Crossfire Station, page 11
Taking the tablet, she swept to the inbox, and said, “Odd. Usually you’d find some sort of trace, something in the system to identify the sender. This looks more like a direct data transfer.” She looked up at him, then said, “That doesn’t look good, Lieutenant. Someone might have hacked your tablet.”
“Through last-model Space Corps security? That’s pretty impressive, Maggie. If the raiders have access to that sort of technology…” He paused, then said, “If that’s true, why advertise it with a garbage message?”
“Maybe it’s some sort of code, some sort of bug built into the intrusion software they’re using. That happens sometimes, can be quite embarrassing when you’ve spent months trying to crack into the school computer network only to get caught by a two-digit bug.” She glanced at Quinn with a faint smile, then said, “Not that I would know anything about that, of course.”
“Certainly not,” he replied. As he looked at the screen, another chime sounded, indicating another message entering the queue. Two numbers, once again. Nine and Thirty-Nine. He frowned, taking back the tablet, then looked at the time index of the message. A quick mental calculation did the rest.
“It’s a countdown,” he said. “Something’s going to happen in a little over nine minutes.” Snatching his communicator out of his pocket, he said, “Quinn to Traffic Control. Urgent.”
“Elliott here, sir. Go ahead.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Quinn asked. “Anything on the sensors?”
“Not a thing, Lieutenant, and I just completed a systems upgrade and full diagnostic. If there was anything out there within a million miles of this station, I’d know about it, and as of now, we don’t have any ships in the sky either. Everyone’s home.”
“Maybe we should get to the fighters, just to be on the safe side,” Cortez suggested. “They might have some new loopholes in our systems. If they’ve managed to hack into your tablet, they could hack into the master database, and that would give them access to everything!”
“I heard that,” Elliott said. “That doesn’t apply to Traffic Control.”
“Are you sure, Flight?” Quinn asked.
“Positive, sir. Kozlov and I have been working for the last six hours to isolate the systems from the rest of the station, before we implemented the upgrade. There’s no way that these sensor readings can be influenced by any external factors, not now.”
“You just got another message,” Cortez warned. “Eight and Ten. That’s right on the timeline.” She looked up at him, then said, “Someone is trying to tell us something, trying to warn us of something.”
“Flight Officer, put the station on alert,” Quinn ordered. “Lock down all blast doors, just in case. If there is some sort of attack imminent, we need to be ready for it. Cortez, go up to Traffic Control and see if you can help out up there. Double-check the systems, make sure Elliott is right.”
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you getting to your fighter?”
He frowned, shook his head, then said, “There’s something else going on here. Someone’s trying to tell us something. If it was an attack, one that was using some sort of back door through station security, they could have used that same back door to flash an alert up in Traffic Control. And if that was the case, they haven’t given us anything to work with. No directional plot, no indication of enemy strength, nothing. I can’t imagine the raiders would try an attack on this station without using everything they have.” He paused, then added, “Though frankly, I can’t really imagine them doing it at all.”
“Six and Fifty-Nine,” Cortez said. “Boss, we don’t have time…”
Quinn’s eyes widened, and he turned to his office, stepping inside and looking around, Cortez loitering at the threshold as he rapidly scanned the room with his eyes, looking for anything out of place. He hadn’t spent much time there since he’d arrived on the station, but that worked to his advantage. No personal touches, just the standard equipment.
“You think there’s a bomb in here?” Cortez asked.
“I think there just might be,” he replied. “Some terrorist group always give warnings before attacks, so they can claim that they’ve done all they can to minimize the risk of collateral damage and civilian casualties.”
Looking at her watch, she replied, “If that’s right, this room is going to explode in five and a half minutes. We’ve got time to get clear, make sure all the adjacent rooms have been evacuated and…”
“That only needs one of us,” Quinn said. “And that’s you. Just get well clear in plenty of time. Consider that an order.” He looked around the room, then said, “There’s got to be some sign. There hasn’t been time to built it into the bulkhead, and that would risk breaching the hull.”
“Max, come on, I can’t leave you behind in here…”
“I’ll give myself sixty seconds to get clear if needed. On your way.” He turned back to the room, looking once more for any sign that anything was out of place, any equipment in the wrong position. Everything seemed to be as it should be. He made his way to the light fitting to turn up the illumination, then looked on the far side of the wall.
There were two light fittings. One by the viewport. One that was not quite the same shade as the rest of the paintwork in the room, slightly fresher.
He quickly reached for the toolkit at his belt, pulling out a wedge to force it gently from the wall, revealing a pair of wires inside, reaching into a standard industrial detonator, a shaped charge forced into the light fitting itself. Someone had done a good job on the installation. The switch would have worked, had he tried it.
Ten years ago, he’d taken a course in demolitions at the Academy. For obvious reasons, it had been one of the most popular electives. He struggled to recall what he had learned, looking over the detonator, easing the charge loose from the wall, taking it in his hands.
