Better to Beg Forgiveness

  Weygandt had a pistol. He knew leMieure had nothing.

  "That would depend on the situation, sir," he replied. "If you can tell me what—"

  He was cut off as Bishwanath shouted, "I am in charge here! This is my nation, my palace, my plan. Those of you advising me are speaking for me in ways and places you should not, and making the situation worse. And you—" He turned to leMieure, who tried to brace against the onslaught but failed. "—are a fat, meddlesome idiot! You do not speak for me, and from now on I will contradict and denounce the statements you make on my behalf. If the press wants conflict, I will by God give it to them, and I will have you arrested and shot!"

  Weygandt silently begged leMieure not to be stupid enough to admit any of the things he'd discussed in front of this man. Weygandt had already witnessed too many discussions he'd rather be able to deny. He also didn't want leMieure to raise the issue that the President wasn't really in charge. He wasn't, of course, but if he thought he was being pressed he might just have people shot. That wouldn't be legal, but wouldn't matter to corpses.

  Luckily, Bishwanath stormed back out with a door slam that shook the air.

  After a moment Weygandt said, "I think we need to increase the Recon presence down here."

  "Yes," leMieure agreed, trying not to blubber, the coward. "I will feel safer with that madman at a distance."

  Weygandt hadn't been thinking of leMieure's safety at all. The man fit perfectly the snide definition of a buddy: someone larger and slower who could soak up a lot of fire.

  ****

  We are definitely earning our pay, Alex thought.

  It had been someone's bright idea to build a shopping mall. He couldn't imagine Simoncorp thought it was a smart idea; maybe they needed a tax write-off. Finance was beyond him. In any case, a hotel, a mall, a small park, and some other trappings were built, and there was an attempt at creating tourism in the works. So far, it was only high-level execs of the companies in question taking advantage of the tourism opportunities in this wasteland, as well as a few politicians with their entourages, and annoying clueless celebrities.

  Ironically, most of them were guarded by Ripple Creek or other contractors. Alex had already recognized a couple, and Jason and Shaman pointed out a few more.

  There wasn't much time, though. The mall was atrociously designed as far as security, with a huge patio between vehicle apron and front door, under a huge, vaulting concrete archway that almost begged for explosives to knock it down on hapless victims. Elke concurred and said so.

  "Boom and crash. What were they thinking?"

  It was a broad, open area. This entrance was VIPs and their guards only, and all guards had to be from a select list of contractors, to maintain the President's safety. General public entrances were guarded by Bodyguards backed up by soldiers. That also presented a possible hazard.

  Besides that, the celebrities and press made it hard to do anything. Despite jokes about "expendable cover," which were not going to be made over the radio, the PR damage of hurting any of them was an EP nightmare.

  With the team in close and handpicked Bodyguards out from there, handpicked by Major Weilhung, whom Alex did trust for that, they moved across the decorative bricks and to the reserved entrance of tall, crystal polymer that looked like glass but was stronger and less likely to shatter.

  Inside wasn't a receiving line, but rather a choreographed group of little gaggles for the benefit of the roving cameras. Tables and chairs sat in a garden type arrangement with a small fountain and potted plants.

  "Lots of stuff for us to use as cover," Aramis said softly.

  "Doesn't look much like the 'video mapping simulation' we were shown," Jason said. He didn't sound surprised.

  "I can't offer any explosive," Elke said. "Too much fragile clutter." She'd also expressed a very vocal and Czech objection to not having her shotgun.

  Shaman said, "But if anyone else does, the fragmentation effects will be brutal."

  "We throw ourselves on the Dishwasher and pray," Bart offered snidely. "Not much else will work."

  A number of annoying airhead celebrities who wanted to be socially relevant—and keep their names visible for future contracts—were here. Seamus Plume, who could be counted on to appear anywhere there was "trouble." His current and previous and likely again girlfriend Messalina. Francia Pikes, allegedly a virgin teenager wearing that outfit . . . she was a virgin if there was money in it. Rumor and photos said the three of them as a trio and here they were side by side. There was that obnoxious and hideous Vienna Marriott, wearing troweled-on makeup and looking like a hooker. She used her family's fortune to try to make herself a star. She was, in the sense that you could download her escapades with everything but the mule for a few cents.

