Op File Sanction

by J. Clifton Slater

  Walden carefully rolled the tissues, inserted them in the bottle, dropped in three large pills, and pressed on the cap.

  “Just like you shipping Mareli out with the Striker team rotating back to Uno. He’s gone and can’t cause trouble,” offered Walden. “Eiko really wants to learn more about the threat and blackmail tactic.”

  “I should have thrown him out of an airlock,” Diosa reflected. “Instead, after a period of detention and questioning, Miguel Mareli gets what he wants. A bad discharge and a trip home without the stop off at a prison.”

  “It can’t be helped. There is no way Eiko would let you testify and expose yourself in open court. Even if it is a military panel,” Walden stated as he slipped off the stool and held up the cobalt blue bottle. “We’re ready.”

  ***

  The sailor wouldn’t fool anybody who looked closely. But he had the same build as Petty Officer Mareli and the right hair color. Walden drafted him from the Striker support staff for the drop, gave him the bottle, and instructions where to place it. Then he was to stroll in the direction of the petty officers’ quarters. The fake Mareli was assured he’d be met along the way by two Strikers. They would escort him back to his desk.

  Down the passageway leading to the medical deck and in an alcove, Warlock sat playing a game on a pad. While she moved a little wizard cursor around aimlessly, a cobalt blue staff remained motionless. On the screen, caves connected to tree-lined paths and trails along the edges of cliff tops. The features of the cartoon landscape appeared random, unless an observer looked around. Every trail matched the passageways of the heavy cruiser. Then the blue staff began moving.

  Mareli’s stand-in nervously strolled to the fire extinguisher. With a shaking hand, he shoved the pill bottle at the lower support behind the tank and walked away. The small bottle rocked before falling off the bracket. Glancing back, the sailor saw the cobalt blue bottle bounce off the deck before rolling a half turn. Quickly, he retraced his steps, and while picking up the pill bottle, cast guilty looks up and down the corridor.

  At an intersection in the distance, a Striker sky element had to stifle a laugh. The fake petty officer carefully replaced the pill bottle, then held up both hands as if ready to catch the bottle if it fell again. When the drop was completed, the Striker on overwatch followed the faux Mareli as he headed for the petty officers’ compartments.

  ***

  The comfortable molded chair had lost its appeal. Two hours of sitting idle and moving a wizard around a small screen grated on Warlock’s nerves. Several people had come and gone from the sitting area. A few looked at the game and commented on the dull graphics. The gamers had suggestions for titles with superior graphics and more exciting play. Diosa thanked and assured them she would check out their recommendations. She couldn’t argue about the artwork, but when the blue staff began moving, she could have made a case for the action in her game.

  Warlock stood and as if still playing, she walked and tracked the pill bottle. Now her hand moved the wizard so it closed in on the traveling blue staff. Two corridors later, she caught sight of a woman rounding a corner. Tossing aside stealth, Diosa jogged to the intersection.

  Up two ladders and further down another passageway, Warlock saw the entertainment deck. It was filled with off-duty sailors and Marines. Although Diosa moved rapidly, the woman vanished in the crowd. A quick look at the pad, an adjustment, and she located the woman briefly then lost sight of her. But the game showed the bottle had shifted off to the side and stopped near the arcade. Fans gazed through the window and loudly voiced their support of a player inside.

  Warlock shuffled sideways, glancing at her game as she navigated the cheering throng. Then two things happened. The woman’s head appeared between pairs of jostling shoulders and the cobalt blue staff moved away. Another cut-out, Diosa though as she elbowed aside a man.

  The woman didn’t see it coming from below and neither did anyone in the group. Warlock’s boot came up to shin height and powered downward. The hard leather of the combat boot drove into the skin and soft tissue shattering the woman’s knee. Her cry of pain blended with the shouting and no one noticed her until Warlock was away and closing with the blue staff.

  To the horror of the crowd, a sailor fell to the deck withering in pain while holding her knee. Before anyone could react, an enormous Marine scooped her off the deck.

  “Stand back,” the Striker ground element ordered. “I’m taking her to medical.”

