by Rick Partlow
“I was involved with Alida Hudec,” Ari corrected him. “Alida Hudec doesn’t exist. She used me, and I would be willing to kill her for that alone.”
Lee rubbed his chin, seemingly more comfortable with his situation now than when Ari had walked into the office. “No, I think we will keep our Lieutenant Hudec around for now…we will feed disinformation to her superiors through her. Perhaps something can be salvaged from this after all. Captain Al Masri, can you maintain the fiction of your relationship with her for now? I do not want to give her any reason to think we suspect her true identity.”
“I will do what I must for the cause, Colonel Lee,” Ari said dutifully, concealing his sigh of relief. “If that is to be our plan, I should get back to my office…we are scheduled for training in an hour.”
“Go, then, Captain,” Lee said with a nod. “And you have my thanks for your initiative. You may have just saved our cause.”
And more importantly, he thought as he left the office, I may have saved Alida’s life. For now. And now I have to contact Major Stark…because things are so much worse than we thought.
* * *
Shannon Stark hesitated outside the office door, taking a breath to compose herself before she raised her hand to knock.
There was a long silence, and she wondered if perhaps she should leave, but then she heard a soft “Come in,” and the door slide aside silently.
The room was dark, only a sliver of light piercing the gap in the blinds pulled shut over the windows. Valerie O’Keefe-Mulrooney sat alone at her desk, staring into the darkness with darker eyes, the tracks of dried tears evident on her face. Shannon stepped into the office, smoothing down the front of her dress uniform. She’d worn it to the funeral and hadn’t had time to change out of it before receiving the call from Valerie’s secretary. Her hands froze as she felt the dampness on her hip…she had hugged Natalia at the funeral service and the little girl’s tears still stained her uniform. She fought to keep from jumping as the door slid shut behind her.
“Sit down,” Valerie said, nodding at the chair in front of the desk. Her voice was steady and unwavering, her tone as normal as if she were ordering lunch…yet Shannon could see a cold rage in the set of her eyes. “The Capital Police tell me they think Glen was killed because he witnessed the murder of that celebrity scandalmonger Oscar Fuentes. They think the killer had a personal grudge against Fuentes for one of his stories. They already have a list of suspects…people Fuentes embarrassed or hurt who were in the area but don’t have an alibi.” She speared Shannon with a frigid glare. “Is that what you think happened, Shannon?”
Shannon tried not to flinch under the woman’s gaze. “Both Glen and Mr. Fuentes were killed in the one place in the gym where there were no security cameras,” Shannon replied, trying to keep her tone as cool and measured as Valerie’s. “They were both killed with a single stab wound through the eye and into the brain. One wound…surgically precise, before the victim can react. You don’t learn how to do that in a commercial martial arts school or even in the regular military. This was a professional assassin, and an experienced one.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and met Valerie’s gaze. “Glen told me he was going to ask some journalists to look into Vice President Dominguez. See if there was anything strange going on with him or around him.”
“So you’re telling me that the people behind this are the ones who are planning to kill my father,” Valerie stated flatly. Shannon waited for the accusation that she was sure was coming, the dissolution into a screaming fit and the voicing of the cry that had been echoing through her head for days: You got him killed!
But the calm facade remained over the cold rage and Valerie said nothing. “It’s worse than that,” Shannon told her. Her eyes flickered suspiciously around the office. She knew it was secure because she’d overseen the process herself, but at the moment she didn’t feel sure of anything. “We’ve been investigating the Guard mutiny plot and I’ve received reports that indicate that it’s quite real and that it goes far beyond the Colonial Guard. There are elements within the Fleet and the multicorps involved…Valerie, this isn’t a mutiny and it’s not just an assassination attempt. It’s a coup. “
For a moment, Valerie’s ice wall crumbled and her eyes widened with shock and fear.
“Have…have you told my father?”
