Counterstrike: The Separatist Wars Book 2

by Thomas Webb

  “Oh,” Karl nodded. “I see. Tell me—how did you happen to come by this information, exactly? Not saying that this place you mentioned is real. But if it were real? It would be beyond top secret.”

  “Is anything really top secret, Karl? If you know the right people, I mean?”

  “That’s a fair point.” Karl still wasn’t giving anything up. He’d need some prodding.

  “A prisoner was admitted there last week,” Silvio said. He took a sip of his cocktail. It was excellent. “A prisoner by the name of Jon Smith.”

  Karl snorted. “Jon Smith, huh? Well damn—that’s original.”

  Silvio wasn’t amused. “We are following a lead. It is imperative that I get my people in to speak with this man.”

  “You mentioned this lead before.” Karl leveled his gaze at Lima. “What are you on to Silvio? What exactly does it have to do with?”

  The man with the blocked personal comm unit finished his drink and left. Lima took another swallow of his. “Something big.”

  Karl’s eyes narrowed. “How big we talking here?”

  Silvio Lima chose his next words carefully. “Big enough that I do not want to go to Cynthia with it yet. Not until we have a duracrete-solid case.”

  Karl pondered that for a moment. “This sounds like it could be significant. So why don’t you just give me what you have and let the agency take it from here? We have the pull to look into anything on any UN controlled world, some of those in the greater Planetary Alliance, and most of the Outer Colonies. So what gives?”

  “How much has Cynthia told you? About what we found out last year, I mean?”

  Karl sighed. “Not much, I’ll admit. But I assumed I didn’t have the clearance. Why?”

  So Silvio’s old boss hadn’t brought her second in command into the loop? That was interesting. He was sure she had her reasons. He’d have to look into that. “The people this man is working with—I would rather not tip them off that we might be on to them. If he is with who we think he is, then I would prefer to keep this. . . contained. At least for now.”

  “Ok,” Karl said. “So where does the UNIA come in?”

  “We want things managed. We will, however, accept some assistance. We would need information on the black site. It would also be helpful to have dossiers on all the Separatist fighters that the UNIA is holding there.”

  Karl chuckled. “Damn Silvio—anything else we can get for you while you’re at it?” The UNIA case officer steepled his hands. “Lemme lay a card or two down on the table. That place you mentioned—the one that may or may not exist? It’s about as off the books as off the books gets. Not even everyone in the Kingdom knows it’s there.”

  Lima nodded. “Still.”

  “It’s a real rogue’s gallery, man. People we needed disappeared, and disappeared fast. Some of them indefinitely. Some serious bad guys in there, Silvio. Real shitters and spitters.”

  “Which is why you put Jon Smith there. I mean—he had connections to something big, and he just happened to enter the country right next to that black site? Does that sound right to you, Karl?”

  Karl’s face fell. “We’re still working on the ‘why’ behind that.”

  “We will need the company’s support on this one. No bullshit. But in return we can give you a certain measure of deniability, should it come to that. At least for a while.”

  “Christ in the stars, Silvio. Who—or what—the hell are you chasing?”

  “As big as this could potentially be,” Lima said, dodging the question, “if I am sending my people into harm’s way, I must have assurances that the agency has our backs.”

  Karl sighed. He picked up his glass, drained it in a single gulp. “You damn sure don’t make it easy to be your friend, Silvio.”

  “Do you remember the first lesson Cynthia taught you? The same one she taught everyone under her authority when they first began?”

  “Yeah,” Karl grumbled. “An agent has no friends.”

  Lima chuckled.

  “Alright alright,” Karl said, placing his hands up in surrender. “I’ll see what I can do.” He held up a finger. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  Karl smiled. “You wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.”

  -6-

  Hale looked out the window as the Soluções Avançadas Incorporadas starliner luxury craft set down with a muffled whoosh. A cloud of earth the color of paprika billowed from underneath the craft, covering the squat buildings around the landing pad in dust. The sun dipped low toward the horizon in the distance. Further off, the mountains forming the eastern border of the Kingdom of Kush rose. Somewhere nearby, there was a UNIA black site prison that did not officially exist.

