Jaunt (33 page)

“Have you practical models of it yet?” Gilmour asked, more to Crowe and Ivan then Roget, whom he ignored for the moment.

“We have a few more days of actual construction to do,” Ivan responded.

Gilmour replayed Roget’s crazed eyes in his mind. “Then I’m sure it will be perfected before long.” He looked once more to Roget before pointedly saying only to him, “Just keep in mind what happened to the Rosenbergs, Kweiksman and Al-Zawara.”

“How’d Roget hold up?” McKean asked later, in the corridor.

Gilmour paused and craned his head back. “Either he’s saved the world or damned us to oblivion. Come on.”

Constantine furrowed his brow at McKean. The pair jogged by the theoretical studies laboratory and sped up to catch Gilmour, who quickly arrived at U5-17, the previously offlimits offices of Professor Inez Quintanilla.

A tastefully decorated suite—rather than the austere U5-29—greeted them, much to their amazement. Royal blue carpet filled each man’s eyes and hugged their shoes as they spread out to explore this inviting new frontier. Portraits of historical figures hung from all four walls, broken up by an occasional landscape or framed flag.

Gilmour walked over to a desk situated towards the rear of the room, perpendicular to opposite, closed wooden doors. The mahogany desk was the home of many framed photographs and a large monitor. Smaller, one-meter-tall cabinets at the foot of the desk housed dozens, perhaps a hundred, book volumes, giving the office an even warmer air than Gilmour had ever thought possible for Quintanilla. Little wonder she never attended a conference meeting in U5-29.

Several moments slipped past them before the door on the left opened, admitting Quintanilla. Her arrival sparked a newfound interest in the professor, replacing Gilmour’s near contempt borne from his unchecked ignorance.

“Thank you for waiting, gentlemen,” Quintanilla welcomed. She headed straight for the desk that Gilmour was still admiring. An awkward grin from the special agent elicited a curious, arched eyebrow from Quintanilla. She piled several holobooks into one stack, then extended the palm of her hand and said, “Have a seat.”

The trio found three chairs in front of the desk and pulled them close while Quintanilla sat down at her desk.

“I have pulled in many favors to give you this briefing...most of my sources were reluctant to provide any help whatsoever. Fortunately, I am quite persuasive.”

Quintanilla rotated the monitor around so that it faced all three agents. Toggling a button on a keypad, she activated a stream of webfootage. A holographic scene then played in front of the agents, set in what appeared to be a desolate prairie. Snow fell from the slate sky as a group of men, all dressed in military uniforms, held a vigorous, muted discussion while pointing off-camera. The camera’s point-of-view switched several times, closing up on the faces of a few select men, then alternating to a distant, mountainous horizon.

“There!” Gilmour yelled, his eyes widening. “Pause.” A blurred face, in mid-turn, froze on the monitor. Gilmour’s index finger pointed to the headshot. “Nicolenko.”

“Along with five of the highest ranking officers in the Confederation,” Quintanilla added. “This footage was filmed over three months ago. My sources are still debating the circumstances of this event, but needless to say, it locks our case for Nicolenko having ties to the highest of the military cadre.”

“Do your sources have biographical or psychological information on Nicolenko?”

Gilmour asked, perhaps too vigorously.

“Spotty at best.” Quintanilla consulted a holobook. “The Confederation has some of the best firewalls our government has ever seen. What little we do know is that his full name is Vasily Zivenovich Nicolenko, first lieutenant, Russian Confederated Army. Awarded the Sword of the White Star, the Cross of St. George, the Russian Medal of Honor twice and the Putin Shield.”

Constantine let out a low whistle. “Anything else?”

“Our knowledge of his psych files is even lousier,” Quintanilla admitted, ignoring Constantine’s facetiousness. “Suffice to say, an officer doesn’t attain this level of hierarchy with bipolar tendencies or lapses of judgment.”

Unless one could ingratiate himself, Gilmour said to no one but himself. With all respect to Quintanilla, Gilmour had actually dealt with Nicolenko hand-to-hand, face-toface. If anything, their lieutenant was given to succeed at all costs; schizo, perhaps not, but ego driven, definitely.

Quintanilla continued, “No information on marital status, either. I have located a sketchy birth certificate, but names of birth parents and place of birth have been eliminated, probably during the crash of the old Commonwealth in 2109. Judging by appearances alone, we can discern he is in his mid-to-late-thirties.”

