Cold Conflict (Deception Fleet Book 2)

by Daniel Gibbs

  Sure, he’d just told his sensor chief their goal, but if it came down to a slugfest between Tuscon and their League adversary, Mancini had to admit he wouldn’t be upset. In fact, he was ready to prove they could take the ghost out.

  Nosamo East Hangar

  Bellwether Station

  * * *

  Jackson dropped behind cover as he searched his belt for yet another power pack for his pulse pistol. Sev’s timely intervention had slowed their opponents’ approach, but unless he could get another clean shot at the second Stalwart bot, it was only a matter of time before the security drone ran over their position—or until more of the aerial drones showed up.

  Gina shot another one of those as it buzzed around the taller stacks of containers wedged between two stories’ worth of racks. It bounced and clattered down to the deck. “I’d like to file the following report—not having fun anymore.”

  “I’ll put it right next to mine.” Jackson peered around the lower edge of the shuttle he had for a hiding spot. The momentary lull in the shooting let him see the hired thugs had broken up into pairs. Two lay still on the deck. The Stalwart bot was turned toward the inner wall, plasma cannon pelting every catwalk and shelf it could target.

  Of more interest was Fernand, who was talking to someone at the rear of the attack group.

  Jackson couldn’t make out the man other than his orange jumpsuit, which signified emergency services, but whoever he was, Fernand was very much nodding at every command given. The boss’s raised finger was a nice touch. Jackson shifted his wrist so the scanner could pick up as much of the vista in front of the shuttle nose as possible.

  A yelp brought his attention back to his current location. Ciara dropped behind the shuttle, chin turned toward her patched wound. The pale bandage had gone pink.

  Gina slid by her side. “I thought we needed to relocate. Our new friend disagreed.”

  “If you think you have a chance…” Ciara winced. She slumped lower.

  “I think you need to shut up.” Gina pressed her plasma pistol against the prisoner.

  Pain slashed across Jackson’s nose in the same instant Gina’s pistol fired toward the ceiling. He clutched his face, blood dripping from one nostril. He shook off the cobwebs in his brain and saw Ciara had gotten her bound wrists around Gina’s neck. Gina gasped, her hands clawing for purchase.

  “The module,” Ciara demanded. “Or she’s dead.”

  Jackson retrieved his pulse pistol. Shouts and scrambling footsteps told him their attackers were mounting another assault. And Ramsey could be sneaking up on them from his perch inside the maze of containers. He didn’t have time for hostage negotiations, but it was Gina. She was part of his team.

  He could shoot. No question. But the risk of Ciara shooting at the same time was great.

  Gina coughed. Her face reddened. She’d dropped her pistol.

  Jackson’s finger tensed above the trigger. He could bolt with the module. Could I get past Ramsey? Probably.

  More shots rang out. Sev, again, judging by the pitch from his rifle. The Stalwart bot’s plasma cannons answered.

  Ciara rose, dragging the struggling Gina with her. “Ram! I’m coming out!”

  “I’m right here.” Ramsey stepped around a stack of containers, his gun aimed. “Give her the module, Jack. You have your choice.”

  Gina’s eyes watered.

  “Now.” Ciara’s grasp tightened.

  Shoot her—or Ramsey, the more obvious danger to the mission? Take the module and get to the extraction point? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left Gina behind because of an operation’s demand. Jackson ground his teeth. What kind of man would I be if I did?

  “Here.” He lowered his pistol just enough that he could step nearer, the module in his outstretched hand. “Let her go.”

  Ciara smirked. “A fine trade.”

  As soon as her fingers closed around the module, she lifted her manacled hands free of Gina’s neck and shoved her into Jackson. Ciara ran for Ramsey, who fired bursts from his plasma rifle. Jackson tackled Gina, shooting back as he went, then slid the two of them beneath the shuttle’s wings.

  “That…” Gina coughed and rasped for breath. “That… was the nicest… thing you’ve ever done for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Relief at her survival faded into chagrin at having given up the very thing they’d worked weeks to obtain. “But if Ramsey’s goon squad obliterates us, I won’t mind if you take it back.”

