Op File Sanction

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Yes, Admiral,” he said.

  And here he stood face to face with the master sergeant being belligerent and demanding. He realized the woman in front of him wasn’t wearing rank insignia, had no fear of his station, and seemed fixated on getting a reply. An attitude adjustment was in order.

  “I am not a traitor to the Realm, an accomplice to a spy network, nor am I aware of any on my ship,” he swore.

  His vitals leveled as he got over of his indignation. Warlock dropped the goggle over her eye before responding.

  “Very good, sir and thank you. Call me Diosa or Warlock,” she said. “There are twenty-eight Strikers heading for your offices. They have a list of fourteen names. We need you to assign a single security officer to each Striker team. They will round up the suspects.”

  “I’ll get them moving right away,” he announced.

  “No Commander. Not until I speak with a pilot.”

  “Which pilot?”

  “His fighter should be coming through the intake tube in an hour,” Diosa informed him. “Let’s discuss the logistics of the roundup while we wait.”

  ***

  The fighter burst through the air curtain, dropped onto a sled, and was zoomed to the maintenance and disarming area. Sabin Quinn stood in the cockpit and nodded to the crew chief who climbed up the removable ladder.

  “Lieutenant. The wing commander wants to see you in her office,” the sailor informed him.

  “What’s up chief?”

  “I don’t know sir. She just said for me to pass the word.”

  “The Commander probably wants to chew me out for abusing your ion cannons,” joked Sabin.

  “Bright Boy, you are ok on that front,” the crew chief replied using Sabin’s call sign. “I wish I could report the same for some of my other pilots.”

  “Your crews work hard to keep us flying and fighting,” Sabin exclaimed as he swung a leg over the side of the fighter. “Pass along my thanks to them.”

  “Will do, sir. Thank you.”

  Everyone liked Lieutenant Quinn. He went out of his way to be gracious to the men and women in the ranks. And he would do a favor for anyone or put in a good word when a sailor ran afoul of the regulations. Plus, when they asked for charity donations or passed the hat for a sailor needing money to send home, the fighter pilot was always good for a generous contribution.

  Sabin strutted across the deck with his head on a swivel. True to his nature, he acknowledged crew members with a wave and a smile as he passed. At the hatch, he ducked down and left the flight deck. Unnoticed by the busy personnel or Quinn, two Striker ground elements peeled off the bulkhead on either side and followed the pilot through the opening.

  A short distance from the hatch, he turned off the passageway and entered the offices of his boss.

  “Ensign Kenzo. How did you do on the exam?” Sabin inquired.

  The exam referred to grueling classes on electrical engineering and ion theory. In an attempt to qualify as an officer in the ion department, the wing commander’s assistant had signed up for the certification course. When visiting his boss, the always supportive Lieutenant Quinn would ask about the Ensign’s progress. Then, they usually commiserated for a few minutes before Sabin went in to see the Commander. Today, Kenzo didn’t respond with his usual enthusiasm or make eye contact.

  Sensing something wasn’t right, Quinn placed a hand on his pistol.

  “Tell the boss, I have something to do before I report in,” he advised as he took a step back.

  The two Strikers flowed into the room, grabbed Quinn by his arms, and lifted him off the deck. For a heartbeat, he hung between them. Then they slammed him onto the deck. One took his pistol and searched him while the other pinned his arms behind his back.

  “I’m sorry,” mumbled Ensign Kenzo.

  The door to the inner office opened and Lieutenant Pascal rushed through.

  “Does he have it? Is the seal broken?”

  One of the Strikers raised his hand. Bracketed between his thumb and forefinger was a sealed cobalt blue pill bottle.

  “Take him in,” Pascal ordered as he pulled a chair over and settled it beside Kenzo. “No calls out Ensign. And, I’ll be taking any incoming ones.”

  In the passageway, a maintenance cart rolled up to the wing commander’s offices. Cones were placed on the deck and a sign went up on the door.

