The only sign he had that she was something other than a daughter of a middling Party bureaucrat had been her handshake: his knuckles had cracked under the pressure of her grip. That was saying something, considering that Sikorsky had worked with his hands in construction all his adult life and his upper body was built like a bear. He took it for the silent signal that it was meant to be, before shoving the fact that she was a Confederation agent aside and getting down to business.
“So, Miss Tutikova, let us go over your background, shall we?” he began as he normally did for such interviews. He asked bland questions about her family and education, her Party standing and participation in Party-sponsored events. She gave equally bland answers that, like her train ticket, would never survive a real investigation, but would be good enough for a casual information scan. Together, they fed the eyes and ears of those who cared to listen with mindless drivel.
Sikorsky realized that Tutikova — or whatever her real name was — answered everything so naturally and played her part so well, that after a while he lost all trace of his own nervousness. “Well,” he said as he came to the end of his interview questions, “your background is certainly impressive, young lady. I believe we can get you started right away.”
“Thank you, comrade,” Tutikova told him earnestly. “That is such good news!” She paused a moment, obviously embarrassed. “Would you happen to know where I might find a hotel?” she asked. “I have a city visa, so I can live here, but of course I have not had time to find an apartment.”
Sikorsky smiled. “Do not trouble yourself, dear,” he told her. “If you wish, you can stay with my wife and myself until you find something.” It was a very typical practice: the Sikorskys had an extra room, where their daughter and her husband had lived, and would frequently put up people just like Tutikova to help make ends meet. It was another bit of fortunate timing that the extra room was currently empty.
Putting on a picture-perfect display of gratitude, Tutikova shook his hand again, slipping him a small wad of money as she did. The move was meant to be seen by prying eyes for what it appeared to be: a gray market deal. In a state where everything was controlled by the government, where citizens were expected to aspire to political perfection, it was a supreme irony that anyone who wasn’t making small deals on the side was viewed with deep suspicion. The government wasn’t concerned about the gray market economy, which worked far better than the “real” economy run by the government. The Party simply wanted its citizens to be doing something incriminating to make the job of the secret police that much easier.
“Wonderful!” Sikorsky said as he clumsily pocketed the money. Gathering up his papers, he ushered Tutikova out of the café. A block down the street, they got in his battered car and he headed for his apartment, the little electric vehicle humming loudly.
“What do we—” Sikorsky began before she cut him off by putting a finger to her lips.
Tutikova — Scarlet — twisted one of the buttons that was inside her jacket and was rewarded with a green glow. It was a counter-surveillance device that would detect any eavesdropping devices or signals in or aimed at the car. “It’s safe to talk,” she said.
Sikorsky was shocked at the change in her voice, even in those simple words. She was no longer the eager young Valentina Tutikova, but something else entirely. He just was not sure what. “What are we to do?” he asked quietly. “There is no way I can get you into the coal plants without a full security check. That would take time, and...”
“And my cover would never hold,” she finished for him, nodding. “We don’t need a security check, because the coal plants aren’t what I’m after, Dmitri. I need to know where they’re taking the slag and fly ash after the coal is burned. We believe they must be transporting it from the plants to some central facility. That’s what I’m interested in. We need to find it and figure out a way to get me inside, but finding it will do.” If the government was indeed gathering uranium from the waste byproducts of the massive coal plants, there would have to be a large facility where the uranium-235 was being extracted and processed. She hoped the bombs were built at the same facility, but she would not know that until, or if, she got that far.
Sikorsky frowned. “I don’t know where they may be taking the waste,” he said, “but I know it is carried away by special trains, at least some of it. It is odd, actually: the basic design of the plants has a very large chemical separation complex to break down the waste products. This was a very expensive and difficult part of the plants to build. Then, of what comes out, the majority is slag that is simply dumped next to the plant in mountainous piles. That is what I would have expected them to do, without bothering with the chemical separation processing. What comes out of that, though...that is hauled away in sealed container cars in much smaller trains.” His frown deepened. “I always thought that was odd,” he went on, “that they would bother sealing up the waste for transport. They told us that it was for environmental safety. I should have known then that there was something wrong.” Protection of the environment, or keeping people safe from environmental hazards, had never been high on the list of the government’s priorities. He glanced over at her as he made another turn, drawing out their time in the car where they had some privacy. “What is in those trains, Valentina?”
She momentarily debated whether she should tell him. In most operations, the less one knew, the better. There were some cases, though, where everyone was in so deep it didn’t matter. If Sikorsky was caught and interrogated now, he would reveal her interest in the coal plants and where the waste products were being taken. That in itself would be enough to lose the game, so telling him what was really going on wouldn’t truly matter. “Believe it or not,” she told him, “we believe they’re extracting uranium and other fissile materials out of the coal ash. We think Korolev is building an arsenal of nuclear weapons.”
A horn suddenly blared and Sikorsky cursed as he steadied the car. He had been so shocked he had nearly run into a car coming the opposite way.
