Cold Conflict (Deception Fleet Book 2)

by Daniel Gibbs

  “Quiet ones, okay? I have done this before. The trick is finding someone who’s got that law enforcement experience, especially with undercover investigations. That’s the only way we’re going to fit a new person into Nosamo as quickly as we can. There’s a handful of maintenance tech openings right now—some caused by the vacancies Nels inflicted, others just regular turnover. Any of them will work.”

  “I’ll need to vet your possibles for the boss.”

  “There’s a shocker,” Ramsey muttered, but he activated his tablet anyway.

  A collage of sixteen portraits, men and women, filled the screen.

  “These are the ones I’m culling. A couple already won’t work—they’re former CDF, and I do not need the heat if a do-gooder veteran gets spaced. The rest have shady enough backgrounds that I feel good about their potential, especially the ones who’ve been sanctioned by their former employers.”

  “Criminal charges?”

  “Some pending, some dismissed. Enough incentive for them to want an escape out to the dark ass-end of the galaxy.” Ramsey smirked. “Far enough from Canaan to avoid morals and near enough to the Saurians to smell them before they blast you out of space.”

  If Fernand found the juxtaposition amusing, he didn’t show it. The man had as much personality as a bulkhead. “What’s your gut tell you?”

  Ramsey perused his selection. He tapped one face—blond, brown-eyed, skin weathered by outdoor work, probably early forties. “This guy. Jack Arno. Ex-Colonial Ranger, born on New Washington. He got demoted for running a narcotics ring while he was supposed to be patrolling a bunch of settlements in the quieter regions of the planet, using his skiff for deliveries as well as rescue and interdiction. Took off from the force six weeks ago. He’s been taking odd jobs on his way out here.”

  Fernand nodded. “Forward what you can to me. We’ll make sure he checks out.”

  “Sure.” Ramsey felt better. At least he would have the chance to get somebody with half a brain and better experience than most on his team. Because he was really, really looking forward to getting rich.

  4

  CSV Oxford

  En Route to Saurian Frontier—Terran Coalition

  14 November 2464

  * * *

  Dwyer flipped a row of switches over his head. “Hangar Control, this is Novabird. Primed and ready for launch.”

  “Novabird, Hangar Control. Hatch clear. You are go for launch.”

  “Roger, Control. Good luck and Godspeed.”

  The racer hopped off the deck and hurtled from Oxford’s primary hangar bay, swooping out toward the stars. Jackson, flying copilot next to Dwyer, checked the nav screen. No other ships were around. In fact, he didn’t see much of anything. They were six hours from the nearest settlement, which was a combination trading station and CDF forward listening post. The next commercial ferry to the Caeli system would be passing by in eight hours. Plenty of time for Novabird to get in the queue for the couple of Lawrence jumps to Bellwether.

  From there, it would be another thirty-six hours’ travel time to the Caeli system. Adams wanted the travel history established at least part of the way back. His preference would have been to take a ferry all the way from New Washington or one of the core planets—anywhere but Canaan—so that anyone who got too curious and hacked their travel history would be satisfied it was a civilian shuttle hired out for the trip. But with the urgent need to contact Warrant Sakuri, hitching a ride on CSV Oxford, with its advanced antimatter-fueled Lawrence drive, meant significantly cutting down on travel time.

  Which still left hours of relatively boring space travel. Fortunately, Jackson had plenty to preoccupy him on the daylong trip—memorizing his legend, for example, in playing Jonathan James Arno. Jackson shook his head and smiled. The guy was a real jerk—affable, to be sure, and able to strike up a conversation with just about any stranger while making the stranger feel like it had been their idea instead of his—but a definite hard edge. Hence the tattoos Brant was implanting on the backs of his hands.

  “This would be easier if you didn’t feel the need to zoom in and out on Nav every five seconds.” Brant traced the dermal manipulator in a slow pattern below the knuckles of Jackson’s right hand. “Pretend you’re at a salon or something.”

  “A salon?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what my sisters do.” Brant made a face. “Gina? Tell him.”