  A path was cleared allowing the injured woman to be carried away for treatment. But the Striker didn’t head to the medical deck. Instead, the second overwatch veered off and carried the woman to the medical section of Striker command.

  “Warlock, we have her,” Poet advised.

  Diosa didn’t respond. The passageway she entered was packed with pilots heading for a briefing. It wouldn’t be good spy catching craft for a Marine NCO in utilities to begin talking to herself in a sea of officers in flight suits.

  ***

  “Master Sergeant can I help you?” a Marine Captain asked.

  “No, sir. I was just passing through,” Diosa replied.

  “This is officer country. Maybe you took a wrong turn,” he suggested by pointing to the ladder she had taken. “If you’re lost, let me help you.”

  “I know the way, Captain,” Diosa responded.

  As soon as her head dropped below eye level, she stopped on the steps and called Walden.

  “Our spy is an officer,” she radioed. “There’s a pilot briefing and they threw me out. I need two things.”

  “Go, Warlock,” urged Poet.

  “A layout of all the exits from the room and a pilot.”

  “One is on the way,” he replied. “The other will take a little longer.”

  Her pad blinked to black before brightening up to reveal a graphic of the briefing room. While it was no longer a cartoon, the cobalt blue staff glowed on the end of an aisle near an exit door.

  “I have his location,” Diosa informed Walden. “But I can’t get to him without causing a disturbance.”

  They planned the operation assuming the spy had counterparts. Take one in public and the others would shut down and go dark. That limited Diosa’s options. Hopefully, she could get a pilot into the room to snap a picture of the Constabulary operator.

  She heard feet beating a steady rhythm from the passageway before the legs of a flight suit appeared. A split-second later, a Marine Corps Lieutenant reached the ladder.

  “Lieutenant. A word?” questioned Diosa.

  “I am late for a briefing. The flight surgeon held me over for another concussion protocol.”

  Warlock hooked her arm around the pilot’s elbow and dragged the lieutenant to a stop. She slipped off the goggle and judged her vitals.

  “Are you loyal to the Galactic Council Realm?” Diosa asked.

  “What kind of a question is that, Master Sergeant?” she demanded. “Of course, I am.”

  “Then it’s a good thing they detained you,” Warlock said. “I need your help.”

  “See here, you accost me on the steps, assault me, and ask for assistance,” the lieutenant blustered. “But I have no idea who you are.”

  “If I had time, we’d go to ship’s security and I’d show you my orders,” lied Diosa. “But we’re pressed for time. You’ll have to trust that I am with Naval Investigative Services.”

  “And if you are, how can I help?”

  “Look at my pad, ma’am,” instructed Diosa. “I need, no the Realm needs, a picture of the pilot sitting at the end of that aisle. I can’t go into details and you can’t say anything to anyone, but he is a bad guy.”

  “That’s it? Just take a picture,” ventured the pilot. “I don’t have to shoot him with a sonic grenade?”

  “No ma’am. Take a picture. A couple would be better but one clear shot will be enough,” Warlock explained. “Can you do it?”

  “Yes. Now let me go before I end up on report,” the pilot ordered.
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  Warlock scanned her PID over the pilot’s and released her arm. As the lieutenant ran up the steps, Warlock thumbed her radio.

  “Poet. We have our pilot,” she said. “Stand by for a picture.”

  ***

  More pounding on the deck announced the arrival of a fast-moving body. Lieutenant Pascal, Admiral Folkert’s aide, took the treads two at a time to reach Diosa. The winged-rocket pin of a pilot shined brightly on his chest.

  “Mister Geboren apologizes for the delay,” Pascal said. “And sends a gift.”

  “I wanted Basket wired,” Walden’s voice came through her earpiece.

  Warlock took the duty belt with the holster and pistol from the Lieutenant.

  “What’s the mission?” inquired Pascal.

  Warlock’s PID vibrated and she glanced down to see a picture of a broad-shouldered pilot. As she sent it to her researcher, she also held the device up to show Pascal.

  “Poet. Get me an ID. Lieutenant, I need you in the briefing room watching this man.”