  Hale sighed and pulled himself from the replicated leather chair. He stood, looking back at the plush seat with longing in his eyes.

  Zombie stretched as she woke, her back arched and arms reaching for the cabin roof. “I could get used to traveling like this,” she yawned. She echoed Hale’s thoughts exactly. Hale cracked his neck as the sounds of the engines whining down reached his ears.

  Kris’nac uncurled from a sofa-like seat in the rear of the ship. “This craft is not quite as luxurious as some of those on Taurania,” she whispered. “But the accommodations were rather nice.”

  Hale laughed. Rather nice? “What type of family did you come from on Taurania?” He asked.

  “I…it does not matter,” Kris said.

  “Sure,” Hale said, letting it go. Odd how she reacted though.

  “I have wanted to ask that same question for some time, Tauranian,” Lash rumbled. “Come to think of it, what is your family clan name? I don’t recall you ever having mentioned it?”

  “That is of no consequence,” Kris’nac countered with a shake of her head. She let her long, snow white hair spill. It stood in shocking contrast to her skin, dark and depthless as liquid obsidian.

  Hale had to admit, he was more than a little curious about Kris’ origins. But he was just as glad she’d avoided the question. He’d had about enough of hearing Lash talk on the trip over. The Salayan had kept up a lively conversation with whoever would listen, with topics ranging from galactic politics, to the mating habits of a particular aquatic specie native to Salus, to the finer points of Earth’s Japanese cuisine. And he’d done so for the entire five-hour hop over. Hale had no idea how Gina had fallen asleep with all the big off-worlder’s incessant chatter.

  Hale stepped closer to Zombie. “I wish I could sleep through all that,” Hale said to her, low enough so that only she could hear.

  “Say again?” Zombie asked. She pulled two small noise-canceling plugs from her ears.

  “Son of a bitch,” Hale swore.

  So that solved it. She hadn’t heard a word anyone said. Most especially the over-talkative Lash. His assistant team leader was sharp. Hale would have to remember that one.

  “We all set back there?” Shane asked. She’d appeared from the cockpit, looking fresh and ready to disembark.

  “I think so,” Hale said.

  He reached up into the overhead compartment above his seat and pulled out his gear. As he shouldered his bag, he glanced outside at the duracrete landing pad. Someone was waiting for them. The man standing there was average height, and possessed the solid build of an athlete or soldier. He stood like he was waiting for something to happen. His head moved from left to right, as if searching. His alert stance communicated to Hale that the stranger knew how to handle himself.

  Must be our contact, Hale assumed. He turned back toward the front of the starliner. Shane was just emerging from the cockpit. “Hey air & space command,” Hale teased. “Not a bad little bit of flying up there. Thanks for driving us out.”

  “Anytime,” Shane said. The former military fighter pilot shrugged. “It’s kind of what I do.”

  Shane activated the air stairs. A second later the clamshell-style steps yawned open with a hushed hydraulic whine. Shane grabbed her own go-bag and led the
way down. Hale followed behind, then Zombie and Kris, with Lash bringing up the rear. A few meters from the foot of the air stairs was the guy Hale had seen from the window.

  “Y’all with ASI?” he asked, his voice low and deep. His drawl spoke of the Appalachian Mountains of North America. His right cheek bulged from his face. “Sorry—don’t speak Portuguese, so I can’t rightly pronounce the whole name.”

  “Soluções Avançadas Incorporadas,” Hale answered. “But yeah, ASI works. And yeah, that’s us.” Hale extended his hand. “Trace Hale.” The man took it. His grip was firm and dry.

  “Pleased to meet you Trace. You can call me Sanders.”

  “Oh,” Zombie spoke up. “Like the chicken place?”

  Sanders laughed and shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “If you like.” He had an easy air about him, like a snake warming itself in the sun, but coiled and ready to strike all the same. His black hair and beard were both streaked with white. A square jaw and broad set of shoulders. Modular body armor over an old shirt, worn cargoes, and shemagh comprised his clothing. A pulse pistol rode along his left hip.

