Nightwatch: The Peacekeeper
By Robert Moriyama
Nightwatch Created by Jeff Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and
Robert Moriyama
The Entries,
Jerry Sullivan took a
long swallow of Guinness draft, savoring the thick, dark taste of it. "Ah, now there's a pint the way it
should be," he said. "You
can't get it served proper-like on t'other side of
the pond. Even in so-called Irish pubs,
it's always chilled a little too much."
His lean, angular face tilted back as he inhaled the familiar scents of
Guinness and kidney pies.
Kevin Brand shook his
head. "Ye're
risking a lot showing your face here, Jerry.
They're still keeping a dark, dank cell for you in Maghaberry."
Sullivan laughed,
running his fingers through the soot-black hair framing his face. "If this face was the one I was born
with, I'd be worried. But a little pain
and a lot of money bought me a mug that no computer can match with the old
one. And they never had me fingerprints,
Saint Paddy be thanked. Besides, it's no
safer for me in
The Sword and Shamrock
was one of the newer bars in the narrow, twisting laneways of The Entries, and
had no reputation as a meeting place for either of the factions in The
Troubles. Brand had recommended it for
precisely that reason -- the likelihood of surveillance by the Brits or the
Ulster Defense Association or others of the
Sullivan guessed that
the 'decor' (and there was a word his
Mum would have laughed at) was meant to mimic the appearance and atmosphere of
a real pub, but even in the dim, yellowish light cast by the 'lanterns' mounted
along the walls, the exposed beams and brick looked too new and
too perfect to be believable. Still, the
beer on tap was real enough, and the steak and kidney pie smelled and tasted
like its contents may have come from the general vicinity of an actual cow.
This was the new
Kevin Brand was one of
those most likely to Make a Statement of the explosive
kind. He'd worked with Jerry in the
past, building and placing little surprises that took the shine off Harrod's or leveled hotels where Brit Lords and the like
were resting their fat arses, and he'd been happy to
hear from Sullivan after so many years.
"So, Jerry, will
you be lending a hand in our current campaign?
We've a few locations in mind, and your talent for fitting the most in
the smallest package would be handy."
Sullivan sighed. "That's not why I'm here, Kevin,"
he said. "I came to ask if you'd
change your plans --"
"If yeh've better ideas for targets, I'd be happy to --"
"I meant
forgetting about packages and surprises," Sullivan said. "They never really got us what we
wanted, did they? Them in power, they do
what they want, surprises or not. Knock
one down, there's always another one waiting to take over. The only ones who suffer --"
"Jerry, what's
happened to you? Yeh were a soldier for
the cause, one of the best! Has living
with the Yanks made yeh go soft?"
"The only ones
who suffer are the innocents," Sullivan said. "Yeh can't hurt the ones who make the
decisions -- lives don't matter to them, even the lives of their own kind. So there's no point, no point at all."
Brand shook his head
in disbelief, his ruddy face contorting into a goblin mask framed with red and
silver hair. "So yeh'd let the Brits take us over for good and all. Yeh'd just
surrender to them without a fight."
"Killin' randomly isn't fighting," Sullivan said. "Even taking down High Lord Muckety-muck surrounded by half the Army isn't fighting if
yeh kill women and children to do it."
"I can't believe
my ears," Brand said.
"Believe
this," Sullivan said, leaning forward.
"Whatever the cause, I don't believe in making innocents suffer for
it. In fact -- I've taken to protecting
them. I'm a peacekeeper now, not a soldier; I do my best to keep the likes of
the Real IRA from hurtin' folks who never deserved
it."
Brand shook his head
again and tilted his head back to drain his glass of beer. "So now all yer old comrades in arms are
villains, is that what yeh're tellin'
me, Jerry? Yeh've
changed, and not for the better."
He set his glass down on the scarred wooden table top (which Jerry
suspected had come that way from the factory), waving off an inquiring look
from the barmaid.
Sullivan lowered his
eyes, moving his hand so the dregs of his beer formed a dark whirlpool in the
bottom of the pint glass. "If yeh'd seen the things I've seen -- in
"Back before yeh
lost your nerve, you mean," Brand said, sneering.
"I was hoping --
I was hoping that you might join me, instead of t'other
way around," Sullivan said.
"And do
what? Kiss the arse of the first Brit I
see? No thank you, Jerry. No thank you."
"I'm sorry to
hear that," Sullivan said. "I
guess we've nothing more to talk about, then."
They stood and Brand
strode toward the door, leaving Sullivan to pay the bill. Sullivan rummaged in his pocket and dropped a
ten-euro note on the table -- overtipping to
compensate for spoiling the jovial atmosphere of the place -- and followed.
He reached the street
in time to see Brand sliding his bulky body behind the wheel of a battered red
MINI -- an ironic choice given the man's hatred of all things English -- and
waved. Brand responded by raising the middle
finger of his right hand while he fumbled to insert the key into the ignition.
Sullivan turned away
and looked down at the small device in his own hand. It could have been a keyless door lock
transmitter, but it wasn't.
"Goodbye, Kevin," he said. Then he moved his thumb over the larger of the
two buttons and squeezed.
Brand vanished in a
near-soundless ball of flame that seemed to emerge from the doors and roof of
the little car and move inward. The
windows shattered, not from the blast, but from the contraction of the roof and
side panels of the car as they collapsed like a punctured balloon.
Sullivan turned back
to survey the damage. He smiled.
Aside from the burning
wreckage of the car, there was no sign that anything unusual had happened. There was little debris scattered around;
there were no broken windows on the surrounding buildings; even the alarms on
cars parked only a few meters away from Brand's vehicle hadn't been triggered.
Whistling softly,
Sullivan walked briskly (but not too briskly) away. It was several minutes later that a couple
emerging from the Sword and Shamrock noticed the burning mass of metal and
rubber and called for help.
***
Nightwatch Institute,
"Surely you're
joking," Simon Litchfield said, peering at the image on Callow's fold-out
display screen. "There is no way in
hell that was a car."
Callow smirked. "It was a car, all right. A 2008 MINI, one of many thousands of its
type puttering around Europe and the
"Could you guys keep
it down a bit? This is a library, you
know."
Callow frowned and
turned toward the speaker, who had just poked his head around the corner of the
bookshelves separating the Popular Culture section from the rest of the
Nightwatch Institute Library.
"Hanson, isn't
it? Logistical
Support?"
Hanson, a
slightly-pudgy man with reddish-blonde hair and tiny rimless spectacles,
cringed. "Er,
sorry, Mr. Callow, I didn't know it was you."
"The Popular
Culture section of the Nightwatch Institute library hardly seems like someplace
you should be in the middle of the
working day, Mr. Hanson," Callow said.
"I -- er, I was in the Transportation section, looking up specs
for a Russian transport plane," Hanson said. "We're coordinating a relief mission
with --"
"Very well, Mr.
Hanson, get on with it and leave us alone," Callow said.
Hanson withdrew, obviously terrified that Callow would retaliate
for his intrusion in some unimaginably unpleasant way.
"How is it that
someone from Logistical Support knows you -- and apparently knows you
well?" Simon asked. "Your official title and function is rather unimpressive, however
powerful you may be in reality."
Callow sighed and
smiled. "Apparently there are
rumors that I am more important than I seem."
Simon snorted. "And we all know who starts and controls
the spreading of rumors around here ..."
"C'est moi, c'est moi,"
Callow half-sang. "Life is much
easier when those around you offer you the respect you truly deserve. You, for one, should try it sometime."
"Bollocks, as my
dear mother would say," Simon said.
"And I'd be careful about mangling Lerner and Loewe
show tunes while standing in the middle of the Popular Culture section. If that smoldering ball of metal was a car,
how did it end up like that? Was it
crushed in a wrecking yard and dropped off in the street when no one was
looking?"
Callow shook his
head. "Review of traffic
surveillance footage showed this car -- identified from the license plates,
which were relatively intact -- was driven to that area less than an hour
before it was found in its rather unusual state. More to the point -- it was occupied at the
time of its -- collapse."
Simon winced. "The occupant's dead, I presume? He'd have to be Tom Thumb to have survived
having the car crushed around him like that."
"If Tom Thumb was
made of asbestos and titanium, he might
have survived such an incident," Callow said. "The driver, one Kevin Brand, was made
of flesh and blood. And I repeat, the
car collapsed inward -- it was not crushed from outside."
"An
implosion bomb? I'd
heard stories about some new vectored-force explosives -- but I never believed
them."
"Forensic testing
revealed that Mr. Brand was the victim of a trap constructed using NVXP5, the
next step beyond conventional plastic explosives," Callow said. "NVXP5 -- Nano-assembled Vectored force Explosive,
Plastic -- is a substance that can be
molded to conform to a surface. When
activated -- 'detonated' doesn't seem like the appropriate word -- it produces
a highly-directional pulse of heat and pressure, thanks to nano-assembly
techniques that align the molecular bonds almost perfectly. As you can imagine, its possession and use is
restricted to certain branches of the defense establishment."
"Just as a matter
of curiosity, what were NVXP1 through NVXP4?"
"Less
effective," Callow said drily.
Simon peered closely
at the image of the collapsed microcar. Now that he knew what it had been, he could
assess the damage more precisely. The
roof and side panels had been pushed inward by what looked like a few
centimeters. For normal atmospheric
pressure to have achieved such an effect, the air inside the passenger
compartment must have been burned or compressed or both, creating a sudden
near-vacuum. "The heat and pressure from a single charge would probably be
lethal," he said. "Balanced
charges would cancel each other out, or almost.
Anything in the middle would be incinerated or crushed. But that brings us back to the usual question
-- why is the Institute interested? And
why do you want me involved?"
"Several
reasons," Callow said. "First,
NVXP5 is beyond top secret, and very rare.
It was, in fact, being considered for use in the matter that has
occupied your Mr. Weldon's attention of late, as a backup measure, at
least. Second, the man who was killed --
Kevin Brand -- was a known member of the 'Real IRA' faction of the Irish
Republican Army. MI6 has reported that
there have been rumors of some kind of violent and spectacular action by the
late Mr. Brand's group to protest plans to merge
"That's not the
sort of thing we deal with," Simon said.
"We're not the police -- or MI6 -- or the bloody British
Army."
"I wasn't finished," Callow said. "Where was I? Ah, yes -- third, Mr. Brand had just had an argument with this man." He slid his
fingertips over the control pad on his handheld computer, and the image of the
imploded car was replaced by a full-color computer-generated composite sketch
of a man with dark, wavy hair and a narrow, angular face.
"I've never seen
'this man' before," Simon said. But
then he frowned and looked closer.
"There is something about his eyes, though, something familiar
.."
"Perhaps this
will help," Callow said. A few
quick keystrokes brought up a photograph next to the sketch, and this face
Simon recognized immediately.
"Jerry Sullivan! " He studied
the photograph and the sketch for only a few seconds before he shook his head
in disbelief. "The man in the
sketch is Sullivan. But I thought the bastard was dead."
"You and every
counterterrorism and intelligence agency in the world," Callow said. "We only made the identification by
accident. You see, we neglected to
exclude the supposedly-deceased from the database of known associates of Mr.
Brand when looking for a match for the man in the composite sketch. Mr. Sullivan must have had an excellent
facial reconstruction specialist -- even the spacing between the eyes and
the distance from the bridge of the nose to the upper mandible has been
changed. But when the two faces are seen
side by side, the eyes, as you noticed, have it."
"So I'm to be
involved because I know -- I knew
Sullivan years ago. Bloody
wonderful." Simon suppressed
a shudder as images flashed through his mind.
Limbs and heads and sundered torsos strewn
about like fallen leaves. Skin the color of dark chocolate framing gaping red
wounds. Women and
children weeping, eyes wide in shock and grief. The stench of blood and
shit and smoke filling the air in choking clouds. Sullivan's legacy in
Callow cleared his
throat. "If you are through
reminiscing --"
Simon blinked, nodded,
and gestured for Callow to continue.
"Sullivan is not
the man you knew, and I do not mean only that his appearance has changed,"
Callow said. "He seems to be
pursuing an entirely different agenda -- as his murder of a former confederate
demonstrates. Nonetheless, your
familiarity with the man he was might
still give you an edge in dealing with him."
"'Dealing with
him'. What a lovely euphemism,"
Simon muttered.
"We have informed
the various intelligence services that Sullivan is alive, and has radically
changed his appearance," Callow said, ignoring Simon's comment. "Unfortunately, he was long gone from
Simon massaged his
temples with his fingertips. "So
he's out there, god knows where, with a weapon that could be a more precise
equivalent of a neutron bomb ..."
"I'm sorry --
what do enhanced radiation weapons have to do with this? NVXP5 is not radioactive, and produces no
radiation when it is activated."
"Remember how
wonderful neutron weapons were supposed to be?
Death from above, with minimal damage to land and
property. No lingering fallout --
ideal for wiping out a population and moving in. 'Clean' war, mass slaughter without lowering
the real estate values --"
"I still don't
see your point," Callow said. "Assuming, of course, that you have a point."
"This new
explosive -- implosive -- whatever -- is a small-scale equivalent. You can kill a target -- one man, or a
roomful of people -- and hardly muss the hair of anyone outside that room. Perfect for 'clean' terrorism, if you like,
or 'clean' assassination. Less precise,
I suppose, than a hypervelocity sniper rifle, but also less risky for the
assassin -- you have to be there, with a clear line of sight, to shoot
somebody. An implosion device could be
on a timer, or triggered by any number of different kinds of input -- sound,
vibration, weight, even chemical traces from the
target's cologne or favorite brand of cigars."
Callow pursed his
lips. "I see your point. Well, that should give you ample motivation
for ensuring that Sullivan is taken out of circulation -- which need not mean killing him, before you grumble
about that again -- and that access
to the implosion technology is once again limited to the proper
authorities."
"There are no
'proper authorities' that can be trusted with something like that," Simon
said. "But I'd rather it be in the
hands of a
government that may never use it than in those of a killer who already has used it -- and who will undoubtedly
use it again."
"I presume that
means that you will take the assignment, then," Callow said. "You do have a choice, in this instance
at least -- but we believe that you are the best man for the job, and most
likely to succeed before Sullivan strikes again."
Simon nodded. "I'll find him, and I'll do whatever it
takes to bring him in -- or bring him down.
Sullivan was responsible for a lot of death and suffering before he
disappeared ..."
"Very well,"
Callow said. "I've placed Nightbird
One on standby. As soon as we have any
indication of where Sullivan is, or what his next target may be, you will be
informed."
Simon stood and walked away, feeling his chest
tighten as memories of the horrors he had experienced in
****
Furawiyah, Northern
The bar, such as it
was, was the only refuge from the heat and glare and dust of midday for perhaps
fifty kilometers in any direction. If it
had a name, aside from 'BAR', it was not considered worth mentioning on any
signs. While most of the structures in
the village were huts with thatched roofs and walls of loosely-assembled stone
or wood, the bar had a tarred concrete roof, concrete block walls, and a
somewhat uneven poured concrete floor.
The place even had air conditioning, although the single unit, intended
to cool a much smaller room, was barely able to bring the temperature much
below blood heat. Slowly-turning ceiling
fans kept the results moving like currents of warm treacle in a vat of -- well,
warmer treacle.
It was inevitable that
the handful of non-resident engineers, aid workers, teachers, and bureaucrats
working in the area would congregate there.
Simon and his colleagues had been coming there every day to wait for the
worst heat of the day to subside, drowning their sorrows in 'ice cold' local
beer that was only slightly cooler than the air.
"I don't know
what the point of this project is," Alan Murchison grumbled. Balding, round of face and body, Murchison
wore an outfit similar to Simon's khaki safari ensemble, but the short-sleeved
shirt was tight across the belly and loose in the shoulders and chest instead
of the other way around. "Even if
we get the wells dug and the pumping equipment in, those Janjaweed assholes
will either blow it up, or kill everybody and take the place over."
"They haven't
bothered us yet," Simon said. What
he did not say was that the possibility of such an attack had probably led to
his assignment to the project. He had a
reputation for surviving in situations as nasty as this one, and he suspected
that he was there more as a one-man goon squad than as an engineer. The assortment of small arms he had been
given (under cover of darkness) suggested as much; the way his engineering
skills and experience as a foreman were being underutilized seemed to confirm
it.
"Yeah, but how
long can our luck hold out?" Bob Sienkewicz asked. Like Murchison, he had a 'high forehead' --
any higher and it would have met the back of his neck -- but he had the compact
body of a flyweight boxer. His clothes
-- a faded denim shirt and patched jeans -- fit him loosely, but the thick-lensed glasses he wore made it likely that his physique was
more the result of a fast metabolism than boxing or any other vigorous
exercise. "If the government --
excuse me, the Janjaweed militia who are not
under government control at all, at all, at all -- even suspects that there are
rebels operating around here --"
"Mind if I join
you fellas?"
Simon looked up and
saw a lean, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes that looked like chips of
amethyst, at least in the blessedly-dim light in the bar.
"Name's Jerry
Sullivan," the man said.
"Simon
Litchfield," Simon said, extending his hand. As Sullivan leaned over and shook hands with
him, Simon said, "These gentlemen are my colleagues from the Nightwatch
Institute, Alan Murchison and Bob Sienkewicz.
We're all here trying to provide the locals with a supply of clean
water."
"Ah, so the
equipment with the fancy logo -- from a Rembrandt paintin',
I'm thinkin' -- belongs to you lot. You might say that I'm here as a consultant to make sure that nothin'
unfortunate befalls you and your work."
Simon frowned. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean
by 'consultant'."
Sullivan grinned. "Well, the locals have a problem with
weeds -- Janjaweeds, they call them. I'm
here to teach them how to commit herbicide."
"Er, you do know that 'Janjaweeds' are people, don't
you?" Sienkewicz said.
"He knows exactly
what they are," Simon said.
"Were you hired by the Institute?"
Sullivan dragged
another chair over from a nearby table and sat down. "No, no -- never heard of them before
now. There's groups all over the world
concerned about the terrible things happening here -- mostly people from these
parts, but some who're just do-gooders.
One of them -- I won't say which -- heard I was available, and arranged
for me to come here."
"I don't get
it," Murchison said. "What
kind of consultant are you? And what do
you mean by 'herbicide', if you know what the Janjaweed are?"
"He's a mercenary,"
Simon said. "And from his accent
and name, I'd guess Mr. Sullivan learned his skills as a member of the
Provisional Wing of the IRA. By
'herbicide', he means killing. He's
going to teach these people how to kill the Janjaweed if they're attacked. I presume your sponsors supplied you with the
appropriate -- tools?"
