The Firestorm Conspiracy (13 page)

John went and sat beside the young ensign. “Sorry to hear about your side. I take it the medics patched you up without any trouble?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the ensign. “They were very good.” He twisted his fingers in his lap. “Thanks for trying to fix the uniform thing. The lieutenant’s a stickler for regulations though. So unless you’ve got some real pull with the captain, he won’t change.”

John chuckled. “Don’t you worry. You won’t find a single deduction on your pay for your new uniform, I guarantee it.”

The boy scrutinized his face. “You seem familiar, but I don’t know why. Are you a new transfer?”

“You could say that,” John said.

Recognition dawned on the boy’s face and he instantly snapped to attention. “Sir, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you from the vid-memo, sir.”

“At ease, soldier,” John said as he waved the boy back into his seat. “I’m not official yet.” He glanced over at the counter and watched the lieutenant as he rapidly approached the counter. “I need a uniform first.” He winked as he got up.

“I’m so sorry I kept you waiting, sir,” the lieutenant gushed as John reached the counter. “I had no idea. Of course we’ll get you a uniform. I can have a duty set ready in about five minutes and then have the rest delivered to your quarters later today, sir.”

“That will be fine.” John went to go sit next to the ensign again. “Oh, and about billing those who helped with the disaster?”

“Consider all the bills withdrawn, sir.”

“Good man,” John said as he smiled at the ensign.

* * * *

John stood in the corridor leading to the bridge. His pulse raced and he struggled to breathe normally. His ears were exposed and his head was cold after going to the ship’s barber and having his professorial locks trimmed to a standard UESF cut. He checked his uniform one last time, lifted his chin up, and strode through the door onto the bridge.

“Captain on the bridge,” called Commander Santiago as she rose from her seat in the command center and stood to attention. The rest of the crew followed suit. Time froze as John made a slow circuit of the bridge, stopping at each station to inspect the crewmember, before coming to a halt in front of his new XO.

Memories of his previous commands overlaid his vision as he stood upon
his
bridge. The location of some of the stations had changed, and the technology had improved, but the adrenaline rush remained the same. The thrum of the engines under his feet resonated in his soul.

The
Firestorm
was strong, powerful, and his to command. Like a new love, he would seek to find all the little ways to get the ship to respond to him; to make them a single entity.

He nodded as he surveyed the crew at their stations then turned his attention to the officer standing in front of him. Santiago was the only person on the bridge with no experience in her current position. Still, after reading her record, he had no doubts about her capabilities. He silently cursed the captains who had allowed her to work so far below her potential for so long.

He devoted the same amount of attention to Santiago’s inspection as he had with the other bridge officers. The new rank insignia on her collar and the dark blue belt and cuffs pleased him. The eight-pointed star inset with a stylized globe on her buckle matched the one on his. Satisfied, he gave an almost imperceptible nod and said, “At ease.”

Instantly the bridge sprang to life.

Cmdr. Santiago took her seat at the station to his left and tucked her hair behind her ear. She darted a glance at Sub Lt. Miller, who now served as the ship’s diplomatic officer.

John smiled. Miller would be promoted to full lieutenant at the official change of command ceremony later in the day.

“Report,” John called as he took his seat in the command center. The leather rippled like warm butter as he grasped the arms of his chair. He ran his hands over the console, fingers dancing across the controls as he sought to familiarize himself with the layout.

Each department quickly and sequentially reported their current status and anything they thought he should be aware of. As each officer spoke, he called up the information from their consoles on his own. John had never served with a commanding officer who used the console’s capabilities to spy on his crew, but he’d heard rumors of others doing so. He’d have to find a way to prove to his crew he wasn’t one of those unscrupulous captains.

Satisfied that everything seemed in order, and mildly surprised at how relaxed he was, he leaned back in his chair and turned to Santiago.

“Let’s see what she can do,” he said, smiling as she acknowledged his pre-arranged order and began directing the crew to take the
Firestorm
through a series of basic maneuvers.

