Starship Insurgent (The Galactic Wars Book 6)

by Tripp Ellis

  Anderson chuckled. "Just watch out for Pinford. You may be in charge of counter-terrorism, but it's his embassy. And he can be a challenging personality to deal with, at times.”

  “There’s always one in every office, isn’t there?”

  Anderson continued to give her the scoop on Mosaav and little tips and tricks on how to make life more bearable. It took about 25 minutes to get from the spaceport to the embassy. Anderson displayed his ID at the security gate and pulled into the compound.

  "We've got on-site housing. It's not much, but better than living outside of the embassy. Well, maybe not better, but safer. I'll show you to your room and you can get settled in. Then I'll take you to the office and introduce you to everyone.”

  Emma settled into her new digs. It wasn't much to speak of—it reminded her of her college dorm room. It had a bedroom, small kitchen area, and a bathroom. The view outside the window was nothing spectacular. It offered a glimpse of a dirty alleyway and the grungy neighboring building.

  She flopped on the squeaky bed, and stared at the ceiling. There was a brown water stain, and the paint was peeling slightly. It was a rather depressing little room. You’d think the Federation could have sprung for nicer accommodations, but the embassy was built shortly after the first Verge War. At the time, Mosaav wasn't considered an area of much political importance.

  She could get used to the crappy little room, she thought. She was there for one reason, and one reason only. To find Ragza. Emma pulled herself out of bed and headed to the embassy.

  It was appointed in a much nicer fashion than the dormitories, but still nothing to write home about. Anderson introduced Emma to the rest of the staff. Pinford greeted her with a smile that looked somewhat forced. He was a tall, thin, bald man with wire-rimmed spectacles. It was a rare sight, since most eye conditions could be easily corrected. Retinal transplants, corneal implants, and even synthetic eyes were common place.

  "Welcome to our little oasis," Pinford said. He gave her a firm handshake.

  "It's a pleasure to be here."

  “For a UIA agent, you don't lie very well.”

  They both chuckled awkwardly.

  "Well, if I can be of any assistance, please don't hesitate to ask.” His tone wasn't exactly sincere. His smile quickly faded, and the next words out of his mouth were deadly serious. “And try not to piss off the locals. This may be a temporary assignment for you, but I'm stuck here for the foreseeable future. And I'm not too keen on getting ambushed the minute I step outside of the compound. If it were up to me, you UIA agents wouldn't be in my embassy."

  Emma smiled. “Don't worry, Mr. Pinford. You won't even know I'm here."

  He scoffed. "We shall see, won't we?"

  Emma watched him walk away. "Is he always this friendly?"

  "I told you. He’s an acquired taste."Anderson sighed. "The death of Rodgers and Wilson has everyone a little spooked around here. This place has modest fortifications. We don't have the capability to defend against a full on assault. The thought of getting overrun looms in the back of everyone's mind. A couple of terrorists out there with RPGs, and it's game over."

  “The sooner we find Ragza, the sooner we can all sleep a little easier. What leads have you got for me?"

  Anderson displayed an image of Aknar Suspa on a monitor in Emma’s office." As you know, he's one of the chief financiers of Saav Krava. We believe he has direct ties to Ragza. All communications pass through Aknar. We find him, we can find Ragza.”

  "And you think he's here in Mosaav?”

  "I'm almost positive. I've been analyzing all of the intercepts between Suspa and Barton that you sent over. We haven't been able to break the encryption yet, but each transmission has a unique data packet identifier added by the transmission tower at the point of origin.”

  Emma looked perplexed. “But the communications were routed through multiple different networks."

  Anderson grinned with pride. "We put a virus in the communication network in Mosaav. It surreptitiously adds a data packet to every transmission that goes through the network.”

  "The Aldebaranian government will consider that an act of war."

  "I make one phone call, push through a code, and the virus will eat itself."

  "Does Pinford know about this?”

  "Nobody knows about this except for you and me, and the agent who wrote the program—and he’s dead.”

