Killswitch (3 page)

"We didn't ask for Fleet help, and we don't need it. In fact, I'm having great difficulty getting a straight answer on exactly who did order the Fleet out here. And even more difficulty getting an answer on why there are also elements of the Third Fleet here as well, in the temporary command of Captain Reichardt of the warship Mekong, who are not participating in the activities of the Fifth, nor appear to be answerable to their leader in Admiral Duong. It's obvious to all of us that the Fleet are not united on the question of the relocation. From my perspective in the CDF, such divisions only make the local security environment more precarious, not less. I personally would much prefer that they held their private disagreements well away from Callay, and let us all get on with our jobs."

At Sandy's side, Mahudmita Rafasan gave her a slightly bewildered, worried look. The look she'd given on various occasions before, when the newly appointed CDF Commander had overstepped the official line, and said things that weren't polite. Well, screw it, she thought to herself, it was only one small faction that would be annoyed at her voicing such sentiments, anyhow. They happened to include the President ... so that was a problem. But not rocking the boat was a part of any Presidential job description. There were many others, whom the President was presently resisting, who thought she should throw the book at Admiral Duong and his hardline captains. Federation law was on their side after all, whatever the increasingly isolated, alienated Earth majority thought about it ...

"Commander Kresnov," Congressor Augustino said angrily. "The great and honourable Federation Fleet is far too great an institution to be so easily divided, as you and various media scaremongers have been suggesting! It is only thanks to the heroic sacrifices made by the men and women of the Fleet that the war against the League was won, and all humanity saved from rampant techno-liberalism and political fragmentation and disintegration! I for one do not think that it is either right or fitting for a public figure in a position such as your own to be belittling that achievement, nor the honour and unity of the Fleet today!"

The only problem, Sandy continued her previous line of thought, was that the most outspokenly conservative wing of Callayan politics were all within the President's own Union Party, like Augustino and Selvadurai. They were loud because they could afford to be. Praising the Fleet's heroism was, she recalled Vanessa recently remarking, something of a motherhood statement-you praised it, and everyone nodded and applauded, and opponents could not possibly raise voices in protest because what politician could be against motherhood, and expect to win an election? The Fleet had until very recently been a sacred cow in Callayan politics. And she barely managed to restrain a smile at the memory of what her favourite media personality, Rami Rahim, had remarked just the other night on that subject-no longer a sacred cow, the Fleet was now more of a sacred goat. A mangy one with a limp, fleas and a bad case of flatulence. Any more incidents, and it might not be more than a sacred rat. Or one of those small winged insects that tried to bite beneath your collar at outdoor parties every summer ...

"Congressors," she said, in the calm and unhurried manner she assumed in the presence of people she didn't respect, "since this part of my brief is to keep you all informed as to the ongoing security situation regarding the CDF, I think this could be a good time to overstep my bounds a little and relate to you the most recent news of all from orbit. Apparently the warship Mekong, commanded by Captain Reichardt of the Third Fleet, has been sabotaged."

There was a deathly silence from the benches. Busy politicians simply weren't in the loop for that kind of information ... doubtless this was the first they'd heard. From the audience seats behind the ornately carved partition, there came a shifting and murmuring. Particularly from that part of the seating reserved for media.

"It happened at dock," Sandy continued, "and was only reported to me half an hour ago. I have never been shipcrew, ships to me were just a means of transport when I was a grunt, so I don't claim to be an expert on the matter, but from what I do know, such sabotage had to be carried out by someone with considerable expertise."

"This was targeted sabotage?" asked Congressor Zhou, leaning forward on her bench with an expression of great concern. One of the Union Party right wing, and thus a staunch ally of Neiland's. Sandy nodded. "Targeted to do what?"

