by Peter Grant
An Airless Storm
Cochrane’s Company, Book Two
Peter Grant
Sedgefield Press
Copyright © 2018 by Peter Grant. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Cover art and design by Steve Beaulieu
https://www.facebook.com/BeaulisticBookServices/
This book is dedicated
to my friend and fellow author
SARAH HOYT,
who encouraged me to get started
on my own writing career,
and supported my fledgling efforts
with enthusiasm. Thanks, Sarah!
Contents
1. Crime and punishment
2. Expansion
3. Upgrade
4. A thirst for revenge
5. New ships and old
6. High and low crimes
7. Progress
8. Setback
9. Recall
10. Next steps
11. Retaliation
12. Assessment
13. Lessons learned
14. Infiltration
15. Losses
16. New tools
17. Kill team
18. Consultation
19. Rehabilitation
20. Intrusion
21. Conference
22. Assassins
23. Planning
24. Attack
25. Confrontation
26. What next?
Excerpt from “The Pride of the Damned”
About the Author
Books by Peter Grant
1
Crime and punishment
KEDA
The prisoner was trembling as the jailers unlocked his cell door, cuffed his hands behind his back, and led him out into the corridor. The escort commander, a stone-faced major, inspected him from head to foot, and grimaced in distaste. The fear-stench added a sour, bitter overtone to the already rank odor of the man’s grimy clothes and unwashed body. Then again, why bother letting inmates here wash? he thought to himself. None of those in this corridor will stink much longer.
He led the prisoner and his guards down the passage to a heavy double door. It opened onto an enclosed courtyard, its green grass contrasting with the dark, damp stone of the crenellated walls around it. Several observers looked down in silence from atop them, dressed warmly against the damp chill. They watched as the major signed a form, accepting custody of the prisoner. The guards went back inside, and the doors closed behind them.
The waiting escort snapped to attention at the command of their sergeant. He marched them behind the officer as he escorted the stumbling, shivering prisoner down the graveled path, then turned ninety degrees toward the rear wall. He led the prisoner toward a thick head-high wooden stake planted firmly in the ground, two meters before the wall. Behind it, a thick pile of sandbags had been erected against the stone. A few pockmarks in the wall at its edges showed where it had sometimes failed to provide an adequate backstop against poor marksmanship.
The sergeant halted the escort, formed them into a single line and dressed the rank, while a corporal went forward to assist the officer. The two of them briskly, impersonally turned the man to face the line of soldiers. The corporal went down on one knee and tied his feet together, then tethered them to the base of the stake. The officer waited until the prisoner’s feet had been secured, then took from his inside jacket pocket a formal decree. He unfolded it and read it aloud.
“For the crime of selling advanced military weapons to unknown enemies of the state, in dereliction of his duty and responsibilities, and to the grave detriment of the security of Keda and its star system, Lieutenant-Commander Wira bin Osman is hereby sentenced to death by firing squad. The sentence is to be carried out within one week from this date.”
He folded the document and returned it to his pocket. “Do you have any last words, prisoner?”
“I – you can’t do this! I have the right to appeal the sentence of a military court-martial to the Supreme Court of Keda! My – my lawyer is –”
“Your lawyer has already filed your appeal, prisoner. By edict of the President of the Supreme Court, it has been rejected without a hearing. The sentence of your court-martial stands.”
“B-but… I…” Tears came to the prisoner’s eyes, and his knees wobbled, as if he were about to fall.
“Control yourself, damn you!” Revulsion curled the major’s lip. “Your execution will be televised. At least try to die like a man, even if you could not live like one!”
“I…” The condemned man seemed to find a last reserve of courage. He drew himself up. “Major, I… I am being murdered to cover up the crimes of my superior officers. They sold those weapons, not I.” His voice was hopeless. “Who will bring them to justice?”
The officer did not answer. He nodded to his corporal, who produced a length of black cloth and briskly, impersonally, tied it over the prisoner’s eyes; then he pulled a small white card from his pocket, and pinned it to the convict’s shirt over his heart. Snapping to attention, the two soldiers turned their backs on the doomed man and marched back to the firing squad. The major took up his position at one side, while the corporal retrieved his rifle and joined the line.
The sergeant bellowed, “Ready!” The eight-man squad snapped to attention.
“Load!” There was a rattle of metal on metal as beads were chambered.
“Aim!” The firing party took a half-step back with their right legs and lined their weapons at the prisoner. The trembling man against the post tried to stand straighter, as if that would somehow control his shivering. It did not.
“Fire!”
