The Demon Plagues (10 page)

He found the ramshackle converted warehouse
with the flickering XX and
Azteca Cerveza
signs, the faded
paint reading
El Vaquero Feliz
– The Happy Cowboy. Cowboys
there were, by the score, the lucky ones that rode in on the trains
to make sure their cattle got to their destinations, as well as
train crew, stockyard hands, butchers and plant workers. Gamblers
swarmed there too, and pimps and whores; places like this ensured
the out-of-towners left some of their hard-earned pay behind, and
gave the locals a place to blow their bonuses.

A UGNA Security Service truck parked
conspicuously in the capacious lot, and a double squad of
jackbooted troopers roamed the outside of the joint, combining
their law-and-order function with the Mexican
Federale
tradition of bribery and ‘protection.’ They didn’t go inside the
big building unless things got out of hand; no matter what the law
and the
norteamericanos
said, business had to be done, in
most places the same old ways. The
gringos
could hardly keep
their own house in order, much less a police hundred million
Mexicans who didn’t really want them there.

Perversely, Skull was comforted by the sight
of the truck, and particularly by the profile of
Capitan
Dionicio Vargas leaning against its fender as he lit a cigarette
for one of the cleaner, better-looking prostitutes. Denham shuffled
into the SS officer’s field of view, flashing a quick hand sign,
ending in a casual motion running his hands through his thin short
hair under an upraised hat.

Plucking the cigarette out of the woman’s
mouth, he took a drag from it and then kissed her deeply, blowing
the smoke out into her lungs until she choked and coughed,
laughing. Turning away with it still in his fingers, he walked
around the corner nearest Denham.

Skull caught the whiff of the potent
cannabis-and-tobacco blend favored here as he followed. A few
moments later the two men stood alone in a cul-de-sac formed by
battered industrial cargo containers. They stared at one another
for a moment, then both stepped forward and embraced, slapping
backs.

“Skull, man, good to see you.” Vargas held
the slimmer man at arms length.

“You too, Denny. Been a while. I see you’re
el Capitan
now.”

“The higher I climb, the more I can see, you
know that.”

“Just as long as you aren’t going
native.”

Vargas laughed. “Could do worse than going
native here. I speak the language but they know I’m Puerto Rican.
To them that still means ‘rich American.’ Best of both worlds, and
the women, baby, they love me.”

“You know what I mean. What did you want to
see me about?”

Vargas took a long drag off the cigarette,
offered it to Skull.

Denham shook his head. “No dope.”

Denny shrugged. “I got some intel you
wanted.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“First I want a favor.”

Skull’s eyes narrowed. “First? Denny, you
have
gone native. We’re bargaining now? You and me?”

Vargas threw the butt to the ground to grind
it out, eyes down in embarrassment. “Sorry, man. You know I didn’t
mean it that way. New place, new habits.” He looked back up,
sheepish. “Okay, here’s what I got, from a source of a source, so I
don’t know how reliable it is. They say Portmanteaux is going to
meet with Markis in Geneva under cover of a visit to the Neutral
States Assembly next week.”

“The Canadian Prime Minister?”

“Yeah, they always send him for the nice-nice
diplomacy.”

“So? This is big news? Why should I
care?”

“Because I think they’re going to kill
him.”

“Kill who? Portmanteaux? That makes no
sense.”

“No, no. Markis.” Vargas stared at Skull,
pulled out a pack of real Marlboros, hard to get nowadays, offering
him one. He took it. Vargas drew one out for himself.

“I can’t believe the Canadians would go along
with that.” Skull lit his smoke, then Vargas’. The familiar smell
wafted painful memories through his mind.

“They aren’t. It’s an SS operation under
cover of the visit. A Psycho’s heading it up.”

“Psychos.” Skull drenched the word with
contempt. “If there’s anything worse than a Sicko it’s a Psycho.
Any names?”

“No, I got nothing. I’m lucky to have this.
It’s pretty close-hold.

Skull took a long drag, savoring the wickedly
satisfying American processed tobacco blend. “And you’re okay with
me sticking my oar in?”

