Shadow Play

by P. R. Adams

  “Propose…?” Benson hadn’t thought of that. “I thought Colonel McLeod—”

  “He put you in charge for a reason. Assaults like this aren’t in his realm of experience.”

  Assaults? “Well, I’ve trained for starship combat mostly.”

  “You have Captain Gadreau and Staff Sergeant Halliwell. And Major Fero.”

  Each was a sticky problem. “I’ll run some ideas past Halliwell. I thought once we had some certainty there was a military installation near—”

  “That’s probably been there all along. Only the airstrip looks new.”

  They knew this was more than a little outpost. “Well, we don’t have the sort of force to stand up to serious attack, either in space or on the ground.”

  “Speed and stealth were our focus.”

  “Do you even know where our people are? What their facility looks like?”

  “No. Just that it’s somewhere in the ruins.”

  “So they could be hidden anywhere within those collapsed buildings. That’s several kilometers in diameter. Do we have some sort of tracking device?”

  “We should. If their emergency ID systems are still operational.”

  “Accurate to how close?”

  “Ten meters for personal ID. It can detect a friendly signal within ten kilometers.”

  That meant getting a small group inside a five-kilometer radius. That was probably feasible, but there would be the time spent narrowing the search down. That could be minutes; it could be hours. “Anyone we send in is going to be exposed if they have aircraft with good sensors.”

  “Come up with a plan, Commander. Colonel McLeod will back you.”

  Benson’s hands shook. This was too much. “Brianna, I need the truth. No smoke blown up my ass. Okay? Why was I selected for this?”

  “No smoke, Commander. Your promotion was real. The GSA sees you as the right person at the right time. You bringing the Pandora out of the DMZ was proof that they had the right person.”

  “In case you forgot, I got my crew killed.”

  “Anything other than outright war would have been considered a success.”

  “That’s a strange bar to set for success.”

  Stiles’s face pinched up. “Commander, if I can speak openly?”

  “Please.”

  “You need to believe in yourself. Your record shows someone with excellent potential. You’re smart. You’re creative. You handle pressure well. You’re not prone to panic. And you care about your people and the mission. The Kedraalian Navy senior staff believe in you. Do you?”

  It was the exact question Benson had been asking herself since the promotion: Do you believe in yourself?

  She sucked in a breath. “All right. You mind if I use you as a sounding board?”

  “Nope.”

  Benson brought the video up and put together a composite to show the Azoren base, the crater, and the ruins. “Let’s assume they don’t know we’re incoming yet.”

  “There’s always a chance of that. They’re SIGINT, not astronomers. We’ve outrun most of our transmissions.”

  “And maybe the sensor buoys didn’t have a Fold Space relay pointed at this moon.” That didn’t seem as likely as no one watching the heavens for the incoming heat blooms of starships, dispersed or not. “If we get onto the surface, we should have maybe half an hour before they can scramble one of their aircraft out to our position.”

  “Reasonable.”

  “That’s not enough time for a team to get into the ruins and search. That means we have to hold a landing zone.”

  “Which would be vulnerable if out on the area around the ruins.”

  “It’ll be vulnerable anywhere, but out in the open would be the worst. So I’m thinking we put a force down in this crater.”

  “In…the crater?”

  “The floor is level. There’s some cover. We could put an anti-aircraft gun down there. We have a couple vehicles, don’t we? Badgers?”

  “I—” Stiles shook her head. “In the crater?”

  “It’ll be a challenge, but pilots can use systems to land. We work out the optimal positions, and use the shuttles to create further cover. We send the vehicles down this narrow, winding rift until they get to the ruins, the team climbs out and heads in for the extraction. They’re only exposed while they’re in the ruins. We send a shuttle in for pickup if they can’t make it back to the LZ, then the rest of the force blasts out.”

  The lieutenant’s brow knotted in concentration. “How long do you think it would take to drive to the ruins, climb up, conduct the search, and drive back?”

