Setosha - the Beating Heart
Copyright© 2010 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 7
PSK Fleet Headquarters
“It’s Captain Pagadan, Admiral,” Admiral Broestler’s secretary said from the door of the Admiral’s office. “He’s requested a few minutes with you, sir. He says it’s important.”
“Everyone says it’s important,” Admiral Broestler grumbled to himself as he tapped a key on his desk console and checked his Daily Appointments Planner. “I can spare him five minutes.”
“Very good, sir.” The aide stepped out of the doorway. “Captain Pagadan, Admiral Broestler will see you now.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Captain Pagadan marched in, drew himself to attention in front of the Admiral’s desk, and saluted. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”
“Have a seat, Captain,” the Admiral said, nodding at the single chair in front of his desk. “Good work on that last cruise, by the way. And good work with the 2nd Cruiser. You performed a miracle there.”
“Thank you, sir, but most of the success of that cruise was due to Captain Andersen. I had very little to do with it.”
“That’s not the impression I get from Captain Valentine. She had many good words to say about you.”
“Undeserved, sir.”
Admiral Broestler folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. It was refreshing to hear an officer be self-deprecating, but there was only so much of it he would tolerate. “I have a successful mission, Captain, which has been all too rare these days. The Imperial Navy pulled out of an entire sector, something unheard of in years, something which has left the Strategy Board dumbfounded. His Majesty enjoys hearing about successful missions. It makes him think something is going right with this damned war. I have excellent reports on the performance of both you and your crews. This gives me confidence that I can expect more successful missions from 2nd Cruiser, and it also makes me think the junior officer training program is paying the dividends we expected when we set it up.
“In short, I have every reason to be happy with you, Captain, and yet here you are, one of the architects of all this happiness, casting doubt upon the good news. What’s the missing piece here?”
Captain Pagadan swallowed nervously. There was no going back with the answer he had. “In a word, sir, treason.”
The admiral’s stony expression didn’t change. “Go on.”
“I was reading the reports of other actions fought while 2nd Cruiser was busy, sir. Two of those actions caught my attention. The first was Admiral Asherton’s defeat, and the other was Admiral Crown’s victory. There was something similar, I believe, about those two actions. I’ve been researching that since I first heard of the battles.”
“Something in common?” Admiral Broestler leaned back in his chair, knuckling the late afternoon stubble on his chin. “And what might that be?”
“Why were our forces even present in either of those two systems, sir?”
“We had intelligence reports that drew our attention there, Captain. Operational Security precludes me from saying any more than that.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I’ve reviewed all the available reports from both commands. I read the initial planning documents and the data summaries describing those systems. Our initial intelligence reports described nothing of military or strategic value in either of those systems. Those initial reports are a little more than a year old, sir. I used my contacts in Intelligence and interviewed the personnel who made the original surveys. They reported both systems to be dry holes. One of them, the G8 system, was unusual enough to be remembered because it had no planets at all, only an extensive planetoid belt that in a few million years might end up as planets. The other was almost equally barren. Sir, why did we send our ships there?”
“That was the initial Intelligence report?” Admiral Broestler frowned and pulled up a file on his own console. “Captain, I hate to disagree with you, but our Strategic Planning records do not match your description. The system Admiral Asherton hit, New Republic University Catalog 35212, was determined to be a major Imperial supply base. The system Admiral Crown attacked was an important mineral extraction and repair facility. I’ve seen combat imagery of the installations wrecked by the Ladies’ fighters, Captain, and the extraction facilities were there. Captain Young somehow deduced that it was a trap, and Admiral Crown managed to turn the situation into a brilliant victory, though at some cost.”
“Yes, sir. I heard about Captain Young.”
“Yes, these things happen in a war. Regrettable, but they do. Have you any copies of the original Intelligence estimates with you?”
“May I use your console, sir?”
The Admiral nodded and slid back from his desk. Captain Pagadan keyed in an Intelligence ID and password phrase. After a minute, he brought up a report. “Here you are, sir. This is one of the reports I read. Note the date on the report, and note the date on your staff’s briefing report on the same system.”
Admiral Broestler read the original report before pulling up his staff’s file. “I see,” he finally said in an even voice. “What we have here is a report that is completely at odds with other reports used as the basis for our decisions. I gather you have found other discrepancies. You realize what you are implying?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Captain Pagadan said at once. “Someone is tampering with the Strategic Planning documents. Believe me, sir, it makes me sick to think of how long this may have been going on, how far it may have spread, and how many lives and ships it may have cost us.”
