Libor: Katana Krieger #2 Page 3

  "Don't take this as a trust issue between you and me, or between you and ChiNO. Take this as advice from two old soldiers who want to help." He reaches out and touches the cast on my arm. "You know what can happen if we make another mistake."

  My mom used to say, "Make sure your brain is in gear before engaging the mouth." Advice never as useful as today. I plan on counting to 10, make it to 25 before I'm ready to go.

  "I understand, sir." Not the truth, but not exactly a lie either. Pretty sure that they wouldn't have done this to Weaver, who's the 50 year old captain of the second frigate in the fleet, still under construction.

  "We're taking one of your Marine squads away. You need to carry the Senator, the two professors, one aide, a four man Marine Force Recon unit, four Marine aviators for two landing ships, and three for your assault ship." And a partridge in a pear tree.

  There are racks for 29 Marines on deck two, with the squad gone we'll still have 28 on board, not counting my security team. The civilians can have the extra space on deck three where the aviators had been bunking.

  "Understood, sir." No reason to ask for my Marines back, especially since they train their aviators to be fighters, not just flyers, and I know from Tony that the deal is done.

  "We're also putting another burden on you." He stops for a second and swirls the golden beverage around the ice cubes in his glass. "The Senator is in command, but under no circumstances should you allow any aliens aboard your ship. Chase and I will run interference as best we can when you get back, but no matter what it takes, keep your decks clear."

  I don't have any ice cubes to circle around, but I pretend I do to collect my response before I let it out.

  "Sir, that was not an order you needed to give me. I expect combatants to have some idea of honorable behavior. I expect them to put their cannons broadside to my cannons and may the best woman win." I pause to re-edit the next sentence, minus a couple words I was thinking of using.

  "The Libor have cheated at every encounter. They've sabotaged my ship and sent humans to die so they could sneak away. The only way they get on Yorktown is in body containers. I don't see how we can ever trust them, based on what we've seen so far."

  The boss takes the last gulp of his beverage, signals to the server for a refill.

  "Glad to hear it. But remember that the Senator is convinced he can make friends. Be careful that you don't prevent that from happening before he's taken his shot."

  "Aye, sir." My butt calculates the probability that we make friends at 0.0001, but I keep that to myself. Then he reads my mind again.

  "I don't think he can do it either, but you and I have to do everything we can to help. We don't need another 100 years of war."

  "Roger that, Admiral, roger that."

  A second scotch appears on our table, the admiral silent until the server is out of range.

  "Now, what do you want from me?" He ingests half of the scotch without breaking eye contact.

  I don't even think about the first request.

  "Promote my Ensign." Courtney McAdams, my number one RISTA and maybe the best in the business despite being 23 years old, deserves a reward.

  "Done." He pauses for a second. "You know she's not going to be yours much longer. There's already a fight between ChiNO and Naval Experimental for her."

  "Aye, sir, I was surprised we got her back for the last mission, much less this next one."

  "What else?"

  "Find a way to put some Daggers on my ship." We carry large ballistic missiles known as Javelins, and a close in weapons missile system known as Darts. Daggers are in between, medium range. We could have used a pile of them over the past couple months.

  He smiles funny.

  "We might have a surprise for you there, but you'll have to wait a few days. What else?"

  I think and pretend to swirl for again maybe 20 seconds.

  "I can't think of anything, sir, though I'm sure I will the second you're gone."

  He laughs. "Isn't that always the way."

  The boss finishes the second scotch in two continuous swallows, puts the glass down and quickly stands, holding his hand up to indicate I should stay seated. He wants to get out of here before I ask him for something he hadn't already planned on doing.

  "I'll see you at 0800. Stay as long as you like, they'll put it on my tab."

  "Thank you, sir." And he's gone, his Marine guard forming up on him silently as he exits.

  I sit a while, still swirling the non-existent ice cubes in my rum, thinking about what I should have asked for. By the time I figure it out, it's just me, the bartender, and one of the two dudes from two tables over. I get up to get out, and get ready for tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  I make it half way to the street before my butt sounds battlestations. My first impulse is to ignore it, assume it's the rum talking out the wrong end of me a few hours early, but my peripheral vision picks up the clear sign of a uninvited man on my tail. Only one man it could be, and he has a partner who walked out the door 20 minutes ago. Not suspicious at the time, but now making me wish I had walked out with Benson, or rather, with his two armed guards.

  My feet slip a little as I pick up the pace, the zero gee moccasins I'm wearing not designed for traction on the brown tile floors. The eating part of the restaurant is the aft section, the bar in front, solid wood construction with a leather and granite top, padded stools along its edge, and a set of high top tables with their own stools filling the rest of the space, bottles covering the far wall.

  I wander past the high tops, all of them empty, cleaned, and ready for closing. The bartender gives me a nod, I catch her eye and give a slight head bounce toward my tail. She calls a "good night" and goes back to cleaning, apparently unaware.

