Hard Strike

by Eric Thomson

  HARD

  STRIKE

  Decker’s War — Book 7

  ERIC THOMSON

  Hard Strike

  Copyright 2019 Eric Thomson

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in Canada

  By Sanddiver Books

  ISBN: 978-1-989314-08-1

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  — One —

  — Two —

  — Three —

  — Four —

  — Five —

  — Six —

  — Seven —

  — Eight —

  — Nine —

  — Ten —

  — Eleven —

  — Twelve —

  — Thirteen —

  — Fourteen —

  — Fifteen —

  — Sixteen —

  — Seventeen —

  — Eighteen —

  — Nineteen —

  — Twenty —

  — Twenty-One —

  — Twenty-Two —

  — Twenty-Three —

  — Twenty-Four —

  — Twenty-Five —

  — Twenty-Six —

  — Twenty-Seven —

  — Twenty-Eight —

  — Twenty-Nine —

  — Thirty —

  — Thirty-One —

  — Thirty-Two —

  — Thirty-Three —

  — Thirty-Four —

  — Thirty-Five —

  — Thirty-Six —

  — Thirty-Seven —

  — Thirty-Eight —

  — Thirty-Nine —

  — Forty —

  — Forty-One —

  — Forty-Two —

  — Forty-Three —

  — Forty-Four —

  — Forty-Five —

  — Forty-Six —

  — Forty-Seven —

  — Forty-Eight —

  About the Author

  Also by Eric Thomson

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  — One —

  After almost two hours crawling through the impossibly green native undergrowth and over the crest of a hill overlooking the target’s estate, the sniper settled into a hollow between two trees. His chameleon ghillie suit made him practically invisible to human eyes beyond a meter or two, and its built-in shielding hid his life signs from sensors. He was, essentially, the invisible man. Even his weapon, a long, heavy railgun masked by the same chameleon coating as his suit, wouldn’t register until he powered it up seconds before taking a shot. The sniper opened a bipod attached to the barrel’s casing two-thirds of the way back from the muzzle and settled into the most comfortable firing position he could find.

  Mission Colony’s reddish sun hung directly overhead, but here in the foothills west of Ventano, the star system’s capital, a gentle breeze wafting off distant snow-capped peaks kept the ambient temperature pleasantly cool.

  Neither the mansion, nestled at the bottom of a pleasant glen, nor the dozen human beings enjoying a lunchtime drink on the stone patio cast much of a shadow. At this distance, the sniper’s unaided eyes weren’t capable of making out individual features, but he knew which one was his target.

  It had to be the man at the center of the group, basking in the adulation of his flock, though the sniper knew better. These were not followers but financiers and bureaucrats who worshiped power. True radicals of the sort who enlisted in the Freedom Collective’s ranks would never receive an invitation to lunch with their supremo at his partner’s country manor. Otherwise, they might discover his revolutionary zeal found sustenance in the trappings of wealth.

  Unfamiliar scents tickled the sniper’s nose while equally alien sounds produced by local wildlife unconcerned with his presence filled his ears. He flipped up the covers on both ends of the telescopic sight sitting atop the railgun’s receiver. Its unpowered optical array, a design virtually unchanged over the centuries, was as undetectable as the rest of his equipment, a low-tech solution to the high tech surveillance sensors blanketing the glen.

  He settled his cheek against the stock and pulled the butt plate into his shoulder, merging body and weapon into a single, steady organism, half man, half machine. The sniper’s right eye lined up with the scope and distant, blurry faces became crisp, clear, and identifiable. Though the sniper’s hide was over a kilometer from the mansion, it seemed as if he might reach out and touch its walls.

  The bearded, smiling man standing at the center of the circle, champagne glass in hand, was indeed Gustav Kerlin. He was a rabble-rousing politician, the leader of the Mission Colony Freedom Collective, as well as a fake revolutionary and a scumbag who liked to bed the underage children of his followers before passing them around a circle of like-minded deviants. And those were the least of his crimes, but his political connections and his partner’s money ensured complainants remained mute. Kerlin laughed at an unheard comment and took a sip of his amber, bubbly drink, imported from Earth at exorbitant cost.

  The sniper rested his aim on each of the men and women surrounding Kerlin in turn though he was unable to name the three facing away from him. Those he could identify represented everything Kerlin railed against in his incarnation as a radical reformer and a man of the people, making a lie of his claim to serve downtrodden, economically disadvantaged settlers denied full self-rule by an oppressive Colonial Office.

  In an ideal universe a liar of that caliber shouldn’t prosper, not when his followers were about to cross the line between legitimate dissent and political violence on a scale unheard of in these parts.

  He settled the scope’s crosshairs on Kerlin once again and felt an unexpected jolt of pleasure at holding the man’s life in his hands. Kerlin represented everything the sniper hated. He steadied his aim on Kerlin’s prominent nose, took a deep breath, and flicked on the railgun’s power pack with his right thumb. As he felt the weapon come to life, he released half of the air in his lungs and gently pulled on the trigger.

