by Adams, P R
“Wasn’t even about to happen. They were all too close to Moltke. Look, don’t panic. These guys know exactly what they’re doing. Your job is to provide situational awareness and general direction.”
“I know what the job is,” Kleigshoen said with a frosty glare.
“Good,” Rimes said with the faintest of smiles. “That means you should be okay. Don’t let it eat you up. It doesn’t even look like we’ll receive a go.”
“They’ll green-light this operation,” Kleigshoen said.
“You sound awfully confident.” The diagnostics chimed. Rimes looked at it; his EVA was ready. “Is the Bureau working an angle?”
Kleigshoen frowned. “They have to approve it. The stakes are too high to do nothing.”
“Let’s hope someone realizes that.” Rimes removed his headgear. A final check of his harness, another nod at Lopez, and Rimes relaxed. The counter sat at two minutes, twenty-nine seconds.
41
20 March 2164. The thermosphere over the Pacific Ocean.
* * *
Somewhere in the darkness twenty kilometers out, SJG-6 floated among a pool of lights marking a dozen loosely aligned orbitals, three hundred and seventy-five kilometers above the Pacific Ocean.
No security force protected the orbitals. The only weapons available to them were small, explosives-laden satellites designed to shatter or redirect approaching astronomical objects and debris.
Yet, thanks to the fragile state of international alliances and agreements, they’d managed to hold off thirty-six of the world’s deadliest soldiers.
Rimes sighed. The mission was fast approaching impossibility, assuming they even received approval. Rimes’s earpiece chimed. It was Weatherford again—or, more accurately, the operations center.
Weatherford was running the show, but General McNabb was present, ready to override anything that bothered him. Rimes synced with Kleigshoen and the other non-coms, then accepted the communication. He nodded at Kleigshoen; she nodded back.
“This is Agent Kleigshoen, Colonel. Go ahead.”
“Agent Kleigshoen,” Weatherford said after an awkward pause. “I wanted to provide the latest update.”
“Good news, Colonel?”
“No,” Weatherford said, his brow wrinkling. “Not really. Things have escalated. We have the president and SecDef syncing up. They’ll be on at any moment.”
Rimes and Lopez exchanged a troubled glance. Rimes had never been on an operation the president was even officially aware of; most Commando operations were structured to allow some level of plausible deniability.
“SJG continues to deny us access to their systems,” Weatherford said. “However, we have a few tidbits, including the fact that SJG-6 was leased in its entirety weeks before it became officially available. The transaction is a dead end, though. No cooperation from the banks.”
“Can someone bring any sort of legal pressure on the banks?” Kleigshoen asked with an exasperated sigh.
“They’ve got the Justice Department looking into that,” Weatherford said. His expression made clear that he held out no hope from such an approach.
“What about checking travel patterns?” Kleigshoen asked.
Weatherford squinted and leaned closer to the camera. “We still don’t have the residents’ names, Agent Kleigshoen. SJG won’t budge on the confidentiality agreement they’ve been standing on.”
“What about tracking backwards, looking at the destinations and doing some sort of check on where the arrivals are coming from?” Kleigshoen asked.
“How do you propose we do that without their names?” Weatherford asked.
“Filter out the names you can get,” Kleigshoen said. “The shipyards and mining operations have contracts with us. Force them to reveal their employee and contractor data. It’s either going to come back with their residence information or not. Anyone who comes back blank can be researched as a suspect.”
Weatherford nodded off-camera, then squinted at Kleigshoen. “You think IB can pull something like that off?”
A picture of a mix of uniformed and civilian people appeared in the corner of Weatherford’s image.
“This is General Del Toro,” one of the uniformed men said. “I’m with General Shue, Admiral Fodor, and General Wendt of the Joint Chiefs, Director Vaughn of the IB, Counselor Yost, Attorney General Hadad, Defense Secretary Jordan. We’re in the situation room with President Lazaro. General McNabb, we understand there’s been little progress?”
