Aggressor (Strike Commander Book 3)

by Richard Tongue

   “My name is Alexandra Blake. You killed my father, and now I'm going to kill you.”

   Harrison opened his mouth to reply, but she pulled the trigger before he could speak, a bullet racing from the barrel of the rifle to slam into his forehead, the force of the impact sending him staggering into the wall monitor behind them, his body slowly sliding down to the floor. She stood over him, firing twice more into his chest, each shot careful and precise, before dropping down beside him, tears flowing from her eyes.

   “It's done, Dad,” she said. “It's over.”

   Intruder alarms blared from the ceiling speakers, and Clarke looked up and down the corridor, knowing that they would soon have company heading for them. Blake held her head in her hands, the tears she had never shed now coming fast and free, as Harrison took his last breath on the floor before her.

   “Come on, we've got to move,” he said, stepping into the room. “Damn it, Alex, you did it. He's dead. We've done our job. It's time to get the hell out of here.” Looking up at the monitor, now stained with smears of crimson and puce, he added, “Churchill's started an attack run. There's a battle going on out there. This is our chance to get out of here in one piece.”

   “I can't,” she said, her eyes locked down to the floor. “He's dead. What...”

   Dragging her to her feet, Clarke said, “Damn it, Alex, we've got to go. Your father's dead, and all the crying in the universe won't bring him back, but if you don't get your act together, you'll be seeing him in a few minutes.” Gesturing at the screen, he added, “Churchill wanted us as a decoy for a reason. They're on an attack run, which means this station could be gone in a matter of minutes, and us with it. We've got to move!”

   She looked into his eyes, nodded, and the two of them fled the room, Clarke looking back for an instant into the dead face of Harrison, slumped on the wall. Wearing the uniform of an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet, the uniform he had once hoped to wear. Now his ambitions were limited to living through the next few minutes.

   “Look for escape pods,” he said. “We'll have to find our way to the outer hull.”

   “Down there,” Blake replied, gesturing at a corridor, wiping her face with her hand. “About what happened...”

   “Save it,” Clarke said. “I'm just glad to know that you're a human being after all. I was beginning to wonder.” He smiled, then said, “I've wondered that about myself the last few days.”

   The two of them turned down the side passage, and Blake said, “You didn't have to come with me.”

   “You saved my life back on Carpenter Station. Seemed like the least I could do was return the favor.” Shaking his head, he added, “Life's been a lot more interesting since we met.”

   He heard a shout, ahead of them, a woman wearing Espatier uniform racing in their direction, a pistol in her hand. Blake reacted first, firing a burst of shots that sent their foe ducking to the floor, raising her gun to return fire. Clarke pulled the trigger on his rifle, cursing when the only response was a click, then heard a crack that seemed to reverberate through his body, feeling himself fall to the floor, knives of pain lancing into his side.

   “No!” Blake yelled, firing another burst that dropped the trooper, hurling herself to Clarke's side, pulling out her medical kit, bandages and vials rolling away across the deck. “Don't you dare die on me, you selfish bastard. Don't you dare die on me!”

   Clarke could feel himself slipping away, the pain beginning to fade as the edge of his vision grayed. He could see Blake working on him, feel his uniform being ripped away to allow her to access the wound, hear her curse as she fought to repair the damage, seal the wound.

   “Go,” he said, shaking his head. “Knew what I was doing. Get out of here.”

   “Don't be a fool, John,” she replied.

   “Thought we were being formal,” he muttered, gasping for breath. “You've got to go. Escape pods near. Get to Churchill.”

   “Not without you,” she replied, stabbing a hypodermic into his side. “I'm going to get you out of here.”

   “No way to do it. Even if I could walk.” He frowned, then said, “Susan. Try and find her. She's somewhere here.”

   “John...”

   “I helped you take care of your unfinished business. You take care of mine.”

