The Firestorm Conspiracy (17 page)

John admired the woman standing by his side. She watched the flight crew prepare the transport, their movements reminiscent of ants swarming over a food source. He was touched she’d come down to see him off. He thought she would remain on the bridge, monitoring everything from there.

“The transmissions began a little over twelve hours ago,” she said without looking at him.

Shit
.

“There’s no way they came from Earth,” Rebeccah said, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“Things can go wrong at any time, with or without the help of people you thought you could trust.” John turned so he faced her, forcing her to turn too. “The last thing I want is to be left behind on Cerces III, but if anything happens, you need to get the ship back into our space. The government needs to be warned that all isn’t as it seems out here.”

She nodded.

“I’m going to get in and out as quickly as I can. Your task is just as dangerous as mine.”
Perhaps more so
. “I trust you. I trust your abilities as a commander. You will make the right decisions.”

“Stay safe, sir.” She seemed about to say more, but noticed the pilot signaling from the rear hatch of the transport. She snapped to attention and saluted.

“You have the bridge, Commander,” he said, returning her salute.

“Aye, sir. I have the bridge.”

He began to walk toward the transport, the troopers filing in before him, but stopped to glance back at the officer he was leaving in command. She stood alone on the hangar deck watching.

She should have been promoted years ago.

As he walked up the gangway into the transport, he relaxed. He was leaving the ship in excellent hands.

Kree followed the unpaved track out of the village. Night darkened his path and he would have to stumble for some time before the first of Cerces III’s two moons rose. The track blurred into the deepening shadows around him. Soft sounds carried on the breeze, causing Kree to flinch and start.

He paused to force himself to calm down. He stared up at the indigo sky as he tried to bring his heart rate and breathing under control.

So many stars
, he thought, wondering which one the human came from. He blamed himself. If he hadn’t sent that message to the humans, Grock wouldn’t be in the hands of a nefarious band of avians with danger in their eyes.

Fear doused Kree’s desire to become a field agent. The low-rated cinematic productions he loved paled in comparison to the terror of reality. He didn’t think even theme music would help this time.

Movement in the low brush on the side of the path paralyzed him. His heart leapt into his throat and the blood drained from his head.

Maybe Grock could handle himself.

Kree wished he were anywhere other than here. Shame at such a selfish thought mobilized him. He slipped into the shadows on the far side of the track and held his breath as several figures materialized out of the gloom and brush.

“This is guano,” the first figure whispered.

“Shut your beak,” replied the second.

“Why do we always get the crappy jobs?” a third voice, struggling with something heavy and unwieldy, said.

“I said, shut up,” the second voice said again.

“Maybe if you’d help out we wouldn’t complain so much,” whined the first.

“Cleep put me in charge. I gotta watch you two fuzz-brains,” he replied smugly.

“Cleep only put you in charge ‘cuz the other guys were too busy for a guano shoveling job like this,” puffed the third.

“Hey,” said the second, hurt. “A promotion’s a promotion. Don’t matter the reason.” He paused as they all hauled something heavy out of the woods and onto the track. “Now, I said, shut yer beaks, and I mean it.”

The trio moved off, leaving Kree alone in the dark. He stepped out from the shadows and gazed longingly back toward the town. He sighed and silently followed the three males down the track. The first moon had risen as the three took to the path and Kree had been accorded a brief, yet clear view of their burden.

The two junior males carried a bound, gagged, and trussed Grock. Trailing the group like down on a breeze, Kree pushed himself forward despite his fears.

Kree lost track of time as he trudged after the grumbling males. Fortunately, their constant complaining made following them easy. He plodded over a low rise, eyes and mind light years away from the track in front of him, and almost stumbled into the busy clearing. Startled back to the present, Kree crawled under some brush and crouched with his tail wrapped around his legs.