  ‘Compartment Closed for Air Vent Cleaning and Vermin Inspection’

  ***

  Warlock looked at the items taken from Sabin’s pockets as one Striker placed them on the deck. As expected after a combat patrol, there were few: a pack of gum, his military ID, and the pill bottle. The fighter pilot was pressed down into the seat across from her then both Strikers left the room.

  Quinn smiled, she maintained a blank expression, and neither one spoke. Finally, Sabin broke the silence.

  “These cuffs are a little tight,” he mentioned. “I don’t suppose you would loosen them for me?”

  “Curious,” Diosa responded. “The cuffs aren’t too tight and you’re not in discomfort.”

  “How can you say that? Come around and look for yourself. They’re cutting into my wrists.”

  Bright Boy had the build of an athlete and height. Even if he could overpower Warlock, how he planned to get by the Strikers and escape was a mystery. His vitals were steady giving Diosa no sign of his emotional state.

  “Odd,” Diosa commented.

  “You know my throat is dry after the flight,” he described. “Can I have a piece of my gum.”

  Warlock reached out and picked up the pack. Carbon dioxide and ammonia rolled from his mouth and pores. Plus, his blood pressure shot up. What was it about the gum?

  “How about a cup of water instead?” she inquired.

  The levels dropped.

  “I prefer my gum, but sure.”

  Warlock stood, walked to the dispenser, and bent down to draw a cup of water. Sabin came out of his chair then stopped, paused, and sat. While one hand worked the tap, Diosa’s other pulled the baton and clicked it open.

  “That would be a painful mistake,” Warlock stated as she carried the cup back and placed it on his side of the deck.

  “How am I supposed to drink it? My hands are cuffed behind my back?” he complained.

  “I just asked if you wanted a cup. I’m not going to nurse you then throw you over my shoulder and burp you.”

  “Can I ask your name?” he inquired while flashing a smile. “If we’re going to be here for a while, we should get acquainted.”

  “You mean chit chat, bond, and do favors for each other? Maybe take long walks in the atrium and discuss philosophy?”

  “You are a difficult woman to get to know,” Sabin observed. “Why am I here?”

  Diosa picked up the pill bottle and twirled it between her fingers. Then without saying anything set it down.

  “What is going on here?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant Sabin Quinn, Galactic Council Navy, fighter pilot with so-so fitness reports. Adequate flying skills but lacks aggression. As a matter of fact, during the Construction Station action, you didn’t score any hits on Constabulary vessels,” Warlock stated. “Why is that Bright Boy?”

  “I was flying wing and covering my lead,” he lied. “I never had a clear shot.”

  “Originally from Planet Tres, mother and father still alive. A younger brother and sister still there,” Diosa again simply listed facts. “Do you miss home?”

  “Yes, I miss my family,” Sabin answered. “But doesn’t every sailor? Do you have any siblings? Isn’t it great when you come home on leave and they run to greet you?”

  “Lieutenant Quinn, are you the only spy on the An Tiodhlac Òir?”

  “A what? I’m not a spy,” he swore.

  His face transcended to a serious and earnest expression. But his readings peaked at the lie.

  “Aren’t you an operative for the Constabulary?”

  “You’re accusing me of being a traitor,”
he gushed. “I’m a fighter pilot and an officer of the Galactic Council Realm. Surely, you don’t suspect me of being a turncoat.”

  “Does the Empress love you?”

  Sabin settled, his eyes got a little glassy, and his lips quivered before he recovered and put the friendly smile back on his face.

  “The Empress is the head of a government,” he explained. “What does love have to do with it?”

  Warlock snatched the pack of gum from the desk and held it out.

  “Gum?” she offered.

  “Yes, please. That’s very kind of you. You know, I never did get your name.”

  His platitudes were genuine. And chillingly, his vitals dropped below the baseline Warlock had observed. Lieutenant Quinn seemed almost resigned to something.

