Except for Jack. When he was on Churchill, he always wore his uniform now, just as he had during the War. Insignia gleaming, boots polished, just like the crewmen under her command. It was almost as though he had never stopped wearing it, and perhaps, in a strange sort of way, he never had. Whatever the court-martial had mandated, ten years ago.
“Closing on target,” Finch said. “Preparing to fire.”
“Enemy will reach hendecaspace point in forty-one seconds,” Sullivan added.
“Not if I can help it,” Finch replied. “Three. Two. One.” He threw a switch, and three new contacts appeared on the screen as Churchill rocked back, her missile salvo racing towards the transport, frantically burning fuel in a bid to bring down their prey. McGuire's hands danced across the controls as he ran interference for the missiles, blocking any enemy attempts to interrupt their flight, and Finch carefully guided them towards their target, keeping them to the optimum trajectory.
Wildcat was doomed, and her commander must know it. The only chance they had was to reach the hendecaspace point with the least possible damage, and their helmsman tried a series of quick spins, hoping to throw off the missiles, to take the inevitable impacts in non-critical areas. Finch was faster, and less than four seconds before Wildcat could have reached safety, the missiles slammed into the hull, one of them ripping into the guts of the hendecaspace drive, the others neatly rupturing the fuel tanks.
“Nice job, Lieutenant,” Mallory said with a smile. “Very nice job.”
“My pleasure, Captain,” he replied. “Second salvo is loaded and in the tubes, just in case.”
“Signal from Wildcat,” Sullivan reported.
“I guess they've decided to talk to us at last,” Mallory said, reaching for a headset. “Churchill to Wildcat. I am willing to discuss terms of surrender.”
Finally, a voice replied, “This is Wildcat. Specify terms.”
“That depends on how reasonable you are willing to be.” She sat forward on her chair, and continued, “I'm willing to negotiate based on full and complete access to your databanks, and that your top three officers turn yourselves over to us for questioning. The rest of the crew and the ship will be free to go.”
There was a long pause, the interceptors still closing on the shuttles, before the voice replied, “And the three of us you are taking?”
“If you have committed no crime, you will be free to go.”
“And if we have?”
“Then I guarantee you a fair trial.”
“Hah. I don't have much choice, do I?”
“Not if you want to live through this, no.”
“Very well, I agree.”
Turning to Finch, she said, “Stand by on missiles, just in case they try anything. As soon as the shuttle gets back on board, I want a boarding party ready to go. Sergeant Webster and four volunteers.” Turning to Sullivan, she continued, “You'll have the command. Take McGuire, and...”
“Wait one,” Sullivan said. “We're getting an energy spike from Wildcat, a big one.”
“Wildcat, this is Churchill,” Mallory barked. “Whatever you're doing...”
“It's not them!” McGuire said, holding his hands in the air. “I just severed our datalink. Some nasty stuff was heading down the pipe. I'd say they're a matter of seconds to a reactor overload.”
“That's consistent with what I'm seeing,” Sullivan added. “Escape pods launching, but...”
A blinding white flash filed the screen as Wildcat died, tangled wreckage where the ship once was. A pair of escape pods had made it out before detonation, but they couldn't escape the debris field, their occupants dying scant seconds after their comrades.
“Good God,” Sullivan said, watching the explosion on the screen. “I guess someone wanted to make sure their tracks were covered.”
“I don't think it was anyone on the crew,” McGuire added. “My guess is that we're looking at some sort of monitoring program. When they surrendered, they signed their own death warrants.” Shaking his head, he said, “There was nothing we could do.”
“Did we get anything useful from them?”
“Not a thing,” the hacker replied. “I'd barely established the link before I had to sever it. There was some nasty stuff in there.” Turning to her, he added, “If we didn't have a military-grade firewall, our reactor would be going critical any time now.”
Looking up from the display, Sullivan said, “Shuttle approaching, Captain. Docking in two minutes minus. Doctor Strickland is standing by in the hangar deck.” With a frown, he added, “Simmons is worse. Critical condition and Kirk's struggling to stabilize him. I think it's going to be touch-and-go.”
Nodding, Mallory replied, “Finch, you have the bridge. Continue docking procedure, and send a team out to take a look at the wreckage. I doubt they'll find anything, but we won't know unless we try. I'll be on the hangar deck.” She rose from her chair, walking towards the door.
“Aye, Captain,” Finch replied, moving to the center seat. “Sub-Lieutenant Hadrian, report to the bridge on the double. SAR Shuttle stand by for immediate launch with salvage team.”
She walked down the corridor, listening to the stream of orders from the speaker as the shuttle closed for landing. The hatch to the hangar deck was already open, Strickland waiting with a gurney already prepared for his patient, the elevator airlock grinding into life and bringing the ship up to the deck, alarms blaring from the ceiling as technicians moved into position.
As soon as the shuttle was secure, the passenger hatch opened to allow Strickland to race inside with his medical team, the doctor barking a series of curt commands to his assistants as he began the effort to save the elderly scientist's life. From the front of the shuttle, the crew airlock slid open, Jack stepping out onto the deck, his arm in a sling.
