Across Enemy Space

by L. J. Simpson

  “Good morning, sir,” he said as Franklin opened the door. “May I take your bags?” By the time Franklin had locked his front door, the marine had transferred the bags to the vehicle’s trunk and was holding open the rear door.

  As Franklin entered the car he was greeted by another officer seated inside – a colonel wearing the insignia of an engineering battalion.

  “Hi,” said the colonel. “Hope you don’t mind sharing the ride. Seems we’re off to the same destination. Typical fleet planning – I didn’t get my orders until last night. I’m still trying to familiarize myself with the mission brief.” He waved a sheaf of papers for effect. “I take it you’re up to date with all this?”

  “Pretty much,” said Franklin.

  “Interesting reading, don’t you think? You have to wonder why they’d want to construct a full sized logistics base so far behind the lines. I can’t think of many reasons for doing so and none of them are good. Things must be worse than I thought. What’s your take on it?”

  “Hard to say. If we’re thinking of pulling back, I guess we’ll need a reliable base to resupply from, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that–”

  Franklin stopped mid sentence as something sharp jabbed into his thigh. The colonel was still holding the sheaf of papers in his left hand but in his right was a small syringe, the needle sharp and glistening. A look of surprise briefly registered in Franklin’s face before his world drifted out of focus and he slumped unconscious in the seat.

  * * *

  Franklin woke slowly. His throat was dry and there was a dull throbbing in his temples. With a groan, he forced open his eyes, the fog of sleep causing the lights above him to swim and dance across the ceiling. He raised his head from the pillow but was at once overcome by a wave of nausea, the glaring lights now spinning chaotically in front of his eyes.

  He let his head fall back to the pillow and waited for his head to clear and his stomach to cease its tremors. Finally, he eased open his eyes and looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was lying on a plain bunk in a windowless cell, the room bare save for an ablutions unit in the corner and a camera fixed high up on the opposite wall. Sitting up slowly, his still jumbled mind noted with faint surprise that he was no longer wearing his service uniform. Instead, he was dressed in a simple grey jumpsuit. His personal possessions – his watch and ring – had also disappeared.

  Where the hell was he? And what was he doing here? As he looked up at the camera, the memories of the car ride, the colonel and the syringe all rushed back into his mind. A cold chill swept up his spine as realization dawned; the moment he had been dreading for the past two years was finally upon him.

  In the adjacent room, a man was studying the camera feed from Franklin’s cell. He watched the prisoner rise to his feet and sway unsteadily as he gazed around the room, a look of bewilderment fixed on his face. Then he appeared to notice the camera fixed upon the wall and the confused expression was replaced by one of unease.

  The man pressed a button on his console and spoke into the microphone. “He’s awake.”

  “How’s he looking?”

  “Dazed, as expected.”

  “Understood. Give him an hour and then bring him up.”

  The hour Franklin spent alone in the cell was a long and restless one. Taking stock of his situation, he again wondered where he was. Wherever it was, it was off-planet for the gravity was just a little lighter than normal – exactly what you’d expect from gravity plating, so possibly a ship, though the lack of vibration suggested that he was on solid ground – Tycho’s moon or one of the facilities out in the asteroid belt, most likely, but he had no way of knowing. Before he could carry the thought forward, the cell door swung open and three men dressed in Alliance combat fatigues entered the room. Their physique and bearing told Franklin that they were the security detail. He also noted that their uniforms were devoid of insignia; what that told him he wasn’t quite sure.

  “On your feet,” said one.

  “What’s going on?” asked Franklin.

  “The prisoner is not permitted to speak at this time. You are to come with us.” There was no emotion to the man’s voice but his demeanor clearly suggested that he would brook no argument. Franklin did as he was bid, one of the guards leading the way while the other two walked alongside, each firmly gripping one of Franklin’s arms above the elbow.

