Operation Cobalt – A Military Science Fiction Thriller: The Biogenesis War Files

by L. L. Richman

  He shook his head and blinked, eyes refocusing on the man standing between the two pilots’ cradles. Rafe Zander grinned down at him, his expression one of mild envy.

  “I miss that, you know,” he told Micah, his eyes drifting meaningfully to the SV control panel.

  Micah quirked a smile, dipping his head in a brief nod of acknowledgement. “Want a rematch? I’ll give up the pilot’s seat and play hostage this time.”

  Zander shook his head, a wry twist playing about his lips. “Tempting, but you’ve traumatized my people enough for one day, Captain. They’re a regular Navy squadron, not Shadow Recon, like us.” He paused, then corrected, “Like you.”

  * * *

  Ell heard the wistfulness buried in Rafe’s tone, and wondered why the man had left Shadow Recon when he so clearly loved it.

  We all have our stories, our private reasons.

  She heard Thad’s derisive snort as he started toward the pilot’s cradle.

  “All due respect, Major, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” Thad called out, having clearly heard the exchange. “Once SRU, always SRU, ami. The Unit never turns its back on its own.”

  The Marine had clipped his harness to Wraith’s frame just inside the ship’s hatch while Micah sent the Helios spinning like a dervish. Exercise complete, he waded past the rest of his team—and those tapped to play hostage like Ell and Quinn—to debrief with Rafe.

  The major turned. “Thaddaeus Severance the Third,” he intoned, shooting Ell a wink. “Name like that belongs to a rich playboy living it up at the Royal Ganymede, not with some thick-necked jarhead out in space, busting heads together.”

  Thad grunted, spearing Rafe with a narrow, one-eyed squint. “Don’ you be gettin’ on my last nerve, there, hoss, or I might just have to forget that a Marine captain doesn’t clean a major’s clock at poker when we get back to the base tonight.”

  Anyone could tell the ribbing Rafe was handing out was a running joke between the two. Ell happened to know it dated back to when Rafe captained his own DAP Helios.

  He’d inserted SRU Team Five into some of the more dangerous sectors of settled space on more than one occasion. Back then, Thad had been a sergeant, just like Ell.

  Rafe had changed jobs. Thad had moved on to captain his own team.

  Movement had her looking across the ship to where Boone sat, on the bench opposite hers. His eyes captured hers, darkening as he raised his brows in a silent question: you okay?

  She smiled and nodded, knowing he saw past the lie. He knew, better than anyone, what she’d given up when she left and he’d taken up her mantle.

  Being a sniper for the Unit was more than being a sharpshooter. There were an equal number of missions where the sniper played the role of overwatch, as was the case today.

  It was the edge of the spear. It was exhilarating.

  It was also where she’d been unable to stop her teammate from triggering an IED that caused explosive decompression, blasting Mike out the jagged hole of a habitat service hatch before she could reach him.

  Thad’s gauntleted hand had been the only thing that kept her from meeting that same fate. He’d pulled her back, carried her to the ship where Asha triaged her ruined leg, severed above the knee by a jagged metal spar.

  Rafe’s voice jolted her from her memories. She blinked, breaking eye contact with Boone and letting the reassuring pressure of Quinn’s shoulder beside her anchor her to the present.

  Looking toward the cockpit, she played back Rafe’s last words in her head.

  “By the way, how soon do they need you back on Ceriba?” he’d asked the Helios pilot.

  She saw Micah shoot Yuki a glance, but his co-pilot just shrugged.

  “Got a mission for us, Major?” Micah inquired.

  Rafe shook his head. “More like a favor, really. The brass contacted me this morning, asked if we could route a civilian contractor to a secured location,” he explained. “The guy’s attending some symposium here in Midland.”

  Midland was Hawking’s second largest city, located in the middle of its four-thousand-kilometer-long span. It was a quick, half-hour shuttle hop away, from Portsmouth to the Midway docking ring.

  Micah nodded slowly. “I’d have to clear it with Major Snell back on Humbolt, but I don’t see a problem. Where’s he need to go?”