  “Say the Empress loves me,” urged Warlock. When he didn’t, she insisted. “Say the Empress loves me.”

  “Well if you really want me to. The Empress loves me,” he said and he straightened up as if the line gave him a sense of dignity. “Are you satisfied?”

  “One more question. And please give me a yes or no answer,” Warlock directed. She waved the pack of gum around. “Are you the only spy or Constabulary confederate on the An Tiodhlac Òir?”

  “No,” he lied. “Can I have a piece of gum, now?”

  Diosa picked up the ship’s phone and dialed a number.

  “Commander Gnatia. Round them up,” she instructed. “We have the spymaster.”

  The head of security asked, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m positive.”

  After hanging up, Diosa tapped her combat radio.

  “Poet. I have a suspicious pack of gum here,” she said. “I want it analyzed for poison.”

  Then Warlock fixed Lieutenant Quinn with a hard stare.

  “Sabin. You are going to be questioned by other people. People more qualified to extract what you know,” Diosa informed him. “And I can guarantee you one thing.”

  “What’s that,” he inquired.

  The smile was gone and he slumped.

  “You’ll never see your brother or sister again.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he bragged. “The Empress will come for me.”

  “I know, because she loves you.”

  ***

  Poet guided an exhausted Warlock through the passageway. After twenty-four hours of interviewing Quinn’s associates and Mareli’s employees, she was almost stumbling. Off-kilter, the unrestricted agent wandered into a group of people coming from the other direction.

  “Diosa Alberich?” a man asked as he caught her arm.

  “Yes, she is,” Walden replied for her. He backtracked quickly and took her other arm.

  “Are you going to have a tug-of-war over me?” Diosa inquired while yawning and looking from one arm to the other.

  The crowd continued to walk while the man stopped.

  Leaning in, he whispered, “Special Agent Eiko sends his congratulations. He wants you on the way to Command Station, as soon as possible.”

  “Not that I expect a real answer,” Diosa mentioned because the man was probably also a GCIIA agent. “What are you doing on the heavy cruiser?”

  “I’m here to work with Litzy Zoilo,” the man replied.

  “Is she in trouble?” asked Diosa.

  “No, Warlock. The Petty Officer is going to make contact with her loving husband,” he explained. “If a little code is slipped in between the lover’s banter, well, it’s good for the Realm.”

  “It never ends does it?” ventured Warlock.

  “Not as long as there are enemies of the Galactic Council Realm,” he responded.

  He raced to catch up with the arriving group and Diosa followed Walden towards the flight deck.

  “Poet, get me to my quarters on The Talon,” ordered Diosa. “Before you have to carry me.”

  “I could get a container cart,” he offered while pulling her along. “But it would be undignified.”

  “Dignity is for the rested,” Diosa responded. “I’m too tired to care.”

  Chapter 19 – Clean up at Command Station

  The Talon dropped through the intake tube, settled on a sled, and after a short distance bumped to a stop. Walden still couldn’t believe they received clearance to enter Command Station. Unless on a mission with critical data, civilian ships were ordered to land at Orbital Station and the crew members and passengers required to ferry over. It was one of the drawbacks to being operators for a secret organization. But Eiko pulled strings and got them clearance. He must be in a hurry. To reinforce the assumption, the special agent stood on the dock pacing and waiting for them to unseal the spaceship.

  “Walden. We used your isolation method to narrow down the decks,” Eiko’s voice projected across the ramp.

  Poet held up a hand to silence Eiko on the chance someone would hear. While the special agent was known to be calculating and professional, he seemed to have lost his cool.

  “Have you arrested the spy and rounded up the network?” Diosa inquired.

  “While you two were off securing a single naval vessel,” Eiko scolded. “The pipeline to the Constabulary from Command Station has been wide open and gushing information.”

  “You have the decks serviced by the receiver,” Walden commented. “Close them off and interrogate everyone.”

  “The Admiralty and office of Marine Corps Affairs would never allow their operations to be disrupted,” Eiko reported.

