Victory's Wake (Deception Fleet Book 1)

by Daniel Gibbs

  Jackson stared. “What for?”

  “That’s what we’re all puzzling.” Tamir shook his head. “We’ll keep you advised, Captain. Meanwhile maintain your course to rendezvous with us. Oxford out.”

  Jackson leaned back in his seat, deep in thought. The League stole a corvette and spent a pile of money fixing it. No wonder they were so keen on spreading Orbita around and even dabbling in trafficking. They weren’t out to strengthen Demir or any other cartel. As he’d suspected, they needed off-the-books money—a lot of it.

  “So…” Dwyer scratched his chin. “The League packed a mess of weapons into a Coalition corvette and—what, it’s out there? Hidden with the rest?”

  “Hidden in plain sight or stashed away among those areas Brant found. We can lend our sensors to the hunt Oxford and its probes are already conducting.”

  Dwyer flipped a row of switches. The shuttle’s thrusters urged it onto a new course, taking it out and around the orbiting ships. Blazes, there were a lot of them. The tactical display was a constellation of transponders, with the fourteen CDF Fifteenth Group vessels, fifty in TCFE, and so many transports Jackson didn’t bother counting. As he watched, two indicators turned red, as did one of the Border ships.

  “Close,” Sev intoned.

  “Yessir. Near collision.” Dwyer frowned. “’Bout the third one in a couple of days, according to Border Command’s flight control. They’re lucky nobody’s taken a potshot. I read RUMINT some of them refugee buckets are armed.”

  “Not true,” Brant piped up.

  Jackson had wondered if he could hear anything through his headset.

  “Those rumors originated from whoever’s been junking up the networks with their incendiary posts on both sides of the controversy, getting people boiling.”

  “Hell of a way to provoke people.”

  “Yes…” Jackson slapped the comms console. “Yes, it is. And you know it’s not only civilians absorbing it all. General Milliken knows the border regions well, earned his rank fighting pirates and smugglers out here, but he’s got a sharp edge when it comes to anyone sneaking into Coalition space. That’s what made him so good at his job. If the League’s flooding the network with those posts, spreading rumors about the refugees, they’re manipulating everyone’s emotions and exacerbating an already-tense situation. Plus, refugee ships keep trying to run the blockade. Too many close calls, one ship fires, another fires back—”

  Gina swore softly. “They’ll be the ones shooting both ways to trigger an incident.”

  “Right. Using the stealth freighter and their fake corvette loaded with illegal weaponry.”

  “Then we best find both ships before any fool on either side starts the fireworks,” Dwyer said. “I don’t suspect the folks back home will take too kindly to an incident involving innocent people.”

  “Which is the point—make the Coalition appear unstable, jeopardize its image in the wake of the treaty, and spread doubt not only in the government but among its allies.” Jackson scowled. “One thing’s for certain—our League counterparts are good at this game.”

  “It only means we’ll have to be better.” Gina smiled. “Are you up for that?”

  As long as I don’t screw this up. “Absolutely,” Jackson said.

  TCFE’s command in the system assigned TFC 9091 to the central of five orbits stretching out to three hundred thousand kilometers from Aphendrika. Six corvettes swept each of the broad circles in the silence of space, herding transports away when they came too close to the planet or sending their shuttles on boarding missions when warning signals didn’t work.

  Kiel kept watch on his displays, which showed him not only 9091’s tactical sensor output but that of the stealth freighter. The latter sat on the fringe of an eight-ship cluster, looking for all the galaxy like yet another transport laden with refugees. It drew little attention on sensors, though the regular updates it sent to Kiel seemed dogged by a malfunction.

  “This ripple at the end of their signals, Captain.” Corriveau waved his hands at the comms panel, as if he could either fix it or send the recalcitrant machinery away. “I checked their communications array myself when Ferenc came back to the asteroid with those—with his two passengers.”

  The ship’s captain, a hired thug named Moller, shoved him aside. “We didn’t mess with it.”

  “I didn’t ask for your input,” Kiel snapped through the relayed signal. “Corriveau, you’re certain it was functioning properly?”

