Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1 (14 page)

Shelby contacts dock control, they open the doors early and cast off our moorings. Garcia has Marcos get in the practice of taking us out of the bay. He's clean and parks us 300 meters off the station, just where we're supposed to be.
The giant metal praying mantis appears.
"Mr. Jordan, open outer doors, tubes 1, 2, 23 and 24."
"Outer doors open, 1, 2, 23, and 24."
This time the loading is uneventful, tube 24 is functional, and we get sealed up in 32 minutes. The mantis is gone in a couple more, and we are joined by a new LS and our old ZR. Once we're secure, we're off.
"Mr. Garcia, flight plan as approved, go on your mark."
"My mark, flight plan is go." Acceleration horns sound, the five minute warning. I briefly wonder if Turin is strapped in. If he's not, we'll scrape his remains off the aft wall in a couple hours and notify his next of kin.
Garcia takes us to one gee, then two, three, and four. Ten minutes in, we're smooth as glass, and holding on four. I am one happy captain. Accelerate for almost a day, we'll be traveling 12 million kilometers per hour when we get to the jump point. Lots of nice kinetic energy to use.
I check in on Turin at the first change of shift. He's alive, but looking rather pale. I try to cheer him up, but run out of time before I have to go strap myself in.
Sixteen hours later, strapped back into my captain's couch, we make an uneventful jump to the Nevada system, a few hours flying time from orbit around Nevada 1, just to be safe.
There are numerous traditional things that sailors do, being the overly superstitious people we are. When you jump into the Nevada system, every enlisted person on the ship looks at their neighbor and says, "There is no more wretched hive of scum and villainy."
It's another of those things I can't explain. I have read every naval history I know of, and I have never run across that phrase. It sounds like something Lord Admiral Nelson would have said, or maybe one of the early US frigate captains when dealing with the Barbary pirates, but it escapes me and I am too proud to ask. So I nod my head like I understand the reference, then order Mr. Garcia to get us into orbit.

Chapter 10

In all of known space there is only one planet where acting badly is not only normal, it is legal and encouraged.
More private space stations orbit Nevada 1 than any planet in anyone's territory, far more than any small brown dwarf planet should need, more private spacecraft of all kinds flying in and out, and more ships from outside our space, including Royal Navy and Dynastic Fleet ships plying the lines between planet and star.
It's rumored that the Empress herself has a secret docking spot on one of the nicer platforms.
The Navy maintains full sized stations around Earth, the three Earth-like planets, and here. Everybody else gets the smaller versions, if they get one at all. Unbelievable wealth flying in and out every day in private cruisers means opportunity for pirates, constant high volume traffic creates temptation to smuggle contraband off planet, and drunk Royal Navy officers insulting the Empress create diplomatic incidents. The detachment here is always busy.
From space it's actually one of the more beautiful worlds with so much money spent bringing water in that it literally covers 95% of the surface, with one large island near the equator that houses almost all of the inhabitants and many smaller scattered islands designed as oxygen generators and food sources, nothing but greenery on them visible from orbit. It's a beautiful blue marble specked with emerald. The only place in the universe that you can see whales and fish for tuna.
Ride Station knew we were coming, but still made us wait in deep orbit for six hours until a docking port cleared. No apologies from them with two cruisers here for Founding Day,
Jackson
and
Grant
, plus all the support ships from their battle groups on top of the normal flotilla of corvettes and supply ships. The president himself is 30 hours behind us.
Only good part is I spend most of the six hours sitting with Turin, eating, lounging, and generally figuring out if there might be something worth figuring out. For the first time in a long time, I think there just might be.
Once the crew realized we weren't going to let them go down to the surface, morale dipped substantially, but we are giving rotating shifts 10 hour visits to one of the orbital casinos, which should help some. Not what our sloop was intended for, but we're listing the trips in the log as supply runs.
Turin, Yeager and I are taking the station shuttle down to the Navy yard at Las Vegas. All three of us somehow dressed in jeans and leather jackets, me with a brown cotton pullover shirt, somewhat low cut, and them in dressy black cotton tees. They complement me on my outfit, except for the athletic shoes I have on. I don't tell them it's the only civi clothes I own except for my beachwear and they are never going to see me in that. Well, one of them is never going to see me, the other just might.
We had a fight over my taking my sidearm which I lost, not because I am not the captain, but because Nevada 1 has an open carry law, you can carry anything as long as it's in plain sight, and everybody thinks it would be a bad idea for pictures of me to surface flashing a nine millimeter in a casino. The three of us are going to blend in as typical tourists, or that is at least the plan.
