The Firestorm Conspiracy (27 page)

Rebeccah nodded. “Helm, set course to intercept the raptor. Maximum speed.”

“Aye, sir. Intercept at maximum.”

The fact he’d transmitted an automated signal rather than trying to contact them himself had her worried.

Hang on, John. Hang on.

* * * *

John yawned. He watched as first one, then two dots appeared on his navigation screen. The silk thread guided him to the one on the left. He yawned again and assumed it was the
Firestorm
. He idly wondered if the other vessel was the
Brown Wren
, and knew the second vessel should be a cause for concern, but couldn’t remember why. Instead, he closed his eyes and thought of reuniting with his crew.

“Captain.” He pictured Cmdr. Santiago’s excited reaction as he emerged from the raptor’s cockpit. “Captain on board,” she called, and several hundred crew snapped to attention behind her.

John grinned sheepishly as he lowered himself down the stairs beside the cockpit. “Commander, I’m glad to be back,” he said as he took her salute. John glanced at his sharply pressed UESF parade uniform and then back at the petite brunette with the startlingly green eyes.

“She’s quite pretty,” he said to Nate as they strolled along the pathways of the Senior Officers’ Training Academy.

Nate laughed and slapped him on the back. “So when do I get to meet this paragon of perfection who has foolishly agreed to become Mrs. Captain Thompson?”

John stopped in mid-stride and stared in horror at Nate. “Say that again.”

Nate gave John a look that said he thought John had lost his mind. Nate shrugged and said, “Captain Thompson.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. The conversation made no sense! Why had Nate sounded like a woman? His ears must’ve been playing tricks on him.

“Say it again,” he mumbled and tossed his head.

* * * *

Rebeccah sprinted through the corridors as she made her way to the main hangar. She ran through the doors, scanned the area, and found the medical and security detachments already in position. The hangar had been sealed and re-pressurized, and the ground crew were in the process of wheeling portable stairs over to the raptor’s cockpit.

Her boots pounded across the deck and echoed around the room as she came to a breathless halt at the base of the ladder. Two of the flight crew were at the top using laser cutters to release the canopy. With a hiss and clatter, the transparent dome rose on its hinges and the crew got their first look at the pilot.

The one on the left called down, “Sir, it’s the captain.”

She was unaware of climbing the ladder, only of arriving at the top as the second crew member said, “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

She stared in horror at his pale face. His lips and ears were blue, and his slack body showed no sign of respiration or consciousness. Rebeccah ignored the guano-infused scent of unwashed bodies, leaned in, and called, “Captain Thompson.”

No response.

She tried shaking him. “Captain Thompson.”

A slap across the face elicited a shuddering intake of breath and a mumbled response that sounded like, “Say it again.”

Rebeccah turned to the flight crew and ordered, “Get him out now.” She slid down the ladder as the two flight crew struggled to extract the captain from the cockpit. Within moments they had him on a stretcher on the deck.

The medics worked feverishly to stabilize him as she stood next to his shoulder. The captain began to toss about on the stretcher, muttering incoherently. Putting her hand on his shoulder to hold him steady, she leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “Captain Thompson, please wake up.”

She was staring at his troubled face when she realized all the panicked activity around her had ceased. Looking up she noticed the medics were looking at her for permission to take the captain to the MIR. She was about to give the order when the loudspeakers in the hangar came to life.

“Sir, the flyers are ready to begin cutting.” Lt. Monroe’s voice echoed throughout the cavernous hangar.

“How far out are we?”

“Five minutes, sir.”

“All right,” she replied. “Tell them to begin--”

John’s eyes flew open. He grabbed Rebeccah by the front of her uniform, pulled her close to his face, and cried, “It’s a trap! Order them away.”

He tugged her even closer and ordered, “Pull them out. Now.”

His eyes were wild with fear and desperation, he was filthy, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a year, but despite his terrible appearance she was certain this time he was aware of what he was saying. He refused to break eye contact, forcing her to meet his stare, as if he could convince her with the intensity of a look alone.

