The Silent War gt-11 Page 31

  “Water! Give me water.”

  Quinlan yanked the canteen from his belt and wordlessly handed it to the angry man. Humphries gurgled it down greedily, water spilling down his chin and dripping onto the front of his wrinkled shirt. Even through the breathing mask, Quinlan could smell the man’s foul body odor.

  Humphries put the canteen down from his lips, but still held onto it possessively. Wiping his chin with the back of his free hand, he coughed once, then jabbed a finger at Quinlan.

  “Phone,” he snapped, his voice a little stronger than before. “Give me a phone. I’m going to hang that murdering bastard Fuchs by his balls!”

  ASTEROID VESTA

  Although the military base on Vesta belonged to Humphries Space Systems, its key personnel were mercenaries hired by HSS from several sources. Leeza Chaptal, for example, was a Yamagata Corporation employee. She was now effectively the base commander, since the HSS man nominally in charge of the base was a business executive, by training and education an accountant, by disposition a bean-counter.

  Leeza left him to shuffle paperwork (electronically, of course) and he left her to run the two-hundred-odd men and women who made up the military strength of the base: engineers, technicians, astronauts, soldiers. It was a wise arrangement. The HSS man dealt with numbers, while Leeza handled the real work.

  With the solar storm raging, though, there was very little real work being done. Leeza had called in everyone from the surface. Huddled safely in the caverns and tunnels deep underground, there was little for the military to do other than routine maintenance of equipment and that oldest of all soldierly pursuits: griping.

  In truth, Leeza herself felt uncomfortable burrowed down like a mole in its den. Even though she seldom went to the surface of Vesta, it unnerved her to realize that she could not go up to the surface now, could not get out of these cramped little compartments carved out of the asteroid’s rocky body, could not stand up on the bare pebbled ground—even in a space suit—and see the stars.

  She paced slowly along the consoles in the base command center, looking over the shoulders of the bored technicians sitting at each desk. The storm was weakening, she saw. Radiation levels were beginning to decline. Good, she thought. The sooner this is over, the better. Four HSS vessels were hanging in docking orbits up there, waiting for the radiation to recede enough so they could begin shuttling their crews down to the base. And Dorik Harbin was approaching in his ship, Samarkand.

  Dorik had been distant for weeks now; perhaps it was time to bring him closer. Leeza smiled inwardly at the thought. He doesn’t like the fact that I outrank him, she knew. But a few of the right pills and he’ll forget all about rank. Or maybe I should try something that will make him obedient, submissive. No, she decided. I like his passion, his ferocity. Take that away from him and there’s nothing special left.

  “Unidentified vehicle approaching,” said the tech monitoring the radar.

  Leeza felt her scalp tingle. Anything that the radar could spot through this radiation cloud must be close, very close.

  “Two bogies,” the technician called out as Leeza hurried to his chair.

  They were speeding toward Vesta, and so close that the computer could calculate their size and velocity. Too small to be attack ships, Leeza saw, swiftly digesting the numbers racing across the bottom of the display. Nukes? Nuclear bombs couldn’t do much damage to us while we’re buttoned up down here. For the first time she felt grateful for the solar storm.

  “They’re going to impact,” said the technician.

  “Yes, I can see,” Leeza replied calmly.

  The two approaching missiles fired retrorockets at the last instant and hit the hard, stony ground almost softly. A crash landing, she thought. No explosion. Timed fuzing?

  She walked a few paces to the communications console. “Do you have a camera in the vicinity where those two bogies landed?”

  The comm tech already had the scene on her main display screen. It was grainy and dim, but Leeza saw the crumpled wreckage of two small missiles lying on the bare ground.

  “Is that the best magnification you can get?” she asked, bending over the technician’s shoulder to peer at the screen.

  The technician muttered something about the radiation up there as she pecked at her keyboard.

  The display went blank.

  “Nice work,” Leeza sneered.

  “It shouldn’t have done that,” said the technician, defensively.

  “Radar’s out!” called the radar tech.

