Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO}

By the time they reached Weekes City, all the Miksland survivors were awake and able to move around independently.

“Admiral,” Staff Sergeant Gossin said. “We could be a help with the next rescue—we’re up to it, at least most of us.”

“Staff Sergeant, I appreciate your willingness, all of you. But we need your testimony; you’ll have recorders on the plane, and Sergeant Major Morrison will help you get it all down. We’re on a very tight schedule; we’ve got to have you all back in Port Major, in uniform, before a board that’s being convened to decide your fate. We can’t risk any of you on the subsequent retrievals.” She could see the resistance in Gossin’s face. “I know you want to help. I know you’ve been mistreated and you want to get back at them. But this mess is going to shake up everything—not just the military, but the government as well.”

“Yes… I see. But I don’t like it.”

“Understood.” Ky turned to Rafe. “I’ll be back in a few.” To Gossin she said, “Let’s get the group together back here. Everyone should hear this.”

The five just rescued and Inyatta from the first group gathered around Ky on the rearmost couch. She gave them a précis of what had been going on. “So, we have a list of names we know are implicated in concealing the existence of the base on Miksland. Some of them are high up in the government, some are high up in the business community. We think, but are not sure, that some of the same people were working with my distant and exiled cousin Osman—who’s now dead—and with Gammis Turek. We know that’s not all of them. But anything I say will be tainted because my family were all killed, and anything the Rector says will be tainted in much the same way.” She was not about to drag in Aunt Grace’s dirty past at this point.

“You people,” she said, “are different. You’re the innocents dropped into a situation you knew nothing about, had no connection to, and then you were abused afterward. Your testimony will have more weight than mine. Your physical condition and the medical records we grabbed—yes, they sent them along, in hardcopy, for which I’m grateful—will prove that your experiences really happened. And that’s going to be in the public record. So we need to get that recorded, with both Sergeant Major Morrison, whose reputation is impeccable, and two lawyers standing by. For the fourteen of you, that’s a lot of hours of recording, and the sooner it’s started, the better.”

Heads nodded. Ky could tell that resistance to being sent away had vanished. “Eat and drink as much as you want while you’re here. The trip from the warehouse to the airport in Weekes City will be only about fifteen to twenty minutes. The flight to Port Major will be about four hours—”

“What about the others? Will they have to wait until that plane comes back? That’s more than eight hours—”

“No. We have other aircraft assigned, and alternative routes by road or train if needed.”

Gossin’s brow furrowed. “This is really that big—as big as getting us off Miksland, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” Ky said. “And we’ve had to do it all with local resources. Couldn’t grab a handy merc company. But then we’re not up against another merc company, just a disloyal faction of Slotter Key’s own military, some criminals, and a huge amount of money.”

“We’re glad you did it,” Gossin said.

“Had to,” Ky said. “And I had a lot of help.”

The truck slowed; they could hear more traffic noises outside. “Coming into Weekes City,” Ky said. “You’ll be changing trucks soon. There’ll be a couple of armed guards with you on the way to the airport.”

Once in the warehouse, Ky stood by the door as the former prisoners—still bald of course, but looking more themselves in uniform—stepped down from the truck. She shook hands with each of them as they left and watched them walk across to the next truck. Then she went into the warehouse office to check on the progress of the whole mission. Three to go.

“That went well,” Rafe said as the truck left the warehouse in Weekes City. “Let’s hope the rest are as easy.”

“Can’t count on that,” Ky said.

“I’m not. Just hoping. Are we on schedule?”

“Close. Rodney says the next transport stopped for an unscheduled half hour so we need to dodge about a bit. We should pick them up on 47; there’s a truck stop we can use.” Ky yawned. “I can’t relax until they’re all safe.”

“You should go back with these on the plane,” Rafe said. “It will give them confidence. Besides, you’re tired; you hardly slept at all last night. We can handle it.”

“I’ll nap after we drop these off,” Ky said. “I need to be here, and Morrison’s on the plane. I’ll go with the last load.”

