A Dark and Dirty War, page 30
“You’re the expert, Doctor.”
He nodded once, then turned his attention on Pushkin again.
“We’ll see you in the best of hands momentarily, Captain. Just hang on a little longer.”
“I will. Can’t disappoint the admiral.” A faint smile briefly lit up his anguished face. “Just wouldn’t do, now, would it?”
The same lift Dunmoore took with Pushkin opened and disgorged one of the base’s medivac skimmers with three people seated around a long cylinder — the stasis pod. It stopped short of where Pushkin lay, and the riders — a woman wearing a surgeon’s badge and two men with medic insignia — jumped off.
“Knife puncture to the upper abdomen,” Iolanthe’s medical officer said, climbing to his feet. “He has internal bleeding and needs surgery, stat.”
She knelt beside Pushkin, examined the wound and took her own sensor readings, then nodded.
“In the stasis pod, he goes. That’ll give us time to prepare.”
She stood and stepped aside so the medics could put Pushkin on a litter.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Dunmoore saw an entire section of military police — six in all — appear around the docking ring’s curvature. They came to a halt within earshot and waited while the medics lifted Pushkin and floated the litter into the stasis pod.
The base surgeon turned to Iolanthe’s medical officer.
“I’ll let you know when he’s in surgery.”
And with that, she joined her medics aboard the little ambulance and headed back toward the lift, leaving nothing more than a bloodstain behind.
The MP noncom, a hulking Marine with a face hewn from granite, stepped forward and saluted.
“Admiral Dunmoore? I’m Sergeant Diop. What happened here?”
**
After giving a statement to the MP company’s lead investigator, a seasoned chief warrant officer who’d gladly taken it in Iolanthe’s flag conference room instead of asking her up to his office, Dunmoore slumped back in her chair, drained of energy. Chief Guthren, who’d hurried back from the base’s chiefs’ and petty officers’ mess, along with everyone else when they heard the news, had been at her side since he arrived.
“You need a shot of Glen Arcturus, Admiral.”
“I need way more than a shot, Chief, but that won’t change a damned thing. Someone tried to kill me yet failed because Gregor sacrificed himself for my sake. Unfortunately, there’s not enough scotch in the universe that’ll help right now, so I might as well not start.”
“He’ll pull through, don’t you worry. Captain Pushkin is a fighter, someone who never gives up. Just like you, if I can say so.” He let out a tired sigh. “That chief warrant officer was truly shaken by the event, even though he did his best to hide it. Did you notice? An assassin on his starbase? The entire MP company will be running twenty-four-seven until they find answers, poor sods.”
“If the attempt was commissioned by who I think, he’ll be gone by morning. He’s likely wearing a different face already and carrying different, albeit legitimate credentials. Or maybe the petty officer in question was the disguise because he never existed, and the real man is now wearing his original face, which was far from Docking Ring One at the time.” Dunmoore forced back a yawn.
“You figure it was either the Confederacy of the Howling Stars or the Special Security Bureau?”
She gave him a wan smile.
“Do you think there’s someone else out there looking to take my head?”
“No.” Guthren pushed himself upright. “Now, let’s see about that shot of Glen Arcturus. Last time I checked, the bottle in your quarters was still three-quarters full.”
“Provided you join me.”
“Aye, I’ll do that with pleasure.”
— Forty-Six —
“That Gregor will make a full recovery is the best news I’ve read in a long time.” Holt gave Kowalski a faint smile of relief after reading Dunmoore’s report in the latter’s office moments after it arrived.
“Yup.” She nodded. “The fact he saved his own life by saving hers is one of those mysteries best left to the Almighty. If he hadn’t rushed the assassin, the dagger would have gone in just a few centimeters higher and punctured his heart. He wouldn’t have survived long enough for medical help. Who do you think commissioned the hit?”
