Shadow Strike

by P. R. Adams

  “I would imagine so.” Benson twisted the seat around. The upholstery was worn, stained, overdue for replacement.

  Stiles rubbed a smudge from the display with a thumb. “You remember I asked you about Owls and Ravens?”

  “Factions within SAID?”

  “Within GSA.”

  “Right. It was in the middle of the battle… You thought Colonel McLeod might—”

  “I did at the time. But I’m not so sure now. I’ve been thinking about the data I took from the Patels and Penn. Colonel McLeod had copies of most of that. After I handed those over, he would have had the opportunity to kill me if he’d intended to suppress the data.”

  “Excuse me if I have a hard time seeing McLeod killing you.”

  “He would have had the opportunity. The point is, he sincerely wanted the data. I think he was surprised by some of it. I think he was surprised that I killed Agent Penn.”

  “You weren’t told to?”

  “I was. But not by the colonel.”

  It was Benson’s turn to feel slow. “You think he’s outside the loop on these two factions?”

  Stiles nodded. “Maybe it’s not the entire organization but a small group on either side. Some are supporting the SAID initiative, some are opposing it.”

  “We can’t disobey the prime minister’s request.”

  “I understand, ma’am. But I can’t let them take me prisoner again.”

  Benson remembered Grier bleeding out on the floor outside their cell. “I don’t think any of us can. So when we go to the starport, we go prepared for trouble.”

  “I can talk to Chuck.”

  “And I’ll talk with Clive. I think I’ll check in on my mother, too, maybe call in a favor. I think it’s best we leave Chief Parkinson in the dark.”

  A smile slid across Stiles’s face. “Best we do.”

  It was rainy and gray when they set down at the far end of Kumal Starport. Benson had seen the area before, an area restricted to use for VIPs, mostly the prime minister and cabinet ministers. Isolated, hidden from the traffic tower by tall hangars, it was private and secure.

  And it was dangerous. They were far from the terminal, far from security cameras, and far from safe.

  After a quick check with Stiles, who sat in the co-pilot seat, Benson set the shuttle down and powered off the engines. The rain tapped against the roof, and her imagination went wild, telling her the straps of the seat harness were digging into her flesh, pinning her down, imprisoning her.

  She slipped free and took a deep breath.

  They had come down early, swinging wide of a gale hammering the ocean to the east, hoping that might give them a small advantage, but the rain limited visibility. The private governmental hangar was a faint, gray shape off to the right.

  Parkinson scuffed forward, face twisted in a sour frown, and leaned over her seat, drowning her in his cologne. “This sucks.”

  Stiles stared out the windshield. “It’s sort of pretty.”

  “How’re we supposed to get medals in something like this? I don’t see a parade stand anywhere.”

  Benson rolled her eyes at Stiles and brushed past the chief. “Maybe they’ll have something in the hangar.”

  The engineer brightened. “That’s actually a good idea!”

  Halliwell met her at the airlock hatch. He softly tapped a panel overhead, something only the two of them could reach easily. “Assault carbines in here.”

  She checked the inside of her right leg pouch, which had a slit in it. Her fingertips found the pistol strapped to her thigh there. Everyone had worn a flight suit except for Parkinson, who was decked out in a dress uniform.

  Four of them. Pistols. If they could suss out an ambush before it became too late, they could fall back and collect assault weapons.

  Would that matter? Wouldn’t people interested in silencing inconvenient witnesses just blow the shuttle up? Or wouldn’t SAID just send in enough of their assassins to get the job done right this time?

  The barely controlled panic in Petty Officer Kohn’s eyes seemed to indicate that was his thinking. He licked his lips and rubbed the buckle of his harness.

  Stiles pushed clear of the cockpit. “Lights. Vehicles approaching.”

  Tension knotted in Benson’s gut. She waved Kohn over, smiling when the lieutenant stopped to help him unbuckle. Parkinson was still hunched forward in the cockpit, seemingly transfixed by the growing specks of light.

