Cold Conflict (Deception Fleet Book 2)

by Daniel Gibbs

  Jackson folded his arms so he could conceal squeezing the transmitter embedded in his sleeve, thus confirming he’d heard and understood all of Brant’s communication. “Sounds like a hell of a gamble, but if I had a problem with gambling, I would never have made the money I did while smuggling. I’m good for it.”

  “Me too,” Cho said. “I’ve got nearly everything from the armory I need. Sneaking explosives out isn’t easy—especially with the faked access you’ve got, Ram.”

  “We’ll lock down the details soon.” Ramsey glanced at Ciara. “What about our problem lady, the one you’ve got my boy Jack here watching?”

  Ciara raised an eyebrow. She gave Jackson a stern, questioning look.

  “Hey, he’s my boss.” Jackson shrugged. “I figured you’d tell him.”

  “She may or may not be an issue,” Ciara said. “I do not trust her, as she’s worked for not one but two of CEO Noor’s rivals.”

  “And your background…”

  “I’ve earned Noor’s trust.” Ciara ran her fingers across Ramsey’s hair.

  He took her hand and kissed the knuckles.

  “Like I earned yours.”

  “Well, here’s hoping not exactly how you earned mine.” Ramsey winked at her.

  Ciara laughed.

  Cho just rolled his eyes. Jackson imitated being sick to his stomach, which earned him a sympathetic nod from the Tactisar sergeant.

  “Hey, uh, boss?” Cho asked. “Kind of a joke, kind of not, but are we supposed to be taking notes for Fernand?”

  The door chimed.

  “Speak of the devil.” Ciara brushed past Jackson and opened the hatch.

  Jackson, as curious as could be about the new arrival, didn’t want to give his interest away, so he didn’t snap right around. Instead, with arms still crossed, he did a slow turn of the head, keeping his expression bored.

  Fernand was the kind of man even a practiced operative like Jackson could lose in a crowd. The red cybernetic eye would, of course, make him easier to track, but everything else—his bland features, his dull hair color, his duller wardrobe—marked him among the hundreds of thousands Jackson had passed during his time on Bellwether.

  Normally, he would let the wrist unit’s scanner tag him for Brant’s analysis later, among the many other details they needed to review. But an insistent pressure grew at the back of Jackson’s mind. His memories pressed up against the present. It wasn’t a hunch—or a guess. He had seen Fernand before, somewhere.

  “Hey, there’s the man.” Ramsey’s greeting and subsequent approach seemed too obsequious. Maybe he was trying to hide it from the rest of the room, but to Jackson, the corrupt detective seemed ready to defer to Fernand as much as Cho deferred to Ramsey. “Get lost?”

  “I had to deal with other matters.” Fernand sounded as bored as Jackson was pretending to be, though it seemed less of an act. His cybernetic eye settled on Ciara then Jackson. “Your inside people.”

  “Yes. Boyd.” Ciara offered her hand.

  Fernand shook it. “Nice meet you, Ms. Bui.”

  If Ciara was surprised by his knowing her true name, she took it in stride, offering a dazzling smile. “My, he has done his homework, Ram.”

  “Told you he would.” Ramsey chuckled. “Fernand, this is Jack Arno, the new guy I was telling you about.”

  “The Ranger? Good.” Fernand’s handshake was strong but not obnoxiously competitive—a firm, respectful gesture meant for an equal.

  “Echo One, this is home.” Brant’s tone was strained. “This guy—I’ve seen him before. Running for a match now.”

  Jackson’s instincts were correct. On one operation or another, they’d both at least seen the man if not interacted with him. Jackson grinned at Fernand while sifting through his memory but couldn’t recall shaking hands, or talking to, or even being nearby the guy. Maybe at a distance… “So, you’re from this benefactor, right? The one who’s got the money?”

  “If you can perform your tasks and not get caught, yes, he has the money.” Fernand turned away from Jackson.

  Guess that means I’m dismissed.

  “We have a complication, though.”

  Ramsey sighed. “I hate those. All right, spill it.”

  “Are you certain—”

  “This is the crew, right here. Don’t worry about leaks.”

  Fernand frowned but continued. “I’ve located Nels’s partner.”

