Another concern for Jacob was that as valuable as Franklin was, he’d never quite worked out what had motivated the man to betray his allegiance to the Alliance in the first place. It wasn’t for any apparent political or ideological reason – in fact, for a person of his rank he seemed peculiarly disinterested in both subjects. Neither did it appear to be out of greed, which was both good and bad, for in Jacob’s experience, the greedy ones were the easiest ones to control but also the most likely to compromise themselves.
If anything, Franklin had just seemed bored; bored perhaps with the war, if such a thing were possible, and bored also with his whole life in general. Some people were like that – they committed treason for the excitement, the adventure, the thrill of the chase. Occasionally, things got a little too thrilling, at which point some of them faltered and tried to opt out of the deal. But that was something that could never be allowed, and more than one vacillator had been found dead, face down in some stinking back alley, the apparent victim of a mugging gone wrong.
Luckily for Jacob, Franklin had never wavered, and better still, they now had a few levers to use against him should he ever show signs of doing so.
But whether he wavered or not, the mission was not going to be easy and the last thing Jacob wanted was for Franklin to compromise himself simply for the location of a few warp disrupters. He was simply too valuable.
It was difficult and dangerous to identify and recruit agents while inside hostile territory. You could hardly put an ad in the local newspaper, after all. And once identified, there was always the chance that the agent was a plant. It took careful vetting and years of experience, and even at the end of it all you could never be sure. More than one cell had been blown by a carefully placed double agent. Franklin had been one of the success stories. He’s been an outstanding catch and one they should be using carefully and most of all sparingly.
Jacob shrugged his concerns aside. He’d pushed Franklin as far as he dared and all he could do now was retire to a safe distance – a very safe distance – and await the results. Some things were within his control and some were not. It was important to know which was which.
Back on the art gallery terrace, Franklin was having misgivings of his own. This wasn’t the deal he’d agreed to – it wasn’t how it was supposed to work. He was supposed to volunteer information as it came his way, not go digging for it on demand. And in a job that was perilous enough to begin with, he was absolutely not supposed to put himself in unnecessary danger in the process.
Not for the first time he asked himself how it had all come down to this, how he’d found himself so completely and utterly entrapped, like a moth flapping pathetically in the strands of a spider’s web. He asked, but of course he already knew – he’d flown into the web with eyes wide open and now there could be no escape. None, except perhaps, for the simple expedient of a bullet in the brain. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, often when he was drunk, but mostly after meeting the girl.
He’d been in too way deep even before he’d laid eyes on her. He’d known it, and so had Jacob, the spymaster general who saw that Franklin needed just one final nudge to be turned completely. And so he’d introduced him to the girl, a mere slip of a thing, but enchanting, seductive, irresistible.
The affair rubber stamped his treachery, for she was both his payment and his liability. She’d smile, allow him to use her and then kiss him on the cheek as he left. A kiss given more out of pity than affection, because by that time, both of them knew that he was the one being used. For the girl, it was just another job, doing what she did best. Not that she was a whore – far from it. She was a professional, capable and intelligent despite her tender years. Very tender, too tender.
As for Franklin, he’d leave by the back stairs and wander back to a house that was as cold and empty as the rest of his miserable existence. He’d undress, shower and lie alone in his bed, the afterglow of passion mixed with feelings of disgust and self hate. It was then that he’d consider reaching for his service pistol, placing it at his temple and pulling the trigger. Why not? It would be all over in a second… But then an image of the girl would swim into his mind and he’d know that he had neither the will nor the courage.
Chapter 4: Skytrain 101
By common agreement, Transport Command was the least glamorous branch of the fleet. Any self respecting flight school graduate would first eye up a posting to a fighter squadron, preferably one equipped with the latest TX55 Ares interceptors. Such was every pilot’s dream, but Fighter Command took only the very best of the best and the selection process was long and arduous. Many a fine pilot would fail to make the cut.
The remaining candidates would then vie for an equally vital if less charismatic posting – a berth at one of the intruder, fighter bomber, or assault/landing craft squadrons.
A posting to an intruder squadron, whose stealth craft were the eyes and ears of the fleet, meant venturing far out into no-man’s land without support, searching for signs of the approaching enemy. As for the fighter bombers and assault/landing craft squadrons, one observer made the age old comment that while the fighter boys had all the glamour, they had all the guts. In their more honest moments, the fighter boys would generally agree.
And finally – assuming you didn’t count tug boats, garbage scows and sanitation barges, whose ranks were generally filled with civilian or auxiliary personnel – there was the possibility of a posting to Transport Command.
As with any occupation, natural ability, skill and determination were crucial factors, but the destination of a graduate pilot would depend just as much on the results of his or her psychological evaluation. The shrinks had a way of knowing exactly which branch of piloting would suit both the candidate and the Alliance the best. The interesting thing was that while pilots selected for landing craft squadrons tended to curse their luck at missing out on an Ares TX55, those singled out for Transport Command usually greeted the news with little more than a philosophical shrug. The psycho-analysts would then pat each other on the back and congratulate themselves for getting their assessments spot on.