  Benson leaned into the little huddle, feeling more like a conspirator than an officer struggling to keep her crew alive. “Do we make a break for the hangar?”

  Halliwell shook his head. “Make them come to us.”

  The GSA officer nodded. “He’s right. The shuttle gives us a little protection, at least.”

  “All right.” Benson glanced through the windshield. The vehicles were wheeling around, probably parking outside the airlock. She punched the button to open both doors. “Let’s see what they have in mind.”

  The inner hatch opened, revealing four vehicles parked a safe distance back from the descending ramp. A door opened on the largest vehicle—a long, black armored model used by VIPs.

  People hustled out: security, Zenawi. He held an umbrella in one hand.

  SAID operatives in charcoal trench coats with popped-up collars slipped out of the other vehicles. They had been Zenawi’s bodyguard entourage earlier.

  Gadreau stood among them, smugly smiling. He wasn’t in Marine uniform but SAID trench coat.

  Benson took a few quick breaths. “They haven’t opened fire.”

  Halliwell chuckled. “Yet.”

  Parkinson was at her back, hand not-so-innocently on her hip. “Excuse me. I’d like to—” He whistled. “The prime minister? This must be a big decoration.”

  Zenawi and his bodyguards stepped forward; the SAID goons hung back with Gadreau. The prime minister towered over the others. He stopped at the bottom of the ramp, a diplomat’s smile spread wide. “You’ve done great work, Commander Benson.”

  “What about—?” Parkinson gasped when Halliwell’s hand settled on the shoulder of the chief’s dress coat. “Hey!”

  Benson stepped into the airlock. All she wanted was for her heart to settle down and for her voice not to crack. “Thank you, Mister Prime Minister.”

  The prime minister nodded, still smiling. “The Navy has need of people like you. And your crew, of course. Captains like you, there’s a bright future ahead. Ships to command.”

  “I’m honored to hear that.”

  Gadreau nodded, and the SAID agents slowly started to fan out.

  Zenawi seemed to notice where her attention had gone; he twisted slightly. The smile faded, and he bowed his head. “A bright future. You just need to stand down.”

  The SAID agents stood around the ramp. Six of them and Gadreau. The prime minister’s bodyguards didn’t seem to approve any more than he did.

  Awkward. It was all tense and awkward.

  Parkinson whispered, “This isn’t an awards ceremony, is it?”

  “Nope.” That was Halliwell, also whispering. “Commander?”

  Benson shoved her hands into her leg pockets. The pistol grip was right there. “By stand down, Mr. Prime Minister, I assume you mean we give up Lieutenant Stiles?”

  The prime minister seemed to relax a little. “The GSA lists her as a compromised asset, I’m afraid. Apparently, some of the intelligence leaks we’ve had to deal with come down to her and some of her trainers.”

  It was Stiles who whispered next. “I won’t surrender.”

  Benson took another calming breath. “I know.” She leaned forward just enough to get her hand around the pistol grip and made it seem like she was looking around at all the SAID personnel. “We need to know she’ll get a fair trial, sir.”

  Gadreau snorted. “She’s not even human, Benson.”

  “Commander Benson, Captain. You may be out of uniform, but you’re still a Marine.”

  The Marine officer started to snarl
something, then his head whipped up.

  Lights descended from high above, quickly resolving into tracking lights like those of the gray shuttles Stiles had used to rescue Benson and her team from the prison. Gadreau and the SAID agents drew pistols, and Zenawi’s bodyguards pulled him back to his vehicle.

  The Marine captain’s head swung from the airlock to the retreating prime minister. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Zenawi’s bodyguards shoved him into the back seat, protected behind an armored window. “This is a matter between SAID and GSA, I’m afraid, Captain.”

  Then the bodyguards were inside the armored vehicle, and it was accelerating away.

  There were four shuttles, and they landed on the outside of the SAID vehicles. Several people in uniform jumped out and took cover behind the SAID vehicles. A final one stepped out and opened an umbrella. He stayed mostly behind one of the SAID vehicles as well but didn’t show a weapon.

