Aggressor (Strike Commander Book 3) Read online

   Simmons' ship was just ahead, one of the few on the field that was intact. He'd bought it under a fake name, with a dummy salvage corporation registered out of Vesta. A slightly amateurish job, and one that Intelligence had seen through quickly, but with a little luck it would have been good enough to keep him safe from Admiral Knight and her minions.

   He stepped up to the airlock, looked around, then slid a hacking key into the locking mechanism, watching for a moment as the intrusion package did its work, forcing open the outer doors. Walking inside, he slid the hatch shut with the manual override, then repeated the process for the inner door, keeping his hand close to the pistol at his belt.

   “Come in,” a tired voice said. “I've been expecting you.”

   The hatch slid open, and Jack stepped inside to see an old man sitting in the pilot's couch, his legs resting on the console. He made no effort to rise to greet him, and he could see no sign of a weapon, or any defensive measures at all.

   “How did you know I was coming?” Jack asked. “I didn't know myself a fortnight ago.”

   “To be honest, I didn't know you would come, but I knew that someone would. I suppose I cannot convince you to leave an old man to enjoy his retirement, can I?”

   “Transuranics,” Jack said.

   With a weary sigh, the man turned, and said, “Who are you?”

   “Lieutenant-Captain Jack Conway, commander of the Covert Carrier Churchill, on a special mission for Triplanetary Intelligence.”

   “Of course you are,” he said. “I'm Simmons, but I suppose you knew that already.”

   “I know that you are one of the Confederation's leading experts on stellar dynamics, and that eighteen months ago you decided to throw away your career and hide out here.” Sitting at the astrogator's station, he added, “Intelligence tracked you. Watched you for months before deciding to let you be.”

   “What's changed? Can't I simply be left in peace?”

   Taking a deep breath, Jack said, “Several hundred people have died for the secret I suspect you have. If I can find you, so can they, and they won't simply knock on your airlock door and come in for a nice talk.” Leaning forward, he continued, “I can offer you at least relative safety, and Triplanetary Intelligence will find somewhere truly safe for you to hide. Maybe even a chance for you to continue your research.”

   “No!” he yelled. “Damn it, I've spent months out here for that very reason.” He closed his eyes, and said, “Did you ever stop to think that there are things that mankind is not meant to know? Secrets that we are as yet not capable of using wisely?”

   “Why do you think I'm here?”

   Shaking his head, Simmons said, “I cannot trust you.”

   Jack's communicator squawked, and under the suspicious gaze of Simmons, he pulled it out of his pocket and replied, “Go ahead.”

   “Five targets converging on your position. Jack, it's a set-up. They're trying to take out both of you. You've got to get out of there.”

   Looking at the controls, Jack asked, “Is this ship operational?”

   “I don't know,” he replied. “The docket said it was when I bought it. I wanted to be able to get clear in a hurry. But I don't know anything about shuttle maintenance.”

   “Get out of my seat,” Jack said, moving into the hastily vacated pilot's couch. He quickly looked over the telltales, a sea of amber and red lights, then glanced at the fuel gauge with a raised eyebrow.

   “Jack, report. You've got less than a minute.”

   “I'll be a long way from here by then. I think I can get this shuttle onto a suborbital trajectory, but we're going to need a pickup at the other end. Track our course and get someone there in a hurry, and for God's sake make sure you beat the bad guys to the punch. My guess is that they've got someone on standby down here on the surface.”

   “Understood,” she replied. “Happy landings.”

   “Yeah,” he grunted, turning to Simmons. “Strap in somewhere. This is going to be rough.”

   The wide-eyed old man scrambled for his seat restraints as Jack ran his hands over the controls, hastily throwing switches and bringing systems on-line. By the book, powering up the shuttle should take an hour, but he didn't have time for a complete checklist, and one look at the status panel suggested that most of the safety checks wouldn't provide reassuring results in any case.

