He didn’t get them. A Spartax missile fired at extreme range hit the upper section of the G86 just forward of the hyper-drive compartment. The detonation tore a gaping hole in the ship’s dorsal section, blasted across the hold and ripped the cargo bay doors clean off their mountings. The chief and Crewman Rogers were blasted out into space along with the doors. Rogers didn’t even get the chance to be excited.
Despite the damage, the G86 was still essentially intact and structurally capable of making the jump to light speed. Unfortunately for Parkes, a missile fragment had pierced the hyper-drive compartment. It punched through the hull, ricocheted back off the inner casing and had just enough energy left to sever the main power conduit.
An icy ball materialized in Parkes’ stomach as the hyper drive went offline. He battled frantically to re-boot the system but it was to no avail – even the sub-systems were offline.
His feelings of dread increased when the ship’s sensors told him that another volley of missiles was on its way and closing fast. He wrenched at the control column and tried to coax more power from the engines, desperately dumping more fuel into the exhausts. He knew the futility of it even as he acted, but he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. He had the crew to think of – people who trusted him and put their lives in his hands. He couldn’t just let them die.
Finally, his vice-like grip on the control stick slackened and a voice from within said that there was nothing more to be done. He’d done his best. He’d done his duty, as had his crew. Wasn’t that all anyone could ask?
He turned to the co-pilot, wondering if he should bid a final farewell, but before the words ‘It’s been an honor’ could escape his lips the first hammer blow fell, followed by two more in quick succession. The G86 came apart about him.
The two Combine destroyers scanned for survivors before leaving the area. A pointless exercise, thought the commander, but base wanted prisoners. He didn’t expect to find any. The corvettes had refused his offer of surrender and that had sealed their fate. Too lightly armored to withstand the impact of a volley of Spartax missiles, both had disintegrated upon impact. As for the transport, his orders had been clear – obliterate the target. The only concession that he or his crew might have made was to utter a prayer for a fallen enemy with whom they shared many of the same risks.
Their work finished, the two destroyers formed up in line astern and cruised slowly out of the debris field. Once clear, they pointed their bows at Combine territory and disappeared into hyper-space.
* * *
Fleet HQ, Trinity Base
“So how many does that make?” asked Torrance.
“Twenty seven,” said Admiral Monk, C-in-C of the Alliance battle fleet. “Plus another twelve damaged.”
“Out of how many? One hundred sixty, was it?”
“We began the operation with one hundred fifty eight G86-Mark 4s – the version of the Heracles adapted for warp disrupter deployment. If we continue losing them at the present rate, the Mark4 wing will be in tatters before the shield is completed. The good news is that it’s relatively easy to convert either the Mark 2 or 3 variants to carry disrupter arrays and that’s something we are working on as we speak. As a consequence, I don’t expect to see any significant degradation of our capability in the short term. Furthermore, despite our losses, we are still on schedule, or at least, very close to it. During the past five weeks we have deployed a total of twelve thousand units. Another month and the net should be nearing completion.”
“The look on your face tells me there’s bad news too,” said Torrance.
“The bad news is that while the losses in materiel are sustainable, we are losing some of our most experienced crews, and contrary to popular belief it’s no simple task to train a transport crew. We have reserves, of course, but they are being utilized faster than we can train new personnel. And in addition to all that you have to factor in the losses in escorts.”
“Not to mention the morale factor,” said Torrance. “I take it we’ve increased the size of the escort groups?”
“As a matter of course, which has prompted the Combine to increase the size of their assault groups.”
Torrance grunted as he looked over the summary of the past week’s combat reports. In addition to the G86s, a dozen other ships had been struck from the Alliance register. And in return they could claim just a light cruiser, a destroyer and a pair of frigates destroyed. “I didn’t expect we’d be able to hide our preparations forever, but neither did I expect the Combine to start hitting us right from the off. In very short order they’ve figured out exactly what we’re up to and how best to stop us.”
“By by going after the transports.”
“No surprises there. It’s exactly what I’d do if I was in their shoes. We need to look at an alternative method of deploying the disrupter units.”
“Some kind of unmanned tug, maybe?”
“Something along those lines – a single use booster, something simple to design and build. I’ll talk to procurements about it. In the meantime, deploy whatever assets are necessary to protect the transports, Admiral. Assign a whole battle group if you have to. I’d prefer not provoke a major fleet action but I see no other recourse. That aside, the obvious question is how are they managing to home in on our transport groups so effectively? For all the distances involved, they’re showing an uncanny ability of turning up in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.”
“Part of the disrupter net is already up and running,” said Monk. “They’ll be able to detect the emissions from light weeks away. They’ll know exactly where the disrupters are.”
“And they could be using that data to predict where the next batch will be deployed. Simple geometry.”
“We’ve been switching deployment schedules as a matter of course, though with a predictable loss in efficiency. The more time we spend running back and forth from system to system, the less time we have to deploy the units.”
