by C. R. Daems
“I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge of the space station.”
“I’m afraid he’s busy. If you can tell me what you would like to talk with him about, I’ll see if we can get you to the right people.” She gave me an apologetic smile and raised her eyes in an I’m sorry but he’s busy gesture. I took out my P1A placard and held it face high in front of her.
“If you would let him know I’m waiting, I’d appreciate it,” I said and smiled. She paled and picked up a handheld Comm device and turned away to speak. After what appeared to be a discussion with several people, she turned back to me.
“Someone is coming to speak with you,” she said with an I told them shrug.
“Thank you,” I said to let her know I understood and didn’t blame her for others’ stupidity. Two minutes later a thirty-something man approached. He was dressed in an expensive suit, clean shaven, and walked like he was in charge. His face had a sneer when his eyes settled on me.
“The Director is not available. If you will tell me what you want maybe I can direct you to the right person.” He made a dismissive face.
“I assume you’ve come to escort me and my group to the Director’s office.”
“I’m no errand boy, lady—”
“You two.” I pointed to the police. “I have P1A authority, and I’m ordering you to arrest this man and hold him for subsequent transportation to Stonewall Prison for impeding a P1A investigation.”
The two policemen looked at each other, then moved toward the man in the suit.
“Wait! I’ll take you to Director Sheldon’s office,” he shouted, sweat beading on his forehead. I held up my hand to the policemen, who were trying unsuccessfully to hide smiles. Then I waved to the hallway. The man began a quick walk down the hallway, turn left at the first intersection, and continued to the end, which had a medium-size waiting room and several office doors with a secretary or assistant at a desk guarding access. He stopped in front of a gray-haired lady with an angular face and a no-nonsense expression. Her eyes swept the group and settled on me.
“Director Sheldon is—” she started but I walked past her, opened the door, and found a man on the couch with a partially undressed woman half his age. His coat jacket and tie lay on the floor, and his shirt open to his pants. The woman had her skirt pulled up to her waist, shirt open, and her bra pushed over her ample breasts. He looked up. His face registered shock, then flushed red in anger. But before he could speak, I stuck my placard millimeters from their faces, which were nose to nose.
“I’m looking for Director Sheldon. Do either of you know where he or she might be?”
“I’m Sheldon,” he said while untangling himself from the woman and trying to keep from screaming at me. “You have no right—”
“Mr. Sheldon, I have the right to arrest you for impeding a P1A investigation.” I waited while his mind tried to hide his raging anger and to recover his dignity. “I’m going to your conference room where you will have coffee delivered and whoever is in charge of maintaining your security surveillance tapes. Any more delays and the Black Water space station is going to have a new director.” I turned and left the office.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where the Director’s conference room is located?” I asked his secretary, who looked flustered. Eventually, she recovered and pointed.
“The glassed room on the right,” she managed to say.
“Thank you.” I walked down to the room, opened the door, and entered. The oval wooden conference table looked to hold at least twenty people with leather executive chairs. The view was breathtaking as it looked out into space. The Black Water planet could also be seen as well as a view of incoming spacecraft. I chose a seat at the middle of the table and sat just as a young man arrived pushing a cart with coffee and snacks.
“Thank you. You can just leave it. We can serve ourselves,” I said and smiled when Maxine jumped up and mixed my coffee drink.
“That was interesting,” she said as she placed my coffee in front of me and sat to my right. “You are always so calm at work…”
“That’s because everyone conducts themselves as professionals, and I feel part of a team with a shared goal,” I said, realizing it was true. As the Director of NIA Stations, I didn’t get that feeling as my team was located on different planets, and I couldn’t interact with them on a face-to-face basis. Admirals may like the separation, I didn’t. Admirals may like dispensing orders, I didn’t. I wanted the interaction. Others may have better ideas, or concerns, that I wanted to hear. The door opened and a man in his forties rushed in, jarring me out of my thoughts.
“I’m Carl Cortez, I’m responsible for the surveillance tapes.” His head jerked around as he tried to determine to whom he was supposed to report.
“Hello, Mr. Cortez. Help yourself to something to drink and have a seat,” I said and waited. He ignored the coffee and sat.
“Mr. Cortez, I’m operating under P1A authorization so I’m not concerned with local directives or legal issues. I would like all the surveillance tapes for day one hundred of this year. And all the tapes for the day the next passenger ship arrived Black Water after the Whippet departed. Commander Carlson will go with you to help.”
* * *
Carlson and Cortez returned about an hour later with a small desktop unit to play the tapes. Carlson then directed the output through his computer and then to the wall monitors.
“This is the tape of the Whippet arriving and the passengers departing. If you can identify the three individuals you want, I’ll capture their facial images.” He pressed a key on his computer and the passengers began moving in slow motion. I put the grainy pictures Commander Holt had sent Weaver and then watched as the passengers passed near the camera positioned in the departure lounge.
“That one,” I said as a man identified as Reed stepped out of the Whippet. “Mark that one as P1.”
