Epilogue
WuFei slept in traction during his flight into Geneva, with Sally attentively watching over his condition during the flight. Duo teleconferenced with the Preventers already assembled in Switzerland. Words shared in the conference meeting were vague and general, for no one wanted to spill operational details with anyone piggybacked on the teleconference link.
Available details included were available through open sources, but Une considered it vital Duo and the others in flight get an interactive session. Through compiling innuendo speckled over the speaking, Duo deduced Une planned on commissioning him to lead a System Administration force in Eastern Africa, to passively pacify the zone. Isn't that what he's been doing? No, not with official resources and authority. From then on, he'd receive the full weight (and red tape, resistance, infighting...) of a regional C-in-C.
She filled him in on a few details outlined by President Murphy, including a new commitment to jailing arrangements for all the perpetrators involved in the action.
"Prisons should work like benevolent border collies, shepherding inhabitants into better behavior, and the concept of setting a fixed, irreversible set of time interferes with any good intentions," Shaun Murphy the congress on his surprisingly "soft line" approach for the prisoners of war captured in the Somali battles. He called for Palestinian construction workers to build a series of penitentiaries along the blueprints of Maxwell House.
Before a patient audience, and millions of television sets, he described the process:
"Leviathan air-inflated rubber balloons will support construction, and the end result will be a profoundly inexpensive geodesic dome. Garrison Maximum Security Prison (named after the former Ranger commander in Somalia) will be powered through a Pyrex flat plate solar collector, and the heating medium will be salt water, and a concrete cylinder will serve as the thermal storage pit.
Inside, 10X12 foot cells will besiege wide corridors, and deeply embedded LED lights will brighten the cellblocks. CCD cameras will pipe streaming digital video to flat liquid crystal displays situated in the "attic," where correctional personnel lounge above the flat ceiling. All prisoner-accessible plumbing will come from nineteenth century brick-and-mortar means, and furniture will be made of straw and canvas.
Correctional officers will carry lexan shields and cattle prods whenever in contact with prisoners, and ceiling CS teargas valves are triggered by numbered chamber, whenever things get messy.
Hard labor, reform, and education are the mantras for lesser infractions. Many of these tame offenders will tend to the new sweet sorghum fields for exercise. The prison majority will work their muscles six hours a week, with considerably more labor at harvest time. Model prisoners will be free to apply for work at the processing plant, where the sorghum will be converted into the new State's staple fuel; alcohol.
Much like the Irish system, select individuals, including all those eligible for paid work at the plant, can earn parole by putting in work with the national highway project, which will finally connect the nation.
When not working, the inmates will return to a prison based on the Garrison Supermax architecture, but with larger windows and more community areas. Literacy being first on the plate, prisoners will learn to read and write in the tradition of the nineteenth century schoolhouse, with similar reading primers. In the same room, meals are served. Milo will be the staple grain, and other foods will be scarce, not for cruelty, but because not much else is readily available in Somalia. Hopefully, ocean fish and seaweed will work out on prison plates, should those industries pan out.
After breakfast, prisoners lockstep to the fields, and work their hand tools. This is when the cells are shaken down for contraband. When finished, some prisoners shift to roadwork, while others return "inside the walls," where they can engage in none-paying activities like studying or engaging in a conversation, while they soak in some sun in 12X15 foot chain-link kennels, where they could even garden, if they wished.
Around noon, when everyone should be back, prisoners file away into vocational training: sales, building and grounds technology, veterinary training (equestrian variety), legal, and a few others will be considered.
Late in the afternoon, everyone not being reprimanded will get a chance to earn a small wage keeping up the prison, then another meal.
Then back to the cells. Prisoners schedule their own lights out times."
He described how relief forces were handling detainments in the meantime:
"Through international channels (questioning hospitalized diplomats kidnapped over the years), we separate the clan war criminals from the general population, and quarter the 5000 in aged fishing trawlers deep in territorial waters. For these men, incapacitation will last the remainder of their natural lives. That pretty much outlines business for the EPOW we have in the country.
With these measures, we can begin changing this portion of the world. We are currently shipping every single prefabricated aluminum home our Relief Forces have in stock. These homes will be given out to families all over Eastern Africa. Too stave off a humanitarian crisis, I've authorized our Logistics personnel to ship all of our militaries expired rations to Mogadishu, to be further distributed across the continent. The William H. Cosby docked in the port today, and aircraft are parceling out humanitarian items far into Africa."
