Weuve turned to stare at the query. “You may be new here, Chief, but on this hull, you don’t question your orders: you obey them.”
Rulaine shrugged. “Yes, sir.” He quickly raised the gun—but aimed it at Weuve’s cheek.
Who took a drift-step back in the microgravity. “Hey—”
The NeoCoBro uttered a weak cough—consistent with the low propellant setting used for nonlethal rounds—which sent a gel-capsule splatting against the side of Weuve’s face.
Who was shouting: “McDevitt, Gross, get—” Weuve’s orders to his first pilot/XO and second engineer slurred into a groan and then a rough sigh; his feet drifted up off the deck and he floated slowly toward the bulkhead, already senseless.
Downing breathed again. “Those new tranq rounds work rather quickly.”
Rulaine nodded as he steadied his own recoil-induced drift with one hand, trained the gun on the other two bridge crewmen. He nodded at them. “Are we going to have any trouble with you two?”
McDevitt swallowed and shook his head. Gross was actually smiling. “Hell, no: I’d have been happy to pop the CO myself.”
“That’s insubordination, mister: your CO was out of line, but he’s still your CO. Be glad I don’t put it in your record. Now, take the lieutenant, and get the others ready for cold sleep.”
“Yessir.” The two of them skim-trotted off the bridge, towing Weuve. As the bulkhead door started sealing, Richard heard McDevitt ordering the ship’s complement to gather in the galley.
Downing put away the Executive Orders that Weuve had—erroneously—dismissed as forgeries. “Very well done, Captain Rulaine. Obviously, you roused no suspicions when you replaced their ‘ailing’ security chief a week ago.”
“Guess not, sir. But I have to say this is the strangest assignment I’ve ever been given; what’s it all about?”
“I can tell you what some parts are about, Captain. But I can’t tell you what it’s all about—as I suppose you have already surmised.”
“I suppose I have, sir.”
Glancing at the green beret’s patient hazel eyes, Downing wondered what unusually gifted recruiting sergeant had seen beyond the insubordination of Rulaine’s undergraduate years, and had instead discerned a spirit that would not only accept the practical dicta of a military life, but would thrive under them. As an OCS candidate, Bannor Rulaine had not been the average shave-tail—and afterward, he had not been given average assignments. To date, his battlefield choices had been frequently unorthodox and overwhelmingly successful. More importantly, his discretion was legendary, having brought him to the attention of intelligence chiefs, and hence, to Downing.
Downing shrugged. “What I can tell you about your part of this mission is that we will be consigning this hull and its complement to the care of another ship once we reach Mars orbit. From there, we will make planetfall at Syrtis City, where you will be responsible for overseeing the protection of ten extremely important persons. It is not merely their lives that you must protect, but the information that they will soon have: they must not be buttonholed, seduced, drugged, kidnapped, or otherwise made susceptible to any kind of debriefing or interrogation. Any questions?”
“Just ones you can’t answer, sir.”
Downing wondered how much Bannor’s unconventional brain had already answered on its own. Certainly, he had inferred the extreme sensitivity of the mission from the outré secrecy precautions he was witnessing. Downing had arrived via a special military clipper, its crew put into cold sleep before docking with Weuve’s patrol boat. A third craft—a navy transport—would soon make rendezvous and, after depositing Downing and Rulaine on Mars, would then tow the other two ships to an outbound shift carrier. Which, upon arriving at Alpha Centauri, would inter their crews in a secure facility for a long, secrecy-assuring sleep. Hardly standard operating procedure.
Rulaine glanced at the internal monitors, frowned when he saw some of the crew becoming restive in the galley, turned up the sound: surprised complaints, but nothing mutinous. Yet. He turned back to Downing. “Not to rush you along, sir, but—orders?”
Downing nodded. “Seal the bridge. Route all controls directly through here. Engage the antitamper failsafes, if they are not already active.”
Rulaine double-checked the control panels. “Already active, sir. Switching all control to bridge; auxiliary is now deactivated.”