"To disable the engines, possibly to force Mekong to conduct an extensive overhaul. It could have taken them out of action for weeks ... although thankfully the problem was detected in the last systems check by Mekong's engineers, preventing serious damage. Given the security of any warship at dock, during times of war or peace, it seems unlikely that the person responsible could have been anyone other than a member of the Fleet ... particularly when you account for the expertise involved.

"My Job in the CDF is to maintain Callay's security. This task will become exceedingly difficult if we have warring Fleet factions docked to our stations in a state of political stand-off, without any clear idea of lines of command. I am particularly concerned about this, considering the present disorganisation in the Grand Council. There appears to be no effective civilian oversight at present to direct the Fleet in its actions. Fleet HQ is running the show entirely on its own, except that Fleet HQ appears to be divided.

"Furthermore, since the Grand Council began downsizing the Fleet following the conclusion of the war three years ago, we've seen clear evidence of a kind of political stacking going on within certain parts of the Fleet structure-particularly within the Fifth Fleet. As ships from other units have been mothballed, their crews are broken up and the most hardline, pro-Earth officers have been moved into the Fifth, filling gaps left by the departure of long-serving officers from other parts of the Federation who finally had a chance to go home. The Fleet has been warned of this development many times in the past, as has the Grand Council, but no action has been taken. And now we have Fifth Fleet marines on leave in Tanusha who seem more interested in picking fights with the local populace than they do with relaxing and having fun, as crews usually do during downtime.

"Ladies and gentlemen ... I'm CDF. I have big guns and professional soldiers at my disposal. I can't deal with civil disturbances. I can't stop them blowing up into bigger political issues that inflame passions on all sides and only make the present state of negotiations far more precarious. These are political issues. Your issues. I can only sit here before you today, and ask that you recognise the increasing threat to Callayan security that these factors, in combination, create today."

Ten minutes later, in response to an invitation, Sandy entered the waiting room to Senator Lautrec's office. A man seated upon one of the stylish leather chairs, to the left of the Senator's doors, caught her immediate attention. The man smiled as he saw her, and rose cordially to his feet, a hand extended in welcome, perfect white teeth flashing within a handsome African face.

"Commander." His tone was deep, cultured, and very self-assured. Sandy stepped across and took the offered hand, eyeing Major Mustafa Ramoja up and down, warily. He looked good in his civvie suit. Although she'd often thought that attractive African men and women would look good in anything. No other race seemed to have that luxury. Not that Ramoja, a GI like herself, belonged to an actual race any more than she was the genuine, pale European she appeared to be. "Nice speech. How long until Krishnaswali chews your ear off for that one?"

"As soon as I step in his door," Sandy replied, still warily. "They let you out of your cage. Why?"

Ramoja only smiled, well used to her casual provocations. "The Vice-Ambassador is inside. Senior Embassy staff are allowed to have GIs as bodyguards now. I appointed myself, naturally."

"Naturally. I'm sure all your friends in the CSA were real thrilled to hear that." Ramoja's smile grew broader, and he nodded across the room. Sandy looked, and saw a man and a woman reading from compslates, trying to look inconspicuous. Groomed and clipped with athletic poise, and uplinked into some seriously encrypted network feeds, Sandy's uplinks informed her, they weren't about to fool anyone.

"I call them Number One, and Number Two," Ramoja said smugly. "They vary, of course. Don't worry, I shan't hurt them. They're very well behaved." The two CSA agents could easily overhear, but remained expressionless.

Ramoja's very existence had been a revelation to her, just two years before. A GI with a higher designation than her own. Until that moment, she had not been aware that there were such GIs in existence ... although that assumption seemed fairly naive, in hindsight. He'd been commissioned by the League's Internal Security Organisation, the ISO, based upon her own, somewhat controversial design, and the success it had attained. Well, before she'd proven a failure by defecting, anyway. Now, he was the ISO's pointman on Callay, running out of the very heavily watched and defended League Embassy in downtown Tanusha. An enclave full of very capable League GIs, right in the heart of Tanusha, made no local officials happy. And in that particular piece of anti-GI xenophobia, Sandy was right there with them.