He swayed at the podium, absorbing all the critical faces studying him.
"Just one more item of business. I have a list of people I want you to consider for Medal of Honour considerations."
Columbia
It was sometime before daylight when Bartista's City Government had the power back on, and most of the critical circuits replaced. The problem of having a high-mega joule electro-magnetic footprint fry everything was compounded by La Republica's careful use of tactical fighter aircraft against Medillin's vulnerable grid network. The air defense responded slowly, thanks to several chinks in the radar coverage grid, and reconstruction efforts are seemingly far slower.
At daylight, a massive air armada sweeps over one area especially weakened in the previous attacks, and Bartista's units match them fully.
Both sides field two complete wings each, with full electronic, tanker, and advanced air warning air control support. Caballero's air force links up in a wide phalanx made up of two planes in a marriage contract flying in loose formation. Bartista's forces tighten four planes in rigid deltas, employing networked radar packages for more improved missile fire control.
Caballero's flyers sacrifice true airspeed for superior altitude, while Bartista's aviators hang lower to maintain speed. Both sides probe and jab feints like experienced boxers, warily looking for any sign of the opponent slackening up. Finally, when the cartel fighters parry a very shallow thrust from above, a hungry pack of helicopters spring a flying flack-trap from the ground clutter of the mountains. A delirious amount of infrared homing weapons stretch over a six-mile area up and above thirty-thousand feet.
Garnet processions of chain-gun and Vulcan shot chase at their rocket exhaust. Instinctively, pilots within the opposition call out "SAM!" Planes dive about evasively, showing exposed shots for the Republic's high ground fighters. The Republic tactical aircraft pursued, tacked claret brackets over the declining airframes, pickled some adjacent shots.
Survivors selected the better part of valor, and ditched the dogfight. Aries suits from Medillin relieved the losers, and the battle reset to zero. The straight-winged fighters and helicopters retreated to the rear for refueling and rearmament, leaving the mobile-suits thoroughly even, save a small desperate infantry force tooled with puny missiles.
The suits shadowed one another until the fatalistic SAM missile batteries demonstrated their guts when the Aries floated twelve O'clock high.
Bartista still held ground control in their woods, so they blazed trails in a hurry. The suits flew conservatively until both sides hit bingo fuel, and cut home. Distant low-percentage shots dominated the match, leaving Bartista's air force alive, but clearly the loser.
In Town"Excuse me, Sir, but do you know the direction to this bomb shelter?" Heero met his next target at a red light near the city square. This one wasn't important enough to merit a car and driver, for he was just a senior member of a security agency.
"Let's see, we are here," the guard jabbed the map with one finger, then suddenly slumped back in his chair."
"Okay, thank you, Sir!" Heero expressed his gratitude loud enough for the checkpoint sentries to overhear, and turned while giving one last thankful wave at the driver. He went on his way as the light turned green. The sentries had completely forgotten the exchange minutes later, when they decided to determine why that driver never drove on green,
Later
Heero entered the same teashop a precinct police chief's gopher frequented. Here, the security check prevented him from bringing in a weapon, but that didn't matter much.
He ordered pennyroyal, and diligently sipped it down as the gopher picked up a bagged order, and walked past Heero's Dodge Neon. Heero speed-dialed a small charge, detonating a fiery gas tank rupture.
Next
The precinct Deputy Chief somehow missed the radio dispatch reporting the explosion. It may have had something to do with the line-of-sight radio barrage coming from Heero's phone, which blanketed the channels with the hiss of static.
So Anthony Munez and his plain-clothed escort weren't prepared for Heero's Chevy Caviler, when it gave a repeat performance beside them.
Heero attended to finishing his Irish Crème Coffee.
A Little Later
The biggest problem with hiding around a city in a taxi is that someone with cruel intentions may decide to hail your cab. Jorge Padilla, Bartista's handpicked Praetorian, the guy tasked with tugging puppet government strings, or cutting them, should the strings slacken too much, drove about this way. Sadly, someone had to call him about a Senator murmuring about rebellion.
Heero, in a Volkswagon Jetta he'd kept cold during his Columbia stay, strapped on a football helmet and pads as he crossed into opposing traffic, and clobbered the taxi. His teeth chattered in his skull, and the airbag smothered his body. The shattered driver door didn't budge for several kicks.
