by Lee Stephen
“Thank you, Judge Rath,” the officer said, offering a small smile, “but that is really not necessary.”
Rath returned the smile with half a one. “I insist. We don’t want anyone’s hard work to go unnoticed.”
Bowing his head appreciatively, the officer simply said, “That is very kind of you.”
“If you’ll excuse me, now, I must leave. Good day, gentlemen.” A hurried salute was exchanged, then Rath made his way down the hall.
Back inside Confinement, Oleg Strakhov leaned against the glass cell. Crossing his arms, he stared at the Ceratopians on the other side of the room. Both of the colossal aliens were looking at him. Sniffing in a deep breath through his nostrils, the ex-eidolon exhaled then rolled his head around atop his neck.
No one spoke to Oleg when the officer and guards came in to prepare for his transfer. Oleg didn’t speak to them, either. He simply followed their words to the letter, offering no resistance as they bound him with chains and filled out their paperwork. Within five minutes of Rath’s walking away, Oleg was taking a walk of his own. A walk to freedom—and to the side that was winning.
And there was no way in hell he was going to resist that.
* * *
A short while later
Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE
0455 hours
Berlin, Germany
EMOTION WAS PULSING through Torokin’s veins when the blacked-out transport touched down. The ex-Vector was home. Berlin was not the most aesthetically-pleasing base in EDEN. It was much like Novosibirsk in that way. It was a beacon of power, not of light or hope. It was a “beautiful ugly,” as Klaus Faerber had often described it. Torokin’s time at EDEN Command had unfortunately left him little time to travel, and what time he did have was spent on official business, not leisure. Berlin was a base of model efficiency—one that rarely needed to be visited by a judge. That was a good thing, to be sure, but Torokin still would have loved an excuse to drop in on the base just for old times’ sake. This was the first time since he’d been a judge that an opportunity like that had presented itself.
As soon as Torokin stepped off the transport, Chiumbo Okayo was there to greet him. The dark-skinned Mwera soldier smiled broadly, his rows of gleaming white teeth stretching across his face as he approached Torokin with outstretched arms. With an enthusiastic, “Ahhh,” Chiumbo collided into Torokin, wrapping his arms around his former counterpart. “At last, my good friend!” he said in his thick Swahili accent. “Welcome back to home base.”
“It is good to be back, Chiumbo,” said Torokin, returning the smile. “Just in time to leave, it seems.”
It was impossible not to love Chiumbo—he was a deeply religious man who exuberated warmth and compassion in everything he did. He was much like Pablo Quintana, Vector’s combat technician, in that way. Chiumbo was a lieutenant in Vector and was expected to take over Vincent Hill’s position as second-in-command as soon as Klaus Faerber retired, and Vincent presumably took his place as captain. It was really a no-brainer. Everyone in Vector held the Mwera soldier in extremely high esteem.
Chiumbo had grown up in Ifakara, a rural town in Tanzania that had seen its share of hard times, even before the Alien War. Complete with dusty dirt roads and buildings that more closely resembled fancy huts than New Era establishments, Ifakara was technically considered savanna grasslands. Much of its population had grown up poor, and Chiumbo was no exception. This was one of the chief reasons Chiumbo was so well-liked by his comrades. His positive attitude and humility were infectious. It was hard to believe he was one of the most lethal men on the planet.
“Where is everyone else?” Torokin asked, craning his neck past Chiumbo to see Berlin’s barracks far behind them.
“Dieter is working them.”
Frowning a bit, Torokin released a sigh. “I wish I had time to visit.”
Chiumbo echoed the sentiment, his expression growing serious. “It is surprising that Command would permit such a mission as this.”
“Many things are surprising us today.” Hearing footsteps behind him, Torokin glanced back to see Logan approaching. He stepped aside to introduce the two. “Lieutenant Marshall, this is Lieutenant Chiumbo Okayo of Vector—”
The Australian cut him off. “Are your men ready, sir? We’re losing time.”
