Renegades (Expeditionary Force Book 7) Page 12

  One of the Detachment Delta guys took offense to that. “Hey, we don’t have to-”

  Smythe stepped forward and pointed to an odd-looking medal he wore, I recognized it as home-made item the SpecOps people created while we were stuck on Gingerbread. “You see this? It is a dinosaur holding a toilet plunger in its mouth. I received this for jumping out of a stealthed dropship over a heavily populated Kristang city, landing on the roof of a building, launching missiles that sparked an alien civil war. I then fell down an elevator shaft, pretended to be a Kristang police officer, got flushed down a sewer, and chased through a jungle by a genetically-engineered dinosaur. That was before my team took out a Kristang ground force without incurring a single casualty to ourselves.” He stepped forward again, so the Delta guys could see his decorations. “That operation sparked a civil war between the Kristang that will keep them on the sidelines for a decade or more. Nothing you have done in your careers means anything, compared to what you could accomplish aboard this ship. Make no mistake, this is the frontline for humanity, we are the sharp end of the spear. Nothing that happens down there,” he waved a hand in a vague gesture toward a bulkhead, “will make any difference to the survival of humanity.”

  The crowd was quiet for several moments, people considering Smythe’s words. One thing I knew for certain about elite operators is they wanted their service to make a difference, to not sit on the sidelines when bad things were happening.

  “That was a good speech,” the first Delta guy spoke. “Nothing that happens up here,” he instinctively pointed above his head, “will matter without a plan, a realistic plan. Colonel Smythe, you expect to go into action without a plan?”

  “Certainly,” Smythe managed to still look slightly bored with the proceedings. “We are ahead of the curve. This time, we are leaving Earth already knowing the nature of the threat. Usually, we have to go looking for trouble. The aliens are coming to us. For those of you who care, I expect us to find a target-rich environment out there.”

  Right there, I knew we had converts, because there were murmurs of approval going around the compartment. Smythe had accomplished what I could not. He had talked to the Delta Force team as one special operator to another, on their level. No, scratch that. Smythe was way above their level, and they knew that for damned certain. Every one of those Delta operators would have given anything to wear the elite symbol of the Merry Band of Pirates. This was their chance, very likely their only chance.

  The questions went on for twenty minutes before Smythe caught my eye to cut the discussion short. He was right. The people I was talking to were professionals, more blah blah blah from me was not going to persuade them to sign on. What they needed was time to think, and talk with each other. And something else. “Before you make a decision, you will want to speak with your families dirtside. Colonel Simms has a box of zPhones,” I turned toward her and she nudged the box on top of a crate beside her. She tossed a phone to me, and I tossed it to a Delta guy who seemed to be very much on the fence about signing up to join the Pirates. “Your calls will run through the Skippytel network,” I smiled. “So, calls will be secure. We can’t guarantee someone standing next to whoever you call won’t hear that end of the conversation.”

  “That’s it?” The Delta guy, whose nametag read ‘Rowe’, asked. “If we don’t sign on, we get a flight down to Earth, no questions asked?”

  “Yes,” I agreed with a simple nod.

  “No questions,” Skippy scowled. “But there will be consequences. If you don’t join this crew, and the mission fails because we did not have enough monkeys in the barrel, you will be directly responsible for the death of your loved ones and the extinction of humanity.”

  “Skippy,” I made a slashing motion across my throat.

  “I’m just sayin’, you know?”

  “Colonel,” the staff sergeant on the Marine Raider team spoke up. “That is easier said than done. My mother passed on four years ago-”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Problem is, my father is aboard a nuclear missile sub, on Hard Alert deployment. There is no way I can talk with him.”

  “Oh,” I looked to the avatar on a crate next to me, “that will not be a problem for our friendly local beer can.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Petty Officer Third Class Randall was in the boomer’s rec room, trying to concentrate as he stared at the computer screen, studying for an exam. He needed good marks on the exam to advance to E-5, Petty Officer Second Class. The serious nature of the training material did not make it any less dull to read, and Randall was about to pause the screen to refresh his coffee cup, when the screen flashed, went blue, then a bold message appeared. Please turn on the speakers, the message read.