  “A couple hours?”

  “And if it goes longer?”

  Benson used the Clarion’s imagery analysis system to gauge the distance from the crater to the Azoren outpost. If they had vehicles, they could probably get to the crater in close to two hours, certainly if things stretched out to three hours or more.

  She needed to get Halliwell’s thoughts on all of this. It felt horribly unsafe, even hopeless, but maybe he could help her put the details in place and give them a chance.

  “Commander?”

  “Hm?” Benson didn’t know how long she’d been staring at the map. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “I understand. Did you need time to work on details?”

  “Yes. I want a Marine’s viewpoint.”

  “I’ll pass along what you’ve given me when the colonel wraps up his meeting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Those—” The lieutenant squinted. “It sounds like two different forces: LZ and Rescue.”

  “Yes.”

  “We don’t really have the numbers for two forces.”

  “We’ll operate lean.”

  “What about leaders? You don’t have many quality officers.”

  “I was thinking I would run the LZ team.”

  “And the rescue team? Would that be Captain Gadreau or Major Fero?”

  “Actually, I was thinking you would run that team.”

  Stiles looked away. “We have Marine officers—”

  “Neither of whom I consider particularly reliable at the moment.”

  “Your call, Commander.” Stiles closed the connection.

  It wasn’t a challenge, but Benson had a definite feeling that she might have alienated a potential ally.

  Was there pettiness at play? Was it the desire to test Stiles in a potential combat situation? Or was there something more behind the idea that had popped up from nowhere?

  Trust your instincts. Believe in yourself.

  Benson sent a message to Halliwell requesting his assistance. Trust and belief were one thing. She needed a rational, skeptical eye.

  Because her real gut feeling was that the mission was doomed.

  12

  Crew chiefs, technicians, and Marines hustled from place to place in the Clarion hangar bay. Benson poked her head into the airlock of one of the shuttles and tried to keep a reassuring smile on her face as a bunch of middle-aged, graying Marines flashed thumbs-up signals at her. Like her, they wore thermals, combat armor, and helmets that could be sealed against an atmosphere that appeared to be somewhere close to -50 Celsius. But they weren’t in that sort of temperature yet, so they were all slowly boiling.

  She returned the thumbs-up and moved on to the next shuttle. This one carried more Marines, some technicians who’d been taken from the Clarion crew over Commander Scalise’s protest, and vital gear: sensors, comms relays, lower-end drones to supplement the probe, and spare ammunition.

  Once again, she exchanged thumbs-up signs with the people inside before moving on to the third shuttle. This one was specially modified to carry an oversized cargo container that was even now being prepped for one of the Badgers.

  Marines scrambled aboard the ancient vehicle, and its engine rumbled to life.

  Benson had helped scrub the vehicle interior out. Even after buckets of chlorine cleaner, the thing stank like vomit and ruptured guts. Someone had said it was
used in one of the failed actions against the rebel forces that later became the Khanate. There were still patches in the armored shell, things that looked certain to fail when exposed to the vacuum of space.

  They won’t. Some sealant is all you need. It’s vacuum, not deep ocean.

  Her stomach knotted as the stench of diesel exhaust filled the crowded space, then its tires squeaked and it rolled into the cargo container. The knotting worsened when she spotted Halliwell coming toward her, with Scalise close on his heels.

  Another fight. Just what I need.

  Crew chiefs sealed the cargo container, which was then moved to the center of the hangar bay doors. The container would be the first thing released from the Clarion, followed by the shuttle that would clamp onto the container.

  Then the rest of the shuttles would head out to join up with the gunships and other shuttles.

  Halliwell rushed his last few steps to open a bit of a lead, then leaned in to whisper, “She’s all yours.”

  He hovered a meter behind Benson, probably listening.

  When Scalise stomped up to Benson, the short woman’s face was red. “We’ve got a problem with life support. All this exhaust, all these things you’ve been running down here in the hangar bay, they’re overloading the systems.”

