Gust Front

He was in the middle of nowhere, thirty miles from the battle and already four hours behind schedule. He wasn't sure his lone battalion could exactly turn the tide, but if they made it to the Ninth Corps's line in time they might be able to extract the corps. It had become something of an instant tradition among the ACS.

He took a brief moment to contemplate the situation and began to snap orders to his company commanders. They had a battle to catch.

CHAPTER 53

Alexandria, VA, United States of America, Sol III

2246 EDT October 10th, 2004 ad

Monsignor O'Reilly carefully considered the items to carry with him. With the Posleen rapidly approaching his small house in Arlington, he was rather certain that he would be on foot for the majority of the next several days.

There were so many things to choose from. His collection of books and manuscripts dating back to the twelfth century. His antiques and archaeological treasures gathered throughout the world. Complex electronics to decipher the secrets of ancient and modern times. On the other hand several of those would have to be thoroughly destroyed.

Finally, recognizing that the only true treasure to the cause resided in his cranium, he packed a bookbag with some socks, easy-to-prepare food and bottled water. He took a last look around the comfortable room, set the autodestruct sequence and walked out the front door. He didn't bother to lock it.

He debated whether to walk or drive the half mile to VA 123. He finally decided to drive. The traffic might have cleared and, if it had not, every little bit of energy savings would help. He shouldered the bag and started towards his late-model Buick, but froze as a dark-tinted Suburban with its lights off appeared out of the darkness and pulled up in front of his house.

He thought for a moment if there was anything incriminating in the house or on his person. He quickly decided that there was not and just as quickly decided that it probably wouldn't matter to his visitors. He braced himself for what would come next and barely flinched when the back door was flung back to reveal the Indowy Aelool and Paul des Jardins in the light from the interior.

«Get in,» snapped Paul, all trace of the dapper dilettante vanished.

O'Reilly considered the situation for a moment—it was a common trap—then hurried over to the SUV. «Just because it's a tank doesn't mean you're going to be able to negotiate traffic.» The heavyset driver pulled away without a word and headed away from VA 123.

«We have made arrangements,» said the Indowy. «We will be picked up by a Himmit stealth ship along the Burke Run.»

«There's another problem,» said des Jardins, gesturing towards the Indowy with his chin and turning to look out the window. The large bag at his feet could only hold weapons and O'Reilly smiled gently. You could take the boy out of DGSE but you could never take DGSE out of the boy. The hand inside the fine Saville Row suit undoubtedly cradled some lethal bit of French hardware.

«Indeed,» continued the little Indowy. «We intercepted a termination order originating from the Tir Dol Ron's office.»

«Intercepted?» asked the Jesuit incredulously.

«The Bane Sidhe is very ancient and very well-represented among the Indowy,» stated the diminutive alien. His batlike face wrinkled in a complicated fashion. Scholar or no, the expression was far too complex for O'Reilly to decipher. It seemed one part satisfaction and three parts exasperation. «Our ineffectiveness at direct action stems from many of the same sources as the Darhel's. And our response has ever mirrored theirs: Let humans do the dirty work.»

The former DGSE agent snorted. «To our discredit.»

«I am aware that the difference is often not one of execution but of goals,» admitted O'Reilly, wryly. «However, how does this termination order effect us? Is it for a member of the Société? Or of the Franklins?»

«No,» admitted the Indowy with another grimace. «The individual affected is unaware of the actions of the societies. However, the Bane Sidhe are in the individual's debt. Furthermore, we believe that the individual may represent a strong destabilizing factor to the Darhel.»

«One individual is not worth risking the Société,» stated the Monsignor definitively.

«Not normally. However, this individual has repeatedly demonstrated traits that make him outside the norm. And the Bane Sidhe ask it. We have aided the Société much. This is nothing compared to what we have done for the Société!»

«What about you, Paul?»

«All of our Marion teams are in the Northeast right now. Otherwise we would be handling it.»

«So, you think it worth the risk. Where is it that you need help?» asked the Jesuit, warily.

«We need Team Conyers.»

The monsignor smiled thinly and tried not to let the surprise show on his face. He hoped like hell the Darhel did not have the Mother Church so thoroughly penetrated.

* * *

The robe-clad monk knelt in the dirt of the well-tended vineyard and carefully tasted a grape. His mouth worked as he swirled the juices around, gathering every last nuance. The harvest would have to be gathered soon or there might not be one. The grape lacked that last bit of sweetness, but the lack might be to the good. Surely the wine of such a bitter time should not be sweet. The gentle wind of the night was a boon to his soul. The night was still the same, even as the world had come apart around them. The sheltering night had not changed.

He rose to his feet with the grace of a dancer as one of the senior brothers approached. The senior brother gestured for him to follow and headed towards one of the outbuildings of the monastery without a word. The monk saw others being gathered and realized that there must have been a special calling. The senior brother turned aside as he entered the building.

The assistant abbot would retire to his cell and pray continuously until the team returned. He remembered his own days on the teams and feared that many would not be at the next vespers. A call from the Société was so often a death sentence. They were like the French Foreign Legion in a way; the only thing that mattered to the Société was the mission and damn the casualties. To the Benedictines, the importance was the ritual and the art. That is why, contrary to popular myth, the special troops of the Catholic Church were not Jesuits. Shao-Lin did not own the monopoly they thought.

The monk perused the briefing under red «battle-lights» as his black– and gray-clad brothers assembled the instruments of their arts. The mission was complex but not terribly so. The gravest question was time. And of course going in with no communications and limited intelligence.

The monks had special dispensation to speak during briefings. There were, however, no questions. They took up their equipment, changed their clothes and loaded into the darkened vans without a word.

* * *

O'Neal stared at his opponent across the dimly lit green expanse. The next move would decide the outcome of the contest. The stakes were high, but Michael O'Neal, Senior had been in tougher spots. There was always a way out if you tried hard enough, thought about the situation and acted with precision and violence. But he usually had better cards.

«Raise you five,» said Cally.

«Call.»

«Two pair, kings high.»

«Damn!» said Papa O'Neal, throwing his cards down. The pair of aces lay forlornly on the table as if mocking his inability to win a simple hand of poker against an eight-year-old. It was well past midnight and he should have had her in bed long before. But with news coming in from the fighting and her father on his way to the front, Mike Senior was waiting for her to fall asleep naturally. So far she was showing all the stamina of a professional gambler.