  There is no door, just a 20 foot wide opening that spills into the mall outside. This section of the station has spin, creating artificial gravity, useful since the ring we're in is half shops, half restaurants. Normally brightly lit, but artificial twilight is in effect as we near closing time. My tailor (and the way out) is a few hundred yards to my right.

  I go left.

  There is only one exit to the zero gee section, and it's in the middle of the shops. Not an exit, actually, sort of a train that matches speed with the spin, loads up, then slows to a stop, disgorges, then repeats. It only has one station. That's where the other pony tail will be waiting, so it's decidedly not where I'm going.

  I continue at a brisk walking pace just in case my instincts are wrong, one eye on the road, the other back at the restaurant. I've got a 40 foot head start when my tail exits the bar, scans quickly both directions, grabs his pad to send a message, and walks my way.

  He almost certainly was messaging his partner, but whether the message was to follow, stay, or go around the other direction, I have no idea. Doesn't change my plan.

  This section is restaurants, all somewhere into the various phases of closing. They all have no doors, just metal gates that roll out of the ceiling to close their spaces, and, in an age old tradition, the gates are mostly, but not completely down to let people know they shouldn't enter, while allowing the tired employees to leave.

  I walk speedily, trying to look nonchalant at the same time, until I am out of view of my tail, then I sprint as best I can in the slippery moccasins for a hundred feet or so, finally sliding to a stop outside a deli on the inner portion of the ring.

  I hunch down, use my good arm to take the mocs off my feet, then I ball them up and toss them toward the Italian place on the outside of the ring. My father would be proud, they land just outside the door, the ball springs open, and they slide a couple feet until they are just inside the gate, clearly visible from the street.

  Then I turn and dive into the deli, sliding under the gate. Mistake. I manage to turn the scream that wants to exit into a grunt, but the pain that shoots from my arm into my brain is electric. Worse, there's a sound from under my leg that comes from me landing awkwardly on my pad and probably ending its
life before I have a chance to call anyone.

  I have to pause for just a second to collect myself, and that forces a change in the plan.

  The sound of footsteps is noticeable behind me, outside in the street. Instead of running toward the back, I drag my sorry butt to the closest table and hide behind it, a nice white table cloth providing little better than minimal cover.

  "Rat, you got her?" Rat. Somebody chasing me is named Rat. And his text was obviously to join up. Two of them now.

  "Socks over here." Socks. Rat is somehow the smart one of the team.

  "Thought I heard someone over here."

  I'm looking under the table, in the six inches between the edge of the cloth and the tile floor. The table itself is round, with a large center pedestal underneath. It's darker on my side of the gate, meaning I should still be somewhat hidden, and the pedestal at least lets me think I'm hiding behind something.

  There's a man hunched over, looking into the deli under the gate. Given that the gate is just a giant piece of heavy chain link, he's actually cut his range of vision by feeling the need to look underneath it. Possibly explains why he's an ex-Marine, and/or why his name is Rat.

  "You go into Georgio's, I'll take this place." That's the Italian spot across the street. My plan is partly successful, smelly moccasins causing the enemy to divide his forces.

  Then I see Rat reach into his jacket and pull out what appears to be a nine millimeter. How the whatever did a civilian, ex-Marine or not, manage to get a weapon like that onto the station? That's followed by the more distant sound of a clip popping out and being re-inserted. Rat's friend has one too.

  Quiet as a mouse, I slip backwards into the darkness, looking for anything I might use as a weapon. I don't want to go too far in, there's a door at the back of the room, no window but a crack at the bottom letting a light flood of light escape and play across the floor. Where I am is the darkest spot in the place.

  The tables are arranged in a more or less random pattern, I only have to move a little to my left as I back out to circle the next table and get behind it. With my good hand, I blindly search the tabletop. There's less than nothing there.

  I hear a couple grunts from the grunt who's sliding himself under the gate and into the deli, 25 feet or so away. It might have been smarter to go straight at him while he was down on the floor, but too late now to worry about that. I move backward again, keeping low and as cat like as I am able.

  I'm four rows of tables back into the restaurant, three more rows behind me. Hidden behind this table, I reach up once again to run my fingers across the table cloth, expecting another sea of empty. That's not what I find. Takes me a few seconds to feel around and figure out what it is.

  Ambiance. Pure ambiance. They have old school glass ketchup bottles, a funnel, and a large can. Nonsense to transport glass bottles into a space station, no reason to do it except to show off to your customers. Someone was refilling the bottles for tomorrow's visitors, but stopped part way through.

  Using my right arm, I grab the nearest bottle by the neck, and swing it around so the fat end is up, as much a club as I can manage. Someone should have stopped me, reminded me that they were filling bottles, which means the caps were likely not attached.

