Across Enemy Space

by L. J. Simpson

  “And what is so striking about that?” said Torrance.

  “On one of his expeditions, the agents tailing him said that he appeared to be using basic field-craft.”

  “Field-craft?”

  “If you are concerned about the possibility of being followed, there are some simple precautions that you can take. Doubling back on your route, stopping to look in a shop window, hopping in and out of a taxi, that kind of thing – basic skills that we train our own agents to do, and things we train our counter intelligence people to look out for. I’ve no doubt the Combine train their operatives just as well. Franklin appeared to be watching his back. That in itself raised the suspicions of the operatives trailing him and that’s how we finally got the breakthrough; Franklin was using the park as a dead drop.”

  “A drop off point for stolen data.”

  “Exactly. On previous occasions we’d observed him walk around the flower gardens, very often stopping to sit on a bench facing the pond. The actual drop off was so deft that our operative almost missed it. He would take his hands from his pockets and sit forward with his hands on the edge of the bench, his fingers pressed to the underside. It’s a common enough pose but one that facilitated the drop, allowing him to fix a small capsule to the underside of the bench.”

  “Where is Franklin now?”

  “In a safe place, far from prying eyes,” was all that Faulkner would allow.

  “And what has he told you?”

  “Everything, of course. It’s inevitable. As it happens, Franklin broke fairly quickly – once he realized that his position was untenable he volunteered everything he knew.”

  “All of which is reliable?”

  “We use alternative methods to check for consistency. Don’t worry, gentlemen,” said Faulkner as Tarr raised an eyebrow. “The days of thumbscrews and the rack are long gone. Chemical and hypnotic techniques are both quicker and more reliable. A triumph of practicality over barbarism, if you will.”

  “Call me callous but I can’t help wondering if I prefer the old fashioned way in this particular case,” said Tarr. “I can understand someone who believes it morally wrong to take up arms against his fellow man. I can even understand a man who lacks the will or the courage to fight, but there’s something abhorrent about a man who betrays his comrades, whatever the cause.”

  “Did Franklin say why he turned?” asked Torrance.

  “He said it started off with a few drinks in a bar. You know how it goes... someone asking how the war is going. He got talking and a few rounds later he was talking too much. All low level stuff of course – the kind of thing an enemy agent could have found in the morning newspaper. Franklin probably didn’t even realize he was being groomed. He should have, but didn’t. He was already in dangerous territory when he got involved with a girl who looked a lot older than she was. She was a plant, of course, and with Tycho’s laws regarding statutory rape being uncommonly severe – and rightly so, I might add – Franklin found himself facing professional ruin along with a long jail sentence. You can imagine the rest – they blackmailed him for what he was worth and that was that. The worst of it is that he could have asked for help but he was too scared, too proud or too stupid to try.”

  “Instead of which, he got a lot of our people killed,” Tarr grunted in disgust.

  “What will happen to him now?” said Torrance.

  “Before his arrest, we arranged for him to be sent out on an inspection tour. As far as his handlers are concerned, he’s presently away surveying possible locations for a new base. To maintain the charade, we’ve requisitioned a survey vessel – manned by our own people, of course, one of whom will be travelling under Franklin’s identity. All being well, his handlers will be completely unaware that he has been detained. His debrief is almost at an end, after which he will be offered the choice of a court martial – which could very well return the death sentence – or perhaps returning to duty, in which case we’ll make sure that he’s working for us instead of the enemy, passing on only that information which we see fit. To give us an edge we’ll get him transferred out of Transport Command and into a post where he’ll have access to a wider range of information. Fleet Operations here on Trinity Base would be ideal. He’d have access to all kinds of intelligence – most of it low level, of course, but in time we could up the ante if it suited our needs.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “Not in the normal sense of the word, no. He’ll never be trusted again, though we will grant him privileges depending on his compliance and good behavior. In the end, it’s in our own interests to make him feel valued and treat him accordingly.”

  “Wouldn’t there be some prearranged signal, some way for him to warn his handlers that his cover has been blown?”

  “Almost certainly, but we’ve impressed on him the importance of not attempting to do so. It goes without saying that he will be watched very carefully. He will be electronically tagged and a counter intelligence team will follow him every time he ventures off base. Any indiscretions will bring a swift end to what little liberty he has, and perhaps even to his life. There is no statute of limitations on treason.”

  “So who was Franklin reporting to? Have you identified his contacts?”

  “No. As always, that’s the hard part. Our adversaries have been meticulous in both their preparation and precautions. As I said, Franklin was using a dead drop. We kept the site under surveillance, waited for the pick-up and sure enough, someone showed up within hours. Unfortunately, he seems to be nothing more than a mule, an unemployed roustabout and part time drug user. We had his apartment searched – covertly, of course – and found a short range burst transmitter hidden at the back of a cupboard. It’s small, easy to use and almost certainly the method used to pass on the data.”

  “And there’s no way to intercept such transmissions?”

