by Daniel Gibbs
“She’s armed?” Garza asked.
“Got enough teeth to surprise our civilian pals out there, yes, sir.” Dwyer aimed for the bottom left corner of the docking-bay hatch. A handful of other shuttles headed out along the same vector. He hated the idea of putting civilians in peril, but he was hoping Tactisar wouldn’t shoot for fear of the same.
Seven seconds to the threshold. “Here we go,” he murmured.
Novabird burst into open space, entering the mix of five shuttles at the same time. They all had to bend their course twenty degrees to starboard so as to avoid those circling freighters. Three seconds later, the tactical board squawked, and emergency lights flashed throughout the cockpit.
“Target lock,” Sev muttered.
“Good God.” Garza hunkered into his seat.
“I’ve already got his ear, LT, so hold on.” Dwyer spun Novabird and applied thrust, sending her on a wild tangent to the original course.
The tactical display informed him that bursts of mag-accelerated projectiles had lashed through their former vector, missing by a half klick.
“They hit one of the civilian shuttles,” Garza snapped. “Cold-hearted scum. You’ve got my permission to blow them out of space, Warrant.”
“Happy to oblige, LT, but the best we can hope for is to scratch their paint.” Dwyer ground his teeth as he wrestled Novabird through the overlapping freighter orbits.
None were particularly close, but at his speed and theirs, a mistimed maneuver would mean a tiny vessel colliding with a much bigger one at thousands of kilometers per second.
“Sev, give ’em that scratch.”
Sev gripped the controls. A glowing schematic of Novabird enlarged, showing the turret that popped from the dorsal fuselage, about halfway back from the cockpit. The compact CIWS unit with four barrels would make for a good antimissile defense, but against a ship near her size, it was just as useful offensively.
The first shots raked space near Gunship T-19, forcing it to roll away using RCS thruster bursts. The second punched holes in the forward armor.
“Venting,” Sev said. “Sealing.”
Great. Dwyer made a face. It was thin armor, backed up by emergency sealant for that kind of eventuality—handy when Tactisar had to spank pirates that weren’t on their payroll. “Hold on.”
Garza barked a warning, but Dwyer had already decided to play deaf. He didn’t need the jumpy LT telling him it was a bad idea to skim a racing shuttle within spitting distance of a huge ore hauler half the size of a Coalition cruiser. Dwyer ignored the proximity alerts and the glare of lights outside the cockpit windows. Some were portholes aboard the hauler. He wondered if he could make out staring faces. More proximity alerts. Three ships, arrowing on Novabird’s track from the opposite side of Bellwether.
“Damn,” Dwyer muttered. No way could Sev shoot through all three while holding off a fourth pursuer. “This ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“Get us out of here, Warrant,” Garza ordered.
Thanks, Lieutenant Obvious. Dwyer banked onto yet another vector, eliciting a screech from Novabird’s structural integrity monitors. Twisting the fuselage wouldn’t help them escape, but he was out of options. The pursuing gunship shot again. Novabird bounced as projectiles pierced one of her folded wings.
“Missile lock,” Sev intoned. “Three locks.”
All three incoming gunships had painted Novabird with their scanners. Dwyer’s chest tightened. Lord Almighty, I lay me down to rest by still waters and sure could use a shady glade in which to hide my weary head.
Sev grunted.
Dwyer’s gaze flicked to his display. An energy spike blurred the readouts. One of the three incoming gunships powered down in its aftermath—as in, it went dark, hurtling along like an asteroid. Novabird’s sensors, enhanced as they were beyond typical civilian models, tried to report another ship’s engines but couldn’t decide as to whether they were reading a pirate raider or having a malfunction. But Dwyer knew. He whooped and punched Novabird through a celebratory spin.
“Warrant, what in the blazes are you doing?” Garza asked. “The gunships are dropping like flies.”
“Roger, LT.” Dwyer chuckled. “That’s because the big old bullfrog that snuck up on them is on our side.”
