by Daniel Gibbs
Jackson glanced around the quiet warehouse. Sunlight streamed in through the holes in the roof. He caught his reflection in a nearby puddle. Whatever the colonel wanted, one thing was certain. Things were about to get very interesting. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
3
Fleet Yards
In Orbit of Canaan—Terran Coalition
13 July 2464
The lift hummed through the station, only a distracting beep for each level it passed. Captain Jackson Adams adjusted the fit of his uniform’s collar. Still too snug. He unfastened it, straightened a crease, then resealed the catch.
“Problem, Captain?” First Lieutenant Brant Guinto rocked on his heels. The stocky Filipino looked like his uniform was a comfortable pair of pajamas. He sported the flag of New Washington on his shoulder with the Roman Catholic emblem of yellow-and-white squares topped by crossed keys.
“Too many weeks spent in civilian clothes, Home.” Jackson used Brant’s code designation from their recent operation. “I forget how stiff they are. Give me a couple of days.”
“I’ll give you two minutes, sir, because I don’t want to stand next to you in front of Colonel Sinclair while you play with your jacket.”
Jackson ignored his jibe and instead checked his appearance in the dim reflection of the lift’s control panel. The blond curls were gone, replaced by sandy brown in a shorter cut—but not a regulation trim. No sense in doing so until he knew what his new orders entailed. His eyes were back to their normal dark brown instead of the obnoxious gray-blue ocular adhesives. Several scars had vanished, thanks to microsurgery reversal. He was himself again.
The lift doors opened onto a sprawling wardroom. Deck-to-overhead windows offered a breathtaking view of skeletal gantries cradling a long, bulky ship studded with antennae and knobby projections. It appeared as unassuming as any freighter, though to Jackson, the engines looked overpowered for a civilian model. If it weren’t for the space-suited figures swarming the exhaust cowlings, attaching panels he calculated were meant for disguise, and the way the weapons emplacements were exposed in deep cavities, he would have guessed it was a refit gone wrong.
“It’s never a pleasant sight for me, seeing her all stove-up this way.” Colonel Robert Sinclair approached from the far corner of the wardroom. “I am comforted knowing she’ll have longer legs and sharper teeth. Welcome, gentlemen.”
“Sir.” Jackson whipped off a salute smarter than he’d attempted outside the academy. Brant’s matched his in both formality and timing. “Captain Jackson Adams and First Lieutenant Brant Guinto reporting as ordered.”
Sinclair smiled, and though his salute was just as crisp, his smile hinted at a relaxed state of mind. “Very glad to see you both. At ease, fellows. Please, have a seat.”
Jackson and Brant joined him on chairs ringed so the occupants could all face the windows. “Thank you, Colonel,” Jackson said. “If you don’t mind, sir, we were expecting to be moved on to our next assignment. Rest and resupply, develop legends, and make contacts…”
“I’m aware of that, Captain. If you’re awaiting an apology, I shan’t have one forthcoming.”
Heat raced to Jackson’s face. He didn’t dare glance at Brant, should he find his second-in-command smirking. “No, sir. I understand. It’s the nature of the in-person request that threw me off.”
“A fair point. But the powers that be would rather there were not recordable communications, not for this assignment.”
“I see, sir.”
“Captain, Lieutenant, are either of you familiar with the refugee situation with the League of Sol along our border?”
Jackson glanced at Brant and saw the puzzled expression he thought his own mirrored.
“Bits and pieces, sir,” Brant answered. “But we’ve been on deep cover for a few months, Captain Adams the most. I ran the communications aspect, so I picked up dispatches… sir, I gather it’s bad.”
“Bad enough. General MacIntosh is convinced the League is sending agents in with the people fleeing their territory—wolves among the sheep, so to speak. Yet, we’ve also gotten wind of a major trafficking effort. Someone is cutting young people out of the fold and selling them.”
