Starship Insurgent (The Galactic Wars Book 6)

by Tripp Ellis

  “I think we've got company."

  "I see them." Anderson sped up and made a few quick turns, trying to lose them.

  Emma unholstered her pistol. She craned her neck back, looking to the rear window. The tail was gaining on them. It was a black, late model Vextra sedan.

  Anderson mashed the pedal to the floor and accelerated through the chaotic streets. The engine revved, filling the cabin with the distinct whine of a hover-car, mixed with the synthetic sound of a combustion engine. Manufacturers added the sound because consumers had complained the vehicles were too quiet otherwise. There was something missing from the whole experience. Testing had showed that cars with an engine rumble were perceived to be faster, and they outsold non-modified versions. The sound was also added to reduce auto-pedestrian accidents. In the early days, pedestrians were getting mowed over left and right after stepping into traffic without hearing oncoming cars.

  Anderson was whizzing past traffic at a blistering pace. Buildings blurred by. A white hover-van launched from a side street. Anderson swerved, but there was nothing he could do. The van slammed into the front left quarter panel of his car. Metal crumpled. Anderson plowed forward, and the van’s front bumper scratched against the side of the car, etching the paint and squealing. It was hard to tell if the van had just run the light, or if they were a blocking vehicle—part of the chase.

  The black Vextra quickly caught up to them.

  Anderson barreled away.

  The dark tinted windows of the sedan rolled down, and a submachine gun emerged, spitting bullets and muzzle flash. The attackers were almost side by side with Anderson’s car.

  Emma looked right at the driver as he pelted rounds in her direction. Her heartbeat skyrocketed. The bullets impacted her window, leaving crater like impressions, surrounded by webbed cracks. The flattened copper bullets had embedded in between the layers of ballistic glass.

  Emma wanted to fire back, but the bulletproof window was the only thing standing between her and certain death.

  The attackers continued to pepper Anderson's car with bullets, quickly making the company vehicle look like the surface of a crater-filled moon.

  When the driver of the Vextra realized his bullets weren't going to penetrate the target vehicle, he swerved and rammed the car repeatedly.

  The two cars looked like lineman in the PFL charging each other. The cars weaved between slower traffic, and when they had a clear shot, rammed each other again.

  “Are all the locals this friendly?" Emma asked.

  “Just think of it as a welcoming committee." Anderson smiled. “It means they think you are important enough to kill." Anderson turned the wheel and rammed the Vextra again. The quarter panels locked into each other. Anderson slammed the pedal to the floor and drove the Vextra toward the curb.

  There was a city bus stopped in the far right lane. Parked cars prohibited access to the sidewalk. The Vextra tried desperately to push back, but Anderson's car was more powerful. The driver finally slammed on the brakes, but was too late. The driver tried to pull up and fly over the top of the bus, but the Vextra couldn’t separate from Anderson’s quarter-panel. Emma could see the driver’s eyes grow wide, realizing there was no avenue of escape. The black sedan plowed into the back of the bus.

  The hood crumpled. Windows shattered. Glass and debris sprayed everywhere. Bits of metal spewed onto the roadway. The twisted carcass of the Vextra sat by the curb as the attackers jumped out of the vehicle, shaking their fists and cursing in anger.

  Emma watched them through the rearview window as Anderson sped away.

  “Not bad for your first day.”

  “You keep drawing attention to this operation, you’re going to get us all killed,” Pinford said. “Most of us here didn’t sign up for this spy agent crap. We’re diplomats.”

  “I think it was just an incidence of road rage, sir,” Anderson said.

  “That was an embassy vehicle. Who’s going to pay for it?”

  “You’ll be reimbursed by the UIA, rest assured,” Emma said.

  “I’m going to personally contact the Secretary of State and voice my displeasure with the UIA. The point of this embassy is to maintain amicable diplomatic relations with the Aldebarani government.”

  “I’m operating under direct authority of the Office of the President,” Emma said. “By all means, contact Secretary Morris. I think you’ll find his full support behind the UIA.”

