Black Sword (Decker's War, #5)

by Eric Thomson

  Decker snorted.

  “Not to sound like a downer, Brendan, but the day your usefulness runs out, that’s exactly what’ll happen. If I were you, I’d have a few new identities on hand, ready to go, and I’d make sure my nest egg was beyond reach.” He glanced at Talyn. “Anything you want to ask?”

  “There is. Tell me, Brendan, the people you helped travel aboard this ship incognito, who were they?”

  “Definitely Fleet, but beyond that, I couldn’t tell. They were using false IDs. My employers merely left me messages advising I should take extra care of such-and-such a name. They gave me the impression of being relatively senior officers mostly, by the way they behaved.”

  “How did you know these passengers were using false identification?” Talyn asked.

  “I didn’t know for sure, but the IDs were suspicious enough to make me think they might have been. Out of sheer curiosity, I tried looking the first few up in the Fleet personnel database, without success. Their records were summaries only, with the details locked behind a security classification. My employers then informed me in no uncertain terms that if I ever tried to look up a name again, the Constabulary might reopen a cold case. That meant they had those names flagged.”

  “What about the folks you killed? Who were they?”

  “No idea. They sent an image, a place, and a preferred time. I figure the first one was to lock me in by giving my employer added leverage. After what happened when I tried to look up names in the Fleet’s personnel register, I didn’t bother searching for any more information about the targets.” Volk glanced back and forth between his interrogators. “That’s all I know — I swear.”

  “Are you happy?” Decker asked his partner. “Should we ensure he can’t tell anyone about this conversation?”

  Talyn made a face.

  “Happy? Not particularly, but it’ll have to do.” She grabbed Volk’s chin and turned his head so she could stare into his eyes. “I’m sure Brendan will take the secret of this conversation to his grave, unless he gives his employers cause to interrogate him, in which case, he’ll eventually talk. The trick is for Brendan to avoid making his bosses suspicious, right Brendan?”

  “Right,” the fifth officer replied.

  “And as my partner said, if we find out you’ve been indiscreet, we’ll be back.”

  “I still think it’s risky,” Decker said.

  “Brendan places a high value on self-preservation and zero value on loyalty to his employers. Am I right?” She smiled at the man.

  Volk nodded once.

  “If anyone finds out about this, I’m dead, and I very much prefer to stay alive.”

  Talyn released his chin and stepped back.

  “It’s time you continued with your daily inspection tour. Thank you for your assistance, Fifth Officer.”

  As Volk stood and made to leave, Decker said, “You forgot something.”

  He held out the tablet and winked.

  “No harm, no foul, Brendan.”

  Once they were alone, Talyn and Decker looked at each other in silence for almost a minute. Then, he asked, “What the heck is that thing you passed off as an injector?”

  “This?” She held up the small metallic cylinder and twisted off one end. “Lip balm. Cherry flavored.”

  The Marine cocked an eyebrow.

  “And what would you have done if Volk had called your bluff? Lip balm, even cherry flavored isn’t known for relaxing a human’s inhibitions — at least not in that manner.”

  “I knew my bluff wouldn’t fail, just as I know our friend Brendan will stay silent.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “As I mentioned, he places a higher value on himself than on anything else, and when he looked away after you asked about him committing assassinations, it wasn’t embarrassment or reluctance. You couldn’t see it from your angle, but a little smile appeared before he answered. Volk was reliving the murders, relishing the memories.”

  “Oh,” Decker repeated, a light going on in his eyes. “You mean...”

  “I could have become a Brendan Volk if Captain Ulrich hadn’t found me and channeled my nature onto a more productive path. Volk doesn’t care about his employers’ cause, ideology or anything else. He wants to stay out of the Constabulary’s hands, accumulate enough funds to finance a comfortable lifestyle and every so often get his kicks from doing something truly nasty and immoral.”

  “So he told the truth?”

  “Mostly. Enough to satisfy us. Volk’s carrying a lot more secrets he hasn’t spilled, but when he says he doesn’t know who’s paying him to do dirty deeds, he’s not lying. And that question is really the only one we want answered.”

