by Rick Partlow
“You might wonder who would approve a boondoggle like this,” she went on, crossing her arms, a cynical tone in her voice. “I mean, it sounds like some fat-cat senator’s pet project, something you’d expect from some politician in Brendan Riordan’s pocket. In fact, it came directly from the desk of President Jameson.”
McKay was watching Minishimi sidelong as she watched the video and he saw her start at that---much the same reaction as he’d experienced the first time he’d seen it.
“President Jameson had his Transportation Secretary introduce the legislation and, according to political blogs Carr found on the subject, he used some pull to make sure it passed.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Then he never mentioned it again. Not one press release, not one speech, not one question about it in any interview.”
“Oh fuck me,” Minishimi murmured. McKay rarely heard her curse, but he could understand the sentiment.
“That was about as far as Caitlyn went; but chasing her leads, we found a few other things. The bratva have a pretty extensive revenue generating setup in Alaska and elsewhere, but it’s not enough for the kind of operations they’ve been running since this all started. We weren’t finding anything from their end, of course, because they’re in the business of hiding money; but once we knew where to look, we managed to find it from the other end. It’s coming from the various subsidiaries of the Republic Transportation Multicorp.” The expression that crossed her face was feral. “Brendan Riordan has been funneling money and resources to the bratva.”
Shannon took a deep breath, as if trying to gain the will to say what needed to be said. “It all made sense when you looked at it. It was about the new colonies, Jason. The jumpgates and the colonies revived the Republic economy, but they also threatened to decentralize it. Who needs Republic Transportation, or any of the multicorps, if you can make a deal with an independent shipper to send resources through the jumpgates for a minimal cost?”
“Who benefits?” McKay said softly. “Follow the money.”
“What?” Minishimi glanced at him, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“It’s something D’mitry said to me,” McKay explained.
“So, Riordan funds the bratva,” Shannon continued, “and they create the raiders from ships provided by the Jameson administration. The raiders create a threat that gives traction to the Daladier bill to restrict civilian space travel, which restores Riordan’s monopoly. The terror attacks---the early ones---make it palatable for the Developing Nations, the Eastbloc and Southbloc, to crack down on their political troublemakers and maybe even reinstate forced emigration. It was a tidy little plan. They needed the jumpgates to make interstellar travel cheaper, but now they need to make sure they’re still the ones in charge of it.” She sneered. “But they didn’t count on one thing.”
“Yuri,” McKay said as if she were there with him.
“Yuri,” Shannon confirmed. “Yuri wasn’t content to be their pawn, to play for pay. Yuri is a patriot, a Russian nationalist. He went into business for himself, used D’mitry Podbyrin, who had conveniently fallen into his lap, to find out what was really on Novoye Rodina. Then he got himself the nanovirus. You know the rest.” Shannon sat back and sighed heavily. “I’ve discussed this with our mutual friends.”
McKay paused the playback and turned to Minishimi. “She means Senator O’Keefe and her father,” he explained. “She didn’t want to implicate them in case this message got into the wrong hands.” He restarted the recording.
“They are of the opinion,” Shannon went on, “and I’m sure you’ll agree, that we can’t trust Ayrock and the CIS to act on this. Caitlyn obviously thought the same thing; otherwise she would have sent this data to her boss instead of Franks. So, if we decide to take Jameson down, Jason,” she said heavily, “it’s basically going to have to pretty much be a coup d’état.” She shook her head. “We’re totally fucked,” she admitted in a barely audible voice. “I hope to hell you have some ideas…because otherwise, the only thing I can think to do is to march into the President’s office and threaten to make this public unless he resigns.” She laughed without humor. “Somehow I don’t think that’s going to go well.”
Her expression softened. “I love you, Jason,” she told him. “I hope I get the chance to tell you that again.”
Then the message ended and Shannon’s image was replaced by the tactical display once again. McKay regarded Minishimi carefully. She seemed stunned. He hadn’t been quite as surprised…he’d had a bad feeling about Jameson these last four years.
“I sent the evidence to your ‘link,” he told her. “You can look it over yourself.”
“I will,” she promised. “But if Colonel Stark buys into it…” She shook her head in disbelief. “Well, this certainly puts my new orders in perspective.”
“What new orders?”
“I’ve been instructed,” she informed him somberly, “directly by Admiral Di Ndinge’s office, to place you and Colonel Mahoney under arrest and deliver you to the CIS once we reach Fleet Headquarters.”
“Huh,” McKay grunted, leaning back in his chair. “I am so unsurprised.” He glanced at her. “So, am I under arrest?”
“Yes, of course you are,” she snapped, a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t leave the ship without my permission, got it?”
“Aye, Admiral,” he saluted with a conspiratorial grin. It ran away from his face, though, as he thought about what Shannon was going through back home. “But what about when we get back, Joyce? Do you intend to turn us over the CIS?”
He hated to ask the question, but he had to do it. There was too much at stake.
Minishimi didn’t answer immediately. She stared ahead for a moment, hands flat on the table. “If I don’t,” she said carefully, “I’ll be charged with dereliction of duty and possibly treason.”