The shots crashed out as one. The electromagnetic mechanism of the rifles in the soldiers’ hands accelerated their projectiles to hypersonic velocity as they left the muzzles. The impact of the rounds raised puffs of dust from the card and the prisoner’s grimy white shirt beneath it, before both were stained with red as blood gushed out. The man slammed back against the post, crying out once, short and sharp; then he toppled slowly, stiffly, to his left. The card came loose as he fell, fluttering downward through the air. He bounced once on the grass, rolled halfway onto his back, and lay still.
The major marched briskly forward from his position at the side of the firing squad, unbuckling the flap of his holster and drawing his pulser. He stood over the prone figure, aimed down at the black band around its eyes, and fired once – then skipped back with an exclamation of disgust as a few drops of blood splattered on his gleaming, immaculately polished boots. The sergeant bellowed a command that sent the corporal scurrying forward, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe the footwear clean.
The firing squad formed up in two ranks, and the sergeant marched them down the path toward the portal. The major returned his pulser to its holster, then followed his men, walking briskly. Others, menials, would clean up the mess. He had more important duties to attend to.
Of course you died to protect your superiors, he thought disdainfully as he closed the door behind him and turned down the corridor toward his office. What else did you expect? You didn’t seriously think they were going to take the blame, did you? In your shoes, I’d have been sorrier for my wife and children than I was for myself. Their punishment is only just begi
nning.
A few weeks later, a man sitting at a desk aboard a freighter orbiting a distant planet watched a vid recording of the Commander’s execution. His face was impassive as the officer collapsed, and the major delivered the coup de grace.
The announcer’s voice rose in impassioned approval as the vid cut to a family home in a suburban setting. A young-looking woman was dragged out of the front door, screaming hysterically, looking back in anguish at two uniformed policemen who were carrying a young boy and girl out after her. They were probably not more than two or three years old, clearly twins. They were crying, struggling, reaching out for their mother. The officer dragging her paid no attention to her pleas. He threw her bodily into the back of a van, and slammed the door in her face. The two children were deposited, less roughly, in the back seat of an unmarked car, where an iron-faced female officer accepted custody of them. The vehicles drove off in different directions.
“So?” he said expressionlessly as he cut off the playback, looking at the man standing before his desk. “That was only to be expected. Why did you bring it to my attention?”
“I… I thought it might interest you, sir.”
“It doesn’t. She’ll end up in a brothel somewhere – she’s still young enough and attractive enough that they can make some money out of her. The children will probably end up there too, once they’re older, if they grow up pretty enough. If they don’t, it’ll be the mines for them, to be worked to death as slave labor. That’s the way of things on Keda.”
“Ah… I thought…”
“You thought we should do something for them, since our actions led to the death of their husband and father? Rescue them, perhaps?”
“Er… yes, sir.”
“You are too sentimental, Flamur.” The man’s voice was frosty with disapproval. “They are nothing, and less than nothing. That, and worse, happens to little people all over the settled galaxy, every single day. If we cared about all of them, we would have no time or resources to devote to our cause. I will make allowances for your error this time, because you are still young enough to be needlessly sentimental; but see to it that you learn to ignore such inconsequential nonsense. If you do not, you will be useless to us.”
“I hear and obey, sir!”
“Very well. Return to your quarters. I will have another mission for you soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man behind the desk watched him go, then brought up his terminal display once more and began scanning figures. As he did so, he thought with satisfaction of the sixteen missile pods secured in two of the freighter’s holds. Five years ago, Keda had bought a division of four frigates, each carrying four missile pods. Every pod contained sixteen main battery and sixteen defensive missiles. It had also bought a set of reload pods for all four ships. Those reloads had changed hands a few weeks before, after transfer of what he still thought was an exorbitant sum in gold to a senior officer. It had been paid into an off-planet account, where it would ensure his comfortable retirement as soon as he could gather his family and flee Keda, never to return. He might already have done so, for all the man knew – or he might have failed, to be executed in his turn, and his family suffer as well. That was of no consequence.
The only thing that mattered was that he was fulfilling the charge laid upon him personally by the leader of the Brotherhood. “Get us modern missiles, and fire control systems to direct them, Ylli,” Agim had urged. “I do not care if you have to pay high prices. Our peril grows, and our need is great. We can buy ships and convert them, but cannot buy up-to-date weapons for them – at least, not through legal channels, although we are working to change that. Until then, you are the best man I have for this job. Do not fail us!”
