Cold Conflict (Deception Fleet Book 2)

by Daniel Gibbs

  “It’s set on a modulating frequency the captain devised, one that will jump to the next available carrier wave at random intervals. You might experience delays but no more than a fraction of a second. Slick stuff.”

  At the word “slick,” Tamir made a face. Sinclair noticed tiny purple flecks in the crook of his nose. Mancini must have seen them, too, but he locked his face into a serious expression. Oxford’s pranks were legendary even among stealth boat crews, it seemed.

  “It’s a complex algorithm but one we shouldn’t have any problems getting Tuscon’s communication systems to recognize,” Tamir said. “I need to run a few more tests before we upload the recognition software.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Mancini said. “I’ll let Captain Godat know you’ll need access to our comms. He’ll be your contact man.”

  “I appreciate that, Major.”

  “You, uh…” Mancini rubbed at the corner of his own nose then gestured to Tamir’s.

  Tamir’s face darkened. He snorted out a laugh. “Blast it all, Miranda…”

  She blushed, too, but seemed more pleased by the attention than anything else. “I’ll get to monitoring local comms, Captain. A lot of overlapping traffic is out here, and I doubt it’ll get sorted out if we spend time daydreaming of retaliatory pranks.”

  “You’re right, of course, Warrant, but I don’t need the day to dream about them. I’ll have plenty of time off shift.” Tamir glanced at Sinclair. “We’re on it, Colonel.”

  “I never dreamed otherwise, Butter Bars.” Sinclair let the familiar teasing but brotherly nickname hang in the air as he led Mancini back to the tactical hologram. “I trust your orders are sufficiently clear, Major?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mancini reached for the display. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  Mancini adjusted the view so it magnified Bellwether. “My primary worry is our avenue of approach should we need to bail out Captain Adams’s people. Tactisar doesn’t have much in the way of a fleet—mostly second-hand starfighters—but they do run sixteen gunships. They’re small craft, only thirty meters, but they pack a punch. Crewed by two, every square centimeter is packed with armor and weapons where they’re not filled with fuel or crowded with engines.”

  “And I see Nosamo likes to keep them close.”

  “Every last one within a single AU of the station.” Mancini frowned. “I looked over the specs for Adams’s new racer, the Florio? Beauty of a shuttle and faster than the bulk of small craft out here, but if they sweep in and she gets caught while she’s making a run for it…”

  “I see what you mean. It will be Tuscon’s charge, then, to clear her a safe route.”

  “Yes, sir. Which makes our coverage of the system even more piecemeal.”

  “A valid point, Major. Work up a tactical response plan, and submit it to me by oh seven hundred tomorrow. I shall review it with my staff and, if necessary, make revisions, which we will then run by you. The gunships are a concern. I’m glad to see you’ve taken them into consideration.”

  Mancini eyed him with what Sinclair could only describe as amused suspicion. “Is it fair to say you’ve got your own plan, Colonel, and you’re checking to see if mine’s up to snuff when compared with yours?”

  “I shall neither confirm nor deny.”

  “Sounds like a spook statement to me, sir.”

  “Says the man in a boat that nearly every ship in this system will never see coming until it’s too late.”

  “Meaning no disrespect. Just pointing out that the regular fleet boys would probably be clutching their rank insignia if they could hear how we operate.”

  Sinclair nodded. “That, Major, is what puts us at a distinct advantage when dealing with the enemy. Our comrades are bound by doctrine. We…” He smiled. “Well, let’s say we have a little more freedom in such matters, now don’t we?”

  “Colonel?” Tamir was over by the comms station. When he’d spirited himself there, Sinclair hadn’t the foggiest idea. “Incoming encrypted transmission. Signal’s faint, but it checks out with our protocols. It’s Warrant Sakuri.”

  “The pilot?” Mancini asked.

  “Of Covert Action Unit Twenty-Two,” Sinclair murmured. “And quite possibly the only survivor.”