  “Maybe we should have our counterintelligence colleagues dig deep into Volk’s life,” Decker suggested.

  “Perhaps, but now is not the time, and Volk is not the only corrupt ship’s officer. If our interest in him reaches the wrong ears, it’ll blow a lot more than our covers. Besides, Volk is small fry, a tool of the people we want. He’ll eventually get his just desserts — probably at the hand of his employers, once his usefulness runs out.”

  “Should we tell Birkenhead’s skipper he has a sociopath in his wardroom before little Brendan loses his self-control and goes full psycho?”

  Though she understood Decker’s question was facetious, Talyn replied in a thoughtful tone, “I think on some level he already knows his fifth officer is bad news. Spend time cooped up with someone aboard a starship, and you eventually pick up a vibe, especially if you’re smart enough to earn command.”

  Thirty-Two

  A slow smile of recognition spread across Decker’s face as he marched down the shuttle’s aft ramp. Though vastly enlarged and rebuilt, the battalion’s main base sat on the site of a former Marengo Militia prison camp. The very camp he and Talyn had raided in the company of the 251st Pathfinder Squadron, to recover one of their own more than two years earlier, a man likely betrayed by the same people now decimating covert operations.

  At the time, Decker had warned anyone willing to listen that Marengo would follow Garonne into civil war, and it had. Marengo’s colonial overlord, Celeste, stung by losing its other colony to independence in no small part thanks to Decker, had called in the Marines early this time. It hoped to quell the flames of rebellion before they burned everything in their path.

  After getting his bearings, he headed for the open piece of ground in front of a building marked Headquarters, 1st Battalion, Marine Light Infantry Regiment. There, a woman in battle dress, wearing a first sergeant’s stripes and diamonds, waited with a tablet in her hand.

  Decker and the rest of the troops formed up in three ranks. However, before adopting a stiff parade rest posture, Zack took one look over his shoulder at the distant ridge separating them from the open plains surrounding Marengo’s capital, Treves. He wondered if Talyn had already landed, and what identity she now wore like a second skin.

  To preserve operational security, she had kept that matter and her plan to help both Decker and Redmon escape strictly to herself. What Decker didn’t know, he couldn’t reveal, even though Naval Intelligence had conditioned him against most forms of interrogation.

  “Welcome to Marine Base Sinjin, home of the 1st Battalion’s Headquarters and Service Support Companies,” the first sergeant said. “I will call out your names and then your assignments. Those headed to the rifle companies, will be billeted in the barracks marked transient, to my left.”

  She raised her arm and pointed at a new two-story building.

  “You’ll be brought out to your units along with tomorrow’s resupply run. Those assigned to Service Support Company, your first sergeant is waiting over there.”

  She pointed at a solitary man standing by a single story barracks beside battalion HQ.

  “And I, for my sins, am the HQ Company’s top kick. I believe only one of you is headed for Combat Support Company - do I have a Private Whate, William B. in the ranks?”

  “First Ser
geant,” Decker called out, snapping to attention and raising his right fist to eye level.

  “Remain in place when I call the dismiss.”

  “Yes, First Sergeant.”

  “Good. Everyone, listen to your names and remember your assignments. Private Aral, W., Charlie Company; Lance Corporal Ataran, D., Bravo Company; Private Collier, F., Bravo Company...”

  After calling out the thirty-ninth and final name, but not Whate’s, the first sergeant shouted, “Formation, to your assignments, dis-MISS.”

  Decker didn’t move, letting the human wave surge around him and away. Once he stood alone, the first sergeant walked up to him.

  “Recon platoon has its own billets, by sections. Someone from platoon HQ will fetch you and take you out to one of the forward operating bases. They’ll be glad to see you, Whate. In this war, we can use every trained scout we can find. The enemy’s slippery, but we’ve been pinning them down to be slaughtered often enough thanks to reliable recon.”

  “I’m ready to go, First Sergeant.”