“If it’s going to unravel, the last load is the most likely to be trouble. By then they’ll know the first load and maybe the second are late, and they won’t be able to raise them.”

“Which is why I should be there with it,” Ky said. “You can go back if you want.”

“Not without you.”

“And I won’t leave the op until it’s over,” Ky said. “So keep track of your rounds.”

“Have you reloaded?”

“Of course.” Ky patted her own pistol, then tapped the military one slung on her shoulder. “Both.”

“Let me take point next time.”

“I can’t. Rafe, you’re used to working alone. I know you’re a crack shot. I know you won’t hesitate. But you’re not used to working in a team, and these people haven’t worked with you.”

“Or you, except those on Miksland.”

“I trained here. Less than sixty days shy of being the honor graduate, Rafe. I move the way they’re used to, when I’m on the ground.”

Stella Vatta, in the Routing Center of Vatta Transport’s Port Major headquarters, watched screens depicting the location of every Vatta Transport vehicle on the continent. Trucks, vans, aircraft, railcars, the little drones that carried light packages from warehouse to destination—a screen for each type, and a huge wall panel that combined them. On her own handcomp, Rodney was transmitting from the Weekes City warehouse, and she could also see where the prisoner transports were, if his algorithm was correct.

“Ansible ping, Sera Vatta.”

She left the center momentarily to step into a secured ansible booth and entered the code. No image, but Ky’s voice. “One down.”

“You’re all right?”

“Fine. Clemmander group cleared and reported aboard final transport.”

Final transport sounded ominous to Stella but she knew what it meant.

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

The connection closed; Stella went back out into the Routing Center. On the aircraft screen, the icon labeled 57E—eastbound flight 57—had left Weekes City and was moving toward Port Major. On the ground transport screen, icons with Vatta codes moved as they would on any weekday. The truck that had just made a delivery to Weekes City was now on the road to Green Valley.

And the truck she knew held three of the prisoners had left the truck stop and was moving east; it would reach the junction with the secondary road only a minute before the truck Ky was in, if the schedules held.

“They’re late,” the voice on the phone said. Commandant Kvannis said nothing. “The first transport. They called in to say they were held up by a herd of cattle in the road—traffic stopped on both sides, local volunteer emergency service trying to get them back into the pasture, but they never called to say the road was cleared. I checked with that shire; the road’s been clear for an hour, so they should have been here.”

“Did you check satellite data?”

“Yes. The truck’s not on the road anywhere. There’s a branch about five kilometers from there; they might’ve taken the road to Weekes City, but surely they’d call.”

Kvannis’s stomach clenched. “What other vehicles were also stopped? Both directions?”

“I don’t know. The satellite showed the blockage all right, but only fifty-five seconds of it.”

“I’ll put our people on it.”

Kvannis stared a moment at his desk, thinking. Missing truck meant missing personnel, meant—worst case—that five more of the personnel from Miksland might contact—might already have contacted—other people. They would be at least partially disabled; they were supposed to be moderately sedated. But if someone picked them up, took them to a hospital—well, he could put someone on that. He called General Mirabeau, the Spaceforce Surgeon General.

“Why would I contact civilian hospitals in Weekes County, Commandant?”

“Personnel in quarantine have gone missing. Some kind person might find them and take them to a hospital and we need them picked up and sent to the proper military facility.”

“Quarantined? For what?”

“It’s—” How could he say this? Mirabeau was one of the previous Commandant’s friends, and definitely not in the know, but he was someone whose rank and title would carry weight with any provincial county hospital. “It’s something the ground forces have tried to keep quiet, General. Highly classified, moderately contagious, caused mental degeneration.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I’ll contact them.”

“Tell them the military will send a secure transport and to keep the patients isolated and sedated.”

“Right.”

That took care of one potential problem. But—what had actually happened? What if the cattle had been a planned roadblock, so that someone could take them? But how? His skullphone pinged again.

