Whistling Past the Graveyard (11 page)

The man reclined in the chair, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed, lips pursed as he studied the images that played out on the flatscreen monitor that filled most of one wall. He watched with professional interest as a Phantom Ray veered off course and slammed its eighteen and a half tons into a General Atomics Avenger. Both drones exploded in a massive fireball and fell onto the desert floor far below. Unmanned tanks swung their turrets and laid down continuous fire at fast attack vehicles. Machine guns in remote controlled Black Hawks turned their guns on other helos flying in attack formation. All of it within seconds, all of it in a beautifully coordinated ballet of self-immolation and mutual destruction.

When the last of the guns fell silent, the man in the chair took a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils, puffing like a contented dragon. In the upper left corner of the screen a smaller pop-up screen showed the face of a beautiful woman with long brunette hair and glasses that hung around her neck on a silver chain.

“This completes our demonstration, sir,” she said. Her voice trembled and she was clearly nervous. No, almost certainly afraid. Although she did not know the name, or even the code name of the man to whom she spoke, she knew enough about who he was and what he represented to be properly terrified. That pleased the man; it was as it should be.

The woman stared at him―or at the screen saver of a coiled snake, which was all that she would ever see of him―with expectation in her eyes. Was she waiting for praise?

Probably. He smiled. The next ice age would come and go before he would spoon out praise to a
vendor
. And a potential vendor at that.

“What is your asking price?” he said. There was at least a fragment of tacit approval in that question. Let that be enough for her. Let her suck what juice there was out of that.

But she was undeterred. She leaned toward the camera, double vertical lines forming between her brows. “Price is secondary,” she said. “Your assurance is paramount.”

“Of course,” he replied with only the barest hesitation, “and you have it. I respect and endorse your ideals. Ending global conflict is our shared goal. How did Prospero himself phrase it? ‘When no human hand touches a weapon of war, then war will not touch human hearts.’ Elegantly phrased. Much better than my own clumsy ‘Wage a war to end all wars.’ So…rest assured that I will always bear in mind that this is the cornerstone of any arrangement between us.”

The woman hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Now,” the man said, “I believe we were discussing price—?”

The woman had enough grace and good taste not to speak the number. Instead she looked down and tapped some keys. A price appeared in a discreet corner of the screen. There were a lot of zeroes. Some might say an absurd amount.

The man in the chair considered the price.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, and before she could say anything he disconnected the call.

He sat in silence for a thoughtful few moments and then turned his head ever so slightly to the other small pop-up screen.

“You may comment,” he said.

“That bonnie lass and her auld―and, I might add, quite daft―Frankenstein boyfriend are trying to rob ye blind, and ye damn well know it,” snapped a slender man wearing an ermine-trimmed robe. He wore a mask of polished silver through which intelligent, calculating eyes stared out.

“Is that your professional assessment of the demonstration?”

“Oh, aye, I like it well enough. Lots of lovely pyrotechnics. Hooray for the Red, White and Blue…but ah dinnieken why ye want another vendor. Which of my bloody systems have underperformed for ye?”

“What’s the matter, Lord Destro? Don’t you
believe
in capitalism?”

“I believe in loyalty. From vendor to customer as well as from customer to vendor.”

“Mmm, that’s one view, but it’s self-corrupting. Competition, on the other hand, encourages innovation, shortens time to market, and allows for more rational discussions of price.”

“Don’t be daft. I’m fair scunnered with these games. There’s a trust issue here as well.”

“Trust is earned.”

“And haven’t I earned your trust?”

“Allow me to modify that statement. Trust needs to be continually earned.”

The man with the silver face said nothing.

“Dr. Prospero is offering some exciting new technologies. His hybrid Skyjack/Tempest intrusion software is probably worth the price he’s asking for the whole package. I don’t really need the exosuit, though admittedly there are some members of the Crimson Guard who would enjoy field testing it.” He paused. “Really, Destro, if you had a mobile tactical command unit like Caliban we might not be having this conversation.”

“I can make one, as ye damn well know.”