Out at last, the Japanese assassin whipped out a bic lighter, and incinerated some cotton cloth protruding from a 32oz plastic bottle of 87 octane gasoline, long-sufferingly let it char down, and pitched the Molotov through the taxi before ignition.
Heero repeated the lighting process with the Jetta's fuel storage, and shopped for a new vehicle at a nearby lot, remembering to shed the football attire.
Pancho Bautista, the leader of a pro-Bartista paramilitary militia charged with finding the responsible assassin, received orders from his cell. He hid out in what appeared to be an ordinary peon barn from the outside, but was actually a comfortable timber living space. He lived simply and out of sight. His runners were dirty looking children, and he didn't phone, fax, or electronically mail his operatives. But like the others, he couldn't take part in the regime without keeping a cell handy.
The Symbian OS chose that irritating time to ask for a security update. Bautista considered himself highly competent on security matters, and didn't let himself slip into poor habits then or ever.
This would be a pain. He ordered one of the runners at attention to dispatch the team to find all the hidden operatives, and bring them in for explicit orders.
The little destitute kid pedaled his feet, and in a short time, led in one of the new assassins.
Hmm, this short one looks a little Japanese...
Finally
Heero crumpled the paper contents of the militia leader's desk files, and stuffed them down his shorts. He fireman carried the body to the barn's upper deck, and invited the next assassin up. At the day's end, he felt convinced no more were coming, and escaped through the upper window, spider-crawled across the roof, and tight walked the high wire.
His new car came with an instruction manual in the glove compartment. Yuy spaced out all the stolen documents within the pages, and braved passing through a checkpoint. He'd left his pistol buried on a park corner, so the search, far more intensive than anything he'd encountered yet, turned up nothing against him.
They quizzed him, not entirely convinced he looked local, but he sounded native, and they decided not to trouble themselves with detaining him.
They warned him a curfew would start soon, and that he'd better stay home the next few days, if he wanted to stay out of chains.
The authorities were on the verge of passing a clampdown, the guards had said, so it would be wise to stock the pantry as much as he could.
Heero heartily thanked them for the advice, and followed their instructions.
Home looked fairly normal, but something didn't feel right. The garage light was on, and he knew that wasn't normal. Heero wondered if he'd been found out, or if the authorities had checked his home.
He knew two lives in that house could incriminate him enough for instant execution, and with no gun, a shootout would be one-sided. He drove around to spy the back shed, and saw the lock cut off, and the doors swaying.
He stopped in the road, and bolted over the fence, to the shed, and opened the fat console TV inside. They hadn't found his explosives kit. He removed his spare gun from the cache, and rammed in a magazine, cocked the hammer, chambered a round.
His key slid through the back lock without any noisy friction, and he peered through the opened door, shielding most of his small body with the wall.
Tanya/Tonya noticed the light pouring in, and schlepped near.
"Who's in the garage?"
She came out, demonstrating no hidden thug existed to coerce her.
"Dorothy and Janice. I hid them in the car when some soldiers came to search the place."
Heero stared off to consider everything.
"I see. Did they find them? Search my computer? Have you answered a questionnaire?"
"No, yes, and yes. They searched the garage and every room, but didn't peak under the car tarp, so the girls didn't turn up."
He let her sling an arm around him, and walked her back inside.
"Good, so everything's fine. I have a new car in the road, and I must move it before someone tows it."
Outside the Town
Fighter sweeps of various sizes and configurations continued through the daylight hours, daring the city air defense to rule them routine. They never did, but by the time twilight set in, vital protocol lapsed, until defenders no longer bothered optically tracking the enemy.
This matters because of gundanium's less-known quality.
Gundanium
alloy
A unique compound which {sic} can only be produced in
the zero-gravity conditions of space. In addition to its incredible
strength, Gundanium alloy is electrically nonconductive and cannot be
detected by radar. However, this material is expensive and difficult
to manufacture, making it unfeasible for mass production.
Source:
The gundanium need only be electroplated to achieve low-observable status; thick costly armor plates need not be applied.
This process they did with a common shuttlecraft, one with enough internal storage for a rack of iron bombs.
General Caballero personally chose the flight crew from the Air Force and Navy's best, and had the shuttle painted for night operations.
