Victory's Wake (Deception Fleet Book 1)

by Daniel Gibbs

  Two pairs of arms shot up from behind the consoles, shaking. A plasma torch dropped from one. A third pair was already in motion as its owner spun around from the reactor controls, a pistol pointed at the intruders.

  “Gun!” Ahmad’s burst toppled the man. The stun round reduced him to a quivering heap.

  “Don’t shoot!” The fourth man sounded scared, his voice trembling, but he wouldn’t take his hands from the controls.

  “I said hands! Get them up!”

  MacDonald and Ahmad moved deeper into the compartment as Rostami, Ahmad, Rucuk, and Harrell trussed up the two who’d surrendered.

  “Stay back! I’ve got—this is rigged to blow…”

  “Bastard,” Ahmad hissed. “He’s really gonna do it.”

  “Zip it,” MacDonald snapped. “Son, I’m not asking again. Put your hands up, and stop whatever you’re doing, or we shoot. Your friend’s already out. Don’t be next.”

  It was about as reassuring as MacDonald could get. Had these been Leaguers spouting their fanatical socialist ideals while trying to burn his face with a pulse weapon, he would have shot them all and been done with it. But as scared as this guy was, he was unarmed—even though he had his hands on what amounted to a giant bomb.

  “They told us if we got caught, we had to blow the ship,” the man sobbed. “The captain didn’t want to… not Lucy Lee. That’s why they ran. But they told us they’d come for our families if we didn’t. I’ve got three kids staying with my parents.”

  Ahmad shifted his aim. The man cringed, his attention drawn away from the controls. He shielded his face as if his palms could deflect incoming projectiles. Instead, MacDonald took advantage of the distraction and clubbed him across the face with the butt of his rifle.

  “Hell, Master Chief.” Harrell examined the bindings on the man he’d finished restraining like a chef admiring his favorite dish. “Who’re these poor saps working for?”

  “Somebody who’s going to be awfully upset when we come knocking on their door,” MacDonald muttered.

  Carlos whooped. He’d restored partial power to the helm, so he could at least maneuver. He still had no idea where they were, precisely, though he could estimate how far they’d gone on their course. If they could just get comms back online.

  A heavy clang reverberated throughout the hull. Lucy Lee shuddered.

  “What now?” Akai clung to the back of his chair.

  Carlos was surprised the man hadn’t bolted for an escape pod. “Grappling magnets. We’re being drawn off course. Did you hear anything from Engineering?”

  Akai straightened, as if remembering who was captain and who was helmsman. “The intercom’s down, but they know what they’re supposed to do.”

  Sure. Blow us all to atoms, and our families get a big payout. Frankly, Carlos was relieved nothing of the sort had happened yet. He wanted to enjoy his share of the profit, thanks very much.

  The bridge hatch opened. Akai turned, hands on his hips, attempting a ludicrous pose Carlos figured must be meant to reinforce his authority. “Nilsson, if you don’t have a damned good reason why—”

  His implied threat was cut off by the chorus of loud, angry voices ordering everyone to “Show hands! On your knees! Nobody moves!”

  Three men in power armor, brandishing huge battle rifles, barged throughout the command center. They slammed Akai up against his chair, and forced everyone to the deck.

  Carlos knelt, fingers laced behind his head. He stared wide-eyed at the three soldiers, their armor bearing Coalition Defense Force insignia. Hell, there was even a snarling Saurian among them, looking like he was ready to bite heads off.

  The leader, a man whose face seemed cut from the bulkhead with a plasma torch, focused on Akai. “You’re the captain?”

  “I’m Captain Yoshiro Akai of—”

  “Shut up. Rostami? Double-check Comms.”

  “They’re still down.” Carlos’s admission stopped the younger soldier en route to the console. “Nobody’s been able to get word out since you did whatever it is you did to shut everything off. How’d you knock out all our systems at once? Some kind of disruptor?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Carlos DeSilva, helmsman and first mate. I’m surrendering and ready to help however I can.”