"Can I ask what business you have with Senator Lautrec?" Ramoja asked now, with a charming smile.

"You can," said Sandy.

"More troubles with weapons procurement?"

"We're having an affair," Sandy said flatly.

"He's one hundred and three."

"Doesn't look a day over seventy-five. The wrinkles grow on you."

"That would be the only thing."

"And what would the Vice-Ambassador's visit be in aid of?" Sandy returned.

Ramoja made a vague gesture. "League Ambassadors are very popular these days. They get around."

"So does herpes."

"An amazingly resistant little virus." Nothing, and no diversionary tactic, would ever leave Ramoja short of something to say. "Today's strains would kill a pretechnology human rather quickly, I understand, so resistant they've become to everything we throw at them."

Sandy made a face. "They have the galaxy's most unstoppable delivery mechanism. STDs have always been the hardest bugs to kill. They spread so easily."

Ramoja's eyes flicked toward the office doors. "On top of centurian senators' desks, one would believe."

"The Afghan carpet, actually." She shrugged. "It's easier on his back."

Ramoja smiled broadly. He'd been smiling quite a lot, lately, within the parameters of his usual clipped formality. As far as Sandy was aware, Tanusha was Ramoja's first truly civilian posting. And it seemed to be working its spell on even him. There came voices from inside the Senator's office, and the door handle turned-an aide emerging first, as the conversation wound up within. Sandy gave the major a bright smile.

"Well, it was entertaining as always," she told him. "Until the next time."

"Cassandra," Ramoja intervened before she could move through the door. She looked at him, expectantly wary. "I have a request to make."

"Yes?"

Ramoja looked slightly pained. Or perhaps bemused, it was often difficult to tell. "As a personal favour to me," he said, "do you think you could please refrain from asking Rhian too many questions regarding Embassy scheduling and activities?"

And Sandy found that it was her turn to smile. "Okay. I'll only ask her about the Embassy's security posture then."

"It was a very gracious act from Ambassador Yao and the authorities back on Ryssa to allow Rhian to live with you." Very, very reasonably. As if the very thought of challenging such a reasonable assertion was unthinkable. "I do understand that the two of you have a very special relationship. I understand that her loyalties have become somewhat ... conflicted. We do not begrudge her that. But please, do not make her situation any more difficult than it already is."

"Rhian's not having a difficult situation," Sandy told him. To her side, several aides had emerged from the Senator's doorway, and were awaiting the Vice-Ambassador. "She's having a ball. I've never seen her so happy and lively. And her social development's been amazing. I'm loving it, I've no intention of making her life difficult."

Ramoja's eyebrows were raised, and he rubbed at his clean-shaven jaw, thoughtfully. "She is becoming a remarkable young woman, I must admit. And we're all very grateful for everything you've done with her, and very pleased that she's been able to experience such personal growth. But she is under direct instruction to report if you ask her certain questions ..."

"She's told me so," Sandy said frankly.

Ramoja nodded. "Then we're understood. It would be a great pity if certain authorities, above my head, began to get nervous, and decided that the present arrangements should cease." Now the ViceAmbassador was emerging. Ramoja flashed her a truly dazzling smile. "It was a pleasure, Commander. Until next time."

And he swept off, to clear a path for his important charge. Sandy waited at the doorway as the Vice-Ambassador and his aides left, the two CSA agents close behind, no doubt transmitting furiously to others in the hallway outside. No damn way Ramoja was only here as a bodyguard, Sandy reflected darkly. It was an excuse to talk to people. To move in the corridors of power. Ramoja, like herself, was no ordi nary GI. Exactly what that meant, for her old friend Rhian Chu, she'd yet to properly decide.

And she walked into the office, and closed the door behind her. The grey-haired Senator Lautrec was standing behind his desk, his walls adorned with books and flags, awaiting her with a broad smile.