Leonard Fox, a Navy Lieutenant Commander, got the stick. An Air Force Major, Felix Alomar, got the seat to his right. These two could probably handle all the duties, but if not, Samuel Cruz, a mere Navy Ensign, came on as the Bombardier.
Fox and Alomar were around forty, and Cruz was the junior on board. They taxied off the Camp Prevention strip, masquerading as the daily USO flight.
After covering a safe distance from other traffic, the crew silenced the transponders, network modems, and the other emitters, the better to run black.
They followed the LORAN beacons to the city, and looked down for the mobile-suit pens nestled in a population center that the cruise missiles, ballistic missile reentry vehicles, and even the black jet didn't dare attack. "It should be noted," they were told, "that operatives inside the city couldn't reach it, and neither could Peacecraft, in his powerful mobile-suit.
They carried the heaviest and most complex bomb known to man, a bomb of horrifying power. Does anyone outside of the scientific community know just what ten terawatts is? That's ten to the thirteenth power watts, sickening amount of electricity, enough to heat a packet of deuterium (heavy water) to a really big number in scientific notation, a temperature seen in nature only around quasars (which are probably masses of space dust and gas being pulled into a black hole). All you need to burn water to these temperatures is a collage tabletop laser to concentrate all its output into the briefest moment, say a femtosecond (a time so short, nerve impulses are turtles in comparison), and got a whole lot of steam power lunging against the bomb casing. They worked on this, too. They electroplated a super-dense material, metallic hydrogen, around a thicker casing of gundanium, thus trapping the steam long enough to buildup an explosive pressure. It rebelled against its casing as Cruz closed the Bombay, and Fox climbed a ballistic arc away. When the explosion occurred, dirt all the way to the mantle turned to glass, tsunamis surged toward Japan, gundanium vapor shot toward the moon, and X radiation flashed high enough to leave strange photoelectric effects, similar to those on the shroud of Turin, on the colony walls. All this, but because the engineers had worked so hard bulking the bombcase's sides, the blast radius didn't expand over the city.
The bomb sank thousands of meters below the Earth, speared by the Preventers' donated miniaturized beam-saber, burrowing deep enough that the motioning gases in the bomb chose almost exclusively to escape upward, in the direction it had come, because that way was more open than all others. Gemini, the Gundam with the impervious hide, charged its planet defensors automatically, sensing it needed to batten down to stave the blast.
The blast applied Newton's third law, taking the suit into the boundaries of space. Up there, the volatile mass dissipated, and let Gemini fall back down.
Tallgeese III and Epyon, just arriving from Panama, pursued the falling object. They throttled up the verniers, and surveyed the hulk.
"It doesn't look serviceable, Zechs."
The suit's freefall ended in the Amazon, where it's crater created a shockwave sufficing to topple everything in Disneyland.
"Noin, what could account for something like this?"
Mordred Bartista heard about the incidents of the day while sweating out the day in a cattle trailer loaded with straw and bulls.
The mobile stockade was a high-end one, with a closed off bathroom, where he sat on the toilet while riding north of the city.
A personal jet waited in a private airport long overgrown in foliage.
He felt sickened, cheated, thieved and worse, but decided a flight back to the estate in Spain could save him. His mother would be waiting. Yuck! His aunts and sisters, too. It didn't matter. He'd just let them handle the bills from then on, see if they could balance the books. He'd done that. He'll tell them, and any nosy reporter that shows up, too. The crimes did pay, because, even after totaling all the losses in destroyed real estate, protection costs, and all else, the venture was profitable. So there, he'd won the game.
The vehicle stopped.
Bartista hedged a look.
A green Toyota Tercel with... Queen Relena and Dorothy Catalonia... sat behind them.
Why are we stopped on the road?
A wiry Japanese boy opened the gate, and encouraged all the bulls out. Two Gundams descended from high above.
Treize and Zechs?
"Grandee Mordred Bartista, please come out with your hands to your head," demanded the kid, holding out a pistol at arms length.
"How did you find me?"
The boy reached deep into his shorts, and removed a crumpled piece of paper.
"Your auditing was too detailed. Bautista, one of the thugs I killed, had a paper listing an airport covered in overgrowth, with coordinates, traffic directions, and even the label: GRANDEE'S CONTINGENCY GETAWAY AIRPORT. SEE ESCAPE PLAN DETAILS."
