A smile began to creep onto her face, and she said, “Courier duty?”
“With two destinations. The first is Fleet Captain Paine; I want him to get his staff onto the analysis right away. The second…” He took a deep breath, and said, “President Newton must get this information, without any delay, and you’ve got to get it to him. Without telling anyone what it is, or why. I haven’t got anyone else who even has a chance of that. Paine will help smooth the way if needed, but you have the connections.”
“You really don’t trust channels?”
“I don’t dare take the risk. We’re growing too fast, and I’m getting worried that things are beginning to slip through the cracks. This way I get a guarantee that the database gets where it needs to go. Between the two of them, Paine and the President can get that task-force moving.”
The frown returned to her face as she replied, “You seem more optimistic about Captain Paine than the President.”
“Politicians come and go, but intelligence chiefs are eternal. He knows where the bodies are buried.” With a wry smile, he continued, “Hell, he helped bury most of them.”
“How do you want me to get there?”
“That’s up to you, and I don’t want to know. Your destination is Carter Station; head to Miguel’s and ask for the Soup of the Day.”
“This all seems very cloak-and-dagger,” she replied with a smile. “Isn’t this rather old-fashioned?”
“Sometimes the old tricks are still the best. Leave by civilian transport, any way you want, I suggest under a false identity. Once we’ve left, you’ll have a good head-start over Wyvern.”
“No other orders?”
He shrugged, then replied, “I trust your discretion and your ability to make use of your contacts. If you need some advice, I’d suggest asking Lilith if she’s got any of her, ah, special cargoes heading out that way in the near future.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it done.” Frowning, she said, “Why Carter Station?”
“Because the President is swinging through Callisto to do some campaigning next week.”
“I suppose I don’t want to know how you know about that,” she replied. “Keeps me well out of the way of Wyvern, as well. What happens next?”
“Who knows? I have a sneaky suspicion that I have finally found a way of getting out of this damn job; presumably some stuffed shirt will replace me in my absence. Try and attach yourself to the task force, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Nodding, she said, “You know, you really should be doing this yourself. I’m pretty sure that I can handle it, but you’d give more weight than I can provide. Cunningham and Ryder are up to handling the search for Alamo.”
“That’s the problem. They’d turn it into a crusade, and I can’t permit that. We need advanced recon, not a long-range mission of exploration. There would be too much temptation to go to one more star, then another. This way, I can keep them on mission.”
“I don’t buy that any more than you bought Ryder’s crap. You want to find out what happened to Alamo as much as they do. The rest is your attempt to rationalize it.”
“It’s a little more personal in my case.”
“Why?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Alamo’s mission was my idea.”
Her eyes widened, and she replied, “I thought the President…”
“Once we knew how extensive the Cabal spy ring was, I made the pitch to Paine, who made the pitch direct to the Big Boss himself. I even suggested that Alamo was the obvious choice.” He looked out at the starfield, and said, “I sent them out there. I have to go and find out what happened, maybe pick up the pieces if needed.”
“So you improvise a mission out of almost nothing, throw it together with a rag-tag crew, and fly off on some sort of mad rescue flight.”
“Beats staying behind here and dealing with the paperwork. I’m not a desk-jockey, and I was never intended to be. Ideally I’d go alone, but the three of them have a stake in this too. I’m sure that Cunningham and Ryder can come up with a crew of volunteers between them. You can always find people who are willing to take the gamble on a fast track to the next life for an adventure, especially in uniform.”
“Be careful, Logan,” she said. “I mean that. Don’t take any stupid risks.”
“I wouldn’t have lived this long if I made a habit of that.”
“We both know that it only takes one exception to that rule for it to be your last.”
With a smile, he replied, “You’re learning. Good luck.”
“And to you. I’ll see you here in about a month, with the whole damn fleet with me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
She drifted out of the room, and Logan watched after her as the door slid shut once again. Briefly, he contemplated what she had said; she was quite right that he was the obvious choice to sneak home with the data, but he was also the best choice to evaluate what might be waiting out there. Not that he needed any excuse to try and get out from under.
Tapping a sequence of commands into his desk computer, he smiled as a series of files were irretrievably erased from the station database, as if they had never existed, and another report was placed in an electronic dead-letter box, waiting for the next operative to report on board. Habit meant that he had never unpacked his belongings, though it would still take him a little while to get everything together.
Pausing for a second, he reached down for a second briefcase, and carefully checked the seals before placing it under his arm, then pulled one of the datapads from the stack, going over the few nuggets of information Harper had managed to snatch from the files. Tucking it into a pocket, he took what he hoped would be a last look around the office, and caught himself realizing that he was going to miss it. With a smile, he flicked off the lights, and drifted out into the corridor.
