Starship Insurgent (The Galactic Wars Book 6)

by Tripp Ellis

  She reached her car and rummaged through the center console. She found the data drive. It looked like a small piece of smart glass. She smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. She thought for a moment that she might have left it back at her apartment. That would not have gone over well. She closed the car door and clicked her alarm button.

  Emma caught sight of Jason Kaplan leaving the building in a hurry. He was on the counterterrorism team and was supposed to be in the meeting. Maybe he had forgotten something in his car as well? “Jason…”

  He didn't respond.

  “Jason!” she shouted again.

  He didn’t even look in her direction.

  Emma shrugged it off. As she turned back to face the Hive, the building exploded in a violent eruption. A brilliant amber ball incinerated the structure. Bits of concrete and rebar showered from the epicenter. Plumes of smoke billowed into the sky. The explosion was deafening. The earth rumbled, and the blast overpressure knocked Emma to the ground. One of the most secure structures in the Federation had been compromised.

  Emma couldn't hear a thing, except for the ringing in her ears. She pushed off the concrete and staggered to her feet. Her body felt numb and was vibrating from adrenaline coursing through her veins. Warm blood trickled down her forehead. She wiped her brow, coating the back of her hand with crimson blood. Bits of concrete and debris were scattered everywhere. The ruins of the UIA building crackled with flames. Black smoke billowed into the sky. Glowing orange embers floated with the breeze. The cars in the parking lot were coated with dust and grime.

  Emma was dazed. It took her a moment to process the event. She glanced around the parking lot and saw Jason Kaplan sprinting toward his car. She took off after him—pain rifled through her leg. She glanced down to see her navy slacks drenched with dark blood. Her exposed skin was dotted with lacerations from the shards of exploding glass that blew out of the building.

  “Jason,” she shouted.

  He glanced back over his shoulder to see her hobbling after him. This time he responded. He pulled his service pistol from his shoulder holster under his coat.

  POP! POP! POP!

  The muzzle flashed as he fired several rounds. The bullets snapped past Emma's ears, pinging off the panels of nearby cars. One of the bullets shattered a passenger window, spraying shards of glass.

  Emma took cover and drew her weapon. She crouched down and angled her 9mm over the hood of a hover-car and fired back.

  Jason ducked into his Velocetta and cranked up the engine. It had survived the blast. It roared to life and he flew out of the parking space.

  Emma blasted off several more rounds until the magazine was empty. She pressed the mag release button, dropped the magazine out, and clicked another one back into the well. Her action was smooth and precise. She kept firing at the Velocetta, webbing the windows with cracks.

  Jason barreled toward the guard gate. Automatic gunfire erupted as the guard peppered the Velocetta with bullets. But the car didn't slow down. It rammed through the gate, mowing over the guard. The car banked onto the access road then disappeared.

  Emma could hear the engine rattle into the distance as her vision began to fade. Her legs felt weak and gave out from underneath her. She had lost a lot of blood. She collapsed in the parking lot amid the broken glass and debris. Her 9mm clattered against the concrete. She’d taken a shrapnel wound to the leg, and was probably suffering internal bleeding from the blast overpressure. She needed immediate medical attention if she was going to survive.

  3

  Slade

  “Madam President, we need to get you to the Situation Room immediately," the White House Chief of Staff, Robert Glassman said. “There’s been an incident.”

  Aria Slade’s body tensed. Her focused, ice blue eyes narrowed. “What is it?"

  "I'll brief you on the way down."

  They marched out of the Oval Office with urgency, barreling down the hallway past the Roosevelt room, to an elevator which took them underground to the Situation Room.

  The White House Two was an almost exact replica of the original back on Earth. It had been refurbished since the robot invasion had practically destroyed it. There were still some areas that were under construction. And there were rooms that needed paint and new flooring. But the West Wing was fully operational.