A hive of activity filled the clearing. Vehicles and avians moved among portable shelters, and Kree watched as younger males unloaded boxes and moved them into the temporary nests. The threesome he’d been following disappeared from view, and a cold fear crept up his spine until he caught sight of them standing at the entrance to a shelter on the far side of the clearing. The prone form of his hatch-mate shifted on the ground, and Kree sighed in relief.

Kree moved around the perimeter of the encampment, surprised by the lack of guards and security devices. Definitely not military.

He propped himself against a tree trunk and set to watching the nest where they’d taken Grock. Despite being exhausted and out of his depth, Kree kept a silent vigil for his friend.

* * * *

A quiet grunt followed by a splattering sound brought Kree out of his dream. He whipped his eyes open and found himself less than a meter away from a large avian using the edge of the forest as a latrine. Hardly daring to breathe, he prayed the male would return to the encampment without noticing him. His hopes were dashed when the avian glanced his way and let out a startled chirp. “‛Sculdan’s testicles, boy. What are you doing lying about next to the latrine?”

“I, uh,” Kree looked wildly about, calculating his chances of escape.

The male narrowed his eyes and asked, “Are you one of the new cart boys? The ones we brought up to haul the gear?”

Kree nodded. Telling the truth would get him killed, he was sure of it.

“Let me guess,” the male said as he moved to stand over Kree, “you got splattered last night with the others, stumbled out to relieve yourself, tripped, and passed out in the latrine.”

He nodded.

The male shook his head. “Well, I suppose a night in the latrine is lesson enough on the dangers of overdoing the alcohol. You won’t be doing that again anytime soon, will you?”

Kree shook his head.

“Come on.” The male offered Kree his hand. “Let’s go get us some breakfast. You’ve got a lot of gear to haul today.”

Kree gulped and gingerly accepted the help up. He twitched as the male inspected his appearance. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet shot. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes to find the other male smiling at him.

“Your nest-mates won’t be happy with your aroma, boy. You’d better find some new clothes before getting into the breakfast line.” He moved back toward the camp and called over his shoulder, “Go see Perwee in the main tent. Tell him Trillip sent you. He’ll get you some proper gear.”

Kree took stock of his disheveled clothing. Covered in twigs, dirt, and a smattering of guano, he didn’t look all that different from the other avians moving about in the pale dawn. He squared his shoulders and walked toward the main tent. He’d just infiltrated an armed paramilitary encampment.

Not too bad for a desk pigeon.

He smiled as he set off in search of clean clothing.

The closing hatch cut off the view of the hangar beyond. Within moments the door would be sealed, ready to take the crew into the cold, harsh depths of space, through the planet’s atmosphere, and onto the land below. As the light from the hangar faded, the interior lights rose to compensate for the creeping gloom.

John lost sight of the top of Rebeccah’s head several moments before the door sealed with a hiss. The crew were silent, overcome by the reality of their mission. No more training simulations; no more run-throughs or rehearsals.

Each crewmember’s cheeks flushed with excitement. Some smiled; others bowed their heads in thought. Several prayed. Locked in their own worlds, they rehearsed their parts in the coming mission. They trained to work as a team--a team of thinking soldiers. Reality often ended up being nothing like the simulation, and these fine young men and women had learned how to take their training and apply it to changing situations. They trusted each other with their lives, and each one intended to keep that trust.

What if…

John brushed the thought away. If he didn’t trust them he shouldn’t be with them. Worrying about the intentions and reliability of his crew would cripple him in a tense situation. They trusted him to lead and keep them safe, and he needed to trust in their training and abilities.

“Transport One to Captain Thompson, we are about to clear the hangar.”

“All right, folks, show time.” He monitored each soldier, watching as they activated their heads-up display. Upon activating his own, John had access to each soldier’s heart rate, ammunition supply, and global location. Using simple eye movements, John cycled through numerous menus, displays, and functional options. Contained within a contact lens, the HUDs allowed a soldier to remain in constant contact with the other members of his or her team.

