by Dan Moren
Eli’s ears perked up at that and his forehead furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?” said Eli, his head spinning. This time it was his brother who was unwilling to meet his eyes.
Fielding shook his head. “So many secrets in the Brody family. I suppose nine years will have that effect. Maybe you should consider family counseling.”
“Shut your mouth,” Eamon advised.
“Your brother’s practically a one-man revolution,” Fielding continued, undaunted. “He’s not just part of the Black Watch—he is the Black Watch. De Valera himself, in the flesh. To be fair, I don’t think even most of the rank and file know that.”
Eli spun around to face his brother. “But … that’s impossible. De Valera’s been around since the occupation started—Eamon was just ten years old when the Illyricans invaded. Come on, Eamon. Tell him.”
But even as the words came out of his mouth, he saw the look on his brother’s face—that cold expression so reminiscent of their father. It was a look that would brook no argument, accept no backtalk. Not that that had ever stopped Eli.
It’s too much. There was a voice in his mind—a dimly remembered one from another place, another time. Of a boy who’d followed his brother around, accepted his word as gospel, idolized him. Until one day, when it had just been too much. Looking back, Eli couldn’t even remember what had made him realize it, but somehow he’d known his brother had changed, had turned single-minded in his ambition, had pushed away everything that could have possibly interfered.
And had never looked back.
“All this bullshit,” said Eli slowly, shaking his head. “It’s just business as usual for you. Manipulating people, getting them to do what you want. You’d like to be all noble, pretending this is about the Illyricans being on your planet or taking your brother away from you or leaving your sister for dead, but that’s not it, is it? None of it. Those are just lies you tell yourself to justify your actions. It’s only ever been about one thing, and that’s Eamon Fucking Brody being the most important person in the entire galaxy, the man who single-handedly beat the Illyricans. Because, let’s face it, you’ve never had much else going for you.”
“You’re one to talk,” Eamon snapped. “I might have respected you if you’d joined the Illyricans because you believed in them, but no, it was all about what was best for you. Your commitment to the cause—any cause—has always been … cavalier, at best. You might be my brother by blood, but my brother in arms? Never.” He stalked from Fielding over toward Eli, his eyes flashing. “You know why I agreed to take over for De Valera? We were kindred spirits, he and I—sons of Caledonia. It was our duty. Now he’s dead and it’s just me. I’m the last son of Caledonia and I’m going to do what he couldn’t.” Slowly, he swung his gun up to point at Eli’s chest. “So prep the goddamn ship, if you know what’s good for you.” There was a click as he released the pistol’s safety.
Eli crossed his arms over his chest; he didn’t even have to think twice. “Screw you. Find someone else.”
For a second he thought his brother might actually pull the trigger. Deadly serious, Eamon’s eyes had locked on Eli’s as unwaveringly as the aim of his gun. The sweat on his own brow was coming more consistently now. Did someone turn off the air conditioning? He tried not to blink as it dripped into his eyes.
“Goddamnit,” Eamon growled, putting up his gun. “McKenna, Gwennie, I want you to go back to the transport ship, get the pilot, and drag him the hell over here. Kelly, take him,” he indicated Fielding, “and my idiot brother down to the brig. If there isn’t one, then lock them in a supply closet for all I care. Just get them out of my fucking sight. Now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was far from the first time that Kovalic had found himself escorted at gunpoint. In fact, he realized as he totaled them up, it was far from the fifth or sixth, which suggested that perhaps it was devolving from occupational hazard to bad habit. Still, the scenario had lost most of its heart-pounding novelty.
Their boots clicked down the corridor, the scarred man called Kelly keeping the carbine trained on them from behind. Brody, for his part, appeared to still be in shock: the younger man was shaking his head to himself slowly, with eyes for nothing but the deck before him. As Kovalic had hoped, when the chips were down the kid had shown some spine in not blindly following his brother. Whether that ultimately proved to be the right choice, well, Kovalic hoped so, but without knowing exactly what Eamon was up to—what exactly this ship was—it was too early to say.
