Virtues of War

by Bennett R. Coles

  So while it was fun to reminisce about the wild days of youth, if he really wanted to achieve his ambitions, Thomas had to change his ways. Being engaged to Soma had helped put a stop to his wandering eye, but cleaning up his act wouldn’t be enough. Moving forward, he had to find a way to stand out.

  He had to find a way to shine.

  Normandy’s officers began drifting into the briefing room. They glanced curiously at Thomas and Sean, but other than a few nods offered no welcome as they filled up the second row of seats. They were a mix of lieutenants and commanders, and Thomas guessed they were a mix of Line and Intelligence.

  One Corps officer slipped in quietly and took a seat in the front row, and Thomas had to strain to make out the single star of colonel on his collar. Surprisingly, no one called the room to attention, but the colonel didn’t seem to mind. It took a moment, but then Thomas recognized the Levantine commander.

  Soft-spoken and sharp-witted, Colonel Alexander Korolev was an enigma in the Astral Force. His name was becoming well known, yet with his brown hair and brown eyes, he had the most unremarkable features—the sort of man you wouldn’t look at twice. Thomas had heard rumors that Korolev had been with Special Forces, and it made sense. Such a man would blend into the scenery.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  Normandy’s XO stepped through the door from the passageway. Everyone sat to attention, and the XO stepped aside. Captain Eric Chandler entered the briefing room. His thick brown hair was sprinkled with just enough silver to add distinction to his charm. He scanned the room as he crossed to his central seat. His eyes lingered on Thomas for a second, then he turned to acknowledge Korolev.

  “Relax, please everyone.” The assembled officers eased into their seats. “Good to see you, Colonel.”

  “Likewise, Captain.”

  Chandler turned to address Sean, a faint smile on his face.

  “When I heard that a destroyer XO was briefing me today, I couldn’t bring myself to think it might be you, Mr. Duncan. You realize I’m feeling very old right now.” He turned to take in Thomas, as well. “And you just had to drag Mr. Kane along with you—what, for old times’ sake?”

  “I can’t shake him, sir, no matter how hard I try. It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

  “It is,” Chandler agreed. “But now tell me about this mystery ship of yours.”

  Thomas listened with interest as Sean briefed the small audience on how Kristiansand had stumbled across this mystery merchant. Damn good eyes on that young pilot, Jack. And from what Sean reported, it was no mean feat for Kristiansand to maintain a track even now.

  The photos Sean projected on the screens had been taken by the destroyer’s lone remaining Hawk from just over one million kilometers.

  “Her track doesn’t lead back directly to the jump gate,” Sean noted, “so we can safely assume that her course kept her off the regular space lanes for most of her journey. We can only hypothesize as to why, but most scenarios suggest illegal activity. Kristiansand is maintaining her mark, and we should be able to track her to within about a million kilometers of Anubis.”

  The mystery merchant was moving in the general direction of the gas giant Anubis, and most likely headed for the terrestrial moon Laika—one of the most populated worlds in the Sirian system.

  “At that distance, the Anubian gravity well will be too deep for us to track the ship gravimetrically, and we’ll probably want to either board her or close for visual tracking. Either way, Kristiansand recommends that we prosecute the contact directly, due to the risk of early detection. No doubt this mystery vessel is watching its surroundings closely. If we try and hand off to another ship, they’ll probably be suspicious about seeing two Terran warships nearby.

  “Thus, I recommend our humanitarian mission to Laika be assigned to another unit.”

  Thomas heard amusement in Captain Chandler’s response. “Sean, I’d be appalled if Commander Avernell recommended anything else,” he said. “If she thought a humanitarian mission was a better use of her ship than hunting bad guys, I think I’d recommend that she transfer to the Home Guard.”

  Kristiansand’s XO smiled in return. “Delivering humanitarian supplies is important, certainly,” Sean said, “but unfortunately our ship is the key player here.” His eyes danced over to Thomas. “Perhaps one of the FACs could deliver the supplies.”

