by Terry Mixon
“That’s…good, right?” Michelle asked.
“It’s Mader,” he said flatly. “That son of the Everdark keeps turning up—and this time, he turned up with a supposedly dead Commonwealth ex-Senator in tow. I don’t know what Kate thinks is going on, but I’m starting to think the Cadre aren’t pirates.”
“That makes no sense,” she pointed out. “Just what are they, then?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I think that we’re sending Kate back to Earth when this is over to dig it all up. Thankfully, that’s outside our purview.” He snorted. “Hell, that’s even outside my Agency portfolio.”
“Your ‘Agency portfolio’ is ‘deniable combat asset,’ love,” his wife pointed out. “I don’t think they need you on Earth, where they have access to national armies and the police.”
“I bloody well hope not,” he agreed. “That lines up too neatly, though. The whole thing is a mess.”
“And what, exactly, do you think you can do about it?” Michelle asked.
Brad laughed.
“Fair,” he conceded. “Capture this convoy and find the evidence so Kate can prove someone is providing the Cadre warships—that’s what I can do.”
“And we have a plan. So, go sleep, love,” Michelle told him with a kiss. “Everything will go to hell in about twelve hours. We need you at your best and your sneakiest.”
He laughed again.
“Sneaky, my dear, is what I hired you lot for,” he told her. “My sneakiest is trying to get them to look at my right hand while I draw a gun with my left.”
“That is, basically, our plan,” she pointed out. “So, I guess it’s got to be yours, huh?”
He threw a cushion at her.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Are we seeing anything at the target waypoint?” Brad asked Bogdanov as Oath of Vengeance continued her stealthy approach, growing farther and farther away from her compatriots.
The rest of the Vikings were locked in a tight formation around Longbow, both fulfilling the plan of pretending to be the carrier’s escorts and provided a pointed reminder to the carrier’s current “captain” of the reasons to behave.
“Negative,” Oath’s tactical officer replied. “I mean, I’m seeing a few hazy blots that might be something, but I’m looking for them. These aren’t even sensor ghosts, Commodore. They could easily be in my head.”
Brad tapped a command and opened up a laser link to Longbow. They were far enough away from the drone carrier for the time delay to be noticeable, though not far enough for it be a problem.
“Michaels, Falcone,” he greeted the ex-Cadre officer and his current watchdog. “Are we sure they’ll be there? So far as the Cadre knows, we wiped out Longbow’s group.”
“You overestimate how much communication there is with the supplier at this point,” Michaels told him. “There’s an abort signal, and that’s it. In the absence of that signal, they’ll hold at the waypoint for seventy-two hours. I assume the Cadre has a secondary team heading in for the pickup, since the abort signal hasn’t been sent.”
“You can tell?” Brad demanded.
“This close to the rendezvous point? Yes,” the redheaded officer replied. “If they’d sent it, it would be pulsing through this area every fifteen minutes for at least the next six hours. In the absence of the abort, the convoy probably reached the waypoint an hour ago.
“And unless they’ve grown less competent in the last two months, they’re watching Longbow approach, behind one of the big heat shields.”
“Any idea how to tell if one of those is there?” Brad asked.
“At this distance, the best we’d pick up would be a faint haze of heat too low for the sensors to even register as a ghost.” Michaels shrugged. “I think they’re there, but they won’t fold up the heat shield until we’re a lot closer.”
“So, we still have no idea what heavy warship they’re delivering, huh?”
“No,” Michaels admitted. “Captain Vong might have known, but he hadn’t briefed me.”
The degree of information control the Cadre exerted boggled Brad’s mind. It made sense—clearly, Michaels hadn’t been fully trusted—yet they’d still kept the man as third officer on a carrier while keeping him in the dark on almost everything.
“What’s our ETA?” Brad asked Michelle.
“Longbow and escorts will reach a zero-vee rendezvous in four hours, twenty-six minutes,” she told him. “Oath will pass by ten thousand kilometers in-system of the waypoint eleven minutes after that at a relative velocity of about fifteen kilometers a second.”