“Hersom, no question about it. That was a professional job. It only failed because the assassin didn’t count on Siobhan’s flag captain to act like a trained bodyguard. We’ll likely never find out. Using a real Pathfinder dagger as the weapon is a nice bit of deflection, though. Plenty of Special Forces operators joined the private sector after the war looking for adventure on a larger salary, and a lot joined the Howlers. The MPs will never find him. He likely came aboard the starbase openly under the guise of an Armed Forces member and left it the same way, then vanished once he was on the ground before the investigation focused on transient personnel. The face picked up by surveillance gear doesn’t exist in the security database. So clearly, he wore a disguise at the time. Like I said, professional, which means SSB. Oh, we’ll look, but I doubt there’s any actionable evidence to find. The locals discovered nothing like usable DNA traces, and even if they had, an SSB assassin would be untraceable.”
Holt shrugged.
“All we can do is thank the deity of our choice that Gregor survived and Siobhan’s unhurt. He might not make the 101st’s next patrol, but that’s a minor thing.”
“Do you figure they’ll try again?”
A grimace.
“Perhaps, but I’m of a mind to warn Hersom the next attempt will cost him personally. If Admiral Doxiadis approves, of course. The attempted assassination of a rear admiral aboard a starbase raises the stakes considerably.”
“And shows the Fleet has holes the SSB exploits at will. Granted, a scheme to take Siobhan out was likely concocted before she docked, but considering it occurred less than twelve hours after her unannounced arrival speaks to both good planning and a degree of penetration we did not suspect.”
“Don’t I know it. My counterintelligence colleague responsible for threats internal to the Fleet will take it as a personal failure, and that means a lot of work ahead ferreting out SSB moles for his people and anyone he can draft.”
“So long as your lot doesn’t embark on a witch hunt that could cause extensive damage. It would play into the SSB’s hands.”
“We’re not the sort, so don’t worry.” Holt stood. “I’ll let you brief the CNO while I do the same with Doxiadis.”
**
“Ah, Admiral.” Blayne Hersom looked up as Admiral Jado Doxiadis, Chief of Naval Intelligence, approached his table on the same patio where he’d met Holt. “No uniform today?”
“You don’t like my fashion sense, Blayne?” Doxiadis took the other chair, but instead of facing the lake, he stared intently at Hersom.
“Your fashion sense is impeccable. I’ve just never seen you in civilian during working hours. What’s the occasion?”
“I’d rather not make a splash out here where anyone can see, and a four-star admiral’s uniform is rather noticeable.”
Hersom, who was facing the lake, glanced at Doxiadis.
“Oh? Now I’m intrigued.”
“Then stop staring out into nothing and look at me, you despicable, jumped-up bureaucratic weasel.”
“What was that?”
Hersom’s eyes widened in shock, but he obeyed Doxiadis and turned his chair ninety degrees.
“Listen to me carefully, Blayne. I will only say this once. Do not, ever again, send an assassin after one of ours. Otherwise, I will ensure the SSB is burned to the ground.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I certainly don’t like your tone, Jado.”
“The attempted hit on Dunmoore that took out her flag captain — who’s doing nicely, by the way, send him flowers, he’ll enjoy the irony — that’s on the SSB and don’t offer me your usual denials. Consider this a formal warning by the Fleet. Should anything happen to Siobhan Dunmoore, you will join her in the Infinite Void. That’s a promise, even if Sara Lauzier does something on her own. Consider yourself her guardian. Keep her under control and stay away from the Fleet. We’ll be cleaning up the Protectorate Zone and leashing your Howlers, and you’ll watch us do it without moving a finger. Otherwise, you might find SSB assets inside the Commonwealth vanish without a trace.”
A mocking smile danced across Hersom’s lips.
“I never knew you could be so hot-blooded, my friend.”
“You tried to murder one of ours. If your assassin had succeeded, we wouldn’t be talking right now because our assassin would also have succeeded.” Doxiadis stood. “And we are better at using violence than your people. Always a pleasure, Blayne.”
**
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Gregor.” Dunmoore beamed down at Pushkin as his eyes fluttered open.
