Noël whispers, “Salaam,” and Dano replies with, “Ciao.”
It doesn’t matter what they say; Abu Khamani just insists that every man say something. Ryan sits up, inching backward on his ass to put himself a little farther from the door.
“Fuckin’ lovely evening,” he says, eyeing the whip in Abu Khamani’s right hand.
A second man, a stone-faced guard, stands behind Abu Khamani, holding an automatic rifle. The muzzle is trained on the floor, but it would take him only a heartbeat to raise his weapon and gun down everyone in the cell. Abu Khamani pays no attention to him, gesturing instead to the boy beside him who is carrying an allotment of MREs. The boy—he is maybe eight years old and Miles suspects he’s one of Hussam’s many children—drops the packaged meals on the floor. There are only three.
The four prisoners trade uneasy looks. Abu Khamani laughs. “You! Poulin!” He points at the missionary. “You lucky this night. You get to go home.”
Noël shrinks deeper into his corner.
“Home,” Abu Khamani repeats as if Noël is an idiot. “Your ransom is paid.” He grabs Noël’s arm, hauls him to his feet. Terror is inscribed on Noël’s pale face. Miles understands that fear; he shares it. Once before, Abu Khamani promised a hostage that he could go home, but that man was executed, sent home to God.
Noël weeps as Abu Khamani drags him from the room. The door closes. Darkness returns.
There is a rustling noise as Ryan gropes for the MREs. He tosses one to Dano, one to Miles.
“Don’t eat yet,” he advises them. “You don’t want to risk puking it all up when the screaming starts.”
Assemble in Thirty
“Roach is only stage one of Tamara’s devious plan,” Rohan is saying when True returns to the conference room just before the next scheduled meeting, due to start at 1300. “It’s the beginning of the end for us, because she’s going to automate us out of a job.”
He’s sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched out under the table and a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, expounding his theory for the amusement of Felice, who sits two chairs away, arms crossed, eyeing him with a cynical smirk. Tamara herself is sedately arranging her cardigan on the back of a chair.
Rohan gives True a wink as he continues: “You heard it from me first. In a few more years, Tamara’s going to field a bulletproof bot that can bound over walls, do backflips through firefights, sniff out IEDs, see the terrain in an expanded spectrum.” He puts the mug down so he can gesture with both hands. “It’ll have two legs that never get tired. Six arms—four of them configured as guns—and instead of blood and guts under the skin, it’ll be loaded with ammo—enough to melt its fucking carapace if it ever goes postal.”
“Don’t worry, dawg,” Felice tells him. “You gonna be retired by then.”
True pours coffee, side-eyeing Tamara as she settles into a chair. True can feel the coming counterpunch like a static charge on the air.
“Rohan, dear,” Tamara says, sounding like a disappointed preschool teacher—a tone that causes Felice to snicker again. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not planning to replace you with a humanoid robot. Why bother? An aggressive, diverse swarm is more dangerous than any traditional soldier and easy to print up.”
“Give it up, Rohan,” True advises. “Tamara’s going to retire all of us.”
Any argument he might have made is precluded by the arrival of Lincoln and Chris, the rest of the QRF coming in behind them.
Chris is the field commander. He goes over the mission plan, including a review of vehicles and surveillance devices they’ll be leasing from a partner company. “Like everything else,” he says, “this is time-critical. I’ve got a twelve-hour hold on the equipment, but we’ll need to make a fat payment to reserve it beyond that.” He turns to True. “We really need to hear from State on whether or not we’re looking at a closed area.”
“I’m on it. I’ve been promised a call back by end of day.”
By 1400, True is back in her office—and she’s getting worried. On the east coast, the end of the workday is imminent and she still hasn’t heard back from her contact at the State Department. Brooke Kanegawa is a good friend and reliable. That she hasn’t called yet tells True that there is a conflicting mission, and it’s taking Brooke time to get the specifics and the authorization to speak.
True scowls at a framed map of the world hanging on her office wall—and decides to check in. If nothing else, she can find out how late Brooke intends to be in the office. “Heads up, Ripley,” she says, addressing her digital assistant, “call Brooke.”
Ripley responds through her TINSL: “Calling Brooke Kanegawa. Please stand by.” Thirty seconds pass. Then: “I’m sorry. There is no answer.”
True starts to get up but sits down again when the soft chime that announces an incoming call sounds in her ear. “Answer it,” she says, not waiting for Ripley to announce the caller’s name. Then: “Brooke?”
Instead, she hears a low, old-man’s voice edged with criticism: “You need to ID your calls before you pick up, True. Thought you knew that.”
Colonel Colt Brighton, retired. True’s mouth quirks in a bitter smile. The old man still has a knack for getting under her skin. “Hey, Dad,” she says in what she hopes is a neutral voice.
“Waiting on an important call?” he asks.
“Need to know,” she tells him.
“Huh. Not everyone’s so circumspect. Word’s out that Defense just awarded a billion-dollar contract to one of your competitors. You tell Lincoln he needs to show face in DC if he wants in on that kind of pork.”
“We’re a small company, Dad.”
“Get a contract like that and you won’t have to be.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.” The call chime sounds again. Ripley whispers in the background, “Caller is Brooke Kanegawa.”
“Got to go, Dad,” True says. “Talk to you soon.”
“Stay out of trouble,” he warns her.
“You too, old man.” She shifts to the new call. “Hey.”
Brooke’s voice sounds clipped, tense as she says, “I finally got your answer. Short version: stay the hell away from Mosul.”
True is surprised. Mosul is nowhere near their intended target. She strives to keep the excitement out of her voice as she asks, “What’s the long version?”
“You know I can’t provide details, but I am to communicate to you in no uncertain terms that you will not operate in Mosul or surrounding areas. I’ll email you the coordinates of the closed zone.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Brooke continues in a formal voice. “Within that designated area you will undertake no offensive action. Not until a general clearance is issued. Should Requisite Operations defy this mandate, you will lose your license.” Brooke draws a quick breath. “Hey, True,” she says apologetically. “You know it’s nothing personal.”
“No worries. I appreciate it.” Brooke is a good friend, but they are both constrained in what they can share. True has told her only that ReqOps is planning an offensive operation in the TEZ, providing no details on their objective. Lincoln has the option to file a notification, but he probably won’t do it, because the risk of data leakage is too great.
“Any estimate on how long Mosul will be closed?” True asks, hoping to get a feel for when the State Department’s operation might launch. If they’re after Hussam, they’re looking in the wrong place—but she can’t tell Brooke that.
“No estimate at this time,” Brooke says.
Maybe State is still prospecting. Maybe they won’t go at all.
“Thanks, Brooke.”
“You be careful.”
“You know it.”
True messages Chris, and a few minutes later they meet in Lincoln’s office. In hurried words, she relates what she’s learned, concluding by saying, “The field is clear. The risk at this point is that Hussam could decide to move on tomorrow and be gone before we get there.”