“We couldn’t avoid the rendezvous waypoint if we wanted to now,” Michaels pointed out. “We’re all committed, Commodore. Let’s hope your plan works.”
“Any second thoughts, Commander?” Brad asked.
“None,” Michaels said firmly. “These bastards owe me my honor and my soul, and I intend to take payment in full.”
“That’s the spirit,” Brad said. “Let’s go steal ourselves a convoy.”
Minutes ticked away into hours as the flotilla approached their target, and the faint haze on their scanners slowly resolved into a wide splotch of slightly-warmer-than-background space several kilometers across.
Optical scanners confirmed what the thermals suggested: there was another of the strange heat-shield stealth umbrellas guarding their target from detection. As they drew closer, the umbrella began to move, the convoy adjusting their invisibility cloak to hide them from the rest of the system and no longer worrying as much about Longbow’s approach.
As it shifted, Brad and his people got their first good look at their prey. It was a slow process. They were still over two hours away from rendezvous and they could take their time.
“All right, there’s escort number one,” Bogdanov noted. “Exactly as Michaels said. Looks like one Lancer-class destroyer. Couple of shadows look like the escortees, destroyers running cold.”
“Any idea what we’re looking at?” Michelle asked.
“Hard to say with a hundred percent certainty,” the tactical officer replied. “Looks like a Bound and a couple of Warriors.”
“Because of course they’ve got Warriors,” Brad said with a sigh. The Warrior-class destroyer was the big brother to the Invictus-class corvette, Fleet’s newest and shiniest toy. The drawdown meant Fleet had only half a dozen Warriors in commission.
If even two of the ships out there were Warriors, the Cadre probably had as many of them as Fleet did. Something was bloody wrong with Fleet’s procurement system.
“All right…I’m making another Warrior,” Bogdanov noted as the shield continued to rotate away from them. “That makes four destroyers, one Bound, and three Warriors. Second Lancer just came into view, too. Nice and warm, all systems online, unlike the escortees.”
“Where’s the heavy?” Brad asked. “Michaels said six ships, one a heavy. Four destroyers is an ugly addition to the Cadre, but it’s not…”
The shield turned further and a chunk of the fifth ship in the convoy became visible. The lines were similar to the Warriors…except they were drawn on nearly three times the scale. A Warrior was a big, heavy destroyer, clocking in at just over twenty thousand tons unfueled and just over a hundred and fifty meters long.
He could already see a hundred meters of the new ship and he wasn’t seeing even half. Brad couldn’t help holding his breath as the shield rotated to reveal his worst nightmare.
At eighty-two thousand tons unfueled and three hundred and fifteen meters from prow to stern, Fleet’s Tremendous-class cruisers were the final word in modern warships. There was no way the Cadre’s suppliers could have acquired a cruiser. It wasn’t possible.
And then the shield fully rotated away from them and Brad realized his worst nightmares hadn’t been imaginative enough—as a second Tremendous-class cruiser swam into view, the personnel transport for the passage crews drifting innocently between the two immense warships.
“Breathe, people,” Brad sna
pped, once he’d swallowed hard in shock himself and forced himself to inhale. Directed laser-coms still linked him to his ships, though even the fraction of a second of time delay was enough that he could only see and hear the consternation on his own bridge so far.
“We knew there was a heavy unit and there was no way we were going to be able to fight even a fully crewed and operational drone carrier,” he reminded them. “There’s no real difference between our ability to fight a carrier and our ability to fight two cruisers. We proceed with the plan—which isn’t to fight the ‘cargo’ ships at all!”
If everything went right, the two cruisers would provide unquestionable proof of both the yard’s treason and the Cadre’s resources. The data they already had was probably enough—but no one could argue with the ships themselves.