  Franklin’s assumption that he was off world was correct, though he was aboard a small orbital facility rather than a moon or asteroid. Operated by the Intelligence Division, the facility was used as a secure location for debriefing friendly operatives and interrogating enemy agents.

  The man charged with Franklin’s interrogation was Colonel Abe Wolfe, the facility’s administrator and also the chief interrogating officer of the Intelligence Division. To his colleagues he was known as the Breaker. It was what he did; he broke people, completely and utterly. Not through violence or torture, or even with the use of drugs, though the latter served as a useful adjunct to his natural skills. Wolfe utilized a cerebral approach; he saw the reduction of a subject as a purely psychological exercise – a study into the inner workings of their mind. He determined their strengths and weaknesses, identified their hopes and fears and then set about dismantling their psyche one piece at a time. At a later date – if deemed worth the time and effort – he might then reassemble the pieces in such a manner as to benefit the Alliance.

  The first step was to apply abrupt and vigorous pressure, explaining to the subject exactly what was required of him, reminding him of his vulnerabilities and leaving him in no doubt as to the consequences of non co-operation. But all of this without an overt threat of violence. Carefully deployed, a veiled or implicit threat was a far more powerful weapon.

  After that it, was a remorseless regime of coaxing, cajoling, prompting and prodding, most often conducted in shifts, depriving the subject of sleep and above all depriving him of the time to gather his wits and construct any kind of defense against the unrelenting psychological onslaught.

  Then when the subject was at his lowest ebb, they would perhaps offer respite, give hope but just as soon take it away, chipping away at the man’s defenses until his very essence was laid bare.

  From thereon, the objective was to gain the subject’s confidence, his trust and even, in some circumstances, his friendship. And once that goal had been achieved, the subject could be milked of every useful piece of information contained within his head. The stronger ones held out longer but the end result was always the same. By the time the Breaker had finished, most subjects felt an almost inner compulsion to give up all they knew. Franklin would be no different.

  * * *

  Franklin found himself sitting on a simple chair in the centre of a brightly lit, five meter square room. He was unrestrained, but two of the security detail stood either side of the door situated behind him. Out of sight but not out of mind. Cameras were fixed high up in each corner of the room and a large mirror was set in the wall to his right. What lay beyond the mirror didn’t take a lot of working out. A few meters in front sat a desk with several chairs arranged beyond. After what seemed an age, Franklin heard the sound of the door opening behind him. He half turned but was speedily rebuked.

  “Eyes front!” barked one of the guards. “The prisoner will stand to attention!”

  As Franklin rose to his feet, two men strode past and arranged themselves behind the desk in front. One was a lieutenant clothed in combat fatigues. The other, an army colonel, was wearing his No2 dress uniform.

  The colonel opened a file and spent several minutes reading through the contents, never once glancing up at Franklin, who was left standing to attention. Finally, the colonel closed the file, pushed it aside and then looked Franklin straight in the eye.

  “You are Commander T. R. Franklin, presently assigned to the 11th Transport Wing. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “You will address the colonel as sir,” snapped
the lieutenant.

  “Yes, sir. It is.”

  “That’s better. My name is Wolfe. I assume you know why you are here?”

  “Not entirely, sir,” said Franklin cautiously. “I’m not even sure where here is.”

  “You are in a secure location off-world, but of course you will have worked that much out already. Exactly where is not your concern. As for why you are here, I think you already know. You have engaged in espionage and acts of treason against the state. This is a matter of neither conjecture nor debate. The evidence against you is as damning as it is irrefutable. At a date to be decided you will be formally charged and tried by court martial. I should advise you that the court martial is likely to return the death sentence. This may or may not be commuted to a lesser sentence depending on your co-operation. Do you understand what I have just said, Commander?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Franklin, visibly wilting, the faint hope that he had been detained for something other than his treachery evaporating into thin air.

