"Holy shit!" Jason said.
"Damn. You called that one right," Aramis said. He slapped at his hair, patted himself, checking for damage. The kid was always smart after the shit hit the fan. Get him to think ahead and he'd go from operator to team leader. He was also bleeding from both lips. Likely he'd bashed his face on the roof as he came down. His skin was flushing red from heat damage.
Bart accelerated and drove into the receding and rising fireball that was mushrooming out and spreading above, darkening the sky. Oily, burning streams were raining down, but the road was moderately clear, with vehicles blown off, or stalled from various aftermaths of the detonation.
"I don't think a second one will go off at this time, so let us get through," he said. Something crunched and the vehicle bucked and rose, dropped and dragged. Wheels screamed. Thick, fluffy soot, some of it still glowing red, fell through the open roof.
"I have clear sky," Rahul said. "Watch for threats."
Aramis shook himself then rose back up to man the gun that was leaning against the roof lip. He swung it out and scraping could be heard on the plastic and metal of the canopy top.
"Think it was on purpose?" Alex asked. He assumed it was. The timing was too cute.
Bababababababang! Automatic fire lashed out and raked the right side, starring windows but not penetrating. Aramis swung over and cut loose with a return burst from the Viper that made shit explode. Bart accelerated, Rahul said, "I do," and Alex grinned and cussed.
In the lead vehicle, Elke leaned out a window and fired grenades, and tossed what could only be small mines into the gutter. Jason was out the top with a machine gun and laid down . . . well, not indiscriminate fire. He aimed well, but he didn't seem too worried about collateral damage. Above, Aramis took that as a cue and added to it. They chewed apart some ratty storefront that had definite military gear set up in a clear space.
"Playwright, this is Calico actual, over," said a female voice, Captain Berit Lyngstad, a blonde Norwegian paratrooper who was running one of the reinforced local platoons.
"Go ahead, Calico, over," he said over the clatter of guns.
"Stand by for backup. Indigenous unit to your right, one block, over."
Whatever had happened, this area was way past hot.
"They can best stay where they are to cover the flank, over," Alex said.
"They're trying to link up to reinforce the convoy, over."
That wasn't what he wanted to hear. However, his jurisdiction ended outside the limos. He could direct them anywhere Bishwanath wanted. He couldn't control the military. Bishwanath could, but it would screw things up worse to even try that.
"Understood, over," he said. Things couldn't get that much worse, he thought, as they growled over debris, bouncing only slightly in the massive vehicle.
Lyngstad spoke again. "Playwright, Snow White informs us the enemy has commo, over." Captain L. was definitely easy to understand and calm under fire. Pity the bitch only had bad news.
Then Aramis poured fire down the cross street as Bart tried to run faster.
"Those are good guys, dammit!" Bart said. At least on paper.
Alex was all set to make an apologetic ass-covering comment when Aramis said, "Mic off. One: cover your ass. Two: get paid first."
"Hold fire," he said instead. Blast it, the kid was right, but the timing and phrasing sucked. At least he'd killed his mic.
Aramis looked down and said, "Boss, you didn't want them along. I didn't kill any, dinged a few vehicles at most. Now they're not along. Ream me later."
"How does our route look?" he asked, just as Captain L. cut back in.
"Playwright, please control your fire. Friendlies, say again, friendlies, over." She had iron control, he had to give her that. Why weren't there more like her?
"Confirm friendlies," he said. "ID problem, now resolved, over." Yeah, she'd believe that.
But they hadn't planned on the collapsed building blocking the street.
"That was not on the map this morning," Bart said, looking from the wreckage to the dash. "And is not . . . wait, it's updating. From our input."
"Well, I'm glad we can provide recon for everyone else," Jason muttered aloud. Both drivers forced their vehicles around in hard, traction-breaking turns.
The hostiles didn't seem to be entirely interested in the cornered President, though there was some sniper fire.
Then there was mortar fire and more sniper fire.
"It would be good to have more than the single fighter overhead, and one transport," Alex said.