  Chandler laughed before Thomas could blurt out a reply. Other line officers joined in.

  All eyes went to Thomas.

  “Lieutenant Duncan,” Thomas said after a moment, “the task of picking up after your unfinished business is hardly new to me, but in this case, I think I’ll have to decline.”

  “That’s what I like to see in a line officer,” Chandler said. “Hunger. And the instinct to blade your peers. I trained you both very well, I think.”

  Again laughter rippled around the room.

  “Might I bring the discussion back to the mystery ship?” Colonel Korolev said. The quiet words cut through the mood. “Before any ship approaches the target,” he continued, “we need to learn a little bit more about it.”

  “What more do we need to know?” Chandler asked. “We’ve found our smoking gun.”

  Korolev’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “We might have found a gun, but I’m not sure we can say it’s smoking just yet.”

  His tone was light, but his words hit home. Impatience flashed across Chandler’s features.

  “Respectfully, Colonel, merchants with nothing to hide don’t skulk around in deep space at atmospheric speeds.” He pointed at the projected picture. “Time is money for these guys, unless they have money invested in something a little less legal than shipping.”

  “Oh, I want to have a look at this ship just as much as you do, Captain Chandler,” Korolev countered. “I’m just cautioning against jumping to conclusions.”

  Chandler smiled. “Nobody’s jumping to conclusions, Colonel. But we have to act quickly. The situation on Laika is tense right now, despite what their government says, and if this ship is transporting weapons, it might be just the extra firepower one of the factions would need to stir things up again. If that happens,” he added pointedly, “we’ll have to deliver a lot more humanitarian supplies.”

  “Then let Astral Intelligence have a look. Perhaps one of our ships closer to the jump gate can discern how this target broke away from the space lanes.”

  Thomas silently agreed with Korolev. This ship was suspicious, but if the Fleet played its hand too soon, any evidence might disappear out an airlock. Careful surveillance, however, might confirm the ship’s guilt, and reveal her contact on the ground.

  Chandler shook his head. “At her current speed, she’s only a few days away from the Anubian lanes. Once there, she can merge with all the other traffic, and we’ve lost her. Another Centauri warship came through the jump gate today—that makes it three.” He paused, then continued. “I think that’s half their fleet they’ve got in Sirian space now.” This drew some laughter from his staff. He continued, serious once again.

  “Clearly Centauria is taking a big interest in Sirian affairs—who knows how long they’ve been smuggling weapons to their factions? We can’t wait to find out via the twenty-four-hour news networks.” He turned to Thomas. “Get Rapier ready for immediate deployment.”

  “We’ll be spaceborne in two hours,” Thomas replied, suppressing a smile of excitement. “At low speed we can pick her up in a day, and trail her all the way to Laika.”

  Chandler shook his head.

  “No, board the suspect and search it for contraband.”

  “Perhaps we should wait to see if the ship makes a rendezvous,” Korolev suggested. Again Thomas agreed.

  Chandler clearly did not.

  “No, Rapier will board before she reaches Anubian space.” His tone indicated that there was to be no discussion. “That ship knows we’re here, and is probably getting info fed to her by those Centauri warships. She might already know about Kristiansand,
so I don’t want Avernell making any sudden moves. This merchant is nervous, and ready to dump her cargo at the first sign of trouble. Rapier will close on low power to within ten million, then strike at max speed and board without warning.”

  Sean leaned his hands on the podium. “Sir, orders for Kristiansand?”

  “Tell Captain Avernell to provide support for Rapier’s boarding. Maintain an ASW posture, and keep an eye out for Centauri stealth ships that might be shadowing their smuggler.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and after the boarding, take your medical supplies to Cerberus, as intended. The admiral has ordered the EF to Anubis as a show of support to the Laikan government, so if things blow up at Laika, we’ll be there to deal with it. If this mystery ship winds up to be nothing, you’ll still be best positioned out between the orbits to deliver the supplies. And if Rapier does find something, your humanitarian mission will give you a good reason to get in close to Cerberus, just in case we have some punishment to deal out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chandler stood. “That’s it, gentlemen. Let’s move.” Thomas rose with the others, and couldn’t help but cast a smile of triumph at his friend. The captain’s orders were rash, but this was a chance to make a name for Rapier, and for himself. He might win the race after all.

