Page 50 of V-Day
12.
IBARRA HURRIED INTO THE ADMINISTRATIONcenter, ignoring the startled looks everyone gave him, for the left half of his head was covered in white gauze and tape. The doctor had stitched the top half of his ear back to his head. He’d warned him the ragged tear might mean it would never knit together properly and might yet have to be removed.
Gangrene, the doctor mentioned in passing, as if he hoped Ibarra wouldn’t catch it. It didn’t improve Ibarra’s mood. The demand he attend Serrano had come while the doctor added the last of the tape. The nervous non-com bringing the message suggested Serrano’s mood made it an imperative Ibarra drop everything and gonow.
Serrano was marching about the space behind his desk, his hands on his back, looking pissed as hell. His face was red. The windows behind Serrano were blank, showing nothing but black night, for they faced the mountain behind the city. The staffers had a view of the city itself through their windows.
Ibarra felt nervous in this office. It would be far too easy for a Loyalists sharp shooter to find a nest on the mountain and reach out with his rifle and snuff out the life of anyone standing behind the windows. Serrano dismissed the notion when Ibarra mentioned it, though. He informed Ibarra curtly that the windows were bulletproof.
It didn’t help Ibarra feel any easier standing inside this office, especially at night when they couldn’t see out. It made him feel vulnerable, bulletproof glass or not.
Torrini was the new IT man plucked from the depths of one of the ground troop units and dumped in the computer room to work miracles. He stood as close to the door as he could get without actually stepping out of the room. He was nervous and when he saw Ibarra, he swallowed.
Serrano threw out his hand when he saw Ibarra. “I can’t make any sense of what this idiot is saying. Something about masking and VP-somethings—what happened to your head?”
Ibarra raised his hand to the gauze. “It’s irrelevant,” he said, even though the question raised once more in his mind the startling moment when the blonde bitch’s teeth had closed over his ear, and the agony which came afterwards. He would have to create a fitting retribution for those moments of pain, and the ones to come after this, too.
There was no need to share any of it with Serrano, who would not be pleased Ibarra was messing with potential leverage against the Loyalists.
“What is the problem with the IT security?” Ibarra asked Torrini, turning to face him. Serrano wanted Ibarra to interpret. Anything more technical than a rotary phone had this effect upon Serrano.
Relief touched the small IT man’s face. He was a rotund Vistarian, with rosy cheeks and a mustache bigger than he was, and crooked teeth. “I was explaining to the president that the electronic traces of Loyalists we monitor have disappeared.”
“Yes, yes, you told us about this before,” Ibarra said. Talking was making his face hurt. His whole head, actually. His ear was on fire, now the local anesthetic was wearing off. “Key people over there have stopped using their phones and their computers. We found a Morse code book—they’re likely using radio messages,” he added, addressing Serrano. “A throwback to the Second World War.”
“Morse worked well,” Serrano said. “Are you monitoring the air waves for signals?”
Ibarra blinked. “No signals were found. We decided the code book was a ruse to misdirect us.”
“I beg to interrupt,” Torrini said. “I am not speaking of just key personal. I’m talking about everyone.”
Ibarra turned to look at him. So did Serrano.Thatwas something he could understand, at last.
“You’re saying you cannot track a single Loyalist?” Serrano asked.
Torrini swallowed, his mustache quivering. “Over the last eight hours, all electronic traffic has diminished. Now there is close to nothing and what there is, is meaningless without other traffic for context.”
“How can this be?” Serrano demanded. “Ibarra, you told me even a telephone leaves an electronic trace. The call can be monitored! Are you saying now that everyone not in a gray uniform took it upon themselves to use smoke signals?”
Ibarra’s heart squeezed. He’d left his nitroglycerin pills in his jacket at the medical clinic. Now his heart was hurting, along with his head. “I do not understand this either, General.”
Serrano smashed his fist upon the big desk, his face turning a deep shade of red. “They’re up to something!”
“But…” Torrini murmured, then reconsidered the wisdom of opening his mouth right now.
Ibarra leapt on the opportunity to push Serrano’s focus onto anyone but him. “You were about to say something, Torrini?” he exclaimed.
Torrini exhaled. Sweat popped on his temples. He gave Serrano a nervous smile. “I was only going to say I don’t believe it is just the Loyalist army which has gone silent.”
Serrano glared at him. “Explain!”
“It’s just…” Torrini gave another smile, along with an almost silent laugh. “Everyone has gone silent, General.”
“Everyone?” Serrano said.
“The whole main island and most of the coastal regions of Mexico, centered on Acapulco and…” He gulped. “It is spreading, General. I do not think this is a Loyalist army plot.”
Serrano considered him for a long thirty seconds. Serrano’s face, which was already deep red, took on a gray cast around his lips and nostrils and the creases of his jowls and cheeks.
