by Dan Moren
Getting to his feet, he made his way to the front of the van, ignoring the bouncing and swerving as Tapper pulled off the main boulevard and onto side streets.
“Well,” Kovalic said, plopping down in the passenger seat. “That was… unexpected.”
“You could say that.”
“We’ll need to ditch the van.”
“The station chief is not going to be happy,” Tapper warned.
“Yeah.” Kovalic worked his sore shoulder. At least the sealant seemed to be holding. For now. “We seem to have a way of making friends wherever we go, don’t we?”
“Regular life of the party, we are.”
Kovalic ran a hand through his hair. “Our top priority is finding Nat.”
“And the prince?”
Kovalic shrugged. “We find Nat. If he’s there too, that’s gravy. Honestly, I could really care less about him.”
“What would the general say to that?”
“Screw the general. This is my show now, sergeant. Any problems with that, speak now.”
The sigh that issued from Tapper was only partly remorseful, but he shook his head. “No problems, boss. But you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He jerked a thumb back at the embassy. “We just left Brody high and dry in the middle of an Illyrican hurricane.”
Kovalic pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he said mildly. “Shit.” He shook his head. “Who the hell were those guys, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Tapper, leaning into a sharp left turn. “Off the top of my head, I can think of about two dozen possibilities. But if I were Eyes, I know who would be number one on my list – with a bullet.”
“Who’s that?”
Tapper gave him a sideways look. “Us, boss.”
Interlude
Naval Base Mir, Terra Nova – February 2, 2399
“Wake up,” growled a voice. “We’re here.”
The sergeant blinked awake, his eyes adjusting to the dim red hues of light. The floor – no, wait, deck – shifted beneath his feet. The thrum of the engines and the slight drifting movement suggested an atmosphere rather than the vacuum of space, and the pitched whine of a straining repulsor field signaled they were setting down for a landing.
His nose itched; he raised his right hand to scratch it, but they came as a pair, secured by a set of manacles. The pesky itch dealt with, he lifted them towards his escort, who shook her head.
“When we’ve landed. That’s the procedure.” As though waiting for the words, the vessel jolted, its struts making contact with the tarmac. A moment later the engines powered down, their deafening roar descending to a low purr.
With a groan of hydraulics, the rear of the compartment opened, swinging down to form a ramp. Bright sunlight filtered in through the opening, and he blinked again, shading his eyes with his still-manacled hands.
The escort hauled him to his feet by the shoulder, then nudged him forward towards the ramp. He picked his way carefully across the deck.
Still blocking the pesky sunlight with his joined hands, he allowed himself to be led down the deck by the escort’s hand on his shoulder. A ray of light washed over his captor’s forearm, illuminating the red of her sleeve. That was a color he was thoroughly sick of by this point – if he never encountered it again it would be too soon.
About twenty feet from the bottom of the ramp stood their welcoming committee: three unarmed, uniformed men flanked by a pair of guards holding rifles. He squinted in the brightness, unable to make out the rank insignia gleaming on their shoulders. At least the uniforms weren’t red.
“Prisoner transfer from Illyrican Imperial shuttle 1138,” said his escort, coming to a halt at the ramp’s base. “Kovalic, Simon Vyacheslav.” This one didn’t stumble over his name. She’d probably been practicing it, repeating it like a mantra on their entire lengthy trip. “Sergeant. Service number K27845B. Formally returned to the Commonwealth of Independent Systems, as per agreement.”
His hands were pulled down by the escort, his eyes tearing up as they were deprived of their sunshade. The woman punched in a code on the manacles, and with a click they sprung open. He massaged his wrists, red and raw where the cuffs had been attached, but otherwise no worse for the wear.
Two of the unarmed men stepped forward to take his arm, the one on the right in a firm, though not painful fashion. Glancing down, he raised his eyebrows as he registered a familiar, weather-beaten face.
“Welcome back, kid,” Tapper muttered.
The remaining Commonwealth officer nodded to the Illyrican escort, who proceeded back up the ramp. It raised behind her, and the repulsors keened as they started up; he could feel the backwash on his face.
“Sergeant Kovalic,” the lead officer said. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you home to Terra Nova.”
He tensed. If anything, he was farther away from home than he’d ever been, on a planet that he’d never set foot on before. Details, he supposed. After a moment of hesitation, he extended his hand to take the one that the officer had extended. He was tall, with a build like a team of oxen and a face that looked like it could have been trampled by the same.
“Thank you–” he glanced at the man’s rank on his collar, “General…?”
“Abernathy. James Abernathy, Special Forces Command.”
The grip was of a pair with the man’s appearance, firm and probably strong enough to pull someone’s head off. If the general hadn’t spent some time in the field, it’d be a waste.
“I’d like to talk to you about a career opportunity, Sergeant Kovalic.”
“A career opportunity?”
“Well, given the successful nature of your mission on Mars, it’d be a pity to lose such an experienced and highly trained soldier as yourself.”
There was a whooshing noise in the sergeant’s head; he couldn’t have heard that right. “Successful?”
