Captain James Heron: First into the Fray: Prequel to Harry Heron: Into the Unknown of the Harry Heron Series

by Patrick G Cox

  Felicity Rowanberg smiled at the cloak and dagger charade. Sometimes she thought ‘Mr Brown’—Admiral David Burton, Head of Fleet Security—had missed his calling. The act was flawless. “Thanks, I’m sure it will be. Good luck with your business, Mr Brown. Thanks for the company on the transit here.”

  Mr Brown chuckled. “The pleasure was all mine.” He turned and acknowledged the woman in a Dock VIP Reception uniform. “We’re in your hands, Korinna. Where have you put us?”

  “I’ve a suite in your name, Mr Brown, and one for Mr Brandeis. The transport is this way, sir.” Leading the pair of men clear of the crowd, she indicated a people carrier and followed them in. As it moved off, she said, “The usual precautions are in place, sir. The other side have their people everywhere. We’ve identified some, but there are a lot of small players we’re still trying to get a handle on.”

  “Good.” Mr Brown leaned back. “There’s been some new developments. My source says they’re building starships and other heavies, as well as the patrol ships and escorts they’ve lobbied for. Most are conversions from heavy freight haulers, but they’ll be formidable nonetheless.”

  “Do we know who they are, sir?” asked Korinna.

  Mr Brown smiled. “Maybe. But it’s need to know only, Commander. I want them to think we don’t know—at least until it suits me.”

  “I see, sir.” She glanced at Piet Brandeis, who gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Good.” Brown hesitated, watching her. “The MW who booked us aboard—I want him assigned to our team immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” Like all the Admiral’s operatives, she’d learned not to question these sometimes enigmatic instructions. The transport stopped. “Your suite, sir. Mr Brandeis has the adjoining one.” She smiled. “I’ve had the Base team make a few changes. They don’t show in the Dock schematics, but you have direct access to our Ops Centre from your suite.”

  “Good. One more thing. Captain Heron getting to grips with his new ship?” He stepped through the door.

  “He’s certainly got his finger on the pulse, sir.”

  James Heron stepped from the personal transport as Herbert, the family’s outmoded android butler, opened the front door of the sprawling house at Scrabo Farm. There were infinitely more efficient and newer model android stewards available, but neither James Heron nor his sister Niamh L’Estrange would dream of scrapping the mechanical attendant that had served the family so well and enlivened their childhood with its fussy care of them both.

  “Hello, Herbert, is my sister home?”

  Answering in the slightly mechanical voice that James had liked so much when he was a boy, Herbert said, “She is in her study, Captain. I have alerted her to your arrival.”

  “Thank you, Herbert. Put my bag in my room, please. I’ll go to her there.” Striding through the hall, he made his way along the corridor that linked to the new wing of the house where there had once been a row of stables, haylofts and a small attached cottage—all replaced at least twice since the house was first built. All that remained of the original house, built in the mid-1700s according to the records, was the main facade and the basic layout around a courtyard. All of the internal structure had been completely remodelled to create a magnificent residence around the central court. His sister’s office occupied the furthest end, the corner between the southeastern and southwest facing wings, with magnificent views of Strangford Lough and the countryside around it.

  “Hello, Niamh, busy on a case?”

  “James!” Niamh L’Estrange embraced her brother. Both tall, Niamh’s hair retained its russet tint even though it was now shot with grey. “Still enjoying creating your new ship?”

  He laughed, returning the hug. “Of course, though we’re having to fight the bureaucrats and the contractors every step of the way. What are you doing?”

  “Preparing a brief.” She led him to a comfortable armchair. “It will be my last case for a while. The Taoiseach has finally persuaded Theo to take a seat on the Supreme Court, and wants him to stand for election as Chief Justice.” Seating herself, she smiled. “If he is elected, I’ll retire from practice. It would be awkward if I were to take a case in opposition!”