McNabb, a dark-skinned man with a thin patch of salt-and-pepper hair, adjusted a pair of black plastic glasses and stood. The operations center’s camera refocused to capture a wider angle. While Weatherford sported a combat uniform, McNabb wore his dress uniform. He had a reputation for political gamesmanship and drama.
McNabb coughed. “We’re still on hold pending approval, General Del Toro.”
A middle-aged civilian woman with red hair leaned in to whisper into President Lazaro’s ear. He nodded, then looked into the camera. “General McNabb, we’ve been in contact with the Special Security Council. We’re hoping to receive some level of support here in the next couple hours. Can you give us the most current status?”
“We have three orbital shuttles in position twenty kilometers out from the suspected orbital station, Mister President,” McNabb said. He pulled his glasses off, crossed his arms, and began tapping the frames on an elbow. “Thirty-six of Colonel Weatherford’s Commandos are spread across those shuttles. It’s being run by Intelligence Bureau Agent Dana Kleigshoen.”
Lazaro looked across at a man. “Glenn, is this your mission?”
“It’s a joint mission, Mister President,” the man who must be Director Vaughn said. “Agent Kleigshoen has been working closely on this mission for quite some time now.”
Lazaro extended a hand as though he were giving a campaign speech. “Colonel Weatherford, are you comfortable with Agent Kleigshoen running this operation?”
Rimes glanced at Kleigshoen, who seemed impossibly serene.
“We’ve seen remarkable results from our joint effort with the Intelligence Bureau, Mister President,” Weatherford said.
Lazaro nodded. “I agree, Colonel. If it’s any help, I’ve asked General Del Toro to put together a force to supplement yours.”
Weatherford stiffened. “Sir?”
Del Toro’s face was strained. “That’s right, Colonel. We’re scrambling Bravo Company of the 82nd Airborne. They’ve been through orbital combat simulation. They should be at your position in ninety minutes.”
“All due respect, sir, but we were hoping for rapid insertion, operating on speed and agility rather than firepower.”
Lazaro smiled beatifically. “It was my idea, Colonel. This is Captain Singh’s group; he’s an extremely experienced soldier with a great deal of potential. He also has relatives in the Special Security Council apparatus.”
Secretary Jordan and General Del Toro exchanged a quick, embarrassed glance.
A serious-looking man in his mid-forties stepped into the situation room; Rimes had seen him before but couldn’t place him. The serious-looking man whispered to Lazaro and the woman next to him, whispering softly. Surprise played over Lazaro’s face.
Lazaro focused on the camera again. “We’ve just received word from the Special Security Council that they’d like a bit more input on this operation.”
Weatherford frowned. “Certainly, Mister President.”
Lazaro folded his hands in front of him. “I understand you have a Sergeant Rimes involved?”
“He’s Agent Kleigshoen’s second on the mission. Sergeant Rimes, are you receiving?”
“I’m receiving, sir,” Rimes confirmed.
Lazaro blinked rapidly and offered a fatuous smile. “Apparently, Sergeant Rimes, the Special Security Council places a great deal of trust in your opinion. They’d like your input. As they’ve requested, we’re going to add them to our channel in a moment.”
Rimes took in a deep breath. “Un
derstood, sir.”
The image split to display the Special Security Council gathered in their chamber at the UN building. Rimes recognized most of them; he most often dealt with military attachés, but he’d briefed the council members a few times before.
“President Lazaro, thank you,” Representative Bhatia said, bowing almost imperceptibly. “The council has reviewed your request, and we have a few questions. We appreciate you making Sergeant Rimes available.
“Sergeant Rimes, is this action related to the action taken at the T-Corp facility in the Sundarbans?”
“It is,” Rimes said, amazed at the relative directness of the question; Bhatia was usually diplomatic to a fault.
“You reported LoDu agent Kwon Myung-bak killed in an addendum to your Singapore operation, yet we’ve been told he is somehow involved in this action. Please explain.”