  “It’s on your way. Well, close enough, at any rate,” Rafe amended, causing Ell to wonder what secured location he was talking about. “I’ll send you the coordinates. It’d save one of my pilots the round trip.”

  Micah shrugged. “If the major says it’s okay, then sure, why not? I suppose the guy’s used to military transport, if he’s working for the Navy. When do we need to leave?”

  Rafe thought a moment. “Sometime tomorrow or the next day should be fine. They’ve recalled him, but they didn’t say anything about it being urgent.” He paused. “Of course, that could change. You know how it goes.”

  Micah grunted but didn’t otherwise comment on Rafe’s vague response. They all knew how these things worked.

  Rafe grinned abruptly, straightening. His gaze swept the ship, encompassing Thad’s team and the flight crew.

  Slapping a hand on the back of Micah’s chair, he added, “Which means….” His eyes lit briefly on Ell, laughter dancing in their depths. “There’s plenty of time for the Marines and Shadow Recon to pay up. You guys owe my Navy crew a round of drinks.”

  “Now, hold on there, ami.” Thad folded his arms and lowered his head, shooting the major a one-eyed glower.

  Rafe’s brow rose. “The bet was that you couldn’t get in and out undetected.” He leveled a finger at the Unit leader. “My people detected you.”

  Just like that, everything snapped into place with crystal clarity.

  “That’s because you gave us up to them!” Ell cut in accusingly, shouldering her way forward. “The handcuffs. The fact they knew we’d escaped. You were a ringer!”

  Rafe grinned at her, his gaze flipping from Ell, to Micah, and then back to Thad. “All’s fair in war, folks. I never said the pirates wouldn’t have a plant hanging back with the hostages, now did I?”

  Ell saw Micah stifle a grin as Thad stood glowering at the major before shaking his head and stomping aft.

  “Damned fuckin’ pissant Navy pilots,” they heard him mutter, the words a cadence matching his every step.

  “Oooh-rah,” she heard Rafe murmur under his breath, eyes pinned to Thad’s retreating back. “Gotcha.”

  THREE

  National Security Agency

  St. Clair Township, Ceriba

  Myr (Procyon B)

  Geminate Alliance

  The office was a tastefully understated blend of statesmanship, technology, and high-end security.

  Its occupant, the director of the Alliance’s National Security Agency, privately thought of it as a gilded cage.

  Duncan Cutter’s job forced him to spend far more time inside its walls than he cared. It bred a sense of restlessness he found he could rarely shake.

  The feeling tended to spike during times of national crisis, when issues that threatened the Geminate Alliance’s security came to the forefront.

  Like they did today.

  A noise alerted Cutter that someone was approaching, but the report open on his holoscreen demanded his attention, and he resolutely kept his eyes glued to the data stream before him.

  “Duncan.” The word was followed by a quick rap on his open doorframe. Cutter spared a quick look at his AD, waving him in. The assistant director jerked his chin at the open door, a question in his eyes.

  Cutter grunted. “Go ahead and close it,” he said in a resigned tone, his eyes returning to the report.

  Sullivan laughed quietly, triggering the doors shut behind him. “You know it drives your protection detail nuts that you insist on leaving your door open.”

  “Yet surprisingly, they still manage to do their jobs,” was Cutter’s dry riposte. He gestured to the display hovering above his desk.<
br />
  “You read the Vermilion report?” he asked.

  Sullivan nodded.

  “Sounds a bit dire,” Cutter continued, watching carefully for the AD’s response.

  Sullivan’s mouth twisted and he dipped his head in reluctant agreement. “It has the potential to be, or so the science geeks say.”

  Cutter steepled his fingers and stared thoughtfully at his subordinate. After a moment, he pushed away from his desk and strode to the bank of windows that overlooked the NSA’s inner courtyard.

  “How concerned are they that this discovery could pose a threat?” he asked.

  He heard the rustling of fabric behind him, and knew it for the tell it was. Sullivan had a habit of adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket when he was nervous.

