Jaunt (39 page)

“Agent Gilmour,” his ears barely made out through his encased helmet, as if he was underwater, “Agent Gilmour....”

A pair of darkened gloves suddenly made their appearance at his neckline, scratching at the metal ring connecting his helmet to the hazard suit. The gloves then clumsily removed his helmet, and Gilmour caught wind of a noxious stench billowing up from his haz suit.

“Agent Gilmour,” the voice repeated again, which Gilmour now recognized belonged to Crowe, even though junior scientist worked behind the agent’s back to remove his gauntlets, “hurry out of your hazard suit! They’re weren’t sure if you’d make it back in time!”

“What the—” the agent started before he had the chest section of his haz suit pulled up over him, buffeting his neck and head. “What the hell’s going on, Crowe?”

Crowe proceeded down the haz suit, loosening Gilmour’s boots. “He’s asking for you, Agent Gilmour! The doctor’s been trying to keep him going long enough for—”

At that instant, Gilmour’s memory was jogged; Constantine! The agent kicked Crowe out of the way, rose to his feet with his haz suit half on and then ran to the exit, rushing into the corridor past two posted MPs, who flashed looks of concern to one another.

The cumbersome torso of his haz suit held Gilmour back, even as he punished himself to run faster and harder. Rounding a corner, Gilmour flung himself into a squad of MPs patrolling the corridor, pushing himself past the raised M-119s and glinting body armor to arrive at U5-21, Anaba’s infirmary, where Ivan held the door open just in case Gilmour arrived. Ivan waved Gilmour forward, then helped force the agent through the tight width of the infirmary’s entrance.

Gilmour sprinted the short distance from the door to a semi-circle of theoretical studies scientists, each having his or her head tilted towards one of the beds. A weak cardio monitor beeped intermittently from behind the curtain of scientists, coupled with the steady pump of a respirator, each of which echoed throughout the austere room, lending it a pall of loneliness.

A few steps away from the group, the approaching Gilmour caught McKean’s ashen face. Gilmour shoved his way past Valagua and Marlane, parting them to glimpse the broken frame of William Constantine on the bed, an array of hoses and biomechanical systems perforating his flesh. Bandages and clear antiseptic strips covered most of face, rendering him unrecognizable to the two who had known him the longest.

“Will,” Gilmour sang, his arm outstretched to the fallen man’s battered face. Beside him, Doctor Anaba’s hand tried to still Gilmour’s, but the agent wouldn’t have it, instead brushing her off and continuing his attempt to rouse Constantine.

The shroud of bandages moved, a small opening gasping, “James....”

“I’m here, Will.”

Between the antiseptic strips, Constantine’s grey eyelids quivered; the very action of keeping his eyes focused on Gilmour consumed every last iota of the agent’s energy.

“Did...did you f...finish it? Complete the m...miss...ion? Is...he dead?”

A lump grew in Gilmour’s throat; his eyes shifted to de Lis—who nodded almost imperceptibly—then moved back to Constantine, an action the dying agent didn’t see. “I—I think so, Will. You did all you could do. Chief would be proud.”

A soft, baby smile crossed Constantine’s face, a smile full of accomplishment. For the first time, while Gilmour stood there, his hand clutching Constantine’s cheek, Gilmour realized Constantine would have killed Nicolenko himself, probably had been prevented from doing so by whomever had beaten the life out of him. Nicolenko had cheated two attempts now to ending his dance with Armageddon, two chances to finish his game.

Seeing Constantine ebb before him, Gilmour felt more determined than ever that a third opportunity be attempted. Nicolenko was responsible—fully or in part—in the deaths of two, and now probably three, of Gilmour’s closest colleagues, and friends. If it was in Gilmour’s power, if it was in anyone’s power, Nicolenko had to be stopped. There was no other option.

Constantine’s consciousness flagged; the agent drifted back into a shiftless rest, his body on the verge of losing its battle with his injuries. Gilmour retrieved his hand, allowing Constantine’s head to fall back into the pillow upon which it had lain.