  “Carlos! You piece of shit. You open your mouth one more time, and I swear, they won’t be able to find your mother’s bones!”

  The lead soldier gestured to the one guarding Akai, who promptly slammed his rifle’s muzzle into the captain’s gut. Akai collapsed, gasping.

  “No offense,” the leader said, “but I gave an order to shut up. Discipline has to be maintained.” He approached Carlos, who was all too aware of how close the rifle was to his face. “Your people were ready to blow the reactor rather than be captured. Am I understanding you’ll cooperate so we get names and faces to go with the ‘why’ to that dumbass plan?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know names and faces, but I can get you whatever’s stored on the ship’s main computer.”

  “Awfully cooperative fellow, isn’t he?” The one called Rostami fiddled with the comms console. “Got us a link back to the boat, Master Chief. They’ve taken us in tow.”

  “Good deal. Make sure everything stays locked down here. Have Harrell and Mata secure the rest of the crew in one of the holds—after they disable the controls for the airlocks.” The master chief reached for restraints tucked into his belt. “I’m not making any guarantees, Mr. DeSilva, but I am taking you into custody, so you’re not going to die for now. You are going to answer questions until you’re tired of talking.”

  Carlos nodded. He didn’t resist as his wrists were bound and secured to his belt buckle. He’d take interrogation over being blown up any day.

  “MacDonald to Tuscon. Target secured. One pulled a gun on us, but Mata stunned him. Won’t be much use for answering questions for a while. Seven other crew, including the captain and a first mate who promises to be chatty. Hope you’ve got friendly faces for him to talk to.”

  “Roger, Master Chief. Transfer all prisoners to the brig. We’ll send over a prize crew to man the scow. Nice work. Tuscon out.” Mancini let himself relax at the positive report. Time for the higher-ups to take over. “Pilot, set course to rendezvous with Oxford. Comms, send a tight beam to Major Tamir. Let’s tell the spooks we’ve brought them an early Christmas present.”

  12

  Kolossi

  Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

  22 July 2464

  Jackson read the local news feeds on his tablet as he waited at the Soundwave café, on the edge of town facing the landing fields. The competing networks cast blame on everyone and everything they could, scrambling for explanations that would solve the refugees’ crisis. The Spencer administration issued statements about the situation being contained as experts examined options. Wonder what the talking heads would say if they found out our team was one of those options.

  Brant sat at an adjacent table, his back to Jackson. He was wearing a cap and sunshades.

  “Nice look,” Jackson said without turning his head or looking away from his tablet. He braced his hand against his mouth as if he were pondering some deep mystery of the universe. “This is why I’m the one who does the theater work.”

  “Whatever you say. Thought you’d be interested in an update from Uncle Rob.”

  As in, Colonel Sinclair. “How’re his houseguests?”

  “Chatty. They’re telling him everything they know about the new neighbors, except their names. That’s the big secret.”

  “Not willing to share, or they just don’t know?”

  “Uncle Rob says they don’t know and believes them. All the correspondence was done without those specifics. But coupled with the messages I shared with Miranda, we’ll know when the neighbors talk to each other.”

  Translated: The codes Brant and Eldred had intercepted and decrypted would let Intelligence access the communications from whomever was buying black-market we
aponry from smugglers—probably the League. Given the gear MacDonald had found aboard Lucy Lee, they had something big in the works. “Any word about the spare parts?”

  “Secondhand stuff used for wiring in ships.”

  Jackson made a face. Command and control linkages. So, the League—assuming it was them—were refitting a vessel. The questions were, What kind, and why? “Thanks for the update. I’ll let you know how my ride goes tonight.”

  “I didn’t forget about your safety equipment.”

  Good. Sev would be in place in plenty of time to act as overwatch. “Appreciate that. I’ll see you later.”

  Jackson wrapped up the remains of his sandwich and paid his tab before departing the café. As he passed Brant, he stumbled, dropping the wrapped food. It sprawled across the table. “Ack! Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Here.” Brant rewrapped the sandwich and handed it back. Jackson could feel the new rectangular lump inside. “Enjoy the meal.”

