Better to Beg Forgiveness…: Chapter Three

    It was an hour later when Bishwanath left. They knew his approximate itinerary for a week, and it was a packed one, and had learned some details about him.

    “So, how's everyone feel on this?” Alex asked.

    There wasn't any hesitation. Bart had the most experience as an actual bodyguard and said, “Good man. He won't cause a lot of problems or pull an attitude that I can see.”

    “I also will work well with him,” Elke said.

    “No problem,” from Aramis. “He's honest and open.”

    “He is a bit reserved in my area,” Shaman said. “I will need to watch him, but I don't expect him to hinder me treating him.”

    Jason said, “Things look so good as far as he's concerned, I expect everything else will be screwed up beyond belief.”

    Alex nodded. “Good principal. We have most of our gear. The military has made contact. All we have to do for now is our job. Let's finish.”

    There were nods and the work of setting up resumed.

    “These are severely nice digs,” Elke said, the odd word choice garnishing her accent.

    “Yes, they are,” Alex acknowledged. They each had a small but comfortable room, two shared bathrooms and the common room decked out as conference or reception room with a living area near a vid console. He sighed and said, “Aramis, take your feet off the table, please. If you need a foot stool, there's one over there.”

    “Hell, boss, they'll charge it off as wear and tear, no big deal.” But he did comply, removing them from a very expensive octagonal table turned and carved from wood, and putting them down on a hand-stitched rug that had to have taken years. The issue was more a matter of the item's location than value. Still, feet didn't go on furniture. As long as he complied, the talking back was a quirk. Irritating, but a quirk.

    Getting settled in was a major operation. Weapons were now scattered about, though that “scatter” was intentional and precise, putting them within easy reach of anyone, anywhere in the room. Those weapons either had safety circuits disabled, or were programmed to recognize any of the team's grip or DNA to activate. Civilians and politicians insisted on the “safety” interrupts to prevent “criminal use.” Criminals destroyed those circuits on stolen weapons, and professionals did so whenever they could get away with it, laws be damned. The circuit might work the first time 499 times out of 500. But Murphy said it was that 500th time your life would depend on instant operation.

    “Nothing like legal and diplomatic bullshit to fuck things up,” Aramis said. “I want my fucking knife.”

    “Yeah.” Alex agree with him totally on that. Celadon wasn't stable, so they'd entered through a starport in Salin's other nation, Kaporta, which was where they were officially operating from. The local laws there prohibited large knives, as well as axes and shock batons. There'd even been an argument over “guards” having lethal weapons rather than crowd control type. However, the lethal hardware was corporate issue, so it had reluctantly been cleared. The knives, tomahawks and batons they'd wanted for close quarters had all been put in bond until their departure, as a “courtesy.” It was a courtesy none of them appreciated. They'd been able to bring some of their folding knives; the smaller ones.

    That and the dispute with the Army weren't a good sign of how this operation would go. There'd be more territorial infighting than shooting of targets, if Alex's guess was correct.

    One of their items was an upright “wardrobe” that was a rotating arms locker. Much of their support gear was within. Pistols were loaded and placed butt out on racks where they could be easily grasped. They were stowed near ground level. Doctrine held that one used a pistol to fight one's way to the rifle one should have had all along. Ground level made them accessible while diving for cover.

    Above those were rifles and a machine gun. There were spaces for more machine guns, but they had only been authorized the one. Alex would be making connections to acquire more hardware. Each of them was proficient with American, European, Chinese, Russian and Brazilian Federation weapons.

    Once everything was checked and unloaded, Alex called Tech White again.

    “How may I help you, Agent Marlow?” she asked.

    “Yes, ma'am,” he said. She wasn't a ma'am, but more smoothing. You were never wrong to call an AF member sir or ma'am. They liked their politeness. “I'd like to look around, and if Major Weilhung is available, I'd like to go with him so we can discuss our protective strategy.”

    “I'll give you a contact list and put you through,” she said.

    Twenty minutes later, the two commanders were patrolling the palace, and the entire EP team was out separately, except for Bart who was guarding the entrance to the President’s quarters proper. Alex had debated bringing him along too, but they didn’t want to suggest to the military that any of their EPD duties could be taken over by soldiers. That type of bureaucratic authority grabbing that had happened before.