Industrial detonators were deliberately designed simple, to be used by workers without needing extensive training and preparation. That meant that there were easy to tamper with, and he could see a slim piece of plastic where the safety override had been filed off. One look at the tangle of wires was enough for him to dismiss the idea of breaking out his cutters and trying to work out which one would render the charge safe.
He had a little under four minutes left, and only one idea to try. He turned back to the corridor, running out into the passage, sprinting around the Concourse to reach the nearest maintenance airlock, trying to recall the layout of the station. Anything would do, any egress point. He saw a gaggle of people ahead, Cortez trying to get some of the night shift to safety.
“Where’s the damn airlock?” he yelled. “I’ve got the bomb!”
As the crowd broke in panic, one solitary engineer yelled, “Take the next side passage, right at the end, hundred meters or so, but there isn’t a spacesuit in the locker. Nearest suit is…”
“Thanks!” Quinn yelled, following the instructions, praying that the engineer was correct. He almost slipped on a pool of grease, running out of a broken waste pipe from one of the restaurants, then looked up to see the familiar neon sign alerting him he was entering a restricted area, a double hatch at the end of the corridor, control panel by the side. He half-ran, half-slid into place, entering his access code, praying he still had system access.
The hatch slowly slid open, as though reluctant to follow his orders, and Quinn stepped inside, placing the bomb carefully on the floor next to the outer hatch. He turned to the control panel, turning up the pressure as high as he could, stabbing buttons to override the safety systems, stepping out into the corridor just as his ears started to pop.
He managed to slam the hatch shut, then glanced at his watch. Less than two minutes. It should be enough. It had to be enough. He entered in a code sequence, once more trying to bypass the myriad safety interlocks, trying to force the system to do something it was designed to avoid at all costs.
Finally, with seconds the spare, he removed the final interdiction, and the outer door snapped open without venting the atmosphere inside, a loud report echoing through the station as the doors ruptured, the force of escaping air sending the contents of the airlock racing out into space.
Including, he hoped, the bomb.
He ran back along the corridor, this time slipping on the grease and skidding into a blast door, banging his head on the hull. Rubbing his forehead, he looked at his watch, pulling out his communicator as the final seconds ticked away.
“Kozlov to Quinn,” the controller said, uncharacteristically excited. “We just had an explosion outside the station, about a quarter-mile distant.”
“Good,” Quinn said, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Get a work crew out on the hull, make sure there’s no sign of shrapnel damage. You can secure from alert status now, tell everyone that the danger has passed. And send someone down here with some aspirin. I’ve got one hell of a headache.”
Chapter 15
“…as possible, Preacher. I know it’s going to be tough digging through the Archives, but if you can’t get me any ships, the least you can get me is information. I’ve attached all of the relevant footage, but those two names are the key. Foster and McBride. USSF, or some associated organization. I think that’s about everything. Quinn out.” He snapped a control, waiting for the light that indicated the message had been dispatched to headquarters, when there was a knock on the door, Wolfe stepping inside.
“I heard about what happened,” she said. “Are you alright?”
“I don’t think I was the target,” he replied. “Not directly, anyway. I think they’re trying to scare me off. Whoever they are.”
Raising an eyebrow, she said, “I have the impression that you aren’t the sort of man who scares easily.”
“Tamura, on the other hand,” Quinn replied, sliding across a tablet. “He’s already suggested I might want to consider moving my headquarters to safe distance. Earth, preferably.”
Shaking her head, she said, “The man’s a maggot.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge him. He’s got a lot on his shoulders, not least of which is the responsibility for every life on the station. Not to mention these negotiations of his. Any idea what he’s talking about?”
She frowned, then said, “Negotiations? What sort?”
“No idea. Never mind, it was a long shot.” He looked up at her, and said, “I’m going to need something else from the prospectors.”
“Your stock’s good with them right now, but I can tell you that they’re not going to give you any information they think might lead to the big strike.”
He nodded, then replied, “Actually, I was hoping to borrow one of their ships for a survey mission. I want to go back to the innermost moon, have a proper look at the place. Our probe swept it thoroughly, but I can’t help but think that something might have been missed. And I’ve had evidence in the last few hours that our network has been well and truly infiltrated, so I was hoping to get a ship that I can trust.”
“You’re welcome to make use of my ship, Lieutenant.”
Raising a hand, he said, “Before you’re so quick to make the offer, this is a one-man mission. I’ll have to fly her, and alone. Though the Space Corps will make good on any damages, naturally.”
With a chuckle, she said, “Just what do you think they’ll say back home when they get the bills you’ve been racking up.”
“I very much hope they’ll send someone out to investigate. Someone I can educate in the facts of life.”
“That’s a meeting I’d like to sit in on. You’re still welcome to borrow my ship, Lieutenant. I’ll go down right away and get started on pre-flight for you, clear out some of my stuff. Your friend Yaki finished fitting the plasma guns a couple of hours ago, but they haven’t been test-fired yet.”
“I can probably manage that while I’m out there. Thanks.”
“Lieutenant, you’re doing everything you can to defend this station in general and my prospectors in particular. This doesn’t seem like much to ask in exchange. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”
“I just might take you up on that,” he said.
