Better to Beg Forgiveness (3 page)

"Nice place," Aramis murmured. He alone of the six had not actually seen combat or fire, though he'd deployed in some pretty nasty places.

"How . . . familiar," Shaman said.

They were all alert. They'd had photo briefs and text, but actually seeing it with the Mark 1 Eyeball made a difference. The streets were largely straight but with some shifts that made clear fire awkward and offered defensive positions. They were also fairly narrow—two or three lanes generally.

"This is a bad place to convoy," Bart said. "Too many ways to get blocked in."

"I think some of the central streets are wider," Jason said. "Though the layout sucks."

"Odd to have broad streets further in but not out," Bart said. "I wonder why that is?"

"Not a lot of traffic. Nothing resembling suburbs. Most people on foot," Elke said.

"Ah, yes," Bart nodded. "That would make sense. Streets are only needed in town."

The troops ignored them, apart from an occasional glance. There was a glacier of ice there to be broken before any real cooperation took place. Alex frowned. They'd have to get on good terms with their backup.

Elke was antsy. She had no weapons, none of her explosives, and was dependent upon people with far less training to protect her. She was gritting her teeth and would deal with it, but that didn't make it fun.

It wasn't just the training. She was thirty and experienced. She had the maturity and psychology to work with large amounts of explosive. These
blbé
kids imagined a firefight or two made them professionals and veterans. Some of them talked like it on boards and fora, and when at parties.

Getting shot at made you experienced in one thing and one thing only: getting shot at. It didn't mean you were trained well with your weapons, or that your opinion on anything was any more relevant. It just meant you knew what it felt like to have your life in the sling.

There were construction people who knew that, not to mention explorers and mountain climbers. Demolition experts knew it, too. Every time she set a charge, she held her life in the balance.

While she mused she watched. The locals had been shooting singly, but were starting to bunch into small groups and offer greater volumes of fire. Most were inaccurate, but sufficient volume increased the odds of a hit from astronomical to . . . what would it be called in English? Atmospheric?

She leaned out to get a better view as the vehicle bounced over the rough road, the trash, occasional sticks and roofing materials. The breeze cooled her slightly, but it was still humid and smelly. There were clumps of natives behind barricades of cars or rubble, but they didn't seem to care how good or bad the cover was, or whether or not they were seen. She squinted and considered.

The fire picked up. Closer.

It wasn't well aimed. Some of the locals, "skinnies" in military slang, were holding their weapons sideways to spray. Some were holding them overhead. Others were firing single shots for better effect, but ruining that effect by snapping the weapons down, as if using them to throw bullets. None of them were in cover now. They'd swarmed out of squat, blocky apartments built of extruded concrete, now chipped and broken. They darted around in the streets shooting at each other mostly, with an occasional burst toward the convoy.

Still, there was a lot of metal flying.

The vehicles accelerated, and Elke wondered why there weren't more closed and armored vehicles. Oh, yes. The goal was to appear "nonthreatening" because they were peacekeepers, not combat troops. Apparently no one had told the locals about that.

Then she heard screeching fiber tires on road and crashing brush guards and bumpers, and the convoy bound up in a cluster. They were among two- to three-story buildings with empty windows, interspersed with sprawling town houses from the early years of colonization.

Okay, that was bad.

Whoever was in charge, that lieutenant, was a
zkurvený
idiot. You
never
let this happen. You sent out point vehicles, outriders, had satellite or air images real time, and had enough power up front to drive over or blow through obstacles. Whatever it took to prevent being boxed in.

Elke took in the surroundings as dust blew by, stirred by the tires scraping the surface. Her hair felt as if it was standing on end, despite the dust and sweat starting to cake it. She'd kept an alert eye for critical issues. Now she looked in depth. The skinnies were pouring out of somewhere, and had decided the convoy was a target. She doubted it had been planned, because the initial attack had been incompetent and undergunned, and the arrivals were not in any order, just groups.