Admiral Broestler silently closed his hands into fists. “So what do you think we should do about it, Captain? Launch a full-scale internal investigation? This is awfully slim evidence for such a thing.”
Captain Pagadan shook his head. “No, sir, not at all. The reason I insisted on seeing you personally is that I believe I would be of more use to His Majesty and to the Navy if I discovered who was planting these false reports. We both know a full-scale investigation would cause tremendous chaos in the Fleet. A witch hunt would pull our teeth just when we’re beginning to get some momentum. Of course, that may be what the Imperials are after. The Good God knows we spooks think in odd directions, and that’s something I’d try against the Imperials if I had half a chance.
“No, sir, I would recommend a quiet investigation. Let’s determine who the traitor is without alerting the Imperials. I want to find him, leave him in place, and control the information he passes.”
Admiral Broestler regarded him silently for a moment and then nodded slightly. “You believe you can do this without attracting attention?”
“Sir, commanding a squadron in combat was far beyond my wildest expectations. I know my limits, and I was merely along for the ride. Captain Andersen won those battles, not me. This is different, sir. By training and experience, I am much better at catching spies than running a squadron. Sir, you have other officers who would be far better able to command the 2nd Cruiser. I respectfully suggest, sir, that you don’t have anyone else as able to hunt a traitor in our own ranks, especially in these circumstances.”
“I have too few officers who would have had the native intelligence to keep their mouths shut and let Captain Andersen get on with winning battles,” Admiral Broestler said quietly. “I knew what you claimed were your limitations when I chose you to command the 2nd Cruiser. Don’t undervalue your abilities, Captain, and do try to remember that I must make the most of the resources I have.” He sighed and walked over to his ‘window’. In actuality, it was a vid screen cleverly disguised as a window.
“Why you, Captain? Why not one of the officers in Intelligence?”
“I’m currently assigned to command the 2nd Cruiser, sir, and my experience with Intelligence has always been undocumented. With only a few exceptions, everyone I know regards me as a staff officer who was jumped to a line command due to our present emergency. I am aware of no official records that list my belonging to Intelligence.
“If anyone should dig into my background, or take a look at what I was doing and how I was doing it, that person would conclude that I was just a squadron commander trying to keep tabs on any Imperial dispositions.”
“And that’s your cover story?” Admiral Broestler asked. “It has possibilities. Do you realize that if I agree to this informal investigation, you will have just talked yourself back into command of the 2nd Cruiser?”
“I ... that does make sense, sir,” Captain Pagadan said, trying to see a way out of squadron command. It wasn’t that he was grossly unqualified for the job; he had all of the administrative skills he needed, but he’d known who’d been in tactical command of the squadron. He’d had the sense to keep his mouth shut and let Captain Andersen fight the squadron for him. He’d learned a lot from her, too, both from watching what she did, and afterwards when she’d patiently explained everything that had happened. He’d had Basic Tactics, but her teaching had been like a postgraduate course in tactics.
He wasn’t sure what he’d learned would save him the next time he got into a fight.
“I had thought reassignment to a staff research position would be safest, sir, but you are correct. There’s no better place to hide than right out where everybody can see me.” Captain Pagadan grinned. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention I receive as a squadron commander. The social environment is much more active than it would be for a staff drone.”
Admiral Broestler quietly studied the picture in his ‘window’ for nearly a minute before returning to his desk. He selected a page of Navy stationery and jotted a quick note, signed it, and added a thumbprint. He then jotted another note on a second piece of the same stationery, signed it, and added his thumbprint to that one as well. Beside the thumbprint, he impressed his ring on the second note before handing them both to Captain Pagadan.
“Thank you for your information, Captain Pagadan,” he said, his voice and face expressionless. “I will consider it.”
Captain Pagadan rose to his feet and saluted. The Admiral returned his salute and resumed work. Puzzled, Captain Pagadan left the office. Did he misjudge the Admiral? Did he overplay his request to investigate? Where else could he take this? Kingdom Security? No, that would be stupid. That would kick off the witch hunt he was trying to avoid.
Thoughts racing, he considered a handful of options as he walked down the hall. He barely managed to keep his own face expressionless until he was in the lift leading back to the surface. Once he was alone, he opened his personal organizer, activated a very non-standard peripheral, and carefully examined his immediate surroundings. Assured of privacy, he closed that application and started the active jammer to make sure his privacy remained just that. Only then did he open the first note, curious to see what Admiral Broestler had given him.
“Captain Anthony Pagadan, Commander of the 2nd Cruiser Squadron, will temporarily acquire additional duties under my personal direction and by my personal order.”