As soon as they landed, they would set their HUD to ambient surveillance, providing them with general information on air temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction, distance from objects, and compass orientation on a specific target. Their first target would be the rendezvous point. As soon as they reached the RP, each soldier would change the target to the transport, thus allowing any member to find their way back to the ship without error.

Satisfied all the HUDs were in working order, John began his own personal routine. He closed his eyes, relaxed into his seat, and slowed his breathing. He cleared his mind of the jumble of thoughts surrounding the mission, and chose instead to focus on the recent changes in his life.

He used to think about his wife and daughter, but after their loss, thinking of them prior to a mission only increased his stress level. He thought back to his life at the university. He imagined strolling through the forest, the soft crunch of the pine needles under his feet, the faint turpentine tang in the air, the gentle kiss of the mist as it crept between the trunks.

Thoughts of walking alone in the woods always calmed him, yet today he found the exercise unsettling. He cast about trying to determine what caused his sense of disquiet, but everything seemed as it should. He realized with a start that the forest didn’t feel like home. The forest no longer served as a place of refuge for him.

His change in perspective begged the question: where did he feel calm and relaxed now? The image of the Senior Officers’ Mess as the bridge crew ate their evening meal sprang to life in his mind.

The clink of cutlery against plates and glasses underscored the chatter and laughter. John leaned back in his chair, smiling as he sipped the last of his wine. He watched his crew as they socialized during the meal. He participated in various conversations, chipping in a joke or two, but mostly he remained content to observe.

“Listen here, Targersson,” Karenshikov spoke around a forkful of stew, “my people are going to kick your people’s butts at the next fitness challenge. Just because our focus is internal security doesn’t mean we don’t train hard.” She finished chewing and swallowed. “Your people are growing fat and lazy with inactivity.”

“Please,” Targersson countered. “Your people are desk jockeys. My people are the ones out on the front line, risking their lives bringing in smugglers and containing rebellions.”

“Yeah,” Rebeccah replied, “but the last rebellion you put down was when you ate too many chilli dogs and your stomach revolted.”

Targersson scowled as the room erupted in laughter. John leaned forward and said, “What about the command staff? How do they usually do in the fitness testing?”

Now it was Targersson’s turn to laugh. “We haven’t had a command staff entry in years. None of them are brave enough to go up against the other departments. Instead, they say they need to remain impartial, to be the judges of the contest.” Several officers around the room rolled their eyes. John couldn’t tell if they were mocking the command staff for their weak excuses, or Targersson for his attitude.

Either way, he wasn’t about to let the challenge drop.

“Well this time things will be different. The command staff will participate. I’m in, and I’ll even captain the team.”

The chatter ceased as everyone decided whether or not he was joking.

Rebeccah spoke up from further down the table, “Count me in too, Captain.”

The challenge had been issued, he’d accepted, and now his XO and several other officers joined in support.

The senior staff agreed to schedule the fitness testing for the return trip, giving everyone something to get excited about on the way home.

John’s thoughts returned to the mission.

The rumble of the transport’s engines vibrated through the soles of his boots, setting the butterflies in his stomach to quivering. The vast majority of the butterflies were caused by nerves, but a few of them, the ones that made him smile, were caused by the realization that he was happy. Back in the UESF and serving on board a warship felt good.

* * * *

“Sir, the transport has entered the atmosphere.”

Rebeccah glanced up from the report on her console and traced the path of the red dot representing the transport as it approached the landing zone on Cerces III.

“Good. Keep monitoring the ship’s progress. I want to know of any deviation from the flight pattern, or if any avian craft comes within five hundred meters of our people.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Lt. Cmdr. Targersson, please have all your tactical units ready to launch. We are remaining on alert status until the transport returns.” She looked back at her console before continuing. “I need you to post a full squad of observers at the observation posts around the ship, and I want two flights of flyers ready to launch at all times. Have them rotate every hour to reduce fatigue.”