Free Rock Killer by S. Evan Townsend

tablet before the computer was destroyed. It was the only picture of them to survive, and you can see some data was lost.”
    Charlie looked at the fuzzy picture. Although large pieces were missing she could see it was a person holding a sub machinegun of some sort.
    “As near as we can tell,” Mitchel said, “That’s a conversion of a South African made nine millimeter caseless automatic weapon called the KS-900. Here’s a picture of one.” He tapped the computer again and the screen split with the surveillance picture sharing the screen with a full color picture of a black weapon. “If you can link the GA to the purchase and conversion of those weapons, to the purchase of those suits, Freeman says we can get an extradition.”
“That’s all, Mitch?” she asked sarcastically.
“That’s all.”
“I don’t know. I’d like to but I don’t think I’m qualified.”
“You hate the GA as much as I do?”
“Probably more.”
“You’re qualified,” Mitchel pronounced.
Charlie smiled but wished she shared his confidence in her.
Perhaps he sensed her diffidence as he asked, “You feel up to it?”
She held up her left wrist. “Download that information into my computer,” she said, effectively changing the subject.
Mitchel worked with the computer a few moments and then the device on Charlie’s wrist beeped, indicating it had received the data.
“The worst part’s going to be living on this dirt ball again,” she grumbled. “How do you stand it, Mitch?”
    Mitchel shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as the Arcology is finished I’ll be living on the three hundredth floor. That’s quite a ways up.”
    ***
    The President of Syria, the Secretary General of the United Baath Arab States, and the Chairman of the Arab Socialist Baath Party sat behind his bullet-proof desk and surveyed his office as he oft surveyed his lands from a helicopter.
    Two guards of the Baath Security Forces were at the door. They were so still one easily forgot they were there. Sitting in massive leather chairs were General Zuabi, from his headquarters in Tyre, and General Sa’ud, who as Commander in Chief of the United Baath Revolutionary Army was Zuabi’s only superior.
    Faruq, the president’s old friend was, as usual, present. Lately Faruq seemed preoccupied. The president wondered if he should just make his friend minister of the interior. No, that would give him control over the security forces–perhaps the Ministry of Economic Development. Men had gone into that job young and full of vigor and emerged weak and wizened. That was the place for Faruq and his ambitions.
    “The accuracy of the new Chinese missiles is astounding,” Sa’ud was saying. “We could target the Knesset; although with nuclear warheads that seems somewhat unnecessary.”
    The president chuckled politely. “And our intelligence?”
    “The Zionist state is only 20,000 square kilometers,” Zuabi reported. “We know the location of their Jericho missiles thanks to our Palestinian brothers who can traverse the territory with impunity. Even the Shin Bet dares not touch them lest American public opinion turns against the occupiers of Palestine and with it stops the flow of foreign aid.” He had sneered sarcastically when speaking of the Palestinians. No one in this room thought Baathist anti-Zionism was based on concern for the Palestinians rather than the quest for power.
    The “peace process” in the ‘20s died when the new Palestinian state attacked Israel with the help of Syria and Iran. The occupiers of Palestine reacted in their usually overwhelming manner and destroyed the Palestinian state and took back the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip. It would be a long time before they were tempted to make the strategic error of trading land for peace again. So, once again, the Palestinians were refugees without a homeland. A homeland that Syria was not going to provide them for they were not going to give up their land to those repellent