“Yes, sir. If you please, can we make this just between you and me?”
“On my honor, my ears only, Ensign.”
“I have my orders, and I will obey them, but to be honest it doesn’t set well with me. I don’t think killing should come as easily to a man as Troy or Jessup would lead us to believe.”
There was a long moment of silence. Usually quick and decisive, this was totally unlike the actions Carl had come to expect from his leader.
In the silence, one issue nagged at the back of his mind, prodding Carl to push for an answer, even though his question might be over the top.
“Cap, you seem as troubled about the Princess as I do. May I ask why that is, sir?”
When Cap finally spoke, he offered only a hint of what was on his mind. “Hard to say, Carl. Truth be told, I was pleased to hear you question our orders. Someone had to.”
Carl tilted his head back to stare out at the stars. The transport was still nothing more than a dot in the distance. “Do you see Trogs as a true threat, Captain, or is there something else?”
“My handle is ‘Swift’, Carl. Out here, that’s what I go by.”
“Yes, sir, umm, Swift, sir.”
Captain Archer chuckled. “Do you know much about Providence, kid?” Even through the crackle of the headset, Carl could tell Cap was careful to guard his words.
“Rumors and hearsay, sir.”
“Swift!”
“Yes, mmm, Swift, sir.”
The captain shook his head. “Go on. You were saying?”
“It’s said . . . mmm, Swift, Prov territory has been on a war footing with the Confederacy for more than a hundred years. It’s loaded with Trogs, they say. Why do you ask?”
“You say that for more than a hundred years they’ve held the Confederation at bay? Kind of begs the question, don’t you think?”
Carl glanced to his left. Cap looked at him, but, even with the distance that separated them, Carl could tell real life now filled the old man’s eyes.
“I don’t understand where you’re going with this, Cap. I mean, Swift. What’s Providence got to do with anything?
“Chock full of Trogs, Carl. Chock full of inferiors, isn’t it?”
“Yeah?”
“Inferiors?”
Then it dawned on him. How could an inferior, any inferior, hold a superior at bay, especially for a hundred years? “Oh, I think I take your meaning, Swift. Trogs defy the Confederacy as if they were an equal.”
“You’ve got it. Intel seems a bit lacking when it comes to explaining that, but they won’t give me any more to go on.”
“Swift, sir, ever fantasize about crossing the border to see for yourself how they live . . . and how they die?”
Another bit of protracted silence filled his headset. Then a thought popped into his head. Sly old Swift had gotten him to lower his guard and speak his mind—speak treason. Had he been set up from the start, an elaborate ruse to get him to question the Confederacy? Carl’s anxious fingers strummed rapidly on his armrest.
Just ahead he saw the transport growing larger as they neared. Once aboard, there would be no escape, none that he would care for, at any rate. Carl got a mental picture of being shoved into an airlock, and yanked into the vacuum of space as the outer doors opened. “Accidents” like that happened all too often to be less than suspect. He took a deep breath, but even that was shaky.
“The truth?” Swift said at long last. “Yes, I have thought about crossing over, just to see. Problem is, what if I like it better than here?”
Now that was revealing! Before saying more, Carl tried to quietly release his held breath but could hear it loud and clear in his own ears. Swift had climbed way out on a limb in trusting him. Although the desire to cross the border was Swift’s personal secret, he would know soon enough whether Carl could be trusted with it. Treason was an ugly word, but if thinking for oneself, opposite established norms, was treasonous, then both Capt. Archer and Ensign Ogier were indeed traitors to their country.
“Swift, sir?”
“Yeah, Carl?”
“I’ve got no desire to kill our own citizens. But I’ve got no out . . . no solution.”
“Tomorrow morning someone will die, Carl. It’s just that simple.”
“So it’s them or me, huh, Swift?”
“Seems so, Carl. You’re flying my wing, so if you don’t pull the trigger, DuMass will take you out. You can count on that.”