  Pinford sneered at her and stormed away, grumbling to himself.

  Anderson chuckled. “I love it when he gets his feathers ruffled.” His piercing blue eyes found Emma’s. “I’m going to run some food over to Rocco and check on him. You want to grab a drink after?”

  Emma wasn’t exactly sure if he was flirting with her or not. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”

  “You and I both have after action reports to write.”

  Anderson pulled out his mobile and started clacking on the keys. He muttered to himself as he typed. “Ambushed by black Vextra while returning from lunch. Escaped unharmed. Car, not so much.” He smiled. “After action report—done. Let’s drink.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Come on. I know this great little bar down on Voostal Street.”

  “We got ambushed after the last establishment you recommended.”

  He gave a cavalier shrug. “We’re still alive.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed at him. She started heading toward her office.

  Anderson followed after her like a puppy dog. “Don’t make me drink alone.” His sad eyes pleaded with her.

  “I seriously doubt you’d have a hard time finding a suitable drinking companion.”

  “Have you taken a look around this place?”

  "I'm sure you'll be just fine."

  "Okay. Suit yourself. But all this…" He made a circular gesture with his hand, “Mosaav… The terrorists… They are not going anywhere. They're all going to be here tomorrow."

  "That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

  33

  Ryan

  “Upboat,” Norfolk yelled.

  The recruits hoisted the boats overhead.

  Norfolk instructed them to race to the Land Warfare Zone. It was several acres on the east side of the base filled with pits, trenches, culverts, and berms. It was a low lying area, and was a mucky pit of hell on a good day. On a rainy day, it was an outright swamp.

  It was located next to the island’s sewage processing facility. During times of flooding, the plant’s pumps would sometimes backup, spilling into the Land Warfare Zone. It made it a toxic, sludge-filled nightmare. One whiff was enough to turn your stomach inside out. In the summer months, it was filled with mosquitoes, snakes, rats, and other undesirable critters.

  The recruits had to navigate a course from one side to the other. The pits were topped with barbed wire. Automated turrets were strategically positioned throughout the course that fired paint pellets. The goal was to complete the course without a paint stain on your fatigues. Not an easy task.

  The recruits donned their helmets and hit the dirt. They crawled on their bellies through the muck, trying to keep as low a profile as possible. Paint pellets whizzed overhead. Simulated artillery rounds exploded all around them, spraying dirt and muck. The instructors were stationed throughout the zone, firing RK 909 assault rifles for added effect. Smoke filled the air.

  Ryan crawled into the first pit. A sharp barb gouged his low back. It was so shallow, it was a almost impossible not to snag the barbed wire. He had to fully submerge in the sludge to get through. His eyes were burning from days of sand particles grinding between his lids and cornea. The muck wasn’t helping anything. He came out the other side, gasping for breath.

  The only way to avoid the paint pellets was to keep your ass down. Ryan inched across the ground to another muck filled trench. This process repeated over and over again until he reached the end of the zone. He
was caked in mud, and the recruits smelled like big turds.

  “Alright, listen up,” Norfolk yelled once the last recruit had completed the course. “We are going to do a graded 4 mile run. If you can’t complete it in under 32 minutes, you will be performance dropped from the program.”

  The faces of the recruits dropped. Some of them had knees so swollen they could barely walk. All of them were hobbling around. It would be an impossible evolution. The news was soul crushing.

  “This may be the first BSCT class in history in which we have no graduates.”

  That statement just made Ryan mad. He clenched his jaw and scowled at Norfolk. To have come this far, then get dropped because of some bullshit rigged evolution?

  Panic washed over the faces of the weary recruits.

  “But before we do that, we’re going to spend a little time appreciating the surf. Hit the beach!”

  The class staggered to the surf. They looked like the living dead and left a trail of mud behind them. By the time they reached the beach, the heavy rain had washed most of the sludge away.

  The recruits lined up on the beach and interlocked arms. Alvarez looked strung out. “I can’t take any more of this.”

