Rock Killer Page 6

  “Oh, my,” she whispered. “I heard you’d be here Monday. I didn’t think...”

  “I came early. I was going to visit a friend’s wife and get settled.” He paused. “This is a problem,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because, this isn’t…”

  “Isn’t what?” Charlie asked. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he protested.

  “Yes it is,” she stated. “Just because you happen to be my superior—really my superior—doesn’t cause me any concern. I don’t think it should concern anyone else, either. Were you thinking I was going to try to use this to my advantage?”

  “Well,” he said in such a way that she knew he was thinking she would.

  “Well, I wasn’t. I don’t do things that way. I want to succeed for better reasons than, ‘I know the boss.’“

  He looked at her for a few moments. “Trainee Jones, your career should be successful as hell.”

  “Friends then?”

  He nodded. “Sure. And my friends call me Mitch.”

  “Okay, Mitch.”

  “Although,” he said with a smile, “You’d better call me ‘Chief’ or ‘Mr. Mitchel’ around the school.”

  ***

  Whether either of them meant for it to be, Mitch and Charlie’s friendship did help her career. When Mitchel found Charlie working as dirt-side security when she was space qualified he quickly got her an assignment on the Moon. When Takada, the Director of the Lunar Facility, protested that Charlie shouldn’t be living with Frank, Mitchel stepped in and made it possible for Charlie to stay at the lunar facility.

  Charlie showered in the minuscule bathroom. She wondered if Mitchel was going to intervene in her career again and if so, how? If it weren’t for his help she wouldn’t have had the position she had on the Moon. Then he tried to get her a job on an asteroid. Charlie wasn’t sure if she’d turned it down because she resented the help or because she was afraid she couldn’t do the job.

  The dress arrived by robotic courier a few minutes later. A message on her computer indicated her appointment with Mitch was in an hour. Charlie dressed, fixed her hair, and put on makeup, enjoying the luxury of feminine things again.

  She left the room and took the elevator to the hundred and thirtieth floor. There were two men on the elevator. She noticed they were strangely quiet.

  She had to wait a few minutes in Mitch’s outer office but that gave her a chance to chat with Meyoung before she showed Charlie in.

  The office was expansive. One wall was a window with a view of Tokyo and the bay to drive any acrophobic batty. Another wall was a computer screen. The other two were almost bare except for a few mementos of Mitchel’s SRI career.

  Mitchel smiled when he saw Charlie. His eyes started with her feet and moved up. Mitchel was a big man and looked as uncomfortable in a business suit as he looked out of place.

  “Charlie,” he said coming around the desk and giving her a friendly hug. “You’re looking good. Damn good. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Charlie said with a chuckle that may have been a bit forced.

  He inspected her neck. “Your scar looks better–barely noticeable. I hear you almost didn’t make it back to the airlock.”

  “Yes. Smitty saved me.” She said it as a flat statement.

  “You shouldn’t have gone back alone. If Smitty hadn’t heard your suit blow on the radio

  “He didn’t detail the results.

  “I know,” Charlie replied. “Rodriguez gave me the same lecture.”

  Mitchel smiled. “Okay, enough of that.” He returned to behind his desk and Charlie took a chair. When she crossed her legs her skirt fell open, exposing an almost indecent amount of her strong, tawny limbs. Charlie suspected it was designed that way.

  Mitchel said, “I’m sorry about Frank’s death. I know it’s locking the door after the horse has escaped, but I think this will finally convince Kijoto to let us use auto-loaders. I told him the time spent pumping his weapon may have cost Frank his life and SRI the Rock Skipper. I know he was trying to minimize the violence, but our security people need that option. I’m looking into an HK twelve gauge that has select-fire: pump or auto-load.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. How are you doing, really?”

  “Okay, really,” Charlie said softly. “I loved Frank; we were going to marry.”

  “I know.”

  “But life in space is dangerous. We all accept that,” she added with conviction.