   Shaking her head, she slid a patch over the wound, followed it up with another injection, then replied, “I'll go, but I'm coming back for you. Understand? You aren't going to die here. And if I can't find anyone, I'll be back anyway. I got you into this...”

   “Got myself into it...”

   “And I'll get you out. Don't talk to any strange men.” Rising to her feet, she looked down at him, shook her head, then sprinted away down the corridor, leaving her rifle and medical kit behind. Clarke watched her go, a faint smile on her face, and looked down at his side, the bandage slapped into position already stained red. This time he'd been shot on the other side of his body, and as he faded into unconsciousness, his last thought was that his scars would match.

  Chapter 17

   “All hands, prepare for evacuation. I repeat, all hands, stand by for evacuation. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill.”

   Jack looked up in alarm, then glanced back at his daughter, her eyes widening in the fear he knew was a mirror of his own. As the emergency sirens wailed, he crawled towards the nearest hatchway, kicking it open with a savage thrust of his foot, knowing that the time for stealth was over.

   “Churchill,” he said, swinging down to the deck below. “They must have launched their attack. And they're taking it seriously enough to evacuate.” He smiled, then said, “I guess your mother found a way to win after all.”

   Sliding down after him, Susan replied, “Then we've got to get out of here. Escape pods?”

   “Not going to work,” he said. “The battlecruiser will almost certainly pick them all up, or one of the transports. We went to a lot of trouble to get ourselves out of detention. No point just walking back into their hands again. We've got to get to Churchill, and that means a shuttlecraft and some fancy flying.” Flashing a grin, he added, “Fortunately, I am the best damn small ship pilot in the galaxy.”

   “Which way?”

   “Pick a direction and run.” The two of them started to jog down the corridor, and he added, “Watch out for any signs, anything at all. They had me drugged when they brought me in.”

   “They were very careful not to show me anything useful when I arrived,” she replied, as the two of them turned down a corridor.

   “Then we just head for the outer levels and hope for the best,” he said. They ran past a monitor screen, and he stopped, looking at it for a second, then glancing down the corridor. “To hell with it. I think we can risk calling home.”

   “I'll keep watch,” Susan said, and Jack tossed her the pistol, turning to the panel.

   “Jack to Churchill,” he said, fiddling with the controls, trying to open an exterior channel. “Jack to Churchill, come in, please.”

   “Jack?” Mallory's voice echoed from the speaker, loud enough that half the station could hear her. “Jack, is that you?”

   “It is indeed, and I've got Susan with me. We're on the run and I need directions.”

   “I'll have the path to the nearest shuttle bay transmitted to the panel you're using.”

   “Tactical situation?”

   “Omega Base goes in three hours minus, but Theseus is on its way out of the system in a lot less time than that.” She paused, then added, “Damn it, they know all this already. They've found the homeworld, Jack, they've found the prize, and Theseus is going to collect. We're going to try and stop them before they can reach their destination, but I'm not sure we can do it in time. There's nothing we can do to help you, not if we're going to stop them.”

   “Damn,” Jack replied. “We'll do what we can from here. Maybe I can improvise something.”


   “Jack, one more thing. We've lost contact with Cadet Clarke. He's still over there with you. Somewhere in the lower levels.”

   “He's alive?” Susan said. “And you knew?”

   “Do you know how big this station is, Kathy?” he replied, shaking his head. “We'll see what we can do. Jack out.”

   Grabbing his arm, Susan said, “You knew John was alive, and...”

   “And I also knew that while we were locked up, he was loose on the station and in a position to help Churchill complete her mission. We were being monitored the whole time, and I didn't want Admiral Knight and her friends to know there was a saboteur on board.” He took a deep breath, then added, “It hurt like hell not to tell you, but I couldn't take the risk. Now come on. We've got too much to do to waste time arguing.”

   They sprinted down the corridors, once passing a group of technicians racing in the other direction, neither group realizing who the others were until it was too late to matter. The directions Churchill had provided led them on a long, slow curve through the lower modules, jogging past abandoned offices and ransacked storage bays. Abruptly, the sirens cut off, mid-wail, and the silence hung oppressively around them.