“Left.” The curt commands were the only words Kelly had spoken to them since they’d been ushered from the bridge.
Kovalic glanced over at Brody again and found the man’s gaze on him, though no less wide-eyed.
“How the hell did you get here, anyway?” Brody muttered.
“No talking,” snapped Kelly.
Kovalic gave Brody a rueful smile and kept walking.
Getting onboard had actually been relatively simple. Relative, that was, to breaking into the governor’s mansion on Sevastapol or the spacewalk he’d once taken to plant a listening device outside the quarters of the Illyrican ambassador to Jericho Station. And he did have Shankar to thank for it, though he supposed the good major would be less than gratified to discover that.
As Page had predicted, transferring the encrypted contents of Shankar’s ID to the fake Illyrican identification that Danzig had provided was easy.
The hard part had been selling it: the fake information on Danzig’s ID didn’t match Shankar, of course, but Kovalic was counting on that. He’d shown up to Westenfeldt base and swiped the card for the guard at the gate, who had naturally been obligated to question the man with an ID claiming he was a high-ranking intelligence officer.
In ordinary circumstances, a quick comparison to the records would have sorted everything out, but here Kovalic had played a bit of a hunch, gambling that, like his own Commonwealth ID file, IIS officers’ files didn’t have pictures—it was significantly harder to be a covert operative when anyone could get a photo of you. Years of experience slipping in and out of secured facilities had also told Kovalic that junior officers, such as the gate guard, were readily susceptible to both intimation and intimidation, so he’d concocted a potent cocktail of the two—a tale of a secret mission that he was entrusting to the gate guard. The young corporal had drunk it right down, no questions asked.
With the corporal’s implicit backing, Kovalic and his meager belongings had been ushered through the security process, a fast courier placed at his disposal, and he was off-world before anyone was the wiser. After ingratiating himself with the pilot, he’d impressed upon the young woman that his mission was, naturally, top secret and required radio silence. He only hoped that she would be spared serious punishment—after all, she’d just been following orders. The corporal at the gate would likely not be so lucky, but, well, omelets and eggs. At least the courier had set out back to Caledonia after depositing Kovalic; he’d assured his pilot that he would hitch a ride back on his own time.
Upon reaching the Aran base, the acting chief of security—for the usual occupant of that position had been summoned back to Caledonia for the Emperor’s Birthday—had practically tripped over his own feet to show off his facility, all the while gushing about how it had been his lifelong dream to join the ranks of IIS.
Something told Kovalic that the poor fellow wasn’t going to make the cut.
First Lieutenant Gregorovich had been only too happy to have his patrol show Kovalic the sights—of course, he’d added with false modesty that would have incurred the jealousy of many a professional politician, his own duties as acting head of security precluded him from escorting the major personally. After being whisked through the labs, Kovalic had confided to the patrol that his real mission lay in examining a certain top secret project, throwing in enough winks and nods to ensure that the two got the drift.
That had prompted the tour of the ship, though they had only just reached the b
ridge when Eamon and his team of commandos arrived. All before he’d had a chance to figure out exactly what Project Tarnhelm was.
The ship was, as far as he could tell, some sort of prototype. But, as a converted bulk freighter, it had nothing in the way of weapons to begin with and it didn’t appear as though the Illyricans had added any. So it wasn’t a warship. Some sort of flying bomb? A decoy? The only thing he’d been able to conclude was that the Illyrican Navy was using the ship as a platform for some new technology, but he was damned if he knew what … and he didn’t plan on leaving until he found out.
Kelly didn’t appear to be anybody’s fool; he’d been trained somewhere, perhaps even the Illyrican military. The scarred man stayed a foot or two behind Kovalic and Brody the entire way, preventing Kovalic from easily wresting the weapon from him. And Kovalic suspected that he wasn’t exactly the sentimental type—if push came to shove, he guessed Kelly would be just as happy to shoot them both and whistle his way right back to the bridge. Nor did talking him down seem like an option.
