“We might as well recall our personnel from Magog,” Powell added. “We've learned everything we're going to for the moment, and I don't think it's going to give Colonel Clarke any information he doesn't already have.”
“Make the arrangements, Frank.” She looked around the table, and said, “I know that we're taking a big gamble here, and one that could all blow up in our faces very easily.” With a roguish grin on her face, she added, “Let's go fishing.”
Chapter 9
Looking around to make sure no-one was watching, Salazar pulled loose the maintenance panel, easing it down to the deck, and peered inside. A cold, dark shaft, with a ladder leading down to the under-level. He turned and gestured for Foster to follow him, then swung into the tunnel, climbing hand-over-hand on the wet, rusty metal, flakes coming off on his hand as he descended. After a moment, she followed, shaking her head, the rungs creaking alarming with each step, as though it might collapse at any second.
He dropped to the floor underneath, knees bending from the abrupt descent, then took a step to the side as Foster crashed in beside him, the noise making him wince as he reached towards his hidden holster, still nervous about what might be waiting down here. Pulling out his datapad, he swiped the display to show their current location, and after a moment's hesitation, pointed down the tunnel.
“This way,” he said, taking the lead.
“I don't like this, Pavel,” she replied. “I really don't like this. They must know what we are doing.”
“Probably. They had enough chances to spot me going back to Alamo earlier, and I saw one of their people looking at me when I sneaked back on board. At a guess, they've got someone on our tail right now.”
“Then what's the point of this?”
He glanced back at her, wondering whether to tell her what he'd worked out. Somewhere on the station, Harper and Cooper were making an attempt to crack the data, right now, and their job was to provide a suitable distraction to throw the enemy forces off the scent.
“We've got a shot at getting what we need if we move quickly enough. Think of it as a double-bluff. They know that we know that they know about us.”
“Say that again, Pavel. I'm quite serious.” With a sigh, she continued, “This sounds like a very easy way to get into trouble.”
With a smile, he replied, “I'm good at that, as you might have noticed.” He turned around a corner, a burst of noise coming out of a compartment, a bar that wasn't officially listed on the blueprints. “Come on. We're here.”
“All this way for a drink?”
Stepping into the converted maintenance bay, he walked over to the auto-bar and entered for two beers, pulling the bottles free and walking over to Harper. The place was filled with station personnel, local service technicians and shuttle pilots, none of whom seemed particularly happy to find strangers in their midst. Ignoring the glares, he sat down at a table next to a trio of sensor operators, gesturing for Foster to sit next to him.
“Go away,” one of them said.
“That's no way to talk to a friend,” Salazar replied. “This looks like a nice little place.”
“It is,” another said. “Now take your beers and leave.”
Foster glanced at him, and said, “Maybe...”
“Your girlfriend is right,” the first replied. “Get out of here before we have to throw you out.”
With a sigh, Salazar said, “That's a great pity. I was really hoping that we could have a talk about some contract work I needed doing, but if you aren't interested.”
“Wait a moment. What do you mean?”
Looking at Foster, he leaned closer, whispering, “You three run the station's sensors, right?”
“We've got a boss, but he knows nothing,” the technician said, taking a swig of his beer. “You're smuggling something into the station, and you want the sensors knocked out while you do it. That about right?”
“Close. I'm trying to catch someone else in the act. Some of my cargo was stolen last night, and I'm pretty sure I know who did it. What I need is some sensor footage of their ship.”
“What?” the technician asked. “So you can take them to court? You'll be lucky, around here.”
“No, so I can work out the best way of getting past their defenses to get in. I need a high-focus scanning pass on the Lucky Dragon, and I need it in five minutes from now. They're shipping out soon, and I can't wait on this.”
“How much?”
“Two choices. Ten percent of the cargo I get back, or two thousand credits. Cargo'll be worth two, three times that. Mostly salvaged circuit components.” Glancing around, he said, “Look, I need to know now, or I'll have to come up with something else. It wasn't easy finding you guys. What's the deal?”
“Right now?” the second technician asked.
“Right now.”
“We'll take the credits. Three thousand of them, to split the difference. Cash in advance.”
Shaking his head, Salazar said, “Half now, half when I get the data. I'll go to two and a half.”
“Deal.”
“Good.” Salazar passed a Republic credit chit across the counter, and said, “I figured I'd end up haggling a bit. Transmit it to Gunslinger when you have it.”
One of the technicians swiped it through a reader, and nodded, “It's good.”
“Come on,” the first said. “Let's go get the gentleman his data.” They climbed from their chairs, lumbering through the door and turning down the corridor. Salazar waited until they had left, then fished another chit out of his pocket, tucking it underneath one of the half-empty beer bottles, took a quick sip of his, then stood up.
“Where are we going?” Foster asked.
He shook his head, then stepped through the door, looking left and right before heading in the opposite direction to the technicians, a puzzled Foster following. Taking two more turns at random, he looked at his datapad, flicking through files at random, before nodding in satisfaction at an oxygen storage report.
Stepping close to him, Foster whispered, “What the hell was that about?”
