Sinclair's Scorpions (The Omega War Book 5)

by PP Corcoran

  Alastair had suspected Oren had been a mercenary and now he had confirmed it, after a moment Alastair’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “But, surely, your unit paid compensation for your combat injuries? That’s written into a standard contract.”

  “Aye it might be now, Alastair, but no when I was a lad. And besides, my unit was wiped oot. Nay body got to go hame.” Oren’s voice trailed off, and his natural eye glinted softly as a tear filled it.

  Oren’s statement only added to Alastair’s confusion. “If the unit was wiped out then how are you here?”

  “My platoon was assaulting an enemy position, and I stepped on a mine.” Oren’s gaze was far away as the vivid memories came back to him. “A bright flash and pain—oh God, lad, the pain. I passed out. When I came round, it wis dark. I thought it wis night, but there wis’nay stars in the sky. I wis cold. Colder than I’ve ever been. I cudnae feel ma body or move any part of me. I dinna ken how lang I wis in the dark, it felt like days, weeks maybe. Never seeing anyone or anything. Just the dark. And the nightmares.”

  “Nightmares?” asked Alastair in morbid fascination of Oren’s tale.

  “Fragments of memory,” said Oren. “Blurred outlines of beings. Not Human. Definitely not Human, but something else. I can never see them clearly, as if my mind has drawn a veil over the whole experience.” Oren paused to take a swig of his drink and smiled a languid smile that never reached his eyes. “Then one fine day I woke up here.” Raising his prosthetic arm with its metal hand, flexing the fingers under the glove with a faint whirring noise. “With all my added extras and not a penny to my name. There were only farmers here at the time, and they appreciated the extra pair of hands.” Oren lifted his flesh and blood arm and compared it to the prosthetic with a gentle snort of derision. “Well, hand. I helped out, and they fed and clothed me. Over the years I made a steady living and some good friends. As they aged, I remained the same, unchanging year after year. A passing ship, maybe fifty or so years ago, had a doctor on board. Decent lad for a Wrogul. Stuck those damned tentacle things of his in my head. He was able to stop the nightmares, but still couldn’t explain all the cybernetics work that had been done on me. Said it was unlike anything he had ever encountered. Wished me luck, and off he went.”

  Unnoticed by Alastair, who had been completely engrossed in Oren’s story, Ethan Croll and Gregor Jackson had halted the pretense of examining their slate and were also listening avidly.

  “When the red diamond mine opened.” Oren’s head cocked to one side as he accessed his memories. “Oh, wit, twenty odd years ago, yon miners needed somewhere tae git away from being underground all the time. The mining company came here looking for a place where the miners could walk under open skies and breathe fresh air. I seen a wee business opportunity and opened this place tae cater to their liquid refreshment needs. It wis all gone alang great until they found yon Dusman shit, and the Mercenary Guild turned up with yon wee rat-faced woman, Peepo, and took over. Now instead of miners, I huv tae put up way those bloody yappy Besquith and the mix of scientists and engineers that come doon here fay some R and R. All just so Peepo and her ilk can have some new reactor tae power their shiny wee toys.”

  Alastair’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he snapped it shut with an audible click. “How do you know they are working on an ancient Dusman power source, Oren?”

  The man waved his glass in front of Alastair’s eyes. “Them lads come here and drink till they cannae stand up, but their mouths keep working just fine. Besides, who are we gonna tell. The only ships that come here now are those contracted to the Merc Guild.”

  “Have you never thought about going home?” asked Alastair. “Back to Earth. Scotland?”

  “Och, lad. Every wan I ken has lang turned tae dust. I wis an only child, so no lang lost nephews or nieces are waiting for great, great, great uncle Oren tae come hame from his grand adventure among the stars. The only wans I would have called family were my mates in the Foxes. That’s why I named this place in their honor.”

  Ethan Croll was out of his seat and beside Oren in three steps, looking at the drunk man in disbelief. “The Foxes! Do you mean Campbell’s Foxes?”