There are some people who like to plan things out every step of the way. To Kovalic, a plan was nothing more than a recipe for disappointment. There were only so many things you could account for, so many variables you could control. As a brilliant military tactician had once said, “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” Kovalic preferred to think on his feet.
And his feet were at this moment taking a sharp right turn. For a split second he was out of Kelly’s sightline. In that sliver of time, he flattened his back against the bulkhead. Kelly had been holding the carbine out ahead of him, just far enough that it was the first thing that rounded the corner. Kovalic grabbed the barrel of the weapon, shoving it up and away.
Startled, Kelly squeezed the trigger out of instinct, but the carbine was still set on burst fire. Three rounds punched a hole in the bulkhead, but Kelly didn’t have time to both release the trigger and pull it a second time. The scarred man fought for control of the gun, lashing out at Kovalic with an off-handed blow that connected with his chin. His jaw blossomed in pain, but he blinked back the flashing lights and jabbed Kelly hard in the throat.
Hits to the throat cause instinctive panic, even for many of the most trained soldiers—there’s a lot of vital stuff in there, and defending it is a basic human response. Kelly’s hands flew to his windpipe, which Kovalic had at least bruised if not crushed. A knee to the gut made the scarred man double over, giving Kovalic a clear opening to slam his head into the wall with a sound like a church bell. He went down without a word.
It was over so fast that Brody hadn’t finished exclaiming “Holy shit!” before Kelly hit the deck.
Brody stared at the downed man then looked to Kovalic, his voice taking on a hint of awe. “What the hell did you just do?”
Kovalic rubbed at his aching jaw, the stars fading from his vision. Good thing Tapper hadn’t been here to see that; the old man would have given him a lecture about not protecting his face. Snorting to himself, Kovalic yanked the carbine from Kelly’s possession, slung the strap over his own shoulder, and checked the magazine—still mostly full. At least he hadn’t been one of those types who needed to put thirty rounds into every target. Efficiency was something Kovalic could admire, even if it was misdirected. He also found Kelly’s radio, which he clipped onto his belt.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” Brody’s voice had gone high-pitched, an all-too-familiar sign of panic.
Kovalic looked him square in the eyes and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “First, take a deep breath.”
Brody’s eyes were fearful, but he nodded and followed Kovalic’s instructions. While he was doing that, Kovalic slapped him in the face.
“Ow!”
“Now snap out of it.”
“Was that really necessary?” Brody rubbed at his red cheek.
“Strictly speaking? No. But you’re listening, aren’t you?”
“I am now.”
“Good. Your brother and his people want something with this ship.”
“I still don’t understand how Eamon could be De Valera. He’s been running the Black Watch for two decades.”
Kovalic sighed. “It’s not a person, Brody; it’s a title. Your brother inherited it from the last head of the Black Watch. A guy named Kitano.” He’d had time to read through CalSec’s extensive files on the Black Watch during his trip to the station and it had been a treasure trove of intel. Most of it was recent, too; assuming the information was reliable, CalSec had quite the inside source. It was a wonder they hadn’t brought the organization down already. He was also a little amused to note that the Caledonians had, as predicted, been rather disinclined to share much of that information with IIS.
“Old man Kitano?” said Brody, his jaw dropping. “Christ. All those years, he just sat at the bar and didn’t say a word. You’re telling me that he was running the Watch the entire time?”
“So it would seem. Look, we don’t have time to unravel all of life’s little mysteries. Right now we need to figure out why they’re taking this ship. I figured Eamon would just want to destroy it and rub the Illyricans’ noses in the whole incident—”
“There’s a bomb on the station with a timer. I saw them arm it.”
“Makes sense.” Kovalic rubbed the tender spot on his chin and tried not to wince. “They’re covering their tracks. Whatever Project Tarnhelm is, all the data on it is probably in the facility, and that’ll wipe the slate pretty damn clean.”