  Anderson saw a concerned look wash over Emma’s face. "Hey, do you want the intel, or don't you?”

  Emma took a deep breath. "I'll take it anyway I can get it. Are you sure you can erase all traces of the virus?"

  "Positive,” he said with confidence. Then he pursed his lips and shrugged. "Well, there are always unforeseen situations, but I'm 99.9% certain."

  “So, how do we get to Aknar?”

  Anderson swiped the screen and pulled up an image of another man. He looked to be about mid 20s, dark hair, olive skin. “This is Edward Rocco. He’s been communicating with Suspa every few days.”

  “Can we bring him in for questioning?”

  “We’ve got no legal grounds to do so here. So, we either make a snatch and grab, or we recruit some help from local law enforcement. What do you want to do, boss?”

  25

  Ryan

  Forty-three recruits were left in Class 276 at the start of Hell Week. Everything had been leading up to this moment. It was going to be 6 days of pure torture. It was all about who wanted it bad enough, who was willing to do anything to become a Reaper. Perhaps the most common question Reapers get asked, next to, “How many people have you killed?” is about Hell Week. “Is it as bad as they say?”

  Most Reapers would say, “No. It’s worse.”

  A recruit had died during Hell Week in each of the last four classes, despite every attempt to keep the event safe. Recruits had to go through a medical pre-screening to be cleared to participate in Hell Week. Many of the trainees were pushing through injuries. Some had lung infections. Others had superficial wounds that had gotten infected. If they hadn’t been cleared for Hell Week, they would get a medical rollback. Five days with no sleep and infrequent medical care and a small infection could spiral into something life-threatening. Still, many recruits tried to hide their injuries for fear of missing their opportunity.

  Glover had developed a nasty anti-biotic resistant infection around his waist due to excessive chafing and exposure to bacteria in the water. The corpsman didn’t feel comfortable letting him proceed with Hell Week and rolled him back. This was his second medical roll, and he had to go back to the fleet for 18 months before he could try again. He was devastated.

  Weeks two, three, and four of First Phase were similar to week one. Recruits did timed runs, Surf Passage, the O-course, Gravity-Log PT, Rock Portage, and lots of Surf Torture. But somehow it seemed easier than week one. It was probably because the candidates were growing more accustomed to it, as well as developing cohesion as a team. But along with medical evaluation, week four brought performance review. The board had to approve each recruit for Hell Week. Those that were lagging in performance, or hadn’t acquired the proper attitude or motivation, were either rolled back or sent to the fleet.

  Forsyth never seemed to be able to make his swim times, or master the O-Course. He was a team player, and had a great attitude, but he lacked the physical ability. He was rolled back and given another opportunity to work on his deficiencies. He’d class up in a few months to try again.

  Like many evolutions, it was the anticipation of Hell Week that tripped many recruits up. The bell seemed like it was ringing constantly throughout the day leading up to Breakout. As with most evolutions, recruits were kept in the dark about the specifics. Hell Week could start anytime Sunday evening after 1700 hours (5 PM civilian time).

  Over the years, Hell Week had constantly evolved. It was never the same twice. The instructors were always changing the curriculum. This class, the instructors ordered them to form their boat crews and wait on the bea
ch until the festivities began.

  During the calm before the storm, Ryan reclined against the IBS, trying to sleep. It would be the last opportunity for the next 5 days. But he was too amped up. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, causing his body to vibrate. Gavin Kirby, on the other hand, was sawing logs. He didn't have a care in the world. He could sleep anywhere, anytime. Even standing up. He could fall asleep before his eyelids closed.

  Ryan wished he could let go as easily. He tried to take the time to meditate. The Reapers were big on self talk, mindfulness, and other strategies to control their emotional response. Slow deep breaths are one way to counter the body’s fight or flight response. Ryan focused on his breath and breathed slowly. In for four counts, hold for four counts, out for four counts. But his mind continued to wander.