Captain Pagadan raised his eyebrows at that. Detached, but not detached, and by the Fleet Admiral’s personal order. The second note, the one with the impression of a ring, was even more interesting.
“You will render all aid and assistance to Captain Anthony Pagadan. Arthur Broestler, King’s Guardian.”
He whistled silently. The impression from the ring was an exact duplicate of the one His Majesty wore for ‘signing’ important documents. If His Majesty had appointed a King’s Guardian—which had not been announced—the situation must be really desperate. This piece of paper was an open-ended commission that came, in effect, from His Majesty. It allowed the bearer to go anywhere, do anything, and be accountable only to the King’s Guardian or to His Majesty. Failure to assist a King’s Guardian ranked somewhere around High Treason in the eyes of the Law. This put a different light on everything. Obviously, the Admiral suspected even more than what Anthony Pagadan had brought to his office today.
He carefully tucked both orders into his uniform jacket’s inner pocket. Feeling much better, he began making a mental list of the things he had to do next. For starters, he had to track those intelligence reports from when they were written until they were put in the hands of Admirals Asherton and Crown. That might give him an idea of who could have changed them. But how could he do that without alerting anyone? He wanted to touch the note Admiral Broestler had given him, but resisted the temptation. That magic talisman could open any door, but the people who saw it would talk. Captain Pagadan’s special status would become generally known, and so would Admiral Broestler’s. No, he would prefer not to have to use the thing, but knowing he had it was reassuring.
He wondered if he should have told Admiral Broestler what he suspected about the simulators the Navy used. He tried to picture what would have happened if he had: the simulators would have been yanked from every bridge and classroom, word would get back through Imperial Intelligence, and some other plan would take its place, one nobody was prepared for. The disruption would be tremendous, and the outcry even more so. A lot of officers would only remove them by a direct order, causing even more complications.
The alternative was to mention his suspicions to Kingdom Security ... Anything they did would be labeled as Security Paranoia, and there would be the outcry and witch hunt. But it might not be seen as an intelligence failure by the Imperials. He made a mental note to send them a report.
He had parked in the middle of the main civilian lot outside the base. There had been other cars surrounding him at that time. Now he could see it sitting all alone in a cleared space, although the rest of the lot was nearly full. He didn’t think anything of that until, just as he reached for the door, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he dove for cover.
Something crashed through his car just above him. He rolled to one side, tasting blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his lip. Another shot rocked his car.
He forced himself to keep moving--move or die. A green light flashed, missing him by centimeters, filling the air with ozone and fumes of burning paint, and leaving purple afterimages in his eyes. Someone, somewhere, began screaming.
He crawled around the end of the car just as a second shot blew a small crater in the vitreous concrete where he had first landed. Something stung his cheek. He heard yelling, the snarl of another weapon, and the flat ‘whack!’ of the laser missing him again.
He opened the passenger door and reached for his issue sidearm. He’d left it in the car because security wouldn’t let him wear it in the presence of Admiral Broestler. Plastiglas exploded into the driving compartment as he fumbled the pistol out of its thumbprint-locked storage compartment. He checked the clip. Rocket darts--not the greatest option right now. The smoke trails from their tiny rocket motors would give his position away. The car shook as something punched into it. He ducked as splinters blasted through the seat next to him. Maybe giving away his position wasn’t really a problem.
The car shook from another hit. His mind clicked into high gear. Laser won’t do that; a laser was only useful against people. Two different weapons meant two shooters. He recalled his dive and roll and the shots that had hit around him. One shot on the end, one on the driver’s side—no way to tell where they’re firing from ... or was there?
He crawled to the end of his car closest to where he thought the fire was coming from. He could hear distant sirens. He heard yelling, much closer, and a woman still screaming. He focused on the next two meters before him, suddenly aware of every fragment of rock in the vitreous concrete.
This was real combat, not that sterile imitation he experienced while sitting on a cruiser’s bridge. This was taking it to them and getting a piece of the bastards.
He was in a bad tactical position. Help had to be on the way, if only because of that woman screaming. But any would-be rescuers might be shot down, too. This broad daylight assault had all the earmarks of an Imperial Direct Action Team. Somebody in the Imperial hierarchy wanted Anthony Pagadan dead and wanted that death to be public.
He drew a deep breath. If he moved, if he left the cover of his car, they could pick him off. If he stayed behind the car, they could damage it enough that it would catch fire, forcing him into the open. If he fired, they’d know exactly where he was. He looked at the pistol and smiled. Actually, all they’d really know was where the pistol was fired last.