“‘Can make one’ is far less appealing to me than ‘have one now.’ I can have the schematics for Dr. Prospero’s technology ten minutes after a wire transfer to the Caymans. Can you do that for me?”

Lord Destro’s face was inert steel, and yet it seemed to convey both anger and menace.

The man in the comfortable chair chuckled. “I thought not.”

“You know you can’t trust him,” said Destro. “Unless you’re so soft that you
believe
that he’s doing this all for morality and greater good.”

“Mmm, and all this time I thought
you
were an idealist, and yet you are always willing to take my money. What are you saying? That idealism is merely a candy coating over a poisoned apple?”

“Are you comparing me to that maniac?” demanded Destro.

“If you’re uncomfortable with the question, then forget I said anything. Contact me when you have something for me to consider.”

“‘Consider’? In the name of the wee man! What about our agreements?”

“Free market,” said the man with an airy wave of the hand. “Sadly, it’s become a free market.”

He disconnected the call and reached for his wine, sipped it. And smiled.

-6-

Destro Castle

Scotland

Lord Destro reached out and tapped a key to disconnect his end of the call. The white static vanished on the screen. He slowly stood and walked slowly across the room, his steps measured and his posture thoughtful. His two dogs―great brutes of black hounds named Cu Sith and Boky―lifted their heads and watched him. They knew their master and his moods, and they were not at all fooled by the calm façade; just as they were not surprised when their master suddenly snatched up a silver and crystal goblet and threw it the length of the room.

Boky
whuffed
softly.

Cu Sith bared a fang and growled low in his throat.

Destro sighed and bowed his head.

Honor was a ten ton weight at times. He’d known about Prospero for years and had worked with him off and on. A gentleman’s agreement was supposed to be in place. Prospero would bring his drones and software systems to him and Destro would in turn broker them to Cobra. Now it was clear to a blind man that Prospero had no intention of including Destro in any part of this exchange. Not even so much as a finder’s fee for having introduced the old tosspot to the Commander. And Destro had lent Prospero some of his own systems and even one of his top men, Han Kong, to speed the development along. Kong, of course, had finessed a few things according to Destro’s requirements, none of which were shared with Prospero. That wasn’t dishonorable, that was common sense self-defense.

This presentation…now that was so sharp a slap in the face that Destro swore he could actually feel it on his skin.

“Damn ye for a Sassenach!” he said in a fierce whisper, conjuring images in his mind of that old bastard being torn to red rags by the dogs.

He felt insulted, betrayed. Hurt.

He had even tried to give Prospero a chance to make it right. He’d gone through that with Miranda to suggest very quietly and discreetly that the old man stop hunting on another man’s preserve. When that hadn’t worked he’d appealed directly to the egotistical old swine. Nothing. Not even a returned phone call.

Instead, the Commander called him and offered him the opportunity to covertly observe Prospero’s impromptu test.

There were times he wished he was a mackerel fisherman. This life could be so bloody frustrating.

“Honor among thieves,” he said aloud. “Aye, and pigs may fly.”

The dogs got up and came over to him, leaning their huge shoulders against him, whimpering softly. Destro bent and stroked their flanks, doing it slowly, letting the action soothe him. Dogs were always the best of companions, and no joke. Loyal by nature’s design and incapable of guile.

“Ye shaggy monsters,” he said with rough affection. They licked his hands and chuffed.

Destro took a long breath and let it out. Then he cocked his head to one side as if listening to an inner voice.

“Ah…you are a glaikit moron,” he told himself. Beneath his mask, he smiled. Then he turned back toward the computer and looked at the screen as if he could still see Prospero in his metal suit. And still hear the Commander’s velvet mockery of a voice.

“Free market be damned.”

He stalked back to his computer terminal and began hammering keys. He used a signal re-router to spin-worm his way into the Department of Defense database, blank-trailing his entry by a code-rewriter that wiped out all traces of the intrusion. Then he accessed the inactive employee data files and brought up the login for Dr. Han Kong.

Still smiling, he tapped in the password.

“
Welcome, Dr. Kong,”
said a soft computer voice.