   Reluctantly, one by one, the critical systems came online, streams of data running down the faded heads-up display in a vain attempt to convince him that he was attempting to commit suicide by launching, but with a smile, he activated the launch jets, and with a slowly building roar, the shuttle began to rise. In the viewscreen, shapes emerged from behind cover, and a rattle of gunfire echoed from the hull, the would-be assassins trying desperate tactics to bring him down.

   Two of the status lights switched from amber to red, either from the stress of the takeoff or the efforts of the enemy, and the shuttle lurched from side to side as it struggled to gain altitude. Reaching to the right, he worked the main engine firing sequence, and cursed as it failed to operate, the fuel tank of the lateral thrusters beginning to fade, more warning lights flashing in silent protest while Simmons looked on.

   “Come on, damn it, light,” he muttered, working the controls again. As the shuttle slowly dropped back, the main engine mercifully fired, alarms ringing through the cabin as it pushed to full acceleration. His hands gripped the controls as he struggled to keep the shuttle on course, guiding it into as high an arc as he could, the fuel gauge already running dangerously low.

   “Can you work the sensors?” Jack asked, briefly glancing back at Simmons. “I need to know if anything's following us.”

   “Right,” Simmons said, turning to his station. “No sign of anything on the ground, but I'm picking up some activity in orbit. Looks like a freighter is moving orbital position.”

   “What type?”

   “Hudson-class.”

   “Damn. I was hoping it was Churchill.”

   “Two new contacts on the screen,” Simmons said, shaking his head. “Computer's identifying them as fast atmospheric shuttles. Intercept in three minutes, ten seconds.”

   Frowning, Jack said, “You're good at this.”

   “I've spent forty years working sensor controls. I ought to know my way around a console by now.”

   More red lights danced across the screen, and Jack struggled to maintain altitude, the shuttle fighting him, the engine slowly beginning to fade as the tanks ran dry. He reached down for the maneuvering thrusters, throwing them in to provide an additional burst of speed, but there was barely enough power to keep them stable for a minute.

   “Another transport's on the move. Rhodan-class, this time.”

   “That's Churchill,” Jack said with a smile. “The cavalry's on the way.”

   “Unless I'm reading this wrong, those shuttles will be here first.” He turned to Jack, his face ashen, and said, “Can they be armed?”

   “Probably. It isn't that hard to fit a missile pack to a shuttle. Most of the ones flying around are ex-military anyway, left over from the War.” The shuttle lurched again, this time caught in a crosswind, and he struggled to bring in back onto trajectory. “They'll have a hard time catching us. I'm not even sure where we're going to end up.” He reached down to the engine, looking up at the fuel gauge, and shut down the motor.

   “We'll…”

   “We never had enough to make orbit, and I've got to save something for the landing.” He took a deep breath, then reached down to a communications control. “Shuttle to Churchill. Come in.”

   “Jack, we're on the way. Can you begin evasive action?”

   “If I do, we'll be dead in four minutes. I'm not sure we've got enough for a soft landing now. A crash landing's probably going to be the best I can do. Have Strickland standing by in Sickbay, and you'd better make sure Doyle's on the rescue shuttle.”
r />    “Shuttle One is launching in thirty seconds, and I already thought of that. Concentrate on the landing, and we'll take care of the rest. Churchill out.”

   “Roger,” Jack said, sitting back in his chair. “Now we can relax a little.”

   “Relax?” the disbelieving Simmons replied.

   The shuttle rocked from side to side, caught up in a final stratospheric crosswind as the stars appeared on the screen, the ship slowly cresting out of the atmosphere for a last brief taste of space. Jack turned back to face the scientist, a smile creeping across his face.

   “Unless you've invented a way to run engines without fuel, there isn't much more we can do for the present. Either Churchill will handle those bastards or they won't. The fun will start in,” he glanced up at a monitor, a clock counting down, and continued, “about three minutes. Then we find out if I can bring this ship down.” Another alarm sounded, and he reached out to flick it off.

   Turning back to the sensors, Simmons said, “Intercept in one minute. I can't get a combat range projection out of this thing.”

