by P. R. Adams
“Easterman died,” Durban mumbled. He stared at his boots. “Hardwick said they’re considering a full-blown inquiry. He doesn’t think it would go well for me.”
Rimes flinched. He’d hoped Easterman would pull through, not just because they’d worked together in the past but for Durban’s sake. Every death made his situation worse.
“Sorry about Easterman. He was a damned good platoon sergeant.” Rimes paused, brow furrowed. “Why would Hardwick think you’d fare poorly in an inquiry?”
“They think a shot was fired in the ship. He played a piece of audio.” Durban looked up, face strained. “It sounded like a gunshot. Right before the explosion. It was distinct and clear.”
“They pulled that out of the audio?”
Durban nodded. “Rimes, what if one of my Rangers caused that explosion?”
Rimes rubbed his forehead. “How could they possibly pull a clean gunshot from the audio? Those ships weren’t equipped with enough bandwidth to handle simple, clear chats. We weren’t twenty kilometers from your ship and I could barely raise you when I called. Most of the bandwidth was allocated to the remote piloting controls.”
“I heard it,” Durban insisted. “I can even recall the moment he played back. Alvarado was moving his squad into the airlock. They were running late. I’d just given Easterman an earful.”
Rimes didn’t buy it. Even if the audio were real, it probably wasn’t a gunshot. The cargo haulers were a kludged solution, and it showed. An oxygen line could’ve snapped, one of the latrines could’ve ruptured.
“Wait. A gunshot?”
“Clear as day.” Durban absently clenched his fist as if ready to hit something, anything.
Rimes smiled. That’s their idea of actionable negligence? He’s already off the hook, then. “Your team was already exiting the ship.”
“I already said so, yes.”
“Durban, you were in near-vacuum. They couldn’t have picked up a gunshot unless it was off someone’s open headset. Unless they fired into a helmet, I don’t know if there’d be enough sound to even pick up. You recovered all the weapons but, what, six, seven?”
“Four.”
“No shots fired, right? Okay, so they need to recover four weapons and this is case closed. Whose weapons are missing? No, it doesn’t matter. At this point, they have no evidence. That ‘gunshot’ is probably a communications glitch they’re tweaking through all sorts of filters.”
For a moment, Durban looked like he wanted to believe, but the moment passed. “Sure.”
Rimes hovered silently for a moment. “I need to go check on a few things. Why don’t we grab a bite in the mess when I get back?”
Durban stared into space, then he nodded. He licked his lips as if to speak but instead looked down at his boots again.
He’s shutting down, giving up, waiting for the inevitable.
Rimes stepped into the passageway and sighed. He wasn’t about to surrender his fate to someone else. He was going to get answers, with or without Durban.
7
24 May, 2167. USS Broussard.
* * *
Rimes stood outside Commander Hardwick’s cabin, hand raised to knock. The passageway felt even warmer than in Rimes’s own quarters, no doubt because of his anxiety. It was empty and dark, the bare bulkheads lit only by glowing digital displays—dim, amber characters—mounted next to each of the hatches. The displays proclaimed the names of Hardwick’s senior staff.
Hardwick’s cabin was identified by a brass plaque.
Rimes sucked in the warm air, noted the clean, almost perfumed aroma.
“He’s not in there.”
Rimes froze and turned. A man in his late thirties stared at him from the end of the corridor. He had straight brown hair, light bronze skin, and pale brown eyes. Combined, he managed to effect a comforting plainness. He wore Navy whites and a major’s oak leaf on his collar—lieutenant commander in Navy speak. His demeanor was relaxed, calming.
“Do you know where he might be, Commander?”
“Commander Hardwick’s on the bridge right now, Lieutenant…“ The commander stepped closer. “Rimes. Okay. It’s not as if there are that many Army officers aboard. You’re with Durban?”
“I am, sir.”
“Lieutenant Commander Brigston.” Brigston frowned, but then his eyes softened. “How’s he holding up?”