  Slade hadn't been a week in office yet, and already a major catastrophe had happened. But she wasn't about to take this lying down. She was running the Federation like she had run her ship. There was no margin for error. Slade was a hero of the first Verge War. She had saved New Earth countless times since then. The former Admiral had won the Presidency by a landslide. She was entering the Oval Office with an unprecedented amount of public support. But at this moment, she couldn't help but wish she was back in the CIC of a star destroyer. Watching the action on a monitor from a secure underground operations center wasn’t exactly her style.

  Slade was in her mid-40s, but looked much younger. She was attractive, but stern. Fit and athletic. Equally comfortable with an assault rifle and battle armor, or wearing an elegant evening gown and heels. Though, being out of her service uniform was taking a little getting used to.

  The awe and reverence that the Oval Office inspired was nothing short of humbling. But still, it was a far cry from racing through space and saving the galaxy. And while she didn’t regret her decision to go into politics, she couldn’t help but miss the Navy.

  Slade and Glassman descended through layers of concrete and blast proof shielding. Even farther underground was the presidential bunker—an emergency operations center, capable of sustaining the President for an almost indefinite amount of time.

  The Situation Room was bustling with activity. The Joint Chiefs of Staff huddled around the conference table in their service uniforms, their metals dangling from their chests. The Secretary of Defense, the head of the Department of Federation Security, and the Federation Security Advisor were also present.

  Several large monitors mounted on the walls displayed the destruction. An aerial view of the Hive captured the entirety of the disaster. It was still smoldering, and black smoke billowed into the air.

  But that wasn't the worst of it.

  “It seems it was a coordinated effort,” Art Westgate, the Federation Security Advisor, said. “Not only was the Hive destroyed, but Raptor Stadium was taken out. We are estimating 42,000 civilian casualties.”

  Slade's heart sank.

  “They hit us during a time of transition,” Lisa Pollock, the Secretary of Defense, said. “We can also thank the lax policies of the previous administration. This looks like it was an inside job.”

  Slade clenched her jaw. “Do we know who is responsible?”

  “We’re not sure about Raptor Stadium,” Pollock said. "But this man, Jason Kaplan, is the suspect in the Hive bombing.”

  Jason’s picture appeared on the screen.

  John Graham entered the Situation Room. His eyes flicked to Kaplan's image. He seemed rather embarrassed about it. “I got here as soon as possible. Rest assured, we will get to the bottom of this, Madam President."

  "It should never have happened," Slade said, trying to restrain her anger.

  “Ragza Vin Zalcor is claiming responsibility,” Graham said. “Born Mike Wagner, he’s a Federation citizen who’s taken a Saarkturian name. He is a Verge sympathizer, and his group Saav Krava, which means Holy Warriors in Saarkturese, are demanding the exit of all human life from this sector of the galaxy.”

  “How long have you been tracking Ragza?” Slade asked.

  Graham seemed uncomfortable. “He’s been a person of interest since before the Decluvian invasion. He's been's vocally outspoken, but his group had never taken any action or claimed any responsibility until now.”

  “Can you explain to me how one of his people infiltrated your organization?"

  “I'm looking into it,” Graham said. “But as far as I can tell, there was nothing in his past to indicate a threat. Of the known me
mbers of Saav Krava, they are all Federation born citizens. Though, we highly suspect they are getting funding and support directly from the Saarkturians.”

  “This is clearly a matter that needs to be under the direction and control of the Department of Federation Security,” Pollock said.

  Graham gave her a sharp look. “This is a UIA matter, and we’ll handle it.”

  “Clearly, your organization has been compromised.” Pollock’s words cut deep.

  Graham’s face tensed, and his cheeks were turning red. ”If we hadn't been hamstrung by the previous administration, maybe we could have evaluated our new hires a little better.”

  “Always shifting blame," Pollock said.

  “Enough!” Slade shouted. “I will not abide inter-agency rivalries. I want cooperation across the board. And you will share resources. Is that understood?"

