Victory's Wake (Deception Fleet Book 1)

by Daniel Gibbs

  “Oxford confirmed my signals monitoring too,” Brant said. “The chatter among Demir frequencies we cracked isn’t reassuring for our favorite cartel. They’re still trading punches with Red Ring. Local LEOs have cracked down, what with the very public nature of the feud. I’ve been sending what data we have over to the CBI agent in charge.”

  “Aren’t we in the sharing mood?” Gina murmured.

  “It’s still anonymous. Command will clear up any misunderstandings.” Brant looked at Jackson. “Right?”

  “We’ll leave that to the colonel. Okay, people, let’s head out.”

  After the other three emptied the room, Brant caught Jackson by the stairwell door. “How are you holding up?”

  “These?” Jackson indicated his wound patches. “They hurt. I suspect they’ll work for a while. The free trip to Oxford’s sick bay helped.”

  “No, I meant…” Brant tapped the side of his head. “About Euke.”

  Jackson’s insides churned. He thought he’d put the sickness over Euke’s death aside. But all Brant had to do was ask a single question, and it came crashing back. “It’s not the first time I’ve had an informant die.”

  “It isn’t, but you’re taking this one personally.”

  “Last I checked, having a conscience wasn’t a liability.”

  “Definitely not. But you don’t have to carry around the guilt. Euke was involved with shady actors. He knew the risks—just like we all knew the risks of our operation. Even when Gina ran off after the freighter, I wasn’t worried about my life—I know where my final home is. I was upset because I didn’t want the rest of our team hurt. Euke wasn’t on our team, but you made a connection with him. You had to.” Brant touched his heart. “That sticks around here, maybe even more so when a man’s killed like he was.”

  “I know. I’m taking responsibility for my actions.”

  “Don’t let responsibility become blame. He didn’t have to call in the traffickers. Maybe he was trying to make amends.” Brant frowned. “God’s greatest gift to us is forgiveness. His Son paid the ultimate penalty. We can be thankful it’s given. Take solace in knowing it’s true, okay?”

  Jackson wasn’t so sure about it. After all the lies he’d told over the years, all the actions he’d taken against individuals both guilty and innocent, forgiveness seemed a tall order. He knew billions of people relied on the promise, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Not then. Not yet.

  Funnily enough, it was easier for him to extend that forgiveness to others than to himself. The echoes of his argument with Harry before his departure filtered through his memory. There was another place Brant’s talk of forgiveness could do real good.

  Jackson nodded. “I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, I’ll leave most of the praying to someone who’s more of an expert than I am.”

  “Not an expert, Captain, just trying to be faithful.”

  “Then keep it up. I’m not about to start an argument with God when one of his followers is going to help us stop the League from inciting bloodshed.”

  The question is, Jackson pondered as they headed up the stairs, whether everybody else involved in this crisis is as willing to keep the peace.

  Colonel Sinclair watched as the fourteen ships of the Fifteenth Space Action Group blinked onto the tactical display from their Lawrence drive-generated wormholes. Already he could see how tight a leash General Milliken kept his people on. The formation was near perfect in its arrangement settling on the periphery of the TCFE blockade—two Ajax destroyers, seven frigates, and four Pikeman corvettes centered around the antimatter cruiser, a good balance of speed and firepower.

  “Comms, secure link to CSV Marcus Aurelius. I understand the general’s been briefed on our operation, but let’s be courteous, shall we?”

  “Aye, sir, secure link established. Marcus Aurelius responding.”

  Sinclair gestured to the main screen.

  Brigadier General Travis Milliken was a burly man, muscles bulging against his uniform. The neatly trimmed sideburns were brilliant white against a dark-brown complexion. His stern countenance relaxed so subtly that Sinclair was sure most people would have missed the signs. “Colonel Sinclair. How goes the hunt?”

  “We are drawing the net as I speak, though thus far our quarry has proven both elusive and dangerous.”

  “Command gave me the gist of your operation but left the details out. I’d appreciate a more thorough version.”