Sullivan grinned
again, but the look he directed at Simon was anything but friendly. "Oh, aye. My sponsors
gave me drills -- tools that make holes, that is -- and shovels -- tools that
make bigger holes, faster -- and plenty of both."
"Guns and
explosives," Simon translated.
"You're quite glib about these things, Mr. Sullivan, which leads me
to believe that you don't place a high value on a human life. I'm afraid I'm going to find it difficult to
like you."
Sullivan winked. "Well, Simon me boyo,
give it time. The Irish charm always
works in the end." Then he stood
and strolled out of the bar.
On the one hand, Simon
found Sullivan's presence troubling.
Once word got out that an outsider was providing arms and training to
the locals, the likelihood of an attack by Janjaweed raiders would increase
tenfold. On the other
hand, if trouble arrived (as it probably would have in any case), at least
Simon would not be the only one able to fight back. But he'd sit on an anthill before he admitted
that to the Irishman.
****
Nightwatch Institute,
"Callow,
hold up!" Simon broke into a run to overtake the Lower
Echelon liaison as the younger man exited from the Library.
"You haven't
returned any of my messages," Simon said.
"Surely your contacts must have found some trace of Sullivan by
now."
Callow grimaced. "This is not something we should be
discussing in the corridor," he said.
"I could talk
about the other pressing matter,
instead," Simon said. "How far
out is Tom's ship now? Would he be able to see the --"
Scowling, Callow
grabbed Simon's arm and pulled him into the Library. It was only when they were safely within the
deserted (as usual) Popular Culture section that he spoke again.
"That kind of
loose talk can have dire consequences, Litchfield," Callow said. "We have managed to avoid any kind of
widespread panic so far, but --"
"Where is
Sullivan?" Simon said. "Why hasn't he been spotted somewhere, now
that every government security and border agency in the world knows what he
looks like?"
Callow shook his
head. "We have a composite sketch
that may or may not be precise enough to allow facial-recognition scanners to
pick Mr. Sullivan out of a crowd. If he
adds even a rudimentary disguise, he may be able to fool that level of
automated security. And he may be
traveling by less-conventional means that bypass border crossing points and
airport security."
"So what do we
do? Wait for another case where some
poor sod gets blown in instead of blown up?"
"It would help, Simon, if you could figure out
what the hell he is doing," Callow said.
"We have ruled out any dispute between IRA factions as a motive for
Sullivan's assassination of Brand, and I believe it is safe to assume that he
was not working for the authorities."
"It's been years
since I knew him, and we were hardly what one would call 'close' even
then," Simon said. "How in
hell should I know what he's up to?"
Callow smirked. "Perhaps it's
hell you should be thinking
about. It was just after your time in
"I have thought about it," Simon
said. But he knew that he had shied away
from the worst of it, the moments that might have changed Jerry Sullivan
forever. He would have to relive those
moments to find the truth.
****
Furawiyah, Northern
In the days that
followed their encounter with Jerry Sullivan, Simon, Alan, and Bob continued
their work. Two wells had been
completed, and soundings indicated that they should be capable of supplying
drinking water almost indefinitely; the shafts extended well below the level of
the current water table, which had already receded to the point where many
older wells had long since failed.
Simon took the time to
dig a trench well away from the other work sites, about two meters long, one
meter wide, and two meters deep, using a Nightwatch Institute backhoe for most
of the work. He squared off the
excavation and installed supports to prevent the sandy soil from collapsing,
and prepared plywood sheets with netting and glued-on sand to cover and
camouflage the trench when the need arose.
"Looks like a
grave, Litchfield," Sullivan said.
"Is it for me -- or for you?"
Simon spat, mostly to
clear the dust from his throat, but partly to inform Sullivan that his 'Irish
charm' wasn't working. Sullivan laughed
and walked away.
For his part, Sullivan
taught the locals, mostly Zaghawa and Masaaleit tribespeople,
how to shoot, how to place mines and set explosive booby traps. He turned one stone-and-thatch hut near the
center of the village into his headquarters, storing the spare ammunition and
explosives there, with a large sketch map of the area tacked to one wall.
Sullivan was very good
at the teaching part of his job, Simon had to admit -- he seemed to be able to
turn boys who had barely reached puberty into efficient killers. The boys seemed to enjoy Sullivan's company,
and Sullivan was surprisingly patient and cheerful with them, while still
managing to impart the skills they would need.
And Simon also had to admit that Sullivan's work might be all that
prevented a Janjaweed attack from slaughtering most of the village, as had
happened to other villages in recent months.
Still, it sickened him
to see boys who should be playing soccer or chasing the chickens that strutted
about in the village handling AK-47s and grenades like commandos
..
****
Simon Litchfield's apartment, Georgetown,
"Any
new insights, Dr. Litchfield? You have
been contemplating your brief time with Mr. Sullivan, have you not? I presume that is why you left the Institute
in the middle of the day."
Callow's face filled the video screen of Simon's home
communications deck, making Simon wish that he had an erasable pen handy. The permanently-smug expression on Callow's
face seemed to beg to have a nice handlebar moustache painted on ... A little
surgery with the second-rate (but authentic) samurai katana in the black lacquered stand near the desk would have been
even more satisfying, but too costly to be worth it.
"Simon, are you
listening to me? Have you been reviewing
your time with Mr. Sullivan, or not?"
"I have,"
Simon said, suppressing the urge to sneer. "I'm beginning to have a
feeling about this, about what he's doing.
When I focus on how he --"
"Results,
Simon. I'm only interested in the
results."
"All I can say is
that I don't think he's doing whatever he's doing for money, at least not
entirely. I think he is -- or was -- a
'True Believer', an idealist of sorts, if a multiple murderer can be an idealist."
"Wonderful. So you think
you've eliminated one of Sullivan's
possible motivations. Do let me know
when you narrow it down to something we can actually use." The screen went blank as Callow disconnected.
****
Furawiyah,
Northern
As Simon might have
expected, the attack came after the last well had been completed and the water
was flowing.
A muffled whump was
followed by the firecracker rattling of automatic weapons. Jerry Sullivan emerged from the hut he had
been using as his headquarters and armory, struggling into a Kevlar vest while
juggling an AK-47 and a pack with extra clips.
"Sounds like the
party's starting, Litchfield," he shouted.
"Better get your delicate arse under whatever cover you can find,
and pray me boys learned their lessons well!"
Cursing, Simon
collared Murchison and Sienkewicz and dragged them bodily toward the trench he
had prepared in anticipation of this day.
"Get in, and stay low. I'll
bring you some weapons in a moment -- as a last resort, hear me? No heroics from you two."
Before they could ask
any questions, Simon turned and sprinted for the Institute Land Rover. He opened a locked box in the rear of the
vehicle and extracted two Uzi submachine guns -- old, but well-maintained -- and
a Glock 9 mm automatic. He filled
several of his pockets with spare clips for the Glock, clipped the holster to
his belt, then ran back toward the trench. Murchison and Sienkewicz were still standing
at the edge of the excavation, looking bewildered and more than a little
annoyed at his rough treatment of them.
"Damn it, I said
get in! And take these -- be bloody
careful, the safeties are off and you could empty the clip in seconds
flat."
"Litchfield, what
are you doing? Where did you get these
guns?" Murchison said. "If the Janjaweed are here, we should be
trying to talk to them --"
"Or running for
our lives," Sienkewicz said.
"I'm afraid our
friend Sullivan's trainees have made it unlikely that the Janjaweed will be in
a talking mood," Simon said.
"If I'm not mistaken, that was a land mine we heard a few minutes
ago, followed by an exchange of gunfire.
If the Janjaweed make it here, it will be with guns blazing."
"And if they
don't?" Murchison asked.
"Then tomorrow or
the next day, more of them will come,
and whatever advantage surprise may have given Sullivan's recruits today will
be gone. If we survive this day, we are
leaving. Now, get in the bloody trench
so I can cover it up. If you're lucky,
the Janjaweed will think we were digging a latrine ditch. If not -- you have the Uzis."
Their faces pale in
spite of several months of African sunlight, the Nightwatch engineers clambered
down into the trench. Simon dragged his
camouflaged cover sheets over the trench, leaving only a narrow gap for ventilation.
"Don't come out
unless I come and get you," he said.
"And if anybody except me pulls the cover off your hidey-hole --
shoot him."
The sounds of gunfire
were coming closer. For all their
enthusiasm and naïve courage, Sullivan's young troops couldn't match the skill
and murderous efficiency of the Janjaweed.
Sullivan himself was probably doing better; Simon guessed that the
Irishman had probably been in battle more than once before the relative calm of
the last few years.
Simon debated whether he
had time to send out a distress call -- cursing his failure to do so when he
had been at the Land Rover -- but decided that the sounds of gunfire were too
close. For his skills to be effective,
he had to be out of sight and able to approach his targets one or two at a
time. He checked the Glock, removing the
clip and dry-firing it, then replacing the clip. Then he slid the pistol into its holster --
he would use it only as a last resort.
The problem with guns, he thought, is that any damn fool can point one and pull the trigger. And
once the trigger has been pulled, bullets are free agents -- they hit what they
hit, whether it is the intended target or not.
As the Janjaweed
troops entered the village, they spread out in a loose skirmishing line, keeping
each other in sight except when they passed on opposite sides of a hut. They wore no uniforms; their clothing was of
various colors, except for their turbans, the tails of which covered all but
their eyes. Each was armed with a rifle
-- most had AK-47's, a few carrier old bolt-action guns that might have been a
century old -- plus a machete or other large knife. Some carried grenades, and one or two had a
handgun of some sort.
There was enough noise
-- scattered fire from Sullivan's remaining child soldiers, the explosions of
grenades lobbed by the Janjaweed into the wood and stone huts as they passed --
that Simon was able to reach the edge of the village furthest from the
camouflaged trench without being detected.
He approached the closest Janjaweed fighter from behind and used a
stranglehold to choke him into unconsciousness, then gagged him and bound his
ankles and wrists with plastic restraints.
The second man was
more alert, but chose to attack Simon with the machete he held in his right
hand while still holding his AK-47 with his left. Simon surprised him by stepping into the
attack instead of dodging. Once inside
the radius of the swing, Simon trapped the man's wrist, locked the elbow, then dislocated it with an upward palm strike. Then he silenced the man's cry of pain with
an elbow strike that fractured the nose and splintered teeth.
Once again, Simon
gagged his victim and bound his wrists and ankles. He was none too gentle, in spite of the
injuries he had already inflicted; there was fresh blood and -- other things --
on the blade of the machete that had been aimed at him.
"Nice enough
work, Litchfield, but ye'd be better off using that
peashooter ye have on yer belt."
"You're quieter
than I would have expected, Sullivan," Simon said, his heart spasming in his chest.
"Unfortunately, from the sounds of it, your troops have gone pretty
quiet, too."
Sullivan grunted. "Aye. Most of me lads are down, poor bastards. They were brave enough, but I guess I didn't
teach 'em how to duck."
"The Janjaweed
are likely to slaughter everyone in the village now," Simon said. "They don't take kindly to the medicine
they like to dispense themselves."
"Well, if you're
like me, and you'd rather they didn't, I suggest we try to stop 'em,"
Sullivan said, grinning.
Simon shook his
head. "I'm not like you, Sullivan. I
don't believe that the ends justify the means."
"Is that why
you're not killing these Weedy-boys when you take them down? Killin' offends yer
delicate sensibilities?"
"Partly,"
Simon said. "Of course, I also
thought that hostages might be useful when word gets out and ten times this
number comes this way."
Screams of fear and
pain from the other side of the village ended their discussion. "We're falling behind in our work,"
Simon said. "You do things your
way. I'll do things my way. But let's do them bloody fast."
The next man Simon
encountered was ready for him. Too many
of his fellow militiamen had vanished on their way into the village to be
attributed to 'normal' delays -- women to rape, valuables to loot -- so he knew
that hostile forces were at work.
"'American,
yes? You kill my friends?" The Janjaweed soldier was tall and lean, with
high, angular cheekbones and skin even darker than some of the villagers. He held his assault rifle loosely, not quite
aimed at Simon, but ready to fire at any moment.
Simon shook his
head. "The ones who've met me will
live. Can't say the same for some
others, I'm afraid." He drew the
Glock and leveled it.
"I have bigger
gun," the Janjaweed said. "But
I not use if you put yours down. I fight
you like man, to honor my friends."
When Simon let the
Glock fall to the ground, the Janjaweed fighter let his AK-47 drop as
well. Then both men moved several paces
to one side to put some distance between them and their guns.
Inwardly, Simon
thanked God that machismo wasn't dead in
He almost changed his
mind when the Janjaweed attacked. This
man was far more dangerous than the other machete-wielding man Simon had
fought, if for no other reason than his decision to unburden himself of his
rifle before striking. Simon barely
avoided the first few strokes of the blade, even sustaining a shallow cut
across one hand as he backpedaled and tried to circle away from his opponent's
blade hand.
"You are mine," the Janjaweed said, seeing
the thin trail of blood winding its way down Simon's forearm. He raised the machete high over his head and
brought it down in a stroke that would cut Simon in half if it connected.
Simon rushed in,
closing the distance and preparing to perform an arm lock and break. But the Janjaweed flipped the machete to his
other hand even as Simon caught hold of his wrist. The blade came hissing inward in a thrust
that promised to gut Simon like a trout.
Simon spun, arching
his torso to let the blade slide by, and then used his right arm to add his own
momentum to the Janjaweed's stabbing motion.
He felt the sting of another shallow cut across his back and then the
hot gush of blood as the machete blade penetrated the Janjaweed's own chest.
The Janjaweed gasped, his eyes wide in surprise. Then he folded to the ground, his fingers
still locked around the hilt of the blade protruding from his chest.
Simon stood there for
almost a minute, panting, assessing his own wounds, and staring in horror at
the blood covering his hands and staining his clothes. Some of it was his; most of it was not. All of it looked the same.
This fight had taken
far too long, and his injuries meant that he could not rely on his skills to
prevail in any more hand-to-hand fights.
Reluctantly, he picked up the Glock, and continued to move toward the
center of the village.
He shot two more
Janjaweed fighters, going for head shots in case any of them might be wearing
body armor. Every time he pulled the
trigger, he felt something inside him tumble and crash like a body bouncing off
ledges as it fell down a narrow shaft between skyscrapers. He had never thought of himself as a killer
before, but the proof was there, lying in the sand; it was there, staining his
hands and clothes.
And then he was at the
edge of the village square, where the Institute equipment had been parked and
where Sullivan had his headquarters.
Despite Simon's and
Sullivan's best efforts, five or six of the Janjaweed troops had survived to
reach the center of the village. Worse,
they had herded more than a dozen of the surviving villagers with them. The prisoners looked stunned, their eyes wide
and staring, mouths hanging open in silent screams. Small children clung to their mothers' legs;
old men examined the sandy ground as if seeking something, anything,
that made sense in the midst of all the chaos and death.
A panting and bloodied
Sullivan found Simon crouched behind a Nightwatch Institute backhoe, assessing
the situation.
"You
still alive, Litchfield?" Sullivan hissed. "Guess you
must be pretty good at that Ori-en-tal fighting shite, though ye're a bloody mess
--"
"Shut up,
Sullivan," Simon muttered. "This lot have killed dozens of the villagers, and it looks
like they have the survivors penned up near your little fireworks
warehouse."
"Five -- no, six
of them, two of us -- I say we rush the buggers," Sullivan said.
"And kill the
rest of the villagers in the crossfire?
You really don't care who gets hurt, as long as the other side is wiped
out."
Sullivan scowled. "I care, all right," he said. "Maybe there'd be fewer Weedies standing and more villagers alive if not for your
genteel ways. Ah, Christ -- that's
little Salah and his Mum down there, ain't it?"
Simon looked carefully
at the gathered villagers, then nodded.
"Cute little
ankle-biter," Sullivan said.
"Really wanted to join in and learn to shoot, but his Mum wouldn't
have it. 'No guns for my baby,' she said
-- which made him frantic, of course, bein' called a
baby --"
"Something's
happening," Simon said.
One of the Janjaweed
soldiers entered the stone hut, emerging a few moments later holding a grenade.
"That's torn
it," Sullivan said. "No more
ammo for the good guys."
Then the Janjaweed
began to herd the villagers into the hut.
It was a tight fit -- the building was small to begin with, and Sullivan
had half the floor covered with crates full of ordnance. Immediately after the last villager had been
pushed through the door, and the door closed behind him, the Janjaweed
scattered, breaking into a run.
"Bloody
hell," Simon said. "I think
they're going to --"
A single, muffled
explosion was followed by a larger one that sent flame-edged clouds of black
smoke boiling out through the doorway and windows. Then the entire structure vanished in a ball
of fire that sent peppered the ground with slivers of wood and shards of
mud-brick. The sound was so loud and so
deep that Simon felt it like a solid punch to the gut; he fell back, dazed, his
ears ringing and nausea trying to turn him inside out.
"Ah, Jesus, they've
killed 'em all! Salah
and his Mum -- Jameel, Amina
-- all dead ..."
"Sullivan, get -- get down," Simon said. "You can't --"
Still half-stunned,
Simon watched as Sullivan used the backhoe as a ladder to help him stand
up. He drew a pistol from a holster at
his waist and fired several shots, apparently at nothing at all.
"Ye
baby-killin' cowards! Come
back here! I've got something for you,
every bleedin' one of you!"
Three Janjaweed
bullets struck Sullivan, at least one tearing through his chest near the base
of his throat, above his Kevlar vest.
Satisfied that he was dead -- or soon would be -- the Janjaweed walked
away.
"Sullivan
--" Simon said, dragging himself toward the Irishman. "Sullivan, are you --"
But then Simon felt
the hot, wet flow of his own blood, streaming from a new gash in his side. When he thought the Janjaweed were far enough
away, he shouted, "Murchison!
Sienkewicz! If you're still
alive, come out! I need --" Even that
effort drained what little strength he had left. He felt his head sway as the muscles in his
neck grew weaker; then his eyes closed, and time ... stopped.
When he opened his
eyes again, he found Murchison using surgical glue to try to close the wound in
his side. Sienkewicz was standing by,
passing supplies from the field medical kit to Murchison as the larger man
asked for them.
"Christ,
Litchfield, there was so much blood on you that I was sure you must be
dead," Murchison said.
"Not -- all --
mine," Simon said.
"Sullivan. Where's
Sullivan?"
"Was he here with
you?" Sienkewicz asked. "You were alone by the time we got
here."
