Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1

by Bill Robinson

  "This isn't unusual in nature, there was a fungus on Earth that would take over ant colonies. The ants died eventually, but they created a habitat for the fungi to breed first. Our scientists haven't had time to do truly scientific tests, but it appears that this particular fungi is lethal to women virtually instantly, while men can obviously survive for some time."

  "If there was ever a group of bad guys we needed to put down, these are they. There may be 100 men strapped into acceleration couches, slowly dying, but being made to do God knows what before that happens, and we can be reasonably certain that the 70 or so women on those crews are all dead."

  He puts a picture up on the screen of a dark haired man, one of the three Courtney identified as a possible saboteur.

  "Your first stop is going to be Las Vegas. We have identified this man, Mark Darlington, as the likely saboteur, and the UBI places him in Nevada system. You will be transporting a UBI agent outbound, and assisting him before jumping to Gamma Omicron. The operational plan is to make sure Omicron and Theta are clear before going backward along the ship theft path. After Theta, your discretion as to how to proceed however."

  "Congress, Truxton and Decatur will rendevous with you at Gamma Theta One, possibly with Perry if she can be ready in time. Our operations staff suggests one corvette permanently stationed in Theta, one in Omicron, and one in Nu, with Yorktown moving as required, but you'll have to evaluate based on the tactical situation on site."

  "Questions?"

  I've already told my crew not to ask about sending in three battle groups and just ending this. I don't know what there is to ask otherwise.

  "Sir, how long are we to stay on station this trip?" It's Summerlin, who is going to be stuck in a very small space if we make him stand guard over Omicron.

  "No set limit, Lieutenant. Yorktown has six months of supplies, not including having to resupply three corvettes if you're out there more than 30 days. My hope is a shorter deployment than the 31 days you just went through. Again, Captain Krieger will have the final say."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Anything else?" He scans the room, sees no one. "Good, you are wheels up at 0900, missile load at 0915, and departure when ready. Special Agent Turin will report at 0800, please make him comfortable, I don't think he's ever been on a warship before."

  I respond for all of us. "Thank you for the food and the briefing, Admiral. We'll do our best to end this quickly."

  "I know you will," he says while beginning his salute. We return in unison.

  ChiNO makes us go through all that again, turns away to leave, then turns back.

  "Good hunting." Then they both float over and down the hatch.

  Twelve conversations instantly break out among eight officers. I haul everyone back in.

  "Commander Perez, coordinate with everyone in this room, get me two action plans. One assuming it's just us, and one assuming we have two extra corvettes. Within that second plan, look at one plan with the three little buddies split up, and with the three of them forming a small battle group."

  "Aye, sir."

  "It's 2000. Plans roughed out by 2200 so I can look at them tonight, then we can finalize them during the trip out to the jump point. Everyone ready to go in the morning?"

  There's a chorus of ayes.

  "Mr. Summerlin, what do you know about the Skippers of Truxton and Decatur ?"

  "Good officers sir, good choice for us. Lt. Maxwell of Truxton is an old friend, we've done duty together many times. Lt. Rivera of Decatur used to be my First, I recommended her for the command, she's outstanding."

  "Excellent. I'll leave you all to get to planning, I've got a couple tasks from FRIGCOM that he wants me to complete tonight as well." I head over to the hatch and down a deck to my ready room, the sounds of McAdams and Ayala arguing following me.

  Partly what I said was true, Benson wants additional details on part of my report, and he wants my comments on some proposals to change the configuration of the last four frigates. Not sure that I know enough to make intelligent commentary on the advantages of changing out some of the full sized missiles for bundles of close in missiles. Yorktown has one close in missile battery, which can be used either to defeat incoming missiles or to attack a nearby target.

  We didn't get within range to use a close in missile barrage. Destroyers use them, but we were often broadside to broadside with the pirate ships. Getting that close to a 42 inch laser would probably be your last move, Admiral Nelson to the contrary.

  The other reason I wanted to get away was to spend time looking at the system maps for the Gamma group. Our nomenclature for systems is easy. Earth like planetary systems get country names. We only have three, so they are Argentina, Brazil, and Canada. The 44 inhabited red dwarf systems are states of the US, when we run out of those we will go to Canadian provinces and Mexican states. The planets in the systems are numbered from closest out, and the cities typically have city names that go with the state or province. All the uninhabited systems, 389 of them, are Greek letters with the first being a sector and the second being a star in it.

  There is a 96 year old gentleman's agreement with the Empire and Dynasty that no one will add new systems to their space, since those border struggles are what got us into 100 years of killing each other. We expect to not run out of letters for a long time.

  All the Gamma stars are within the same part of our space, which is part of one arm of the Milky Way. They are near to the Dynasty border, but most of them border on unclaimed space outside of all three human clusters. On the other hand, there are relatively few nearby stars, that direction being toward the edge of the arm.