Jackson clenched his hands on the chair’s upholstery before he realized what he was doing. “Trafficking… in children?”
“Mostly teenagers. Though that does not make the situation any better. I have my suspicions as to the why. Trafficking is, unfortunately, lucrative. What better way to funnel money into an operation one does not want any record of? If I were League, and it were my command, I would hazard that finding a disreputable source of income that not only kept me funded but also gained access to criminal connections would be the best mode.”
It wasn’t news. Jackson had just finished pretending to be an information thief—in the company of criminals. “This is something you want us to look into, Colonel? You and—General MacIntosh?” His mind finally caught up with whose name Sinclair had mentioned.
“That’s right, Captain, the chairman of the joint chiefs. He and I had a very nice chat in the Oval Office about your work.”
Brant coughed, like he’d choked on something—likely an expression of surprise. “You were speaking with the president, sir?”
“The one and the same, plus the vice president and Sec Def Snow.” Sinclair smiled. “They wanted to know the best people I could find for this new task. I brought forth your names. Seems whatever this problem is, how deep it runs, I’m allowed the widest of berths when it comes to staffing a solution. Here.”
He placed a tablet on the low table between them. Jackson’s eyes widened as he read. Brant leaned in, his hand propping his chin.
“A five-person team,” Sinclair said. “Chosen to your specifications. You would be based on Oxford, which will provide necessary communications encryption and signals interception. I am choosing two platoons of Space Special Warfare operators who will be our combat arm. CSV Tuscon will project spaceborne power where needed She’s a stealth raider, and I must say, her skipper, Major Mancini, sounded positively delighted when I offered him a chance at something besides sniffing around League border posts in the dark.”
“And this team of ours—”
“Of yours. Make no mistake, Captain—I command Covert Action Unit One-Seventy-One, but the action group is yours. Your people are tasked with the infiltration and dismantling of whatever the League is up to. To that end, your actions will be sanctioned by the president himself, but as always, if you and your team are caught—”
“With all respect, Colonel, we know the drill.” He did, but Jackson also wasn’t keen on hearing a verbal reminder of how he would be disavowed by his nation if his identity were revealed upon capture, which was why CDF Intelligence worked so hard to prevent that from happening. “To be clear, when it comes to the composition of the team, I can choose its members?”
“You may indeed. Of course, all nominees will be vetted by myself. Am I correct in assuming Lieutenant Guinto will remain as your exec?”
“He will, sir, unless you see fit to replace him with one of your people.”
“Kind of you to give me the option, Captain.” Sinclair smiled wryly. “I am not, however, in the business of second-guessing officers whose field performance is outstanding. From what I read, your last assignment netted dozens of arrests and the capture of at least three ships involved in surplus weaponry theft.”
“Yes, sir.”
“An excellent conclusion, aided no doubt by your ability to maintain your cover for several months while gaining a corrupt data clerk’s trust.” Sinclair retrieved the tablet and tapped a series of commands. “But that’s no surprise, given your background. You were an actor, correct?”
“Ah, for a while, sir. I dabbled in school and was known to put on, er, morale-boosting shows during my service.”
“Very entertaining, sir,” Guinto offered, deadpan. “Especially when he portrayed famous officers, like General Cohen or—”
/> “I went for more formal training after completing my mandatory service.” Jackson spoke quickly before his friend could reveal any of the more embarrassing impressions.
“While you were with CIS.”
“Yes, sir.” The Coalition Intelligence Service was the foreign intelligence arm of Terran government, a civilian entity known for sometimes working in tandem with CDF. “That’s where I honed my undercover work before rejoining the military.”
“And your operational status continued through the end of the war, when you were credited—quietly of course—with the destruction of a supply depot in the disputed territories along the League border, were you not?”
“Yes, Colonel.” Why is he so keen on that operation? It was one of my last major actions before the more recent undercover mission, sure, but…
“Which marked the second and most extensive use you made of, shall we say, unorthodox civilian contractors.”
