by Rick Partlow
“Yes, well…look who’s talking,” Jameson returned, cocking his eyebrow at the irony. He glanced aside at Riordan. “And you’ve actually had him here since the war?”
“His ship never left the asteroid belt,” Riordan confirmed with a self-satisfied nod. “From what we gathered under chemical interrogation, he had to alter course to avoid a Fleet intrasystem patrol ship and ran out of fuel. He probably would have drifted right out of the solar system if a couple Belt pirates hadn’t noticed him. They’d seen him on the reports from insystem and took him to one of the corporate mining stations, thinking we might be interested in making a deal.” He grinned. “We landed him for one hundred tons of soy protein.”
“Genius,” Jameson said, admiration in his voice as he stared at the former dictator. “And then you squeezed him like a grapefruit until you got the key to the wormhole network. But how did you handle the rest of them? I can’t see them all giving up just because you had Antonov.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Riordan couldn’t hold back a laugh. “They don’t even know. We had him record messages for them…they think he’s still in command, directing them from a remote location where he’ll be safe from ‘American spies.’ He’s told them all about the great allies he’s found here…that would be us. And like the good allies we are, we’ve provided them with some extra ships they can use however we direct them to…our own, secret, ready-made fleet.”
“Which will make just the bogey-man you need to justify nearly anything,” Jameson finished for him. “And I assume you have some way to neutralize the advantages you’ve given them if they become too troublesome.”
“Of course,” Riordan confirmed. “As I’ve told you: I’m ambitious, not stupid.”
“Well, I’ve certainly seen and heard enough to convince me,” Jameson told him. “O’Keefe has to go and you’ve got the plan to get rid of him. What you need is an inroad to the military and I can give you that. Shannon Stark trusts me; I am sure I can throw her off your trail and salvage things.”
The whole time he and Riordan were speaking, Jameson was keeping a sideways eye on Antonov---mostly because the man gave him the creeps---and for some reason the Russian was smiling broadly. That bothered him greatly for some reason that he couldn’t put his finger on.
“It’s great having you aboard, Greg,” Riordan enthused, pumping his hand energetically. “I have to admit, the one part of this whole operation that’s always bothered me is Dominguez…the man is too squirrelly for my tastes. Bringing him in was always Kevin’s idea.” He shot Fourcade a baleful glare.
“He was willing,” Fourcade protested, “and having the Vice President working with us was a damn sight better than nothing!”
Jameson frowned slightly, looking back and forth between the two of them, but quickly corrected his expression. He closed his mouth on the question he’d been about to ask, yielding to an instinct that asking it would be giving away more information than he’d gain.
“Gentlemen,” he said instead, striking a conciliatory tone, “let’s not waste time on recriminations. We’re all working towards a common goal: to preserve the Republic as we know it. Vice President Dominguez will serve his purpose, as will I, and we should think about how to best use each asset we have.”
“You’re dead right, as usual, Greg,” Riordan relented. “What we need to concentrate on is getting rid of O’Keefe before he does any more damage.”
“Before he starts a civil war trying to stop us,” Jameson amended for him. “If it comes to that, we’ll lose everything.”
Behind them, Antonov laughed loud and long.
“Riordan doesn’t know,” Shannon mused thoughtfully, staring at the readout on her tablet. She, Ari and Roza were gathered around the table of the Houston safe-house, listening to a recording of the conversation inside the bunker. They hadn’t been able to chance bugging Jameson, but they had still had that Trojan on Fourcade’s ‘link…and knowing when the meeting was happening, they’d activated the device’s recorder and then later had it send a data squirt over the ‘net with that sound file.
“He doesn’t know what?” Ari asked, confused. He and Roza had been floored by the revelation that Antonov was on Earth and a captive of the Executive Council, but Shannon had, surprisingly, taken it in stride.
Stark looked up from the tablet, a fierce glint in her eye. “He doesn’t know about the Patton,” she expanded. “He doesn’t know that’s why Dominguez is cooperating. But Fourcade knows, and he’s not sharing the information with his boss.”
Ari suddenly remembered Dominguez’ statements when he’d been drugged at President O’Keefe’s house, when he’d said that Fourcade knew about the Patton. “You’re right, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “But what game is he playing?”
Roza’s face grew thoughtful for a moment, then she grabbed the tablet and typed in a request. Realization dawned on her face and she turned the tablet back around so they could see the readout. “This is the roster of the Patton.”
“Holy shit,” Ari said. “We never thought to look for him there.”
“Kevin Fourcade was on the Patton,” Shannon breathed.
Roza nodded firmly. “He was working for the mining multicorps, checking the damage to the facilities on Aphrodite. We didn’t pay attention to the lists of corporate employees that were on the ship,”
“You know what this means,” Ari told Roza and Shannon. “Riordan thinks he’s running Antonov…”
“But Antonov is running Riordan,” Shannon finished for him. She picked up her ‘link and tapped in a message. “I need to talk to the President.”
* * *
“Holy mother of God,” Nunez breathed softly, subconsciously whispering as if the Protectorate ships on the screen could hear him from thousands of kilometers away.
“Where the hell are they all coming from?” Pirelli asked, shaking her head.
On the Tactical display she could see one ship after another transitioning from the wormhole through which they’d entered the system and then moving in a conveyor-belt line to one of the system’s other gates. Behind them the system’s primary glared harshly, while in the foreground the brown, blue and now mostly white surface of Peboan gleamed in its distant light and scant warmth.
“I assume they’re coming from Novoye Rodina,” McKay replied, hanging from the railing behind her bridge station so he could look at the readouts over her shoulder. “I guess we know now why they fought so hard to keep us out of here.”
“Thank God we got here before they started coming through,” Nunez commented, crossing himself. “And that they we were able to move out of the area before they spotted us.”
The Sheridan had arrived insystem hours ago and the convoy of Protectorate ships hadn’t ceased since then. There were dozens of them and they were still coming through with no end in sight.
“That leaves us with a big problem still, though,” McKay reminded him. “They’re heading for Earth; nothing else makes any sense. And if we go through the same way, we’re going to have to fight our way through them.”
Nunez looked at him sharply. “Colonel, we don’t have the antimatter or the missiles left for that kind of fight.”
“Hence the whole big problem thing, Commander,” McKay replied dryly. “We only have one real choice, and it sucks.”
“We have to go back to Earth using our Eysselink drive,” Nunez realized, dismal resignation in his voice, “which will take nearly six weeks.”
“If the enemy ships are heading for Earth, too,” Pirelli objected, “they could be there long before that.”
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 po
ssible 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 M
arines 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 that 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.