  I call up the star charts for Gamma Nu, Upsilon, Theta and Omicron, as well as the neighboring systems. I also call up the data for the nearest non-Union sectors, both the Empress's sectors and the unexplored ones. Somewhere out there, these ships have a base. The equipment on Gamma Omicron 6 produced that coating material, but there was nothing there to apply it, nor the facilities to install the laser cannons on the ships.

  So despite my lack of peg leg or parrot, I spend an evening trying to think like a pirate (given that the other choice is to think like an alien and I am uncomfortable trying to do that) and figure out where I would put my base of operations. There are a surprising number of possibilities.

  My pad beeps at 2200, and I spend the next hour going over the proposals, before hitting my rack. It occurs to me, as I settle in, that I should have stolen the silk sheets.

  At 0700 I am showered, changed, and floating in front of my couch on the bridge, as is everyone else on the crew. The Marines show up a few minutes later, followed at 0800 by a tall, nice looking, well built 30-something man in what is obviously a brand new Union Bureau of Investigation space uniform. He looks more than a little uncomfortable, keeps brushing his long brown hair out of his eyes, except that it isn't in them.

  "Special Agent Mike Turin," he says, holding out his badge and then offering to shake my hand. Nice handshake, nice grey eyes. Didn't shave this morning, adds to his swagger.

  I take his small blue duffel bag, and offer to show him his cabin, the least I can do. As we float down the corridor, I interrogate him briefly.

  "How certain are we, Special Agent, that this Darlington person is on Las Vegas?"

  "We are 100 percent sure he was there two weeks ago, no one has seen him since, but he hasn't left as far as we know either. You know, probably better than I, that if there is one planet you can get off of without being noticed, its Nevada 1. Can't be sure we'll find him, but it's our best shot."

  "I understand you've never been on a warship before."

  "That's true, my first time."

  "Well, you're welcome to join us on the bridge, or you can deal with the acceleration in your cabin." I have him put his hand on the door, and use my pad to tune it to his biometrics. It pops open.

  "Let me show you how to use the acceleration couch." I strap him in, show him how to get out, all very professional, and all very
personal. "We'll be at high acceleration most of the time until we jump, and immediately after, we'll have some coast time once that is completed."

  "Thanks," he's thinking. "I'll stay here if its all the same to you, that way I can catch up on some reports."

  "Fine," I float toward the door, "My cabin is next door if I'm off duty and you need anything." I can't believe I said that. He doesn't answer, or at least he doesn't answer until I am well down the hall out of earshot.

  "Mr. Garcia, get us on a countdown, get us out of here."

  "Aye, sir, eight minutes to scheduled departure time."

  Shelby contacts dock control, they open the doors early and cast off our moorings. Garcia has Marcos get in the practice of taking us out of the bay. He's clean and parks us 300 meters off the station, just where we're supposed to be.

  The giant metal praying mantis appears.

  "Mr. Jordan, open outer doors, tubes 1, 2, 23 and 24."

  "Outer doors open, 1, 2, 23, and 24."

  This time the loading is uneventful, tube 24 is functional, and we get sealed up in 32 minutes. The mantis is gone in a couple more, and we are joined by a new LS and our old ZR. Once we're secure, we're off.

  "Mr. Garcia, flight plan as approved, go on your mark."

  "My mark, flight plan is go." Acceleration horns sound, the five minute warning. I briefly wonder if Turin is strapped in. If he's not, we'll scrape his remains off the aft wall in a couple hours and notify his next of kin.

  Garcia takes us to one gee, then two, three, and four. Ten minutes in, we're smooth as glass, and holding on four. I am one happy captain. Accelerate for almost a day, we'll be traveling 12 million kilometers per hour when we get to the jump point. Lots of nice kinetic energy to use.

  I check in on Turin at the first change of shift. He's alive, but looking rather pale. I try to cheer him up, but run out of time before I have to go strap myself in.

  Sixteen hours later, strapped back into my captain's couch, we make an uneventful jump to the Nevada system, a few hours flying time from orbit around Nevada 1, just to be safe.

  There are numerous traditional things that sailors do, being the overly superstitious people we are. When you jump into the Nevada system, every enlisted person on the ship looks at their neighbor and says, "There is no more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

  It's another of those things I can't explain. I have read every naval history I know of, and I have never run across that phrase. It sounds like something Lord Admiral Nelson would have said, or maybe one of the early US frigate captains when dealing with the Barbary pirates, but it escapes me and I am too proud to ask. So I nod my head like I understand the reference, then order Mr. Garcia to get us into orbit.

  Chapter 10

  In all of known space there is only one planet where acting badly is not only normal, it is legal and encouraged.

  More private space stations orbit Nevada 1 than any planet in anyone's territory, far more than any small brown dwarf planet should need, more private spacecraft of all kinds flying in and out, and more ships from outside our space, including Royal Navy and Dynastic Fleet ships plying the lines between planet and star.

  It's rumored that the Empress herself has a secret docking spot on one of the nicer platforms.

