Clarke's face paled, and he replied, “I'd better go to my quarters and...”
“The day we don our dress blues for a United Nations General is the day Satan will put on his snowshoes, Midshipman. You'll go just as you are, grease stains and all. Orders direct from the Captain.” Walking over to him, Salazar placed his hand on Clarke's shoulder, and added, “Ensign Rhodes and a squad will be with you all the time, Midshipman. You don't have anything to worry about, and you have my personal guarantee that you won't be turned over to them.”
“Actually, sir,” Clarke replied, “I'd request that the escort stays clear. I might have a better chance of finding something out if they don't think they're being overheard.” Looking across at the communications panel, he added, “They'll know they're being monitored, sir, but I suspect they'll have ways around that.”
Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “You really did have to grow up too damn quick, didn't you. Very well, I'll issue the necessary orders, but make sure you draw a sidearm first. I'd rather have to explain away a dead General than work out how to extract you from a dreadnought.” Looking down into the young man's eyes, he continued, “Though if it came to it, Midshipman, we'd find a way, though don't ask me how. We wouldn't leave you in the lurch.” Gesturing at the door, he continued, “I'll take over here. You go and see your new friends.”
“Yes, sir,” Clarke said, snapping a salute before walking out into the corridor. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a wall monitor, work coveralls and all, and shook his head. The last time he'd met a flag officer, he'd spent hours getting himself ready for what he had known would be a brief encounter, polishing boots and pressing his trousers. This time, for a personal interview, he was dragging around in his work coveralls, covered in grime from the shuttle's internal systems, and with a pistol at his belt.
He walked over to the nearest weapons locker, drawing a sidearm from the selection, and hefted the weight in his hand, checking that the low-velocity ammunition was installed. Personal weapons load-out on a starship was a compromise at the best of times, trying to strike a balance between the lethality of the ammunition to the intended target and the probable consequences of a miss on the instruments behind him, or the hull plating, for that matter. Too many boarding actions had gone wrong due to overenthusiastic weapons play in the early years of the War.
Sliding the pistol into his holster, he walked down the corridor towards the hangar bay, already able to hear the pounding of boots on the deck in front of him, troopers moving into position to receive their guests. As he walked through the double doors, the elevator airlock bringing the United Nations shuttle into position, he caught a glimpse of Petrova standing in a corner, by the side of a line of Espatiers in combat fatigues, wearing her resplendent dress uniform.
“What the hell do you think you are wearing, Cadet?” she sneered.
With a shrug, Clarke replied, “Captain's orders, Petrova. Evidently you didn't get the special instructions.” A smile spread across his face, and he added, “Not that it matters too much. I'm the one they're here to meet.”
“But…,” she began, as the shuttle doors opened and General Estrada walked down the ramp, his eyes running across the line of troops ready to receive him, rifles at the ready. Every one of those men was imagining themselves as a firing squad, facing the unwanted intruder, but he managed to maintain a smile on his face. No senior officers had arrived to meet him, even Ensign Rhodes delegating the task to a junior Corporal, and Clarke found himself the senior man on the deck, an honor he could decidedly have done with out.
Stepping forward, he snapped a sloppy salute that would have disgraced a recruit, and said, “General Estrada? My name is Midshipman Clarke. I understand you wanted to speak with me regarding the criminal actions of your operatives on Leonov Station.”
“I and one other, Midshipman,” Estrada said, as a scowling woman stepped forward, her right arm immobilized in a sling, a look of pure hatred boiling from her eyes. “I believe you have already met Colonel Cruz.”
With a curt nod, Clarke replied, “I hope I didn't do too much damage, ma'am.”
Before she could reply, Petrova raced forward, and said, “On behalf of...”
“You may spare the platitudes, Midshipman,” Estrada said. “I know that none of you mean them, and I'm certain that you'd receive much the same welcome on Waldheim.”
“Except that the escort would be larger, and you wouldn't need a ride back,” Cruz said darkly.
“Corporal,” Clarke said, “See that their shuttle is serviced and readied for immediate launch. We wouldn't want to keep our guests here any longer than necessary.” Gesturing to the corridor, he added, “If the two of you will come with me, we have a secure room prepared for our talk.”
“One as close as possible to the hangar bay, to ensure that we don't see anything you don't want us to see,” Estrada replied, nodding. “According to the textbook.”
“It doesn't matter,” Cruz said, following Clarke to the door. “I received a full briefing on Alamo's modifications before we left home.”
“Then you are braver than I thought to have risked a fight,” Clarke replied. Cruz turned the intensity of her glare up another notch, though he thought he detected a faint trace of a smile on Estrada's face as he turned a corner, where an open door beckoned them to a small room, only a trio of chairs inside. “This way.”
“My complements to your interior designer,” Estrada said, taking a seat. “We'll get this out of the way as quickly as possible, Midshipman.” He looked up as a quartet of troopers took up a position outside as the door slammed shut. “I take it we are not to be overheard.”
“Captain Marshall thought that you would want privacy, General.”
Turning to him, Cruz said, “You are guilty of...”