“Yes, you will,” he admitted. “So let me put it as bluntly and honestly as I can, because you’re my friend. Are you going to turn us in or are you going to join me in an attempt to take down the President of the Republic?”
“Well, that just makes me feel so good about being your friend,” she said, barking a laugh. “Shannon was right, we are so fucked.” Slowly, she nodded. “All right, Jason, I’m with you. So’s my ship, but I can’t promise how many of the crew will come along.” She met his eyes. “When should I give them the choice?”
“Let’s wait till we transition into the Solar System,” McKay decided after a moment’s thought. “That way, the ones that want out can be dropped off at one of the stations in the Belt, or maybe on Mars. We need to talk to Captains Lee and Pirelli too, I think.”
“Damn it, Jason,” Minishimi slammed a fist on the table top, “I hate the thought of fighting our own people!”
“So do I,” he agreed. “I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. My ideal endgame is to use the ships as the stick to Shannon’s carrot.”
“So you think you can force Jameson to resign quietly?” she surmised. At his nod, she cocked her head curiously. “And you could live with that? Letting him get away with essentially facilitating mass murder?”
“If I could avoid a civil war?” McKay replied a bit hotly. “Hell, yes!” He shook his head. “I don’t mean to sound cynical, Joyce, but I gave up on the idea of justice a long time ago. At this point, I’ll settle for survival.” He shook his head. “And hope I’m not asking for too much.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Sitting in the back seat of the automated groundcar, Shannon Stark stared out the window pensively, regarding the shining pillars of Capital City until the vehicle was swallowed up in the belly of the beast. At least that was how it seemed as the walls of the tunnel beneath the Executive Offices shut out the gentle morning glow for the harsh, yellow glare of the overhead lights. She had never felt more alone.
Franks had volunteered to come along, but she couldn’t let him make that sacrifice. He was the hero of the day and no matter what happened between her and President Jameson, Franks might still have a c
areer. This was something she had to do on her own. She’d briefly considered doing it via a video message, but part of her play was going to be deniability, which would be difficult if she put the facts in a message to the Executive Offices, where “secure communication” often meant an entirely different thing than it did in the military.
The vehicle pulled into a parking spot in the underground garage and Shannon waited as the door slid downwards into the body of the car before stepping out and walking to the elevator banks. The ride into the President’s offices was claustrophobic at the best of times; today, it was like a descent into the underworld. She kept expecting the elevator to fill with gas at any moment, but the ride was as mundane as it had been every other time she’d taken it and Agent Proctor greeted her with his usual businesslike smile when she exited.
“Good morning, Colonel Stark,” he said. “Hope you had a pleasant flight.”
“Morning, Agent Proctor,” she returned, an expression that tried to be a smile but couldn’t quite make it playing across her face. “It was as pleasant as it could be. How are you this morning?”
“Couldn’t be better, ma’am,” he replied. “Alpha three confirm,” he said quietly into his ‘link, then nodded to her. “You can go right in.”
President Jameson was waiting for her in his office, seated behind his desk with what appeared to be no intention of standing. His face was a neutral mask that she knew from experience was an indicator of intense anger barely contained. Seated across from him, in an unexpected and entirely unwelcome development, was Philip Ayrock. He was on the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees, like he was looking forward to this. He obviously thought she was here to get reamed out for the missile strike.
“Mr. President,” she said, voice crisp and professional despite her mood. She nodded to the CIS director. “Director Ayrock.”
“Have a seat, Colonel,” Jameson invited her, his voice making clear that it wasn’t a suggestion.
“Yes, sir.” She sat at the opposite edge of the desk from Ayrock, her tablet still grasped tightly in her hand.
“Colonel Stark,” Jameson began---it was almost a growl, “I assume you’ve familiarized yourself with the report that General McKay submitted from the expedition.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” she acknowledged crisply. “I received it at the same time as your office and Admiral Di Ndinge.”
“Tell me, Colonel Stark,” Jameson said, taking a deep breath that spoke of grasping for patience, “that you didn’t know he was going to do this.”
“Mr. President,” Shannon said coldly, “I’m sure that I had no idea that we would discover that the Protectorate was a setup by a deranged alien computer trying to prepare us for some threat that will never come. Prior to finding that out, I can assure you that General McKay had no intention of destroying the alien technology without your approval. What I would like to know, sir, is whether you gave General Kage the authorization to seize control of one of our task force cruisers and then attack Republic Intelligence Special Operations Command personnel.”
“General Kage overstepped his authority, Colonel,” Jameson said, his anger draining away momentarily in a flush of discomfort. He pushed himself away from his desk and raised his hands palm-up. “I merely asked him to monitor the situation with respect to the alien technology and keep me apprised of how it could best be disposed of.”
“And as it turned out, rightly so,” Ayrock put in. “When General Kage saw that McKay was about to destroy the alien technology, he acted appropriately and tried to take charge of it. And then McKay’s bully boys killed him in cold blood.”
“That’s an interesting way to characterize it,” Shannon shot back, “when in fact General Kage tried to gun down General McKay and wound up killing a civilian in the process.”
“Enough,” Jameson interrupted, his voice firm once more. “There’s no point to this. This whole business has been a tragedy, and whether General McKay has committed an offense will be decided by a court-martial, not by us in this room.”