A chill washed down her spine as she realized he could. “Lt. Monroe,” she shouted.

“Sir?”

“Call off the flyers, now.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Call them off and have them take up a position five kilometers aft of the
Wren
.”

“Aye, sir. Flyers are disengaging and moving off.”

Shaken by the intensity of his outburst, Rebeccah jumped when his hands released her and he went limp. She nodded to the medics to take him away, pulling the senior medic aside as he moved past. “I need the captain awake and coherent in five minutes.”

“Sir? He’s in terrible shape. God only knows what he’s been through to get here, but I can tell you the last thing he needs is to be awake.” The medic held his ground as he stared at her. “In fact, I’d wager he needs to be in a drug-induced coma for at least several days.”

She knew he was right, but she didn’t have a choice. “Listen carefully. The lives of billions of people depend on him speaking in the next five minutes. If you can’t help him communicate, there’ll be no point trying to save his life because we’ll all be dead.”

“Aye, sir.” He scowled as he moved off.

Rebeccah turned to face the ground crew gathered around the raptor. They either stood or paced with varying attitudes of tension. One young man bounced on the balls of his feet, another engineer stared at the craft with her arms across her chest, two more slowly patrolled the perimeter, and a group of three huddled together whispering and pointing at various design elements. The single, unifying factor within the group was the look of intense, almost fanatical desire written on their faces.

She approached the officer in charge and said, “I want you and your crew to go over every inch of this vessel. I don’t want a single bolt unexamined, or a program untested. I want to know everything this craft is capable of. Its strengths, its weaknesses, where the avians put their coffee cups.”

“Aye, sir!” the ensign replied.

“I know you’ve all read the texts and studied the sims, but do try not to sound like the standard textbooks on raptors in your report.” She smiled. “Try and find me something new.”

The young ensign practically beamed as she replied, “That won’t be a problem, sir. This is a prototype. The avian military doesn’t even have this model yet.” She turned her gaze back on the raptor and added, “I have no idea how the captain got his hands on this, but I’m extremely glad he did.”

A prototype?

Rebeccah watched as the ensign dispatched her crew to work. They began crawling all over the ship with equal parts professionalism and awe. She turned and made her way out of the hangar, leaving them to their excited whispers and exclamations.

* * * *

Medics moved between the captain’s bed and various monitors and pieces of equipment. The temperature and noise level in the room dropped as Rebeccah entered. The crew were ecstatic to have their captain back, but she’d given an order that endangered his life and right now they hated her.

She didn’t blame them.

She squared her shoulders and ignored the accusing stares. Rebeccah moved to John’s side and waited for the doctor to wake him. They’d managed to clean him up somewhat since his arrival. Dressed in a standard UESF medical gown, someone had taken the time to wipe away the worst of the grime and odor. The IV drip of fluids and nutrients had a positive effect; his skin showed a slightly pink tint--far better than the deathly blue she’d seen in the raptor’s cockpit.

The doctor injected a pharmaceutical concoction into John’s IV and nodded curtly at her. He remained long enough to check his patient’s vital signs, then left.

John’s eyelids fluttered as he returned to full awareness. Her heart almost broke as she took in the depth of exhaustion and stress in his gaze. She berated herself for torturing him.

He’s been back for ten minutes, can’t you cope another day or two without him?

The answer was no. The
Brown Wren
posed a threat to the ship and only the captain knew why.

“Commander?” he whispered, his voice hoarse from lack of oxygen.

“Sir,” she replied. “I need to know where the danger with the
Wren
lies.”

“Did you establish visual communications with her captain?”

“No, sir. He said the relay was damaged in the explosion,” she replied.

John shook his head. “He’s the only crew on board.”

“But we detected life signs.”

“Prisoners from penal colonies in the holds.”

Rebeccah tugged her ponytail. “He never mentioned being a prison transport. Still, we shouldn’t refuse to help because--”

“The rest of the ship is packed with corpses. Enough to look like a full complement of civilian travelers.” John closed his eyes as he spoke. “The bodies are evidence to make the attack look more convincing when the military arrives.”