  “I would never sully my reputation by claiming it wasn’t.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt. What would cause such a ripple, then?”

  “Another signal. Such as an unshielded array inside the ship, perhaps if it belonged to a field unit accidentally switched on.”

  “He’s right,” said the young man at tactical. “I’m getting the same ripple. It reads on my scopes like a navigational ping only far weaker.”

  “Damn. Send to the commander—go dark on all communications except tight-beam laser. I don’t want to chance Fifteenth Group noticing their irregularity.” Kiel scowled. TCFE ships lacked the fine-tuned military vessels’ sensors, but even they might notice if they looked closer. What else could interrupt—it hit him. “Moller, get a message on tight beam to Zhou: Send repair drones over the hull discreetly. I suspect they’ll find the ship’s been tagged.”

  “Tagged? By a tracking device?” Moller typed the message, but his face pinched with disbelief. “My guys would have—”

  “They should have noticed, yes, but we were arrogant in our belief that our Coalition friends were farther from the truth. I hope they aren’t any closer.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  Kiel shut down the communications monitor.

  Zhou Yongrui read the incoming message from 9091. He sighed. Typical. Vasiliy Kiel operated with the classic paranoia common to ESS. Fine. Zhou would adjust and stand by for his orders. “Put out repair drones. Boss thinks we have a tracker.”

  “Aye, Captain. Deploying drones.”

  Zhou eased into the leathers of his command chair. Fine situation to find himself in—commanding a ship most would look down upon unless they examined it closer, the skin of a freighter but the bones of a warship with the blood and nerves of a spy vessel. Not a top-of-the-line design, yet not a clunker.

  He smiled at a recent memory. Good enough to outmaneuver a CDF stealth boat, even if only for a second.

  Zhou watched the drones’ image feeds on his console as they combed the hull. Sadly, in masquerading as a typical freighter, they had the same boxy hull design, which made it easier for things to stay hidden in the nooks and crannies. But he didn’t consider himself in a place to complain. Had Kiel not scooped him up, following his dishonorable discharge, Zhou was certain he would have been spaced by his commissar. He snorted. Because he lost. In fleet action. One League ship against three CDF, more advanced vessels, an engagement in which he destroyed one and crippled another before he faced the prospect of losing his entire crew. That was all that mattered to Zhou in that moment—not the war, not the League, not the good of society, certainly not the damned commissar who brayed for him to press home the fight. Zhou had surrendered.

  He was exchanged for other POWs and sent back to the League, toward what he knew was a death sentence from the very people he’d fought for.

  Enter Kiel. So, Zhou had new loyalty—to his boss, to a new crew, a new ship.

  “Sir!” the sensor man called out. “We have it. It’s a civilian tracking device, Captain. Computer thinks it’s the same kind groundside investigators plant on criminal vehicles.”

  “Impressive.” Zhou scratched at the corner of his mustache. When had they planted it? There’d been a handful of times the ship was planetside, so it could have been one of those. It didn’t matter when or how—it mattered only that the trackers had been found.

  The ship. It needed a name. Kiel wouldn’t allow him to christen the freighter properly, a courtesy every ship deserved. As magnificent
as she was to fly, she needed an identity. Perhaps, when this is all ended, the boss will allow it. Even a nickname would suffice.

  Zhou straightened his jacket. “Instruct the drones to remove the device.”

  “Not destroy it, Captain?”

  “Did I stutter, Francois?”

  “No, sir, not at all. Instructing the drones to remove and deactivate—”

  “You’re still not tracking my orders, mister. Remove only. Get it to the techs. I want to see if we can find out who is following us without them knowing we’ve discovered their tiny spy.” Zhou gestured at the screen. “Let’s make him feel at home. Let him continue to update whatever and whoever he’s updating. There’s no reason to be discourteous.”

  He swiveled in his chair, facing the tactical station. “Tactical, get me targeting solutions on six nearest TCFE targets. Keep them free-floating. We await the boss’s orders. When he strikes, we strike.”

  Then he would show the League and the Coalition how to truly win.