  Gina tried to laugh but winced and held her throat.

  “Stay here?”

  “Oh… sure. Girl could… use a rest.”

  Jackson patted her cheek and, before she could weakly swat him away, rolled out from under the shuttle.

  Ramsey and Ciara disappeared into the maze of containers, but Jackson had bigger problems—he faced five of the hired help, who sprinted for him, armed with everything from plasma weapons to ballistic rifles. The Stalwart bot must have given up on finding Sev because it swiveled in his directly. Jackson guessed he could either take it down or shoot three of the five incoming attackers before they burned him into the deck.

  What does it matter if I can’t catch Ciara?

  He forgot all that when the ugliest shuttle he’d ever seen came roaring in less than twenty feet off the deck, its thrusters toppling the forest of containers and sending not just the emergency techs but the gathered thugs tumbling. The shuttle looked like it was made of pitted cubes mashed together, as if someone thought an ancient hand grenade should be sawn in half and converted into a small transport.

  “Echo One, this is Three.” Dwyer couldn’t have sounded happier if he’d found two more Florio Ionworks racers in a bargain sale. “Might want to keep your head down.”

  The Stalwart bot exploded in a fireball under the barrage from the Saurian shuttle’s turret. That loss was enough to send the attackers—those still upright—scrambling for cover. Jackson took it as his cue to sprint after Ciara and Ramsey, noting as he did that Sev had emerged from a catwalk a few dozen meters beyond where even Jackson thought he might be hiding.

  The shuttle swung too close to the catwalk, and Jackson thought Dwyer would tear the walkway off the wall, but the shuttle banked in time, leaving an arm’s length between the ship and the railing. Sev hurtled across the distance, slamming bodily onto the fuselage, his rifle slung over his back.

  Jackson skidded around the nearest corner leading into the stacks when he heard a single plasma blast. He waited, weapon drawn, and ducked around in a crouch.

  Ramsey sagged against a water silo that had been ripped open by a plasma blast—the same blast, Jackson figured, which had torn an ugly, blistered burn across his right ribcage. He saw no sign of the detective’s plasma rifle.

  “I can’t believe it.” Ramsey glared at him as he fumbled with his belt for what Jackson assumed was another concealed weapon. “She shot me! Everybody except Cho screwed me over!”

  Jackson closed the distance with three swift steps and bashed Ramsey across the face with the stock of his pistol. The corrupt Tactisar detective crumpled onto the deck, his breath coming out in a great huff.

  “Too bad nobody valued his loyalty,” Jackson muttered. “But you? You’ve got a trial to face.”

  “Jack?” Gina’s question was barely audible over the approaching shuttle’s roar.

  “Are you okay? I’ll have Brant check out your injuries, but I’ve got to get after Ciara.”

  She gave him the familiar sly smile. “Oh, don’t go gallantly chasing her on my behalf.” Gina held up the data module.

  “You—that’s another one?” Jackson reached for it.

  She pulled it back. “This is the real one. I took it from you after we subdued Ciara. No way would I trust she wouldn’t try something foul to get her hands on it. Better she thought it was still in your possession.”

  Jackson shook his head, chuckling. “Probably the only time I’ve been glad I was pickpocketed.”

  24

 
Nosamo East Hangar

  Bellwether Station

  26 November 2464

  * * *

  Kiel maintained a reckless level of optimism about the outcome of their operation right up until the Saurian civilian shuttle thundered overhead, turning the last piece of formidable weaponry he’d brought to the fight into molten scrap.

  He saw no sense raising a fist or cursing foul luck. He’d even passed on the tempting idea of blaspheming the Terrans’ god—not that he thought he would get a reaction.

  Instead, he grabbed Ferenc’s arm and hissed, “We’re done here.”

  Ferenc shouldered his plasma rifle and nodded. The two of them walked away from the continuing fight, in which the remaining mercenaries—assembled of local criminals and a few of Ramsey’s die-hard Tactisar flunkies—tried in vain to shoot down the shuttle. Kiel couldn’t see where Jack Arno had gone, nor did he have any idea what had happened to Ramsey, but as far as he was concerned, the fewer people he had to drag from the mess, the better.