   Footsteps rang down the corridor, and Jack moved to the side, raising his pistol, uncomfortably aware that he only had a couple of shots left. His daughter slid in behind him as a figure ran around the corner towards them, a sandy-haired woman wearing a battered flight suit, her eyes widening as she saw them.

   “Susan Conway?” she asked.

   “Who wants to know?” Jack replied.

   “Thank God I found you. John's hurt. We've got to get him off the station and to a medical facility or he'll be dead in minutes.”

   “John?” Susan asked.

   “Wait just a damn minute,” Jack said. “Who are you?”

   “Alexandra Blake, and the rest will take too long.” She looked over him, then said, “You're her father?”

   “How?”

   “Same eyes. Now come on, damn it, or he's going to die!” Turning to Susan, her eyes narrowing, she continued, “You're the reason he came out here in the first place.”

   “I...”

   Shaking her head, Blake ran down the corridor, and with a quick sideways glance at Susan, Jack followed, fighting to keep up with her furious pace as they raced along the passages, far off the directions Churchill had sent them. He tried to remember the turns, belatedly looking back to make sure his daughter was keeping up. Her face was pale, eyes wide, but she was matching him step for step.

   They turned another corner, and saw a pair of figures lying prone on the floor. Blake stepped over the first to the second, a young man with close-cropped hair, easily identifiable as a cadet despite his civilian jacket, a pool of blood by his side. Carefully, Blake checked his vital signs, looked up, and nodded.

   “Weak, but alive. We've got to get him to a shuttle and get him out of here.” Turning to Susan, she said, “You. Find something to carry him on.” Susan was looking at Clarke, horror in her eyes, and Blake added, “Get him a stretcher or start working out what to wear to his funeral. Move!”

   “Go on,” Jack said, and Susan raced back down the corridor, looking through every open door as she went. He walked over to Clarke, kneeling by his side and shaking his head. “Damn it all, he can't be more than eighteen.”

   “He didn't think twice about coming,” Blake said, retrieving her medical kit, inspecting his wound. “Never looked back. Not once. Saved my life.” Her bitter eyes locked with his, and she said, “And damn near got himself killed on that decoy mission of yours.”

   “Will he live?”

   “If we had a medical facility, maybe. The station's probably got one, but I suspect the only thing they'd prescribe is a bullet to the gut.”

   “No point, anyway,” Jack said. “This whole facility will be destroyed in a couple of hours at the most. They're evacuating to the transports.” Shaking his head, he continued, “We were heading for a shuttle bay, then coming back to try to find you. We hadn't forgotten.”

   “He told me to find Susan,” she said, running her hand through his hair. “To leave him behind and finish his mission. I couldn't do it. I couldn't let him die alone. He's earned more than that.” Gently placing a fresh bandage over his wound, she added, “Where the hell is that stretcher?”

   “Here,” Susan said, running back with one under her arm.

   “Put it on the floor,” Blake said, and the three of them gently placed Clarke on top, Susan securing the straps over him. “You two carry him. I think I remember the way to the nearest shuttle bay. It isn't far.” She looked at Jack, and said, “You got a communicator?”

   “No,” he replied.

   “Figures.” She snatched the rifle from the floor with one hand, keeping the other resting on the wounded man. The group moved down the corridor, careful not to jar the groaning Clarke, Blake keeping pace behind the stretcher, periodically checking on his wound. Jack looked down at the bloody mess, shaking his head. From the expression on the medic's face, they didn't have long left to save his life.

   “There!” Susan said, and they raced through a pair of double doors, into a cavernous hangar deck, a trio of shuttles resting on elevator airlocks, ready to launch, a sleek fighter lined up next to them. A group of technicians were working on the nearest shuttle, loading crates into the cargo section, only noticing the intruders when Blake fired a burst of gunfire into the air from her rifle.