There are seats on the landing craft the Navy uses here, not the traditional couches. I buckle into the big leather chair next to Turin, our arms sharing an armrest. We spend the 30 minute trip to the surface talking about our families, and home planets, nothing about our jobs or our missions. Each occasionally reaching out and touching the other's hand, purely for emphasis of an important conversational point of course. Nice. Then there's the bump that means we've reached the ground, and he transforms into all business.
Nevada 1 has 80 percent of Earth normal gravity, and a rich oxygen atmosphere, which add to the playground intention of the place. We bounce and breathe easy going out.
The Navy yard is at one end of the row of casinos, known around here as The Strip, civilians land at the other. We head south off the boat mixing in with the 25 other Navy folks who were on board, most out of uniform, looking for the Flamingo. Turin's people claim our bad guy can be found every night in one of the lounges, rocking out to a certain young lady and her band. We already missed the first show because of the docking delays.
The main sidewalks are impossibly crowded, every type of person imaginable is there, every one of them except us worried only about how much fun they are having, not whose foot they just stepped on. Turin takes us to the service road behind the buildings, and our progress is much easier, though it makes me wonder how he knows so much about the back streets here.
We find the place by finding the giant pink birds painted across the outside, huge glass doors with their own birds open into the casino, all flashing lights and bells and whistles. The music has already begun by the time we find the lounge, cleverly placed so that the casino sounds don't make it inside, but the music manages to be softly in the background outside.
Turin hands a $20 coin to the hostess and gets us the last nice table against the wall, then orders us non-alcoholic beverages from the barely dressed waitress who wanders by. Party pooper.
It takes him 15 minutes to figure out that I am not cut out to do covert ops. I am so engrossed in the band, the lead singer all in leather, her band pounding along as she belts out covers of the latest hits, that they have to kick me under the table to get my attention back to business.
Our target, Mr. Mark Darlington, is sitting at a table next to the stage with a couple of his buddies. He definitely must be a regular, because she is clearly flirting with him from the stage. His friends, on the other hand, are not there for pleasure. They spend their time keeping an eye on the crowd, occasionally shooing away someone who wants to talk to their boss.
A waitress, not the one we started with, tries to bring us some food that we did not order, and between her bending over inches from my companions faces and the hot plates, we are discombobulated for at least a minute. When we finally get her out of our hair, Darlington is gone, the table empty, the waitress no longer in sight either, her body and the food a convenient and likely intentional distraction.
No way they went out the front door without our seeing, we move as quickly as we can through the crowd toward the back exit which leads into a side corridor, past the mostly empty pool and then out to the service road we used coming in. Lots of people to our left, nobody to the right. An exchange of quick looks, and we are headed right at a light jog, slow enough that we can check out the nooks and crannies behind the buildings.
I don't know if the space behind and between the air conditioning units counts as a nook or a cranny, but we're a couple feet away from a large evaporative unit when suddenly there are four of them and three of us, Yeager to my right, Turin to his, the outer most of the four bad guys trying to circle around us on both sides.
The one to my left has a knife in his right hand, and I step toward him, trying to cut off his flanking maneuver. He's twice my size, but apparently one-third my IQ and untrained, he makes his move toward me with the knife hand leading, slightly off balance.
My left hand closes on his wrist as I step inside, pulling him downward, destroying what little balance he had, then my right foot drills through his left knee, making it snap 30 degrees in an unnatural direction. He screams in pain, I silence him with a quick elbow to the face, his eyes rolling white as he collapses to the ground.
I spin to help my colleagues, hands up in a defensive position, only to find Yeager has flattened Darlington and another by himself and Turin is putting the finishing touches on the fourth. Yeager and I reposition to make sure none of them tries to get up, while Turin calls for backup.
Twenty minutes later we are trailing three Nevada police officers who are pushing the three men who can still walk into the holding area of the Strip police substation. Turin has them take the one we are interested in into Interrogation, and dump the others into the drunk tank. One of the officers asks if he can direct me, I agree because if I told him I know the way he might ask some embarrassing questions.
Turin and I get to go into the Interrogation Room, Yeager is dragged away by the cops to have a small knife wound on his arm checked out. He didn't even mention it. I recognize Darlington from his pictures, and from our short observation in the lounge, but there's something else I can't put my finger on. I'm sure whatever it is will come to me too late to do me any good.
The interview begins with Turin sitting down across from Darlington and confirming both that he had been read his rights and had waived his right to a lawyer. He seems way too comfortable for someone whose feet are chained to a chair in a police station while facing down a large UBI agent.
"You and your friends just assaulted a Naval officer and a federal agent. That's 20 years. This," he points to the screen on the wall, which is showing one of the documents we found that directed us to him, "shows you sabotaged a Union Navy warship. That's three bullets through the heart." He pauses for a second. "We can have a conversation about notifying your next of kin, or one about who's paying you. Your choice." Turin leans in for emphasis.