  “Yes, you can,” Ryan said.

  “I can’t take another second of being cold and wet.”

  “Suck it up, Alvarez,” Ensign Parkes said. She barked with such ferocity, that Alvarez cowered and started to march into the surf even before Norfolk commanded. The recruits charged into the water until they were waist deep. The rain was finally starting to let up.

  "About-face," Norfolk shouted.

  The recruits turned around, facing the berm.

  “You know what, I'm tired of surf torture. How about you?"

  "Hooyah, Chief."

  Ryan was dreading what kind of devious evolution Norfolk had planned next.

  Norfolk looked at his watch. Then he glanced back out over the ragged recruits. “I’ve decided to cancel the run. I hate to say this, but… Class 276 is secured. Hell Week is over!”

  There was a moment of silence as his words sunk in.

  "Are you messing with us, Chief?" Matthews asked.

  "If you want to continue, I'm perfectly happy to dream up another evolution."

  “No. That's okay, Chief."

  The recruits howled with joy. They screamed and jumped up and down, congratulating and hugging one another.

  Hell Week was really over.

  The recruits staggered out of the water and gathered around Norfolk.

  "Congratulations class. You've accomplished something few people will ever do. You still have a lot of training ahead, but 90% of you will now go on to become Reapers. You should be very proud. No matter what happens in your future, this accomplishment is something that no one can ever take away from you. When you face challenges in your life, you will know that you can overcome them. There is nothing you can’t endure. You have the will and stamina to triumph in the face of any adversity. I’m proud of all of you. It has been an honor to be your instructor.”

  “Hooyah, Chief.”

  “Get on the shuttle and we’ll take you back to the center.”

  The recruits staggered to a shuttle that was waiting on Ocean Ave. Ryan climbed aboard and fell into one of the cushy seats. Hot air blew from the overhead vents. The warmth was a welcomed relief.

  In each seat, there was a rehydration drink and a nutrition bar. Ryan peeled open the packaging and wolfed the bar down in a only a few bites. He guzzled the fruity drink down in seconds. It barely did anything to quench his thirst.

  “We’ll have more food and drink waiting for you after you get through medical,” Norfolk said.

  Some of the recruits were passed out on the shuttle by the time they got to the med center. It was less than a 5 minute drive. The corpsman meticulously went over each recruit, inch by inch. They were checked for areas of infection. Lacerations and abrasions were treated. Vital statistics were monitored. And they underwent a full body scan to detect any skeletal abnormalities or soft tissue injuries.

  Several of the recruits had knee damage, ranging from mild ligament sprains to cartilage tears. Joints were injected with a powerful anti-inflammatory, as well as a regenerative compound. Many were suffering from stress fractures, bacterial and viral infections, and dehydration.

  Once they were all treated, Lambert addressed the class. “I know you’re all feeling pretty crappy right about now, but trust me, you’re going to survive. The main thing is that you keep fed and get a lot of rest this weekend. I’m going to be here all weekend along with several other corpsmen. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come down here. Also, we’ll be checking on you periodically. I’m going to give each one of you my direct mobile number. Call me in case of emergency.”

  The recruits staggered out of the med center and headed across the Pulverizer toward the barracks. Their eyes lit up with surprise. There was a keg of beer, hamburgers, barbecue ribs, brisket, and plenty of soda, recovery drinks, and water. They had been thrown a party—one that they weren’t really going to be able to enjoy. There were several current and retired Reapers in attendance.

  Captain Walker greeted the recruits with a smile. “Congratulations. Eat and drink as much as you want, though I don’t expect too many of you to stay on your feet for too long. I just wanted to come down and thank you all personally for the commitment and sacrifices that you’ve made to this organization. Since the war, we’ve had a shortage of qualified Reapers. And I’m always looking for a select few to lead into battle. Keep up the good work.”

  “Hooyah,” they replied with enthusiasm. They all knew who Captain Walker was. He was a bona fide hero, and for an aspiring Reaper it was like meeting an idol.

