by Daniel Gibbs
Sevastopol Rast had the contents of his duffel bag arranged on a set of short containers. Jackson lost count at fourteen of the number of weapons he’d brought along. The number of detonators and wiring packs easily dwarfed the array. Sev muttered questions to Ehud Dwyer, who showed off a set of miniature shaped charges, the same kind he’d used back on Hebrides Major when he’d disabled Iris’s hovercraft.
Jackson had wondered where the black-market arms dealer had wound up in the criminal justice system, so he’d looked up her docket—due to stand trial in a month or so. Victor Malehorn—Vic, as Jackson had known him in his weeks undercover, had turned state’s evidence. If Vic had tried looking up his former partner in crime, “Jack Aiken” he would be met with a wall of silence and subtle hints of incarceration at a military facility, standard procedure when one of Jackson’s aliases needed to disappear. It was either vanishing or death.
He’d died three times, as a matter of fact.
“All the gear’s accounted for, Captain.” Brant joined him by the yawning maw of the open cargo hatch. Stars glittered through the semi-transparent cofferdam walls. The floor and ceiling were solid connectors. “I got word from Colonel Sinclair—we’re pushing out of dock at oh nine hundred hours.”
“Thanks.” Jackson’s wrist communicator blazed blue light up at him. Ten minutes.
“She might surprise you this time,” Brant said. “Why wouldn’t she take the money and stay home?”
“It’s not as if Intelligence is giving it away. The chit is security enabled.”
“I don’t think that would slow her down, do you? Gina’s going to look out for Gina. She’s signed the Official Secrets agreement. She knows the penalty for going rogue, so she’ll stay under the scanners. But she’s not in this for her nation, Jack. She’s independent.”
“Everybody’s independent, Brant,” Jackson said. “That’s why the Coalition exists.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.”
They lapsed into a companionable silence for a few minutes, which consisted of Brant reading his tablet loaded with their team’s equipment manifest while Jackson gazed at the last stragglers bringing containers aboard.
Brant cleared his throat. “So… how was the ranch?”
“The same as it always is.”
“I figured. Your new look is colorful.” By “look,” he meant the violet bruise above Jackson’s left eye.
It reached back toward his ear. Jackson shook his head, and it didn’t ache much at all. “I can’t seem to get through to them. Funny. I can talk just about anyone into anything when I’m running an op, especially if I’ve played the role of their best pal or newest business partner in illegal activity. Put me into an earnest conversation with my brother, though—worse than a reactor meltdown.”
“I can imagine.” Brant grimaced. “When you get my mother, my sisters, and my cousins all in a room, usually with my grandparents refereeing, it’s like boot camp without any drill sergeants keeping everybody in line. We manage to scream it all out in time for dinner, so everyone’s laughing by the end. I think it’s all the guilt we Catholics run on.”
“Sounds like a better end result than the Adamses can manage. I’ll be lucky if they let me back in the homestead.”
“Give them time. Between your dad’s illness and you brother’s stubbornness, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
Patience, something Jackson knew he had a deep well of but, for whatever reason, couldn’t seem to access while he was in Harry’s proximity. Well, he’d better push it out of his mind for the duration of the trip, especially if he was going to take on another role as part of his cover.
Of course, those kinds of details were the perfect personal touches to work into a legend. The closer his cover story was to his real life—minus the CDF Intelligence service record—the easier it was to talk to people when they asked questions. It made it easier to lead them with lies into the trap set by the Coalition.
All in the name of keeping his people safe, even when everyone seemed happy to no longer live under the threat of war.
“Cap’n?” Dwyer gestured toward the dock end of the cofferdam with a bright-red square in his hand. Jackson realized with a start that Dwyer held a block of molecular explosive. If it had been anybody else casually wielding enough material to blow a hole the size of a cargo shuttle in the side of Oxford’s hull, he would have reprimanded them and written them up in a misconduct report to Colonel Sinclair. But he knew Dwyer would never be so cavalier with an object that posed legitimate danger. “Looks like the fifth finger of our hand decided to show up.”