“Commandant, I have a result on that satellite analysis you asked for. Do you want to come down or do you want a summary?”

“Summary first.”

“Yes, sir. Seventeen vehicles were held up by approximately sixty cattle owned by Rock House Cattle Company. Someone came along last night, cut the fence, stole some stock that were in a pen waiting for a vet check before going to auction, and the other cattle in that field got out onto the road. The local emergency response service was there, along with ranch workers, but it took at least forty minutes to clear the cattle and get traffic moving again. All the vehicles were known to the emergency response team… a school bus transporting half-day students, ten private vehicles headed one way or the other, owned by residents in the area, a van owned by a large-animal veterinarian, a horse transport from Highfields Stud, a freight delivery truck—known in the area, comes that way daily—a furniture truck from Weekes City with an order of a living room suite and two beds, with mattresses, for a farmhouse recently purchased by a retired banker and his wife. Then a milk truck picking up milk from the three dairy farms. The only one not known to locals was a green truck with a yellow logo, that’s your target truck, right?”

Kvannis didn’t answer that. “Any ambulances?”

“No, sir. No one was injured; the first drivers saw the cattle in the road in time to stop. But the target truck—its driver passed out drunk—it had to be towed off after the traffic cleared. Informant says to Fordham, to the impound lot, because the driver was undoubtedly going to jail. He’d yelled at the crew, demanding to be let through first, and then later he was drinking something and then he passed out.”

That was definitely suspicious. Drugged? But how, and by whom?

“Find out what vehicles were ahead and behind ours in line, and get back to me.”

“Oh, I know what was behind. That was the regular freight delivery truck.”

“Which line?”

“Stevens-Vatta, out of Stevensville, south of here. They’ve been around for decades. Paint their trucks yellow and red, not blue and red, even after they merged with Vatta years ago.”

“I see,” Kvannis said. He had no doubt in his mind that that truck and its crew had done it, whatever “it” proved to be. Worst case, scooped up all five of them—the ranking NCOs. He looked up their names, called up their records, thinking dark thoughts about Vatta as he did. Damn the woman. The Rector, the former admiral, the CEO—one of them, or more likely all three together. And was that where the first missing prisoners had shown up? He’d suspected it, but he’d had no evidence. If so, they had eight… eight witnesses, homegrown believable witnesses. And where were those witnesses now? First, though, he’d see that no more were taken; he had his next in command notify the other transports. He personally notified his most senior associates, those in the ruling council, advising them of the developing problem, and told them not to contact him.

Sergeant Major Morrison raged inside. What they had done to her people, what she had not been able to do when she first saw them, and what was still happening to the rest of them. Safe in Vatta’s regularly scheduled cargo plane—she hoped—the five were now recording what they knew of their imprisonment. The first three, who’d given their information before, were asleep now. Morrison had not imagined, before she saw them first in the so-called rehabilitation center, that Slotter Key’s military could so mistreat its own people. But they had, and that meant that someone in the command chain had planned it, authorized it, carried out those orders.

She trusted General Molosay and his aide and Major Hong. She wished she knew if Colonel Nedari was safe. He felt solid to her, but what about his senior? She was sure of Master Sergeant “Rusty” Rustowsky, her neighbor. He had been her choice to escort the second group of rescued prisoners to Port Major and waited now in the Weekes City warehouse. She hoped to be back in time to meet the third group herself, but that depended on flight times.

“Sergeant Major, would you come to the flight deck please?”

Morrison went forward, nodding to those who looked up at her. She opened the unlocked door. “Yes?”

“We’ve overheard a communication that’s a bit troubling.” The pilot’s voice sounded tense. “Says it’s Slotter Key AirDefense, with orders for something called Baker Flight. Change of orders, intercept a civilian aircraft and force a landing at a particular military airfield. Would you be able to tell if it’s real or some idiot kids playing a game with drones?”

“Maybe.”

“I recorded it—here’s the playback.” He handed her a tab, and she put it in her earbud’s player.