“If someone is following us, they'll know that we're interested in Lucky Dragon, and they'll probably have at least one of their security teams on their way over there right now. Anything to throw them off our trail a little.”
“Clever,” she said, as they continued down the corridor. “How did you know they were there?”
“I didn't,” he replied. “Sensor techs, comm-techs, anything would have done. As long as it looks like we came down here for some sort of reason.” Turning to the left, heading underneath some low-slung fiber-optic cables, he continued, “Right now, I hope, they're assuming we're trying to throw them off the scent.”
Shaking her head, she said, “You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely. Three more turns, then we make a straight run for our target, and hope for the best. Got your intrusion key ready?”
“Sure, but I still think Harper should be doing this.” She stopped, closed her eyes, and said, “She already is, isn't she. We're being used as decoys.”
“Keep moving,” Salazar hissed, walking on down the corridor, making a right turn past an emergency airlock, the cautionary warning lights winking as they approached. “Probably, but that doesn't mean that we don't have a chance, nor does it mean that we should just give up. If we are decoys, then we need to make this look as convincing as possible, and if we're the primary team on this, we'd damn well better succeed.”
“I don't like being used,” she said.
“Then you'd better take off your uniform, damn it, because occasionally these things happen. Now come on. I think we've thrown off our pursuers long enough that we can make a run for it. Right down this corridor, two turns, then we're at the manufacturing bays. There are only five of them, all in a nice long row, so look for the one with the most security. I'll hold them
off while you do the hack.”
“This isn't going to work.”
“It'll work,” he said. “One way or another.”
Turning down the indicated corridor, he passed a group of slouching technicians, sitting around a pile of life-system components with bottles of beer in their hands, likely obtained from the nearby bar. Given the general state of maintenance on this station, he gave the place ten years before it became uninhabitable, but that wasn't his problem. He looked down at one of the women, a brunette with striking green eyes who looked somehow familiar, as did the disgruntled sneer she threw him as she took a drink from her bottle.
He glanced down the corridor, the first of the construction yards just ahead. No sign of visible security, but the monitoring cameras overhead were brand new, as were the sound pickups. Further down the corridor, he saw a pair of guards wearing UN Fleet uniform, standing at parade rest, but that was far too obvious to be anything other than a ruse. Their target was right here, and the guards were sitting on the floor.
“Foster, go!” he yelled, drawing his pistol to cover the technicians, the brunette reaching into her jacket. “I wouldn't,” he added. “Everyone stay still.”
Hesitating for an uncomfortable second, Foster pulled open a maintenance link, jabbing her data-key into the socket, while the two guards at the end of the corridor ran towards them. Keeping one eye on the readout, she pulled out her pistol and fired a shot into the air, sending both of them scurrying for cover, moving behind well-placed crates positioned as a barricade.
“How long?” Salazar asked.
“Thirty seconds,” Foster replied, as a pair of shots rang out over their heads. Warning shots for the moment, but that was liable to change at any second. Salazar leveled his pistol on the woman, pointing right between the eyes.
“I'd suggest that everyone stay as they are. One twitch, and she's dead.”
“You won't do it,” the woman replied. “An officer and a gentleman of the Triplanetary Fleet? Go ahead and pull the trigger, Sub-Lieutenant.”
“If you make me...”
She rose to her feet, stepping into the pistol, and said, “Shoot me. Kill me. Go on.”
Shaking his head, he dropped back a step, before dropping down underneath her, lashing out with his feet into her legs, sending her crashing down to the deck before she could take his gun. He fired a pair of wild shots, and the two guards at the far end of the corridor immediately reacted, bullets flying past him and smashing into the nearest bulkhead.
“Ready!” Foster yelled, snatching at the datastick and running down the corridor, jumping over the technicians, the woman reaching up to try and pull her down to the floor. Salazar fired one more shot, then ran after her, turning down the nearest corridor, sprinting in a desperate bid to get away. The guards were instantly on their tail, the technicians finding weapons and joining them.
“Are you hurt, Monroe?” Salazar heard one of them say.
“Help me up,” she replied. “That bastard is mine.”
Foster glanced back, sliding her gun back into her holster, and said, “Where are we going?”
“Shuttle bay,” he replied. “As fast as we can.”
Another bullet cracked over his head, and she replied, “We're not going to make it just showing them our backs, Pavel.”
“Tell me something I don't know!” he said. “Get out of here. I'll cover you.”
“Then they shoot you, and still catch me. That's no answer.” Abruptly, she turned left, Salazar almost missing the turning as he followed her, voices of confusion behind them among the pursuing enemies.
“We're going the wrong way!”
“No, we aren't,” she replied, increasing her pace. “Come on, Pavel, can't you keep up? You should spend more time on the treadmill.”
“Too much damn paperwork,” he said, as they turned another corner. “Where are we going?”
“This time I get to improvise,” she said. “Besides, I think I've earned a drink.”