  “Should I take him into custody?”

  “Definitely not. When the briefing breaks up or if he slips out a side hatch, radio me,” Warlock instructed. “Follow him if you can do it unobserved.”

  “Admiral Folkert said whatever you need,” Pascal declared. Then he commented. “He seems to have a lot of trust in you.”

  “For years, I put a lot of trust in him,” Warlock responded. “Basket?”

  “Before the Admiral selected me to be his field aide and second pilot, my call sign was Basket Case,” Pascal informed her. “The Constabulary shot three fighters out from under me during the Construction Station operation. The flight surgeon grounded me for a psych evaluation when I got in line for a fourth fighter.”

  “What Basket Case is not telling you, he was bleeding from a head wound and standing in a ruined flight suit,” Poet added.

  “You sound like Admiral Folkert’s kind of guy,” Warlock stated. “Now, briefing room. Go.”

  Lieutenant Pascal jogged up the steps and Diosa typed.

  ‘Poet. Thank you for the gifts.’

  ‘The pistol and what?”

  ‘Pascal,’ she replied. ‘I need that name.’

  ‘Working on it,’ he sent back.

  If Warlock couldn’t overtly use a Striker or a combat Marine, her third choice would be an aggressive fighter pilot.

  ***

  Diosa ran through the passageways, scaled the ladder to the pilot billet deck, and stopped at the steward’s desk.

  “Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich. Military police,” she announced while flashing her PID to verify her credentials. “I’m investigating a theft from Lieutenant Ursola.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me about having anything stolen,” the concierge of the deck replied.

  “It’s of a personal nature and the Lieutenant has asked us to keep the matter confidential,” Diosa explained. “It’s why I’m here instead of an officer and an escort.”

  “I don’t know about letting you roam the deck unescorted,” the sailor mentioned. “I’m the only one on duty.”

  “Oh, you are, are you? Have you been in Lieutenant Ursola’s room recently?” Diosa inquired while leaning forward and giving him a hard look. “Is there something you’d like to get off your chest? Come on, it’s just you and me here.”

  “Are you accusing me?” the concierge demanded.

  “Are you guilty?” Diosa shot back. “Maybe taking an item or two that were just laying around. Come on, what’s the harm in lifting things that wouldn’t be missed?”

  “I. I. I never took anything,” the sailor stammered.

  “That remains to be seen, now doesn’t it?” Diosa threatened. “Maybe we should head to the brig where you could answer a few questions.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” he professed. “If you need to check Lieutenant Ursola’s berth, then go on.”

  “Remember, this is confidential,” warned Diosa as she moved away from the desk. “If word gets out, I’ll know where to look.”

  “Don’t you need the key?”

  “No. The Lieutenant gave one to us,” Diosa lied.

  That seemed to appease the steward and he settled back in his chair. Warlock vanished from his view when she turned at an intersection. She studied the suite numbers before locating the door to Ursola’s room.

  “The Lieutenant gave us one,” Warlock whispered as she inserted the tension wrench and pick into the lock. “a simple yes and he would have handed me the key. Did I take it? No.”

  “Because you want to maintain cover?” Walden asked.

  “Shut up, Poet. I’m trying to pick the lock.”

  “I know to maintain cover.”

  The door swung open and Diosa glanced inside before stepping to the door on the left. Again, she inserted the tools and flipped each tumbler. When that door swung open, she stepped into the room.

  “You are good Poet.”

  “I know but I like to hear it. Why?”

  “Your profile. Lieutenant Sabin Quinn is an aficionado of calligraphy.”

  “Do you really think you’ll find anything incriminating?”

  “No but there might be a hint of the people he has contact with.”

  After lifting her goggle, Warlock searched under the mattress, behind the air vent, in the desk, and under the desk drawer. As a last stab at finding something, she scooped up the stack of rice paper and thumbed through it. Each sheet was clean, dry, and ready for brush strokes. Glancing at a hand-carved box of beautiful ink brushes, she lifted and tilted the box to looked at the bottom. Nothing was taped there and out of frustration she set the box down hard. It rattled.

