by David Bruns
“This is a COD job,” he said. “Insurance.”
Chapter 5
CSS Yangtze
On patrol in Chinese-controlled space
A chirp penetrated the dark of Captain Sun Xiao’s cabin. For a moment, he thought maybe he’d dreamed it, then it came again, followed by a crisp “Bridge to Captain.”
His comms officer’s voice . . . what was Wei doing awake at this time of night?
Rolling out of bed, he padded across the carpet to the screen on the wall. He carefully angled the screen so that the caller could not see his bed. No need to start rumors.
He tapped the screen. “Captain here.”
Lieutenant Commander Wei’s bald head filled the screen. “Captain, incoming transmission from Party Headquarters. Eyes only for you, sir. Shall I send it to your room?”
Xiao shot a glance at the still form in his bed and shook his head. “I’ll take it in my ready room in five minutes, Wei.”
He dressed in the dark, knowing every inch of his cabin by feel. The room still smelled faintly of the incense he’d burned the previous evening. A good evening, he reflected. No, a very good evening.
Before he left, Xiao leaned over the woman, nuzzling the dark hair at the nape of her neck. “I have to go,” he whispered. “You can let yourself out?”
The woman sat up. She knew his question was code for “You need to leave now.” Captain Sun’s after-hours habits followed a strict—and well-known—code among the female crew members of the Yangtze. But none of them cared. As the nephew of the Chinese premier and the youngest commanding officer in the Chinese Fleet, Captain Sun Xiao was a highly sought-after prize by any ambitious woman. The Sun name was akin to royalty in today’s Chinese society.
“Will I see you tonight?” she asked, eyeing him coquettishly through a fringe of dark hair.
Xiao considered her for a long moment. He’d have his personal secretary check into her family’s background. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But duty calls.” He left her with a short bow.
Wei had roused the regular bridge crew in anticipation of new orders. “Captain on the bridge!” he called as Xiao stepped from the lift.
“At ease, everyone,” Xiao said without breaking stride. He shot a questioning look at Wei. The officer saluted and said, “The transmission is queued up in your ready room, sir.”
Xiao nodded. Wei was a good officer—better than his current XO, in fact. He made a mental note to put in a recommendation for his promotion.
He slid behind his desk and composed himself before answering the incoming call. He was stunned to see his uncle, Chinese Premier Sun Wu, staring back at him. Xiao instantly regretted the time he had taken before answering the call.
“Uncle,” he said, trying to keep the embarrassment out of his voice. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Pleasant would have been five minutes ago, Nephew.”
Xiao bowed his head at the screen. “I apologize for my tardiness, Uncle. Security matters kept me from answering your call immediately.”
Wu huffed, then waved his hand. “No matter. I have an assignment for you, an issue of global security.”
Xiao sat up straighter. “I am yours to command, sir.” He studied his uncle. As his mother had once told him, it was important to listen to what his Uncle Wu did not say when he spoke.
In truth, the square-jawed man on the other side of the transmission was a puzzle. An orphan by birth, Sun Wu had burst onto the Chinese political scene a mere decade ago, climbing the web of social, political, business, and military connections with a speed that could only be described as breathtaking. Wu’s marriage to Xiao’s aunt had been a move calculated to win him the premiership, which had also changed Xiao’s life forever. Overnight, he went from a mid-ranking officer with modest skills and marginal political clout to captain of a Shaolin-class starship.
In this case, Uncle Wu was careful not to say this was Chinese State business, which meant it was a personal endeavor.
“I’m sending you coordinates,” his uncle said.
Xiao studied the star map: a point in space midway between the Russian- and Chinese-controlled sectors, in the demilitarized zone.
“You will meet a ship there. Caliphate-registered, a smuggler. He will give you a package. Bring that package to me.”
Xiao raised his eyebrows. “You want me to bring it back to Earth?” They were days away from home and scheduled to be on patrol for another three weeks.
“Yes, back to Earth.” Uncle Wu didn’t bother to disguise his impatience. “If there are any issues, refer them to me. Best possible speed back to Earth as soon as you have the package.”
“May I ask what is in the package?”
“You may not!” Wu’s forehead creased and his face reddened. “I’m sorry, Nephew. This is a very important issue that requires all of your attention. I can only trust this to a family member.”
“You may rely on me, Uncle.” Xiao hesitated. “May I ask about the size of the package? Any special handling requirements?”
Wu’s face relaxed. “The cargo is small, no larger than a briefcase. As for special handling, I want you to keep it with you at all times—all times, nephew. No one is to open or tamper with the case in any way.”
“I understand, Uncle. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. The ship you will be meeting, the Renegade, has cloaking technology. Be very wary of them; these people are not trustworthy. Also, they will expect payment on delivery.”
“How do you want me to handle that?”
“I’m sending you an account with enough credits to cover the exchange. Pay them if you must, but as soon as you have the package in your possession, I want you to destroy the Renegade.”
Xiao kept his face still. Now he knew why Uncle Wu had called him. “You want me to use Project Moscow?”
Wu’s face split in a smile, a rare occurrence for the Chinese premier. “Exactly, Nephew. I knew I could count on you.”