  “Theoretically, yes, but the problem is that the data package is encoded at source and then embedded into a carrier wave, typically something that mimics the emissions of just about any hand held device. There are millions of messages going back and forth every day. It’s impossible to analyze them all.”

  “And equally impossible to trace the destination.”

  “Quite so. We’ll keep the mule under surveillance but I don’t expect him to make direct contact with Franklin’s handlers.”

  “A dead end, then.”

  “Not exactly,” said Faulkner. “Franklin has already provided us with a considerable amount of useful information. We’ve learned a lot about how his particular cell operates and some of the codes and signals that are used. We also have a good description and psychological profile of his handler who we assume – because of the short range nature of the mule’s transmitter – resides either in or around Tycho City. With Franklin’s help, we are hopeful of making a positive identification, after which we’ll be able to ascertain whether he is running any other agents. With any luck we’ll be able to infiltrate the cell and roll it up altogether – but only when the time is right. I can’t stress how important a breakthrough this is.”

  “Fine work, Brigadier,” said Torrance, nodding his approval. “But returning to the Operation Zealous failure, if we were betrayed by a highly placed Combine asset, how does this help narrow the field?”

  “Because Franklin has one more piece of information – the jewel in the crown, if you will. He has knowledge of a spy at the top of the Alliance chain of command… The very, very top.”

  “And?” said Torrance.

  “The Combine call him Kingpin. He is by far their most valuable asset. Franklin doesn’t know him by name, but what he does know is that the spy holds the rank of admiral. He’s a naval officer, and someone who would – if necessary – identify himself to Franklin with the code words ‘noble effort’.”

  “Which is why the field has narrowed, Jonathan,” said Tarr. “The Joint Chiefs consist of you, General Leyland of the Army, General Vandenberg of the Marines and the two Admirals. Admiral
Monk of the Battle Fleet and Admiral Stewart of the Carrier Fleet.”

  “And there you have it,” said Faulkner. “Admiral Monk, or Admiral Stewart. Place your bets…”

  Torrance rubbed his temples as he absorbed the news. Monk or Stewart? Stewart or Monk? In any other circumstances, the knowledge that they were close to a breakthrough would have heartened him, but right now it was having the exact opposite effect. Admiral Monk was an outstanding leader and also a close, personal friend. Stewart was standoffish and blunt and not an easy person to like but Torrance had fought alongside him in many an engagement and had long since learned to appreciate the man’s courage and resourcefulness, especially under fire. That either one could be conspiring with the enemy was unimaginable.

  “You are wondering if we have miscalculated,” said Faulkner. It was a statement rather than a question.

  Torrance blew out his cheeks. “How much of what Franklin said can we trust? He might well believe that either Monk or Stewart in their employ of the Combine, but is it not possible that it’s deliberate misinformation? Could it be that the idea was planted in his mind for precisely this eventuality? Even in capture they could be making use of him.”

  “We’ll make an intelligence officer out of you yet,” said Faulkner. “Yes, it is possible, maybe even likely, but unfortunately we have no way of knowing.”

  “Either way,” said Tarr. “We can’t simply ignore it.”

  “I agree,” said Faulkner.

  “What do you suggest?” said Torrance. “Remove both of them?”

  “Which might be just what the Combine wants us to do…”

  “An interim measure could be to disband the Joint Chiefs,” said Tarr. “Revert back to the old system of independent commands all under the oversight of the C-in-C. I don’t like the idea very much – it might improve security but it would reduce the flow of information between the various branches. The whole point of the Joint Chiefs is to encourage co-operation and to cut down on inter-service rivalry.”

  “Making any changes would be a mistake,” said Faulkner. “For the time being, I recommend we assume that either Monk or Stewart is suspect and then move to identification and capture. Whoever it is, we need him to show his hand and for that we need to give him a reason to do so. We need to supply him with bait – a big, fat juicy worm that will make him rise to the surface.”

  “Is there anything coming through strategic planning that we could use?” said Tarr.

  Torrance shook his head. “Not really. We have a number of theoretical offensive strategies, all of which are continuously updated. The problem is that none of our offensive plans are viable at present. We simply don’t have the necessary forces at our disposal, and those we do have are mostly engaged in enforcing the Shield.”

  “And when is that likely to change?”

  “Not in the immediate future. One thing we do have at our disposal is a flotilla of the new Z class destroyers which are just completing their working up exercises. We’re considering a series of offensive sweeps just inside Combine space. See if we can pick off one of their scouting groups. Maybe carry out a few destructive raids on their outer lying systems. It’s what the Zeds were designed for.”

  “Hardly enough to tempt our target,” said Faulkner. “On the other hand, it’s something we could feed to Franklin – it will help maintain his credentials with his handlers. We just need to make sure there are enough inaccuracies in the information to protect our own forces. If you are in agreement, of course, General.”

  “Agreed,” said Torrance. “And the two admirals?”

  “We put them under the strictest surveillance,” said Tarr.

