Trial by Fire: Chapter Sixteen

Washington, D.C., Earth

    Richard heard Elena’s response as a chorus with his own. “Nothing?”

    Trevor nodded. “Despite the global panic, the World Confederation Council sees our current situation as a standoff. With the Arat Kur controlling orbital space, we can’t fight back effectively. But on the ground, the Arat Kur know they’ve got a tiger by the tail. And as the militarily weaker power, a stalemate is actually to our advantage. So we force them to make the next move.”

    Downing nodded. “And if they overreact by extending their attacks to the larger landmasses, they will lose even more control of the planetside situation.”

    Elena frowned. “Really? So if the current level of panic isn’t enough to compel us to surrender, why won’t they just start bombing our cities, one after the other?”

    Trevor answered before Downing could. “Couple of reasons. First, even if they do that, the invaders only have enough ground forces to control a dozen or so key points in Indonesia. And even there, they’re already having a harder time than they thought. Secondly, it’s not in their political interests to widen the war in any way. As long as they’re after a settlement rather than conquest, it won’t play well across the globe. And if they can’t secure their gains directly, then when–or maybe ‘if’–the Dornaani show up, the invaders will suddenly be the ones without any bargaining power, without anything to give back in exchange for either concessions or clemency.”

    Downing smiled. “And although all reports indicate that the Hkh’Rkh are excellent assault troops, the first signs indicate that they will be a dreadful occupation force.”

    Elena nodded. “From that one social event we shared with them on the Convocation Station, it was pretty clear that they lack the patience for endless rounds of guard duty and garrison tasks.”

    Trevor jumped in again. “Not only that. From what I heard in the Oval Office, the few mixed exosapient units that are providing ‘security support’ for CoDevCo’s Indonesian mass driver aren’t working together so well. Specifically, the Arat Kur are already having severe problems keeping a leash on Hkh’Rkh in the counterinsurgency role. For the Hkh’Rkh, war is waged by and against clearly designated combatants. Everyone else is presumed–and encouraged–to make every attempt to evacuate the area of engagement. So when guerrilla units have hit the Hkh’Rkh, they want to strike back–not just hard, but brutally. For them, sneak attacks mounted by insurgents who fade back into the population are acts of cowardice and implicit treachery that warrant full reprisals.”

    “Such as?”

    “Such as annihilation of any town that seems to have concealed, aided, or abetted the guerillas.”

    “And by annihilation, you mean–?”

    “Men. Women. Children. Kittens. Everything. With bombs or bayonets: it’s all the same to the Hkh’Rkh. They’ve been protecting the mass driver site for less than forty-eight hours, and already there are reports of nearby kempangs–villages–completely wiped off the map.”

    Downing stared at the date and time stripe as the bottom of his palmcomp. “And those Indonesian guerillas are going to become more active with every passing day.”

    “Because of the atrocities?” Elena asked.

    “No,” interjected Opal with a malicious smile, “because of the weather. The one time I did mission prep for that part of the world was sixty years ago, but I doubt monsoon season has changed that much.” She leaned back, stared at the ceiling as the information rolled out of her. “More than a centimeter of rain every day, and when it comes down, it comes down in sheets. Temperature rarely gets under eighty, keeping the humidity at eighty-five percent or higher. Thermal and IR gear is degraded. The ambient noise background is messy. Mud everywhere.” She folded her arms. “Bottom line, if you were born there, or in a similar climate in Southeast Asia, you’re used to it, know how to use it to your advantage. If you’re a newb, you are in deep shit.” Still looking at the ceiling, or maybe through it to the orbiting ships overhead, she grinned viciously. “Welcome to Earth, you alien bastards.”

    Trevor smiled, but Elena was nodding thoughtfully. “All of which means that the Hkh’Rkh will be more frustrated, and so more harsh and frequent in their reprisals. But the Arat Kur know that images depicting ‘ruthless alien invaders’ slaughtering women and children will destroy any chance of keeping even a small minority of humans interested in a ‘peace process.’”

    Trevor’s nod was one of grim, vengeful satisfaction. “Or willing to accept new leadership.”

    Opal turned her gaze down from the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

    “I mean the megacorporations. All the bloc leaders believe that the Arat Kur demand for a speciate referendum to approve the World Confederation is a backdoor move to effect a global regime change, one that puts the megacorporations–CoDevCo in particular–in charge. And once they are in control, the fear is that they won’t bother to raise an army to impose their will. They’ll make one.”

    “You mean clones?” Elena asked. “They’ve already started breaking those laws, from what I hear.”