  Oren’s head was beginning to droop as the copious amounts of whisky he had consumed finally took affect and his voice began to slur. “Private Oren Baird, late of Second Platoon, Campbell’s Foxes. Sole survivor and oldest man in the galaxy reporting for duty, Colonel.” Oren passed out, forcing Alastair and Ethan to catch him before he slipped from his chair.

  “Now what do we do with him?” asked Ethan.

  “I can show you his room,” a quiet voice said from behind the partition which separated the bar from the more private parts of the building. Gregor hopped over the bar counter and pulled the partition across to reveal the Zeewie who had taken their jackets earlier and whom Ethan had been pumping for information.

  “How much did you hear?” demanded Alastair gravely.

  “Enough,” replied the Zeewie, holding Alastair’s gaze steadily. “And I’m willing to help you get into the Dusman facility on Kathal.” Alastair and the two other Scorpions were equally surprised by the little miner’s offer. “On one condition.”

  “Go ahead,” said Alastair warily.

  “You get me off this dust bowl and drop me on some civilized world. And—” The Zeewie nodded to the snoring Oren. “You take Oren home. He will never tell you but he misses his own world more than he would ever admit.” The little Zeewie’s whiskers twitched. “At least when he’s sober.”

  “Deal,” said Alastair.

  The Zeewie’s head bobbed up and down a couple of times and, if Alastair was any judge of alien facial expressions, a wave of relief mingled with gratitude spread across the miner’s face. “Help me get him to bed, then I’ll tell you everything I know about the mine and the Dusman facility.”

  Alastair hooked his arm under Oren’s bulky frame while Ethan did the same on the other side, heaving the sleeping Scotsman to his feet. “Just how much does he know about Kathal?” Alastair asked Ethan under his breath.

  “He was the mine supervisor for the area they found the Dusman facility in, and when Peepo’s people took over he ran one of the crews that cleaned the place out and made it habitable before all the scientists and engineers arrived, and he was kicked out. So, pretty much like the back of his hand.”

  “OK, we’ll head back to the Glambring tomorrow morning and get our heads together and see if we can come up with a plan of attack,” said Alastair, his head already running through various permutations. The biggest problem he could see was how to get past the radar screen, completely unaware that that particular problem had already been solved.

  * * *

  “As you can see, ladies and gents,” said Alastair Sinclair to the gathering which crowded around the small table in the officers’ mess of the Glambring late the following morning. “Our new friend, eh—”

  “Al’ozeka Haklavak Ohr Qopalzaek,” piped up the mole-like Zeewie.

  “Call him Al, it’s a lot easier,” Oren Baird said, loud enough to be heard through the hands, which cradled his head as he tried to ease his pounding headache.

  The short Zeewie glowered at his Human friend but did not correct him.

  “Al,” continued Alastair, as he used a laser pointer to play over the image slowly rotating in the Tri-V hovering above the table. “Fortunately for us, he retained a copy of the mine and the facility’s lay out. Now, even though we don’t have a definitive floor plan, because the facility was not in full use when Al was removed, we still can make educated guesses based on the infrastructure of power and computer conduits, thickness and composition of walls, ceilings, and floors that the labor force put in before the scientists and engineers moved in.”

  Around the room, sets of eyes from various species soaked up the image.

  Al stood up and addressed the group. “The original Dusman facility consists of eight levels descending from the surface of Kathal, spreading out from a centr
al core into five distinct corridors. After the final level, the core continues down through the crust until, at around thirty-six miles in depth, the core crosses from the surface crust and into moon’s mantle. We presumed that the Dusman had tapped the magma at that level to power the facility.”

  “Makes sense,” agreed Anna Wong. “If there is a sub-surface magma ocean it would produce thermal power for millions of years. Knowing the Dusman’s excellence in engineering I’ll bet that they also perfected a means of extracting all the ilmenite, uranium, thorium, potassium, and hydrogen they would need to construct the power sources used in the Raknar. Combine that with their ability to extract F11 from a gas giant right next door, and I can’t imagine a better place to mass produce the Raknar reactor.”