  Gina had a small pistol dismantled on the long couch bolted to the starboard bulkhead, in the passenger compartment aft of the cockpit. She stretched out in a languid pose that made Jackson wonder if she were preparing for a nap. “A salon? Too pedestrian. A private spa is the way to go. The more exclusive the membership, the better.”

  “But you’re relaxed, and they expect you to. Hold. Still.” Brant exhaled. He withdrew the dermal manipulator. “That one’s done. It’ll be sensitive for an hour or so. Might itch. I’d recommend against scratching because it will bleed and possibly scar.”

  “Sounds great.” Jackson admired the handiwork of the sun with a stylized face, like an image one would see on an ancient carving in Mesoamerica. “I can’t think of a better thing to worry about before embarking on a dangerous undercover mission.”

  Dwyer chuckled. “Hate to say it, Cap’n, but you sound like Gina back there.”

  “Since you’re flying and we’re at your mercy, I’ll refrain from a cutting comeback.” Steady clicks interrupted Gina’s commentary as she pieced her weapon back together.

  “So I’m not completely wasting this trip immobilized, have you dug up anything of interest from Twenty-Two’s files?” Jackson asked.

  “You saw the most obvious—that Warrant Sakuri is the niece of Nosamo board member Kahori Sakuri,” Brant said. “She hasn’t had contact with her aunt for years, but if you read between the lines, the warrant didn’t take too kindly to Sakuri’s ouster from Nosamo’s board.”

  “I did see that. It was a big mess, all over the holonews networks—allegations of fraud and counter-allegations of trademark design infringement.” Jackson smirked. “Not exactly light reading. It’s a line of questioning we need to follow when we contact Warrant Sakuri. Captain Garza’s reports singled her out for high praise. I want to know if her personal connection resulted in errors that affected the team.”

  “We certainly wouldn’t want anyone taking their mission personally, would we?” Gina murmured.

  “I’m talking operational security, that’s all.”

  “Of course.”

  Brant glanced between them. “What’s that all about?”

  “She’s worried the cap’n’s letting this Vasiliy fella get under his skin, LT,” Dwyer explained. “I told her not to fret.”

  “Whoever it was that contacted me knew details of our mission and wasn’t afraid to admit League connections.” Jackson shifted in his chair. The dermal manipulator burned across his knuckle. He grimaced. “I’d be a fool to overlook it.”

  “I didn’t say it was wrong to investigate. I’m warning about paranoia.” Gina holstered her weapon. “Leave that to me. I have a better temperament for it.”

  “Obsession,” Sev grunted. “It fouls the mind.”

  Jackson hadn’t realized Sev was awake. The operative stood at one of the equipment lockers built into the passenger compartment. He examined a bandolier laden with tiny explosives, handling the white and silver spheres as if they were rare pearls.

  “I won’t disagree,” Jackson said.

  Sev nodded. “Good.”

  “More than one word,” Brant muttered. “He must be upset.”

  “Enough of that.” Jackson craned his neck. “Gina, are you all set with Brant’s backstory for you?”

  “Right down to the tragic details of the abuse I suffered at the hands of my uncle.” Gina let out a heavy sigh. “Which is why I focused on learning the intricacies of public relations in an attempt to gain favor from everyone I met. Sounds revolting. But between my personality and the credentials Brant worked up,
I’ll dazzle my way into one of the open positions. I even have an interview lined up right after we arrive at Bellwether.”

  “Same here.” Jackson winced again.

  “Quit. Moving.” Brant sat back a minute later. “All right, there. You’re finished. Again, move slowly when you activate your tablet. And don’t touch your face either.”

  Right. The implants to his cheekbones, jawline, and nose modified his appearance enough that standard facial recognition scanners aboard Bellwether shouldn’t be able to link back to any records of his true face and thus determine who he really was. It was a slim risk, in either case, since any public ID of Jackson had been falsified by CDF Intelligence. He was as much a ghost as a man could be.

  Jackson did as instructed, fighting against the growing urge to scratch the backs of his hands. He felt like he needed sandpaper. “I’ve got the communique here from Tactisar Security Solutions’ human resources, copied to Detective Ramsey Moss. It’s an entry level officer position, full benefits, opportunity for bonus pay and swift advancement.”

