"Cut the bullshit, James," said the President of the FSC to his secretary of war. "The war in Pashtia is not going swimmingly. Our 'allies' are not doing their part, despite what you promised me, they promised you, and I promised the people who elected me and the newspapers and television stations that supported me. Right now, the Office of Strategic Intelligence is convinced that Pashtia will fall about two months before mid-term elections. That, my advisors assure me, will cost us both the House and the Senate. Losing those will stymie the social programs we counted on getting passed to be re-elected. All of which means that, unless the Pashtian situation is turned around, we'll all be looking for jobs after that election."
"But Mr. President . . . " Malcolm began.
"Can it, James. No bullshit. We're in trouble and no two ways about it. Now how are you going to fix this and save our skins? And, please, spare me the nonsense about massive formation of TU troops to turn the tide. They're not coming, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. And if they did come they still wouldn't fight."
Malcolm hung his head. He'd been so sure that troops would be forthcoming. He'd been convinced that with the right platitudes, the proper kowtowing to the Tauran Union, the World League, the humanitarian activist NGOs and the world press, he could persuade the Tauros to really commit to the war. He'd been absolutely certain that the Gauls and the Sachsens would really help if only they were approached the right way. He'd been equally certain he had that way.
Bah! I couldn't even talk them into providing what they promised, let alone more. I couldn't talk them into allowing what little they have sent to actually go out of their bases and fight.
This was too uncomfortable a train of thought. Malcolm quickly added the mental amendment, If only the previous administration hadn't so thoroughly poisoned the waters.
He never considered that maybe the water was poisoned to begin with.
2/7/467 AC, First Landing, Federated States of Columbia
Although the local virus had the effect of substantially reducing the harmful effects of some of the things found in tobacco, they had done nothing to make its nicotine less of a poison in sufficient dosage. Indeed, in the form of nicotine sulfate, it was one of the better insecticides and lethal to humans in dosages of as little as fifty or sixty milligrams. It was even more useful since it was readily absorbed through the skin.
Khalid could have purchased simple cigarettes or cigars to prepare his mixture. There was, however, a simpler way, taught to him by his Volgan instructors. This was to purchase a commercial insecticide and distill out the impurities, leaving fairly pure nicotine sulfate. This he had done, achieving a highly concentrated and extremely deadly form of the stuff, with only enough liquid to make it free flowing.
In his hotel room he attached a baby's snot sucker to some clear, flexible tubing cut to the length of an umbrella. With the squeeze bottle at the end of the snot sucker, he vacuumed an appreciable quantity of the nicotine sulfate solution into the tube. This he plugged with a small cork, very tightly. The entire assembly he then taped to the cane of the umbrella, making a small slash in the material to allow the corked tube to protrude through slightly.
The umbrella stood by the hotel room door. Meanwhile, Khalid, his hair lightened and green contacts covering his own brown eyes, studied the picture in the folder he'd been given. The picture was of one Ishmael ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana, a very minor scion of Mustafa's clan, currently attending school in First Landing. The boy was only twenty and lacked both the finely developed paranoia of the older members of his clan, as well as their money to hire guards and drivers.
Boy, thought Khalid. Boy, I don't know why you have to die. Nor do I care. But enjoy the morning, even so. You will not see the sunset.
With that, Khalid closed the file and stood, walking to his bag to place the file within it. He closed and locked the bag. With that he left, taking the umbrella with him and placing a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the room's door.
Outside the hotel, Khalid hailed a taxi which brought him to the corner nearest Ishmael's small, student apartment. He waited a short time, then saw the boy leave, smoking a cigarette.
Which is why I chose this method. It will take a while for them to notice the outrageous amount of nicotine in your system. With doctors in the Federated States as they are now, they may not even care to look. After all, you are one of those utter unmentionable, those vile untouchables. You smoke, boy, and it's going to be the death of you.
The boy, Ishmael, disappeared into a nearby subway entrance. Khalid followed him down, neither so closely as to be obvious nor so far behind that he couldn't run to catch the train should his target enter one.
There was no train. There was, however, a fair crowd. Using the crowd as cover, Khalid moved to within two feet of Ishmael. Then he settled down to wait for a train.
Unfortunately, the next train entered the subway on the other side. Khalid really wanted not just the noise, in case the nicotine caused the boy to cry out. He also wanted everyone's attention focused on the train's arrival, and movement to begin in the crowd, to cover his own withdrawal.
As expected, the next train arrived on his side, with a tremendous rattle. Nearly everyone but Khalid turned their attention to the train, and about half-lurched forward half a step, as if to gain an advantage for boarding.
Khalid was prepared to make a similar half-lurch, if his target did. This proved unnecessary. He pointed the tip of his umbrella at the boy's calf. At the same time, he reached the other hand over and gave a squeeze to the snot sucker. As little sound as the popping cork made, there was no chance of it being heard over the sound of the train. The nicotine sulfate sprayed out, soaking the target's cloth-covered calf. Khalid immediately turned away, and walked into the mass of humanity gathering by the edge of the platform.
When Khalid turned and looked through the window of the subway car, there was a small crowd gathering around a prostrate, quivering form.
4/7/467 AC, St. Ekaterina Caserne, Fuerte Cameron, Balboa
The stiffly marching Volgans sang in voices designed to knock birds dead at a mile.
"Pust' yarost' blagorodnaya
Vskipaet, kak volna
Idyot voyna narodnaya,
Svyaschennaya voyna!"
"Catchy," Carrera complimented. "What's it mean?"
Samsonov, the Volgan colonel of paratroopers Kuralski had contacted and hired—along with the bulk of his regiment—some years back, puzzled over the translation for a moment before answering, "Comes from Great Global War . . . but maybe older than that. Not sure. Means . . . mmm . . . something like, 'Let waves of righteous fury . . . Swell up as never before . . . And spur us to the victory of . . . Our sacred people's war.' You like?"
"It's excellent. Can you have one of your men make a translation and send it on to Professor Ruiz. Maybe send him a small chorus to demonstrate, too."