“Conn, TAO. Master One disabled, sir,” Olesen said. “Charging for second shot.”
“Confirmed, TAO. Charge and stand by for my mark.” Mancini smiled at the indicator that had gone hollow on the tactical board.
Olesen’s EMP shot had slapped the lead of the three gunships, shorting out its systems and leaving it dead in space. Tuscon hurtled along in their wake, her own engines shut down as she tracked her next target.
“Conn, Sensor Room.” The senior chief sounded worried. “Novabird sustained damage to her starboard stabilizer, but engines are running at capacity. No indication of hull breach.”
“Sensor Room, continue to monitor. Pilot, maintain our present course but plot your intercept for Novabird,” Mancini ordered. “As soon as these local yahoos are down for the count, we’ll make for a rendezvous and pull her out of here.”
“Conn, Pilot. Plotting secondary course, aye, sir.”
Godat shook his head. “I’m kind of surprised they haven’t scattered by now, especially since it looks like a hole in space is flipping the off-switch on their power.”
“If they had brains, XO, they wouldn’t be corrupt local security.”
“Conn, TAO. EMP control reports fully charged,” Olesen called.
“TAO, firing point procedures, Master Two, EMP beam.”
“Firing solutions set, sir.”
“Match bearings, shoot, EMP beam.”
The second gunship of the trio blinked and went blank.
“Atta girl, Tuscon!” Dwyer watched the pursuing gunship even as he rejoiced. It had cut thrust and turned onto a new course, one that took it back toward Bellwether. Clearly, its pilot wanted no part of whatever was happening to its pals. Pretty soon, the third of the trio made the same decision.
The comms chirped. Sev ran the incoming signal through a decryption protocol because it appeared as an automated radiation protocol update. “For you,” Sev murmured.
Dwyer snorted.
“Novabird, this is Archangel One.” Major Mancini himself, if Dwyer had the voice correct. “We’re transmitting new vectors for you to follow for pickup and extraction.”
Garza sighed. “I appreciate the irony.”
“Me too, LT.” Dwyer replied into the comms microphone. “Roger, Archangel One, this is Echo Three and Four, bringing Vector Two home, over.”
“Confirmed, Echo Three. Nice job. Buckle in for the ride back.”
Dwyer let himself relax against his seat, arms trembling from the exertion of their escape. Soon enough, he, Sev, and Garza would be safe. But his thoughts were with Gina, Lieutenant Guinto, and the cap’n. The comms burn had put them all out of touch. No doubt the LT would use their backup systems to reconnect everyone. Until then, one wrong move could get any of us killed and quick.
The corridor was low-ceilinged and wide. Jackson couldn’t see far. He also couldn’t hear Fernand anymore, but he had to be ahead. Jackson knew from his mapping software that the corridor bent into a T-shape one hundred meters ahead with no rooms around into which he could have escaped. That deep inside the station’s guts, though, the map was glitching, his position off by too much.
Jackson switched on a beacon.
The first blow set his head ringing. The second caught the backside of his knee, forcing him to drop. More strikes had him prone on the deck, moisture seeping into his shirt. A couple of boots added to the rain of punches.
“Stop.” Fernand’s command cut off the pain.
Only his footsteps echoed in the silence, overlapping harsh breathing from at least three other people, Jackson’s assailants.
“Tell Detective Ramsey,” Fernand hissed, “trust goes both ways.”
His shoe crunched the beacon, dousing the
corridor in darkness again. The footsteps departed—definitely four sets.
Jackson groaned as he rolled onto his side. He’d blown his chance at Fernand and the League connection, while his team was broken up and out of communication with each other. What a fool he’d been.
15
Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System
22 November 2464
* * *
Meeting at either Jackson’s or Gina’s apartments was a nonstarter, especially since Ciara had given “Jack Arno” the task of following “Gianna Willis.” They couldn’t take the chance of being spotted together, not even in close proximity, like during her initial report given at the Giardino restaurant.