"Playwright, this is Calico. Be advised incoming fire is not targeting you. You are discreet if you can break out, over."
"Understood, over." Yeah, the fight was going on regardless, they just happened to be here. Which still sucked. They were boxed in, valuable bystanders in the middle of a war, ripe to be anyone's hostages, targets, or punching bags.
Aramis fired another heavy burst back at some shooter and fire erupted from a window. Jason pulled a rocket out and put an exclamation on the burst that took out a section of wall for massive overkill, which made a point that would hopefully be taken.
"Boss, I recommend moving up here, over," Jason said.
"Good idea," Alex said, and reached through the hatch to the trunk. Get all the hardware out and use it now. Clear an area around them and wait for backup.
Bart took weapons like firewood, kicked open the door and ran as Aramis fired bursts of suppressive fire. Alex followed with three rockets and two dump guns. Then he and Jason provided suppression for Aramis. That put everyone in one vehicle, for better protection of the President and better outgoing fire.
They hunkered down. The vehicle wasn't a great redoubt, but it was armored.
"Suggestions on retreat?" Alex asked as he shot at another threat. It was just some punk, but a threat if ignored.
"Recon," Elke said, and leaned out with her shotgun. She fired four shots in four high arcs to the cardinal points, her body bent at odd angles out the window, then handed a cord to Alex. He plugged it into his computer and opened the video.
The slugs she fired had cameras aboard. Their resolution wasn't great, but they were for battlefield recon, not glamour shots.
"I don't see anywhere not filling up with hostiles," Alex said. "Bad. Hope they get here quick."
"Arriving," Calico said. "We took a wrong turn, over."
The punctuation was a roar of noise on a psyops speaker, followed by pops of some kind of nonlethal gas.
"Ah, shit," Bart said. "Close the vehicle?"
"Yeah, all we can manage. Fucking morons."
They scrabbled back and rolled the windows. With seven in back, the limo was fairly tight. Bart crawled up front to get the engine going. The ignition wasn't responding to Rahul's attempts. The turbine might have inhaled something during the debris-throwing chase.
"Shit gas," Elke reported. "Full bore incapacitance agent."
"Calico, we do not have filters, over," Alex said. He was amazed how calm he sounded.
"Why not? Dammit, you're supposed to have filters at all times! Over." Lyngstad sounded panicky now.
"Well, we're supposed to have a lot of things at all times, but there's this image you want us to maintain!" Alex snapped. "Don't fucking worry about it, just deal with it fast, over."
"Roger, Playwright. As fast as we can. I have called for vertical, over."
"Yeah, great. Out."
The engine didn't start, but the capacitor bank had enough juice to close vents and the roof.
"Are we to be affected?" Bishwanath asked. He was a fantastic principal. Did as he was told, stayed out of the way. At least it wasn't their screwup.
"Yes, sir. As soon as that gas enters, we're going to be spewing from every orifice, hallucinating, and twitching. It's messy and undignified, but not long-term harmful. But they'll have to carry us out and either deliver an antidote or wait for it to wear off."
"Thank you," he said. No sarcasm, just understanding of the
facts.
"Getting some whiffs," Elke said. "Not bad yet, but rising nausea."
"Better than outside," Shaman said. "Look at that." He pointed.
The crowds half a block away had disappeared at a hint, but the few who'd missed the warnings were convulsing heavily, anything from twitches and shakes to staggering and dancing. Then they started vomiting, snotting, drooling. Stained clothes indicated sphincters cutting loose.
"The good news is the threat is now gone ohhhh erp!" Aramis said. His face bore the panicked look of someone who knows he's about to be sick. Violently sick.
"Here it comes," Alex said. "Calico, it's hitting us, you're in charge of recovery. Thanks for clearing the areurllph!" and he was vomiting, spewing, guts alternately clamping tight with cramps and then jerking. Fear reflex hit, and he could see Elke whimpering, head in hands, curled up tight on the floor. Jason was kneeling over the seat and clutching at it for support as the car rolled over, tossing Alex sideways . . . or was that disorientation from the gas? No, the car was . . . no it wasn't, couldn't be, but the President was falling atop him and . . .