Where…? It figured he would miss her, even when he’d made it his goal to stake out the cargo bay entrance. Gina Wilkes was framed by two young, tall Marine sentries. She wore a brown jumpsuit with gray panels, and sans hat, her curly black hair hung loosely at her shoulders. Green eyes glinted with either mischief or outrage. The hard set of her expression, smile notwithstanding, told Jackson she didn’t appreciate being kept waiting. It should have been the first item noted on her personnel profile.
“I can’t believe she cut it this close,” Brant muttered.
“What was that about Sparks and me being wrong, with you being a happy man?” Jackson couldn’t resist the dig and headed across the cofferdam before Brant could offer a friendly but sharp comeback.
The pale-faced, freckled sentry on Gina’s right saluted Jackson.
Jackson, in uniform and cover, returned the gesture.
“Captain? This lady says she’s authorized to board, but I’m only allowed personnel with the right clearance past this point.” The sentry checked the tiny screen mounted to his armored glove. “The ID code is valid, sir, but it hasn’t been updated through the proper channels.”
“I can vouch for both the code and her orders, Corporal. She’s here by express permission of Colonel Sinclair. Check your missives for COU 171.”
“Yes, sir, I did, but she’s, ah, registered as an independent contractor. She just didn’t look like…”
The rest of his sentence evaporated under Jackson’s stern gaze. He understood the problem. Gina’s appearance wasn’t any different than the repair teams and civilian contractors from SSI traipsing around the docks, but she was armed not only with a pistol strapped in a thigh holster but a stubby submachine gun slung from her shoulder.
“I told him you were my get-out-of-jail pass, Captain.” Gina’s voice was as sweet as syrup.
“She’s with us, Corporal. This is CDF Intelligence staffing prerogative—you don’t need to know why she’s here, only that she is, and she’s coming aboard. Let her pass.”
“Yes, sir.” To Gina he offered a nod. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Gina rolled her eyes as Jackson led her aboard the ship. “Ma’am. Just because he’s barely this side of twelve—”
“Take it easy. You’ve got to get used to the protocols again. A lot of hours will be spent with the folks in uniform this mission.”
“Which isn’t all bad.” Gina reached for his insignia, tilting it so it glinted in the overhead lights. “Seriously, though, I’ll try to be nicer to your friends. That isn’t to say I’m going to spend every night before bed reading the Code of Conduct and the UCMJ. I brought Melville and Tolkien instead.”
Jackson smiled. “Always nice to have you back. Did you get your payment deposited?”
“I didn’t even need you to unlock it.”
“Which I would have, if you’d asked.”
“Such a gentleman. I take it the boys are all waiting?”
Dwyer met them first, having jogged over from his inventory with Sev. “There’s our sunshine. Hiya, Ms. Wilkes.”
“Good to see you, too, Sparks.” Gina gave him a peck on the cheek. “And, Lieutenant Guinto—no flowers.”
“Welcome aboard, Gina.” Brant nodded.
She leaned into Jackson and stage-whispered, “Did he bet against me showing up again?”
Dwyer snort
ed his way through chuckles. Sev looked up from his stack of weaponry, continuing to clean the rifle he’d fieldstripped. “Gina.”
“Hello, Sev. How’s the cabin?”
“Done. Cozy.”
“Thanks for sending the photo of the bearskin rug. A neighbor of yours?”
Sev grinned. “A competitor for food. He is no more.”
“Always charming.”
Jackson took in the sight of his crew. “Well, everybody, this is it. As soon as we cast off, it’s comms blackout. I’m collecting all personal devices. Captain Tamir will coordinate with each of you for your quarters. There’s a staff meeting at oh eighty hundred thirty tomorrow in the officer’s wardroom, off the main operations center. Check your tablets and wrist comms for deck plans. Any questions yet?”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n.” Dwyer propped his boot on a box. “We’re going to hunt Leaguers? Does it mean a war is on again?”
