The Firestorm Conspiracy (10 page)

“No one knows for sure what’s happened because they can’t get the doors open, and they won’t be able to do that without that fuel canister you’re carrying.”

The boy stared at the cylinder in his hands as though seeing it for the first time. He looked back at John, but made no move to take the older man’s hand.

“I’m scared, sir.” His lip trembled as more tears threatened to fall. “This is my first tour. I’m just a pilot aide. I’ve never been in a real emergency situation before. Captain Forbes, he is--was--good to us. Not aloof like some other captains I heard about. He even came to see me in the MIR when I broke my foot a few months ago.”

“Listen, lad, we’re all scared. The difference between us and a bunch of civilians is that we’ve got training to help us act in a time of crisis.” He offered his hand again. “Right now Captain Forbes needs you to act. He needs you to get the fuel to Gen Four so they can get the door open and rescue those inside.

“There’ll be time later to deal with the fear, but first we have to do everything in our power to bring the situation under control.” He waved his hand for emphasis. “Come on, son, we’ve got to help rescue your captain.”

* * * *

Rebeccah surveyed the chaos on the bridge. The explosion and alarms came as such a shock, she and the rest of the crew stared at each other until the second explosion jolted them back to reality.

“Report. Are we under attack?” Rebeccah asked as she took the captain’s chair.

“No, sir,” replied the ensign at tactical. “Reports show no sign of any vessels, hostile or otherwise, in our vicinity.”

“Sir,” the lieutenant at communications shouted. “Crews on decks seventeen through nineteen are reporting smoke. Lots of smoke.”

“It’s Gen Four, sir. There’s been an explosion in Gen Four.”

Rebeccah’s stomach plummeted into her boots. She bit her lip to hide the trembling as she shifted in the seat she had no desire to occupy. Forbes and Cheng had to be all right.

* * * *

“Excuse me, sir,” John was brought to a complete halt by a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Civilians aren’t allowed past this point.”

Tall enough to be used to gazing down on the people he spoke to, John was startled to find himself looking up into the dark face that owned the bass voice. Caught up in getting the fuel canister to the accident site, John hadn’t considered the possibility he would be denied access.

“I only want to help,” he said.

“You can help by staying out of the way.”

“I’m sure I--”

The burly officer sighed. “The UESF has the highest trained crews ever known to man.” He turned John around so he was facing the way he’d come. “Now get out and let us do our jobs.” He shoved John none-too-gently down the corridor, causing him to almost bowl over several crewmembers carrying exhaust fans and air filters.

“Hey. Watch where you’re going.”

“Careful. This is expensive equipment.”

“Whoa.”

John grabbed the fan as it toppled to the deck. “Sorry,” he said. “Let me help you.” He placed the fan on the ground and proceeded to key in the appropriate commands for the situation. Without thinking, he aligned the fan with a nearby filter, forcing the smoke and fumes out of the corridor and into the filtration unit. Within seconds, John had the two systems running in tandem. He sat back on his heels to admire his work when he realized the crewmembers were staring at him.

“What?” he asked. He checked his work for mistakes. “Did I screw up?”

The crewmember who’d told him to watch where he was going shook his head and said, “No. You did it perfectly.”

John raised his eyebrow in an unspoken question.

“No one does it perfectly on their first try.” He looked John over carefully. “Especially not civilians.”

“Ah,” John replied, trying to think up a suitable explanation.

He lost the chance to explain himself when one of the other crewmembers interrupted, saying, “Who cares where he learned. Let’s just get these set up.” He passed another fan to John. “We have four dozen to set up across the rest of the ship once we get this area clear.”

John took the fan, his hands remembering actions that during the war had been routine. “I’d be glad to help you. I’m not doing anything else at the moment.”

The first soldier grunted his acceptance, but the second one smiled. “Welcome to Beta-C Engineering Squad, sir.”

Rebeccah ordered the ship to make the jump out of trans-light speed. She refused to risk further generator explosions until the cause of this one had been determined. She directed the remainder of the bridge crew to run diagnostics on every system. A necessary task, but one also designed to keep worry and speculation to a minimum. Dozens of reports flowed into the command console, and she sat uneasily in her new position, unprepared for the captain’s chair.