  “And you shall have it within the hour, General. I trust you’ve made contact with TCFE?”

  “On my way in, yes. They’re not too thrilled about an entire fleet showing up when they claim the situation is under control.” Milliken snorted. “It took five minutes of me dumping their own reports back in their laps to point out otherwise.”

  “From what I have been told, the refugee fleet is becoming rather unsettled. Captain Tamir, your analysis?”

  Tamir nodded. He brought up the report on his console then mirrored it to both Oxford’s main screen and over to Milliken’s display via the secure transmission. “What you can see here are ship movements over the past week. Border’s kept them away from the planet, but every so often, clusters of barges try to sneak down. Since then, the main influx Border has upped their shuttle patrols above and inside the atmosphere. But each day, more of the refugee transports nudge closer to low orbit in greater numbers. TCFE frequencies are full of commanders complaining about scraping their hull plating off on reentry.”

  “How close are we talking?” Milliken squinted at his display off-screen then scowled with such ferocity Sinclair thought the man seemed personally offended. “There’s been half a dozen near collisions in as many days. If we’d sent the refugees back, we wouldn’t be having this issue. Since when do we place the welfare of Leaguers—and traitors to their own country, at that—above citizens of the Coalition?”

  “I hear your concerns, General, but the situation has only been inflamed by covert League action. Our people on the ground have cut them off at the knees, as it were, when it comes to slipping Orbita into the camps and using sales of the drug in Kolossi to finance their operations. Likewise, trafficking has been interdicted, as TCFE has caught more smugglers, and local arrests have shone a spotlight on the matter. CBI is taking steps to round up cartel members implicated in both crimes.”

  “Whatever the civilians are doing isn’t my problem, Colonel Sinclair. My mission is simple—keep refugee haulers from getting onto Aphendrika. No more of this standing about. Captains are authorized to detain whatever ships come into their range, by force if necessary, especially if they’re armed and looking to provoke us.”

  Eldred made a face at the latter phrase, but Sinclair ignored it, trusting her to stay out of the general’s line of sight. “I have no intelligence about armed refugee transports, sir. Perhaps you would share your source?”

  “It’s not on the news networks, if that’s what you mean. I’ll send you the posts. Infer from them what you will. My group, however, will prevent any further attempts by the refugees, League led or not, from infiltrating the Coalition.” Milliken’s transmission cut off.

  Sinclair shook his head.

  “Sir, any idea what he’s talking about?” Eldred asked.

  “Likely he’s been filling his head with the same social media posts Lieutenant Guinto brought to our attention,” Sinclair said. “Wrap up everything you have on the subject, Warrant, and send me the packet. I’ll supply the good general with solid, actionable intelligence once I see what he’s using as his sources, lamentable though they may be.”

  “Colonel?” Tamir indicated the tactical displays. “CSV Brandywine is breaking off from the main formation, with two frigates in tow. They’re headed for the new flotilla of refugee ships hanging near the moon Karavas.”

  Sinclair frowned as the three markers did indeed veer away from the Fifteenth Group. “We had all best pray General Milliken keeps a cool head, no matter how he’s been riled, Butter Bars. There’s no
indication those transports are armed, and if one of our ships fires upon them—well, to say there will be hell to pay would be the grossest understatement of the century.”

  Kiel was grateful for the CDF group commander’s zeal. It made deploying his ship all the easier.

  TFC 9091 drifted on a sidelong, quiet route without using its engines, heading toward the TCFE flotilla on thrusters only. Corriveau keyed in commands, fingers drumming on his console as he awaited confirmation from the network linking the Border vessels. Finally, it chimed in the affirmative—TFC 9091 was recognized as being part of the blockade. Forged orders verified its transfer from the Beghara system forty light-years away, where a refit depot was backlogged with repair after repair. Civilian and government ships were packed into queues there as human and bot crews painstakingly fixed the damages incurred during the long war.

  “Border Command, this is TFC 9091.” Ferenc spoke through the mic pickup with smooth cadences, conveying a veteran skipper’s experience. “Major Ferris reporting for duty. Apologies to the rest of you for being so late to the game.”

