MISSION VERITAS (Black Saber Novels Book 1)

by John Murphy

  Jeff Spalding came in hooting, fist pumping in rock concert gestures. “Woo-hoo! Party’s here! I’ll be posing for pictures and giving autographs after the performance. Please feel free to throw your panties, ladies.”

  Spalding danced around, waving his bony arms above his head, hands in a ‘devil’s horn’ pose, his voice rasping, emulating a roaring crowd. He grabbed a bottle of green liquid and strummed it.

  Vasquez appeared in the doorway and was shoved immediately into the doorframe by Tucker, who fought to squeeze into the mess hall first. Vasquez kicked at Tucker’s foot, causing him to stumble forward.

  Carmen looked at Pima. “See what I mean?”

  Pima grinned and nodded.

  Vasquez and Tucker began an exaggerated slap fight. Tucker ducked low and pushed into Vasquez, shoving him into the bulkhead.

  Errant swipes came close to Spalding, who dodged away. “Watch the face! Watch the face! It’s priceless merchandise here!”

  Tucker looked up from underneath Vasquez’s over-the-back bear hug. His eyes widened. “Juice! They’ve got juice!”

  He broke free from Vasquez and lunged at the table, grabbing a bottle and knocking the others over. He sat down, cracked the bottle, and guzzled. Vasquez slapped the back of Tucker’s head, then grabbed a bottle for himself.

  Stiles Kerrington came through the door as if he commanded the ship, his dark hair neatly combed. He carried a pair of boots in his hand and dropped them on the table with a loud clop! He took one boot, held it waist high, and then brought up one of his feet to meet the boot in front of him while balancing on the other foot. His raised leg extended directly in front of him as he yanked the boot on, as if he were kicking his foot into it. He zipped it up, then stomped three times on the floor. He did the same with the other boot.

  When he was finished, Kerrington grabbed a bottle, cracked it, and then raised it to his lips, putting his other hand on his hip.

  “Our hero!” Spalding said.

  The other guys chuckled.

  Kerrington finished half the bottle and took a breath. “Can it, shithead.”

  Killian came through the door quietly, also carrying his boots. The other candidates kept busy hydrating, tightening, tucking, and making sure their flight suits were neat.

  Good. The less they noticed him, the better. As he sat and loosened the laces on his boots, he surreptitiously scanned the others. They looked like the average collection of pampered goofball recruits from basic training. Pima stood out as being particularly delicate.

  Not a warrior among them. His heart sank a bit.

  Tucker grabbed another bottle. “Man, I don’t remember shit!”

  “Last thing I remember was getting off that air shuttle and standing on yellow footprints,” Vasquez said.

  “Just like basic,” said Tucker. “I thought that shit was over.”

  Killian hoped that standing on the yellow footprints was where the similarities to basic training ended. He worried that it wasn’t.

  “We were in intake for twelve hours,” Carmen said. “I was ready to sleep.”

  “They said we would experience amnesia,” Pima added, “but I remember most of it. I just don’t remember getting into the hibernation units.”

  Carmen turned to her. “Your memories were stored two months ago, so they’ll seem like distant memories or dreams. But they’re all there.”

  Killian watched Carmen from the corner of his eye. She came across like a moto-leader. His heart sank a little more.

  Vasquez shrugged. “I don’t remember anything about anything!”

  Spalding’s eyes narrowed. “All I remember was this one really hot chick. Hey, where is she?”

  Dana Dohrn joined them from the lavatories, tying her shoulder-length brown hair into a stubby ponytail. She had obviously heard Spalding’s comment. “Please keep your immaturity to yourself. It’s inappropriate.”

  Spalding looked her up and down. “Oh, yeah. It’s not you.”

  Dohrn’s scowl turned into an icy glare.

  Behind her, Sowell and Vasquez exchanged amused glances. Tucker half hid his mouth and whispered, “Ballbuster.”

  Vasquez reached across the table for a modified solidarity sledge, fist to elbow, fist to elbow.

  “They also said we wouldn’t dream,” Carmen continued. “We would wake up and it would be two months later.”