“Bozhe moi,” he whispered. “My God. Is such a thing possible?” The thought of the rulers of this world in control of even one nuclear weapon was terrifying.
She shrugged. “The scientists — including your contact — seem to think it is, at least in theory. I’m here to find out if it’s true. Which brings us around again to our problem: we need to find out where those special trains are going.”
“I know someone who might be able to help us find out,” he told her. “I have an acquaintance, let us say, who has access to the central train scheduling system. We pay him na levo, under the table, to help make sure that the trains we use to transport heavy equipment and materials to construction sites reach their destinations on time, or at least not too late. He is not one of us — not a dissident — but he is not a Party man. He is also a fool for attractive young women.” Glancing over at her, he said, “But that can wait for later. You must be exhausted. I should get you home and introduce you to Ludmilla, get some food into you, and let you get some rest.”
Tutikova shook her head. “We don’t have time for rest, Dmitri,” she told him gravely. “I only have six days before I’m extracted. After that...” She trailed off, staring out the passenger-side window.
“After that, what?” he asked.
She turned to look at him, and he was shocked at the glimpse of what she really was behind her disguise. Her eyes were hard, and her voice even more so. “Dmitri, they only send me in where things might get very bad. I can’t tell you exactly what’s going to happen, because I wasn’t told. But if I were you, I would make sure to be on a nice visit to the countryside a long way from here in six days.” What she didn’t tell him was that she was to be extracted by Confederation Marines. And that was if things went well. If things went badly, she wouldn’t be extracted at all. Ever.
Sikorsky felt his stomach clench. Six days. Punching a small keypad on the steering wheel, he said, “I’ll give him a call right now.”
&
nbsp; CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“All hands, prepare for normal space emergence in two minutes,” the XO’s voice sounded through the compartments and passageways of the Yura.
On the bridge, Sato watched his crew in action as the indicators for the various stations throughout the ship changed from amber to green on the status board, signaling the readiness of the various departments for the jump back into normal space. Yura was on the third leg of her patrol route, which would take her to Kronstadt, a rapidly growing Germanic colony that boasted fifteen million people and was on a popular trade route between the Confederation worlds and the Rim colonies.
Kronstadt had a small but efficient coast guard, but no true warships — yet. The colony had long produced merchant ships of every size, and after joining the Confederation had shifted over two-thirds of its yard capacity to warship production, while retaining the other third for badly needed transports. On top of that, they had implemented a massive building program to double their shipbuilding capacity in eighteen months. While many in the Kronstadt government had still not accepted that Mankind was under serious threat, especially since the Kreelans had not ventured further into human space beyond Keran, there was universal agreement that if the Confederation wanted to finance a major building program, Kronstadt would be happy to reap the benefits of it. The tradeoff was that the colony had to raise a minimum of one Marine assault regiment per million people, and arrange for the training of Territorial Army forces that included every able-bodied male and non-pregnant female of at least seventeen years of age. The Confederation would pay for their weapons and provide the cadre to train them, but the colony had to provide the bodies. For Kronstadt this was not terribly difficult, for they already had a large and well-trained national guard force.
“All stations report ready for emergence, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Villiers, his XO, reported. “I suggest that we—“
Sato silenced him with a slight shake of his head. Glancing over at the life support station, Sato saw Midshipman Michelle Sanchez looking at him. Seeing that he was looking at her, she nervously turned back to her console.
“Did you have something on your mind, midshipman?” he asked her.
“No...no, sir,” she said stiffly.
Sato suppressed a smile. Sanchez, a black-haired beauty who could melt half the crew with one glance from her deep brown eyes, was bright and competent. If she had a weakness, it was her lack of self-confidence. She consistently had the right answer in any given situation, but was too afraid of making a mistake, of making herself look foolish, particularly when speaking in front of the captain. As her senior mentor aboard ship, he had been helping her overcome this weakness, and had just set her up for a learning experience. This was the first time she had been on the bridge during a normal space emergence, so technically it was unfair to expect her to know all the various protocols. There was one regulation, however, that was immutable, that every officer and rating on the ship should know.
He waited a few more seconds to see if she would react before saying, “Navigation, begin the transpace sequence,” he ordered.
“Excuse me, captain,” he heard Sanchez say. Her voice was clear, but obviously forced.
“Yes, Sanchez?” he said casually, turning to her.
“Sir...forgive me for saying so, but aren’t we supposed to go to general quarters before normal space emergence?”
He gave her something that he rarely gave to anyone beyond Steph and a few close friends: a wide smile. “Very good, midshipman,” he told her. Then, with mock reproof in his voice as he glanced at Villiers, he said, “The XO must’ve forgotten to tell me.”
Villiers threw up his hands in mock surrender, which drew smiles and a few chuckles from around the bridge.