“I hope that's just for show,” Mallory said, walking over to it.
“Just a bad sprain,” he replied. “I'll be fine in a couple of days. Kirk just wanted it immobilized until he could take a good look at it. I don't think I'm going to be the top priority down in Sickbay for a while.” Shaking his head, he said, “It's bad, Kathy. Head injury, potential brain damage. I couldn't quite get that shuttle onto the deck.”
“You did the best you could,” she replied.
“And it just wasn't good enough,” he said. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a datarod, saying, “I found this on him. Probably violating personal property rights, but I don't think we've got a choice. Not after what happened to Wildcat.” Wincing, he walked over to a side office, the door sliding open as he approached, and stepped over to the monitor on the wall.
McGuire walked in, looking at the two of them, a datapad in his hand, and said, “I've got everything I could find on Wildcat. Registered to Pan-Planet Shipping, one of three ships they operated.”
“Operated?” Mallory asked.
“Whole outfit went catastrophically bankrupt last year. The ships were supposed to be auctioned off, but there's no record of the sale. The name was sold to a front company that's in our files, Larson Incorporated.” He shrugged, and continued, “Used to make missile prototypes for the Fleet, but they never managed to make one that worked, so they went under as well. What was left got bought by...”
“The Fleet,” Mallory interrupted. “Specifically, R&D, to keep any designs out of the wrong hands. Which Admiral Knight used to run.”
“Got it in one,” McGuire said with a smile. “Took only a little more time than it took me. Looks like someone's been using the Larson name for a couple of years, kept it running with a few employees to make it look good. I reckon a little digging might find all sorts of interesting things buried under that name.”
“Something for Koslov, next time we see him,” Jack said. He tossed McGuire the datarod, and said, “See if you can do anything with this.”
“Sure, boss,” the hack
er said, sliding it into an access port, plugging in a portable keyboard as the monitor burst into life, images and text flashing across the screen too quickly to read. Mallory pulled out her datapad, scrolling through the display.
“This was the end of the road, at least for the moment,” she said. “No more sites to find, no more leads, and we've still not narrowed down our target close enough to risk a jump.” Shaking her head, she added, “Ensign Morgan's prepared a few possible base locations, but that's just based on her projections, not prior research.”
“Meaning that even if there is anything there to find, we'd have to discover them ourselves,” Jack replied. “We don't have the equipment or the personnel for that sort of a search, and even if we did, we don't have the time.”
“Agreed,” she said. “Though we can guess that Knight isn't having any more luck than we are. If she'd already found whatever it is we're looking for, she wouldn't be wasting time trying to stop us finding it.” Looking across at him, she added, “This was a setup, right from the start.”
“One they baited with a prize worth taking,” Jack said. “They couldn't risk anything else.”
“Unless Simmons was working for them all along.”
“No,” he replied. “He had plenty of chances to take me down in the shuttle if that was the case. He was terrified that Knight's men would take him, not for himself, but for whatever secret he was carrying. I'm convinced that he would sooner have died than risk being captured.”
“Not much on the datarod,” McGuire said. “Lots of scientific crap I can't work out, some system resource analysis we've already got, and the plans for some sort of radio telescope complex.” He paused, whistled, and added, “Correction. A massive radio telescope complex. It's got to be twice as large as the Triton Array.”
Mallory looked at Jack, and said, “They've run out of leads as well.”
Nodding, he replied, “And they've decided that the only way to find the location is the old-fashioned way. Max, tell me that gives us some idea where they're hiding it.”
He frowned, then added, “I can probably work it out from the data, given a little time and a little luck. Give me six hours, and I'll give you a course.” Tapping a control, he added, “You realize that all of this stuff is eighteen months old, right?”
“Meaning that they've been working on this for a while, and they've been planning for this contingency since the start,” Jack said. “Right from the beginning, I guess they thought the archaeological trail was going to run out.”
“Jack, this is all standard construction designs. Modular stuff. It's big, but given the black budget they're playing with, they could assemble it in a hurry.” Turning to him, Mallory continued, “If you're hoping to turn up and find some sort of a construction site, then you'd better get ready to be disappointed. They could have this up and running by now.”
“Fourteen months estimated construction time,” McGuire added. “About when they managed to grab three bulk freighters to haul in the materials. And I doubt they'd have risked one if they didn't need it for anything more urgent.”
Looking at the rotating framework image on the screen, Jack said, “We'd better hurry, then.”
Chapter 3
Clarke's eyes fluttered open, and he strained to focus on the woman sitting next to him, looking down at him with a critical eye. He tried to move, his muscles aching, and suddenly remembered what had happened in the bar, that he had been shot in the side.
“Don't try and move for a minute,” the woman said. “How much do you remember today?”
“Today?” the cadet asked.
With a sigh, the woman said, “We've been going over this for five days. You are, at least according to your ident card, Cadet John Clarke, and you are still on Carpenter Station. Those bastards shot you and left you for dead, and if I hadn't got to you in time, they'd have been right.” Looking up at a battered medical monitor, she added, “And to answer your next question, it's been eight days.”