  The railgun expelled a tungsten dart, smaller than a baby’s finger at almost ten times the speed of sound. It left a flat crack in its wake, like a branch snapping underfoot. Kerlin’s skull exploded before the sniper was able to blink, showering the other attendees with bloody bone shards and glistening gobs of liquefied brain matter. The sniper kept his aim on the target to confirm the shot.

  Nothing remained above Kerlin’s jawline, as if someone had sliced off half of the politician’s head. Without warning, his body crumpled to the ground.

  The others seemed rooted to the spot as they processed what just happened. Then, the first distant screams reached the sniper’s ears and what had been a quiet pre-lunch drink turned into a mad rout, a scramble for cover. The sniper zoomed out his scope in an attempt to identify the three who moments earlier had their backs to him.

  One face, in particular, caught his attention, and he mentally swore. That woman’s presence could imperil his escape and the next phase of the operation. He briefly considered firing a second shot to eliminate the risk, but decided it was best to stay within the agreed-upon parameters. Bad enough he might face a police presence earlier than planned.

  With little regard for stealth, the sniper rose from his hide and headed back into the nearby hollow where a carefully hidden speeder waited. He disassembled his railgun and stowed the parts in its pack as he moved through the forest. By the time he reached the small ground effect vehicle tucked between the roots
of a giant fern-like conifer, the distant howl of police sirens filtered through the treetops.

  He stripped off his ghillie suit and stuffed it in the railgun pack, then retrieved civilian clothing from the speeder and completed his transformation back into an ordinary colonist. Though he would prefer to keep both weapon and suit, they weren’t traceable and being found in his possession if the police stopped his speeder would compromise the entire operation.

  He shoved the pack under a bush and spread rotting organic debris over and around it. A determined search would uncover the cache, but by then, Major Zack Decker and his partner, Commander Hera Talyn, would be long gone. Or so he hoped. After one last glance around, Decker climbed aboard the speeder and threaded his way through the trees to a hidden animal track. It led further west until crossing an old logging road that dated back to the Shrehari occupation almost eighty years earlier.

  Judging by the strength of the emergency response team sirens, they were virtually at the late Gustav Kerlin’s mansion, which meant the chase would soon be on. And these hunters wouldn’t be militia or planetary cops. Mission Colony, as befitted a planet under federal jurisdiction, was policed by the Commonwealth Constabulary itself.

  Decker reached the logging road without his military-grade battlefield sensor warning him quasi-invisible surveillance drones deployed by the Constabulary to blanket the area had spotted him. The assassination of a firebrand political rabble-rouser might not demand an all hands on deck scenario in these troubled times, but rank has its privileges.

  The commanding officer of the 24th Constabulary Regiment — Mission Colony’s de facto chief of police — was one of the three whose faces he identified moments after Kerlin’s head vanished in a pink and gray mist. An unplanned complication, but it was too late for regrets, and absent specific direction from HQ, none of Decker and Talyn’s business.

  Assistant Commissioner Kristy Bujold keeping company with someone like Kerlin and his backers was a problem for the Constabulary’s Professional Compliance Bureau, and it frowned on the sort of direct action preferred by Naval Intelligence’s Special Operations Division, especially assassinations. But if she was up to no good, he and Talyn could expect Bujold to throw the full weight of her police force into the investigation. And Kerlin’s death was only one phase of the operation.

  After a few minutes, the distant sirens died away and Decker allowed himself to hope he was still beyond the Constabulary’s ever-growing search area when he saw the logging road’s unmarked junction with a country lane. The latter meandered through half a dozen small valleys, each with farming settlements, before it left the foothills and connected to the main east-west highway linking Ventano to its agricultural hinterland.

  He’d chosen his escape route based on the fact it didn’t connect with the road leading to Kerlin’s manor until just before the highway, but Decker’s luck ran out at the same time as the country lane just the same.

  A pair of dark blue Constabulary patrol skimmers, civilian versions of the combat cars used by every military and paramilitary force within the Commonwealth, blocked the intersection. His rental vehicle could generate enough lift to jump over them, but anyone evading the checkpoint would immediately turn into a suspect and become the target of every police aircar in the vicinity. Decker slipped the battlefield sensor into his pocket and slowed to a walking pace.

  A square-faced man with sergeant’s stripes on his gray police-grade armor waved him to the side of the road while two more assumed covering positions to each side. Decker knew that at least one of the combat cars would aim its gun turret at him. Though they carried only twenty-millimeter dual cannon, they could shred his speeder in a matter of seconds. Right now, however, he knew targeting sensors were giving him the once-over. A good thing he’d ditched the railgun. It would have stood out on their screens like a Sister of the Void at a sex workers’ convention.

  As the sergeant approached, Decker dropped the driver’s side window and gave him a quizzical look.

  “Are the damned boneheads back?”

  “Just a routine traffic check, sir.” His tone was polite and professional. “May I see your ID and your vehicle’s registration?”

  “Certainly.”

  When Decker reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, the sergeant asked, “Are you armed by any chance, sir?”