“Lieutenant Durban? I guess as good as could be expected right now, sir. He’s afraid there are going to be charges.”
Brigston’s frown deepened. He broke eye contact for a moment and adjusted his belt. When he looked at Rimes again, there was no humor or sadness, only seriousness.
“Ten soldiers dead. As officers, we take on a lot of responsibilities. A helluva lot of them. That includes being responsible for our people—soldiers, sailors…it doesn’t matter. As captain of this ship, Commander Hardwick has another responsibility, and it’s a tough one, but it’s one he takes quite seriously. Someone is going to be held accountable for those soldiers’ deaths. No one wants to make the call who that will be. They’re leaving that to the captain. He’s in a no-win situation.”
“I understand, sir.” Rimes looked at Brigston curiously. “Isn’t he also obligated to perform due diligence while seeking out accountability?”
Brigston almost smiled. “That goes without saying.”
“The commander told Lieutenant Durban they isolated a gunshot in some audio log just before the explosion.”
Brigston sucked in his cheeks and nodded somberly. “That would certainly seem to point to negligence.”
“Sir, the ship’s atmosphere had been evacuated by then. The only way they could have captured a gunshot is if it went off next to the helmet of someone on an open channel. What are the odds of that? And what could you shoot with a CAWS-5 that would cause the whole ship to explode?”
“Well—”
“There are four weapons still unaccounted for. If the commander is going to make an accusation like this, doesn’t he owe it to everyone to send a team down to scour the crash site for those weapons?”
Brigston’s face flushed slightly. “The Navy has its way of doing things, Lieutenant, and there are practical limits—risks, cost…“
“It’s a man’s career at stake, Commander.”
“You strike me as a sharp man, Lieutenant, so I would assume you know who Lieutenant Durban’s father is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“General Durban has a long history of aggressively attacking Navy funding and programs.” Brigston’s voice was low and calm. “The general is public enemy number one for most senior naval officers. For that reason alone, the odds of this ever being handled in anything approaching a public arena are slim. There’s not going to be enough to ever make this a manslaughter case. My guess is it’s probably going to end up a reprimand.”
Rimes closed his eyes, crestfallen.
Lieutenant Durban would have no recourse. The reprimand would go in his record, and he would never get rid of the stigma. Even if he declined to resign his commission, the odds of any sort of career were negligible.
Brigston shifted. “Like it or not—and I don’t like it one bit, personally—it’s the way these sorts of things play out—”
A bosun’s call echoed in the hallway, drowning Brigston out. He looked alarmed, spinning around to locate the nearest intercom, then jogged over to it. He nervously waved Rimes to follow as the tone sounded again, followed a moment later by a call for all hands to quarters for muster.
Brigston became more visibly agitated.
“Muster? What’s that mean, sir?” Rimes asked, nodding at the intercom speaker. Even after too many trips to count aboard Navy ships, the service’s terminology was hideously alien to him. In space, it seemed even more meaningless. “Are we under attack?”
Brigston looked flummoxed. “Whatever’s going on is serious. You’d best get back to your men. Have them form up near their quarters.”
Even on a ship as small as the
Broussard, it took time to navigate the passageways and stairs. Rimes was familiar enough with the ship, if not with the subtleties of its traffic flow. He quickly assembled both platoons and put them at parade rest in the passageway outside their bays.
Durban arrived as the last scrape of boots faded. He looked his platoon over, then nodded his thanks to Rimes. He settled into position just as the intercom kicked on again.
Commander Hardwick’s shaky voice filled the open spaces. “Fifteen minutes ago, the following message was received from Space Command. ‘At 1718 Eastern, the President of the United States of America, the Secretary of State, seven senators, and twenty-three representatives including the Speaker of the House and the Minority Leader were killed in an assault undertaken by several squads of United States soldiers. The assailants attacked targets throughout the capital, including the White House and the Capitol building. Most of the assailants have either been killed or captured, but a few are believed to have escaped.’”