  Leeza straightened up and turned in his direction. “Radiation monitors have gone dead.”

  “No response from the surface camera at the crash site,” the comm tech said. “Hey, two more cameras have gone out!”

  Leeza turned slowly in a full circle. Every console was conking out, screens going dark while red failure-mode lights flared.

  “What’s going on up there?” Leeza asked.

  No one answered.

  No less than fourteen Humphries Space Systems employees attended Martin Humphries between his burned-out mansion and the finest suite in the decaying Hotel Luna, four flights above the fire-blackened grotto. Flunkies and lackeys ranging from his personal physician to a perky blonde administrative assistant with a brilliant smile from HSS’s personnel department were already waiting for their CEO as Quinlan and his surprised partner helped Humphries through the temporary airlock and into Selene’s bottommost corridor.

  The head of his security department, the never-smiling Grigor, fell into step alongside Humphries as they started toward the powered stairs.

  “Your assistant, the woman Ferrer…”

  “What about her?” Humphries asked, suddenly worried that Victoria had survived the fire and was ready to tell the world how he had abandoned her.

  “They found her body in the upstairs hallway,” said Grigor morosely. “Dead of smoke inhalation.”

  Humphries felt a surge of relief flow through him. But he growled, “Fuchs. He’s responsible for this. I want Fuchs’s balls on a platter.”

  “Yessir,” said Grigor. “I’ll see to it right away.”

  “And fire that dumb sonofabitch who was in charge of security for my house!”

  “Immediately, sir.” “You’ve got to rest, Mr. Humphries,” the doctor said, placing a placating hand on Humphries’s arm. “You’ve been through an ordeal that would—”

  “Fuchs!” Humphries raged, shaking loose of the doctor. “Find him! Kill the bastard!”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Humphries fumed and ranted all the way up the power stairs and into the sumptuous hotel suite that the woman from the personnel department had reserved for him. A full dinner was waiting on a wheeled table set up in the sitting room. Humphries blurted orders and demands as he stormed into the suite and went straight to the lavatory. Even while he stripped off his sweaty clothes and stepped into the steaming shower he still yelled at the aides—including the blonde— swirling around him.

  “And another thing,” he called from the shower. “Get my insurance adjusters down to the mansion and see to it that they have a complete list of its contents. Goddamned fire ruined everything in there. Everything!”

  Aides scurried and took notes on their handhelds. The doctor wanted to give Humphries an injection of tranquillizers, but he would have none of it.

  “But you’ve got to rest,” the doctor said, backing away from his employer’s raging shouts.

  “I’ll rest when Fuchs’s body is roasting over a slow fire,” Humphries answered hotly while he struggled into a robe being held for him by the head of his public relations department.

  He stormed into the sitting room, glared at the dinner waiting for him, then looked up at the small crowd of aides, assistants and executives.

  “Out! All of you! Get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”

  They hurried toward the door.

  “You!” He pointed at Grigor. “I want Fuchs. Understand me?”

  �
��I understand, sir. It’s as good as done. He can’t get out of Selene. We’ll find him.”

  “It’s his head or yours,” Humphries growled.

  Grigor nodded, looking more morose than usual, and practically bowed as he backed away toward the door.

  The doctor stood uncertainly in the center of the sitting room, a remote sensing unit in his hand. “I should take your blood pressure, Mr. Humphries.”

  “Get OUT!”

  The doctor scampered to the door.

  Humphries plopped himself down on the wide, deep sofa and glowered at the covered plates arranged on the wheeled table. A bottle of wine stood in a chiller, already uncorked.

  He looked up and saw that everybody had left. Everybody except the blonde, who stood at the door watching him.

  “Do you want me to leave, too?” she asked, with a warm smile.

  Humphries laughed. “No.” He patted the sofa cushion beside him. “You come and sit here.”

  She was slim, elfin, wearing a one-piece tunic that ended halfway down her thighs. Humphries saw a tattoo on her left ankle: a twining thorned stem that bore a red rose.

  “The doctor said you should rest,” she said, with an impish smile.