Jackson sat up straighter. Oh, boy. That was why the colonel was fishing.
“Sir, in his defense, Captain Adams knew the loyalties of those two were firmly for the League, and he’d seen them in action on their own before recruiting them to Intelligence,” Guinto blurted.
“I’m sure the good captain can speak for himself, Lieutenant, though speaking of loyalty, I do appreciate yours.” Sinclair indicated his tablet. “I wasn’t complaining about your selection, merely curious, given how you involved them in your actions then received backdated approval from your previous commander to do so.”
“Major Ritnour saw their effectiveness and agreed with my after-action report. Sir.”
“Ah. ‘The necessity of striking a blow at the League’s weak point in this sector overrides strict adherence to regulation.’ That is how you worded it.”
Considering that line was pulled from halfway through the third page of Jackson’s five-page summary, he was impressed Sinclair had dug that deep—though not surprised.
“Fear not, Captain. I am suitably sold on their abilities. They will be reminded of the chain of command once you read them into this new assignment.” Sinclair stood.
Jackson and Brant did likewise.
He handed them both sealed pouches that had been tucked into his belt. “Gentlemen, your orders and relevant details. You have until we sail on the twenty-first.”
“A week?” Jackson frowned. “Colonel, I’ve got two of my team ready at a moment’s notice, but the others…”
“They’re both on Canaan. No need to fret. I took the liberty of including their current whereabouts as well as when they will be most free in their schedules to accommodate a visit from you. The envelope also contains authorization for prepayment—a bonus, if you will, to entice said contractors, should they prove reluctant.” Sinclair saluted. “Carry on.”
Jackson and Brant saluted as he departed in the gravlift.
As soon as the doors shut, Brant exhaled. He sagged onto a couch. “That’s a heck of a thing, Captain. Do you think he wants us to eat the orders once we’ve read them?”
“They probably have chemically induced disintegration.” Jackson pocketed the envelope. “Did you catch everything on that authorization on Sinclair’s tablet?”
“Sure did. Somebody high up is keen on us being the knife stabbed into the League’s back.” Brant grinned. “Sounds about usual, doesn’t it?”
“That doesn’t bother me. It’s the whole mixing and mingling with a bunch of unknown elements. Special ops teams? They’re all flash and bang, no subtlety. And a stealth raider is one hell of an asset, but those are a lot bigger guns than we’re used to bringing.”
“Well, Yukon was a destroyer escort, not exactly an unarmed shuttle.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.”
“Sure sounds like complaining, sir.”
Jackson shook his head. “Brant, we can get Warrant Dwyer on board easily enough, but Gina? And Sev?”
“Right.” Brant made a face. “You think Sinclair was serious about having their coordinates? God does like surprises, after all.”
“If it were anybody other than Colonel Robert Sinclair, I’d laugh all the way back to the airlock. But he’ll know exactly where they are, given how closely he dug into our mission reports and personnel files. That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“Whether there’s enough money in here to interest either of them. Come on. We’d better catch up with Sparks for the next shuttle to the surface.” And hope our independent types won’t mind throwing in for their country one more time.
Kolossi Landing Field
Aphendrika—Terran Coalition
13 July 2464
Kiel handed the box of freeze-dried emergency rations to the next person then reached for another box. Fourteen men and women passed relief supplies to the edge of the metal fencing surrounding the landing field, where Terran Coalition Frontier Enforcement officers armed with ballistic rifles maintained a cordon by a double gate. Their angry commands kept the hundreds of refugees swarming the exit from getting too close, but even with such security in place, they were heaving boxes over the fence and into their midst rather than risking letting anyone out.
Several acres of Kolossi Landing Field, the second largest on Aphendrika and located on the southeast edge of the city, had been blocked off to keep the refugees in. Twenty thousand, by Kiel’s count. They’d snuck down late one night when a wave of shuttles and bulky barges had made a break for the planet’s surface. By the time local authorities had reacted and TCFE ships had raced to intercept, they’d been offloaded. Only the swift establishment of a perimeter within the field had kept them from spilling out into the city.