****
"Mister Marlow?" he heard through a fuzzy purple jelly that surrounded him.
"Agent," he said automatically. The goo cleared. It was all hallucinogenic.
"Are you recovering?"
A military medic was over him, and his vision was returning. His pulse hammered in his ears . . . no, he was aboard a lifter and that was the engine hum.
"I think so," he replied muzzily. He was lying in a puddle of something slimy . . . he wasn't going to think about that. Even though it was intentional and chemically induced, it was embarrassing.
"We'll be landing at the palace in a few moments."
He finally was able to focus on the helmeted face in front of him. "How's the President?" he asked.
"You don't need to worry about him," came the confident reply with a head shake. He waited a moment for further comment. Nothing.
It might have been the recovery drugs, the gas, or the cumulative stress, but he reached up, clutched the soldier's flight suit by the front, and yanked.
"Listen," he glanced at the collar, now in focus, "sergeant first class, I am the senior fucking Agent in Charge of the President's personal detail. He is something for me to worry about and you will goddamned well give me a sitrep or there will be worse shit than the puddle I'm sitting in to clean up!"
The sergeant's arms came up defensively but not violently. They ran strength against strength, and even sick and doped, Alex was stronger.
"Easy, sir," the man acquiesced. He was old enough under his helmet that he likely wouldn't make an issue of it, but Alex didn't care.
"The President is fine, recovering with the rest of you. He's over there," and the medic pointed with his half-free forearm. "We'll escort you all in on landing."
"That's all I wanted," Alex said, took a look to confirm it was the President, and sagged back, exhausted. The gas had taken a lot out of him. Literally. He snarled to himself.
An hour later, everyone had showered, after a humiliating trip through the palace dripping shit, sweat, and puke from their clothes. Bishwanath had his staff come and get the team's clothes and gear, and it was back, clean, scrubbed, sterilized, and folded.
"I swear," Aramis said, "I am so pissed." Everyone ignored the obvious pun.
"It's more than that," Alex said. "It's the assumption that they can play without consulting with me. If we take fire and you see it"—he pointed at Aramis—"you're low man around here . . ."
"But I take charge until it's under control and hand it back over," Aramis replied.
"Right. The guy on the spot stays in charge until properly relieved. No one smart jumps into the middle of a firefight and gives orders without a sitrep, unless things are a total balls-up. I thought we had things largely contained."
Jason wasn't as nearly as distraught at the others. "I got to try that shit in training for Grainne's forces," he said. "But it's still disgusting."
Elke came down the short passage from the shower with her hips wrapped in a towel. She was topless but clutching a support shirt.
"Especially dangerous if I have detonator controls in hand," she said with a raised eyebrow. "You might point that out to them."
Alex was at once taken by the scene. First of all, fantastic tits. Modestly sized, perfectly shaped. Push-ups did amazing things for the woman. Second, Bart had scarcely noticed, merely a glance. He was also from Europe with its casual attitudes, and had been security for several female celebrities and performers. He had to have seen a lot. Shaman was a doctor. Jason came from a socially relaxed culture with hot weather that encouraged little clothing. But Aramis was stunned. Only for a moment, and the kid got it under control fast, but he definitely wasn't used to the idea. Between the shave he needed and the tousled hair were a pair of eyes as big as saucers.
She had her shirt on in moments and wandered off to get pants. "If I'd had something live," she called from her room, door open, "I could have twitched. Mention that to them, please," she reiterated.
"Will do."
He wasn't going to snicker at Aramis for trying to sneak a peek past the door frame. He'd been without sex at least as long and would love a glimpse of the rest of her, but it wasn't professional and he had more control. Aramis would just have to learn.
There was a knock at the door, then Bishwanath walked in. Elke returned, dressed.
"I apologize for barging in. I am somewhat unhappy with the performance earlier."