  He shook their hands and mingled a little. But the recruits were barely able to stand. They chowed down and drank a beer with instructors who were tormenting them only moments earlier. Then they staggered off to the barracks to pass out. Some were too amped up to sleep right away, but for most of them, no mattress was ever going to feel as good, and they would never sleep more soundly in their entire lives than they did that night. They had the weekend to themselves, and would be back at it Monday morning.

  The weed out period was over. The real training was about to begin. Everyone in the class had proven they had what it took to become a Reaper. Now they were about to gain the space combat skills, and the weapons tactics, that would make them the finest fighting force in the galaxy.

  34

  Emma

  The microphone looked like a circular piece of clear tape—about the size of a small button. Emma affixed it underneath Rocco’s collar. “Give me a signal check.”

  “Testing 1, 2, 3…”

  Anderson watched the audio levels on his mobile. He nodded to Emma, letting her know the mic was transmitting loud and clear.

  The three of them were huddled in a surveillance van a few blocks from the Plaza Drakuur. Their faces were lit by the glow of multiple monitors and equipment. Lights flashed and flickered on the rack-mounted gear.

  Emma took Rocco’s hand and sprayed a clear liquid onto his palm. It dried almost instantly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tracking gel. When you shake Suspa’s hand it will bond to the oils in his skin. We’ll be able to track him, and you, for 24 hours. So, if you have any funny ideas about taking off, we’ll find you.”

  “Thanks to you guys, I don’t walk so good anymore.” Rocco was still limping from the hoverboard crash. “I’m not planning on doing any running.”

  “Just act natural. Go about your meeting as usual. We’ll do the rest.” Emma’s eyes narrowed and her voice took a low, ominous tone. “If you tip him off, or in anyway blow this operation, it will be the last thing you do. Are we clear?”

  “You know, if they find out I led you to Suspa, I’m a dead man.”

  “You misunderstand,” Anderson said. “You died already. You do this, you’ll be reborn.” He flashed his trademark sm
ile.

  “I want full immunity from Federation prosecution. And I want to be relocated to a Federation colony of my choosing.”

  “You’ll get everything we agreed to,” Emma said. “Provided this leads us to Suspa and gets us to Ragza.”

  Rocco’s face tightened. “No. The deal was for Suspa. Its out of my control whether or not you bring down Ragza.”

  “Take it or leave it, dirtbag,” Anderson said.

  Rocco scowled at him. He didn’t have a choice.

  Emma looked at her watch. "Oaky, it's time to go." She unlatched the back door of the van and pushed it open. "Don't fuck this up."

  Rocco hopped out of the van and stepped onto the sidewalk. He disappeared into the crowd.

  Emma launched several mosquito drones. They were small insect like aerial vehicles, no larger than their namesake. They could either be flown via remote, with pre-programmed flight plans, GPS coordinates, or by object tracking.

  The drones buzzed into the air, and four different views appeared on the surveillance monitors.

  Emma closed the van doors and crawled back inside. She watched the monitors. The drones identified Rocco by facial recognition and proceeded to track him.

  Emma was glued to the monitors as he weaved through the pedestrians on the sidewalk. The view was perfect. The drones had optical image stabilization to keep from nausea inducing picture quality. The image was as smooth and level as anything out of a New Hollywood movie.

  The drones followed Rocco down the avenue and into the hotel lobby. The plaza Drakuur was a high-end luxury hotel. It was about as fancy as you could get in Mosaav. It was a far cry from the opulent suites in Nova York, but compared to some of the roach traps in the city, it seemed like the Taj Mahal.

  The lobby had marble floors and pillars that towered to the vaulted ceiling. It was alive with people coming and going. New travelers checking in, bellboys slinging luggage onto hover-carts. The sultry voice of a soft jazz singer filtered out of the piano bar. It was one of those hotels that even if you weren't staying there, you went for the food, drink, and entertainment. The bar was a popular night spot.