by Daniel Gibbs
The latter rushed to Warrant Sakuri as soon as the two were reunited in Oxford’s briefing room. They shared a brief embrace before resuming something resembling proper military bearing.
“It’s good to see you again, Vector Home.”
“Likewise, sir.” Sakuri’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled. “When Vector One—I thought the same thing had happened to you.”
“God must have decided it wasn’t my time, even if it was Nels’s.” Garza lifted his chin. “All the more reason we’ll do our best to honor his memory by assisting with this mission the best we can.”
“I’ve been trying to do just that, sir, from here.”
Sinclair cleared his throat. “Warrant Sakuri has provided intelligence beyond the scope of your original investigation, Lieutenant, which is why we were underway when Tuscon pulled you off Bellwether.”
“Thanks again for that, sir,” Garza said.
“As I understand it, you primarily have Warrant Dwyer and Mr. Rast to thank.” Sinclair nodded in the direction of the two CAU 171 team members. “Eldred tells me the comms traffic surrounding their, uh, mode of operations makes for most enlightening listening.”
Dwyer’s face reddened. “Not much to write home about, Colonel. Sev and I did the best we could in a hairy situation.”
“Indeed you did. I have no doubt Tactisar would send us their bill for innumerable wrecked patrol drones were they aware of CDF Intelligence’s involvement.” Sinclair gestured to Garza, who along with Sakuri, had sat to his left. Dwyer and Rast were seated to the right, with Sinclair himself at the head of the conference table. “I suppose I shall take solace in these modified drones being partial proof of League involvement.”
“They’re listening,” Rast intoned.
“Yes, quite. A more troubling aspect you have uncovered but a welcome problem. It means both investigations and their resulting overlap have pushed ESS into overplaying their hand.”
“Beggin’ the colonel’s pardon, but where are we headed?” Dwyer shifted in his seat. “Don’t mind voicing my urge to get me and Sev back to our people, sir.”
“I appreciate the sense of loyalty, Dwyer, but you’re correct. We’re headed to the system’s edge for a spell.” Sinclair tapped his tablet, calling up holograms of the planet Argenti and its moons.
The image shrank, revealing Oxford and Tuscon as white diamonds. The Caeli system’s third and most distant world, Stannic, was a frozen ball devoid of ships except for a handful of ice-mining vessels. Halfway between, specks appeared.
“There’s a thin, broadly spaced disc of cometary fragments trailing in a very elliptical orbit between Argenti and Stannic—no more than a hundred rocks scattered across the entire system. Warrant Sakuri informs us that they harbor a handful of possible sites used by firms in the manufacture of tricionite, which is useful in mining but also, as it turns out, rigging privateer ships for self-destruction,” Sinclair explained.
Garza scowled but didn’t seem surprised, which led Sinclair to believe he and Warrant Sakuri had already discussed the possibility.
Dwyer whistled. “Sir, am I correct in thinking that privateer didn’t blow up of its own free will?”
“It seems likely, Warrant. I was hoping you could weigh in with your expertise.”
“Well, I’ve never used tricionite myself, Colonel, as there’s much better alternatives in the CDF arsenal. But with compounds like that—refined from natural elements for industrial use, sure—they can be modified by a fella with enough time, patience, and money. Sounds like you’ve got somebody with all three. That said, I’d be happy to peruse whatever scans you folks have and can probably help narrow them down.”
“Much appreciated. I’ll see to it you’re paired with Eldred.” Sinclair magnified the image again, focusing on six flashing red icons. “These are the sites Warrant Sakuri deems most likely to either harbor tricionite stockpiles or manufacturing labs. Given the time gap between her knowledge and the present situation, one or more is likely abandoned. Master Chief MacDonald’s space special warfare team will conduct our raids while Tuscon and Oxford interdict any vessels in the area.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sinclair glanced at the notoriously tight-lipped Rast. “I will also require a full summary of your actions leading up to and during the escape from Bellwether. Spare no details.”
Rast locked his gaze with Sinclair’s and nodded.