"Yes, sir," Alex said. He was afraid of this. "It went bad after the convoy broke up, and . . ."
"It was spectacular, Agent Marlow. Right up until the Army tried to take control of a situation you had in hand and caused me to befoul myself. This is all over the news, and is a staggering blow in this culture. The public humiliation . . ." He stood there tight-lipped and irate.
"I came to apologize to you," he said, taking them all in with his gaze. "It is unconscionable that you should be treated this way. I will be speaking to the Army's people and making a few things clear."
"Sir, we are clean, glad of your hospitality in getting our stuff cleaned, and they did keep you alive. I am not unhappy with some minor trouble for us, though I do see how it's a severe problem in your position, but we're used to being grubby."
"You would like to be kept out of it," Bishwanath observed.
"If you need us, we're there. Feel free to use the leverage, but we don't need a claim on our behalf, though you're kind to offer."
"Very well, but on my behalf, I am about to flay someone." His expression made Alex wonder if he meant it literally. Considering some of the fighting that had taken place in the past, he just might.
"Need an escort, sir?" Aramis offered.
"It would be prudent?"
"Yeah. Sir," Alex said. Sure, the kid could go along and watch. So could someone who could report back. "Jason, go with him."
"At once."
Both men grabbed their clean gear and fell in behind the President as he left. The man almost left heat ripples in the air. He was pissed.
As soon as the door closed, Alex said, "Well, that fucks things up."
"Yes. For whom?" Shaman asked.
"Everyone," Alex said. "Everyone."
Chapter Fourteen
You'd think those morons would get the hint," leMieure bitched to Weygandt about the contractors. The colonel wondered why he'd been singled out for such attention. Maybe it was considered an honor.
"I don't know that they're paid to take hints, sir. They seem to value courage and teamwork above all else." He tried to make it obvious he was working, watching his screens, raising the audio a bit . . .
"Yeah, yeah. And if I'd known that bitch might have had a bomb in her hands, I'd have timed it better, if you know what I mean."
Weygandt's neck hairs bristled. He was a soldier, a lawyer, and a human being, and that statement was pushing all professional, legal, and moral envelop
es. He was glad he was secretly recording this. That couldn't be admitted as evidence in court, but it might save his ass if there was a court-martial or even just a Mission Effectiveness Inspection.
"Maybe they need orders directly," he suggested diplomatically.
The fat bastard leaned on a shelf and smeared it with sweat. Why did he always have to come here? Was it from his vid and sensie days, he required an audience?
"The 'President' is officially their employer, through his office. Officially, we can only advise. It has to be that way so it at least looks like he's in charge. The budget isn't through my office or I'd cut them. It's through MilBu with a rider and I can't touch it."
Weygandt pondered. How best to phrase this?
"That doesn't mean they can't be given orders," he said. "Just that we have to find a way to get those orders issued by their office, or the President. He might be, um, persuaded with the right leverage. I'm sure we can find a way to lean on Ripple Creek. When were they last audited?"
"For taxes? I have no idea." Of course the scumbucket didn't.
He checked off on his fingers. "Taxes, compliance with ISO, compliance with military standards they contract to, and to relevant military regulations . . . no one is ever perfectly in compliance."
"I could kiss you," the fat man said, grinning gleefully.
Good God, please don't even joke about that, Weygandt shuddered. Instead, he said, "Let's just agree that we can resolve the contractor problem and have professional soldiers take over."
"Who will do as I order, yes."
Well, we'll see about that later. I may have some bad news for you, Weygandt smiled inside. If he played this right, he could take care of both at the same time.
The door opened and Bishwanath came in, escorted by two of his goons.
Holy shit.
"Who works for who here?" the President asked.
"Um . . . sir?" Weygandt said when leMieure didn't. LeMieure was in shock and cowering back toward the wall.
"Who is in charge here?" he repeated, louder and more forcefully. His guards stayed behind him and didn't seem disposed to interfere. This had to be due to the events earlier, and they actually were in goon role, looking ready to shoot anyone he asked them to.