Duty, Honor, Planet: 02 - Honor Bound

by Rick Partlow

  McKay regarded her with strained patience. “Yes, Commander Pirelli; hence the whole ‘it sucks’ part of my statement.” He shook his head. “We just have to hope that the Decatur made it through.”

  “There’s no use putting it off,” Nunez decided; McKay thought the man sounded grateful to have the decision made for him. He turned to the Helm officer. “Lt. Sweeny, plot us the fastest, most direct course possible back to the Solar System.”

  “We’re going to need to hit refueling stations twice, minimum, sir,” the Helm officer told him after only a moment’s calculation. “That’s 41 days, 10 hours travel time.”

  “Don’t waste time then…get us heading out of this system at one gravity acceleration until we get into the tanks. Lt. Mandel,” Nunez turned to the Communications station. “Sound the alarms. All stations secure for maximum acceleration, all personnel to the g-sleep tanks within the hour.”

  The boost alarm sounded and McKay held onto the safety rail with practiced instinct as the acceleration brought them to the bridge floor at a one gravity analog. “If you don’t need me, Commander,” he said, “I’m going to make sure my people are squared away and ready to hit the tanks.”

  “What do you think we’re going to find when we get home, Colonel?” Nunez asked him softly before he could step away.

  McKay turned, fighting back a brief flash of annoyance. How the hell would he know what they were going to find? Then he realized that, even though Nunez was about the same age as he was, the man had not seen combat in the war and probably hadn’t had the opportunity since. And now he was thrust into command of the Fleet’s flagship in a situation he never would have imagined…

  “Commander,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “there’s no way to say for sure, but I think we’re going to have to be prepared to sail into an all-out war. We also have to play our cards close to the vest: if the Protectorate got to Vice President Dominguez the way they did Admiral Patel, we may not even know who’s on our side.” He saw Pirelli’s head snap around at his words and he cursed himself: that might not have been wise to share with the crew just yet. At least the rest of the bridge crew was out of earshot for the quiet conversation.

  “I can fight this ship, sir,” Nunez said, his voice even more subdued. “I’ve been trained for that and I think I can do it. But this…cloak and dagger stuff, sir, I don’t know. Admirals are trained to be politicians, I’m just a sailor.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Commander,” McKay told him, putting more confidence in his grin and his voice than he actually felt. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Shannon Stark stepped off the ramp of the lander and into oblivion. The darkness swallowed her up and her helmet’s HUD switched futilely from infrared to thermal and back before settling on a computer mapping program that showed their target 10 kilometers below and over 200 kilometers north. She heard nothing but the slow hiss of her own breathing, felt nothing through her sealed helmet and armor, even as she fell at terminal velocity through the frigid night sky, her arms and legs spread in a stable X position.

  “Report,” she said tersely into her helmet microphone, and the command was directed behind her via a laser line-of-sight antenna affixed to her backpack.

  “Charlie Gulf Two deployed and nominal,” a male voice answered her command, a slight tremble in his tone as he tried to sound calm.

  “Charlie Gulf Three deployed and nominal,” a female followed closely on his last syllable, full of eager excitement.

  Ten more echoed the words, until finally she recognized Tom Crossman’s voice bringing up the rear. “Charlie Gulf One-Four deployed and nominal,” the senior NCO reported. “All elements deployed and nominal.”

  “Engage wings,” Shannon ordered, tapping a control on the band around her left forearm. Paper-thin polymer wings swung out from her backpack and pushed her skyward as they immediately began to grab air. “Fire boosters.” A tap on a second control and she felt a rumbling whoosh from the compact jet engines that protruded from her flight pack, felt the sudden pressure on the straps that secured her into its harness as she began accelerating forward.

  Her helmet’s HUD displayed the transponder signals of the rest of the unit and she could see them falling into formation behind her, their flight computers pre-programmed for the target landing zone. That done, she did a quick check by feel of her gear: her carbine and assault pack were strapped to her chest, out of the way of the flight pack and she quickly confirmed that everything had stayed in place through the jump.