That was fine by Kiel. He’d sent the codes to freighter captains for authorized entry into Aphendrika airspace—a gift for their cooperation in the trafficking. They were perfectly happy to dump their cargo and jump free of the system.
Now, with himself and five of his people interspersed among Compassionate Stars Aid Group volunteers, he had the perfect avenue to disseminate another gift. The boxes did contain food, but into every tenth, Kiel’s agents had secreted Orbita—just enough to get a good portion of the refugees hooked, not enough to sustain them.
He smiled. They would indulge, they would become addicted, and within weeks of the first hit, they would be unable to satisfy their cravings. Irrationality would beget violence. Violence would incur a harsh response from the surly, underpaid TCFE officers already shouting threats at the people who’d fled to a Terran world from a mortal enemy’s arms.
Boxes broke open as they hit the ground. Men clambered over each other to get the contents. Women stood back, restraining children, screaming either in encouragement or fear. People threw punches. Bodies slammed against the fence.
“Get back! I said, get back!” A TCFE officer fired her rifle skyward. More officers joined her at the gate, stun prods ready at the gaps in the fence links. Energy crackled from the business ends.
Enough common sense seeped into the fracas to calm the worst offenders. Friends dragged brawlers out of the crush of bodies swarming the torn-open crates. Rations littered the grass. Groups of companions and whole families scooted back to the emergency shelters set up forty meters away, the beige prefabricated panels uniform in their drabness.
Like ants to their hills. Though Kiel couldn’t remember much more about the insects around the state education center where he’d grown up. Well, besides grinding them daily under his boots.
“That’s it for this load.” A blond woman wiped sweat off her brow. “Somebody want to take the truck back into the city for more supplies? I’ve got to go in with the patrol officers to see if any of the refugees need medical assistance.”
“I’m on it.” Kiel accepted the ignition fob from her. He started the truck then waved for his five men to hop aboard. “We’ll be back in an hour.”
That would be plenty of time for a new shipment of Orbita to make its way into the camp.
Cries echo
ed across the field. Kiel glanced back out of the cab. Eight women and two men pressed against the fence, pleading with TCFE and the blond medic from Compassionate Stars, Devereaux—Kiel finally recalled her name. They were going on about children.
“Are they going to be a problem for us?” Kiel asked one of his men.
“No, sir. Sounds like they were on the transports our people hit the other week. Not any of us, though. We’re following your orders—no one who’s on trafficking detail comes down for supply runs. Teams stay separate with the criminal elements we’re using.”
“Good. Make sure I see the rosters every evening. Slipping up gives people hope and makes them bold, makes them think they can go to the authorities to right their wrongs.”
“Understood, sir.” The man grimaced. “What if they wind up doing that anyway? These traitors are desperate. What if they get individualistic ideals about their independence?”
“Then we’ll continue our operation to antagonize the authorities by riling the refugees as much as possible,” Kiel said. “Until TCFE—and the Terran Coalition as a whole—will come to hate millions of intruders just as much as the fleets they thought they defeated in the war.”
Kiel steered the truck onto the main road, joining the stream of traffic heading into Kolossi proper. He checked his wrist unit—fifteen minutes to the Compassionate Stars warehouse, twenty-five minutes to load, five minutes for the detour to meet a second truck run by the Demir cartel and retrieve Orbita, and fifteen minutes allotted for the return to the refugee camp while his men inserted Orbita packets into random boxes.
Trafficked teens paid for the weapons and bribes. Demir sold the Orbita Kiel provided, taking a modest cut and giving Kiel the bulk of the profits. In exchange, they held on to all stockpiles of the drug, which meant the League kept its hands clean if local authorities or a semi-competent Coalition Bureau of Investigation squad rounded up hapless dealers.
