Bio-Strike

trickier still, inserting them into hostile countries where we know in advance that their presence would be unwelcome.”

Across the immense desk from him, Nimec was trying not to betray his delight at now having gotten his second “yes” of the day — albeit another qualified one — with a fair and highly unexpected degree of ease.

“I can relay your concerns to Tom, see that he addresses them in a formal written proposal,” he said.

Gordian pulled the wafer stick out of his coffee and took a bite.

“That would be a reasonable start,” he said, looking happy as he chewed.

Nimec started to lift himself off his seat, eager to make his exit while the going was good.

Gordian raised a hand.

“One last thing before you go,” he said.

Nimec settled back down, waited.

“I’m with Megan that Rollie Thibodeau has to accept the plan, at least in theory, before we take it any further.”

Nimec considered that a moment, then nodded.

“I’ll ask her to talk to him,” he said.

“No,” Gordian said.

Nimec looked at him.

“No?”

Gordian shook his head.

“You do it,” he said.

Nimec kept looking at him.

“She’s better with Rollie than I am, two of them go way back,” he said. “They’ve got a rapport.”

“And that’s precisely why it’s going to be you and he who have the conversation,” Gordian said. He took a gulp of coffee, the wafer back in his cup like a swizzle stick. “The fractiousness I saw aboard the yacht last week troubles me. If it continues, our organization is going to split into separate camps, and once that happens, we’ll cease to be a functional team. Think about it, Pete. It has to stop.”

Nimec ballooned his cheeks, slowly released a breath.

“Ought to be an interesting chat,” he said.

Gordian smiled.

“Ought to be,” he said and munched down the rest of his treat.

SIX

SAN JOSE/SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA NOVEMBER 4, 2001

Every day it was the same, for the whole day. Trying to work through the deepening bog of paperwork in front of him. Trying to decide which decisions needed to be made first and which could be deferred until later. All across his desktop half-finished fiscal reports and operational plans silently screamed for his attention. Employment applications, personnel evaluations, and equipment requisitions were spilling from his overloaded in box like tenants from a collapsing high-rise. Only the adjoining out box was uncluttered, and that sure as hell wasn’t much encouragement. It seemed sadly neglected, waiting for something to drop into it.

Six months after his elevation to the post of global field supervisor, Rollie Thibodeau had still to feel any balance between the continuous supervisory and administrative demands of an organization as large as Sword and his personal capacity to fulfill them.

It wasn’t that he’d been ignorant of the job’s responsibilities when Megan Breen offered it to him, nor had he failed to recognize it would mean spending many more hours in an office chair than he ever did heading up night security at UpLink’s Brazilian manufacturing compound. Except…

A desolate frown creased Thibodeau’s face.

Too much sit-down break trousers, he thought. It was a Louisiana bayou adage that went back forever, and he could remember his mother chastening him with it time and again when she’d caught him shirking his chores around the house. Too much sit-down break trousers. You wore out the back of your pants as quickly sitting on your rump as doing honest work. Though maybe his rump was the most functional part of him these days, being one of the few spots on his body that hadn’t been drilled by a slug in Brazil.

Not that anyone had expressed the tiniest smidgen of unhappiness with his performance to date. On the contrary, Gordian, Nimec, and Megan all seemed to approve of the way he was handling things. The dissatisfaction, the discontent, came entirely from inside him.

“Watcha gonna say, boy?” he asked himself aloud. “Watcha gonna goddamn say, huh?”

Shrugging, Thibodeau reached into his breast pocket — as was his often-noticed preference, he had on the official indigo blue Sword uniform blouse usually reserved for members of active security details rather than executives at the San Jose office tower, where business suits were the norm — and pulled a satiny Montecristo No. 2 from a two-finger leather cigar case. It was one of the few remaining torpedoes he’d brought from Cuiaba, beaucoup hard to find, and he’d planned to savor it over some drinks at his favorite local tavern tonight. But he felt ready for some uplifting, damn ready, and wasn’t about to stand on occasion.

He had been appointed to one of the top posts in Sword, a post that had, in fact, been created especially for him, with a commensurate raise that boosted him into an income bracket he’d never even considered within reach. Yet he felt a total lack of achievement or gratification, a gnawing absence of confidence that he was suited to the role. Making him, what, some kind of pretender?

Because he knew how much faith was being placed in him by people he respected and cared for, how much rested on his shoulders, Thibodeau was ashamed of himself for feeling as he did.

And then there was Tom Ricci, one of the most galling, cocksure bastards he’d ever met, always pushing fire. Thibodeau hated sharing the job with him, and to compound matters, was angered over the position he’d just been put in because of him. Of being forced to either nix or okay a move to which he’d vehemently objected when it was proposed and that he still maintained was wrongheaded, but that everyone else involved in the decision-making process had been convinced was worthy of a go.

“On a trial basis, ” Pete Nimec had qualified when soliciting his approval. “With constant oversight. ”

As he’d listened to him, Thibodeau had felt increasingly boxed in despite the repeated attempts to allay his concerns. Sometimes, he’d thought, one bad move could cost you the whole game.

Now he clipped the end of the cigar with his Swiss army knife, forgoing the expensive double-blade guillotine cutter he’d received as a fare-thee-well from his crew in Brazil. Having been relegated to the back corner of a desk drawer, it was a gift that was much appreciated for the sentiments it represented but was also much too fancy for his liking.

Thibodeau struck a match and lit up, carefully holding the tip of the cigar at the edge of the flame, turning it in his hand until it caught all the way around. Then he raised the cigar to his mouth and smoked.

Looking across his desk at the empty chair where Nimec had sat only minutes before, Thibodeau again recalled his limber pitching style, so reminiscent of Megan’s approach that he’d wondered if she had been offering pointers.

“We proceed either unanimously or not at all,” Nimec had said, after first relaying the news that Gordian and the others had come down in favor of establishing an RDT section. “Decision this important, it’s got to have your support.”

Thibodeau’s reply was blunt.

“My opinion’s what it is,” he said. “Don’t expect me to change it to suit the boss.”

“Nobody wants that, Rollie. I’m here to see whether I can convince you to agree to this, not accede under duress.”

“An’ Gordian?”

“Gord shares some of your qualms, and he’s especially concerned about stretching the hospitality of countries