Zeus and Io - Book 3
Copyright© 2014 by Harry Carton
Chapter 5
Zeus
I jumped back and looked at Martinez.
Well, I would have if he had been in his own body. You can't really jump back and look at somebody who's in your body, now can you.
China?? We can do that? How? I thought to Martinez/myself. Then I remembered that there were other people on this party line. "How, Master Chief?" I said aloud.
"I don't know how, yet. We haven't started to plan this thing out. I just know that we can do just about any damn thing we set out to do. Io says this is very important, so we will do it," said the male voice coming from the laptop – a half second or so behind the voice in my head. Over the months, I'd gotten used to the echo chamber effect of the Chief's voice coming out of the computer.
"You know we can do it? Or you know we will do it?" I asked, referring to his precognitive knowledge.
"No, I don't know anything about this mission. But I – let's say, I feel we have to do it. So we'll do it," came the answer.
"Right, Chief," said Artemis. And then in the whispered voice she often used, "Somehow ... In China."
Well, first things first. No, first things second. First we have to get an update on the Power Company. WHY? Martinez insisted. Then we get ready to drive to D.C. Get additional bullets from Hollerith Sr. on the way.
Oh. Yeah ... Figure out how to stop a kidnapping. Did I mention that we have no real idea on exactly where or when it's going down?
We made arrangements for Sonny to stay with Midnight and Ramon. Gone were the carefree days when I'd just leave some food out for him to 'share' with the raccoons. When we drove off, he still gave me that 'What do you mean, you're not taking me?' look.
Arti dragged me to a meeting with Astrid Little Feather. She was the hard-assed half-Apache, half-Carib Indian who was in charge of the Navajo Power Company these days. We found her through an all AmerInd headhunter company in Northern California, called DoWhatsRight.com. She was running a geothermal site for a Colorado electric provider, but being paid substandard pay. Maybe it was because she's a woman – or looks black – or she's an Indian. Don't we live in a grand country? Shit. If it wasn't for all the other countries that are worse, we'd really suck.
And she was a big woman: 6'2" or so, shocking blue eyes in a black face, with short, kinky hair. She pumped iron in her spare time, and I'm sure she could lift me easily. The very broad shoulders she'd developed didn't leave her with much in the way of noticeable breasts. She was an intimidating physical specimen. I was sure that in a fair fight, I'd take her easily. Sure. Maybe at 500 yards, if I had a sniper rifle in my hands, I'd take her easily.
She taken to running the company like a stallion takes charge of a bunch of unruly mares. Round 'em up. Bite on a few necks until they learn who's in charge. And from then on it's smooth sailing – if you don't mind the mixed metaphors.
Io, of course, took charge of driving us up to the canyon lands, where the Power Company was headquartered. Smooth sailing, nice peaceful ride. My eyes were open, but I wasn't in the car headed for canyons anymore. I was at Pendleton. Getting ready for a smooth sail.
SEALs are a spinoff of the Navy. Originally, we were supposed to be doing things that were underwater – or near-water.
So there we were. Pendleton. California. I had just taken command of the team. Not really the full team, you understand, just my part of the team. A squad really. But it was developing into a team to us – nobody called it a squad. I was proud of what we'd accomplished during our training.
One day we were rousted from our beds at zero-dark-thirty and told to get on the chopper. Six of us. Me. M.C. Martinez, who was my second in command, but really ran the show, 'cause he knew what the fuck to do in lots of strange situations, whereas I was still learning. Hollerith, third in line. '42' – Jackie Robinson, a black guy from the same town as the 'other' Jackie Robinson. 42 was the 'other' Jackie Robinson's uniform number. Lou Trezciewicz – 'Trez' to us – a wiry guy who was our main radio and comms expert. And Bob Bumeral, the guy who could make anything go 'boom' if you gave him about ten minutes to rig explosives. We never called him 'Boomer' or anything like it, despite his name; for some reason, we called him 'George.' As in 'Let George do it.'
Between the five of them, they had about thirty years experience on me. I'd spent my time learning to be an officer. Or, as Martinez put it: 'learning to be a gentleman of leisure.' They were cycled back to the States from Burma – or whatever the hell it was called these days – and their officer had been promoted.
There was scuba gear in the chopper. It was pretty obvious we were going for a swim. Somebody higher up in the food chain always thought it was a good idea to interrupt our sleep cycle and dump us into something borderline dangerous. We never knew if it was real or not. To us, everything was real.