  About the time he was beginning to doze off, Breakout started. It was an explosion of chaos. Automatic gunfire filled the air. The instructors detonated explosive charges that seemed way too close for comfort. The event was live fire. Everything was real, or so they were told. It was a sensory onslaught of bright lights and harsh sounds. The air was filled with smoke, making it difficult to get your bearings. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled Ryan’s nostrils. Hell Week had officially begun.

  A cadre of inspectors weaved about the class like angry hornets. Norfolk ordered the class to go on a Base Cruise. It was anything but leisurely. The crews hoisted there boats atop their heads and raced around the compound. Of course, the crew who came in last would have to run it again.

  When the instructors got bored with boat races, it was time for Surf Torture. It must have gone on for about an hour. There was no way to tell time. Recruits weren’t allowed to wear a watch during Hell Week. The instructors wanted to keep them disoriented.

  The water seemed colder than it had been in previous days. There were corpsmen standing by to check body temperature to make sure the recruits weren’t going into hypothermia. Ryan was shivering uncontrollably. He couldn’t feel his hands or his feet.

  The waves kept crashing down, giving the class a beating, almost drowning them with each swell. Some of the guys got so cold they lost control of their bowels. Other guys were puking on themselves from swallowing too much saltwater. You never knew what you were going to get a mouthful of the next time a wave crashed on top of you.

  It was absolutely disgusting.

  The Surf Torture was followed by more boat runs, then timed 4 mile runs. After that, it was Gravity-Log PT. They were thick metal posts about the size of a telephone pole. They contained a gravity generator inside, and the instructors could remotely vary the weight between 150 pounds and 500. There were multiple exercises the 7 man boat crews could do with the logs. Overhead presses, curls, sit ups, squats, berm runs. They were excellent for destroying shoulders and herniating discs. The only limitation to the variation of exercises was the sadistic imagination of the instructor. The crews had to work together. If anyone was sandbagging, the whole crew would suffer.

  It was an insidious evolution. If the instructors were feeling generous, they’d keep the weight steady. But during Hell Week, Norfolk liked to slowly ramp up the weight. The more fatigued your muscles became, the heavier the log. And when Norfolk was feeling particularly devious, Gravity-Log PT was done in the frigid surf. Like many of the evolutions in BSCT, the game was rigged. All you could do was grin and bear it, and give it your best.

  The two-mile bay swim in the middle of the night was a killer. It was so cold, some guys forgot their name. Instructors taunted the swimmers with hot coffee and doughnuts back at the base, and many succumbed to the temptation.

  The recruits were little more than a few hours into Hell Week, and already many of the them had doubt creeping into their minds. You could see it in their eyes. That little voice in the back of their head that said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  That kind of self talk was the beginning of the end. The recruits weren’t going to get a moment’s rest for the next 5 days. Biscuit was one big psychological operation. You had to keep your head in the game and not do something stupid. In a moment of disorientation and sleep deprivation, with their bodies past the point of what any normal person could endure, many recruits quit before they realized the finality of their actions. Many regretted it the instant after they DOR’d.

  If you are going to maintain your strength for an entire week, you needed to eat well and hydrate properly. There were recruits pushing through stress fractures, pneumonia, stomach bugs, you name it. Skin was chafed raw from the sand. Joints were swollen and achy. Tendonitis was rampant. Pain was a given. The discomfort had to be accepted.

  As the days rolled on, many recruits weren’t able to eat enough calories. They either couldn’t keep the food down, or couldn’t get it down in the first place. Those were the guys that were going to fall flat. Those were the guys who weren’t going to make it.

  Time in the chow hall was the only moment of rest you got. But like anything else, to get to the chow hall was a race. Whatever the evolution was, you had to finish first in order to get to eat. Once Ryan got to the chow hall, he tried to make the most of it. He stuffed himself with as much food as he could force down his throat. He used every minute of time to rest and recuperate, before stepping back out into the fray.