  “Yes. I’d be a piss-poor security consultant if I weren’t.”

  “Is that your line of work,” the sergeant waved a reader over Zack’s proffered identity wafer, “Ser Corbin Peel? Private security consultant? Or should that be mercenary? You’re not a resident of Mission Colony.”

  “Call it what you want, as long as my clients call themselves satisfied.” Decker grinned. “And so far I’ve heard no complaints.” He tucked his ID wafer away again and offered the rental’s registration.

  “Please show me your weapons.”

  “No problems. I carry a blaster in a shoulder holster and a dagger strapped to my forearm, both on the left side.” Decker raised his hand in a slow, exaggerated motion and pulled his jacket aside.

  “What the hell is that?” The sergeant asked in an incredulous tone. “A hand cannon?”

  “Standard Shrehari issue sidearm. I took it in a raid when I was in the Service.” He released his jacket’s lapel and pulled up its left sleeve. “Marine Corps dagger.”

  “You were in the Corps, Ser Peel?”

  “Twenty years before moving to the private sector.”

  “Are you carrying a copy of your service record, by any chance?”

  “Sure.” Decker fished a second wafer from his pocket and held it out for the constable’s reader.

  “Pathfinders? I’m impressed.” He looked up at the Marine. “Tell me, what business does a security consultant have in the foothills? It’s nothing but farms and logging operations.”

  Decker shrugged.

  “Do you ever wake up in the morning with an urge to get out of town, breathe clean air, and see unspoiled nature?”

  “Can’t say that I do, Ser Peel.”

  Before Zack could reply, the sergeant tilted his head to one side in the unmistakable gesture of someone listening to his earbug. After a few seconds, he said, “Please stay where you are.” Then, he turned and gestured at his constables.

  Both patrol cars cleared the intersection moments before a lightly armored and more luxurious staff skimmer, also in police blue, came barreling down the road from Kerlin’s mansion. Decker caught a glimpse of Bujold’s ashen face through the rear window as it passed through, headed for the main highway. Now that, the Marine thought, was one unhappy assistant commissioner.

  Maybe his partner should send word of Bujold’s dubious associates to her friend who was in charge of the Rim Sector’s Professional Compliance Bureau. If internal affairs latched onto her scrawny ass, the 24th Constabulary Regiment’s commanding officer would find an even better reason to look like death warmed over.

  The sergeant walked back to Decker’s car.

  “You’re free to go, sir. Thank you for your cooperation and enjoy the rest of your day.”

  — Two —

  A thirty-something man emerged from one of the rundown apartment complexes bordering a shabby little city park. He looked around nervously before setting off toward downtown Ventano at a rapid pace. Pasty-faced, unshaven, and wearing shabby clothes, he differed little from the other residents of an area inhabited mostly by idlers living on government benefits, small-time criminals and every other example of life’s losers. But a set of eyes, carefully hidden behind polarized sunglasses, tracked his progress.

  Moments before the man vanished around the street corner, a grandmotherly woman in a broad-brimmed hat rose from the park bench nearest to the apartment and set off in pursuit, careful to avoid attracting his attention.

  Osric Floros wasn’t a complete beginner in the art of fieldcraft. He knew how to check for tails, but she’d been doing this for decades, while the man’s shift from merely spouting r
adical rhetoric at the Ventano University’s Faculty of Political Science to carrying out direct action was more recent. So recent, in fact, he did not notice her brush by him at a crosswalk and attach a minuscule listening device to his jacket.

  It had a limited range and a short lifespan but would suffice for her immediate purposes. A more experienced and more paranoid revolutionary gripped by dread after hearing of his leader’s assassination might have noticed the brief contact.

  The old woman followed him to a more upscale apartment complex. When an unseen tenant admitted him through the ground level door, she found a small cafe with outdoor tables on the opposite side of the street, half a block away. She ordered a cup of tea from the holographic menu that popped up the moment she sat, then touched the frame of her glasses. A small red dot appeared on the inside of the left lens, indicating her listening device and the man to whom she’d stuck it were on the apartment’s third floor. She tapped her right ear lightly with an extended index finger and immediately heard voices.

  “Why are you here?” A harsh voice, oozing displeasure asked.

  “Someone assassinated Gustav.” The revolutionary’s voice quivered with anguish. “We received word through the cell network fifteen minutes ago from our comrade who watches over his personal security. He told me how to find you.”

  Silence. Then, “Where did it happen?”

  “At a country retreat that friends of the Collective made available to him.”

  The woman smirked. Kerlin, like most of his sort, thought nothing of lying to naïve supporters while enriching himself and his closest friends at the same trough as those he purported to oppose. He saw political radicalism as a means to achieve power and accumulate more wealth, not a way to improve the lot of ordinary citizens.

  “How did it happen?”

  “No one knows. Gustav was having drinks with friends on the patio when his head literally exploded. Our comrade heard nothing to indicate a shot. The Constabulary’s emergency response team was arriving when our comrade called.”

  A fond smile replaced the woman’s earlier expression of disdain. Her partner scored a clean kill. Perfect.