The Firestorm Conspiracy (5 page)

“I’ve got friends--”

“Delta Nine, aye, sir,” replied his tactical officer, Lieutenant Commander Targersson.

“No!” Kessler’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “I’ll surrender.” He quickly tapped a series of commands on his console. “I’m sending you the access codes for the ship’s systems.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Forbes leaned back in his chair, relaxing his tense muscles.

Kessler looked plaintively at Forbes. “Just don’t damage her. Please.”

Ignoring the broken man on the screen, Captain Forbes turned his full attention toward his chief tactical officer. “Call the flyers back. Send out the troop transport and secure the ship. I want their captain in my brig in less than an hour. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Targersson, his hands flying over his console.

* * * *

Lt. Cmdr. Konrad Targersson followed the captain with his eyes as Forbes stepped out from behind the command center of the bridge and approached the diplomatic officer’s station.

First the bad guy, now the girl. Figures.

Lt. Santiago bent over her console as she entered information. She paused and looked up as the captain leaned against the side of her console.

He must’ve learned that hero pose on the Bridge Officers’ Course
.

Forbes said, “I guess I should know better by now than to ask this, but how’d you figure out he was lying?”

“It was simple.”

“Simple?”

Targersson winced as the captain parroted Santiago.

Every time Forbes fell into her green eyes his IQ dropped about twenty points. Targersson counted the crew lucky that all the smugglers they’d encountered so far had been male.
And ugly
.

Targersson pretended to be intently focused on his console when Forbes glanced over. He shook his head as the captain leaned in to work his winning charms on his diplomatic officer.

Hadn’t he heard? She didn’t date fellow crewmembers--at least, that’s what she’d told him.

Still, he had to give Forbes credit for trying.

The captain raised a blond eyebrow. “Kessler’s record is spotless.”

She laughed. “His record is what gave him away.”

Forbes nodded for her to continue.

She glanced at her console and called up Kessler’s freight records. “Each entry lists the manifest as well as a precise measurement of the cargo hold’s mass. Without the mass measurements he wouldn’t be able to perform the calculations necessary to engage his quantum field generators and enter trans-light space.”

“Okay, but this looks like any other log to me.”

“That’s because you aren’t looking at the numbers themselves. Take the example here.” She pointed at a log entry for the same route the
Firestorm
found him travelling on, but dated five months earlier.

Targersson snorted as Forbes took the opportunity to lean in closer.

“According to the log, he delivered fifty-seven point nine-three-nine-nine-four-two metric tons of cattle feed to the colonists on Gamma Twelve, and picked up three point five-six-eight tons of processed duranium, yet the mass in his cargo holds only dropped by fifty-four point three-six-five-nine-four-two tons, meaning he took on six kilograms of something not listed in his manifest. My guess is trioxyamphetamine,” she said as she keyed in a few more commands. “Current street value for that quantity would fetch Kessler approximately one and a quarter million dollars.”

“Not a bad bonus for delivering grain to a remote colony.”

“Not bad at all when you figure he’s been trafficking on every route since he took command of the freighter. Depending on what he was smuggling, I estimate he’s probably netted himself close to sixty-five million.”

Forbes whistled. “And now he’s in our brig.”

Targersson rolled his eyes. Now the captain was trying to make the lowly lieutenant feel like she was his equal.

“Now he’s in
your
brig. Great catch, Captain.”

Rejected.

Targersson grinned over his controls as Lt. Santiago nimbly sidestepped the captain’s not-so-subtle flattery.

“Looks like I’ve got a smuggler to question.”

Forbes’ banter grated on his nerves. Targersson had an entire ship to search for contraband, but no one heard him announcing that to the bridge like an idiot.

Targersson decided twenty IQ points for the eyes, and a further thirty points lost for the breasts would be more accurate. The
Firestorm
seriously needed a new captain.

“Can you run the calculations on each of his logs so I can use them during the interrogation?”

“Of course, sir. They’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Excellent.” Forbes clapped her on the shoulder and said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lieutenant. Don’t you dare go and get yourself promoted.”