  “Grab a seat over there.” She pointed at a bench in front of battalion HQ. “I’ve let recon know their new guy’s arrived. Your ride will show up within the hour.”

  “What about a basic load of ammo and rations? I have everything except that.”

  She nodded. “Good point. I keep telling Fort Erfoud to send those troops assigned to recon with everything they need, but the buggers keep ignoring me. Whenever I make a fuss, I’m told the Navy doesn’t want negligent discharges aboard ship. Not really our problem if the squids can’t exercise trigger control. Someone will be by with a basic load shortly.”

  The first sergeant vanished into the HQ building. Decker, figuring he was headed for something less peaceful than battalion HQ, pulled his scout armor from the duffel bag. He dressed in full battle order and took a seat on the indicated bench.

  Ten minutes later, a graying lance corporal showed up carrying a box of ammunition and power packs, as well as a three-day stack of rations.

  “Top kick’s orders,” he said dropping both bundles on the ground. “Have fun in the boonies.”

  Zack loaded and powered his carbine, then tucked extra ammo and power packs into convenient pockets, ready for use. He did the same with the rations, carrying a day’s worth on his person and the rest in his backpack.

  A combat skimmer, low-slung, with adaptive armor and a remote weapon station on the roof, screamed into sight almost exactly an hour later. It careened around the HQ building before coming to a halt in front of Decker with a suddenness that should have torn the turbine blades from their housing.

  “Whate, William B.,” the driver, a lance corporal, called out from behind his lowered combat helmet visor. “If that’s you, throw your crap in the back and climb in. Put one up the spout and make sure the safety’s on.”

  “I go by Bill. Are tangos waiting for us along the way, Lance?” Decker asked.

  “They didn’t try anything on the way out, but why take chances? The fuckers aren’t dumb, and they don’t scare easy.”

  “I’m pretty much the same.” Zack slid into the passenger seat, carbine strapped across his chest, after tossing pack and duffel into the back seat.

  The lance corporal stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Alexander Suvorov, by the way. Folks call me Alex.” When he saw the suspicious gleam in Decker’s eyes, he laughed. “It’s not what my mother called me. When I volunteered and they asked me for a nom de guerre, I had a blank moment. The name came out before I could give it much thought. Judging by your reaction, you know who Suvorov was, right?”

  “Sure. One of history’s great generals. Eighteenth-century Russia. Never lost a battle, even when he was outnumbered.”

  “You have no idea how refreshing it is to come across someone with a grasp of military history, Bill Whate. I spend my days surrounded by Philistines, and my nights chasing the fucking Liberation Front terrs.”

  Suvorov gunned the skimmer’s fans and aimed it at the main gate.

  “Sounds like a tough life.”

  “It has its moments, as you’ll find out soon enough. At least the boss is one of the good guys and we have no duds in the platoon.”

  “The terrorists killed them?”

  “Nope. Our battalion commander’s choosy about who he sends to recon. The fact that you’re a boot fresh from training means you had a pretty stacked service record before stepping on your dick, and you did well during basic. Not that I’m asking, mind you. We rarely discuss our old lives, and we never ask questions, but I’ll guess you were a Pathfinder at some point. Our last direct from training newbie was.”

  “Sharon Lee?”

  Suvorov, busy guiding their skimmer through the heavily fortified main gate didn’t immediately answer. But once out on the dirt road that cut through the surrounding jungle, he said, “Yep. You know her?”

  “No, but if she’s a Pathfinder, we went to the same schools and know a lot of the same people. I was told about her back at Fort Erfoud.”

  “Heck of a tracker, our Sharon. She has a knack for finding the fuckers. Probably in large part responsible for the terrs putting bounties on our, meaning recon platoon’s, head. A newbie private like you goes for five hundred creds. Intel says Sharon’s worth five times that to the terrs.” They turned off the main road and onto a narrower track. “You two can compare notes the next time we pull everyone together for a major op, but that might not be for a while.”

  “How so?”