    Alex and Weilhung both carried two floor plans; one on computer, one on paper. At each door they made notes and marked distance, then entered to mark windows. Lots of those windows had been blown out in fighting. They were now being repaired. Because the locals were largely unskilled and unreliable, the work was being done by military engineers and contractors at Earth taxpayer expense. Not that there was any guarantee there weren’t infiltrators among the contractors, who might plant sensors, beacons for missiles, or just an outright bomb, but the odds were against it, and odds were part of the game.

    “Obviously not made to make our job easier,” Weilhung commented.

    “Yeah. Pretty, but not well-defensible,” Alex said. “What do we do?”

    “All we can do with the politics,” Weilhung said with a twist of an eyebrow. “I have good people on regular patrol, I’ve got cameras and sensorwebs coming. I have regular but handpicked sentries at all entrances, and you saw the vehicle barricades.”

    “Yeah. What about those indigenous guards? Our principal doesn’t like them much himself.”

    “Oh, you saw them,” Weilhung said, with a smirk that turned into a grimace. “They’re tripwires. Best they can be.”

    “And an invite to test the rest of the defenses. I expect some action,” Alex said.

    “Right. They also look like shit in the press. Wonderful setup. It’s going to be a long job.”

    “I’m going to work on our setup,” Alex said. “This floor and the apartments. That’s as far as we should get from our principal.”

    “That makes sense,” Weilhung said. “I’ll finish securing the rest.”

    “Right. I’ll be in touch.”

    Overlapping with that discussion, the EP team was out in rotating pairs, assessing and taking photos, then planning defensive movement and positions around what they had. Every exit, window, cubby that could be identified was checked, marked and regarded. While Alex kept the grunt busy, Jason figured it was his job to get things done quietly. “I can lay a gun here and cover the loading dock,” Jason said of a small service restroom that was largely nonfunctional and very remote. Likely, it had been abandoned for years.

    “Is it better than that shielded balcony, you think?” Aramis asked.

    “Not as good of cover, but much less obvious, and allows an enfilade.”

    “Yup. Mark it.”

    “Got it.”

    The palace wasn’t excessive, but was as large as a typical hotel. In fact, it appeared to be built on the same frame, with a fancier shell stuck over it. The dressed stone and carved points were all attached to the aluminum trusses that supported it. With conference rooms, guest suites and the President’s personal area, all down long hallways, it was easy to see the shape. That private area was being stripped of the previous occupant’s décor and belongings, which were variously being sold, taken to museums, or recycled, meaning “looted,” for and being refitted for the new administration. The team went through everything they could find to look for traps or threats, and to set up potential escape routes and defenses.

    “I don’t like those stairs,” Elke said. “Far too open. I’d like to mine them.”

    “Mine them how?” Horace Mbuto asked. The two of them were together. He had worked with Jason and Alex before, but Elke was new to him.

    “To collapse from the top. We have better ways out. Stairs need to be wide enough for us, not much wider or narrower. I want to equip all the narrow ways with fragmentation, and the wide ones to be taken out of the picture. That leaves us the elevators if we have escort, the six staircases that work best for us, and the roof or window slides.”

    “Ask Alex. Makes sense to me.”

    “Alex, take a look at this image.” She captured a shot of the stairs through her shades. “They’re too wide and I’d like to be able to remove them.”

    “How long to set up, how dangerous?” he asked.

    “No danger. I’ll have a keyed device. Not long. I can do it now.”

    “Do it.”

    “Roger.” She looked at Horace and said, “Cover me?”

    “Surely.”

    It was good practice and safe procedure. He scanned both directions in the upper mezzanine, then over her and down the marble stairs with their neo-Southwestern carpet runners. They looked to be real nylon, not Dacron or any of the modern substitutes.

    “How is this done?” he asked.

    “Charges under the carpet,” she said. “Word might get out, but that helps, too. It means no one will risk coming this way. I can drop the entire second flight straight to the floor. That’s ten meters.”

    “With concrete. You’ll make work for me, girl,” he said. Some of the paintings on the wall were real pieces from Earth. A pity they were faded or damaged. He examined them for known names. Yes, Lubov. Garner. Likely some others. Two hundred or more years old. People didn’t expect a man like Horace Mbuto to know his classics and finer points of medicine. He enjoyed breaking the stereotype.

    “No, because these aren’t people we’re going to worry about,” she grinned while she worked. “I’ll also run wires into the power system, that I can trigger by frequency modulation. Even if the power is out, I can detonate.”

    “Nice. How much explosive do you have?” He peered down quickly, then went back to scanning for threats. She had sliced and peeled the carpet with surgical precision.