"They shot
him," Simon said. "He took a
hit -- above his vest, Kevlar vest --"
"Either he got up
and walked away, or the Janjaweed took him," Murchison said. "There, I think that'll hold until they
can get us out of here. You probably
need a transfusion, but all we have here is that Ringer's lactate stuff."
"I'm okay -- just
need to rest for a while," Simon said.
And after he had eaten a ration bar and consumed a liter of water, he
did feel somewhat stronger -- strong enough to keep his head from drooping like
the blossom on a dying tulip plant, anyway.
Later, the trio began
to search the village for survivors. The
first decapitated and mutilated body they found was enough to send Sienkewicz
scurrying off to vomit up the remains of his breakfast; Murchison was obviously
deeply affected as well, but managed to stay with Simon as they continued their
grim task.
Everywhere they
looked, they found only the dead, and every body they found -- male or female,
young or old -- had been dismembered or slashed until it was barely
recognizable as human. Simon found his
dizziness dissipating in the face of so much horror. In its place, he felt something he had never
experienced before, a dark desire to punish those responsible for these
atrocities, to break their bones and rend their flesh. His hands closed into fists so tightly that
the joints crackled, relaxed, tightened again, relaxed ..
In the last intact
hut, they found a mother and two children, all savagely mutilated.
"Those Janjaweed are animals,"
Murchison wheezed. "Worse than animals. Everyone dead. Everyone cut to pieces! How can any human being do -- those things --
to another?"
Simon bent down to
close the eyes of one child whose torso had been almost cut in two by a
machete. "That's it, then. Not one left alive." With that gesture, he felt the last traces of
any civilized restraint fall away. If he
could lay hands on one of the raiders now, he would -- he would --
Suddenly Simon
remembered the two Janjaweed that he had left bound and gagged near the edge of
the village. "Murchison, there's
something I have to do. Go find
Sienkewicz and see if the satellite phone is working. Report -- report what's happened here."
"We already
called," Murchison said, but he caught the look on Simon's face and
cringed. He had heard things about Simon
Litchfield around the Institute, hints that he was a dangerous man, but had
dismissed them. After all, he'd spent
plenty of time with the British-born engineer, and knew him to be a charming
and affable sort, if a bit arrogant and vain.
But this Simon -- he had no doubt at all that this Simon was a dangerous
man indeed. Trying to seem casual, he
turned and stumbled off to look for Sienkewicz, glad
to have something to do, glad to put even a small distance between himself and
the horrors they had been wading through for almost an hour now -- and between
himself and this new and different Simon Litchfield.
Simon walked slowly
toward the edge of the village, limping, his wounds alternately throbbing and
burning with every step. The pain only
served to deepen his fury, as a picador's blades goad a bull to its doom.
He reached the second
man he had neutralized, found him struggling feebly to escape his bonds -- an
excruciating process with one elbow dislocated.
The man's machete lay a meter or two away, the
brightness of its blade half-concealed by a dark red-brown coat of dried blood.
"Here, here, old
man," Simon said, through clenched teeth.
"Can't have you suffering like that. Let me help you."
The Janjaweed looked up, saw Simon's face, and redoubled his
efforts to free himself. He tried to
scream, almost choking himself on the gag.
Simon picked up the machete, his teeth bared in a hideous grin, and brought it
down in a vicious stroke that cut the man's right leg to the bone. Blood spurted from the severed femoral artery
and painted the sand bright red in a broad arc around the Janjaweed fighter's
wildly writhing form. Simon circled
quickly, avoiding most of the blood, and swung the machete again, this time
cleaving the skull above the left ear.
The man shuddered once
more, then was still.
"That's for the
children, you sand-louse. That's --
that's for all of them, all the ones you lot slaughtered today."
Simon used the machete
once more, this time cleanly severing the head.
This grisly trophy he carried with him when he went to finish what he
had started.
The other
bound-and-gagged Janjaweed went into hysterics when he saw Simon approaching,
bloody blade in one hand and severed head in the other. He tried to scoot away by pushing with his
bound legs, but only managed to travel a few meters before Simon caught up with
him.
"Is this a friend
of yours?" Simon asked, throwing the severed head at the terrified
man. "I gave him what you lot like to hand out to bloody farmers who get in your
way."
He raised the machete
and moved in -- but the sick fury that had driven him to murder the other man
was fading. Now when he saw the stark
terror in the eyes of the helpless man on the ground, he felt -- shame?
He was supposed to be
a civilized man. But the Janjaweed deserved terror and pain
and death!
He was supposed to
represent the best of Western culture, as exemplified by the mission of the
Nightwatch Institute, and more -- he should also be living up to the ideals of
his sensei in
Killing in combat was
one thing. Executing a criminal was
another. Deliberately terrorizing and
torturing a man was -- unworthy, a betrayal of his principles and the
principles of his mentors. But --
Simon closed his eyes,
took in a long, deep breath, letting the air flood through his body from his
nostrils to his hara,
his center, then exhaling slowly through his
mouth. When he opened his eyes again, he
opened his hand as well, and the machete fell to the sand.
He rummaged in his
pockets, found a folding knife, and knelt beside the Janjaweed,
who had stopped struggling, either surrendering to his fate, or confused by
Simon's hesitation. Simon opened the
knife, and carefully cut the plastic restraints holding the man's legs.
"Get up. Get up, and run for your worthless
life."
And stumbling,
weeping, the man did just that.
Simon looked down at
the mangled face on the head he had removed, looked at the blood-slick machete,
looked at his hands -- and wept. He had
treated Sullivan with contempt because Sullivan was a killer, while he, Simon
Litchfield, was a nobler sort. But his
supposed superiority had fallen away, first by necessity, then by choice.
Simon wondered if
Sullivan had learned anything from this disastrous day. Would he realize now that the lives of the
innocent meant something? That a victory -- killing many of the Janjaweed raiders -- was no victory at all if the lives he
intended to defend were lost in the process?
****
Nightwatch Institute,
"I think I know
what Sullivan is doing," Simon said.
He leaned back in Stephanie Keel's guest chair, caught himself when the
supposedly-ergonomic monstrosity threatened to eject him, then
straightened with his best 'I meant to do that' expression firmly fixed on his
face.
Stephanie Keel, her
right arm still supported by a sling, managed to stifle a laugh. Clearing her throat, she said, "I'm
guessing it has something to do with blowing people up -- or rather sucking
them in, with this implosion gimmick you say he has."
Simon sighed. "What I meant was,
I know why he has changed targets. All
our previous knowledge of him suggests that he was an idealist of sorts,
attacking those in power -- usually governments, sometimes corporations -- on
behalf of what he viewed as the underdogs.
But this most recent incident involved the murder of one of his former
IRA colleagues -- and in particular, one who was reportedly in the process of
planning and organizing a major terrorist offensive."
"You think he's
sold out? Gone to work for the
"Nothing so
prosaic," Simon said. "I think
he is trying to prevent the deaths of innocent bystanders -- the kind who are
most often killed by terrorist acts, even when a specific military or political
figure is the primary target."
Stephanie
frowned. "So he's not against
killing, per se -- just sloppy
killing?"
"As ridiculous as
you make it sound, I believe you're correct," Simon said. "When I met him, he was a wanted man in
"The bad guys
never think they're bad guys," Stephanie said. She caught Simon's look of disbelief, and
qualified her claim. "Okay, some of
the crazier ones are proud to be bad
guys, but in general ..."
"Sullivan is
targeting terrorists, or what the world views as terrorists," Simon said
impatiently. "If we identify the
most significant imminent threats --"
"Excluding the
biggest one in recorded history, I presume?"
"Yes, yes,
excluding that one. I think it's safe to
assume that Sullivan lacks the means to do anything about that threat, even if
he is fully aware that it exists!"
Stephanie winked. "Breathe deeply. Your sensei wouldn't be pleased if he saw you
freaking out like that. Now, if I set an
intelligent agent loose in the CIA and NSA and Interpol networks, I should be
able to see who the spooky set consider to be the next
Big Bad Whatever."
"An
agent? Since when did you have agents working for
you?"
Now Stephanie did
laugh. "Simon, I'm going to
schedule you for some refresher courses on computer terminology. I meant a little computer program that can
search for keywords and phrases and compute relevancy scores. A little beastie like that can sift through
gigabytes of message traffic and reports and tell me where the hot spots are
for the kinds of things you were talking about, and who's holding the
matches."
"And what would
the CIA and Interpol and whatever other agencies you intend to pillage say
about this sort of thing?"
"Not a word that
you'll ever hear. However, if I don't
show up for work tomorrow, and my apartment is so empty that it looks like it's
never been occupied, and my name is missing from every computer system in the
world ..."
"I'll find
you," Simon said. "No matter
what they do, I'll find you."
"C'mon, Simon, I
was just kidding," Stephanie said. "I've
done this sort of thing hundreds of times, and if they've ever noticed,
apparently they didn't mind."
"I wasn't
kidding," Simon said. "Having
rescued you once, I feel that I am obligated to watch out for you for the rest
of your life. It's something I picked up
in
"Yeah, well, you
can drop it here and now," Stephanie said.
"It's kinda heartwarming to hear you talk
like that, but it's also kinda creepy, you
know."
"If it makes you
feel any better, I consider the obligation to be reciprocal -- you have, after
all, saved my life on a few occasions, through your work or by direct physical
action. So has Tom."
"Great. So we're a co-dependent trio, bonded for
life. I feel much better now. How about you leave me alone now so I can set
loose the hounds to track down Sullivan or his next likely target?"
Simon nodded,
carefully disentangled himself from the chair, and exited from Stephanie's
office, closing the door behind him.
Stephanie shook her
head and smiled. The funny thing was,
she did feel better, thinking of Tom and Simon and herself as a sort of family.
Then she turned her
attention back to the oversized flat-panel monitor and wriggled her right arm
out of the sling, wincing as pain shot through her still-mending shoulder. Her fingers began to dance over the keyboard,
assembling blocks of code from her libraries of thousands of routines, writing
new commands, linking and cross-linking ...
****
"By George, I do
believe I've got it," Stephanie said.
Days had passed with
no word of any sightings of Jerry Sullivan and, fortunately, no reports of
incidents where an implosion device had been used. Still, Simon had been worried; even if
Sullivan was not using his new 'clean' weapon, the likelihood that it would
spread to other factions would continue to increase until and unless the
technology was recaptured.
"Is it contagious?" Simon asked. "Should I be wearing one of those
ridiculous protective masks?"
Stephanie peered at
Simon through one eye, intending to tease him for worrying about his appearance,
but hesitated when she saw the dark circles under his eyes. He had not been sleeping well since he had
been 'asked' to dredge up his memories of Jerry Sullivan, and it was starting
to show.
"Um, fortunately,
no," she said at last. "I
don't think they make those masks in that shade of khaki anyway. What I meant was, I
think I know where Mr. Sullivan might make his next appearance."
She tapped a few keys,
and brought up a map of
"A good
bet," Simon said. "There's
certainly enough terrorist activity there for him to find a target."
"Yeah, but here's
the kicker -- his target will probably be an American."
Simon grunted. "An American Muslim, you mean? Someone providing funds and
materiel to an Indonesian Al Qaeda group?"
Stephanie shook her
head. "An
American Christian. A Dominionist, to be more specific."
Simon lowered himself
-- very carefully -- into Stephanie's guest chair. "I'm afraid you've lost me. Is this fellow a representative of the
Stephanie rolled her
eyes. "Nooo. I
realize the America-First and Christians-in-charge types are still pretty
powerful here, but this guy is from the extreme loony fringe -- which is a
rather wide fringe, and wealthy at that, but still not likely to make it in the
civil service."
"Then why would
he be Sullivan's
target? Especially
when
"This is where it
gets a bit dicey," Stephanie admitted.
"This guy -- his name's Emmanuel Goodman, believe it or not -- may
be planning to release a tailored bioweapon in
"Millions of innocents," Simon said. "That would make him a prime target for Sullivan, if I'm right about his
current agenda."
He yawned, massaged
his face with both hands in an attempt to get his blood moving, and said,
"One thing puzzles me. What,
exactly, is the 'nutbar grapevine', and how were you
able to access it?"
Stephanie
laughed. "It's -- websites, blogs, bulletin boards, members-only discussion sites. And, of course, e-mail, text, and voice
traffic flagged and captured by NSA spy programs. Every special-interest group in the world has
stuff like that now, and the loonies have more than their share. A lot of it is encrypted, but very little of
it is beyond NSA cracking programs; hell, most of it I can hack into with my
own little toolkit."
Simon nodded. "So that explains what it is, and how
the NSA would have access to it. I
gather that your -- what was the term? -- your agent was able to borrow this information without being
detected."
Stephanie held up her
wrists, then pulled up her pant legs to display her
ankles. "No cuffs, manacles, or
electronic locator doodads. Like I said
before, either they haven't noticed what I'm doing, or they don't care --"
"Or someone is
protecting you," Callow said.
"Next time,
Simon, don't just close the door behind you when you come in -- lock it."
Callow smiled. "I have access to the keys and codes for
every door on Institute property," he said. "But feel free to lock anything you
like, if the illusion of privacy comforts you."
Stephanie said
nothing, but Simon saw her hands fold into fists.
"Now, my dear Ms.
Keel, you were discussing a possible target for Mr. Sullivan?"
"A Dominionist named Emmanuel Goodman," Simon said. "Apparently he intends to release a
biological weapon in
"He believes that
his virus, or whatever it is, will only affect Muslims," Stephanie said.
Callow chuckled. "Targeting a virus to a specific ethnic
subtype is nearly impossible -- only a complete idiot would ever believe that a
virus can be made to distinguish between people based on religion."
"Idiot or not, he
might believe it if he believes that God is on his side -- literally,"
Simon said. "Since his
co-religionists believe that Christians are destined to rule the world, and are
justified in taking extreme measures to bring that destiny to fruition, it is
safe to assume that he does think
that his cause has divine backing."
"There's a
pharmaceutical plant in
"Theophilus -- from the Greek for 'God-loving'," Simon
said. "Goodman
and his fellow extreme Dominionists?"
"There are two
threats to be dealt with, then," Callow said. "Obviously, the Institute can't stand by
and allow Goodman to commit mass murder.
But at the same time, we can't allow Sullivan to assassinate
Goodman."
"Why hasn't the
NSA or the CIA done anything about Goodman?
If Stephanie was able to extrapolate this threat from NSA data, then
--"
"Friends in very
high places," Callow said.
"Fortunately, this won't deter us
from taking appropriate action. I will
contact the Indonesian authorities and have them prepare to -- investigate,
shall we say -- unusual activity at the Theophilus
drug plant. And you, Simon, should be
packing for
Callow left the room
to make his phone calls. Simon untangled
himself from the ergonomic chair and stood, also preparing to leave.
"I wish I could
go with you," Stephanie said.
"But my shoulder is still pretty bad. I can work the keyboard and touchpad all
right, but I'd be less than useless in a fight."
"It's just as
well," Simon said. "If
Goodman's biological weapon is less discriminating that he believes -- as it
almost certainly is -- I'd rather you were nowhere near it. I'm in my autumn years --"
"Ah, blow it out
your years," Stephanie said.
"You'll probably outlive me, if you can just avoid getting shot to
pieces, blown up, blown in, or poisoned."
"You could wish
me good luck instead of mocking me," Simon said.
"That would just
confuse you," Stephanie said. As
Simon turned to go, she added, "Try to get some sleep on the plane. You're gonna need
to be wide awake when you get to
"Goodbye,
Stephanie."
Stephanie watched him
walk away, looked down at her injured shoulder, and cursed. "You'd better come back in one piece,
Simon. I still have to wax your ass on
the racquetball court."
****
On board Nightbird
One, over the
The great-circle
distance from the Nightwatch hangar near
Since the Indonesian
authorities were expected to take care of neutralizing the threat posed by
Emmanuel Goodman, Simon's preparations for the trip had not included the
requisitioning of any special weapons from Melvin Squibb. He had his usual complement of gadgets -- a
satellite phone with encryption capabilities, a disguised Taser stun-gun, a
hand-held ultrasound scanner, and a stealth field generator -- stowed in the
many pockets of his specially-tailored khaki jacket, but no guns or explosive
devices. If the situation required more
firepower, Nightwatch contacts in
Bill Starsmore, Ed Wendell, and Allison Corwyn
were all on board (leaving the Institute rather short of hot-zone experienced
pilots, Simon suspected). Allison was
flying the left seat on the first shift, with Jan Aardsma
as copilot; Ed and his partner Ivan Semeniuk would
take over in
"I love this
bird," Bill said. He stretched and
ran his fingers through his short, salt-and-pepper hair, then leaned over to
give an affectionate pat to the bulkhead separating the passenger cabin from
the cockpit. "If the Nightbird had some offensive weapons, it would make an okay
land attack plane. Not designed for a
dogfight, though. Prob'ly
tear the wings off if you pushed it too hard."
"Ali would laugh
at you for saying that, man," Ed said.
A few years younger than Starsmore, he had
lost most of his hair, and usually shaved off the rest. He wore a bushy moustache by way of
compensation 'to cut the glare'.
"The armor and countermeasures make this a nice, inconspicuous way
to get into and out of tight spots, but it's still a souped-up
passenger plane with cushy seats. It
sure ain't an F15."
"Hey, I'd rather
fly this thing and probably not get
shot at than fly a military bird any day," Ivan said. Semeniuk had the
compact build of a working man and the face of a Ukrainian peasant, topped with
longish sandy-brown hair. "Being
inconspicuous is a good thing when
hotheads are lookin' for something worth lighting off
a shoulder-launched heat-seeker."
"Gentlemen,
please, I am trying to sleep," Sam said.
'Tall, very dark, and handsome', Sam looked like a middleweight boxer
poured into denim jeans and a striped shirt about half a size too small.
Sam's family had
emigrated from
Sam noticed the odd
expression on Simon's face and pried himself out of the overstuffed leather
seat to check on his VIP passenger.
"Hey, Dr. Litchfield, you look a bit out of sorts. Is there anything I can do?"
Embarrassed, Simon
said, "No, Sam -- I just -- I was in
Sam grimaced. "I'm guessing that I look a bit like
some of the people you knew there.
Sorry, man. I've heard stories
from my parents, and I've seen the news reports and video. I'm sure glad my family moved to the
"We -- Nightwatch
-- were digging wells to supply clean water to a village in
"I gather it
didn't go well," Sam said.
Simon laughed
bitterly. "A bit of an
understatement," he said. "The
whole village was slaughtered -- or, I don't know, maybe a few managed to flee. They might have returned after we were
airlifted out. We never took a census or
anything like that, so -- all I know is that we found no one alive when we
searched the village after the Janjaweed
departed."
