The stuff we needed over at the hangar finally arrived late that morning, along with the folks from FEMA; the Federal Emergency Management something-or-other. They'd been shopping around for something that could quickly chart a disaster area, and were tipped off by one of our contractors about our little airplane.
Well, the FEMA bunch took one look at the spec sheets and went absolutely nuts. Especially over the new equipment we were just starting to put in. Immediately they started trying to wheedle permission from the Powers That Be to stick around long enough to see the results of the test suite.
From a distance, Austin and I watched the flock of gabbling Feds flutter about the hangar floor, then we turned and looked at each other. Wordlessly Austin gave an elaborate shrug and went back to his work, and I continued watching in amazement as the civilians messed with things that just a few years earlier would have had a dozen MPs on top of them in an instant.
Incredible. Still, I suppose there's a nice sort of irony in seeing my equipment, designed for war, used by a peacetime organization to save lives. But a touch of bitterness as well; as the only reason they were allowed in was to help justify our operations budget to an increasingly recalcitrant Congress.
In spite of the FEMA folks underfoot, my crew got those long-awaited parts installed, and even managed to catch up a bit on our backlog. Our first bench tests went smoothly. In spite of it all, we began to hope we'd be able to get back on schedule.
The next attack came the following evening.
We'd been working pretty late the past couple of days in order to catch up on our backlog, and I was walking back to the hangar after grabbing supper at a nearby sandwich shop. My mind was on other things, but there was still no excuse for failing to notice the van trailing behind until it suddenly gunned its engine and pulled up beside me.
The instant I saw the vehicle's side door begin to slide open I knew what was about to happen. I crouched, my hand darting under my jacket . . . and finding nothing. I'd stopped carrying my sidearm several days earlier. Before I could recover, two goons had jumped from the van and were all over me. One rammed an automatic into my side with enough force to partially knock the wind out of me, the other grabbed my arm and cranked it up behind my back.
"Into the van, pal. Move."
They were starting to drag me into that dark opening when there was a slapping sound, and the pressure on my arm fell away. A red splotch had appeared on the grabber's shirt, and he went down with a soft groan.
The gunman whirled, his weapon coming up as he frantically scanned the surrounding night for the threat, momentarily forgetting me.
Big mistake.
Seeing the gunman crumple to the ground must have made the van's driver decide on the better part of valor, for the engine suddenly roared and the van quickly disappeared down the street. I slowly went to my knees between the two bodies with my hand pressed against my side, fighting to get my breath back as I searched the darkness for what could be either my savior or my assassin.
There was a rustle of grass, and then Stefan appeared, holding a still-smoking Makarov, his eyes darting about as he searched the area for additional targets. Evidently satisfied, he hurried over to me and leveraged me to my feet. "Are you injured, my lord?"
"Just my ego," I wheezed. "Pretty good shooting."
"Thank you," he replied distractedly. "We must leave before anyone sees us. Can you walk, my lord?"
"Walk? I can damn well run!" Gritting my teeth, I proved it by leading off in a shambling trot away from the scene, Stefan close behind. ". . .And would you please stop calling me that! Call me Sarge, Hasai, or even Hey You. Just stop with the 'my lord' crap, will you?"
There was a moment's silence from behind me, then "Very well, Sergeant."
At Stefan's insistence I let him scout out my hotel room for me, but only after he'd tried and failed to convince me to return with him to the mountains. Once inside the room, I apologized to him for thinking he had been part of the first attack.
He nodded soberly. "Thank you, my lo-- Hasai. But I must now agree with you that the assaults upon you are deliberate." He frowned. "Do you have any enemies?"
I chuckled. "Only about half the scum of this planet; but most of them would settle scores with either a bomb or a bullet. No . . ." I sank gratefully into a chair. ". . . this is someone who wants me alive." I looked at him sharply. "Someone like Dithra."
Stefan went slightly pale at that, and I could see the effort that it cost him to force back an angry retort. Finally he answered. "My Lady is an honorable person, Sergeant; she would never stoop so low as to resort to such a thing."
"Never?" I shot back. "Not even when the future of our entire race is at stake? How long would either you or I withstand that kind of pressure, Stefan? I suggest that you think long and hard about that before you use a word like 'never'. And if it isn't her, then who?"
The former Stasi agent opened his mouth to reply, then paused, seemingly struggling with something. My eyes narrowed. "You suspect someone, don't you?"
Stefan shifted uncomfortably. "My lord-- Hasai, I am not authorized to speak of such things."
"'Not authorized?'" I echoed angrily. "What kind of garbage is this? Well then, mister, I would suggest you get that authorization, and fast. Whoever's doing this is getting a lot better at it, and I don't think that either of us believe I'm going to escape the next try so easily. Now get out."
Stefan turned to go, then hesitated and glanced at me as if about to say something, but evidently thought better of it. Silently he headed out the door and vanished.
The next day at the hangar started pretty well. We were re-mounting the equipment back into the fuselage along with the new stuff, and amazingly enough everything was fitting on the first try. The first of the wiring tests looked good, and I was becoming increasingly impressed with the skill shown by the primary contractor's engineers.
Austin went and spoiled things. I should have known that something was up when he volunteered to spring for lunch.
I was about halfway through my ham and Swiss when Austin looked about us conspirationally, then leaned across the table. "You have anything to do with it, Sarge?"
I arched an eyebrow, then swallowed my previous bite. "Anything to do with what, Austin?"
He snorted. "Don't act like you haven't heard. A couple of hardcases bought the farm less than a block from here. Where were you last night?"
I sipped my coffee. "Here at the sandwich shop. Why?"
"And then? Why didn't you come back to the hangar?"
I sighed, then put down my coffee. "And then, Austin, I got a sharp pain in my side, went back to my hotel and went to bed. I don't recommend the roast beef here."
Austin wouldn't be budged. "Sarge, did you have anything to do with it?"
I closed my eyes for a moment, then glared at him. "And just how am I supposed to answer that, Austin? No matter what I say you won't believe it."
"Try me."
"I'd rather not." I sighed, then rubbed my eyes. "Austin, you're a good guy, and I like you a lot. Please don't start acting like one of those damned conspiracy groupies that blame Intelligence for everything up to and including the last Ice Age, all right?"
Austin groaned. "Man, I knew you guys got into some pretty wild stuff, but this? I got a wife and kids down in--"
"Stop." He stared at me as I slowly took another sip of coffee. "I take it that when the druggies blew up our hotel down in Quito you didn't get the hint?" I set my cup down and looked at him. "Austin, you're probably the best damn A&P that I've ever seen, and we need you. But no one's holding you here. We'll be sorry as hell to see you go, but if you can't take the heat. . . ." I waved towards the door.
The great hairy bear of a mechanic stared down at the tablecloth for a moment, and I went back to my sandwich. Finally he sighed. "Sarge?"
"What?"
"You be careful, okay?"
"I try to be, Austin. Honestly and truly, I try to be."