Rimes saw only blank stares from Lazaro and Weatherford. “We determined Kwon was working in concert with several other genies. Although he was killed in Australia as I tried to take him into custody, we were able to connect him to numerous other suspects. Those suspects led us here.”
“And those suspects include this ‘Perditori’ mentioned in the report?” Bhatia asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bhatia glanced at another representative. At the other representative’s nod, she continued. “Sergeant Rimes, in your opinion, do your discoveries implicate the LoDu metacorporate entity in illegal activities?”
Rimes glanced over at Kleigshoen, who bit her lip and nodded.
“Among others. But the true criminals here would seem to be the genies, ma’am.”
Bhatia bowed slightly again. “President Lazaro, we hope to have the Special Security Council’s official position for you within the next two hours.”
Official position and unofficial political pressure. We need them if we’re going to get the metacorporations to budge.
The Special Security Council connection closed. Rimes watched Vaughn, Lazaro, and the woman next to him discuss something in hushed tones.
Weatherford appeared on the screen. “Mister President, I believe we have a problem.”
“Go ahead, Colonel.” Lazaro smiled patiently and folded his hands in his lap. He fidgeted uncertainly for a moment before settling.
“Shortly before you joined us, Agent Kleigshoen recommended a potential backdoor research method to help identify who is in the SJG-6 orbital. The Bureau has identified seventeen residents already; we’re sending those records to everyone now.”
Chatter flooded the line.
Rimes opened the data packet. On the sixth record, he stopped. He’d seen the man before. A moment later, he recognized another. All told, he found four men he’d seen in Mumbai and Seoul. He flagged the records and sent them to Weatherford, Kleigshoen, and the other non-coms.
Finally, Lazaro looked up and coughed. The chatter died off.
Lazaro raised a hand again, once more ready to deliver a speech. “Colonel, Director Vaughn has just shown me something troubling. Forty-six of the people from the SJG-6 are on our Genie Watch List.”
Rimes cocked his head. After decades of abuse, failure, and lawsuits, most organizations had abandoned the watch list concept.
“Mister President,” Weatherford said, “we’re getting employment records on these genies now. None of them hold long-term contracts with any of the orbital operations. Each and every one has held a mixture of short-term positions in the shipyards—security, engineering, construction.”
“I can see that,” Lazaro said irritably.
They’ve been inside every one of the shipyard facilities. Why? It wouldn’t make sense they’d need the money. Would they hide the X-17 there somehow? Do they have weapons systems installed they could use to launch it?
The situation was surreal, absurd. They were twenty klicks out from an orbital that probably held enough nerve gas to kill fifty thousand people, yet the politicians somehow saw this as an opportunity for debate. Rimes pinched himself and rolled his head, simultaneously trying to work out the nervous tension and ensure he was awake. He wanted another stim.
Kleigshoen slipped her headgear on and signaled Rimes to do the same. Over a private channel, she said, “Jack, the Special Security Council is going to approve the operation.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Rimes glared at her. “What’s going on now?”
“I … I contacted my father.”
“Does the president know?” Rimes demanded. What were you thinking? There’s going to be hell to pay.
Kleigshoen shook her head. “What matters is that we’ve got clearance from the Special Security Council. Lazaro has to give us the green light.”
“Okay. So we’re going in.” Rimes looked around at the Commandos; everyone seemed relaxed but ready. “You going to be all right?”
“Yeah.” Kleigshoen smiled lopsidedly and took a deep, cleansing breath. “It felt good proving myself. I could’ve done without the audience.”
He nodded at her. Of course you can do it. You were a blown-out knee away from being a Commando.
In the situation room, Lazaro had stood and was pacing around the room’s cramped confines. Rimes switched his audio back to the general conference.
“What the hell do you mean there’s no one aboard?” Lazaro shouted. “Why would SJG refuse to allow us to board an empty orbital station?”
