Op File Sanction Page 6

  Walden went up so fast, he didn’t have time to raise his arms. A loud crack as his head smacked into the hatch proved his theory. The velocity and mass created enough force to dislodge the hatch and it hurt. And he forgot to grab the frame. With his hands plastered to the top of his head, his elbows hooked an edge. He ended up hanging with his feet dangling.

  “Clear the opening. Or I will pull you out of the way and leave you for the poker room bosses,” Warlock directed. “Move it, now!”

  Kicking, squirming, and grunting, the pilot managed to shimmy up and vanish onto the roof of the warehouse. The former Striker ran two steps to the wall, lifted a foot, and kicked off. She sailed up and back. In midair, Warlock spun around, raised her arms, and caught her weight on the hatch’s frame. A heartbeat later she joined Poet on the roof.

  ***

  “Now we sit tight and call Eiko,” suggested Poet.

  “They have the counterfeiting press in the other warehouse,” Warlock informed him as she grabbed his arm and tugged him away from the roof hatch. “You’ll contact him from there.”

  “Where?” Poet questioned as they reached the edge of the roof. “Over there?”

  A shadowy line in the moonlight defined the other roof. Walden took a step back.

  “I’ll just supervise from here,” he offered. “Much better reception, I’d think.”

  “And what do you do if security follows us up here,” remarked Warlock as she placed one leg back and bent her knees. “I’m going over. Then I’m waiting fifteen seconds for you to follow. I’ll be there to catch you. After that, well, best of luck.”

  The Marine dug in the balls of her feet, sprinted for three steps and launched herself. She landed, turned in Poet’s direction, and counted. “One, two, three…”

  Put Walden Geboren in control of any type of craft and throw obstacles at him all during the flight, and he’d land with a smile on his face. Or bury him under tons of research. He would rip into it, organize the data, and emerge with ordered, intelligent conclusions. But ask him to jump over an impossibly broad gap? He started to shake and sweat.

  “Eleven, twelve, thirteen,” Diosa counted. “Two to go. Fourteen, and. Poet, behind you, hurry up, come on, come on!”

  The panic in her voice and the urgent plea broke down his defenses. He ran to the edge and leaped off. As soon as he left the roof, he regretted it. With his eyes closed, he waited for the pavement to smack him and break his body. Then fingers dug into his shoulders and the downward drift reversed. His body lifted and, although his feet touched the roof, his legs folded. He plopped down heavily on his backside.

  “When we get to The Talon, I’m locking myself on the command deck,” Poet informed her. “And I’m not coming out until the mission is over.”

  “What about chow?” teased Warlock.

  “Just leave a few crackers by the hatch,” Poet said. “I’ll get by. Master Sergeant, this ground combat stuff is best left to professionals.”

  “Agreed. Call in three squads of them,” advised the former Striker.

  “Call in what?” the still shaken pilot asked.

  “Contact Eiko and have him send in three squads of Marines to contain the area,” explained Warlock. “I’m going to have a conversation with a woman about a printing press.”

  Diosa was three steps from the hatch when she heard Poet growl. The out of character reaction caused her to walk back.

  “Special Agent Eiko said, clear the area, and get on with the mission,” reported Poet.

  In the moonlight, he noticed Warlock make fists and unclench her hands three times before she bent at the waist and put her nose against Poets. He drew back.

  “Inform Special Agent Eiko that if the Marines aren’t here when I’m ready for them,” she threatened. “I will turn these warehouses into slaughterhouses. Clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed.

  “Do not call me ma’am, I work for a living,” Warlock stated as she turned towards the other roof hatch. Then over her shoulder, she added. “Get me my Leathernecks.”

  ***

  It wasn’t the counterfeiting but the presence of a Constabulary officer freely moving around Planet Uno driving the retired Marine. Far too many of her military friends and associates occupied graves or were lost to space dust because of the Empress’ forces. Dropping down the hatch, Warlock climbed by the roof of the interior building.