"Cassandra! Do come in, do come in. And how are you feeling today?"

Sandy exhaled a long breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "Like I've just gone five rounds with a homicidal laser scalpel."

CHAPTER TWO

E'S getting worse," Vanessa muttered as they strode together beneath the covered walkway from the CSA HQ buildings to the flat rectangular sides of what had once been the SWAT Doghouse, and was now CDF headquarters. Further along loomed the cavernous new hangar bays, opening onto a vast courtyard crowded with military flyers. The space provided was, of course, far too small, but the CDF's new facilities on the periphery of the city were not yet completed, and so they were stuck with hasty renovations and add-on wings, for now.

"We'd be screwed without him," Sandy replied. General Krishnaswali had just finished chewing them out, with particular attention to Sandy's Parliament appearance. He had not, he'd stated, been at all impressed with such advocatory positions. The role of the CDF, he'd insisted, was to serve, not to champion. He'd been particularly unimpressed with Sandy's reminder that her role as CDF second-incommand was in conjunction with her role as a special secu rity advisor to the President herself. She'd also considered pointing out that in her cybernetic-memory stored English dictionary, "advocatory" was not a word. But she hadn't reckoned it was the right time.

"He moves in bureaucratic and political circles that would drive either of us nuts," she continued as they strolled. "He gets our funding, he gets the bureaucratic and legal tangles ironed out, and he organises the broad framework like a dream. I couldn't do it."

A gust of wind scattered leaves across the grassy lawn, tossing the lush trees and garden plants. Thunder boomed and rumbled, echoing off surrounding buildings. A flash of white light lit the gardens, reflecting in windows.

"Even in SWAT he seemed more interested in organising than soldiering," Vanessa complained. Her nostrils stuffed full of cotton wool, her voice sounded somewhat nasal. "I wonder just how sharp the sharp end is ever going to get with him in charge."

Sandy shrugged. "The requirements of the job depend on the environment. A large part of our environment here is political and bureaucratic. If we didn't have someone in charge who knew how to do that, I doubt we could function at all."

Another boom of thunder split the air. The warm wind smelled of approaching rain, above the sweet scent of flower blossoms. The first heavy drops of rain spattered from a thunderous sky onto the transparent shield of ped-cover above the path.

"But then because the second-in-command is almost entirely in charge of strategic and combat considerations," Vanessa countered, "and her XO handles Personnel, it leaves the two of us with the most operational expertise having to answer to a technocrat who resents the fact that our real authority within the CDF is actually greater than his ... only everyone's too polite to say so."

Sandy sighed, gazing out across the lawns as the rain really started to come down in a gathering rush. A frog hopped upon the grass, happily greeting the downpour.

"How the hell did us two idiots end up running an army?" she wondered aloud.

"We volunteered." Arriving at the door, security systems recognised them and slid apart immediately.

"Yeah, that'd be right."

Vanessa took another route through the corridors, headed for her next combat simulation drill in the training wing. Sandy headed straight for the maintenance bays. A brief uplink connection to her office schedules showed that she had the next two hours set aside for further work on the A-9 assault flyers, followed by the usual array of procedural reviews and strategy development sessions. Bureaucracy may have been Krishnaswali's speciality, and personnel management was Vanessa's obvious strength-her own was combat, pure and simple. New weapon systems, new unit organisation and coordination, a whole flock of new recruits, and someone had to put it all together and work out what it all did, in the event that something actually happened that required their services.

She entered the main maintenance hangar into the deafening racket of powerful engines, klaxons and maintenance equipment in a confined space, and took a moment to glance about and marvel at the progress that had been made over the last two years. All this used to be SWAT, attached to the Callayan Security Agency and vastly undermanned and underequipped to cope with the kinds of security threats currently facing Callay. Nine teams of fifteen "agents," it had then been, with some upgraded civilian flyers and armour suits.