  “What the hell?” Randall looked around, the two other people in the compartment were busy, headphones on, ignoring him. The nuclear missile submarine was two hundred feet below the surface, in the North Pacific. The message had to be a prank, played by someone elsewhere aboard the sub. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath, “I’ll play along.” At least he no longer needed coffee. Who is this? he typed.

  I could tell you if you turn the speakers on. That message disappeared, followed by You DUMDUM.

  “Hey, I don’t have to take this-”

  The message now read Fine I’ll do it myself. Stupid monkeys.

  “Hey, dumbass,” a voice boomed out of the computer’s speakers. It was arrogant, with a vaguely English accent. Randall had gone to the Royal Navy sub base at Faslane, back when he served aboard a Virginia-class attack boat. Some of those Brits with their upper-crust accents had been irritating, he always got the impression they looked down their noses at him. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, Randall,” the voice continued.

  “Screw you, whoever this-”

  “While I would dearly love to engage in witless banter with you, sadly I do not have time. Please get Senior Chief Petty Officer Roark and bring him here, his son Christopher wishes to speak with him ASAP. Chop chop, move along now, be a good boy.”

  “You want Chief Roark?” Randall’s face drained of color. Roark did not like tricks being played on him, this had to be a trick. “Where is his son calling from?” he remembered the Chief’s son was in the Marines, a fact that was the source of much good-natured ribbing from the crew. Rumor had it the son was a Raider, Randall hadn’t paid attention beyond that bit of trivia.

  “You are not going to believe this,” the voice replied with weariness.

  “I am not doing anything for you,” Randall stepped away from the computer, as the two other people had taken off their headphones to see who he was taking with. Two other people had their heads stuck in the compartment in curiosity.

  “I tried to do this discretely, but noooooo, you had to be a jerk about it.” The voice switched from the small computer speakers to the boat’s 1MC system, the main communications circuit for the entire boat. “Oh, CPO Roark? Your son Christopher wants to talk with you.”

  “You ready, Reed?” I asked without giving her my full attention. Or as much attention as I could, while I fretted about how many people we would have in the crew when the Flying Dutchman jumped away.

  There was the slightest hesitation that spoke volumes, along with a sigh before she answered. “Yes, Sir. Ready.”

  “Ready and willing?”

  “The willing part of kind of optional, isn’t it?” She started an eyeroll but stopped with her eyes looking at the ceiling.

  I nodded. “Listen, Reed, I sure as hell am not looking forward to spending a couple months,” I was deliberately being wildly optimistic about the timeline and she knew it, “stuck in this tin can,” I rapped knuckles on a bulkhead. “With freeze-dried food and an asshole AI. But somebody has to do it, and we’re here, and you are qualified to fly all our dropship models.”

  Her pride made her interject with “I’m three-quarters of the way through the training to fly the Dutchman too, Sir.”

&nb
sp; “Right, see? We need you, and Porter. Unless you want me flying this Frankenship,” I said with a wink.

  “No! That’s, that’s,” her face reddened as she couldn’t think what to say without insulting me. “We need you in the command chair, Sir,” her weak grin was a sort of apology. “Ohhh, what the hell.” Her shoulders fell, then straightened. “Embrace the suck, I guess.”

  “That’s the spirit!” I raised a hand to thump her back, then thought that would be a bad idea, as I was her commanding officer. So, I gave her an exaggerated two thumbs up.

  “Remind me of that two years from now,” she did roll her eyes, “when we’re surviving on sludges and the backup reactor is shutting down.”

  “Excellent, you are already embracing suck that hasn’t happened yet, that is the kind of forward thinking we need,” my grin was forced, because I was also hating the idea of limping our beat-up Frankenship on another no-expense–included tour of the Orion Arm.

  “Sir? One request?”

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  “Can I get a different callsign? ‘Fireball’ was kind of a joke that has stayed around too long.”