  Dammit. Jackson triggered his transmitter, the sequence of pulses asking Brant to confirm what was just said.

  “Hold on, hold on… yes, Echo Three and Four are en route to the target location. They’ve gone comms dark.”

  “Sector E Forty-Five,” Fernand said. “An agro-combine, Noche Azul. He’s hiding thereabouts.”

  “I’ll send out some of my people.” Ramsey sneered. “We’ll pin him to the bulkhead like a loose power coupling. Do you need drones retasked, or is that how you found him?”

  “The latter. Drones are headed there this moment. I’ll keep you up-to-date.” Fernand considered the huge, glowing holo map. “I’ll also need a review of whatever transpired here so I make sure the benefactor is on the same page.”

  “Big surprise,” Cho muttered.

  “Confirmed. Noche Azul. I’ll send it to Three right now. Do you want them to abort?”

  Jackson signaled back, Negative. Unfortunately, he had no excuse himself to leave—and if he bailed right then, with the newcomer Fernand around, he would look even more suspicious.

  “Tarantado!”

  Wait. When was the last time I heard Brant swear in Tagalog?

  “Sending you an image, One. Fernand was on Aphendrika. Repeat, he was on Aphendrika.”

  It took all his concentration to calm his racing heart as he turned his attention instead to the talk between Ramsey and his crew. His wrist unit was turned toward him, the screen dimmed so if any imagery or text came across, it wouldn’t blaze like a beacon. Jackson glanced down.

  There he was—in extreme miniature but enough of a closeup to match faces. The picture zoomed out, so Jackson could see the context in which it was taken—from Gina’s apartment across the street from the League Consulate on Aphendrika.

  Fernand is a Leaguer? If he was, he could be working with the elusive Vasiliy. Jackson leaned back against the shelves as the rest of Ramsey’s planning session unfolded. There was no way he was leaving that room, not yet.

  12

  Sector E Forty-Five—Noche Azul Agro-Combine

  Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

  22 November 2464

  * * *

  Ehud Dwyer had never been inside an agro-combine before. He’d seen plenty of the planetside versions in his life, flown over a fair few during rescue missions for CDF in the waning years of the war with the League. And he’d read over schematics. Nothing had prepared him for a garden as big as a carrier.

  Half of Noche Azul was as bucolic as an open field, with hydroponic terraces and long, stepped garden beds. Earthy scents permeated the massive space, which was interspersed by support posts wrapped in plant life. Name it and Noche Azul had it—grapevines, potatoes, strawberry fields, kale, lettuce, carrots, sugar beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, oranges.

  Dwyer wanted to stroll every meter of the place and breath in the freshest air he’d encountered in weeks. But Lieutenant Garza was hidden somewhere in the veritable Garden of Eden, and he wasn’t getting rescued if Dwyer stood around gawking.

  It would be no big deal to get in. Security was nonexistent, though there was a badge ID terminal for allowing access, which proved easy to fool when Sev inserted the handy override card Brant had provided. Then it was a matter of steering clear of human workers. Bots did most of the labor, trimming plants, gathering produce, watering, tilling, but Dwyer counted four individuals so engrossed in either repair or the harvest that he and Sev were essentially ignored.

  “Signal.” Sev pointed down a long stretch of vegetables growing out of arched walls. Broad avenues branched
off every forty meters.

  The rocky path crunched under foot. The downside of all the beauty was the constant noise from machinery humming, water running through pipes or in open streams every so often, and a myriad of other sources. Dwyer maintained the same situational awareness he relied on when in the cockpit, flying through a hot zone—three hundred sixty degrees, a bubble he extended as far as his senses would allow. Which is to say, far less of a distance than Novabird could manage with her high-tech sensors.

  Lights were dim but not absent in that part of the agro-combine, a dull, sunny glow. Dwyer walked across the intersection like he was on a stroll with the best girl on that or any other station. Sev stopped short, creeping closer to the edge, his pulse pistol drawn. Dwyer kept going, making sure his footfalls gradually left the rocky part of the path, before he doubled back.

  Sev eased himself to the corner, getting a look down the corridor. He gave Dwyer a curt nod. Clear.

  Dwyer gestured. Go.

  Sev slipped into the corridor, pistol lowered but ready.

