Directive 51 by John Barnes Read Free Book Online

eight-foot pole, and its cable ran down to a black box that joined the two sign faces. Jason considered for a moment; put it on a south-facing surface to be able to collect the maximum heat? Put it on the black box to be less conspicuous and have the maximum immediate effect?
    Compromise and do both, he decided, and slapped the black egg high up onto the face of the solar collector. He went back to the truck for another black egg, squirted that with Liquid Nails, and stuck it to the black box, low on the south surface, where he hoped the sun would touch it for at least a couple of hours every day.
    He pushed the capping sixpenny nail into the nozzle of the caulking gun and tossed that into the toolbox. Then he sprinkled Liquid-Plumr on his gloves and wiped them over each other as if washing his hands, peeled them off inside the Ziplocs, and set the bags on the front seat. In seconds, he was rolling again, the coustajam playing loud enough to shake the inside of the truck, like an anthem of victory.

ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER. JAYAPURA, PAPUA PROVINCE, INDONESIA. 11:12 P.M. LOCAL TIME. MONDAY, OCTOBER 28.
    “Armand,” Captain Tuti said, “I do apologize that we’ll probably have to wait until morning to turn your power back on. We could do it, but if your lights come on, it’s apt to draw more unfavorable attention.”
    “I don’t much like unfavorable attention myself,” Cooper said, gesturing at the bullet hole in the window, which had been created by “the only sniper who knew his business,” as Tuti explained. “My men were right on him, saw his muzzle flash from the roof, but he was quicker than we were and gone by the time we got up there. I’m afraid I don’t quite have my A Team on this, you know; most of them are out trying to liberate the airport. Or rather dug in twenty kilometers from the airport, because someone shot at them, and they are afraid to go on in the dark.”
    “I don’t much like being shot at, myself,” Cooper pointed out. “Another?”
    “Gladly, Armand, gladly.” Tuti had found a way to gently hint that if there happened to be liquor around, he had no religious objection to it; considering how many favors he was in a position to do Cooper, Armand had figured that most of a bottle of Captain Morgan was a perfectly reasonable price.
    An hour after Tuti had come up to tell Cooper he was reasonably safe but couldn’t leave until the mob did, Cooper had established that the captain had a son with some minor, high-spirited events in his police record, who had a full scholarship to Tufts and needed a student visa. They’d be taking care of that in a day or so.
    With business taken care of, there was little to do except establish their mutual experience that being bureaucrats here was not easy but also not dull, and that they had a similar sense of humor. Cooper remembered what his father had told him— It’s always nice to have one of the friends you need turn into a friend you want.
    The phone rang. “Cooper, US Consul, Jayapura.”
    “Hi, this is Jasmine at State in Washington. I just came on shift and found your voice mails. I have no idea what the person who was supposed to have the desk was doing, but I’m here now. First thing, are you safe?”
    He sketched out the situation: that he was holed up but secure, that Captain Tuti was there, that the airport was in the hands of rebels who had previously not shown enough competence to seize a city bus stop. “Definitely some ringers on the team,” he explained to Jasmine.
    “All right, we appreciate the report. And just this minute Secret Service asked if Seagull got away before the airport was taken.”
    Secret Service? Who the hell was on that plane? Half an instant later, Armand Cooper realized what prominent politician had been unexpectedly missing from public appearances. Oh, shit. Here I am in the middle of history. But he held his voice even. “The consulate was attacked while they were still on the ground, and the