  “Oh, sure. You can request another callsign,” I smiled and she beamed happily, right before I crushed her hopes. “Right after people stop calling me ‘Barney’.”

  “Craaaaap,” she groaned. “That is never going to happen.”

  Jennifer Simms was lucky, or unlucky depending on your point of view. She had been interrogated by officials of UNEF Command and the US military, first at Wright-Pat then at Fort Hood. Army leadership made it clear they were not happy with the results of the Flying Dutchman’s last extended mission. Hans Chotek had been placed in charge because UNEF wanted less risk, not more, did Chotek and Bishop and Chang not understand that very simple fact? Simms had patiently replied that there had not been time to return to Earth for consultations, that the command team had used their best judgment under the situation, and could the second-guessing officials on Earth suggest what the Merry Band of Pirates should or even could have done differently? The stuttering non-answers had made her smile inside, while on the outside she retained the serious or neutral expression that she hoped would get her through the endless and repetitive debriefing as quickly as possible.

  She was lucky because the officials did not consider her a security risk. Her role as a logistics officer aboard the Dutchman allowed her to escape the blame assigned to Chotek, Bishop and Chang, though as third in command she had worked many duty shifts in the CIC or command chair on the bridge. The main factor in her favor was the conversation she had with Bishop, when she had told him she did not intend to rejoin the crew if the Dutchman went back out. Her phone had of course been tapped when Bishop had called. Simms apparently washing her hands of future involvement with the Pirates in general, and Bishop in particular, satisfied security concerns that she was not a risk. That is why she had been alone when the Delta team attempted to seize control of the starship. A last-minute ass-covering panic sent an FBI team racing to her home, too late to prevent her from running off into the pre-dawn darkness in an escape she had not planned and still wasn’t certain she wanted. Her plan to settle down into a relatively normal life went out the window, when she had run out the back door at the urging of an untrustworthy beer can.

  If Jennifer Simms had doubts about whether she could be considered lucky, Margaret Adams had no such doubts. Luck was firmly set against her, though luck as monkeys understood the concept had little to do with her unhappy situation.

  While Simms had been allowed to take leave, being monitored merely by a tracer placed on her regular cellphone, Adams was still restricted to base when the Delta team soared into orbit. Like Simms, Adams was not blamed for the reckless actions of the ship’s command crew. Unlike the logistics officer who had also been with Bishop since the beginning, Gunnery Sergeant Adams was not as skilled at hiding her emotions. Her open disdain for the second-guessing desk jockeys on Earth had worked against her, but the reason she was restricted to base was the unanimous assessment by a team of Marine Corps psychologists, that her loyalty to Joseph Bishop was stronger than her sense of duty. In the assessment report, it was hinted that her relationship with Bishop might become inappropriate, if it was not already.

  The official reason Adams was restricted to base was because her knowledge of secrets made her a target for foreign agents, and because the Marine Corps needed her to transfer her practical knowledge of tactics to Marine Raider teams. Why, she had asked herself, was she a security risk, but the Raiders were given freedom of movement, after she told them everything she knew about space infantry tactics? The official reasons were bullshit, she knew it, the Marine Corps knew it, and all she could do was play along. Her best shot at another assignment aboard the Flying Dutchman was to cooperate and throw herself into the work to the best of her ability. The Raider teams who were subjected to her tender training methods could have wished she demonstrated a bit less enthusiasm and determination for whipping them into shape.

  When Skippy realized the dropship approaching the Dutchman was carrying a mech-suited Delta team, rather than the supplies on the manifest, Margaret was already up and getting dressed when the beer can called. At the same time, there was a knock on the door to her quarters. “Gunny?” A muffled voice called through the door.

  “I’ll be right there,” Margaret answered in a loud, clear voice, reaching for the zPhone that Skippy had somehow smuggled to her, when she froze. On the phone’s display was a text from Skippy. Trouble up here. Hide the phone, they might search you.