  Larras grunted loud enough that Anna gave him a slap on the cylindrical segment containing his head. “What I mean,” began the Jeha engineer, “is that we have no idea if they have managed to reverse engineer the Dusman reactor designs yet.”

  “They’ve not only did that, ya wee beastie, yon laddies have a working prototype,” said Oren, raising his head to fix his one eye on the Jeha.

  “How can you be sure?” asked Anna.

  Oren waved a hand dismissively. “I told yae before. When they drink, they talk, and I listen.”

  An uneasy silence settled on the room as they all digested the information.

  “What’s our best way in, Al?” asked Alastair with a new-found sense of urgency.

  The Zeewie ran his eyes over the floating image until he found what he was looking for. Tapping at the slate in front of him, he expanded an area eight miles to the west of the facility. “I would suggest here, Colonel. When the red diamond mine was operational we excavated a number of exploration tunnels, hoping to find more deposits. This particular run proved to be dry, but it was extended anyway, to provide an emergency egress in case of a main shaft collapse. If we enter through there then we can follow the abandoned tunnels right up to where the outer skin of the facility meets the original tunnels.”

  “The Besquith might be a bunch of mangy dogs, but that does not mean that they are stupid,” piped in Tim Buchanan. “They are bound to have put all kinds of traps and alarms on the approach tunnels.”

  “Nothing my troopers can’t bypass,” said Gonzalez Rivero, the Support Platoon commander, confidently.

  Alastair appreciated his well-placed confidence. “That leaves the issue of how we get to the insertion point.” Alastair nodded to the Glambring’s elSha commander. “Captain Kothoo?”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” the elSha captain said gracefully. “Using the data Engineer Larras has gathered on the magnetosheath, we’ve been able to plot a course which will effectively render us invisible to the Besquith’s orbital radar.” A tap of his slate replaced the image of the Dusman facility and the intricate complex of mining tunnels surrounding it with an equally complex rendering of the orbits of the gas giant’s moons and lesser objects. Another tap of the slate and the projected course of the Glambring was overlaid, tracking from their current position around Moon 4 to the outer edge of the Besquith’s much-reduced orbital radar detection zone. “When we reach the outer edge of their reliable radar coverage we deploy the dropships which will carry the strike team to the insertion point.”

  “What about the ground-based radar?” asked Caroline Verley.

  Kothoo tapped again at his slate and a series of red overlapping circles appeared on the surface of Kathal. “These are my tac officers’ best guess at the effective range of the ground-based radar our electronic warfare systems have identified. As you can see, your insertion point is beyond their range. However, the dropships will fly nap of the earth well beyond the predicted detection range until they reach their destination.”

  A groan escaped the Scorpion troopers around the table. Nap of the earth meant flying as close to the ground as you could without crashing into it. The ground effect turbulence meant for a deeply-uncomfortable ride for the dropships’ occupants. However, a bit of turbulence was much more preferable than being splashed from the sky by a surface-to-air missile.

  Alastair clapped his hands once loudly to get everybody’s attention. “OK, people. Let’s get this show on the road. Final drop checks in sixty minutes…”

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” interrupted Oren.

  Unused to interruptions, especially by a man suffering a hangover, Alastair bit his tongue. “Yes, Oren?”

  The Scotsman focused his good eye on the ship’s clock displaying Galactic Union Time and ran a quick calculation. “If we wait another eight hours before we launch your operation I think you can improve your odds of success.”

  Tim’s eyebrow raised incredulously. “Care to explain, Oren?”

  “When yon Besquith first arrived here they wer keen as mustard. Garrison duty has made em fat and lazy. There shud be only one platoon off duty at any one time, but the last few months the beasties have been lingering langer and langer. Now they dinna leave Moon 5 till the next R and R platoon arrive at the bar and kick them oot.”

  Alastair clicked his fingers as he understood where Oren was going with this. “And if we wait another eight hours before launching our attack half the Besquith will be stranded hours away from the site they are meant to be protecting. Good call, Oren.”

  Oren’s half-Human, half-cyborg face gave that odd smile again. “I try my best, Colonel.”

  “Very well people. Change of plan. Time on target is now zero-two-thirty G.U.T. For now, we’ve nothing to do but wait. Dismissed.”

