Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson
The problem was they were an obvious group. "String out," he ordered, not waiting for Alex, who was bringing up the rear. They made eye contact, he signaled the same in hand signs, and Alex nodded. Shortly, they were three small groups about ten meters apart, with Elke backing up Shaman with Bal. Bart moved up close to Jason and started talking.
Loudly he said, "Yes, a drink. That is what we need after a long day. I shall buy you a beer." Then softly he said, "All port towns look the same. Let me lead."
"Go." Follow the sailor to the beer.
The two of them moved briskly ahead and overtook the presidential detail. Behind, a massive response was brewing at the security point. They wanted to quit this area quickly.
Bart did seem to have a feel for the area. He led the way down an alley, where everyone was paranoid until they passed a guy leaning against the wall, pants down, and getting head from a hooker, who smiled and waved as they jogged past.
From the alley they crossed a street, still in separate groups, and followed a walkway past a construction zone. They were perhaps five hundred meters from the dock, but that distance had put a great many people and several turns between them. As long as they weren't being followed now, they were much safer.
Shortly they were gathered in a dark lot. They didn't stand out. Multiple small groups, some social, some gangs, were clustered here and there. Jason doubted any were as well armed as they, however. The ground had been paved at one time, was now largely gravel with grass and scrub poking through, mostly some local plant that was all spikes somewhat like a cactus.
Once gathered, Bal held still for his obligatory looking over. He bore it stoically. He was needed alive even more now.
"Me next," Aramis said. Jason was shocked when he looked at him. The man was pale, shaken, and had a stain seeping down his pants from under his jacket. The jacket had a ragged hole.
Shaman helped him slip to the ground as he winced and twitched. He ripped the coat open with a knife, sliced, and peeled back the shirt and said, "Ballistic wound. I would say the guard shot too low and hit the counter. The projectile fragmented. It is not life-threatening, but will need further attention." Jason saw antiseptic, wound sealer, and a bandage going in, and a twisted chunk of something coming out. The wound was the kind one called a "scratch" later that was excruciating and debilitating at the time.
"Pity we can't broadcast from here," Aramis commented. He was gasping slightly. They all were, but he had more reason than the rest.
Jason said, "Right. With that same BuState running their operation here. Even if we broadcast it, it'll be suppressed. At most, a rumor gets out. Bal has to be in a clean system. That's not this one." It ticked him off, too. The bureaucrats could screw anything up.
"Fortunately, from here out we can solve many of our problems with money," Alex said. "So I require twenty-five percent back from everyone. We're going to be tossing bribes."
"We're getting low on that," Jason said.
"Which is part of why we smuggled the rocket launchers. Do you think you can sell them?"
"Of course I can sell them," Jason agreed. "The question is, how fast?
"I'd say soon. We are going to be tracked."
"Definitely," Elke said. "That explosive charge was from the base. A detailed examination will show it."
CHAPTER 25
The attack made the intel net before it made the news. Even though it was far too early, a war council was called over it. That meeting wasn't held in the palace; there was no palace anymore. Nor were the Aerospace techs along. They'd bailed out of the capital and back to the spaceport, "to keep evacuation secure for everyone." That showed a cunning Weilhung didn't like. You won a war by fighting, not fleeing, but AF seemed to think that's what the politicians would do. He was afraid they were right.
Fighting was general, if disorganized. BuState didn't want "unarmed" men shot, and the locals had learned that nonlethal weapons were, well, nonlethal. There was no reason not to attack, and the military didn't have facilities to detain thousands of rioters.
"That's pretty clear," deWitt said about the info scattered on charts and screens. He didn't sound happy about it. "Explosion at the Bahane port customs gate, with four to ten suspects running through, at least one female."
"I want to see the lab on the blast, but yes," Weilhung agreed. He couldn't believe they'd screwed up like that, but he was duty bound to nail them for it.
He would, however, be very sloppy about taking the President into custody, in case he wanted to run. He might let one contractor go with him as backup. The rest would have to take their chances in court, with Corporate to back them up.
To that end, Massa was along. "Can I reiterate the need for nonlethal force?"
LeMieure arrived late, with Chester Rawls, a "noted" cartoonist who specialized in childish art and shallow but extreme left politics. He was officially here as a commentator and peacemaker. If Weilhung had his guess, though, leMieure enjoyed a him before battle, and Rawls was the him. Their hotel was overrun and they'd be staying in the Civic Center until they bailed. Rawls looked at the uniforms and slunk to the corner.
LeMieure, as usual, had to open his mouth and put his asshole in it. "I'm sure, Mister Massa, that your precious team will not be killed unless they're even stupider than they've been so far."