  Given that, it felt pretty good to be guarding even a small-time president. Alex saw Kyle and Wade with others he didn't know guarding the brats. He gave the barest hint of a nod, which they returned.

  The only good thing was that with this many professionals in the place, any attack would be stupid.

  There was a very pretty fountain in the atrium, with three levels of balconies and transparent elevators on two sides. All parties had decided that VIPs would remain on ground level for the duration, with one or two lesser targets going up to a private reception in a third-level club after the official activities.

  It was telling. The cameras took in the President briefly, and a small number of reporters came over for a sound bite, but most of the attention was on the Earth celebrities, who were interviewed at length for their political take, as if they had one that mattered. Granted, Bishwanath didn't have any of the fancy degrees the "professionals" had, but he had run a district and a major tribe. Real world experience counted, having portrayed a leader in a sensie at some point did not.

  The fountain had three rotating arcs in a sequenced program and was probably quite pretty. There wasn't time for that now, though. The area matched reasonably well with the map they'd been given and the walk-through he'd done, though quite a few other things had been moved. That was always the danger when money wasn't an issue and the architect showed up to dictate to the engineers.

  It actually made sense as a PR circus. The press could use the celebs to generate interest for tourism, the President was there for the official part without dominating it or drawing attention to himself.

  It also gave lots of bodies to hide behind in an emergency. Not that he'd say so in public, or that it wouldn't be a disaster if so, but it was always an option to keep their principal alive.

  The speeches turned into more interviews, with clusters of cameras around the speaker. They were ongoing, with the interviewers rotating and drifting as suited their needs and moods. Alex watched that none of them got too close, none got between Bishwanath and the exit, and that none were armed. That latter was hard, as all the commo gear they carried interfered with his scanners. He had Jason and Elke backing him up on that.

  One of the reporters actually tried to talk to Elke, who stared through him as if he didn't exist until he gave up and moved on with a scowl.

  Yes, it was a fine event from a PR point of view, and the general manager was getting some camera time. Of course, that disgusting leMieure he'd been lucky enough to avoid so far was, too. His two henchmen didn't look much like guards, nor like assistants of any kind. More like "moral support" or "yes men." Both were young and slim, which suggested the rumors about Mister leMieure were true. Apart from that presence, the rest did make sense as promotion. There were pure tourist nations. The UK made a lot that way. So did Bali, Macau, and Sulawan, most of the Caribbean states, Sharjah . . . it wasn't a bad concept. There was no way this place would ever be a power, but it could achieve self-sufficiency rather than being a poorly subsidized excuse for crime syndicates.

  In any large group, there are a number of stupid people. With a charismatic leader, or time to stew and swap ideas, or arousal by outside agents, those stupid people can be prevailed upon to do things s
tupider than their collective stupidity. Alex realized that afterward.

  In short, a firefight started. He realized that at once.

  At the first burst, he took care of business, to wit: putting Bishwanath down. He and Jason and Bart formed a second perimeter, pushed some people aside, including Vienna's stunned form, skirt crawling up as she ran, and not at all sexy. Her own guards tackled her and dragged her aside.

  Bishwanath had learned and went limp as three EPs dragged him between a large potted fern and a pillar, Bart and Shaman behind him and backs to him, carbines coming out from cases and pistols going back under coats. The local variety of fern closed up as it was touched, whipping into a little ball as if even it wanted away from the shooting. Elke crouched in front of him, behind his umbrella, with her reinforced case up as additional cover. That case wasn't quite ballistic armor, but it was enough to stop fragments. Bishwanath had his extra armor on and hunkered down small. The Bodyguard crowded in around, flinching and shouting and uncoordinated, but brave. That set alarm bells off in Alex's mind. One of them could be an assassin with this as a diversion, and it might be done well enough no one could blame said killer.

