Across Enemy Space

by L. J. Simpson

  Torrance was delighted to see Tarr back on the base. He would often find the old admiral sitting in his adopted chair at the western end of the lounge, chatting to midshipmen and generals alike as he sipped from a glass of dark, navy rum. Occasionally you could find him sitting alone, reading quietly, from time to time pausing to look out across the perfectly manicured lawns that lay on the other side of the bay windows.

  On this particular day, Tarr sat watching the sun go down, slowly dipping behind the hangars over on the far side of the base, dark silhouettes stark against the orange and pink hues of the disappearing sun. As he watched the last rays dance around the sky, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “That… is something I never tire of,” murmured Tarr without looking up.

  “Then perhaps I should not disturb you,” said Torrance gently.

  “Ah! Not at all. I do apologize, Jonathon. I rather imagined you to be yet another midshipman whose name I cannot remember. I regret I am at an age where they all tend to look the same. And then again you might have been Captain Willis. Insufferable man. I wish you’d have him posted, preferably to somewhere on the other side of Combine space.”

  Torrance laughed. “I would be happy to oblige but alas, whilst I agree that Captain Willis is not the most agreeable of people, he happens to be very good at his job.”

  “So I hear,” allowed Tarr. “So tell me, how goes the war?”

  “I imagine that someone who has the ear of virtually every officer on the base could answer that question as well as the C-in-C himself.”

  “You will doubtless be pleased to hear that they all tell me surprisingly little, just as security protocols dictate. Not that it matters, of course,” said Tarr with a gleam in his eye. “The stewards here at the OC overhear all and then tell me everything I need to know.” Torrance immediately turned to observe one on the white coated stewards who was carrying a tray of drinks to a table of middle ranking naval officers.

  “I trust you are joking.”

  “Probably, though it does indeed strike me that if I were an enemy agent, the Officers’ Club would be the perfect environment in which to ply my trade. Perhaps you should consider having all the stewards locked up.”

  “Why stop at the stewards,” said Torrance bluntly.

  Tarr scrutinized Torrance’s face for a moment. “You look like a man with something on his mind.”

  “Perhaps we could take a stroll,” said Torrance. He led Admiral Tarr through the ante-room with its wood paneled walls bearing framed portraits of admirals and generals long gone, along a hallway and out through a side door which led to the gardens. As they left the building, the streetlamps along the pathways around the lawns were just flickering into light.

  “One thing that we’ve always had is reasonably good intelligence,” said Torrance. “I’d like to say that you’d be amazed at the wealth of information that comes our way, but I’m sure you know the lists as well as I do: Combine shipbuilding capacity, shipbuilding schedules by class of ship, numbers of operational vessels, troop concentrations, planetary defenses, the state of their government, the state of their economy, public morale... All kinds of data, all accurate and all up to date... But what we never get is–”

  “High value intelligence. Something solid. Something usable. Something that could win us a campaign, or just a tactical victory,” said Tarr.

  “Exactly. We’ve never had an agent that highly placed – someone involved in their tactical or strategic planning, for example. Oh, we have any number of assets who can tell us when a particular battle group leaves orbit but no-one who can tell us details of their mission. Conversely, the enemy seems to be very well informed about some of our objectives. When we began deploying the warp field disrupters, the Combine started hitting us within days. We changed schedules and swapped sectors as a matter of course, but as often as not they still managed to appear in the right place at the right time. I doubt they were just lucky.”

  “You think someone was feeding them information?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Torrance.

  “Have you spoken to our friends over in Intelligence?”

  “I don’t think Brigadier Faulkner or anyone else over in Intelligence counts us among their friends. As a matter of fact I don’t think they like anyone very much – including each other. For what it’s worth, Faulkner tells me that they are actively and rigorously seeking out informants and enemy agents on all levels. He also told me that I will be notified of events on a need to know basis. I work on the premise that I need to know everything and I need to know it now.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s right, though you and I might not like the idea.”

  Torrance grunted. “I know. Faulkner’s a good man – perhaps the best there is. Can I ask you… when you were C-in-C, did you ever suspect that someone was feeding the Combine high value intelligence?”

  “You’ve read the reports.”

  “Of course,” said Torrance. “But I was thinking more about the kind of information that wouldn’t be in the reports.”

  “What kind of information would that be?” asked Tarr innocently.

  “Ah, well, if I knew that, then I’d know why it wasn’t in the reports. You’ll remember that during the year preceding Operation Zealous, the Combine launched a dozen raids into Alliance Space, all of which inflicted heavy damage.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “On almost every occasion, Combine units managed to avoid all of our defensive formations, hit their targets and retire – all except one raid when they ran straight into a carrier group near Doran 5. Even then, the carrier group wasn’t supposed to be there. It was a simple mistake – there was a mix up with the movement orders.”

  “Go on,” said Tarr.

