“Squadron Leader Winter, Flight Officer Nguyen?” he asked.
“Last time I checked,” Winter replied, returning the salute. “And you are?”
“Lieutenant Drake, sir. Ninth Platoon, Exo-atmospheric Company. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
With a smile, Winter said, “Stand easy, Lieutenant, before you pull a muscle. What’s the situation out here?”
“We’ve had shuttles coming in for the last few hours with equipment and personnel, sir. My force arrived last night, and we’re setting up for the defense of the station now. I’m afraid we’re having a little trouble with the civilian administration. They don’t seem to be on the same page as the rest of us, sir.”
“Not an uncommon state of affairs,” Nguyen replied. “What about the fighters?”
“I’ve got a few of my people taking a look at them now, engineering specialists, but I instructed them not to actually do anything other than run inventory until you arrived.”
“I’d better go down and take a look,” the engineer said. “Where do I go?”
“Cargo Three, sir. Elevator’ll take you straight there.” Turning to Winter, he added, “The pilots and the rest of your staff are assembled in the Gateway Grill, sir.”
Nguyen paused, turned, and asked, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, what did you say?”
“The Gateway Grill, sir. Your operational headquarters. Flight Officer Garcia…”
“Garcia?” Winter asked. “Randy Garcia?”
“Your squadron intelligence officer, sir.”
Shaking his head, Winter replied, “This is turning into a class reunion. Danny, take a look at the fighters and let me know what we’ve got to work with. I’ve got to have twelve birds up in the air as fast as possible, and if we need to requisition anything from Caledonia, now would be a good time to find that out.”
“I’ll get on it right away,” Nguyen said. “Order me a burger, will you?”
“You’re that confident the food will be worth eating?”
“Rusty always did run a good barbecue.”
With a chuckle, Winter turned to Drake, and said, “Lead the way, Lieutenant.” The two men walked around the concourse as Nguyen made his way into the nearest elevator, the shuttle airlock slamming shut behind them, the ship returning to its interrupted flight schedule. Mitchell Station was a small outpost, mostly a base for prospectors and the occasional deep-space freighter, its concourse primarily occupied by the usual chain stores, restaurants, and bars, as well as a handful of stalls selling all manner of worthless souvenirs to the few gullible tourists that got out this far.
“It’s a pretty quiet station, sir,” Drake said. “I think that’s part of the problem.”
“Have you got all the facilities you need?” Winter asked. “No problems there?”
“Only that we’ve forced the Administrator to put his Amateur Dramatics group on hold. We’ve taken over their stage and storerooms.” With a smile, the soldier added, “Though I think that might have made us rather more popular among the resident population. They were in the middle of a Chekhov retrospective.” They turned a corner, the shops thinning out, replaced with residential units, and Winter could smell frying bacon in the air, shaking his head with a smile as he walked up to a glowing neon sign advertising the ‘Gateway Grill’, soft jazz music playing from inside. A technician was hastily painting a sign that read, “22nd Squadron Headquarters”, just above another warning that the restaurant was closed until further notice.
“I’ll be damned,” Winter said. “Best rec room I’ve ever seen, Rusty.”
“Jack?” a familiar, gruff voice replied, as a stout man wearing a uniform at least two sizes too tight bounded out of the room, wrapping his old friend in a bear hug. “Christ, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I figured they’d stick me with some rules lawyer when they called me back in. What do you think of the place?”
“It’s yours?”
“Cashed in all that money I saved up. Elma and I run it together.” He paused, then added, “She’s on her way back home right now, back to her mom’s place in Crashdown City. I figured that made sense, given the circumstances.”
“Not a bad idea,” Winter said, walking inside. “Dan Nguyen’s with me, checking over the fighters.”
“Crazy as it sounds, we’ve actually got the makings of a good squadron out here,” Garcia said.
Sitting over in a corner, a tall woman with long, flowing chestnut hair that was decidedly non-regulation, the twin bars of a Flight Lieutenant on her shoulder, waved a greeting, and yelled, “The Commanding Officer is in the house!”
