“Do as you see fit,” she said. “If there is another slot that might suit him better, feel free to reassign him.”
The XO nodded curtly.
“This leads to another question,” Kat said. “How did they catch us?”
“We were betrayed,” Davidson said flatly. “How else could it have been done?”
Kat visibly winced. She hadn’t wanted to consider the possibility.
“They knew where we were going in advance,” the XO said. Clearly, he’d been thinking along the same lines. “They had an ambush prepared, one that caught us by surprise; they could only have done that if they’d been warned, somehow, that we would be going there. And they didn’t respond to the feint at all.”
“As far as we know,” Kat said slowly. “They might have refused to panic when we attacked Aswan, or they might have called reinforcements from elsewhere.”
“They would have been fully justified in calling for help if they believed a major assault on Aswan was likely,” the XO said. “No, the only reason they didn’t was because they knew where we were going next. And they were right.”
“We have a rat onboard,” Davidson said. He leaned forward. “How many people knew we were going to Morningside?”
Kat frowned. “Before or after the attack on Aswan?”
“If they had time to plot an ambush, I’d bet they knew after we attacked Ringer,” Davidson said. “That squadron of superdreadnoughts wasn’t the one we confronted at Aswan.”
“The crews were much better trained, for a start,” Kat muttered. She cleared her throat. “If you’re correct, if we have an enemy intelligence agent onboard, how did they get a message off the ship?”
The XO looked embarrassed. “It isn’t unknown for crewmen to tap into secondary communications nodes and use them to signal their friends on other vessels,” he said. “If the spy was careful, he or she could have transmitted a signal from a communication node and then wiped it from the records. They’d have to isolate the node from the main datanet, but they’re practically designed to keep functioning if they lost their connection to the rest of the ship. There are so many redundancies built into the nodes that they could lose half their functionality and keep going.”
“There wouldn’t be any acknowledgement, either,” Davidson added. “As long as they didn’t try to send orders back, there would be no way to know the spy exists.”
Kat groaned, inwardly. She knew a little about industrial espionage—her father had made sure she knew the basics, even though it was unlikely she’d ever take up a senior role with the family business—but she didn’t know much about interplanetary espionage, apart from what they’d been taught at Piker’s Peak. Most of their lessons had been dreadfully unspecific: she’d been told not to leave data unsecured, not to talk about the details of her assignments, postings, and operations, and to make damn sure she kept her security codes under wraps. The only notion she remembered well had been the warning that raw midshipmen, newly minted as very junior officers, might be targeted by enemy spies. A recruitment attempt might not be recognized until it was far too late.
And then you would be hopelessly entangled in a spider’s web, she thought, recalling the warnings they’d been given. Once you are compromised, you will always be compromised.
She pushed the thought aside. Either the Theocracy had invented a completely new way to track ships through hyperspace—and send messages at FTL speeds without StarComs—or they’d somehow managed to place a spy on board. But how? Had the covert attempt to recruit potential commanding officers for her ships interested an enemy operative? Or . . . or had the enemy simply had an incredible stroke of luck? Or . . .
“Fuck it,” she said crossly. “Where do we start looking?”
“The enemy had to have been warned about the planned attack before we actually attacked Aswan,” Davidson said. “I think that only a relative handful of crewmen might have known our planned destination.”
Kat nodded. “The tactical staff,” she said crossly. “And anyone the other commanders might have told.”
She shook her head. “The spy might be dead,” she said savagely. “And we wouldn’t even know about it!”
“The other commanders knew not to discuss it,” Davidson said.
“It might not have mattered,” the XO countered sharply. “There are few secrets on a starship, Major. Rumors spread faster than light. Someone bragging to impress his bunkmate, someone engaging in pillow talk with their lover, someone just unable to keep his mouth shut after a few drinks . . . there’s no reason to restrict our search to the tactical staff.”
Kat would have liked to disagree, but she knew he was right. Rumors spread through starships very quickly, growing more inflated or outrageous with each retelling. The enemy had a genuine seer on the command staff. The enemy had an angel whispering secrets into their ears. The enemy had made a pact with the space demons . . . and, compared with some of the absurdities she’d heard, talk about the next target was almost nothing.
“It’s still the best place to start,” Davidson said. “High enough to be involved in tactical planning, low enough to pass unnoticed.” He looked at Kat. “With your permission, Captain, I would like to interrogate everyone in the tactical department.”
“Regulations strictly forbid using any form of enhanced interrogation without due cause,” the XO pointed out.
“We are at war,” Davidson snapped. “Regulations can be put aside at the captain’s discretion.”
“It would also cause a great deal of resentment,” the XO added.
“They can suck it up,” Davidson snarled. “They’re grown adults, not little boys whining because everyone’s been told to turn out their pockets after the church crown went missing.”
Kat held up her hand. “Calm down, both of you,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. Both of them were at the very edge of their endurance yet forced to concentrate on a major problem. The XO was meant to defend the crew if necessary; Davidson had no priority other than the hunt for the spy. “Do we have any likely suspects?”
“None,” Davidson said. He’d probably already looked at the files. “Anyone who couldn’t pass a basic vetting would not have been attached to this operation.”