“Not yet,” Shannon admitted. She shook her head hopelessly. “I honestly don’t know what to tell him. The only conspirators we can name are in the CeeGees and hauling them in would accomplish nothing. There are corporate interests involved, but nearly all the multicorps oppose your father’s emigration policies and we can’t arrest people just because they disagree with the President politically. Hell,” she bit off, “with the possibility of traitors inside the Fleet, I can’t even be a hundred percent sure of my own people…except Tom, of course.”
“If what you’re saying is true,” Valerie interjected, voice still a bit tremulous but now more thoughtful, “even if we break up this plot, we could be looking at a civil war.” She looked up sharply. “But what about Antonov? This happening at the same time as Jason is off chasing after him can’t be a coincidence.”
“Valerie, I can’t be certain right now that Antonov was behind the attack on the outpost. This whole thing could be a setup…the evidence could have been planted by the conspirators to draw our attention away from their plans.”
“Jesus,” Valerie breathed, shaking her head. “What the hell are we going to do, Shannon?”
“Things might get bad, Valerie.” Shannon reached out and took Valerie’s hand, squeezing it warmly. “Take Natalia, go to your cabin in Minnesota and stay there until it’s over. They won’t bother you. Even if…” Shannon winced, hesitant to say the words. “Even if we lose this thing, I doubt they’d come after you there.”
“I can’t just go hide and hope things turn out all right,” Valerie protested. “They killed Glen!”
“And if you get in their way, Valerie, they’ll kill you too…and Natalia will have lost both her parents.”
Shannon could see anger, grief and fear struggling in Valerie’s eyes, only to be replaced by resolve. “I’m a Republic Senator, Shannon. I love my daughter more than anything, and if I have to die to make sure she grows up to enjoy the same freedoms I have, then that’s the price I’ll have to pay. Now, what are we going to do?”
Shannon considered the question for a moment. What could they do? They had no actionable intelligence, just suspicions. And if they tried for more, there would be an assassin sent out for them just as surely she knew that one had been sent to kill Glen…
Shannon’s eyes narrowed. It was a hell of a risk, but the only move she could see that might work. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, Valerie. If you really want to stick this thing out, then what we need to do is finish what Glen started.” And God forgive her if it didn’t work.
Chapter Eleven
With an effort of will, Jason McKay pulled control back and forced his mind to work.
“All personnel,” McKay snapped into his ‘link, “report! What’s going on?” There was a transmission that crackled in his earpiece with the muted sounds of gunfire and shouting, but whatever was said was unrecognizable and then nothing. “All right,” McKay looked to the others in the room. “Vinnie, you and Jock head into the forest and find the platoon with the investigation team, get them back here and set up a defensive perimeter here until you hear from me…”
Jock spun around at the sound of running footsteps behind him, but lowered his carbine when he saw it was friendly…two NCOs from the Decatur, their grey armor vests and helmets indicating they were both ship’s security.
“Sir!” The senior of the two-a tall, rangy young man with olive skin visible through the faceplate of his helmet-ran up to McKay, clutching a submachine gun nervously. “We were assigned to guard the outpost…do you know what’s going on?”
“You two,” McKay jabbed a finger at him and
the shorter, stocky sergeant with him, “come with me…we’re under attack and we’re heading to the landing zone to make sure the shuttle is secured. Podbyrin, you come with me too, unless you’d rather stay here and take your chances by yourself.”
“No, I think I will come with you,” the Russian shook his head, much calmer than McKay thought he would be. “I don’t suppose you have a spare gun…”
McKay was about to tell him no when Jock surprised him by pulling his sidearm from its holster and handing it to the Russian. “Don’t shoot anyone important,” the big Aussie cracked.
“We’re going, sir,” Vinnie said, motioning for Jock to follow him. Once out of the building, the two of them broke into a run, heading into the forest.
“All right, come on,” McKay motioned to Podbyrin and the two security guards. “I’m in front; Podbyrin, you stay between them and everyone maintains a ten meter interval. Stick to the side of the trail and keep your eyes open. Go.”