Major Ozzie Parkes had never imagined himself as a fighter jock. He just wasn’t the type, and from the very start he knew that he lacked the necessary attributes to be an adequate fighter pilot. Within days of entering flight school, tests had shown that his reflexes were just a mite too slow and his spatial awareness was well below the required level. His psyche evaluation categorized him as deliberate and methodical, admiral qualities in their own right but not at all what was required for an offensive role in a high performance fighter.
That didn’t stop Parkes from pursuing his dream of becoming a military aviator. His piloting skills were more than adequate for general flying and his temperament made him the perfect candidate for a posting to Transport Command. And so it came to pass. For his own part, Parkes was delighted. A pilot is a pilot and the silver wings on his chest were exactly the same as everyone else’s, whatever machine they happened to fly.
He learned his trade on smaller vessels before moving up to the ubiquitous Heracles G86 transport, workhorse of the fleet and the largest vessel in the Alliance inventory that still relied on a real, live pilot to get where it was going. It was true that the cruisers, battle-cruisers and fighter carriers that made up the fighting arm of the fleet dwarfed his G86, but they were guided by helmsmen who simply pressed whatever buttons the captain told them to. Meanwhile, Parkes was Captain-Pilot, master and commander of his own little fiefdom. And despite its bulk, the G86 flew like a real airplane and was even capable of atmospheric maneuvers and surface landings. She needed a seriously long runway to get down safely but that just gave you the chance to turn more heads when eight hundred tons of metal dropped through the cloud layer and came thundering in for its final approach.
But that wasn’t on today’s agenda. Parkes was piloting his G86 – call-sign Skytrain 101 – on a run from a logistics base on Tycho to an area of space forward of Cronulla, one o
f the seven worlds that were to make up the shield. In his cargo bay were eight high power warp field disrupters, each to be dropped off in its own precise location. After that he’d turn around and head back to Tycho for the next load… and the next… and the next…
“Heads up, everyone,” said Parkes as his navigation array buzzed an alert. “We are approaching our first drop off point, position J47. Entering normal space in three, two, one…”
The G86 shuddered briefly as the transition was made, almost as if she was giving her muscles a good stretch after being cooped up in the confines of hyperspace for too long. As the stars of real space blinked into life once more, the sub light engines kicked in, sending a familiar hum through the airframe.
“How are we looking?” asked Parkes.
“Looking good, skipper,” said the co-pilot, scanning his instruments. “I’d say we’re right on the button.”
“And our escort?”
“Ah… good question. They’re nowhere in sight.”
“Anything else on the scanners?”
“No,” said the co-pilot. “Quiet as a tomb.”
“Hard to say if that’s good or bad,” said Parkes with a frown. “If nothing else it means there are precisely zero friendly units between us and the whole Combine Empire. Now we know what it feels like to be in the vanguard.”
“Carry on regardless?”
“No. Orders are to wait for the escort, and for once the orders make sense. I don’t fancy getting caught by a Combine raider while we’re half way through the deployment routine. That would pretty much ruin our day. We’ll sit tight, fly a holding pattern and wait for the escort to catch up. And we’d best keep the hyper drive spooled up until they do.”
“Works for me, skipper.”
An hour later they were still flying in slow, lazy circles around position J47, their escort still nowhere in sight. “Reckon they ran into trouble?” said the co-pilot.
“Wouldn’t have thought so,” said Parkes. “We’d have heard about it by now. They’ve either got lost or there’s been a mix up with the orders. Probably the latter but I’m not breaking radio silence to find out. We’ll give it another thirty minutes and then head back in.”
“Hold on,” said the co-pilot. “I’m picking up something astern of our position. Yep, we’ve got two ships emerging from hyper-space, distance five thousand clicks. They’re friendlies. Sensors classify them as Moray class corvettes. They’re hailing us.”
“Good day, Skytrain. This is Chaser 1. Is this a private party or can anyone join in?”
“Strictly invitation only, Chaser 1. I take it yours must have arrived late.”
“Sorry about that, Skytrain. Mix up with the orders.”
“No worries,” said Parkes. “Better late than never. I trust you’ve brought along a bottle – preferably something with an indecently high alcoholic content.”
“Sorry, Skytrain. We’re a dry ship.”
“Well there’s a surprise,” said Parkes with mock chagrin. “In that case, I’ll just ask you good gentlemen to watch our backs while we drop off the first package.”
“Will do, Skytrain.”
“Thank you, Chaser 1. Skytrain out.” Parkes made a final check of their position and then fired the braking thrusters, bringing the G86 to a dead stop. He thumbed a switch on his console. “Chief, it’s time to go to work.”
