The Chinese general didn’t understand, and there was no time to explain. One of Princess Idris al-Nussoi’s aides came out to welcome them.
“The princess is expecting you,” said the aide, with a hint of annoyance. They were about an hour late, though given the conditions in the city, that should have been expected.
“We’re glad she could see us,” said Zongchen diplomatically. They were using English, as it was a common language for most of the people on the committee, and the rebel leader knew it as well.
A thick bump loomed at the doorway. Zen grit his teeth and blustered his way over it. He was glad to get through — despite everything he’d accomplished in his life, an inch and a half of wood could still stop him cold.
Even though they were in territory that at worst could be deemed neutral, Zongchen had taken three times as many security people as before. Besides the plainclothes UN team, he had two dozen British SAS commandos. To a man, they looked ready to snap necks and eat livers; Zen was a little scared of them himself. A good portion crowded into the suite with the committee members; there was hardly room for the rebels to move, let alone attack.
“Gentlemen — so many of you,” said Idris al-Nussoi. She was lounging on a couch, her head leaning back on a pile of pillows, an iPad in her hand. She waved them to the chairs with her free hand. “I just have to send this message, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” said Zongchen.
Zen glanced around. The princess’s suite was a mess, with jackets flung across the furniture, newspapers on the floor, a pair of suitcases on their sides. Pushed against the wall were trays of half-eaten room service food.
Not to mention the light scent of hash, still wafting from the hall.
This was the most powerful leader in the rebel movement?
“Senator Stockard. It is my pleasure to meet you, sir.” A portly man with a South American accent approached Zen and held out his hand. Zen shook it.
“I am Oscar Sifontes, a friend and advisor to the princess. We have heard very much about you, Senator, and your exploits with Dreamland.”
“Long time ago,” said Zen.
“Very important. We honor you even in my country. Venezuela,” added Sifontes, guessing correctly that Zen had no idea where he was from. “And you are General Zong.”
“Zongchen,” said the committee chairman, bending his head.
The princess finished what she was doing. Introductions were made all around.
“So, you have come with a message?” said the princess.
“We have come with something that may be of great interest to you,” said Zongchen. “We have an offer from the government to negotiate peace. One of their ministers will meet with you, and some other representative of the movement, personally. The aim would be to have new elections—”
“We have won!” The princess leapt from the couch. “If they are suing for peace—”
“They are not,” said Zongchen carefully. “They wish to talk. They have offered discussions only.”
“Oh, don’t be naive, General. They have refused to talk all this time. Now, obviously, we have them where we want them.”
Sifontes was beaming by her side.
Zen tried hard to keep a neutral face.
“So you are open to talks?” asked Zongchen.
“I will have to discuss this with my supporters.”
“Why talk when they are ready to surrender?” asked Sifontes. “They must be on their last legs to be making an offer like this. There’s no more fight left in them.”
“I wouldn’t overreach,” said Zen. “I wouldn’t underestimate the force they have left.”
“I will take this under advisement,” said the princess firmly. “Thank you, General. Thank you all. This is very important news.”
Wheeling out of the suite, Zen couldn’t help but wonder if the allies had supported the wrong side. The government had certainly been horrible, but if Idris al-Nussoi was an example, the rebels didn’t look like they would turn out much better.
The other members of the committee appeared to have similar feelings, chattering among themselves as soon as they got into the elevator.
“Best to withhold judgment,” said Zongchen as they started downward. “Peace has many handmaidens.”
“Or something like that,” muttered Zen under his breath.
11
“Vehicles have stopped,” Turk told Danny, watching from above. “We have two guys getting out of the second truck — they’re armed. Request permission to—”
“Fry them,” said Danny before he could complete the sentence.
“Gladly.”
Turk leaned the Tigershark on her right wing, lining up the rail gun. The targeting computer did the math — the pipper glowed red and hot on the two men.
He pushed down on the trigger control, firing a single slug at ultrahigh speed.
“Slug” made the round sound like a brick, but in fact it was a highly engineered and aerodynamically shaped piece of metal. The tail end looked somewhat like a stubby magnet. It contained the electronics to propel the projectile, and was discarded as the round came out of the gun. The payload holder was a cylinder with a pair of four-fingered arms that rode the bullet down the rail. Friction from the air forced it to drop away as the rocket-shaped bullet sped toward its target at over Mach 5. Fins stabilized the projectile.
None of this was visible to the naked eye, and even the sophisticated sensors aboard the Tigershark would have had a hard time focusing on the crisply moving arrow. The slug obliterated the gunman it had been aimed at, slicing through his weapon and his chest.
A half a second later Turk fired again. The force of the bullet disintegrated the target’s skull before burying itself deep into the earth.
Turk pulled up, sailing past Rubeo and whoever was with him on the ground. Meanwhile, the rail gun’s enormous heat — the most problematic part of the weapon — was dissipated by the air and liquid cooling system.
“Rubeo and a second individual are running in the hills,” Turk reported. “I have two more guys, back by the first truck. They’re examining the rear of the vehicle. Can I engage?”
“Are they showing weapons?” asked Danny.
“Negative.” Turk glanced to the right, where information on the two figures had been compiled by the computer.
NO WEAPONS flashed in the legend. The computer didn’t detect any.
“Hold off. Can you disable the vehicles?”
“Yeah, roger, OK. Stand by.”
Piece of cake, Turk thought to himself, swinging around to line up his shots.
Watching the feed from the Tigershark, Danny saw the stopped trucks and the men near the rear of the first vehicle. The Tigershark pivoted above, then seemed to settle over the front of the second truck. It was descending almost straight down.
There was a burst of steam from the vehicle. The truck jerked backward, propelled by the impact of the rail gun’s shell striking into the ground. Dirt flew upward, obscuring the van.
The view rotated, Turk slowly turning the aircraft to take the second shot. Danny selected the global ground-facing view — an image caught by a camera back on the belly of the Tigershark with a wide angle lens.
The image was a curved panorama some 160 degrees wide. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the truck jerked backward and to the side, a puff of smoke engulfing the front.
The men who’d been behind the first truck started to run along the highway south, undoubtedly for their lives.
“Splash two trucks,” reported Turk. “Uh, two runners on the ground, going up the road, away from the vehicles.”
“I see them,” answered Danny. “They any danger to Rubeo?”