  “Rather now than never, 9091.” The voice on the other end sounded like it could use equal infusions of sleep and coffee. “Sending you coordinates in which to park. Review the operational guide when you’re in position. Keep a sharp eye for refugee ships trying to slip the blockade. More of them get down on the surface, and you’ll be commanding a scrap scow.”

  “Roger, Command. Awaiting orders—9091 out.”

  Kiel smiled. “Job well done, Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Our legend for Ferris will hold up if they check. ESS planted the background files as thoroughly as they could.”

  “So far, I’m impressed with their diligence.”

  The screen spreading before Kiel and Ferenc showed the bridge crew equally diligent at their stations. The helmsman steered 9091 toward a gap in the blockade created by a quartet of other corvettes spreading out. Kiel appreciated their thoroughness, too, though he would have been disappointed if they’d gone to all that trouble only for the harried TCFE officers not even to bother checking.

  He watched the splitting formation of CDF warships with keen interest. It was perfect. While Border corvettes were well armed, they weren’t on par with destroyers and frigates and certainly not an antimatter-powered cruiser. Even Fifteenth Group’s corvettes carried more weaponry. Not as much as Corriveau had stuffed into 9091, but then, that was the point.

  It was time to wait for the opportune moment. The stealth freighter’s captain had his orders. At the rate desperate transport captains had tried to break free of the blockade—encouraged to do so in part by generous bribes from Kiel via the Demir cartel—another group should make its attempt within twenty-four hours. All it would take was those transports blazing past Border ships, getting too close, and someone in Fifteenth Group having too itchy a trigger finger. And if the potential threat wasn’t bad enough, well, Kiel was sure he could supply the danger.

  He leaned back in his chair. Of course, it was far more sensible to remain on the asteroid while the hired crews did their work. None of them knew they were working for the League’s External Security Service—only that their boss was a taskmaster who paid them well.

  Kiel smiled. Let the Coalition enjoy chasing a ghost.

  23

  Kolossi

  Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

  1 August 2464

  Jackson skidded the skimmer to a stop, sending dirt clods and clumps of grass flying. Sev, waiting on the shuttle’s ramp, glared down at the bits soiling his rifle’s stock.

  “No need to rush, Cap’n. You know I wouldn’t leave you in the dust.” Dwyer stacked another supply container and lashed it down.

  “Be careful with those,” Brant warned. “Last time you extracted us, I had to spend half a week recalibrating the decoder modules. They’re sensitive.”

  “So am I, LT. I recommend not getting me upset before I have to engage in fancy flying.” Dwyer winked and trotted into the cockpit. “Besides, we’ll be back for the full cleanup soon enough.”

  “Has Gina arrived yet?” Jackson pulled his gear from the back of the skimmer.

  “Here.” She walked around under the starboard wing. “I wanted a few more minutes in the open air before we’re stuffed into spaceships for the next couple of days.”

  Jackson breathed deep. “It’s a nice world. I’ll miss it.”

  “Speaking of…” Gina plucked leaves from her pocket.

  They were a pasty yellow with blue stripes. Jackson hadn’t seen any of their variety before coming to Aphendrika.

  “For the collection.”

  “Thanks, Echo Two.” The leaves were vacuum-sealed in plastic. “I got your message, but I suppose things were too busy for gift giving.”

  “We’ve had other things on our minds.” Gina glanced into the late afternoon’s cloudless sky.

  “Tell me we made a difference here,” Jackson murmured.

  She looked at him. He supposed his jovial features had hardened. It was a legitimate question, one that haunted him as the final moments of any mission crept up. They’d stopped the drug shipments, hurt the cartels, and brought trafficking to the authorities’ attention—not all of those in the order or manner in which he would have liked.

  “We made a difference. We always do,” Gina whispered. “Even if we didn’t, I’d pretend we did. Makes it easier to sleep, Captain.” She was off into the shuttle, teasing Sev about the dirt on his rifle.