“I asked for you,” Winter replied, accepting a proffered drink. “I must have been out of my mind. How the hell are you, Cassie?”
“Glad to be back on flight status. Those bastards were talking about grounding me,” Cassandra Dubois replied. “It’ll be nice to have a commanding officer I actually like for once.” Gesturing to the man sitting opposite her, she said, “I don’t think you know Ben Cohen, do you? I’ve been telling him about some of your bad habits.”
“Must have been a long conversation,” Winter said, offering a hand to the young officer. “Your reputation precedes you, Lieutenant. I’m glad to have you flying with me.”
“Likewise, sir,” Cohen replied. He paused, then said, “I know I have something of a…”
“I have been reliably informed, Lieutenant, that you are a first-class pain in the ass, and I don’t give a damn. I want someone who’ll tell me when they think I’m screwing up, and I want pilots, flight leaders especially, who speak their minds. I don’t pretend to be either omniscient or infallible, and our mission is too damned important to let overgrown egos screw it up. As long as you remember that the final decisions rest with me, we’ll get along.”
“That’s fine, sir,” Cohen said, shaking Winter’s hand. “Have you had a look at our fighters yet?”
“I only came on board a few minutes ago. Our Flight Engineer is down there now. Have you ever flown Javelin IIs?”
“Not since the Academy, sir.”
“They haven’t changed a bit,” Dubois replied, “and they’re a damn sight better than anything we’re getting onto the line now. I don’t care who tells me how great the Tridents are, I know which I’d rather fly.”
Looking around, Winter asked, “Where are the rest of the pilots?”
“What, the three of us aren’t enough?” Dubois said with a smile.
Passing Winter a burger, Garcia replied, “Bill Floyd called this morning, said that there were three more pilots coming out the day after tomorrow, and that he hoped to send more along when he could. It’s a little academic at the moment, though.” He sat down at the table, and asked, “Just what is this all about, boss?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Dubois added. “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s going on?”
“Is this room secure?” Winter asked.
“Come on, boss, you should know me better than that by now. I got a few old friends of mine in Extraplanetary Intelligence to send me some special kit for testing. One of my more lucrative sidelines was offering a safe place to hold quiet conversations that weren’t meant to be overhead.” At Dubois’s glare, he shrugged, and said, “Spies don’t retire.”
“A little under seven weeks ago, Danny and I were out testing the new Merlin fighters at Golgotha. We wanted somewhere quiet and out of the way, where we weren’t going to be watched, but I guess that plan went wrong, because Archimedes was destroyed with all hands.”
“Christ, I knew Sal Delowitz,” Garcia replied, his face falling. “No survivors at all?”
“The ship was destroyed in less than four minutes, while it was out of range of my fighter’s sensors. All we know is that it was there when we dipped into the Golgothan atmosphere, and by the time we’d climbed back out, there was nothing there but a cloud of debris. Not even a distress beacon. They didn’t have a chance to launch one.”
“Who did it?” Cohen as
ked. “Not the Lemurians again.”
“I saw two ships, both of them old Terran designs. Our sensors indicated that they were of new construction. One of them was a Conqueror-class Cruiser. That ship alone could wipe out most of the Patrol before they could even bring their guns to bear.” He paused, then added, “I don’t need to tell any of you what this might mean.”
“Wait a minute, if that’s true, then why haven’t the Combined Chiefs called a general alert, mobilized the whole military?” Dubois asked. “A few old reprobates on a space station isn’t going to stop them.”
With a scowl, Winter replied, “Some of the readings were lost, and the resolution was lousy. I’m sure I know what I saw, but neither Tyler nor Maddox agreed with my assessment. They wrote it off as someone playing games with the sensor suite, perhaps a hack, and to be fair, there’s a chance they might be right about that. A search out at Golgotha didn’t find anything, and there haven’t been any other sightings since then. Now, I don’t necessarily think that means a damn thing, but the Combined Chiefs thought otherwise.”