  “Yes, Madam President." They answered in unison.

  Nothing about Slade’s presidency was going to be business as usual. She was going to get things done, and she was going to eliminate bureaucracy wherever she could.

  “I’ve got more bad news,” Graham said, sheepishly. “Dr. Hans Metzger has gone missing. We fear he may have been kidnapped.”

  “The physicist?” Slade asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t he responsible for—“

  Graham nodded.

  Slade deflated. “Great. Could today get any worse?” she muttered to herself.

  “Probably,” Graham said.

  “In light of the current situation, I think it’s wise if we move the President to a more secure location,” Glassman said.

  “I have no desire to govern my entire term from an underground bunker,” Slade said.

  “A star destroyer is the most mobile and heavily defensible position,” Glassman said.

  Slade tried to hide the subtle grin that was curling up on her lips. "I agree.”

  “JPOC is already operating out of the USS Revenant,” Glassman suggested. “That seems like a logical choice, for now. If that meets with your approval, Madam President, we can begin the transition immediately.”

  Slade nodded.

  “The USS Scorpion is currently undergoing renovations,” Glassman added. “We can begin retrofitting it to meet Presidential specifications. I anticipate that craft being able to serve as Navy One within six months.”

  “Outstanding,” Slade said. She took a moment to look over the team of high-level officials assembled in the Situation Room. She leaned into the table, and with a voice that had commanded countless sailors into battle, she made her intentions clear. “I want these terrorists brought to justice with swift and decisive action. If I have to get out there myself and do it, I will.”

  Nobody in the room doubted her.

  “I want to be able to reassure the citizens of this great Federation that they are safe. We've been through enough already, and we don't need attacks from within by these insurgents.” Her steely eyes grew even more fierce. “Now you go find me this Ragza Vin Zalcor.”

  4

  Ryan

  After the robot occupation had ended, the streets of New Earth had been filled with celebrations. There was an optimistic outlook for the future. People had hope. The war was seemingly over. Ryan Hunter couldn’t help but feel like he missed his chance.

  He was 17, and all through high school he had planned to enlist as soon as he graduated. He wanted to serve the Federation. He wanted to make a difference. It wasn’t a guns and glory type thing. He just felt a deep calling to serve, like his brother and father had done before him.

  But it was quickly becoming apparent that the war wasn’t really over—just the battlefront had changed, and the type of war. There was no identifiable enemy this time. It was going to be a slow grind, rooting out insurgent terrorists among Federation citizens. His opportunity to serve the Federation was just beginning.

  Ryan watched the smoldering ruins of the Hive with wide eyes as reporters scrambled to update the public with slivers of information. It was all conjecture at this point. Ragza and his organization, Saav Krava, had claimed responsibility, and there were scant details emerging about Jason Kaplan. Some reporters were still hesitant to label it as terrorism. One going so far as to claim it could have been a malfunction of some advanced Defense Department weapon.

  “Shit,” Colton said. “I bet they cut my leave short.” He sat on the couch next to Ryan.

  “That’s it, I’m signing up,” Ryan said. The attack had him worked up. He was red in the face and the veins in his neck were bulging. He wanted some payback.

  “Slow down, hothead. There’s no need to rush. Take your time and enjoy being a kid.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  Colton was Ryan’s older brother. He was a Navy Reaper. The best of the best. They were an elite special operations force under the Naval Special Warfare Command, which in turn was a component of the Joint Planetary Operations Command (JPOC). Operators usually worked in small teams, or alone. Their primary focus were missions of strategic importance to the United Planetary Defense Force. Capture and kill missions to neutralize enemy forces. Assassinations, extractions, and diversions. Offensive strikes, often using guerrilla warfare tactics, like raids, ambushes and assaults. And, of course, counter-terrorism.

  They had earned the nickname Reapers, and they lived up to their namesake, bringing death wherever they went. They were like ghosts. You never saw them, or heard them, until it was too late. When you wanted the job done, and done right, you called the Reapers.