  The man blew out a breath as he stepped up to the window beside Cutter.

  “Pretty concerned,” Sullivan admitted, “but I can’t decide if it’s because they aren’t sure what Vermilion’s ecosystem could do to us, or because they do know and it scares the shit out of them.”

  Cutter barked a humorless laugh. “They’re hedging their bets, then.”

  Sullivan coughed. “You could say that, yes.”

  The AD waited while Cutter mulled over the implications. By now, Cutter knew his subordinate was used to his manner of working through a problem.

  Where some people talked things out and others paced, Duncan tended to go preternaturally still, his entire being focused inward as he turned a problem over in his head, examining it from all angles.

  After a good five minutes had passed, Cutter stirred. Inhaling a long, deep breath, he turned and faced Sullivan.

  “Have them move the portable gate to Luyten’s Star,” he instructed. “And notify Admiral Toland that her research station’s about to be relocated.”

  The gate he referred to was a Calabi-Yau Gate, a novel technology recently developed by the Alliance. The Geminate claim that it had transformed interstellar travel was no boast.

  The gate’s ability to fold the higher dimensions of spacetime, allowing instantaneous travel between one inhabited system and another, had connected distant star nations for the first time in centuries.

  The integration of local markets into a true interstellar economic system resulted in a robust growth in trade between the various sovereign systems.

  At Cutter’s mention of sending deGrasse through one such gate, Sullivan jerked his head back, surprise evident.

  “You want to move the station to Luyten’s?” he repeated, his tone dubious. “That’s an awfully tall order. Are you sure it’s warranted yet?”

  Cutter looked at Sullivan with mild incredulity.

  “It’s not as if they haven’t done this before,” he reminded the man. “They moved it into Sirius’s planetary nebula when they were studying the increased output of Big Blue.”

  “Well, yes, but Duncan—”

  “And while they were at it, they developed an entirely new class of mobile magnetic shields for the Helios attack craft,” Cutter reminded him, tone sharp.

  Sullivan raised a hand in unspoken capitulation.

  Suppressing a flare of irritation, Cutter returned to his desk and swept a hand over the holographic unit embedded into it. Minimizing the report he’d been studying, he opened the file that had accompanied it.

  A list populated on the screen before them, detailing the Vermilion probe’s findings and its potential impact upon the rest of inhabited space.

  He turned to Sullivan, one brow lifted. “Did you read the addendum?” he asked.

  When the AD shifted uncomfortably, Cutter passed a hand over his face, suddenly weary of this discussion. Dropping his hand to his side, he met Sullivan’s eyes, letting the man see his resolve.

  “Toland isn’t an alarmist,” he said firmly. “She says her team is concerned about what that probe sent back from Vermilion. Concerned enough to claim it could pose a clear and present danger to the Alliance. Yes, moving deGrasse is warranted.”

  Sullivan nodded acquiescence, a resigned look playing about his face.

  “It’ll take time to spin up an operation of that magnitude,” he warned. “Call it…a week to get the gate into place, even longer to move the torus into position to transit. Are we going to use the same cover story we did last time, to conceal deGrasse’s existence?”

  “Gate down for routine maintenance? Yes. Go ahead and have Leavitt Station post notices.” Cutter blanked the holo and sent Sullivan a steady look.

  Sullivan straightened and stepped away, taking the hint. “Yes, sir. I’ll contact Toland immediately. We’ll get it done.”

  * * *

  Admiral Amara Toland’s wire implant flashed an incoming message on her heads-up display. She came to a halt when the overlay informed her of the person’s identity.

  Wheeling, she headed back the way she came, a startled lieutenant jumping out of the way when she exited the officer’s mess.

  As she strode down the passageway to her office, she instructed her wire implant to accept the transmission.

  {Good afternoon, sir,} she began, but the NSA’s assistant director brushed aside her greeting, cutting right to the point.

  {We’re mobilizing deGrasse.} Sullivan’s words were blunt. {You have gate priority. How quickly can you make it to the Procyon heliopause?}

  Toland’s lips pressed together at this. It wasn’t the decision to mobilize that surprised her. After all, the probe had been a deGrasse project, its findings forwarded from her offices to the NSA.