“Military? The
Wren’s
signal is so weak they’ll never reach another ship, sir.”

The captain sighed. “They contacted the military as soon as you entered sensor range. The
Wren
is a shreeback lizard,” he said.

“A what, sir?”

“A small reptile native to the avian homeworld that lays its eggs in the nests of various birds.” John yawned. “The unsuspecting birds incubate the eggs, and upon hatching, the lizards eat the young or un-hatched offspring of the birds.” He paused then added, “A Trojan horse.”

“Their whole distress call was a trap?”

He nodded. “The engine coupling is packed with highly concentrated explosives--enough to destroy both ships.”

Sickly fingers traced cold tracks down her back. They’d been seconds away from cutting into the coupling.

“With both ships destroyed…” her voice trailed off as the ramifications slid into place.

“Each side would blame the other, the peace treaty would be scrapped, and we’d be prepping for war.”

“Who would do such a thing?” she wondered out loud.

John’s awareness was beginning to fade. His head lolled to one side and she had to strain to hear him. “Corporate conspiracy.”

A flash of understanding ripped through her. The prototype. No wonder the avian government hadn’t spoken publicly about the debacle. They didn’t know about it!

“And their military is on its way here, guns blazing, expecting to see a UESF warship attacking an unarmed civilian vessel?” she asked in horror. “They’ll shoot first and ask questions later, won’t they?”

John nodded.

“Dear God,” she said, shuddering, “what are we going to do?”

Rebeccah held her breath, waiting for the explosion.

“That’s suicide,” Targersson exclaimed as he walked away from the front of his cell to throw himself on his cot. “I’d rather take my chances with a court martial.”

“Right,” she said. “You’re facing nine counts of murder. Even if you walk--and you won’t--you’ll be dishonorably discharged and a veil of suspicion will follow you wherever you go.” She crossed her arms and stared at his sullen expression. “What kind of work do you think someone kicked out of the UESF on suspicion of multiple murders will get? Your life, your reputation, and your future are ruined when your actions get reported.”

A sudden, cunning gleam entered his eyes and he sat up straighter. “When?” he asked. “You mean to tell me you haven’t reported anything to HQ yet?”

Rebeccah shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t had time,” she lied. He looked doubtful. “Don’t be so egotistical, Konrad. Your predicament was of a far lower priority than stopping an interstellar war and getting the captain back.”

He nodded, apparently accepting her reasoning.

“So,” she hated herself for doing this; she wasn’t asking him to risk his life, she was badgering him to accept a death sentence, “do you want to die a decorated UESF hero, or live serving multiple life sentences in a hard labor camp?”

“The plan won’t work,” Targersson replied. “Even if I do get away, they’ll pick up the flyer’s energy signature.”

“Not if you’re piloting a raptor.” His eyes widened at that piece of information.

“Meanwhile you guys will be hightailing it out of here at trans-light speed,” he said bitterly.

“You’re the only other crewmember fluent in the avian language.”

“So? The guy speaks English.”

“For this plan to work we need someone who understands their dialect.”

Targersson grew silent. Rebeccah tugged on her ponytail as she waited.

“The O-two tanks won’t get me back to home turf, will they?” he asked.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No.”

“And I can’t let them capture me either, can I?”

“No. We need you to trigger the raptor’s auto-destruct as soon as you’re out of sensor range.”

* * * *

“You’re playing a dangerous game with thousands of lives here, Commander
,
” said Quarl.

Far more dangerous than you think
, she thought. “It’s not our intent to gamble with your people’s lives.”

“What about your captain? What does he think of your actions?” Quarl asked scornfully, “or is he still ‘indisposed’?”

“Actually,” she replied, glad to be able to throw the buzzard off-balance, “my captain is the one who ordered the flyers to return to the ship. He was concerned for their safety, and thinks we have another possible course of action.”

“What other options do we have? My ship might blow up any second!”

“We are aware of that, sir. Trust me, we’re doing everything we can to remedy the situation.
Firestorm
out.” She cut the transmission as Lt. Monroe looked up from her console.