Hunt for the Saiph (The Saiph Series Book 3) (23 page)

"I'll ensure I do that first thing... Now, back to the point. If I could identify a star that somehow unexpectedly stopped shining on or about the same time we know the population of Balach was decimated by the bio-weapon, would you agree that there was a good chance that star could be the one from the Creator legend?"

Elizabeth stared at the marine brigadier in disbelief. He was serious about this. Elizabeth took a few seconds to gather her wits. "I would have to concede that a star suddenly disappearing would certainly lend credence to the legend, but this is all theoretical. We cannot travel back in time. It’s impossible."

Statham displayed that grin again as he looked intently toward Vadis like a dog would its master while awaiting permission to do something. The admiral gave him a simple nod and the marine reached into his briefcase and extracted a secure PAD, which he passed to Elizabeth. "Welcome to Project Bright Star."

#

GATEWAY STATION - EDGE OF THE ASTEROID BELT - SOL SYSTEM

Gateway Station was a hive of activity as the multi-million ton freighters, warships, science vessels, colony transports, and every other kind of flotsam and jetsam required to service the interstellar nation Earth had become buzzed to and fro like angry bees as their captains maneuvered them in the congested traffic lanes under the wary eyes of the controllers aboard the station. There had been several near misses in the two years Gateway Station had been operational and no one wanted to see what would happen if one of those massive freighters collided with a colony transport carrying hundreds of colonists. So although it may appear to the untrained eye that the various ships’ movements were chaotic, they were actually performing an intricate ballet with the station traffic controllers keeping a tight rein on events.

The scene outside the station’s thick battle armor was of little concern to Lieutenant Terrance Wilson as he walked down yet another identical corridor in search of the correct docking bay. He had taken the time to study the route from his arrival dock to his destination dock when he stepped off of the intersystem transport which brought him to Gateway Station, but after forty minutes of walking and two different inter-ship cars which whisked him from the upper decks to the lower decks and out to the restricted military docking area, he was beginning to doubt his eidetic memory. Had he possibly read the schematic wrong? Rounding a corner of the never-ending sterile white corridor, he was relieved to find a personnel tube with a marine standing guard in front of it. Inscribed in blue, meter-high letters above the bulkhead door was the letter G and the number 18.
At last!
At the lieutenant’s approach, the marine came to attention but his hand hovered close to his holstered PEP pistol all the same. His job was simple. No unauthorized personnel were allowed access to the ship at the far end of the personnel tube and it looked as if this particular marine took his job seriously.

"Lieutenant Wilson reporting for duty aboard the science vessel TDF
Tycho Brahe
." Terrance passed over his ID card which the marine accepted with his left hand, right still free to draw his PEP if required. Inserting the ID card into the reader on his belt without ever moving his wary eyes from the naval officer, the marine waited for the double beep of recognition before removing the card and returning it to Wilson.

Identity confirmed, the marine saluted Terrance. "Welcome aboard, sir. The XO has left orders that you are to report to Briefing Room Two on your arrival. Your escort will meet you at the other end of the personnel tube."

Terrance returned the salute as the marine stood aside and the bulkhead door slid open, allowing Terrance to set off down the personnel tube. Making his way along the tube, Terrance battled to suppress the butterflies he felt in his stomach. Unlike many of his compatriots, Terrance had never even served on board a ship before, never mind a ship that was in the main crewed by civilian scientists. Instead, he was plucked directly from the Naval Academy and deposited in the skyscraper building housing the headquarters of the Naval Intelligence Service and it appeared that was where he was destined to remain. Until he had reviewed the now-infamous Ak-an recording. While putting the story of the Creator legend together with his research into the origins of the Others, he wrote a report for his boss in which he came up with a solution to finding the location of the fabled world of Aseena. To Terrance, the answer was simple. If Ak-an was to be believed, then Aseena's star showed a distinct shift in the red light spectrum. Using the data that Terrance had put together, they knew the Others must have visited Aseena and stood before the Creator in roughly 1000 AD. If the legend was to be believed, all you needed to do to locate the Creator was to find a red shift star that had suddenly disappeared on or around 1000 AD. Simple.
Oh, how I should have kept my mouth shut,
thought Terrance as the bulkhead leading into the
Tycho Brahe
let out a slight hiss of hydraulics as it slid aside. Stepping into the airlock, Terrance waited patiently as the outer door closed and locked before the inner door opened. The smiling face of a young twenty-something lanky ensign greeted Terrance.

