The moon set and the stars faded as the sun rose over the horizon.
Late morning, south of San Francisco—the Russell family's Filoli Estate.
Biu! A gunshot cracked through the air. A full-tal jacket bullet sliced the wind, and by the stream, a plump blue grouse dropped dead instantly.
The nearby flock scattered in panic, but five more shots rang out in rapid succession. Four fleeing birds fell mid-run, and another, just as it took flight, froze midair and crashed down lifelessly.
Monts later—woof, woof, woof! Several reddish-brown bloodhounds bounded across the adow, retrieving the prey in their jaws.
A hundred ters away, silhouettes stood amid the grass. Surrounded by her entourage, Vela, dressed in a checkered hunting outfit, was reloading her suppressed Ruger 10/22 rifle.
"A beautiful shot," said Morgan Lansdale sincerely, peering through his rangefinder binoculars. He, too, wore a traditional English hunting suit, a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
"Just a casual hobby. Practice makes perfect," Vela replied, glancing at the hooked-nose, silver-bearded man with a thick bush of whiskers. She smiled faintly. "Mr. Lansdale doesn't seem to be in very high spirits?"
"Ah," Lansdale sighed heavily. "The world today is in chaos. Afghanistan's situation is barely stable, the Middle East is on the verge of another biocrisis, and we still have the Panemstan Civil War and the South Arican drug conflicts smoldering away... It's troubling."
He spoke like a benevolent statesman mourning the state of the world.
Click. Vela chambered a .17 HMR round with a calm expression.
Heh. I believe you? Not a chance, old fox.
This was the sa man who, in pursuit of power, had engineered bioterror incidents himself—and later erased an entire city with Regia Solis satellite strikes to destroy the evidence. A forr DIA politician like him, preaching empathy? Please.
Even though events had diverged from the original tiline—FBC was still missing, and Morgan Lansdale had sohow landed the position of Deputy Director at the Bioterrorism Security Assessnt Alliance (BSAA)—it was clear he still wasn't satisfied.
He'd rather be the head of a chicken than the tail of a phoenix.
Vela mused silently. The current BSAA Director was a mber of the family behind Derek C. Simmons, and as long as Simmons stood, he would retain control over the BSAA for years to co.
Morgan Lansdale, it seed, had lost his internal power struggle—and was looking for a new stage outside the BSAA.
The sound of boots crunching over the grassy terrain broke the quiet. Forming her thoughts, Vela continued walking and asked casually, "So, you intend to establish a Federal Anti-Bioterror Committee—separate from the BSAA—to handle North Arican outbreaks?"
"The internationalized BSAA must be kept in check," Lansdale emphasized. "This is both to prevent uncontrolled expansion that could spiral beyond command and to guard against deliberate infiltration through its international structure—espionage, sabotage, or even future acts of terror and warfare."
Vela nodded approvingly. It sounded reasonable—and in truth, it was. Just not for the reasons he claid.
Not that she could judge; her motives were just as self-serving.
"That should fall under the jurisdiction of the FBI and DHS, shouldn't it?" she asked, turning to him.
"They?" Lansdale chuckled. "They're already swamped managing dostic intelligence and holand security. National biodefense should be left to professionals."
"Insightful as always," Vela said with a polite nod. "And what do the White House and Congress think? What about Simmons?"
Lansdale's expression didn't change. "Congress is drafting an andnt to the National Biodefense Act. The White House and Simmons' advisors are in favor. The Pentagon's stance is—'prevent monopolization.'"
"Drafting, in favor, and 'prevent monopolization,'" Vela repeated softly, eyes narrowing.
In other words: permission granted, moral support given—but no actual resources.
So, this sly old man had convinced only his old friends at the Pentagon, and now he was here, trying to pull a fast one on her.
Vela didn't respond imdiately.
Woof, woof! The bloodhounds returned, dropping the grouse at her feet, tails wagging eagerly.
Crouching down, she scratched one behind the ears and pointed toward the brush. Understanding the gesture, the dog dashed off again to fetch the rest of the ga.
"Personally, I agree with your assessnt, and I understand your concerns," Vela said as she brushed her hand across the glossy feathers of the dead grouse at her feet and stood up. Her attendants promptly stepped forward to collect the birds.