“How—how long?” He asked in a dry, raspy voice.
“Five days. Since you came out of surgery, you’ve been in a medically induced coma to help with the regen therapy. The medicos say you’ll make a full recovery, although a centimeter or two higher, and the outcome might have been different.” She shook her head. “You fool. Whatever possessed you to jump in front of me and save my life?”
“Instinct?”
“Well, whatever it was, thank you. I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
A smile appeared on his drawn features.
“Consider us even, Skipper. You saved my life back when you took command of Stingray. If not for you, I’d be dead by now, or just as good as.”
“Isn’t that a tad dramatic?”
“No.” He licked dry lips with an equally dry tongue. “I’d love a drink of water right now.”
Dunmoore held up a bulb with a straw.
“Would you like me to do the honors or call a professional?”
“If I can’t trust you, who can I trust?”
She gently placed the straw between his lips and tilted the bulb once, twice, three times, then pulled it away.
“Better?”
“Much. So, what happened? I can’t remember anything beyond some asshole was about to puncture my admiral.”
She recounted every moment, then added a cryptic statement to the effect that friends on Earth would make sure the party responsible never tries again.
“Ah. Zeke and Kathryn, right?”
“Yes.”
“Bastards who did this should be nailed against a tree and shot the old-fashioned way, with small steel pellets, repeatedly, until they resemble colanders.”
“I’m sure between them, they came up with something workable, though less bloodthirsty.”
“Does this mean I can’t join you for the next patrol?”
She shook her head.
“We’re extending our stay in port, to everyone’s delight, so we can take aboard a Marine contingent. By the time that’s settled, you’ll be released, if not on full duties, then light ones, which don’t bar working as flag captain.”
“Good. You can’t go back into the Zone without me. After this, I deserve a little vicarious vengeance as we wipe out the tools of those fools on Earth.”
“Get better, Gregor. The sooner you’re back aboard Iolanthe, the happier we’ll be.” She stood. “And before an apologetic nurse tries to tell a rear admiral time’s up, I’d better go. I’ll be back tomorrow, and every day you’re in here. Should I bring the chief next time?”
“Please do. He’s another one who helped save me back then.”
— Forty-Seven —
“Admiral Dunmoore?”
A stocky, muscular Marine Corps major in a black battledress uniform adorned with gold Pathfinder wings had magically appeared in front of her open day cabin door. The silver and gold embroidered insignia on his beret was that of the 22nd Marine Regiment, a unit with a glorious past that could trace its lineage back to the dawn of the 20th century.
In his mid-thirties, square-faced, with short black hair and deep-set, intelligent blue eyes on either side of an aquiline nose, he bore himself with the sort of self-awareness and confidence Dunmoore recognized as common among Special Forces operators. He raised his hand in a stiff salute.
“That would be me.” She climbed to her feet and gave him a formal nod. “And you must be Major Harry Desai, the 221st Pathfinder Squadron’s commanding officer. Welcome aboard, and please enter.”
She came around her desk, hand outstretched, and they shook. Then Dunmoore gestured at the chairs around her day cabin table.
“Why don’t we sit?”
“I came ahead of the squadron with my HQ, sir,” Desai said once both were seated comfortably. “The rest will fly up aboard our drop and gunships once my battle captain sorts things out with Iolanthe’s first officer.”
“Battle captain?”
An amused smile lit up Desai’s rough-hewn features.
“Pathfinder Squadrons are new beasts, and the Corps, God bless it, decided we would take our traditions from old Earth cavalry units, hence the name. In one of the pre-Commonwealth armies, the squadron operations officer was called a battle captain and thus, my second-in-command received the title. We’re a rather unusual construct. I assume you were briefed on our makeup?”
Dunmoore nodded.
“Three saber troops — the nomenclature being another cavalry tradition, I assume — of thirty Marines and four combat cars each; a fire support troop; a field engineer troop; an aviation troop with twelve dropships and four gunships and a composite logistics troop.”