    Downing nodded. “Former finance minister Ruap’s antibloc politics wasn’t the only thing which made the Arat Kur eager to see him holding power in Indonesia. It was his extremely cozy relationship with Astor-Smath and CoDevCo.” He shook his head. “Which means the Arat Kur had all this planned before they loaded their invasion fleet. Even before we all went to the Convocation.”

    Trevor scratched his ear. “Speaking of plans, President Liu did manage to pass me a message for you, through her chief of staff.”

    “Which was?”

    Trevor handed over a slip of plain white paper. Written in Liu’s flowing hand, Downing saw:

    It was the message Richard had been waiting for. And the message which determined what he had to do next. After sharing its contents, he explained. “It is fortuitous that you are all here, because this message clears the path for us, and IRIS, to make a tangible contribution to the defense of Earth. It’s a small operation, and difficult, but potentially decisive.”

    Trevor leaned back. “What’s the objective?”

    “Disable the Arat Kur’s planetside command, control, and computing net for several crucial minutes.”

    Opal stared. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

    “By infiltrating a strike team directly into their headquarters and neutralizing it.”

    “Uncle Richard,” said a slightly pale Trevor, “with all due respect, I don’t see how we–how IRIS–can carry out such a purely military operation. You’re talking about a plan involving hundreds of bombs and probably thousands of spec ops troops with a shared death-wish.”

    “No. It will involve about a dozen diplomatic passes and an equal number of covert operatives, posing as Earth’s armistice negotiation team and its support staff.”

    Trevor shook his head. “But there’s not going to be any negotiation. First Consul Ching is about to do what he’s already become famous for: making no response.”

    “Yes, and that will nicely pave the way for this plan’s success.”

    “You’ve lost me.”

    Downing folded his hands. “Through you, Trevor, the Arat Kur sent us new peace terms. We have remained silent. What will they do when, in five hours, their fifty-hour response deadline runs out?”

    “Try to force an answer out of us.”

    “And how will they do that?”

    Elena saw it first. “They’re going to tighten the screws, show us that we cannot ignore them.”

    “Precisely.” Yes, Elena is certainly her father’s daughter. And brave, too, given the bandits she had to face down during her anthropology field work. “And so, when the consequent cries of global misery begin to hit the bloc leadership, the Confederation will be forced to act, to give in and resume talks.”

    Trevor saw it now. “So, only because the Arat Kur themselves force us to do so, we will send a negotiation team. And because we resisted doing so until they left us no choice, they will not suspect that they are actually giving us the opportunity we most want: to be summoned–with our tail apparently between our legs–to their seat of power in Indonesia.” He nodded. “Pretty shrewd, but how do you arm the infiltration team? Even if the Arat Kur don’t detect them as impostors, no one’s going to let our strikers traipse into Jakarta with golf bags full of combat gear.”

    “Of course not. That’s why operational caches are already prepositioned there. Have been, for some time.”

    Trevor frowned. “How could you know that they’d invade Indonesia and where they’d set up their HQ in Jakarta?”

    “We had strong suspicions they’d go after Indonesia because of its isolation and because of the mass driver. And once our operatives sparked the protests that demolished the terminals and hotels at Soekarno Airport right after the invaders’ first initial landings–”

    Opal’s eyes were wide. “We did that?”

    “–then the Arat Kur had to consolidate their command elements in Jakarta itself. That in turn left them with a fairly limited number of options. Which meant they needed a large defensible compound with good C4I facilities that they could upgrade. Again, not a long list of options. We concealed equipment caches in all the probable sites. We also made sure that when Ruap’s government started recruiting locals for the mundane housekeeping tasks–sanitation, food delivery, basic maintenance–that we had some highly motivated sympathetics in the mix.”

    “So when our strike team arrives in their guise as negotiators, their gear is already waiting for them on-site.”

    “Correct, and there will be diversions and distractions timed to allow them to get access to it.”

    Trevor nodded. “Sounds like a plan. In fact, it sounds like the kind of scheme that Caine would come up with, if he was here.”

    Downing’s smile was a bit sad. “Oh, it was his plan, all right.”

    “What?” said Trevor. “But for the past half year, he’s been–”

    “This goes back beyond half a year, Trev.” Downing was careful not to look at Elena as he explained. “This goes all the way back to when we first awakened Caine in 2118, even before we code-named him Odysseus.” Downing pushed a virtual button on his palmcomp and the main screen snapped to life again.

    It showed Caine splicing wires in one of his initial training exercises. He didn’t look up as he spoke. “If these aliens intend to rule us rather than exterminate us, they’ll want to avoid a ‘final solution.’ So you dangle the prospect of capitulation–or even collaboration–under their noses while preparing to strike at them.”