"If you will follow me sir, the XO is waiting."

Terrance set off after the ensign, who made some banal chatter about this being his first ship after graduating the Academy and how excited he was about heading out into unexplored space. Terrance tuned him out as his thoughts fleetingly turned to Maggie and the four-month-old son he was leaving behind on Earth for the duration of this mission. Mentally berating himself for his sudden somber mood, Terrance fixed a smile on his lips as he pretended to listen to the ensign. The one-sided conversation lasted through a short elevator ride up to Deck Four and the walk to the entrance to Briefing Room Two. Knocking politely, the ensign opened the door and stepped to one side saying:

"I'll wait here for you. When you are finished I will escort you to your quarters, sir."

Terence mumbled a thank you as he stepped past him and entered the spacious briefing room where a balding, slightly chubby, harassed-looking lieutenant commander was surrounded by a sea of PADs.

"Lieutenant Terrance Wilson reporting for duty, sir." Terrance came to attention and saluted the executive officer.

The XO's head didn't rise from the PAD he was studying as he waved a hand at tray of coffee and pastries at the far end of the table.

"Help yourself to some coffee, Lieutenant. I just have to finish this cargo-loading schedule update before another irate scientist demands that his precious science experiment gets priority loading over some other experiment. I swear, you would think that they thought we poor navy men had never prepared for a long cruise before."

Pouring himself a cup of the steaming brew, Terrance took a seat opposite the XO, taking the opportunity to study the oak-clad walls of the room, which were adorned with framed pictures of elegant sailing ships through early steam and turbine vessels to ultramodern, state-of-the-art gravity drive starships. Above the head of the table was a reproduction of Tycho Brahe, the Danish nobleman and astronomer the ship was named after. Tycho Brahe was most famous for his discovery of what became known as Tycho's Supernova in the constellation Cassiopeia, which burst into the Earth’s sky in 1572. The sight of the austere Danish nobleman with his full beard and mustache staring down at Terrance with his fixed eyes completely engrossed Terrance and it took him a moment to become aware that the XO was now regarding him with an amused look on his face.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant, he has the same effect on all of us. I'm Lieutenant Commander Darel Apter, XO of our little flying observatory. The captain sends his apologies for not meeting you in person but he's been delayed in a meeting with Doctor Sarkisian and the department heads. Apparently there’s a last-minute hitch with the Deployable Stellar Detection Grid and since the primary purpose of our mission is the detection and analysis of the evolution of stars, then the key piece of equipment we are going to use to detect those selfsame stars being kaput before we even start could mean we have a very short mission." Apter chuckled at his own joke and Terrance couldn't resist the urge to join in.

"But seriously. As far as your own work goes, only the captain, myself, Doctor Sarkisian, and Ensign Burkett, he's the one who escorted you here, know your true mission. Locating the star this so-called Creator extinguished. Your cover will be as liaison officer between the navy and the scientific staff on board. This should give you free access to any of the scientific departments and a plausible reason to speak directly with the captain and Doctor Sarkisian. Burkett may look like he belongs back in school but he already has degrees in astrophysics and cosmology and his IQ is probably the highest on the ship, with the exception of Doctor Sarkisian."

Never judge a book by its cover
, Terrance reminded himself.

"The current mission parameters call for us to fold out to a point 500 light years from Durav where the DSDG will be deployed. Subsequent folds will be in the range of fifty light years until we reach a maximum of 2000 light years. If, as you speculated, a star with a red shift is detected, then we will decrease the distance of each fold and target destination until we ascertain the star’s location. I must say, Doctor Sarkisian was not overly happy when the Department of Special Projects hijacked her expedition, but she cooled down some when it was explained to her the seriousness of the mission and, to be honest, I think she sees it as a bit of a challenge. Our best reckoning is each deployment of the DSDG and interpretation of the data it gathers should take about two weeks. Doctor Sarkisian reckons that we should know whether your theory holds water by the 1200 light year point so that would put us at week fourteen of the mission."