Brody frowned, glancing around. “So you don’t know what this is either?”
Kovalic shook his head. “Not a clue. But given all the trouble your brother’s gone through to get here, it’s clearly important.”
“He called it a ‘game-changer.’ Pretty vague if you ask me.”
The radio on Kovalic’s belt crackled. “Kelly?” crackled Eamon’s voice. “You take care of ’em?” Kovalic looked down at it.
“Give it here,” Brody whispered, beckoning urgently. “I spent some time with Scarface there; I think I can pull it off.”
Kovalic hesitated, then tossed the radio to Brody, who cleared his throat and clicked it on.
“Yep.” Brody released the transmission button and raised a thumbs-up in Kovalic’s direction.
With a sigh, Kovalic pinched the bridge of his nose and waited.
Eamon’s voice came back. “Good. Come back up to the bridge when you’re set. We’ll take off as soon as McKenna gets the pilot aboard.” There was a short squelch of static as he broke the connection.
With a click, Kovalic released the safety of the carbine and readied the weapon. “Personally, I’m all too happy to take your brother up on that offer. First, however, we’re going to the cargo bay.”
“The cargo bay?”
“I had to check some luggage.” He turned in the direction they’d come from, but only made it a couple of steps before he felt Brody grab the back of his jacket.
“You don’t want to go that way. It’ll take you to the engine room, and smack into the rest of Eamon’s team.” He nodded to the way they’d been heading before Kelly had been dispatched. “This way’s faster.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Lead on.”
They trotted down the corridor. Kovalic checked every intersection, but Eamon’s team seemed to have remained dispersed according to plan, for they encountered no resistance. Three minutes of twists and hairpin turns later they arrived at a heavy industrial-strength door.
Kovalic pointed toward the control panel, motioning for Brody to trigger it. They took up positions on either side of the doors, and Kovalic readied the carbine just in case. At his nod, Brody punched the control. Servos squealed and whined as the doors ground open slowly, revealing a vast, mostly empty compartment.
The Warhorse class were bulk freighters and, as such, were often used to transport equipment for ground-based operations, including tasks like deploying tanks, gun emplacements, pre-fabricated outposts, and the like. After a fle
et’s battle group cleared enemy defenses, the logistics unit would be brought in, either touching down on the ground itself or dropping the heavy equipment from low orbit.
Project Tarnhelm, however, had clearly never been used for such a purpose; its cargo bay remained vacant, an echoing cavern.
Traversing the room through the sights of the carbine, Kovalic didn’t detect any sign of movement. He stepped inside and swept the catwalks that overlooked the bay, but they too seemed devoid of inhabitants. Not that he was complaining. He beckoned Brody in and the door groaned shut behind them.
Dim light pervaded the compartment, giving it an almost twilit appearance. Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go—just inside the door sat a cargo container. Slinging the carbine over his shoulder, Kovalic stepped up next to it.
The container ran about six feet in length, four feet wide, and about as high. A glowing keypad stood on the top, and Kovalic checked it quickly for signs of tampering. It looked, however, like the weight of his assumed identity had held up and, as he’d hoped, even just the whisper of IIS had been enough to make sure the container was treated with nothing but the utmost reverence and respect.
He reached over and tapped a four-digit code on the keypad, then, holding his breath, hit the Enter button. There was a beep and the keypad blinked green, followed by a slight whoosh of escaping air as the pressurized seal broke.
“Brody, help me get this lid off.”
They each took a side and together managed to maneuver the metal cover off the container.
“You don’t pack light, do you?” grumbled Brody. “Did you really need this many pairs of shoes?”
Kovalic rolled his eyes. Some people dealt with stressful situations by internalizing everything, leaving nothing but a stony exterior. Brody was clearly not that kind of person.
The lid of the container clattered to the deck and Kovalic looked down at the contents.
“Uh,” Brody said, peering inside, “when most folks pack a set of extra clothes, they usually take them off the people first.”