  She tried to go over the plan in her head, making sure there was no weakness to it, but she couldn’t manage it because she couldn’t overlook the glaring, obvious fact that this whole operation was totally fucked. The entire situation was fucked, and had been since that meeting with President O’Keefe two days ago…

  “So now we know.” Daniel O’Keefe’s words had the grim finality of a death sentence, Shannon thought. They were back in his private office at the Executive Mansion in Capital City, far from the hectic, grimy danger of Houston ‘plex, but Shannon felt the coming threat just as gravely.

  “Yes, sir,” she confirmed, sitting back in the chair across the desk from him, her hands folded in her lap. She was back in a dress uniform again, too, after days spent in mufti. “Antonov is calling the shots, even from a prison cell in a bunker. This isn’t just a home-grown coup.”

  “But Brendan doesn’t know it,” O’Keefe mused, leaning forward, eyes focused on a thought outside the office walls. “I wonder what he would do if I told him?”

  “Sir?” Shannon asked, eyes widening. “Are you suggesting that you actually do that?”

  “I’m considering it,” he admitted. “The man isn’t a psychopath. He’s ambitious to the point of lunacy, but he’s not stupid. If he knows he’s being played, he might cooperate. Particularly if I give him immunity from prosecution.”

  “You can’t do it, Daddy!” Valerie protested, coming to her feet from where she’d been sitting casually on the edge of the President’s desk. “He’s responsible for Glen’s death!”

  Shannon felt a slight shiver go up her spine as she pictured Valerie plunging a knife into Riordan the way she had with the hired killer in Houston.

  “He didn’t order Glen’s killing, honey,” O’Keefe pointed out. “That was Fourcade, and I am not suggesting we let him off. But whatever Brendan Riordan is guilty of, I am not ready to allow the Republic to destroy itself just to make sure he pays for his sins.” He reached out and took Valerie’s hand, looked her in the eye. “I loved Glen like a son, Val, you know I did…but I will not do that, even for him.”

  “Sir,” Shannon interrupted carefully, “the problem is, what if he doesn’t believe you? If you spook him, he could have Antonov moved and then we might lose track of him completely.”

  “What would you suggest, then, Major Stark?” O’Keefe asked her.

  “We should raid the bunker and seize Antonov,” she declared. “We can interrogate him and find out everything we need to know.”

  “Riordan already tried that,” O’Keefe pointed out. “Look what it got him.”

  “If Fourcade was brainwashed or even replaced by Antonov,” Shannon countered, “they might never have actually interrogated him.”

  “If you assault the bunker, they could just as easily kill him, or blow the whole place sky-high,” the President pointed out. “Or worse, the assault force could be detected and they could move him. Seems to me both ways have some serious risks, and we aren’t likely to think of a risk-free option.” He grinned sardonically. “Unless you’d like to order an orbital strike on the site.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Shannon said seriously. “But it gains us a hell of a lot more to find out what they’re planning, and for that we need Antonov alive. Fourcade too.”

  O’Keefe shook his head, chuckling softly. “I suppose by now I should know better than to make that kind of joke where you’re concerned, Major.” He
frowned. “You need a promotion, you know. You’re dealing with serious players here in Capital City; you should at least be a Lt. Colonel.” He squinted at her doubtfully. “Can I do that, without going through the Senate? I honestly don’t remember.”

  Shannon fought to keep from sighing with frustration. “Sir, I believe you can, as President, award any promotions short of the rank of Fleet Admiral or Commanding General of the Marines without Senate approval. But I have to admit, sir, my rank isn’t the foremost thing on my mind right now.”

