’Neath Quicksilver’s Moon by Jaye Michael
Chapter Five ― Hunter’s Moon

¿Hasta cuándo, oh simples, amarán la simpleza, Y los burladores se deleitarán en hacer burla, Y los necios aborrecerán el conocimiento?

— Proverbios 1:22

How long, O simpletons, will you love being simple-minded, and you tricksters delight in trickery, and you fools hate the truth?

— Proverbs 1:22

There is nothing more difficult to take in hand
more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success,
than to take the lead in the introduction
of a new order of things.

—Niccolo Machiavelli
The Prince

The conference room telephone slammed down and Tom O’Hare began to rant and rave. “Is the man insane? Does he have a death wish? Is he that afraid of losing his seat or does he think this is going to make him Chancellor of the Senate? What? What the bloody hell is he trying to do?”

It was like a storm pacing back and forth beside the conference table. Five minutes into his diatribe and he was still going strong. The assembled members of the Special Task Force were having no difficulty whatsoever recognizing the fact that he was extremely dissatisfied.

Finally, after not quite ten full minutes, the pacing stopped. O’Hare placed his hands palm down on the shiny surface of the team’s conference table, and took a deep breath. He seemed to shudder with the effort of regaining his composure. “My apologies, gentlemen. That outburst was uncalled for and unprofessional. We need to deal with this situation as quickly as possible. Despite repeated warnings of the danger — or possibly because of those warnings — World Senator Jamie Ortíz of Mexico has publicly denounced the Burlador and gone on record as supporting not just continued exploitation, but increased exploitation of the colony planets. Bad enough that he’s already a prime target as Vice-Chairman of the Committee on Extraterrestrial Affairs; but now he apparently wants to draw a second target on top of that one. Unfortunately, we are required to protect this opportunistic fool. Does anyone have any ideas to offer beyond the obvious one of increased security?”

The various members of the group, twenty strong, looked back and forth as each waited for someone else to speak. Finally, with a disgusted glare at the others, Jack Webster spoke up. “He’s given us an ideal stalking horse. Why not use him?” He shrugged in professional indifference to the fate of their client.

“Mr. Webster, do you think just once, you could do this in a manner that doesn’t shock the shoes off the rest of those stuffed shirts?” The meeting had adjourned and they were in Tom O’Hare’s office. The door was closed for good reason, because O’Hare felt the need to emote. “I’m getting just a bit tired of your apparent sophomoric need to be politically incorrect. When you know you’re more clever than everyone else in the room, the smart thing to do is occasionally feel the the warm glow of secret condescension, not blurt out smart-mouth quips remembered from your high-school years.”

“No problem. Reassign me.” He didn’t seem worried by the prospect.

“Right, and give up the only operative in the bunch with any real experience? Not a chance, but I will make you two promises. Keep a lid on the politically incorrect comments in public and with the other task force members and you can have a relatively free hand. Say what you want to me, but keep it ‘PC’ in front of anyone else. The other promise is that if you embarrass me again in front of my staff, you’ll be very, very sorry.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Boss-man. I’ll be good, master. I’ll be good. Uh, Mister Boss-man, sir? ‘Or else’ what?”

“Good.” Tom laughed. “I see you took that advice to heart as well as all the other advice your bosses have ever given you. Now get out of here.”

“What about Ortiíz?”

“What about the good Senator? I thought you were busy trying to find a werewolf?” O’Hare slid tiredly into his desk chair and started half-heartedly going through his mail.

“Very funny. You can throw that up in my face when and if someone can come up with a more politically correct explanation for how these assassinations are happening that also fits all the facts, as we currently know them. Bizarre as it is, a shapeshifter still comes closer to explaining how these murders are occurring than any other theory.” Jack dropped down in the chair opposite the desk and put his feet up on the Chief’s desk.

O’Hare shook his head in resignation. “Don’t get too comfortable. Your team is waiting for you.”

“So I’ll ask again. What about this Ortíz clown?”

O’Hare sighed. “What do you want to do?”

“I told you, use him as a stalking horse to get to this Burlador.”

“No. You know that’s not an option. We don’t paint targets on the people we’re supposed to protect.”

“Fine. Run around in circles, muddying the waters, and then watch him die.” The feet came down from the desk and Jack headed for the door.

“No. We’re not going to do that either.”

“Oh?” Jack stopped, hand on the door.

“Your team is going to take on a second assignment. You will continue the current assignment, but I want you to select a small cadre, my advice is no more than three or four, and have them challenge the security for the honorable World Senator. I’ll advise Captain Churco to expect you. He’s Ortíz’s Chief of Security.”

“You do mean test it to see if it’s shapeshifter-proof, right?”

He smirked. “You know what I mean. Now get out of here and let me wade through this damned pile of bureaucratic waste paper.”