  Sean was frowning, but his expression suggested that he wasn’t worried about their friendly rivalry.

  14

  Katja relaxed and took deep breaths. Twenty hours out from Normandy, after creeping through space in low-power mode, this last sprint to the target had been a deafening, blinding, crushing shock. The serenity that came after was invigorating.

  Thomas turned his head inside the helmet. Their visors were open, so he didn’t bother with his mic. “Based on the last burst from Kristiansand, our target is right where we expected her to be. She’s activated her lights and gravity—I think they’re trying to look innocent.”

  Katja glanced down at the 3-D display. “Still no reaction to our presence?”

  “Hard to say. I haven’t picked her up on sensors, probably due to Cooperan smear. If they’re running silent, like Duncan said, they might not even see us coming.”

  “How much time until intercept?”

  “We’ll start decelerating in four minutes. We’re going to swing wide and bleed off as much energy as we can in the turn, match velocities and come up on their starboard quarter for boarding.”

  “When will you start the hails?”

  “As soon as we begin the turn. It’ll take forty-five seconds, so be ready to deploy as soon as we take station.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  Did he hold her gaze for an extra second? Katja wasn’t sure. Then she realized that she was staring, and abruptly pushed herself out of the chair and left the bridge.

  She had less than thirty seconds to move aft through Rapier and take her seat in the strike pod. She made it in twenty, gave a quick sitrep to her team, then strapped in.

  “All personnel,” came Thomas’s voice, “stand by for deceleration.”

  The force came quickly, pulling Katja down in her seat. The roar of the engines shifted to a screech, and she felt the breastplate of her armored spacesuit begin to constrict. The artificial gravity built into her seat protected against sudden acceleration, as did the ship-wide inertial dampening system, but no AG system yet designed could compensate fast enough to completely eliminate the stresses imposed by a fast-attack craft on full burn.

  The stars outside began to slowly shift, rotating and then falling from view. Training kicked in, and she focused on drawing air deep into her lungs, ensuring that the full capacity was used. Exhaling was even harder, as she had to force herself to resist the crushing pressure. Looking down at the console, she saw the red digits passing through thirty and counting down.

  At twenty seconds the pressure began to ease. At fifteen, the dull, gray shape of the target rose over Rapier’s hull as the fast-attack craft settled into a steady course and speed.

  At ten seconds, Katja glanced at the pilot, Trooper Cohen, who nodded in return.

  “All units, Alpha-One,” she said, “stand by for insertion.”

  Trusting Cohen to launch on the mark, Katja focused her attention on the target. It was a large freighter, with a long central spine supporting crew quarters forward and engineering spaces aft. Modular cargo sections were attached along both sides of the spine, designed for easy removal and transfer to orbital elevators. She recognized the body style as Centauri, though it was the first such vessel she had seen with her own eyes.

  The strike pod lifted off from Rapier with a jolt, then pushed forward at speed toward the target. Katja locked down her helmet visor and leaned forward to ensure that Chang’s pod was moving with hers. As with any standard boarding, she would board with Alpha Team from one side and he would board with Bravo from the other. Both teams would fan out and clear the area, with the intent of meeting up in the middle.

  She scanned the hull as it swept past beneath the pod, noting the heavy layer of dust that obscured any markings. The structure beneath looked intact, with no obvious signs of age.

  Chang’s strike pod disappeared behind the freighter. Katja scanned for a hatch. She and Cohen spotted the dusty entrance at the same time. The pod rolled to present its belly to the ship, and with the help of cameras Cohen slipped over the waiting hatch. Katja felt a slight thump of contact, then another as the automatic seal grabbed hold of the freighter’s hull and latched the pod down.