He stuck his hand over the car and deliberately fired high, then ducked. The rocket would eventually burn out and fall, harming no one, and the smoke would identify his previous position.
Both shooters fired into the smoke. The projectile weapon punched a hole through the door of a car several meters behind him. The laser left a visible streak in the smoke trail, a guideline that pointed straight back at the shooter. That was what he wanted. Captain Pagadan peered carefully in that direction. Through the thinning smoke, he could see a van sitting at the far end of the parking lot. That was the only place the sniper could be. And what his rocket darts could do to that van...
He fired again to keep them focused on one end of his car while he crawled to the other. Fire from the second shooter punched into his car again, keeping him low.
He caught a hint of movement in the van and ducked as another laser bolt seared the air. He drew himself up to one knee, showing as little of himself as possible, steadied his gun hand, and selected a three-round burst, fired, and moved. Then, prone, he fired again.
The smoke was still good cover, and was happily taking a long time to dissipate. He crawled to the next car, a good five meters away from what was left of his. He kept his head down, waiting for another incoming shot, waiting to see if he had someone else to deal with. Why was it that whenever he wound up in a firefight he always felt as naked as if he’d somehow arrived at work without his pants? He laughed at that absurd thought. It was amazing what went through your mind during a fight.
It was less than 100 meters to the shooters’ vehicle, well within the effective range of his pistol. He could picture what had happened with his rockets. Six hyper-accelerated rocket darts would tear through it, compressing, exploding, blowing fist-sized holes through the van, spraying fragments and metal splinters all through the interior.
Whoever was inside the van would intercept a good many of those splinters. If they were unlucky, they could even catch one of the rockets.
Captain Pagadan searched around the parking lot through the thinning smoke. Both of the shooters had stopped firing, but he still kept down. No sense in getting overconfident. He waited patiently, watching the van, scanning other vehicles, nearby buildings, and shrubbery. There could still be other shooters. A City Constabulary vehicle rolled up and spilled several officers onto the sidewalk. Captain Pagadan tensed, trying to look everywhere at once. There were no more shots.
People began to fill the parking lot. Only when there were several other naval officers milling around did he get up off the vitreous concrete. He took off his uniform jacket and slung it over his arm, concealing the pistol he’d shoved into his waistband. Casually, trying to seem like any other gawker, he approached the van.
There was a Lieutenant of the City Constabulary peering cautiously into the van, two armed guards accompanying him. Two other guards were standing nearby, staring at the holes in the side of the van. One of them saw Captain Pagadan.
“Here, you, get away from there.” Then he noticed the butt of Captain Pagadan’s pistol. “Gun!” he announced tersely, swiftly unslinging his own weapon and pointing it at Captain Pagadan’s belt buckle.
Captain Pagadan stopped, holding his arms out from his sides. “Lieutenant,” he called.
The officer had turned when he’d heard the guard call out. “Yes?” he said, in a suspicious tone. He had his hand on the butt of his own pistol.
Captain Pagadan dropped his uniform jacket. Moving slowly, he drew his pistol with a thumb and one finger and dropped it on the ground. Carefully he moved away from the pistol and jacket, his hands held well away from his side.
“Lieutenant, you will find my ID in my inner jacket pocket. After you look at it, I will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”
The Lieutenant approached the jacket as if expecting a bomb or something worse. He felt around inside, then removed the ID card. He read it and swallowed visibly. “Sir,” he said, saluting and holding out the ID.
Captain Pagadan retrieved everything. “Now, then, let’s look at what we have here.” Taking their cue from their officer, the Constables did their best to ignore him as well, scowling ferociously at the other onlookers.
“Not much, sir,” the Lieutenant said. He gestured at the van. “One shooter with a laser rifle, dead; one shooter with an accelerator rifle, also dead; one driver, probably dead, and one van with several large holes through both sides. What did you use on them? I assume you did this, sir?”
“Navy-issue rocket pistol. Out to 200 meters, it fires a rocket with modest armor-piercing capability. Pure death on plastic and light metal framing like this.”
Captain Pagadan looked into the back of the van, being careful not to touch anything. The shooter with the laser rifle was almost cut in two. The goon with the accelerator rifle was folded over and bleeding out. The driver looked like he’d taken a direct hit. With luck, they might find most of his shoulders and head. Forensics was going to love this one.
This could all too easily have been me, he thought. Two years ago, even a year ago, a sight like this would have left him shaking and ill. But after seeing what happened to a human being mangled in a space battle, he could look on this scene with a certain detachment.
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