The comms burn protocol dictated they rendezvous within eight hours at the second backup apartment rented under an assumed name. The first was included on their list as a misdirection for an enemy, should one ever get ahold of the protocol. They would show up to the first option and find nothing but an empty room—empty, that was, except for a drone that would immediately alert the team to the security breach.
Jackson hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The old, ratty couch slumped against the far wall of the loft apartment was the most comfortable piece of furniture he’d lounged upon in weeks, better than anything in his well-appointed Tactisar lodgings.
“You should take a sip.” Gina offered him her glass of wine.
“No thanks. I need to keep my head clear.”
“Is that what you call your actions? Keeping your head clear?” Gina snorted. “My mistake. I thought they were called Jackson running off on his own in breach of a clearly established protocol.”
“Since when do you give two damns about protocol?” He grimaced as pain gripped his head again. The medicine was wearing off. He shifted on the couch, trying not to scratch at the healing pads adhered to his major bruises. He had no broken bones, thankfully.
“Since you broke them. You never break them—almost never.” Gina paced the room. “Sev and Sparks wouldn’t have had to race out of here, leaving us without a ride, if you’d gotten to them. You were nearer.”
“And in the middle of a meeting with the people we’re trying to infiltrate. Gina, I had a line on a League operative—”
“Yes, I know, the same one as was on Aphendrika. You’re fortunate he didn’t recognize you.” She smirked. “Even with your modified brows.”
“Not a fan?”
“They do nothing for your charming looks.”
A monitor hummed to life. Brant was hunkered over a small case filled with pulsing electronics attached to a foldout screen. Data spilled across the bright surface. “Tapped back in. The new comms will be up soon.”
“Nice work,” Jackson said. “Anything we need to be aware of?”
“Dwyer and Sev got Lieutenant Garza out. Tuscon signaled—they have all three and are meeting up with Oxford. No indication either your cover or Gina’s was blown.” Brant raised an eyebrow, his expression cool. “Except for the beating you endured.”
Jackson shook his head, which turned out to be a bad idea because it still throbbed. The rest of his injuries were superficial. Whatever the assault was supposed to accomplish, it wasn’t permanent damage to the Tactisar officer called Jack Arno. “That was Fernand sending Ramsey a warning. I happened to be the most convenient message medium. He thinks Ramsey put me up to following him, which Ramsey did, though it served our purpose.”
“Captain, you could have been killed. A drone could have followed him just as easily. If I’d had one on hand to—”
“We didn’t have one. I was the closest and made the call.” Jackson knew the fallout from the past twenty-four hours was on him, and he was ready to assume responsibility. “Tell me about the signal intercept.”
Brant seemed as if he were going to add to his previous statement but instead continued. “Voice match is affirmative—it’s the same Vasiliy individual who contacted you at the end of our previous mission. I have no idea for how long he’s been monitoring our comms, but it appears this was the first and only incident of him breaking in. My guess, the interference we experienced was related. But I was able to get a fix on his communications. They’ve gone dark since then.”
“So, we’re both reassessing.”
“That’s my determination.” Brant got up from his chair, a pair of battered wrist units—older models by two or three years, Jackson realized—in his hands. “Here. These are tuned to frequencies used by sanitation monitoring systems. They don’t have near the strength our originals did, but they’ll have to do until we get new units from our stores aboard Oxford. Incidentally, I’ll need your current wrist units.”
Gina sighed heavily as she handed hers over. “Do you have any idea the time it took to amass decent restaurant profiles on there?”
“Glad to know your priorities are straight,” Brant muttered. “You can import them again. Yours and Jack’s are different models. I have service tickets out for the originals in case your coworkers wonder why you’ve suddenly downgraded.”
“At least mine still looks the part.” Gina held the used unit up to the light, examining the bejeweled surface.
“Make sure you pull the remaining data off mine,” Jackson said.
“I already had it downloading when you walked in the room.” Brant accessed the schematics Jackson had recorded at the heist meeting. A smaller version of the Nosamo offices in holographic form expanded onto the loft’s floor. “I was ready to go over the specifics, but we’re missing our two team members.”