  “He also said I need a tranquillizer.”

  “And a good night’s sleep.”

  “Maybe you can help me with that,” he said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He discovered that her name was Tatiana Oparin, that she worked in his personnel department, that she was ambitious, and that she would be delighted to replace the late Victoria Ferrer as his personal aide. He also discovered that the rose around her ankle was not her only tattoo.

  Grigor Malenkovich noted, in his silent but keen-eyed way, that Tatiana stayed behind in Humphries’s suite. Good, he thought. She is serving her purpose. While she keeps Humphries occupied I can start the search for Fuchs without his hounding me.

  The place to start is the hospital, he told himself. All four of the intruders have been brought there. They are under guard. One of them is undoubtedly Fuchs himself. Or, if not, then he knows where Fuchs is.

  He went directly to the hospital, only to be told by Selene’s security officers that all the people taken from the fire scene were under protective custody.

  “I want to ask them a few questions,” said Grigor.

  The woman in the coral red Selene coveralls smiled patiently at him. “Tomorrow, Mr. Malenkovich. You can be present when we interrogate them.”

  Grigor hesitated a moment, then asked, “Why not now? Why wait?”

  “The medics say they need a night’s rest. One of them was wounded, you know, and all of them have had a pretty rugged time of it.”

  “All the better. Question them while they are tired, worn down.”

  The woman smiled again, but it seemed forced. “Tomorrow, Mr. Malenkovich. Once the medics okay it. We’ll talk to them tomorrow.”

  Grigor thought it over. No sense getting into a quarrel with Selene security, he decided. Besides, Humphries is busy enjoying a good night’s rest—or something of the kind.

  “You can’t take patients out of the hospital without authorization,” said the doctor. He was young, with a boyish thatch of dark brown hair flopping over his forehead. Wanamaker thought he probably made out pretty well with the female hospital staffers.

  He kept his thoughts to himself, though, and put on his sternest, darkest scowl.

  “This is an Astro Corporation security matter,” he insisted, his voice low but iron-hard.

  They were standing at the hospital’s admittance center, little more than a waist-high counter with a computer terminal atop it. The doctor had been summoned by the computer, which normally ran the center without human intervention. Wanamaker had waited until midnight to fetch Fuchs and his people out of the hospital. Minimal staff on duty. He had brought six of the biggest, toughest-looking Astro employees he could find. Two of them actually worked in the security department. The other four consisted of two mechanics, one physical fitness instructor from Astro’s private spa, and a woman cook from the executive dining room.

  The doctor looked uncertainly at the identification chip Wanamaker held out rigidly at arm’s length. He had already run it through the admittance center’s computer terminal and it had verified that Jacob Wanamaker was an executive of Astro Corporation’s security department.

  “I should call Selene’s security department,” the doctor said.

  “Aren’t they guarding the four?” Wanamaker demanded, knowing that they had been called off by one of his own people who had hacked into their computer system.

  “Not on this shift,” said the doctor. “They’ll be back in the morning, at oh-eight-hundred.”

  “All right then,” Wanamaker said. “I’ll deal with them in the morning. Right now, I’ve been instructed to take the four to Astro headquarters.”

  Wanamaker was thinking, If this young pup doesn’t cave in I’ll have to slug him. He didn’t want to do that. He wanted this extraction to be painless.

  The young man’s face was too bland to frown effectively, but he screwed up his features and said, “This hospital is run by the governing board of Selene, not Astro or any other corporation.”

  Wanamaker nodded knowingly. “Very well. You contact your governing board and get their okay.”

  The doctor glanced at the wall clock. “It’s almost one a.m.!”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “They’ll all be asleep.”

  “Then you’ll have to wake them.” Wanamaker hoped fervently that the kid didn’t think of calling Selene’s security department. That could create a problem. Before the doctor could make up his mind, Wanamaker suggested, “Why don’t you call Douglas Stavenger?”

  “Mr. Stavenger?” The doctor’s eyed widened. “He knows about this?”

  “And he’s given his approval,” Wanamaker lied.