She felt a jerk as they started moving again, but slowly. The convoy was still bunched up.

Large population, low employment or usage, lots of weapons. That was a bad scene for trouble, because it became entertainment. And yes, there were people cheering on factions in matching colors, waving banners. One group was behind a cluster of armed men and boys, who were shirtless and wearing sandals with their rifles. Another was on a rooftop some distance away. They seemed to abide by the formality of separating combatants and noncombatants at least.

The fire was increasing. Most of it wasn't aimed, but it was certainly concentrating more toward the convoy, and the law of averages said a hit would occur sooner or later.

Elke swapped glances with Jason next to her and Alex a seat forward. Their movements were imperceptible, but their expressions were clear. She knew Jason from a previous contract and trusted his input. His look agreed with hers, and that wasn't good for her confidence.

They were all wishing for armor, weapons, and contact with their people. While the soldiers had more familiarity with the area, they didn't seem to take it seriously. Familiarity was leading to contempt, but casualties were inevitable even from idiots if one didn't take precautions.

She leaned out again to assess threats. Two things happened.

A round snapped by, cracking the air and making people duck. Then, the soldier nearest her reached out an arm and said, "Miss, I think you better sit down. It's getting a little hot—"

"Just get out of my way!" Elke snapped. She got very tired being the object of protection. Especially by some twenty-year-old infantry kid she could best use as a sandbag to tamp a shaped charge with. He did move, though, even if he seemed offended. He was marshalling his thoughts for a retort but she turned away and ignored it.

Her brain caught movement, she identified a threat, and pointed, "Grenade, there, now! The rocket!"

"Huh? What?" the kid replied, looking vaguely in that direction. He clearly didn't see it.

Which was fine. Forearm between body armor and face shield, right under the chin, a twist to the grip of his weapon and a pull, and Elke raised it left-handed to her eye, clicked the safety, and squeezed. She felt it thump her shoulder as it banged.

Oh, good. His safety was cut, too. Otherwise, she would have looked very silly, right up until they all looked very dead.

"God damn you, bitch!" the kid shouted, and tried to wrestle it back. She could have kept it, but she'd accomplished what she needed to and let him take it.

"Thanks," Alex leaned back and acknowledged. He'd seen the same threat.

"No problem," she nodded.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the kid asked, snarling. The patronizing politeness was gone now.

"Your job," she replied as she turned back. They were just roaring past the building corner she'd pointed to. Her grenade had blown the motor compartment off a ground car, and shredded some indigene with an antitank launcher. She pointed again for emphasis. She controlled the shaking she felt.

The grunt looked offended. Likely that wasn't due to her gender, just due to his attitude. Somebody needed to remind him that all Ripple Creek Executive Protection Division contractors were military veterans, and either special operations vets or civilian security vets as well.

Hopefully, they'd quickly be at their destination, where her better, high-quality weapons were waiting, along with her crate of toys.

She grinned and felt a tinge of lust.

They traveled in silence the remaining few kilometers to the palace, the troops fuming and distant, even if close enough to touch.

As they neared the edifice, Alex assessed it with a practiced eye. He recognized it from photos, but it was a bit worse for wear. Random fire had hit it, and not much maintenance had been done. It was apparent why the press always showed it from a distance, even apart from security concerns. The palace had never been impressive architecturally, merely large. With a scruffy façade, it just wasn't eye-catching, especially through heat-crazed air.

As they got closer it grew larger, and didn't get much worse, but certainly not better. There were desiccated lawns around it, with some weeds creeping in, and low walls and spike fences that had been more than decorative at one point, with sensors and stunners and other defenses. The bright sunlight just seemed to point out the current lack.

Then their grumbly peeled out of the convoy and drove into the palace grounds. There were security present; locals with rifles, in actual clothes. They all wore identical near-new boots. Those and jackets with a logo on the back were their "uniform." At first, that wasn't reassuring. Then it was, because it meant
someone
was trying to create a semblance of order and professionalism.