  That first burst was followed with the unadulterated roar of a full machine gun in a real caliber, and some light explosions. Smoke started wafting.

  Then more explosions started on another side.

  Time to move the Bodyguards. "Grays, please secure a perimeter at ten meters!" he shouted and gestured, feeling very exposed standing up in just soft armor and no headgear in the midst of real combat.

  "All right, we're retreating," he said into radio. It was too loud and echoey for voice alone. "Call for any available transport up to the door. Captain Nugent, this is Playwright, I need these da— other VIPs pulled to safety without them blocking Dishwasher. Can you assist in routing, please, over." It wasn't a request. Recon were professional enough to know that he was the guy on the bubble.

  And it was the worst place possible for a fight. Civilians everywhere, lots of breakable stuff, reporters with cameras, like some farcical sensie. Someone was already trying to get close with a camera. Alex almost shot them, because doing a low crawl with a camera, monitor, and antennae made them look like a missile crew or such.

  "Is someone actually starting a fight in a mall?" Elke asked, mirroring his thoughts.

  "Behind the pillar," Aramis shouted and gestured. "Dishwasher against it, backs in."

  "Good enough," Alex shouted agreement. "Shitty, but good enough." Right now they needed any kind of cover before moving for one of the stores, most likely.

  "Roger, Playwright," Nugent agreed. "APC in three minutes, over."

  "Warn me at six zero seconds, over."

  "Roger. Be advised my unit is busy and cannot assist, over." Good man. Blast on the availability, but they were likely trying to secure the exit and cut off more incursions.

  The team maneuvered to get Bishwanath to the far side of the pillar, where they could run straight for the door. Still scanning, Alex ducked down himself. The screams were louder than some of the fire, and there was now outgoing fire doing damage to stores. Small fires were erupting from tracer and a few grenades. Damned Army. He didn't fault them. They were doing what soldiers should do . . . which was the wrong thing for this situation.

  Although, he conceded as another massive burst and the bang of a rocket shook the upper balcony of the atrium, it might be a good idea in this case.

  One of the Bodyguards prodded the camera crew with his toe and gestured. They argued until his weapon swung, and then skittered away. Well, they were local and not Alex's problem. He smiled a bit. If they needed documentation, Elke had been wearing her "glasses" the whole time. Intel quality only, not PR, but it would set the facts straight . . . if anyone cared.

  The massive number of civilians meant the good guys were very limited in their fields of fire, and the attackers knew it. Suppressing fire was trashing the place, which might have been the desired outcome of the attack, and not hitting anything of tactical importance.

  Still, he saw flitting figures now. Not as professional as Recon or EPD, but professional enough to stand and fight. That was rare around here.

  "I swear that one looks like one of Dhe's guards," Elke said.

  "I don't see it, but save it," Alex said.

  "Roger."

  The easiest way to spot the action was to look for screams of running civilians. Someone was definitely trying to pin down the exits, because the crowd kept running in toward the middle. That was a clanging bomb warning.

  "Captain Nugent, Playwright, we may need containment, over."

  "Understood. Ninety seconds on APC. Main doors are not secure, over."

  "Roger, over."

  Alex saw a bona fide squad of somebody across the atrium and down the hall. They were shooting, and the crowd was dispersing in a frenzied Brownian movement, bumping and colliding like some comedy, sprawling and then crawling. Their uniform was cobbled together, neither Army nor Bodyguard. There were still too many civilians, and four fucking camera crews pointed this way. The military solution was to attack. Alex couldn't do that. The Bodyguard were spread out, and he wanted them in the retreat, too.

  A grenade exploded in the fountain, creating a cloud of mist. With that added to the smoke and some kind of gas, likely tear gas, a substantial fog tickled the back of Alex's throat.

  "Get Dishwasher masked," he ordered. He wasn't going to gear up himself yet, but maybe soon. Certainly it was time to start retreating out the door, too. Out some door.

  "Grays, please fall back to our position plus five meters. Argonaut, move the Dishwasher out to the curb for pickup. Detour left."