"And
Sullivan?" Bill
asked. Bill, Ed, and Ivan had overheard
their conversation and had come to listen in.
"Sullivan took a
bullet just before I passed out from injuries I had sustained -- I'd lost a lot
of blood," Simon said. "By the
time the other Nightwatch people came and patched me up, he had disappeared We didn't know if the Janjaweed
had dragged him away, or he'd wandered off under his own power. But obviously, one way or another, he
survived."
"A coward,"
Sam said, sneering. "He was
supposed to help those people."
Simon held up his
hand. "I think he did the best he
could. He taught them the basics of
handling guns and explosives, but he was no tactician. He knew how to attack a target, a person or a
place, but really had no experience in setting up a coherent defensive
position. The Janjaweed
were -- are -- made up of nomadic people, with few if any permanent bases, so
he couldn't take the offensive -- they wouldn't sit still long enough to set up
the kind of attacks he was used to."
"Sullivan could
have escaped when the Janjaweed began their attack --
after all, he had been hired to arm and train the locals, not to fight for them
-- but he didn't," Simon continued.
"And he kept fighting after the last of those he had trained had
fallen, trying to save the rest of the village.
I think -- I think he was there long enough to begin to care about the
people. And when they all died because
his methods failed -- worse, because his
weapons were turned against them -- I think it set him on the path he's
following now."
Sam looked
thoughtful. Simon suspected that Sam had
decided to hate Sullivan for failing to protect people who, for all Simon knew,
might have included members of Sam's family, but hearing that Sullivan had
risked his own life had blunted that intention.
"How are we going
to find this guy?" Bill asked.
"I mean, there's seven of us, plus
whatever local help the Institute can arrange, but
"It's true we
don't know where Sullivan is," Simon said, "but we know his
target. At some time, Sullivan needs to
get close to Emmanuel Goodman, or gain access to a place where he can be certain
that Goodman will go. That means
Goodman's hotel room or apartment, his car, his plane -- and yes, he travels on
a corporate jet -- or the Theophilus Pharmatech plant."
"Aren't all of
those likely to be crawling with corporate security types?" Ivan asked.
"And for that matter, won't the Theophilus
plant be overrun with Indonesian cops acting on Callow's
tip?"
"Bad news on that
angle," Allison Corwyn said, emerging from the
cockpit. She was a trim brunette in her
mid-thirties with a fighter pilot's overmuscled right
arm concealed by a battered leather flight jacket. "I just got a call from the
Institute. Apparently the Indonesian
authorities are not going to poke
around Theophilus.
Too many jobs -- and probably too much graft -- at
stake for them to risk it."
"Risk it?" Simon exclaimed. "Are they aware that Emmanuel Goodman
intends to unleash a plague
there?"
"According to Mr.
Callow, they expressed disbelief that a fine corporate citizen like Theophilus could do such a thing," Allison said. "I think that means that Theophilus pays off the right people, on time and in large
bills."
"Anyone want to
bet that some top Indonesian officials are going to be off on junkets for the
next little while?" Ivan Semeniuk said.
"Like our
officials are any better," Jan Aardsma said,
joining Allison in the passenger cabin.
She was a blonde, a few years older than Allison, but "very well
preserved". From what Simon had
heard about her, she could fly anything from helicopters to heavy-lift cargo
planes.
"Not to be a nag,
but who's flying the plane?" Ed Wendell asked.
"Our friend Otto,
of course," Jan said. "Gimme a break, Ed, we're about four hours away from Hawaii
with about 50 miles between us and anything else with wings."
Simon rolled his
eyes. As the only one present who had
not been an Air Force or Marine pilot, he felt like a lone 'townie' at a
college fraternity party. It was just as
well that the others were keeping the mood light, however; the failure of the
Indonesian authorities to deal with the bioweapon
threat meant that their mission once again had two objectives: stopping Goodman and recapturing the
implosion technology. That meant more
risk, and a greater likelihood of casualties.
While the pilots
continued to kibitz, Simon retreated to the communications suite in the next
compartment. He hadn't anticipated any
need to break into the Theophilus factory, so he
hadn't even glanced at a blueprint or studied information on the security setup
there. He had a lot of homework to do.
****
The Institute's good
relations with the Indonesian government allowed the Nightbird
One party to bypass the usual immigration and Customs procedures, but Simon was
still glad that they had brought no obvious weapons (or concealed ones that
could be found using an explosives sniffer) on
board. The airport security guards
looked like they would quite happily shoot the American group if anything
resembling trouble occurred; apparently, word of the accusations the Institute
had raised regarding Theophilus had spread. The Nightwatch crew were
polite and cooperative to a fault, although Simon saw more than one clenched
fist hastily concealed; the ex-military types were not prone to let obvious
displays of hostility go unanswered.
Once they were safely
on board the minivan supplied by local Nightwatch associates, they were free to
talk again.
"Man, you'd think
we were the bad guys," Allison Corwyn said.
"Don't they know we're here to save their asses from a plague?"
"I don't think we
should be surprised by the cool reception," Simon said. "For one thing, some Muslim factions
here see the
Bill Starsmore laughed.
"I'll bet that whole goose-snake thing sounded a lot better in your
head than out loud."
Simon sighed. "Everybody's a critic. I trust that everyone brought their standard
field kits?"
Each of the seven
pilots nodded. "Old Marvin would
never let somebody go anywhere without what he considers 'the basics',"
Bill said. "Wish he'd been able to
throw in a few real weapons -- I'm
not looking forward to taking on guys with automatic weapons if all I'm packin' is a Taser that looks like a pack of smokes or an
MP4 player."
"Me
neither," Ed Wendell said.
"But the way those guys at the airport were looking at us, it's a
damn good thing we weren't carrying any guns or bombs on us, or in the
plane."
"Not to
worry," their driver said. He was a
short but sturdy fellow with coarse, short black hair, deeply tanned skin, and
the broad, high-cheekbones typical of the Chinese / Malaysian portion of the Indonesian
population. "Mr. Callow knew you
might need many 'special toys', especially after government refused to touch Theophilus. Had them shipped here on cargo plane from
"That's more like
it," Jan Aardsma said. "I'm an old-fashioned girl -- I'd rather
shoot 'em or blow 'em up than zap 'em."
Simon said, "Do
you know exactly what kind of 'toys' we have available, Mr. -- I'm sorry, we've
been very rude. What is your name?"
"Mohammad Suwiryo, at your service," the driver replied. "No need for introductions -- Callow sent pictures
and names over secure fax. You got
pretty good assortment of 'toys' -- flashbangs, smoke grenades, Glock pistols, some air guns with
tranquilizer darts. Nothing to make
really big bang, but Semtex and C4 I can get for
you."
"Damn -- no
assault rifles," Ivan Semeniuk said. "Well, I suppose a Glock
is better than nothing, but we're still gonna be
seriously outgunned if we have to break into Theophilus
to sabotage the bioweapon release."
Suwiryo chortled.
"Not to worry! AK-47's easy
to get these days if you know who to ask -- and I know."
"Might I remind
you all that we are here to prevent
an assassination and a major act of terrorism?" Simon asked. "In other words, we want to save lives,
not end them."
"Omelets and
eggs, Simon," Sam Abukoda said. "To save thousands, maybe millions of
lives, we have to accept causing a few casualties -- and probably taking a few
casualties of our own."
"Hell, I say we let Sullivan take out Goodman and his
operation, and then grab him,"
Ed Wendell said. "It's kind of a
'would you kill Hitler before he started World War II' scenario -- we know
Goodman is set on committing mass murder, so saving him shouldn't be a
priority."
"That is not an
option," Simon said. "For one
thing, there is no guarantee that Sullivan will succeed. For another, even if Sullivan succeeds at
killing Goodman, there is no guarantee that the bioweapon
threat will be neutralized. We must
proceed as if capturing Sullivan and stopping Goodman's plot are two entirely
separate objectives -- although Goodman's movements may be our best lead to
finding Sullivan."
"Hotel Sari Pan
Pacific," Suwiryo announced. "Everybody out!"
****
Hotel Sari San Pacific,
"I can't believe
Callow set us up in a four-star hotel," Bill Starsmore
said. "This place is pretty
plush."
"It's a little too plush for my tastes," Allison
said. "This lobby has that
red-velvet-and-brocade bordello look to it --"
"Nostalgic
for the old job, Ali?"
Ivan Semeniuk asked.
He made sure he was well out of arm's -- or leg's -- reach when he said
it, but Allison only smiled. Of course,
it was the kind of smile that said that Ivan had better learn to sleep with one
eye open ...
"Settle down,
children, please," Simon said. He
walked across the spacious lobby to the registration desk and caught the
attention of the clerk.
"Selamat siang,"
Simon said. "We are the group from
the Nightwatch Institute. We have
reservations --"
"Ah, good day,
sir," the clerk replied. "You
are -- Dr. Litchfield? Very good. Your group
has two suites on the eighth floor, each with two rooms and a shared sitting
room. Lovely view of
the city, as well. If you would
each sign the register --"
Simon used the stylus
to enter his name and the Institute's address on the touchplate
embedded in the desktop, then stood aside to allow his companions to follow
suit. While they were signing in, Simon
handed his Institute credit card to the clerk, who quickly passed it over the
scanner under the desk. By the time the
last of the Nightwatch pilots had registered, the clerk had produced seven
keycards, which Simon then distributed.
"Tidak, we can
handle our own luggage," Simon said, waving off the advance of several
eager attendants. "We're traveling
quite light, as you can see. Terima kasih" He was reluctant to let any of the
baggage out of their hands; some of the disguised equipment was more delicate
than it looked, and had an unfortunate tendency to emit unnerving noises when
mishandled.
"Damn it, Simon,
what's the point of staying in a luxury hotel if we don't let 'em pamper us a
little?" Jan Aardsma asked. "I, for one, wouldn't mind having one of
those boys fetch and carry for me."
"Melvin would
never forgive us if we lost or damaged any of his equipment," Simon said
as they walked to the elevators.
"You might end up paying for a few minutes of pampering with a few
hours of paperwork."
****
A few hours later, the
seven Nightwatch operatives and Suwiryo gathered in
Simon's room, using chairs borrowed from their own rooms to supplement the
furniture already in place. The room was
large and airy, with a king-size bed, a desk and chair in matching dark-red
wood, and a low table with a small couch and two armchairs. The color scheme was (fortunately) somewhat
more subdued than the lobby (which Simon had found rather baroque), but still
more colorful than one might find in a hotel belonging to a European- or
U.S.-based chain, with cool yellow walls with gold accents, brighter yellow
curtains, and a blue and gold carpeting.
Just before the
meeting, Simon had used one of Melvin's bug detectors to ensure that there were
no transmitters in the room itself, and had attached a small audio playback
device to the windows to foil any attempts at long-range bugging as well. A laser or parabolic mike would pick up only
the sounds of a man singing in the shower -- badly; Simon had even turned on
the shower to ensure that any monitoring of the room's consumption of water and
power would match the recorded soundtrack.
"Mr. Suwiryo brought a coded message from
Suwiryo grinned and tilted his head a few
degrees. "Happy
to be of service."
"I've skimmed
through the material, and there's good news and bad," Simon said. "The bad news: the Theophilus Pharmatech facility is very well protected. Aside from having a large and well-armed security force
of its own, Theophilus receives a lot of attention
from the Indonesian National Police -- the POLRI. That makes it unlikely that either Sullivan
or our group could penetrate it without a great deal of trouble." By trouble, he meant fatalities -- something
he hoped to avoid, or at least minimize.
The image of his own right hand, blood-red and swinging a machete, kept
pushing its way into his mind's eye ...
"Great," Sam
Abukoda said.
"So how are we supposed to destroy the bioweapon
if we can't get to it?"
Simon pulled a
cylinder the size of a tall can of beer from his bag, opened it, and unrolled a
half-meter wide display screen. He
attached his handheld computer, and after a few seconds, brought up a map of
"The good news is
that we have a single strong candidate for Goodman's target. Not far from the hotel is the Perusaam Air Minum
Waterworks," he said, highlighting the facility on the map. "Callow's
researchers say that the most effective way of dispersing the bioweapon to affect the maximum number of people
would be to introduce it into the city's water supply. And not coincidentally, new equipment has just
been added to the Waterworks -- equipment donated and installed by Theophilus Worldwide.
Assuming that Mr. Goodman is enough of a zealot to insist on being
present at the main event -- and his history suggests that he is -- that may
also be where Sullivan is most likely to strike."
"That seems like
a stretch, Simon," Allison said.
"We're assuming that we
know where the bioweapon will be deployed. We're assuming
that Goodman will be there -- that he's crazy enough to believe that it can't
affect him, and pompous enough to want to make a speech when the weapon is
released. And we're assuming that Sullivan knows everything we know and is
making the same damn assumptions."
"And my mama
always said that when you assume, you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'," Ivan Semeniuk
said.
"In your case,
that would be redundant," Allison said drily.
"What about the
facilities used to produce the weapon?" Ed asked. "Destroying the batch they try to put in
the water -- assuming that Callow's experts are correct -- is one thing. But it doesn't prevent them from making
another batch and trying again, here or somewhere else."
"That problem
will be dealt with -- one way or another," Simon said. "We are hoping that the Indonesian authorities will be forced to act when
presented with incontrovertible proof of Theophilus Pharmatech's intentions.
That makes it doubly important for us to keep Emmanuel Goodman
alive."
"Assuming and hoping that everything goes the way
Callow -- and you, I guess -- figure it will, when do we move on the
Waterworks?" Bill asked. "Are we gonna
post a 24-hour guard on it until Goodman leaves the country?"
"I have an answer
for you," Mohammad Suwiryo said, grinning
again. "There will be a dedication
ceremony for the new equipment at the Waterworks. Mr. Goodman will be there to make a big
speech -- at noon, two days from now."
"The guy's got
big brass ones," Jan said. "I
mean, he's gonna dump some super-virus into the water
supply with government poobahs and the press standing
right next to him. I'll have to express
my admiration -- right before I kick his ass."
Simon frowned. "Knowing the time when Goodman will be
there is helpful. But those 'government poobahs', as Jan so charmingly calls them, will have
government troops to protect them -- POLRI or Army, if not both. I would think that Goodman would be hesitant
to try anything -- unusual -- with armed men watching."
"The trick -- for
Goodman and for us -- would be to get the 'poobahs'
to vacate the area, along with their troops," Bill said. "I'll bet Goodman has arranged a little
something to accomplish just that. While
all about him are losing their heads and runnin' like
rabbits, he'll be just a bit slow on
his feet ..."
"A nice, big
explosion nearby would disperse the
dignitaries and their guards," Simon said.
"Presumably, Goodman -- or Sullivan -- or both -- will have
arranged something along those lines. We
can use their diversion to make our operation feasible."
This, too, was a mixed
blessing. Sullivan, at least, would try
to minimize casualties from such a diversionary blast, if Simon understood his
motives. Goodman, on the other hand,
couldn't care less if he killed dozens of civilians -- not when he was hoping
to kill tens or even hundreds of thousands.
But there was nothing the Nightwatch contingent could do about it; they
lacked the time, the manpower, and the familiarity with the area needed to find
and neutralize the hypothetical bomb, particularly since it could be hidden in
a vehicle that would be driven to the area just before detonation time. Still ...
"Mr. Suwiryo, do you think your contacts might be able to learn
about a planned bombing incident -- one arranged by Theophilus,
rather than one of the Islamic groups, that is?"
Suwiryo frowned.
"I do not know. They may have
brought their supplies in by private means, used foreign experts. The pepper vine -- pardon, grapevine would not have such
information."
"Lives may depend
on it, Mr. Suwiryo," Simon said. "If Mr. Goodman has arranged for a
bombing near the waterworks to allow him to carry out his plot, it will
probably be a nasty one."
Suwiryo nodded.
"I will do what I can. Do
you need more -- toys -- for your work?"
"Given the way
things seem to be going, I believe we can manage with the equipment you
delivered this evening," Simon said.
He ignored the groans emanating from Ivan and Jan.
"In that case, I
will leave you now," Suwiryo said. "It may take every favor I am owed to
learn what we need to know to stop Goodman from killing many just to make his
larger plot possible. Selamat siang, my
friends."
Suwiryo stood and almost ran from the room.
"Ah, Simon, why'd
you have to turn down some more guns and explosives? I swear, you don't want us to have any fun at
all," Ivan said.
Simon stood and
crossed the room in three fast, gliding steps.
He closed his hand around Semeniuk's throat,
applying pressure to the carotid artery and the nerve cluster under the jawline. Semeniuk gasped, his arms and legs
spasming.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Ed Wendell moved to tackle Simon, but Bill Starsmore caught his arm and held him back.
Simon released his
grip and Semeniuk sagged in his chair, his eyes wild
with fear and anger.
"What the fuck
was that for?"
"That was for thinking that it might be fun to use bigger guns and more lethal
explosives on our mission here," Simon said. "I told you before,
we are here to save lives. If absolutely
necessary, we may injure or even kill a few to save many thousands. But if you suggest again that doing so would
be fun, I will take you back to Nightbird One and lock you in the cargo hold until our work
here is finished."
"You're welcome
to try, you old faggot," Semeniuk said.
Bill Starsmore shook his head.
"Ivan, you're really going to want to apologize for that."
"Look at him," Semeniuk
said. "He dresses like he's on
safari, even back in D.C. He puts on
that swishy British accent anytime he wants to impress somebody. And he is
old."
Bill shook his head
again. "You've never seen him at
work, have you? You're letting the hair
fool you."
Simon laughed
shakily. His reaction to Semeniuk's attempt at humor had shocked him as much as it
had everyone else. "It's all right,
Bill. I won't do him any more damage
than I already have. Imagine the
paperwork I'd have to fill out for that."
Semeniuk stood, his face
red. "Screw this. I'm going to my room and cracking open the
mini-bar. We got almost two days before
we have to put our asses on the line.
You experts come and get me
when you know what we're doing."
"Ivan, calm down
--"
"Forget it,
Ed. I can't believe you're on
Litchfield's side." Semeniuk stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind
him.
"Exactly how old
is he? Twelve?" Allison asked.
Simon sighed. "I should apologize to him," he said. "It was my overreaction to his little
joke that led to his -- unfortunate remarks."
"See? That's how a grown-up acts --" Allison said.
"Aside from the
whole chokehold thing," Jan said.
"Remind me not to piss you off, Doctor
Litchfield."