  “Bribes will furnish both, no doubt.” Gina leaned over his shoulder, her curls cascading into his face. “Oh my. He’s got a face cut by lasers.”

  “Not bad looking, if you go for that sort of square-jawed, craggy kind.”

  “I do.” Gina nudged him. “Find anything of interest?”

  Jackson tapped the screen. A long list of bullet points filled one window. “Formal complaints lodged by citizens and traders stretching back over a decade. Doesn’t seem to have hampered his career.”

  “Why would it, when your corporate benefactors enjoy the profits of your corruption?”

  “When we get there, I’m gonna make sure he knows he’s got the best cop this side of Canaan comin’ onto his force.” Jackson leaned thick onto the accent, a staple of New Washington’s southwestern continent, where his alias had supposedly grown up before serving the bulk of his Colonial Rangers patrol career on the far frontiers of the Coalition.

  “Not too shabby, sir,” Dwyer drawled. “Sounds like you waltzed out of Jaynesburg a full native.”

  “Jaynesburg and Port Cobb. With a half dozen references Detective Moss can check on.” Jackson let the accent slip. “The goal, though, is to glean whatever we can about this new proprietary tech and figure out where Nosamo’s keeping it.”

  “Their corporate network’s tight,” Brant said. “I’ve taken a few pokes. It’s very resistant to intrusion, but I’ve already seen gaps from afar that I can exploit. By the time we hit the station, I’ll know how to start my incursion. Having hardwired access will help. That’s where Gina comes in.”

  “Always doing your utility work,” Gina sighed. “Please tell me Nosamo is the kind of megacorp that throws lavish parties for its investors.”

  “At least three on the docket in the coming weeks,” Brant noted.

  “Gina and I will split off immediately. Brant, make sure your departure’s staggered from ours. Sparks, you and Sev will be best put to use chatting with the local pilots. See what you can find out about the Garzas’ stay. The file from Twenty-Two says they were posing as bot mechanics. Start there. Brant will coordinate comms and dig into the electronic records from our fellow Intelligence officers, see if we can’t backtrace whatever channels Lieutenant Garza used to quietly communicate with the team.”

  “If he’s smart—and following protocol—he’s already ditched his original devices and set up all new accounts on frequencies different from what he was using.” Brant frowned at Jackson’s tablet. “I’ll check first with Warrant Sakuri. She’s been monitoring for emergency calls, according to those files.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Jackson unstrapped from his seat and headed for the passenger compartment. “Everybody, get some rest before we hit the ferry terminal. I’m going to go fill out my application for my latest exciting career.”

  While Novabird cruised across a desolate star system toward its rendezvous, CSV Oxford and the stealth boat CSV Tuscon had already arrived in the fringes of the Caeli system. As soon as they were clear of the wormhole generated by the Lawrence drives, Tuscon latched itself to Oxford so that its commanding officer, Major Nathan Mancini, could join Colonel Robert Sinclair in the operations center.

  Mancini craned his neck as he took in the compartment. It spread over several decks teeming with officers and technicians. A plaque bolted up above the monitors read, “In God We Trust. All Others We Monitor.”

  “I see you found your way, Major.” Sinclair joined Mancini at the hatch.

  “Sir.” Mancini braced to attention. “Permission to come aboard, Colonel.”

  “Granted, of course.” Sinclair half waved. “As you were. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

  “Quiet sail, which is a lot more than I could say about our last op. Fun fact—smugglers get flashy and complacent when they’re running Orbita in lightly patrolled, distant systems, but when their ships get boarded one by one…” Mancini shrugged, but his nonchalance was balanced by a sly grin. “Let’s say they have a healthier appreciation for CDF now, even if they never saw us coming.”

  “I saw the report. Fine work. You netted seven captures?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Godat lost the bet. He figured we’d only take five, which is fine by me because he’s the one who owes the officers dinner.”

  Sinclair chuckled. “Well, then, let’s not waste any time on the off chance you want to enact a new wager.”

  He led Mancini past the holographic displays and analysis stations to a sprawling holographic chart of the Caeli star system featuring all its major bodies. Three planets orbited a blue star—two gas giants at ten and eighteen astronomical units, respectively, plus a cold rock at twenty-five AU. One hundred twelve moons lay among them with very little else in the way of debris. Then there was Bellwether itself, orbiting Caeli at six AU.

