Dale Brown - Act of War

“Put me down, dammit!”

“We are going to depart with Kristen’s camera crew,” Jason said. “You will tell the Security Forces not to interfere and to authorize our departure.”

“You are not the one giving orders here, Richter…!”

“But I can be, Jefferson,” Jason said. “I will destroy those Security Force vehicles if you give me no other choice.”

Jefferson knew he could do it too—better try to talk him out of this, he thought. “I said put me down, Major,” Jefferson said, a little softer this time. “That’s an order. I will not repeat myself.” Jason paused for a moment, then lowered Jefferson to the hangar floor and released him. “Have you got any fucking idea of what you’re doing, Major? Or is this your idea of how an officer in the U.S. Army is supposed to behave?”

“Sir, if you tell me that you believe that Task Force TALON is everything it appears to be and that it is being managed and supported in the best way possible by everyone involved, then I will gladly step down, turn over all of the CID technology to you and Special Agent DeLaine, and accept any punishment you give me without another word,” Jason said. It was indeed a rather shocking and otherworldly sight to see—a huge three-meter-tall cyborg talking, gesturing, and expressing itself so earnestly and emotionally, resembling some weird alien creature with very humanlike mannerisms.

“Richter, I don’t give a shit about your fears, concerns, or frustrations,” Jefferson said, “and I am not one bit impressed by your admonition or offer of surrender, redemption, or cooperation. I care about only one thing: getting Task Force TALON functioning as quickly and as efficiently as possible. Your job, your duty, is to follow orders and support the efforts of your commanders and superior officers to the absolute best of your abilities, or get the hell out of the way. Now which is it going to be?”

“Sir, just tell me you believe we’re not being played for fools, and I’ll obey your orders to the hilt.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything except obey my orders, now, or find yourself relieved of duty and facing judicial punishment,” Jefferson said. “You had better learn right here and now, mister, that in my command there are no assurances, guarantees, hand-holding, kissy-face, or group hugs—there is only me and everyone else. I give the orders, and you obey them. It’s that simple. What is it going to be, Major?”

The cyborg stood silently for a moment, and Jefferson thought he saw its shoulders droop and its arms go limp, as if in surrender…and then suddenly those huge mechanical arms reached out and grasped Jefferson’s arms in a steel-like grip once again. Jefferson was so surprised at the trap-quick movement that he gasped aloud.

“Put him down, now!” a Security Force officer shouted, his M-16 rifle raised.

Jason turned and with unbelievable speed went over and, with Jefferson still in his hands, lifted one of the Security Force Humvees up with his right foot and overturned it. In another blur of motion he dashed over to a second Security Force officer and simply bumped him, sending him flying onto his back, bruised but unhurt. Just as Jason turned toward a second officer, ready to put him down, Jefferson shouted, “All right, all right, stop.” To the other officers he said, “Lower your weapons.” They did as they were ordered. “Happy now, Major? You think you can fight off all of the Air Force Security Forces? Is that how you want to play this?”

“This is how we’re going to play it, Sergeant Major,” Jason said, his electronic voice as firm as the CID unit’s composite structure. “We are going to follow Kristen Skyy’s intelligence and pursue the leads we have. If we find nothing, we will fly back to Washington or Fort Leavenworth or anywhere you wish and turn ourselves in. But I’ve come this far because I believe I’m doing the right thing, and I’m not going to stop now.”

“What do you think you’re going to do with me, asshole: kill me?” Jefferson shouted. He was glad to see Richter wince at the very notion of killing anyone—it was that obvious, even inside the CID unit. “Or maybe you’re going to carry me around like a doll while you chase through the jungle?”

“If I have to, sir, I will,” Jason replied. He turned toward the plane. “Kristen?”

“Fuel truck’s on the way, and the pilot is filing our flight plan as we speak,” she replied. “We’re getting clearance to depart right now—we’ll be ready to go as soon as we’re fueled. What about Sergeant Major Jefferson?”

“He’s coming with us,” Jason said. “Get some nylon ties to secure him.”

“That won’t be necessary, Major,” Jefferson said.

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t trust you to cooperate with us.”

“Your mission has been authorized,” Jefferson said. “Apparently the name Kristen Skyy gets you instant credibility these days. The National Security Adviser authorizes us to proceed to São Paulo only to observe and assist in her investigation. We must be accompanied by local police or paramilitary forces at all times, and we are not authorized the use of force.”

Jason immediately put Jefferson back on the ground, then dismounted from the CID unit…and as soon as he did, Jefferson had him by the collar and pulled the young Army officer nose to nose with him. “Now you listen to me, you sniveling chickenshit little worm,” Jefferson snapped. “If you ever touch me again, in or out of that machine, I will break your scrawny little neck like a twig. I won’t prefer charges; I won’t report you; I won’t write up one letter of reprimand or letter of counseling—I will simply kill you with my bare hands. Do you read me, Major Richter?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“You think you’re the big tough crusader riding off with your lady-love to thwart the evildoers and save the world? You are an officer in the United States Army, so start thinking and acting like one! You will follow my orders and behave like an officer, or you will find yourself cooling your jets in the stockade—after I finish kicking your damned ass.” He tossed him away from him, then turned to the others. “Let’s get this show on the road, people. Mount up.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Porto do Santos, State of São Paulo, Brazil

Later that evening

Jorge Ruiz was a farm boy, but Manuel Pereira was a wharf rat. Born and raised in the bustling port city of Santos, on the South Atlantic coast southeast of São Paulo, Pereira loved the sea and loved the hardworking, hard-playing, no-nonsense life on the docks. The rules were simple: you worked, you supported your family, and you gave thanks to Jesus at the end of the week…the rest was up to you. Drinking, smoking, whoring, fighting, whatever—as long as you took care of the first three first, just about everything else was boa vida—the good life.

Although he joined the army and loved being a ground soldier, he would always be drawn to life on the docks. He loved the smell of the mountains of burlap bags of coffee or boxes of bananas on the wharf awaiting loading onto the rows and rows of ships from all over the world, the scent even overpowering the big diesel and oil engines; he loved the power and brutish efficiency of the cranes, tenders, tugs, and barges, all fighting for position and attention like bees in a hive; and he especially loved the grimy, gritty resolve of the men and women who worked the docks. Loading hundreds of tons of produce aboard a ship in just a couple hours might seem impossible for most men, but the workers did it day in and day out, in any kind of weather, for laughably low wages. They griped, groused, swore, fought, threatened, and complained every minute, but they got the job done because it was their way of life and they loved it.