The Cain Conspiracy (Harvey Bennett Thrillers Book 8), page 8
That enemy had bested them before, but now they would also have the help of another trained force — Special Forces, actual Green Berets, working with them.
He hoped.
18
Edmund
Edmund sat in his chair, knowing the shock and incredulity were still registered on his face. He was broadcasting uncertainty, insecurity. He did not like that feeling, nor did he appreciate another person causing him to feel vulnerable.
“Wait,” He said.
Rebecca St. Clair had begun walking away, but she turned a few feet from the table and looked down at Father Canisius.
“I must say… I did not expect someone like you.”
“A woman?”
“Someone so confident. It threw me off.”
“I get that a lot,” she said. “Although it is unfortunate there are not more people so confident in your line of work.”
Canisius smiled, ignoring the slight, then continued. “I just felt as though I have been woefully underprepared for this interaction. And it is not for lack of trying — I was not briefed by my supervisors or subordinates, and the research I attempted to do on your company personally turned up next to nothing on your company.”
“The Orland Group has been famously vague,” St. Clair responded. “And that is on purpose, to protect our interests as well as our shareholders.”
“Which tells me that the deal I am brokering here today requires a bit of finesse.”
“A bit, yes,” she said with that same smile that had first thrown him off.
“And your confidence, your entire persona, tells me that this deal is not entirely reliant upon your willingness to negotiate with me.”
She walked back over and took a seat once again. “An astute judgement, Father. You are correct — this deal is all but finalized.”
“Then I must ask, again — why send me to shake your hand? If the papers are all but signed already, and my being here has no purpose, then —”
“That’s just it,” she said, cutting him off. “Your being here is the purpose. The deal will be done, but having a man of your stature sends more of a message than what the deal alone could — and the message your presence sends is, believe it or not, one that will be received faster than the news of the deal.”
Canisius was still very confused, but he tried not to show it. A deal that requires a cardinal to fly halfway across the world, just for appearance? A negotiation that is already finished before I arrive?
“Publicity,” he said, almost under his breath. “They need my name — my face. This is for the publicity.”
“Correct,” she said.
“Then why not just tell me? Why keep this all a secret? If Orland Group needs to parade my face and name in public to help with branding, then —”
“Not Orland Group, Father,” St. Clair said. “The publicity is needed for your side of the negotiation.”
Father Canisius shook his head, still not understanding. “And you cannot tell me what it is, exactly, we are ‘negotiating’ for?”
“No,” she said. “Not exactly.”
His ears perked up. Not exactly. Perhaps, then, subtly? “Orland Group, from what I can gather based on the minimal information on your website and some of the information gleaned from a few other public deals, works with defense contractors?”
“We work with many contractors, in many different sectors.”
“Yet one of your largest customers last year was the Australian military.”
“Yes, we do business throughout the world.”
He smiled. She is not going to make this easy, he thought. “Right. Well, we are in Peru. Ostensibly to present ourselves at this conference — a conference intended to promote security for parish environments and communities.”
She nodded. “I am attending a gala in a few minutes, one put on by the conference hosts.”
“So then this deal — an exchange of a lot of money for… something, is between a company that works with foreign militaries and governments and an organization that has long been interested in improving their own security.”
“That is not inaccurate,” she said. Father Canisius watched as she plucked her phone out of her clutch and checked the time. “I must be leaving, Father. I’m sorry we can’t continue this discussion.”
He stood, extending his arm to the side as if allowing her to leave. He had more questions, but for now there was too much to think about. Too many variables that required assumptions he wasn’t prepared to make. He needed more information, but he wouldn’t be getting it from this woman.
“Of course,” he said. “I have kept you long enough. Please enjoy your evening.”
She left him alone at the table, and the waiter appeared at his side. He ordered a Peruvian snapper entree the restaurant was world-renowned for — pescado sudado — as well as a glass of red wine, and he calmly sat and thought about the exchange while he waited for the food.
He considered what he knew. Orland Group was a conglomerate that was, essentially, a defense contractor. In one of the only articles he could find that disclosed any detail of the business’ operations, he had discovered that Orland Group had brokered a deal between the Australian Navy and a supplier that promised them an operational railgun defense system for its fleet within three years.
In another press release, the details had been withheld but the Orland Group had again acted as broker, linking up an unnamed buyer with a weapons supplier in Prague.
He had no knowledge of defense contracts, military strategy, or weapons supply logistics, and he knew that his office back at the Vatican knew that as well.
Further, he had no idea what the Vatican — the Catholic Church, essentially — wanted or needed with weapons or defense of any sort. He was unaware of any looming threat to the Church, and he was absolutely positive that there was no physical threat nearby that would require any sort of military maneuvering. Certainly not any actual prototypes of anything related to defense.
It’s not like the Catholic Church was in the business of buying tanks.
And he had no idea why whatever it was he was in the process of purchasing from the Orland Group had to cost multiple millions of dollars, and why — if it was supposed to be so secret — his organization had sent one of its most recognizable and visible cardinals.