Rebeccah sighed.
People seeking out this position have to be three plasma cells short of an energy weapon
.

* * * *

As a new cadet fresh into her first round of training courses, Rebeccah had yearned to become the captain of one of the fleet’s ships. She’d chosen the command career path as the most direct means to her goal. A fine leader, as her progress reports attested, she knew she stood a good chance of being posted in space for her first tour after graduation.

“Sub Lieutenant Rebeccah Santiago reporting for duty, sir,” she’d crowed as she stepped onto the bridge of the frigate.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” replied the captain. “Welcome aboard. Your instructors spoke highly of you.” He nodded to the tactical station. “Take your position.”

Her freshman year aboard the frigate,
Einstein
, passed like a dream. Promoted twice--to full lieutenant, and then to lieutenant commander--she took over as the head of the tactical department. She had to catch her breath every time she thought about how close she was to reaching her goal. Rumors at the fleet level hinted she was being considered for the XO position on one of the smaller supply vessels. The jump from XO into the captain’s chair was a short one, and she itched to keep climbing the ladder.

Then her world fell apart. Tasked with resupplying the UESF outpost on Delta Prime, she’d led the mission to the surface. She’d read the report of rebel dissidents in the area, but had only skimmed the details. She assumed the team had adequate security as they began the job of unloading the cargo shuttles and restocking the outpost.

The rebels came pouring out of the surrounding vegetation by the hundreds. The guerrilla soldiers cut down any UESF person within reach. Alone in the back of the shuttle, Rebeccah watched the massacre unfold in slow motion. She screamed into the comm. unit for her team to rejoin her, all the while discharging her own weapon in an effort to provide covering fire.

Her finger on the trigger slowed as each soldier under her command fell. Fewer than ten crewmembers remained alive; and of those, only two were attempting to reach the shuttle. She prayed they could cover the ground--they were so close--but the shuttle’s rear hatch closed, cutting her off from the carnage and cutting the crew off from safety.

“What the hell?” She banged on the door to the pilot’s compartment.

“Sir, our position has been overrun. We need to evacuate.”

“No, we still have troops on the ground.”

“It’s too dangerous.” The pilot banked the shuttle up and over the trees.

“No,” Rebeccah cried. “We can’t just leave them.”

“We have to.”

“Damn you,” she swore. “You coward.”

“No, sir,” he replied. “I am a UESF pilot following my commander’s orders. I delayed our take-off longer than recommended, waiting for your order. When that didn’t come, you forced me to act.” He paused as the shuttle broke clear of the planet’s atmosphere. “We cannot afford to let the rebels gain access to a craft like this.”

Two hundred UESF soldiers died that day; forty-eight under her direct command. Sickened, ashamed, and blaming herself for the entire debacle, Rebeccah resigned her rank and position as head of tactical. She would have left the UESF, but the
Einstein’s
captain convinced her to remain on board by offering her an administrative post within the diplomatic corps.

Relieved of any responsibility for the safety of others, Rebeccah vowed never to accept another command posting. Fifteen years later, she remained a lieutenant, having refused over half a dozen offers of promotion.

* * * *

She’d broken her vow several times without a second thought during her service with Captain Forbes. He often left her in charge of the bridge whenever he and Cheng were busy elsewhere. She’d grown accustomed to the routine duty shifts, secure in the knowledge that if anything out of the ordinary occurred, either the captain or XO would return to take command.

Rebeccah scanned the bridge. Unless Forbes or Cheng were found alive, no one would be replacing her this time.

* * * *

Rebeccah approached the generator room at a run, her boots ringing against the deck. Much of the smoke had been cleared, and she heard the drone of the fans and filters working to remove the last traces. She rounded the corner of the corridor and arrived in time to witness the removal of part of the doors to Gen Four.

The reports she’d received on the bridge failed to describe the severity of the accident. The heat of the explosion had fused the doors and buckled a twenty foot section of bulkhead into the corridor. The metal of the armored wall was bubbled and scorched, looking more like burned cheese than an eight-inch thick solid mass of reinforced titanium.