“Well done, midshipman,” Sato told Sanchez, his voice serious now. “I expect my officers and crew — each and every one of them — to think and, as necessary, to act in the ship’s best interests. Going to general quarters before normal space emergence is one of our most important regulations, and for good reason: the enemy could be waiting for us, and we have to be ready to come out fighting. It’s unlikely a captain or XO would ever forget to do it, but unlikely things sometimes happen, and it’s up to you to ask questions when you think something might be wrong. I’ll never penalize you for thinking. Always remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, sitting up straighter in her combat chair, obviously proud of herself. “I will, sir.”
Sato nodded. “In that case, Sanchez, you get the honors: bring the crew to general quarters. Navigation, start the transpace sequence.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Sanchez replied before hitting the general quarters alarm. “All hands, general quarters!” her voice boomed over the piercing hoot of the alarm. “Man your battle stations!”
Villiers started a timer as he himself dashed off the bridge to reach his own battle station in the auxiliary bridge halfway across the ship. The Marines, who were always in their combat armor for any planned normal space emergence, pounded through the passageways to get to their anti-boarding stations, making sure all the airtight hatches were closed behind them.
The status console now showed the “Christmas tree” for general quarters, with all the departments of the ship reporting their readiness. All of the amber lights quickly changed to green and the general quarters klaxon turned itself off.
“Forty seconds flat, skipper,” the XO reported breathlessly from the auxiliary bridge as the last indicator turned green. “Not half bad.”
Sato nodded his head, inwardly grinning at the thought that Villiers must have broken a world speed record to get to his position in time. He normally would have been at the auxiliary bridge, anyway, but he had wanted to see how Sanchez did first-hand.
As for the crew’s time, forty seconds was a huge improvement. At their first emergence, into the Sandoval system, the crew had taken over ninety. They had done a lot of drills between then and now to help them improve. “Agreed,” he said. “But we can do better, XO. I’d like to shave at least five seconds off of that next time.”
“Will do, skipper,” Villiers said. He did not take Sato’s comment as a rebuke, but as a challenge. They had a good crew, and they would only get better over time. Like Sato, he wanted to have the ship combat-ready as quickly as possible, since speed was life.
“Navigation auto-lock engaged,” the computer’s synthesized female voice interjected over the ship-wide intercom. “Transpace sequence in five...four...three...two...one...Transpace sequence initiated. Sequence complete. Emergence into normal space...now.”
The main bridge display suddenly lit up with a visual of the Kronstadt system, with the shining crescent of the planet itself directly ahead.
“Navigation confirmed, Kronstadt system,” the navigator announced. “Emergence deviation negligible. We’re—“
“Contact!” the tactical officer shouted. “Four bogies at three-three-eight mark eight-nine relative. Distance fifty thousand kilometers.” Four yellow icons appeared on the tactical display to the left of the ship’s current heading. Several dozen other icons, all green, also appeared.
Sato didn’t hesitate. “Maintain course, all ahead flank!” If the four unidentified ships were friendly, he would just be giving them a good show of how fast Yura could accelerate. And if they weren’t friendly ships, Yura would have the advantage of surprise. “Communications, get a positive ID on those ships.”
“All ahead flank, aye,” Lieutenant Bogdanova reported tersely as she smoothly brought the ship’s acceleration up to maximum. She could feel the deep thrum of the sublight drives vibrate through the deck beneath her feet as Yura leaped forward.
“Forward kinetic batteries and heavy lasers locked on and tracking all bogies, sir,” the tactical officer reported. “Recommend closing to ten thousand kilometers to engage.”
On the bridge tactical display, the green icons representing known friendly ships were clearly scattering away from the yellow icons like
a school of fish fleeing from a predator.
“Sir, I’m picking up multiple mayday signals,” the communications officer reported. “Eight ships report they’ve been hit and are losing air. Three of them are Kronstadt coast guard cutters.”
The four yellow icons suddenly changed to red.
“Hostile contacts confirmed,” the tactical officer reported. “All four appear to be Kreelan warships, destroyer category.”
Sato had to commend the Kronstadt coastguardsmen. They had incredible courage to go up against Kreelan destroyers with their lightly armed cutters.
“Request that any surviving Kronstadt coast guard vessels form on us,” Sato ordered. “And try to get the merchantmen to all turn toward us. If we can get the Kreelans to head our way, we’ll close the range more quickly.”
“Assuming they don’t jump out,” Villiers said through the vidcom terminal on Sato’s combat chair.
“They won’t,” Sato shook his head. “They’ll never run from a fight, even when they’re completely outmatched.” He knew that the actual odds in this battle were against him: four destroyers, competently handled, could take a single heavy cruiser. But not his heavy cruiser. Not the Yura.
As they watched the display, most of the green icons turned in Yura’s direction. The merchant captains were desperate for help, and were more than eager to get closer to the only real human warship in the entire system. They weren’t fast enough to get far enough from Kronstadt to jump, and were far too slow to run from the enemy ships in normal space. Three of the ones that had sent mayday signals suddenly vanished, destroyed.
“The enemy is just firing indiscriminately, sir,” the communications officer said, trying to hold her emotions in check. “Some of the ships are even broadcasting their surrender, but the Kreelans are just ignoring it.”
In Her Name: The Last War Page 56