  As the group dispersed, Tim caught Anna’s eye and tipped his head in the direction of one corner of the room. Making their way over into the corner they had a semblance of privacy, but, still, Tim kept his voice at a level whisper.

  “You don’t need to come with us, you know.”

  Anna clasped her hands behind her back and spread her feet shoulder width apart. “Now you listen to me, Tim Buchanan. I have my part to play on this mission, too, you know. I’ve come a long way to find these reactors, and you tell me one other person on this ship, no, in this entire solar system, is more qualified to identify, understand, and advise your troopers on what to recover from the facility?” Anna clenched her jaw, daring Tim to argue, but he had to try.

  “I’m sure Larras is sufficiently up to speed that…”

  “Enough, Tim,” said Anna in a tight voice. “You have your job and now it’s time for me to do mine.”

  Tim gave her a pained stare. He knew she was right; however, he did not want to put the woman that he had such deep feelings for into the line of fire. Seeing his anguish, Anna’s eyes softened, and she tried to put on a reassuring smile. “Corporal Vega will keep me safe.”

  Tim glanced over at the imposing trooper hovering near the room’s entrance, trying to make his bulky, body armored frame less conspicuous to give the couple at least a sense of privacy while staying within a few steps of his protectee. Tim gave in gracefully, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around her slim frame. “Just you be careful, OK?”

  “You too, Tim,” she said, pushing him to arms-length and looking around furtively. “Any more of this hugging stuff, and your reputation as a heavy task master with ice running through his veins could be in jeopardy.”

  Tim let out a small laugh as the tenseness of the moment passed.

  “Doctor Wong?” called Larras, as he stuck the tip of his elongated head around the door frame, spotting the couple in the corner. “Ah, there you are. Could you help me calibrate the sensor array one last time? Captain Kothoo would like it double-checked since we have a few hours.”

  “Of course, Larras,” replied Anna, then rolled her jade green eyes at Tim. “Duty calls.” With that, she followed the Jeha engineer out of the room, Corporal Vega a step behind.

  Tim looked around the empty room. The diagram of the mine and the Dusman facility still floated serenely above the briefing table. Nothing to do but wait I suppose, he thought. He walked over and closed down the Tri-V
before leaving the room.

  * * *

  God, I hate waiting, thought Kate Preissman, for possibly the thousandth time since the Salamanca had entered the Elo system. After dropping Jamie Sinclair and his company of troopers off at Waylan Station in the Centaur Region, Kate had wasted no time in setting off on the next task Alastair Sinclair had given her. Find his eldest son, Charlie, the two platoons of Scorpions under his command, and return them to New Warsaw and the relative safety of the Winged Hussars home system.

  As Kate had discovered, finding Charlie was easier said than done. Alastair had supplied Kate with Charlie’s travel itinerary so she knew he and his troopers had been due to transship at Tal Station on their way to Galax. Unfortunately for Kate, it looked like Charlie had received his father’s cryptic birthday message and understood it for what it was. A message to go dark and avoid all contact while doing his best to return home. And it appeared Charlie was very good at following his father’s instructions.

  It had taken Kate three days of bribes and pay offs to the various low lives of Tal Station to discover that Charlie had managed to secure transportation on a Zuparti freighter, the Tla’koz. Said freighter was due to make a cargo run to the Elo system before heading out to the Crapti region, but from the scuttlebutt she had managed to overhear, the Tla’koz had had a little trouble with pirates on its arrival in Elo. Pirates which, supposedly, had gotten their asses kicked by the crew of the freighter, who had not only fended off the pirates’ boarding parties, but had then somehow managed to blow the two pirate ships into nothing more than expanding gas and tiny fragments. Kate smelled the hand of Charlie and his Scorpions.

  Immediately on dropping off its cargo, the Tla’koz had ignored the freight waiting for shipment to the Crapti region and instead passed through the stargate and that was where the trail went cold. And now Kate waited, rhythmically tapping her fingers on the armrest of her command chair to the great annoyance of the other members of the bridge crew.