Of course, the smoking, drinking, and lolling about with elbows on the wall, or lying unconscious on the grass, spread-eagled and snoring, didn't help that image. The entire team groaned.

The female sergeant who'd looked jealous earlier now snickered and said, "Better you than us, contractors."

"Thanks, troops," he said with a nod. He wanted to be on as good terms as possible, because they'd have to work together. He gathered his team by eye. Bart had the controller for the pallet and brought it forward on capacitor.

"Thanks, Lieutenant," he added to the convoy commander as he walked forward. The rest apparently didn't feel like talking, at least not to their hosts.

The troops were behind, as were the palace guards, and ahead was the palace itself with more troops waiting. Still, they moved cautiously from habit. Nothing around here registered as safe.

As they approached, one of the real soldiers—not local—took a half step out.

"ID, please," he said.

Alex stepped up, showed his, flashed his orders on a chit to match those on the screen. In turn, the rest of them cleared themselves in.

"We need to unload our gear," Alex said.

"Yes, sir. Right through the arch and you can go through the double doors." The attitude here was a bit more professional. The guards were Marines, he noted with a tinge of pride. No, he was not a Marine anymore, dammit.

"Thanks." He kept his thoughts to himself. This wasn't the place.

The entrance was up a few steps. Bart negotiated the pallet over them with skill, and then through a massively armored entryway. The outside doors were for show. Inside that were vaultlike doors, a portcullis, a vehicle trap, fighting shields that could deploy from the walls . . . 

After a glance, Elke said, "The walls are armored against explosives, and have periodic breaks to let the pressure vent before it reaches inside."

"So it would smear any attackers?" Jason asked.

"And then spew them like stew, yes," she said, while pointing at a joint. "See here?"

"I'll take your word," Jason said. He was technically trained, but that was pretty esoteric. Alex had no idea on the subject, other than the basic manuals for placing charges.

Well inside now, surrounded by enough assets for a small town, some semblance of order was achieved. They each shouldered a ruck, a duffel, and weapons, leaving one of the NCOs to watch the rest, which he assured them would be delivered. The pallet would go through a cargo route upstairs that was less awkward than this route, but longer. Besides the Marines, there were a few support personnel passing by. They were probably honest, but it was a lot of gear the team were each and collectively signed and accountable for.

Once they were a way down the hall, Jason asked, "What the fuck happened to my Army? It used to be professionals and they were competent." He glanced around in case he'd offended any lurkers. He didn't seem to really care, but there was this image to maintain.

"Politics," Alex said. "The last SecGen drove out the good ones. Now we have a war with what's on hand, which isn't much."

"It's scary. Depressing. Fuck." Jason apparently didn't feel like discussing it further.

The first point of business was to coordinate the operation. A female Aerospace Force Tech 1 in spotless, almost unused battledress led them through cool, lit hallways. Her name tag said "White." With her was an AF security NCO named Buckley. White had a pistol, he had an abbreviated combat load: all weapons, no ruck.

The team had memorized the floor plan, but this area had not been on those plans. They swapped guarded looks. Not in concern over the screwup. That was expected, inevitable. Their concern was about the potential threats that had not been uncovered yet. Glancing around, they determined these corridors were little used and rather old, with a hint of dust and must. Hopefully, that disuse meant they were not a well-known route.

But they would be soon. There were other personnel walking around the maze, all potential leaks, and one such group fell in with them.

A dusty officer with a ragged voice asked, "Agent Marlow?" His uniform was not spotless and unused. He wore a well-broken-in harness and carried a scratched submachine gun, commo helmet, and strapped gear. So did his men. They were all male, all serious business, and clearly professional.

"Here," Alex agreed.

"I'm Major Weilhung." He paused a moment with a hint of challenge in his expression, that seemed to say,
Yes, that is my name, can we dispense with stupid jokes and move on?
"I'm commanding the palace and movement security."