“Very good. And be sure to keep one eye on the crew.”
“I’ll keep both eyes on them, sir.” Rulaine drifted closer to the monitor. Without looking back toward Downing, he asked, “Sir, am I allowed to know the identity of the ten persons I’ll be babysitting?”
“Eventually. But right now, we need to focus on the one who’s likely to attract—and possibly cause—more trouble than the other nine combined.”
“A rabble-rouser, sir?”
“Nothing of the sort. But he does resent me—and for good reason.”
ODYSSEUS
Caine pried open the malfunctioning door sensor he had removed: hair-thin fiber-optic connectors coiled around chips that should have been called “specks.”
The doorbell’s secure tone announced a recognized “friend” rather than an “intruder.” Opal breezed into the suite, then his room—and stopped, surprised. “Is that sensor busted again?”
“Yep, which is damned odd, considering it was just repaired. This time, I’m running the diagnostics myself.”
Opal frowned at his tone. “Do you think that someone has been tampering with it?”
Caine smiled. “No, probably not. As Napoleon said, never ascribe to malice what which can be adequately explained by incompetence. But either way, the only way to be sure the sensor works is to fix it myself.”
“Can I help?” she asked brightly, sitting down very close to him.
He looked at her. “You’re very cheery. Too cheery. So I’m guessing today’s news is bad.”
Opal’s smiled faded. “Well—yeah. Just as we expected; the Scarecrow will be here soon. Sorry.”
Caine went back to examining the sensor. “It was only a matter of time before Downing came sniffing around. And with Nolan’s memorial being held on Mars, he has the perfect excuse.”
Opal responded in the flat, utterly reasonable tone that signified she was digging her heels in. “Well, just because Scarecrow is almost here doesn’t mean we have to waste the afternoon. I was thinking that, before he takes our lives away from us again, perhaps we could—”
“Yes?” Caine looked up, trying not to look hopeful or lecherous or shallow.
“I was thinking that we could get in one last visit to the dojo.”
“Oh.” Caine tried to sound enthusiastic. “Sure. Great.” Not the direction I hoped our activities would take during our last day of privacy.
But that hope was, Caine admitted, pure fancy. After months of uncertainty regarding where his relationship with Opal was headed (if anywhere), it beggared belief that she’d initiate a change now, in a few final hours.
When they’d left Earth, Caine had hoped their traveling together would segue into their being together. But the frenzied rush of their departure hardly set the tone for budding romance. Getting off Earth had meant getting through security before Downing—or anyone else—thought to red-flag their IDs. Fortuitously, the back-to-back deaths of Nolan and Tarasenko had generated enough chaos to prevent that.
Or so Caine had thought. But he began to question that hypothesis when they made the journey to Mars without interference or even a message from Earthside. It wasn’t as if they had vanished without a trace: they’d had to use their own IDs to get to orbit, and then to book passage to Mars. So maybe Downing had left them alone because he couldn’t risk sending orders through his leak-prone intelligence net. If so, that might explain why he was now coming himself.
But for what purpose? To coerce them back into the cloak-and-dagger webs that he habitually spun? No way. IRIS was a magnet for death: Nolan’s demise, Tarasenko’s, and three a
ttempts—at least—on his own life were all the proof Caine needed. And if his efforts at filling in the one hundred hours missing from his past were proceeding slowly, at least no one had tried to kill him, either.
He mustered a smile for Opal. “So, when should I meet you at the dojo?”
“Sixteen hundred hours sidereal. We’ll work on releases, maybe a few throws, then kumite.”
“Ugh.” He smiled more broadly. “Sparring.”
“You don’t like getting a workout?”
“Oh, I like the workout. But getting my ass kicked every time does deflate my ego.”
Opal’s own smile faltered a bit and she turned quickly—even awkwardly—and strode into her room, apparently suppressing a wistful sigh as she did.