McNabb slowly spun his glasses in his hand. “President Lazaro. We’re receiving a communiqué over emergency channels. The shipyards are reporting an attack of some sort. Details are sketchy, but what got out would seem to point to casualties. Quite a few casualties. They’re speculating it’s something in the air, or a failure of the ventilation system.”
“X-17,” Rimes said. The shipyards? Their target was the shipyards? Why?
Lazaro froze, glaring at the camera to see who had spoken. Rimes quickly muted his mike.
Weatherford said, “Mister President, I believe Sergeant Rimes is correct.”
Admiral Fodor turned to Lazaro. “Mister President, we have billions tied up in those shipyards. Our largest ships are under construction. The Powell’s still there.”
Lazaro twisted, looking to his staff for guidance. No one met his glance. Finally, he turned, gripped his hands behind his back, and paced a step. He turned again and, with dramatic flair, held up both hands, looking at McNabb and Weatherford.
“We have no choice.” He lowered his hands and stiffened. Faced with the potential loss of billions of dollars, he seemed to find his way. “Colonel Weatherford, you may deploy your Commandos to the shipyards immediately. Is that clear?”
Weatherford smiled grimly. His brow wrinkled, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Loud and clear, Mister President.”
42
20 March 2164. The thermosphere over the Pacific Ocean.
* * *
The shuttle banked hard in one direction, then in the opposite. Rimes rocked in his harness, sucking at his EVA suit’s odorless, stale oxygen in an effort to fight off nausea. He twisted in an attempt to see how everyone else was doing. In the passenger bay’s wan light, they were ghostly figures, phantasms. They were all caught in the same dance as him, twisting, rocking, holding on for dear life.
They’ve been through simulation training before. Dana hasn’t.
The shuttle dipped, throwing Rimes forward against the harness. He set his jaw and breathed deep again. Genie shuttles had engaged them two minutes out from the shipyard, and they were finding their range now.
The genie pilots seemed to have a clear edge in reaction time, but they faced far-superior vehicles, and had already lost one of their four shuttles.
The Commando mission had three primary targets, two of them capital ships. If the genies managed to gain control of the ships, the situation would become elementary. The genies—and the ships—would quickly be gone.
We’ve got to get past these shuttles.<
br />
Rimes closed his eyes. The weight of the last few days pressed on him, and he nodded off for a moment. Shots rattled off the hull, triggering integrity alarms. Rimes jerked awake, ashamed of himself. Before he could shout a warning, the alarms cleared; the hull was fine.
The pilot suddenly initiated a radical maneuver that left Rimes disoriented. A sustained humming filled the bay: the shuttle’s belly-mounted railgun array. Rimes located a blinking genie shuttle on his display just as it winked out.
Another one down!
“Sergeant Rimes, we’re breaking off,” the pilot said. “Orders are to proceed to the Powell.”
“Understood.”
The shuttles were a distraction, buying time.
Rimes watched the display for a few more seconds before switching his focus to their target, the USS Powell. The shuttle’s feed was filling in details that made the mission ever more real. An idea—desperate, flawed, but still an idea—took shape.
The shipyard was a kilometer-long tube with artificial gravity capability. A dozen spokes radiated outward, with larger ships hanging off them. Shuttles from orbitals would normally arrive around the clock, depositing workers—engineers, electricians, even construction workers—and materials in the central hub to support the shipyard’s insatiable needs.
Now—
The pilot’s face filled a small window in Rimes’s display. “Ninety seconds to target.”
Rimes gripped his harness and shifted in his seat. “We’re going to need two drops, Chief. I want you to drop Lopez’s squad at the hangar entry. Then you’ll need to drop my squad off on top of the bridge structure. I’ve uploaded the locations.”
“Looks simple enough.” The pilot grinned. “Let’s hope they didn’t activate those missile batteries, or this could get even more interesting.”
Rimes opened a shared workspace with Lopez and Kleigshoen’s earpieces and dragged the Powell’s floor plan into it.