  Benson spread her feet shoulders-wide. “Cut the hangar bay off from regular circulation. Let the air get sucked out when we launch.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Then I’d suggest getting a team on it.”

  “Our teams are overstretched already. We’re finding the limit of this ship—”

  “Commander Scalise, the Istanbul, Marie Belle, and Pulsar are older and going through the same system strains and they’re coping without complaint.”

  “I’m not complaining, Commander. I’m requesting that you release my tech—”

  “Request denied. We’ll need all hands down there.”

  The heavyset woman’s face grew even redder. “If anything were to happen to you down there, I’ll be in command.”

  “Then I hope you’ll do your best to get everyone back home safely. Is there anything else?”

  Scalise spun on a heel and stomped back out.

  Halliwell came back around, wiggling his long fingers to adjust the thermal glove liner, then pulling heavy gloves over them. “If that’s the worst of the blowback for this plan, you’re getting off easy.”

  Benson arched an eyebrow. “I’m getting off easy? You’re the one who helped hash out the details.”

  He held his hands up. “Your plan. You know my thinking.”

  “Attacking the Azoren installation would be every bit as suicidal as this.”

  “I’d take the odds.”

  “We don’t know their numbers.”

  “And they wouldn’t know ours, not if we hid in the rocks. You saw those topographical projections. It would be perfect for ambush. Plant some explosives in the most obvious routes—”

  “Too many assumptions. If we can get in and out fast enough—”

  The Marine snorted. “You’ll be lucky if those old diesel crawlers make it fifty meters. Badgers are older than the Republic. That’s Earth tech. The engines sound like they were dug out of the weapons systems graveyard.”

  They were, but she wasn’t going to dwell on that. “You and Grier are in shuttle four with me.”

  “Where’s Gadreau?”

  Benson pointed to the shuttle she hadn’t poked her head into. “Two.”

  Halliwell waved at the entry hatch to the hangar bay, and Grier hurried toward them. She hadn’t yet pulled her combat uniform on over the skin-tight thermals, giving anyone who cared a look that left little to the imagination. Her muscles writhed beneath the black material as she shoved the bundle of uniform, boots, and helmet into the staff sergeant’s gut.

  “They still printed this too tight.” As Grier spoke, she turned her back to Benson. “Ma’am, could you get this zipper to go the last bit?”

  The zipper seemed ready to come free from the material but held. Barely. Benson slipped a finger beneath the thermal at the corporal’s neck. It was tight. “Can you move?”

  Grier twisted at the hip and stretched her arms out, rotating them forward and back. “I’ll get used to it. Thanks, ma’am.”

  Halliwell handed over pants, then boots, then the uniform top. He didn’t seem uncomfortable as Grier dressed; he probably shouldn’t have. They’d known each other for years, and that knowledge had probably included time where they’d both been wearing less.

  The young woman smiled. “We got this thing down tight, Commander?”

  Benson wished she had the sort of confidence Grier displayed. “We do.”

  “Got resuscitation patches, just in case.” The corporal slapped the back of her neck.

  It didn’t seem a very prudent thing. No one was going to come for their bodies if they died on Jotun. Everyone would be gearing up for war. In fact, they probably already were.

  We’ve invaded Azoren space. Intentionally. How can we hide that?

  The Marines headed for shuttle four—officially Clarion S4—and Benson followed. Parkinson was in the fifth seat back from the cockpit, sweating and rocking back and forth as much as his harness allowed. His skin was pale; his lips were quivering.

  Five shuttles from the Clarion. Four from the Marie Belle and Pulsar, one from the Istanbul. Two gunships. An anti-aircraft weapons system, grenade launchers, A-19 Grizzly Assault Carbines, flares, climbing gear, IR vision systems for every fifth Marine and the entire rescue team.

  They’d put together as effective a mix as they could, considering their limitations. Colonel McLeod had given his blessing. Agent Patel had signed off.