  “And more recently, the Combine have enjoyed considerable success in locating and intercepting the transports constructing the disrupter net. We take a lot of measures to maintain security but with the best will in the world there’s only so much you can hide from the enemy. Most of our deployments involve a whole raft of orders filtering down the chain of command. Shortening the chain is something we need to look at but whatever we do, there is always the possibility of a leak somewhere along the line. To a degree, I accept that. What I don’t accept is getting hit every time we venture out of port. Someone with access to movement orders has been feeding information to the Combine and they’ve been doing it for some time. If it’s not someone high up then it’s someone close.”

  “I agree,” said Tarr simply. He almost smiled at Torrance’s expression. “Well don’t look so surprised, Jonathon. What other explanation can there be?”

  “So where does that leave us?” asked Torrance.

  “Not quite as badly off as we were before,” said Tarr. “At least we have managed to narrow down the field somewhat.”

  “We? Who exactly is we, Admiral? And why do I get the distinct impression that there is something you are not telling me?”

  Chapter 8: Intelligence

  Fleet Intel, Trinity Base

  Fleet Intelligence Headquarters sat in a secluded corner of Trinity Base. Largely hidden from view, it was surrounded by trees, a high fence topped with razor wire and even a wide moat, a legacy of the days when the site had been home to the base’s detention center. On his frequent visits to Fleet Intel, Torrance had often mused that all that was missing was a medieval style barbican gatehouse complete with drawbridge, portcullis and a company of crossbowmen patrolling the battlements. Instead, the complex had what was probably the next best thing, a secure checkpoint guarded by a platoon of riflemen in full battle armor.

  Passing through the checkpoint, the car bypassed the main doors and drew up at a dimly lit side door. Exiting the vehicle, Torrance and Tarr were met by a pair of riflemen standing guard. Tarr removed a pass from his wallet and presented it to one of the soldiers who examined it closely, shining his flashlight back and forth from the pass and Tarr’s face. As he did so, his comrade stood by
, rifle at the ready but with his finger on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself. Not that Torrance or Tarr could know that. Satisfied, the rifleman snapped off a salute and ushered the two men inside.

  The Director of Intelligence was a small, wiry man with hawkish features and steely blue eyes. Unmarried, he had been in the service the whole of his adult life. Noted for his Spartan existence, he neither drank nor smoked and spent virtually all his waking hours in his office. When he did venture home, it was to a small bachelor apartment on base. At fifty five years of age, Brigadier Faulkner was as fit as a man half his years and if there was anyone possessed of a sharper mind, Torrance had yet to meet him.

  Visitors to Faulkner’s office were forever surprised at the bare simplicity of the room. Faulkner sat at a modest, wooden desk upon which invariably sat two small piles of folders, each neatly stacked and perfectly aligned with the edges of the desk.

  Rows of bookcases lined three walls of the office, each filled with rank upon rank of files and folders – the collective secrets of the known universe. As with many offices for one of Faulkner’s seniority, the last wall was reserved for the collection of photographs which would celebrate the occupants’ previous tours of duty; a succession of images of ever larger vessels, snapshots taken with comrades in arms, photos taken posing with staff officers and the final obligatory picture taken while accepting a citation from the Commander in Chief himself. In Faulkner’s case the wall was bare save a single photograph of a woman dressed in an ensign’s uniform. The photograph was old and the colors faded. The face was young.

  Faulkner was poring over a report when his secretary, a stern looking woman with swept back hair, ushered Tarr and Torrance into his office.

  “Good evening, General,” said Faulkner, standing up to salute Torrance. He then nodded to Tarr. “Admiral. Please be seated, gentlemen.”

  As Torrance waited for either Faulkner or Tarr to break the silence, he wondered why the room should be devoid of all the trappings usually associated with someone of Faulkner’s rank. Finally, Tarr cleared his throat.

  “I apologize for the subterfuge, Jonathan.”

  “Exactly which piece of subterfuge are you referring to?”

  “I may have retired from my position of Commander in Chief but I am not completely retired, if you catch my meaning. After I stepped down, Brigadier Faulkner inquired if I might consider joining his staff in an advisory capacity.”

  “Admiral Tarr’s knowledge and experience are commodities far too valuable to waste,” said Faulkner. “You see, General, I have a firm grasp of the workings of the Combine’s intelligence service and understand the finer points of their political system – both their strengths and their weaknesses, and how they may be exploited. I know exactly how their war machine operates. However, I freely admit that I sometimes lack an understanding of how their military leaders think. The thought processes that control their decision making – what prompts them to make one particular decision rather than another. As you may be aware, the admiral spent several tours in intelligence before transferring to command. In this respect, his insights have proved invaluable. In addition, without wishing to appear indelicate, I’m sure the general will agree that here within the Alliance, the intelligence community and the military hierarchy haven’t always seen eye to eye. Certainly they don’t always view events in exactly the same light. I thought Admiral Tarr might be able to bridge the gap.”

  “There were other issues, of course,” said Tarr with unusual gravity.

  “Such as?”