    Downing’s recorded voice–coming from very close to the camera–countered with, “And with their superior technology, how do you propose to get close enough to strike at them?”

    Caine glanced up. “By getting–or prepositioning–forces inside their beachhead. And don’t give me that doubting-Thomas look: there are always methods of infiltrating forces through seemingly secure perimeters or impassable borders. Even the old ploy of the Trojan Horse still has some merit; it just needs some clever updating.”

    Downing turned off the flatscreen and glanced at Trevor. “That casual brainstorming session led your father to do exactly what Caine suggested: update the Trojan Horse ploy. Have the enemy themselves bring our strike team inside their HQ. That was the basis of the operation Nolan labeled Case Timber Pony, for which President Liu just gave the final green light.” Downing waved the slip of paper. “It is also the lynchpin of our strategy to take back control of the planetside situation. Without their dirtside C4I net, the Arat Kur will not be able to call for or coordinate orbital supporting fire. And by the time they get that control back, some of our best forces will be in among them and, therefore, untouchable by their standoff assets.”

    Trevor was still staring at the blank screen. “And who are the negotiators you’re sending into this lion’s den?”

    “It must be a mixed team. Some will be genuine government officials who happen to have combat backgrounds. There will be an equal number of tier one and tier two operators–Delta, Seals, SAS, Special Forces–who have enough of a background in political and foreign affairs that they can make convincing noises as diplomatic support staff for a day or two. And we’ll need at least one operator who is personally known to the Arat Kur, and whose participation will reassure them, beyond reasonable doubt, that the delegation is legitimate.”

    Both Elena and Opal sat up ramrod straight. “You wouldn’t–”

    “In short,” Downing finished, “we need you, Trevor.”

    For a moment, Trevor just stared, then he blinked. “I am exactly the wrong person to send. We–Caine and I–have a personal bond of honor with Darzhee Kut. After what we went through together, he trusts that neither of us would ever–”

    “Which is exactly why it must be you, Trevor,” pressed Richard. “Not only because Darzhee Kut and his leaders know you from the Convocation and from your time in the Arat Kur fleet, but because you and he had to create an unusual bond just in order to survive. His confidence in you–and by extension, the Arat Kurs’ confidence in you–is exactly the edge we need: a blind-spot, a chink in their armor, which we can exploit to get in and strike them when and where they least expect it. And when and where it will do us the most good.” Downing paused, saw that logic alone would not win Trevor over. There needed to be a personal, an emotional, compulsion as well. “Trevor, you are absolutely indispensable to the success of this mission, and that this isn’t just my assessment. It was, indirectly, your father’s, as well.”

    “Dad’s? How?”

    “He was the one who first saw the value of Caine’s plan, not me. And he seemed to know it might require just this kind of trickery, even duplicity, to retake our planet. No matter the personal costs.”

    Downing saw Trevor’s eyes waver and his face pinch in what looked like some agony of entrapment. Richard glanced quickly toward Elena and Opal. “This might be a good moment to leave, ladies. The topics are going to move into the ‘need to know’ realm quite soon.”

    “Sure,” Opal sneered. “It’s not like you’re trying to clear the room before exerting more emotional thumbscrews.” She looked away in disgust.

    “Not true,” Downing lied. “And we’ll soon need to plan your part of the mission as well, Major Patrone.”

    Opal snorted. “Yeah, I can hardly wait.”

    “Actually, Major Patrone, your phase of the operation must commence before Trevor’s.”

    “Oh? Will I also be using my diplomatic credentials to sucker punch someone?”

    “No, Major. Your mission does not involve infiltration, but extraction.”

    “Extraction? Of whom?” And then her eyes opened wide. “Caine! But he’s not planetside, as far as we know.”

    “Not yet, but given his role at Convocation, I suspect it’s only a matter of time before the Arat Kur bring him to Jakarta. It would be almost inevitable, if we agreed to send our ‘negotiators’ there.”

    She frowned. “Okay–but why extract him? No matter what happens, he’s protected by his diplomatic credentials, isn’t–?” And then the realization hit her. “Oh. So, before your killer-emissaries violate the basic principles of diplomatic privilege with a mass assassination, I have to get our real diplomat out. Because our enemies will probably not feel disposed to make targeting distinctions between genuine and fake diplomats after Trevor and his pals start pulling their triggers.”

    “Yes, that pretty much sums it up, Major.”