  With Poet’s PID back, he was operational and Warlock unconstrained. Sneaking and peaking time had expired. Diosa’s heart beat faster and her features tightened into her war face. Breaking things and getting answers were the new priorities.

  On the warehouse floor, Diosa shifted from one palette of supplies to another. Seven moves later, she squatted behind the boxes and peered at the door to the interior building. Off to her right the two guards on the loading dock appeared alert. The action in the poker hall, no doubt, was the reason.

  Option one, eliminate them but that would warn the woman in the building. And Warlock wanted to question her in the worst way. She rested a hand on the supplies and tested a box. It rattled softly. Whatever filled the box had packaging to secure the items but they still rattled.

  The knife came out of the sheath from her lower back and the blade made short work of the shipping tape. Under crumpled paper, hundreds of plastic pens rested in compartments created by cardboard dividers. After easing out one of the dividers, Warlock put away the combat knife and picked up the box. Driving with her legs, she flung the box on a low trajectory. Distance being the objective as she wanted the box to land deeper into the warehouse.

  It crashed to the floor sounding as if someone knocked over a box then kicked and scattered the contents. In fact, the pens sliding on the concrete clicked and scratched as if more than one person moved around that side of the building. Both guards rushed to investigate the racket. Warlock eased around the supplies keeping out of sight until they passed her. Then, she dashed for the doorway of the interior building.

  Chapter 7 – Define Worst

  The printing press occupied most of the area on one side of a partition. Above it and along the ceiling, holes leading to the vents ran further back. Behind a divider wall, clusters of workstations filled the space to the edge of the building. Warlock moved deeper into the room glancing into corners as she slid by the press and peered into the administration area. In the office space of the interior building, she located five people sitting at desks.

  “Hands up. Move away from your stations. Stand shoulder to shoulder and be sure I can see your fingers,” ordered the Marine. Adding weight to her firm tone, the carbine shifted targeting each member of the group. When they didn’t comply immediately, she added. “Perhaps you believe security will come in and end this. I can assure you, this is only the beginning. Now move it!”

  In response to the confidence in her voice and the steady sweeps of the rifle, the five people lined up with their arms raised.

  “Who is in charge?” Warlock inquired.

  After a brief delay, four of them turned and looked at an older man. He stood a little straighter and opened his mouth preparing to speak. The pause in identifying the older man and his body language, didn’t fit with him being their manager.

  “Not you,” Diosa said. She focused on a middle-aged woman. “What’s your name.”

  “Lerma, Lerma Charito. We don’t keep valuables here. We’re just the advertising department for the Entertainment District,” the woman informed Warlock. “If you have a problem with the District, you’ll want to go to the poker room for a manager.”

  Warlock smiled as she recognized the voice of the woman who spoke with the Constabulary officer and ordered the loading of three million fake pesetas.

  “Good morning Lerma. I’m Diosa and we are going to have a conversation,” Warlock told her.

  “What can I do for you?” Lerma inquired.

  “Not yet. We’re waiting.”

  Lerma started to ask a question when the interior buil
ding quivered in response to the vibration of the surrounding warehouse.

  The bone-rattling roars of combat shuttles with their noise suppression systems off shook the buildings. One touched down on the roof before lifting off. Another settled in the parking lot. In the distance, several pistols fired. A couple of forty-five combat rifles replied. There were no more pistol shots. Undoubtedly, the Marines had landed.

  ***

  The door slammed open and four combat Marines came through two abreast. They split apart shuffling to sectors where they could cover every part of the building.

  “Weapons,” one shouted.

  As soon as the door crashed into the wall, Warlock gripped the rifle barrel and let the weapon hang down while she raised her left arm in the air holding the pistol between two fingers. One of the Marines ran up, shoved his muzzle in her ribs, and took possession of the carbine and pistol.

  “Clear,” another Marine shouted once the one with the confiscated weapons had moved out of Warlock’s reach.

  “Secured, sir,” the fourth member of the entry team announced.