He’d wondered who would be his next target, and it hadn’t even taken a full month before World Senator Ortíz publicly announced his support of continued colonial oppression. Oh, he had not called it that. If anything, listening to the words of the soon-to-be-dead man, it would have been easy to believe that the man was begrudgingly volunteering to help the poor benighted souls so desperately in need of the benefits of the generous, noble and enlightened rule of the World Senate.

Ortíz lived near the small town of San Felipe on the east coast of the Gulf of Mexico. The tube to Tijuana via the San Diego urbopolis was routine and boring. The slightly overweight, balding shoe salesman on vacation slept most of the one-hour ride. Of course, with the constant background hiss of air as the tube traveled and the almost hypnotic flash of the rapidly passing maintenance lights it was often hard not to fall asleep. He remembered reading somewhere that they had found it necessary to stagger the lighting in order to prevent epileptic seizures but thought that the erratic lighting actually contributed to his urge to sleep.

The problems started as he tried to enter the Baja California Historic Preservation District. The District started just ten miles below Ensenada and attempted to recreate a Mexico of the late Nineteenth Century and they were even stricter about it than the people who ran the Middle States Agripark. At least the Agripark allowed the use of transport tubes and modern equipment for farming and recreational use. Baja California prohibited the public use of any device developed after 1900. The start of the Historic District was like customs at the spaceport. No one was permitted through with any contraband and the Peace Officers were high tech about making sure the rule was honored.

“Anything to declare?” The voice was a dull drone that grated all the more for its lack of emotion.

“I don’t think so.”

“Have you read the visitor’s manual?”

“Most of it.”

“Please completely read the manual before attempting to enter the District.” The customs officer pointed to a waiting area where others were relaxing as they perused a small handbook and turned to the next person in line. “Next.”

“I’m sorry. I misspoke. Yes, I have read the manual.”

“Very well.” The uniformed officer turned back for a moment. “Please go to terminal nineteen. You will be tested on your knowledge of the manual and more fully examined for possible contraband. Next.”

Exasperated, he moved to the designated location. Dropping heavily onto one of the universally uncomfortable public terminal chairs, he placed his hand on the scanner plate.

“Thank you for using InfoSys, Mr. George Hartmann. Please answer the following questions regarding the level of cultural development within the Baja California Historic District. You must correctly answer at least nine out of ten questions to proceed. Question One, Transportation: Which of the following forms of transportation is not available in the historic District? (A) railroad, (B) dirigible, (C) airplane, (D) automobile, or (E) horseback.”

“B? What the hell is a dirigible?”

“A dirigible is a steerable, lighter than air vehicle with a rigid frame first constructed in 1900. Dirigible, ‘B,’ is incorrect. The correct answer is ‘C,’ airplane.

“Question Two: Communications: Which of the following forms of communication may not be used in the Historic District? (A) postal deliveries, (B) radio, (C) telegraph, (D) telephone, or (E) television?”

“Television? Don’t you mean vid screen?”

“’E,’ television, is correct. Television is the precursor to the interactive multimode vid screen currently available in most homes, but wasn’t commercially-available until the late 1920s, and wasn’t at all common until 1948.

“Question Three: Health: Which of the following health care products are not available in the Historic District? (A) anesthesia, (B) aspirin, (C) penicillin, (D) psychoanalysis, or (E) x-rays?”

“I have no idea. The only thing I recognize is the aspirin.”

“Aspirin, “B,” is incorrect. Aspirin was introduced commercially in 1899, but folk remedies incorporating the active ingredient of aspirin have been widely available since antiquity, having been first described by the Greek physician Hippocrates. To enter the Historic District you now need to answer eighteen out of twenty questions. Do you wish to continue?”

“Thank you, no.” The man rose and with shoulders slumped headed out into the bright sunshine and heat to find another way into the District. World Senator Jamie Ortíz’ appointment with death would have to wait a bit longer, and George Hartman, currently tied to the bed in his San Diego urbopolis apartment, could resume his daily life.

“The damned hacienda is like a military fortress. They have heat, motion and air quality detectors. There’s a full one-mile free fire zone with a state of the art antipersonnel defense system and retinal and palm print identification system. Both are state of the art. They even have ground tremor monitoring so we can’t tunnel in. What about a missile attack?” Webster asked the other two people sitting around the private booth strewn with maps and papers at the Salsa Saloon in the Mexican city of Mexicali.

“Well, they don’t have a force field, but they do have a direct connection to the airnet satellite traffic control system and durasteel under that adobe shell,’ noted José Hernandez, a Hispanic man with the constantly darting suspicious eyes of a policeman. “Additionally, it would be difficult to target inside the compound as the site has EIDS, an electronic imaging disruption system.”

“I guess rank has its privileges. No one else would be permitted to have the high tech materiel you just described in an historic preservation district. Okay, two can play at that game. What about an ultraviolet laser weapon attack with long distance night sighting from beyond the hacienda perimeter?”

