"According to the contemporary law specialists at my firm, there's evidence of seven separate indictable offenses on this stick alone. But of course, that's only if I file here. On the other hand, if I file in-zone, by my count there are sixty-two civil and criminal actions available to Mr. Davidson, should he wish to seek a remedy for the Bureau's actions."
Geraghty came out from behind his bland persona. A large vein was throbbing in his neck, and his knuckles were white with the effort of controlling himself. "You won't be filing anything anywhere, you bitch. You'll be lucky to come out of this without doing jail time yourself."
The agents hadn't noticed-they weren't as familiar with the technology-but Slim Jim distinctly saw the dark-haired woman press a hot key on the flexipad riding at her hip. She had to be recording this.
"Once again," O'Brien said, "I'll guess we'll see about that. But you gentlemen should inform your superiors at the earliest opportunity that I will be dragging you ass-backwards and buck-naked through the briar patch. You should also inform your superiors that I intend to call Director Hoover as a witness, and if he tries to blow me off the way he does with every inconvenient inquiry that comes his way, I'll ask the bench to issue a warrant for his arrest. And I will have him dragged kicking and screaming to the stand. So he might want to go out and buy himself a nice new dress for his big day in court."
O'Brien's voice didn't get louder or faster as she spoke. Quite the opposite, in fact. When she was finished, she leaned forward, almost close enough to kiss Agents Geraghty and Swinson on the tips of their noses, and Slim Jim had to strain himself to hear. The faces of the two men, however, told him that they'd understood everything.
They were-what was that thing Ms. O'Brien liked to say?-oh yeah. They were toast.
The agents sent a threatening glare in his direction as they slunk out of the room, but as a confidence man himself, Slim Jim knew they'd been rolled.
"You owe Ms. Monroe a steak dinner, Mr. Davidson," O'Brien told him once they'd left. "She came and got me as soon as they grabbed you."
"Thanks, sweetie," he said to Marilyn.
"What a pair of assholes," spat the soon-to-be starlet. "I can't believe the FBI would employ such people."
Both O'Brien and the other chick, the one with the flexipad, snorted in amusement.
"This is Ms. Julia Duffy, Mr. Davidson, and her escort, Commander Dan Black," O'Brien said. "Ms. Duffy works for the New York Times, and she had asked me if she could interview you about the harassment you've suffered at the hands of Mr. Hoover. As your attorney, I would advise you to agree to the request. Although I should mention that I act for Ms. Duffy in another capacity, and if-"
Slim Jim held up his hand. "That's enough. I'll talk to her. You wrote that fucking amazing bit about that guy called Snider, didn't you, Ms. Duffy. On the Brisbane Line. Walter Winchell reckons he's gonna get a Medal of Honor for that."
Julia Duffy shook his hand. She had a grip as firm and dry as O'Brien's, but he noticed with surprise that her hands were heavily callused, like a workman's.
"If he gets it, it won't be because I wrote a story. It'll be because he deserves a medal," she said. "He saved our lives, and at great risk to his own."
"Uh-huh," said Slim Jim. "Be a feather in your cap, too, though, wouldn't it?"
"Mr. Davidson," O'Brien cautioned him.
"It's okay." Duffy smiled. "Your client is a lot smarter than most people would give him credit for. Not by book learning, but with rat bastard cunning, if I'm not mistaken. Wouldn't that be right, Slim Jim?"
His eyes crinkled and a wide grin split his face. "Something like that," he said. "When would you like to do your interview, Ms. Duffy?"
19
It wouldn't be long now. No supplies or reinforcements had made it through to them, although the navy hadn't really pressed the issue. The enemy's "special soldiers" moved at will behind the lines, destroying precious stockpiles and even murdering his officers in their bedrolls at night. His men died bravely, but for no good reason.
The ridiculously outmoded Brisbane Line still held, protected by the superweapons of the Emergence barbarians. And now, with his guns almost empty and his men unable even to forage enough food from the scorched earth, those barbarians had emerged once again, this time from their dugouts and revetments. His forward scouts, reporting by radio now that it no longer mattered, told of monstrous tanks and armored vehicles, cutting through any resistance like a katana through a single reed.
Masaharu Homma, the poet-general, adjusted his sword and cap and centered his hara with a deep breath as he prepared to address the divisional staff.
He stood in the office of the former mayor of this town, Bundaberg. It was a rather fine whitewashed edifice for such a small settlement, typical of British colonial architecture. He doubted it would survive another day. The dull, distant thunder was drawing close, becoming louder, sharper, and more significant. Barbarian artillery was no longer nibbling at the edge of the town. It chewed whole streets to pieces, smashing houses, shops, and schools, setting fire to the large swaths of bushland. His own artillery sounded in reply, once a monstrous rumble but now growing perceptibly weaker with each passing minute.
The barbarian guns were hellishly accurate. It seemed as if everything they hit was important to him in some way. A house where some of his officers were bivouacked. A parking lot full of trucks. This town hall must surely be marked, as well.
How many hours left? wondered Homma. Would this room still exist, the building still stand? He looked about dolefully. His staff hurried about, packing some files, destroying others. Hopefully there was some systemic method at work there. His adjutant waited by the door.
"I imagine it was all worth it, Admiral," he muttered to himself bitterly and to an absent Yamamoto. More bitterly than he would have thought possible even a year ago. A corrosive decay of the soul had settled upon him, and refused to lift.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Had he spoken aloud? He'd been prone to that recently, and the lieutenant was looking at him most strangely.
When he didn't respond, the young officer continued. "I have your papers, General. And we don't have much time. Enemy soldiers have secured the aerodrome. They came in helicopters after the garrison was overcome by a strange gas. Special soldiers, we think. They are animals, sir. They fight without honor."
Homma was both amused and a little touched by the young man's furious sincerity. Surely the empire would prosper with men like him to defend it, even if this particular one was fated to die in a benighted wasteland of red dust and savages.
He hoped the enemy would pay due respect to the spirits of his men, but he doubted it. These new barbarians were supposed to be even more advanced than the white men he had fought in the Philippines and New Guinea. But he couldn't see it. Why, many of them weren't even white men at all. They were not a race as he understood it-just a cabal of mercenaries, from what he could tell. For whom did they fight?
They did so effectively, though; that was undeniable. Their weapons were almost supernatural in their powers. But the men and even the women who used them could not claim to be the moral equal of the emperor's troops, or even MacArthur's. His scouts reported that they were executing their prisoners en masse.