  Her intention had been to bring the high-tech alien phone with her like she did every day, both so she would have communication with Skippy and Bishop, and so people snooping around her quarters would not find it. She had seen the unmistakable signs that someone had searched her quarters every day while she was away, and no way would she risk losing the precious zPhone. With the phone no larger or thicker than a credit card, she had been carrying it inside her panties, clipped to the waistband. The tiny earpiece was carried in her ear, for only a determined search could find the thing. The original Kristang earpiece for the phone was a soft plastic thing that molded itself to the inner ear, sometimes users had to jam it in uncomfortably because human ear canals were smaller than those of the Kristang the units had been designed for.

  Skippy had long since replaced the crude earpieces with a modified Thuranin design that was much smaller, more comfortable, more effective and had only the drawback of being really, really creepy. The units cranked out by the Dutchman’s fabricators were no larger than a sesame seed when folded up for storage, and when folded up they were not creepy at all. The creepy part was how the earpieces got in place and held themselves there. To use an earpiece, a user clicked on an icon, then tapped the top right side of their zPhone, where Skippy’s modifications had carved out a niche to hold five earpieces. Dropping into the user’s hand, the dark blue sesame seed adhered with almost-invisible tiny legs until that hand was cupped over the user’s ear. That was when the creepy part started. The seed grew long, spider-like legs and crawled down into the inner ear, holding itself in place with gecko-like hairs on the end of the legs. Skippy swore that no way could humans feel the tiny earpieces moving into place, but he was so wrong about that. Worse than the sensation of the device moving in or out was the thing repositioning itself throughout the day, and the few users who tried to wear the units overnight had been unable to sleep.

  The new, advanced earpieces were still a problem for Adams. She felt fairly certain the Marine Corps would not look inside her underwear, but doctors and security personnel had been trained to recognize an earpiece, so she couldn’t take the zPhone with her. Thinking fast and smiling to herself that Joe Bishop would have approved, she smeared toothpaste on the zPhone, ducked down, and stuck it under the bathroom sink behind the faucet plumbing. Whoever was at the door knocked again, the second time more insistently. Striding quickly across the floor, she flung the doo
r open to see a Staff Sergeant and a private waiting for her. “Thank you for the escort, but I know where the chow hall is.”

  Neither of the stone-faced Marines cracked a smile. “Gunnery Sergeant, you need to come with us.” The Staff Sergeant glanced over her shoulder to see the spotless, flawlessly ship-shape room.

  Adams nodded, wishing Skippy had time to tell her what was going on.

  “Colonel Bishop?” Simms called from the CIC. “Gunny Adams is calling,” she reported as she pointed to the communications console.

  “Is she on a zPhone?” I asked, knowing she would have called me directly if she had her trusty Skippytel device with her.

  “No,” Simms shook her head. “This is an official call. Should I tell her you are busy?”

  “I’m never too busy for a friend in need,” I declared, getting an appreciative smile from Simms. “Whatever Adams has to say, I’m sure she has to say it, whether she likes it or not.”

  “Take the call in your office?” Simms suggested.

  It was my turn to shake my head. “No, nothing she says will be private, there’s no point being discrete up here.” Gesturing toward my ear, I directed Simms to transfer the call to my zPhone, which took Simms a moment to do, because she was running the CIC pretty much by herself. “Gunnery Sergeant,” I addressed Adams correctly, “good morning to you.”

  It was an awkward conversation. She must have been reading from a script, or she had been coached what to say. Several times, the audio from her end cut out, and finally I had to cut in to explain. “Adams, and whoever else is listening down there, you have to understand one thing. Up here, all our comms go through the Skippytel network, and if you say something he thinks I shouldn’t hear, or don’t want to hear, he will edit that out of the audio. Got it? As far as I know, I am still in command of this ship, and the orders I received from UNEF Command instructed me to take the Dutchman on an urgent mission to intercept the Maxolhx ships without delay. Those orders used the proper authentication codes.” That last part was true, Skippy had faked up legit-looking orders that I knew were bullshit, but I appreciated him trying to cover my ass.