Peggy Sue (The T'aafhal Inheritance) (11 page)

“What the hell is he saying?” Jack asked incredulously.

The Secretary General continued: “…that these international fugitives have created advanced technology is undeniable. The UN calls for this knowledge to be immediately shared with all member nations. Because all nations are not in a position to take advantage of this technology, I am further calling on the wealthy nations of the world to pay for spreading this knowledge to lesser developed countries, constructing plants and establishing laboratories at their expense. All nations must pay their fair share.”

At that point the news announcer broke in and said, “Well, there you have it. The UN Secretary General has labeled the claims by Captain Jack Sutton and the crew of the spaceship Peggy Sue a scam. He has called for the ship to be turned over to the UN and for free distribution of any advanced technology it contains to underdeveloped nations at the expense of the wealthy ones. This in contrast with the statement by the U.S. Secretary of State earlier, that the ship and all of its technology belongs to the United States, since it was built in the state of Texas. More on this developing story later, now for the latest on the car chase in L.A…”

“Turn that damned thing off,” TK groused. “I’ve heard enough simpering jackasses for one day. Can you believe that? I payed for that ship myself! Well, me and a couple of like minded friends. We built something no government on Earth could have—not without screwing it up or starting a war or something—and somehow that makes us ‘obscenely rich’ and bent on world domination. Typical transnational socialist bullshit.”

TK was on a rant, and both Jack and Gretchen knew from experience it was best to just let him wind down on his own.

“That hopped up third world potboy. He’s been sloppin’ at the public trough all his life; never once held a job that resulted in something real or useful. Nothing but a greedy bureaucrat, working his way up the ladder with all the other UN parasites. Clawed his way to the top of the dung heap; survival of the sleaziest. Advancement at the UN is an example of evolution running backward! Now he’s the head parasite, telling those with nothing that they all deserve what rich people got, and he’s just the man to level the playing field for them—all they have to do was put their trust in him and the United God Damned Nations.”

“Yes TK, but what are we going to do about the situation?” Jack asked. “We are still tied to Earth’s industrial base to construct the spacecraft we will need to combat the aliens, assuming the threat proves as dire as the artifact portrayed it.”

“We’re just gonna have to move off planet, that’s all,” the crusty billionaire replied. “Establish a base where we can expand the fabricators and construct bigger and better ships. We’ll also need to start recruiting, big time.”

“Recruiting who?” asked Gretchen from the ship.

“All sorts of people,” TK responded. “People to work in the factories, to man the ships, to fight the damned aliens when the time comes. Since we’ll be moving off planet we’re gonna have to move families and all. That means school teachers, merchants, restauranteurs, handymen, artists, entertainers, the whole shootin’ match. We gotta recreate civilization, children! One ship full of humans and a couple of polar bears just ain’t gonna be enough.”

“I fear that you’re right, TK,” Jack allowed,
and nobody can accuse him of acting by half steps.
But Jack had more immediate concerns, “right now I’m worried about getting back the people we used to have on board.”

“Yer right about that, Jack my boy. You get yer crew back from wherever they’ve been locked up and I’ll deal with the rest. Ain’t no God damned pissant UN snake in the grass gonna screw this up while I’m around.” With that, the fuming septuagenarian spun his electric wheelchair about and departed, still ranting about the personal hygiene and breeding habits of UN bureaucrats.

“I’m glad we got that all straightened out,” Jack said to his executive officer. “While TK arranges for an off planet diaspora I think we need to lay on missions to retrieve our incarcerated crew members from durance vile.”

“Yes, Sir!” replied Gretchen, always happiest when the course of action was clear. “I have a number for Dr. Saito’s post-doc student at Tokyo University. Perhaps she can find out what they have done with Yuki.”

“Fine, just try not to endanger the woman. When you find his location you may wish to take a pinnace and reconnoiter the situation.” The Captain said, shifting to action mode. “I’ve already set Mr. Taylor and Mr. Vincent to finding and rescuing the Marines.”

“Will the two of them be enough if our people are being held on a military installation or in a prison?”

“JT is a very resourceful fellow, and I think that our new trio of SEALs might be able to help implement what ever plan they come up with.”