    “I ordered a mixed tonne. They let me get five hundred kilos through. I’ll have to arrange another shipment.”

    “Hidden how?” Five hundred kilos of HE. The woman didn’t do dainty.

    “Oh, not hidden. That was just a safety limit on that aircraft. The rest will arrive in a few days.” She seemed comfortable having a conversation behind her back without turning.

    The bureaucrats might be a bigger enemy than any faction, he thought. And they couldn’t be shot. Though the temptation to arrange accidents had occurred to all of them and was a regular subject of discussion. It was always like that.

    Danger aside, the team were hired for having outrageous amounts of competency in the core tasks involved. Their strong, silent demeanor on duty was practiced to make them both discreet and seem unthreatening. Professionals knew what they were. Bystanders had no idea other than vague notions of guards against attackers, or more likely, annoying people who wanted to meet the celebrity/public figure. That left an undefined group who thought them easy marks.

    That was the group they liked meeting and disillusioning. Horace was hoping they’d be alive so he could show them his medical skills. He’d be frugal with the anesthetic.

    Back in their den of iniquity, Alex called another conference. Once everyone sprawled on couches and chairs, or in Aramis’s case, flopped down on the thick rug and fondling a carbine, he pointed to the vidwall.

    “Okay, let’s look at maps and routes. We’re here, and the parliament is there. The convention center where most of the meetings will be for now is there,” he indicated. “He’ll have to make public appearances several places. Those will not be outside, but will be accessible to the public.” The map was large scale and had holograms of the key buildings. It was quite recent, having been constructed from aerial and space images, but stuff changed daily around here.

    “Is Recon dealing with the interdiction problem?” Aramis asked.

    “Yes, crowds and security will be handled by Recon and Bashinghutch contractors.” Alex said.

    “Oh, them.” Aramis sounded disgusted.

    “Yeah, them,” Jason said. “But even though they’re not well paid and don’t have high standards, we can hope the reality of this place makes them alert.”

    “I doubt it,” Alex said. “They’re local hires.” Aramis was right to sound annoyed.

    “Ohhh, shit.” Jason sagged back on the couch. He kept switching from confident to cynical. His world view was being challenged.

    “Yup. Both Weilhung and Corporate have complaints in about that. Maybe it will get somewhere. Hopefully we, meaning him, will get to vet them. Dunno. Just assume everything is a threat. Also remember, we’re civil guards.”

    “Meaning what in this case?” Aramis asked.

    Shaman grinned hugely, clapped him on the shoulder, and boomed, “Meaning we have to wear suits and look ‘professional,’ not helmets and hard clamshells.”

    Aramis didn’t say anything. He just shared a look with everyone else.

    “Yup,” Alex said. “We look like suits. Soft impact armor underneath.”

    “Issue with that,” Elke said.

    “We all have issues with that, but go ahead,” Alex said, looking at her.

    “Do we have armor tailored for females, so I don’t look like I’m stuffed in a sack and obviously wearing? Or should I wear it oversized, chop my hair, put on my shades and look like a young male?”

    “Good question. I’ll find out. I’m not sure about tailoring it once it arrives.”

    “That’s my concern, yes,” she said. One didn’t just sew ballistic armor. Then, the cooling vest she wore underneath would have to be adjusted. Both modifications took special tools. Aerospace Force likely had some along. The Army was supposed to, but that was a long bet.

    “The other concern is that any female family members or guests of Bishwanath will have to have you as an escort everywhere, including the bathroom. You’re also the only female. That means you’ll be alone in threat zones.”

    “I’ll go in. Stick Anderson outside the door. He’s young enough to pass as a girl.”

    “Hey! I—“

    “Can it, both of you,” Alex said. While the kid brought it on himself, they were all determined to throw it back at him, hard. He needed to perform well in his first few engagements and they’d leave him alone. Until then, the hazing would continue.

    There were nods, and they gathered around the maps. The holosheets showed buildings and terrain, as well as the flat features of roads. Controls allowed traffic flow to appear, approximating what had been last recorded. There were a lot of buildings and vehicles. Few of them were intact or operational.

    “This place is regressing fast,” Jason said.

    “About like Liberia or Cameroon twenty years ago,” Shaman said. “And it’s an older story than that. War interrupts development, scavenging starts, it turns into a cycle. Only outside help can do anything at that point.”

    “And then there’s who wants Bishwanath dead,” Bart said.

    “Everybody,” Elke offered.

    “Pretty much. Everyone except the Bishwanath clan.”