“You know I am. The effing Psychos are
getting more power behind the scenes. I hate them. Better we all
end up as Edie Sicko pansies than Psychos. You ever look in one’s
eyes? They’re cold, they’re dead inside. They’re the real enemy,
not the Edies. Edies are just sheep. Psychos are freakin’
vampires.” Vargas spat on the ground. A trick of echoes briefly
threw the sounds of music from the cantina into their metal corner,
vanished just as abruptly.

“Have you heard anything more about Tiny
Fortress?”

“Not for the last year. I heard it got to be
political. The Psychos and their allies are terrified of it. If it
works, it could completely eliminate their usefulness. I think it’s
still being funded, but I have no idea what it’s come up with.”

Skull turned around in place and waved his
arms, suddenly jittery from the unaccustomed nicotine. “It sure
would solve some problems if we had something with the benefits of
the Plague without its side effects.”

“And create others. It’s bad enough with a
few Psychos around – do you want a bunch of unkillable
nanomachine-filled stormtroopers backing them up?”

Skull laughed mirthlessly. “As long as I’m
one of them, I think I’d like it just fine. I think you would
too.”

Vargas shook his head. “Sometimes I hate this
‘brave new world, that has such people in it’.”

“Come on, Denny. Don’t you know what DJ said?
‘It’s a
better
world’.”

“Not from my point of view. Did you really
know him?”

“For a little while. Head in the clouds
idealist. Typical Air Force type. If they can’t get rid of grunts
and real war using airplanes and smart bombs, he figured he’d try
germs, I guess.”

“Well, whatever, he sure did shake things up.
Gotta admire that anyway.”

“Denny, sometimes I think you’re one weird
dude.”

“I’m a romantic, Skull. Drama. Big things.
And deep down, you are too.”

“Screw you.”

“Naw, I’ll take Rosita. And speaking of
screwing…she’s been waiting long enough.” Vargas flicked his
glowing cigarette butt over the cargo container wall, then reached
out to clasp hands with his friend once more.

Skull returned the grip. “That’s some good
gouge, man. Thanks. Now what was that favor you wanted?”

“Well, there’s this
pinche cabron
of a
Unie supervisor that’s been poking his nose into my business. A
do-gooder Nazi from upstairs, wants to clean up the streets, all
that
mierda
. I can tell you where and when he’ll be exposed,
what he looks like, the works. All you got to do is pull the
trigger.”

Skull smiled humorlessly. “And get away with
it. Done, my friend. Now I need a favor from you. I’m about out of
money; I sure don’t have enough to travel. I either need a loan, or
some intel on where a goodly chunk of cash will be that I can take
from some deserving organization.”

Vargas stroked his moustache thoughtfully
“All right. As long as you’re leaving the country soon after, I
think I know where a cartel bagman will be tomorrow night, or the
next…” He gave Skull a place and a time. “That’s all I can do. You
take care of yourself, Alan. Get your cash, get outta here. Don’t
make me come kill you.”

“Likewise.” Skull mimed shooting Denny with
his finger and then slipped out into the drumbeat darkness.

The submarine’s background hum remained
ever-present. Behind Doc, Alkina laid out the man’s medical kit,
placed several more tools within reach, then silently glided away
as he was concentrating on his patient. Taking a roundabout way,
PW5 in one hand, trank in the other, she knocked out two more
groggy crewmen before she found the compartment she was looking
for. She stared at the executive officer’s safe for only a moment
before going to work.

Her protective earbud came out; another
device went in, connected to a sonic amplifier specially made for
this kind of work. Placing the conductive pickup of the sensor next
to the combination lock, she spun the dial. Two minutes and fifty
seconds later it came open. The key hanging on the chain inside
went immediately around her neck. The nuclear launch binders, with
their codes printed on tough plastic sheets, went into her tunic
next to her heart.

Closing the door and spinning the dial to
lock it, she moved silently down to the next compartment. The
Captain’s safe. She repeated the procedure, listening for the
faintest of sounds that told her just where the dial should rest on
each rotation. This time she was even faster; the door opened in
less than two and a half minutes.