Darlington leans in just as hard across the metal table, looks Turin in the eye. "You got nothing, you won't be able to hold me. I got friends. You got no idea."
Turin turns his pad toward Darlington. "I've got purchase records, I've got your bank records. Won't take us long to chase the money down, and then you won't be able to deal. You can make my life easier, and save your own."
This time, the bad guy leans backwards, relaxing almost. "You might be surprised how hard that money is to trace, Mr. Agent."
There's a buzz at the door before Turin can respond. He doesn't look happy with the interruption, though I don't think he's getting anywhere with the interview. A voice from the other side on speaker asks for a word, he gets up reluctantly and walks out the door, leaving me alone with Darlington. He's looking me over like I'm his mouse. I stop leaning against the wall, stand straight, my legs spread shoulder width, hands on hips, hopefully some fire in my eyes.
"You'd be wise to deal. If the UBI doesn't take you down, the Navy will."
He actually laughs. "You have no idea what you're up against, Captain Krieger, no idea at all. And when you find out, it will be the last thing you ever find out."
I walk over to the table, put my pad down on it, and flip a couple fingers across the screen until the sound file from McAdams is under my thumb. I make sure to be looking in his eye when I play the five seconds of cat sonata in bee minor with banjo. The color leaves his face.
"I know exactly what I'm up against Mr. Darlington, and they don't scare me any more than you do. Tricky frakkers, but not invincible. Time you told us what you know from your end."
"Doesn't matter. If I tell you I'm dead, if I keep quiet I still have a chance." Then he gets that you're my mouse look back. "You don't have the chance you think you do, no matter what you know."
The door opens and Turin walks back in. "UBI transport just got in," he says to both of us and then looks at Darlington, "you and I will finish this when we're at headquarters." Two uniforms appear and start to get the prisoner ready to transport.
Yeager's there too. "Navy shuttle launch in 10, or we wait for the next orbit, sir."
"Let's roll," I squeeze Turin's arm as I move for the door, "Keep in touch."
"Will do, be safe out there."
"Thanks." And with that Yeager and I run for the Navy yard.
The boost into orbit is uneventful,
Yorktown
quiet when we float back over, 10 folks away gambling, 10 semi-drunk and sleeping it off, the rest getting us ready to depart. We have wheels up at 0800. Shelby makes me give her the details and tells me next time she's sending the entire Marine detachment with me. I float off and hit my rack.
There's a video message from Turin and some attached data files when I check my pad in the morning, I continue to work on drying the hair while I listen. They went through Darlington's pad and his hotel room, found what looks like a spy's coding system. There are pages of English words, the first being WATER, the last being the digits zero through seven, each next to a graphic of what looks like a 3D snowflake. Each snowflake is unique, of course, some quietly so, some dramatically. Nearly 1,600 words total. Someone went to a lot of trouble.
"He erased all his messages, but didn't clear his cache so the techs here were able to pull the last message out easily, it's attached. If we find any more once we get it to headquarters, I'll get them to you. The gentlemen who came at you with the knife is going to need a knee replacement, remind me never to get you mad at me. I'll be back on Earth when I'm done with the interrogations, be nice to see you for dinner when you get home. Turin out."
I got a dictionary and a date. It takes me 15 minutes to translate the message into:
SWORD SHIP
EXPLOSIVE
COMPUTER
JUMP
147326523
Whatever that means.
I am a little early out on the bridge to relieve Ayala, McAdams also there working at a side station with Manuel about come off duty at the main. I call her over, sending the dictionary and the message to her station. They are up on my screen when she gets to me.
"I sent this to your pad. The UBI found it on our saboteur. They thinks its code, you and I know what it really is. Take a look at it, and the message, and let me know what you think."
It's too bad I couldn't have saved this for Christmas, her eyes tell me it's the best present she's ever been given. She heads back to the side station, setting an Olympic record for the 12 foot float in the process.
I take a quick look on the nav display for the UBI shuttle, still only half way to the sun at a leisurely one gee. We may get the chance to wave at them, we'll pass within 10,000 clicks or so as we hit our respective jump points.
We back away from the gate at 0800 precisely, navigate slowly through the crowded airspace around the planet until we reach the restricted military route to the star. We're going to push two gees for 14 hours until we're close enough to jump to Gamma Omicron, slower than usual to accommodate the hangovers.
First six hours are uneventful, then I get a request from my RISTA on a closed channel. Her blue light flashes on my overhead, if we weren't at acceleration not necessary given we're three feet apart. I click her on my earphone.