  Hell Week was living up to its name, and they hadn’t seen the worst of it yet.

  26

  Emma

  “Why the hell would I want to do that?” Adam Laurent asked. He was a sergeant with the Mosaav Police Department. His face appeared on Anderson’s mobile.

  “Come on, the guy has a ton of outstanding warrants,” Anderson said.

  Laurent’s face twisted up. “How do you know that? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  The sergeant pulled Rocco’s file up on his computer. He raised his eyebrows. “You can’t be serious?”

  “What… He’s a serious criminal.”

  “The only thing he’s got are 15 unpaid parking tickets. I can’t arrest him for that.”

  “Surely there’s something else you can dredge up on him?”

  Laurent sighed. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.”

  “We’re just having a friendly conversation,” Anderson smiled. “I’d like you to meet my boss, Emma Castle. She’s putting a lot of pressure on me to get results.”

  Anderson tilted his mobile to include Emma in the frame. She waved at Laurent. “It’s nice to meet you, Sergeant Laurent.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, ma’am.”

  Emma smiled and laid on her charm as thick as possible. “It would be so helpful if we could just question Mr. Rocco for a short time. Is there anything you can do?” Her blue eyes sparkled.

  Laurent contemplated this a moment. “All right, I’m going to need you to transfer 50,000 credits into the following numbered account.”

  Emma’s eyes went wide. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  Laurent shrugged. “I don’t know. Did you?”

  Emma looked dumbfounded.

  Anderson whispered in her ear, “It’s how things get done here.”

  Emma reluctantly agreed.

  “I’m transferring the specified funds to the account now,” Anderson said, tapping out the transaction on his mobile device.

  “Excellent,” Laurent replied. A few moments later, his eyes filled with glee. His demeanor became much more agreeable as he looked over Rocco’s file again. “It seems I missed a more serious offense listed on Mr. Rocco’s records. It seems he’s wanted for armed robbery and aggravated assault. Would you two like to tag along when we pick him up?”

  “Absolutely,” Emma said.

  “Great. I’ll be in touch as soon as I coordinate the tactical team. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Castle.” The transmission ended.

  Emma scowled at Anderson. “You realize we are breaking about a dozen local and Federation laws?”

  “We can play by the rules and keep chasing these guys indefinitely. Who k
nows how many more Federation citizens will be killed in the process? Or we can bend the rules a little bit and get things done.”

  Emma knew he was right, but it was so contrary to the way she had operated back on New Earth.

  Anderson’s piercing eyes surveyed her. “Look, I get it. You’re a rule follower. You’ve been following orders your whole career. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret… nobody in this game plays by the rules. You need to be like water—go with the flow.”

  “Stay here,” Sergeant Laurent said. “And whatever happens, don’t get involved. I'm already going out on a limb for you. It's not going to look good if one of you gets shot, God forbid kills someone."

  Anderson and Emma huddled in an alley way just across the street from Rocco’s apartment. It was in a crappy part of town, and for Mosaav, that was saying a lot.

  Laurent was in full tactical gear along with a squad of special response team police. It was the ass-crack of dawn, and the city was just coming to life. Pages of old newspaper blew around the alleyway with the warm breeze. The dumpsters were overflowing. The alleyway smelled like stale trash. The sanitation department had skipped last week’s pickup. There were two weeks’ worth of fish bones and chicken carcasses and rotten eggs stewing in the dumpsters.

  Laurent readied his team, and the squad marched across the street toward the apartment building. It was 50 stories of low rent housing. You were taking your life in your hands just walking into the lobby.

  All Kevin and Emma could do was wait and watch. Emma fidgeted and paced back-and-forth. “I hate this part."

  "You're a control freak, aren't you?"

  "No. I just like things to be just so. I like to be in the thick of the action."

  "Like I said, control freak." Anderson smiled. "Remember… Go with the flow."

  Laurent’s squad filed into the building. They were professional, but a far cry from Navy Reapers.