  The entire breach had taken five seconds. Warlock nodded in approval.

  A fifth Marine marched in, his eyes professionally scanning the features of the room and the positions of his team.

  “Inspector Alberich?” he demanded.

  “Here, sir,” Warlock responded.

  “Inspector, I’m Lieutenant Daichi. The north end of the district is pacified,” he informed her. “Unfortunately, there were casualties. Is that going to be a problem for my unit?”

  “Do they need medical evacuation?” Diosa inquired.

  “No ma’am. But someone will need to notify civilian graves registration,” Daichi reported. “Ma’am, they fired on my Marines.”

  “You won’t have any problem,” Diosa assured him. “What are your orders, Lieutenant?”

  “Proceed by combat shuttles to the Entertainment District, lockdown the north end, locate and assist Treasury Inspector Alberich as she requires,” he stated. “And remain on station until released by the inspector.”

  “Good news for your Marines, Lieutenant, you’ll be back on post in time for morning chow,” Diosa declared. Then she asked. “Have you seen my partner?”

  “Yes ma’am. One of our transports collected Inspector Geboren from the roof when the assault teams disembarked,” the Lieutenant described. “Orders, ma’am?”

  “Inspector Geboren will need a fireteam for security at the poker room. He’s doing a search and confiscating items,” Warlock explained. She pointed at the five hostages and the printing press. “I have to question one of these people. The others need to be taken out and guarded. And I need to search this building for fake pesetas. You wouldn’t happen to have a printer in your command?”

  Warlock asked it as a joke but the serious Marine officer squinted his eyes and thought for a moment.

  “Private First Class Almaz does the post’s newsletter,” Daichi volunteered. “I’m not sure of her expertise with machines but if there’s an absurd photoshop image you need, she’s your Marine.”

  “I’ll take her,” Warlock said. “Lieutenant, go check on your Marines.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Daichi replied as he indicated for one of the Marines to usher the four people out. “I’ll send you a fireteam to search the room.”

  The Lieutenant marched out and Warlock turned and faced Lerma Charito.

  “Now we can chat, Ms. Charito,” Diosa informed her. “Let’s have a seat. This won’t take long.”

  “Are those Marines?” Lerma stammered.

  “Why yes, those are Marines,” Diosa acknowledged while guiding Lerma to a chair behind the partition.

  “The Entertainment District is protected by powerful politicians,” Lerma warned. “You’ll pay for this.”

  “Is that a mantra here in the District?” Diosa asked as she pulled over a chair and sat.

  ***

  Before Warlock had a chance to lift her goggle, Lerma blurted out, “I don’t know anything about counterfeit currency.”

  “Why would you say that?” challenged Diosa while lifting the goggle. She watched Lerma’s pulse through the thin skin on the woman’s neck.

  With the bioimaging scanner, Diosa’s bionic eye peered just below the skin and collected the scattered images. Not only did Lerma’s blood pressure rise before she answered, but the Haller’s organ in the eye also detected additional carbon dioxide on her breath and ammonia from heavier sweating. Her next utterance would be a lie.

  “The Marine said you were a treasury agent. So, you must be looking into counterfeiting,” Lerma replied. “But you won’t find anything like that here. Go ahead, search the place.”

  Warlock suppressed a chuckle. Lerma Charito had gotten a number of things wrong.

  “Hard evidence isn’t why I wanted to have this chat,” Warlock assured her. “I’m more interested in the man who carted away the three million pesetas.”

  “Which man? We have a lot of big winners in the District,” Lerma lied.

  Diosa sat back and remained silent. After a full two minutes of being stared at, Lerma bristled and complained, “What do you want? You’re not even asking questions. This is the advertising department for the Entertainment District. We design ads and flyers and we print them up for all the businesses. What makes you think we print pesetas? Or would deal with the…ah, or deal with a…I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  One thing an effective Sergeant learned early in their career was allowing a Marine suspected of an infraction to talk. Rambling on almost always divulged small details and half-truths that exposed the facts. If nothing else, it gave the NCO time to evaluate the Marine’s honesty and commitment to the Corps.