  Jackson got out to the curb, where the yellow hotrod skimmer hovered. Salvatore had let him ride it for the past few days to make sure it was tuned up before it hit the sales block. Jackson smiled. He would hate to turn it back in when everything was all over. Rather than dwelling on the impending separation, he carefully withdrew the upgrade module Brant had stuck inside the wrap. It took less than thirty seconds to swap it with the existing module plucked from his wrist unit. The updates would be done by the time he made it back to the garage.

  As he fired up the skimmer and headed back to work, Jackson spotted placards waving in the air above crowds at the landing field. Protestors lined the road leading past the makeshift camp, most of them proclaiming, “Freedom for all!” and “Let them out!” though some argued, “Send them back!”

  No reports of any further violence directed toward guards, but even as he watched, an emergency response vehicle raced up to the gate. Bodies smashed against each other on the opposite side of the fence.

  Another riot? Jackson hoped not.

  He was a couple of blocks away when his comms implant buzzed him. “Echo Two to Echo One.”

  Gina. “Echo One, copy. Long time no see—or hear.”

  “What can I say? My days have been filled with sightseeing. You wouldn’t believe how much local architecture there is to explore, especially when the handsome young guards posted outside the League consulate are so kind and helpful directing a lonely newcomer around the city.” Jackson couldn’t see her face but could easily imagine Gina’s sly smile. “Say the word, and I’m ready for a more in-depth tour—self-guided, of course.”

  The consulate was a holdover from the abortive and laughable treaty established by the Peace Union in place more than a year ago, when shortsighted elements leading the Coalition government thought they could appease the League. The result, a near annihilation of the Terran Coalition. But with the League beaten, its fleets demolished, the consulate and a few others like it had remained as a sort of pilot program while the two governments cautiously felt out the way forward.

  Jackson could care less about the political maneuvering. First and foremost, it was a prime asset.

  “It can wait until we know the League’s connection for sure,” he said.

  “Spoilsport.”

  “I don’t need you tripping any alarms before we’re ready to bail you out, you know.”

  “Tripping alarms?” Gina tsked in his ear. “I’m hurt, Jack. I really am.”

  “I doubt that. Any interesting news on movements?”

  “Only their delivery trucks from local food and janitorial vendors. Don’t forget the occasional messengers. I’m forwarding my imagery to Brant. No doubt he’ll be matching happy faces before the day’s out.”

  “Nice.”

  “And a pair of helpful drones have told me there’s too much weight going in on some of those food trucks.”

  “You got the delivery roster?”

  “I can tell you every gram of what the Leaguers are eating.” She made a gagging noise. “It’s bland and vile. So whatever else they’re bringing in with the boxes of slop, it’s not a pile of napkins.”

  “I knew there was a reason we counted on you to snoop.”

  “Because I’m the best?”

  “Let’s keep it a secret.”

  “Be careful on your ride tonight. Brant told me.”

  “Always am. Even more so with Sev watching me. Keep me apprised. Who knows? I might take you up on the self-guided tour.”

  Gina laughed. “And have you trip alarms? Echo Two out, darling.”

  “Copy, sweetheart.”

  Jackson was still chuckling when he pulled up to the front door of the garage. Salvatore was already waiting in the office on the second-floor connector between both blocks of the business, gazing out a row of windows that allowed him to see all the work going on in the garage from either side. Euke stood by the door, wiping grease from his hands.

  “Hey, there’s the guy.” Salvatore beckoned him closer. “Close the door.”

  Jackson did. “I got your message. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, I got a courier who can’t courier.” Salvatore shook his head. “Oswald’s come down with some nasty bug. I hope nobody else catches it, ’cause the last thing I need is the rest of us getting sick. I’m making sure he stays home for at least a week. Local medic thinks it’s food poisoning. Last time I order from that place!”

  “Nasty.” Of course, that was precisely what the compound Jackson had put in the food was supposed to do. He had no idea what Oswald’s background was, but what mattered was a courier was sick and Salvatore needed a replacement. “When’s the delivery?”