“Senior officers do get vetted more thoroughly,” the XO said. “I was . . . asked . . . a great many questions after my homeworld was overrun.”
“They wouldn’t send an obvious spy,” Kat said slowly. What would Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson do? They’d set a trap . . . but after the ambush, she knew she didn’t have time to play games. Besides, the next ambush could easily cost her all of the remaining ships. “A refugee?”
“There are no first-generation refugees outside the groundpounders,” Davidson said coldly. “Anyone marked as a second-generation refugee would have been either thoroughly vetted or simply excluded from anything sensitive. I don’t think we’ll find Theocratic Spy listed in their personnel file . . .”
“Major,” the XO hissed.
“This is what we are going to do,” Kat said before the two men could start fighting. “We are going to remain here anyway until the remaining ships have been repaired, so the spy will have no further opportunity to get a message out to the enemy. You two are going to get some rest, then you can start looking for evidence before doing anything else. If you cannot find any evidence”—she took a breath—“I will authorize the use of truth drugs and lie detectors.”
“Captain, that could cost you your career,” the XO said.
“Yes, it could,” Kat said. Technically, naval personnel were excluded from the legal protections laid down in the Commonwealth Constitution, but it would still hamper her career if the effort proved fruitless. No one liked the thought of what were effectively random strip searches, even if there was no alternative. Legal, perhaps; moral, certainly not. “I do not see any alternative.”
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She glanced at Davidson. “Start with Commander Roach,” she added. “He’s in charge of the department; he may have noticed someone behaving oddly, or acting in a suspicious manner.”
“Lieutenant Parkinson has been handling personnel issues for tactical,” the XO put in quickly. “Commander Roach has spent far too much of his time on the bridge.”
“Check with her too, then,” Kat ordered. She’d have to have a word with Roach if he’d been neglecting his duties. But then, half the tactical staff that should have been assigned to them never had been. “And see if she merits a brevet promotion if she’s handling matters above her station.”
Her eyes narrowed in sudden recognition. “Lieutenant Parkinson . . . wasn’t she the girl with the gambling problem?”
“I have kept an eye on her, Captain,” the XO said. “I believe she has largely recovered from that misstep. And she did handle herself well during the battles around Cadiz.”
“Good,” Kat said. She knew all too well just how hard it was to recover from a youthful mistake, particularly if it was one that could have had nasty consequences. “Get some sleep, then check with both of them.”
“Aye, Captain,” the XO said. “With your permission, I will check in on the bridge and then go to my cabin.”
“Granted,” Kat said. She hoped that meant he would actually sleep. “Whatever else happens, we need to sit down in a couple of days and plot our next moves.”
The XO nodded and rose. “We need to make sure the enemy knows we’re not cowed,” he said. “Right now, they’re probably gloating over their victory. Even a small raid would give them a nasty fright.”
He saluted and then headed for the door.
“He’s a good man,” Davidson said once the hatch had closed. There was nothing but genuine affection in his tone. “Looking out for his people, despite knowing that one of them is a rat.”
“I know,” Kat said. The best XO she’d known had offered good advice to junior officers even though he’d ridden them hard. Davidson made a better XO, she thought, than she’d ever been. “Can we find the spy?”
“If worse comes to worst, we can interrogate everyone on the ship,” Davidson said. He yawned, suddenly. “It may not get us anywhere, if the spy has already been killed, but . . . at least we’d know the survivors were innocent.”
“Or that there’s another explanation,” Kat said.
Davidson looked at her tiredly. “Like what?”
“I wish I knew,” Kat said. She yawned herself, fighting down the urge to just curl up in her chair and go to sleep. “Any technological explanation . . . if the enemy could track ships through hyperspace, Pat, they’d have won the war by now. Unless they somehow managed to get a rogue program into our datanet . . .”
“It would have been found,” Davidson said. “The techheads who do the work are among the most stringently vetted people in the Commonwealth.”
Kat nodded. It was an unpleasant fact that certain agencies within the Commonwealth were allowed to discriminate, refusing to accept applicants who had items in their background that might—might—make them a security risk. Anyone who had relations on the other side of the border had to be considered a potential danger, even though it was unlikely they’d serve the Theocracy willingly. The refugees from Verdean and Ringer would never be allowed to rise to the very highest levels, no matter how loyal and faithful they were. And they would never be allowed anywhere near a starship’s datacores.
“Then we must proceed on the assumption we have a spy,” she said curtly. “Get some rest, then start hunting for the bastard.”
Davidson gave her a stern look. “You need to sleep too,” he said. His voice softened before she could take offense at his tone. “Get some rest yourself.”
“I will,” Kat said.
She hesitated, then reached out and pulled him into a kiss. It was the wrong time and place, but she wanted—needed—to feel alive. His lips felt hard and demanding against hers . . . she moaned slightly as his tongue slipped into her mouth, his hands reaching down to stroke her breasts through the uniform.
“Come with me,” she said, standing. “Please.”
Davidson grinned, then followed her into the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
William was not pleased.