Now, her gaze moved over rows of sleek, dangerous shapes about the hangar-assault flyers of several models, sinister in dark matte finish, weapon pods underslung with gun muzzles protruding like the stingers of dangerous insects. The CDF's airwing currently comprised four squadrons-troop-carrying slicks with assault-ship fire-support. Five hundred and twenty sharp-end soldiers-some from the old disbanded SWAT teams, the others recruited from police, public security, general volunteers and the occasional returning Fleet veteran. And they were still expanding, another two squadrons in the works and recruitment working overtime to find those rare candidates with sufficient physical and mental dexterity to handle the job-Vanessa's department. Five thousand people all told, when the office workers, technicians, planners and others were counted. A nine-to-one combatto-support ratio was somewhat greater than she would have liked, but civilian-oriented organisations did things differently than the hardedged military precision she was accustomed to. And besides, it wasn't her money to be worried about. So long as the sharp end was sufficiently sharp, it hardly mattered ... and the CDF, she was increasingly proud to observe, were becoming very sharp indeed.

Captain Reichardt strode along the vast, echoing expanse of dock, eyeing the commotion that filled the upward-curling horizon. The scene was a confused jumble of loading flatbeds and personnel carriers amidst a small sea of people, many armed with placards, some merely with loud voices and bad language. About the berth entrance to the Arnazon, armoured marines formed a protective cordon, weapons at the ready. Full battle dress, Reichardt saw, lips pressed to a thin, hard line as he strode. Duong was losing patience.

"Captain, what's the plan?" First Lieutenant Nadaja strode at his shoulder, in standard "away dress" for on-duty personnel-light armour hidden beneath combat greens, rank and Mekong patches prominent, as was the heavy pistol upon her right hip. About and behind, five marines under Nadaja's command were similarly dressed and armed. Reichardt could smell their tension as the echoing yells of the crowd grew louder. These were men and women who had seen combat against the League. High-powered weapons and armour, they knew how to handle. Unruly civilian mobs engaged in a peacetime protest was something else entirely.

"Neutrality," Reichardt said loudly enough for them all to hear. "Remember, the Third Fleet remains neutral." It didn't sound right, even as the words left his lips. The Third being neutral implied that the Fifth was not. And the implications of a split between two integral parts of the Federation Fleet were frightening, to any true servant of the Federation. "We want confidence, not aggression. Aggression will provoke a hostile response. We are neutral mediators, you shall only strike to defend yourselves, no more."

He could feel the unhappiness radiating from Nadaja as they walked. She'd requested full battle dress, like the Amazon marines. Only it hadn't been the crowds that alarmed her. The situation between Third and Fifth Fleet representatives was becoming intolerable. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In all the military stories Reichardt had devoured as a boy, the various units of armies were invariably united, bonded together in the service of a great and powerful state representing great and powerful ideals. There had been competition between various units, and occasionally rivalry, but never outright hostility.

The Fleet, however, had grown into a strange beast indeed, during three decades of war against the League. Individual ship captains were often separated from their commanders for months on end. Command decisions were usually made in isolation. Captains interpreted orders, and followed personal hunches and biases. Alone and isolated in hostile space, ship loyalties became fierce, and loyalties to one's own captain above all others even fiercer.

Now, to make matters worse, the elements of the Fifth Fleet around Callay were ideologically extreme, due to some creative personnel distribution over the past few years. Internal divisions within the Grand Council and Fleet HQ had effectively rendered both institutions useless. At least during the war, captains had had the comfort of knowing that HQ did actually exist, however distantly removed. Now, with all command infrastructure gridlocked into a hopeless, ineffectual mess, where there should have been a single chain of command, there appeared only a yawning, empty void. No one, least of all a middle-seniority Third Fleet captain, had seen anything like it before-independent, strong-willed Fleet captains set free to deal with situations as they saw fit, while answerable to no immediately obvious higher authority. It wasn't supposed to be this way. This was worse than alarming. This was frightening.