  “Jonathan, when I stepped down as C-in-C, it was for all the correct reasons. It was time for change. The Alliance needed new blood – a new leader. I recommended you as my successor because I thought you were the best man for the job. You are a gifted tactician and a born leader. You carry men along with you even at times like the present, when they could be forgiven for ducking for cover. But most of all, I trusted you. Not everyone agreed with me in that.”

  “Really…? Who?” said Torrance, bristling slightly.

  “Me, for one,” said Faulkner.

  “You?”

  “Forgive me, General, but you will realize that within the confines of my profession, trust is something that is never freely given, even tentatively.”

  “I appreciate that trust generally has to be earned.”

  “Won is perhaps the most accurate infinitive, purely from the point of view that trust can also be lost… though I concede that it is a moot point. The essential truth is that when one member of a group is known to be suspect, the group as whole falls under suspicion.”

  “Exactly which group would you be referring to?”

  “General, however unpalatable it may be, it is my belief that the Combine has been receiving high value intelligence from a high ranking source – someone at the top of the chain of command. The very top. According to Admiral Tarr, you share my concerns.”

  Torrance looked over at Tarr, whose expression gave no clue as to what he was thinking. “Continue,” he said.

  “May I ask what led you to that conclusion?” said Faulkner.

  “Operation Zealous,” said Torrance. “Admiral Finch was intercepted as soon as he entered Combine space. He never even made it to the first target. There were the usual number of deployment and movement orders, any of which could have been intercepted by agents operating further down the chain of command… but as far as I can tell, the final objectives were known to only six men. Admiral Tarr, the Joint Chiefs – which included me – and Admiral Finch, who led the attack.”

  “And there you have it,” said Faulkner. “Except it wasn’t six – it was just four. Admiral Tarr oversaw the general strategy but wasn’t involved in the tactical decision making and Admiral Finch, who led the attack, didn’t know the primary target until twelve hours beforehand. Too late for the Combine to organize the response that they came up with.

  “Which is why, if you’ll forgive me, I was unwilling to place too much trust in you or any of the other Joint Chiefs. For the record, I implored Admiral Tarr to continue as C-in-C until we could investigate further but as usual the Admiral believed he knew best.”

  “And as usual the admiral was right,” said Tarr, with just a trace of smugness.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Torrance.

  “The Combine is a formidable enemy,” began Faulkner. “Their military apparatus enjoys significant support from the senate the general population alike.”

  “I sometimes wish I could say the same,” said Torrance.

  “I’m sure you do,” said Faulkner. “But that support comes at a price – high expectations, some of which are realistic, others not. It would seem that the Combine government has been assuring the populace that victory was within their grasp. As a direct consequence, both the Combine military and intelligence services have been pressured to come up with results. And the result of that is that they have overplayed their hand. Operation Zealous was a key victory for them but it has cost them heavily in the espionage stakes. They have broken one of the fundamental rules of espionage – they failed to protect their source, one that could have continued passing information for years to come, all in relative security. As things stand, their agent must know – or at least suspect – that his cover is close to being blown.”

  “And you believe you have narrowed down the field?”

  “Yes, we do,” said Faulkner, passing a photograph across the table. “Do you know this man?”

  “Commander Franklin,” said Torrance. “A good man. If I remember correctly, he’s an operations officer in Transport Command.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s not as good as you think. He was arrested for espionage several weeks ago.”

  “Franklin?” said Torrance in surprise.

  “We have a full confession. As I believe you said yourself, General, the Combine exhibited an uncanny ability in locating the groups constructing the shield. Franklin was feeding them all the information they needed. Units, time
s, locations, the lot.

  “At first I wondered if the same person that blew Operation Zealous was somehow responsible,” continued Faulkner, “but in this case, the leak must have been lower down the chain, someone with direct access to fleet movement orders. Construction of the shield involved thousands of personnel, fourteen bases and three different military branches. The warp field disrupters were assembled and initialized by four separate engineering battalions, all of which were based in different sectors. Strike Command, which provided the escort, operated from eight different bases in six different sectors. The only common denominator was the transport fleet, or more accurately the wing of specially adapted G86 Heracles transports whose orders originated from one single command.”

  “Where Franklin was stationed,” said Torrance.

  “Right here on Trinity Base, right under our noses.”

  “How did you track him down?”

  “Patience, diligence and legwork, mostly. Contrary to popular belief, the counter-espionage business is a singularly monotonous one. We had teams of agents watching Franklin – and a number of others, I should add – around the clock. Ironically, in the end he gave himself away by being too careful.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Torrance.

  “Franklin was creature of habit. Like many officers, he spent the majority of his time on base but spent his weekend furloughs at his home. When he returned to his home, he generally made a trip to the local K-Mart to pick up some groceries, after which he called in at the dry cleaners to pick up his freshly laundered uniforms. Apart from that, he usually stayed at home. We had his house bugged and we also monitored his private communications but nothing out of the ordinary showed up. We almost gave him a clean bill of health but there were a few occasions when he left his car at home and walked to a shopping center a kilometer or so away from his home. He called in a coffee shop, stayed for half an hour or so and then returned home by way of a small park complete with flower gardens and an ornamental pond.”