Abernathy’s brows knitted. “Indeed. For the last nine months, your team has disrupted supply lines all across Mars, and allowed our forces to make a strategic retreat from the solar system.”
He stared at Abernathy, dumbfounded.
“Er, yes,” the general continued. “And your guerrilla attacks on installations across the planet have significantly reduced the Illyricans’ capacity to marshal a significant fighting force.”
Blood had rushed to the sergeant’s head. “That sounds less like a success and a hell of a lot more like giving up.” The firm grip on his arm tightened like a blood pressure cuff.
The big man shrank back; it was only then that the sergeant realized that his whole body had tensed like a coiled spring, ready to strike. Only Tapper’s grip on his arm held him back, like a leash on a barking dog. He forced his muscles to relax.
He cleared his throat, and spoke through clenched teeth. “Excuse me, sir. I’ve been a prisoner of war for the last two months, and I’m afraid my captivity has taken a toll on me. If it’s all right, I will consider your offer after I’ve had some time to recuperate.”
Abernathy cleared his throat. “Oh. Of course, sergeant. Take as much time as you need – the resources of the Commonwealth military health services are entirely at your disposal.”
He was about to nod to the general and stalk away, when a squeeze came from the hand on his arm. He glanced quizzically down at Tapper, whose eyes darted to the general – no, to his rank insignia.
Belatedly, he drew himself up and issued a salute which, if not crisp, would probably suffice to prevent him from being dinged for insubordination. The general returned it, still looking a bit on the puzzled side, but he didn’t make any further comment as they walked away. The escort on his other arm was waved off, so by the time they rounded the corner, it was just him and Tapper.
He let out a long, drawn-out breath. “Christ, sarge. Do the rest of the brass have their heads that far up their asses?”
The other man shrugged. “They’re the brass, kid. That’s their prerogative.�
��
“They actually think Mars was a success? Our last foothold in the solar system all but obliterated, and rah-rah, everything’s great?”
“It could have been a lot worse.”
“Worse?” He stopped in his tracks, turning to face his compatriot. “How many of us made it out, sarge? How many of the 47th?”
The older man grimaced. “Seven.”
“Seven? From the whole platoon? Who?”
They were ticked off on fingers. “You. Me. Singh. Lee. Sadler. Okumbo. Gray.”
“Jesus. Kiroyagi?”
“Sniper on the Hellas ridge. She was dead before she hit the ground.”
He squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger. “Shit.”
“They knew what they were signing up for. Remember what Kiroyagi said?”
“But we picked them, sarge. We sent those people to their death.”
“Yes, we did. But that’s the job, kid.”
He looked up into the older man’s eyes. “So why are we still here?”
The other man sighed. “That’s the question we’ll be asking for the rest of our lives, believe me.”
Chapter 16
Over the years, Kovalic had found himself dealing with any number of station chiefs on a half a dozen different worlds. A few were more than happy to roll over for him, no doubt starry-eyed about the potential glory that might descend upon them at the conclusion of a successful covert operation. Most, though, resented any interference on their patch. For Kovalic, it was often a “There but for the grace of God…” moment – in another life, he probably would have ended up running a station. Somehow he didn’t think he was quite cut out for that.
Mainly, because then he would have been dealing with all the interlopers intruding on his territory. And he would be more than a bit envious of their ability to ride in and out, and not reap the consequences.
“Let me get this straight,” M’basa said, folding her hands calmly – too calmly, Kovalic noted – on her desk. “You used Commonwealth resources to initiate unauthorized surveillance on a sovereign power’s embassy, while already on foreign soil, and then you lost not one but two operatives while witnessing the abduction of a foreign dignitary?”
It had taken them about an hour to ditch the surveillance van and get back to the embassy. Tapper had made a number of attempts to raise Brody on comms, but the system that he and Nat had been using was short range, so they hadn’t held out much hope of a response, and indeed had got none. Having left the van in an underground garage that they’d jimmied open, they’d made the rest of the way back to the embassy on foot. The gate guard had shifted since Kovalic had arrived, but they had produced their respective cover identities and had him call M’basa, who had fortunately been burning the midnight oil. As a result, they had ended up providing an improvised debriefing to the station chief as the clock ticked towards tomorrow.
Kovalic looked at Tapper, who shrugged, and then back to M’basa. “That’s about the size of it.”
“About the size of it, or the exact size of it?” said M’basa, her eyes narrowing.
“Well we may also have been spotted by Bayern’s security services.”
“Oh, sure, of course,” said M’basa. “Why not? God help me, you and your outfit are a menace.” She stared pointedly at Kovalic.
“Our job does sometimes put us in unusual situations–”
“Congratulations: you’ve just been awarded the understatement of the year award. You can pick it up on your way off my planet.” She sighed. “Shit. I’m going to have to brief the ambassador on this.”
Kovalic exchanged a glance with Tapper. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. You’d probably just break his knees or something, would you?”
“I mean, I think that might be above and beyond,” said Kovalic, ignoring the acerbic glance that so frequently accompanied deliberately ignored sarcasm. “But what I mean to say is that if you do inform Ambassador Khan, then this unavoidably becomes a diplomatic incident. And once it becomes a diplomatic incident, then he’s got to reach out to the Illyrican ambassador. That means any chance we have of quietly locating and rescuing our people drops to zero.”