  McLeod, Benson realized. “Colonel?”

  He waved at her—anxious—then turned back to Gadreau. “Put your weapons away, please, Captain.”

  Gadreau laughed. “Might want to think about what you’re getting into, Colonel.”

  “I’ve been briefed. You should know nearly twenty people have been arrested this morning. Careers have been ruined. Your friends on Dramoran have been stripped of access and clearance.”

  The Marine captain adjusted his grip on the pistol he held. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Conspiracy to assassinate members of parliament. Conspiracy to provide aid to the enemy. Treason. These are dangerous charges.”

  “Sounds terrible.”

  “Cooperation might lead to a lighter sentence. I’m sure the Patel family is already looking at offers. If you act quickly, you might be able to cut a deal for yourself.”

  Gadreau spat. “No deals.”

  Benson hissed as the knot in her gut tightened. “He’s not going to surrender.”

  Halliwell pressed closer against her in the airlock. “Didn’t think he would.”

  Stiles edged up on the other side, pistol already in hand.

  And in the blink of an eye, the moment exploded.

  Gadreau took a shot at McLeod, who dropped the umbrella and staggered back.

  The SAID agents opened fire on the GSA soldiers.

  The GSA soldiers returned fire.

  Then Benson realized her pistol was bucking.

  An SAID agent dropped.

  Then Gadreau dropped.

  And another SAID agent.

  And then there was only one.

  A weapon clattered to the ground in the sudden silence, and one hand raised in surrender.

  Benson lowered her own pistol. “That’s it.”

  Stiles sped down the ramp, running for McLeod; Benson followed.

  Blood bubbled up from the colonel’s mouth. One of the GSA soldiers—a young sergeant with a slight epicanthic fold and square face—had already loosened the older man’s tie. McLeod managed a trembling smile as Stiles knelt beside him. “Never…saw…myself…”

  His eyes rolled up, then closed.

  Stiles tugged the collar open wider, revealing a resuscitation ring.

  The GSA sergeant covered it back up. “Colonel cut a deal. Never a good thing having any dirt in your record, I guess.”

  Benson pulled the lieutenant back to her feet but couldn’t look away from the dying man. “Was he an Owl or a Raven?”

  “Neither, Commander. I guess he just liked some peculiar stuff.”

  “He turned in the data?”

  The sergeant squinted. “You the one who gave him the devices, ma’am?”

  She nodded.

  Stiles’s head came around, dark green eyes wide. “You took the devices, Commander?”

  “When I found you in your cabin.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I didn’t know I could trust you yet. McLeod seemed the most trustworthy at the time.”

  “But you trust me now?”

  “I guess so.”

  Halliwell strolled toward them, lips stretched in a grim smile. “Gadreau’s dead.”

  Benson patted his shoulder. “He made his decision.”

  “That’s the last of them—the people who tried to kill me before.”

  The commander turned to the GSA sergeant, surprised at how quickly her heart rate was coming down. “Need anything else from us, Sergeant?”

  The GSA soldier glanced down at McLeod. “We’ve got this, ma’am.”

  “Mind if we take one of these SAID vehicles?”

  A sly smile spread over the young man’s face. “Not at all.”

  Benson waved for Kohn and Parkinson to join her, then pulled Halliwell and Stiles toward the car. “If you two would come along, I think we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  31

  Sunlight reflected off the fountains of the wide plaza surrounding the parliamentary building. The gates had been re-opened, and Benson found herself weaving through foot traffic, gulping down a honey-sweetened hot tea to soothe her raspy throat. The raucous scents of tourists clashed with the orderly floral notes of the gardens. She caught a few of the tourists gaping at her. Some muttered comments louder than the general chatter or the splash of water.

  “Is that her?”

  “I didn’t know she was so tall!”

  “Will she be doing photographs?”