  "Roger," Jason said, as the various units moved into their next positions. Gray-uniformed Bodyguards stood up too visibly, but moved with discipline, a few Recon around the edges sought position and targets, other EPDs moved screaming, panicked spoiled celebrities behind cover in stores, seeking emergency exits, and a unit in white shirts and peaked caps arrived on electric carts.

  Who the hell were they?

  The team shuffled out, moving faster, a porcupine of weapons with a masked man in the middle, now at a zigzag jog.

  The carts whined across between the belligerents. Five men in white shirts with shoulder patches rolled out and took positions behind the buggies with carbines and grenade launchers. In seconds, a cloud of smoke and retch gas was blowing from one cart toward the gang, propelled by a ducted fan. One of the arrivals turned and looked at the Ripple Creek team.

  "This is Lizard Forty-Five," he said into a shoulder mounted horn. "Continue your retreat and watch the emergency exits. I have one man in each for surveillance."

  Aramis shouted, "I do not fucking believe this!"

  Lizard 45 heard him and replied, "Hah! You laughed at me. Guess I called this one right, eh?" he shouted, then turned and duckwalked with his carbine at the ready. He pointed and gestured, and two of the mall guards dove low and slithered for cover behind another plant. He fired a burst, and the other two advanced. Overhead came the crack of a large bore rifle.

  "Marksman, two floors up," Shaman said.

  "Retreat," Alex said, pointing at a clothing store. "Elke, Bart on lead. Aramis left, Shaman with Dishwasher. Jason and me on right and rear. Move."

  "Sir," everyone chorused and rose as the firefight behind them shifted to a new front.

  They whipped through the store, nodded, and made polite noises at the manager ducked under the service counter, and Alex led the way out the back door into a service hallway in seconds. Then he was back on radio.

  "We could use that extraction, over."

  "Waiting, left of the road, over."

  "Right out this wall," he muttered, staring at the concrete. "And exits are fifty meters either way."

  "One exit," said Elke, as she moved forward and slapped a handful of something against the wall, followed by another one lower down.

  "Elke, I don't—" he said as he dove back into th
e store. She slipped in just as the heavy door closed, only to bounce off its hinges as a SLAM announced an explosion.

  "We have an exit," she shouted and led the way through, slipping a remote back into her pocket.

  An exit indeed. The store's fireproof door fell off its frame with a muted bang, and there was a gaping hole of reinforcing rods and shredded polymer and concrete in the wall, big enough to walk through.

  ****

  Aramis was having a ball. Shooting, explosions, the whackjob mall ninja, they were carrying the President to safety and generally doing what they'd been hired to do. It felt good. He eased around the fractured edge of the hole and looked for threats. It was clear, apart from a roiling cloud of dust and smoke from Elke's blast. No, she wasn't bad, he grudgingly admitted. Knew her stuff and kept cool. Behind them, the shooting in the mall was fading.

  Behind him, Bart said, "APC twenty meters. Move."

  He saw movement in the haze, and shifted into a stance for immediate threats. Whatever it was . . .

  "Whatthefuck?" he shouted. The smoke cleared. Giant ugly bird.

  "It's a goddammed ****** thing," he said.

  The beast was obviously close kin to an ostrich. It looked at him with dull, stupid eyes. He tried to make a shooing motion, and it pecked his arm.

  "Goddam!" he yelled, and poked it with the barrel of his carbine.

  At that point it went berserk, squawking and batting with heavy wings and kicking wildly. It really was uncoordinated, and only got him one clipping smack with a wing. It turned in a circle, ruffled its posterior feathers, and let loose a wet rumble. A splash erupted that struck the ground and splattered halfway up his calves, as the stupid bird faded back into the dust of its passing.

  Furious, he fired a shot and was rewarded with another squawk, this one loud and indignant. He slipped backward, following the huddle toward the APC.

  Then the damned thing was back, farting and kicking and thrashing in the grit. It was fast enough he couldn't get a good shot, and annoying enough that wanted the thing dead, but it somehow never managed to connect to him with anything. He blocked with his weapon and kept moving, moving, then they were backing up the ramp.