“Eight days? This isn't a Fleet hospital, and...” He looked up at her, and asked, “My ship?”
“Left eight days ago. I don't know why.”
“They left me behind?”
“I guess they thought you were dead. You and that woman you were with.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “That can't be right. That can't be right. Listen, I'm a freshman in the...”
“Triplanetary Fleet Academy.” She pulled her wallet out a pocket, passing it to him, and said, “This is yours, I think. I took some credits to pay for the antibiotics I needed to treat you, but everything else is intact.”
Taking a deep breath, Clarke said, “Who are you?”
“Alexandria Blake, but you can call me Alex.” She frowned, and asked, “Do you have any idea what happened? You seem coherent enough today that I might get the full story.”
“Can I sit up?”
“If you're careful.”
With an effort, he struggled up, and Blake reached around behind him, propping him up. He looked around the room, a pair of empty beds in the corner, crates stacked around in piles, obsolete medical equipment littering the place. A faint hum of music echoed through a crack in the door, the familiar chemical smell of the station leaking in.
“What is this place?”
Glancing around, she said, “All that's left of the Carpenter Underlevel Hospital. My father set it up ten years ago, a free clinic for the local population. The bastards showed their gratitude when one of them knifed him in the stomach last year. I've run the place myself ever since.” She looked down at him with a scowl, and added, “No, I don't have any formal qualifications, and I'm not likely to get them, either. Not stuck here. Not all of us get to go...”
“Peace,” he said, waving a hand. “You saved my life, and as far as I'm concerned that's formal enough for me.” He looked at the door, and asked, “Did anyone come looking for me?”
“Tell you what,” she said, moving over to one of the crates. “You start the story, and I'll finish it.”
“The woman I was with wanted to go down here to one of the clubs.” He paused, then said, “Maybe I should skip back a step. We're on our freshman cadet cruise, a trip out here to Wolf 359 and back to Sol. The freshmen serve as the crew, with some firsties...”
“Huh?”
“Upperclassmen. Third-year students. It's a three-year course.” He paused, then said, “They serve as the officers, with an instructor in command. We got out here, and they gave us a night's leave before we were to head home. The woman I was with got bored...”
“And decided to come down here for some fun. Stupid.” Shaking her head, Blake asked, “She your girlfriend?”
“I don't even like her that much. No one else would go with her, and I guess she talked me into it.”
“Two idiots, then.”
“I guess so. We went into the Two For One, and there was someone following us, someone in a suit.” Blake pulled out a hypodermic, and he continued, “Then someone started shooting. Not the man following us, one of the dancers. She killed the man in one shot, then more guns opened up.” With a thin smile, he added, “I guess I wanted to be a hero. I tried to take one of them on, and she managed to shoot me before I could take two steps.”
“Dumb,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “You in the habit of being stupid?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. The last thing I remember is, well, being shot, and I went down.”
Nodding, Blake replied, “They took your friend away, dragged her through the streets and down to one of the lower docking ports. I managed to make it to the bar before the local hit squads, and you were the only one there who had a chance of surviving your wounds, so I got you here.” She paused, then added, “A few people did turn up looking for you...”
“In uniform?”
“One of them, yeah. I guess that might have been someone from y
our ship, but he wasn't the first, and I didn't have any idea what was going on. I put your uniform on one of the other bodies, one that was unrecognizable and made sure someone found it.”
His eyes widened, and he said, “You...”
“Probably saved your life. There was a ten thousand credit bounty for your capture, and that sure as hell wasn't issued by the Triplanetary Fleet. You've got enemies, Cadet, and you need to get used to the idea that your uniform isn't going to be worth a damn thing when the shooting starts.”
“I wouldn't worry about it,” he said, closing his eyes. “Eight days. Which means Prometheus made it back to Sol three days ago, and my parents were told that I was missing, presumed dead.” With a deep, hacking breath, he added, “By now they'll have had a memorial service, at a guess.”
“God, I...”
“No,” he said. “You saved my life, and at least this way I'll get home to them eventually.” He paused, then asked, “Is there any safe way for me to send them a message?”
“That depends on whether you trust the liaison office upstairs. I don't. They're corrupt as hell.” She shook her head, and added, “My guess is that they've been paid to watch for you.”
“Seems disturbingly logical,” he said.
“Can't you just go back to Sol? You've got enough credits for a ticket, and I know someone who can give you a false identity.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “I can't do that either.”
“Why?”
“Because the woman I was with has been kidnapped, the Fleet doesn't have any idea what happened to her, and if I go back to Mars it'll be a fortnight before anyone can come after her, at best.” He paused, then added, “I've got to find her.”
“Alone?” Blake asked. “Who do you think you are?”
“I'd hoped to become an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet, but if that can't be the case, I guess I'll just have to settle for being John Clarke.” He looked at her, and said, “Someone's got to find her, and I'm the only one around.”
Aggressor (Strike Commander Book 3) Page 3