  5

  Bellwether Logistics and Supply Station

  Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

  15 November 2464

  * * *

  Bellwether’s docking ring was one of the biggest man-made structures Jackson had ever seen up close. It could easily fit a massive warship like CSV Audacious, one of those carriers capable of fielding more than five hundred combat spacecraft. At the moment, it was sheltering twenty freighters. And that didn’t count the forty vessels circling the station, sidling up to external docking ports when no internal berths were ready.

  Traffic control had directed Novabird to a section reserved for private shuttles. Dwyer’s landing put them in a broad hangar home to at least a hundred other small craft, each one with a spacious berth fifty meters on each side.

  Jackson left the shuttle first, without a backward glance at his teammates. Their cover was simple—three individuals who paid passage to Bellwether aboard a private shuttle run by Dwyer and Sev, all under assumed names, of course. Gina and Brant trotted down the shuttle’s ramp shortly thereafter, each bound for the apartments they’d rented for their duration. Nothing would connect them. Rents were being paid through three separate bank accounts, none of which had any obvious connections to CDF Intelligence. Jackson’s apartment would have to wait. He had an appointment.

  “Echo One, this is Echo Home. How do I read?” Brant’s voice, tinny and small, filtered through the implant tucked behind Jackson’s right ear.

  Jackson could answer verbally or send a response signal via the transmitter inside his sleeve. Those bursts would appear as background junk waves among the millions of day-to-day transmissions zinging between individuals and their person devices, their ships, and other sources.

  Jackson toggled the sleeve transmitter to signal received as he kept walking toward the long, low-ceilinged arrival terminal. The name “Bellwether” was spelled out in green neon, flanked by shining chrome Nosamo emblems two meters tall. Hundreds of humans, Saurians, and numerous other species mingled among the bars, restaurants, and shops—the first line of many barriers intended to separate arrivals from their credits.

  “Roger, One. I’ll send you the lay of the land once I get settled into my apartment. Gina’s on her way to Nosamo’s personnel department up in their corporate offices. Your station map’s been modified to update with our positions whenever you need. Godspeed.”

  Jackson sent a repeat acknowledgement but kept his eyes on station security. He’d counted ten Tactisar men and women since disembarking. There, at the wide corridor allowing access to the arrival terminal, four officers stood watch. None had an ex-military bearing. One guy’s tattoos indicated gang-related activity wasn’t too far in his past. They didn’t seem overly concerned with checking people as they arrived. Rather, their attention singled out individuals every so often. The tattooed officer pulled aside a skinny young man without so much as a warning and handed him off to a squad of three more men who appeared from an unmarked side room.

  When it was Jackson’s turn to pass, two officers looked up midconversation, paused for two seconds, then continued their rambling as if they hadn’t noticed him.

  They did a poor job of hiding their interest. Jackson glanced at small tablets mounted to their shirtsleeves. Likely they’d been given orders to watch for him since he was supposed to interview for the vacancy.

  Sure enough, the man in charge appeared in front of Jackson before he could reach the nearest cluster of seats. The officer, a dark-skinned man with brilliant-yellow hair, stopped in front of him with two female officers flanking his position. They did a passable job wandering away, as if they were keeping tabs on the flowing crowds, but Jackson could tell they were there to provide s
ecurity for their boss.

  “This is the guy,” the officer said. “Jonathan James Arno?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson dumped his bags onto a nearby couch. He offered a hand. “Call me Jack, though. Even Mom does.”

  “Detective Ramsey Moss.” The handshake was meant to test his strength—or tear an airlock from its frame. “Drop the ‘sir’ business, too, Jack. We’re not big on rank here, except for detectives.”

  “You got it, si—sure thing. Haven’t quite gotten the Colonial Rangers out of me. They make a bigger deal of it.”

  “That why you left? Besides being bored out of your skull trying to enforce federal regs on backwater planets?”

  Jackson snorted. “Come on, Detective. I’ll pay you the compliment of assuming you’ve already sniffed out my background. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought me in for a talk.”