  “I’m just saying,” Colton advised. “You’ve got plenty of time to decide what you wan to do with your life.”

  “I know what I want. I want to be a Reaper, like you.”

  “You’re going to college, and that’s final,” Ryan’s father said as he stepped into the living room, picking up on the tail end of the conversation—one he’d heard many times before, in some form or another.

  Bill Hunter was a tough man. He had served in the first Verge War and retired as a Command Master Chief. He had seen more than his fair share of blood and carnage, and that was the last thing he wanted for his children.

  “I’m almost 18,” Ryan objected. “It’s my decision.”

  “Listen to Pops,” Colton said. “Go to college. If you still want to join, you can go in as an officer. Hell, do that, and I might even have to salute you some day.”

  A slight grin curled up on Ryan’s lips. “I’d make you scrub toilets.”

  “Shit, that’s if you’ve got what it takes to make it. Not everybody gets accepted to Biscuit. And even fewer make it through.”

  Biscuit was slang for BSCT (Basic Space Combat Training). But there was nothing basic about it. It was the Reapers’ specialty school, after recruit training. Only about 6% of applicants met the requirements. Of those, only about 20% completed the training. It was, hands down, the most grueling and physically demanding specialty school in the UPDF military. Not to take anything away from Ranger school, or X-Force training, but to become a Naval Special Warfare Operator, you almost had to be superhuman.

  Ryan puffed up. “I’ve got what it takes.”

  “We’ll see,” Colton said with a smug grin.

  “I think you both need to have your heads examined. There are plenty of things you can do with your life that don’t involve people shooting at you.”

  “It’s not always people,” Colton said.

  Ryan’s eyes lit up. “What were the Verge like?”

  “This is your fault,” Pops said. “You fill his head with this stuff.”

  “Ruthless and smart,” Colton said. “The short ones were 7 feet tall. Pale skin, dark eyes, and teeth like razors.”

  “How many did you kill?” Ryan asked like a little kid in awe.

  Colton shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot. How many did you kill, Pops?”

  “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” Pops said.

  “Alright, no more war talk,” Colton said. “I pro
mise.”

  Ryan frowned.

  Colton winked, letting Ryan know he’d tell more stories later. He had seen multiple combat deployments. The war may have been over, but Colton had several years left on his contract. And with all the terrorist activity, they were keeping the Reapers busy. Colton had every intention of re-upping when the time came. He was going to make a career out of the Navy. It was everything the recruitment videos said it would be. He got to see the galaxy. He went on great adventures. It sounded crazy, but he was having the time of his life. He hesitated telling people that because they never understood. There was a certain glamour in war. The magnificent destroyers. The heavy gunships. The spike of adrenaline every time you made contact with the enemy. It quickly became an addiction. Sure, there was death and danger, but Colton couldn’t imagine living life as a civilian. He had seen things that most people would never get to see. Travel to interstellar planets was common, but the average civilian usually only traveled within the colonies. In the Navy, Colton had been to the far reaches of the galaxy, seen uncharted worlds, met new and exotic species—and he got paid on top of it all.

  How could Ryan not want to be a part of that? He looked up to Colton. And they had always been intensely competitive. Whatever Colton did, Ryan was going to try to do better. As it stood, Ryan was about to shatter Colton’s high school record for most passing yards and most completions. A fact that Ryan never tired of reminding him about. He was never going to let him live it down.

  “You still haven’t beaten my points per game record,” Colton said.

  “Only a matter of time.”

  At 6’2”, Ryan was already 2 inches taller than Colton, and easily carried an extra 20 pounds of lean muscle mass over him. He was a big guy and put the hours in at the gym. Sports were his thing, and he was being heavily scouted by the colleges for football. The idea of playing pro ball bounced around in the back of his mind, but it always seemed to lose out over the thought of joining the Navy.