Chapter 4
Lieutenant Orlova smiled as she pulled herself into the shuttle cabin, looking around at the passengers sitting with their equipment in the rear section. Sergeant Forrest had kept it simple, considering that his plasma rifle would be sufficient for the mission, but Sub-Lieutenant Carpenter had chosen another path, briefly glancing up as she inventoried her hastily assembled equipment. Chief Wilson was waiting for her up in the cockpit, running through preflight checks, waving her to the pilot’s seat.
“I didn’t know you could fly, Chief,” she said, settling in next to him.
With a weary smile, he replied, “I know enough to turn on the autopilot and let Alamo bring me home. There weren’t that many volunteers for this mission.”
“Just the usual suspects. We only needed four, remember.”
“And we had six.” Shaking his head, he said, “Time was the whole crew would have volunteered for this mission. Now I think we’ve shaken most of the adventuring spirit out of them, at least for a while.”
“Relax, Chief. This will be easy.”
“Riding through a swarm of missiles of unknown strength?”
“We’ve done worse.”
“It’s a bad sign when I agree with you on that score.”
Turning back to the rear cabin, she called out, “You ready back there?”
“All set, Maggie,” Carpenter said.
“Ready and eager,” Forrest added.
“See,” she said to Wilson. “Eager.”
“Espatiers tend to have more guts than brains. It’s part of the job description. Course is plotted and ready in the computers, and I had them double the load on the physical countermeasures. I’m glad they didn’t write them out of the design specs.”
“God bless conservative designers.” Flicking a switch, she said, “Shuttle One to Alamo, requesting clearance to depart.”
Captain Marshall’s voice replied, “Don’t take too many risks, Lieutenant. I want you all back in one piece, and I don’t think Q
uinn will be happy if you break his shuttle.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Then you have launch clearance, and good luck, shuttle.”
Sirens sounded as the shuttle dropped down the elevator airlock, the hatches clamping shut overhead as the atmosphere was sucked out of the space. After a few seconds, the lower doors opened, and the shuttle fell clear of the ship, Orlova waiting a few heartbeats before cautiously firing the engines to kick them away.
She glanced down at the sensor display, and saw the tracks of the trailblazing missile salvo ahead of her; as she watched, six more images jumped onto the panel, Caine deploying the missile screen that would hopefully shield them against attack. She glanced across at Wilson, who nodded.
“I have control of those birds, Lieutenant. You can go whenever you are ready.”
“Right, Chief. Firing engines now.”
The force of acceleration pushed her firmly back in her seat; she’d seen no reason for this flight to take any longer than strictly necessary, and programmed the course plot for maximum speed at the expense of comfort. Even that would barely tax the missiles flying alongside, designed for far greater acceleration than any human could ever deal with.
She looked down at the planet below as the shuttle began to curve towards it, a swirling mass of green fog with a million points of light surrounding it, the debris that she could see. They were deliberately taking a course to keep them as clear of the field as possible, but all it would take was a piece of shrapnel smaller than she could see to ruin their day. Still, space was big, and those were the risks she’d signed on to take.
Next to her, the Chief was working furiously, monitoring the six missiles surrounding them. He turned to her, gesturing at a display, and she nodded in response. The field had detected the first wave of missiles up ahead, and launched in response – twenty more missiles were now in the air, well in the lead. Thus far, everything was going according to plan; above her, Alamo moved silently into position.
She glanced up at the ship, its laser reflectors extended to their full range, recently repaired by Quinn. A kilometer of thin black material, angled slightly to give the appearance of Alamo as a bird, swooping in to make a kill.
They were still a few moments from the critical area, and she ran a few test checks on the systems, making sure her evasive sequences were programmed in, taking one more look at the physical countermeasures, all ready to deploy. A trio of warning lights winked on, alerts that she was on a course for the atmosphere, her speed dipping below planetary escape velocity.
“Three hits, Lieutenant,” Wilson said. “Three of ours still running. Nine of theirs have run out of fuel and are coasting. No sign of additional launches.”
“And our bodyguards?”
“All running true.”
“Good.” She paused, then said, “Make sure they have enough thrust to reach escape velocity. The last thing we want is to add to the mess they’ve got down there.”
“Will do,” he replied with a nod. “We’re entering the threat zone now.”
She tensed up at her controls, looking around as though she could detect the launches visually. Some pilots opted to fly without a viewscreen, entirely reliant on their instruments, but for her it ruined the experience of it all. The times when seeing something for herself had made the difference between a safe landing and a crash had been too frequent for her to trust the computers – and she’d noticed early on that the cynical, cautious pilots were the old ones.
“How much have we got on the atmosphere down there?” she asked.
“No more than we had at first sight. It’s a mess of crosswinds and storms. We’re going to have trouble getting through it all.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“We have different ideas about what constitutes a nice day out, Lieutenant.”
Both of them were talking for the sake of filling up the time. The computer would alert them in an instant if anything approached them, and would begin to take the programmed counter-actions. Whatever ancient intelligence was running the defense systems out there had the initiative.