“Save it, Colonel,” Estrada said, a scowl curling his lips. “We're on a tight schedule, and I don't have time to sit here and listen to you parade your ego like a peacock. Save the platitudes for your own time.” Pulling out a box, he pressed a button, and said, “This is being recorded, Midshipman. I presume you have no objection to that?”
“No.”
“Then I will start by asking a simple question. Did you make the first aggressive move?”
“No, sir, we didn't. I only responded to an attack by your people.” With a thin smile, he added, “Or should I say, Colonel Cruz's people. Illegally operating on the station.”
“As were you,” Estrada replied.
“I was going shopping for shuttle parts, sir, in my capacity as Deck Officer's Mate. When I discovered evidence that such parts might have been obtained through illegal means, I initiated an investigation, but before I could begin work, your covert squad detained us, presumably in a bid to take us back to your ship for questioning.”
“That's a damned lie,” Cruz replied. “You killed one of my people in cold blood, then launched an unprovoked attack on me...”
“You fired first, Colonel, and despite the fact that I brought a knife to a gunfight, I managed to come out of the fight better than you did. Is that the reason you're here, Colonel? Embarrassed?”
Trying with some effort to keep his face straight, Estrada replied, “I must say, Midshipman, that you have a novel approach to diplomacy. Then you maintain you are the injured party, and that your team was attacked by our agents first.”
“Doubtless they will be telling their own version of events, but that's what happened.”
“As you say, their testimony is completely different to yours.” He paused, then added, “Local Security is proving most uncooperative in this matter, I must confess.”
“Something for which they will pay dearly in the near future,” Cruz replied. “Neutrality or not, they will learn that the will of the Security Council is paramount. As will you, Midshipman. Unless you confess immediately to the criminal conspiracy being undertaken by your gove
rnment at the brown dwarf classified as K-129.”
“The International Astronomical Union has yet to agree a name, or even a designation,” Clarke replied. “Regardless, Colonel, I can set your mind at ease and tell you that the Triplanetary Confederation, to my knowledge, has committed no criminal acts either on this station, or at the star you mention. Can you say the same?”
“We're asking the questions, not you,” Cruz barked.
“And I've answered them.”
Shaking his head, Estrada replied, “I fear that you will be the subject of an extradition order from my government, Midshipman, and that you will face charges of murder and attempted murder when you next visit United Nations territory. We have security footage that shows you launching an attack upon one of our operatives...”
“Who was wearing civilian clothes, with a gun in his hand, and more friends at his back. Including Colonel Cruz. What charges will she face, or is incompetence not considered a crime in United Nations service?”
Her eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as she replied, “Pray that you never find yourself in my interrogation room, Midshipman.”
“I certainly hope never to be subject to your travesty of a legal system.” Pulling a datastick from his pocket, he handed it to Estrada, and said, “My testimony, sir, as well as that of the other members of my group, as well as all the security footage we have been able to obtain. It includes recordings of numerous violations of the neutrality statutes by your people. Colonel Cruz, especially. I suspect that my government will be seeking recompense for your actions today, General. You are fortunate our two nations have no mutual extradition treaties.”
“As are you, Midshipman,” Estrada said, taking the datastick. “This is something of a surprise, I must confess. I hadn't expected you to be quite so cooperative.”
“It's faked,” Cruz said. “Worthless data, and inadmissible in a court.”
“I wouldn't be so certain of that,” Estrada replied. “Nevertheless, I will be sure to include it in my report to the Security Council of this matter, and will ensure that it receives full prominence in the final file.” Looking at Cruz, he continued, “Unless you have anything further, Colonel, then I think we are done here.”
Before she could reply, Clarke smelled something in the air, a sickly sweet odor that seemed oddly familiar, and his vision began to swim. One look at Estrada convinced him that the General was suffering the same effects, and Clarke struggled to his feet, looking for the lifesystem monitors on the wall, his hands clubbing the controls.
“A trap,” Cruz said, gasping for breath.
“Not us,” Clarke replied. “Override's out. Controls locked.” He pulled out his pistol, aimed it at the door, and fired a blast that echoed from the room, only forcing a dent in the metal. “Got to break the seal.” Struggling to keep himself steady, he fired again, twice more, aiming for the same spot, hoping that the repeated impacts would force a crack in the weak, internal door.
Estrada drew a weapon of his own, but before he could fire, collapsed to the deck. Clarke felt his legs shaking underneath him, tears streaming down his face from the effects of the gas, and the doors seemed only a faint shadow in the distance as he fired again, knowing it was the last time. A siren sounded as, finally, a small hole appeared in the door, and the life support system in the corridor immediately registered the toxic gas, compensating with a blast of oxygen.
The door slid open, three Espatiers hauling it free, and Clarke staggered from the room, welcome hands around his side dragging him to the corridor, the others returning for the General and the Colonel, placing masks around their mouths to speed their recovery.
“Once this is reported...” Cruz began.
“In case you missed it, Colonel,” Estrada interrupted, “This young man just saved our lives.”
“He saved his own,” Cruz replied. “One of his superiors decided that he was unimportant enough to sacrifice.”