  “You’ll have to excuse her,” Shane said, referring to Zombie. “She doesn’t get out much. I’m Shane Mallory.” She stuck out her hand.

  Sanders grinned and took it. “No sweat. I get flak for my last name all the time. Pleased to meet you Shane.”

  “You as well Sanders. And this,” she pointed to the collection of warriors gathered behind them, “is our team—Kris’nac, Lash, and the joker is Gina.”

  Kris and Lash greeted Sanders warmly.

  “Call me Zombie,” Gina said when it was her turn. “So where’d you serve before the UNIA bought you out?”

  Hale already had Sanders pegged as former military. It looked like Zombie did, too.

  “Oh-here and there. Did tours all over. My last one before I retired was on Hades Minor. Spent a few months there.”

  Gina’s eyes went wide. “Wait a minute,” she said, stunned. “You were on Hades Minor? Holy shit. Were you Delta?” she asked. It was spoken with a reverence Hale couldn’t recall he’d ever seen Zombie show before.

  “Umm…nobody actually calls it that anymore,” Sanders said. He spat a long stream of dark juice onto the dirt. Chewing tobacco. That explained the bulge in his cheek.

  “Right,” Zombie’s smile reached from ear to ear.

  Sanders hooked a thumb at a growler parked next to the landing pad. “We’d best get y’all loaded up. It’s a few minutes from the transit port to the site.”

  “What about our craft?” Shane asked, referring to Lima’s luxury ship.

  “Your fancy transport will be just fine,” Sanders said. “It’s as secure here as it is anywhere.” He snapped his fingers and two security-types appeared. “It’ll be seen to. Now if y’all would be so kind as to follow me?”

  They walked behind the rangy former Tier One-unit soldier, following his lead to a waiting growler. The vehicle was a custom edition, with three rows of seating and an extended cargo area. The team threw its gear in the back. Zombie and Shane sat next to one another in the second row. Kris and Lash sat in the rear, and Hale grabbed the shotgun seat. He was pleased to see that there was an actual shotgun attached to the frame in front of him. This was his kind of party.

  They strapped in and Sanders fired the vehicle. The engine roared and they rumbled through the chain link and laser wire-topped fence.

  “So what have you gotten out of our guy?” Shane asked, leaning forward and raising her voice to be heard over the hydrogen engine.

  Sanders frowned. “Not much I’m afraid. Jon Smith’s proving to be a tough customer. He’s had some training. No doubt about that. This ain’t your run of the mill Separatist troop. Naw—he’s seen some shit.” Sanders leaned his head out of the roll cage and spat in the direction of the wind.

  “Sounds a lot like someone we tangled with recently,” Hale added. He grabbed the roll bar above him as they hit a rut in the road and bounced. But was it Ramsey? Could it even be him? Hale supposed it could, but why? It made no sense. Much as it rankled Hale, Ramsey got away clean last year. So why the hell would he return and willingly surrender himself?

  As Hale watched the browns and reds of the desert, mountains, and savanna roll by, thoughts of Anesu ran through his head. He fought to contain his excitement at seeing her again.

  She’d healed quickly after her ordeal, thanks in no small part to the advanced nanotech coursing through her veins, courtesy of the Kingdom’s advanced tech. Through the process of her recovery she and Hale had grown . . . close. He’d only been debriefing her at first, but then those debriefing sessions had transformed into talks. And those talks had grown into something else.

  They’d had a bit of a ‘thing,’ to Hale’s thinking, spending two weeks together at a resort planet a few months later. Soon after, she’d returned to the service of the crown in what she’d described as a less than official capacity. Her work as a journalist continued, but it was now just as much a cover as anything else. Hale thought her skills were too valuable to be simply a reporter. Apparently the Kingdom’s powers-that-be agreed with his assessment.

  He hadn’t seen her in several weeks, and he found he was very much looking forward to doing so again. If he were being completely truthful with himself, he could not wait.

  “So what brought you here?” Sanders said.

  “Say again?” Hale asked. Lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t caught what Sanders said.