  “I know it’s not important to you, Major,” he smiled at her indulgently. “But when you’re dealing with people like Brendan Riordan and Xavier Dominguez, appearances and labels are important. By the time you leave this office, you’re going to be a full Colonel and McKay is going to be a General, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. President,” Shannon said, trying very hard not to clench her teeth. “I’m sure you know more about the effect of such things in the political arena than I do.” She stopped herself as an idea came to her. “Sir, how about this: you call Riordan and ask him to come to a private meeting-tell him it’s about the biomech bill, maybe. If he does come, you try to get him to come clean about Antonov. If he isn’t honest about the whole thing, we can take him into custody immediately. If he doesn’t meet with you, then we track his movements and launch the raid.”

  “That sounds sensible,” Valerie interjected. “Do you already know the location of the bunker?”

  “Approximately,” Shannon told her. “We have a Trojan on Fourcade’s ‘link. The signal was blocked for a few hours, but it got us close enough that we were able to narrow it down to an old U.S. Air Force testing range from about 250 years ago. The records we located indicated there was an emergency bunker on the range, out in the desert. We think the Riordan must have bought it through a blind account and had it rebuilt. It fits with what President Jameson told us.”

  “All right, Major…Colonel,” O’Keefe corrected himself. “Start putting together the team for the raid. I’ll contact Riordan immediately and we should find out soon whether we have to use it.”

  Riordan had cordially and enthusiastically agreed to meet with President O’Keefe later that day to discuss the implementation of the biomech research. Then he’d boarded a private VTOL jet and headed for the southwestern desert. She’d been in western Canada with Tom Crossman at the time, putting together the raid unit, when she got the call from Valerie on a secure ‘link.

  “We’ll be wheels up in an hour,” she’d told the Senator, giving a nod to Tom that sent him out of the office to get the team on their transport.

  “Shannon, there’s something else,” Valerie had gone on hesitantly. “Daddy is calling a special session of the Senate for tomorrow morning: he’s timing it to coincide with your assault. He’s going to tell them what’s going on, everything. He says he can’t keep it secret any longer, that there’s too much at stake.”

  “Oh, fucking wonderful,” Shannon sighed. She shook her head. “Well, Valerie, that’s his call. I disagree, but at this point it won’t make my job any more difficult.” She snorted humorlessly. “Frankly, I’m not certain my job could be any more difficult.”

  “This could push us into civil war,” Valerie said, her voice distant and sad.

  “Which is probably exactly what Antonov wants. But one crisis at a time. I’ll contact you when we reach the objective.”

  A few minutes later, as she’d been rigging her assault pack and weapon for the flight, she’d received a call from Jameson: she’d been half-expecting it.

  “Major Stark,” he said, his bass voice sounding oddly tinny on her earpiece, “I just received a message from Riordan. He said he thinks that President O’Keefe is about to have him arrested and he’s heading for the bunker.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that, Mr. President,” she said, trying to make the words sound polite despite her anxiety and the press of time. She didn’t even consider correcting him about her rank. “If you can contact him, try to reassure him that you’ve talked to me and we don’t have any plans to arrest him.”

  “I take that to mean you’re on your way now,” she could hear the grin in the man’s voice.

  “I have no official comment on that, sir,” she told him, grinning to herself. “I can tell you this, though: President O’Keefe is about to go public with this.”

  “Oh my,” Jameson’s tone became grim. “He’s the President, but that seems like an extraordinarily bad idea to me.”

  “He didn’t ask for my opinion either, sir, but the point is, once he does present this to the Senate, it’s possible that Riordan and Fourcade may figure out whose side you’re on. You should probably lie low for a while.”

  “Major Stark, if his side wins, I’m not sure there’s any place on this planet that’s low enough to hide me.”

  Shannon felt her backpack jets run dry with a coughing sputter and she checked her HUD readout, noting with a slight start that they were only 20 kilometers from the target. She’d spent too long feeling sorry for herself and lost track of the flight-time.

  “Charlie Gulf One bingo fuel,” she radioed. “One minute to chute deployment.”

  The rest of the unit echoed back the status with Tom bringing up the rear. She chuckled at the thought of how much she trusted the man: six years ago, when they’d first been assigned together under Jason McKay, she’d considered Crossman an unreliable fuck-up whose only positives were a fearless attitude and a virtuoso skill at the martial arts.