“Not if we can help it, Warrant. Our role is to keep them from infiltrating the Coalition and put a stop to destabilize it. We treat this like a cartel—take them down from the inside. This has the highest priority, all the way down from the Oval Office.”
“Official sanction for unofficial dirty deeds.” Gina grinned. “Just like old times.”
“Old times but with the reactor cranked to max,” Jackson said. “Welcome to Covert Action Unit 171.”
Kolossi Landing Field
Aphendrika—Terran Coalition
14 July 2464
Andreas Stefanidis stayed well back from the refugee crowds barging toward the perimeter fence’s gate. He had no desire to get lumped in with the unruly crowd whose antics had earned rounds of suppression smoke from TCFE.
Most around him were strangers. When word had filtered through the transport’s hold of an illicit shuttle run to the planet’s surface, Andreas seized it as the only way out of his depressed state. Najwa was inconsolable. Only the concerted efforts of neighboring families had kept her from completely breaking down. Connor O’Brien’s widow, Jillian, had merged her clan with theirs in each one’s best effort to keep them all sane. But Andreas had to find his little girl.
His pursuit of Yira’s kidnappers—the same men who’d killed Connor and seized Connor’s son, Aidan—had led him to the muddy landing field. Emergency tents huddled next to each other against the elements. No one knew when they would be able to leave or if they would be transferred. So far, no one had been shipped back up to the orbiting transports.
Instead, charitable organizations had distributed supplies. Medics had entered the makeshift camp, assessing individual health and evaluating camp conditions. But those visits had tapered off because unruly young men stormed the gates more and more often as TCFE admitted those who sought to help.
The officers didn’t take kindly to the disruption. Stun rounds whistled into the men nearest the fences, scattering the biggest of the crowds. A handful had to be dragged away by their compatriots.
Andreas scowled and went back to his prepackaged meal. What fools. He wondered how anyone was supposed to work their way to freedom when they rose up against the very people from whom they sought help.
An older, burly Asian man sat next to him. “Andreas.”
“Hello, Jian. Do you have news for me?”
“Of Yira? No. I’m sorry. My connections only go so far in a disorganized mess like this.” Jian had fled execution by the External Security Service for resigning his commissar’s post near the end of the war. Andreas had been given his name as a man with connections to the black market upon landing in that wretched field. “It seems your best bet is to make contact with the relief workers coming in. I overheard them discussing the trafficking problem among themselves the other day. But for now, I’d steer clear of the fence.”
“Yes, I noticed our young hotheads are busy antagonizing the guards.”
“They’re not ours. I did a head count.” Jian’s gaze followed the clusters of young men still milling by the gate as green-blue suppression smoke drifted around their ankles. “We didn’t have this many of Turkish descent when we first arrived. At least fifty more have snuck in.”
“Snuck in? How? The TCFE officers let only medical aid and food deliveries in with their volunteer deliverers.”
“Word has it some strip off their identifying gear and take places among us. I don’t know what they want, but it can’t be good. It stinks of League efforts to destabilize a situation, which is likely why drug use has skyrocketed.”
Drugs. Andreas had seen a few addicts back on Azar III. Here, though, more and more were showing signs of addiction—and withdrawal deaths had begun yesterday. Tension rose among a significant portion of the refugees, notably in young men and women—a manic tension. The slightest provocation led to loud arguments. Fistfights erupted daily.
Andreas didn’t know how the drugs had gotten in, but rumor pointed to officers selling it through the fence. He wasn’t sure about that myth. How much money did the refugees have among them? And why would they throw it away on drugs? “Whatever they’re taking, it’s hurting them badly.”
“That’s because we’re not dealing with the typical mind-numbing narcotics.” Jian’s voice was hushed. “It’s called Orbita. You wouldn’t have seen it used among our citizens. Our leaders manufactured it solely for export to disrupt our neighbors and make conquest easier. It looks like someone is hoping to achieve the same chaos inside these fences.”