  And why shouldn’t they be commenting? Despite her resistance, she’d been all over the media, stuck in the same dress uniform she hated so much, the uniform that seemed ready to catch on everything when it wasn’t biting into her belly. The champion of the Battle of Kedraal. The captain who had rescued the Home Defense Fleet. The recipient of the Republic Ivory Order of Meritorious Service.

  It was nonsense, and it undervalued the sacrifice, bravery, and resilience of the others who had been involved.

  But that was war. Heroes were often as not chosen for convenience.

  You’ll never change some things.

  She hurried through the entrance McLeod had led them through earlier, past staffers and junior ministers, up stairs.

  On the upper floor, the activity was different, more sedate and serious.

  “Commander Benson?” It was one of Zenawi’s aides, a young woman in a red jacket and skirt. She had his same dark skin but pale brown eyes. There were some of the prime minister’s soft features, too, but she was shorter, about the same height as Stiles. The aide stuck her hand out. “Denise Gallo. I’m the one who arranged your meeting? We talked last week?”

  “Oh.” Benson shook the other woman’s hand. “I’m sorry. I was confusing you with the woman who arranged all those interviews and appearances I had to do.”

  “No, that was me, too.” Gallo chuckled.

  “I’m glad one of us could laugh about it.”

  “I’m sorry. The prime minister isn’t one to pass on opportunities.”

  “I noticed.”

  The humor slipped from Gallo’s face. “There’s a lot going on right now.”

  “Beyond the effort to build up support for war, you mean?”

  “Support for the military.”

  “Is there really that big of a distinction at the moment? Because I’m having a hard time seeing it.”

  The aide clasped her hands in front of her. “I understand your frustration with everything that’s been going on, Commander. The prime minister does as well. That’s why he agreed to set aside some time for this meeting.”

  “That’s very gracious of him.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not, and I don’t need to know. What matters is that you know. And that you understand. It would have been easier for Prime Minister Zenawi to turn a blind eye to all the things the SAID and GSA extremists were doing.”

  Benson rubbed her temple. “Turning an eye to treasonous behavior—”

  “One person’s treason can be another person’s patriotism.”

  “Not when we h
ave things like, oh, I don’t know—laws? These people were criminals.”

  “Which is why he let them resolve their situation the way he did.”

  By nearly getting us killed. “I actually do appreciate that he’s busy.”

  Gallo relaxed. “Thank you. He should be ready for you in a few minutes.”

  She led the commander to a small waiting area that looked onto the hall outside the prime minister’s office. There was water—hot or cold—coffee and tea bags, and a machine that could dispense a few hot treats.

  Benson refilled her thermos with hot water and dropped a tea bag in, then occupied herself with reports from the senior command staff on fleet disposition. She sipped the bitter fluid and let it cool against her tonsils. Efforts were moving along to recover what remained of the enemy ships, to search for survivors, and to get damaged ships repaired. Three had only recently been flown out to Tamos for refurbishing.

  She snorted when she saw the funding being shifted to the shipyard. With the Alexandria Shipyard facing a complete rebuild, Tamos had suddenly become relevant again.

  And that meant redeployments, with protection necessary against Azoren intrusion.

  Things really were undergoing a massive transformation. Recruitment had tripled in the last month alone, and it was expected to be ten times the previous year when all was said and done. The Gulmar were supposedly listening to overtures, and the Azoren had stopped saber rattling.

  For the moment.

  How long before things returned to normal, though?

  The door to the prime minister’s office opened, and a sharp-looking couple stepped out. They had the look of business executives, him in a stylish suit, her in an even more stylish jacket and skirt. They smelled like money, with exotic perfume and cologne drifting to where Benson sat. The prime minister stepped into the hallway to pat each of them on the back, and then they were gone.

  After a moment, he bowed his head, then turned to the waiting area. “Commander Benson. Thank you for your patience.”

  His excitement sounded oddly like resignation.

  She took the seat that still held the other woman’s scent, feeling the irrational discomfort that always came from a different person’s warmth. Zenawi pushed his own seat back and ignored his visitor while he worked through something on a terminal hidden from sight.