  She shook off the reverie before it distracted her once again, then checked her HUD and poised her hand over the parachute ring. “Ten seconds,” she announced. “Five…pull!”

  Shannon was yanked upward by the expanding parachute and found herself descending vertically at an agonizingly slow pace. Each of the members of her unit was wearing stealth armor, designed to mask heartbeat and thermal signature as well as absorbing radar and lidar sensors…theoretically, they were undetectable except by a Mark I Human Eyeball. But she still felt as if she were wearing a huge target on her chest and screaming “Shoot at me!”

  This shouldn’t be that difficult, she told herself again. They didn’t know she was coming, didn’t even know she knew about the bunker at all, so the surprise should be complete. The lander would provide air cover and extraction once they’d acquired the assets and they’d be out of there in less than an hour…if everything went according to plan.

  And when has that ever happened?

  An altitude warning lit up on her HUD as the ground rose swiftly up to meet her feet, details suddenly filling in on her thermal and infrared display as rocks and scrub brush began to become visible in the moonless night. At the last second, she yanked downward on the chute’s control handles and the canopy inflated sharply and Shannon touched down lightly on the balls of her feet, stumbling forward as she caught her balance against the bulky mass of her flight pack.

  “Charlie Gulf One is down,” she announced, pulling the quick release on her flight pack. It felt as if she were in free-fall again as the wing assembly and thrusters dropped from her shoulders to thump heavily to the ground behind her, the parachute beginning to retract into the pack automatically. She took a knee beside the flight assembly and began freeing her assault pack and carbine from the fastenings that held them to her chest. She transferred the pack to her back and made sure the carbine was ready to fire, then went prone in the hard-pack sand as she began to hear replies from the rest of the squad.

  They were all professionals, the best that First Special Operations Command had to offer, and they each moved to fill in a position on the perimeter, scanning watchfully until, at last, Tom Crossman moved up beside Shannon, clapping her on the shoulder as he took a knee beside her.

  “We’re ready to move out,” he told her, voice calm and easygoing, as if this were a weekend training exercise. She couldn’t see his face through the darkened visor of his helmet, but she knew he was
probably smiling.

  “EM silence from here on,” she ordered. “Keep the formation tight…I’m more worried about detection than I am separation.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed, then went to convey the orders via touching helmets, forgoing the use of suit comms.

  Their point-man, a Technician Second Class named Von Paleske, moved out first with Shannon just behind him and Tom Crossman riding drag in the rear. Shannon let him watch for threats while she scanned for cameras or seismic detection devices that could pick up footsteps. It was tricky going-they couldn’t risk being detected, but they also had a ticking clock: they had over ten kilometers to cover and they needed to be inside before sunrise or the satellites would be able to pick them up on visual.

  The night was fairly cool, but Shannon felt herself begin to sweat under her armor as she half-walked, half-jogged across the packed sand and bare sandstone of the high desert plain. They were in southeastern Utah, on the edge of a small pocket of privately-held land in the midst of the vast Southwest Heritage Preserve, and even in summer the temperatures at night were temperate, but the Stealth armor lacked the powered cooling systems of other modern body armor: the thermal signature of such systems was too visible.

  Shannon sucked water from her backpack reservoir as their trail led over rolling hills of bare sandstone that offered treacherous footing and divided her attention from her wary search for sensors. At least, she told herself, they had the enhanced vision of the battle helmets. She would have hated to try to travel this path at night with nothing but her naked eyes for guidance. It took over an hour of careful, tedious, exhausting trudging before the slippery rock mounds gave way to plains of scrub and sand and they were able to pick up their pace.

  They were almost on top of the old structures before Shannon saw them; they were dead and falling apart, the newest of them over a century old. Shannon looked down at the ground beneath her feet and saw for the first time that the sand was covering broken and crumbling pavement rather than natural rocks. She waved Crossman forward and touched her helmet to his.