Targersson snorted and quickly disguised it as a cough when Lt. Santiago looked sharply at him. Anyone with so little ambition--choosing to remain a lieutenant for over a decade--was hardly likely to run off and apply for promotion. Thinking about his own career advancement, he scowled at Forbes and deleted his latest rejection letter.
Bastard
.

Nate keyed in the code to lock his computer and tucked it away in his suit pocket. He leaned back in the creamy leather chair and pressed the signal button on his armrest.

“How may I help you, sir?” asked the young flight attendant.

“Whiskey. Three ice cubes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The return shuttle from Vancouver to New York was full, yet somehow Jenkins had managed to book him an executive class seat. He luxuriated in the ability to stretch his legs in a cabin packed with business people making the trans-continental commute. Many triggered their privacy options, rendering their conversations mute to those around them. The man next to Nate lay with his head lolling against the wall, mouth open and snoring softly
.
Nate hoped the guy didn’t drool; he’d hate to see a twenty-seven thousand dollar dress shirt marred by saliva stains.

The flight attendant brought him his drink and the not-quite smell of recirculated air dissipated behind a far more pleasant aroma. The dark liquid swirled around the ice in his glass as the fumes tickled the back of his nose, seemingly flowing straight into his brain. Beyond the comfort of the shuttle’s cabin, the cold drizzle of the west coast faded--replaced by the crisp air of an early February east coast sunset.

After checking the remaining time until the shuttle landed, he did a quick mental calculation. John would be boarding a transport to the moon in three hours
.
He smiled as he sipped his drink. Luck had brought John to his attention, but skilful manipulation had convinced him to agree to the mission.

John’s insistence on pretending to be a civilian worked in Nate’s favor. He managed to slide his choice past fleet command without anyone so much as quirking an eyebrow. He winced as he imagined the bickering, posturing, and delays that would have resulted from trying to get approval for a psychologically damaged, quasi-retired fleet officer. He wondered why he even pretended to consider John’s terms. He should’ve thought to ask John to travel undercover in the first place.

Several officers at the fleet level would be incredibly jealous if they connected John to the man whose shadow eclipsed their own mediocre achievements. Grudges and rivalries lasted longer than a formal parade inspection among that group. Silent tallies and score cards were kept, each officer angling to add another notch or point to his or her CV. No one would appreciate the return of an all-star player into the midst of their bantam-level game.

John’s current appearance added to his disguise. Long hair, pale skin, nervous eyes; Nate doubted John’s own family would recognize the man he’d become.

Nate sipped his drink and acknowledged the risks associated with his choice. John hadn’t been in space since his discharge two decades earlier. And while the recurring dreams could be a sign of a deeper issue, Nate chose to believe the doctor’s report that John was mentally competent.

A subtle melancholy replaced the euphoria from succeeding at getting everything he wanted on the trip, right down to the wide seat with ample leg room. The John he knew twenty years ago had been such a vibrant, charismatic, and commanding leader, but the man he’d met today was totally different.

Nate wondered which version was the real man. Sure, John had his share of personal tragedies, but would that be enough to destroy a genuinely strong person? After all, Nate had moved past the war with no significant scars. Or, had there always been an inherent weakness in John’s character, one Nate hadn’t noticed hidden under the dazzling shine from all those medals?

He grimaced.

“Is everything all right, sir?” asked the flight attendant as she walked by.

“What?”

She pointed at his drink.

“Oh, yes. It’s fine.”

“We’ll be landing in ten minutes.” She smiled at him. “I hope you had a good trip, sir.”

“Thank you,” Nate replied.

Regardless of which man he’d just sent into space, the dice had been tossed. Nate crossed his fingers and hoped they didn’t come up snake eyes.

At least he wouldn’t be blind during the mission.

Getting Fleet Captain Banks to authorize Nate to receive copies of all the
Firestorm’s
senior officers’ logs as a means of keeping tabs on the operation was a feat almost greater than sneaking John past fleet command. In his line of work, information was gold. He smirked in satisfaction as he slipped his coat on and walked off the shuttle into a chilly New York evening.

