Fire with Fire(112)
“Necessary?”
“The more direct authority you have, the more direct authority we have.”
Trevor nodded. “Got it.”
Opal put out her hand. “Let me be the first to offer you my congratulations, Commander.”
“Not so fast.” Downing jumped in before Trevor could respond. “You’re in line for your own congratulations—Major.”
“Me? Major?” Her voice was high and girlish with surprise: Opal salvaged the moment by getting tough. “Okay, Downing; what gives?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What’s with the promotions?”
“I think I just explained that. The more rank you have—”
“That’s not what I mean. There are two times you get promotions in the field; right after the shit has hit the fan and empty saddles need to be refilled, or right before you expect the nastiness to hit the spinning blades. And since we don’t seem to be in foxholes already—”
Downing nodded slowly. “I see your point. And yes, I suspect things are going to go pear-shaped sooner rather than later. But not in the way you mean, Major. I only know this: the more rank you have, the more orders you can give, and the easier it is to requisition, commandeer, or just plain nick what you need. And that could become very important in the coming months.”
Opal shrugged. “So—I’m a major. New pay grade.” She laughed. “My salary has just jumped from nothing to next-to-nothing. What will I spend it all on?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Here.”
Downing pushed another black box toward her, along with a rather well-stuffed envelope. “The contents of the box, you know. The envelope is current—plus back—pay.”
Opal opened the envelope, removed its contents: various bills of various colors. “What the hell is this? Monopoly money?”
“Universal Economic Credits. Thirty-two thousand, one hundred ten of them, to be exact.”
“Great. What the hell are they?”
Trevor leaned towards her, still grinning. “Don’t worry: they’re for real.”
“Okay, so I’ve got a fistful of somethings. Now, why don’t you tell an old-timer like me what I really want to know: what’s it worth in dollars, please?”
“The credit’s value—which is, very roughly, an average of the c-dollar and the euro—is about one-point-one c-dollars. So you have about thirty-five thousand, three hundred dollars.”
Opal looked down. “Well, this funny-money looks a lot more serious now.” She thumbed through it, looked at Downing. “Damn. Is this back pay for the whole fifty years I spent as a popsicle?”
“No.”
“So this is just for the time since you thawed me out?”
“Correct.”
Opal seemed to run the numbers mentally. “Okay, not that I’m eager to be poor again, but that jump in pay grade makes me at least a full bird colonel.”
Downing looked her directly in the eye. “As I’ve already said, you are on special duty. This is special pay.”
Downing frowned when the commplex’s handset started chirping: an external call. He picked it up: his frown transmogrified into an expressionless mask that brought Trevor to his feet. “Yes,” Richard said. “I see. Do it quietly. Yes, I want the whole squad. I will be on site in”—he checked his watch—“six minutes. Update me as you learn more.”
Downing was up beside Trevor in a single motion. “There’s been another—incident. Major, you come with me. Trevor, you are acting site CO.”
“What’s happening?”
“Not sure. There was a fire alarm—and some irregularities—in the suite that the Major shares with Mr. Riordan.”
Opal’s voice was so tightly controlled that it conveyed more panic than a scream. “Where’s Caine?”
“No word on that yet. He’s probably fine.”
Opal did not blink. “Or he could be dead.”
Downing moved toward the door. “We should hurry.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
TELEMACHUS
Trevor watched the small gathering in the ecumenical chapel rise and approach the side room in which he was waiting. For them, it’s all about what Nolan Corcoran had said, or what he did, or what he stood for. All that is fine. And all that will be forgotten. But this endures: he was my Dad, and I loved him, and I didn’t say it enough. And now I never can.
Except Trevor couldn’t afford to feel that, not now. Officially, he was here as one of the major mourners: the grieving son. In actuality, he was working: coordinating the activities of his meager security staff while keeping an eye out for the incipient signs of yet another incident. He angled toward Elena, who had emerged from the chapel and quickly became the focus for a spontaneous receiving line. He slipped in behind her, nodded for Rulaine—Downing’s green beanie—to rotate into a position that could cover the area he’d vacated.