  “Sir?” Ferenc had a hand cupped to his ear, presumably to drown out background noise as he received a comms message. “Circe’s retrieved the module. Ramsey’s down. She thinks he may be in custody.”

  “Damnation.” Kiel ground his teeth.

  It couldn’t be helped. Ramsey, fortunately, had only seen Ferenc’s face as “Fernand,” the contact for the benefactor. Circe, or “Ciara” as Ramsey had come to know her during their more intimate association, would prove difficult for the detective to find, even if he wasn’t languishing in a CDF holding cell.

  Besides, surely ESS had an asset or two among the Terrans who could apply a well-placed plasma burst to end that potential leak.

  Kiel and Ferenc followed a twisting path toward the outer edge of the hangar, with Kiel keeping a close watch on his tablet’s schematics. Two more rights and two more lefts, alternating as they neared the long row of docking ports for Bellwether’s repair pods. They were deployed with two- to four-person crews if maintenance required a more complex touch than the station’s drones could manage.

  He became aware of soft footsteps as the cacophony of the gunfight faded. Someone approach from around the next bend. Kiel held up a hand.

  Ferenc slid in front of him, plasma rifle raised. Admirable of him to interpose himself between danger and a superior officer. Kiel smiled tightly. Of course, he was required to do so. ESS regs were quite clear on the expendability of subordinates.

  An object clattered across the intersection. Kiel thought it was a spare power pack. The muzzle of Ferenc’s rifle snapped to follow it. Circe was suddenly there, her rifle’s own muzzle centimeters from Ferenc’s left ear.

  Kiel exhaled. “Well done. Your service to the League is commendable. Now kindly join us for the extraction without melting Ferenc’s brains.”

  “Yes, sir.” Circe—Ciara, Kiel kept wanting to call her—held the weapon at the ready but not without a mischievous squint leveled at Ferenc.

  The latter, for his part, seemed about as ruffled as a man trying to decide which tie to choose for a formal dinner.

  Port Nova Echo Two-Eight-Eight, Kiel saw the black numbers on a glowing green background at the same moment the tablet alerted him to its proximity. The hatch leading to the pod was open.

  Ferenc swept in first, rifle again aimed in case potential threats had crept in. Kiel made sure Circe went in next, with the data module, leaving him last to seal not just the port hatch but the pod’s.

  “Everybody strap in and don’t bother me.” Yahanotov had squeezed into the pilot’s seat, suspended on gimbals in the center of an armored, transparent sphere. From it, he had a spectacular view of local space in a three-hundred-sixty-degree hemispherical dome.

  Kiel shouldered in next to Ferenc on a narrow bench, where they both strapped in. Circe did likewise across from them.

  “So? The data module for Project Life Swarm…”

  She’d already lifted his tablet from his lap and plugged in the module. “One minute. The access codes could take a while to crack the—”

  Circe’s face froze, an expression of astonishment dawning. Then she scowled, the rage so palpable Kiel swore he could feel it radiating across the tiny passenger compartment as the pod bumped free of the umbilical attachments mooring it to the port. “That dirty brat.”

  “What?” It wasn’t going to be good. Why would it be, given everything else that had gone wrong? “Report.”

  “She switched it.” Circe flung the tablet at Kiel like she was discarding a ruined helmet seal. Her scowl could have cut through the fuselage of the pod, which admittedly, Kiel knew wasn’t very thick. “She switched the project module with a blank one.”

  Kiel stared at the tablet and the menu of—nothing. It reported the contents as blank.

  Ferenc grunted.

  Was he admiring the handiwork? I can’t blame him. Kiel rubbed the center of his forehead. “Please tell me you’ve a reasonable story as to when and how she did that.”

  “It must have been when I was wounded.” Which was when Kiel realized she was wounded. Blood seeped from under a sloppily applied seal on her shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice. “She could have made the switch then, possibly on his instruction. It was Gianna, the one Mr. Noor hired into his ranks and who I had Arno following.”

  “Coconspirators,” Ferenc mused. “Who you gave authorization to be in closer proximity.”