  Tucker rubbed freckled hands over his freckled face. “I kind of spazzed when I woke up. I didn’t know where I was.” He paused. “Then I puked.”

  “Ha, ha! Yeah, me too!” Spalding laughed.

  “But nothing came out, right?” Carmen eyed the group. They all nodded. “Our stomachs have been empty for two months, and our bowels, too, for that matter.”

  “Oh, crap!” Spalding blurted. “I just had a flash memory of the enema!”

  The females sighed with disgust.

  “Come on, man!” Sowell said. “We’re in mixed company.”

  “What? It’s true,” Spalding said.

  Tucker eyed the group. “Did you guys dream anything? I don’t remember shit.”

  The other candidates shook their heads. Kerrington began vigorous jumping jacks. Carmen also began doing some of the stretches they had learned in basic training.

  “Hey! How about you…” Tucker read the name patch. “Killian? Did you dream anything?”

  Killian opened his mouth to answer, but not wanting to explain the dream or the reasons behind it, said only, “No.” He stood and put his foot on the stool to pull his laces snug. As he pulled the last one taut, it snapped.

  At that same moment, Tyla Mitchell returned from the forward command bridge. She passed right in front of Killian, noticing his dilemma with the lace.

  “Hmm…how unfortunate,” she commented.

  Kerrington approached Killian, hands on his hips. “It looks like you got demoted to a new rank—General Issue!”

  Spalding honked a laugh. Others tittered.

  “What you need, Comrade Candidate, are some serious ass-kicking boots.” Kerrington threw a high sidekick, which snapped into place a few inches from Killian’s face.

  Killian didn’t flinch.

  “Ass-kicking boots with hydraulic compression supports for shock absorption, Kevlar exterior, and…polycarbonate zippers for easy in-and-out.”

  “In-and-out!” Spalding repeated in a mocking falsetto.

  Killian looked past the boot sole to Kerrington’s eyes. “Do they light up with pretty colors when you walk, too?”

  “Pretty colors,” Spalding parroted again.

  Kerrington snapped his foot away from Killian’s face, then put it back on the floor with robotic smoothness, accentuating his control and balance.

  “Better watch out, General Issue. I hear candidates drop from this program like flies.”

  “Then I’ll get you an air bag.” Killian turned to unravel the remaining lace from the offended boot.

  Sowell attempted to lighten the mood. “Why are you hoping to get into Black Saber, Kerrington?”

  Kerrington bounced on his toes on a sugar high from the green liquid, jabbing the air like a boxer awaiting his match. “Hope nothing. I’m gonna crush this competition.” He punched a flurry of body shots at the air.

  “It’s not a competition. It’s a qualifying mission,” Carmen pointed out.

  “Yeah, she’s right. It’s not a competition.” Benson winked at Carmen.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Kerrington said, still throwing punches. “I’ll get into this unit and be the top dog and be telling you bitches when and where to shit!”

  “It’s not a competition!” Pima said, casting a supportive glance to Carmen, as if having the last word set the record straight.

  Kerrington began doing karate moves, issuing a “Ssssah!” sound from his diaphragm with each kick
and punch. He got within a foot of the others’ faces if they were within reach, and they flinched.

  “Hey, cut that shit out, man!” Tucker warned. “I’ll knock you down and make you scream like a little girl.”

  Kerrington returned to punching and kicking the air.

  Sowell said, “But aren’t you the vice president’s son? Why does a rich kid like you want to roll around with the likes of Black Saber? Why not a four-year military academy?”

  “Ssssah!” Kerrington continued kicking, punching, and striking the air, making slapping sounds against his clothing, as if he’d struck something.

  “Because I’m the youngest and finest of the four brothers in the Kerrington dynasty. A doctor, a lawyer, a billionaire, and then there’s me. I’m going to be president of the Global Alliance. People want a strong leader, an ass-kicker, and Black Saber is exactly what I need on my résumé. I’m the only badass of the family, fourth-degree black belt, and able to kick anyone’s ass since I was twelve. You gotta have balls of steel and an iron fist if you want to be president, and I’ve got both! You gotta show those tin-pot dictators who’s boss. They have to fear you personally.”