He glanced across at her, finally realizing where they were going, and jogged on as another bullet flew past him, smashing into an overhead pipe and sending a blast of steam flying into the air. Turning, he fired at the mess of people behind him, and heard an anguished cry as one of them dropped to the floor, clutching at his leg.
Racing around one final corner, they ran into the bar, the crowd of people still drinking their cares away. The first gunshot changed the picture, and they scattered, racing in all directions, Salazar and Harper attempting to lose themselves in the crowd. More gunshots echoed, some of them from the erstwhile patrons attempting to defend themselves, and a group of them charged into the technicians, tackling one to the ground while the others attempted to disentangle themselves from the melee.
Reinforcements arrived from both sides within seconds, the fight degenerating into a series of brawls, gangs of local station personnel teaming up to bring down the technicians, the occasional shot from both sides through the curse-filled air. Foster almost stumbled into one of the guards, before Salazar pushed her to one side, knocking him to the ground with a punch to the chin. He looked around, trying to find a clear route from the bar. The brunette was hanging back, communicator in hand, and more guards had to be on the way.
“This way,” Salazar said, running down the corridor, away from the battle. He heard a loud crack, and a searing pain shot through his arm as the bullet raced through. Stumbling forward, he toppled towards the ground, Foster pulling him to his feet, urging him on.
“Get out of here,” he gasped. “Get the information back to Alamo.”
“Like hell,” she replied. “You didn't leave me behind on Thule. I'll be damned if I leave you behind now.” Half-dragging, half-carrying him down the corridor, they staggered away towards the elevator, tears running from Salazar's eyes from the agony. Blood poured from his wound, and after another half-dozen paces, he collapsed to the ground, the world a hazy blur. He heard a ripping sound, and saw Foster wrapping a piece of cloth around the wound, tying it tight, then reaching into her pocket for a pull.
“Swallow this,” she said.
“Wha?”
“Stimulant. You'll hurt in the morning, but it'll get you on your feet.”
As he took the tablet, the pain began to ebb, and he felt a new burst of energy running through his body. With Foster's help, he rose from the floor, taking uncertain steps forward. Behind them, the fight was beginning to quieten as the trained soldiers gained the upper hand, the technicians deciding that the damage they had already done was enough that honor was satisfied.
The two of them lurched around another bend, but Salazar knew that he was moving too slowly, holding up Foster and the critical data. The ladder was only a few dozen feet away, but every movement felt like a knife being stabbed into his side. Even if they made it there before the rapidly approaching guards, it wouldn't do any good. He'd never be able to climb it.
“Damn it, Val, get out of here!” he gasped. “That's an order!”
“No,” she replied. “I'm not leaving you behind.” A smile broke out on her face as she looked up, continuing, “Besides, you don't want to miss what comes next.”
“Huh?”
Running down the next corridor, pistols in hand, Corporal Walpis led a squad of Espatiers wearing civilian clothes, grins wide on their faces. Two of them had an obviously improvised stretcher, and Specialist Reeves already had his medikit in his hand, flashing Salazar a disapproving stare.
“Looks like we're just in time,” Walpis said, gesturing his men to take a defensive formation in the corridor behind them, while the medic began to inspect Salazar's wound.
“How?”
“Complements of Captain Orlova, sir. She thought you might need some back-up, so we came over on the last shuttle.” A gleaming grin spread across the Neander's face, and he added, “You owe us all a beer, by the way.
We had to leave our drinks behind in the rush.”
“I'll get you a couple of cases after this,” he said, as Reeves poked at his arm.
“Does that hurt, sir?” he said, sending another burst of pain through his system.
“Yes it damn well does, Specialist,” Salazar snapped, and the medic shook his head.
The UN troopers raced around the corridor, coming to a sudden halt as they saw the forces lined up against them. Their leader scowled at Walpis and Ghaison, the two Neander of the squad, muttering something under his breath that earned him a sharp rebuke from the brunette.
“These two are under arrest for espionage,” she said, stepping forward. “Whoever you are...”
“Corporal Walpis, First Platoon, Bravo Company, Triplanetary Espatier Corps.”
“One 'l',” Ghaison added. “Make sure you get it right.”
“I'm First Lieutenant Monroe, United Nations Space Fleet. I suggest you remember that, Corporal, so that you know from where the blade fell. I demand that you turn these two over to me at once, or face the consequences.”
“Looks like we have you outnumbered,” Walpis said.
“That will not last, Corporal.”
“Long enough,” Salazar replied. “Long enough. Lieutenant, you've lost this round. Either you admit defeat with grace and we move on to the next stage in our little fight, or we can start the Second Interplanetary War right here in this corridor. Your choice.”
Her reply was interrupted by a loud rumble, followed by a devastating whine that every spaceman instinctively knew. The decompression alarm. Looking down at the deck, he saw a crack forming in the floor, a whine from someone cutting through all three layers of the hull. The plating started to buckle as a dreadful hiss sounded in the air, and Salazar looked around for the emergency airlocks, the rescue balls. Alamo, or any Triplanetary facility, would be liberally festooned with safety equipment, but he couldn't see anything.
Battlecruiser Alamo_Depth Charge Page 8