Carlson nodded, typed something, and restarted the tape. About halfway through the debarking I help up my hand.
“Stop. The man on the right. Designate him as P2,” I said. He resembled the image I had for Sanchez. Then five people later, “That woman. Designate her P3,” I said, pleased that they were so easy to identify. I wondered if we might be able to use the captured images to place one or more of the individuals near Owen McDonald’s vehicle or home prior to the vehicle accident that killed him.
“These are the tapes for the day the Blue Shark departed, on the one hundred eleventh day of this year,” Cortez said and handed the tape to Carlson.
“Ma’am, I thought I’d let the software recognition program run to see if it can identify a match. There is no need to watch the tape. I nodded agreement and got up and mixed another coffee.
An hour later, Carlson had run the ten tapes from that day, actually twelve-hour tapes from five different locations authorized for visitors.
“Ma’am, the software only identified one individual, P2, on tapes six, seven, and nine,” Carlson said, lips pursed in concern.
“How accurate is the software, Commander?” I asked.
“It’s excellent but it can be defeated if you’re aware you’re being taped or you intentionally add some artificial aids that throw off the measures the program is comparing for a match.”
“Let me look at tape nine,” I said as nine was at the departure lounge. He nodded and inserted a tape and the video appeared on the room monitor.
For the next hour, I watched the tape in slow motion. “There!” I exclaimed, after Red hissed in my ear. I was just going to say I made a mistake when a harder look suggested a resemblance. Carlson was quick to split the screen. On one half was P2 from the Whippet tape and on the other half the segment from tape nine. He ran them over and over again. Finally, he zoomed in on the man’s nose.
“See that?” Carlson said. “He’s done something to change the shape of his nose, probably with wax. But that’s definitely P2. You’ve got great eyes.”
I didn’t think it wise to mention Red foun
d him. “Well, see if we can find P3, the woman.”
We finally did after another two hours by eliminating the other five women since the woman we were after managed to avoid showing her face to the cameras. Now we had the new names: Reed was Pittman, Sanchez was Guerrero, and Hill was Brock. As I wanted to return to Eastar as soon as possible, I had the NIA station chief come to the Typhon.
“Sorry, Commander Hoff, having you come to the space station, but I have people trying to kill me so I’m trying to minimize my exposure,” I said when he arrived. “We have identified the team of assassins that killed Mr. Owen McDonald. I’d like you in coordination with the police to review any tapes they can find that has McDonald’s vehicle and determine if you can place one or more of these individuals around the vehicle,” I said, handing him a flash drive with several facial and full-length images of the three individuals. “Remember this is a P1A investigation. People can’t talk about what they are doing or why or for whom.”
“I understand, ma’am. Who should I report our findings to?” Hoff asked.
“Report your findings to Commander Weaver.”
We left for Eastar two hours later.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Searching for Ghosts
I exited the Typhon with Carlson, Maxine, and my security three days later and went straight to the shuttle booking office. It was a small office adjacent to a café which provided military personnel a place to eat and have something to drink either to wait for the next scheduled shuttle or for those confined to the ship. The shuttle office had only a few staff as their function was solely to book seats on the shuttle. Each of the five levels had their own shuttle service: Two were exclusively military, one for passenger spacecraft, and two for merchants. When I entered the office, a middle-aged woman sat behind the counter.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” she asked, scanning Maxine and the four men who accompanied me.
“Who would have a list of the passengers arriving on the Blue Shark from Black Water?”
“I’m sorry, but that information is confidential.” She gave me an apologetic smile. I held up my P1A placard.
“Please call him for me,” I said and smiled at the shocked look on her face.
“Please wait. I need to call my supervisor,” she stammered.
I nodded. Not everyone knew what a P1A authorization meant, and clerks tended to err on the side of caution. Mistakes could cost them their job or time in the doghouse. She ran off and a minute later an average-looking young man in his late thirties appeared.
“I’m Mr. Sherdan, the duty manager. Mrs. Jennings said you wanted information about passengers on the Blue Shark,” he said, as he evaluated me and frowned. I guess he wasn’t impressed. I held up my placard.
“That’s correct, Mr. Sherdan. I want to speak to whoever has access to that information without further delays. You have my authorization,” I said, still holding up my P1A placard. He moved his face closer to the placard and spent a minute looking at it, then from it to me verifying it was my face on the placard.
“Yes, ma’am. If you will accompany me to our conference room, I’ll get him on speaker,” he said and smiled.
The conference room looked made for ten to fifteen people, the furniture a standard metal conference table and chairs. He punched something into a device on the table and a minute later a female voice spoke.
“Space station, passenger office. Miss Roberts speaking.”
“Suzie, this is John at the military office on ring five. I have someone in my office with P1A authority who wants information on the passengers who were on the last flight from Black Water.”
“That will be Mr. Winfield. Wait and I’ll get him,” Suzie said and the line went quiet. Several minutes later a male voice spoke.
“This is Mr. Winfield. Who am I speaking to?”