“Should I call a medical team?” the Corporal asked.
“No,” Estrada replied. “That will not be necessary, and you will understand that I would rather trust our own people. If you will escort us back to the shuttle, I think that will suffice for the present.” Shaking his head, he added, “Midshipman, I would appreciate a full report on the events that transpired here today, for my own personal interest, if nothing else.”
“I'll see you get it, sir, through diplomatic channels,” Clarke said, the rush of oxygen flooding into his brain. He pulled the mask off, and added, “And Colonel, we don't consider our people pawns to be thrown away.”
“You haven't heard the last of this, Midshipman,” Cruz replied, shrugging off one of the troopers attempting to help her to her feet. “An attempted assassination attempt will not go unpunished. I can assure you of that.” Looking around with a sneer, she added, “Assuming it wasn't simply poor maintenance on an obsolete craft such as this.” She turned on her heels and walked down the corridor, an escort either side, but Estrada lingered for a moment, standing beside Clarke.
“I suspect I was the target, Midshipman,” he said. “Conduct your investigation with care, and remember that Cruz's arms have a surprisingly long reach. I say this as a warning, not a threat, but do not consider yourself safe, even here on one of your own warships.” Looking back at the room, he held out his hand and added, “And thank you, for saving my life.”
“My pleasure, General,” Clarke added, shaking the proffered hand. Much to his surprise, he actually meant it.
Chapter 15
The door slid open, and Salazar walked into the quarters he shared with Harper, tossing a datapad onto the desk with enough vigor that it bounced twice before coming to rest. Sitting down on the nearest chair, he sat back and closed his eyes before reaching down to tug off his boots. Harper walked in from the bedroom, wearing a casual jumpsuit, and looked at him with a smile.
“Bad day?” she asked.
With a tired nod, Salazar replied, “Good guess. I've spent the last six hours going through the lifesystem crawlspace with Dubois. That guy is the dictionary definition of anal-retentive. I didn't know most of those maintenance procedure forms existed. I swear he's writing them himself in his spare time.” Shaking his head, he added, “He's no Jack Quinn, that's for sure.”
“Give him time,” she replied, sitting opposite him. “Did you find anything?”
“Only what I knew already. Computer control failure from a self-destructed datarod. I found the pieces up near the lateral heat exchanger. It could have been left there any time over the last three weeks, from the repair logs. Good place to hide it. I've got Lombardo and Clarke going over the rest of the system.”
“That's going to be a fun job. I can think of a couple of thousand places to search.”
“Me too, which is why I'm going to go and give them a hand in a few hours. I just needed to get off my feet for a bit.” He glanced at his watch, and said, “No wonder I'm hungry. I haven't had anything to eat for eighteen hours.” Gesturing at the fabricator slot in the corner, he added, “Let's call room service.”
“Sounds like a plan. I guess that's why the Captain named you Second Officer.”
“You want the job?” he replied, shaking his head. “It wasn't my idea.”
“Hell no,” she said. “I've done my turn in the big chair, and I didn't enjoy it enough for a repeat performance.” Looking at him as she walked over to the menu selector, she added, “You want anything in particular?”
“Surprise me.”
With a shrug, she entered a random combination into the controls, stabbing for a double selection, then sat down next to the machine to wait for the food to arrive. She peered down at the datapad, reaching out with a long finger to scroll through the displayed text.
“Clarke's service record?”
“Kid's had to grow up too damn fast,” Salazar replied. “Not fair. Though I loved the wa
y he faced down Estrada and Cruz. He's got real potential, though I'm not sure I'd recommend a posting to the Diplomatic Corps.” The lights flickered, and Salazar said, “I guess we just entered hendecaspace. Must have missed the announcement.”
Gesturing at the wall panel, she replied, “I set the speakers for emergency only.” Flexing her fingers, she added, “I needed a breather. Ten hours going over the security codes, and if you think Dubois was bad, you haven't seen Francis at his worst. If I hadn't managed to enlist Doyle to distract him for a bit, I'd still be there now.” Shaking her head, she added, “I didn't find a damn thing, but I didn't expect too. I'm good, but there are about a billion lines of critical code to check, and I haven't even finished going through the monitoring software yet.”
“Can't you just install a new program?”
“Sure, but I don't know if I can trust it. We left two weeks early, remember, so I'm behind the curve. Usually I'd have designed my own, something I could depend on, but I had to rely on what Logan gave me this time. Until I can put something better together, but with everything going on, I haven't even had a chance to get started.” Grimacing, she added, “Technically, I suppose I should ask someone before doing a project like that, but I don't think there's much point.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “You really don't like our new officers much, do you?”
“Doyle's not bad, and Murphy's fun.” She smirked, and added, “She made a pass at me this morning, down on the hangar deck.”
“Should I be nervous?” Salazar asked, matching her smirk.
“I gently directed her in Kat's direction. Hopefully it'll take.”
“Poor Kat,” Salazar said. “Hasn't she been though enough? And how do you think McCormack will feel about fraternizing with the enemy? She's kept most of the squadron pretty tight.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom Page 14