JT was resourceful, and very inventive, as Gretchen knew from experience of a more personal nature. “Very well, Captain. I’ll report back when I know anything about Dr. Saito.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, Captain out.”
I think I had best get back to the ship,
Jack thought,
I don’t want to be on the shore when the balloon goes up on the rescue missions. Damn, I knew letting Ludmilla go talk to the Russians was a bad idea—not that I could have stopped her. I Just hope she gets back without incident.
 

Chapter 5

UNOOSA Headquarters, Vienna, Austria

Ludmilla and the Chief were met and escorted inside by a UN representative, a rather handsome Frenchman named Jean-Jacques de Belcour. As he led them through a maze of stairs and hallways he conversed with Ludmilla, ignoring the Chief as one would a servant or bodyguard. “We are of course, all very happy that you did not perish on board the ISS, Dr. Tropsha. But you must understand that the circumstances surrounding your rescue and the subsequent actions taken by this Captain Sutton are a source of grave concern for my Secretary.”

“I do not see why, Monsieur de Belcour. The Captain has been open with the UN and all the people of the world with regard to our voyage.” Ludmilla got the impression that M. de Belcour did not approve of Captain Jack or his actions.

“Misadventure is more accurate, Doctor,” the UN official replied. “The Captain and crew of the Peggy Sue took it upon themselves to act in the name of the peoples of Earth. They may well have started an interstellar war without the sanction or authorization of a single legitimate government. This whole situation is quite unfortunate.”

“Have you watched the video from the mission yourself, Monsieur?”

“Well, no. I’ve not had the time,” de Belcour answered.

“Then I suggest you make the time,” Ludmilla replied tartly, “before you pass judgment on actions taken by people in situations you neither understand nor can fully imagine.” This remark ended the conversation and the party continued on in silence.

Eventually they came to a tall wooden door, identical to all the others in the hallway. Without knocking, M. de Belcour opened the door and motioned Ludmilla inside. She walked through the portal but when the Chief tried to follow the UN official put up an arm baring his way. “This meeting is only for Dr. Tropsha, you will have to wait outside.”

The Chief put his hands on his hips and looked the Frenchman up and down. “The hell I will, you frog bastard. Move yer arm or I’ll break it off.”

The startled UN official was taken aback, unused to people speaking to him in such a manner. While he was staring at the Chief, unsure of what to do, Ludmilla turned back and seized his arm. Applying painful pressure on the nerves in his wrist, the angry Russian doctor hissed, “If you do not remove your arm, I will break it. Where I go the Chief goes, or we leave.”

Not given a choice, the bureaucrat withdrew his arm and stood aside. The Chief followed Ludmilla into the room as de Belcour glared at both of them, his face flushed with a combination of anger and humiliation. As the door swung shut, he could be seen massaging his arm where Ludmilla’s wrist grip had held him. He did not realize that as a practitioner of Sambo, a Russian form of martial art combining aspects of Judo and wrestling, Ludmilla exercised daily to strengthen her hands, arms and wrists. Her grip was like a vise and, being a doctor, she knew precisely where to apply pressure to cause sensitive nerves to erupt in pain.

Inside the room were three men, one seated at a large desk and two others in ill fitting suits standing on either side of the desk. The seated man rose and offered his hand to Ludmilla, saying in Russian, “Welcome, Dr. Tropsha. It is so good to see you alive and in such good shape. I am Vladimir Chernyshyov, assistant director of public relations for ROSCOSMOS. Please have a seat.”

Ludmilla took a seat in the single chair that sat facing the desk. Chief Zackly stood behind her, assuming a parade rest position. Ludmilla replied, also in Russian. “Good afternoon, Mr. Chernyshyov. Tell me what I can do for you today.”

“We, of course, were concerned that you were well and that you were not being held against your will by this rogue American captain.” Glancing up at the Chief, who was staring at a point above his head with a blank look on his face, Chernyshyov asked, “does your minder have to be in the room for this interview?”

“The Chief is not my ‘minder’, he is here at my request. But if it makes you feel more comfortable, he does not speak Russian.”