"My own best guess was between the 800 light year and 1200 light year window, sir, so it seems the good doctor and myself are singing off the same song sheet," agreed Terrance.

Apter stood and Terrance took this as his cue the meeting was over. "Once again, welcome aboard the
Tycho Brahe,
Lieutenant. Burkett will get you settled in and introduce you to the key department heads. If everything is on schedule, we can expect to fold out day after tomorrow."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Direct Action

RUE MUZY - GENEVA – EARTH – SOL SYSTEM

"And you promise next time you will supply me the recipe for crispy eggplant and mozzarella, Roberto?"

"Ah, Signore Madkin, you know the recipe has remained a closely guarded family secret for generations, although, if the beautiful Signora Madkin was to grace my poor restaurant with her presence, I would be unable to resist her charms."

"I fail to see how your restaurant can be so poor with the prices you charge." Clement Bradshaw said in a deadpan voice.

Roberto looked aghast, his arms wide in fake affront. "Signore Bradshaw, I have many children to feed and my wife likes to enjoy the finer things in life. What is a man to do?"

All three men shared a knowing laugh as the stony-faced bodyguard held the restaurant door open and the chill of an early December night’s wind pierced their heavy coats as though they were made of the thinnest paper.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, both men were glad of the awning that hung off the building and protected patrons from the falling snow. The outside temperature was well below freezing and both men’s attention was on the ground car and the warmth the vehicle’s interior promised. Its rear door was being held open by a second bodyguard as the wind tried to push it closed again.

From an alley to the left came the loud, piercing cry of a cat. Madkin, Bradshaw, and the two bodyguards turned their heads in the sound’s direction. It was an entirely natural reaction, one that anyone would have had, but it was also fatal.

Out of the shadows to the right, a nondescript figure stepped into the light flooding from the restaurant’s large windows. He slipped the remote control for the noisemaker back into his left pocket and his right hand came up smoothly, the light glinting off the metal in his hand. The canopy over the restaurant’s entrance prevented the assassin’s preferred long-range shot, so he was forced to resort to the messier close-quarter assassination. More risk was involved, but his pay master had the funds to cover the added expenses and he had never failed to pay in full before. Besides, watching your target die close up was somehow more... fulfilling.

The trailing bodyguard never knew what hit him as a burst of supersonic, needle-sharp metal flechettes entered the back of his skull and exploded out the front, ripping his face to shreds as they exited, bone and brain barely slowing their progress.

Kris Madkin had once been a marine and the sound of a flechette pistol was one he had heard before and never expected to hear again. His survival instincts took control, adrenalin poured into his system as he grabbed Clement roughly by the coat collar and propelled his startled friend with all his might through the open rear door of the waiting car, crouching as he spun to face his attacker. He was just in time to see the second bodyguard cut down by a hail of flechettes, which turned his upper chest and throat into a mess of splintered bone and ripped flesh, the man’s blood cascading from his body in a fountain of red, covering Kris' face and obscuring his view of the advancing angel of death.

The bodyguard’s falling body landed heavily on Kris, knocking him to his knees and banging his head off the car door’s edge. The pain of the impact was nothing compared to the sudden searing pain ripping through his left shoulder as another salvo of flechettes from the attacker sought to end him. Kris tried to stand but the dead weight of the bodyguard across his legs was preventing him. Kris went to push him off but only his right arm would respond and he felt his energy leaching from his body as his blood spilled out onto the sidewalk. Kris raised his chin and looked defiantly into the face of the assassin standing only a few feet from him. The business end of a flechette pistol was pointed squarely at his head.