Rebeccah Santiago’s tripping pulse echoed the palpable anticipation of the crew on the bridge. The sensation reminded her of playing with the antique jack-in-the-box in her grandfather’s attic as a child. She used to turn the handle, a mixture of dread and excitement coursing through her veins, knowing each rotation brought her closer to the explosion, but never sure which crank on the wooden knob would release the maniacally grinning little man.

They all turned the handle, waiting for the captain to emerge from his office and explain the new assignment. Whispers and speculation whipped around the bridge faster than a vessel at trans-light speed. The longer the door stayed closed, the higher the tension built.

“I heard someone made a threat on the President’s life...”

“Nah, we’re going to put down the Corscetti revolt on New Eden...”

“Maybe the avians have broken off talks...”

“Whatever it is, it’s gotta be big--my leave was cancelled.”

Rebeccah took her station and began skimming the latest headlines, attempting to determine where the UESF was planning on sending their ship. She frowned in consternation. There didn’t seem to be anything worthy of a warship’s capabilities going on at the moment. Unless--her pulse jumped--unless the
Firestorm
was being sent on a top secret mission
.
A covert assignment explained the combat readiness and emergency drills as well as the cancelled leaves. Which could mean only one thing--

“We’ve been called back to Earth to pick up a university professor,” said Forbes as he exited his office.

All motion ceased.

Forbes’ professional demeanor dissolved into a boyish grin. “We’re to deliver him to a meeting,” he paused, “in avian territory.”

“Sir?”

“Something must be wrong with the treaty negotiations...”

“I wonder if they’ll institute the draft again. My brother...”

“I can’t believe we’re going to be frontline on this...”

Forbes signaled for silence before speculation could run rampant throughout the entire vessel. Rebeccah held her breath, afraid the noise of her own breathing would prevent her from hearing the mission specifics.

“Our first task is to pick up Professor John Thompson. We are to travel at maximum speed back to Earth. This means placing a skeleton crew on board Kessler’s cargo vessel and leaving the ship behind to make its way to the nearest colony unescorted.”

Pity for the crewmembers assigned that task tempered her own excitement. Whoever went over to Kessler’s ship would be missing out on the mission of a lifetime. She hoped her diplomatic training would be valued more highly than her organizational skills. She didn’t want to find herself filling the chief cargo technician’s position on the trader while everyone else gallivanted off into the history books.

“We will collect the professor from a civilian transport just outside Alpha. Once on board, we are to travel quickly and quietly--no personal communications home, folks--to the Cerces system.

“After he has his meeting, we are to return him to Earth ASAP. The sooner we get him into instantaneous transmission range, the happier HQ will be.”

“Captain, are we expecting to meet with hostile forces?” asked Targersson.

“I don’t know.”

“The briefing notes order--”

“I am aware we’ll be on high alert, Mr. Targersson. Before you get your troops ready to start a war, let me remind you we’re trying to prevent hostilities here.”

“So, combat is a possibility.”

“I hope not, but yes, we need to prepare for anything.”

Rebeccah felt his eyes turn to her.

“Is this a diplomatic mission?” she asked.

“It’s not hostile.”

“Sir?”

“If you’re wondering if it’s sanctioned, the answer is no. Consider this black ops.”

That wasn’t the answer she hoped for. The odds of her remaining on the
Firestorm
weren’t necessarily in her favor. The thought of being sent over to Kessler’s ship sucked her enthusiasm for the mission out through her feet faster than a decompressing airlock. Rebeccah typed in the name of the VIP and began pulling up files. She had less than two hours before the
Firestorm
abandoned the cargo vessel, and she had to be prepared to argue her case.

Earth dwindled in the rear window of the passenger compartment of the transport hurtling toward the UESF base on the moon. Moonbase Alpha-Zero-One-Zero Solsys, nicknamed Alpha by those living and working in the station, was the first operations platform constructed by the UESF in 2125. Located on the edge of the Sea of Tranquility, the base enjoyed twenty-four hours of sunlight per day, as well as a spectacular view of the planet twelve billion people called home.