Within a few seconds, it used it. The panel lit up as another dozen tracks appeared, a new swarm of missiles heading for them. Instantly, their deadly wingmen pulled off into a starburst formation, diving in six different directions to throw off their pursuers; overhead, Alamo launched another salvo, six more missiles heading to intercept.
“Decoy away,” Orlova said. “Holding chaff and flares until the last moment.” She turned with a grin, and said, “I can’t believe we’re using this stuff. It’s like a scene from an old movie.”
“Let’s hope we’re the good guys,” the Chief replied. “It seems to be working, at least. Three of the targets are pulling away.”
“Atmosphere in two minutes,” she said. “I’ll try and crowd on some more boost. See if we can speed that up a little.” She tapped a couple of controls, instructing the navigation computer to be even more liberal with the thrust, and felt herself being pushed more firmly back into her chair.
Twenty-four missiles were now seeking mutual self-destruction all around the shuttle; she kept a close eye on the sensors as they started to dip down out of range, flying through the artificial ring system, alert for more launches. As a series of explosions erupted above them, she began to pull back as the shuttle’s hull began to bite air, the external temperature beginning to rise.
“Hold on, everyone,” she said. “This could get bumpy.”
That was something of an understatement; the atmosphere was well over five times denser than on Earth, right on the limit of the hull’s abilities to withstand it, even with extra reinforcement. She struggled to put it into the reentry angle; at least they weren’t too worried about where they came down.
Now the computers were resorting to as much guesswork as she; with little information to work on, there wasn’t much they could do to adapt to the changing atmosphere around them. The underside of the shuttle began to glow, flickering flames leaping up across the outside pickups, sending strange shadows and shapes dancing across the cockpit. She rested her hands on the controls, trying to keep the course changes to a minimum, an eye on the fuel readings.
“We’re in the safe zone now,” Wilson said. “Assuming there are no nasty shocks waiting for us down on the surface.”
“Are you always this cheerful?” Orlova replied. The shuttle rocked to the side, caught by a strong gust, as she struggled to compensate, pulling it back on trajectory. The heat was beginning to dissipate as the shuttle shed its speed; now she dipped the nose down and fired the engines at low power, sending her soaring over the landscape.
Despite her best efforts, maintaining a straight course was next to impossible; she followed a series of long curves, trying to work with the winds and currents rather than against them. The land beneath was the blasted wasteland that she had expected from the brief glimpses they had found from orbit; craters everywhere, thousands of them, some of them dozens of miles across, with the remains of lava flows suggesting the devastation that had once been wrought here.
The sensors began what initially seemed to be a vain quest to find some sort of structure on the surface, something that they could use to gather the information they needed, and then Wilson turned to her, surprise on his face.
“I’m getting a signal. Weak, but steady.”
“Where?”
“Locking it into the computer now. Too weak to get through the atmosphere, but pointing up as if it wants to. Definitely data transmission, not a beacon or something like that.” He frowned, then continued, “I suppose it could be some sort of defense system.”
“Only one way to find out,” she replied. “I’m setting a course. Ninety miles east, bringing her around. Can you raise Alamo?”
He looked down at his instruments, and replied, “Reception’s lousy, but I’ve got them. Data feed only,
though, no voice, and on quadruple-redundancy at that.”
“Keep piping through everything you can.”
She settled the shuttle onto its course, taking her through a cloud-bank that momentarily dimmed the cabin, before bringing it down on minimum power, curving onto a glide path to save fuel. There should be enough in the tanks to get her back up into orbit, but a good pilot didn’t take unnecessary risks.
Up ahead, she could see their target at the heart of a huge crater, a tall tower, twisted and bent, reaching up into the sky with a patch of concrete by the side. She glanced across at the radiation counter, surprisingly low for the area. Obviously this crater had been made by asteroid rather than bomb.
Playing her thrusters around, she went for a brute-force approach for the landing, playing for as near as she could manage to a vertical descent, landing legs preferred to wheels. The craft rocked from side to side as she struggled to maintain the angle, trying to keep her steady, and it was with a sense of relief that the contact lights winked on, the shuttle finally down and stable on the surface.
“Run checks, Chief. Do you mind staying on board for this one?”
“Only too glad to serve,” he said, grimacing at the view. “Watch yourself out there.”
She unbuckled, conscious of the amber warning lights from the pressure sensors. In the rear cabin, Carpenter and Forrest were already getting themselves ready, suits half on, and she rushed to catch up.
“Stay within visual range of the shuttle,” she said as she secured her gloves, “and remain in contact at all times. If contact is lost, drop what you are doing and head back to the shuttle. Forrest, you’ll remain on guard at the airlock while Carpenter and I go over to that tower.”
“Maggie, I doubt there is a living soul on the planet,” Carpenter said.
“Even so, let’s be careful.”
“I’m with the Lieutenant,” Forrest said. “There’s something about this place.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’ve never seen anything that close to hell in my life, and I don’t want to.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Ghost Ship Page 4