  “Easy, kid. You don’t get to go solo on your first run. Euke’s gonna take the goods. You’ll be backup.” Salvatore rested his elbows on the sprawling metal desk covered with plastic order sheets and dented tablets. He pointed at Jackson. “Keep an eye on how he does. Euke’s one of my best—gets in, makes the swap, gets out. We’ve got a good thing going with our clients, but I don’t trust ’em. If they try anything, you make sure the two of you get out with yourselves, and more importantly my skimmers, intact. Got it?”

  “Yep, got it.” Jackson smirked at Euke. “What’s the cargo?”

  “None of your business.” Euke stuffed the rag into his back pocket. “What’s the total this time, Sal?”

  “Twenty thousand. Untraceable chits. Count it.”

  “I always do.”

  “And I always remind you, so when I count it again, I know it’s right.” Salvatore grinned. “Relax, boys. Jackson here was impressed by his bonus the other day. Well, we keep getting these right, we keep getting a little something extra from our clients.”

  “You got it. Anything else I should do?” Jackson asked.

  “Yeah. There’s gonna be a lot of activity at this meetup. Forget about all of it except for watching Euke’s back and making sure the deal goes down. Our clients frown on us talking about whatever else goes on. That’s why Reese doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “Okay. No blabbing. Check. Where’s Reese work now?”

  “He’s not currently employed, and he won’t be employed ever again, by anyone.” Salvatore’s expression hardened. “It’s a lousy thing, but these guys don’t play. And nobody talks. Get your skimmers packed up.”

  Euke left the office, his expression one of stony silence. Jackson wondered if Reese had been a friend of his. One thing was certain. He would feel better once he got out in the open knowing Sev was watching his back.

  The meet was set for 2305 hours. Weather conditions were cloudy, which was great for Ehud Dwyer because, if he had to do a flyover in the stealth shuttle, the lousier weather, the better. Plus, a lack of moon and stars only helped ruin visibility.

  He was also happy the Kolossi region was a mishmash of woodlands and prairie. It meant he could easily find a clearing in which to stash the shuttle. His job was to drop off Sev and stay on standby to pull both him and Captain Adams out if t
hings went bad. “Y’all stay out of trouble, understand? I didn’t park myself out in the boonies for a solid week so I could practice hammer-eights and breakaways. You just make certain the cap’n doesn’t get himself shot.”

  Sev gave him a mock salute and trotted down the ramp. A light mist crept across the meadow where the shuttle had landed. Dwyer didn’t like it. They were hidden half a klick from a ledge overlooking the valley where the private landing field was located. Any fog would sink to the bottom, obscuring Sev’s view.

  “Well, the good Lord never asked for any help with the weather,” Dwyer muttered. “Best make use of my time prayin’ and tinkerin’.”

  He turned back from the ramp and headed into the shuttle’s cargo space, where he’d left his well-worn Bible sitting on a container next to a flock of explosive aerial drones. He didn’t want to have to use them, but if Sev and the cap’n needed a distraction… “Aw, who am I kiddin’?” Dwyer sat down and glanced at the open Bible. He read from the Gospel of Luke as he continued soldering. “God hates a liar. I can’t wait to set ’em off.”

  Jackson and Euke braked at the landing field’s perimeter. Rusty sensor posts delineated the edge. Maybe one in four were still working. Jackson doubted they were even recording data, powered or not. The posts weren’t the only things in ramshackle condition. Two of the three hangars, each with enough room to host a half dozen barges, had holes in their roofs. Weeds sprouted from the expanse of black tarmac. None of which stopped it from being a temporary hive of activity.

  A two-hundred-meter freighter took up much of the space on the field, its gray hull plating pitted by micrometeorites and scored by carbon from numerous reentries. Three barges, each one triple the size of the stealth shuttle, were parked nearest the fence posts. More importantly, Jackson counted eight armed men he could see and at least a dozen more milling around by the freighter.