She stared at an empty cavity.

“Looking for this?”

She froze, turning slowly to see Colonel
Nguyen, the sub captain’s launch key swinging in one hand, his P90
in the other. Its muzzle pointed unwaveringly at Alkina’s
chest.

“What are you doing, Colonel?”

“I’m wondering why you just tried to get
control of both sets of launch keys.”

“Merely securing them. In case one of the
crew got by us.”

“We have the captain and the exec. No one
else on the boat knows the combinations. Or has our skills.”

“Are you sure? What if they change
procedures? All of our information is over a year old – since the
last defection. What if they gave the combinations out to two
officers each?”

“You can give up the smoke and mirrors.
There’s something you’re not telling me. I think there are many
things you are not telling me.”

The corners of Alkina’s mouth quirked upward.
“The feeling is mutual. I’m just the liaison. You’re the team
leader. You have me outnumbered seven to one.”

“But we’re heading for your country. For
Australia.”

“Because we’re the most competent maritime
nation in the FC. No one else could put this boat to use like we
can.”

“That’s the party line. And once we get to
Garden Island sub base intact, if everything goes according to
plan, I’ll be happy to turn over everything that’s left of this
boat to the legitimate government of the Free Community of
Australia. Who is certainly not you. You’re no more a naval
commander than I am a kangaroo. You’re a field operative.”

Alkina shrugged. “Certain skills were needed.
It’s easier for someone like me to wear this uniform than for a
naval officer to be trained the way I am.”

“I’m glad you did not lie to me. We
are
on the same side, aren’t we? But let me be perfectly
clear. If after this, even
one
thing goes wrong without a
superb explanation –
anything
odd at all – I will lock you
in a cabin and you can spend the next two weeks squatting in the
corner eating dry breakfast cereal. And if that doesn’t work, I
will cut off your hands and feet and have Doc strap you to your
bunk with an IV in your arm.”

Color drained from Alkina’s milk-chocolate
face, leaving her a kind of pasty grey. She cocked her head,
snakelike. “You can’t. You have been infected for ten years. You
couldn’t do something so evil.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you found
a way around the virtue effect?”

“No need. I’ll let you in on a little secret
– which you probably know anyway. The virtue effect doesn’t stop
someone from doing what he believes won’t cause
permanent
harm. You would eventually regrow your extremities.”

“It would cause me permanent psychological
harm.”

“You? Are you certain?” Spooky just smiled,
teeth bared. “I suppose I’d just have to steel myself against that
possibility. Perhaps you should not test me.”

Nostrils flaring, she slowly lifted the key
on its chain toward the colonel.

“No, you keep it. That way we both know
nobody will be launching missiles unexpectedly.”

Twelve hours later Chairman Markis and a
small group of hard-faced men and women boarded a twin-engine
executive charter jet out of Caracas, Venezuela bound for Bamako,
Mali. Transferring planes, they flew on to Fes, Morocco, only to
transfer again and fly across at Gibraltar and up the coast of
Spain, well inside Neutral States airspace.

All this was merely to disguise his
movements; flying the same jet across the Atlantic to Africa and
then on to Switzerland direct would have risked the United
Governments figuring out that he was on board and possibly shooting
down the jet over international waters. Japanese Admiral Yamamoto
had been killed that way by the US in World War Two, his aircraft
intercepted and downed by Army fighters acting on Navy
intelligence. Markis had no desire to follow in his footsteps.

It made for a long and tiring journey, though
their rejuvenated bodies gave them the energy of youth. They landed
at Geneva Airport after almost twenty-four hours of continuous
travel.

First out was the leader of the Chairman’s
personal security detachment, his PSD. Karl Rogett was an
iron-jawed, chisel-faced man with old, old eyes set in his
rejuvenated face. Those eyes roamed the tarmac, looking for threats
out to the limits of his perfect vision. He took in the buildings
in the distance, marking places where a sniper could hide. He
examined the nearer threat zones, looking for anomalies in the
airport’s routine. He noted the position of Swiss military and
security forces with qualified approval.
These people know their
jobs. But they seem a little complacent.