“We have another matter to which we must attend—Lieutenant Garza.” It would be an unpleasant enough line of questioning, made more so with Captain Nelson Garza having been the lieutenant’s brother, in addition to CO and team leader. “What intel have you for us regarding Captain Garza’s death?”
Lieutenant Garza’s posture stiffened, as if the interrogatory had brought new life to his tired frame. “Sir. I witnessed Detective Ramsey Moss cycle the airlock through which Captain Garza was ejected. He did so knowing full well one of his own Tactisar men was inside with the captain.”
Rast issued a growl.
“Can you provide more than eyewitness testimony, Lieutenant, as valuable as that is?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes, sir.” Garza slid a small, battered tablet onto the table. It appeared he’d cobbled it together out of components from two devices, a Frankenstein’s monster of a job. “This was damaged during my initial escape after Nels’s—after Captain Garza died. During my time on the run and in hiding, I was able to gain access to a damaged patrol drone, one which I shot and destroyed. My skill with small bots was instrumental for my cover during the mission, Colonel, so I put it to good use again and found that drone in the shop Detective Moss used for quiet repairs.”
Dwyer made a surprised sound. At Sinclair’s raised eyebrow, he sat up straighter. “Sorry, sir, but I’m willin’ to bet that shop was H-A-X, where the LT had been doing his work when Sev and I went looking for him.”
“Right, Warrant.” Garza managed a wan smile. “I found more about the drones’ communication network in the recovered data, too, alongside video and comms chatter from Detective Ramsey and his people during the time he killed Captain Garza.”
“Outstanding work, Lieutenant.” Sinclair handed the tablet to Warrant Dwyer. “A second but more vital item of discussion for you and Warrant Eldred, I’d wager. Transmit whatever useful information can be salvaged to Unit 171, specifically Lieutenant Guinto. I daresay he’ll be pleased to see a breakthrough in his arduous labor regarding these modified drones.”
Dwyer took the tablet and stood, Sev mimicking his pose. Dwyer braced to attention and grinned. “Yes, sir, Colonel.”
“Dismissed until we can talk more later, gentlemen.”
Once the two had left, Sinclair turned his attention to the remaining members of Covert Action Unit 22. “There will, of course, be an inquiry surrounding the events leading up to and culminating in Captain Garza’s death. The two of you will be assigned admin leave until such time as the inquiry can take place.”
“With all due respect, Colonel, I’ll speak for myself and the lieutenant in our mutual desire to not be sidelined.” Sakuri’s response was firm, which Sinclair appreciated. “Our investigation shouldn’t be thrown off course by the captain’s death.”
“And it will not be. I fully expect your cooperation as we continue. Any inquiry will wait until we’ve returned to Coalition space and Canaan itself. In the interim, you’ll both remain aboard Oxford as liaisons to Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred as they work with Unit 171. The status of your team, I’m afraid, will be left up to those higher in the chain of command, but rest assured I shall do what I can to push for its reinstatement and restaffing.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Sinclair stood. Garza and Sakuri did also, bracing to attention. “That is all for now, Lieutenant, Warrant. I shall interview you separately, Mr. Garza, once you’ve submitted your full report.”
“Yes, sir.” Garza nodded. “With your permission, Colonel, I’d like to see my brother’s body.”
<
br /> “By all means, Lieutenant.” Sinclair clasped the young officer’s shoulder. “It would be an honor to escort you there myself.”
16
Cometary Fragment 084
Caeli Star System
22 November 2464
* * *
Tuscon slowed its headlong rush to the cometary fragment designated 084, making the last half hour of its approach rigged for ultraquiet. Master Chief Abraham Cosentino, chief of the boat tasked with wrangling all the enlisted crew aboard, enforced the quiet running with a zeal Mancini usually reserved for itinerant preachers. He’d once ran into a particularly fervent pastor who was convinced he needed to save Mancini from the clutches of the Antichrist. Mancini smiled at the memory of revealing to the preacher his family’s multi-generational Catholic heritage and the invigorating theological debate that had ensued.
“COB, don’t let them get the best of you,” he mentioned to Cosentino. “I don’t think there’s an enlisted rating on a single deck who isn’t terrified you’ll space them if they don’t shut off their personal tablets.”