“Then they’re wrong,” Cohen said. “It sounds to me as though they were probing our defenses, seeing what we would do, whether we’d pick them up at that range. There are enough bits of rubble out in the deep system for them to hide out if they wanted to, especially if they’ve got access to Terran technology. We should be getting everything ready to face them, activating all the reserve squadrons…”
“And if it turns out to be a false alarm, a lot of careers come to an abrupt halt,” Garcia interrupted. “Not to mention the panic there would be back home. We’re just coming out of a recession. That’d send us right back down the hole.”
“That’s why we’re out here,” Winter replied. “In theory, this is a training squadron, and we’re meant to be getting ready to receive some third-year cadets at some point in the indefinite future. In practice, the Double-Deuce is back on the books, and we’re to set ourselves up as an attack squadron, with everything that implies. If the situation deteriorates, if it looks like a shooting war is about to start, then we can form up quickly. If not, then we revert to our stated function.”
With a grimace, Dubois said, “Meaning we end up babying rookies for the next two years. Great. I never thought I’d actually be hoping for a war.” She took a bite of her steak, and said, “At least we’re going to be riding herd on them in style. Can I get some coleslaw for this, Rusty?”
“Coming right up,” Garcia replied, moving over to the counter.
“Just out of purely academic interest, why have we taken over a steakhouse as our squadron headquarters?” Winter asked.
“Because the Station Administrator wouldn’t assign us any more space,” Garcia replied, rummaging through the fridge. “There isn’t much on the station. It was tough enough to find accommodation for everyone. Luckily I’ve got a couple of spare rooms.” Finally pulling out a sealed tub, he added, “We’re going to be on a tight budget for a while.”
“I think I’d better pay a visit to this gentleman,” Winter said. “The Aerospace Force paid enough out when they built these stations. We’re entitled to a little value for our money.” Taking a bite of his burger, he smiled, and added, “I’ll take some of that coleslaw, if there’s any going spare.”
“For you, sir, always,” Garcia replied with a smile. “You’re going to have fun with Ballard. He’s always great to be around. When I tried to get the lease on this place, I damn near had to file a lawsuit to open it.” He paused, then said, “One of his buddies wanted to open a sushi bar, but I made a better offer to the management company.”
“Great. This is getting better by the minute.” He frowned, then said, “I wonder what’s keeping Danny.” Tugging out a communicator, he threw a switch, and said, “Winter to Nguyen. Is it that bad down there?” There was no reply, and after a moment, he said, “Winter to Nguyen, come back, over.” He turned to Garcia, and asked, “Have you had any trouble with the internal communications network before?”
“Nothing other than the usual, but I checked the links to the…”
The intelligence officer was interrupted by a loud squeal from the communicator, and Winter’s eyes widened as he looked at Drake, the young soldier’s face grim. Someone at the other end of the line had thrown the emergency alert.
“Check the systems,” Winter said. “See if there’s anything wrong out there. Drake, get you men down there on the double.” Wiping the grease from his fingers, he reached for his sidearm before racing to the door. “Hold the fort here, Rusty, and see if you can hustle Station Security, assuming it’s worth the effort.”
“Three semi-retired rent-a-cops?” Garcia said. “To hell with that.” He reached under the counter, pulling out a sonic shotgun, and tossed two more to Cohen and Dubois, racing to follow Winter to the corridor. “Better we don’t use the elevator. There’s a maintenance shaft that’ll take us right over the cargo modules.” He smiled, then added, “I’ve had to use it from time to time.”
“Nothing like a little larceny to brighten your day,” Dubois replied, as Garcia tugged a hatch cover free. She wrinkled her nose, and added, “Christ, what died down there?”
“Just the usual rodent infestation. Nothing to worry about.” Winter swung onto the ladder, careful to test the rungs before putting his full weight on them, and started to descend, keeping his pistol at the ready. As Garcia followed, he reached for a control panel, tapping in an override code to bring up the emergency lighting, bathing the shaft with an eerie crimson glow. The four pilots continued their descent, hand over hand, racing down towards their goal as fast as they dared, to a hatch at the bottom with scribbled graffiti scrawled across it.