    “Which means, if I don’t find and extract Caine in time, there’s an excellent chance that some exosapient invader, or megacorporate quisling, or killer clone is going to put a bullet in his brain. Just on general principles.”

    Downing put down his stylus. “It is a distinct possibility.”

    Opal became very red, stood, pointed a quivering finger at Downing, opened her mouth–but then abruptly turned and was out the door in five angry strides.

    Elena watched Opal go, waited until the outer door banged closed, and then rose. She looked at her brother as if she were hugging him with her eyes, and then turned a blank gaze upon Downing. “‘And on Earth, peace and good will to all men,’ That is the customary greeting of the season, isn’t it, Uncle Richard?” She gathered up her things and left without a word or backward glance.

    Trevor’s voice pulled Downing’s attention away from the twice-closed office door. “I can’t be your lead operative on Case Timber Pony, Richard. I’m a soldier–not a liar.”

    “Trevor, this is war, and its first casualty is personal choice. And right now, we have to do anything that helps us survive. See here, I’ve done–and continue to do–terrible things. I won’t evade or deny that. But who else is going to do them? Oh, I’m sure there were a thousand people who had the skills to do just as well as–or a damned sight better than–me, but when your father reached into the hat of fate, it was me that he pulled up by the ears. Just as fate pulled him up when he found that the doomsday rock was a weapon aimed at Earth. And now fate has tapped you on the shoulder.” When Trevor didn’t respond, Downing felt himself growing genuinely desperate. “Do you think we wanted this for you? Do you think we wanted this for us?”

    Trevor still did not look at him. “I think you made a choice to keep on doing this job when you could have walked away.”

    “How could we walk away from what we knew about the threat to our families, our planet? How could we walk away from responding to that threat, from a job that had–had–to be done? Who were we supposed to give it to? We couldn’t even tell anyone else what we knew. Would’ve made job interviews a tad difficult, don’t you think? And, even if we could have passed the poison cup to someone else, just what poor sod should we have saddled with this lifelong nightmare? By what right would we have chosen some other human being to sacrifice their happiness and freedom of mind so that we could have some of our own back?

    “Not that we would have rested any easier, mind you. I can see it now: Richard and Nolan at the joint family barbecue, grilling shrimp, looking up at the stars, and hoping that the shop in DC was in good hands and that Earth itself wasn’t on someone’s interstellar dinner menu.”

    Trevor’s eyes came back up; they were narrow, bitter. “Yeah, paint me some more scenes of your personal sacrifices, Uncle Richard. They sure make me feel better. They sure do bring my father back to life. And bring back all the hours, days, weeks he could have been with me instead of off saving the world with you, halfway around the globe.”

    Downing felt his fingers and feet grow very cold, his stomach sink. In the mirroring glass door that separated the conference room from the inner office, his pallor was unnatural, as if he had aged a decade in the last ten minutes. He sat heavily. “I’ve tried to shield you from what I could. God knows I had little enough success at it, but I tried. But this time, it’s out of my hands. By Executive Order, Case Timber Pony is now in its final phase of preparation and we are committed to executing it. We might lose the war if we do not. So, I’m sorry, Trevor, but this time–this one time–you will receive orders that will require you to lie.”

    Trevor pushed back from the table; his tone of voice had gone much further. “And when shall I expect those orders, sir?”

    Downing waved a weak hand. “That’s not clear. There’s a bit of diplomatic dancing to be done with the Arat Kur first, obviously. We’ll begin assembling the mission force while that’s going on, and we’ll send the primary operation orders–as well as contingency plans–down to Nevis.”

    Trevor nodded. “Is that where you’ve stashed Stosh, Rulaine, and the rest of the security team you had me leading on Mars?”

    “Yes.”

    “And I’m to use them on this op?”

    “Yes, but not officially. The official force rosters are being compiled by Commonwealth JSOC and the intel chiefs. They’re not up to me. Not except your group. Which will not show up on the standard table of organization. We’ll reserve your team as our own ace in the hole, so to speak. In case the main plan is called off and you have to use one of the contingencies that involve breaching the enemy compound from the outside.”

    “I see, sir.” Trevor rose. “Then, if we’ve no further business to discuss–”

    “Trevor, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for this mission, for letting the Dornaani bury your father in space, for everything that our work has cost you. But if I had to do it all over again, I don’t know what I would–what I could–afford to do differently. Not with all that’s at stake.”

    Trevor nodded. “I understand. I’ll wait to hear from you.” He turned and walked briskly out the door.

    Downing leaned his head forward into his hands and expelled a long sigh. He closed his eyes, drank in the darkness.…

    After several moments, he heard the glass door to the inner office open. He did not look up, even when asked a question:

    “I perceive that this meeting was–difficult?”

