Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "I am Captain Lee Mihlbauer of the UN Marines. I am placing you under arrest. The charge is piracy. Lower your weapons."

  Through his voicemitter, the sergeant's voice was tinny. "I don't think so, asshole." He made no move to either lower or raise his weapon. The units stared at each other for a few more seconds.

  Then the captain raised her sidearm.

  What followed was too fast to document later without video. The rearmost member of the squad, already clipped to the bulkhead, blew the gangtube. Emergency hatches slammed and pressure warnings shrieked, pitch dropping in the rapidly thinning atmosphere. The Freeholders swarmed through the marines. Those not killed by weapon fire expired from suffocation minutes later. Shortly, the Freeholders, minus one casualty who was dragging himself back to the gunboat, were gathered around the next hatch. They reported back to the pilot.

  "Johnson, this is Four Juliet Gamma One Seven. There appears to have been an accident at the airlock. The structural integrity of your ship is breached. Suggest you immediately surrender so we can get a crew aboard to effect repairs."

  "This is the Johnson. If you attempt to capture this ship, we will scuttle."

  "Aw, don't risk your wheezing old heart, Captain. Say the word and I'll do it for you. They don't let me use any three-giggers on the practice range."

  Within the div, the Freehold warrant leader and the Earth officer met face-to-face. The sergeant would receive a reprimand for his treatment of the Johnson's captain, but it would be filed with his commendation for capturing the ship.

  Saluting, the Earther said, "I am Captain Denis Schwartz. Might I ask your name, Warrant Leader?"

  "You may not. Thanks for the gift of a capital ship. I didn't believe my orders, but they were right. You didn't have the balls to scuttle to keep it out of enemy hands," the sergeant sneered. He spun in the microgravity, ignoring the captain's salute and added in a disgusted tone, "Gutless coward."

  * * *

  Marshal Dyson briefed his senior officers and a handful of unit commanders. "Their intent was to seize commo and declare a takeover, then stage elections that supported the protesters, bring in more troops and 'nationalize the assets of the junta.' The question I need input on," he said, "is what to do with the Johnson. We may or may not be able to squeeze funding for phase drive. If not, it would take a lot of refitting to be more than a marginal insystem ship for our purposes. The only civilian companies interested in a ship that size could afford better for not much more than the cost of refitting her."

  Naumann spoke. "I assume, sir, that there aren't any foreign entities willing to risk the political repercussions of purchasing her?"

  Nodding, the marshal said, "Correct, Commander. No colony wants the UN angry with them for using one of their captured ships. The few independent systems lack the resources to field such a craft. Although the Caledonian ambassador has made noises about taking it anyway, if there's a little more civilian support."

  "The Brits always did have balls," Naumann replied. "If they'd stop counting noses and just tell the UN to drop dead—well, I don't think Earth could actually do anything about it.

  "Have you considered just parting the damned thing out and letting Deep Space Salvage have the hulk?"

  "That is one possibility. I would rather use or sell an intact ship, though."

  "Right. A whole ship can always be broken up, but not vice versa. I'll consider it and give you any wild ideas." There were chuckles at that. Naumann was nothing if not creative.

  Later, after the others had left, he approached his commander in chief. "As to my other wild suggestion, what do you think?"

  "Commander, it is completely insane and sounds suicidal. Which I have come to expect of you. Have at it," the commander in chief said.

  "Thank you, sir. I'll be on it today," Naumann replied. He was grinning as he left the office. It was time to ask Corporal Kendra Pacelli for information on a few subjects.

  Chapter 27

  "People in large masses may as well be sheep. Their collective intelligence drops to that of the weakest-minded member of the group. They bleat, they panic and are easily herded to safety, or to the slaughter."

  —Alan Gunn

  "We have orders," Captain Kenneth Chinran, Black Operations Team Seven, Freehold Military Forces announced. In seconds, the entire squad had gathered around. He waited until everyone was silent, staring at the eager grins and feeling the tension they projected. They'd been on Earth for months, waiting for instructions they might never get. Now they had a chance to do something.

  "In about forty-six hours, we are to have staged a penetration of Langley Military Facility. I have a list of targets to be disabled, primarily commo and security. We will be remaining here afterwards, so we must plan for good concealment and evasion. Let's kick things together and get ready to roll," he said.

  There were affirmations and cheerful hoots around the room. Finally, a chance to be soldiers again, rather than skulking nothings. "First order, no more drinking or drugs." He rode out the mock protests and continued, "Second, everybody get rested before we start. You all know this. Now, ladies and men, let's scheme." While rough plans had been in existence, they would have to be fitted to the timeframe and circumstances.

  * * *

  Two men and two women entered the club. The women were very attractive and just soft enough to emphasize their youth. The two men who sat with them were obviously friends, nothing more. They bantered a bit as the chairs filled. They already had neighbors on one side.

  Within a few minutes, the women were dancing with two of their neighbors, clearly military men despite their civilian attire. They were somewhat older and were soon sweating to keep up with the energetic gyrations of their partners. Shortly, the civilian woman who was with the two soldiers, who'd been looking left out and a bit put upon, was dancing with one of the girls' male friends. She was enthusiastic about the attention and none of the three locals noticed the second man pawing through pouches and pockets for ID.

