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“I would like to contract your salvage crew and/or mercenary gang for a job further inland.”
Their mysterious guest looked the part of a businesswoman. Like the kind who loomed large in Manhattan corner offices and movies during the first two terms of the Reagan administration. But nothing prepared Germaine for her to start reading her intentions off a prepared card.
“You, uh, got a mission statement on that boilerplate?”
The woman ignored him. “The target is a municipal community about a hundred kilometers from here.”
“Kilos? Are you European? Did France buy this state over the weekend?” That had happened before, albeit with Japan instead of France. “Man, this is a San Francisco Prefecture situation all over again. We should’ve splurged for a translator.”
The limo-truck pulled around the fallen rocket loader in a wide loop. It stopped at the base camp long enough to pick up Soto (who took shotgun after a smidge of coaxing from their benefactor) and Dan (who sat opposite Germaine in the lounge). With the gang gathered, the limo did another loop around the towering shuttle before heading for the picked-clean command center further south.
During the ride, Germaine took the opportunity to inform his fellows regarding the nature of the job so far. The divider window rolled down so that Soto could hear.
“You want us to pick over a ghost town?” Dan asked.
“We’re a little understaffed for a militia,” Soto added. “This isn’t a private security firm.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
The woman flipped through her cards, trying to find a scenario onto which this conversation could be re-railed.
“This shouldn’t affect your current claim,” the businesswoman said. “What I am looking for is more of an exploratory venture. Recon, and an escort mission.”
Germaine looked at Sam. Sounded like the lead up to a pyramid scheme. That or they were about to get roped into a bank robbery.
The woman handed out information cards. Just photocopied tourist brochures, really. A crudely drawn map pointed from the coast – Canaveral appeared in surprising detail – due west. There were no roads labeled, but Germaine had been in the area long enough to guess the names.
“The 408. Hate to break it to you, but people still live out there.”
“Not where I have in mind.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Ma’am, you from Miami?” Soto asked from the front seat.
Their benefactor replied with something in Spanish. Soto said ‘Si’ – easy enough to translate, even for a man of Germaine’s rather folksy down-on-the-farm intellects.
“How could you tell?” she asked.
“It’s the accent,” Germaine said, nodding.
She gave Germaine an oh-really look.
“We’re at the end of our tour, madam.” A well-defined Russian accent came from the driver’s seat.
“Very well, Victor.”
The limo had completed a crisscrossed tour of the tarmac. They idled, now, back at the welcome sign. Germaine’s ATV was still waiting in the wings.
“Nebulous objective, minimal details.” Dan’s hand hovered near the door latch. “We can’t make a decision without knowing a price.”
“Market’s never been hotter,” Germaine added, though a bit of enthusiasm born of morbid curiosity leaked through. To compensate, he added, “Lowball it and we’re out of here.”
The woman pointed towards the tilting shuttle loader.
“I’ll buy that.”
Germaine looked to Dan, who looked to Soto, who looked back to Germaine.
“What, the entire shuttle?”
Germaine cackled. “Unless Cuba’s got a space program on the down low, you’re going to need a bigger truck.”
“The equipment arrived in Miami last week. It’s on a barge. Once bribes and customs clear, they’ll be here within twelve hours.”
Everyone grew quiet, until the only sounds were the soft whirr of air conditioning, and a lip-smacking chewing noise as Germaine ate some pretzels he’d found in a hidden compartment under the armrest.
“Ma’am.” The driver passed a manilla folder into the backseat, with a half-sized duplicate going to Soto.
Within were photos of heavy lifting equipment. The kind of thing that Japan, Brazil, and Cosmonauts were still using. There were photos of professional decommissioning equipment. Enough to cart off anything not nailed down and to disassemble everything else. Lastly, there were dossiers of a professional crew, lot of ex-NASA guys alongside many more John Smith-tier aliases that were clearly Soviet suits.
“They arrive Saturday. But I need a crew by Friday.”
“Surprised there’s a photo center open in this economy,” Germaine said, fanning the pictures around.
“We can’t leave the claim for a full day,” Dan added. “Squatters will take it within an hour.”
“Three.” The woman held up as many fingers. “I need a team of three. Your men can remain here and stake the claim. Details should be in the documentation.”
Again, the trio looked at the documents. Quick job descriptions for “physical security,” “practical locksmithing,” and “security (computer).”
“Muscle, safe-cracking, computer hacking,” Germaine concluded with a whistle.
Dan could crack any safe, given sufficient dynamite. Soto had a whole bachelor’s degree in computer science. And Germaine, Germaine was a wizard with a revolver. There’s your physical security, right there. At six foot five, he could’ve made the high school football team, if Kentucky still had high schools by ’86.
The trio conferred amongst themselves. As the three primary stakeholders, they all had veto power.
“Sounds good,” Dan said, though his voice was at a lower octave and he kept his arms crossed.
“Sounds like a prelude to something disastrous. But for this price, we it would be stupid to refuse.” Soto threw his hands up, relegated to their fate.
“Alright, Alright.” Germaine said. Each time he said it, it seemed more convincing. “Alright! Unlike these jokers, I’m quite excited.”
There was a pause as Germaine shot his arm out. Shaking on it was basically as good as a signed contract these days. Their new benefactor hesitated, as if surprised that shaking hands was in fact a widespread practice among the hoi polloi. Still, she recovered in time to reciprocate the gesture.
“Alright,” Germaine said one last time. “When do we start?”
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