"At this point,
Ivan may have the right idea -- about the mini-bars, anyway," Simon
said. "We are all suffering from
extreme jet lag, and we need to be at our best less than two days from
now. I would suggest that we meet here
tomorrow at around 10 AM local time. I
will order brunch for the group -- this hotel has an excellent kitchen."
As the others filed
out, Simon looked down at his right hand, flexing the fingers, examining the
many scars and wondering what internal wounds might have been reopened by this
mission. He had been so quick to anger, so
quick to respond with violence to what had been, after all, a joke.
He hoped that it was only fatigue and the stress of the situation that
had made him behave so badly. Otherwise -- otherwise,
I'm no better than the man I'm hunting.
****
The next morning,
Simon tried to gather the Nightwatch party for a strategy session. But Ivan Semeniuk was not in the room he was sharing with Ed
Wendell, and Ed didn't know (or wouldn't say) where he had gone.
As he had promised, he
had arranged for a buffet setup with eggs, bacon, an assortment of rolls,
pastries, and bread, coffee, tea, and various fruits. The five pilots and Simon filled plates with
whatever appealed to them, then sat down to eat and
talk.
"This isn't like
him, guys," Ed said. "Ivan is
usually pretty reliable -- if he wasn't, I wouldn't fly with him."
"It's my bloody
fault," Simon said. "He
probably thinks I'm a complete lunatic -- and I'm not sure I could prove him
wrong."
Sam Abukoda reached over to pat Simon on the shoulder. "It's Sullivan, isn't it? Sullivan, and all
the shit you went through in
"We can't afford
to worry about that," Simon said.
"I have to focus on our current situation, or -- Bill? Maybe you should take the lead here. My judgment isn't ..."
Bill shook his
head. "I'm just a pilot,
Simon. If we were strafing Sullivan or
hitting him with smart munitions from a couple miles up, sure, I could take
over the mission. But of all of us,
you're the one with the most experience on the ground."
"Suck it up,
Litchfield," Jan Aardsma said. "If we're gonna
pull this off, we need you to run things."
"Sympathetic as
always, Jan," Allison Corwyn said. "But seriously, Simon, Bill's
right. We're all happier in the air than
on the ground. And none of us knows
Sullivan at all."
Simon's satellite
phone rang, and Simon answered it rather than responding to his companions'
expressions of confidence -- or impatience.
"Litchfield here."
"This is Semeniuk."
"Mr. Semeniuk, where are you?
We're meeting to discuss strategy --"
"I'm with Suwiryo," Semeniuk
interjected. "I -- I figured it was
better if we stayed out of each other's way for now. Anyway, Suwiryo has
a lead on how the diversionary strike may be going down. He's heard rumors -- nothing completely
solid, but bits and pieces from multiple sources that seem to fit together --
that it will be a truck bomb."
Simon grimaced. "That could mean anything from a small
explosion up to an
"Yeah..." Semeniuk murmured.
After a brief pause, he said, "We got no clue as to where the truck
is now, or where the explosives will be rigged, if they haven't already been
set up. We do know the make and model of
the truck -- color and company markings don't mean shit, of course, because all
that can be changed in a few hours ..."
"The target will
presumably be somewhere close enough to the Waterworks for the explosion to be
considered to be a threat to the government officials present at the
ceremony," Simon said. "That
means that there will be relatively few routes the truck will be able to take
--"
"Simon, who are
you talking to? Is that Ivan?" Ed
asked.
Simon raised his hand,
signaling Ed that he would have to wait for an answer.
"We have two
choices, Litchfield," Semeniuk said. "We can try to intercept the truck and
prevent the bomb from going off at all -- in which case, neither
Sullivan, Goodman, or our merry band will have the diversion we're all
counting on, unless we rig another one of our own. Or we can let it blow, but try to control the
location."
"The first option
would minimize the civilian casualties," Simon said, "which I'm sure
we all would prefer."
"Wishes and
horses, man," Semeniuk said. "I'm betting that whoever is behind the
wheel of the truck will set off the bomb if he's attacked or blocked. I think -- I think the best we can hope for
is to get him to blow the thing as far from any big crowds as possible."
Simon consulted the
detailed map of the area surrounding the Waterworks on his computer
screen. "Fortunately, the
Waterworks is situated on a fairly large plot of land -- and with sewage
sedimentation ponds and the like on site, the area around it is not heavily
developed. The best plan might be to
herd the truck onto the site, and then try to capture it."
"That's what Suwiryo said, too.
He's got a few guys with motorcycles willing to act as guards at on all
the roads into the site."
"Good,"
Simon said. "Then you can rejoin us
here --"
"Litchfield -- I
think I'm gonna stick with Suwiryo's
boys. I ride a hog back home, so I
figure I can handle riding and shooting at the same time if it comes to
that."
"Semeniuk -- Ivan
-- I want to apologize for last night," Simon said. "Your remarks were -- insensitive -- but
my reaction was completely unacceptable --"
"Forget it,
man," Semeniuk said. "You and me
were just born to push each other's buttons.
Ed told me about some of your history -- including a few things that you
better hope aren't written down anywhere.
I know you had reasons for blowing up like that."
"Then come back
to the group. We'll need every man --
every person -- to be sure we can capture and control both Goodman and
Sullivan."
"I think I'll be
more valuable with Suwiryo's cavalry," Semeniuk said.
"Tell Ed I'll see him when this is over. Wait -- Suwiryo
wants to talk to you."
"Ivan --"
But Semeniuk had already passed the phone to the Indonesian
facilitator.
"Dr. Litchfield,
this is Mohammad speaking," Suwiryo said.
"Mr. Suwiryo, good morning," Simon said. "You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes, yes. Your man Ivan told you our plans?"
Simon sighed, then said.
"Yes. He said that you
learned that a truck bomb will be used in the vicinity of the Waterworks, and
that you have recruited motorcycle riders to try to intercept it. And he -- Ivan -- will be riding with
you?"
"Yes. A dangerous job, but your group will be
risking a fight with POLRI and government security men, so you will be no
safer. Do not worry about your man. My people are very, very good -- good riders,
good with weapons. They have been with
me many years -- they are like brothers to me, men I trust with my life. Some I have known since we were
children."
Simon refrained from
asking what they -- and Suwiryo himself -- had been
doing for 'many years' that required motorcycle and combat skills. Sometimes Callow and the Lower Echelon used
the services of individuals and groups whom Simon would have thought should be
targets of Institute operations rather than collaborators. But as such men went, Suwiryo
seemed decent enough ... he had to hope that Suwiryo's
troops were equally trustworthy.
"Is there
anything else?" Simon asked.
"I spoke with Mr.
Callow, told him I needed more money to pay my men," Suwiryo
said. "He said you should call him
to confirm -- he is an officious little prick, no?"
Simon laughed. "That he is. How many men do you have riding with you and
Ivan?"
"Eight," Suwiryo replied.
"So with your Ivan and myself, we will
have ten riders to cover the area around the Waterworks.
"I will make sure
that Callow pays you," Simon said.
"Perhaps you should bill him for the use of the motorcycles and any
ordnance you may expend along the way, as well..."
"Ha! I can ship the shell casings and grenade pins
to him as proof! Even
better than itemized receipts, eh?"
"I'm sure he will
be thrilled by your thoroughness," Simon said. Then he added "Mr. Suwiryo
-- good luck to you. For everyone's
sake, let us hope that we are all successful."
"Good luck to you
also," Suwiryo said. "Selamat siang, Dr. Litchfield."
"Selamat siang, Mr. Suwiryo."
Simon terminated the
connection and put down the satellite phone.
"That was Ivan,
as you probably guessed," he said.
"He has decided to act as -- cavalry -- riding a motorcycle with Suwiryo and eight others to try to intercept the truck bomb
that Goodman apparently plans to use as a diversion tomorrow --
"
"Oh, shit,"
Ed Wendell said. "If they try to
stop that truck, and the bomb detonates --"
"If it makes you
feel any better, Ed, we are probably
going to get our asses shot off," Allison Corwyn
said. "Our end of things might even
be worse than Ivan's -- I mean, he might not even be in the right place to go
head to head with the truck, but we for sure will be trying to grab some people
who will strenuously object to being grabbed."
Sam grinned. "Well, now, that makes me feel terrific!"
"Ah, hell,"
Jan said, "if we wanted to live forever, we
wouldn't be airplane drivers."
Bill Starsmore snorted.
"Simon, before this bunch starts partying too hard, you'd better
tell us the plan. And please say that you
have a plan, 'cause I sure don't."
Simon sighed. "Very well. We are going to take advantage of the fact
that the Indonesian government is still officially quite fond of the Institute,
however annoyed they may be about our libelous -- or would that be slanderous?
-- accusations regarding Theophilus
Pharmatech.
"In other words,
we're going to attend Mr. Goodman's ceremony."
****
Outside the Perusaam
Air Minum Waterworks,
It had taken several
phone calls to the Indonesian Ministries of Public Works and Foreign Affairs to
obtain invitations to the dedication ceremony (and a few more to the U.S.
Embassy to help things along), but Simon had the papers required to allow the
Nightwatch group (minus Semeniuk) to get inside the
area cordoned off for Emmanuel Goodman's speech several hours before the event.
"You all know the
basic plan," Simon said.
"We'll enter the area in pairs, and try to find sitting or standing
room near each of the exits. When
Goodman's -- or Sullivan's -- diversion takes place, whichever team is closest
to him will make sure that he can't insert anything into the water downstream
of the filtration and chlorination facilities.
The others will provide backup and try to spot and intercept
Sullivan."
"Do you think we
can get away with carrying the Glocks and
mini-grenades, or will we have to depend on the Tasers
alone?" Jan Aardsma
asked.
Simon grimaced. "I don't think they'll have vapor trace
equipment in place, so the flashbangs and gas grenades should get through, as
long as we don't carry great conspicuous heaps of them in any one pocket. The Glocks are the
type designed to have the minimum amount of metal in them, and the ammunition
is also mainly ceramics. Mind you, if
they have metal detectors set to the maximum sensitivity --"
"I'll risk
it," Jan said. "I can't bring
myself to go into a tight situation with a weapon that will barely penetrate a
cardboard box, has a range under 20 feet, and takes a
couple minutes to reload."
"Maybe only one
person on each team should carry a Glock, and we
should go in one at a time so it isn't too obvious that we're together,"
Bill said. "That way, at least one
person would get through to cover each exit path."
"Sounds
reasonable," Simon said.
"Bill, I'd like Sam to come with me, if you don't mind. I'll be mainly concentrating on spotting
Sullivan, and Sam might be especially useful when we close in on him. Sam, is that all right with you?"
Sam nodded. "I think I know what you have in
mind," he said.
Bill shrugged. "I'm all right with it. Ed, since Ivan's off with Suwiryo's
men, I guess that puts us together."
"Oh sure,
everybody gets a say in the teams except the women," Allison said,
laughing. "Not that Jan and I would
choose to split up anyway."
Jan grinned. "Yeah. We're so together that we're -- you know --
synchronized."
Ed Wendell turned
bright red. "Ah, come on, let's not talk about stuff like that."
"I'm sure I don't
know what you mean, Ed," Allison said.
Then she winked, and even Ed's ears turned red.
"Is it always
like this when mixed groups of pilots spend time together?" Simon asked.
Sam and Bill exchanged
bemused looks. "Pretty
much."
Simon glanced at his
wristwatch. "It's almost 11. Let's get going -- Suwiryo's
men and Ivan have been patrolling for a couple of hours now -- no sign of the
truck yet."
****
Their brief stay had
not given them time to adjust to the heat and humidity of the Indonesian
day. By the time they reached the gates
to the Waterworks, the six Nightwatch operatives were all sweating profusely.
"We couldn't have
rented a car?" Ed asked, using his hand as a squeegee to skim the sweat
from his forehead.
"Three cars, you
mean," Sam said. "We're trying
not to look like we're all together."
"In that case, we
might try walking with more than two feet between us," Bill said. "Simon, shouldn't we spread out at least
a little?"
Simon took several
seconds to answer. The lush greenery and
high humidity made this place completely different from the desert's-edge
environment of
"What? Oh, yes, of course. Sam and I will go in first -- Sam in the
lead, I'll follow about a minute later. Then Bill and Ed, and Ali and Jan. Or Ali and Jan followed by Bill and Ed, if
you'd prefer it that way, Allison."
Allison smiled. "Nice try, Simon. But just a bit too late to
score any points."
A motorcycle roared
by, then made a U-turn and slowed to a stop next to Simon.
"Hey, guys,"
Ivan Semeniuk said.
"Ready for the big event?"
"Leathers
and a helmet in this heat. You must be about ready to melt," Jan
said.
Semeniuk flipped open his visor, revealing a face as
red as Ed's had been that morning, with rivulets of sweat streaming down to
disappear inside the collar of his battered leather jacket. "It doesn't help that I have a Kevlar
flak jacket under the leather, either," he said.
He pulled a large
water bottle from a saddlebag and drank about a liter before lowering the
bottle and replacing it. "I'm
drinking gallons of water, but I'm sweating so much, I may never have to pee
again."
Simon nodded toward
the saddlebag, where he had glimpsed what looked like an Uzi machine gun and
several grenades. "I see Suwiryo has made sure you're well prepared," he said.
Semeniuk nodded and grinned. "If you think we're gonna
stop a truck with a Taser --"
"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean it as a criticism,"
Simon said.
"Back to
work," Semeniuk said. He flipped the visor on his helmet down,
twisted the throttle and roared away.
****
The three teams got
through the security checkpoint at the entrance to the area set up for the
dedication ceremony without incident.
Simon was actually rather surprised at how lax the security was; then he
realized that more attention was being paid to those who looked like local
inhabitants (aside from well-known VIPs) than to those who looked European or
even African. It made sense, if one assumed that any violence was
likely to be perpetrated by Muslim extremists.
Of course, in this case, that assumption was completely incorrect.
White resin chairs had
been arranged in two blocks separated by a center aisle. Each block contained fifteen or so rows of
twenty chairs -- apparently, this event was considered to be important enough
to interest a good percentage of the local glitterati. A dais had been constructed next to a large
piece of machinery that straddled what Simon assumed must be water mains; a
console had been set up on the dais with an oversized lever that presumably
would turn on the machine (although the real controls were probably elsewhere).
More white chairs
lined the rear of the dais, although these were clearly of better quality than
those provided for the audience. A
backdrop featured a huge portrait of the Indonesian president and a smiling
child holding a glass of clear, sparkling water; bunting in the red and white
of the Indonesian flag framed the backdrop and the front of the dais.
There were relatively
few people in the audience section -- probably due to the lingering odor of
sewage that could not be banished even by the high-capacity fans and air
filtration units set up between the seating area and the sedimentation ponds
and tanks. Fortunately, there were
enough foreign business people present that Simon and his companions were not
overly conspicuous.
"What do you
think, Simon?" Sam asked.
"Where would Goodman introduce his biological agent to the water
system?"
Simon frowned. "I've quite a bit of experience with
water treatment facilities, but I didn't have time for more than a quick review
of the guts of this one. Still, from the
looks of things, that hunk of machinery there must be the new toy that Theophilus has so kindly supplied -- something that
provides an extra stage of filtration or maybe high-intensity ultraviolet treatment for the water as it leaves the plant."
The machinery in
question was massive -- it would have filled a large Quonset hut. A series of massive pipes, each more than a
meter in diameter, ran
from the main building to one side of the contraption; a new step-down
transformer in a chain-link enclosure fed power to it; and more huge pipes
emerged from the side furthest from the main plant and diverged to feed into
the water mains supplying this part of the city. The machine itself looked like a cross between a
gigantic French horn, albeit one made of coarsely-textured green-painted metal,
and the boiler of a steam locomotive.
"Okay -- I see
it, and it's big, ugly, and complicated," Sam said. "How does that tell us anything?"
"I'll bet that
there are inspection ports that provide access to the water flow all over that
monstrosity," Simon replied.
"And at least one of them is common to all the outbound water mains."
Sam nodded
slowly. "Of course -- the virus or
bacterium would have to be introduced downstream from all the filtration and
treatment to ensure that it got through ..."
"So job one is to
make bloody sure that Goodman doesn't get to open up any panels on that
machine," Simon said. "Job two
will be to keep the bastard alive, and grab up Jerry Sullivan before he can
cause any more trouble, here or elsewhere."
"About that --
you're hoping that when he sees me, it will have the same effect on him that it
did on you," Sam said. "You're
hoping that it will -- take him back to
"If seeing you makes him hesitate, it'll give us a chance to grab him,
maybe take him without too much damage," Simon said. "Sorry to be using you like that, but
--"
"Goodman's
here," Sam said.
****
Goodman wore an
expensively tailored white linen suit, perfect for someone carrying the 'white
man's burden' of bringing civilization to the heathens. His hair was plastered to his head as if by
sweat, but looked dry, suggesting heavy use of gel or spray. Certainly he showed no signs of suffering
from the heat and humidity -- or the stench permeating the area.
"Despite the
prominence of the President's portrait, I notice that he isn't among the
government dignitaries up there," Bill Starsmore
said.
"Hedging his
bets, I guess," Ed Wendell replied.
"He wouldn't chance pissing off Theophilus
by looking for signs of a bioweapon lab, but just in
case, he made himself scarce today."
"A follower of
the 'make sure the government survives, even if the people don't'
doctrine," Bill said. His satellite
phone rang, and he answered it immediately.
"Starsmore here --"
He closed the phone
and returned it to his pocket after only a few seconds. "That was Simon," he said. "Somewhere on that big hunk of
machinery, Simon figures that there's some kind of access panel or hatch. That's how Goodman will probably try to dump
his superbug into the water supply."
"So we have to
get to Goodman before he can get to that panel or hatch," Ed said.
"Right.
Unfortunately, the damn thing is so big that we're gonna
have trouble covering it without moving way beyond the seating area."
"Look, Jan and
Allison are moving toward the far side of the machine to cover the side away
from the dais. I guess Simon gave them
the same info."
Bill squinted,
figuring angles as he watched the female pilots maneuvering themselves toward
one end of the giant machine. "If
we move thataway, we can cover this side of the
beast. Then between us and the girls, we
should have a good shot at taking Goodman no matter where his access hatch may
be."
"I presume you
mean a good Taser shot," Ed said.
"Simon said we need him alive to convince the Indonesian government
to raid the Theophilus plant."
Bill smiled
grimly. "Blowing Goodman's kneecaps
off won't kill him. And if it comes to
that, I, for one, am more than willing to do the job."