   With a shrug, Jack replied, “Depends what they're packing.”

   “You seem to be taking this awfully calmly.”

   “I thought you were willing to die to protect your secret, Professor. If I screw this up, you'll get the chance in a little over two minutes.” The shuttle reached maximum altitude, the viewscreen now filled with an image of the thick, viscous atmosphere below.

   “Hey, something new!” Simmons said. “Two targets departing Churchill, moving fast!”

   “Missiles,” Jack replied. “Way to go, Kathy.”

   “She a friend of yours?”

   “Not really. My ex-wife.” A heat indicator winked on, and he leaned forward to the controls, trying to ease the shuttle into re-entry attitude. “Hold on. This is going to be tricky.”

   “Shuttles changing course,” Simmons reported. “Trying to evade.”

   “Smart bastards,” Jack said. “Now let me focus. If we're about to die, let me know with enough notice to let me work up some good last words, but otherwise, just watch and pray.” He looked up at the viewscreen, cursing as a bank of monitors failed, the last of the external monitors fading. All he had left was the camera pickup and some best-guesses from the navigation computer for altitude and speed. Not the best way to fly.

   The hull temperature rose, higher and higher, the shuttle way out of the best re-entry position, steep enough that the ship would likely never fly again even under ideal circumstances. Slowly, the wings began to bite into the atmosphere, giving him a little control, and he reached down to throttle up the engines, as low as he dared, trying to conserve his fuel.

   Up ahead, jagged mountains poked through the clouds, knives that could stab the guts out of the shuttle, and he forced the ship to turn in a huge arc, trying to bring it to a safer haven. For a second, all was darkness as they dove into the cloud layer, and when they emerged he saw a wide plain beneath, huge cracks in the ground with steam rising from them.

   The engines died, the last fuel spent, and all he could do was try to glide into position, reaching down to lower the landing gear. The warning lights flashed on again, the system refusing to provide confirmation that the wheels had locked. He reached over to the lateral jets, ready to fire them at the last second to arrest the descent, just enough fuel for one quick pulse of power. Hopefully it would be enough to save their lives.

   Beneath, the ground rushed towards them, faster and faster, the crackle of communications from Churchill that he tried to blank out, forcing himself to focus totally on the landing, bringing the nose up at the last second to spill speed, firing the descent thrusters to slow them. For a second, the shuttle seemed to stand still, to freeze in the air, before finally smashing down into the ground, angry whines as the hull ruptured in a dozen places, the smell of ozone filling the air as he flew forward, the restraints holding him back.

   He quickly pulled on his respirator, then turned to Simmons, slumped on the deck, his chair torn from the deck in the last seconds of the crash. Reaching down for a pulse with one hand, he pulled on a face-mask with the other, pumping oxygen into his lungs. The scientist's eyes briefly flickered, before he slumped into unconsciousness.

   “Damn,” Jack said, to no one in particular. “Damn.”

  Chapter 2

   “Full speed,” Lieutenant-Captain Kathryn Mallory said, crouched in her command chair like a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. “Lieutenant Finch, I want a firing solution on that ship, and I want it now.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” the Tactical Officer replied. “Should I order our fighters to scramble?”

   “Negative,” she replied. “No point showing our hand until we have to, Lieutenant. Let's see if they've got any more surprises for us first.” She looked up at the sensor display, then glanced down at the console to her right, her eyes scanning the information on the transport. She was registered as the Wildcat, out of Titan, but there was plenty of evidence that she'd changed names several times over the course of her career.

   Turning from the engineering display, Moses Sullivan, Jack's usual wingman, said, “I've gone over the data, Captain, and I can't see any obvious modifications to that ship. From what I can she, we're just looking at an unmodified Hudson-class freighter, running light.” Glancing up at a panel, he said, “We're about tied on acceleration. Catching them could be tough.” He paused, then added, “No reply to our messages, either.”