  The noise wouldn’t be audible to the human ear. To the subsonic detector in her right eye, it was the distinct sound of wood parts rubbing together.

  “Poet. I’m sending you pictures,” she informed him.

  “I’m partial to landscapes.”

  “How are you at puzzle boxes?” Diosa inquired as she snapped and sent a picture from the sides, top, and bottom of the brush holder.

  “I see. Let me magnify them,” Walden offered. “Wonderful craftsmanship. So delicate, it brings a tear to the eye. The intricate design speaks of a master’s touch.”

  “This isn’t an art auction and I’m not buying,” Warlock advised. “Can you tell me how to open it?”

  “Of course, remove the brushes and look on the bottom for a discoloration in the wood. Apply slight pressure and a thumb-sized section will slide out…”

  Two minutes later the solid box appeared as if it was in the midst of exploding. Pieces extended at angles and as Diosa pulled out the final tab, the bottom dropped down suspended on fine hinges.

  “Sending you five pictures,” Warlock said. “One is a list of names. The other four are groups of numbers and letters.”

  “The details of their code. Brilliant work Warlock.”

  “Now. Talk me through closing up this monstrosity.”

  Once back together, she placed the brushes in the box and backed out of Quinn’s room. Footsteps on the deck alerted her to someone coming. At the other room, she stepped in for a second before backing out and pulling the door closed.

  “All done here,” she announced to the steward. “Keep an eye out for people moving around at mid-watch.”

  “I can do that,” he replied. “Did you find anything?”

  “The investigation is in the early stages. We’ll be in touch.”

  Diosa turned and headed to the intersecting passageway. Before she reached the steward’s desk, her earbud vibrated.

  “Warlock. Quinn is on the move,” Pascal alert her. “What should I do?”

  “Where is he going?”

  “To the flight deck.”

  “Let him go,” she replied. “We have things to do while he is flying the screen.”

  Chapter 18 – Vermin Bagged and Tagged

  “Are you Master Sergeant Alberich?” demanded the Lieutenant Commander.


  “That’s me, sir,” Diosa acknowledged.

  “You’ve gotten on my bad side. I don’t appreciate you running an operation on my ship without notifying me,” Lieutenant Commander Gnatia growled as he came through the hatch. “Especially one run by a rogue Marine Corps NCO. I have a report on you from Doctor Hendrina. He is considering lodging charges against you.”

  Warlock reached up and unclipped the rank insignias from her collars. After dropping them in the breast pocket of her utilities and buttoning the pocket, she marched across the flight observation platform. Stopping two hands width from the head of An Tiodhlac Òir’s security and its political officer, she lifted the goggle.

  “Are you a Constabulary collaborator?” Warlock inquired softly.

  “A what? How dare you, Master Sergeant?” he shot back.

  “You didn’t answer the question, Vidal,” Warlock responded. “Are you a spy for the Empress?”

  “It’s sir or Lieutenant Commander to you, Sergeant,” he corrected her. “I’ll have you up on charges for insubordination in a heartbeat.”

  “Good luck finding my chain of command, Vidal,” she said using his first name again. “But let’s not quibble. Are you a traitor to the Realm?”

  Lieutenant Commander Vidal Gnatia’s face reddened and his breath came in short gasps. Lieutenant Pascal stepped forward either to calm Gnatia or defend Alberich. Warlock put up a hand to stop the pilot. Without looking away, she asked again.

  “It’s a simple concept Vidal. Your inability or attempt to deflect makes me wonder…”

  “Wonder what?” the Commander inquired.

  “If the spy network on your ship was overlooked by you,” Warlock accused. “Or aided by you.”

  The head of security for the heavy cruiser began to take inventory of his emotions. Ever since the phone on his desk rang, he’d been confused.

  “Gnatia. This is Folkert,” the Admiral’s voice spoke as Vidal’s doorway filled with two large bodies. “You will accompany my Strikers and meet with Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich. She has investigated and found a spy network on the An Tiodhlac Òir. We’re ready to close them down. Do not tell anyone about this conversation until you talk with the master sergeant. Am I clear?”