She wondered how anyone could possibly survive. She waited as six crewmembers used electromagnets and reduced gravity generators to move the warped section of door. A fresh wave of smoke and ash billowed out of the cavity with a roar. Coughing and choking, Rebeccah fought her way through the fog to the front.

Crews quickly set up portable lights at the entrance, as the interior lighting had been destroyed in the blast. They also placed fans to remove the remaining smoke and fumes. Rebeccah stepped gingerly around one of the machines and tentatively set foot in the quantum field generator room.

Her boots made no sound. She shifted her balance and small puffs of dust and ash rose from the deck. Tiny particles of white ash fluttered from the ceiling; a sinister snowfall dusting her head, uniform, and hands. Ash coated the remains of the generators. Even the walls were plastered in a thick layer of white powder.

She moved further into a silent blizzard.

She blinked to remove the ash collecting on her lashes. A fine layer covered her already, and still the powder fell from the ceiling and whirled around her legs.

She rubbed a small amount of the gritty substance between her fingers and wondered, “Why didn’t the fire suppression work?”

The swirling ash deadened her words, making her feel like she had cotton in her ears.

“The system functioned normally,” said the engineer who’d entered the room on her heels.

Rebeccah jumped at the nearness of his voice.

He swiped a handful of ash from the wall, made a fist, and let the grit fall to the deck between his fingers. “This is what happens to the suppressing foam after it’s been burnt.”

Rebeccah shuddered. She turned to the medics waiting by the doorway and said, “Do what you can to recover the bodies. Their families deserve that much. We’ll try to match the remains to the crew files to determine precisely who was in here at the time of the explosion.”

She stepped back into the corridor and accessed a nearby communications panel. “Santiago to Karenshikov.”

“Karenshikov here.”

“I need you to assemble a team to examine Gen Four to determine the cause of the explosions. I expect you to liaise with engineering, but I’m putting you in overall command of the investigation.”

“Am I to treat this like a crime scene?” the chief of the Department of Internal Security asked, her accent thickening with tension.

Rebeccah repressed a shudder at the possibility. “At this point we’re treating the situation as an accident, but I don’t want you to rule out any possibilities.”

No matter how grim.

John lay on his bed listening to his back protest his actions over the course of the past several hours. He smiled then winced as he placed his hands behind his head. He’d have to hit the shower soon, or he’d seize up. The work had been grueling but oddly satisfying. Something about working with a group of people with a common mission bred a sense of belonging and accomplishment.

Despite the horror of the accident, spending several hours hauling fans and filters with the boys of Beta-C made his heart lighter than it had been in years. He smiled as he stumbled toward the recycling unit. John tossed his soiled garments down the chute--including his loafers. He groaned as he let the hot water pound into his aching muscles.

The joy of experiencing the camaraderie of a military squad made him realize how isolated he’d become--not only on board the
Firestorm
, but at the university too--and he resolved to buy the boys a drink for their efforts.

* * * *

Rebeccah fought the urge to be ill. Every available crewmember--regardless of work shift--filed into the main flyer hangar as she watched from the launch control room. A skeleton crew manned the bridge and other key areas. As soon as she took command of the formation below, her words would be broadcast to the crew unable to attend in person.

The cavern filled in an orderly manner as enlisted soldiers and officers took their positions. On the right, the pilots formed up in four flights of a dozen behind their squadron leader, Lt. Cmdr. Sorensen, with the pilot aides forming similar flights behind. As the hammer of the UESF military, the enlisted troopers and their officers held the center. Over four hundred men and women served as frontline soldiers on board the
Firestorm
.

Support personnel from the various branches and departments on board the ship took their positions on the left side of the parade square. The medics, engineers, communications personnel, cooks, cleaners, and other support staff comprised almost as large a group as the troopers. On the right, in front of the pilots, stood the crew from security, the diplomatic corps, and the remainder of the command crew. Sub Lieutenant Miller took Rebeccah’s customary place in front of the squadron; a further reminder of the terrible situation Rebeccah found herself in. In a few short moments she would be stepping onto the hangar floor to take command of nearly one thousand souls.