  “Well,” Tucker said, holding up his nearly empty bottle, “in honor of Mr. Balls of Steel, I dub this mystery liquid ‘kung fu juice!’”

  Vasquez parodied Kerrington, waving his arms around and gripping the bottle in his vibrating grip. “Wat-aaaaaah!”

  Tucker jabbed him in the stomach.

  “Hey, don’t fuck with the tiger, man. I’ll knock those freckles off your face, kung fu style.”

  “It’s not kung fu. It’s Shindō jinen-ryū, Japanese and Okinawan,” Kerrington said, continuing his precise movements.

  “Compensating for something?” Killian asked.

  Spalding honked another laugh.

  Kerrington stopped his dance and glared. “Blow me, General Issue!” He jabbed a finger at Spalding, who was hiding his snicker. “You shut up!” Yet it didn’t rid Spalding of his smirk.

  Killian glanced at the broken lace in his hand, then at Kerrington, who was pummeling the air again.

  A hush crept across the room, starting with Vasquez, who stopped and stared at the doorway. Others followed his gaze and went silent as well.

  Amelia Goreman slinked in from the command bridge and wove her way through the males. Her chin was tilted down, but her riveting blue eyes reached out from under silky black bangs and locked on to each male she passed. She swiveled her torso carefully, allowing the male candidates to steal glances at her cleavage. She commanded everyone’s attention more effectively than if she had come in shouting from a megaphone.

  “There she is!” Spalding uttered.

  Dohrn threw her bottle lid at Spalding but missed.

  As Goreman passed Kerrington, she glanced over her shoulder and purred, “You wouldn’t want to kick my ass, now, would you, Mr. Black Belt?”

  Kerrington grinned. “Kick, no. Something else, yes!”

  Spalding cupped his hands over his mouth. “Mmmm…boner!”

  “You guys cut that crap out or I’m going to write you up for sexual harassment!” Dohrn blistered.

  Still cupping his hands over his mouth, Spalding responded mockingly, “Mmmm…jealous!”

  Dohrn looked as if she were about to lash out when Banks came in.

  “All right, knuckleheads. Straighten up and look smart. I’m Chief Petty Officer Banks. In case you don’t remember, allow me to refresh your foggy little heads. You are on Navy Cargo Transport Delaware, and we are ready to arrive at Navy Outpost Blue Orchid. You will receive a briefing from the CO of Blue Orchid before you commence your qualifying mission on Planet Veritas. Does everyone recall now?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” a few replied.

  “Don’t call me sir. I work for a living. This is an old-style navy ship. We use old-style navy and marine corps ranks, and you will use navy terminology, not the ass-wipe jargon you learned in basic. We expect you to adhere to our protocols. Got that? And don’t ‘sir’ me. Just nod your little gourds.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good. Stand by for our commanding officer.” Banks stepped back to clear the way. “Attention on deck!”

  Everyone stood at rigid attention.

  Commander Burdette entered. “At ease, candidates.”

  Everyone assumed parade rest.

  Burdette looked at each one of them for several seconds before saying anything. “Welcome back, as we say when coming out of hibernation. I am Commander Burdette, and I’m in charge of this old bucket we call Transport Delaware. Once we dock with the Blue Orchid, I will turn you over to Commander Connor. Shortly thereafter, you will commence your qualifying mission.”

  Killian observed a light sparkling in Burdette’s bristly hair and watched wrinkles come and go around his eyes as he talked. He looked pleasant, fatherly even, but Killian suspected that was all a sleight of hand. After all, the man had effectively gotten him kicked out of basic. He wondered if the other candidates had undergone a similarly humiliating recruitment ploy. Part of him thought he should distrust Burdette for such tactics. Another part of him saw Burdette as the only one with an answer, the one who knew the way to the real military—the military that didn’t bow down to the Global Alliance.

  Resistere ad mortem.

