The Firestorm Conspiracy (20 page)

“Fire.”

Twenty-three cannons fired simultaneously, their firepower causing significant damage to the outer hull of the battle cruiser. She prayed they would get the flyers in before the cruiser ripped apart the
Firestorm
.

“Flyers in, sir.”

“Get us out of here,” she ordered the helmsman and engineer.

“Engaging trans-light now, sir.”

The ship lurched and the sickening sound of tearing metal reverberated throughout the entire vessel. Shaking and bouncing like a doll in a hurricane, Santiago determinedly hung on to her post as her teeth rattled around in her head.

“Navigation, how long until we’ve cleared the Cerces system?” she asked, trying not to bite her tongue.

“Five more minutes at maximum speed, sir.”

She prayed the hull would hold as the ship shuddered and jolted around her.

* * * *

“He almost had the ladder, sir. Inches, he missed by inches.” Lt. Ryan sobbed as he sat across from Rebeccah in the captain’s office. “If they hadn’t hit me with that damn missile, I would’ve had him. I could’ve saved him.” He broke down, holding his head in his hands, sobbing.

The
Firestorm
hung in space, battered and bloody, and what remained of the crew worked triple shifts to make repairs. No one had spoken the words out loud, but a silent agreement united the crew--they weren’t going back without their comrades. Everyone knew a recall to Earth was inevitable once news of the attack reached HQ, so they threw themselves into the repairs at a feverish pace. They had six days, maximum, before the orders arrived, and everyone wanted to retrieve the bodies from the planet before making the long journey home.

“Lieutenant, I know this is tough for you, but I need you to think carefully about the events on the planet,” she said.

“Yes, sir.”

“After he missed the ladder, what happened? Are you sure he’s dead?” Rebeccah asked, dreading the answer.

Ryan took a shuddering breath. “The ship bucked, but I managed to get her nose down far enough to see the clearing below. The avians came pouring out of the forest, surrounding him. He tried to get up, he ordered me to get out. I think he would have made another attempt for the ladder even though I could tell he was hurt, but…”

Rebeccah waited for Ryan to collect himself. “Lieutenant?”

He looked across at her, his red sorrow-filled eyes shifting to anger. “But those Goddamn bastards shoved a rifle in his face and pulled the trigger. He had his hands up. Why? Why’d they do it?”

“Everyone knew the mission contained risks,” she replied.

“But we weren’t there to hurt anyone.” He shook his head. “Why’d they kill us?”

“Lieutenant, I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”
Yet
. “I want you to talk with a counselor before this shift ends. You’ve been through a horrific experience, and I want you to get assistance working through trauma.”

“Yes, sir,” Lt. Ryan replied glumly.

“I’m serious. I expect to find a counseling report on my desk by oh-eight-hundred hours or you’ll find yourself relieved of duty and confined to quarters. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Lt. Ryan left the room as quickly as protocol would allow.

Poor kid.

Refusing to dwell on her own past, she straightened her uniform and headed back onto the bridge to supervise repairs.

Kree worked his tail off hauling boxes and containers. He tried to keep an eye out for Grock, but never managed to catch sight of his friend. He hoped the fuzz-head had enough sense to cooperate and do whatever the leaders of the operation demanded. Kree never imagined a paramilitary force as large as the one he found himself a de facto member of could exist within the empire without his office being aware of its existence. If he ever got home, he decided he’d start taking the conspiracy theory messages more seriously.

He took a break with the rest of the cart boys, slumped against a large crate, and drank from the bottle being passed around. The others looked as tired as he felt, and he was glad they seemed content to sit in silence.

Without warning the encampment exploded into action. Several groups of armed soldiers emerged from their nests and ran for the trees. Terrified that the frenzy meant a military attack, Kree prepared to flee into the forest.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Easy there,” his shift boss said. “Looks like the fun’s about to start.” He surveyed the rest of his team and said, “All right fuzz-brains. The trigger-harpies have flown the coop. That means we’ve gotta get everything packed up before they get back. I want you, and all that gear, loaded up onto the transport in less than two hours.” He slapped Kree on the shoulder. “Go. Go. Go. Break’s over. Get flapping.”