The mob appeared to draw down to eye-level as they approached, no longer suspended on the angle of the station rim's upward slope. Dockworkers mostly-they looked more or less the same on every station Reichardt had ever visited, in worn, often grimy overalls or jumpsuits, and a taste for unruly hairstyles or personal adornments that contrasted sharply with familiar Fleet discipline. Along the station inner wall, less involved crowds had gathered at the fronts of stores, bars and hotels, watching the commotion with a mixture of enthusiasm, concern and worry. Fifty metres away Reichardt discerned a small delegation forming on the near side of the mob. They waited by a low, thick-wheeled dock runner, arms folded, watching the Mekong crew's approach.

"Captain," said a broad, Arabic-looking man in shoulderless overalls, extending his hand. Reichardt took it as he arrived, his marines standing back, surveying the chanting, placard-waving crowd. The Arabic man's grip was powerful, his arms bulging with muscle. A small silver chain dangled from an earring, and curls hung at the back of his side-shaved scalp. His voice, when he spoke, was a deep Callayan-accented bass. "I'm Bhargouti, head machinist on station."

"Are you in charge of this demonstration?" Reichardt asked, voice raised above the echoing shouts.

"No one's really in charge, Captain," replied Bhargouti, with no small measure of defiance. "It's a spontaneous uprising." "And what," were the unspoken words that followed, "are you going to do about it, military man?"

"Okay then," said Reichardt, allowing his natural Texan drawl to reenter his voice, and displace the military formality. "What seems to be the problem?"

"The workers of Nehru Station refuse to service any Fleet vessel at dock until our list of demands are met." Behind Bhargouti, a large section of the crowd was now facing Reichardt's way, cheering loudly as that statement was made.

"We demand an immediate withdrawal of military customs posts and ID checks!" Bhargouti continued, raising his voice for all to hear. Another cheer echoed off the overhead, workers clustering closer for a view of the new confrontation. Lieutenant Nadaja's troops eyed the closing crowds with hard, wary stares. "We demand an immediate cessation of the intimidating presence and behaviour of Fleet marines and spacers on this station!" Another cheer. "And lastly, we demand that the Fleet immediately comply with the lawful commands of their democratic representatives in the Grand Council, and begin an immediate withdrawal of all Fleet vessels from station!"

A third cheer, raucously loud. Bhargouti looked around in satisfaction. Reichardt sized up the situation, gazing about with a level stare. When the noise died down somewhat, he spoke.

"I'm presently the senior captain of the Third Fleet in this system," he told them. "Now personally, I have no problem with your demands. Unfortunately, it ain't all up to me."

"And just who is it up to, Captain?" asked Bhargouti shrewdly above several shouted interjections yelled from nearby, quickly shushed by others. "Isn't your friend the Admiral taking orders any more? Or does he just make them up as he goes?"

"It's a fucking coup!" someone yelled. "That's what it is!" A chorus of supporting yells went up, echoing high and wide off the vast, cold metal walls of the station dock. Reichardt held up his hands, half- concedingly ... and was a little surprised when the crowd quietened.

"I'm not going to get into a political debate here, sir," Reichardt told the burly dockworker. Despite his size, Bhargouti was clearly no muscle-head, his dark eyes gleaming with hard intelligence. "I'm a soldier. I take orders."

"You'd be the only one!" some wit cut in, to laughter and applause. Reichardt accepted it calmly.

"The point here, sir," Reichardt continued in much the same manner as he'd often heard his father discuss the price of cattle with neighbours back on the ranch near Amarillo, "is that you guys aren't exactly playing by the rules here either. Your stationmaster assures me this demonstration isn't authorised, and that you've all been instructed to return to work before this here station comes grinding to a halt. You've got ships backed up out there nose to tail waiting to get in, you've got no time for a protest strike now and you know it."