It was an oxymoron: a secret sale between a defense contractor and the Catholic Church, and the two in charge of closing the deal were public figures.
He took a sip of wine as the waiter returned with his fish. Father Edmund Canisius was an inquisitive man, and he enjoyed puzzles. He had been given a chance to solve one, and he intended to do so.
The waiter asked if he needed anything more, and Father Canisius waved him away, eager to once again sit alone with his thoughts.
19
Garza
The unit to the north, to his left, opened fire first. Their rounds pinged off the suit’s armor, sending sparks flying, but the suit reacted perfectly and sent a volley of paint rounds back toward the waiting soldiers. The soldiers, knowing now how the suit would respond, quickly took cover and Garza could see that no one had been hit.
The southern unit now fired, taking advantage of the opening. The suit hardly hesitated, and the subject inside turned the exoskeleton around on thick, alloy-strengthened legs while the upper portion of the suit redirected its volley of fire toward the new targets. Two men from that unit were hit, but they didn’t go down. The paint rounds appeared to have hit their chests, but the soldiers were fighting through it.
The hailstorm of bullets flew in every direction, but Garza noticed that the units had moved toward the west a half-dozen paces, working to prevent crossfire and hitting one of their own teammates with the live rounds. The effect, however, was that the subject could now fire on both units simultaneously by moving itself back a few steps. It did, maneuvering the mechanical soldier it stood inside near the box from which it had emerged.
So far, the battle was a tie. For every round that hit the suit, another three were sent toward the soldiers. Garza saw two of the northern unit’s men fall, another two men with bright paint splotched across their chests.
The chatter on the radio picked up in intensity as the soldiers realized the suit’s defensive capabilities. “… asshole’s hard to kill…”
“Copy that. Munitions rules?” another man asked.
“Use ‘em if you got ‘em, private.”
Garza watched as one of the men on his right ducked behind a boulder, then leapfrogged his way toward the subject and the box. He was hit on his left arm, the yellow stain visible from the distance, but he recovered quickly and heaved a small object toward the box and the waiting exoskeleton.
The grenade detonated a few seconds later, and Garza was impressed by the young man’s accuracy. Fire and dirt flew up around the suit, the metal box flying off in the opposite direction.
For a moment the firing stopped from both sides as the soldiers tried to make out what had happened. Smoke fell, and Garza saw the exoskeleton standing in place. The subject was staring straight ahead, a gash of blood across her forehead. Garza cocked his head, waiting.
“Shit!”
Suddenly the suit burst to life, the subject guiding the legs forward rapidly. The upper half spun as it ran, the shoulder-mounted rotary turret spraying rounds in volleys of two seconds each — north, then south, then north again.
Garza immediately saw what the subject had done and smiled. Impressive, he thought. It wasn’t truly the subject, per se, but the tech controlling her from inside the mountain. Still, the move was precisely what Garza would have done in that situation.
By sprinting forward, the subject had placed the exoskeleton back within the angle of guaranteed crossfire — none of Garza’s soldiers would take those odds; he had trained them not to. None of his men were going to act like brazen heroes unless he ordered it. They were bunkered down, completely cut off from mounting a counterattack.
The suit kept firing, spinning around and hitting anyone willing to dare a look from behind their cover. Three more men “fell,” their helmets coated with yellow paint. They would be the laughingstock of their units at the dinner table this evening.
Garza waited a few more seconds, knowing the suit’s magazine would soon come to an end. They had re-engineered the Minigun’s rounds to be lighter and smaller, but no weapon could fire forever. Between the rising heat and the decreasing amount of ammunition left in the chambers, the suit was nearing the end of its battlefield effectiveness.
One of the soldiers barked a question over the comm. “What now, sir? If we engage, we’ll probably lose our teams.”
Garza nodded. “Correct. But I want to see if you can get this thing on the ground.”
“Copy that. All units, move to munitions. Three and Four, covering fire.”
There were affirmations and clicks over the comm, and Garza crossed his arms. His men were more than prepared for this. They’d seen worse. If he had filled them in on the details of what they would be encountering out here today, they would have each packed a bit heavier.
But none of that mattered — Garza needed to know how much it would take to take down one of his creations.
Three grenades flew through the air in sync, each landing within two feet of the subject. The subject reacted swiftly, backing up and turning to move the opposite direction, but it was too late.
The three blasts, followed shortly by a fourth, sent the suit and its occupant into the air. It came down, hard, nicking a corner of the metal box. One of the suit’s “arms” sheared off completely, the rotator cuff joint popping out. A fifth explosion took off one of the legs.
The suit did its best to compensate, and Garza saw it try to sit up and fire, but the weapons targeting system had been completely destroyed. The subject’s head inside the suit was hanging, but the shoulder-mounted turret was still peppering out rounds, though none were hitting anywhere near the soldiers.
A final grenade was arced up and over the metal box, landing close enough to the exoskeleton that the machine fell on top of the metal explosive, just before it detonated.