The briefing we got from the guy in the front of the chopper was brief, all right. "There's a bomb on an oil rig..." He pronounced it 'O-ahl Re-ug.' " ... off the California coast. That's all I know. Y'all gonna turn it off." That came out 'Oaff.'
About fifteen minutes flying at full speed, was just about enough time for us to shed our jammies and put on our work clothes. We left the pile of BDUs in the chopper's hold and we were ready to go for our swim. The comm check that Martinez called for was routine.
I was pretty sure this was just a training exercise, but you could never tell. I remember thinking it was gonna be smooth sailing.
The o-ahl re-ug came up on the port side of the chopper, all lit up and working, like a Christmas ornament at distance. When we got closer we could see the night crew. Everything looked normal, like it was supposed to be. There was some chatter between our driver and the rig's comm center, I'm sure, but I wasn't on that channel. When the chopper got to 'several' feet over the ocean, we went in.
We oriented on the rig's undersea supports and swam over. I got a message from the chopper that we were due for some equipment in 5-4-3-2-1 NOW!
Thanks for the lengthy planning time.
I delegated SA to check on the new equipment arrivals, and he reported that we had a bag of what looked like underwater cutting tools and some extra scuba tanks. I had him tie it off to the rig's supports and rejoin the group. I guess the mission's planners thought it might take a while to get the job done.
This was one of those rigs that was stable in the water, but the supports didn't go all the way to the sea floor. I knew the theory of why, but didn't care. It was enough to know that it wouldn't move much.
We broke into two teams of three and began searching the underwater supports for something that might go boom. Of course, if it went boom while we were down here, we'd be fish food. About 30 feet down we found a package lashed to the rigging with some sort of welded metal straps. No way we were going to get through that, so we brought down the cutting tools and got to work. The cutting torch wasn't really a torch. It was a laser that would cut through steel if you held it close enough and was about the size of a large flashlight. I'd never seen one before, but 42 indicated that he knew what it was all about.
George began looking at the package, and soon enough he told us that it looked real. Real C4 with real wires connected to a real black box. He reached into his personal bag of goodies and slapped a black box of his own onto the bomb's black box. We knew what that was, of course: it would interfere with any incoming signal to the detonator. If it wasn't on a timer or a motion sensor or something equally dumb.
I felt a warm hand on mine and thought, 'That isn't right.' It was soft, feminine and it was comforting.
"Was it okay, Zeus?" Arti asked. I looked down. Her hand was holding mine and her thumb was stroking the back.
I looked up and saw her face. Looked around at the northern Arizona scenery whipping by. Blinked a few times. "Yeah ... okay," I replied. "I was just underwater off of Pendleton on a mission. Almost killed someone. But 'almost' is good ... was good. Didn't have anything real serious happen. Can't think why I remembered that." I was thinking again.
Arti pulled me firmly into the hear-and-now. She leaned over and stuck a tongue in my ear. "It's just you being crazy, you know. Everybody flashes back to another event in the past. Nothing strange in that. It's called memory."
She was right. It wasn't the IED in Afghanistan. It wasn't the hospitals. It wasn't even anything painful. It wasn't even my desert-me-when-I-need-you, asshole of an ex-wife. It was strange, though.
"Don't ask me," Martinez said. "I only get snatches of your dreams," said the man I shared synapses with.
I squeezed Arti's hand back. "I'm okay."
She turned up the music, and I recognized the old Marty Robbins tune that turned out to be one of my favorites.
"Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl
Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina
Music would play and Felina would whirl..."
Pretty soon, we were at Astrid Little Feather's cantina. The only ones whirling in the squat adobe control center of the Power Company were the assistants that Astrid sent on this or that job.
We unassed from the H2 and entered. After passing through three security stations, we finally got in to see Astrid. Her rich alto reminded me of 42's high tenor voice. Maybe that was the reason I...
"Huntress! Together! Thanks for coming out to see our little project." 'Huntress' was the name the Navajo had given Artemis. 'Together' – that was me. 'Together with the Spirits.' It came from when BlueBird, Peter Soaring Eagle's wife, heard Martinez speak in my head. As far as I know she's the only person who can hear him directly, although she has warned me – warned Martinez, actually – to be careful around the elders. She's sure they could hear him, as well.
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