“Aye aye, sir,” replied the loadmaster from his station, an airtight compartment located in the rear of the 86’s cavernous cargo bay. A grizzled chief petty officer of twenty years service, he beckoned to his assistant, a young loader named Rogers. “You heard the man,” he said. “Up and at ‘em.”
Rogers clipped his tool belt around his waist, donned the helmet of his pressure suit and waited as the chief checked the seals.
“You’re good to go,” said the chief, giving Rogers a pat on the shoulder as he headed off to the airlock. A minute later, he watched Rogers float past the reinforced glass window and then work his way hand over hand to the first of the eight warp disrupters that filled the cargo bay. Each disrupter unit was a ten meter sphere with a flattened base. ‘Stops them rolling around’, the chief had explained patiently when Rogers had asked.
The disrupter units were almost bare of external features. There were no antennae, no thruster nozzles – nothing save an external power socket, a small control panel and a pair of metal couplings for hoisting the unit in and out of the cargo bay. Following Rogers’ directions, the chief lowered the freighter’s boom hoist and engaged the couplings on the disrupter casing. Once locked in place, Rogers brought the disrupter unit on-line and disconnected the external power supply.
“She’s ready to go,” he said over the com.
“Well done,” said the chief. “Get yourself back here and let’s get this show on the road.”
By the time Rogers had rejoined the chief in the control compartment, the cargo doors in the G86’s flank had opened to reveal an expanse of stars beyond. The chief played with the boom controls and deftly steered the disrupter unit through the opening and into open space.
“We are ready to deploy, skipper.”
“Thanks, Chief,” said Parkes, making a final check of their position. “Looking good from up here. Let her go.”
“Aye aye, skipper.” said the chief, releasing the clamps and withdrawing the boom. “The package is away. Cargo doors are closing now.”
“Good job, Chief. Secure for warp travel.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Rogers as he removed his helmet. “If I never see another warp disrupter again, it will still be too damned soon. There must be more to active service than this.”
“There is,” said the chief. “But take a tip from me and don’t be in so much of a rush to see it. You might not like what you find. Trust me.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got an elder brother on the carrier Orion and two cousins serving on cruisers. They’ve all seen action and here’s me stuck in a glorified delivery truck. I feel like I’m letting the side down.”
“Well you’re not,” said the chief. “In case no-one’s told you, the work we’re doing here is just as important. Right now, we’re helping protect the Alliance’s borders. And when we aren’t doing that, we’re helping maintain the supply chain. If we don’t fly, neither does the Alliance. Just remember that.”
“I know, I know,” said Rogers. “But that was J47 that we just dumped overboard. After that, it’ll be J48 and then 49 and on and on until we get to K and start all over again.”
“Plenty of letters left after that.”
“Don’t I know it. I just wish we could have a bit of excitement once in a while.”
“Yeah, well… like the man said, you be careful what you wish for.”
Up on the flight deck, Parkes played with the thrusters and moved clear of the disrupter unit. “Skytrain to Chaser 1. Deployment complete. Preparing to depart for position J48.”
“Roger, Skytrain. We’ll go on ahead. See you there. Chaser 1 out.”
According to the G86’s nav computer, the passage from point J47 to J48 would take precisely fifty six minutes and forty seconds. The two escorts would cover the distance a little faster, but unlike frigates and destroyers, who were the greyhounds of the fleet, neither transports nor corvettes were noted for their speed.
Right on schedule, the G86 dropped out of hyper-space at position J48 and Parkes immediately scanned for the escort.
Chaser 1 – or rather, what was left of her – was off to starboard, a trail of debris spread out over a dozen kilometers of space, her fuel cells and unused ammunition igniting in a cascade of secondary explosions. Chaser 2 was receding into the distance, barreling along at full power and jinking up and down in a desperate bid to outrun a pair of Combine destroyers that were sitting above her port quarter.
“Good God almighty,” said Parkes, firing the thrusters and slamming the ship into a sharp turn. “Send out a Mayday. Now!”
&nb
sp; As the G86 began to curve away, Chaser 2 was hit by a missile and was transformed into a blossoming fireball before Parkes’ eyes. It was the most curious thing – one second she was whole, the next, she was just a jumble of shattered metal amongst which lay the remains of forty eight good men and women.
The last thing Parkes saw before the remnants of Chaser 2 disappeared astern was the sight of one of the destroyers turning to engage. Parkes smashed the throttles to the stops. In normal circumstances a futile gesture; the Combine destroyers had a huge advantage in terms of both speed and acceleration. But right now, even a few second could spell the difference between life and death, capture and escape. The G86’s hyper drive was still powered up. All Parkes needed was time to get the data from the nav-computer and then he’d rocket back the way he came, back to position J47 where the warp disrupter would now be operating, filling sub-space with sigma waves and destabilizing any warp core within range. The Combine wouldn’t dare follow him back there. He just needed a few more seconds.
Across Enemy Space Page 5