  Dwyer’s hand rested on his holstered pulse pistol, ready to draw and shoot if needed. But there weren’t even bots flitting about in that section. The signal tracker pulsed against Dwyer’s wrist—fifty meters ahead, which was good because the corridor dead-ended in the dark metal of the combine’s bulkheads. But the bulkhead wasn’t bare. It was lined with hatches, tall like an airlock’s or cabin’s, with a considerable lip to step over.

  “Echo Home, this is Echo Three,” Dwyer whispered. “Got a fix on target location. Advise as to environs.”

  “Clear, Three,” Brant said. “Showing two maintenance bots within a hundred meters of your position. No combine staff nearby. Should have a clear route back to the entrance.”

  “Roger and much obliged, Home.”

  That end of the corridor, just beyond the last hydroponic racks, was more space station than garden, deck plating, no lights except a few orange backup beacons. Dwyer plucked a tiny flashlight from his belt.

  Sev had another affixed beneath his pulse pistol’s barrel. The blue-white beam cut away the lingering gloom.

  The pulse on Dwyer’s wrist reached a crescendo. A blinking indicator showed the signal origin as being inside the bulkhead. Behind an access panel emblazoned with a red-and-white warning strip. The notation read, in Spanish, English, and Hebrew, “OXYGEN FEED. PRESSURIZED. DO NOT TAMPER.”

  Dwyer grinned at Sev. “I say we ought to tamper.”

  Sev just snorted.

  “No fun at all.” Dwyer stuck his fingers in the release port then nodded.

  Sev backed up and raised his gun. Probably it was who they were looking for, but it could be any number of things in actuality—smuggler, drug dealer—so no sense in taking chances.

  Here goes. Dwyer popped the hatch.

  Nothing leaped out or shot at them, so that was a plus. First thing Dwyer noticed was zero oxygen feeds. Well, the feeds were along either side of the hatch, rerouted in an impressive but hastily done patch job. No sign of leaks.

  The next thing he noticed was a compartment behind it, one which appeared to have held machinery or spare parts but had been emptied. The smell that rolled over him bespoke days-old human body odor and unwashed clothing. Dwyer sniffed. And… blueberries?

  A shadow moved.

  “Target.” Sev stepped in. He struck out with his free hand. And pulled out a young man in a rumpled jumpsuit.

  The man cried as he crumpled onto the deck between them. Dwyer drew his pistol, sighting on the man’s back until he caught the white lettering on the charcoal-gray outfit. H-A-X.

  “Hey. Hey! Take it easy,” the man said.

  A flash of metal, sharpened. Sev struck with his pistol, knocking the would-be weapon out of the man’s hand. It looked like a section of piping sharpened to a cutting edge. Then Sev had his knee on the man’s back, pressing his shoulder blades so the man was face-first against the corrugated deck panels.

  Where did the smell come from? Dwyer checked the compartment and found discarded freeze-dried food wrappers, crumpled water tubes, and yes, a handful of uneaten blueberries, likely pilfered from somewhere their target assumed Noche Azul wouldn’t notice a missing crop.

  For all the commotion, the guy didn’t make a sound except for grunts. Good. He wasn’t one to talk under pressure. Dwyer knelt by his head, keeping the intersection in the distance within his periphery. “Dunn Garcia?”

  “Screw off. If Zolo wants his money back—”

  “Don’t care much about a Zolo, no matter how much you took from him. We’re here to get you off the station.” Dwyer wasn’t sure how to put it, so he figured it was best to jump right out that hatch. “She recovered Nels.”

  Garcia—Lieutenant Duncan Garza—bore as much resemblance to his deceased brother as Dwyer remembered from the briefing images. His hair had grown out, and he sported a ragged fringe of whiskers well on its way to becoming a beard, but it was him. “You’re… here to get me out?”

  “Call sign,” Sev grumbled.

  “V-Vector Two. Vector Two.” Garza let out a ragged breath. “Gracias a Dios. I thought—I’ve been skulking around this foul station for weeks. What happened to Vector Home? Did she make it? You said she had Nelson?”

  “Right on both. The faster we get you out of here, the sooner you get to see her—and pay your last respects to him.” Dwyer tapped Sev’s shoulder. “Let the man breathe.”