The blood drained from Durban’s face; Rimes’s legs grew weak. The enormity of the moment made it impossible to fully digest. It was surreal, nightmarish, inconceivable.
A coup. That doesn’t make sense. How many squads? Were they attacking elsewhere? It’s just a test. It has to be.
“‘At this point in time, all indications point to an attempted military coup headed by members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Those members have surrendered to law enforcement officials. All ships in the ocean and space fleets are immediately ordered to stand down, going to minimal active staffing until further notice.’”
Another short pause left the halls deathly silent. Hardwick began again. “I have ordered the armory secured. Non-essential personnel are to remain in their quarters. We have not been asked to hold position, nor have we been ordered to port, so I have given orders to begin the journey home. Since this message arrived, three others have come in. It would seem the attacks on the capital were coordinated with attacks around the world and in the colonies. There aren’t any further details yet. Any connections to the attacks against our country are purely speculative. I’ve ordered all non-official communications terminated until we receive further orders. Dismissed.”
After a moment, Rimes turned his head and said, “Platoon, attention. Dismissed. Keep to your quarters until further notice.”
Durban repeated the orders to his platoon. He and Rimes stood in the passageway together for a heartbeat after the last of their soldiers disappeared, then they turned and headed for their own cabin.
Neither spoke. The people they passed were similarly silent, their faces reflecting shock and disbelief, their steps sluggish and uncertain as they made their way to their cabins.
Once in their cabin, Rimes closed the hatch. Durban dropped onto the bottom bunk and ran his hands over his hair and scratched his scalp. His features had taken on some color after all the activity, giving substance to his sunken cheeks and sharp nose.
“This must be an exercise.” Durban’s hands shook. “It’s some sort of stress test. It’s all a test.”
Rimes said nothing for a moment. He’d been going back and forth himself—a test, something an enemy had done to confuse people, a horrible reality. He was settling on a single belief now.
It’s too real, too dangerous. There’s no way this could be a test. Insane as it was, the military had struck against the civilian leadership. “It’s real.”
Durban clenched his fists in his hair. “Test the troops, see where their loyalties lie. See how they handle a coup attempt. Hell, we’re on the edge of devolving into an undeveloped country already, why not throw a scenario like this out there? See if you get a bunch of power-hungry officers to step up and fill the vacuum.”
Like your father? What if he’s implicated? Rimes bit his lip, unsure how safe it was to proceed. “Are you worried your father’s involved?”
Durban paused, then snorted dismissively. “He’s as loyal as they come. He’s never made a mistake in his entire life.”
Is that what this is all about for you? An impossible measuring stick?
“You wouldn’t understand what it’s like.” Durban ran his hands through his hair again, scratching at his scalp. “Fourth generation legacy at the academy. My life mapped out for me. No room for error. The expectations…“
At least you had goals you could shoot for to satisfy your father. “I understand. Nothing I did was ever good enough for my father.” Rimes swallowed to keep his voice steady. “He treated me like I wasn’t even his own son.”
Durban’s hands relaxed, and he smoothed out his hair. He seemed to crawl out of the pit of his self-pity for a moment. “I-I’m sorry. Were you trying to…live up to his success?”
Rimes felt the bitterness in his face, a bitterness he’d held in too long. “Not the way you have to. He hated the military. Maybe that’s what finally drew me to it.”
“What does he think about you now? You’re a success. You’re on the fast track.” Durban laughed. It was a desperate sound. “Assuming there’s still a fast track to be on.”
“He’s dead. Died while I was in OCS. He called me on his deathbed. We worked through things in our own way.”
“What about your mother?”
Now Rimes felt the rueful smile, but he couldn’t do anything about it. “Not much better. She has a trophy room to her educational and professional accomplishments. None of us kids really measured up, but I’m probably the only one who cared. There are worse things than the sort of clear path you’ve had before you.”