He expected to feel ill, or terrified, or at the very least nervous. He still had butterflies in his stomach, but as he thought about it, he realized they were more from excitement than fear. Head down and following the readouts on his console, John hid his smile from the rest of the crew. Wearing a uniform and sitting in the captain’s chair again, felt…right.

Captain Thompson strode down the corridor to the Medical Inspection Room and Rebeccah had to lengthen her stride to keep pace with him. So far the position of XO had proven to be as demanding as she’d suspected. They’d worked several hours into the gamma shift, reassigning enlisted crew and officers to new positions to alleviate the shortages caused by the deaths of nine crewmembers.

The engineering department faced the worst with both the chief engineer and her second in command--along with an entire shift--having been killed. She and the captain juggled crew around to fill the shifts, stealing a couple of skilled flight engineers, and promoting the gamma shift’s officer-in-charge to chief engineer, but they’d drawn a blank when they came to filling the deputy’s position.

Until she recalled something she’d read in a personnel report when the
Firestorm
took on a new rotation a little more than six months ago. Which was why, with less than fifteen minutes to go before the change of command ceremony, she and Thompson were racing toward the MIR.

Rebeccah had sent the file to John’s console.

“Sir, I think I’ve found a solution to our problem.”

“Oh?” Thompson glanced up from reading the data stream. “I’m all ears, Commander.”

“Take a look at Master Seaman Simon Petersen’s personnel file, sir.”

He switched screens and began to read. She grinned as his face registered optimism then puzzlement, followed by excitement and then satisfaction.

“Well done, Commander.” John rubbed his hands together. “This is one of the most unorthodox solutions I’ve ever seen. Let’s go share the exciting news with Mr. Petersen.” He smiled as she stood to join him. “And on the way you can tell me how you remembered such a minor detail from one of a thousand service records.”

“I have a bit of an eye for detail,” she explained. She didn’t tell him how Cheng and Forbes had teased her.

“How are we doing for time?”

“Sir?” the question caught her off-guard.

“For the ceremony?”

“Oh, twenty minutes, sir.”

“Hmm. We’d better change first. I don’t want to rush back up here after talking with Petersen. Besides,” he smiled mischievously, “two senior officers in full dress uniform always makes a stronger impression. Meet me at the main lift in five minutes.”

* * * *

“But I’m a medic, not an engineer,” cried Simon Petersen.

“We are aware of your current posting, Mr. Petersen,” replied Captain Thompson. “However, you are also one of very few people on board with three years of university education in space flight engineering.”

“But I dropped out.” Simon stared at them.

He’d always done his best to avoid attracting the notice of senior officers. Their attention was always more trouble than it was worth. And now here he was, sitting across from the captain and executive officer--a few weeks before starting his second internship which would garner him a spot in a top-notch medical school--being asked if he wouldn’t mind switching over to work in engineering for a while.

“You were at the top of your class,” Cmdr. Santiago said. “You have the background and training to fill the position.”

He knew he should have taken the medical posting on the farming colony. This “talk” was really only a courtesy. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. If the captain wanted to move him to engineering, Simon’s duty was to pack up his stuff, salute smartly, and become an engineer.

He pondered the situation. Being a shift leader couldn’t be all bad. The hours would be more regular than in the MIR.

He wondered if he might be offered a promotion to petty officer, or at least a pay raise, for making the switch.

“All right, sir. I’m your man. Where do you want me to step in?”

* * * *

“I think he took the news rather well,” John said as they waited for the last of the crew to fall in for the ceremony.

“After he regained consciousness,” Santiago chuckled.

“I should have tried to prepare him for the change instead of just blurting the details out.” He grinned. “I guess I’m a little rusty.”

Rebeccah smiled. “I doubt any amount of preparation would have helped. You’re about to promote a master seaman to lieutenant commander and make him the deputy chief engineer. I think preparing someone for such a significant move is impossible.” She paused. “I’m just glad he didn’t hit his head when he slipped out of the chair.”