Holding back a sharp retort, Torokin simply said, “Minutes will not matter at this stage in the operation, lieutenant.”
“Every minute matters.”
Maintaining his pleasant demeanor, Chiumbo said, “The others are on their way. I was simply a few minutes ahead of them.” As if on cue, far behind the Mwera lieutenant, Marty, Pablo, and Lisa appeared. Catching Torokin’s gaze, Chiumbo turned to see them. “There they are now.”
Torokin had initially hoped to have a good professional relationship with Logan. They were, after all, cut from the same get-things-done mold. But the Australian needed to tone himself down a bit. Stepping past Chiumbo as the new arrivals approached, Torokin smiled half-heartedly in greeting. “Hello, comrades,” he called out as they neared. “I trust that you have all that you need?” It felt a cold greeting, but it was what it was. Under a different circumstance, they’d be chatting over vodka. Or cheap beer, which he recalled was Marty’s preference.
The Cajun was the first to reach him. Grinning broadly, the soldier whipped out a hand slap. “What’s happenin’, chief? Long time no see.”
“Far too long,” Torokin said as he moved on to the next. Pablo—all smiles like always—extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Smiley.” Following in tow was Lisa, who in sharp contrast offered a formal salute, something expected from someone who’d never met Torokin before. The judge returned it in kind, and the dark-haired brunette slipped past him toward their transport. Turning back to Chiumbo, Torokin patted him on the shoulder. “Are you ready for this?”
“Will we be all right under his leadership?” Chiumbo asked, discreetly nodding in Logan’s direction while the Australian wasn’t looking. In a rare moment, the Mwera wasn’t smiling.
Torokin exhaled, then nodded his head. “Yes. Do not forget that he is under my leadership. Our Vectors will be taken care of.”
The familiar smile returned. “Our Vectors?”
“One never truly leaves,” answered Torokin honestly. Frowning a bit, he asked, “Are you comfortable with this, Chiumbo?”
The lieutenant’s smile returned. “You will have no issues from me, my friend.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Several seconds passed before Chiumbo quietly sighed. He looked away briefly. “One does what one must, Leonid. I would prefer to lead an operation like this myself, but that is not what God has chosen. I look at this as God’s way of keeping me humble.”
At least Torokin had his answer. Chiumbo might have been accepting of the situation, but comfortable he was not. At the very least, Torokin didn’t have to worry about him. Chiumbo would take this in stride.
“As I stated,” Chiumbo said, “you will have no issues with me during this operation, nor will Lieutenant Marshall. As I do with Klaus and Vincent, and as I have done with you, I will support Marshall to my fullest.”
“Your day will come, Chiumbo.” It was a statement Torokin meant. “You deserve far more than you receive.”
Faintly, the Mwera soldier smirked. “That is not helping me to stay humble, my friend.” Chiumbo took Torokin’s hand and bowed graciously, a customary gesture from him. “But I thank you for your words.”
With nothing further to discuss, the two men joined the others.
Though Torokin and company had taken a Command transport to Berlin, it was never intended to be their means of transportation for this operation. A Mark-2 Vulture had been reserved for them at the German base; it was intended to be their ride for the duration of their hunt and was fully loaded with the participating Vectors’ armor and equipment. That was why Minh was there with them, to serve as the pilot of their own ship. With only seven occupants, the V2 w
ould be severely undermanned—but that was fine. No one was going to complain about having extra legroom. Consideration had initially been given to using one of Vector Squads’ two specialized V2s for the operation, though it was decided upon Logan’s suggestion that a certain level of covertness might be of practical benefit. The Australian felt it was better to take a ship without the Vector emblem. Torokin agreed.
Barely two minutes after everyone was on board, the transport was hovering over the concrete of Berlin as Minh angled its nose to the east, where their starting point of Novosibirsk awaited. The former Nightman base was also Logan’s suggestion, and it made the most sense. No place would offer more clues about Scott Remington than the place where he’d lived and served. As soon as the flight leveled off, the collection of operatives gathered in the cabin for Torokin to address them.