The man really hated everyone, Weilhung realized. Perhaps he'd been abused growing up, or mocked for his corpulent grotesqueness, but something made him just hate anyone competent. How he'd turned a total lack of morals, talent, skill, or honesty into so much said a lot about a large segment of the population.
Massa looked ready to rip things apart. Weilhung cringed. Massa had been Recon, and had been very good. Some of the stuff Weilhung knew about, that leMieure never would, was hairy. Massa was not someone to antagonize, and he was a District Agent for Ripple Creek because he had that much experience with hairy stuff.
All he said, though, was, "Mister leMieure, my people have always caused the minimal loss of life possible, something you have attacked them for. If attacked with nonlethal weapons, there is a chance to bring everyone down peacefully, which I thought was your goal here. If they're attacked with lethal weapons, they will respond accordingly, and you will have at least fourteen casualties," at which his tone and volume increased, "because I double-guaran-goddamn-fucking-TEE you they will take out their opponents at better than one to one. If Sykora has time to rig charges, you could lose hundreds. Vaughn can outshoot anyone on any Olympic team or in any military unit anywhere, and they won't hesitate. There's a reason they are paid a thousand marks a day, and it's not for their statesmanship." He stopped, and still had a glare on his face that promised death.
LeMieure just did not get it. He faced Weilhung and said, "Is that something you're afraid of, Major? I thought you were soldiers in order to die."
Levelly, Weilhung replied, "If I must, but I prefer not to hasten the process. It's also hard on the families at home, as you have noted in your works." He seethed inside. The hypocrisy, condescension, and vitriol from this thing was beyond anything he had words to describe his loathing for.
DeWitt said, "Sir, we need to keep in mind that they were contracted through BuState. If things go really bad, we'll take the heat." He intoned it so it was clear he was implying, "You'll take the heat." Though it was likely that leMieure figured to pass the blame.
Document everything, Weilhung reminded himself. He was recording this on a device too small to be found, and leMieure was such an incompetent, and so distrustful of tech people, who returned the favor, that there was no suppression on either audio or electronics in here. He considered that if need be, he'd share the info with deWitt to save his ass. He was a decent type. Massa was doing his job, so that was possible, too. But there was no way leMieure was getting this recording. The man was climbing the ladder by fellating ahead and buggering behind, and if Major Lee Weilhung could kick the legs out, he would.
"I'll load up and get ready to move. Colon
"We have one other item," he added. "Mister Anderson used his reserve military ID to gain access to the base. It is in direct violation of military regs and oath to serve in this capacity while under military discipline."
Massa said nothing, and in fact it was impossible to tell if he knew or cared or not. Weilhung expected leMieure to go bugfuck over the fact, but the ignorant sod didn't seem aware of the relevance. That was a small mercy.
LeMieure said, "I have an important appointment. You'll have to deal with this yourselves, as best you are able." With that, he left, with Rawls scuttling along behind.
They all stared. Nothing was said until DeWitt summed it up with, "I'm glad it's Colonel Weygandt doing the reports on this and not me."
"So, you've got our order to shut the starport down," Weilhung said, hating it but realizing the necessity.
"Yes," deWitt said, not looking happy himself. "I sent that advice to LeMieure, who forwarded it when he was done with whatever he was doing at the time."
Weilhung thought that delay, no matter how short it was, might have been too much. He was of mixed feelings about that.
* * *
By daybreak, the team was near the spaceport. They were also dripping sweat, caked in dust, and generally not much to look at. They fit in well.
"I should move here when I retire," Bart said. "I can buy a Mercedes and four rocket launchers for less than a thousand marks." He meant it in humor. "And get two free machine guns."
"Hey, we were in a hurry both times," Vaughn said tiredly. "I only sold at twenty on the mark. Alex pretty much gave the car away."
"Yes, but it was an infinite return on your investment," Bal chuckled. "One can't complain about that."
"We can always complain," Anderson said. "That's what soldiers do, Bal." Though he hadn't said much about the laceration along his ribs, which had peeled skin down to the bone. Bart was impressed. Most people would have been on the ground from that. Anderson had run a couple of kilometers and rucked more, with straps running over the wound.
The trip had been a combination of cadging rides on trucks, walking, and running. They would need to clean up and rest before too long, but they also needed to hurry. Word was getting out about their escape.
They also had a professionally guarded spaceport in front of them, Bart reflected with disgust and approval. Even if they were safe in an abandoned storefront for now, one of several in the area, they would have to tackle the gate soon, before it was sealed against them.
"I see several ways in," Vaughn said. "The problem is that we don't want to come up out of the ditches or sewers or on the launch line for sabotage. We want to come up as passengers."
"We need to go through the front," Alex said, "then disappear into the crowd. The problem is buying tickets for cash."
"Are we sure they have our pictures?" Anderson asked.