  “Then understand this. It is vital to the Alliance war effort that you disclose everything relating to your role as an enemy agent. We require a comprehensive account of your activities and it is my responsibility to ensure that you provide it. Your de-brief will begin immediately and I require you to answer our questions promptly, thoroughly, and with absolute truthfulness at all times. If you attempt to mislead or deceive us in any way, there will be consequences. These consequences will be severe. Again, do you understand?”

  Franklin simply nodded.

  “I require an answer, Commander,” barked Wolfe.

  “Yes, sir,” said Franklin, startled by Wolfe’s abrupt change in tone.

  “Very good. We will start at the beginning. Who recruited you?”

  “Jacob,” said Franklin immediately. “It was a man called Jacob.”

  “First name? Last name?”

  “I don’t know,” said Franklin truthfully.

  “And who is he, this Jacob?”

  “I don’t know. In the beginning he told me he was a journalist.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “At the time, yes. He was very well versed in political and economic matters.”

  “And where did you first meet?”

  “It was a bar in Tycho City.”

  “What bar? Where, exactly?”

  “A place called the Blue Goose. On 31st and Brewer, over on the east side.”

  “And this was when?”

  “About two, two and a half years ago.”

  “He approached you?”

  “Not exactly. We were just talking.”

  “About the war?”

  “Not really, not at first… It was just normal stuff…”

  “What can you tell me about this Jacob? Where is he from? Where does he live?”

  “I’m not sure. He never said…”

  “He never talked about his home, his family?”

  “No, never.”

  “And that didn’t strike you as strange?”

  “No, not until it was too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  Franklin shrugged.

  “Answer the question, Commander.”

  “I don’t know… too late to do anything about it.”

  “Why was it too late? Why didn’t you try to back out?”

  “I… I couldn’t.”

  “What do you mean, you couldn’t? Why not? You must have been aware of your actions. Did you not consider the probable consequences?”

  “Of course,” said Franklin, visibly troubled.

  “So perhaps you’d agree that it’s a little late for regrets?”

  “Yes,” said Franklin, staring down at the floor.

  “So, let’s go back to your first meeting. Tell me again how it came about.”

  Wolfe maintained a continuous barrage of questions, moving quickly from subject to subject without giving Franklin the opportunity to dwell on any particular answer. Two hours later and with Franklin already looking worn, Wolfe left the room to be replaced by another interrogator who went over the exact same ground, asking the exact same set of questions, any irregularity in Franklin’s responses being swiftly jumped upon.

  Wolfe watched most of the interchange through the two way mirror. Biometric sensors built into Franklin’s jumpsuit confirmed what Wolfe already knew. The subject’s anxiety levels were high and rising, and even at this early stage he was exhibiting signs of mental collapse. Franklin had the demeanor of a boy who’d been caught red handed stealing from the cookie jar and now wished only to confess and be done with the whole affair. Unfortunately for him, it wouldn’t be quite that simple. It couldn’t be. Wolfe had been deadly serious when he’d told Franklin that he required a comprehensive account of his actions. There was nothing too inconsequential, nothing too trivial. Wolfe wanted it all.

  Franklin’s ordeal was only just beginning.

  Chapter 7: Stalemate

  Combine battle cruiser Gorgon

  The damn things were everywhere, thought the Gorgon’s captain. His tactical officer had now catalogued over eighteen hundred disrupter units spread across his front. The Gorgon was holding position opposite Falkrys, the planet almost exactly at the centre of the Alliance front.

  Surrounding his battle cruiser was an enlarged escort group, four heavy cruisers, a dozen destroyers and the same number of frigates, all modern, front line ships; the finest in the Combine inventory. All were closed up and ready for action.

  The group’s primary mission was to map the disrupters in front of Falkrys and determine if there was a way through. After two days of intelligence gathering, the captain had come to the conclusion that there wasn’t. Not an easy one, at any rate. Positioned as it was, it was the system that the Alliance had put most effort into defending, and as far as the captain could tell, their preparations were just about complete.