Stepping back, Gilmour found Anaba, who was all but powerless to save the fallen agent, as she checked Constantine’s fluids and cardiac rhythms next to the bed. She wore a long face, the countenance Gilmour imagined he must be wearing now, and must have had when he found Mason and heard about Chief’s end.

The CMO looked up from the various machines and clapped Gilmour’s right arm. “He might make it through the night....” Sensing Gilmour’s foundering state, Anaba dropped her learned optimism. “If there’s any arrangements you wish to have, I’d do it soon.”

Gilmour mustered a murmur, more of a grunt than an acknowledgement. The agent knew the routine, he’d done it more times than he could recall, so many times that he had it memorized, something no human should ever have to do.

The semi-circle broke without anyone uttering a word. McKean and Gilmour exited the infirmary together, to which the theoretical scientists gave their acceptance. None of the project doctors would truly share the bond with the IIA agents as the agents did themselves. All silently agreed it was for the better.

De Lis had provisionally given the agents the night off, and would resume operations the next morning. To do otherwise would be foolish and disrespectful, two traits no one had ever attributed to Richard de Lis.

“I’m sorry, Agent Gilmour, Agent McKean...Agent Constantine passed this morning.”

In the dark and empty confines of U5-29, de Lis’ announcement hit the pair of agents like a brick to the chest, despite its expectation and inevitability. Both men nodded and rose from their seats at the conference table, where they had been poring over various field reports supplied to them by Lieutenant Colonel Dark Horse.

“His body will be flown back to Washington this afternoon, where he’ll receive full honors and a burial.”

“Has his family been contacted?” Gilmour asked.

De Lis nodded. “First thing this morning. A full compensation package will be arranged by the government for their loss, just the same as Mason and Louris.”

Gilmour held back his scoff; a full comp package was the nice way of saying that the grieving family would have a few million dollars thrown at them to keep their mouths closed about what their son exactly did for the government. Would Constantine have his name trumpeted as a hero in the press? Did Mason and Chief receive recognition that they died trying to save civilization? No, and no. Regardless, Gilmour owed it to the Constantine family that he give them his version of the story, that he tell them how much of a hero he was, and how proud Gilmour was to call him a colleague, and a trusted friend. And how much William Constantine loved his job, his duty, his country. Will could no longer speak, but his colleagues would for him.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Gilmour said again. “McKean and I appreciate your efforts.”

A muted smile crossed de Lis’ face. He didn’t want to have to make funeral arrangements for the men he had brought north, for the men he sent out into danger. If he could, de Lis would shut it all down this moment. If he could, he’d go back in time and make sure none of this had ever happened....

“Colonel Dark Horse will be arriving shortly to go over the latest reports from our intelligence bureaus,” de Lis continued, putting Constantine’s arrangements into the back of his mind for a moment. “At oh-eight-forty-five a full staff conference will be held. Until then, your time is your own, gentlemen.”

The two agents acknowledged de Lis’ slackened leash, quietly setting out to freshen up for the scheduled meeting with the colonel. It would be a long day.

“Two days ago,” Dark Horse started, his hands full with a stack of holobooks, “our Global Security Network picked up four Confederation destroyers escorting eight submerged,
Mavra
-class submarines heading for the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench. Repeated inquiries and warnings from our diplomatic corps to St. Petersburg have gone unanswered. In retaliation to the Premier’s refusal to respond, the President has broken off diplomatic ties and authorized the North Pacific and North Atlantic fleets to fire on any Confederation naval vessels suspected of participating in the mining of any internationally held waters.”

Gilmour’s head lowered to the holobook he held in his hand. The holographic interface traced the chronological course of the Confederation fleet from the docks of Vladivostok to their current mid-Pacific target. In a matter of hours, the trench would be reached by the military flotilla and subjected to the largest mining operation in the history of the world.

“Then outright war is certain,” McKean said, more statement than question.

“Unfortunately, our government seems to be heading more and more towards that direction, Agent McKean, unless we can blow the hell out of the Premier’s ships before they manage to mine the trench. And I don’t find that highly likely. Our nearest vessel can intercept in three days, and the North Pacific fleet will begin massing two days after that, leaving us nearly a week before we can even retaliate. The President is chafing at the idea of lobbing ICBMs over the ocean...somebody in D.C. seems to have talked some sense into him before that option was ever considered.”