****
"That guy looks
like the slickest televangelist to ever separate a widow from her
pension," Jan Aardsma said. She and Allison Corwyn
had moved away from the dais and were looking for a way to get to the far side
of the new machinery without drawing too much attention, but still had a clear
view of the dais as Emmanuel Goodman climbed the three or four stairs and made
his way toward his seat. "He has
that 'I'm holier than thou' look down just perfect," she added.
"Now, Jan -- it's
not nice to mock God's Chosen Messenger," Allison said.
"More like God's
Chosen Ice Cream Salesman, from the outfit."
"Bill and Ed just
shifted their position -- looks like we have el machino
grande covered fairly well," Allison said.
"I got my Taser
warmed up and ready," Jan said.
"How's your Glock?"
"Locked and
loaded, baby sis."
Jan scanned the crowd,
using one hand to shade her eyes from the late morning sun. She had palmed a set of miniature binoculars
before she raised her hand, and she used them now to look for their other
target.
"No sign of
Sullivan," she said. "I wonder
if he managed to sneak in here and set up one of his implosion thingies in advance?"
"I don't know if
the implosion gimmick would work that well out in the open like this,"
Allison said. "If he insists on
using it instead of plain old plastique or bullets,
he'll probably rig Goodman's car or his hotel suite."
"What hotel
suite? That guy probably has a mansion
rented for his stay here."
"Suite, mansion,
they all collapse and burn the same," Allison said.
"It kinda bothers me that Sullivan hasn't moved before
now," Jan said. "Of course, if
Goodman's security is as tight as Simon figured it would be, this might be the
only time he's relatively exposed."
"Just keep your
eyes open and on the prize, Jan," Allison said. "The stakes in this game are too damn
high to make screwing up an acceptable outcome."
"Yeah," Jan
said. "This is the second worst crisis I've ever seen..."
"I asked you not to tell me that,
Jan."
****
Pacific Paradise Suites Apartments,
Jerry Sullivan shook
his head in disbelief as he scanned the crowd gathering at the Waterworks. He had found an apartment building about half
a kilometer away from the Waterworks, but with a clear line of sight to the
dais; the building had the misfortune of being downwind from the sedimentation
ponds where sewage was initially stored before further processing, and renting
an apartment on an upper floor had been easy and cheap.
His binoculars, a huge
military-surplus set that probably dated back to World War II, brought the
dais, its occupants, and the audience close enough for
Sullivan to recognize faces with no trouble.
Goodman was there, as planned -- but so was someone that Sullivan hadn't
expected to see.
"Simon bloody Litchfield,"
Sullivan groaned. "And
more of his Nightwatch wankers, too, though this lot
looks like it knows one end of a gun from t'other." For a moment, he watched Simon talking to a
tall, lean black man. There was
something familiar about Simon's companion, something that made him feel uneasy
.. But this was no time for
speculation. He lowered his binoculars
and took a long drink from an insulated canteen.
"You bein' here complicates things, boyo,"
he said. "The problem is, I don't
know if yer here lookin' for me -- in which case you
know too much about my business for comfort -- or to stop that nutter Goodman."
He'd been worried, at
first, about how he could get to Goodman and his little Pandora's box of nastiness.
Both the man and the Theophilus Pharmatech plant were guarded as well as any British Lord
had been during the worst -- or best -- of the
Once he had determined
which lumberyard would be supplying materials for the dais, and which city
employees would be doing the work, the rest had been just a matter of money and
time. He had placed vectored-force
explosive charges inside the lumber used to construct the floor of the dais.
The workmen he had paid off had made sure that the rigged beams were oriented
with the 'hot' sides of the charge facing upward. Then the micro-GPS transponders attached to
each surprise package had allowed Jerry to determine the precise location of
each charge.
Sullivan contemplated
the remote control he had placed on sill of the window through which he was
observing the dedication ceremony. He'd
programmed it so he could precisely control which charge or combination of
charges would be triggered by the 15 buttons on the custom-built
transmitter. If he waited until Goodman
stepped up to the podium to speak, and detonated only the charge closest to
that point, he would probably kill
only Goodman. The heat and shockwave
should also destroy whatever lethal shite the man
planned to dump in the water supply.
That was the
theory. Unfortunately, some of the
charges were close enough together that triggering one might set off a chain reaction that would reduce the entire dais to
flaming splinters. And the setup didn't
allow for balancing pairs of charges to help contain the blast
..
Sullivan shook his
head. "Damn it! If I trip even one charge with Saint Simon
the Annoying
practically huggin' the stage, I might
kill him as well as Goodman.. Ah, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I can't risk it." Sighing, Sullivan
deactivated the remote control and began to pack his gear. "I hope you're happy, Simon me lad. You're makin' me
waste a cartload of work and money."
"On to Plan
B," he said. "I'll be trustin' your lot to keep
Goodman from settin' his bug loose today -- but I'm
damned if I'll leave him breathin' and walkin' so he can try again."
****
Perusaam Air Minum Waterworks
Goodman was well into
his speech when the crackle of gunfire interrupted. Simon noticed that Goodman did not seem to be
particularly surprised or fearful; the man clearly knew what was happening --
or thought he did.
"The truck must
be here," Sam Abukoda said. "Suwiryo's
boys must be trying to stop it."
Suddenly, Simon
cursed. By standing on a chair, he was
able to see over the fleeing crowd and through the main gate of the
Waterworks. The truck was heading
straight for the gate -- not being herded there by Suwiryo's
men, but being steered deliberately.
"Damn Callow's experts and me for
trusting them! The truck isn't targeting
someplace near here -- this place,
this crowd is the target!"
"But a blast here
would destroy Goodman's machine -- wouldn't it?" Sam asked.
"Not likely --
that thing makes a main battle tank look flimsy. And it gives Goodman a safe place to
hide! Follow him -- he's on the
move!"
As the crowd
scattered, and the VIPs on the dais were led further into the complex, Goodman
had picked up an attaché case and started to move toward a staircase which led
under one of the huge water mains leading into the Theophilus-donated
treatment machine. Simon and Sam
clambered onto the dais and moved to follow him, but were hampered by a few
lingering security guards and the overturned chairs left by the fleeing
government officials.
"Bill! Ali!
He's coming!" Simon shouted
as he spun in place, tossing a guard off the dais. Sam wrestled with a second guard, but with
less success -- the guard's training and Sam's Air Force hand-to-hand courses
must have been similar, because neither man could gain an advantage.
Simon drew his Taser
from one of his jacket pockets, and stunned the guard. Unfortunately, Sam caught some of the effect,
as he was still trying for a hip throw at the time, and he collapsed to the
floor along with his opponent.
Simon winced, muttered
an apology, and hopped over the pair.
But Goodman had too much of a lead for Simon to catch him now; it was up
to the other teams to intercept him.
****
Outside the Perusaam
Air Minum Waterworks
"All riders, the
truck is heading for the main gate of the Waterworks! Move to intercept!"
Suwiryo's voice exploded in Ivan Semeniuk's
ear, rousing him from a near-doze brought on by the heat and too many hours in
the saddle of the
A uniformed guard
stepped into the road and raised his arms, signalling
for the truck to stop, but instead, the vehicle accelerated. The guard threw himself to one side, firing
his sidearm as he fell, and the truck crashed through the gate and guard shack.
Even as Ivan goosed
the throttle and took off in pursuit of the truck, he could see Suwiryo's other troops doing the same. The first man to get close enough opened fire
with an Uzi, sending sparks flying as his bullets struck the metal of the truck
body and one of the tires. The bullets
barely marked the side panel of the truck and had no visible effect on the
tire.
"The fucking thing's armored!" Semeniuk
snarled. "And the tires are flat-proof."
A slit opened in the
side of the truck and Semeniuk saw the unmistakable
orange flame of a muzzle flash. Suwiryo's man jerked like a marionette whose strings have
been caught in the blades of a fan as a dozen rounds thudded into his
body. For a moment, Semeniuk
thought that the man's Kevlar armor might have saved his life, but then man and
bike slid under the wheels of the truck.
Semeniuk and the other riders veered wildly, trying to
prevent the gunners inside the truck from getting a clear shot at them. But they were running out of time -- already,
Semeniuk could see the cordoned-off area in front of
the dais, now a jumbled mess of overturned chairs and scattered papers.
"Ed's in there," Ivan hissed. "And Ali and Jan and Sam --" And Simon,
too, but he couldn't save the others and let Litchfield die. Ed would never forgive him, even if it was
possible.
With his left hand, he
pulled a grenade from his saddlebag, caught the pin on the brake lever and
pulled it free. Then he lowered his head
until his helmet almost touched the handlebars and twisted the throttle,
stamping on the shift lever to downshift for more acceleration.
The
He swung the bike
closer to the truck and swung his hand with the grenade toward the open gun
port. By some miracle, the grenade made
it through the narrow slot! Desperately,
he steered the bike to the right, deliberately ditching it so he slid away from
the truck as close to the ground as possible.
He felt his left leg break and felt skin and muscle tearing as the
weight of the bike ground it into the dirt; then the bike slid away, and he
tumbled to a stop.
There was a muffled
explosion -- his grenade -- followed by a blast that turned the world bright
white -- then red -- then black ...
****
"Jesus
Christ! Was that Ivan?"
"No time,
Ed," Bill Starsmore said, running as fast as his
out-of-shape pilot's legs would carry him.
"We have to stop Goodman!"
Bill spotted the
white-suited man emerging from a staircase on the side of the Theophilus machinery furthest from the dais. He still had the briefcase in his possession
-- a good sign.
But then Goodman
veered toward the side of the machine.
As Simon had guessed, there must be an access port downstream from any
treatment and filtration equipment -- anything dumped in there would go
directly into the drinking water for the city.
"Too far, damn
it," Bill gasped. And out of range
of even the Glock -- the most he could do from this
distance was frighten the bastard.
It was up to Ali and
Jan now...
****
"Put down the
case, Goodman!" Allison Corwyn emerged from the shadows of the massive water pipe
with her Glock in target-range position.
Goodman turned, saw
the gun, and froze.
"Why, little
lady, what are you doing with that terrible-looking pistol?"
Allison resisted the
urge to kneecap the man on general principle, although she'd heard that
Litchfield's usual companion, Stephanie Keel, would have done so long before.
"She's giving
serious thought to removing you from the gene pool," Jan Aardsma said.
"Me, I don't have a gun with me.
But I have some other goodies that I will insert where the sun don't
shine if you don't put down that goddamn case, now."
"They're the kind
of goodies that go bang,"
Allison said. "So, it's your choice
-- option 'A', you put down the case and step away from that big hunk of
machinery. Option 'B', I put some new
holes in you with my 'terrible-looking pistol'.
Option 'C', she makes one of your existing
holes a lot bigger. You have ten
seconds."
As Jan had said,
Goodman had big brass ones. He drew
himself up to his full height, and in his best, ringing, tent-preacher voice,
said, "Who are you to interfere in the Lord's work?"
Allison and Jan exchanged
looks of disbelief. Then Allison
laughed. "Oh, take him down, Jan,
before I bust a gut and make a mess here."
Goodman dropped the
case and brought both hands around to protect his buttocks, but Jan shot him
with her Taser anyway.
"Oh, dear --
looks like that suit has had it. I don't
think those stains will ever come out."
Simon, Sam (looking
shaky and rather annoyed), Ed, and Bill all converged on this scene within the
next few minutes.
"Is the bastard
dead?" Ed said, his face purple with rage.
"What? No, I just Tasered
his ass," Jan said. "We need
him alive to get the locals to shut down his weapons lab."
"Ivan's dead," Ed said. "He died -- he died stopping the truck
this -- this -- "
He couldn't say anything more.
Tears mixed with the perspiration streaming down his face and fell to
the ground in big, salty drops.
Jan looked at Bill for
confirmation.
"I don't
know," Bill said. "He tossed a
grenade through a gun port on the truck, then ditched
the bike. He was still pretty damn close
when the grenade and whatever they had in the truck went up, but --"
A motorcycle puttered
to a stop beside Ed. The rider
dismounted and removed his helmet to reveal Mohammad Suwiryo,
his black hair plastered to his head by perspiration. There was blood on Suwiryo's
gloves and jacket, although the man himself appeared to be uninjured. His face was rigid, and he stared at Goodman
with an intensity that made Simon uneasy.
"Ivan is
alive," Suwiryo said. "But he is badly injured. His leg -- burns and shrapnel wounds from the
blast -- "
Ed looked up, his face
blank with shock. "Alive? How --"
"My men have
taken him to a hospital -- after removing any signs that he was carrying
weapons. Three of my men did not make it
-- the cowards in the truck cut them to pieces with assault rifles." His voice broke as he continued. "And my cousin -- my cousin Jihan -- was crushed under their wheels."
"My God, I'm
sorry," Bill said. "But at
least the bastards in the truck are dead."
Suwiryo shook his head, sending a spray of sweat
droplets to the ground. "The men in
the truck were willing to die. They were planning
to die. Justice is not served by their
deaths alone."
Before anyone could
stop him, Suwiryo drew a gun from inside his jacket
-- it looked like Ivan's Glock -- and emptied it into
Emmanuel Goodman's unconscious body.
Goodman's white suit sprouted thirteen crimson blossoms, each with a
black center, as his body shook with the impact.
"We needed him alive," Simon said. "Now we have no real proof that Theophilus created the horror in this briefcase."
"What about the
case itself?" Sam asked. "It must have Goodman's prints on it,
probably on the bioweapon containers inside,
too."
Simon shook his
head. "For some reason, I find
myself reluctant to let anyone outside of our little group lay a hand on that
case. I'm afraid that includes you, now, Mr. Suwiryo."
Suwiryo nodded, swaying slightly as if half his
strength had been discharged along with his rage. "I -- I understand. There is a steel recycling plant nearby, the Permatasari Steel Works.
I have friends there. I will call, tell them that you have something that must be burned
in a very hot fire."
Jan reached out and
shook Suwiryo's hand.
"I'm real sorry you lost your cousin and your friends today,
Mohammad. And I, for one, don't blame
you one bit for putting paid to Mr. White Suit there, any more than I would if
you shot a rabid dog."
Suwiryo withdrew his hand, obviously uncomfortable at
physical contact with a female member of the Nightwatch group. "I -- I thank you. May we never have to meet for such purposes again."
Before he put his
helmet on, Suwiryo said, "Your friend is at the
MMC --
"I think we'd
better go, too," Sam said.
"We're gonna have company real soon after
all that gunfire."
"The only reason
they're not here already is that the people they're guarding probably won't let
'em go," Allison said. "And
now that it's quiet ..."
They set off at a
trot, the effects of the heat forgotten.
****
"I hope to God
that Ivan doesn't lose his leg," Ed said.
"It'd kill him if he couldn't fly -- or ride a hog --
anymore."
Simon smiled
gently. "I suspect that the
Institute can arrange for Ivan to receive the most sophisticated prosthesis in
existence, if he does lose a
limb. And Mr. Callow can ensure that
there is no problem with Ivan's pilot's license -- I'll insist on it."
"Ivan, for one,
knows how persuasive you can
be," Jan said.
Simon frowned. If he hadn't alienated Semeniuk,
would the younger man have joined Suwiryo's 'cavalry'
and suffered such severe injuries? Then
again, if Semeniuk had not been riding today, the truck bomb
might have been detonated close enough to kill many of those still scattered
around the grounds of the Waterworks.
Simon had said it himself: they
would sacrifice a few lives to save many more.
He hadn't meant it to include their own people,
however.
"Right,
then," he said. "We need to
get Goodman's briefcase and ourselves out of here before we're connected to his
death. And then we need to find a way to
deal with the weapons lab inside the Theophilus Pharmatech complex."
"You do realize
that we're all billing this at overtime rates, right?" Bill asked.
Simon shook his head
in disbelief. Already the pilots'
frat-boy attitude was resurfacing.
"A
bus! Now that would have been nice. Especially if it had air conditioning,"
Sam said.
"You were born on
the edge of the desert in
"But in
Wait 'til we walk into the blast furnace room
at the steel recycling plant,
Simon thought. But he let the others
babble; after what they had just experienced, anything that could relieve the
tension was a blessing.
But how the hell were
they going to get into a plant that had
****
Permatasari Steel
Works
After they had walked
about a kilometer from the Waterworks, Bill managed to hail a passing
taxi. The driver knew how to get to the
steel mill, and radioed for a second car when it became obvious that there was
no way all six of the Nightwatch party could fit into his cab.
The steel recycling
plant was a complex of low brick buildings, originally red, now mostly a greasy
black in color, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. Inside the fence, scrap metal was piled in
huge heaps, some in the form of blocks (each an old car or truck, crushed by a
junkyard compactor), the rest in the form of random chunks of metal, some
rusty, some still shiny. The air reeked
of hot metal and soot, and the ground inside and outside the fence was covered
in black cinders that crunched underfoot and clung to shoes and clothes.
"Looks like the
back door to hell," Sam said.
"Smells like it, too."
As promised, Suwiryo had contacted friends at a steel recycling
facility. The security guard at the gate
peered at Simon, apparently matching his hair and clothing with a description
provided by Suwiryo, then
waved them through.
Almost immediately, a
wiry Malay in a sweat-soaked blue shirt, jeans, safety helmet, and scuffed and
scorched work boots, emerged from a door in the blackened brick wall of the
main building.
"Hello! You are Nightwatch people, yes? I am Anang, friend
of Suwiryo."
Simon shook hands with
the man, and said, "Yes. I am Simon
Litchfield, and these are my colleagues --"
"Best do job
quickly -- very busy here," Anang said. "You give me box, I throw in, burn it
up, okay?"
"Simon, I don't
think we should --"
"If you don't
mind, Anang, I would like to accompany you,"
Simon said. There was no point in
insulting the man, but they could not take the chance that he might yield to
curiosity -- if not greed or darker motives -- and open the case.
Anang frowned, trying to decide if he should be
angry or not. After a moment, he said,
"Very, very hot inside. You will
not like."
Simon nodded. "I have been inside steel mills
before. I think I will be all right for
the short time it will take for us to dispose of our little problem."
The foreman
grunted. "Okay, I take you in. But no complaint about too
hot."
Simon followed the
muttering man through the door, leaving the rest of the party behind. He trusted Suwiryo,
and Suwiryo apparently trusted Anang,
so he expected no trouble. Nonetheless,
he kept his free hand in the pocket holding his recharged and primed Taser.
"Next room, very,
very hot," Anang said. "You ready?"
"As ready as I
can be," Simon replied.
Anang pushed the door open and they walked out onto
a steel catwalk. To Simon, it felt like
falling face-first into hot sand; the sweat coating his body evaporated
instantly and he felt his skin tightening as every atom of moisture was baked
out of it.
