“Yes, she showed up, alone, all sixty kilos of her-she’s put a bit more muscle on-went to one of the live ones, poked an illuminator and camera down, while we sat there shivering. She asked to see the box, ran some numbers, and told us there’d been a packing error. We had random delay charges used for area denial.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yes, very much. The LT was ready to abandon that section of the exercise, have the craft land at a proper ’port, and ferry everyone out.
“Elke told him to wait, walked back out, and started hand-rolling directional charges. She cut them off from Dynalene sticks, bored the ends with a knife, capped, planted and wired. A third one blew while she was doing this, and she just kept walking, stuffing, setting.
“We had about five minutes of our two hour exercise window left when she walked back, asked the commander to clear the range, let him get off his three calls, then called fire in the hole and the entire field lit up. It turns out she’d put shattering charges over them, too. All these car-sized boulders turned into hundred millimeter gravel in a couple of seconds. She hung around a couple of days. We met in the chow hall once. It was a heck of a surprise when I joined the company and we wound up on assignment together.”
“Was she always a flake?” That wasn’t the best way to phrase it, but… well, yes it was.
“Yes. Very much. She’s asocial, dislikes people because they’re not logical or predictable, is far more educated than anyone realizes. She has a doctorate in physics.”
Aramis replayed that and said, “Huh?”
“Yeah, I didn’t find out until a few weeks ago. She can crunch the numbers in her head as she goes.”
Aramis said, “I figured she had the usual reference charts in her visor and lots of hands-on practice.”
“She has that, too, but she really does do the math as she goes. Did her basics in electronics, worked in the lab for the Czech Regional Police, moved into Munitions, and did school while working.”
“So when whatsisname on Govannon… Eggett… said he’d read her papers…”
“Yes, he was head of explosive mining for Caron’s family, and he meant professional journal papers, not just industry notes.”
“Damn. I feel very undereducated, with only cartography and navigation theory to my bio.”
“Well, education isn’t wisdom or intelligence. Look at any politician for proof of that.”
“I’d rather be compared to someone worthy, thanks,” Aramis replied.
There was noise at the door, and everyone else came through.
“Where are my explosives?” Elke asked at once.
Jason said, “Here, have a shotgun, a carbine, a pistol and a fighting knife.” He handed them over.
“Very nice, thank you,” she said without expression as she took them, checked the chambers on all three, did a couple of practice drills, and laid them on the couch, the sheathed knife atop them. “Where are my explosives?”
Aramis handed out knives and demolition hammers to the circle around him, then started on pistols.
Alex took his, cleared it, nodded and said, “No word on the explosives?”
Jason said, “No sign that they’ve been here at all. I’m betting they’re in a separate box.”
Elke paced a bit. She didn’t make any comments, but she was obviously irritated, and… Aramis guessed vulnerable, except that sounded romantic. Insecure? He could see that. Explosives were her tools. It would be the same if he didn’t have firearms or armor.
“Where is the armor?” he asked, realizing he hadn’t seen that.
Jason said, “Screwup in transit and customs, Cady will deliver it tomorrow.”
“Good.” Assuming it happened. He looked back at Elke.
Shaman kept an eye on her, surreptitiously, and she probably noticed but didn’t say anything. She helped check and clear weapons, stow them, tag them. She filled magazines and belts, checked batteries.
In short order they had it all done, and split up the bullion and cash into packs and pockets. Aramis found himself in possession of a contractor credit account, a prepaid card with a healthy limit, a roll of cash that would choke a medium sized alligator, several hundred grams of gold, some silver, and one each palladium and rhodium 30 gram bars. It was a good thing he’d be armed, because anyone getting a whiff of this just might consider murder.
Still, it reassured him on bugging out. It was a mark of trust from the company, too, as they’d provided that from their own assets, and would have to take his, and their collective, word on disposition.
Elke looked unhappy, but she checked over her hardware and very politely said, “Thank you, Jason, the customizing is excellent. I’m going to retire early.” She slung them carefully and walked out silently.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen her that pissed the entire time they’d worked together.
Bart broke the uncomfortable silence by saying, “I would like that beer now.”
Alex was mostly satisfied. Elke’s gear and the heavier weapons were an issue, but almost everything else had been resolved, though not the way channels would approve.
That’s their own damned fault for refusing to cooperate, he thought. When they’d first started this outfit, the military had been competitors and eventually the enemy. However, they’d never until now been hostile.
The medics and intel were cordial and professional, at least as far as they saw mutual benefit. The rest of the base so far was actively antagonistic. They’d have to find some way to smooth that out.
Their quarters were quite comfortable for the field. They had billets on par with officers or other high-end contractors: hard buildings, private rooms where enlisted personnel would have three to five, basic bunks and lockable closets. The problem, of course, was the weapons, which in theory were supposed to be secured whenever they were not on escort, which would mean a lot of back and forth to the armory. In practice, they usually left someone in the billet to watch things, armed. He also knew Aramis concealed a small pistol when out. He was sure Jason did, too, though he’d never seen it. He made do with a knife.
Elke was ostensibly sleeping, and certainly fuming about her mistreatment. The explosives were a necessary component, and he’d talk to Das about that in the morning. For now, they could use a nonalcoholic beverage on the military side, and a little noise and camaraderie.
“Just keep the attitudes from bothering you,” he said. “Right, Aramis?”
“Understood. I speak their language. I can talk around any problems.”
Good. The man took the hint.
“Jason?”
“No problem at all. I just remember that I am Aerospace Force, Grainne Colony, and therefore better than they are.”
He grinned at the delivery. “Very good. Shaman is remaining here. Bart will simply sit quietly in the corner and drink, and no one would be stupid enough to start a fight with him.”
Jason said, “I’m sure someone would, so watch out for idiots. The big guy is always wrong.”
“On paper, at least,” Bart said, and cracked his knuckles. “I shall be relaxed.”
At the gate, Alex greeted the guard. “We need to sign out.”
The guard stared at him. “Why?”
“So we’re accounted for. It’s policy for State and for our company.”
The man rolled his eyes, but grabbed a screen and passed it over. They each printed it and waited for it to acknowledge, then Alex handed it back.
“Thank you,” he said.
The response was a mumble.
It was less than a kilometer to the rec center, but they attracted some stares.
“Everyone drives, even here,” Aramis noted.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Want to go back, or remember that for next time?”
Bart said, “Next time we shall take a limo, just to show them up.”
“Discreet, Bart.”
“At two meters tall?” Yes, the man was huge, but they could at least try.
The weather was quite pleasant and the walk enjoyable. It was early enough that they were before shift change. That reminded him of the issue that presented.