Destro laughed softly to himself. “Free market is it, ya bas? I’ve got your number and no mistake. Let’s all make free, and devil take the hindmost.”

-7-

The Island

Tactical Observation Room #1

Flint stared through the reinforced glass at the flaming wreckage and gave a low whistle. “That’s…beautiful.”

“I don’t think that would be the adjective I’d choose,” muttered Doc Greer.

Flint grunted. “The pacifist doesn’t like things blowing up. Enormous surprise, Doc.”

“It’s not just that. One man did all that. Granted the attack vehicles were all automated, but from what I can see it wouldn’t have played out any differently had there been real men and women on the field. One man.”

Scarlett added, “One man in a half-billion dollar combat suit cross-linked to targeting satellites and using counter-encryption intrusion software.”

“My point exactly,” agreed Doc.

Flint turned away from the fires still burning out in the desert. “What adjective would you prefer?”

“Offhand?” said Doc. “Terrifying.”

“Then you’re going to live in fear, Doc, because this is the new face of warfare. Congress and NATO are going to line up to shovel money into this project.”

Something caught their eyes and they both turned toward the window as the man in the combat rig walked by. Light from the observation deck spilled out through the window and traced the outline of the stalking figure. Prospero was totally encased in armor painted with the alternating pixilated slate gray, desert sand, and foliage green of the universal camouflage pattern used by the U.S. Military. The exoskeleton was neither sleek nor handsome. Instead it looked like an ugly and improbable collection of pipes and plates fuse-welded in a way to be deliberately unpleasant to the eye. However its massive height gave it grandeur and its performance in the field inspired a sense of dread.

It stopped and turned toward them. From outside this viewport blended into the landscape, invisible even to infrared and NVG, but the blank steel face of the titan swiveled around so that it was facing the Joes inside.

“God almighty,” breathed Doc.

Then the massive metal arm came up into a formal salute, snapping it off with a touch of swagger instead of the crisp military precision that would have been more in keeping with the thing’s robotic appearance. But the Joes knew full well that this was no robot, nor was it a drone. A man hung suspended within the metal body, his slightest move instantly activating a reciprocal move by the exoskeleton.

And though they could not see the face of Dr. Allyn Prospero, they knew that the old scientist was smiling.

“Okay,” said Scarlett as the thing turned and stalked away. “I’ll go with ‘terrifying,’ too.”

“I might have understated it,” murmured Doc.

The hatch door behind them hissed open and they turned to see Prospero in the exoskeleton. Desert winds whipped tendrils of residual smoke around him and he looked like a statue of one of the Greek titans standing there. Immense, impossibly powerful.

With a hiss of hydraulics, the iron giant stalked into the room and stopped a dozen feet away. A robotic voice spoke from external speakers.

“Powering down. Caliban combat systems off line.”

A golf cart came whirring out of a side corridor and as it rolled to a stop the tech crew jumped out, each of them holding tools. Professor Miranda was with them, her expression neutral. Two men with impact wrenches went to work on the chest plate. Another unlimbered a heavy cable and plugged it into a socket on the back of the suit. Professor Miranda unfolded a short metal step ladder and mounted it to reach the face plate. The team worked with practiced efficiency as Flint and Doc watched, and with the speed of a race team pit crew, they had the major components removed and set aside to reveal Dr. Prospero suspended in the sling harness.

“How did Caliban perform?” Miranda asked.

The old man was bathed in sweat but grinning like a happy child.

“He was magnificent!” said Prospero. “Absolutely magnificent.”

Professor Miranda smiled with obvious relief and pleasure.

Scarlet nudged Flint with an elbow and mouthed the word ‘
he.’
Flint had caught it. He, not
it.
He turned to Doc, but Doc was already up to speed on that. He had his lips pursed in thought. Flint knew that they weren’t happy thoughts.

Miranda disconnected the last of the straps and then descended the ladder to allow Prospero to disengage the harness straps and step down. She offered her hand to steady him, and when he was off the ladder she fetched a cane from the golf cart and handed it to him.