Carl didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? Cap was right. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, someone was going to die. But did it have to be him? DuMass would be eager to get a little payback, and now Carl was lined up in his crosshairs. The only possible way out of this mess—and live—was to kill all seven of his fellow Wolverines. Carl balked at that solution, even if it had been possible. He was a good pilot, better than most . . . but was he that good? He didn’t think so. The descriptive word for what he was thinking was “Turncoat,” a traitor to everything he stood for; everything he held dear. The very reason he joined the academy to begin with was to protect these things. Now his own government had his back against the wall.
He shook his head in disgust, and then looked up to find Swift staring at him.
“The question is simple, Carl. With whom do your true loyalties lie? With the Confederation proletariat, or with the gentry?”
With the people, or with the aristocracy? Carl’s roots were well founded in the people, the commoners. But he had sworn allegiance to the gentry.
“The question may be simple, Swift, but the answer . . . Well . . . Not so easy.”
Swift’s tone changed from grave to grim. “Now you see what I struggle with daily.”
“Off the record, Swift?”
“Just between you and me, Carl.”
“Looks like I’m going to take a bullet on this one, sir. Our motto speaks my heart.”
Swift looked at Carl in utter dismay. The Wolverine Squad’s motto was Die with Honor. Two years back, Swift himself had chosen the motto to show the spirit of his first and newly commissioned squad.
“Are you really willing to let Troglodyte leaders make landfall, Carl? The contamination would spread exponentially. Is there honor in letting that happen?”
Chapter Three
A mission. This is just another mission, Stan told himself to calm growing doubts, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t square the downing of a luxury liner on the mere suspicion that Trogs might be aboard her.
Had he retired a week ago, Stan thought, or even a day ago, this headache would have belonged to someone else . . . if it existed at all.
He released a long held breath. This was his responsibility and, like it or not, it was his place to make a good showing.
With his men lined up behind him, Stan started down the metal catwalk that crossed the spines of the Darts, all of his men displaying a stiff military bearing, but all the pomp and ceremony in the world couldn’t mask what he and his Wolverines, were about to do.
As the march continued, each man stopped at his own ship. When, last of all, Stan stopped at his, every man turned in unison toward the nose of his own Dart and walked toward his cockpit. Once there, each man turned to face his ship with a singular snap.
“Wolverines,” Stan shouted. “Mount up!”
Each man climbed down into his craft.
In unison every canopy slid into place, the bay lights went dark, and the huge launch door slid down, out of the way of the eight Dart fighters, to reveal the sun cresting Atheron. Between Atheron and their transport sat the Emperor’s Princess.
Sitting black against the dark backdrop of Atheron, the luxury liner was defined only by the light of her portholes, like strings of tiny pearls lining each of her fifty-two decks. Hulking and yet elegant, the sheer size of the vessel was spectacular.
She moved slowly as if to enjoy the sunrise, completely unaware of what awaited her.
Opening his torpedo tubes, Stan took a deep breath. “Show’s on,
soldiers. Slow and steady as you go.” He jetted out of the bay with Carl at his wing, and targeted the Princess’ engines.
Glancing back and to his right, toward Carl, Stan got a glimpse of his past. Looking to his left, he saw Troy, an image of a future that sickened him. He felt his face drain of color.
“Are you okay, Cap,” Carl asked, still on Stan’s personal secure line. “You don’t look—”
“We needn’t drag this out, men,” Stan said, ignoring Carl’s question. “Let’s wrap this up before breakfast.”
With sweaty palms, he rested a gloved hand on the button and pressed, launching the first torpedo. Seen only by its flame, the torpedo slowly arched to follow its target. Stan held his breath. The distant, tiny fire of the projectile briefly snuffed out when it connected with the Princess.
Then at the contact point explosions billowed and grew with fire. The fuel and flame, ripping the luxury liner’s engines apart, violently found its way into the oxygen rich environment of the Princess’ interior, and burst from the portholes. Stan knew the fire that followed the corridors through the ship would instantly char anyone in its path.
Maydays came from the liner’s bridge as the crew tried to grasp what was happening.