"Very
hot, yes?" Anang said,
grinning.
"Yes," Simon
gasped. "I'd forgotten how it hits
you when you first enter a room with a blast furnace in it."
"We go there --
see vat? Throw box in there, burn it up
good."
Simon saw a huge
crucible of liquid steel, orange/yellow/white hot, perhaps twenty meters
away. The catwalk passed close enough to
it that it should be easy enough to throw Goodman's case in -- but also close
enough that Simon suspected that he might end up minus his eyebrows, if not his
hair. Ah, well, he thought, that's
one way to get rid of the gray.
"We go fast --
too hot even for me when we get close," Anang
said.
Simon nodded, and the
two trotted toward the crucible. As they
drew closer, Simon had to squint -- he could feel his eyes stinging as the heat
seared the moisture from them. He slowed
to a stop at what he judged to be the closest point while Anang
continued to run.
Hearing only his own footfalls clanging along
the catwalk, Anang turned to look back. He saw Simon swaying as if hypnotized by the
glow of the molten steel, and shouted, "Throw the box and run! Too hot to stop even for a
minute!"
Simon shook his head,
blinking. The acrid smells of burning
hair and leather stung his nostrils -- his shoes were scorching and the hairs
in his nostrils were turning to ash.
With all the strength he had left, he took Goodman's case in both hands
and heaved -- and the case landed squarely in the molten steel.
"Good
throw," Anang said. "Now run!"
And run Simon did,
although it was more like a barely-controlled series of stumbles, until he
reached Anang.
The sinewy little man placed Simon's arm around his shoulders and half-dragged
him along until they were again about twenty meters from the worst of the
heat. From this distance, Simon could
barely make out the briefcase, one corner of which still protruded from the
surface of the liquid metal. Flames
clung to it like bright yellow streamers in a strong wind.
"Huh. Pretty tough box," Anang
said. "But no
worries. No box last long in
that."
As if Anang's words had been a signal, the briefcase finally sank
out of sight. "Anything that could
survive those conditions deserves to live," Simon said.
Anang looked at him, his expression clearly
indicating that it would be a long time before he did another favor for Suwiryo.
They emerged from the
building a few minutes later, and Simon laughed. "It actually feels quite comfortable out
here, by comparison."
Anang shook his head and walked away, muttering in Bahasa.
"That particular
batch of nastiness has gone to Hell, where it belongs," Simon announced.
"Well done,
Simon," Jan Aardsma said. "In fact, you look a little overdone."
"Medium
rare," Simon said. "I think I'm still pink and juicy
inside." He looked down at his
feet, which seemed further away than usual.
"Are we having an earthquake?
The ground seems to be moving."
Bill offered his
shoulder for Simon to lean on, and Simon gladly draped one arm around Starsmore's neck.
"I'm thinking
it's a good thing we want to go to the hospital to check on Ivan," Bill
said, "'cause Simon, you look like you could use some burn ointment and
some I.V. fluids."
Jan whispered
something into Allison's ear, and Allison guffawed and pushed her away. "Jan says we might as well take the I.V.
fluids and use them to baste him."
"Ah, the
boundless compassion of the fair sex," Sam said. "They make me ashamed to be a man."
"Let's go," Ed Wendell said. "I need to see how Ivan's doing."
The joking stopped
then, as everyone realized how worried Ed was about his friend and
co-pilot. They made their way back
through the gate to the road, and Bill got the security guard to call for a
couple of taxis, since the ones they had arrived in had long since departed.
****
The Emergency Room at
MMC was busy -- Bill Starsmore recognized several
people from the audience at the Waterworks dedication ceremony, there to have
minor injuries treated. It looked pretty
much like the Emergency Room at any major hospital: steel-framed chairs in the waiting area,
floors dull from constant washing, fluorescent lights making everyone look ill,
including the staff. The mélange of
scents was a bit different, however; the air was literally spiced with the
perspiration of the patients and staff, with hints of iodine from the ocean
breezes filtering through the constantly opening and closing doors. Under those aromas, of course, there were the
usual hospital smells: urine,
disinfectant, and blood.
Bill found a seat for
Simon, went to the reception desk to have his Institute credit tab scanned, and
started the paperwork to have Simon examined.
A nurse, who had seen more than one European in similar condition,
brought Simon a bottle of water and a few salt tablets. Meanwhile, Ed and the rest of the group went
in search of information on Ivan's condition.
After more than an
hour, Ed returned, his face somber but without the look of impending panic he
had worn earlier.
"Ivan's
unconscious," he said. "The
doctors said his leg is pretty badly torn up, but he won't lose it as long as
they can stave off any major infections.
His other injuries were pretty minor -- he didn't even need stitches for
most of the shrapnel wounds, and the burns were small and -- well, Simon's face
looks worse than Ivan's."
"What's the
prognosis?" Bill asked.
"With skin grafts
and a lot of physiotherapy, they think he'll make a full recovery,"
Allison said. "It will be a while before he can fly or
ride his motorcycle, but eventually --"
"Jeez, are you
still waiting for somebody to give Simon a
once-over?" Jan asked. "Did
you try waving some cash around and playing Ugly American?"
"Not the wisest
thing to do, with Muslim suicide bombers active again," someone behind her
said.
Jan turned, almost
tripping, to find a white-coated man holding a clipboard standing in front of
the reception desk. He had short, black
hair, with touches of gray at the temples, glasses with thick black frames, and
the bronze skin common to most of the locals with Malay blood.
"I'm Doctor Atmanagara," the man said. "Your friend there --
Mr. Litchfield? -- looks a bit -- cooked. Was he out in the sun for too long
today? From his clothing and his hair, I
would have thought he would know better."
"Actually,
Doctor, I made a visit to a steel mill today, and got a bit too close to the
furnace," Simon said. "Sunblock and a wide-brimmed hat would not have
helped."
"Ah, my
apologies," Atmanagara said. From his tone, he considered going too close
to a blast furnace even more foolish than spending too long in the Indonesian
sun. "Here, let me take a
look."
He moved closer,
donned latex gloves, and poked gently at the reddened skin on Simon's face and
hands. Then he peered into Simon's eyes
with an ophthalmoscope, listened to his heartbeat, and felt his forehead.
"Well, as you
probably guessed, you are fine, or will be shortly," he said. "I will give you a prescription for some
cream for your skin, and recommend that you get some rest and drink plenty of
liquids, about twice as much as you would otherwise. No alcohol in those
liquids, please."
"Spoilsport,"
Jan said. "Doesn't he deserve a
little anesthesia for the pain?"
Atmanagara smiled.
"Hey, you can have a
drink or two on his behalf. But
dehydration from alcohol is not what his body needs right now."
The doctor produced a
prescription pad from his pocket, scrawled a few words, and handed the slip of
paper to Simon. "You can fill this
at the hospital pharmacy, down that corridor," he said. "I imagine that you are wise enough to
stay away from steel mills for the rest of your visit, so -- if you will excuse
me, I have other patients waiting."
Atmanagara looked around the waiting area, spotted a man
holding an icepack against his shoulder, and walked toward him, saying,
"Mr. Masaid?
You took a fall and injured your shoulder?"
"Let's get out of
here," Simon said. The water and
salt tablets had at least cured him of feeling like a balloon in Macy's
Thanksgiving Parade, although he suspected it would take a gallon or two of the
local sports drink to restore his electrolyte balance. But he could get that somewhere that didn't
smell like a cocktail made from urine and pine-scented disinfectant.
"We have planning
to do."
****
Hotel Sari San Pacific
Simon was resting with
the lights out -- his eyes were still painfully dry -- when he was awakened by
the ringing of the telephone. Not his
satellite phone, but the hotel room phone.
"Wouldn't be any
of our group, or even Suwiryo -- they'd use the sat
phone. I just hope it's not the bloody
police." He rolled over and
stretched until he was able to snag the cordless receiver from its base.
"Litchfield
here."
It was definitely not
the police. A broad, deliberately
exaggerated Irish brogue emerged from the handset, bringing Simon to sudden
full wakefulness.
"Simon
Litchfield, yeh dog, I never thought yeh had it in yeh. You did that Goodman fella
right proper -- thirteen rounds to the chest, from what the newscasts are sayin'. Now that's sendin'
a message."
"Sullivan," Simon hissed. "How did you get this number?"
"Easy, boyo, nobody's sold you out," Sullivan replied. "I saw you and yer gang at the
Waterworks -- yeh made me waste a lot of planning and preparation there, seein' as I didn't want to blow yer arse to the moon along
with Goodman's."
"That still
doesn't explain --"
"I called every
bloody hotel in town 'til I found this one, ye dolt," Sullivan said. "Yeh've sure
moved up in the world since
"What do you
want?" Simon growled.
"I told you -- I
was impressed by what you did to Goodman," Sullivan replied, his accent
suddenly fading. "I never thought
you'd get over those rules you tried to play by in
"We -- did not -- kill -- Goodman,"
Simon said. "We wanted him alive so
he could be interrogated by the Indonesian authorities. That was the best way we could see to make
sure that the lab where Goodman's biological weapon -- you do know about that,
from the way you've been talking about him -- the lab where his weapon was
developed and manufactured would be shut down."
Sullivan snorted. "Huh!
Well, then, I guess he accidentally fell on all those bullets, eh? From a great height,
too."
"Goodman was --
executed -- by our local contact," Simon said, "the man who provided
the motorcycle riders who stopped the truck bomb from reaching its target. He lost some of his men today, and he wasn't
in a forgiving mood."
"I presume you
disposed of Goodman's box of nastiness, then," Sullivan said. "Seeing as Goodman wasn't alive to
explain it ..."
"Dumped it into a
vat of molten steel," Simon said.
"But that still leaves Goodman's lab intact."
"Your
point bein'?"
"I may need your
help to destroy it," Simon said.
****
Nightwatch Institute,
Once Simon had
reported that the Theophilus Pharmatech
lab was still a threat, Callow's research teams was
tasked with finding detailed blueprints of the building and its security and
containment systems. However, they soon
found that Theophilus Worldwide and Theophilus Pharmatech had
formidable defenses protecting their data resources -- too formidable for their
talents. It wasn't long before Callow
found himself knocking on Stephanie Keel's office door.
"Ms. Keel -- I'm
afraid that I need your -- special talents," he said.
"Is Simon all
right? The rest of the
team?"
Callow raised his
hand. "They are fine -- except for
Mr. Semeniuk, who will require some very expensive
treatment and rehabilitation. However,
they were only partially successful in their mission."
"Which part is
left? Capturing Sullivan,
or stopping Goodman's plot?"
"Some of
both," Callow replied.
"Goodman himself is dead, and the biological agent he intended to
introduce into the water supply of
Stephanie
frowned. "Goodman is dead? Did our people --"
"Our local
affiliate, Mr. Suwiryo, apparently took it upon
himself to exact revenge for the deaths of two of his friends during the effort
to stop Goodman. This may affect his
reliability rating, I'm afraid ..."
Stephanie shook her
head. "His reliability rating. I'm so glad to see that you take things like
murder into account before deciding to hire someone."
Callow raised one
eyebrow and smiled. "Glass houses,
Ms. Keel, glass houses. Our Dr.
Litchfield would advise you not to throw stones. He, at least, would not be qualified to throw
any -- as you know."
Stephanie lowered her
eyes to her keypad. "What do you
need from me?"
"Dr. Litchfield
and his companions find themselves in the unenviable position of needing to
enter the Theophilus Pharmatech
complex, penetrate all the way to the presumably-well-guarded biological
weapons lab, and destroy it. I imagine
that you can work out for yourself what they will need to know in order to
accomplish that goal."
"Fine. I'll
get right on it," Stephanie said.
"Now please get out of my office."
Callow smiled again
and exited, closing the door behind him.
Stephanie's hands
closed into fists. She looked at them,
seeing scars and calluses from her training, from free-climbing rock faces and
punching heavy bags -- and heavier men.
Her collection was nowhere near as impressive as Simon's -- but she was
a lot younger. Simon had been places and
-- done things -- that she prayed she would never have
to do.
Simon is not a killer by nature, she thought.
He isn't. But she remembered the look in Simon's eyes
when he had led her past the crumpled remains of William Gryphius. At that moment, she had understood that Simon
could kill, that he had killed before and probably would
again, and she had been almost as frightened by Simon as she had been by Gryphius himself.
She had learned about
the other side of Simon's nature over the months that followed. It had been Simon who introduced her to her
ex-Mossad tutor in krav maga and small-arms marksmanship. It had been Simon who called and visited and
forced her to venture out when fear had made huddling in her apartment seem like
the easiest and best thing to do.
"He saved my life
that day," she said aloud.
"Saving lives -- it's what he does, what he lives for. And -- and sometimes he takes lives, when he has to, but it costs him. So yes, Callow, I know that Simon has blood on
his hands. But he's not like you. Lives mean
something to him."
She relaxed her hands,
wiggling the fingers until the tension had dissipated. Then she began to play, her fingers
flickering over her keypad and stabbing out at icons on her display like
raindrops in a downpour. Theophilus Worldwide and Theophilus
Pharmatech's networks, impregnable by Callow's supposed experts, opened up for her like the arms
of a mother welcoming a long-lost child.
Images and files
flashed onto her screen, floorplans, invoices for
security equipment, pressurized doors, hazardous materials protective suits,
and she dragged some into a new folder, discarding others. In less than an hour, she had everything that
Simon might need to find and destroy the secret lab.
She encrypted the
files and sent them off to the address that Callow had used as a backup when
Simon had not acknowledged receipt of the first batch of information sent to Nightbird One.
"Good luck,
Simon," she said to her computer screen.
"Try not to die out there, okay?
Don't leave me alone to put up with Callow's
manipulative crap ..."
****
Hotel Sari San Pacific,
"Are you
insane? You want to work with Sullivan?"
Bill Starsmore tossed the handful of security system
specifications he had been studying into the air as he stood and began to pace
around Simon's room.
"He's a
terrorist," he said. "He's
been responsible for dozens, if not hundreds of deaths!"
Simon said
nothing. He had expected this reaction
-- after all, their original mission had been to capture or kill Sullivan and
ensure that the supply of vectored-force explosives was contained or destroyed.
"I gotta admit, if we're fixing to nuke a Level 4 lab to hell
and gone, Sullivan might be handy to have around," Jan Aardsma
said. "He's an expert on blowing
stuff up -- or in, from what our briefing packages said."
"Using
conventional explosives would risk releasing the biological agent into the
air," Simon said at last. "The
vectored-force stuff that Sullivan has obtained -- especially the way he used
it in
"What about
incendiaries?" Sam Abukoda asked. "Soak the place with napalm and hit it
with some Willie Pete rounds, and you'll pretty much
guarantee that nothing gets out."
Simon shook his
head. "I've studied these plans
that Stephanie Keel managed to -- borrow.
The lab has the most effective fire-suppression systems I've ever
seen. And getting inside the Level 4
containment zone with the volume of accelerants we'd need would be virtually
impossible."
"So what is the plan?" Ed Wendell
asked. "To use Sullivan's fancy plastique to destroy that Level 4 lab, you'll need to get
inside the plant and pretty much plaster the stuff on every exterior wall of
the lab, plus under the floor and over the ceiling. I kinda suspect
that Theophilus security and probably the whole freakin' Indonesian Army might object to that kind of
activity."
"They're sure not
likely to invite us in," Allison Corwyn
said. "They know the Institute was
trying to make trouble for them. And now
that Goodman's dead, they'll be touchier than ever."
Simon held up his
stealth field generator. "You all
have one of these, correct?"
Each of the five
pilots rummaged through his or her pockets until they found the device in
question.
"This
surveillance-scrambler doohickey?" Jan asked. "We got 'em, but
I don't think any of us has ever used one.
And anyway, they don't do anything to hide you from live guards, of
which I'm betting there will be a shitload."
Simon nodded. "You're right -- the stealth field
doesn't protect you from direct visual observation. Fortunately, Mr. Suwiryo
has indicated that he is eager to participate in any scheme that prevents Theophilus Pharmatech from doing
any more harm here. Mr. Sullivan has
been working with him on a diversion. It
seems only fair that if Goodman can use a bomb to divert attention away while
he deploys a biological weapon, we should be able to use bombs as a diversion,
too."
He called up a map of
the Theophilus Pharmatech
site on his computer display. "As
you can see, the facility is surrounded by a wall, topped with various nasty
things -- razor
wire, glass, and, of course, sensors -- and guard towers at several points
around the perimeter."
"Mr. Suwiryo's men will deploy rather large charges of
conventional plastic explosives here, here, here, and here," he said,
tapping the touchpad of his handheld computer to highlight each location.
"The explosions
will be separated by a few minutes, so each will draw more guards away from the
main complex to defend the breaches in the wall. We, however, will be entering the grounds
through this storm sewer, which is well-equipped with electronic sensors -- but
no guards."
"By 'we', you
mean us Nightwatch types -- and Sullivan?"
Bill asked.
Simon nodded. "He will be carrying the vectored-force
explosives, and will handle placing them, while we provide protection from any
guards who are not busy with the newly-perforated wall."
Bill shook his
head. "Does Sullivan know we were
after his ass? And that we plan to take
him and his special explosives off the map?"
Simon frowned. "He may suspect it, if he knows much
about the Institute's less-public activities.
But he is as committed to neutralizing the threat posed by Theophilus's biological weapons as we are. I believe we can trust him -- at least until
the job is done."
"Fine," Bill
said. "But I'll be damned if I'll
take my eyes off him before, during, or after we blow that lab up -- in --
whatever."
****
Near the Theophilus Pharmatech plant, Jakarta, Indonesia
Sullivan was silent
for almost a minute when he met Sam for the first time, near the maintenance
entrance to the storm sewer leading to the Theophilus
Pharmatech site.
When he was finally able to speak, he said, "You look like --
you're the spittin' image of one of the boys I
trained in
"Might have been
a cousin," Sam said. "I had
relatives on both sides of the border between
"I'm sorry I
failed 'em," Sullivan said. "I
trained 'em to shoot and use explosives, all right, but my strategy -- didn't
really have one, I guess. So --"
"They all
died," Sam said. "I know. I read about it, and Simon told me how it
was."
Now Sullivan looked at
Sam and promised himself that whatever else happened, he would see that Sam Abukoda got out of this alive. It would be one small step toward paying a
debt he'd carried for years ...