“Is that it?” Winter asked.
“There’s a series of ceiling gantries. That hatch is a fast way down to them.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Cohen said. “That’s an escape hatch. We crack that open, alarms will go off all over the station before we can make a move.”
“Come on, Lieutenant, those alarms were disabled years ago. I’m not sure they were ever properly installed.”
Winter shook his head, reached for the manual release, and tugged the stiff wheel around, grunting from the exertion, his hands still slippery from his interrupted meal, and finally managed to release the locks, the hatch swinging open with a heart-rending squeal. Fearing that the element of surprise was lost, he swung down onto the gantry below, rolling with the fall, only narrowly avoiding falling to the ground, and looked at the cargo space below, at the eighteen fighters in various stages of assembly. There was a body on the floor, blood splattered all around, but he couldn’t make out the identity of the corpse in the gloom.
His communicator buzzed, and he pulled it out to see a message from Drake, a signal that his force was almost at the main hatch, ready to enter. Winter’s fingers fumbled a reply, instructing him to wait for orders. Right now, the stage was perfectly set for a bloody ambush, and one death was enough. He looked around, trying to find some edge, and finally spotted it on the far side of the cavernous room, the master control panel. Dubois dropped down beside him, demonstrating greater grace than he had managed, and he gestured at the ground.
“Give me a few seconds to get going, then create a non-destructive distraction. We’re going to have to fly those beasts down there, and I’d rather not have holes punched in them before we start.”
“You’re no fun, Jack,” she quietly replied, her eyes ranging across the room, selecting targets. As Winter began his cautious sprint along the gantry, she raised her shotgun, firing an ear-splitting burst of sound that hammered a large dent into the wall, sending sirens wailing. Instantly, a pair of shots rang out in response, one of them almost missing Cohen as he dropped into place, gun at the ready.
Winter slipped across the room unnoticed, and finally reached the controls as the duel continued behind him. He pulled out his communicator, opening a voice channel to Drake, then called up the ceiling lights, his hand poised over the
switch, the dial turned as high as it could go.
“Now!” he yelled, throwing the switch, closing his eyes just as the lights snapped on to maximum brightness, enough to expose anyone hiding in the shadows below, to blind them if they were looking in the wrong direction. Such as up at the overhead gantries. He could spot three black-clad men on the ground, with a pair of technicians, Nguyen and another man, crouching in the cover of a maintenance cradle.
The door slid open, and Drake led his platoon into the cargo bay, screaming, “Hands on head, drop to the floor!” None of the attackers were willing to comply, instead turning their guns onto the platoon. They couldn’t win. They could only die, but they could take down a lot of people with them. Winter had no intention of allowing that to happen, and despite the extreme range, fired a quick shot at the nearest target, the bullet slamming into the attacker’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground.
That was the distraction Drake and his men needed, and a fusillade of shots rang out, fire exchanged between the two groups. A loud scream echoed from the walls as the two attackers died in a hail of bullets, the soldiers racing towards them to begin hasty searches, checking for explosive devices. After a moment that seemed an eternity, Drake looked up, shaking his head.
“This one’s dead too, sir,” one of the troopers said, shaking her head. “I don’t get it. The wound shouldn’t have killed him.”
“Does this station have the facilities for an autopsy?” Winter asked.
“Barely,” Garcia replied, looking at the devastation below. “Christ, what a mess.”
“Then get it arranged,” Winter ordered. “Then wake up the Station Administrator, assuming someone hasn’t done that already. I think we need to have that talk. Now.”
Chapter 4
“Attention, attention. Cadets Gordon and Bradley to report to the Hangar Deck on the double. Cadets Gordon and Bradley to report to the hangar deck on the double. That is all.” Bradley struggled to rouse herself, half-tumbling out of her bunk and reaching for her uniform jacket, brushing out the creases as she pulled it on over her wrinkled shirt. Below her, Gordon stared at the clock, shaking his head.
Conqueror Page 4
