Distraction - Bruce Sterling [6]
“That’s bad. That’s really bad. That’s terrible!” Norman said. “Why can’t Congress just have a straight-up vote on the issue? I mean, how hard can it be to close down a military base?”
Fontenot and Oscar exchanged meaningful glances.
“Norman, you had better stay here and mind our vehicles,” Oscar said kindly. “Mr. Fontenot and I need a few words with these military gentlemen.”
Oscar joined Fontenot as the ex-Secret Service agent limped up the long line of traffic. They were soon out of Norman’s earshot. It felt pleasant to be strolling slowly in the open air, where technical eavesdropping was unlikely. Oscar always enjoyed his best conversations when outside of machine surveillance.
“We could just pay them off, y’know,” Fontenot said mildly. “It’s not the first time we’ve seen a roadblock.”
“I don’t suppose it’s remotely possible that these soldiers might shoot us?”
“Oh no, the Air Force won’t shoot us.” Fontenot shrugged. “It’s nonlethal deployment and all that. It’s all political.”
“There are circumstances where I would have paid them off,” Oscar said. “If we’d lost that campaign, for instance. But we didn’t lose. We won. The Senator’s in power now. So now, it’s the principle.”
Fontenot removed his hat, wiped the permanent hat-crease in his forehead, and put the hat back on. “There’s another option. I’ve mapped us an alternate route. We can back off, head north up Highway 109, and still make that lab in Buna by midnight. Save a lot of risk and trouble all around.”
“Good idea,” Oscar told him, “but let’s have a look anyway. I think I can smell an issue here. The Senator always likes issues.” People were glaring at the two of them from within the stalled cars. Fontenot was easily passing for a native, but Oscar was drawing resentful and curious stares. Very few people in southwest Louisiana dressed like Beltway political operatives.
“It’s a big stinkin’ issue all right,” Fontenot agreed.
“This local Governor is a real character, isn’t he? A stunt like this … There must be better ways for a state politician to provoke the feds.”
“Green Huey is crazy. But he’s the people’s kind of crazy, these days. The State of Emergency, the budget crisis—it’s no joke down here. People really resent it.”
They stopped near the searing glare of the copter lights. An Air Force lieutenant was addressing a pair of daytripping Texan civilians through the open window of the couple’s car. The lieutenant was a young woman: she wore a padded blue flight suit, a body-armor vest, and an elaborate flight helmet. The helmet’s screen-crowded interior was busily ticking and flashing as it hung from her webbing belt.
The Texan man looked up at her cautiously, through the driver’s window. “It’s what?” he said.
“An Air Force bake sale, sir. Louisiana bake sale. We got your corn bread, your muffuleta bread, croissants, beignets.… Maybe some chicory coffee? Ted, we got any of that chicory coffee left?”
“Just made us a fresh carafe,” Ted announced loudly, opening the steaming lid of his rickshaw. Ted was heavily armed.
“What do you think?” said the driver to his wife.
“Beignets always get powdered sugar over everything,” the Texan woman said indistinctly.
“How much for, uhm, four croissants and two coffees? With cream?”
The lieutenant muttered a canned spiel about “voluntary contributions.” The driver retrieved his wallet and silently passed over a debit card. The lieutenant swiftly slotted the card through a cellular reader, relieving the couple of a hefty sum. Then she passed the food through their window. “Y’all take care now,” she said, waving them on.
The couple drove away, accelerating rapidly once their car had cleared the line of fire. The lieutenant consulted a handheld readout, and waved through the next three cars, which all bore Louisiana plates. Then she pounced on another tourist.
Fontenot and Oscar edged past the blazing glare of the chopper and made their way toward the commandeered hospitality post. Chest-high