  James laughed. “Awkward? I expect so. My sympathies would lie with Theo—I know how ruthless you can be, my dear sister!” Having got the sisterly response he expected, he changed the subject. “What’s happening in the Confederation at the moment? We have the impression in the Fleet that something very odd is going on among the politicians.”

  “That’s probably a good assessment.” She accepted a cup of tea from Herbert and murmured her thanks. “There is a big shake-up in progress. Call it a confrontation of ideologies. The latest is coming from the Free Trade Party. They’ve managed to gain control of several ministries and have the second largest share of the coalition. They want to expand the privatisations they’ve already pushed through, and since Secretary Krakowicz was murdered, a lot of his faction have withdrawn their opposition and now support them.”

  “That murder seems to have stirred a few things in Parliament.” James rubbed his eyes. “Bloody politicians, always running some damn fool agenda. So the FTP want to sell off more state assets? A bit extreme to have an opponent murdered for profit.”

  “Theo thinks their agenda is deeper though. He says their ultimate objective is to take complete control of the Confederation and the Council of the World Treaty Organisation. They already control a lot of the media through their supporters, and through that media they keep pushing the narrative that centralising government and cutting out the member parliaments will save money. Their claim is that stripping out government services by contracting them out will improve efficiency, and they’re urging mergers and takeovers in a lot of industries and former agencies, like Veronique’s old employer, the NEC’s Xenographic Research Establishment. It’s now part of the Johnstone Research Foundation.” Seeing his expression at this deluge of information, she chuckled. “You’ll laugh at this, though: they point to the WTO Joint Earth Fleet as the perfect example of what can be achieved by contracting out services such as defence.”

  “Are they mad? We aren’t privatised! We represent contracted governments and provide their military, but we’re still paid by each government, and not for profit, either—no shareholders, no dividends and no political or national affiliations. Each contracted government has representation on the Fleet Board which determines our deployment, our budget, and even the size of it! No profit is skimmed off. Everything goes into what we’re contracted to do, exactly as it would be done if each nation had their own defence forces!” He stopped to take a breath. “Did you say the XRE is now fully absorbed into Johnstone Research?”

  Niamh nodded. “That’s true.”

  James shook his head. “Veronique would be furious—she hated the Johnstone lot.”

  “I know. She had good reason to. The integration happened just after her passing…” She mentally kicked herself then quickly changed the subject wishing she’d not mentioned it. “Everyone who knows how the Fleet is managed, operated and paid for knows that, but the general public don’t, and that is who this is aimed at.” She paused. “My latest brief is a dispute between a subcontractor of equipment for your Fleet and DockCorp. The main contractor used to be Fleet Construction, but since they’ve been privatised, they’ve held the proverbial gun to all their subcontractors’ heads and demanded large cuts in price under threat of loss of contract. This will be a test case because the contract was terminated without reasonable grounds.” She hesitated. “The new contract was awarded to a subsidiary of one of the major shareholders of the corporation that now owns Fleet Construction. If it were just one subcontractor, I’d say it might be an unfortunate coincidence, but it is several hundred, and some are under pressure to accept takeover bids.”

  Leaning back in his chair, James gazed at the expansive view of rolling green hills, and wished he could return to a simpler time. He sighed. “That explains a grea
t deal. I suspect the Dock Admiral knows this. He hinted as much when I briefed him before going on leave.”

  “Similar things are going on across a wide range of activities, James. There’s all these takeovers of contracted services, and there’ve been several deaths of political opponents, some apparently accidents and some clearly murder. A lot of people are frightened by it, but the faction running the political game at present are very astute players. They know exactly how to keep the voters on their side with illusions of better services, better pay, less bureaucracy—you know how it plays.” Watching his expression, she continued. “What I can tell you is there is a single group or organisation pulling the strings behind all of this. The Taoiseach is worried, and so are all the other Confederation Heads. We don’t have all the facts on them, or know for certain who they are, but, believe me, they have some very nasty people making sure those who do know, or who get too close to knowing, don’t share that knowledge.”