  The swift response, though—that was a bit unexpected.

  Then again, she thought with a wry laugh, Duncan Cutter’s never been one to shy away from decisive action before. Why’d I expect anything different now?

  Before answering Sullivan, she pulled up a map of the Procyon system and sent the admiralty’s SI a request. She knew the distances in general terms; deGrasse was currently at a secured site in the Atlieka Belt, between the system’s two stars, Merki and Myr.

  The Belt was a debris disk formed by the remains of Myr’s outer core when the star became a white dwarf. The belt had eventually settled into an orbit almost 3 AU from Merki, Myr’s F-class sister star.

  That put deGrasse a bit more than thirty AUs from the system’s heliopause.

  {We’re a little over an AU from the Hawking habitat right now, and an eighteen-day trek to the gate,} she replied, after scanning through the data the Synthetic Intelligence had sent to her HUD.

  She paused the feed when she saw the SI’s readiness estimates.

  {Looks like we can’t push the torus to more than a single gravity, due to some of the more sensitive equipment we have on board right now,} she told him. {It’s going to take some time to lock things down and reconfigure for transport, too, so it’ll be closer to twenty-one days before we can get there.}

  There was silence on the other end as Sullivan digested everything she told him.

  {Understood,} he sent with a mental nod. {Do what you need to do but make the best time you can. We’re sending the portable gate through to the other end, so be prepared for a rough ride.}

  Toland winced at that, although she’d known this was coming.

  Portable gate transits could get bumpy. Permanent gate installations had regular sweeper ships that cleared the exit points of micrometeorites and other debris.

  They had sensors to monitor both ends of every transit point. They enacted temporary blackout periods when shifts in the stellar wind or its interaction with the interstellar medium created local weather events.

  The Geminate Navy’s utility-class gate enjoyed none of these niceties, and there would be nothing at Luyten’s heliopause to cushion their arrival.

  Toland’s people were used to it, though. The civilian contractors working on deGrasse would just have to suck it up and deal.

  {I assume you and Director Cutter reviewed the data files we attached. Do you have any questions for us?} she asked.

  {Not at the moment, no,} he respond
ed. {As you’ve undoubtedly guessed, the probe has all of us concerned.}

  She sent him a crisp nod. {We’ll follow up on its findings and get this nailed down as quickly as we can, sir.}

  {I know you will, Admiral.}

  Sullivan cut the connection as Amara approached her office. The doors slid open and her assistant stood, nodding respectfully.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “I thought you were headed to the mess for lunch.”

  Amara grimaced. “That can wait. Please gather the section heads for an emergency meeting in—” she looked at her HUD’s chrono, “—an hour. I’ll be briefing them on a new assignment at that time.”

  Her assistant nodded. “You got it, Admiral. Anything else?”

  Amara shot a glance in the general direction of the mess hall. “Could you ask chef to drum up something and have a steward deliver it to my office?”

  She paused, thinking. “Make that for two. Contact Colonel Fraley and ask him to join me. Looks like we’ll be working through lunch today.”

  An hour later, she and Fraley stood at the head of a conference table in a room just outside the torus’s Command and Control center. The dozen faces looking back at her held a mixture of surprise and anticipation at the announcement she’d just made—with one exception.

  “We can’t leave!” Lee Stinton, their chief scientist, protested. “My lead biochemist is off site at the moment.” The man made it sound as if the entire situation was a personal affront to him.

  Fraley gave the man a patient smile, one Amara suspected was more than a little forced.

  “I’m aware, Doctor,” he told the man. “When we realized what the probe had found, I had a feeling this kind of thing might happen, so I contacted Nimitz Base on Hawking and asked them to have a transport on standby, just in case.”

  Stinton’s bushy brows beetled together and he frowned.

  “Very well,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But Peres is scheduled to deliver the keynote at a conference there in two days. He won’t be ready to leave until then.”