  “Yes,” Circe snapped. “At least I’ve seen her face.”

  “And she’s seen yours.” Kiel stuffed the tablet between the bench bindings.

  “Which may only serve us as well as their possible identification of you may serve them.”

  “This isn’t my real face, Vasiliy.”

  “And you’re a naïve fool if you think you saw hers.” Kiel glared past Ferenc at the cockpit. “Signal Meng Po on our secure link. I want us retrieved so we can get the hell out of his damned system as soon as possible.”

  Freighter Meng Po

  In Orbit of Bellwether Station

  * * *

  The comms tech nearly jumped from her station. “Signal received, Captain! Triangulating location.”

  Zhou kept his sighing inward. It would take a few more missions to get his crew seasoned. Only Balland and Ancel, plus a few engineers, had served with him last go-round. “Confer with the sensor officer. Ancel, make sure we’re dialed into the exact square meter. We won’t stay in the League’s good graces if we let the boss die.”

  Ancel choked on a laugh but managed an “Understood, Captain,” in response.

  The laugh was justified. None of them were in anything remotely near the League’s good graces, hiding behind the ESS shield as they had been.

  “Contact, Skipper,” Balland reported from Tactical. “Tango One is definitely heading our way—trying to run silently, sir, but she’s a match to the profile of the stealth raider from Aphendrika.”

  Zhou shivered, whether from the rush of adrenaline or from fear, he couldn’t tell, but he didn’t care. His job remained—get to Kiel’s team, and make sure his commander didn’t die. Which meant risking the same lives he’d felt uncomfortable seeing wasted days ago. “Tactical, match vectors and load tubes one through six. Full spread on my mark. Designate target as Victor One. Sensor, relay what Tactical’s got to our privateer friends, and tell them to earn that extra pay. Pilot, as soon as our missiles are away, burn hard for the boss’s coordinates.”

  The chorus of confirmations told him that, as green as his crew was, they did know their jobs.

  Zhou gripped the arms of his chair. Now if they can execute without getting us all killed, we can wormhole jump out of here to cause the Terrans headaches on another day.

  CSV Tuscon

  Approaching Bellwether Station

  * * *

  “Conn, TAO. Missiles in space,” Olesen called out. “Six incoming.”

  “TAO, activate CIWS. Pilot, roll to the following vectors, and go to full speed.” Mancini tapped the course into his
display.

  “Aye, Skipper, activating—” Olesen swore midsentence. “Sierra Two through Seven are altering course, Major. They’re on a direct intercept for us. I read open missile tubes on all of them.”

  “Designate as Master Two through Seven and repopulate the board.” The continuous shooting of the CIWS cannons as they flailed at the incoming missiles with high-velocity projectiles rattled Tuscon even as the engines set the boat’s whole frame rumbling. “XO, send word to Oxford—with seven bandits instead of one. She’ll need to get her hands dirty.”

  Which, Mancini admitted as his crew carried out their orders, I’ve been wanting to see for a while.

  Colonel Sinclair bobbed on his toes and clasped his hands behind his back as Oxford’s engines pushed her into the thick of the local traffic. He smiled as he imagined the confused communications between civilian captains as they tried to ascertain why a battered freighter was barreling through their midst.

  Even more so when Oxford’s hull plating parted, and the dual 250 mm magnetic cannon turret was deployed.

  “Missile launches from Master One, via Tuscon’s TAO,” Tamir said. “Master Two through Seven doing the same. Tuscon’s CIWS has engaged. Master One is already changing course while the rest converge on Tuscon.”

  “They’re not the only ones, Butter Bars.” Indeed, Oxford’s CO had the pilot taking the ship on an intercept vector that would put them right between the six attacking vessels and the CDF stealth raider.

  A moment later, Sinclair’s tactical display lit with the colorful streaks of Oxford’s upgraded weaponry. The deck plates shuddered as both the ship’s dual 250 mm cannon and the 350 mm turret in the weapons module fired with ominous pauses before the next salvos were readied. The neutron beam emitters blazed into the midst of the privateers. Sinclair thought some of the operations center monitors flickered under the power drain.