* * * *

The whine of the transport’s engines deafened Kree as he waited for the last of the soldiers to load up. Everyone chirped excitedly as news of the ambush spread through the encampment.

“We took some losses, but we got all of them,” crowed one soldier as he tossed his gear into the back of the transport. He called over his shoulder, “Here boys, this one’s got space.”

Kree tried to make himself small and unassuming as several armed males climbed into the cabin and buckled themselves in. Kree’s efforts became redundant when a commotion at the bottom of the hatchway caused everyone to turn.

“I don’t want that guano riding with my flock,” shouted one.

“You don’t have a choice,” the other replied. “We’re short a transport. Scrambled thing never left the base.”

“I won’t ride with that. You’re shell-cracked if you think otherwise.”

The second male chuckled. “You don’t have to ride with it. You can walk.” He turned his back on the other male and ordered the group at the base of the hatchway to toss their burdens onto the floor of the cabin.

The male who objected to the items entered the cabin and kicked one of the bundles as he moved past to take his seat at the head of the row across from Kree. The avian beside him nudged the bundle with the toe of his boot and the linen covering came loose. Kree stared into the vacant and very dead eyes of his friend. He closed his own eyes and threw his head against the seat rest, forcing the contents of his stomach back down his throat as he fought back tears.

The avians nudged the other bundle and laughed. Rewarded with a soft groan, they increased the force of their kicks until one of the avians said, “Easy there, boys, the boss wants that one alive and in decent shape for questioning. You’ll get to play with him later.”

On the floor next to Grock’s body lay a human male. The back of his head was matted with bizarre, red blood. Anger flashed through Kree as he stared at the unconscious figure. Grock died trying to see this soft, weak
thing
.

He’d risked his career, his life, for that?

“Damn.” Nate’s coffee sloshed over the side of his mug as he slammed his meaty palm against the desktop. “Damn.”

The Firestorm engaged two avian battle cruisers shortly after the captain’s team launched for the rendezvous. All efforts to avoid conflict were attempted, short of leaving the Cerces system. Within moments of the first avian ship firing upon the Firestorm, the mission commander reported heavy fire and requested reinforcements…

The report lacked all emotion, making the facts even harder to accept. Cmdr Santiago’s assessment of the events was succinct, dispassionate, and thoroughly horrifying.

Three battle cruisers and an armed ambush? What the hell had he sent John into? “Jenkins!” he yelled toward the door, not bothering with the communications unit.

“Sir?” Jenkins appeared at the doorframe, concern and fear etched on his face.

“Get me the Minister of Defense and Fleet Captain Banks. I need a meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” Jenkins replied. “Is this, uh, a priority level meeting, sir?”

“There isn’t a priority level to describe the mess we need to deal with. If I don’t have a meeting scheduled by noon, consider yourself fired.”

“Yes, sir.” Jenkins disappeared back into the outer office.

Nate glared at the screen. John was dead. Shot in the head by an avian with an assault rifle. He never should have sent him. He was totally unqualified. His psychiatric report should have warned Nate away from him, but he assumed their shared history would help John get past his issues.

Nate continued to scan the report, seeing the words but not reading any. John had been the one person he trusted to get the job done and he’d royally screwed up. Twenty years away from the UESF was too long. The university had softened him, made him weak. If only he’d known that before sending him out.

* * * *

Meredith scowled at the latest profit-loss statement. The UESF contracts kept her mother in the private hospital, but they did nothing for the company’s bottom line. If Patrick didn’t toss something better her way soon, she’d be back where she started; staring into the abyss of bankruptcy.

“Fleet Captain Brooks, please.”

She bit her tongue when the aide-de-camp on the other end asked her to hold. Despite being the only armaments corporation able to fill the UESF’s orders, she still got the cold shoulder from her ex’s assistant.

She suspected the slight was more personal than professional.

“Brooks.”

“Patrick, how are--”

“Shit, Meredith. What do you think you’re doing, calling me at the office?”

“Relax. I have an excuse.” She hated when he overreacted. “The latest order doesn’t specify hollow-point or standard for the ammunition.”