  “Yeah, I have to say, your background sure raised eyebrows, mostly in good ways. Why’d you give it up?”

  “The Rangers? I didn’t give a damn thing up. They booted me, all for being entrepreneurial on the side.”

  Ramsey crossed his arms. “It’s not like you were selling used hovercraft when off duty. The Coalition frowns on drug trafficking.”

  “You’re going to moralize to me too? Look, everyone who bought from me made a choice to part with the credits and put the product into their bodies.” Jackson pointed a finger at Ramsey’s chest.

  The female officers twitched, hands going to their weapons, but Ramsey shook his head.

  “Not my problem,” Jackson said. “Besides, we’re all about personal freedom, right?”

  “Whatever you say. I’m just trying to get a feel for a guy who gives up a well-paid, respected post for a life on the fringe.”

  “How about a guy who’s tired of following the rules? A guy who got run down by regulations.” Jackson sneered. “This time, I’m getting what’s mine, and as long as Tactisar’s the one who makes that possible, I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Detective.”

  Ramsey’s grin broadened. “Now that’s what I like to hear, man. I value initiative. Not too much, mind you. You’re still gonna have to follow orders—namely mine. If that’s a problem, you’d better turn around and get your ass on the next shuttle out because you won’t be staying on my station. Clear?”

  “Sure. You got it.”

  Ramsey stepped closer until Jackson smelled the alcohol on his breath. “Really? Because that fire in your eye better not be directed at me. Ever. This isn’t like your planet-hopping days with your big, thick atmosphere for a shield. Bellwether’s my world, and I know a lot of unpleasant ways for you to leave it, especially if you piss me off.”

  Jackson maintained his arrogant stance but made sure to let his gaze falter from Ramsey’s. Let the guy maintain his perceived dominance. “I said ‘sure.’ You’re the boss. Hey, I’m no vacuum for brains. I know I have to learn how things work around here.”

  “Damn straight.” Ramsey consulted his arm-mounted tablet. “Says here one of your skills was cozying up to narcotics traffickers. Undercover work?”

  “Plenty of it. It made for a good way to turn up new business partners. But I wasn’t actually undercover with the narcotics people. My job was to infiltrate the companies the traffickers used as fronts, from the legitimate employee side.”

  Ramsey nodded.

  “Why?” Jackson put on a puzzled expression. “You got snooping that needs done?”

  “Maybe. I got someone I need watched. I think you might be the guy to help me out. You think you can do that?”

  “Shit.” Jackson snorted. “I can sit on a cargo vault and count micrometeorite impacts on the underside of arriving shuttles if you pay me enough.”

  Ramsey chuckled. “Good attitude. Kami? Check in with Desmond and the boys. Tell ’em we’re meeting up later. Sasha, stick with me and the new guy. Time to show him around.”

  Kami departed, leaving Sasha, the tall blonde, following them at six paces, her icy stare all the more unsettling because of the shimmering bronze implant curving around her left eye. Jackson hoped his wrist scanner unit was picking up enough details for Brant to analyze later.

  “Come on, Arno,” Ramsey said. “Let’s get you fitted with a vest and slapped with a badge. Then we can do whatever the hell we want.”

  Gina Wilkes found her apartment easily enough. Intelligence had sprung for one of the more posh accommodations facing Eden Core, a huge cylindrical park at the center of Bellwether’s Sectors C and D. It was four kilometers across and half a klick high, filled with the flora and fauna of a dozen worlds. Strange Saurian plant life thrived behind transparent barriers, accessible by negative pressure airlocks. Visitors and residents alike swam and paddleboarded across the lake in the center, skirting the spray from a hundred-meter waterfall.

  The Core was a delightful expanse of green, red, yellow, and brown in the midst of endless metal and other synthetics. The way in which the landscape flowed from one biome into the next made Gina homesick, though she was perplexed as to which home. One moment she felt it was an idyllic paradise. The next, she giggled at people playing inside what looked like a zoo for humanoids. Either was fine by her. The variation kept her alert, which was what she needed most as she stepped into the lobby of Nosamo Aerothermic Tech.