  The four youths exchanged fake phone codes with the others, said goodbyes smothered in hugs and a couple of kisses and left. They'd also lifted available cash and credchits as cover and immediately scanned the cards for cash, then dumped them. Their real target had been the ID.

  Behind them, Kenneth Chinran sat at the bar, watching and listening and recording as much as his scanner would allow. He was trying to confirm definite duty stations and names to go with them. Two more of his professional kleptomaniacs were outside, detaching ID placards from vehicles. Others were scattered at other popular spots, acquiring more intelligence and "locally procured assets."

  Late the next night, the covert assault began. Three of the squad approached the farthest of the rear gates. It had originally had an access road that had long since succumbed to nature and been surrounded by hectares of swamp and brambles. They cut a link from the old-fashioned chain securing it and replaced it with a twisted piece of wire. Then they hid in the ditch inside the fence, cold and wet as it was. It was good, dark concealment.

  Operative Cynthia Sanders, dressed to look older than her nineteen Earth years and driving a rental car with the ID disabled, drove up to the gate. She flashed her stolen picture ID, which the guard didn't even inspect in detail. She needn't have bothered dyeing her hair to match the photo, but better safe than sorry. She was waved through, waved back at the guard and turned along the perimeter road as soon as she cleared the gate. Her accomplice sat up in the back seat and said, "Nice job."

  "Thanks," she acknowledged. "Let's get the guys." She followed the road, traffic becoming sparser as they swung away from the main buildings and adjusted her speed to give her a long safety zone ahead and behind. She neared the back gate, popped the trunk release and slowed to almost a stop. Even with her training and expectation, the only clue she had as to the procedure was the trunk lid raising, slamming, and a knock announcing success. She hadn't seen any of the three leave the ditch.

  Chinran was a few minutes behin
d, dressed as a major. His car had the other stolen placard. He even stopped to chat with the guard for a moment, asking directions to a building he had no intention of going anywhere near.

  The guard gave him directions and said, "You do realize it's not safe to be in uniform off base?"

  "Yes, I do," he agreed. It took conscious effort not to say "sergeant," "soldier," or some other form of address, but that was just not done here. "I never left the vehicle and it hasn't been a long trip."

  "Well, do be careful, okay?" the guard said with a sigh and a shake of his head. Officers.

  Chinran agreed, thanked the guard and drove in. He was never asked for ID.

  " 'tight security' they call it," his passenger commented as they headed for billeting. He hadn't been asked for ID or his presence even questioned.

  "Don't you feel safer already?" Chinran replied. They'd rehearsed their entry techniques against various Freehold military and civil facilities and even some friendly powers during joint exercises. UN security, such as it was, depended more on the public's assumption of its strength and fear of repercussions than on actual quality. It had been so long since an outside enemy had conducted an attack that the possibility barely registered as a risk in the minds of those tasked with it.

  It wasn't long before the entire squad disguised as locals, trickled, by ones and twos, through back entrances into the base. Several met in a small four-room suite intended for senior officers. It had been rented to Chinran at cost to keep the facilities in use and paid for. Its relative spaciousness and distance from the bustle of the main base had decided him.

  The squad went to work and it was bare minutes before Hell itself seemed to break loose, then go on a rampage.

  0210 hours: Two people wandered into the open bay of Aircraft Munitions, snapped a few photos of open containers and planted some devices. All the shift personnel were out on the flightline and the building unsecured. They were well within a fenced and guarded perimeter, so what risk was it? They'd find out shortly.

  0215 hours: The electronic lock to the base communication center was bypassed. Two "Safety Police" in uniform entered and no one reacted for several seconds. They had entered against regs and without authorization, but were in uniform, therefore assumed to be legitimate. That few seconds was long enough to take control, lash all the occupants into a human pretzel, ignore all the automatic message traffic systems and destroy the rest of the equipment. The base was now cut off from radio contact and most commnets. Any outside inquiries would be met with maintenance warnings. There was a slight risk of an emergency call, but even that would not elicit an immediate response from outside, they were sure.

  0217 hours: Every fire alarm in the munitions building triggered.

  0222 hours: Two "Safety Police" entered security headquarters with two "prisoners." In seconds, the building was locked down, the security staff trussed and the weapons vault opened by the simple expedient of pointing a gun at a woman contractor's head and demanding admission. The armorer inside at first refused, but upon orders from the ranking officer, opened the door. He'd hit the alarm button, but it had no effect, being routed through the comm center.

  0223 hours: The base commander and his wife were awakened by black-clad figures sitting on their bed. They were quickly led away in shackles, to be stuffed with a growing number of hostages at the security office. The command post called Chinran to report that it was now under his control and its staff also subdued. Most of the base personnel were still asleep.

  0225 hours: The base Vehicle Flight Control Center went down. No automatic flight would be possible overhead.