“Got it in one, sir. My complement is two hundred and ten Marines. I understand Iolanthe’s barracks can take more than twice that many, though I expect her hangar deck might be a little crowded.”
“Actually, she has cargo holds on both sides, aft of the hangar, that were initially part of her Q ship camouflage. They were designed so we could load fake containers to distract curious observers. But we never did so. Instead, when I was her skipper during the war, we turned them into training spaces for my embarked soldiers so they could practice boarding party tactics.”
“The Scandians.” Desai nodded. “I looked them up when I was given this assignment. Major Tatiana Salminen — I guess she’s a lieutenant colonel now — wrote an excellent account of her company’s time in Iolanthe.”
“I read it. She and her people were top-notch. In any case, both holds were modified to take your aviation troop, half in each, by adding hangar deck safety and control measures. You should even be able to take the combat cars off the dropships and park them to one side if they’re not needed for a mission.”
Desai’s smile broadened.
“This sounds better and better.”
“I understand your unit was handpicked.”
“Yes, sir. The squadron was formed around the 22nd Marine Regiment’s Pathfinder Company, which was rated the best in the Corps last year, so being designated as the experimental unit for this new concept is a reward.” The pride in Desai’s voice was unmistakable. “And it got me my promotion ahead of time since the Corps decided we would be big enough for a major in command with a sergeant major as top kick. He’s probably huddled with Iolanthe’s coxswain and your command chief petty officer as we speak. Commissioned officer-wise, other than me, I have the battle captain, another captain running the aviation troop, and a senior lieutenant in charge of ‘A’ Troop. Experienced Pathfinder command sergeants, the best of the best, lead the rest of my troops.”
“You’ve been told that if this concept works, the Corps will be raising more Pathfinder Squadrons?”
Another nod.
“Yes, sir. Rest assured, my Marines and I will make it not only work but shine as a way of winkling pirates out of their lairs in the Zone. This will be the most interesting assignment for any Marine unit since the war.”
“Then we’re on the same wavelength, Major. But, just out of curiosity, now that the Fleet stripped your regiment of its Pathfinder Company, what happens?”
“They’ve started reforming it with qualified personnel from elsewhere in the 22nd, and it’ll receive priority on the next few courses at the Pathfinder School in Fort Arnhem. Just between you and me, there are probably a few regiments preparing Pathfinder Squadrons in waiting, ready for when the Corps raises additional ones.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. This battle group has seen more action in the few weeks since it’s been stood up than the rest of the Navy combined.”
“Those of us who volunteer to become Pathfinders don’t do it because we enjoy garrison duty and endless training exercises, sir. We prefer the real thing, and joining your battle group will probably be more real than anything else nowadays.”
An amused smile played on Dunmoore’s lips.
“In that respect, you’re not much different from my Q ship crews.”
“Then we should feel right at home in the 101st, Admiral.”
**
“What do you think?” Dunmoore asked Pushkin as they watched the 221st’s aircraft land one after the other in Iolanthe’s brand new port and starboard hangars on her day cabin display.
“That we might just have the best strike force in the Fleet since the original Task Force Luckner.”
“Better. It’s all Q ships, as the original should have been, with officers and enlisted personnel who live and breathe irregular warfare.”
“We are getting more regular ships in due course, no?”
“Eventually, but for this cruise, it’s irregular and special only.”
“Any thoughts as to our objective, Admiral?”
She gave him a mysterious smile.
“From what Zeke told me in his latest missive, which arrived just before Major Desai, the Colonial Office Intelligence Service, our trusted ally in the Zone even now that the original reason is gone, will continue pointing out targets of opportunity. Their agent on Galadiman thinks a return visit might help stop a new human trafficking pipeline that sprung up after we retrieved Athena on the old principle that lightning never strikes twice in the same spot. So I think we’ll snoop around quietly, listen to what the agent has and see if we can’t give Major Desai a little workout.”