  Retired Master Sergeant Alberich nodded her head in satisfaction. During the last part of Lerma’s protest her vitals dropped to normal levels. After the ‘we print pesetas or would deal with’ part, they peaked again. Lerma may be deceitful, but she was loyal enough to someone to stop babbling.

  “Inspector Alberich?” a voice called from the other side of the partition.

  “Here,” Warlock responded. She stood and waved the Marine to her. “I need a guard on this woman.”

  One of the fireteam members stepped up behind Lerma.

  “I have her, ma’am,” he assured Diosa.

  “I’m not finished questioning her,” advised Warlock. “If she tries anything please don’t kill her. Other than that, as long as she can talk, you can restrain her any way you see fit.”

  “We have zip ties, ma’am,” he offered. “I can strap her to the chair.”

  “Do it,” Warlock ordered as she went to greet a new arrival. “PFC Almaz?”

  “Yes ma’am. You have questions about graphic arts?” the Marine inquired.

  “It’s a little more specific than that,” Warlock said as she crossed the room and placed a hand on the printing press. “Is this machine capable of printing sheets of pesetas?”

  Almaz studied the press before replying, “That press, ma’am, can reproduce the Mona Lisa right down to the artist's initials in her right eye.”

  Warlock could identify with having something special in the right eye. With the press’ capacity established, she needed to know if it was set up for currency.

  “What would it need to print money?”

  Almaz punched in a few commands on the press and the swish, pause sound cycled once before a sheet fluttered out the other end. The Marine walked to the paper and pulled it off the delivery pile.

  “That’s amazing,” declared Almaz as she analyzed the printing on the paper.

  “Is it a sheet of pesetas?” inquired Warlock holding out her hand.

  Almaz draped the sheet over the inspector’s hand and stepped back to the press.

  “Two for one buffet with the ticket stub from the stupendous magic show at the casino,” Diosa read from the newly printed paper. “For you to think that’s amazing, I suggest you need a long R&R, PF
C.”

  Almaz ignored the taunt. Her hands grasped two catches which she unsnapped. Then the Marine lifted the cover exposing the inner workings of the printing press. With the flick of a switch, motors whirled and two arms moved, separating flat alloy slabs.

  “What’s on the plates isn’t anything special,” Almaz described while pointing at the printing surfaces. “It’s the ink. Notice the vivid cyan, magenta, yellow, deep black, and brilliant white. Just the last two alone shows you the capacity of this press.”

  “What does the ink have to do with possible counterfeiting?” Diosa questioned.

  “With paper made from cotton and linen, the quality ink, and the right plates, you could print currency that could pass for the real thing,” explained Almaz. “What’s amazing, ma’am, is a business wasting that depth of ink on flyers for a buffet.”

  Warlock pondered the ramifications of the lack of currency paper in the building and the missing plates engraved for pesetas. When the disruption started at the poker room, Lerma and her associates most likely removed both. But they didn’t have time to change the ink. The paper and plates had to be nearby.

  “All right people, there are engraved plates and at least one stack of paper printed with pesetas,” Warlock announced. “This is a hard area search. Break things, I don’t care, just find me those items.”

  “Yo Inspector, if we find the pesetas, can we keep some?” a Marine asked.

  “Sure, and you can tell your cellmates about the time you possessed counterfeit bills,” Warlock informed him.

  The Marines began pulling out drawers, moving desks, stomping on the floor, and rapping on the walls. Ten minutes later, paper, and office supplies littered the floor and the walls were punctured in several places.

  “Ma’am, nothing has turned up,” a Corporal reported. “Orders?”

  Diosa strolled around the divider wall and glanced at Lerma. The woman sat with her arms secured to the chair and a self-satisfied grin on her face. If not for the teeth showing, Warlock might have given up and gone back to questioning her.

  “Kill the lights,” Diosa directed while continuing to look at Lerma. “Everyone, hold your positions.”