  He grumbled a single response before joining Jackson at the bottom of the ramp.

  “I think this one’s coming with me.” Jackson patted the seat of the flame-yellow skimmer. “Call it a trade for the one I brought to Salvatore’s.”

  Sev knelt, admiring the chrome. “Shines.”

  “Captain!” Brant hollered from the cargo bay. “Base One is on the link. They’ve got a lead for us to follow.”

  “What kind?” Jackson pulled the skimmer into the bay and secured it with cargo webbing next to Gina’s ride.

  “The kind that tells us what the League’s been working on this whole time.”

  Tamir and Eldred glowed in miniature on the shuttle’s comm display.

  He grinned. “They’ve got a stolen ship.”

  “Stolen?” Jackson frowned. The shuttle bounced enough he had to steady himself in the screen’s visual pickup. He glanced at Dwyer, who shrugged and continued their climb. “The stealth freighter’s a modified stock scow. They could have just bought one.”

  “Wrong ship, Captain.” Tamir tapped his console. Data flowed onto Jackson’s screen. “We finally decrypted all those transmissions that have been flinging back and forth. Hundreds of messages, all dealing with bills of lading. Warrant Eldred had the bright idea to feed them all into the computer and see what you could use them for.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not to refit a stealth vessel.”

  “It was the command and control linkages that tipped me off.” Eldred shifted in her seat. Her excitement practically bled through the screen. “There wasn’t enough of it for, say, a destroyer but way too much and too intricate for a privateer-type freighter. Once the comp got ahold of the specs, though, it matched up nicely with a corvette.”

  “A corvette. Like the ones in Fifteenth Group and in the blockade.”

  “One point for you, Captain.” Eldred introduced five ship schematics into the display. “The Coalition has produced five classes of fast-pursuit and patrol corvettes in the past forty years. The computer pinged all five as possible, but I didn’t think it made sense for the League to pick any class at random.”

  Jackson’s own words from a second ago chilled him as the import of the analysis sank in. “The fleets in this system are only fielding two—Bulwark and Pikeman-class.”

  “And he gets point number two,” Eldred said.

  “The issue, of course, is we’re looking at well over twenty vessels,” Tamir added. “Colonel Sinclair concurs—he thinks it unlikely we�
��re talking about the fast-pursuit Pikemen in the Fifteenth. They only just arrived.”

  “Which means the League has built themselves a TCFE version,” Jackson mused.

  “And those have been arriving in batches since this whole mess began.” Eldred dropped another stream of data into the report. “Seventeen in the past few weeks, spread out in singles, deuces, and triples.”

  “Anything odd about their arrivals? Something we could use to determine which one is the League vessel?”

  “Nothing yet. I spoke with Lieutenant Guinto—he’s working on a way to interrogate the Border ships’ transponders to check for anomalies,” Tamir said.

  That explained why Brant was hunched over his device in one corner of the shuttle, ignoring the turbulence and even the conversation, courtesy of his headset.

  “Hang on.” Jackson knew he’d skipped something important. “How do you know it’s stolen?”

  “We worked backwards once Eldred had completed the analysis. There’s a handful of shipyards along the border that took bad hits during the frantic fighting at the end of the war—not only from League forces but pirates taking advantage of the chaos. Unsurprising, given most of us didn’t know whether Canaan would be around or if the Coalition would survive. A few dozen ships went missing from those yards. Most were hulks, so badly damaged they needed complete overhauls to be combat effective. Eight were in better shape. We’re waiting on the report to come in about their classes.”

  “Let me know as soon as you receive it, sir.” Jackson had to remind himself he was working back in the chain of command. No more fixing skimmers at all hours of the day. “We’re ready to infiltrate when you do.”

  “The colonel is briefing Master Chief MacDonald’s team. I swear I can hear them cheering from here.”

  “Sirs?” Eldred cleared her throat. “One more thing. In those signals we decrypted, the amount of weaponry they talked about exceeds what anything in those classes would need, except maybe the CDF versions.”