The latest acquisition meant he had acquired a total of forty-two missile pods from four different planets, containing many times that number of missiles. Fire control systems were more difficult, but he had his deputy tracking down special software, developed by a mining planet that could not afford to buy the military systems it needed. Their program ran on readily available asteroid survey systems, converting them and their long-range sensor panels into a better-than-passing semblance of a fire control system. His second-in-command was due to report back soon.
Meanwhile, Ylli had one more planet on his list of possibilities. Even if it did not pan out, provided his deputy had succeeded, they could all go back to Patos in triumph, to receive Agim’s grateful thanks and the reward that would surely accompany them.
NEW SKYROS
The executive scrolled through the electronic document, and nodded in satisfaction. “Kreshnik Security’s articles of incorporation, and its company registration, all appear to be in order, Mr. Cela. All we need is an end user certificate from the planet, then we can accept your order. What warships do you require?”
“As you know, a civilian company can’t operate armed vessels carrying more than two missile pods. However, our first client, Tarakan, wants more powerful ships. That means they’ll have to buy them in their own name. Kreshnik will provide the initial crews, and help them train their own spacers to take over from us. Another thing: there must be no announcements, no publicity, no press releases, even upon delivery. Tarakan wants everything kept entirely confidential.”
“I understand. We’ve made similar arrangements in the past.”
“Good. I’ll have Tarakan’s end user certificate for you within a few weeks. Meanwhile, may I look over some of the ships you have under construction, to familiarize myself with them?”
“I think we can accommodate you. We have two destroyers currently on our ways, as well as a courier ship and a freighter.”
“Good. Destroyers are what our client will probably order, perhaps a full squadron of eight of them, plus a depot ship. They will be most interested to hear my views on your design.”
The businessman’s eyes didn’t flicker at the thought of Tarakan buying a three-and-a-half-trillion-drachma squadron of destroyers. By rights, so minor a planet should not be able to afford even one of the warships. Good, Cela thought as he watched the man. If you’re not turning a hair at that, it means you’ll ask as much for your ships as you think we can afford – probably at least twenty-five percent above your list price – and see if we’ll pay it. If we do – and we will – then you’ll know we’re up to no good… but you’ll take our money anyway, because at least on paper, everything will be legal. That’s all people like you worry about.
“How long will it take to build the ships?” he asked.
“We’ll have to finalize what your client wants – weapons, systems, accommodation, and so on. We tailor our basic design according to customer requirements. That will take some time – how long is up to your client. After that, we’ll order long-lead-time items while we begin programming our robotic constructors. I think we can start building the first two ships about eighteen months from now, and complete two ships every eight to nine months, thanks to our ultra-modern methods.”
“That may be too slow for our client’s needs. Is it possible to build them faster?”
The executive looked surprised. “Well, yes, it is, but that would cost more – quite a lot more. You see, we have other orders. We try to keep our ways filled, for greater efficiency. We would have to slot your orders in among our existing commitments. If you wish, we might be able to persuade some customers to delay their orders, and give you their slots in our schedule. However, you would have to pay them to do so, and they’ll charge what the traffic will bear. It won’t be cheap, and it may not be feasible if they won’t agree.
“Alternatively, we can open another building way, dedicated to your order, and hire engineers and technicians to staff it. With that, and given speedy approval of your plans, we can begin construction in six months, and deliver two ships every eight months after that. The depot ship would be slotted into our regular production schedule, to be ready with the second or third pair of destroyers. However, given our additional staffing costs, plus the
expense of starting up and shutting down a building way specially for you, the price of your warships will be at least fifty percent over list.”
Cela fumed internally. Greedy bastard! You’re already pretty sure what’s going on, and you’re testing the water to see how deep you can gouge us! However, he did not let his thoughts show on his face.
“I’ll have to discuss that with our client. It’ll be their decision, you understand.”
“I do. Ah… in what currency will they be paying?”
“I don’t know, but it’s probable they’ll pay in gold. They have abundant mineral resources.”
The businessman could not keep the greed out of his eyes. Gold would make it much easier to siphon off part of the payment for himself and his fellow directors. The shipyard could also declare a much lower income for tax purposes, because gold could not be tracked like a normal bank transfer. “Provided their gold passes assay, that will be very satisfactory.”
I’m sure it will, Cela thought sourly as he came to his feet. “Very well, Mr. Metaxas. Let’s go and look at ships.”
He wondered, as he walked down the corridor with his host, how much the Brotherhood would have to pay to a couple of Ministers of State on Tarakan to get the end user certificate, and have them verify it if questions were asked. It was the last piece in the plan they had crafted to evade interplanetary legal restrictions, and get their hands on major modern warships. Whatever it cost would be money well spent, if it meant the defeat of their enemies.