  She spun her seat around and motioned sharply downward with her hand. The troopers unstrapped and opened the pod’s deck hatch. The first trooper, Squad Leader Assad, descended through the seal. A few moments later a light cloud of dust billowed up through the opening, indicating his success at overriding the freighter’s locks. Trooper Jackson went down; Hernandez followed. Katja moved up the pod’s bulkhead and then pushed off, passing through the faint dust cloud in the seal, and through the thick outer airlock of the freighter.

  As soon as she was through she felt herself begin to sink—there was gravity inside. Swinging her legs under her she landed with as much grace as was possible in an armored spacesuit.

  With hand signals she directed the troopers forward, taking third position down the dimly lit, narrow passageway. Assad was on point. There was nothing to see except the huge bulk of Jackson’s armored form in front of her, so she brought up Assad’s helmet cam on her forearm display. The quantum-filtered view jerked and bounced as he moved forward.

  Her team met Chang’s without incident, facing each other at a crossroads on the ship’s main longitudinal passageway. Alpha Team took up position looking forward, Bravo aft.

  As she lifted her rifle, Katja felt a wave of nausea deep in her gut. She forced it down, ignoring the familiar self-doubt, as she looked up at her massive second-in-command.

  “No reception party,” he said. “Either they’re hiding, or they’re busy. Neither option is good. Take the engine room as planned, but if you see anyone on the way, immobilize them immediately—don’t wait for the sweep.”

  Chang nodded, and looked at his watch. “Sixty seconds?”

  Katja checked her own. “Sixty seconds. Move.”

  Bravo Team went down the passageway, swift and silent as shadows. Katja looked forward, past her crouching troopers. The passageway was eerily quiet. She called up the interior plan for this class of ship.

  “Alpha Team, we take the bridge, but we neutralize anybody along the way. Move.”

  Assad, followed by Jackson, rose and advanced, rifle up and ready. Katja was close behind, scanning the bulkheads on either side with quantum-view and IR. Hernandez, her bodyguard, brought up the rear. Fifty yards along, a ladder led up to the next deck. They were up in seconds and moving forward again, door to the bridge in sight.

  There was movement in her scopes. Human forms, two, in a compartment to their left. Quick taps up to Assad halted the group. She gestured
.

  I see. Two targets. There. She pointed ahead and to the left. Alpha-Two, Alpha-Four, buttonhook. Alpha-Two lead.

  Nods all around. The door to the compartment was manually activated. With Hernandez covering the passageway, she grabbed the handle and flung the door open. Assad was inside in a heartbeat, Jackson right behind. Katja heard a gasp, a thump, and a grunt. She looked through the door and saw a man and a woman, in civilian clothes, facedown on the deck. Her troopers crouched over them like giant, mechanical apes, applying restraining ties to arms and legs.

  She glanced at her watch: forty-five seconds. They had fifteen more to get to the bridge. She motioned her team out of the space.

  With her augmented vision she could see four people through the last bulkhead. She signaled to her troopers, and ordered a fast assault. Assad tried the airtight hatch.

  Locked.

  She motioned him clear, raised her rifle and reached for the trigger of the grenade launcher that was slung under the barrel.

  The thick hatch exploded as the grenade detonated on impact, filling the passageway with smoke. The troopers kicked the remains of the twisted metal aside and charged through the opening. Katja followed.

  The bridge was clouded with dust, but Katja identified the four merchant crewmembers instantly. Her troopers barked orders for the targets to drop to their knees.

  Through the smoke emerged a middle-aged man in nondescript civilian clothes. He was covering his face. His skin was pale and soft, his belly obvious even under the loose cloth. Katja grabbed him with an armored grip and threw him to the deck. She placed a foot on his back and her rifle to his head. The weight of her spacesuit—the little she allowed to actually lean on him—made him gasp in pain.

  Glancing around the bridge, she saw that the other three targets were subdued.

  “This is the Terran Astral Force,” she declared. “If you cooperate you will not be harmed. If you resist, you will die.”