M’basa leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes flicking towards some point in space beyond their heads as she thought. “And I take it you don’t think that the Bayern security forces are up to the task of finding them?”
Tapper barely suppressed a chuckle that earned him a glare from M’basa. “Yes, Mr Tormundsen?”
“Er, I was just commenting, deputy consul, that Bayern security, good as they may be, are in over their heads here. Hell, how many murders do they see a year: two or three? I doubt that they have an adequately equipped hostage rescue team.”
“You’re asking me to authorize a covert operation on foreign soil. That’s way above my pay grade. The ambassador is the Commonwealth Executive’s representative here; that means he needs to approve anything of this sort.”
Bureaucracy: truly, Kovalic’s greatest enemy. “In our experience, the diplomatic corps prefer to have a certain degree of plausible deniability when it comes to direct action.”
M’basa rubbed at her brow as though she could somehow erase any memory of them being here.
“Look, I appreciate your concerns, deputy consul,” said Kovalic. “But I have two members of my team missing in action. My top priority is making sure that they’re safe.”
“Your loyalty is commendable, Mr Austen,” she said, sighing again. “I don’t suppose you have any actual leads on your missing people?”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Kovalic produced his night-vision binoculars. “I have a recording of one of their vehicles. If your tech team can clean up the image, we might be able to pull a registration number and backtrack.”
M’basa held out her hand. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Thanks,” said Kovalic, depositing the binoculars in her outstretched palm. “I appreciate it.”
“But,” said M’basa, raising her other hand with a warning finger. “I’m not giving you carte blanche here. You find a lead, you come to me, understood? If it’s actionable, we go to the ambassador and do this all by the book.”
“Understood.”
“And I have to ask: do you think your people’s covers will hold up to scrutiny?”
Kovalic looked to Tapper, who hesitated.
“I don’t think there was any reason for suspicion directed at Ms Mulroney,” he said slowly. “Mr Adler, though – well, his identity ought to remain intact.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “As long as he hasn’t done anything stupid.”
M’basa ignored the sotto voce comment, and turned her attention back to Kovalic. “Do you have any idea who’s behind the abduction?”
Another almost imperceptible glance shot between Kovalic and Tapper, but it didn’t go unnoticed by M’basa. “Spill it.”
“It’s unlikely to be a homegrown group. The Corporation has remained staunchly independent, and though there are no doubt factions who’d prefer not to deal with the Imperium, this is a bit extreme. There’s no history of this kind of violent activity onworld.”
“So who is a likely culprit?”
“Well,” said Kovalic. “In a situation like this, you have to ask yourself who has the most to gain by potentially destabilizing the Imperium. And that would seem to point right back to…” He waved his hand at the room at large.
M’basa blinked, then gave a short, sharp laugh. “I’m sorry, I could have sworn you just suggested that CID snatched the crown prince.”
“If the shoe fits…”
“A direct action op of that caliber would have had to have been approved by the station chief, who, in case you’ve lost track, is me.”
“Sure,” said Kovalic, leaning back in his chair. “Just like they told you we were coming.”
M’basa’s mouth set in a hard line. “Point taken,” she said. “Bu
t not everybody at CID is quite as reckless as you and your team.”
“Fair enough,” said Kovalic. “But even if it isn’t CID, there are half a dozen different organizations in the Commonwealth’s intelligence apparatus. Frankly, though, I’d limit our search to just a couple.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the initial lead on this whole deal was through NICOM, but they showed little interest in following up on it – and they didn’t oppose their officer going to my boss, so I can’t imagine they would have mobilized their own team. Nor do I think the Marine Intelligence Group is a likely candidate – too much military oversight to be allowed to drop in like this. The Commonwealth Security Bureau isn’t tasked for operations outside of Commonwealth worlds – this isn’t in their wheelhouse.”
“I appreciate the thorough analysis, Mr Austen,” said M’basa, a dry tone creeping into her voice, “but cut to the chase.”
“If it wasn’t us,” he said, gesturing to himself and Tapper, “then the only logical outfit is the black-bag guys in CID’s Activities Division. They could get authorization without it having to be approved by the local station chief, and they’ve got the hardware and operational expertise to pull it off.”
M’basa sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. “You think it was them?”
“I… don’t know,” said Kovalic. “And I don’t know that it matters – if we’re going to chase a lead, we have to do it from the evidence we have, not the theories we’ve cobbled together. It’s something to keep in the back of our head, though.”
“But if it is a Commonwealth agency, then Ms Mulroney ought to be safe, shouldn’t she?”
“Due respect,” Tapper piped in, “but we can’t assume that’s the case. Ms Mulroney won’t break her cover voluntarily. There’s a real chance we’ll just end up with some very big, very unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Agreed,” said Kovalic. “I think we have to proceed under the assumption that both our agents are in hostile – if unknowing – hands.”
“The bigger problem,” said Tapper, “is that if IIS’s thought process follows ours even broadly, they’re likely to be barking up your tree.”