“I can attest,” Gilmour said. “Nicolenko’s a slithery bastard. Surprised you got as much on him as you did.”

Quintanilla nodded her head in mute agreement. “I don’t have to tell you, gentlemen, this will not be easy. I believe diplomacy has unfortunately run its course in these matters. The Confederation is determined to move ahead with their plan to mine the bottom of the Pacific trench.” Her mood grew even darker than before. “In all of my years in the government, I have never experienced the chills I have had these past few months...as a diplomat and scholar, these events have no precedent. I cannot emphasize to you three how terrified I am....”

A pang of guilt, mixed with newfound respect and sorrow, ate at Gilmour’s innards. Before all this mess with Roget, Gilmour and Mason had both targeted Quintanilla; their instincts had told them she hid more than she revealed, that there was more to her than anyone would tell them. She was cold, Gilmour agreed. But he was quickly discovering her iciness came from sheer distance, not lack of humanity. All Gilmour could do was pay for his foolhardy accusation by listening to Quintanilla’s fear and allowing the guilt to teach him a lesson.

“I know one thing is for certain,” Gilmour spoke, breaking the silence, “Nicolenko is an enemy I’ve learned from well. If anyone was to stop him and the Confederation, it’d just as soon better be us.”

Quintanilla looked up from the monitor, where her eyes had been fixed on the static image of Nicolenko, lost in dread.

Gilmour took in a lifetime’s full of Nicolenko’s visage, recalling every mark on the man, and said again, “I’ve got a score to even up. I hate to lose.”

Quintanilla straightened in her seat. “Needless to say, then, Agent Gilmour, you have the USNA’s full consent to take out Nicolenko. Do what you must to locate him,
butfinish the job
.”

Gilmour nodded assuredly. “I don’t duplicate my mistakes. Neither do my colleagues...we’ll finish what we started and go for those warheads.”

“Excellent, gentlemen,” she complimented, then stood up. “Dismissed.”

Gilmour also rose to his feet, followed by Constantine and McKean.

Quintanilla thrust her hand out, which Gilmour shook. “Good luck.”

Constantine’s and McKean’s eyes found Gilmour’s. The trio each took a deep breath and headed for the door. With the MP closing it behind them, the agents paused outside in the corridor.

McKean balled his hand into a fist. Constantine did the same, and the pair exchanged glances. Finally, Gilmour formed a fist, looked at it, and held it out before him.

“For Chief and Mason,” all three recited, then knocked each fist in a single motion. “Let’s get it on.”

“I’m going to have to have a few words with my tailor,” Constantine said, pulling at his neck’s metal collar ring.

Valagua cast an askance eye to the special agent while fitting the abdominal ring on Constantine’s hazard suit. “I assure you I haven’t performed any modifications.”

De Lis stepped around the theoretical studies lab’s diagnostic table. “I took some time the last few hours to download several new topographical maps of the 1940-era to your hazard suits’ HUDs. The resources Solicitor Rauchambau has come across have been quite substantial.”

Gilmour nodded. “Any advantage is a leap beyond what I started with, Doctor.”

“I have also recorded a second set of helpware to assist you with Lionel’s new equipment, if so necessary.”

“Thank you again, Doctor,” Gilmour said. “Hopefully we won’t get too lost...I’m also packing redundant GPS modules in case of glitches.”

Ivan and Crowe wheeled in a cart, on which lay the three pairs of hazard suit gauntlets. The two gave final inspections to the gauntlets, each of which had been visibly modified with enhanced, but slightly larger, holographic display devices. Out of the corner of his eye, Gilmour saw the bigger gauntlets and reasoned the modifications were due to the incorporation of the new systems, Roget’s second brainchild.

“I trust all of you read the new specifications and instructions I provided you with?”

Roget asked, standing behind his former assistants, making sure all was well.

Constantine winked at McKean. “You bet, Doctor. Haven’t had a better night’s sleep since I arrived.”

Roget pursed his lips. “Then let us pray the Confederation finds you as amusing.”

“Did you want us to give them a signed letter from you?” McKean retorted. “Perhaps drop them a hello from your new friends here in the States? I’m sure they’d love to hear from HADRON after so lon—”

“Cool it, gentlemen!” Gilmour ordered, turning back to face them. “We’ve a job to do. Getting wrapped up in frivolous distractions isn’t going to get it done.”