  Brant ripped off his headset. “Got it! The ping from the tracker. It registered. Only for a moment, but I have a clean set of coordinates.”

  “Send those off to Tuscon,” Jackson ordered. “Here’s hoping this time they can take them out, though my guess is Colonel Sinclair will want the ship intact and prisoners questioned.”

  “On it.” Brant shunted his findings into an encrypted message and transmitted the data secure to Tuscon, with a copy to Oxford.

  Jackson glanced at Dwyer. “How’re we looking?”

  “Five by five, Cap’n. ETA sixteen minutes to Base One. Easier to rendezvous when home is comin’ to you.”

  “Any indication we’ve been noticed by the stealth freighter or any of the Border corvettes making odd moves?”

  “That’s a negative to both. Border ships are following their assigned orbits, as ordered. The stealth ship—yeah, I’ve got its location here per the LT’s analysis. Looks like she’s floating quiet-like with another bunch of refugee transports. He sure he’s sure?”

  Brant made a face.

  “Hey, I had to ask, sir. I have to know who to avoid if the shooting starts.”

  The comms panel beeped—incoming from Oxford. “This is Captain Adams.”

  “Captain Tamir here. We have those specifications about the stolen corvette—she was Bulwark-class.”

  Jackson highlighted six pips on the shuttle’s tactical display. “Narrows our search considerably, sir. Anything else you can tell us?”

  “Four have been here since the first few weeks of the blockade. One came in eight days ago. The other arrived yesterday.”

  “Who’s the newcomer?”

  “TFC 9091, out of Beghara. CO is a Major Ferris. Warrant Eldred’s running background on both records, but she’s already making that face she makes when something doesn’t smell right—electronically speaking.”

  “Tell her I’d trust her nose, literal or otherwise, over the records at this point, Captain.”

  “Affirmative. Oxford out.”

  Jackson watched 9091 as it continued in its orbit. If Tuscon was tasked to board the stealth freighter instead of destroying it, Oxford would have to send marines onto the corvette at the same time. Otherwise, any action against one League vessel might spook the others.

  “Sparks? Bend our course so we take the scenic route,” Jackson said.

  Dwyer raised an eyebrow. “Nearer to the TCFE ships, Cap’n?”

  “Just in case we need to lend a hand.”

  “I was hoping to avoid that,” Brant murmured. He touched the crucifix tucked under his neck.

  Gina stretched her arms and yawned. “I wasn’t. It would feel heavenly to get out of this seat and get some exercise. Don’t you think, Sev?”

  The sharpshooter loaded a magazine into his carbine. “Heavenly.”

  Jackson hoped he wouldn’t have to make use of their talents in a more overt way. The team operated best from the shadows. But he wasn’t going to shy away from the fight if the time came. His brawl with Harry resurfaced in his memory, tightening his gut. Then we’d see who really served his nation, wouldn’t we, big brother?

  24

  Undesignated Stealth Freighter

  Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

  1 August 2464

  The message came through to Zhou as a ship passed by two other flotillas of refugee transports. The others were separated by twenty kilometers. Zhou’s group would come within twelve at their closest approach. With groups of varying size orbiting at innumerable distances and velocities, tracking them all was proving a headache even for the navigation console.

  But the instructions were clear: commence firing sequence Alpha.

  “Tactical, give me firing solutions for tubes one and two.”

  “Aye, sir, locked on.” The tactical officer made a face. “Sorry, sir. I can’t believe we’re going to shoot at our own people.”

  “They won’t feel but a scratch if you do your job right, Lieutenant. Prepare to fire on my mark. Open outer doors.”

  “Yes, sir. Tubes are ready. Outer doors are open.”

  The freighter’s concealed missile tubes were disguised to resemble debris chutes and maintenance hatches. Popping them open wouldn’t cause alarm, especially given Zhou still had repair drones on the outer hull.

  “Safeties modified on missiles in tubes one and two. Detonation range set per instructions. Yield unmodified.”