“One of your underlings could have contacted the supplies depot for that information. You shouldn’t be contacting me this way.”

Meredith rolled her eyes. “You need to pull your head out of your ass. No one is going to suspect any wrong-doing on either of our parts. Now tell me what’s going on.”

Patrick sighed. “I’m still blind, but I think I convinced the other party that open hostilities would do more harm than good at this point. I’m working on changing the game board along the border, and if that goes through we should be sitting pretty.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. As much as she hadn’t wanted to be the last Llewellyn to sit in the Big Chair, she didn’t want to be the first to help orchestrate the annihilation of humanity either.

“About the contracts--”

“One week. I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

Meredith chewed her fingernail. “Promise?”

“Promise. Seven days--max.”

She grinned. “All right. I’ll be in touch.”

Patrick’s sputtering made her laugh. Maybe after the company was solidly in the black she’d think about trying to make things work with Patrick... Maybe.

* * * *

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to keep that ship in avian territory a second longer than necessary,” Fleet Captain Banks said, shifting his bony frame in his chair. “In fact, if Cmdr. Santiago has any sense, she’ll be on her way back to Earth before her orders reach her.”

“But what if the agent tries to make contact again?” Nate implored. “We need to know the truth of these rumors.”

“I think,” added Georgia Remagne, Minister of Defense, “the report from the attack is proof enough, don’t you?”

“Not if someone made a mistake.”

“The only mistake was to send a UESF vessel into avian space without authorization,” said Banks. “We’ll be lucky to avoid a war over this.”

“Just give them a few more days,” Nate begged. “I know the situation looks bad, but we’re missing key facts.” He paused. “We need to give their agent another chance to contact us.”

“Mr. McDonnell.” Georgia’s Parisian accent added a lyrical tone to her words. “Has the thought occurred to you that the agent was a ruse to get us to send the
Firestorm
in the first place? If the avians want a war, we’ve certainly given them cause to start one.”

“But--”

“No buts, Mr. McDonnell,” Banks interrupted. “The
Firestorm
was heavily damaged and lost far too many good soldiers chasing after your rumor. I’m not going to risk any more lives waiting for your agent to sit down to tea.”

“You’ll be endangering billions of lives if we don’t get to the bottom of this,” Nate replied.

“We already have,” Banks said, worry plain in his voice. “The truth won’t matter once the avians go public with what happened, and you know it.”

“Mr. McDonnell, I appreciate your desire to find the truth, but I’m afraid I agree with Fleet Captain Banks.” Remagne sighed and pulled her sari against her slender frame. “We’re wasting our time investigating this unfortunate event. We need to focus our energies on minimizing the fallout.”

“The next time you call us together for a meeting,” grumbled the fleet captain, “you had better have a plan to avert a war.”

“This is where you,” she paused, almost saying
left him
. “Where you last saw Captain Thompson?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Lt. Ryan.

Rebeccah scanned the clearing, giving the pilot time to regain his composure. The knee-length grass rippled in the wind, the golden blades whistling against one another in a crystalline chorus. Her pulse raced--not entirely from the need to find the captain--as she marveled at the alien soil beneath her feet. She sniffed. The air was drier, warmer, and tinged with ozone--like stepping into the desert after a thunderstorm.

Several forensics teams scanned the area and perimeter, looking for clues to help piece together a complete picture of the atrocity. The squad started at the landing site and followed the same path as the first team. This time, Rebeccah had over one hundred troops on the ground in case anyone intruded on their efforts.

When they arrived at the rendezvous point, several crewmembers gasped, and a few vomited. The smell of decaying bodies--an acrid, oily stench--clung to the back of their throats as they began a systematic search of the area. Half a dozen crew chased off several scavengers, and another squad began the heartbreaking task of preparing their comrades’ bodies for transport back to the
Firestorm
.

She’d walked around the entire area, examining the scene from every possible angle. She stopped at the rock John and Master Seaman Kim had used as cover and ran her fingers over the chips and scorch marks left by rifles and energy weapons. She knelt and gently sifted through the pile of shell casings at her feet
.