When Diplomacy Fails . . . by Michael Z. Williamson Page A

the door, and everyone else came through.
    “Where are my explosives?” Elke asked at once.
    Jason said, “Here, have a shotgun, a carbine, a pistol and a fighting knife.” He handed them over.
    “Very nice, thank you,” she said without expression as she took them, checked the chambers on all three, did a couple of practice drills, and laid them on the couch, the sheathed knife atop them. “Where are my explosives?”
    Aramis handed out knives and demolition hammers to the circle around him, then started on pistols.
    Alex took his, cleared it, nodded and said, “No word on the explosives?”
    Jason said, “No sign that they’ve been here at all. I’m betting they’re in a separate box.”
    Elke paced a bit. She didn’t make any comments, but she was obviously irritated, and . . . Aramis guessed vulnerable, except that sounded romantic. Insecure? He could see that. Explosives were her tools. It would be the same if he didn’t have firearms or armor.
    “Where is the armor?” he asked, realizing he hadn’t seen that.
    Jason said, “Screwup in transit and customs, Cady will deliver it tomorrow.”
    “Good.” Assuming it happened. He looked back at Elke.
    Shaman kept an eye on her, surreptitiously, and she probably noticed but didn’t say anything. She helped check and clear weapons, stow them, tag them. She filled magazines and belts, checked batteries.
    In short order they had it all done, and split up the bullion and cash into packs and pockets. Aramis found himself in possession of a contractor credit account, a prepaid card with a healthy limit, a roll of cash that would choke a medium sized alligator, several hundred grams of gold, some silver, and one each palladium and rhodium 30 gram bars. It was a good thing he’d be armed, because anyone getting a whiff of this just might consider murder.
    Still, it reassured him on bugging out. It was a mark of trust from the company, too, as they’d provided that from their own assets, and would have to take his, and their collective, word on disposition.
    Elke looked unhappy, but she checked over her hardware and very politely said, “Thank you, Jason, the customizing is excellent. I’m going to retire early.” She slung them carefully and walked out silently.
    He didn’t think he’d ever seen her that pissed the entire time they’d worked together.
    Bart broke the uncomfortable silence by saying, “I would like that beer now.”
    *  *  *  *
    Alex was mostly satisfied. Elke’s gear and the heavier weapons were an issue, but almost everything else had been resolved, though not the way channels would approve.
    That’s their own damned fault for refusing to cooperate , he thought. When they’d first started this outfit, the military had been competitors and eventually the enemy. However, they’d never until now been hostile.
    The medics and intel were cordial and professional, at least as far as they saw mutual benefit. The rest of the base so far was actively antagonistic. They’d have to find some way to smooth that out.
    Their quarters were quite comfortable for the field. They had billets on par with officers or other high-end contractors: hard buildings, private rooms where enlisted personnel would have three to five, basic bunks and lockable closets. The problem, of course, was the weapons, which in theory were supposed to be secured whenever they were not on escort, which would mean a lot of back and forth to the armory. In practice, they usually left someone in the billet to watch things, armed. He also knew Aramis concealed a small pistol when out. He was sure Jason did, too, though he’d never seen it. He made do with a knife.
    Elke was ostensibly sleeping, and certainly fuming about her mistreatment. The explosives were a necessary component, and he’d talk to Das about that in the morning. For now, they could use a nonalcoholic beverage on the military side, and a little noise and camaraderie.
    “Just keep the attitudes from bothering