The Project Moscow weapons were knockoffs of the Russian laser technology. Inferior to China’s, of course, but perfect for blaming the demise of this unfortunate smuggler on the Russians.
Xiao bowed his head again.
“It shall be done, Uncle.”
Chapter 6
White House, Washington, DC
Senator Franklin Delano Beauregard III took his time as he entered the East Room of the White House. He allowed a bemused smile to grace his carefully sculpted features.
All this for little ol’ me.
“Senator, so nice of you to join us.” The president’s wife was a beautiful woman, and Franklin was sure the president had sent her over to soften him up.
“Milly, the opportunity to see you makes it all worthwhile.” He kissed the First Lady’s hand, holding onto it just a moment longer than was necessary.
She extracted her fingers but winked at him all the same. For a split second, Franklin wondered if the worm that occupied the Oval Office would stoop so low as to pimp out his own wife. No, Franklin decided, even he wouldn’t go that far.
“FDB, I’m glad you came.” The voice came from behind Franklin. The worm himself, making a sneak attack from the rear.
Franklin ran a hand over his mane of thick gray hair—the best money could buy—and energized his smile. “Mr. President, I do believe you were about to stab me in the back, sir. You can’t sneak up on an old man like that.”
He swung to face the leader of the free world. Quentin Chamberlain was the definition of a compromise candidate. Hell, Franklin thought, taking in the president’s weak chin and watery eyes, he even looks like a compromise candidate. Get some cosmetic surgery, man.
“Now, FDB, that’s not fair,” the president replied, using Franklin’s nickname from the Senate, a moniker of respect that was usually reserved for members of Franklin’s own party—of which the president most definitely was not. “And you’re not old, either.”
“Maybe you’d allow me to wet my whistle, Mr. President?” Fr
anklin said, trying to steer the conversation to safer waters.
“Where are my manners, FDB!” He snapped his fingers at a waiter. “And please, we’re after hours here; call me Quentin, just for tonight.” He winked at Franklin, who did his best not to grimace back. A wink from Milly was a welcome surprise; from her husband it was just pandering.
“Why, that is very kind of you, Quentin.” The waiter was back in a flash with a tumbler of bourbon. Franklin drank deeply. His eyebrows went up. Thirty-year-old small-batch Wild Turkey Kentucky Reserve—the good stuff, no longer available on the open market.
The president was watching his reaction, and he grinned. “I got it right, didn’t I?” He nudged Franklin with his elbow. “That stuff is not cheap, you know.”
Franklin closed his eyes, letting the bourbon roll around on his tongue. The only thing that would make this moment sweeter was if this idiot would shut up and let him enjoy his drink in peace. He opened his eyes and Quentin Chamberlain was still there. Worse yet, Milly was gone.
“Why don’t we get you another one of those and let’s duck into a separate room for a little chat, FDB?”
Franklin sighed. “I’d be delighted, Quentin.”
***
Kyla Torres, the National Security Advisor, was waiting for them. She was a good choice for this meeting, Franklin grudgingly admitted to himself. Torres was probably the one person in the entire Chamberlain administration that he respected.
Torres rose when they entered the room. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Everything about her, from her sensible haircut to her sensible shoes, radiated competence and confidence. No flash, just substance, a rarity these days.
Her hand was cool when he shook it and she met his eyes without hesitation. Then the president ruined the moment by talking.
“I think we all know why we’re here, FDB.”
Franklin sipped his drink and sat down. This man was totally ruining his buzz.
“If I may, Senator?” Torres’s voice was low and even. She touched a button and a hologram popped out of the tabletop. The 3-D image expanded into a representation of the solar system and zoomed into the open space around Mars. A series of highlighted pods, like pickets, flashed on the display.
GILD, or Global Intelligent Laser Defense, was Franklin’s baby. An interactive drone platform equipped with ultra-high-power lasers, the system was designed to operate independently in space to protect a designated area. The problem was the independent part. The CIA analysts had blown the system capabilities way out of proportion, claiming that GILD would allow artificial intelligence to fight our wars and predicting an end-of-days scenario where machines turn on their makers.
Franklin realized that both the president and Torres were waiting for him to speak. He put down his drink and settled for the truth. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Quentin.”
Torres shot the president a look at the use of his first name, but Chamberlain waved it off. “We’re all friends here, Kyla. Let’s just have a frank discussion about the pros and cons of the vote tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Torres replied, but her lips were set in a thin line.
The president leaned his elbows on the table. “FDB, if you vote to turn this system on, I fear we’re crossing a line which we won’t be able to uncross.”
“You mean the machines are going to take over the world, Quentin?” Franklin threw back his head and laughed. The sound bounced off the walls of the conference room. “That’s a fairy tale invented by the admirals to keep up the defense budget. It’s a new age, Quentin, and we’ve got to keep up.”
“But that’s just the point, Senator,” Torres interrupted. “We’re not keeping up, we’re setting a new standard in warfare. The fact that we built the system is bad enough, but if we turn it on, then the Russians and the Chinese will be forced to deploy their own drone platforms. There’s no scenario I can see where AI laser drone-ships make our solar system a safer place for anyone.”
