cheers.”

Sailing in the San Francisco Bay in blustery weather, Francis Janklow, the CEO of Janklow/MediStat, was not as happy as he should have been. He loved his boat in the abstract, but now that he’d bought the damned thing for two million dollars he felt as if he had to use it. But the truth was, he was just not that crazy about sailing. Especially when the wind was up so that he was constantly drenched by a spray that ranged from cooling mist to fire hose.

His guests seemed to be having a good time, though. These were a senior state senator and the senator’s much younger “assistant”, a rival CEO, a supposed painter whom Janklow’s wife was sponsoring, and, of course, Janklow’s wife.

The boat had been his wife’s idea. According to her you could not own a waterfront property on Belvedere Island and not also own a boat of some sort, and after all Janklow had sailed as a youth.