Frank looked positively shocked. “No shit?”
“Language, Mr. Lodge!” Mrs. Stevens said, looking genuinely aghast.
Cal couldn’t help but smile a bit as Frank stared at the woman with visible confusion, while Maggie reached over to punch him in the arm. Women gotta stand up for women, Cal figured. Now, Cal was all for women having a little more responsibility here and there — his mother worked hard her whole life to bring Cal and his brothers and sisters up right. But putting a woman in charge of the equipment for a spy mission? Especially one where he might be expected to kill somebody? He wanted to be OK with that, but that wasn’t sitting right. And yet Commander Wallace seemed fine with it, so he figured he’d better get used to it. He supposed that if the government was going to trust a Negro man on a spy mission, trusting a woman was pretty much the same thing. And there was Maggie, after all.
The quartermaster, meanwhile, was rustling through her duffel bag and setting items out on the table. “So, first we have these packs of cigarettes, one for each of you. Lucky Strikes, which is what Mr. Stevens smokes. I admit I sneak one from time to time,” Mrs. Stevens said with a smile as she tossed four packs on the table and held up a fifth. “Now, you’ll see that there’s a black dot on the edge of the filters on six of these in each pack.” She held up the pack; Cal had to lean in to see the specks, which looked like tiny little flecks of tobacco. “These aren’t manufacturing defects. It indicates which cigarettes in the pack are loaded. Inside each of them is a small dart, with a knockout agent on the tip. All you have to do is light, point at the person you need to take a nap, and let our R&D handle the rest.”
Mrs. Stevens produced a cigarette from her pack, lit it, and took a big draw — it looked to Cal like the lady liked a good cigarette more than occasionally. She held it idly in her hand, but Cal saw the tip was pointed at the surface of the table. A moment later, there was a small sound, like a quick exhale of breath, and the dart embedded itself into the table. It was no larger than the tip of an old fountain pen.
“Effective range up to fifteen feet, but in a pinch, you could probably get thirty feet out with a favorable breeze and a bit of luck,” she said, folding up her pack and slipping it into the pocket of her dress. “Total incapacitation for around ten minutes.”
Maggie raised her hand and looked to Danny. “Commander, we don’t need that if I can just—”
Danny cleared his throat and cut her off, looking pointedly at Mrs. Stevens. “Security, Maggie. Not everyone here is cleared for everything. And you might not always be around, so these are a good backup.”
Maggie nodded and looked back to Mrs. Stevens, who smiled sweetly at Maggie. “Well, then. If I may?” She looked to Danny, who gave her a small wave. “Good. Now then, you’re also getting this lighter. If you just use it normally, you’ll probably never run out of fuel. It contains a highly concentrated, highly flammable liquid, and the lighter itself has three uses. One, of course, is you can just light your cigarette. But when you depress the valve for more than two seconds, you’ll see just how handy this little gadget can be. At that point, one quarter of the fuel supply is expended, creating a flame six feet long in front of you for five seconds. Remember to point it away from yourself. Safety first!”
Mrs. Stevens then turned away from her audience, put the lighter out in front of her, and produced a burst of fire that looked like it came from a flamethrower in the old war movies.
“I won’t demonstrate the third option, as it’s significantly more dangerous. But should you find yourself in dire straits, all you have to do is pop open the lid of the lighter and throw it as far as you can. The resulting grenade explosion will set fire to everything in, oh, let’s say a twenty-foot radius. Again, it’s powerful, so don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Her demonstration concluded, Mrs. Stevens then handed over a lighter for each of them, along with a pack of her knockout Lucky Strikes. Cal picked his up and eyed it warily; he was never much of a smoker to begin with. But he could see how he might need one or two after all this was said and done. And besides, he could probably heal himself of any ill effects after. He would just need to remember not to pick one of the marked ones.
Mrs. Stevens, meanwhile, was still rummaging through her duffel bag. “One more thing for you here. For the men, a nice new billfold, and for the lady, a nice new compact, complete with mirror and powder.”
The three leather wallets looked a little bulky but otherwise normal. The powder compact was smaller but had a hard case. Cal picked his wallet up off the table and weighed it in his hands. “It’s a little stiff, ma’am.”
Mrs. Stevens shook her head at the complaint. “With some use over time, it’ll be a little more flexible. And I’d encourage you to keep it in your front pocket rather than the back. I don’t think you’ll be wanting to sit on your handie-talkie.”
“A radio?” Frank asked, eyes wide. “This thing’s a radio?”
“Yes, dear, it’s a radio. Just open it up and hold the left side to your ear and let the right side fall to your chin. Short range, less than a mile, but I imagine it’ll be handy,” Mrs. Stevens said.
“So, what happens if someone tries to call while this thing’s in my pocket?” Ellis drawled. “My pants gonna start talkin’?”
Mrs. Stevens’s laugh was like something you’d hear at a cocktail party. “Oh, Mr. Longstreet! Give us a little more credit than that! The audio doesn’t turn on until you flip open the wallet. If someone’s trying to reach you over the channel — and it’s a dedicated channel, by the way — your wallet will vibrate a little bit. Just a buzz. You’ll feel it, and when you’re in the clear, you can answer.” Mrs. Stevens turned to Maggie. “Yours vibrates just a little bit more, so you’ll feel it when you have it in your clutch.”
Maggie frowned. “I don’t really use makeup. And I don’t have a clutch.”
Mrs. Stevens looked positively shocked at this, but Danny intervened. “Your cover identities will include all the clothing and accessories you need. And we can get someone to help you with your makeup once you’re there.” He turned back to Mrs. Stevens. “One more thing, I believe?”
“Oh, yes. I have them right here,” Mrs. Stevens said. She pulled a small case from the duffel bag and opened it, revealing four small automatic pistols. “These are Spanish make, Regina pocket pistols, 32 caliber. They weigh just twenty-one ounces, not even six inches long. We chose them because carrying around an American-made weapon, wherever it is you’re going, might not be the brightest idea. These have been around a while. Six rounds in the magazine and another in the chamber. If you remember Mr. Mulholland’s tricks, you should be able to get this into wherever you need to go, no problem.”
She then pulled four small metal tubes from the case. “Now, I know the OSS folks liked the High Standard HDM pistols during the war. Those had an integrated suppressor and a bigger magazine. Impressive, but really big — not suitable at all for parties!” Mrs. Stevens giggled. “These suppressors screw on, which will take a few seconds, but you’ll be far less likely to be spotted carrying a gun this way.”
Danny cleared his throat again. “Again, I really want to stress that if we end up having to shoot, I’d consider that a pretty big failure all around.”
Cal looked down at his gun, frowning. “I couldn’t agree more, Commander.”
“And that’s that,” Mrs. Stevens said, tossing her clipboard into the duffel. “Now, you folks be careful, all right? And please bring as much as you can back in good condition, will you? They may seem more like slightly dangerous toys, but your newly acquired equipment represents a significant percentage of my department’s operating budget!”