The seven men and
women climbed through the maintenance hatch and down a half-dozen rusting metal
rungs set into the curved concrete wall of the sewer. It was dark, except for the sunlight
filtering in through the drainage grates set at intervals of twenty or so
meters along the length of the tunnel, so they turned on the LED flashlights
mounted on the headbands that each of them had donned. The blue-white light illuminated an area of a
meter or so in all directions, except for the sharp-edged multiple shadows cast
by the lights as they looked around. The
concrete pipe was large enough to allow even the tallest of the group to stand
up straight -- if he didn't mind walking in the sluggishly-flowing, filthy
water that flowed down the middle of the 'floor'.
The first explosion
came on schedule, a thud that made
the brackish water in the storm drain dance and brought dust and dirt showering
down.
"Let the games
begin," Jerry Sullivan said. "Suwiryo's boys will play hide and seek with the guards
after every blast, comin' in and takin'
a few potshots, then takin' off again. Now -- you're sure this little box you gave me will keep the security cameras
from seein' me?"
"It's the same as
the ones we're using," Simon said.
"If you get caught, we get caught."
"Three, two, one
--" Another
explosion sounded, followed by scattered gunfire. "There goes number two," Sullivan
said. "I think we should get
moving, eh, Litchfield?"
The group began to
move, doing their best to make as little noise as possible. The stealth fields were not as effective at
spoofing electronic sound pickups as they were at overriding video cameras,
although Squibb's sources had recently incorporated technology based on the
Russian's noise cancellation gimmicks into the devices.
"Are you sure
this is a storm sewer?" Jan Aardsma whispered.
"It smells like --"
"Shh!"
"--it," Jan
muttered.
They had passed ten
sewer grates, each with its set of ladder rungs, when Simon raised his hand to
bring the group to a stop. Simon climbed
up until he could see through the grate, twisting to get as complete a picture
as possible.
"We're inside the
wall, but still some distance from the buildings," he said softly. "The exit we want should be three grates
further along."
The tunnel shook, and
Simon had to wrap his arm around one of the ladder rungs to avoid falling into
the water. "Number three?"
Sullivan nodded. "Just when they thought the fuss was
over and done with. That should have 'em
running in circles," he said.
Simon climbed down
from the ladder and the group continued on down the tunnel. The third ladder and grate they encountered
was obviously the one they were looking for; it was close enough to the
building to be in its shadow.
"I'll take the
lead here," Sullivan said. "Sneakin' is something I've plenty of experience with."
He climbed the ladder
and tried to open the grate. As they had
expected, it was secured by a small lock.
"Pass me up that lock opener of yours, Litchfield," Sullivan
said.
Simon handed him a
small package containing two strips of putty.
Each strip was inert alone; combined, they would exude a powerful acid.
Sullivan slipped on a
pair of protective gloves, then molded the putty
strips around the hasp holding the lock in place. He coughed as wisps of smoke rose from the
rapidly-dissolving metal of the latch, fanning his face with one hand while
clinging to the ladder with the other.
"Sullivan, hang
on," Sam whispered. "Here
comes number four."
Another thud shook the tunnel, this one
attenuated by their distance from the wall.
Sullivan raised himself up until he could scan the area around the grate
as Simon had done earlier.
"Looks
clear," he whispered. "But
have them Tasers and tranquilizer guns ready --
unless you'd prefer I pop 'em with me nice silenced Beretta ..."
Despite Sullivan's
warning, the group encountered no guards when they climbed up and out of the
storm grate. Hugging the windowless
concrete wall of the building and keeping to the shadows, they could see and
hear heavily armed guards 'running in circles', frantically searching for an
enemy that wasn't there.
Another package of
acid putty allowed them to open a padlocked door into an electrical room lined
with fuse panels and circuit breakers.
They pulled the door closed behind them; it would take close inspection
to reveal the condition of the lock, and that looked to be unlikely for the
next ten or fifteen minutes.
"Weapons
ready," Simon said. "If there
are any live guards left in the building, they'll be around the Level 4
lab. Take them down without killing
them, if possible -- but don't risk your own life."
The pale-green
concrete-block walls of the maintenance area soon gave way to corridors lined
with alternating panels of brushed aluminum and white-painted
plasterboard. The floor, too, changed
from shiny grey concrete (coated with a sealant to make it waterproof, Simon
guessed) to black and white tile laid in a checkerboard pattern, and the
hanging fluorescent light fixtures were replaced by recessed lighting.
"This is why yer
pills still cost an arm and a leg twenty years after the R. and D.'s been paid for," Sullivan said. "Bloody decoratin' costs."
Simon held one finger
to his lips. "Hush. Remember, you're invisible to cameras -- not
inaudible to microphones or ears."
Simon took the lead as
they went deeper into the complex. They
had gone some distance without encountering any guards -- the series of explosions,
followed by random gunfire by Suwiryo's 'cavalry'
around the now-breached outer perimeter, had drawn most of the plant's security
forces outside. This wouldn't last for
more than a few minutes, however; the POLRI would soon arrive and force Suwiryo and company to flee, and the guards would be
returning to their posts.
Simon heard voices
around the next corner -- speaking Bahasa, or at
least some Malaysian dialect -- and signaled for the group to halt. A few seconds of listening convinced him that
there were only two guards there.
He drew his compact
tranquilizer dart gun, and with hand signals, managed to get Sam to give him a
second one. He primed both units and
held one in each hand as he rounded the corner.
The two guards fell to
well-placed tranquilizer darts before either had time to sound the alarm.
"Thus endeth the unguided tour," Sam whispered as he
reclaimed his dart gun.
"Tranquilizers
and Tasers ready, ladies and gentlemen," Simon
said quietly. "I'm afraid the time
limit on our diversionary tactics has expired."
Everyone in the group
complied, except for Sullivan. When
Simon turned to move on, instead of readying his non-lethal weapons --
originally issued to Ivan Semeniuk -- Sullivan pulled
a small pistol from his pocket and attached a silencer.
They were lucky enough
to avoid any more guards until they had almost reached their destination. Despite Simon's warning, most of the guards
were still out of position, probably still in transit from their attempts to
deal with the apparent attack on the outer walls. But the guards at the entrance to the Level 4
lab had never left.
Simon used a mirror to
peer around the corner and down the short corridor leading to the airlock. He held up three fingers, indicating that
three guards were on station.
The length of the
corridor made things tricky -- it was within the theoretical range of both the
dart guns and the Taser units, but the guards might have time to sound the
alarm -- or pull a trigger -- before the relatively-slow projectiles could
bridge the distance.
Before Simon could
work out a strategy, Sullivan trotted past him, raising his pistol as he came
around the corner, and fired three shots in rapid succession. The three guards fell, each fatally wounded
by a bullet through the visor of his helmet.
"Sullivan!" Simon hissed. "Why didn't you wait for --"
"For
what, Simon lad? You couldn't Taser or tranq
three men standin' together that far away without one
soundin' the alarm, or puttin'
a fistful of bullets through yer scruple-bound ass. These bastards must've known what's in that
lab, and what it's to be used for -- look at 'em, lily-white American boys
all."
Simon sighed heavily.
"You're right," he said, "but I don't have to like
it." He pulled his handheld
computer from an inside pocket and quickly reviewed a simplified schematic he
had extracted from Stephanie's blueprint files.
"Start setting
your charges," he said. "We'll provide cover. Flyers -- you know the plan!"
Sullivan grinned and
nodded, holstering his pistol.
"Music to me ears." He
unbuckled his backpack and withdrew a thin, flat package, which he fastened to
the outer airlock door.
Simon stood about a
meter behind Sullivan as he worked, literally guarding his back. Meanwhile, the Nightwatch
pilots backtracked to the end of the corridor leading to the Level 4 lab
airlock. Ed Wendell took up station at
the intersection with the corridor they had followed on their way in; Bill Starsmore and Sam Abukoda went
left, and Allison Corwyn and Jan Aardsma
went right to guard the approaches.
The blueprints had
revealed that the lab was surrounded by a ring corridor with secure storage
rooms around its outer perimeter, and only one way in from the rest of the
building. Sullivan quickly worked his
way around the outer wall of the lab, with Simon following. At calculated intervals, Sullivan placed
charges and inserted radio-controlled detonators. If the charges were detonated simultaneously,
the inward-directed blasts would nearly cancel each other out -- after
vaporizing everything in the way -- leaving the rest of the building relatively
intact. It took only seconds to place
each charge, but several minutes passed before they worked their way back to
their starting point at the airlock door.
"Upstairs
next," Sullivan said. "Can't
get into the drains under the floor, more's the
pity. We're damn lucky the place is
compact and self-contained, though."
"This is taking
too damn long," Simon said.
"Once POLRI arrives, Suwiryo's men will
have to run for it and our diversion will be gone. Then the guards will return to their posts,
followed by half the bloody Indonesian Army."
"We'll be
fine," Sullivan said,
"if we don't waste time chit-chattin',
that is." He trotted toward a fire
exit door in the approach corridor with Simon close behind.
****
The radio headset on
one of the dead guards hissed, and Bill sprinted back to the Level 4 lab
airlock door from his post at the intersection of the approach corridor and the
outer ring. The rest of the pilots
regrouped as well -- they knew that any unexpected noise meant trouble.
"Baker,
report! Any activity near the
lab?"
"Shit, that's
torn it," Jan said. "We're gonna have company real soon."
Sam dropped to the
floor and placed his mouth close to the microphone. "Uh, Baker here," he said. "Everything's quiet."
Allison looked at Sam
and shook her head. They had no idea
what Baker sounded like; the odds that whoever was on the other end of the
transmission would accept Sam's attempt at impersonation were miniscule at
best.
"Baker, is that
you? You sound funny. I'm sending the rover group down to check on
you."
Sam shrugged. Worth a
try, he mimed. Then he stood and
crushed the guard's headset microphone under his booted foot.
Bill keyed his radio
mike. "Simon, Sullivan, the jig's up! They know
that the guards at the lab entrance are down!"
"Everybody except
Sullivan and I, head for the tunnel," Simon
replied. "We'll set the last
charges and follow as soon as we can."
Bill cursed. "Damn it, Simon, if you don't get out of
there, Stephanie will kick my ass!"
"Go, Bill! Get everybody back to the sewer tunnel, or I'll kick your ass!"
Shaking his head, Bill
signaled the other pilots to follow him and set off at a dead run.
****
"Just you and me
again, is it, Simon?" Sullivan said.
"Well -- 'you do things your way, and I'll do things my way, but
we'd better do them fast', right?"
"You remember that?" Simon asked. They had spent precious seconds searching for
a way to enter the area over the lab, so far without success. Stephanie's blueprints for this part of the
second floor were apparently out of date.
"I don't think
either of us will ever forget anything about that day," Sullivan
replied. "It changed my life,
that's for sure."
"Not enough to
give up on blowing people up, however," Simon muttered. "Where is the bloody door? There must be one!"
Finally, they found a
door marked 'Lab Environmental Control -- Authorized Personnel Only'. They could hear the rattle of automatic
weapons fire and the crack of flashbang detonations echoing up the fire exit stairwell.
"Shit! They've run into trouble!" Simon hissed.
"If the guards start disarming the charges you set downstairs,
there's no guarantee we can sterilize the lab!"
"Then we'd best
finish here before they get brave enough to start tamperin'
with things that're obviously meant to go boom,"
Sullivan said.
Simon went to work on
the door. One last package of acid putty
and an application of the undocumented but very useful electronic lock
scrambling ability of the stealth field generator got them inside.
It took less than a
minute for Sullivan to place the last few charges, but instead of standing
after he had armed the last detonator, he sat back on his heels and sighed
"I guess this is
it," he said. "You don't need
me anymore."
"Sullivan, what
do you mean?" Simon asked. "If you're finished, come on -- we're
probably going to have to shoot our way out as it is!"
"You knew about
me special explosives," Sullivan said.
"That means you also knew that nobody outside some pitch-black
secret labs and blacker ops groups are supposed to have it."
"Sullivan, that's
not important now," Simon said.
"We need to destroy the lab and --"
Sullivan smiled. "I'll destroy it, all right. I'll not let a bunch of crazies who call
themselves Christians slaughter thousands just for callin'
the Lord by a different name. But I
won't let you take me in."
"Sullivan, we're
running out of time!"
"Yeah. I know
that. I also know that there's an
unfortunate problem with me remote detonator."
"What --"
"The walls and the
wiring in this place do a fine job of blocking the signal," Sullivan
said. "I'll have to be pretty damn
close for it to work at all. This spot right here will do fine, if I push the button before they
start peelin' my little packages off the walls."
"You'll be
killed," Simon said. "You
can't --"
Sullivan grinned. "Sure I can. Now, if you aren't planning on goin' with me to see what Saint Peter says when he sees my
face -- this one, or the one I was born with -- I'd suggest you run like
hell."
"Sullivan
--"
"I have debts to
pay, Litchfield, big ones," Sullivan said.
"This'll balance a lot of those debts. Now, run!"
Simon looked at the
Irishman, still almost sitting on top of the last charge, and extended his
hand. Sullivan took it and they shook hands
as they had when they first met, all those years ago.
"Goodbye,
Sullivan," Simon said. He turned
and ran. Getting out of the building
with guards already looking for intruders was not going to be easy. Of course, the implosion of the Level 4 lab
would make one hell of a diversion -- provided it didn't kill him in the
process.
"Goodbye,
Litchfield -- yer still an easy mark, yeh know."
****
Simon had to fight his
way past two guards who were examining a couple of Sullivan's explosive
charges. Fortunately, it had been quiet
for so long that they had assumed the intruders were long gone; his Taser
paralyzed one long enough for him to deal with the second man, using a modified
arm bar and foot sweep to drive his helmeted head into the wall. Simon took a few seconds to drag both men a
few feet away from the charges -- probably not far enough, but better than
almost touching them -- and sprinted for the electrical room and the tunnel
entrance.
Along the way, he saw
evidence of a firefight -- one dead guard, scorch
marks that looked like they had been made by one of Squibb's mini-flashbangs,
and a blood trail. A second dead guard
lay at the entrance to the electrical room.
Simon's heart sank as
he saw that the blood trail continued to the outer door. At least one of his companions had been
wounded -- but they were still moving, under their own power or assisted by the
others. Who was it? And how bad was the injury?
He burst through the
outer door and ran headlong into a guard who was examining the acid-burned
latch. Badly winded, he managed to catch
himself in the doorway and rebound.
With one hand, he
caught the edge of the guard's flak vest as he threw himself forward for a
second time. He pivoted, yanking on the
vest, and managed to fall with the guard on the bottom. A shuto strike to the throat left the man choking and
struggling for breath.
Simon rolled back to
his feet and pulled the sewer grate open, then let himself drop straight down
without touching the ladder. He landed
hard, but executed a somersaulting breakfall that
left him sputtering to expel a mouthful of fetid water he had almost swallowed,
and again regained his feet. Shouting
and the sound of gunfire told him that more guards were on the way.
He had barely started
to run down the tunnel when the ground jumped
under his feet, almost hurling him against the concrete wall. He raised his hand in a half-salute,
muttered, "So long, Sullivan," and continued to run.
****
Nightwatch Institute Library,
"So Sullivan is
dead," Callow said. "You're
sure about that?"
They were seated at
their usual table in the Popular Culture section of the Nightwatch Institute
library. This time, Callow had made sure
that no one was in the adjacent sections, although he told Simon that he had
arranged for a noise-cancellation system to be installed to prevent any
repetition of the breach of security that had occurred earlier. Simon had managed to stifle the impulse to
mock Callow for creating his very own Cone of Silence -- but not by much.
"I barely made it
out myself before the lab was destroyed," Simon said. "And it'll be weeks before Ed Wendell's
arm is out of that sling. I don't see
how Sullivan could have survived -- he was practically sitting on one of the
charges when I left him, and the place must have been swarming with guards even
if he did make a run for it."
"Hmph," Callow said.
"From what you told me, he must have used a great deal of his
limited supply of the vectored-force explosive to destroy the lab. If he also used some to rig the dais at the
Waterworks, as you suspect, it is very likely that all the missing materiel is
gone. Mind you, anyone who handles that
lumber the wrong way will get a nasty surprise -- but that really isn't our
concern."
"And your point
is?"
"Sullivan is, as
you said, very probably dead," Callow replied. "And if he isn't, he probably has very
little or none of the vectored-force explosive left in his possession."
"In other words,
you no longer care about him," Simon said.
"Without the special
explosives, he would be just one more terrorist -- albeit one who seems to be
targeting other terrorists," Callow said.
"If I cared about him at all, it might be as a potential operative
for the Lower Echelon -- given your qualms about killing."
"Jerry would say
that you're the biggest walking pile of shite he'd
ever seen," Simon said. "Then
he'd probably shoot you on general principle."
Callow smiled. "As I said, he definitely sounds like a
potential operative."
****
Totenkopf Clinic and Sanatarium,
Dr. Wilhem Strauss's private office was sparsely but
expensively furnished, with small but apparently authentic modern statuary in
niches in each of the walls, a huge desk of polished oak, and chairs
upholstered in well-padded burgundy leather.
The only light came from a brass lamp with a green glass shade on one
corner of the desk; the heavy drapes were drawn, blocking the thin sunlight
filtering through the clouds.
"Are you sure you
want to go through this again?"
Strauss asked.
"Unfortunately,
yes. This face is a bit too well known
for comfort," his patient replied.
"It will take
much longer to heal this time," Strauss pointed out. "And we will probably have to use
implanted scaffolding to grow new bone to fill some of the gaps -- your face
will be quite fragile for a long time after the skin and muscle have
healed."
"I hear yeh,
Doctor. And the prospect doesn't thrill
me -- I remember how much it hurt, and for how long, when we did this the first
time. But I still have work to do -- keeping the peace, yeh know."
"Very
well. If you'll just authorize payment --"
The patient handed
over a cashier's check for half a million euros. Strauss passed it over a scanner built into
the desktop and watched until a readout appeared verifying its authenticity and
the availability of funds.
Strauss nodded. "We can begin as soon as it's convenient
for you," he said.
"The sooner the
better," Jerry Sullivan said.
"Wake me when I'm someone else."
The End
© 2004-2005 by
Robert Moriyama. Robert Moriyama
is an Aphelion regular with various stories and umpteen entries in the
"Materia Magica"
series featuring Al Majius, Githros,
and company, appearing in this 'zine over the past
few years, most recently "AntiMatters" (August, 2004). He is also participating in Jeff Williams's Nightwatch project, with the first
tale, "Nightwatch: Dragon's Egg", in the June 2004 edition, and "Nightwatch: Jigsaw Creek", in the June 2005 edition. Since February 2005, he has also been filling (or trying to) the post of Short Story Editor vacated by the retiring (but not shy) Cary Semar.