  “We operate by sections, out of the company FOBs, and it’s a given the boss won’t put two ex-Pathfinders in the same section. She’ll want to spread the wealth around, as it were. Platoon HQ and number one section are co-located with Alpha Company, number two section, Sharon’s, is with Bravo Company, number three with Charlie and four with Delta. You’re headed to number one since it’s understrength right now, what with one guy in the hospital and one on furlough.”

  “I see.” Decker hid his annoyance at potentially having to be Private Whate for another few weeks instead of the quick grab and run he wanted. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Something ahead of them caught his eye. “Was that log across the track when you passed here earlier?”

  “No.” Suvorov instinctively eased off on the throttle. “You think it might not have fallen on its own?”

  “I’d go live with the RWS about now. Using a rotting log to hide a mine is a trick as old as warfare. The pressure from our fans, if we go over it, would be enough to trigger even the simplest barometric detonator. They’re counting on you being in a hurry to get home and since the road was safe on the way out...”

  “Shit. You’re right. And to go around, we’d have to do a bit of treetop-skimming, meaning we’d make an excellent target for any terr guns that might cover the IED.”

  “Shoot up the log with the RWS, and when the mine blows, punch through the ambush zone like we have the hounds of hell on our heels.”

  “Do it,” Suvorov said, pointing at the gunnery console.

  Decker switched the weapon system to active. He aimed at one end of the log and then at the other to register the desired target. As soon as the fire control AI confirmed, he hit the firing stud and sent a burst of plasma at the target.

  The first few rounds did nothing more than chew up wood already half-digested by rot. But then, with a suddenness that caught them by surprise, a massive explosion disintegrated the rest of the log and the roadbed beneath it, shredding vegetation on either side.

  “Go, go, GO!” Decker shouted, his eyes glued to the fire control system hoping to lock onto any waiting guerrillas or terrs as Suvorov seemed to prefer calling them.

  Fans screaming, the skimmer sped up with a lurch that pushed Zack deeper into his seat. Gunfire erupted from the tree line to the left of the road, a dozen meters beyond where the IED had lain. It was small arms only, but enough of it could do a number on them.

  Decker unleashed the RWS’ heavier firepower in response, turning a secti
on of the brush into a blackened, smoking mess. He could hear screams of pain as they shot through the ambush zone, proof he’d hit a few of them. Then, they came to a bend in the road and roared out of sight.

  “Gee, wasn’t that special?” Suvorov slowed them to a more sedate speed. “The terrs haven’t dared try anything this close to battalion HQ in broad daylight for a while. I guess they meant to welcome you, Bill.”

  Decker could hear the grin in Alex’s voice. He replied, “A spectacular way to say hi. That bomb was overkill against a skimmer.”

  “Yep. We wouldn’t have survived if it had blown directly beneath our hull. Good thing you were quick on the uptake. This is obviously not your first rodeo.”

  “Not even close.”

  “The boss will be glad of that.”

  “Who is she anyway?”

  “Command Sergeant Lora Cyone.”

  Oh shit! Decker mentally winced. That’s what I need right now - an ex-girlfriend as my new platoon leader.

  Thirty-Three

  Alpha Company’s forward operating base sat on a low rise at the center of a large, grassy area. Suvorov told Decker that the Marines had built it on and around a farmstead abandoned when the former owner refused to cooperate with the insurgents, resulting in his death and that of his extended family.

  The FOB was surrounded by rammed earth berms topped with strands of painfully sharp glass wire and had armored remote weapon stations at each corner. Though the farthest thing from an ancient Roman Legion marching camp, a castra, it nevertheless reminded Decker of one when they approached the concrete lined chicane fronting the main gate. Perhaps because it sat in what was effectively enemy territory, or perhaps more accurately, contested territory.

  Armed and armored sentries opened the massive steel gate and waved them through after Suvorov had presented his bona fides. The old farm buildings sat at the center of the encampment, reinforced and still in use, surrounded by orderly rows of re-purposed orbital drop containers, several of them half buried.

  “Welcome to Forward Operating Base Tanner. We have our own little corner,” Suvorov said, nodding towards a fenced-off area, “but we use the FOB’s vehicle compound.”