  0230 hours: Automatic weapons fire raked rooftops in base housing. Calls to the Safety Police were unanswered. Those few on patrol streamed into the area to help and were pinned down. They called for assistance, but received none. Personal phones were put into use and the local civil police called for backup. The uncontrolled phone net was quickly ablaze with rumor, speculation, distortions and a few facts, some actually provided by the attackers. When the local police arrived at the gates, they found those gates locked and "guards" shooting at them when they attempted to force entry. One lifted his car and tried to fly over on manual. A shoulder-fired missile vaporized the vehicle. The rest decided to wait.

  0233 hours: Craft on the flightline began exploding, as did cratering charges on the runway. A huge explosion took place in the Safety Office vehicle park. Unfortunately, the fire department was busy at the munitions building. Then calls came in of fires in base housing, in brush, trash containers and vacant units. There was a danger of spreading, but mission-essential equipment took priority. However, most of the firefighters lived in base housing and some elected to proceed there first. The department was scattered in minutes and unable to do anything useful.

  0237 hours: The elevator to the Flightline Control Tower jammed, forcing the crew in the tower to stay there. Then a window was shot out. The crew cowered under their consoles and refused to move.

  0315 hours: All the accessible gates had trucks full of explosives parked across them. The bombs were clearly visible, fuzed and blocking access. The local police knew that the base commander, civilians in housing and several important officers were all being held prisoner. They deferred to UN authority, which would not be able to issue coherent orders from its bureaucracy for hours. Approaching aircraft were being waved off and two shuttle landings were aborted to other ports.

  0325 hours: Four people worked feverishly at comm terminals, downloading data onto flash chips and uploading other data from them. They hid all signs of their espionage and departed within the hour, just as the government was starting to draw up a plan. They slipped out the back gate on foot, wired it behind them and joined the rest of the team in their waiting vehicles beyond the marsh.

  Explosions continued sporadically for the next day and a half. Attached to the front of the cell block in the security building was a neatly printed, well-lourished note that read, "It is our belief that this was what you were trying to accomplish in your recent efforts. Please let us know if we may be of assistance again. Best regards, your instructors." It and the prisoners were discovered about noon.

  The Bureau of Defense was outraged and publicly embarrassed despite its best efforts to keep the story quiet. The investigators were even more incensed to find that not a single good photo or even witness description of the attackers existed. The headquarters base of the UN Military was a shambles and operations would be nonexistent until major repairs could be done to the launch facilities, recovery equipment, operations building and headquarters. The greatest anger was expressed at the wanton destruction of Visiting Officers Quarters, which had been destroyed by the crude but direct method of activating the fire suppression systems—all of them. Water, foam and dry chemicals had doused the entire building, plastering every surface with gooey white paste.

  There was no evidence to point to a source for the attack, so the Freehold was blamed. Ambassador Maartens denied all knowledge of it and insisted the Freehold was not at fault. To her knowledge, this was true. She'd received a coded message the day before that read, "If any excitement happens, it's not our fault." Since she had not been informed of any activities of which she should be aware, she could honestly deny any knowledge of the activities. She did, however, vow to herself under her sly smile to make some inquiries. Perhaps Warrant Leader McLaren would know who to ask, unofficially, about these alleged incidents.

  * * *

  Ambassador Maartens and her staff were ejected the next week. They were given twenty-four hours to evacuate, which was intended to create trouble for them. All embassy personnel had already shipped their personal effects and took most of the time allotted to destroy records, technology, and render the complex's buildings unusable. With three hours left, the handful remaining boarded a diplomatic VC-6 and departed. They landed at Dulles Starport and hopped a military transport. As the ambassador, her assistant, three technicians and one team of six guards lifted, the e
ngines on the vertol they'd used slagged themselves and the craft caught fire. It was a useless hulk by the time the 'Port fire department arrived. There was a lesson to be learned from this, but the UN government was not paying attention.

  Chapter 28

  "You will not find it difficult to prove that battles, campaigns, and even wars have been won or lost primarily because of logistics."

  —General Dwight D. Eisenhower

  There was little official communication between the two nations for the next half Earth year. Freehold registry ships were forbidden access to UN ports, which hurt the UN as badly as it did the Freehold—many smaller freighters used Freehold registry to reduce administrative costs. They diverted elsewhere and Caledonia, Novaja Rossia, New Israel and Hirohito, among others, found windfall profits in transferring the cargoes.

  * * *

  The additional shipping expenses, delays and shortages in the UN, were of course, blamed on the Freehold. The UN media, officially free but dependent upon the government for licensing and most of its news, had a field day roasting the Freehold as "evil capitalists" who "oppressed the poor and workers" and "refused to compromise" from their "extremist" position. The pictures of the riots were broadcast yet again, enhanced and edited to show the Freehold Military as thugs. All shots carefully avoided showing the destruction and looting caused by the mobs, the attacks on the City Safety officers or the attacks on the armed troops of the 3rd MAR.

  It was clear now that Naumann had been correct. The UN was trying to create a frenzy of blame, with the Freehold as the scapegoat. There was no legal way to evict the UN's reporters and observers from the system, although some of the worst were forcibly removed by subtle and not so subtle threats. The ones left behind, even the fair ones, could get little accurate information past the Bureau of Communications and that little was spun to foment even more trouble.