"Are we sure they do not?" Elke replied. She was right, Bart realized.
"Do we want to try to sell the carbines and grenade launchers?" Vaughn asked.
Marlow shook his head. "I hate like hell wasting the asset, but there is no fucking way to get them aboard and we won't need more than pistols in space. The longer we hang around, the greater the risk of discovery."
"So we dump them." Vaughn sounded as if he was cutting a leg off. The man really liked guns. "I really wanted to take this AK with me." He held up the archaic weapon he'd lugged all this way.
"Leave them in here," Bart said. "It could be the former tenant will return and will have a gift to sell to restart his business. We can consider it a gift for breaking in."
"Makes sense. Out of sight, out of mind." Vaughn started slimming the bags down. The goal was to get to one carry-on each.
"Cut the mass way down," Marlow said. "If need be, we buy clothes and toiletries on the way. If need be, we share."
"I will share a toothbrush with Elke," Bart said. "But I will not wear her underwear."
"You assume I wear any," Elke grinned. "Though I prefer boxers with lots of room in front."
Marlow put down his pocket binox, carefully slipped them into the case, and handed them back.
"Abandon these, too," he said. Bart could tell it was painful. "It's mass we don't need. I'll recover the cost later."
If we do not wind up in jail, Bart thought.
Elke was actually hugging her shotgun and misty-eyed. "I must leave you now, Pierce," she said to it, and handed it slowly to Jason. She suddenly looked much less sure of herself.
Marlow picked up the outline. "Okay, we've got the gate and fence. We've got seven of us, one wounded. We need to distract the guards long enough to drive into the terminal, abandon the vehicle, then buy tickets without being seen."
"The last part is probably doable," Vaughn said. "Mesh over the face blurs features enough that an auto search won't find it."
That made sense, Bart thought.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure enough," Vaughn said. "I don't see that we have too many options."
"So that just leaves getting through the gate and inside," Bal said. "How do we propose to do that?"
"Well, Elke . . ." Anderson hinted, looking at her. Bart took a moment to figure it out. Oh.
"Yes?" she replied.
"You know. You could distract him."
" 'Distract him'?" she repeated.
"Yes, act sexy and interested. You know."
She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Oh, that'll never work. You watch too much vid."
It wasn't the cliché concept that had Bart wondering, but was her very manly, dirty, functional style of dress.
"He's male. It'll work."
Vaughn said, "I'm inclined to agree with that part, but I'm not sure it's a sound plan overall."
"Even if it works, it will take an hour of convo to get anywhere," she said.
"Five minutes," Anderson argued. "Act wide-eyed and interested. He's a soldier, you're press, you're fascinated by his killer instinct."
"Ah, is that what works on you?" she asked, eyes rolling again. She was starting to flush a little. She wasn't embarrassed by herself, Bart realized, but by how people reacted to her.
Anderson stuttered, then said, "It'll work. Get him clear and you can be a distraction behind. Heck, you could probably persuade two of them." He was clearly hurting. Every move of his ribs made him twitch. Shaman held up a painkiller, and he agreed to it with a wave and a nod.
"Oh, kinky," she said. "Fine. It's worth a try, but I have a bad feeling."
"Oh, go for it." He made shooing motions. "Give us a few minutes to get a cab."
She dropped her gear, picked the valise back up, and looped the camera strap around her neck. Wiping and slapping off as much dust as possible, she rose and strode straight into the street at a measured pace: fast enough to not be suspicious, slow enough not to appear a threat.
Getting a cab was easy. Several were leaving the port and it just took flagging one down. However, the driver looked at their appearance and balked.
Luckily, it took a minimal bribe to get him not to care. It was an axiom that people offering money didn't turn around and hijack you. At least, not if the money offered exceeded the maximum amount they knew you could carry. He obviously knew they were up to something, but the cabbie had likely seen far more unusual things so far. Bart believed they were about to raise that bar. He climbed in the passenger side while Bal, Shaman, and Marlow climbed in the rear.
* * *
Jason used the sensors he'd salvaged, and watched around the corner by microcam, lucky bastard. Aramis had to sneak a peek near ground level, but there was a hydrant that would cut most of his head from being visible. That also reduced his window, but that was a worthwhile tr
The guards did see Elke, and their eyes followed, but whether they were interested or just watching her as traffic was hard to say. She crossed the broad but lightly traveled street with her fake camera in hand, not quite in "use" but obviously her reason for being there.
Then she gave them a slight wave, nod, and smile.
The guards grinned back, showing lots of healthy teeth. They might have wiry, almost skeletal bodies, but their teeth were to be envied.
Elke sauntered up. What she really needed to do was sashay, though without overdoing it. Maybe she couldn't manage that. Or, he reflected, she may not have had any idea how to sashay at all.