    “There’s one other problem,” Alex said. “Having to deal with the military. Regs aside, it’s the bureaucracy. It can take weeks to get anything resolved. We’ll have hours at best to deal with threats, possibly seconds.

    “We’ll have him secure here and we’re backup to them, we move him where he needs to go, military keeps the perimeter secure, we bring him back. Those exchanges from military control to us are going to be where he’s got the most protection and the most exposure, and some idiot arguing about precedence or jurisdiction to screw the works. Then there’s the cops…”

    “And BuState,” Jason said.

    “Yes. They want everything done diplomatically. You can’t use diplomacy on an illiterate peasant with a rifle, unless you define ‘diplomacy’ as ‘shoot him.’”

    “I have my explosives,” Elke offered. “If there’s too much talk and not enough acting, I can ‘create a diversion’ as they say, so we can snatch control again.”

    Alex just stared at her.

    “Elke, that’s outrageous, insane, and even the suggestion could get you charged with terrorism.”

    “Sorry, sir,” she said. She looked depressed. He still wasn’t sure if that was an act or if she really liked explosives that much.

    “Don’t be. It’s brilliant. We’re debating with the dips, there’s a bang, we toss a ‘fuck you’ over the shoulder as we head for the car. I like it. But you have to be totally discreet or we’ll get burned. Use it as a backup measure only.”

    “I can have a charge ready to go and leave it somewhere on site. We only need to detonate it if there’s a problem.”

    “Is that workable?”

    “It means wasting explosive I don’t get to blow,” she pouted, looking put upon. “And if…when…anyone else finds them, they’ll report it as a potential threat and terrorism.”

    “That keeps us employed. Even better,” Bart commented. “More threats.”

    “As long as they don’t trace it back to Elke…?” He looked at her.

    “I will use locally obtained materials,” she said.

    “Oh? What do you have?”

    “I will tell you that when I obtain some,” she said with a confident smile.

    “Okay,” he took a moment to digest that. Her wit was very dry. “What other diversions and arguments can we have ready for this crap?” Alex asked.

    Elsewhere, a parallel discussion about interacting was taking place. Lee Weilhung was forced to be an observer. He tried not to speak.

    Major Weygandt would have been a smoker in an earlier time. Instead, he fidgeted with a pen. Since this wasn’t his desk, he couldn’t shuffle ripsheets or fiddle with the computer.

    “The Army does fine, why do we need them?” he asked. Which “them” he meant was clear from inflection.

    In reply, Colonel Kieso tiredly said, “The Army relies on large numbers of people in organized but inefficient groups to accomplish big goals in a messy fashion. These people are precise and discreet and experts at close-in security. Unless you want to borrow some experts from General Kell’s security detail?”

    “‘Discreet’?” Weygandt asked, voice raised. “We have four complaints already, including one weapons theft.” He was pacing, too.

    “Which was returned.” Kieso didn’t leave his desk. He’d been at this too long to be surprised or bothered. “And should have been coded to avoid outside use.” Weilhung heard the hint that too tight an adherence to regs would bite them in the ass. Weygandt didn’t seem to get it.

    “I’d be inclined to forget that, sir,” Weilhung advised, sticking his neck out. “If word gets out that our soldiers can’t hang onto their grenade launchers, and that the coding has been disabled, and that a contractor took control of the weapon for combat operations, well…you’ll have a lot more work, Major.”

    “Yes, you make sense, but I’ve still got an incident report to write up even without that,” Weygandt groused. It was his sorry lot to explain all the discrepancies in this operation, and hand them, as appropriate, to public affairs, the MPs or the legal office.

    “Look,” Kieso snapped, “we have contractors all over the place. Admin. Services. Construction. Rebuilding. Perimeter security. Executive protection. Deal with it.”

    “Oh, I will.”

    Yes, he’d deal with it, Weilhung could tell. The proper reports and evidence through the proper Assemblyperson’s office would deal with it. Never piss off a lawyer, he thought.

    “And what do you think, Major Weilhung?”

    Weilhung had managed to get discreetly back in the corner again, and at mention of him, Weygandt twitched slightly. Weilhung smiled to himself. Lots of intel was gained just from watching and listening when nothing blatant was being discussed.

    “I think they seem professional, I know some of them by reputation, and I’ll work with them as called for. There’s always friction between military and BuState, contractors and soldiers.”