“Bunch of screen addicts, Skipper,” Cosentino muttered. “I recommend we run drills on silent rig protocols as soon as we return to the Coalition.”
“Another set of those? I don’t object. XO?”
Godat issued a soft chuckle. “It does make for an entertaining few days. I’ll see to the scheduling.”
“Conn, Sensor Room.” The senior chief in charge sounded like he’d found extra credits on the floor right before shore leave. “Reading power fluctuations from Fragment Oh Eight Four.”
“That’s a relief,” Godat said. “The previous two were strikeouts.”
Mancini nodded. Those first fragments, coordinates provided by CWO Sakuri’s intel, were dead ends, but Mancini hadn’t been too dissuaded, considering the sheer number of possible targets among the widely spaced bits of space flotsam. “Sensor Room, maintain passive scans. I don’t want to spook anyone.”
“Conn, Sensor Room. Maintaining passive scans, aye.”
“What about tricionite?”
The senior chief blew out a breath on the other end of the intercom. “Conn, Sensor Room. It’s possible. Computer pegs it at thirty-six percent probability.”
“Given the overlap with the power surges, it’s worth a look. TAO, repopulate the board,” Mancini ordered. “Anything of interest?”
“Conn, TAO. Repopulating… negative. Still tracking the ice hauler we picked up an hour back, maintaining its parabolic course to Bellwether.”
“Very good, TAO.” Mancini swirled the contents of his coffee mug. Whatever the steward had put into it had made it, well, actual coffee. Damn fine brew. “Coordinate with Sensor. I don’t want anything sneaking up on us.”
“Sounding paranoid, like the spooks aboard Oxford,” Godat pointed out.
“Not paranoid—but more cautious than usual.”
“I was kidding, Skipper.”
“Figured, XO.”
Mancini became aware Godat was watching him instead of the tactical display. “Does this have to do with Aphendrika?”
“More so who we encountered there than the overall situation.”
“The stealth freighter.”
That was why Godat made such a good XO—he could read Mancini’s moods, anticipate his reactions. Mancini was also fully aware their encounter with the stealth freighter, a new League creation, had in fact left him wary. “The after-action report was clear. Something made the wormhole jump. Whether or not the ship was in one piece when it did, we’ve had no word. Even assuming it was destroyed, I have a hard time believing the League wouldn’t spring for more than one, given its success.”
“I don’t know about that, sir. We took it out.”
“We did.” Mancini swigged his coffee. “That doesn’t mean it failed to accomplish its mission.”
“Conn, Sensor Room,” the senior chief called. “Reading an engine drive. Faint but it’s there.”
“Confirmed, Sensor Room. TAO, designate Sierra Two.”
“Conn, TAO. Aye, designating Sierra Two.”
“What’s its course?” Godat asked.
“It’s… variable, Captain.” Olesen sounded frustrated. Unsurprising, given he preferred precise coordinates and vectors. “Sensors are telling me the drive is pulsing.”
“Pulsing?” Mancini frowned. “Sensor Room, what do you make of it?”
“Conn, Sensor. Could be a malfunction. Signature comes back as a Jubail-class freighter, fifty years old, give or take, judging by the radiation emissions.”
“Jubail-class.” Godat rubbed his jawline. “Not an ice hauler. Small capacity, high speed.”
“They make good smuggler vessels,” Mancini recalled. “Though smuggling doesn’t do you much good when you’re spinning on your thrusters out in the middle of nowhere.”
“What’s our call?”
“Pilot, alter course so we come in behind the freighter,” Mancini ordered. “Sensor Room, anything more from Fragment Oh Eight Four?”
“Conn, Sensor Room. Could be metallic structures on the surface picking up faint reflections in the same vicinity as the power fluctuations. And, Skipper? Tricionite readings coming back at fifty-nine percent probability as we’ve closed the distance.”
“Very good, Sensor Room.” Mancini set down his mug. “XO, get me Master Chief MacDonald. He and his boys are going for an excursion. And we have a freighter to shadow.”