  The defense field formed a broad, convex plane facing out towards enemy space, half a light year in circumference and several light days deep. There were gaps in the field to be sure, some of them oh, so inviting, but the field was constructed in such a way as to give no direct route in-system. It would mean going in at an oblique angle and then turning in. Worse, the Gorgon’s sensors just couldn’t see far enough into the gaps to see what lay on the other side. There might be a defending fleet lying in wait. There might be mines. Possibly both, and with little room for maneuver he was loathe to go charging in to find out. His superiors were now of the same opinion. They’d been enticed into gaps in the field before – several times over the preceding weeks – only to be caught by a well drilled defending formation. Eventually, someone high enough the chain of command had figured out the Alliance strategy and called a halt to the attacks.

  The captain had to give his Alliance counterparts their due – whoever designed that field had known their business. The only sure way to disable it would be to go in behind a great swarm of missiles. Blow a hole big enough to drive a division of battleships through and then slug it out on the other side. It would be costly, it would be messy and the battleship captains wouldn’t like it at all, but that was their problem, not his.

  Another proposed solution would be the simple expedient of circumnavigating the concentrated disrupter field protecting Falkrys. It’s true that there were hundreds – if not thousands – of disrupter units littering the void between Falkrys and its neighboring systems, but a passage could likely be navigated with a few course changes along the way. Unfortunately, those course changes would alert the Alliance to what they were doing – they’d have to be blind to miss it. On top of that, the attacking force would need to slow and stop before turning in towards their target, and once again, all without accurate sensor data. And finally, they’d need to repeat it all for the journey back to Combine territory. It could work, but he wouldn’t like to be the first one to try.

  The captain shook his head. Somehow they’d allowed the Alliance to force a stalemate, one that served them far bett
er than it served the Combine. It was a damn mess, as was his secondary mission, which was to loiter around and try to tempt the Alliance out from behind that shield of theirs and give battle. So far, they had showed no signs at all of doing so. Why would they? Right now, the Alliance combat crews were probably sitting in their ships’ canteens drinking coffee. Meanwhile, the crew of the Gorgon and the other ships in the Combine formation were being forced to remain at action stations for the whole of their watch, their combat effectiveness gradually degrading hour by monotonous hour. Much more of this and they’d begin to lose their edge, and as fine a vessel as the Gorgon was, she was only as good as her crew. Luckily, this particular mission only had three more days to run. Apart from the fact that his crews needed some downtime, the list of minor repairs was mounting and some of his escorts – particularly the smaller frigates – were running low on consumables.

  Three more days and they’d head back to Haalikon and join what was left of the 28th Battle Cruiser Squadron. Nominally five ships, but the Phax, Ballista and the Victorex had been withdrawn to somewhere deep inside Combine territory. Only the Specter was still on station at Haalikon. For whatever reason, the squadrons at Oneida and Ebron had been similarly reduced. The captain could only wonder why. Most likely was that they were training for an attack on Falkrys, the focal point of the whole front. Once the shield had been breached, the battlewagons would go in, engaging the Alliance’s own heavy units and smashing a hole in the line. That would be the signal for the battle cruisers to go pouring through the gap, brushing aside the enemy’s lighter units and coming around on the enemy’s rear. Well, that was the theory.

  The upshot was that for the present, there were barely enough ships to go around. So he’d have at most forty eight hours in which to give the crew some R&R, refuel, rearm and then it was back on station opposite Falkrys.

  What a way to fight a war.

  * * *

  Trinity Base

  Even in retirement, Admiral Tarr was afforded two courtesies. First, he would forever be addressed as ‘Admiral’, and second, he was granted lifetime membership of the Officers’ Club at Trinity Base on Tycho, the Alliance capital. He had little interest in the first but after a suitable period of absence, took full advantage of the second. In his case he decided on three months as a suitable period. Time enough for the new regime to settle in without worrying about him looking over their shoulders, and time enough for the new breed of officer, the stream of new midshipmen and lieutenants, to regard him as an old buffer rather than lord and master.