  Yet it still felt pointless.

  The shuttle pilot twisted around, his bug-eyed heads-up-display visor resting on the top of his forehead. Calm, gray eyes, a cleft chin, and pale skin with the faintest hint of mocha to it—Lieutenant Durall was a handsome man, and he was one of the more serious pilots. Like Halliwell, the lieutenant was just waiting for release to return to civilian life, but in his case it was family—twin baby daughters—that was the driving reason. “Strap in, folks. Launch in ten.”

  Benson checked her outfit again, then brought the harness down.

  Ten seconds.

  Amber lights flashed in the hangar bay, which was dark otherwise. Sound vibrated through the landing gear, nearly as loud as the engines spinning up.

  And then they were sealed up, lifting off, maneuvering, moving, passing through the hangar bay doors. The shuttle with the container clamped to its belly drifted forward. Spacecraft began maneuvering into a group.

  The two gunships drifted to the front of the formation.

  Durall twisted around again, this time pointing to Benson, then tapping his helmet. “Commander, you want to plug in?”

  She turned her comm device to the channel used by the pilots and was immediately assaulted by the chatter—businesslike but also salty and more than a little fearless.

  “Clarion S2, you’re going to need to squeeze your nose up Pulsar S2’s ass just a little more.”

  “Copy, Marie Belle S1. Been in that situation enough to know what’s to come.”

  “Take your complaints to the mess hall, Clarion S2.”

  Benson smiled. Her stomach seemed to calm a little and she started identifying the voices, putting faces to the call signs. She wasn’t surprised to realize it was the female pilots who seemed to have more off-color humor about them, the worst being Ensign Linda Reyes, who happened to be the best.

  Finally, Gunship-028 made the call Benson had been dreading. “All clear to proceed. Let’s go.”

  Acceleration pressed her against the harness. Her breathing sped up, and she brought it under control the way she always did: focus on the details.

  Which shuttles carried what resources?

  How had the landing been laid out?

  Who would put down first?

  What would be set up first?
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  That last bit had been the most contentious, with Halliwell arguing for putting people on the perimeter immediately, then sending teams out to set down mines and sensors. Benson wasn’t going to yield on that point, though. The visibility was pathetic, and with only twenty percent of the force having IR goggles or any other means to see in the gloomy dark the probe had revealed, having machine eyes and countermeasures seemed critical to her.

  Because she was absolutely sure the Azoren knew a force was out there on Jotun somewhere. They had to know. Or suspect.

  If they did, she wasn’t about to give the enemy the slightest chance to do what they’d done on the Pandora. The Kedraalian forces were probably outnumbered, but this time they were going to have defenses, and they were going to be ready.

  Everyone goes home.

  Pilot chatter drew her back out, and she listened for a bit, then turned her attention back to the plan. She fed it to Grier and Halliwell—the Marine consultants—and texted them: Last chance. Ideas?

  Halliwell shook his head, then texted back: From this point, it’s all about being flexible. Everything’s going to change.

  Grier’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. She would always support him.

  So Benson turned her thoughts to how she could adjust when the time came. If their landing sequence had to be adjusted, what could be compromised on? If their weapons ran into problems in the Jotun cold, was there something they could do about it? Should she bring Gunship-133 down or leave it in orbit with Gunship-028, Patel’s mobile headquarters, as she’d planned? At least she could count on 133 to actually engage if necessary. The SAID agent?

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  There were an infinite number of variants that could be considered, but Halliwell was right: Until they knew more, planning was pointless.

  “Commander Benson?” It was Durall. “We’re coming up on the satellites. We’ll keep those between us and the planet as much as possible, then we’ll head down as fast as we can. We’re flying off visuals for now, minimizing our signal profile.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Hey, look, I know everyone’s taking risks, Commander—”

  “They are.”

  “Sure. It’s just that, like I told you after the mission brief—I’ve been approved twice for separation.”