  Zhou didn’t consider himself superstitious. Who would admit such a thing, with commissars watching their every move and surveillance networks on every world? Even the littlest, most innocent slips could land one in a rehabilitation camp. But there were no political officers on this mission, not with ESS people among the crew. So, Zhou crossed his fingers. If this goes wrong, Kiel will be free-floating atoms, and I’ll get us the hell out of here as fast as possible. “This is it, gentlemen. Tactical, align vectors and fire, tubes one and two.”

  The deck shuddered, the vibration traveling through his boots to his teeth. Twin missiles leapt the relatively short distance between the refugee conglomeration and the nearest two TCFE corvettes—one of which was TFC 9091.

  “Missiles launch detected,” Olesen called. “Two anti-ship warheads inbound.”

  Mancini glared at the tactical display. “Origin?”

  “Among the cluster at these coordinates, Skipper. I can’t get a fix as to whether it’s from Master One or not.”

  Master One. The stealth transport. Assuming Lieutenant Guinto’s tracking device was operating properly.

  “Conn, Tao. Impact flare. Both detonated in the vicinity of TFC 9091.”

  “Vicinity? Can you tell whether or not they impacted the corvette?”

  “Negative, sir, not at that close range to each other and at our orientation. If they didn’t impact, then they scorched the hull plating with the detonations.”

  “Sensor Room,” Mancini said into the intercom. “Those missiles, did they hit 9091?”

  “Conn, Sensor Room. Checking our readings and cross-referencing with the long-range gear on Oxford.” Silence filled the frequency for what felt like forever. “Affirmative on the detonation, sir. They were set off five hundred meters and one klick away from the corvette, respective.”

  “Might as well be a hair’s breadth in space,” Godat murmured.

  Mancini was about to agree when Olesen said, “Aspect change, Sierras Twelve through Twenty-four. TCFE corvette’s shifting to intercept.”

  “Coming to the aid of a brother under fire, Skipper.” Godat checked his display. “Signal Oxford?”

  “Roger that, XO. Tight beam to Colonel Sinclair so he knows what we know. TAO, backtrace those missiles.”

  “Sixty percent probability they originated from the coordinates provided for the stealth freighter,” Olesen answered. “Can’t tell what’s out there, though, without engaging active sensing.”

  “Which I’d rather not do, not yet. Pilot, bring us about, wide arc beyond and behind the coordinate
s for Master One.” Mancini reached for his coffee. He had a feeling he would need a refill by the time everything was said and done. “As quietly as we can, and as quickly as we can. Time to get back in the hunt.”

  Colonel Sinclair hurried down to the center of Oxford’s control center. This really was a moment in which he spared a glance at the In God We Trust banner because he felt as if his people were monitoring everybody else in the entire star system. “Report.”

  “Reading debris around 9091, Colonel,” Tamir said. “Unsure to what extent it indicates their damage. Tuscon informs us the missiles were set to detonate close to but not on the target.”

  “Likely, they’re a tad shook up but nothing more. We’ve seen this gambit elsewhere—faking a hit by dumping garbage out of the holds. What response from 9091?”

  “Outer doors open but no return fire, not yet. What do you suppose they’re waiting for?”

  “Colonel.” Eldred beckoned him closer. “Incoming transmission sent across all channels by 9091.”

  Sinclair gestured for her to replay it over the speakers. A man’s voice intoned, “Stand down, and prepare to be boarded. Repeat, you have fired upon a Terran Coalition TCFE vessel. Any further action will be considered hostile. Stand down, and prepare to be boarded.”

  “Loop that voice and scrub it through the analyzers,” Sinclair said. “See if we can’t find out which bloke is calling the shots over there. And they still haven’t shot back, have they?”

  “No, sir. Not even neutron beams.”

  “Sounds as if they want CDF to be the ones to retaliate,” Tamir said.

  “Quite possible. Compose a message to TCFE command, Eldred. Tell them we request they hold their fire until we can ascertain the true source of the hostilities. Leave it unmarked except for CDF Intelligence’s seal.”

  Eldred looked perplexed. “Sir? Nobody even knows we’re in the system.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt between Captain Adams and Major Mancini there are plenty of spacers out there trading rumors of Intelligence in action. Besides, I’d much rather have them puzzling over the message than targeting civilians. Send it now.”