Stares grew over the agents, then the slow realization that Gilmour was right.

Roget had a silent thank you written on his forehead, meant for Gilmour, but the special agent disregarded it. He wasn’t above reprimanding his men, but giving Roget anything more than common, professional courtesy was too much, too distasteful.

Ivan picked up a gauntlet and presented it to Gilmour, changing the subject in a subtle fashion. “We’ve written software similar to the holographic interfaces you have become accustomed to. Should work as easy as a cake, Agent Gilmour.”

Gilmour nodded and took the first gauntlet from him. Studying the shiny new interface’s housing, he slipped the device over his left hand and wrist, wriggling his fingers and palm inside. A second gauntlet went over Gilmour’s right hand while his two colleagues finished suiting up, completing their share.

A circle of the theoretical lab’s scientists formed around the three agents while final checks were given. Waters and Marlane collaborated on the lab’s monitors, reviewing the sensors on each agent’s hazard suit. Jaquess and Lux assisted Ivan and Crowe on the lastminute status of the Casimir chambers, actively scanning the casing with EM pulses for cracks or other faults.

“We’re a go,” Lux confirmed to Crowe.

Crowe nodded to Ivan, and the pair topped off the trio with their respective helmets. Once clicked into place, the pair gave a thumbs up.

De Lis pointed to the Marine standing at U5-1’s entrance, who immediately headed for Roget, and brandishing his rifle, escorted him into the corridor. Once Roget had been expelled, Valagua entered the laboratory with the Lockbox and parceled out a trio of jewels to Ivan and Crowe, who then fed them to each Casimir dropchute.

Producing a small voxlink from his jacket pocket, de Lis asked, “Can you hear me?”

“Perfectly,” Gilmour responded, de Lis’ tinny voice still reverberating through his helmet speaker. Gilmour craned his head and looked at Constantine and McKean, who concurred.

“Excellent. All systems are at nominal, gentlemen. Your Casimirs are loaded and in wonderful condition,” de Lis exclaimed, proudly looking upon his colleagues.

Gilmour’s entire hazard suit bobbed up and down in acknowledgement. “Let’s fire

‘em up.” He tapped his holographic interface, powering up the HUD graphics inside of his helmet.

Waters and Marlane supervised the booted-up Heads Up Displays on a bank of monitors, one per agent. “Holographic interfaces functioning normally. All systems go,”

Marlane announced.

Waters agreed. “Specimens active. Good for start-up.”

Gilmour tapped a green sphere on the interface, setting the Casimir vacuum into action. Deep inside his chamber, two plates closed to within micrometers, beginning the whole process over. Feeling the device hum on his back, Gilmour prayed one more time to get through this without being scattered across the four winds.

“Good luck, agents,” de Lis said once more into his voxlink. A haggard, weary look crossed his face before saying lastly, “See you on the other side.”

Gilmour detected a hint of sorrow (or was it remorse?) in de Lis’ speaker-filtered voice, but shelved it and concentrated on the interface’s command systems.

The three agents faced each other now, their glinting helmets concealing the visages of the men while they counted down the seconds, their beating hearts not defeated by the climaxing buzz racking their eardrums. Perspiration dripped over and onto the bodysocks underneath the quilted hazard suits as each man primed himself for the ultimate stunt ride.

Green and red HUD numbers—instead of scrolling across the holographic interface—

spiraled out of Gilmour’s eye view. Glancing down, a sinkhole bored a white hole into his chest, sucking the very photons of the ambient environment into him. Gilmour gasped as, unlike the first time, he could participate as an observer—his eyes glued and head fixed—to this quantum tunnel without distraction from the suit’s main systems.

A stalking anxiety soon pounced upon his brain, overcoming his practiced and enforced calm; before he could swoon from the shock of losing sight of his lower extremities, the ever present, insatiable buzz drowned out the universe, flinging him into a black—

—Gravel lot. Lying flat on his chest, Gilmour took in through his helmet the various shapes and dimensions quarried rock had to offer. He pushed himself up, rising in a small cloud of smoke to take in the lapping waters just meters down from this incline. Looking out, several dozen small trawlers, dotted by nocturnal docking lights, were parked along a familiar complex of wooden planks. So, he was back at the Skippsen Marina, glad to know that Roget’s new coordinating system actually worked, saving a trip across central and western Canada, unlike his previous jaunt.