MENTOR
Downing checked his watch. “Mr. Rulaine, we need to establish contact with two of the other people on your security list. Nolan Corcoran’s children—Trevor and Elena—are on Mars presently, for their father’s memorial ceremony.”
Rulaine raised an eyebrow. “Admiral Corcoran’s memorial is being held on Mars? That’s a little—remote—for a person of his stature, isn’t it, sir?”
“That’s partly why it was chosen. His children are expecting me, but I’m a bit ahead of schedule, so we’ll need to call ahead. Please contact Comm Ops at Syrtis Major Naval Base and have them locate and collect the Corcorans.”
Only a few moments passed before Rulaine responded. “Syrtis Major confirms that the contact orders for Corcoran’s children are received and being acted upon, sir.” Pushing back from the commo panel, Rulaine slowly and carefully unfolded himself into a standing position: only three weeks in zero-gee, and he already moved like a seasoned professional.
“Very good, Captain. It also seems like the disturbance in the galley has died down.”
Without looking sideways at the relevant monitor, which showed the crew going through preparations for cold sleep, Rulaine nodded. “Seems so, sir.” Rulaine evidently had impressive peripheral vision, as well.
“Then let’s start reviewing—”
“Sir, before we get to that, I have one more question about Riordan.”
Downing nodded.
“Beyond his resentment of you, is Riordan going to present me with any—problems—that I have to take into consideration?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, there’s a rumor in the news—and elsewhere—that Mr. Riordan was not exactly a ‘fellow traveler’ when given his mission to Dee Pee Three.”
Downing kept from working his jaw. “He was not a completely willing recruit, no.”
“Then, sir, do I expect that he’ll cooperate, or be—problematic?”
Downing considered avoiding the question, redirecting it, even lying outright, but instead he turned to look at Bannor Rulaine and said, “I wish I could tell you, Captain, but I don’t know the answer myself. You see, when we activated him—”
“Mr. Downing, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a response from Syrtis Base regarding the Corcorans.”
“And?”
“There’s a problem, sir.”
“You mean the Shore Liaison Office doesn’t have them in hand, yet?”
“No sir; I mean that, according to the SLO, they’re not in Syrtis City—or anywhere else on Mars.” Rulaine looked straight into his eyes. “They’re missing, sir.”
Chapter Thirty
TELEMACHUS
The face that looked out the airlock window at him was ill-shaven, eyes indistinct behind a lank forelock of dirty-blond hair. Thank God, he thought. If they’re terrorists, then they’re sloppy ones. Most are highly disciplined, attentive to personal grooming not only by inclination, but by training. Conversely, personal sloppiness usually means operational sloppiness.
As the face backed away from the airlock door, he felt the wind push fitfully against the heavy life support unit on his back. He turned: a rusty-brown expanse of stone and sand was surrendering occasional sheets of dust up to the growing wind. Not good and not expected. The Navy meteorologist had agreed with the civilian service for once: from Syrtis Major to Isidus Planitia, twenty-kph winds, steady from the west, a relatively constant –12 degrees Celsius. By Martian standards, a calm and balmy day. But that’s not how it was shaping up for Trevor Corcoran, and the disguised SEAL officer was not pleased with the discrepancy.
He heard the airlock door squeak and sigh and he turned—to find himself looking down the barrel of a ten-millimeter Sig Sauer caseless handgun. Okay, their equipment isn’t top-shelf, but it’s not all antiques, either.
He raised his hands. The figure—wearing a generic spacesuit that was the same model as his own—gestured him to approach. Trevor did, keeping his hands high. The figure stepped to the left, motioned him past—and slammed him forward against the inner airlock door, the pistol pressed into the side of his helmet. The figure’s free hand roved and snatched at his spacesuit, tugged open the thigh pockets, then pulled him about-face by the shoulder. With the gun now snugged up against Trevor’s neck, his chest pockets and utility pouches were subjected to the same hasty inspection. Then the spacesuited figure stepped back and, gun steady, reached back with his free hand to pull the outer airlock door closed. A moment later, the hatch autodogged and a rising hiss indicated that atmosphere was being pumped in.