  Nosamo’s offices and laboratories occupied Sectors A97 through A128, on sixteen zones spread across two kilometers. Gina took in the sumptuous furnishings as she waited, leg crossed over her knee, in a pale-gray dress that was meant to be equal parts professional and dazzling.

  “Ms. Willis?” A slender young woman, Gina’s height with short red hair and a smile as bold as her outfit, stood nearby. Gina’s holographic profile glowed from the woman’s bejeweled wrist, which must have concealed a powerful device among its glittering gemstones. “Gianna Willis?”

  “Gina, please.”

  “Gina. Welcome to Nosamo Aerothermic. I’m Ciara. Delighted. Come with me.”

  The pair walked beyond the glass curve of the massive reception desk and down white corridors alight with not only embedded video of numerous worlds and starscapes but actual paintings in both oil and watercolor. Gina tried to appraise them but lost track in the tens of millions. “You have such a lovely facility. I’m delighted you selected my resume.”

  “We at Nosamo pride ourselves on human interaction over machines,” Ciara said. “A bot can certainly be an efficient liaison between customer and company. But the personal touch—the human touch—is what maintains the business relationship. I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have found someone who understands what that means.”

  “I do so enjoy interacting with people.” Especially when I’m playing a role such as this. A gray cylinder hunkered in an alcove Ciara led them past. At first Gina mistook it for a sculpture until the red light on the side of the cylinder tracked her passing. Security drone, heavily modified in its appearance, but if it wasn’t hiding stun rounds or more lethal means of stopping intruders, she would be very surprised.

  “So far, so good,” Brant said through her communicator. “I’ll dig up more detailed specs on their security systems once you’re done with the appointment and we can download the full scans. Even these initial looks are helpful. All I can say is, if we tried anything more active, I don’t doubt that bot would burn you where you stand.”

  Really? How helpless does he think I am? Just because I’m squeezed into a dress rather than my ghost jumpsuit.

  “In here.” Ciara waved Gina into a room with transparent walls, the farthest of which was an aquarium.

  Ugh. It took all her training to keep a smile on her face. She hated fish. Slimy, scaly, with those idiotic faces. “My, how beautiful.”

  “Beautiful indeed.” Ardalion Noor was as charming in real life as his images suggested. He was shorter than Gina imagined, clad in a tailor-made suit over a red silk shirt. He extended his hand, a platinum wristband shining in the ceiling and floor lights. “Good afternoon, Ms. Willis. I am deli
ghted to meet you in person.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Noor.” Gina returned his smile with her best.

  She matched his hand for a shake, but he seized it—with a margin of possessiveness Gina found too narrow—and kissed her knuckles.

  “Such a rarity, to meet a gentleman, especially this far out from civilization.”

  “I think, Ms. Willis, you will find we here aboard Bellwether are quite civilized. One can build society in the coldest, darkest corner of the galaxy if one has sufficient willpower—and of course, provided one marries it with cutting-edge technology.”

  “Which is why I came to Nosamo and am grateful you’ve granted me an interview. I want the same thing you do.”

  Noor’s smile grew. “Do you?”

  “The expansion of civilization. Nosamo has the means to continue this, free of the interference politicians like to inject. Your atmospheric regulation towers make the goal achievable.”

  “Very good. I had a feeling you belonged. I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, and given your background…” Noor tapped his wristband. Gina’s holographic face appeared, apparently summoned from the same database Ciara had accessed. “Two degrees in atmospheric terraforming. Hailing from Churchill’s most prestigious academy. Experience working for multiple corporations, including Apex Atmos and Trinata. You have glowing recommendations from people who used to be my rivals, which to my mind, does not disqualify you in the slightest. On the contrary, it makes your employment here all the more desirable.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. As I understand the job description, my role is primarily one of customer care.”

  “Yes, in a way. We’ll require you in technical oversight as well as interaction with our primary contractors. They are the ones we must keep happy. I’ll expect you to do so.”