   “Freeze!” Blake said. “Hands in the air, move over to the side, right now!” Turning to Jack, she said, “Come on.”

   “Yeah,” he replied, and he carefully guided the stretcher into the nearest shuttle while the medic kept the technicians covered, gently placing Clarke on the floor, Susan hastily pulling over the floor restraints to secure him in position. He stepped forward to the cockpit, throwing a pair of switches to begin the pre-flight sequence, then looked out of the viewport at the fighters at the far end of the hangar.

   The Vulcan he'd lost had been twenty years old. These were new, Hurricane II space superiority fighters, and by the looks of it, they were ready for launch. The least he had to do was wreck them, prevent them from coming after him, but an idea started to trickle into his mind as he reached down to the control panel.

   “Jack to Churchill,” he said. “We've got Susan, Clarke and Blake.”

   “You found them?” Mallory asked.

   “Long story. Clarke's badly wounded and will require immediate medical assistance upon arrival. Have Strickland standing by.” He paused, then added, “The kid almost killed himself trying to save Susan.”

   “We'll be ready for you. Have you reached a shuttle?”

   “We have, but unless I miss my guess, I'm not going to be flying it. You're about to launch a strike on Theseus, right?”

   “Yes.”

   “Then you're going to need all the fighter support you can get, and I'm looking at a shiny new replacement interceptor sitting right in front of me, ready for launch. Tell Mo and Dirk that I'll hook with them for the attack run.” The sensor display booted up, and he added, “If this shuttle is on the mark, then I ought to be able to join up with them in about ten minutes if I push it.”

   “Jack…,” she said, pausing before replying. “We'll transmit tactical data once you get into the air. Who's going to fly the shuttle?”

   “Susan. I hope. I'll talk later. Jack out.” Turning to the rear, he said, “Susan, tell me you passed shuttle proficiency.”

   “No,” she replied.

   He shook his head, and said, “Tests aren't everything. Do you remember what to do?”

   “Dad, aren't you...”

   Gesturing at the fighter, he said, “I've got another lady to take to the dance. If Churchill's going to take down Theseus, you mother's going to need any advantage she can get.” Stepping back to her, he said, “I have faith in you. You can do th
is. Just get through the missile defense perimeter at full burn, and head directly for Churchill. Understand?”

   “Dad, I…,” she said.

   Taking her head in his hands, he planted a kiss on her cheek and said, “Honey, I love you, and I always will. When this is all over we'll have all the time in the world to get to know each other the way we should.” Gesturing at the cockpit, he said, “You've got a job to do, and so do I. I know you can do it. For John, if nothing else.”

   “I'll do my best,” she said. “I'll try.”

   “That's my girl,” he said, stepping back through the cabin. He looked down at Clarke, Blake leaning beside him, and said, “Keep him alive. I owe that kid more than I can ever repay. And you as well.”

   Looking up for a second, Blake replied, “I will.”

   Stepping back out onto the hangar deck, he looked around for the technicians, all of whom seemed to have decided they could use a different exit from the station, then walked over to the nearest fighter, reaching into the cockpit and entering a sequence of commands to purge all of the navigational programs from its computer. It'd take hours to get this fighter ready for action now, and by then, the station would be history.

   Dropping back down to the deck, he walked over to the crew locker and found a helmet that looked as if it would fit, setting it into position and connecting it to his flight jacket. A siren sounded, and he turned just in time to watch the shuttle descending through the elevator airlock, on its way back to Churchill, and as much safety as anywhere in this system would allow.

   With a nod, he climbed into the second fighter, dropping comfortably into the couch, and scanned the board for the pre-flight checklist, finding the control on the second try. He'd had a glance at the specifications for the new design, one that still hadn't even reached the Fleet, but never had a chance to so much as step into a simulator.

   Taking a guess, he tapped a control, and said, “This is Red Leader to Red Flight. Sorry about the delay, but I had to find a rental. Take-off in thirty seconds, mark.”