  “Well…”

  “Is there any medical reason to keep them hospitalized?” Wanamaker demanded.

  The doctor shook his head. “No, they’re supposed to be released in the morning.”

  “Very well then. Give me the release forms and I’ll sign them.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Wanamaker didn’t wait any further. He walked past the puzzled, uncertain young doctor. His six subordinates marched in step behind him, trying to look fierce, as Wanamaker had instructed them to do.

  ARMSTRONG SPACEPORT

  As the cart trundled to a stop at the end of the tunnel that led back to Selene, Wanamaker noticed that the lower half of Pancho’s right leg was wrapped in a cast. She looked grim, almost angry, as she sat behind the cart’s wheel with her leg sticking out onto the fender.

  Fuchs was standing beside Wanamaker, also far from happy. His three aides were already on their way to the little rocket shuttlecraft that would take them up to the vessel waiting in orbit above the Moon’s rugged, airless surface.

  “Humphries is alive and well,” said Pancho, without getting down from the electric cart. “No thanks to you, Lars.”

  His mouth a downcast slash, Fuchs answered, “Too bad. The world would be better off with him dead.”

  “Maybe so, but all you did was kill a dozen or so of his people. Now he’s got a perfectly good excuse to go after your ass, ol’ buddy.”

  Fuchs started to reply, thought better of it, and said nothing.

  Turning to Wanamaker, Pancho asked, “What’ve you got for him?”

  “The only available armed vessel is a new attack ship, Halsey.

  Pancho nodded brusquely. “Okay, Lars. That’s your new ship. Officially, you’ve hijacked it while it was sitting in lunar orbit waiting for a crew to be assigned to it.”

  “You’re giving it to me?” Fuchs asked, flabbergasted.

  “You’re stealing it. We’ll add it to your long list of crimes.”

  His broad, normally downcast face broke into a bitter smile. “Pancho … I… I don’t know what to say.”<
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  She did not smile back at him. “Just get your butt up to the ship and get the hell out of here as fast as you can. Go back to the Belt and hide out with the rock rats. Humphries is going to come after you with everything he’s got.”

  Fuchs nodded, understanding. “I’m only sorry that I didn’t kill him. He deserves to die.”

  “So do we all, ol’ buddy,” said Pancho. “Now, git! Before a platoon of HSS security goons comes boiling down the tunnel.”

  Fuchs grasped her hand and, bending slightly, kissed it. Pancho’s face turned red.

  “Go on, git. There’s gonna be plenty hell to pay; I’ve got to get busy.” Almost laughing, Fuchs turned and started trotting down the corridor that led to the waiting shuttlecraft, a thickset, sturdy little badger of a man clad in black, his short arms pumping as he ran.

  Wanamaker shook his head. “When Humphries finds out you’ve helped him escape…”

  Pancho grinned at him. “Hell, Jake, he got away from you. You’re the one who sprang him out of the hospital. He got away from you and stole a brand-new Astro spacecraft. I might have to dock your pay or something.”

  Wanamaker broke into a craggy smile. “You are some piece of work, Ms. Lane. Really some piece of work.”

  “Come on,” Pancho said, patting the plastic of the seat beside her. “I’ll give you a ride back to town. We got a lot of work to do.”

  “What do you mean, he’s disappeared?” Humphries demanded.

  Grigor stood before him like a dark wraith, his eyes downcast. With a shrug, he repeated, “Fuchs is gone.”

  They were in the sitting room of Humphries’s suite in the Hotel Luna. Tatiana Oparin had discreetly remained in the bedroom when Grigor had arrived, before Humphries’s breakfast order had come from room service.

  “He can’t be gone!” Humphries shouted, pounding the pillows of the sofa on which he sat. Clad only in a silk hotel robe, his thin, almost hairless legs reminded Grigor of a chicken’s.

  Standing before the sofa, to one side of the coffeetable, Grigor reported, “He was under Selene’s custody last night, in the hospital. This morning, when we went to interrogate him, he and his crew were gone.”