“For those who have not met him yet, this is Lieutenant Logan Marshall,” said Torokin, leaning back against one of the seats as he motioned to Logan. “He has personal experience with several of the outlaws, including Scott Remington. He has been selected as the tactical leader of this operation, a realm in which he has experience as a former mercenary.” At the mention of his past, Logan’s eyes narrowed faintly. Torokin didn’t care. Everyone on board needed to know where this man came from. “We are all to give the lieutenant our full cooperation. I know it is unusual for Vector to work under the authority of another party, but this is an unusual situation. We will not find a more qualified leader for this operation than Marshall.” Torokin didn’t believe that, but he still had to say it. His focus shifted to Logan directly. “Lieutenant, meet Marty Breaux, Pablo Quintana, and Lisa Tiffin. They will be prepared for anything you ask of them.”
Of the two operatives, only Pablo seemed wholly at ease, not a surprise considering his default personality setting. He could be the most anxiety-ridden person on the planet and no one would ever know it. Marty looked outright skeptical.
“If there is a specific task you wish to accomplish in Novosibirsk,” Torokin said to Logan. “Pablo is the man you want to talk to. Now is your chance.” With that, Torokin offered Logan the floor.
The Australian didn’t miss a beat. “We need to find out where Remington and his men are going, and the only way we’re going to do that outside of finding a person who knows—which isn’t likely to happen—is to find out what and where he’s been transmitting.” Logan’s mouth opened again to continue, but a pair of words from Pablo cut him off.
“TRANSEC key,” the Latino man said.
Logan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Quietly from behind Logan, Torokin smirked. The judge folded his arm and listened as Pablo replied.
“We need their TRANSEC key—it is how we will be able to track their hopping. If we find their key and apply their checksums, we will be able to track their transmissions.”
“Gotta find a place with a backlog,” said Marty casually, the Cajun’s feet propped up on the chair in front of him.
Pablo nodded. “Some regional Comm-Sats keep historical backlogs, perhaps up to forty-eight or seventy-two hours. If we can isolate the timeframe the outlaws were broadcasting in, we may be able to save a copy of their communication.”
“Like clockwork, baby,” said Marty, winking and pointing his finger at Pablo like a gun.
Lost amid the now-budding discussion, Logan raised his hand. When Pablo looked his way, Logan simply asked, “Can you run all that by me again?”
Smile lighting up his face, Pablo nodded. “Remington is most likely using spread spectrum transmissions—it is one of the easiest ways to achieve LPI and LPD.”
“LP-what?”
“Low Probability of Interception and of Detection—it is the point of TRANSEC, that is, Transmission Security. By using spread spectrum frequency hopping, Remington will be communicating with another party on multiple band frequencies in a pseudorandom sequence.” He glanced at Marty. “Russian cell phones are on 450 MHz digital—that will likely be their primary platform.”
Still, Logan looked confused. “Can you slow that down a couple of notches, mate?”
Logan Marshall, meet Pablo Quintana, thought Torokin wryly.
The Latino technician nodded. “Imagine you are in a hallway with a hundred doors on each side, and you are trying to intercept a message being passed from one door to the one across it. The doors open, the message is passed, then they close again, but you never know which doors are going to be opened next.” He gestured vividly with his hands. “The people passing the message from one side of the hallway to the other, though, have a sequence written down telling them what doors will be opened next, so they always know where to be to receive the next message. Do you follow?”
Hesitantly, Logan nodded. “I think so.”
“With so many doors, you would never know which ones to stand between to intercept their message—but if you had their key, you could change the game. You could follow along and know which doors were going to be opened next, then wait to intercept the message when it comes.” He held his open hands out excitedly. “Now take that concept and apply it to frequency bands. The outlaws are bouncing all over the place, communicating on multiple bands on multiple frequencies. You will never be able to guess where they are transmitting next,” he said, snapping his fingers, “unless you had their key. You follow the sequence, wait, and intercept. Now you are in the conversation.”