John raised an eyebrow and said, “At least we were in the MIR.”

For the first time in nearly a decade, Nate cursed himself for retiring from the UESF to pursue a political career. In a span of less than twelve hours, he had received reports on the explosion aboard the
Firestorm
, the list of casualties, and a report filed by the diplomatic officer written in an obvious attempt to delay appointing a new commanding officer.

Now people were dead and Nate still had no idea who the conspirators were. For all he knew, they could be among those killed.

He decided not to trouble John with the details. He figured John already had enough to worry about after an accident like that. He hoped the added stress hadn’t triggered his psychosis again.

Nate wondered how close the diplomatic officer was to uncovering the identities of those who were spreading the rumors. And why the hell was she trying to delay the change of command? Asking HQ to consider unqualified officers was ludicrous. He worried about his decision to send her John’s sealed records. His logic had been sound at the time. She was interested in John’s past, and he needed information on the rumors circulating aboard the ship. Now, he wasn’t so sure. No one wanted to be in a damaged vessel in avian space without a captain; no one, it seemed, except Lt. Santiago.

* * * *

“Sir?”

Nate didn’t respond.

“Sir?” Jenkins asked, a little louder.

Nate still didn’t react.

“Sir?” Jenkins voice carried a note of concern.

“Jenkins?”

“Sir, are you all right?” He moved closer to the desk. “You’ve been sitting here without moving for almost an hour. When you didn’t respond, I--”

“He took it,” Nate said, incredulously.

“Who, sir? Took what, sir?”

“Command.” He shook his head. “He’s the bloody captain of the ship.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but John Thompson is now the commanding officer aboard the
Firestorm
.”

“Is that bad, sir?”

“Bad?” Nate laughed. “I have no clue.”

“Surely placing one of the most decorated war heroes in command can’t be too awful,” Jenkins offered.

“My concern is why this particular war hero? A man who’s been running from his past for twenty years, suddenly decided not only to embrace the UESF again, but take over command of a warship. Something’s not sitting right with me.”

Damn. He slammed his fist into the top of his desk. He needed more information,

* * * *

Meredith entered the bar, blinking to adjust her eyes to the darkness. As soon as she could make out more than blobs of blue superimposed on black, she searched the room for Patrick. Her misgivings increased when he waved to her from a table near the back.

She took in his gaunt face, pale skin, and grey stubble. He looked like hell, and her stomach churned in response. Whatever he had to say wouldn’t be good.

Meredith slipped into the chair opposite his and waited. Patrick tossed the remnants of his whiskey back and gestured to the waitress for another. Given the fumes lingering around the table and the red in his eyes, Meredith suspected the glass hadn’t been his first, nor would the next be his last.

“I’ve got a contract for you. Small--mostly spare parts--but the quantity should be enough to keep you solvent for another month or so.”

Relief washed through Meredith and her shoulders sagged from the release of tension. “Patrick, that’s excellent news.” She scanned the room and frowned. “But why tell me here, why not come by my office?”

The waitress set Patrick’s drink on the table and Meredith waved her away. This was not a social visit, and she made a point of never drinking during negotiations. She’d buy wine for her clients over dinner, but she wasn’t dumb enough to touch any herself when money was on the table.

“My department will be sending your company a notice with the contract later today.” Patrick remained glum. He gulped the drink, leaving only the ice behind. “Someone sabotaged one of my ships.”

“What?”

He nodded. “The news gets worse. Banks managed to sneak a retired fleet officer on board and now he’s in command.”

“Patrick, I understand the concern about the sabotage, but why are you--”

“My contact is dead.”

Meredith waited.

“I sent a message to my avian counterpart, informing him of their breach of security, and my loss. I recommended we scrap the plan until I can put another operative in place.”

Dread filled her. “The peace talks will continue uninterrupted.” Her anger flared. “I sacrificed my mother for this scheme.”

He shook his head. “The avians wouldn’t agree. Their corporations are far more desperate than ours. They proposed an alternate scenario.”