  “You have all heard of Special Tactics Units, the elite of the US military, which carries out especially hazardous military operations,” Burdette continued. “However, in extreme circumstances, some operations are conducted off the record. Hence Black Saber, for which you have volunteered.”

  Killian thought of the two generals and the Carthenogen minister extracted from Bangkok—and the three Carthenogen transports destroyed by that same craft.

  Sowell raised his hand.

  Burdette acknowledged him. “Question?”

  “Sir, why don’t you train guys in the STU? They’ve already got field experience, and you know who’s good or not.”

  “That’s a good observation, and we used to do precisely that. However, we learned two things. One is that the potential we see in an individual straight out of basic is exactly the same as that after years in STU. Chief? You have a phrase that sums it up best.”

  Chief Banks rose slightly on his toes and said, “You can put a dog in the fight, but you can’t put the fight in the dog.”

  Burdette turned back to the candidates. “Yes, the will to fight. The willingness…to do whatever it takes. It’s innate, something that can’t easily be trained.”

  Killian had bucketfuls.

  “The second is that STU teaches certain methods that work against the mission of Black Saber, and it’s difficult to train that out. So we recruit straight out of basic, train exactly the way we need, and obtain better results.”

  Burdette paced as he talked. “Your performance on Mission Veritas will help us identify the qualities we need in Black Saber operatives. When I invited each of you to try out for Black Saber, I told you that the job was dangerous. That danger begins with Mission Veritas. I advise you to treat this like a real combat mission. Although no enemies will be trying to shoot and kill you, the planet is inherently dangerous. You will encounter circumstances in which you will need to rely upon instincts rather than rules. You will be called upon to make a leap of faith when every outward indication tells you you’re wrong.”

  He paused. “Any other questions?”

  Tucker raised his hand. Burdette nodded at him. “What happens if we fail this qualification?”

  “That’s a good question, and it has two answers,” Burdette said. “If you are not selected at the end of Mission Veritas, you will resume any assignment you would have otherwise received straight out of basic training. In such an event, you are bound by the sworn oath of secrecy you took before hibernation. Any breach of that oath can and will result in criminal prosecutio
n under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

  Killian had been kicked out. Once again, he imagined what he might do back in America—wandering, isolated, damned with the truth. Every scenario ended with him going to prison.

  Tucker raised his hand again. “What’s the other answer, sir?”

  “Failure can come about in many forms. One is not completing the mission. Another, like a real combat mission, can come from mistakes leading to injury or death.”

  This was no revelation to Killian. The prospect of death was as familiar as old clothes. He wondered how seriously the others took the commander’s words. He stole a glance around the room. The others’ ineptitude could be hazardous to him.

  “Chief! Take charge.” Burdette turned and exited.

  “All right, knuckleheads,” Banks said, “police this room, police the head. Leave it as clean as you found it. Make sure there’s nothing left in the hibernation deck. Be in the aft docking bay in five minutes.” Banks departed toward the command bridge.

  Killian turned to finish lacing his boot. He took the longer piece and laced the first several eyelets. With the shorter piece, he laced the upper eyelets, creating two bowknots.

  Tyla Mitchell glanced at his boot on her way out. “Hmm…clever!”

  Mildly surprised, Killian looked into her eyes. They were brilliant green, a color that accentuated her light red hair and pale complexion. It occurred to him that she was the first girl to look directly into his eyes since before his parents had died.

  CHAPTER 12

  “ALL RIGHT, KNUCKLEHEADS,” Chief Banks said, his hand on a lever. “Welcome to Blue Orchid.”

  It had taken thirty minutes of jostling to dock. Banks pulled the door lever at the aft end of Delaware. With a gasp of air, it opened up to a jetway connecting them to Blue Orchid.

  Six crewmen in blue flight suits welcomed the candidates with shouts of “Get moving! Get your ass out of there! Stop fucking around! Run, candidate, run!”

  The twelve candidates pushed through the connecting jetway, trying not to stumble over one another. The corridor opened up to a flight deck that seemed massive compared with the cramped quarters of the Delaware. Two space shuttles waited ahead of them, tended by helmetless crewmen in hard orange pressure suits.