“Ballistic missiles would have just as easily taken care of the mining as the
Strela
s themselves,” Gilmour said, returning his eyes to Dark Horse, “but without the precision.”

Dark Horse nodded. “I’d prefer to save us the mess that would create.” And the political fallout, he didn’t have to add.

“What do you have in mind then, Colonel?” Gilmour asked, fully aware of Dark Horse’s intentions before he even moved his lips.

“Suffice to say, Washington can’t wait for the Navy to intercept the Confederation flotilla. Once the
Strela
warheads are immersed in the trench soil, they would be virtually impossible to remove, save actually detonating them, one at a time, defeating the purpose in the first place.”

“Colonel,” McKean spoke up, “we did succeed in reprogramming some of the warheads. Can we use those prior operations to our advantage?”

“We all know our advantage is slim at best in that department, especially in light of the failures our illegals caused. The only way we can assure complete success is to be there when the warheads are dropped and
reprogram them one by one
, just like you gentlemen had the illegals do. And for that, Doctor de Lis and his staff have been working on a way to reinforce your hazard suits for that mission.”

Gilmour furrowed his brow. “Reinforce? Why would we need them reinforced? De Lis told us when we first started this whole business that the hazard suits could function in virtually any...environ...ment....” He brought his hand to his forehead. “Oh, you’ve got to be joking.”

McKean’s eyes darted from Dark Horse to Gilmour and back again. “What? What are you talking about, Colonel?!”

“He’s talking about sending us to the bottom of the trench, Neil!” Gilmour spat out, interrupting the lieutenant colonel before he could answer. “Kilometers under the
fucking
ocean!”

“You can’t be serious! We don’t know how the jaunts will be affected by that much atmospheric pressure! No one’s done any calculations or simulations showing anything like that!”

Dark Horse’s mouth flattened as he held his hands out, palms first, in an attempt to quiet the two. “Gentlemen, listen—”

“Look, Colonel, no one said we’d have to go walk on the ocean bottom with the fishes! That wasn’t part of the bargain.”

“Agent McKean, I understand your concern, but I’ve been reassured by Doctor de Lis that his project scientists think it can theoretically be done with existing technology. In fact, he said they’ve run several simulations in the event a worst case scenario such as this had to occur.”

Gilmour folded his arms, tipping himself back in his seat. “Colonel, that’s not comforting in the least.”

Slamming his stack of holobooks on the table, Dark Horse slapped both hands on the tabletop, then leaned forward into the skeptical faces of the agents and said, “If you won’t hear it from me, gentlemen, take it from de Lis’ mouth. I’m just a simple military man. I’m sure the doctor can synthesize some concoction to make the bitter go down with the sweet.”

With that, Dark Horse rose and stormed into the corridor, leaving the pair of agents to stew in their collective gall. Once the door had locked behind the departing lieutenant colonel, McKean shot to his feet and threw down his holobook, which skidded across the table.

“Can you fucking believe that?!” McKean spat, his eyes boring holes in the door meters away. “Shit, you’d think they’re trying to kill us off one at a time!”

Gilmour remained mute, his arms now crossed over his chest.

“Gilmour, can you believe that?!” McKean said again, looking at his seated partner.

Gilmour’s face was stone, with no hint he had even heard McKean’s outburst.

McKean leaned close to Gilmour’s left flank, his head just centimeters from the other agent’s ear. “Gilmour?”

“Either way, Neil,” he said finally, “we die. We can sit here, booted from our commissions and sulking while the planet goes to hell and we die slowly from radiation poisoning, or we can go into the trench and die when our suits depressurize.” Gilmour’s eyes slowly met McKean’s incredulous orbs. “Which do you prefer?”

“What the hell kind of choice is that?”

“Myself, I’d rather go fast...decompression. It’d kill us instantly. I don’t want to linger and think about past regrets and other nonsense if we’re irradiated like a couple of test monkeys.”