“Very well, tell me about the death of Col. Kondratov. Unlike the other mission fatalities, there was no visual record of his death. This naturally makes us quite suspicious.”

“Naturally, you are, after all, a Russian security agent.”

“Why do you say that? I told you I am with ROSCOSMOS,” blustered the seated Russian.

“I was with ROSCOSMOS for almost ten years and it is not that large an organization. I remember no Vladimir Chernyshyov. Which means that you are possibly SVR or FSB, but given the two knuckle draggers you brought along, you are most likely from the GRU.” The man’s features hardened.
Bullseye,
Ludmilla said to herself.
The man had the odor of military intelligence.
 

“This is a very important matter, with significant security implications for the
Rodina
. Which agency I am with is irrelevant. Please answer the question, how did Col. Kondratov die, Lt. Col. Tropsha?”

Col. Kondratov died trying to commandeer the ship,
she thought venomously,
and was blown to hell by Captain Jack, my Jack.
But they had all agreed that exposing Ivan’s treachery would serve no positive purpose, and would be devastating to his wife and daughters back in Russia. 

“He and one of the crew were struck by plasma fire from hostile aliens during our escape from the refueling station in the Beta Comae system. The crewman died instantly, Ivan died on board from complications a short time later.” That was not quite a lie, more of a half truth. Still, telling it did not come easy to Ludmilla, though her delivery was convincing.

“Why was his body not brought back and returned to Russia?”

“You have never seen a body struck by plasma fire,” she shot back, “they are charred beyond recognition, that which is not blasted to atoms. Col. Kondratov, along with all the other dead, was given a funeral and burial in space. To prevent the aliens from learning anything from their remains, the bodies were vaporized by the ship’s X-ray laser battery. You were provided video of the funeral.”

Once the story had been agreed to, the crew staged a reenactment of the funeral with five caskets, one draped with a Russian flag for the treacherous Colonel. Ludmilla picked up the case she had been carrying, opened it and removed a folded triangular package—the flag that had covered Ivan’s casket. Setting the case aside, she stood and held out the folded Russian flag. “I brought this with me. Perhaps you can give it to his widow?”

As Ludmilla stood up, the Russian standing to her left reached into his poorly cut suit and drew a pistol, perhaps thinking she was threatening his boss. This caused the Chief to jump forward, shouting “Watch out Doc! He’s got a gun!”

Startled by the sudden movement the Russian tough swung his gun away from Ludmilla and toward the Chief, who was reaching inside of his jumpsuit for something. The Russian fired.

The sound of the shot was startlingly loud in the confined space of the room. The other two Russians were momentarily frozen in place by the unexpected shot, but Ludmilla reacted out of long years of martial arts training. Grasping the barrel of the gun with her left hand and twisting down, she struck the shooter’s wrist from the opposite side with her right, disarming the man. It was standard Systema Spetsnaz technique.

The flurry of action brought the other two Russians out of their momentary trance, but Ludmilla was now holding the gun and pointing it at the man she had just disarmed. Recovering his balance, he foolishly made a grab for the incensed woman. She shot him twice in the chest—a double tap. The disarmed thug dropped to the floor like a felled tree.

Meanwhile, the other standing thug pulled a pistol of his own. Before Ludmilla could re-target her weapon to cover the new threat, a thread of blue light came from behind her and struck the second gunman. He fell to the floor, shaking with violent convulsions.

Ludmilla stepped back and to the side, keeping her weapon pointed at the seated Russian who slowly raised his hands. She looked at the Chief who was leaning against the wall with a stunner in his right hand. The left shoulder of his jumpsuit was black with blood. “Chief, are you in danger of passing out?”

“Naw,” he said, grimacing in pain, “just a flesh wound.”

“Keep them covered while I look at your shoulder,” she ordered, assuming the role of doctor in charge of a patient. With her left hand she gently probed the Chief’s wound. “You are not bleeding too badly, fortunately I have a compress in my case. As she bent down to retrieve the case the man behind the desk made his move, attempting to draw a handgun from a shoulder holster. Without hesitation Ludmilla shot him in the right shoulder, causing him to drop the pistol, which slid across the desk and onto the floor.