  James’s forehead creased in a frown as he took all this in. “That explains a number of things that have happened on the Dock in recent months. Does Theo know any of this?”

  “Theo is currently handling a couple of situations that may be directly related.” Niamh paused. “I’ll arrange a dinner party in Dublin and invite some of the less discreet.” She winked. “I think you’ll glean a great deal.”

  Chapter 4

  Old Enemy, New Guise

  The crowd formed a barrier across the access route to the mine. Pangaea was a young planet, rich in many minerals and ores now almost exhausted on Earth, and these people were the descendants of the settlers who had been chosen to colonise this gem of a planet. Those first settlers quickly learned that the place had few of the plants they were accustomed to, and most of it reminded them of the depiction of plant life during the dinosaur era on Earth. Likewise, the animals that roamed the planet were large and ponderous, but thankfully they were plant-eaters, not carnivores. The largest predator was the pleurodon, a massive sea creature that lurked beneath the surface of the planet’s oceans.

  Despite these challenges, the settlers built a new life for themselves and lived in relative peace and safety, but now their descendants faced a threat the likes of which the inhabitants of Pangaea had never encountered.

  “Your blockade is illegal!” The amplified voice of the Security Force Commander made some of the closest protestors wince. “These mineral rights and the associated mines have been forfeited by order of the Colonial Court. If you do not withdraw your blockade and allow the legally authorised owners to enter and take control, I will order my troops to clear it.”

  “We don’t recognise your court orders!” yelled the leader, his own amplifier at full power. “Tell Kodiak to take his stooges and go play with the pluerodons! Those debt claims are false, and you bastards know it. Our ores have shipped, but you bastards aren’t paying! We’re not the ones who owe you money—it’s the scum that pays your wages. Our families prospected these mines, worked them, built the machines—we don’t owe you a cent!”

  The roar of approval didn’t need amplification, nor did the ominous sound of the demonstrators’ rhythmic banging on empty metal containers to punctuate their chant.

  The Security Commander consulted the woman next to him. “Ms Ceasescu, they have a point. These mines have been in their families since they were awarded in the first decade of human settlement. They’ve always paid their way, and have done well out of it.” He hesitated. “Until the recent changes in shipping costs, and the fixed prices imposed by IPC.”

  “You aren’t paid to consider these things, Major. Your orders are clear. Take possession of these mines. I’ll worry about the legal issues—and any compensation that might be due.” She smiled, but it looked more like a grimace.

  The Security Commander didn’t trust her, but she was in charge, and he had to go along to save his own skin.

  “They aren’t going to surrender easily.” He indicated the crowd. “They’ll fight.”

  “Let them. You have your orders. Carry them out.” She shrugged. “A few broken heads and a little blood spilled will make them realise that they can’t defy us—or the law. They have no one but themselves to blame for this.”

  “Very well, Ms Ceasescu.” He activated the amplifier. “You have five minutes to clear the access. If you refuse to comply, I will order my troops to clear it, and those who resist will be arrested for attempting to prevent the legal owners from operating these mines.”

  The barrage of stones and other missiles gave a clear answer from the crowd.

  The troops responded, having the advantage of weapons and armour, but it was far from a one-sided effort. Plasma drills can do a great deal of damage at close range, and the miners knew exactly how to deploy them. They also knew how to make sure that whoever tried to take possession of their mines would have to spend a large amount of time and money repairing the damage and clearing the traps before they could start working them.

  The troops gradually gained the upper hand as the settlers retreated leaving numerous dead and injured as they did. Then, just as the Security soldiers reached the entrance to the mining compound, the ground shook as one after another the mine shafts were collapsed, gantries felled and machinery destroyed. In the midst of the chaos, the protestors vanished into the hillsides.

  “You’re letting them escape!” Ms Ceasescu screeched. “Round them up and bring them in to be tried! They’ve destroyed company property! They must pay for this willful destruction!”