Once Tuscon had settled into the wake of the Jubail freighter, making its slow approach, a stealth lander left her hangar bay for the cometary fragment.
Master Chief Petty Officer Gordan MacDonald, commanding Alpha team of Space Special Warfare Unit Nineteen, checked his ballistic rifle for the second time. He and the other five wore armored battle suits loaded down with weaponry and sensors. Tuscon’s techies had told him the iceball they were headed toward had no atmosphere.
“Listen up, people.” MacDonald’s voice sounded odd to him, reverberating inside his helmet while also transmitting through the comms. “The major says we could be looking at smugglers or pirates or who knows what else. It could even be Leaguers.”
“God answers prayers, doesn’t he, Master Chief?” Senior Chief Dennis Harrell thumped his fist on the bulkhead behind him.
“He’s got a good track record, Harrell, so don’t do anything that’ll give Him second thoughts.”
Chuckles, including a raspy hiss from the Saurian team member, Rucuk, rolled through the comms.
“Bottom line? We find any unarmed civilians, stun rounds. Hostiles will be treated with extreme prejudice. I’m not risking a single soul of the six of us. Copy?”
“Yes, Master Chief,” all five answered in unison.
The shuttle’s transport bay went red. “Alpha Team, making final approach. No signs of active scans or weapons emplacements. Facility presents as abandoned. Setting down in three minutes. Godspeed, Master Chief.”
“Copy, Warrant.” MacDonald gestured to the hatch. “Okay, kids—Three and Four, first down the ramp. Two and Six out next. Five and I flank.”
Less than three minutes later, the shuttle’s engines roared, and the entire compartment shook. “This is it,” MacDonald warned. “Look alive. This is why they send us and not the Marines.”
Harrell snorted. “Why bring the Terran Coalition’s misguided children along, anyway? They’d just eat all the coloring supplies aboard.”
“Cut it, Harrell.” But MacDonald turned away to keep the rest from seeing his smirk at the centuries-old—and good-natured—hazing between two elite branches of the armed forces.
“Setting down!” the pilot called.
The shuttle’s deck plates shuddered, and a klaxon split the air, the sound fading away as the compartment depressurized. Then the hatch popped, revealing a sprawling expanse of starry space.
Petty Officer First Class Esmail Rostami and Chief Petty Officer Amacio Mata went out first, rifles at the ready. Harrell and Rucuk were up next, the
latter looming over the rest of the team members in his Saurian version of an armored space suit. MacDonald hustled down the ramp with Chief Petty Officer Ibrahim Ahmad beside him.
They scooted in a diamond formation, using their suit thrusters with care since the cometary fragment lacked an appreciable gravitational field. A false move would send a man spinning off into space. They closed the distance between a metal canopy gathering shadow and darkness against the rolling, icy surface of the cometary fragment. Headlamps flashed on, cutting stark swathes of light through the airless environs.
“Sensors blank except for those power fluctuations,” Rostami said. “Reading as a cycling scanner. Main reactor for the facility is putting nothing out.”
“Has to be backups,” MacDonald said. “Any sign of anyone moving around in there, Three?”
“Negative, One.” Rostami consulted a glowing rectangle on his left arm. “Scans from Tuscon, the shuttle, and my suit’s scanners all say the same thing—zero heat signatures indicative of humanoid life. That’s assuming nothing’s interfering with those scans.”
“Like what?” Harrell asked.
“Tricionite. It muddles the readings with its own signatures. Didn’t you read the briefing, Two?”
“Take it easy on him, Three,” Mata muttered. “Everybody knows he can’t read.”
“Enough of that,” MacDonald cut in. “Five, knock on the front door.”
Ahmad took up a position at the front of the diamond, by the main hatch’s access panel. “Three, I’m guessing you can’t crack it?”
“Not that I didn’t try. Power’s dead to the panel. Manual override’s shot.”
“No problem.” Mata set his charges along the center line of the hatch—top, middle, and bottom. “Charges set and armed. Fire in the hole.”
“Fire in the hole.” MacDonald and the rest spread out, echoing the call.