Stan nosed his ship toward the conning tower and released two more torpedoes, bringing the calls for help to an abrupt end.
The other pilots peeled away to target the escape pod chambers. Pods that managed to eject from the cruiser before the Darts reached their targets were shot down before they got far.
Stan turned, zeroing in on a pod as well. This isn’t a military operation, he thought. It’s cold, callous slaughter. He followed it down, but finding himself unable to squeeze the trigger, pulled up and away from the pod just in time to see the Princess, now unable to maneuver, kiss Atheron’s atmosphere, tumbled once, then fall toward the planet as if sucked into a hole, burning as she went down.
While the smaller debris disintegrated in the atmosphere, the Darts followed this, the largest section, all the way to the ground. The Princess hit a farmer’s field just south of Seychelles, burying itself halfway into the tilled soil, a massive clump of twisted metal and ceramic alloy. In all, from first assault to this, only a mere fifteen minutes had passed.
A plume of smoke trailing from space to here was all that marked a once majestic ship’s closing moments and final destination.
Consul Dais had his kill.
Trogs, thought Stan, even Trog leaders, were they really so dangerous as to warrant this?
Stan’s gut soured and lurched.
Suddenly a hardened decision flared in his mind. Enough! He was done.
As the Dart pilots landed nearby and got out to confirm the results of their handiwork, Stan followed in reluctance. He must have stood there stunned for ten minutes before glancing back over his shoulder.
Townsfolk were already starting to gather. Like him, they were shocked to immobility, they stared in silence.
Numb and moving on autopilot, Stan turned to the crowd. He wanted to say “Move along, nothing to see here,” the standard Enforcer tripe said after each killing, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Three thousand twenty three . . . dead, never knowing that their government’s sole reason for targeting them was based on nothing more than a rumor.
Nothing to see here? thought Stan. Someone should credit Consul Dais with what was due him. The decision to down the greatest civilian ship ever constructed was his alone, and he should get his lumps in the next election.
Moving in barely bridled anger, Stan spoke loudly. “Ladies and gentlemen, the dead carcass of the Emperor’s Princess’ is given to you by Consul Dais.”
An abrupt corporate gasp faded into whispers intermingled with weeping.
“Any complaints should be directed to Consul Dais, himself.” There! He’d said it, fully aware that his words had just strained his friendship with Troy to the breaking point, greatly disadvantaging himself.
Now he needed to vanish, and quickly. Before he could make a subtle escape though, he had to “feed the animals,” as he liked to say; get his men settled into a filling—hopefully relaxing—meal. Like himself, Stan knew that his men had skipped breakfast, a usual occurrence for an early morning mission like this. He counted on them being hungry. And so, Stan reminded himself, disadvantage brings to light the more clever captain.
He headed back to where his men had congregated, and scanned the crowd. Ah, yes, just what he needed. Nearby he spotted a heavyset man dressed in a local diner’s obligatory fry cook’s uniform, a formerly white, grease stained t-shirt and matching apron.
Stan stepped forward, wrapped a friendly, but intimidating arm around the man and turned him toward the village.
“That’s kind of you, sir,” Stan said in a jovial tone loud enough for his men to hear. “Your offer to buy breakfast for me and my men is much appreciated. Lead on.”
Without a word, the nervous man led them to a nearby tavern, the Bush and Quail.
As Stan and his men approached, patrons inside who were standing at the window staring in disbelief, moved away to resume their seats.
Even before they entered Stan recognized the fragrance of bacon, eggs, pancakes and . . . what? He inhaled deeply and smiled . . . toasted breakfast muffins, Troy’s favorite. Good deal.
The door jingled as they entered. The place abuzz, suddenly fell silent at the sight of the pilots.
Surprisingly, the place wasn’t just some hole in the wall—well, it actually was—but at least the owner had made an effort to bring in a little class. With mahogany bar rail and matching wall panels, newly upholstered booths and barstools, and paintings by some local artist hanging on the walls, the place seemed cozy, albeit just this side of obnoxious. This seemed as good a place as any.