He could tell the senior security NCO wanted to argue with him, but he was the one with combat experience and Colonel or no, he was taking point. He just wished he’d brought his helmet with him from the shuttle; when he’d taken the others on the scout for the infiltration site, he’d thought it was more important to be able to use all his senses and get a feel for his surroundings.
He wanted to run as they headed back up the dirt path to the landing zone, but he held himself to a cautious trot, both to keep the little group together and to avoid running headlong into enemy fire. That gunfire seemed to grow more intense as they approached ever closer to the LZ, punctuated by explosions at intervals that sounded like the detonations of grenades. McKay snuck a quick glance at his ‘link and saw that they were less than a kilometer from the LZ…he could already see smoke billowing into the air, the dark cloud just starting to reach over the trees.
At five hundred meters, he began hear the solid smack of bullets hitting the trees around them and he wordlessly led the group off the path, heading into the forest to the left and increasing his speed. Fifty meters in, they came across a pit where a redwood-size tree had been uprooted in a storm and pulled up tons of dirt with it. The dead tree was down next to the pit, its tangled network of roots hanging over the three-meter deep depression and nearly hiding it.
“You,” McKay pointed at the lower ranking of the two security guards, “get into this hole with Colonel Podbyrin and stay here until I come and get you. Don’t fire unless the enemy sees you, and if they do, un-ass the area and head back to the outpost.”
“Aye, sir,” the man acknowledged. Podbyrin didn’t seem comfortable with being left behind, but the position was concealed and defensible, and McKay knew he was going to have to move fast.
After the two men had scrambled down into the hole, McKay led the other security guard in a gentle arc that took them around the opposite side of the LZ from the main path, increasing his speed as the noise of battle drew closer. As they ran, hurdling roots and tangling vines, McKay began to see flashes of movement through the thick veil of trees and brush: figures in camouflaged armor, firing weapons, too far away for any other details to be made out.
More trees, thicker, hiding the clearing of the LZ from his view, a haze of thick, dark smoke that turned humanoid figures into shadows and seemed to muffle the jackhammer gunshots. McKay felt as if he were in a nightmare, running through an unending battle yet never able to see any of the combatants clearly or fire a shot himself…and then, as if they’d crossed a threshold, he and the security guard were suddenly in the thick of the fight. McKay almost tripped over the back of a Marine rifleman as the man crouched behind a dead tree, his carbine at his shoulder, firing off controlled bursts at a cluster of three figures partially hidden in the smoke fifty meters ahead at the edge of the clearing.
Dropping to a knee beside the Marine, McKay added his own carbine to the volume of fire, while the security man stood to his left and shot from the hip with his submachine gun, using the HUD display in his helmet linked to the gun’s sights to aim it. The trio of enemy went down and McKay slapped the Marine on the shoulder and yelled “Heading downrange!” before sprinting over to them. He had to know…
Their armor was familiar, large and clunky compared to what he and the Marines used, camouflaged in brown, green and grey where it wasn’t punctured and stained with blood. The troopers were over two meters tall and broad across the chest, but the armor made them seem even more imposing. It was all made from designs over a century old, copied over and over in nanotech replicators built by long-dead aliens on an unknown world. Using the barrel of his carbine, McKay pushed the helmet off of one of the downed humanoid forms, revealing the face that had haunted his nightmares for the last five years.
The skin was the shade of pale blue that reminded him of a cyanosis victim, the nose flat to the face and the brow protected by a heavy, bony ridge. Yet it was the eyes that truly horrified him. They were black and lifeless, like a shark’s, soulless and inanimate. He had to remind himself that the thing was built from human DNA, yet somehow that seemed to make it more horrifying rather than less.
“Sir!” The Marine grabbed his arm. “Sir, we should get moving!”
“Where’s the rest of your platoon, Corporal?” McKay asked him.
“Last I saw, they were falling back to the shuttle, with some of your special ops guys, sir. I got cut off with a couple other Marines and had to run.”