  “If one of them is working for the Combine, they’ll make a mistake sooner or later,” said Faulkner. “They all do. And General, I shall need your written permission to intercept and monitor the personal communications of Admirals Monk and Stewart. It’s a legal requirement in the case of flag officers.”

  Torrance nodded his agreement, feeling slightly tainted as he did so. “You’ll have it in the morning, Brigadier. Well, gentlemen, it appears we have work to do. If there is nothing else on the agenda, I suggest we call it an evening.”

  Torrance and Tarr drove back to the Officers’ Club in silence, each very much lost in his own private thoughts. Finally, Tarr broke the silence.

  “You know, it occurs to me that in different circumstances, if Franklin had been captured eight or nine months previously, you’d be signing orders to have my communications monitored along with those of Monk and Stewart.”

  “Yes, I expect I would.”

  “I thought so,” said Tarr. “Good man.”

  * * *

  Even before Torrance and Tarr had crossed the moat surrounding Intelligence HQ, another officer found himself ushered into Brigadier Faulkner’s office. Ostensibly a major of marines, he’d spent most of his career attached to the intelligence division, first in counter intelligence and then as an undercover operative – a spy, though to his colleagues in the Alliance intelligence community he was only ever referred to as an agent. ‘Spy’ was a designation reserved solely for the operatives of the enemy.

  Spy. The word conjured up notions of deviousness, dishonesty, underhand skullduggery. For his own part, the major preferred the title of intelligence gatherer. He was one of the small but exclusive club who had, at one time or another, plied their trade in enemy territory. The job wasn’t without peril, but the dangers could be mitigated, mostly by strict adherence to procedure and protocol. And for the occasions when that wasn’t enough, the agent in question could fall back on his or her own particular skills and abilities; some natural, some honed by years of training. Combat skills – both armed and unarmed – were useful, essential even, but first and foremost were self reliance and the ability to think quickly and clearly. Other prerequisites were a modicum of courage and the ability to remain calm in the face of danger. Conversely, an over abundance of courage could be a disadvantage. Much more useful was the capacity to understand fear, recognize it for what it was and then have the power to control it. The major’s ability to do so had saved his life on more than one occasion. Ironically, his moment of greatest peril had arrived when least expected.

  Crossing the no-man’s land between Alliance and Combine space was a delicate exercise. Apart from the frequent border patrols, there were a host of mines, warp disrupters, listening stations and border forts, all of which had to be negotiated. However, with care, planning and the right kind of vessel – generally something small with a low power signature – the crossing could be made with relative impunity. Indeed, smugglers managed to do it all the time, much to the chagrin of both the Alliance and the Combine.

  It was plain bad luck that the major’s courier vessel should be bounced by a Combine scout almost exactly half way across no man’s land, each ship en route back home to friendly space. The encounter was short and sharp. No damage was inflicted on the Combine scout but the courier lost its starboard sub-light engine along with partial life support. The major lost his left arm below the elbow. He would later reflect that both he and his ride had got off lightly. The enemy must have been low on fuel – or simply in a hurry to get home – or they would surely have come about to finish the job. As it was, he’d arrived back in friendly space barely alive. The medics who attended him were surprised that he’d survived at all. There was little oxygen left in the cabin and barely enough blood left in his body to carry it to his vital organs. But survived he had, and now, several months later, he was ready to rejoin the ranks. Not in a role he would have chosen, to be sure, but these things were beyond his control. At least his old commander, CIC Intelligence, had asked to see him before he was finally discharged into normal service.

  “Come on in, Major,” said Faulkner. “It’s good to see you. Take a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re looking well. Much better than the last time I saw you, I’m happy to say. How are you keeping?”

&nb
sp; “I could be a whole lot worse, all things considered. They tell me that we were lucky to have made it back at all, and after reading the reports I’m inclined to agree.”

  “And the arm?”

  “Finished rehab a while back. Only problem is that my damned immune system keeps rejecting the cybernetic implants.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Faulkner. “I thought they had drugs for that eventuality. What’s the problem?” He already knew, but it did no harm to ask.

  “Some kind of genetic abnormality. I’m missing a gene which activates something or other which blocks something else. Or perhaps it’s the other was around. Hell, ask the medicos. Upshot is that I have a supercharged immune system. Always wondered why I never catch a cold. Now I know. I’ve been booked in for a course of gene therapy. Couple of month’s treatment and I’ll be ready for another shot at the implants. And then, with any luck, I can exchange this,” he raised his prosthetic left arm, “for something with a little more function.”

  “I certainly hope it all works out,” said Faulkner. “I think we owe you that much. I hear that in the meantime, you’ve been given a new posting.”

  “Yes, Loyola Field, in the Fleet Liaison Office, of all places,” said the major with a barely stifled groan.

  “Do I detect a slight note of dissatisfaction?” asked Faulkner innocently.

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s great to be back, but shuffling papers all day isn’t the kind of work I’m used to and it sure isn’t what I joined up for.”

  “I daresay you’ll get used to it.”

  “I sincerely hope not. Whose bright idea was it to post me to Fleet Liaison, anyway?”