Entering eagerly, his men brushed passed him to take seats at a large round table for eight tucked in a back corner.
Stepping into the room, Stan stopped to look around. A waitress standing at the counter caught and held his attention. “Lilia,” her nametag read. At first glance she appeared to be an ordinary girl and he would have overlooked her if not for her petite, trim figure and brunette curls cascading to her lower back.
Lilia had just taken breakfast orders, and was looking them over before handing them to a beanpole of a waitress behind the counter. She looked up to see what had silenced the crowd. Then the young woman glanced at the pilots seated at the round table. But when her gaze turned to fall on Stan standing just inside the door, she frowned at him, and her unfriendly, dark, penetrating eyes revealed an unexpected depth of personality that riveted his attention.
Good, he thought. His men would expect him to smile, turn on the old Archer charm and—even if she was dating someone, or even married . . .
But the unveiled hate in her face hid no part of her feelings toward him or his men. Okay, he thought, I’ll spend this night by myself, but if I’m to get away clean, I’ll have to lead my men to believe otherwise.
Then he considered his options: Miss Thick-glasses Beanpole on the other side of the counter, a woman sitting alone in a booth—he shook himself. No, not a chance. His men wouldn’t buy either choice.
He refocused on Lilia. Well, he thought, my ability to melt through ice hasn’t failed me yet. This might be a challenge. I’ll have to get her thoughts beyond what I just did.
Stan stepped to Lilia’s side, propped an elbow on the bar nonchalantly, and said, “So—”
But she abruptly turned aside to take the breakfast orders of his men.
A sudden crash and clamor of pots in the kitchen said the cook was still nervous. The hushed, tentative conversations of the other patrons were beginning to rise again, but didn’t hide their unease at the Enforcers’ presence.
He needed a good distraction to cover his escape, but manipulating either waitress into helping him wasn’t going to be easy. Lilia’s quick exit managed to make Stan look, above all else, inept.
The officers in the back co
rner laughed and joked in an ill-advised attempt to make Lilia smile, ignoring the effect their obnoxious behavior had on those already here.
Stan could have left then, but for the longest moment he couldn’t peel his eyes from her.
The waitress turned and noticed his stare, but made every effort to pay no attention to him. It was clear that she, in fact, found it difficult to hide her disgust.
Lilia handed the pilots’ orders to the lady behind the counter, who shot a nervous smile at the captain before handing it to the cook. She knows, Stan thought. Everyone knows. How could they not? The Princess’ crash must have shaken the place to its foundation. Who else but he and his men could be responsible?
Determined to steal the waitress’ aid, Stan leaned on the counter beside Lilia to make small talk, but before he could speak, DuMass from the table offered an ill-timed compliment.
“Slick shooting, Swift. Bet they never saw your torpedo coming.”
Without warning Lilia looked up at Stan, shot a thumb over her shoulder toward the pillar of smoke rising from the field just outside town.
“I thought that was your doing.”
“That’s the Emperor’s Princess,” DuMass said from the table. “It was full of Trogs . . . but not anymore.” He, and the men with him, laughed; all that is but Carl who dropped his eyes to the table.
Without taking her eyes off Stan, Lilia’s icy tone didn’t hide her revulsion at all. “That was an unarmed cruise ship.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Through its smoke you want me to see you as a nice guy, maybe go out and have a few laughs; take your mind off your job? Maybe even bed you?”
“Well, I—”
The cook slid a plate of eggs across the counter. Lilia grabbed it and swung it at Stan’s face; its contents splattering all over him.
“You murdering pile of filth.” She glared at him, then at the men around the table. “Take your business elsewhere,” she said, as she stormed to the door. Swinging it open, she held it as if to send them on their way.
“Get out.”
“They were just Trogs,” Troy said.
“TROGS?” Her eyes shot knives at Troy. “They were passengers on a cruise ship; no threat to you or the government, fool!”
DarkStar Running (Living on the Run Book 2) Page 2