The suit, blood from the subject, and yellow paint flew in every direction, mixing with the dirt and white smokescreen that was still mushrooming out from the area. Garza heard the tech in his ear. “Subject 34 terminated. I’m compromised.”
“Affirmative,” Garza said. “Teams, stand down. That’s enough for today. Camera feeds will have results to each of your tablets this evening, if you want to review your performance. Technical, have the overall analysis sent to mine.”
“Yessir.”
20
Ben
They were greeted at the airport by a man holding a sign with Ben’s name on it. They had driven through the commercial entrance following Mrs. E in her own vehicle. They were guided to an airplane hangar, where they parked and walked toward the waiting jetliner.
“Seems like a waste,” Ben muttered as he followed behind Mrs. E.
“What?” Reggie asked.
“Having two jets. Mr. E sprang for them? Why wouldn’t he just tell us that Julie and Victoria were leaving, and we could have all gone together?”
“Right,” Reggie said, grinning. “And you’d have been okay with that?”
Ben shook his head. “No. But I’m not okay with this, either.”
Mrs. E turned around at the stairs. “And we did not have to pay for the jets,” she said. “The other one was owned by the company, and was not being used for the next few days. This one —” she pointed upward — “is owned by the US Military.”
“The military?”
“Yes, the Army, to be precise.”
“And how’d you convince them to give you a fancy private jet?”
“It came with the team.”
Ben frowned, looking up at the plane. “The team?”
“Ma’am,” a man said. He had appeared in the doorway of the jet and peered down at them. He reached out a hand, and Mrs. E took it, even though she stood as tall as he did and her musculature was every bit as pronounced. Ben wondered which of them would win in a fistfight.
“Thank you,” she said, blushing.
The man was dressed in Army fatigues, wearing a green beret. His right breast pocket had the name “Beale” patched on it.
“Captain Beale,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”
Ben climbed the staircase behind Reggie and Mrs. E and was floored when he saw inside. The entire jet had been gutted, the fancy leather seats the only remnants of the plane’s previous condition. Wires ran the course of the fuselage on the floor and ceiling, and some of the windows had been blacked out, television screens and computer monitors placed in front of them instead.
“This… isn’t what I was expecting,” Ben said.
“We’re not much for in-flight hospitality,” another man said, this time from behind Ben. “Sergeant Jeffers, nice to meet you.”
Ben turned and saw the largest person he’d ever seen in his life. The black man was easily six-five, and his chest and shoulders stretched from one side of the hallway to the other. Made of a singular pure muscle, his body was rectangular in shape, and Ben wondered if he were even able to move up and down the aisle or if he would be standing there the entire flight.
“It’s a faster way to get around,” Beale said. “Surgical, precise, and doesn’t cause much trouble when we have to land in commercial airports. Sorry for the mess.”
The ‘mess’ was, Ben now realized, tech gear and communications equipment, and it wasn’t a mess at all. While the plane’s interior itself had been decimated, the Army had replaced the luxury with utilitarian precision. There were stacks of laptops next to an open server rack, storage racks behind that against the port-side wall, and the overhead bins had been stripped out and replaced by more gear racks. Rifles and ammunition were stacked neatly in a corner opposite the door they’d come in on.
Beale slid sideways into an aisle and invited them aboard. “Jeffers and I came down from Elmendorf-Jefferson; we’ll meet up with the others at Fort Carson, Colorado.”
“How many?” Reggie asked. “Full A-team?”
“Split — Jeffers, myself, and four others are the operators. We’ll do introductions and briefing there. I’m told we’re in a hurry, though. Shall we?”
Ben and Reggie nodded, and Ben chose a window seat, one of the only ones available in that half of the plane. Mrs. E chose an aisle seat closer to the center of the plane, near what Ben assumed was the command station for the unit.
“This is all for you guys?” Reggie asked before sitting in the aisle seat next to Ben.
“We share it with a few other teams, but these days it’s mostly us.”
“Damn. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in.”
“You were 75th, yeah?” Jeffers asked.
Reggie nodded. “Sniper. Ranger School, all that jazz.”
“Punitive discharge, too,” Beale said. “I read your file.”
Reggie nodded, his jaw set. Ben watched and listened from his seat. “Sometimes you get punished for doing the right thing. And files don’t really tell the real story, do they?”
Beale sniffed and looked over Reggie’s head. There was a long pause before he looked back at Ben and Reggie. “No, man. They don’t. I get that; true story.”
The jet began backing out of the hangar and Ben involuntarily buckled his belt. He’d always hated flying, but he’d gotten used to it lately, as having a cabin in Alaska but working in every corner of the globe was not a great pairing. He looked out at the passing commercial airliners and small prop planes. There were plenty more of the latter, which was common this time of year. Bushplanes and floatplanes dominated the air for half the year, as hunters, trappers, explorers, and adventurists took to the skies.
“I thought you knew these guys,” Ben said to Reggie as the plane began taxiing.