    “Well, Major, I respect your professionalism. Do please keep an eye peeled. If any of them do anything we can call them on, I intend to pull the contract and have them off planet at once. Your people can take over. People in the chain of command.”

    People you think you can shove around, Weilhung thought. Not on my watch, asshole.

    “I advise against that, sir,” he said. “They’re on the same side. Tactics like that could make them not. Then we’d have trouble. Our goal here is to keep the President healthy to settle things down, not have jurisdictional disputes. It takes a thick skin at times.” And you, you fucking bureaucrat in uniform, don’t have what it takes.

    “I’m not talking about a jurisdictional dispute. Army and Marines have jurisdictional disputes. UN and national forces have jurisdictional disputes. I’m talking about fucking civilians taking orders from those BuState whining socialists stepping into a military venue.” Weygandt was bent out of shape over an incident that in retrospect was quite minor. That said to Weilhung that he was unsuited for any command. Likely why he was handling legal issues.

    At the same time, the audacity of taking a loaded weapon from a troop, then handing it back was impressive and troublesome. Certainly, you did what you had to in a fight. Still, to even consider that method showed an extreme arrogance and lack of respect for the soldiers in question.

    “I’ll keep an eye out, sir,” he said. For my reasons, not yours.

    But, while he respected the professional capabilities of the EP team, he did not trust them in several senses. Regardless of contracts, they were not bound to the military system the way he was. They could always play BuState off against MilBu, and use Bishwanath for pull. Weilhung could do that, too, but he’d still be accountable to the military after he left here, and to the same officers. And he had less access to Bishwanath. So he could bend the rules a little and be okay. The contractors could just say “fuck you” and do as they wished, if enough money or power was at stake. Weilhung had no doubt they’d do so to save Bishwanath or themselves, and leave him out to hang.

    Weygandt and Keiso were hashing something out. He headed back to the Palace as soon as he made eye contact with the colonel and received a nod of dismissal. He wanted those sensors in place now, so he could track those jerks, as well as potential threats.

    The military had problems. The civilians had problems. Put both together, and the advantages disappeared to leave just the problems.

    Doug deWitt didn’t like his putative boss. He knew that was mutual. DeWitt had been here for two years, from when it was just a nowhere place, a colony that was failing into subsidized poverty. His suggestions had been ignored then. Now it was the center of a small war and a gross inconvenience to this sector of space, and he was still being ignored. LeMieure had rolled in here fresh from a SecGen appointment, with neither experience nor professional credentials in any related field. There were a number like that who were all either in BuState supervisory positions or diplomatic positions. Certainly there was always some of that, but it was getting out of hand.

    He also wasn’t sure why the cretin was up this early. His reputation was for sleeping in late. He did know he didn’t like sitting here blinking himself awake with coffee, wearing the same scratchy shirt as late last night and having to explain information he’d already forwarded as text, video and slide.

    Calm.

    “So, what do you think of the ‘contractors’?” leMieure asked.

    DeWitt shrugged, trying to be noncommittal and relaxed. That’s my favorite chair you’re sweating into, you troll. LeMieure smelled even from here. He was sour, stale and not generally pleasant. In lieu of a suit or sweater, he wore cheap slacks and a turtleneck. Comfortable, certainly, but not how a professional presented himself to other professionals.

    He finally replied, “They have excellent credentials on paper, and the company guarantees their work. They have teams here already under DA Massa. He gave me dossiers on them.”

    “Dossiers? Why didn’t I get dossiers?”

    As soon as leMieure said that, and started sounding petulant, deWitt knew it had been a mistake to mention it.

    “I’ll see about getting them sent back so you can look at them, sir,” he lied. They’d been destroyed, and were on a need to know basis. So far, BuState, the military, RC and deWitt had not seen a need for leMieure to know. He wasn’t career service, he hadn’t been checked, and was a known loudmouth and liar. Even if deWitt didn’t care about revealing data on the team, they wouldn’t appreciate it, and he had to work with their liaison and various other contractors.

    “Good,” leMieure said while rubbing his shaggy chin. "I need to know about these people. I don’t understand how they think or why they do what they do.” He looked agitated, almost scared.

    Likely, deWitt thought, because that was one of the few things this man had ever said that was true.

    Of course, not giving the man the information he wanted was going to continue that problem. DeWitt wouldn’t trust him to properly blow a story he wanted publicized. Keeping secrets was out of the question, especially as he was already working on an “inside” docufantasy.

    DeWitt sighed. Nothing was making his job easier, and there were going to be more problems.