He’d been raised to believe in loyalty. As a child, one was loyal to one’s parents; as a grown man, one was loyal to one’s group; as a starship crewman, one was loyal to the rest of the crew. There was room for dissent, even for active disagreement, but not for outright disloyalty. The glue that bound a ship’s crew together could not survive treachery. It would undermine the faith and trust the crew needed in order to work together. A spy—someone who had deliberately betrayed his fellow crew to the enemy—was the worst of all. He had tried to get them all killed.
He hadn’t slept very well. He’d kept thinking, wondering just who would betray his or her shipmates—and why. As XO, he was responsible for supervising the crew; had he, somehow, missed the signs of a budding traitor? Or had he overlooked something that had started a person down the road to treachery? Or had he simply ignored the traitor, dismissed him as unimportant and never even considered the possibility of treachery? By the time he’d finally drifted off to an uncomfortable sleep, his head was echoing with anger and bitter pain. Someone was going to pay for betraying their shipmates . . .
But it wouldn’t be enough. How could it be? The crew would be broken and scattered by the news, when they needed to pull together. Their faith in one another would be shattered. It wouldn’t be easy for them to bond again after such a betrayal. And yet he needed to make them work as a group once more. Maybe, just maybe, they could isolate the spy—even keep news of his or her existence a secret. But it wouldn’t work unless they caught and removed the traitor before it was too late.
William pulled himself out of bed and stumbled into the shower, then turned on the tap and washed his body down with cold water. The cold shocked him awake; he cursed under his breath, then forced himself to look in the mirror. He’d terrify anyone who saw him, he suspected; his face looked as if he hadn’t slept for days, let alone hours. He washed his face thoroughly, then turned up the temperature and concentrated on relaxing. If things had been different, he might have declared himself unfit for duty and asked the doctor for a sedative, but it was unthinkable when the ship was in deep trouble. He stepped out of the shower and dressed quickly, then glanced at the status update on his terminal. Lightning was still several hours from being ready for action, while the remaining four ships were days away. It might be better, he thought, for Lightning to set out on her own, while the other ships were repaired.
Once we have the spy in the brig, he told himself firmly, then we can start making some proper plans.
He checked his appearance in the mirror, then walked out of his cabin and down towards the tactical compartment. He’d run through everyone’s file in the department last night before his meeting with the captain, and none of them had stood out as a potential spy. Not, he had to admit, that he’d expected anyone to have spy written in his or her personnel dossier. The Theocracy wouldn’t use someone without a background that would stand up to scrutiny, particularly given how much sensitive information flowed through the tactical department. It practically had to be someone from Tyre . . .
. . . which, he hoped, meant an unwilling spy rather than a willing traitor.
It struck him as odd, but he’d been an officer long enough to know that everyone had their pressure points. If someone had offered him command, he knew, it would have been hard for him to refuse whatever they demanded in exchange. Or if they’d offered him something he wanted . . . who knew? If someone desired something badly enough, the mere prospect of getting it would be enough to weaken their resistance. Money? Forbidden pleasures? Or even a chance to live life high on the hog after the war?
Or rese
ntment, he added, mentally. Someone might have been passed over for promotion enough to want revenge on the entire system.
It wasn’t a comfortable thought. If someone had started to compile a list of officers and crew who had good reason to be resentful, they would have to put William himself at the top of the list. Sixty years old, forty years in the Navy, a career that hadn’t been blighted by any ghastly failures . . . and he hadn’t been offered a command, while a young girl in her late twenties had been promoted ahead of him. If Captain Falcone hadn’t proved herself, he wondered, would he have resented her badly enough to betray the Navy? Once, he would have considered it unthinkable; now, he knew it was a very real possibility.
He sighed inwardly as he stepped into the tactical department and surveyed the thirteen officers working at their consoles, replaying everything that had happened at Morningside, from the moment they’d entered the system to the moment they’d fled back into hyperspace, losing six ships and hundreds of lives in their wake. None of them looked like obvious traitors—William chided himself for thinking that any of them would look evil—but one of them was the most likely suspect. Unless, of course, something had been leaked and the spy was in a different department. It wouldn’t be the first time someone seemingly insignificant had proven themselves a deadly threat.
“Commander,” Lieutenant Cecelia Parkinson said. She looked older, more mature, than he remembered, although her short red hair and freckled face still made her look young. She’d lost some of her innocence, he noted; her mistakes on her first cruise, even if they hadn’t been fatal, had left scars. “What can I do for you?”
“I need a word,” he said. He didn’t think Cecelia was the spy, but she did have a black mark in her record. “Your office, now.”
Cecelia hesitated, then turned and led him through a hatch into a small office. It was barely large enough to swing a cat: a desk, a couple of chairs, a computer terminal . . . really, it was nothing more than a status symbol. Technically, it should have belonged to Lieutenant Commander Roach, but he’d passed it to Cecelia when it became clear she would be largely running the department. William made a mental note to have a few words with him about the issue, then sat down and faced the younger woman. Cecelia was clearly trying to keep her expression under control, but it was easy to tell she looked worried. She just didn’t have the experience to hide her emotions from him.
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 28