  “But space didn’t kill Frank.”

  Mitchel could see Charlie’s chocolate skin redden. “I know,” she growled, barely containing her anger.

  “I feel somewhat responsible,” Mitchel said with a frown.

  Charlie looked at him, surprised.

  “When I called that night, we had information that the Syrians were up to something. I wanted to warn Frank. But I put off calling until something was confirmed. I should have called earlier. Frank would have been prepared.”

  “What did you have?”

  “Elisa Morgan had information out of Damascus that the Baathists were smuggling arms onto the Moon for some terrorist group. We had some agents in Mirbat–where the Syrians launch their ship–look into it. They didn’t find anything, so I didn’t give it priority. I should have called earlier, anyway.”

  “You couldn’t know,” Charlie said. “You can’t know what idiots such as the Gaia Alliance will do.”

  They were quiet for a moment, each tangling with their respective ghosts.

  “Look at this,” Mitchel finally said, touching his computer. A picture appeared on the far wall, a composite of six photographs that looked like mug shots. “Rodriguez sent that from the Moon. Those are the passport photos of who NESA thinks attacked us. You’re the only one to see one of the terrorists and live. Any of those look familiar?”

  Charlie pointed. “That’s the fat bitch.”

  “Cole,” Mitchel noted. “I’ve got the San Francisco office looking into her background.”

  Charlie nodded and looked at the face on the wall. She wondered what motivated a person like that.

  “Would you like to help nail them?” Mitchel asked, interrupting her reflections.

  Charlie didn’t hesitate. “How?”

  “The Gaia Alliance is based in the U.S. Since they’ve committed no crimes there, the U.S. won’t do anything; at least in this case. But since the attack took place at the Nippon/European Space Agency Facility, both the EU and the Japanese governments say they will prosecute. But the U.S. won’t extradite without evidence.”

  “Okay, how do I get it?” Charlie asked.

  Mitchel smiled. “Computer, display ‘Freeman picture.’“ A handsome black man’s face appeared in place of the passport photos. “That’s my friend, Special Agent Gordon Freeman of the FBI. He wants someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Congresswoman Linda Trent of California’s forty-sixth district–Marin County, wouldn’t ya know? She’s a Green but also in the GA. We think she got the Syrians to smuggle the weapons used in the attack to the Moon. Freeman needs someone to infiltrate the GA organization. I think you’re perfect.”

  “Why me? I’m Extraterrestrial Security, not Intelligence Gathering.”

  “I know, but you’re unknown. All our people, or the FBI’s, risk exposure. Trent can look into any FBI file she wishes, including the ones on our people in the States.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Charlie asked.

  “That and a million other things governments do. So we have to be careful. You’re literally from out of the blue. You make friends with Trent, get into the organization, and get the evidence we need.”

  “Like what?”

  “First, anything linking Trent to the Syrians; but that’s not enough. Then, if you get into the organization, anything linking it to the attack. Computer, show ‘L.A. Times archive photo.’“ The picture on the screen was replaced by a gro
up of angry people protesting something. “This is a few years ago at the San Joaquin Fusion site. Computer, GA-overlay.” Three heads were circled. “This is the GA leadership as far as we know. Computer, print that.” A paper slid out of a slot on Mitchel’s desk. He handed it to Charlie. “The man on the left is Harris Beatty. He has a few convictions for violent crimes. We think he’s the leader of the GA’s underground activities.”

  Charlie looked at the paper. Beatty looked like a blue eyed, blond denizen of a California muscle beach. “Doesn’t look like an environmental terrorist,” she commented.

  “Beatty’s more of a mercenary,” Mitchel said. “Doesn’t care what the cause is as long as it’s violent.

  “The other man is Alan Griffin. He seems to be some kind of sub-leader in the GA. The FBI thinks he’s responsible for the bombing of the Mojave antenna field. The woman is Trent. She was arrested in the Mojave bombing, but some crucial evidence was thrown out by a judge.”