  The bottle makes a "glop", out loud, loud enough for all to hear, the sound of ketchup and air changing places, ketchup to the bottom and air to the top. I don't know any other way to describe it, just a "glop," and a glop of ketchup exits the bottle, lands on my shoulder, shatters into a million tiny red droplets and attacks the hair. I get the opening twisted around before the rest of the bottle empties, doing my best to ignore what just happened to me.

  Rat heard the glop. No doubt. His shadow becomes visible, long and frail, rotating across the floor of the deli, rotating to where I'm hiding. Unlikely that he sees me, but all he needed was the glop. The shadow stabilizes and starts moving forward.

  Whoever was in the back of the deli heard the glop too. We're nearly blinded as the door swings open expelling light into our darkness, a woman walks out, talking backwards, explaining to whoever's back there what she heard.

  She's young, blonde, wearing jeans and a white cotton top stained from a day at work. She sees someone, either me or Rat, and starts screaming.

  I'm on my feet as the screaming starts, rear back and throw the bottle with every ounce of strength I've got straight at Rat. As it leaves my hand I start running toward the entrance, grabbing another bottle off the table as I go.

  Rat missed me for a second, the light from the door bright, outlining the young woman, but leaving me in the dark. Then the flying ketchup bottle and the running captain catch his attention, his eyes brightening as they focus on his quarry.

  He starts to raise his weapon, but I have mine up first, and the second bottle flashes toward his face. The first one did little but make noise and leave a trail of drops for me to slip on as I ran toward my assailant, but the second smashes into his nose, two different shades of red now mixing across his lips and dripping down his chin.

  "Fruuhhh!!" Either his partner is named Frank or he just yelled a bad word through the blood and ketchup, either way I'm not sticking around to find out. Praying that he'll leave the girl in peace and come after me, I continue to move at top speed, racing toward the street as fast as my bare little feet can take me.

  I do the dive thing again, sliding across the floor of the restaurant and out into the street, no need to hide the scream this time as the pain from my arm rips into me, and the remnants of my pad bite into my leg.

  Scrambling back onto my feet, I take a right, still moving away from the exit and deeper into restaurant row, now relatively certain that someone behind me is dialing 911. Two restaurants down, I slow and enter more gently under another gate, this one open by three feet and not requiring a limbo exercise. I recognize this place, an all you can eat for $9 buffet I have frequented. A huge L-shaped serving area sits empty and spotless in front of me, cash register close by, then shiny aluminum cabinets and cooktops with panes of clear glass starting six inches above each to prevent sneezes from going where they don't belong, but allowing plates to be handed out beneath. A sea of cheap plastic tables and chairs covers the land off to my left.

  I run down and across the L, looking for something I can use. The only handy items are three cast iron fry pans sitting on one of the cook tops. I grab the last and smallest one, about five inches in diameter, no slackening of pace as I pass by, deft use of my right hand to slip in the small gap and extract the pan. It's one solid piece of dark iron, handle and pan extruded from the same lump of molten metal.

  Around to the server side of the L, I'm disappointed to find most of the area underneath the counters is filled with white plates, silverware, napkins, and cups, all stacked and ready for the morning breakfast rush. I could toss plates at the incoming enemy, but they'd fire back with nine millimeter rounds, and the thin aluminum of the carts would not provide much in the way of cover.

  The section of counter closest to me, though, is open and empty, with curtains that can be drawn across it. I manage to slip down into the space crouched roughly on my knees and draw the curtains. There is more than enough horizontal clearance, my head is at the break between the two curtains so I can peek out. Vertically, though, there's barely enough space with my knees and feet on the base to keep my head and back from hitting the top. Still, it will do.

  The next couple minutes are spent trying to run silent and use my sensors to pick up any incoming bad guys. It's not hard, they're loud enough that anyone within 100 yards knows where they are. Rat is standing guard in the street, hopefully still dripping blood, his buddy is coming in. Surprisingly, they're smart enough to know I have to be in the buffet or the spot across the street.

  I'm amazed that we've seen no Shore Patrol and that they are willing to be that loud and that slow. I'm also mad that the ketchup bottle didn't do more damage.

  There are footsteps nearby, my assumption that Rat's buddy is w
alking the route through the restaurant that I just ran, coming down the L. No place to hide in among the tables, I'm either in the serving area or through the door into the back of the house. Once again, there's a light on there, this time with the occasional sound of laughter, probably civilians washing dishes.

  Half a dozen footsteps later, someone walks past my hiding place until they reach the junction of the L, then turns back and heads my way once again. If it were me, I'd know where I was hiding, the prize behind curtain number one.

  I check my grip on the frying pan, tense my muscles as best I can in the small space. The feet stop, I can see the shadow of legs falling across the white cloth. He's turning toward me, no shadow of a weapon, but I know it's there.

  My hand tightens around the cold iron handle as I push outward with my legs as hard as I can, the pan finding the way between his thighs and driving upward with all the strength in my good arm.