Shannon fought to keep from sighing with frustration. “Sir, I believe you can, as President, award any promotions short of the rank of Fleet Admiral or Commanding General of the Marines without Senate approval. But I have to admit, sir, my rank isn’t the foremost thing on my mind right now.”
“I know it’s not important to you, Major,” he smiled at her indulgently. “But when you’re dealing with people like Brendan Riordan and Xavier Dominguez, appearances and labels are important. By the time you leave this office, you’re going to be a full Colonel and McKay is going to be a General, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. President,” Shannon said, trying very hard not to clench her teeth. “I’m sure you know more about the effect of such things in the political arena than I do.” She stopped herself as an idea came to her. “Sir, how about this: you call Riordan and ask him to come to a private meeting-tell him it’s about the biomech bill, maybe. If he does come, you try to get him to come clean about Antonov. If he isn’t honest about the whole thing, we can take him into custody immediately. If he doesn’t meet with you, then we track his movements and launch the raid.”
“That sounds sensible,” Valerie interjected. “Do you already know the location of the bunker?”
“Approximately,” Shannon told her. “We have a Trojan on Fourcade’s ‘link. The signal was blocked for a few hours, but it got us close enough that we were able to narrow it down to an old U.S. Air Force testing range from about 250 years ago. The records we located indicated there was an emergency bunker on the range, out in the desert. We think the Riordan must have bought it through a blind account and had it rebuilt. It fits with what President Jameson told us.”
“All right, Major… Colonel,” O’Keefe corrected himself. “Start putting together the team for the raid. I’ll contact Riordan immediately and we should find out soon whether we have to use it.”
Riordan had cordially and enthusiastically agreed to meet with President O’Keefe later that day to discuss the implementation of the biomech research. Then he’d boarded a private VTOL jet and headed for the southwestern desert. She’d been in western Canada with Tom Crossman at the time, putting together the raid unit, when she got the call from Valerie on a secure ‘link.
“We’ll be wheels up in an hour,” she’d told the Senator, giving a nod to Tom that sent him out of the office to get the team on their transport.
“Shannon, there’s something else,” Valerie had gone on hesitantly. “Daddy is calling a special session of the Senate for tomorrow morning: he’s timing it to coincide with your assault. He’s going to tell them what’s going on, everything. He says he can’t keep it secret any longer, that there’s too much at stake.”
“Oh, fucking wonderful,” Shannon sighed. She shook her head. “Well, Valerie, that’s his call. I disagree, but at this point it won’t make my job any more difficult.” She snorted humorlessly. “Frankly, I’m not certain my job
“This could push us into civil war,” Valerie said, her voice distant and sad.
“Which is probably exactly what Antonov wants. But one crisis at a time. I’ll contact you when we reach the objective.”
A few minutes later, as she’d been rigging her assault pack and weapon for the flight, she’d received a call from Jameson: she’d been half-expecting it.
“Major Stark,” he said, his bass voice sounding oddly tinny on her earpiece, “I just received a message from Riordan. He said he thinks that President O’Keefe is about to have him arrested and he’s heading for the bunker.”
“Yes, we’re aware of that, Mr. President,” she said, trying to make the words sound polite despite her anxiety and the press of time. She didn’t even consider correcting him about her rank. “If you can contact him, try to reassure him that you’ve talked to me and we don’t have any plans to arrest him.”
“I take that to mean you’re on your way now,” she could hear the grin in the man’s voice.
“I have no official comment on that, sir,” she told him, grinning to herself. “I can tell you this, though: President O’Keefe is about to go public with this.”
“Oh my,” Jameson’s tone became grim. “He’s the President, but that seems like an extraordinarily bad idea to me.”
“He didn’t ask for my opinion either, sir, but the point is, once he does present this to the Senate, it’s possible that Riordan and Fourcade may figure out whose side you’re on. You should probably lie low for a while.”
“Major Stark, if his side wins, I’m not sure there’s any place on this planet that’s low enough to hide me.”
Shannon felt her backpack jets run dry with a coughing sputter and she checked her HUD readout, noting with a slight start that they were only 20 kilometers from the target. She’d spent too long feeling sorry for herself and lost track of the flight-time.
“Charlie Gulf One bingo fuel,” she radioed. “One minute to chute deployment.”
The rest of the unit echoed back the status with Tom bringing up the rear. She chuckled at the thought of how much she trusted the man: six years ago, when they’d first been assigned together under Jason McKay, she’d considered Crossman an unreliable fuck-up whose only positives were a fearless attitude and a
She shook off the reverie before it distracted her once again, then checked her HUD and poised her hand over the parachute ring. “Ten seconds,” she announced. “Five… pull!”
Shannon was yanked upward by the expanding parachute and found herself descending vertically at an agonizingly slow pace. Each of the members of her unit was wearing stealth armor, designed to mask heartbeat and thermal signature as well as absorbing radar and lidar sensors… theoretically, they were undetectable except by a Mark I Human Eyeball. But she still felt as if she were wearing a huge target on her chest and screaming “Shoot at me!”
An altitude warning lit up on her HUD as the ground rose swiftly up to meet her feet, details suddenly filling in on her thermal and infrared display as rocks and scrub brush began to become visible in the moonless night. At the last second, she yanked downward on the chute’s control handles and the canopy inflated sharply and Shannon touched down lightly on the balls of her feet, stumbling forward as she caught her balance against the bulky mass of her flight pack.
“Charlie Gulf One is down,” she announced, pulling the quick release on her flight pack. It felt as if she were in free-fall again as the wing assembly and thrusters dropped from her shoulders to thump heavily to the ground behind her, the parachute beginning to retract into the pack automatically. She took a knee beside the flight assembly and began freeing her assault pack and carbine from the fastenings that held them to her chest. She transferred the pack to her back and made sure the carbine was ready to fire, then went prone in the hard-pack sand as she began to hear replies from the rest of the squad.
They were all professionals, the best that First Special Operations Command had to offer, and they each moved to fill in a position on the perimeter, scanning watchfully until, at last, Tom Crossman moved up beside Shannon, clapping her on the shoulder as he took a knee beside her.
“We’re ready to move out,” he told her, voice calm and easygoing, as if this were a weekend training exercise. She couldn’t see his face through the darkened visor of his helmet, but she knew he was probably smiling.
“EM silence from here on,” she ordered. “Keep the formation tight… I’m more worried about detection than I am separation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed, then went to convey the orders via touching helmets, forgoing the use of suit comms.
Their point-man, a Technician Second Class named Von Paleske, moved out first with Shannon just behind him and Tom Crossman riding drag in the rear. Shannon let him watch for threats while she scanned for cameras or seismic detection devices that could pick up footsteps. It was tricky going-they couldn’t risk being detected, but they also had a ticking clock: they had over ten kilometers to cover and they needed to be inside before sunrise or