So far, so good. There had always been a chance that they would shoot him down the moment they saw him. But that was one of the many operational hazards that there had been no way to avoid.
The inner airlock door swung open—and Trevor found himself staring into yet another muzzle. This one was an antique: a nine-millimeter parabellum MP-5 machine pistol. Almost a century out of date. Okay, they’re definitely not the A-team.
Pushed roughly from behind, he staggered forward and—knowing that they’d have his helmet off in seconds—reasoned that this was the last moment he could conduct a visual assessment without looking like he was doing just that.
And Trevor liked what he saw. The three in the main room were ethnically diverse. None over twenty-seven. All male. All had tattoos, piercings, long—and in one case, grotesquely unwashed—hair. Complete heterogeneity of weapons. The central table was an overcrowded parking lot for used coffee mugs and pots. Several dozen ration-pack wrappers had been discarded on the floor, as well as other trash and—was that a pair of dirty socks under a chair? One of them—the big, sleepy-looking guy with the greasy hair—clearly had track marks on his left forearm. T-shirts, several sporting the logos of Slaverock bands. In short, nothing to imply or even hint at the kind of discipline imparted by any formal training in operations. Terrorists? He smiled. Or gang-bangers?
The “terrorist” behind him grabbed his helmet, popped the side clamp and ripped it off.
The smell of unwashed bodies and stale air almost made Trevor gag.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are and why you’re here. You give me an answer I don’t like, and you’re meat.”
“My name is—hell, it isn’t important. Call me Trev. I’m just a guy hired by the girl’s family. And I’ve brought money to pay for her release.”
“What the—what the hell are you talking about?”
“Look: I know you’ve got the girl. And all these guns prove it.”
“Yeah—and you’d better prove you’ve come alone or this conversation is going to end. Real soon.”
“You can send a man out to see. You’ll find a pressurized buggy three hundred meters due east. There’s no one in it. But before you send someone to check it, you might want to pick up the aluminum attaché case just outside the door.”
“Why?”
“Because the payment is inside.”
The kidnapper with the machine pistol turned to give an order to the man in the spacesuit. “Scan him.” He turned back. “Now, how do I know you’re not just the inside man for an assault team?”
“Because when you send your man out, you’re going to find that there’s no one
in sight—which means by the time anyone could join me here, I’d be dead. Right?”
The one with the machine pistol spent a moment thinking, then his eyes flicked over toward his man with the RF scanner.
Who shrugged. “He’s clean; no signals coming off him.”
“And none will. Take his helmet off. Check for a backup radio. Take his gloves off, too.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Trevor looked around while they spoke. The interior was exactly what he’d expected from the schematic: large primary dome, centered on the “storm room”—a shielded core that provided refuge during solar flares and other radiological anomalies. There was one opening off to the right that led to the installation’s single reinforced corridor, which was the spine to which all the other, smaller expansion domes were attached. No change from the original layout—and no sign of the meteorological and geological monitoring teams that were supposedly stationed here. The last was not a good sign—but, sadly, not a surprise, either.
The one in the spacesuit was finished, handed Trevor’s gloves back to him. “He’s clean.”
“Fine. Tape him up.”
Trevor’s hands were pulled out in front of him and wound with four wraps of three-inch reflective duct tape. Standard, even amongst amateurs.
The terrorist with the machine pistol waved him over to one of the three chairs at the room’s only table, then waved one of his flunkies toward the storm room.
Who asked: “Whaddya want me to do?”
“Just—check her. See if she’s—I dunno: expecting something, or someone. Christ, do I have to think of everything?”
Back to Trevor: “So you’re here to give me money. That’s very nice of you—and I’ll check into that right away,”—he waved the spacesuited one back outside—“but there’s just one thing that still puzzles me.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t ask for any money. As a matter of fact, no one should even know I’m here. So you’d better start shedding some light on your arrival, or I’ll be looking at daylight through the holes I put in you.”
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