“There is also the possibility that they’re getting hard intelligence from somewhere else. Drones or sensors, maybe?”
“If they’re out there, we haven’t been able to spot them,” said Monk. “That doesn’t mean to say they aren’t there.”
“Keep looking,” said Torrance. “Detail some of your Intruders to patrol the planned deployment zones and see what turns up.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Monk. “Get them on station and powered down a day or two before the transports are due to arrive. They’ll be virtually invisible to anyone who comes snooping around.”
“Agreed,” said Torrance. And if that doesn’t work, the only other explanation must be that the Combine is getting its information from somewhere else. Somewhere closer to home…
Chapter 5: Dead Drop
Tycho City
Special agent Amanda Ross pressed a hand to her mouth as she stifled a yawn. She’d spent the last three hours sitting in the driver’s seat of a government owned sedan parked fifty meters from a nondescript town house in one of the suburbs of Tycho City. She knew that the waiting went with the territory but it was hard for her to convince herself that the three hours hadn’t been a complete and utter waste of time. Three hours lost – gone forever. As her eyes wandered over frontage for the thousandth time, she wondered how many better ways there might have been to while away the time. With her feet up watching a good movie… maybe curled up with a good book or even better, curled up in bed with a suitable member of the opposite sex.
Special agent? The job title conjured up visions of adventure, excitement and derring-do. The reality was depressingly different – hour upon hour of probing, searching, checking and rechecking facts, testimonies, alibis and surveillance footage. Not to mention days like today – monotonous, mind numbingly boring days.
Until the target decided to move, that is. And then – also on days like today – it made all the waiting worthwhile.
“Mission control, we have lift-off,” murmured special agent McNei
l who was sitting in the passenger seat next to Ross.
The front door of the town house opened and a middle aged man dressed in grey, flannel trousers and a blue jacket stepped out onto the porch. He closed the front door behind him, turned the key in the lock and set off along the street at a sedate pace.
“I’ll stick on his tail. You head him off at the pass,” said McNeil as he exited the car.
Ross waited a few minutes before starting the engine and pulling away from the curb. She took care not to turn her head as she passed the target, driving on to the next intersection where she turned left. She continued on past a small shopping center and turned into the parking lot of a recreation area.
Meanwhile, McNeil was maintaining the prescribed twenty meter separation between himself and the target as they approached the intersection. As usual, the target didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, ambling along at a steady pace. If he stayed true to form, he’d turn left and head for the shopping center.
McNeil was almost taken unawares as the target suddenly turned about face and started walking back the way he had come. A less experienced agent might have given the game away by breaking stride or stopping; McNeil simply entered the first shop he came to. By chance it was a fruit and vegetable store.
“Yes, sir?” said the vendor.
“Err,” said McNeil, keeping an eye on the street through the window. The target walked slowly by, stopping outside the shop next door and gazing in the window.
“Sir?”
“Bag of apples,” said McNeil.
“Cox’s Pippin, Golden Delicious, Granny Smith..?” said the vendor brightly.
“Those,” he said, waving a finger at nothing in particular. The vendor put half a dozen Pippins in a paper bag and dropped them on the scales.
“That’ll be three-fifty-five, sir.”
McNeil was just reaching for his wallet when the target reversed course again and sauntered back up the street. McNeil slapped a five credit bill on the counter and then moved hurriedly to the door.
“Sir, your apples… your change!”
“Keep it,” muttered McNeil as he left. By the time he returned to the pavement, the target was nowhere to be seen. Where the hell had he got to? McNeil crossed the road and walked slowly in the direction the intersection. Surely the target couldn’t have got that far ahead in such a short space of time. He stopped in front of a large furniture retailer, one with a broad window. The light conditions were such that the opposite side of the street was reflected perfectly in the glass.
A few seconds later, the target suddenly reappeared, crossed the street, walked straight past McNeil and then crossed the street again. He continued on to the intersection where he did indeed make a left.
When McNeil reached the corner he stopped, looking both left and right like a man unsure of his directions. As he looked left, he saw the target leaning up against a street light, looking back in his direction. The signal changed and McNeil crossed to the other side, continuing straight along the thoroughfare. Once out of sight, he spoke into the mike concealed under his lapel.
“I’m blown,” he said.
“How the hell can you be blown?” said Ross.
“He’s acting like he doesn’t want to be followed and he’s had a good look at me at least twice. I’m out. You’re in.”
By this time, Ross was already sitting in the Cresta Coffee House a few hundred meters from the intersection where McNeil had broken contact. She was sipping a cup of decaf when the target appeared in the door for a brief second before disappearing off to the side.
Ross was inexperienced but well briefed; no sudden movements, no overt actions. She counted to ten before gathering her belongings. Then she rose slowly from her seat and made her way outside. The target was nowhere in sight but if he kept to pattern, she knew exactly where he was going. Without looking back, she walked briskly to her car which was parked on a slope overlooking the recreation area. To the left there was a small playground with swings, a slide and a jungle gym and to the right was a lawn surrounded by a number of flower beds awash with the color of springtime blooms. Sitting between the two was an ornamental pond.