Jackson frowned. “Is there something else we need to air first, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. I think you know what it is. Your actions were reckless.” Brant crossed his arms. “Putting your team at risk for a single objective jeopardized the entire mission.”
“I disagree, given the single objective could be key to unravelling League involvement in not just this operation but other instances in which they’ve actively worked to undermine the Coalition’s national security. If you want to hear that I was reckless, then yes, I won’t disagree on that, Brant.”
“What I want is for you to ask forgiveness.”
“You—that’s ridiculous.” Jackson glanced at Gina, who regarded the scene with an odd curiosity. “Tell him.”
“Don’t look at me. Brant’s the theological expert. From what I gather, Catholics have a corner in the market on guilt, but I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jackson explained, “or that I need to be forgiven for. If you’d been in command, Brant, and made the same decision, I wouldn’t have held it against you.”
“Doesn’t change the resentment, Jack.” Brant looked up. “I’m not the only one feeling it, am I?”
“Shades of Eibenstock,” Gina murmured.
There it was—the asteroid in the room. Eibenstock, neutral outpost and site of their last mission six months prior to the Cypriot Crisis at Aphendrika. “We’ve been over this, Gina,” Jackson said. “My orders were clear—ship out. You delayed your own extraction to go after the people trapped by the mercenaries.”
“I took them out, set hostages free, and earned myself—oh, wait, I was left behind.” Gina snapped her fingers. “Did I get a medal from CDF for that one?”
“Gina…”
“Knock it off, Jack. Brant’s right. You screwed up. Sure, everything was ‘on mission,’ and you can make excuses all you want, but the team needed you, and instead you ran off after a League spy because you’ve had him in the back of your mind for months. No wonder you were hiding on the family farm.”
“It’s a ranch.”
“It smells, either way.” Gina snapped her wrist device into place. “I’ve got half an hour to get to work. If Jack’s supposed to be following me so Ciara Bui doesn’t get suspicious, he’d better do that. Keep me apprised, Brant.”
“Roger.”
The silence in the loft only deepened when she left. Jackson glared at Brant. “Forgiveness. Really?”
“I’m not your conscience, Jack, but I’ll tell you this much—there’s achieving your worldly goals, and there’s being right with God. Sometimes those clash.” Brant shrugged. “I can’t order you to do anything, though.”
“Damn right.” Jackson pushed off the couch. It was ridiculous. His team wasn’t a democracy—he gave orders and expected them to be followed. He left some room for collaboration and bending of the rules but only to an extent. “What I don’t appreciate is you undermining me in front of the rest of the team.”
“So that’s what’s bothering you? Protocol? It’s Gina, and I’m technically your XO. Being out here, hiding among the criminal element of the galaxy and acting like them every day, it’s no surprise our judgment gets warped from time to time. But when you stray off the straight and narrow when it comes to the team, you can be damned sure I’ll do what has to be done to goad you back onto it.”
The words battered Jackson worse than the beating he’d sustained because he knew Brant was right. How terrible had I felt when a man had died because of my actions on Aphendrika, a man I’d befriended while undercover? A man who might still be alive if I’d chosen someone other than Euke to make into a mark. He had to push that pain aside, or nothing would get done. “Let me know when we have more on those drones. They’re the key to the break-in.”
“Yes, sir.” Brant turned back to his work.
Jackson limped out a narrow access hall into the main corridors, shrugging into his Tactisar vest and wondering who was watching him.
CSV Oxford, Rendezvous Point with CSV Tuscon
Moons of Argenti
* * *
Colonel Sinclair appreciated the skill of Mancini’s pilot as he watched Tuscon dock with Oxford while both were underway, Novabird clinging to Tuscon’s hull via an extendable cofferdam all the while. Of greater importance, of course, were the new passengers arriving—Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer and civilian contractor Sevastopol Rast, both of CAU 171, along with Lieutenant Duncan Garza of CAU 22.