“Then let’s find them. Follow me, both of you.” Before the Marine could object, McKay took off at a sprint back towards the clearing, the Corporal and the security guard trailing behind.
Louder than the cacophony of battle, louder than the crack of bullets breaking the sound barrier in their passage, McKay could hear the ragged pant of his own breath in his ears and he knew he should have been feeling the exertion, but he was riding a wave of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fear and felt nothing. Somewhere in the depths of his conscious mind, the part of him that remembered the two times he’d been shot was screaming at him to take cover, but his body may as well have been a machine.
Two of the Protectorate biomechs appeared out of the smoke to his left, just meters ahead of him, firing their rifles from the shoulder as they trotted across his path, shooting at someone to his right that he couldn’t see through the haze. Without slowing, McKay fired a burst that cut across both of the hulking figures, slicing through the neck of the first before punching through the second’s faceplate in a spray of blood and shattered plastic. The biomechs collapsed, crashing to the ground in a heap, but McKay had already rushed past them and was scanning for the next target, because to stop in the killing ground was death.
McKay rushed through a thick, black whirlpool of smoke and dug in his heels as a blistering wall of heat loomed before him. One of the Marine assault vehicles that had come down on the shuttle was consuming itself in an urgent rush of flame, the source of the billowing clouds of smoke that covered the area. He didn’t know what could have set it ablaze, but all the possibilities seemed very, very bad for his current situation.
The Marine corporal and the security guard came up behind him, and McKay turned to waved them to a halt…and brought up his carbine as he saw two more running figures coming out of the haze behind them. His finger was putting pressure on the trigger when he saw that the two were Marines: a skinny, painfully young private and a female sergeant.
“Jesus, Bill,” the Sergeant gasped, panting with exhaustion, “where the hell did you go?”
“I got cut off by the Gomers, Sergeant Manuel,” Bill, the Marine Corporal explained. “I thought you guys were dead!”
“Enough with the family reunion,” McKay interrupted. “You’re all with me now. Wind’s blowing that way,” he pointed behind them. “Once we get clear of the assault car, we’re going to lose the smoke pretty quick, so stay low and look for cover.”
At their nods, he circled around the burning hulk, emerging from the smoke into the clear, and immediately becoming aware
of several things, the first of which was that he knew what had destroyed the assault vehicle. The Protectorate mostly used things that they had brought with them back at the tail end of the 21 Century, when they had gone through the wormhole in the asteroid belt and emerged in orbit around the ruined alien homeworld. Those and some of the things they had pirated from Republic cargo or colony ships they could run through the alien replication factory they’d discovered and make more. But there was one thing they had built on their own, using designs from before the Sino-Russian War and cannibalized parts. The Marines who had first faced them had dubbed them Hoppers because the armored gun vehicles walked with a curious, hopping gate on ostrich-like legs designed to travel over rough terrain.
One of the Hoppers lay on the ground a hundred meters from the assault vehicle, burning just as fiercely, its cockpit and weapons turrets a smashed ruin. It was clear to McKay that the Hopper had taken out the assault vehicle with a missile before being destroyed itself.
Beyond the wrecked Hopper McKay could finally see the shuttle and marveled that the spacecraft was still intact. The delta-winged craft was designed for combat and heavily armored but it couldn’t have survived a missile strike from the Hopper…it was just luck that the Marine assault vehicle had taken out the Hopper before it had a chance to destroy the shuttle. He could see that the shuttle was sealed tight, the cargo and boarding ramps both retracted, but showed no other signs of being ready for takeoff. At least a dozen bodies were scattered around the shuttle’s landing gear, most of them Protectorate biomechs, and the battle was still raging around it.
A force of about twenty biomechs was clustered around the cover of the wrecked Hopper, oblivious to the flames still licking off of its shredded turbines, laying down a steady stream of automatic fire in the direction of the shuttle’s massive, heavy duty landing gear. What was left of the Republic forces were huddled behind the landing gear, firing back but in controlled bursts, conserving their ammo.