Shouts exploded from the gate. TCFE officers were inside, armed, pushing forward in a defensive line.
Andreas grabbed Jian’s arm as he rose. “Come! They’re taking a woman out!”
Curiosity overcame him. Andreas led Jian to the far edge of a crowd.
An officer pulled on a woman, who screamed over the tumult, “Let me go! I won’t leave with you! Where is my husband?”
“Shut your mouth! I know you’re Demir. I saw you outside the fences last week sniffing around.” The officer shoved her into the cordon. “Restrain her, and clear the rest of these people out!”
Gunfire cracked. The officer sprawled in the dirt, howling like a wounded wild animal. Blood gushed from his thigh.
“Someone’s armed!”
Officers raised their riot shields, the electrified edges crackling blue in the dim overcast afternoon.
More gunshots. Another officer fell then a third—a woman, struck in the face. The penetrating round spattered gore on her partner. Andreas spotted a young man wearing tattered coveralls much like the rest of the refugees, waving a pistol. Turkish ethnic background, like Jian had noted.
The TCFE response was immediate. Officers opened fire with stun rounds at anyone and everyone, knocking down not just young men but elders, women. Andreas saw a ten-year-old girl slammed off her feet.
“Get down!” Jian flattened him into the muddy grass.
More stun rounds ripped the air above them. Shouts and screams pierced the sky, but shots still came from the officers. Andreas peered up through blades of grass as he covered his head. The few officers who had fired were restrained by their peers, their weapons confiscated, and the whole group—wounded officers, plus the still-yelling woman—retreated through the safety of the gate.
The suppression smoke rolled in thick, and as it blotted out his view, Andreas helped Jian upright, the other man hacking in a terrible cough. How am I ever going to find Yira and Aidan if these maniacs tear us apart?
Terrans sought help from deities. Such sentiments would have gotten him killed in the League, Andreas knew, but at that desperate moment, he was willing to consider any option.
Vasiliy Kiel waited until officers shoved the woman into a truck for holding. They left her there, shackled but unattended, as they raced off to tend to their wounded compatriots. He had plenty of time in which to slip in and use a plasma torch to sever the restraints.
“Where’s my money?” The woman rubbed her wrists.
Kiel took her around the back of a temporary container dump, where leftovers from the
aid convoys were piled. “It’s been transferred to your people. Take the skimmer and rendezvous with them.”
She hopped onto the sleek single-seater hovercraft and took off toward the road, mingling with other vehicles and blending into the city itself. Kiel blew out a breath. It was a calculated risk, relying on the Demir cartel addicts to carry out his dirty work, but by the stars, it had been a success so far. Between slipping their people into the camp—armed—and riddling the refugees with Orbita, he’d gotten the outsized reaction he wanted.
A car pulled up nearby. Ferenc, his cyber eye shining, opened the passenger door for him. “I placed the call, sir. News drones are on the way.”
Sure enough, the camera-wielding robots whirred overhead. They flitted to the edge of the fence, where TCFE drones—slower, but armored and bearing stun devices meant to short out other bots—herded them away.
Kiel smirked. “I take it the crews themselves aren’t far behind.”
“They were pretty excited about the tip. I think they’re betting on a juicy story.”
“Aren’t we all?” Kiel gestured ahead at the road. “Get us clear before they lock this place down.”
Ferenc wheeled them toward the city, steering clear of the emergency craft wailing toward the fences. Patrol scout trucks raced around from opposite sides along the fence, apparently called in by the emergency at the main gate.
It was a decent first spark. Kiel glanced back at the chaos in the distance. Now to fan the flames.
7
CSV Oxford
En Route to Aphendrika—Terran Coalition
15 July 2464
Footage of the Kolossi Field Riot, as news networks had dubbed it, rode out on the repeaters to every corner of the Coalition in a few hours. Within a day, the story reached the neutrals and the Saurians. Everywhere it landed, pundits posed the same question.