  The Navy maintains full sized stations around Earth, the three Earth-like planets, and here. Everybody else gets the smaller versions, if they get one at all. Unbelievable wealth flying in and out every day in private cruisers means opportunity for pirates, constant high volume traffic creates temptation to smuggle contraband off planet, and drunk Royal Navy officers insulting the Empress create diplomatic incidents. The detachment here is always busy.

  From space it's actually one of the more beautiful worlds with so much money spent bringing water in that it literally covers 95% of the surface, with one large island near the equator that houses almost all of the inhabitants and many smaller scattered islands designed as oxygen generators and food sources, nothing but greenery on them visible from orbit. It's a beautiful blue marble specked with emerald. The only place in the universe that you can see whales and fish for tuna.

  Ride Station knew we were coming, but still made us wait in deep orbit for six hours until a docking port cleared. No apologies from them with two cruisers here for Founding Day, Jackson and Grant, plus all the support ships from their battle groups on top of the normal flotilla of corvettes and supply ships. The president himself is 30 hours behind us.

  Only good part is I spend most of the six hours sitting with Turin, eating, lounging, and generally figuring out if there might be something worth figuring out. For the first time in a long time, I think there just might be.

  Once the crew realized we weren't going to let them go down to the surface, morale dipped substantially, but we are giving rotating shifts 10 hour visits to one of the orbital casinos, which should help some. Not what our sloop was intended for, but we're listing the trips in the log as supply runs.

  Turin, Yeager and I are taking the station shuttle down to the Navy yard at Las Vegas. All three of us somehow dressed in jeans and leather jackets, me with a brown cotton pullover shirt, somewhat low cut, and them in dressy black cotton tees. They complement me on my outfit, except for the athletic shoes I have on. I don't tell them it's the only civi clothes I own except for my beachwear and they are never going to see me in that. Well, one of them is never going to see me, the other just might.

  We had a fight over my taking my sidearm which I lost, not because I am not the captain, but because Nevada 1 has an open carry law, you can carry anything as long as it's in plain sight, and everybody thinks it would be a bad idea for pictures of me to surface flashing a nine millimeter in a casino. The three of us are going to blend in as typical tourists, or that is at least the plan.

  There are seats on the landing craft the Navy uses here, not the traditional couches. I buckle into the big leather chair next to Turin, our arms sharing an armrest. We spend the 30 minute trip to the surface talking about our families, and home planets, nothing about our jobs or our missions. Each occasionally reaching out and touching the other's hand, purely for emphasis of an important conversational point of course. Nice. Then there's the bump that means we've reached the ground, and he transforms into all business.

  Nevada 1 has 80 percent of Earth normal gravity, and a rich oxygen atmosphere, which add to the playground intention of the place. We bounce and breathe easy going out.

  The Navy yard is at one end of the row of casinos, known around here as The Strip, civilians land at the other. We head south off the boat mixing in with the 25 other Navy folks who were on board, most out of uniform, looking for the Flamingo. Turin's people claim our bad guy can be found every night in one of the lounges, rocking out to a certain young lady and her band. We already missed the first show because of the docking delays.

  The main sidewalks are impossibly crowded, every type of person imaginable is there, every one of them except us worried only about how much fun they are having, not whose foot they just stepped on. Turin takes us to the service road behind the buildings, and our progress is much easier, though it makes me wonder how he knows so much about the back streets here.

  We find the place by finding the giant pink birds painted across the outside, huge glass doors with their own birds open into the casino, all flashing lights and bells and whistles. The music has already begun by the time we find the lounge, cleverly placed so that the casino sounds don't make it inside, but the music manages to be softly in the background outside.

  Turin hands a $20 coin to the hostess and gets us the last nice table against the wall, then orders us non-alcoholic beverages from the barely dressed waitress who wanders by. Party pooper.

  It takes him 15 minutes to figure out that I am not cut out to do covert ops. I am so engrossed in the band, the lead singer all in leather, her band pounding along as she belts out covers of the latest hits, that they have to kick me under the table to get my attention back to bu
siness.

  Our target, Mr. Mark Darlington, is sitting at a table next to the stage with a couple of his buddies. He definitely must be a regular, because she is clearly flirting with him from the stage. His friends, on the other hand, are not there for pleasure. They spend their time keeping an eye on the crowd, occasionally shooing away someone who wants to talk to their boss.

  A waitress, not the one we started with, tries to bring us some food that we did not order, and between her bending over inches from my companions faces and the hot plates, we are discombobulated for at least a minute. When we finally get her out of our hair, Darlington is gone, the table empty, the waitress no longer in sight either, her body and the food a convenient and likely intentional distraction.

  No way they went out the front door without our seeing, we move as quickly as we can through the crowd toward the back exit which leads into a side corridor, past the mostly empty pool and then out to the service road we used coming in. Lots of people to our left, nobody to the right. An exchange of quick looks, and we are headed right at a light jog, slow enough that we can check out the nooks and crannies behind the buildings.