The acquisition of two cruisers by the Cadre when Brad was a child had changed the balance of power in the Solar System. The Mercenary Guild had wrecked one of the ships, and the Cadre had proceeded to be very careful with Lioness after that. The addition of two brand-new cruisers…
Brad couldn’t let that happen. Which meant he was lying to his people. If everything went according to plan, yes, they’d take the convoy without having to fight the cruisers.
But while their odds against a fully operational carrier were crap, they could potentially win that fight. Against two cruisers? Even with just passage crews and automated systems, the two Tremendouses could fight off his entire fleet.
“We proceed with the plan,” he repeated, meeting Michaels’s gaze through the link to Longbow. “It’s all on you, Commander Michaels.”
The ex-Cadre officer smiled grimly.
“It always was, Commodore Madrid. It’s time to see how those acting classes paid off.”
With a shake of his head, he tossed off his grim expression and appeared to relax in the command chair of Longbow’s bridge.
“I’m muting all of the laser links,” he announced calmly. “But we’ll keep transmitting so you can keep an eye on me for the satisfaction of everyone’s paranoia. Agent Falcone, I’ll need you to step clear of the pickups.”
Falcone did so, but her voice drifted over the audio pickups from out of view.
“Just as a small reminder, I set up a dead man’s switch on the reactor core,” she told Michaels sweetly. “If my heart stops beating, this entire ship blows up.”
The redheaded Commander seemed completely unsurprised.
“If you could manage not to have a heart attack until we’re close enough to ram them with the giant flying bomb, I’d appreciate it,” he told her cheerfully. “Now, connecting with the convoy. Peanut gallery, fall in line, please.”
“Convoy Mu, this is Longbow,” Michaels said brightly. “We are inbound on your position from vector three-twenty-five by one-twenty-seven. Please identify and confirm link.”
A few seconds passed and Brad had a sudden moment of panic, and then a new image appeared on his screen as Longbow relayed a copy of their incoming transmission.
“Longbow, this is Cataphract,” an older-looking man in a plain business suit with a lapel pin of a pair of gold pips greeted Michaels. “We confirm laser link and your approach vector. Convoy is in stable orbit relative to Sol and we make one hundred seven minutes to rendezvous.”
“I have the same,” Michaels confirmed. “How’s Victoria?”
“My executive officer says you owe her a rematch,” the stranger told him. “Does your wife know about your regular ‘chess matches,’ Commander?”
The ex-Cadre man chuckled.
“My wife trusts me to be a big boy and keep my hands to myself, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous my chess opponent is,” he told the other man. “We’re running late; I don’t think I’ll have time to let Victoria try and even the score this time around.”
“We were starting to get nervous,” Cataphract’s commander admitted. “What happened?”
“Bunch of mercs jumped us at our refueling stop,” Michaels said. “It went about as well as you’d think for them, but our corvettes got handled pretty roughly and we had to hold up for some field repairs.
“And you, Captain, should have asked us for our authentication codes since we’re late,” the turncoat continued. “Am I right?”
The convoy commander snorted.
“Five times we’ve done this dance, Michaels. Your captain hasn’t bothered to be on the coms in three. I know who you are,” he told the Commander. “But, if you insist, convoy authentication is ultima ratio regum. And yours?”
“Deus vult,” Michaels replied. “Protocols exist for a reason, Captain. This isn’t a game.”
The older man sighed.
“Believe me, kid, I know,” he admitted. “We’ll have the destroyers and cruisers set up for your tow by the time you get here. Protocol,” he said with a smile, “says the escorts remain with the ships until you’ve taken full possession.”
“And protocol is reasonable in this case,” Michaels agreed. “Though we’ll want to make sure everything goes quickly. Captain Vong will be grouchy if we’re late with this delivery.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” the corporate officer replied. “He knows better to be grouchy at me. He knows who I work for.”
The whole conversation was dancing across Brad’s strained nerves like a drunken elephant, but Michaels was playing things right so far.