  Sev got up, his gaze targeting the distant intersection. “Lingering.”

  “Well, relax, fella. If we have any problems, Home will let us—”

  Static squealed through Dwyer’s implant. Blast and damn! He was going the right way for a splitting headache.

  Brant’s voice cut through the tail end of the interference. “… in, Three, this is Home. Repeat… you read?”

  “Fuzzier than the wrong side of a pulsar, Home, but I read. What’s wrong?”

  “… aware of your… exfiltrate with haste.” The static fell away, so much so that Brant was shouting into the link. “Repeat, enemy aware of your location. Vector Two being tracked. Exfiltrate with haste.”

  “Shit.” Sev yanked Garza upright so fast Dwyer worried he’d dislocated the lieutenant’s arm. “Move.”

  “What’s going on?” Garza was wobbly but alert.

  “We’ve got to move. Someone else is onto your location.” Dwyer checked his scanner. No indication of nearby movement—yet. “Echo Home, this is Three. Request clarification. Tactisar or criminal elements?”

  “Three, be advised, ESS or other League operative is in One’s vicinity at this time.”

  Sev’s head snapped around. He and Dwyer stared at each other.

  Lord God Almighty, keep us in the palm of your hand. Dwyer’s insides trembled, but he fought down the fear. He was supposed to be the pilot and the bomb guy, not out in the field. That was the cap’n’s job and Gina’s, even Sev’s.

  When was the last time I got shot at? Quit panicking. Dwyer clenched his teeth. A man’s life is in your hands. He dug into his pocket. “Here.”

  “Is it…?” Once Garza saw the mask, he quit asking questions and pulled it over his head.

  The mask was a featureless gray with a fine mesh strip across the eyes and another rounded triangle covering the mouth and nose. Breathable, yet plenty to disguise a face from the naked eye with the added benefit of being sensor resistant.

  Sev had already donned his mask, which made him infinitely more intimidating without a face to lend him humanity as he held both his pulse pistols. “Go.”

  “Yeah, working on it. Vector Two, stay between us.”

  Dwyer went first, jogging back the way they’d come. He shot a glance at each intersection they sped by, aware of the occasional bot. No people, still. Garza’s choppy breathing behind him was a worry—the guy was probably out of shape after three or more weeks stuck working drones and hiding in a wall. Sev was last, covering their rear but also available to lend supporting fire forward.


  “Patrol drone incoming, eighteen meters ahead.”

  The drone’s shadow flitted across an intersection, preceding the bot’s arrival—black and blue, like a particular cookie Dwyer had sampled in a tiny bakery hidden on the outskirts of Lawrence City. Red lights flashed as the drone paused, backed up into the intersection, and turned toward them.

  “I’m jamming its signal with junk,” Brant said, “but you’d better keep moving.”

  The pulse pistol’s report and the bulbous optical scanner’s explosion happened within less than a second of each other. Garza flinched. Dwyer looked at Sev.

  “Solved,” Sev pointed out.

  “Well, you’re not wrong.” Dwyer tugged on Garza’s arm. “You heard what the man said. Move.”

  They followed their return path as quickly as they could, though twice they had to turn around when they took the wrong bend out of haste. Dwyer could hear more drones whirring as they closed in on his position, the sound coming from all directions. The damned things didn’t have to follow paths if they weren’t on a regular patrol, not out in the main fields—they could fly over the top of the hydroponic racks.

  “Take the next branch on your right.” Brant’s console, clicking and beeping through Dwyer’s earpiece, gave him the impression the LT was searching for their best chance at escape.

  “We’re almost at our exit.” Dwyer paused at a broad, open tract of deck separating the fields from another bulkhead edge of the agro-combine. Thick blocks of soil and transparent cylinders of water alternated every twenty meters. No sign of drones. No people either.

  Sev snapped around, his pistols raised. “Incoming.”

  Four patrol drones whipped over the tops of the distant harvester bots, like a fighter wing cresting a hill at low altitude before a strafing run. Dwyer knew the patrol drones didn’t carry lethal ordnance, but some were equipped with stun rounds, and he had no desire to be knocked on his ass—and out cold—for the next few hours.