  Biting back a retort, the Commander ordered, “Captain, get the medics to attend to the wounded. Lieutenant, take a squad and secure all the workings. Coms! Get me a channel to the General.”

  Walking across the concourse of the giant orbital space terminal, Captain Heron looked for the indicator boards that would point him to his check-in for the transport to the Mars Building Dock.

  He stopped and turned when he heard his name called.

  “James Heron! What brings you to this station? Heading off on assignment?”

  “I could ask the same of you, Leandra. I heard you’d resigned your commission.” He took in her expensive suit and the slim despatch case. “A new career? Or just enjoying the fruits?”

  The attractive woman smiled. “A little of both, James. I’ve joined Interstellar Protection Services as senior officer for their squadron of vessels.”

  “Ah, promotion then. IPS? They’re one of the contractor groups providing protection to some of the mining colonies, I believe. Must have a big force to need someone of your seniority.” Having served with Leandra Enescu, and been in the same Class with her at Fleet Services College, he knew their careers had more or less matched one another in progressing through the ranks. The news puzzled him. Did she know she’d be supporting some corporate operations that were only just within the law—depending on how you interpreted it? Why would someone used to command and the challenge of navigating the far-flung colonies of the galaxy give it up and take a managerial role in charge of a commercial fleet tied to protecting mining interests? It made no sense.

  She saw his puzzled expression and thought of an easy explanation. “A few of us have joined on with them and others.” Her laugh was rather musical. “It’s a refreshing change of pace! Fleet got a bit too rigid and stuffy for some of us.” She shrugged. “So now I get to play Commodore and command a squadron. What are you up to?”

  He had a feeling she knew. “Oh, I’m doing the ‘stand-by Captain’ thing for a new starship. Just making sure she gets all the bits she’s supposed to have. You know the routine.” He decided to do a bit of fishing to draw her out. “I keep hearing about these protection vessels—converted freightliners, I believe. I wonder why such massive ships are needed.”

  She didn’t answer him directly. “Some are, but IPS is also buying some purpose-built ships.” She grinned. “You should consider following my example, James. Bob Gratz is in charge of the design and purchase team for IPS and one or two others. You remember
Bob—a couple of years ahead of us—he switched to his new role a year ago, and took a few people with him.”

  Recalling a conversation with the Constructor Admiral, the Captain nodded. “Yes, I recall Bob Gratz, Rear Admiral, rising star. Bit of a mystery as to why he would jump ship at this point in his career, but each to their own, I suppose.”

  It wasn’t really a mystery to anyone with the right connections, he reflected. Gratz had been slightly unpopular as a Commodore in charge of a squadron of Cruiser Class ships. Moved to a desk job, he’d risen to Rear-Admiral, but got himself embroiled in a scandal involving kick-backs and sharing sensitive material with private contractors. His resignation had been fortuitous. He wondered if Leandra Enescu knew any of this, and if so, whether she had been involved.

  Her personal link chirped. “I have to go. My shuttle is here.” She held out a hand. “Good luck, James. See you around sometime. I suspect Fleet’s days of dominance are coming to an end. There are other players now, and the politicians think we taxpayers spend way too much on the Fleet.”

  Despite his feelings on this, James smiled. “I know. It’s the age-old argument of why bother with defence— until there’s a crisis, of course, and then blame the defenders for using bows and arrows when the other side have plasma weapons. Good luck with your squadron, Leandra.”

  The Admiral stepped from the shuttle and strode toward the Visitor Control, his civilian guise supported by an ID chip that identified him as Mr Alfred Brown, Nanotechnical Engineer employed by Fleet Technical Services, which was at least partially correct. He passed through the checkpoint and was met by members of his planet-based security team.

  “Welcome to Olympus Mons, boss.”

  “Thanks, Nick. Place has changed a bit since my last visit. Have they dealt with all the old settlement areas?”

  “Most of them sealed off, some of them occupied by squatters, and we’ve taken over two—though we marked those as collapsed and sealed off the original access.”