The voice sounded adult, male, and professional. Not like a kid at all. She suspected the pilot had come to the same conclusion. “It’s real, and isn’t that this aircraft’s registration number?”

“Yes. I thought it was real, too. You have any advice?”

“We don’t want to land on any military airfield,” Morrison said. She didn’t know how much the pilot knew about their mission. “I’d better contact my command chain. Do you know how far away that Baker Flight is?”

“No—Tomas, do you have anything on radar yet?”

“No, not—wait. That might be… yeah. Four of ’em.”

Morrison was already calling the Rector’s office. Jumping the command chain was bad, but so was their situation altogether.

“Yes, Sergeant Major?”

“We’re in the air; we’ve intercepted a signal in the clear from someone to some AirDefense interceptors to come and force us to land on a military airfield—I don’t yet know where.”

“Don’t do that,” the Rector said. “Could you tell where they were coming from?”

“Ulan, there they are!” The copilot was pointing. Faster than Morrison expected the interceptors came at them, and the cockpit communications panel came on, the speaker blaring.

“Vatta Transport Flight 57E, begin descent to three thousand meters and follow all further verbal orders. You will land at Molwarp Military Airfield following directives of Molwarp Air Traffic Control.”

The interceptors roared past on either side, aircraft Morrison had seen, but never this close.

Vatta’s pilot pulled his mike up and flicked it on. “Who the snarkling hell are you to give me orders? This is a regularly scheduled cargo flight, on time and on course. You flyboys get your zippy little toys out of my airspace! You’re breaking the aviation laws.”

“You will land—”

“No, I will not land anywhere but at my filed destination, Port Major—what d’you think you’re doing? You must be drunk out of your mind, like that twit who tried something with our flight four years ago. Who’s your commanding officer? You’re going to get a burn that’ll have you standing up for days—”

“This is Baker Flight, AirDefense, from Molwarp Air Base, on orders from Major General Iskin Kvannis, Combined Military Command, Slotter Key Military Headquarters. You are ordered to descend to six thousand meters and change course to follow our lead aircraft immediately. Our orders allow firing on your aircraft if you do not comply.”

The copilot looked at Morrison, brows raised in question.

“Kvannis isn’t a major general, he’s got no authority to order this mission, and there’s no such thing as the Combined Military Command,” Morrison said softly. “General Molosay commands the Joint Services Headquarters. Kvannis is the Academy Commandant.” The copilot nodded.

“Firing on our aircraft!” The Vatta pilot, Morrison noted, was doing a masterful job of acting outraged and unbelieving. “Fire on an unarmed civilian aircraft that is following an approved flight plan? What the hell for? I’m reporting you to Air Traffic Control Central.” He turned his head slightly. “Call it in, Tomas!”

In Morrison’s earbud, the Rector said, “Iskin Kvannis… I did not see that coming. Do what you can, Sergeant Major; I’ll be doing the same. Delay any way you can.”

“Orders. You don’t need to know more.”

“I sure as hell do!” the pilot said. “It’s my job to fly this plane to Port Major and unload cargo, some of it with a penalty for late delivery. If I’m late, I’ll get demerits and enough of those and I get fired.”

A fiery streak shot past the plane and exploded five hundred meters ahead. “That is your warning. Begin descent now.”

“Well?” the pilot said. “Do we become dead heroes or—” He drew in a breath sharply.

“What the—?” the copilot said. Two streaks of light punched through the clouds just as the interceptors came into view again, ahead of them. The planes disintegrated.

“Hold your course,” Morrison said to the pilots.

The plane rocked abruptly. “Turbulence from the—” the pilot began. It rocked again.

“Trailing pair gone,” the copilot said, pointing to one of his screens.

“The admiral did say she had something in reserve,” Morrison said.

“Those have to be military weapons,” the pilot said.

“I would say so, yes,” Morrison said, and went back to the survivors. Evidently Rodney had indeed taken care of it.