impossible," buckley said. It obviously believed it, because it had that smug tone again.
Cally stared at the layout it was projecting over her desk and shook her head, pushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ear and took a jerky swig of coffee. It was goddamned frustrating was what it was.
Papa's cryptic and encrypted message had sent her on a scavenger hunt of digging up bits of data the professionally paranoid old man had hidden over half the island and a good bit of the internet. In some cases literally digging up, as he'd apparently been stashing PDAs on the island since the term was invented.
What she had finally come up with was the basics of a very sweet smuggling scheme.
There was a big pocket of aluminum in Venezuela that nobody was mining. Panama was producing excess food. Cuba produced steel and and had facilities for processing aluminum. Panama needed both.
Food and luxury goods from Panama to Venezuela. Bauxite to Cuba. Steel and forged aluminum to Panama. Repeat. Classic triangle trade.
Which begged the reason nobody was doing it.
Venezuela was simply crawling with Posleen. Fleet occasionally used orbital lasers to burn out God-King settlements that got noticeable. It was that bad.
Anybody who wanted to mine the area would have to get enough premium fighters together, like, say, DAG, to take over and clear the area. The Darhel had tried twice with the usual scum and bounced. It was, in fact, DAG's original mission: Clearing out tough pockets of Posleen.
Problem being that anyone who got a really good mining operation up and running was going to get tossed out, using one loophole or another, by the Darhel. So the mining operation was going to have to be secret. As was moving the goods.
Papa had plenty of contacts, go figure, among smugglers in the Caribbean area.
Papa had been, from the results of the scavenger hunt, looking at the plan for some time. He needed three things.
A bunch of really premium, highly trained fighters with nothing better to do.
Check.
Contacts in Cuba and Panama to fence the goods.
Check.
A bunchaton of money.
Shit.
"Unless you have something constructive to say, buckley, shut up."
"It's a disastrous task. Giving up is constructive."
"Shut up, buckley."
"Right."
The only person she knew who knew shady financial deals as well as Granpa was Stewart. For Cally, her husband was forever tied to his nom de guerre from the war against the Posleen. When they met and fell in love, she'd been on a mission and they'd both been under different aliases—he as Lieutenant Pryce, and she as Captain Sinda Makepeace. General James Stewart had been the alias underneath the Pryce alias, and had forever gotten stuck in her mind as his "real" name. The Asian name he wore now as a mid-ranking member of the Tong fit him as badly as his new face. Oh, he was great at carrying off his cover, it just didn't seem "right" to her. His Pryce face had at least been his own, original face. Hers hadn't, but she'd been stuck with it long enough since the mission that she'd gotten used to it. The boobs were still too conspicuous, and she still carried more flesh than she was comfortable with—no matter what the men said. But the face now felt more like it belonged than like a cover. It was kinda creepy.
None of which got her any closer to solving this damn problem. Stewart. That was her next option, and she really hated to call it in. It was not common knowledge in the Tong that Stewart was married to someone in the Bane Sidhe. It wasn't even common knowledge that he was married, or a round-eye. Sure, a girlfriend, even kids, but then a blond mistress was a status symbol. The picture on his desk of her and the kids was regarded by his colleagues more as a power statement than an emotional relationship. In their minds, of course he hadn't married the exotic mistress. It would have been a bad career move, and he was a recognized player.
So, out of concern for his safety, she avoided making
Cally stared at the layout it was projecting over her desk and shook her head, pushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ear and took a jerky swig of coffee. It was goddamned frustrating was what it was.
Papa's cryptic and encrypted message had sent her on a scavenger hunt of digging up bits of data the professionally paranoid old man had hidden over half the island and a good bit of the internet. In some cases literally digging up, as he'd apparently been stashing PDAs on the island since the term was invented.
What she had finally come up with was the basics of a very sweet smuggling scheme.
There was a big pocket of aluminum in Venezuela that nobody was mining. Panama was producing excess food. Cuba produced steel and and had facilities for processing aluminum. Panama needed both.
Food and luxury goods from Panama to Venezuela. Bauxite to Cuba. Steel and forged aluminum to Panama. Repeat. Classic triangle trade.
Which begged the reason nobody was doing it.
Venezuela was simply crawling with Posleen. Fleet occasionally used orbital lasers to burn out God-King settlements that got noticeable. It was that bad.
Anybody who wanted to mine the area would have to get enough premium fighters together, like, say, DAG, to take over and clear the area. The Darhel had tried twice with the usual scum and bounced. It was, in fact, DAG's original mission: Clearing out tough pockets of Posleen.
Problem being that anyone who got a really good mining operation up and running was going to get tossed out, using one loophole or another, by the Darhel. So the mining operation was going to have to be secret. As was moving the goods.
Papa had plenty of contacts, go figure, among smugglers in the Caribbean area.
Papa had been, from the results of the scavenger hunt, looking at the plan for some time. He needed three things.
A bunch of really premium, highly trained fighters with nothing better to do.
Check.
Contacts in Cuba and Panama to fence the goods.
Check.
A bunchaton of money.
Shit.
"Unless you have something constructive to say, buckley, shut up."
"It's a disastrous task. Giving up is constructive."
"Shut up, buckley."
"Right."
The only person she knew who knew shady financial deals as well as Granpa was Stewart. For Cally, her husband was forever tied to his nom de guerre from the war against the Posleen. When they met and fell in love, she'd been on a mission and they'd both been under different aliases—he as Lieutenant Pryce, and she as Captain Sinda Makepeace. General James Stewart had been the alias underneath the Pryce alias, and had forever gotten stuck in her mind as his "real" name. The Asian name he wore now as a mid-ranking member of the Tong fit him as badly as his new face. Oh, he was great at carrying off his cover, it just didn't seem "right" to her. His Pryce face had at least been his own, original face. Hers hadn't, but she'd been stuck with it long enough since the mission that she'd gotten used to it. The boobs were still too conspicuous, and she still carried more flesh than she was comfortable with—no matter what the men said. But the face now felt more like it belonged than like a cover. It was kinda creepy.
None of which got her any closer to solving this damn problem. Stewart. That was her next option, and she really hated to call it in. It was not common knowledge in the Tong that Stewart was married to someone in the Bane Sidhe. It wasn't even common knowledge that he was married, or a round-eye. Sure, a girlfriend, even kids, but then a blond mistress was a status symbol. The picture on his desk of her and the kids was regarded by his colleagues more as a power statement than an emotional relationship. In their minds, of course he hadn't married the exotic mistress. It would have been a bad career move, and he was a recognized player.
So, out of concern for his safety, she avoided making
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