   “They're running for the hendecaspace point,” the helmsman, Sub-Lieutenant Clayton, reported. “I've matched course, and I think I've got enough of a boost to give us at least one shot, in six minutes minus.”

   “How long before they leave the system?”

   “Six minutes minus, Captain,” Finch said with a wry smile. “I'm working on a firing solution right now, ma'am.” Looking down at his console, he added, “Problematic whether the interceptors could catch them in time either. They're really moving.”

   “Signal from the shuttle, Captain,” Sullivan said. “They've got visual on the crash site now, and they're in voice communication with Jack. Landing in thirty seconds.”

   “Give me the report as soon as you have it,” Mallory replied. She shook her head, looking down at the readouts again. If Wildcat was running without cargo, then this had been planned, right from the beginning. She looked up as the side door opened, a disheveled man stepping out, rubbing his hands on his trousers as he slouched over to the electronic warfare station, dropping down in front of the console.

   “McGuire,” she said, “Hack into Rutherford Traffic Control. I want to find out what Wildcat's been up to while they've been here.”

   “Ma'am,” Finch said, turning from his station. “I'm compelled to note that such an action would be a violation of several Fleet regulations.”

   “Noted, Lieutenant, but I need the information now, not after a week of protest from the local authorities and a warrant I'd have to go back to Mars to get. Mc...”

   “I'm in,” the hacker said, with a toothy grin. “They really need to update their security. I could crash the whole network from here.” Reaching up to a switch, he added, “Full data download now. Figure they might have had some nasty people visiting before, and it wouldn't hurt to do a full traffic analysis.”

   “Fine, but...”

   “Three shuttle departures from Wildcat over the last seven days, since it arrived in-system,” he continued. “Not counting the attack on Jack's shuttle. All down to the surface, all back up within the hour, no record of any cargo being delivered. Listed as shore leave.” Turning to her, he said, “Those birds could carry three passengers, figure they probably had to take down their equipment as well, so I think we've probably accounted for all the bad guys on the surface.”

   “Contact in four minutes, Captain,” Clayton said.

   “We'll have one shot, Lieutenant,” Mallory said, turning to Finch. �
��Make it count.”

   “Signal from the surface,” Sullivan said. “Kirk reports that Jack only has minor injuries, nothing serious, but Professor Simmons is a lot worse. They're requesting permission to return to Churchill immediately, and asked that we have our medical facility standing by.”

   “What about Rutherford?” she asked.

   “Their hospital closed down last year for lack of funds. They've got a couple of clinics, but nothing that can help the Professor.” Sullivan frowned, and added, “We're not much better off up here, but at least we can guarantee his safety.”

   “Fine, have them launch, but I want them tracked all the way to make sure no one tries to interfere. First sign of trouble, they abort.”

   “Understood,” Sullivan replied. “They'll be in orbit in three minutes, home in ten.”

   Nodding, she turned her attention back to the viewscreen, watching as the trajectories locked into position, Churchill moving to catch her target, slowly gaining speed. Wildcat might be running light, but she was still only an unmodified freighter, whereas Churchill was a converted military ship. That slight advantage in their specifications was working in their favor today, but they'd still need a little luck to bring down their target.

   “Two minutes, Captain,” Finch said. “I'm going for their drive. With a little luck, they won't be able to make the jump.” He turned, then added, “It'll make a mess of them, no matter what.”

   “Watch your aim, Lieutenant,” Mallory warned. “We need to take them alive. Having said that, you many consider your weapons free, and fire when ready.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” he said, turning back to his console. She looked around the bridge, a strange compromise between the warship Churchill had been during the war, and the transport she'd been since then. All the equipment was old, antiquated, battered from long use and misuse over the decades, and many of the crewmen manning them were in a similar condition.

   Even after four months, it was still easy to see the difference between the two crews. Those she had brought with her from the destroyed Abydos Base wore impeccable uniforms, precisely according to Fleet specifications, whereas the others wore a mix of old service jackets and civilian clothes, the same as they always had.