She smiled, nodded, then walked out of the office, turning onto the Concourse on her way to the docking array. Quinn rose to his feet, looking down at the tablet again, swiping to scan through the data from the probe, then slid it into his pocket. He paused at his safe for a second, tapping a button to change the combination, altering to a new preset, then followed Wolfe into the corridor, almost walking into Volkov and Cortez outside.
“Going somewhere, boss?” Cortez asked.
“Follow-up investigation on the innermost moon.”
“I looked at the probe data,” Volkov replied. “There’s nothing there.”
Nodding, Cortez said, “And if you’re concerned that someone might have interfered with the transmission, I checked that linkage three times. No sign of trouble, no sign of anything at all. It’s a dead end.”
“It might be a dead end,” Quinn replied, “but for the moment, it’s all we’ve got to work with. Last night was a ploy to push me out, but that’s what the raiders are reduced to now. They’re not going to risk coming out in open battle, not while there’s this much attention drawn to them.”
“Then why the hell are you training fighter pilots?” asked Cortez.
“Simple. I need a strike force. They’ve got a base out there, maybe in the Rings, maybe on one of the moons, and I need to find out where it is if I’m going to have any chance of stopping them. You two are the best equipped to follow up any leads here on the station. We know that there is some sort of connection with that moon, and certainly that base is worthy of investigation. If only to make sure those astronauts are properly laid to rest, tell their families what happened to them.”
“They died eighty years ago…”
“And could easily have living children, grandchildren, even today. They deserve to know what happened to their ancestors.”
“Let me get my things,” Volkov said. “I’ll be…”
“No, Sergeant, you’re staying here. You and the others have a lot of work to do in the simulators. I’ve instructed that Elliott focus on the basics for the moment, the fundamentals. By the time I get back, I expect you all to be flying rings around me.”
Cortez chuckled, and said, “And if they’re really making progress, you might have got as far as flying in straight lines. I guess you want me to work on the network, see who else might have infiltrated? I’ve already ruled out any connection with the storage upgrade.”
“With the state of this station’s security, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if a dozen people had access they shouldn’t. I need to find out who they are, and if any of them had a motive to work with the raiders. Assuming there isn’t something else going on.”
Volkov frowned, then replied, “Who else could there be?”
“I’ve no idea, but we can’t afford to rule out any possibilities.” He gestured at his monitor, and said, “Unlike most of our friends, I’ve actually gone to the trouble of filing a flight plan. Make sure that Kozlov follows me as far as he can. I’ll take a standard signal beacon with me.”
“Shouldn’t you take your fighter?”
“I need something with a sensor package I can trust. Picking a ship essentially at random seems like the best way to do that. And any of the prospectors will have better geologic sensors than my fighter.”
“Why, Lieutenant, you’re not thinking about doing a little prospecting of your own, are you?” asked Cortez. “I thought we established that the sample you retrieved from the surface was nothing more than rock.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something down there. If the raiders are doing any manufacturing, they’ll want any one of a dozen minerals, and they’ll be wanting to minimize the material they need to bring in from out-system. Every freighter is one more chance for us to catch them, especially at this stage in the game.”
“I suppose I see that,” Volkov said. He glanced at Cortez, and added, “I don’t like the idea of you going out there alone, though, and in an unarmed ship at that. I know most of the prospectors have plasma guns, but that sort of armament is barely better than having no armament at all.”
“It still might be useful, Sergeant. Besides, if my guess is right, the raiders will stay well clear.”
“Just what are you basing that on?” asked Cortez. “I’d have thought that one ship, out on its own, would be a tempting target.”
“Precisely,” Volkov said, nodding in understanding. “They’re liable to assume that it’s a trap, that we’ve managed to get fighters out there waiting for them. They’ve got no way of knowing that we’ve got a commanding officer with a death wish out here.”
“I’m glad you approve.” He walked out of his office, the others behind him, and locked the door with a swipe of his thumb. “If all goes well, I should be back in about eight hours, maybe less. You can have Elliott prepare some simulations for this evening.”
“Will you be up to it?”
“You don’t always get to fight when you’ve just got out of bed. Better to get used to going into battle in any condition. Safer.”
Nodding again, Volkov replied, “I’ll get it organized, and I’ll keep the home fires burning for you, skipper.”
“I hope so, Sergeant,” he said. Looking at his watch, he said, “I’d better get going. The sooner I leave, the better.”
“Good luck, Max,” Cortez said, clapping on the shoulder. She looked at Volkov, and the two headed off, making their way forward towards Traffic Control, while Quinn turned in the opposite direction, walking to the nearest elevator, tapping the control to take him down to the docking ring. After what seemed an age, the doors slid open, and he stepped inside, the aged system struggling into life to send him down to the lower levels.
One more piece of evidence of IDC’s refusal to spend any money on the station. Too many fundamental systems belonged in a museum, not on a functional deep-space facility. They worked, after a fashion, but sooner or later there would be a catastrophic failure, and a lot of people would end up dying as a result.