“Two problems,” José explained. “First, it should be damned close to impossible to smuggle one into the Historic District, and second, the hacienda is walled and in the entire two weeks we’ve had them under surveillance no one shows himself or herself outside the walls, except a few staff members. Catch 22. Without a helicopter or hi-tech lift belt to get above the walls, you can’t acquire the target, and you can’t smuggle either into the district. When the World Senator travels, his route is always varied and there are always decoys. It would be nearly impossible to take out enough vehicles to ensure a kill.”

“So what we’re saying is that even a traditional small-scale military operation isn’t likely to succeed, much less a single assassin. Well, we expected that, given Captain Jorge Churco’s military background. Let’s give credit where credit is due. He’s done an excellent job as Ortíz’s Chief of Security and minimized the risk of any type of traditional assault. That means we need to use subterfuge. Do either of you have any ideas for guerilla tactics that might work?”

“Most of the components of a guerilla attack still apply, at least in terms of infiltration. The problem is how to obtain access. They have their own water supply, their own septic system and a very large pantry, if the absence of frequent deliveries is any indication. The hacienda is like Masada, just not on top of a mountain. It’s completely self-sufficient. The only obvious weak point is the dirigible landing pad and I would suspect they would have even more security procedures involving its use.”

“It’s not really a dirigible,” José responded. “It’s actually a fully-armed V-Lift, a vertical lift jet-propulsion air assault vehicle, designed to look like a dirigible. They fold back the balloon shell and fold out wings as soon as they’re out of the Historic District, and would presumably abandon the pretence of antique technology if attacked. I thought it might be a weak point too so I checked. They fly about a mile out over the Gulf where a crack air escort team joins them and then convert for the rest of the flight. They loop around the District to land at the World Security Base at Mexicali for further connections. All servicing occurs there at the base with Churco’s staff providing additional security even there.”

“The most obvious tactic would be a suicide attack,” the third person at the booth finally spoke. Sandra Dayton was a pert blonde-haired woman who wore her hair in a tight bun and had a habit of frequently brushing nonexistent hair off her face and behind her ear when concentrating on something. She was here because she was the first and only woman to graduate magna cum laude from the West Point Advanced Tactical Training program.

“True, that might get us in and accomplish the primary goal of an assassination, but it’s inconsistent with the secondary goal of matching the modus operandi of the Burlador. Somehow, we need to figure out how to replicate their methods, including the flawless escape and the bizarre alibi of the probable perpetrator. Any other ideas?”

“What’s the security like at here in Mexicali?”

“Tighter than normal. This district is not just the home base for the Senator but there is also a high-tech biological research site about a half mile outside of the high-security zone surrounding the hacienda. It’s disguised as a western-style dude ranch, of all things to find in Mexico, to preserve the appearance of the Historic District. An attack through the research site might be possible, as there are tunnels between the site and Ortíz’s hacienda, but it wouldn’t be easy to make it past several hundred armed peace officers on the base above it, and we don't know what tunnel security looks like, but it’s probably very good, since Churco apparently designed them using the old Japanese fortifications on Iwo Jima in the Pacific as a guide. We shouldn’t rule it out, but it’s probably a good idea to look at other options first.”

“Why would Ortíz use a fake dirigible if there are tunnels?” Jack wondered aloud.

“Good question, and one for which I could not get a good answer. My best bet is that the dirigible is more visible and thus a better way for Ortíz to show how macho he is. Regardless of my intel, I suspect he does use the tunnel, at least occasionally, to fit in with his decoy strategy. ‘Oh look! There goes the airship carrying our courageous World Senator!’ while he’s really on a golf cart scooting underground like a rat, headed for the dude ranch, and from there wherever.”

“Alright, let’s change our focus for a bit. What about the family?”

José waded through some of the papers spread out on top of the table. Finding the desired folder, he quickly perused it before responding. “There’s the Senator’s wife, Maria Ortíz-Berkowitz, and one child, Alanna Ortíz. ‘La Señora’ Ortíz only leaves the hacienda with her husband and ‘la hija,’ as the child is called by everyone in the compound, doesn’t leave at all. She has a live-in tutor and plays with the family’s two dogs, Russian Wolf Hounds. You want their names? No? Okay. To continue, no friends visiting until the Burlador threat is over except via vid. She’s a pretty normal teenager, which means she might be a weak link if someone has figured out how to overcome the anti-hypnotic software built into the vid units or if one of her friends can talk her into doing something stupid and she figures out how to pull off an escape.”

Jack mulled over the information for a moment and then seemed to make a decision. “The antihypnotic software is hard wired into each set and isolated from the transmitted signals. It should be safe and we can’t do much about unknown leaps in science, so let’s limit ourselves to things we know can be done or are being actively researched. As for an escape, given the rest of Churco’s security, I don’t think exploiting the kid has a chance in hell of working. Any other ideas?” Neither added anything so he continued with a sigh. “Okay. Looks like it’s going to be another long night. Let’s review what we know again. There’s got to be a weakness we can exploit.”

Copyright © 1993, 2010, 2011 by Jeffrey M. Mahr

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION:

To my loving wife, Betty. She completes me.