Shannon felt anger flare up inside her at the assumption that McKay was going to face a court-martial, but she kept the emotion off of her face.
“In fact, sir,” she said, keeping her voice calm, “I came here to discuss something else with you: something I’ve uncovered in the investigation of the bratva attacks.”
“Speaking of that,” Ayrock interjected, “Mr. President, why isn’t Colonel Stark up before a court-martial for her actions in Trans Angeles? Launching a highly destructive weapon into a civilian housing area and killing five innocent children!” His voice was rising and becoming more strident with every word. “She should be in a Detention Center, not a meeting in the Executive Offices!”
“Oh, I’m fairly certain that would be a short trial, Director Ayrock,” Shannon informed him. “After I played back my communications with the President where he authorized me to use the thermobaric missile to destroy the nanovirus, it would be thrown out of court in about five minutes. Or have you forgotten that conversation? I’m certain I can play it back for you if you like…”
“I said, enough!” Jameson punctuated his declaration with a palm slammed on his desktop. His eyes were smoldering now, his lips curled into a snarl. “Do I need to remind you two where you are and who is in charge?”
“No, sir,” Shannon said, her tone crisp and unapologetic. Ayrock made no response but sulked back into his chair. “If I may, sir, what I am about to discuss with you is…sensitive.” She glanced aside at Ayrock meaningfully.
“I am cleared to hear anything you have to say, Stark,” the CIS Director told her, hate and resentment in his eyes if not his tone.
“It’s not a matter of clearance, sir,” Shannon directed her reply to President Jameson. “As I said, these are sensitive matters of a…political nature. If you wish to share them with Director Ayrock after I’ve briefed you, that’s your prerogative; but I feel it would be best if we discussed them alone first.”
“Very well,” Jameson said after a moment’s silent consideration. “Philip, if you could give us a moment…”
Ayrock clearly wasn’t happy about it, but he stalked out of the room without another word. Jameson watched him leave, then turned back to Shannon.
“All right, Colonel Stark,” he said with an air of longsuffering patience. “What is so sensitive that you needed to talk to me about?”
“Project Asatru, Mr. President,” she told him flatly, watching his face carefully for a reaction.
There was none. She might as well have been speaking Mandarin for all the recognition that came into his eyes.
“And what project is that?” he wanted to know.
Shannon felt tiny cracks forming in the foundation of self-assurance with which she’d entered the office, but she pressed forward.
“It was an economic stimulus package introduced three years ago, Mr. President,” she explained. “It furnished low-interest loans to small shipping and mining firms in the Belt to purchase cargo ships and shuttles at cost from Republic Transportation. That was the stated intent, anyway. What actually wound up happening,” she said, eyes boring into him, “is that well over three quarters of the ships were reported either stolen or destroyed under suspicious circumstances.”
Jameson’s face went slack, as if a horrible realization were coming to him. “And what do you think happened to those ships, Colonel?” he asked, the tremble in his voice saying that he’d already guessed the answer.
“I know what happened to at least two of them, sir,” she said flatly. “They were used in the attacks on the Danube Corridor and Tintagel City. If I had to guess, I’d surmise the others were the Raider ships we’ve been encountering in the new systems.”
“Who was responsible for this program, Colonel?” Jameson asked quietly. She knew he could check with his corneal implant and she guessed he was afraid to.
“It came directly from your office, sir,” she told him and she could see from his expression as that kn
ife went home. “In fact,” she added, “it came from your desk. The proposal has your personal authorization attached to it.”
“That’s not possible,” he said flatly, shaking his head almost unconsciously. She saw his eyes change focus and she knew he was checking her statements himself. He shook his head more fiercely, hands bunching into fists. “Colonel…Shannon,” he said pleadingly, almost desperately, “I don’t remember doing this!”
Shannon felt a chill go down her spine as she began to understand the implications of what he was saying. “It gets worse, sir,” she warned him. “We’ve been able to track a series of payments that were made to bratva fronts by subsidiaries of Republic Transportation…”
The words were barely out of her mouth before the private entrance to the office slid aside and four Presidential Security agents rushed inside, hands filled with stun batons as they headed straight for her.
There was very little time to think, but Shannon realized several things in a flash of insight, as if the moment was frozen for her consideration. First, the three men and one woman were dressed in business suits, not combat gear, so this wasn’t preplanned; someone or something had sent them in at the spur of the moment. Second, they were coming in with nonlethal weapons and doing this the old fashioned way, mano a mano, rather than flooding the room with anesthetic gas or setting off a room-wide sonic stunner. That meant they were hampered in their tactics by the presence of President Jameson, and at least one of them would be tasked with getting him out of the room. If she let that happen, they would be free to use lethal force and she would be fucked.
She was older than any of the agents in a day when that didn’t mean being slower, just being more experienced. She reacted the way she’d been trained, with economy of movement and overwhelming force. There was one improvised weapon available close at hand and she grabbed it immediately, feeling the solid heft of the crystalline football for just a heartbeat before she launched it across the room at the lead agent coming through the door, her old friend Ted Proctor.