Lansdale, of course, understood her subtext perfectly: BSAA is my strategic partner, part of my profit network—so if you want cooperation, you'll need to pay up.
"I understand," he said smoothly. "But isn't the Pentagon also one of Militech's strategic partners?"
He raised his Remington M700, aid at the thicket across the stream—about 450 ters away—and fired. A blue-headed, red-necked turkey dropped instantly.
"Looks like my aim hasn't gone rusty," he laughed heartily.
Seeing this, Vela smiled.
She stopped at the stream and instructed, "Set up camp here."
Lansdale's words were little more than the usual posturing of an aging politician—an old warhorse claiming he still had the drive to charge ahead. And hunting a turkey? Well, lunch was going to be roasted turkey.
In Arica, no matter how absurd the pretext, a turkey symbolized Thanksgiving, family unity, good fortune, and prosperity. Sharing a turkey al with Vela was his way of saying: Here's to friendship, partnership, and mutual benefit.
Amid the chatter, her staff began setting up the outdoor kitchen. Private chefs pushed mobile cooking stations forward, preparing the freshly hunted grouse and an array of fruits and vegetables.
...
Hoo—
Unscrewing a bottle of mineral water, Vela took a drink, inhaling deeply as she surveyed the private park and hunting grounds around her.
Beside her, the willows swayed in the breeze. The sound of running water filled the air. Occasionally, a fish flashed across the surface. With her enhanced perception, she could hear every splash of the stream, every chirp and rustle of small creatures darting through the brush, every footstep of attendants crossing the wooden bridge to collect prey. The scents of earth, blood, and firewood mingled with those of spices and roasting at.
It was perfect. Peaceful.
Last night had been a nightmare of empty rhetoric—activists ranting, lobbyists accusing, and then an all-night virtual eting with the East Coast old-money conglorates, arguing circles around each other. Today, she was finally taking a well-deserved break.
Half a day, at least.
"Chairman Russell, the ever-busy magnate hiding away like this—isn't that a bit improper?" Lansdale teased as he approached, swirling the ice in his whiskey glass.
"This morning's schedule was trivial," Vela replied dismissively. "I only accepted their joint letter to avoid unnecessary panic among allies and business partners. Otherwise, I'd have told my staff to throw them out."
She waved a hand nonchalantly. "Let them complain. At this point, their public outrage is practically a form of endorsent."
Lansdale couldn't help but laugh quietly.
Truth be told, he shared her distaste for those pretentious do-gooders—loud on ideals, empty on substance, and motivated only by profit. But as a federal official, he needed votes and public approval. He could destroy them in secret, but never defy them openly.
"I'm not completely opposed to them," Vela continued. "I just believe in moderation. Too much of anything is dangerous. And as for their illegal nonsense—bah, enough about that. Let's get back to hunting."
With that, she tossed her empty bottle to a nearby bodyguard, picked up her small-caliber rifle, slung a shotgun capable of taking down larger ga over her shoulder, and strode onto the wooden bridge.
Setting his whiskey glass on a folding table, Lansdale followed, shotgun in hand.
The bodyguards trailed close behind. Drones lifted off from the camp, patrolling the area and relaying live feeds of local wildlife back to the hunting party.
Throughout the morning and into noon, the 265-hectare private reserve of Filoli Estate echoed with scattered bursts of gunfire—biu! biu! bang! bang!—as they hunted across the grounds, where turkeys, grouse, cougars, deer, coyotes, snakes, hares, and lynxes road freely.
By midday, hours later, Vela returned triumphant.
It was ti for a feast.
Clink. Glasses t. Champagne flowed.
Vela and Lansdale each received a roasted turkey leg. The at was dry as always—but taste wasn't the point. It was the atmosphere, the casual camaraderie of a al shared in the open air.
Their conversation stretched on, light and pleasant, until the plates were cleared and the drinks finished.
Each got what they wanted.
Vela secured several new Pentagon procurent orders worth billions, along with contracts for federal digital and automation systems—and, most notably, support for Militech's purchase of Greenland.
Lansdale, anwhile, walked away with generous corporate donations, exclusive access to Militech's high-end weapons, and—most importantly—pledged support from senators, representatives, and key congressional committees influenced by Militech.
—
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