Franklin sipped the last of his bourbon and tipped the glass at the president. A flash of annoyance crossed Chamberlain’s face, but he tapped a note into the tablet on the table. Franklin pretended to consider Torres’s point of view before he spoke.
“So you want us to spend billions of credits on GILD, then not deploy it? Just let it rot underneath the surface of Mars? That’s your plan?”
Torres shrugged. “If it were my choice, we’d never have built it in the first place, but to answer your question: yes, we let it rot. Our enemies don’t even know we have it—and they never will.”
Franklin started to work up a healthy dose of indignation, but his drink arrived just then and he focused on that instead. “No,” he said after a long sip.
“FDB,” the president said. “Please reconsider. As you vote, so goes the rest of the committee. You are potentially starting us on an arms race that our children’s children will have to deal with.”
Franklin shook his head. “It will leapfrog the Russians, give us the edge we need to put those Commie bastards in their place once and for all. We can lower defense spending on manned ships by half within the next decade. Half!” The bourbon came dangerously close to slopping out of the tumbler, but he saved it at the last second.
Torres and Chamberlain exchanged glances. “What will it take, FDB?” the president said. “Everything’s on the table. Tell me what I can offer to convince you to vote against deploying GILD.”
Franklin stared at him. Damn, but he was drunk. “Nothing,” he said.
“Pardon?” the president said.
“Nothing,” Franklin repeated. The bourbon must have given him the clarity he needed. He’d come to this meeting fully prepared to bargain away his vote for the list of demands he had in his pocket, but now . . .
“There’s nothing you can offer me to change my mind, Mr. President. This is a vote of conscience.” Where had that come from? “GILD is the right thing to do for our country and our people and I fully intend to vote for it tomorrow.”
Torres refused to give up. “Senator, I know you’re a big supporter of the—”
Franklin held up his hand and stood. He swayed the tiniest bit. “Madam, I’m sorry, but I’ve made up my mind. I am voting for GILD deployment tomorrow. I bid you both a good evening.” He made an abrupt about-face and marched to the door.
Chapter 7
ISS Invincible
Edge of Yalta Sector
“The Leningrad is changing course again, ma’am,” said Ensign Proctor.
Addison watched the viewscreen where the ensign had plotted the Russian ship’s movements. Overlaid on a map of occupied space, the RSS Leningrad was moving in a regular zigzag pattern.
“Looks like they’re searching for something,” Addison said.
“Or someone,” came Captain Baltasar’s voice.
“Captain on the bridge,” called out the sentry at the lift doors. Addison stood, making a mental note to chew out the marine after watch. As Executive Officer, she liked to know where the captain was at all times.
“As you were, people,” Baltasar said. “Talk to me, XO. What are the Russkies up to now?”
“We think it’s a search pattern, sir, but we have no idea what they’re after.”
Baltasar pursed his lips. He pointed to the demilitarized zone where the Yalta Sector met Chinese space. “Looks like they’re headed here.” Addison had a hard time seeing how he came to that conclusion. The Leningrad could be going anywhere.
The captain slid into his command chair and used the controls on the armrest to zero in on the DMZ. “Proctor, focus your search here.”
The ensign frowned. “That’s on the outer limits of sensor range, sir. Anything I get will be ghost images at best.”
“Hmm—you’re right, Ensign,” Baltasar said. “Helm, come to new course two-four-zero, mark three. Full impulse.”
Addison consulted her screen. “Captain, that takes us into Russian-controlled space.”
“I’m aware, XO.”
&n
bsp; “But Captain, that’s not permitted—”
“We have new tasking, XO.” Baltasar’s eyes were bright, and he was smiling. Not a happy smile, more like a creepy, preoccupied smile.
“I wasn’t aware of any new tasking, sir.”
“Well, now you know, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” Addison sat back in her chair, still uneasy. It was possible that new orders had come in eyes-only for the CO, but she would have still been notified of the incoming transmission even if the content was restricted.
“Captain, you’re right, sir,” said Proctor in an excited voice. “There’s two ships in that sector, a Chinese warship and a smaller vessel. The Russians have seen them, too. They are inbound at full power.”
A light blinked on Addison’s panel, indicating they had just crossed into Russian-controlled space.
The captain’s fingers tightened on his armrest. “Helm, lay in a course to intercept the Leningrad. Full power.”
The captain looked at her, his eyes bright.
“General quarters, XO.”
Chapter 8
White House, Washington, DC
The cocktail party was just beginning to wind down. Franklin scanned the room for press. He wasn’t actually drunk, but the last thing he needed was some bullshit blogger posting a story about his meeting with the president. If he played his cards right, he could garner a huge amount of press coverage tomorrow when the existence of GILD went public.
He found a table by the window and flagged a waiter. “The president had a bottle of Kentucky Reserve opened for me. Please bring me a glass.” Franklin held his thumb and forefinger apart to show a generous measure, then he peered out the window into the swelter of a DC summer evening.
“May I join you, Senator?” The voice belonged to a young woman. Curly blonde hair, athletic build, and blue eyes the color of washed-out denim. Her dress clung to her body in all the right places.