"You should have stayed out of the way, Madkin. I might have let you live..." Whatever he was going to say next was forestalled by the driver’s door opening as the final bodyguard made his move, PEP in hand. The driver’s shot went wild and the assassin adjusted his aim to engage the new threat. A single thought screamed through Kris’ brain.
I will not die here today! Not like this!
Summoning up the last of his failing strength, he pushed at the dead man’s shoulder straddling his legs but it was no good, his rapidly weakening muscles failed him. Stars were beginning to dance in front of his eyes. The sweet embrace of unconsciousness was beckoning him. The limp bodyguard rolled back and his jacket fell open, revealing the PEP pistol partially drawn from its holster. The whining of the flechette pistol and a sudden cry signaled the end of the driver. With the last dregs of his being, Kris reached for the PEP, feeling its cold metal grip as his fingers wrapped around it. The restaurant lights were blocked out as the assassin leaned over his slumped body and a gravelly voice came faintly through the blood rushing in Kris’ ears.

"Mr. Anderson sends his regards, Bradshaw..."

Kris pulled the trigger of the PEP. Once. Twice. Three times before blackness finally claimed him.

#

THE PRESIDENT’S PRIVATE RESIDENCE - OUTSKIRTS OF GENEVA

EARTH – SOL SYSTEM

The loud knocking on her bedroom door startled Rebecca Coston from her slumber. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she checked the illuminated clock on the bed stand. 0217.

Her husband Bill was away for the weekend, skiing in the Alps with their teenage children and she was taking the opportunity to get a rare early night.
So much for that idea
, she thought as she kicked off the bedclothes before shrugging on her robe. She padded over to the door and pulled it open.

Standing in the well-lit hallway was Joane Goode, Deputy Chief of Staff, and alongside her was Issac Sounder, head of the president’s protection detail. Trepidation crept into Rebecca’s still-groggy brain, "What is it, Joane?"

Joane's voice caught in her throat and she cleared it loudly. Seeing Joane struggling with whatever she wanted to say, Rebecca turned her attention instead to Issac. Issac had been head of her Presidential Office of Security detail since the first day she stepped into the shoes of retiring President McMullan. Rebecca had never known him to shy away from telling the facts, no matter how ugly they were. She expected nothing less right now.

"Madam President. Approximately thirty minutes ago, the POS communications center lost contact with Mr. Bradshaw's protection detail. While attempting to reestablish contact, they intercepted a call from local law enforcement reporting shots fired outside a restaurant. The restaurant was Mr. Bradshaw's last known location.” Isaac took a breath.

“I authorized the immediate deployment of the POS Crash Team who were on scene within ten minutes. On arrival, they found all three agents of Mr. Bradshaw's detail dead. Senator Madkin is seriously wounded and is on his way to hospital for emergency surgery. His condition is unclear at this time. Mr. Bradshaw is shaken but unharmed. He refused to leave Senator Madkin’s side, so I have Crash Team members in the ambulance with him and the remainder of the team will follow to secure the hospital until I can replace them with more discreet security."

Rebecca weakened at the knees. She held on to the doorframe for support. Clement Bradshaw was her oldest friend in politics and for sure he had been in the game a long time and made a lot of enemies along the way but that’s what happens in politics. You don’t extract revenge by killing someone.

"Who did this, Issac?"

"The attacker was also killed at the scene, Madam President."

"Well at least one of your men got him. Not much consolation, but it’s something at least."

"The Crash Team leader believes it was actually Senator Madkin who killed him, Madam President. According to local police who were first on the scene they recovered a POS-issue PEP pistol from Senator Madkin’s hand before he was transferred to the ambulance."

Despite the dreadful news of the loss of the agents, a wry smile formed on Rebecca's lips. "Once a marine, always a marine, Issac."

"Apparently so, Madam President."

Banishing the last wisps of sleep from her mind, Rebecca straightened herself up and began issuing orders. "Joane. Wake up the Director of the FIB, I want his best investigators on this and he is to make it his number-one priority. No excuses. Next I want you to arrange a meeting of the National Security Council for...Ah, call it eight AM. This attack is not only an attack on Clement Bradshaw, he is my Chief of Staff and therefore an integral part of my government, and that makes this an attack on the very fabric of our nation. I want to make it very clear to both the intelligence and the investigatory agencies that I will not abide any infighting when it comes to the hunt for whomever was behind this, because mark my words, there is someone else behind this."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Issac, I'm going to get dressed. By the time I am, I want transport waiting to take me to the hospital and you leave the Crash Team in place for a while. Maybe the sight of heavily armed, battle armored men will convince the world and whoever instigated this plan that I'm taking the death of three agents and the shooting of an Earth Senator seriously. Very seriously indeed."