Hands behind his head and with his eyes closed, Marty said, “S’all pretty basic stuff, chief.” Very faintly and without looking at Logan, he smirked.
Pablo continued. “Once we have their key, all we need is the right kind of cryptographic device, and we can decipher everything being said. A regional Comm-Sat’s historical backlog would be all that we need. That is,” he explained, “a recorded history of every transmission made over a frequency.”
Seeming to catch on, Logan said, “I think you’re talking about what I was hinting at.”
The Latino technician nodded. “Jīngshén-2 is a Chinese satellite that overlaps Krasnoyarsk Krai’s northern area grid, and it has a historical backlog. If their transmissions were picked up by Jīngshén-2, which they may likely have been as they were last heard heading north, we may be able to tap into it by simply sending a query from a Comm-Sat tower in Krasnoyarsk. The critical thing for us will be finding the key and the device they use to scramble their transmissions.”
“And if we can’t find either?”
“It is still possible to find some of their transmissions without the key. I could examine the frequency bands for subsequent micro increases in background noise, though that would still not allow us to intercept future transmissions.”
Chiming in constructively for the first time, Marty said, “We gotta send a message out to Novosibirsk—get those guys checkin’ things out while we on our way, seein’ if ’dey can’t find whatever cryptographic device the Nightmen are usin’ to chat. But we also gotta find ’dat key. I’m thinkin’ the best way to do ’dat is to find…” Snapping his fingers, he pointed expectantly at Logan. “C’mon, chief, you got ’dis.”
The Australian was less than amused. “Just tell me the bloody answer.”
“We gotta find a comm.”
Picking up where his Cajun counterpart left off, Pablo sat upright. “A comm that was used by someone in Remington’s unit—or someone with the ability to communicate with them—would lead us to the key. Not only would we be able to use that comm for future eavesdropping, we would be able to look at the comm’s usage to determine what frequencies it broadcasted over.” The technician smiled. “Then we compare that to the historical backlog from Jīngshén-2—”
“And we have their entire conversation history,” said Logan, his elevated tone conveying his sudden understanding. “Provided we can decipher it.”
Pablo nodded. “The comm would contain the checksum, but not necessarily the entire cryptographic system. In other words, its programming would inherently allow any transmissions that come af
ter we locate it to be deciphered, but we would still need the cryptographic device they used in order to decipher audio from past transmissions.”
“I like it,” Logan said. “It’s a start, and that’s what we need.”
“Then let us prepare ourselves.” Torokin stood between the group as a whole. “We are three hours out of Novosibirsk. Let us not waste a minute of that.” His focus shifted deliberately to Logan. “Every minute matters.”
Though he said nothing, the subtle nod by Logan was affirmation that the message—specifically to him—had been received. They were all on the same course. This unlikely alliance of mercenary and military had a chance.
And so, the Vector hunters flew out, their sights set for the fallen base once known as The Machine. In the minutes, then the hours, that passed, Logan took time—as per Torokin’s request—to enlighten Chiumbo, Marty, Pablo, and Lisa on the man they were chasing: Scott Remington. The outlaw leader and his crew were discussed just as thoroughly as they’d been discussed by Logan and Torokin prior to their arrival at Berlin to pick up the rest of the accompanying Vectors. No detail was left untouched. Lisa elaborated on Esther, too, at least as much as she’d known her in the little time that their paths had overlapped. For the first time, this felt like a manhunt.
There was no question in Torokin’s mind that Remington would be brought to justice. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment—finding the right clue that would lead them to the right place. The outlaws might have found Cairo’s security forces an easy obstacle, but that wouldn’t be the case for Vector. A rude awakening was on the way, clad in purple and white.