Durban shrugged. He seemed to collapse inward. “Maybe.”
I need to draw him out if I can. If he doesn’t open up, he’s going to fall apart under all the pressure.
“What about this coup?”
Durban looked at Rimes through narrowed eyes.
“What about it?”
Rimes rubbed the scar on his right temple. “Don’t you want to know? If it’s a trap, why the second set of messages? What countries were attacked? What colonies? How does that make sense if it’s to draw out traitors?”
Durban squinted in concentration, ran his hands over his scalp again, then sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coordinated effort between some senior officers and metacorporate security.”
“If a metacorporation wanted a colony, they’d buy it out. Or they’d put their own people into the colonial governing structure and run it indirectly. That’s a lot cheaper and there’s no real downside. The colonies aren’t tightly integrated with Earth anymore, not enough to justify military action. And wouldn’t metacorporate involvement be an unnecessary distraction for an exercise?”
Durban waved dismissively. “So you’ve got it figured out, right? It’s all something obvious and simple?”
“No. But it has to be someone who stands to gain the most by global—maybe even galactic—disruption and instability of the American leadership.”
“The Chinese. Eastern Europe. The metacorporations. But you just said it wasn’t them.”
“What if the Chinese and Eastern Europeans were among the targets?”
“Fine. It’s the metacorporations, then.”
Rimes shook his head. “I don’t think they’re ready to go to war. Not with us. Not with all of us. Not yet.”
“Then who?” Durban demanded.
“The genies.”
8
26 May, 2167. USS Broussard.
* * *
Rimes jerked awake. His earpiece was chiming. He placed it over his ear and sat up in the cramped bunk space. If Durban was in his bunk, he was fast asleep. Other than the cerulean glow of the earpiece, the cabin was dark, the air heavy with their scents. It felt like a tomb.
“This is Lieutenant Rimes.” His words were a mumble. He felt logy. A workout, a hot shower—that’s what he needed.
“Lieutenant, this is the XO. Please report to the pilot’s briefing room ASAP.”
An excuse to get out and wander the passageways. “Understood, sir.”
&n
bsp; Rimes rubbed at his face. It felt rubbery. He never thought there’d come a time where he’d complain about too much sleep, but he was bored and frustrated and anxious.
He dropped to the floor, confirmed Durban wasn’t in his bunk, then brought the lights up. After a quick stretch, Rimes shaved and washed his face before stripping off his undershirt and rinsing himself. He brushed his teeth, then pulled on fresh underwear and his uniform before letting himself out.
The passageways were still dimly lit and were remarkably silent. They were running on Eastern time, and Rimes’s earpiece showed just after three in the morning.
He made his way to the stairs and descended, exiting just aft of the Broussard’s hangar bay. He got his bearings and headed for the briefing room, absently wondering where Durban had gotten off to.
Rimes stopped at the briefing room hatch. His concerns about Durban instantly faded away.
A short, thick woman—an armed marine—stood just beyond the hatchway, blocking entry.
Upon seeing Rimes, the marine stepped forward and to the side. Rimes stepped past her and turned to watch her exit. She closed the hatch behind her; Rimes barely heard it seal.
“Well, look at you now.”
Dana Kleigshoen made her way around the opposite side of the table that ran the width of the room, hand extended. They shook, and she waved forward a young, pale, slender woman who’d been sitting at the far end.
Not the head of the table, Dana?
“Jack, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Sheila Fontana.”
Rimes breathed in Kleigshoen’s aroma, strong in the briefing room’s confined space. Even after what must have been several hours of travel, she somehow managed to smell clean and fresh. It was a welcome change from the Broussard.
He took Fontana’s hand into his own. Where Kleigshoen’s hands were long, dry, and strong, Fontana’s were small, damp, and frail. She was generally unremarkable, not the type to dominate a room, especially with Kleigshoen around. Worse, she gave off the vibe of a child on her first trip away from home.