Rebecca spun, the door slamming closed behind her, heading toward the dressing room. Kill her agents and injure Madkin would they! Attempt to kill her oldest friend!
Somebody just made a huge mistake and I'll damn well make sure it’s their last one.

#

The presidential flyer landed amid a flurry of activity on the landing pad adjacent to the main entrance to Geneva General Hospital. The first of the security detail barely got his feet on the ground before Rebecca Coston was out of the flyer and striding off at a pace that was distinctly unsightly for a national leader.

The president and her entourage swept through the entrance and reception area like a tornado, leaving staff and visitors aghast at the site of the POS in a place that was usually calm. The first vid reports of the attack were only now being broadcast and people were looking from the large screens to the president in shock. Rebecca ignored them as she was ushered into an elevator with her detail. The rest of her entourage would just have to wait for the next one, or take the stairs.

When the doors opened, Issac stood to one side to allow the president to exit and her steps faltered as she was confronted by the sight of a seven-foot-tall, jet-black, armored monster holding an equally oversized plasma rifle in its armored gauntlets.

"The Crash Team are equipped with the latest issue marine Wraith suit, Madam President," Issac whispered in her ear.

Recovering her composure, Rebecca headed off down the corridor but came to a sudden halt at the sight of Clement Bradshaw flanked by two more armored giants with his head in his hands, sitting on a flimsy plastic chair, his clothing covered in blood . With no regard for presidential demeanor, Rebecca ran to him. Kneeling in front of him she gently took his blood-encrusted hands in hers.

"Clement, are you OK? You’re covered in blood. Do you need to see a doctor?" Rebecca shared a swift look with Isaac who went to activate his comm to call for medical assistance but Clement's shaking head stopped him.

"It’s not my blood Rebecca, it’s Kris’. I did my best to stop the bleeding..." Clement's head lowered again and his voice dropped to a whisper. "...There was just so much of it. He just came out of nowhere. Just started shooting. Kris flung me into the car. Stood in the doorway. He used his own body to protect me, Rebecca." Clement's body shook as his body finally succumbed to the shock of the events that had occurred on the dark sidewalk. Rebecca took him in her arms, holding her quietly sobbing friend close. Eventually the sobs subsided and the older man wiped at his eyes with a blood-stained shirt cuff.

"He's gone too far this time, Rebecca. First Harriman and now this."

The president’s face reflected her confusion. "I'm sorry, Clement. I don't understand. You know who ordered this?"

Clement fixed his eyes on Rebecca's and his voice was firm. "Seaton Anderson."

#

The room sat in deathly silence as the recording from the restaurant’s security vid cameras replayed the scene from the street the night before. The would-be assassin appeared out of the darkened doorway before coldly and clinically taking down the two bodyguards. You could clearly see Kris Madkin throwing Clement Bradshaw into the safety of the vehicle before turning to face the attacker and then going down under the combination of the weight of the dying bodyguard and the attacker’s fire. The driver’s attempts to defend his charge and finally the attacker’s slow, almost lackadaisical walk to the rear door to finish off Bradshaw before the assassin’s body contorted unnaturally as Madkin fired his pistol. The video paused with the image of the assassin flying backwards under the impact of Madkin’s shots. As the lights returned to normal, those gathered turned their heads to the head of the table and the impassive face of President Coston. They all knew that this was not a time to mince their words.

Edward Munro, FIB Director, was the first to speak. "Madam President. The assailant has been identified as this man." A holographic image of a thirty-something male appeared above the table, “Jordell Ferrett. Dishonorably discharged from the army after serving time for assaulting several members of his own platoon. He is a trained sniper and we believe that on his release he sold his skills to the highest bidder. The last few years he has kept a low profile. Rumor has it he now only takes on jobs for a single client who pays him to remain exclusive. Who that client is we have yet to ascertain..."