    “Not really,” Richard lied.

    “The operation you have designated Case Timber Pony has received final approval, has it not?”

    “It has. When should we start tracking the system delivery assets?”

    “I am already doing so. I have also passed word that our relocation is to commence in two days. Do you believe that is sufficient?”

    “Yes,” sighed Downing. “The sooner we can get out of DC, the better, I think.”

    “I expected you to say otherwise. The approaching holidays are customarily spent with family members and close friends, are they not?”

    “Yes, they are. That’s why I want to leave.”

    Opal discovered that she had arrived on the street. Which was fortunate, because she hadn’t been able to think since leaving Downing’s office and hustling into the elevator. Instead, she had been myopically preoccupied with the irrational fear that Downing would appear, chasing her, demanding that she return the hardcopy folder she had scooped up while he was in the bathroom prior to the meeting. It was labeled “Riordan, Caine/code-name ‘Odysseus’: Bio data,” and it might hold the secrets of the one hundred hours Caine had lost on the moon just before being coldslept, fourteen years ago.

    Walking–still without really thinking about what she was doing–she produced the folder from her backpack, grazed a finger along its outer edge. The cover turned back slightly. By mistake, of course. Not that she was snooping. Well, not for herself, anyway. This was for Caine, so he could finally have some answers about what happened on the moon, about why Nolan and Downing had cryocelled him and impressed him into IRIS. Her own burning curiosity was not propelling her actions, of course. She had never stolen anything in her life–not even from the snotty rich girls that always pegged her as a tomboy army brat in each of the myriad of grade schools she attended while her family followed Dad on his endless restationings.

    She realized she had inadvertently started glancing at the contents, had a quick impression of old photographs and news clippings. She shut the manila folder swiftly, heart racing. She had faced death on a battlefield frequently, and yet nothing had ever induced this particular species of terror–because this one was laced with guilt, as well. Which was foolish. Because after all, she hadn’t stolen Caine’s file; she had only borrowed it. And she hadn’t done so to satisfy her own curiosity. She had done it to help him. Only to help him.

    She looked around her, discovered that she had somehow navigated herself to the correct street corner, and raised a hand. A driverless cab smoothly swerved across two lanes of traffic and came to a stop beside her.

    The taxi was requesting the address and she was giving it, but that was happening someplace else, as if it was in a side closet of her mind. Because as soon as she had stepped inside the vehicle, was beyond Downing’s reach, she knew the truth of what she was doing. You’re a liar, Opal. This isn’t about Caine. This is about you, worrying that there’s something in those one hundred hours that could come between the two of you. Maybe he hooked up with some old girlfriend, there, or maybe–

    She felt suddenly nauseated. At herself. So now you’re jealous of ghosts that might not even exist, Opal? How pathetic is that?

    The question remained unanswered. She was too busy getting the encircling rubber band off the manila folder so she could devour its hated and feared contents.

    Letters he sent to friends. High school records. A picture with a girl–but only a skinny, coltish girl–before a prom. It was a funny picture, too; he was kind of gangly as a kid. Pictures of his house on the Chesapeake Bay. Another, much earlier one with several teeth missing from his warm and easy smile, his silver-maned father with an arm around his shoulder, and some kind of sports field behind them. She studied his faintly freckled face and tousled hair. It was impossible to reconcile that boyish image with the mental portrait she had of the man whom fate had turned into an operative code-named Odysseus.

    There were printouts of the first articles he published as a kid in the local paper, then later in Time, then reviews of his books, letters to publishers and editors that lauded him, castigated him, and finally eulogized him.

    She came to the end of the folder. And had discovered absolutely nothing useful. Somewhere far away, the taxi announced that their arrival was imminent.

    She looked down at the ravaged pieces of Caine’s life, scattered in her lap. What have I done? Or, more importantly, why did I need to do this? Because I’m afraid I’ll never see him again? Or that I will–only to find he has someone to go back to, a life in which I can have no part?

    She closed the folder slowly. And now I can’t undo what I’ve done. Even if Downing never notices this file is missing, even if I return it first, I still stole it. Stole it to quiet my fears–but at the expense of what little privacy Caine has left. She looked up without seeing the dusk-darkening streets, tried to will away the two tears–one from each eye–that struggled free of her lower eyelids and streaked swiftly down each cheek. Damn me. Damn me.

    This time, when the taxi’s robot voice announced her arrival, she heard it. “Now at Bethesda Hospital, Maternity Annex. Eleven dollars, please.”