“Oh, I know, I know,” the ex-Cadre man told the corporate security officer. “We’ll have our towlines ready when we arrive. If we’re late, I’ll just blame how much bloody extra mass we’re hauling.”
The other man chuckled.
“And I imagine the complaints will stop pretty quickly when they see their new ‘argument,’” he told Michaels. “We’ll see you at the rendezvous.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Oath of Vengeance drifted through space toward her targets, and Brad watched his plan unfold like clockwork.
The convoy had accepted Longbow’s identity and the escorts had grown slightly but noticeably more relaxed in their station-keeping, drifting back toward the rear of the convoy and the transport belonging to their corporation.
“We’re going to have to drop communications in sixty seconds, boss,” Xan Wong told him as they closed. “If there’s anything you have left to say to anyone, now is the time.”
Brad nodded to her and looked at the pickups.
“This is it, people,” he told them, meeting each of his captains’ gazes levelly. He was almost starting to get used to sending Jason Finley into harm’s way by now, but he trusted Heart of Vengeance’s captain completely.
Brenda Andre hadn’t worked for him nearly as long, but Bound by Law’s CO had earned her place in his company long before she’d actually found herself looking for work.
He hadn’t known Jace Olhouser as well, but the calmly competent man commanding Alan-a-dale had proven worth every penny of his salary.
They were all not merely his captains, but his friends.
Michaels, on the other hand, hadn’t made that jump yet—but at some point had ended up in the “captains” category in Brad’s head. Falcone was back in that pickup, and she gave Brad a serious nod.
This really was it.
“We’ll see you all on the other side,” he told them. “Everything’s going smoothly so far, so let’s watch for the wheels to come off.”
“They always do, boss,” Finley replied. “We’ve got Longbow’s back. We’ll bring everyone home.”
Brad threw them all a salute…and then the channels died, Oath now at an angle where even laser coms to the rest of the flotilla would put the whole operation at risk.
“We are on course and vector,” Michelle reported instantly, her calm tones soothing his immediate nerves. His wife knew him very well.
“Based off their current position change, even if they don’t break from the convoy before we arrive, we’ll have a clean shot at the escorts and a straight path for Saburo’s assault shuttles,” Bogdanov reported.
“Those Lancers are good ships, but between surprise and the dazzler torpedoes, we’ll punch them out in one pass.”
“Any chance of taking one of them intact-ish?” Brad asked. “I’d love to have a conversation with this Captain about who he works for.”
The tactical officer shrugged.
“If they’re lucky,” he told the Commodore. “But the odds aren’t good. We need to hammer them hard if we want them out of the fight.”
“Miracles would be nice, but I’ll take mission accomplished,” Brad replied. “Don’t risk us to save them.”
Bogdanov didn’t quite visibly sigh in relief. But he was clearly glad Brad wasn’t going to ask for those miracles.
“I can answer at least one of those questions, boss,” Xan Wong told him softly, and he glanced over at his communications officer.
“Xan?”
“Who they work for,” she said. “Their IFF beacons are disabled to cover their tracks, but…well, there’s only so many Lancer-class destroyers in the corporate security forces, and they have to register their ships and COs with the Commonwealth Fleet if they’re going within a billion kilometers of Earth.”
“And?” Brad asked.
“And I just found him in the database Fleet gave us. Captain Jordan Noah,” Xan replied softly, flipping a file picture of a man that was definitely the Captain they’d seen on the link from Longbow. “He’s bullshitting on the name; his ship is Belisarius and her cohort is Galahad. They’re the only two Lancers registered to Transplanetary Macro Fabrication.”
She brought up a second image of Noah from his brief conversation with Michaels.
“They did a good job of hiding identifiable characteristics on the bridge, but someone’s coffee cup was turned the wrong way,” she noted, zooming in on the offending container. It had a stylized dragon holding a hammer above the letters TMF.
“Record all of that and pulse it to home base with the scan data,” Brad ordered. “No matter what happens, I want someone to know that TMF is dirty.”