  “Why?” Charlie asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe the arresting officer looked at her cross-eyed.”

  Charlie looked at the three. Beatty was a big man, Griffin smaller and rather hirsute. Trent was a generally unattractive woman.

  Charlie shook her head. “Okay, what do I look for?”

  “The suits on the two dead terrorists,” Mitchel continued, “were Russian made, sold on the open market. According to the serial numbers, they were sold to Yemen. They could have sold them to the Syrians or directly to the GA. I have someone looking into that end of the deal. The bullets taken out of—uhm—the wall—”

  “And Frank’s body.”

  “Yes, the bullets were nine millimeter caseless. Computer, display ‘Lunar Facility surveillance still.’ This was taken by the computer on the Moon before the terrorist burned it with thermite. The only reason it survived is somebody downloaded it to a tablet before the computer was destroyed. It was the only picture of them to survive, and you can see some data was lost.”

  Charlie looked at the fuzzy picture. Although large pieces were missing she could see it was a person holding a sub machinegun of some sort.

  “As near as we can tell,” Mitchel said, “That’s a conversion of a South African made nine millimeter caseless automatic weapon called the KS-900. Here’s a picture of one.” He tapped the computer again and the screen split with the surveillance picture sharing the screen with a full color picture of a black weapon. “If you can link the GA to the purchase and conversion of those weapons, to the purchase of those suits, Freeman says we can get an extradition.”

  “That’s all, Mitch?” she asked sarcastically.

  “That’s all.”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to but I don’t think I’m qualified.”

  “You hate the GA as much as I do?”

  “Probably more.”

  “You’re qualified,” Mitchel pronounced.

  Charlie smiled but wished she shared his confidence in her.

  Perhaps he sensed her diffidence as he asked, “You feel up to it?”

  She held up her left wrist. “Download that information into my computer,” she said, effectively changing the subject.

  Mitchel worked with the computer a few moments and then the device on Charlie’s wrist beeped, indicating it had received the data.

  “The worst part’s going to be living on this dirt ball again,” she grumbled. “How do you stand it, Mitch?”

  Mitchel shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as the Arcology is finished I’ll be living on the three hundredth floor. That’s quite a ways up.”

  ***

  The President of Syria, the Secretary General of the United Baath Arab States, and the Chairman of the Arab Socialist Baath Party sat behind his bullet-proof desk and surveyed his office as he oft surveyed his lands from a helicopter.

  Two guards of the Baath Security Forces were at the door. They were so still one easily forgot they were there. Sitting in massive leather chairs were General Zuabi, from his headquarters in Tyre, and General Sa’ud, who as Commander in Chief of the United Baath Revolutionary Army was Zuabi’s only superior.

  Faruq, the president’s old friend was, as usual, present. Lately Faruq seemed preoccupied. The president wondered if he should just make his friend minister of the interior. No, that would give him control over the security forces–perhaps the Ministry of Economic Development. Men had gone into that job young and full of vigor and emerged weak and wizened. That was the place for Faruq and his ambitions.

  “The accuracy of the new Chinese missiles is astounding,” Sa’ud was saying. “We could target the Knesset; although with nuclear warheads that seems somewhat unnecessary.”

  The president chuckled politely. “And our intelligence?”

  “The Zionist state is only 20,000 square kilometers,” Zuabi reported. “We know the location of their Jericho missiles thanks to our Palestinian brothers who can traverse the territory with impunity. Even the Shin Bet dares not touch them lest American public opinion turns against the occupiers of Palestine and with it stops the flow of foreign aid.” He had sneered sarcastically when speaking of the Palestinians. No one in this room thought Baathist anti-Zionism was based on concern for the Palestinians rather than the quest for power.