  “The receiver is on the command deck?” Diosa guessed.

  “The hub covers command and two decks below,” the special agent replied. “Imagine quarantining the Admirals and Generals, their living quarters, their support staff, and their mess and conference room deck.”

  “You haven’t done anything,” Walden accused. “You’ve been sitting on the information. What are you waiting for?”

  “You two,” he admitted.

  “And what are we supposed to do,” demanded Warlock.

  “I don’t know what you do but you and Poet get results. And that’s something I’m in desperate need of right now,” the special agent whined. “Go break down hatches, rough people up, well not everyone, there are Admirals involved, and find me that spy.”

  “Are we still sanctioned?” asked Walden.

  “Yes.”

  “We can work with that,” Warlock announced as she shifted the sea bag on her shoulder. “Come on Poet we have work to do.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I have no idea.”

  ***

  Diosa tossed her sea bag on the bed and went back into the sitting room of the two-bedroom suite.

  “Nice accommodations,” Walden commented without looking up.

  Sprawled on a sofa, he made quick short strokes in a sketchbook pausing every few seconds to write something at the bottom of the page.

  “Drawing is supposed to be therapeutic,” Diosa acknowledged. She sank into the seat of a plush chair across from her researcher. “Not to invade your serenity but we do have a mission.”

  Walden lifted the pen from the paper and waved it at Diosa as if the writing instrument was a pointer. His mouth opened then closed, the pen returned to the paper, and he made a few more notes.

  “Command Station is the most secure facility in the Realm,” he exclaimed looking up from the sketchbook. “Every signal leaving is monitored. While security can track outgoing beams and waves, they can’t shield against the penetration from exterior signals. I mean they could. But implementing an electronic hard shell would defeat the purpose of the station.”

  “Are there any spacecraft based on the station that go out regularly?” asked Diosa. “One of them could send a narrow beam while away from detection by security.”

  Walden made a few more marks and wrote down several notes. Then he sat up and smiled at Diosa.

  “There are no fighters or gunships leaving to fly a screen. Defense is handled by two light cruisers and their flight assets,” Walden state
d as he held up the sketchbook. “However, you are close,”

  “What does close mean?”

  On the sheets, Poet had drawn the station. Clearly sketched in were the locations of microwave, radio, and beam antennas. The other items highlighted on the sketch were the intake and launch tubes and the service docks on the exterior of Command Station. Below the rendering, he had written and crossed out words and phrases. Two phrases were circled as well as two service docks.

  “Unlike the Quinn scenario, this Constabulary collaborator lacks the opportunity to directly transmit his nefarious data,” Walden explained. “He has to hand it off.”

  “How was I close?”

  “To get the information out, he’ll need a transporter traveling to the station on a regular schedule,” Walden said while indicating the two service docks. “And if he wants to get the data out in a timely fashion, the ship has to leave and travel to a location where it can be picked up.”

  “There must be a hundred vessels servicing Command Station every week,” offered Diosa. “How do we narrow it down?”

  “Using a process of elimination, two transporters meet the criteria,” Walden informed her. He flipped the page. On facing sheets, he had drawn two very different facilities.

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” questioned Diosa. “What and where are they?”

  “The alpha and omega of human existence,” Walden responded. “One is a food preparation complex. The other is a trash and recycling plant. Both are planetside.”

  “And we’re back to Uno Global Transporters for collection and transmission of the intelligence,” ventured Diosa.

  “That would be my guess,” Walden agreed.

  “Which one first, the alpha or omega?”

  “We’ll start with the least likely of the most likely,” he replied. “Discard, take it off the board, eliminate the route, and reject that premise.”

  “You’re nervous, why?”

  “Discovered, exposed, revealed, and the spy shuts down,” Walden stuttered. “All for naught. Like a virus, to emerge later. Oh, and that’s also your cover.”

  “I’m going to be a virus?” asked Diosa.