  “Our mission here is straightforward,” Sinclair said. “Monitor system traffic with special attention toward raiders who lurk on the fringes. RUMIT pegs Nosamo as being the sponsor, rather discreetly I might note, of several, uh, independent merchantmen whose activities run toward the unsavory.”

  “Privateers, Colonel?”

  “Loosely put, yes. Bellwether is not a government, so this is more akin to straight piracy. However, given the lack of any civil authority in the Alvarsson Wedge, they are the de facto power. To date, CDF Intelligence has not uncovered any overt signs of piratical activity. That is to say, we believe the ships act as typical merchantmen ‘by day,’ if you will.”

  Mancini nodded. “It’s going to be difficult to mark individual ships, given the amount of traffic we’re expecting. What’s the current situation?”

  “A moment. Captain Tamir?” Sinclair called. “Populate our board.”

  Light rippled across the display. Mancini sucked in a breath. Hundreds of ships were underway into and out of Caeli, with wormholes blinking on and off. The tactical display dutifully listed basic classes and ID numbers where it could. “That’s… a lot of Sierras.”

  “Quite. We’ll refrain from numbering all but the nearest. Now, from what we’ve ascertained, most of the attacks have taken place beyond the second giant’s orbit—Argenti, it’s called. Oxford will take up a wide orbit in its outermost ring of satellites. It has seven moons, ranging in size from thirty to six hundred kilometers in diameter.” A blue icon blinked in the position Sinclair described. “You’ll take Tuscon out to a broad ellipse along the ecliptic plane, which you’ll alternate with a perpendicular course, keeping Bellwether in your sights.”

  “Understood, sir.” Mancini pointed to the swirling clusters of ship markers. “But will Oxford be all right out here? We’ll be too distant to help in a fight if you run up against raiders who think you’re a tempting civilian target. I realize Oxford has been upgraded with better armor and shields, not to mention your new toy—the double-barreled 250 mm magnetic-cannon turret.”

  Sinclair smiled. “A pity we had no call to use it last time. No,
Captain, you needn’t fear for us. The sensor module we employed at Aphendrika has been replaced with a weapons module.”

  He called up a schematic on a separate monitor and highlighted a length of Oxford’s midsection. Technical readouts spilled onto the display as they summarized the new module’s abilities.

  Mancini whistled. “Ken Lowe didn’t spare the guns, did he? A 350 mm magnetic cannon turret, triple barreled, plus two cruiser-strength neutron beam emitters. A… you’ve got to be kidding me. A muonic energy weapon? Do I even want to ask where a CDF vessel got Matrinid tech?”

  “I believe it’s a gift from our new friends in the Neutral Alliance. Captain Henry—or Admiral, as I suppose he’s known these days—may have nudged his people in the right direction.” Sinclair winked. “But as one says when dealing with news networks, don’t quote me on it.”

  Mancini chuckled. “I have to say, Colonel, I’m wondering if this ship should be flying escort for my boat and not the other way around.”

  “An astute observation, Captain, but this time, I shall need you more than ever to be my eyes and ears deeper in the system. This weapons module has advanced sensors, which add to our capabilities, but they are nowhere near the powerful set we used on our previous mission. A necessary trade-off for operating outside Coalition space.” Sinclair directed Mancini to the analysis section, where Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred were huddled over a set of consoles. “We have a secure link ready to program between our two vessels, which will make for much easier tight-beam transmissions. It’s much more difficult for enemies to detect, I’m assured.”

  “It sure will be, Colonel.” Miranda Eldred leaned back in her seat, grinning.

  Given the skill with which she’d approached her new role in the CDF and her devotion to her duty aboard the Oxford, Sinclair opted to overlook her periodic lack of decorum. She had worked in a non-military role with CIS during the war. Besides, anyone who could figure out how to access Captain Tamir’s quarters while he was sleeping and apply shaving cream—which had been dyed a brilliant, glow-in-the-dark violet—to his outstretched hand deserved a bit of slack.