  “I said what is it brought y’all here?” Sanders repeated. “Not many people know about this little operation we got going in the Kingdom. Even less people get cleared to come visit.”

  “We got a tip,” Shane said. She’d leaned forward to join the conversation.

  “Musta been some tip,” Sanders said.

  He was right. After X37 discovered the triosium in the Velusian woman’s system, they’d reported back to Lima. He’d employed his considerable resources, but, surprisingly, turned up zilch. The team’s reasoning was that ULS had been able to keep any connection to Talia V’Trasta’s murder well outside of normal intelligence channels. What they hadn’t bargained on was Shane’s intel buddy in her former unit, the 151st Star Stalkers. After a visit to her old squadron, she’d come home with a lead. A man captured in Kush, with trace amounts of triosium phosphate on his person.

  When Shane spilled her newfound intel, she’d asked if Hale would be the one to contact Anesu. Was it possible that they knew about him and the KRG operator-turned reporter? He thought he’d kept their relationship under wraps, but he worked with smart people. Shane not the least of them. If she’d figured it out, she hadn’t come right out and said so. Of course he’d contacted Anesu immediately.

  ULS and the Separatists, and now Soluções Avançadas Incorporadas, the UNIA, and the Kingdom of Kush. It all had to fit together somehow. Either way, they were now, in Kush itself. And Hale was about to see her again. Not in a social capacity this time, but with her as the crown’s acting liaison with the United Nations Intelligence Agency, and him as an employee of ASI.

  The remainder of the hot and dust-filled growler ride from the transit port passed uneventfully. Less than ten minutes later they were rolling up to a remote fortress. Sand colored stone rose four meters from the desert floor, running the length of the compound. Laser wire topped the run of the wall. Two duristeel doors, discolored from years of sun and rain and wind, comprised the gate. Guard towers stood to either side of the gate, with one at each corner of the outpost’s four walls.

  A soldier in head-to-toe armor waved them through the gate. The armor was desert camo-painted. Hale didn’t recognize the pattern from any UN or independent nation’s armed forces. Most likely a merc contracted by UNIA’s Special Activities Division, the paramilitary branch of United Nations Intelligence. As they passed through the gates Hale saw two more soldiers, these two wearing modular body armor only, rush to close and secure the doors. Their brown skin marked them as locals. Probably hired fr
om one of the nations bordering the Kingdom.

  Hale leaned over to Shane. “They sure are letting a lot occur on Kingdom soil these days.”

  “No shit,” she remarked. “Someone called in a ton of favors to make all this happen.”

  “Brentforth?”

  She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Sanders slowed as they approached a low building. He pulled the growler around to the back, entering what turned out to be a vehicle storage area. A wide grin split Hale’s face when he saw who was waiting there.

  “Looks like our liaison’s already here,” Sanders said, his jaw full of chaw.

  It took everything Hale had not to jump out of the growler and sweep the former Kushite royal guardswoman into his arms. She looked even better now than the last time he’d seen her, if that was possible. Her hair had grown out since they’d first pulled her from that bunker on Mios. It was tied back now, in a puff at the back. She was lithe and strong, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes behind dark glasses. Her skin flawless, like molten chocolate. She was dressed in Kingdom-issue fatigue pants, and wore a thick shemagh about her neck. Her sidearm sat astride her right hip. She sauntered over to stand casually in front of the vehicle.

  She was a vision.

  “Hey Anesu,” Sanders said.

  She smiled, showing a set of perfect teeth. “Greetings Mr. Sanders.”

  Hale couldn’t tell what was going on behind her sunglasses, but he assumed she was as glad to see him as he was her.

  “Everyone,” Sanders said. “This is Anesu Chewasa. Acting liaison to the Kingdom.”

  This time Hale did exit the growler, making his way over to offer a reserved hug.

  “We’ve met,” Hale said, as the rest of the team got out and did likewise.

  “So I noticed,” Sanders drawled. “How is it y’all know one another?”

  “I owe my life to these people,” Anesu said. “They executed the rescue operation on Mios that saved me from the Separatists. I can never repay that debt.”