There was nothing she could do now except wait. She settled down in the driver’s seat and began the process once again. The good news was that it probably wouldn’t be for three hours this time. It wasn’t. The target appeared amongst the daffodils and hyacinths. Strolling between a pair of magnolia trees he skirted a bed of tulips before sitting on a bench overlooking the ornamental pond in the center of the park.
Ross opened the glove box and took out a pair of 10x50 binoculars with a built in recorder, the tinted windows of her vehicle giving her perfect cover. Bringing the target into focus she saw him sit back on the bench, gazing at the pond. Nearby, a mother and two young children were walking along the path. The older child – a boy of ten years or so – bent down to pick up some small stones which he hurled into the water. As the ripples spread across the surface, the target leaned forward as if to watch their progress.
Distracted by the mother and children, Ross almost missed it. Almost. She let out an involuntary ‘Ooh’ as the target leaned forward on the bench. His technique was so smooth it was almost sexy.
“Mission control,” she said into her mike. “We have touchdown.”
Chapter 6: Breaker
Tycho City
In his usual meticulous and methodical manner, Commander Tobias Franklin placed the last of his uniform shirts in the suitcase and carefully smoothed them over to minimize creasing. He checked that all the corners were properly aligned and then laid his ties on top. In a separate compartment he arranged his shaving gear and toiletries, counting off the items according to the check list he’d prepared previously. With everything in order, he closed the zip fastener and placed the suitcase in the hallway. He still had a few minutes before the car came to pick him up and after that it was just a short drive to Loyola Field and the shuttle off world.
He’d be grateful to get away from Tycho, Trinity and everything that went with it. He’d be even more grateful to escape – even for a short time – the predicament he’d found himself in for the last two years. That of spy, traitor – a Judas who’d sold out his comrades for so many pieces of silver. So many times he’d prayed for a posting far away from Tycho, preferably to a world where the Combine had no intelligence assets, a world where he could disappear into the background and live out the rest of the war in anonymity. But it was not to be.
That said, six weeks away from Tycho was a great deal better that nothing, and away from the front lines at that. Six weeks touring a dozen possible locations for a new logistics base. One central enough to allow for a timely re-supply of Alliance assets but far enough from the border to put it out of reach of a Combine raid. He’d left a coded message in his usual dead drop informing Jacob that he’d be off-world for several weeks. When the message was decoded, Jacob – or whoever it was that did the decoding – would note the prefix ‘TNT’, the safe signal that would tell them that all was well and that the message was genuine. If the ‘TNT’ was missing, or there was something else in its place, Jacob would immediately know that Franklin had been compromised.
Franklin had once considered omitting the ‘TNT’ on purpose, wondering if Jacob and his cohorts would perhaps retreat and leave him in peace. They almost certainly would, he reflected – at least in the short term. But after that? If he hung around on Tycho, he’d be a marked man, a danger, a liability – someone privy to knowledge of the Combine’s intelligence community. And then one day in the not too distant future, one of Jacob’s scalp hunters would get in close enough to silence him – permanently.
As he waited for the car to arrive, he gazed through his front window, watching the passers-by go about their business. Some were in uniform but most were civilians. Franklin recalled Jacob’s remark about the war not yet having reached Tycho. It was true that apart from a few deep penetration raids early in the war, most of the fi
ghting had taken place far from the Alliance capital. But though the planet itself was unblemished, many of the people walking up and down the busy street would be carrying their own personal scars; some physical, but the majority psychological.
The active servicemen and women would be counting down the days to their next rotation; a few of them aching to return to the fray but still more thanking providence for the respite. And then there would be the inevitable few for whom the prospect of returning to battle would fill them with feelings of dread. And as for the civilians, some of those people walking past his front door were probably living with the pain of losing a loved one; an ache that time would dull but never completely heal. Many more would be facing the agonies of waiting for a loved one to return; beseeching whatever gods they believed in that their sons and daughters would come safe home, praying daily that a knock on the door wouldn’t be answered to find a counselor from fleet social services standing on the doorstep – always a caring, compassionate soul, one well trained at softening the blow, but still a harbinger of death and misery.
Franklin wondered how much of that sorrow he might be personally responsible for. Into how many lives had he bought pain and despair? But wasn’t the uniform he was wearing dedicated to the task of inflicting pain and suffering on others? The enemy to be sure, but didn’t a man’s status as either loved one or hated enemy depend solely on the color of the flag beneath which he stood? And in the final reckoning wasn’t he still the same man?
Franklin shook his head and pushed his meanderings aside; they were thoughts he’d revisited many times before and knew it did no good to dwell on them. The only conclusions he could ever reach were that everyone was now the enemy and that he no longer had the slightest idea of who he was.
Finally, the car drew up at the sidewalk in front of his door. A marine corporal exited the vehicle, trotted smartly up the steps and rang the doorbell.
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