“Is there anyone else in the room with you?” I asked.
“No.”
“My name is Anna Paulus and this conversation is classified under P1A authority. That is as much for your protection as mine. Mr. Sherdan has seen my authorization. I want to know if there was a Pittman, Guerrero, and or Brock on the Blue Shark last stop at Eastar and whether they departed here,” I said.
I heard him tapping on this tablet. “Yes, Miss Paulus. All three departed the Blue Shark at Eastar. Anything else?” he asked.
“Do you have their home or contact information?” I crossed my fingers as I waited for an answer.
“Well yes, everyone is required to show a UAS passport when boarding or departing a passenger ship. It’s the law,” he said with emphasis on the last three words.
“Thank you, Mr. Winfield. You have been very helpful. I’m sending Maxine Landon to see you. Please give her any help she needs to research a few names for me.”
I cut the connection and turned to Maxine. “Sorry, Maxine. I know you are anxious to get home. Search the passenger manifests for all flights leaving and arriving for the names Reed, Pittman, Sanchez, Guerrero, Hill, and Brock. If you find those names get their passport information.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, looking eager.
We left the office and I decided to visit the café, as we had another thirty minutes to wait for the next shuttle. The café was only about twenty percent occupied, all military: four enlisted navy, five marines, and four navy officers—three male lieutenants sitting together and a female lieutenant commander sitting alone. She reminded me of Kris Sinclair in physical appearance but not the face. Kris had a friendly, warm face whereas this woman lacked emotion…and looked familiar like I’d seen her before. Maybe I’d think of it if I had a shot of coffee, I mused as I headed for the counter. As I began walking, Red slipped around my neck with his head on my shoulder, which was unusual when I was in a public place. I noticed the female commander had risen and was also heading for the counter. She appeared to speed up, as if she wanted to get there first. As she neared, I realized where I had seen her—in the Black Water tapes. She was Hill alias Brock, I thought as Red rose on my shoulder hissing.
My head whipped around to see the woman’s face frozen in fear, eyes locked on Red and a hypodermic needle in her hand. I jerked backward as I reached under my jacket for my Sig Sauer. My first concern was to get Red and me out of her reach. If Red lunged toward her he could get stabbed with the needle and we would both die. The woman dropped the syringe as she dove away, rolled, and came up kneeling with a Beretta PX4 Storm Compact handgun. We fired simultaneously, followed by multiple shots from my security. She was flung backward into the table with the four sailors, sending them and their chairs flying in all directions. Luckily, I had been stumbling backward when she fired and the shot only grazed my arm. She on the other hand had been stable and had been hit in the chest multiple times. I and everyone else had been aiming center mass as she knelt in front of the table with the four sailors.
“Are you all right?” Maxine said as she examined my jacket sleeve which the bullet had ripped through a few centimeters below my shoulder.
I grabbed Red and pulled him from around my neck and proceeded to examined him. He hung loose, letting me scrutinize every inch. When I was satisfied, I kissed his head and placed him inside my blouse before removing my jacket. My right sleeve was soaked with blood.
“Come, Director, we need the medics to take a look at the wound. It looks like the bullet ripped the skin but didn’t enter, but it’s bleeding a lot.”
Maxine and another agent stayed by my side as we made our way down the hallway to the small first-aid station. The nurse contacted the Typhon and they sent a young doctor to look at the wound.
“You were lucky, Anna,” he said after I gave him my first name. “The bullet entered only a few millimeters deep. I’ve stopped the bleeding but you’ll need a few stiches. It should be healed in a week.” It took another hour as he stitched the cut, added some quick heal salve, and dressed the wound.
Although it was early I chose to go directly home.
* * *
“An assassin, who it turns out was one of the three I had identified on Black Water, tried to stick a hypodermic needle in me. Not sure what is in the syringe but it probably isn’t a flu or vitamin shot. They sent it out to be analyzed. Just as she was about to stab me, Red rose up off my shoulder, fangs exposed and ready to strike. The assassin reflexively jumped back. She had good reflexes and dove away, rolled to a kneeling position, and began firing. Probably saved my life that I wasn’t as graceful. When I twisted away from the hypodermic needle, I hit the food counter and stumbled backward while trying to aim and fire as I fell. Wasn’t necessary, my entire security fired at her. I don’t think any of them missed,” I said, kissing Red again.
Alexa laughed. “The official version claims a woman dressed as a navy commander gained access to the military level for some still unknown reason. When she was confronted, she drew a gun and fired several shots, wounding a bystander. She was killed by security. They interviewed several sailors who were there. Sounded like they missed everything except the woman being killed in front of their table. The officers claimed to have missed the entire incident except for the shooting.”
“The head of my security had a chance to debrief them before the newsies got to them.” I grinned. We tried to keep the story simple. That way it’s easier to remember if you have to repeat it. Of course, whoever commissioned the hit will know why she was there and who she was after, but hopefully, they won’t know what went wrong.”
“Red,” Alexa said as she stroked his little red head.