  The “peace process” in the ‘20s died when the new Palestinian state attacked Israel with the help of Syria and Iran. The occupiers of Palestine reacted in their usually overwhelming manner and destroyed the Palestinian state and took back the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip. It would be a long time before they were tempted to make the strategic error of trading land for peace again. So, once again, the Palestinians were refugees without a homeland. A homeland that Syria was not going to provide them for they were not going to give up their land to those repellent peasants; plus, having them as victims of Israel served a useful purpose. The United States would decry every aggression by Israel, reported faithfully by their media, while the persecution of Syria’s Alawite minority was virtually ignored.

  “The Mossad,” he continued, “cannot know the location of our silos. The Chinese have supplied us with accurate and powerful nuclear weapons. If we strike first we can destroy their missiles in their bunkers before they can retaliate. With the destruction of the Zionist leadership we will be able to walk in unopposed.”

  “Unless,” the president added, “the Americans come to their aid.”

  “The Americans,” Zuabi said, “cannot threaten the United Baath Arab States. They are a degenerate country. If they were going to stop us they would have long ago.”

  “I don’t know if the Americans would stand for a nuclear attack on Tel Aviv,” Sa’ud said. “We have reports the Americans have assured the Zionists that they will retaliate in kind for a first strike against them.”

  “Where do these reports come from?” Zuabi asked.

  “I cannot reveal their source.”

  “Without knowing the source,” Faruq said speaking for the first time, “it is hard to give them credence.”

  “Nevertheless,” Sa’ud retorted, “they are accurate. The United States’ limited space-based anti-ballistic missile screen only protects their territory. They’d have no alternative other than to use nuclear force against us.”

  “Or do nothing,” Faruq said.

  “We will wait,” the president concluded. “We are making progress diplomatically and our client revolutionary groups continue to hurt the Zionists and the West.” As if that reminded him, the president asked, “Faruq, how are your dealings with this Gaia Alliance?”

  Faruq was surprised. The president had hardly acknowledged Faruq’s activities before.

  “Fine,” he said quickly. “They have already struck a blow and will soon strike another.”

  “The expenses,” the president retorted almost angrily, “have been very high: the space-to-space missiles, diverting the Ath-Thawra Baathiya.”

  “And so will be the rewards,” Faruq assured the president.

  “In sha’
allah,” the president said almost automatically–if God is willing.

  Chapter Five

  “Do you have the missiles, aqid?”

  Karen never thought she’d be so glad to see Tel Aviv. When, working in New York, it was suggested she go to Israel, she thought the idea was crazy. But she made more money here than ever back in the States. And now, SRI was going to pay her a handsome sum.

  For some reason the Syrians insisted she not fly back. She suspected that her presence in the Arab Baathist Republic would embarrass somebody and they were afraid she’d be picked up at the airport.

  So, she was loaded in an army truck and driven to the Mediterranean coast at Tyre. It was hard for her to believe that the little, dirty town, full of defeated Lebanese doomed to live under Syrian occupation, had spawned the city of Carthage 30 centuries ago.

  In Tyre she boarded a small, black rubber boat. They’d shoved her pink bag down into the bottom of the craft. She heard water sloshing and hoped her things weren’t getting wet, especially the data chips.

  The electrically powered boat moved with eerie quiet down the coast. An Israeli patrol boat passed near enough they could make it out on the horizon and hear the engines. But the Syrian craft went unnoticed, being barely higher than the waves.

  During the trip Karen changed into a swimming suit, ignoring the leers from the Syrians.

  The boat pulled close to shore and Karen climbed out into waist deep water. They handed her bag to her and moved silently away.

  Karen walked toward the beach. She could hear music somewhere. If a patrol found her now it wouldn’t be totally incongruous. They might wonder why she took her bag swimming, though. They wouldn’t if they found the thousands of euros in amongst her delicates.

  The next morning she took a cab to Tel Aviv. Soon after arriving in her apartment there was a message from building security that someone was there to see her.

  Elisa Morgan came into her room and almost wordlessly checked the chips for data with a hand computer. She smiled as the data scrolled across the screen.

  “Any problems?” she asked.