“Do you think Huang came all the way from Earth for this?” I asked Shannon, as we waited outside the conference room for the third time that day. “He didn’t come all this way just to arrest Barry?”
“No.” Shannon smiled. “He didn’t come out to Scrotum-Crotch just to arrest Barry. That was just a bonus.”
The aide led us in to the conference room for the third time. This time Captain McKay sat with Klyber, and Hurricane Huang was not to be found.
“Sergeant Shannon, this is not your first tour aboard the Kamehameha?” Klyber asked.
“No, sir,” Shannon answered. “I spent four years on this ship.”
“I see.” With Huang gone, Klyber took on an informal tone. He pointed to two chairs and had us sit down. “My first command was on this ship, more than twenty years ago, and she was already looking old. I thought it was a demotion at the time. I later found out that every secretary of the Navy for the last fifty years served on this ship. All but one—and that one wants to mothball the ship and retire the name.”
With his icy gray eyes and his all-consuming intensity, Admiral Klyber could not hide his disapproval. He smiled, but his eyes still looked tired and angry. “Barring the further arrest of key commanding officers, I think we should discuss your mission.” Klyber looked back to where Gaylan McKay sat. “Are you ready, Captain?”
There was an unmistakable familiarity between McKay and Klyber. They did not act like friends, but I heard the patient tone of a mentor in Klyber’s voice. Captain McKay walked toward the wall with the conference monitors. The room darkened, and the image of a dark green planet appeared on one of the screens. “This is Ronan Minor,” McKay began. “It is a stage three planet.”
“Stage three planets” were seeded planets that were nearly ready for habitation. By the time they reached stage three, they had a detoxified atmosphere, stabilized gravity, and oxygen-producing rain forests. After twenty years at stage three, planets were, according to U.A. scientists, usually considered ready for colonization. Smugglers were not as patient. They often used stage three planets as bases for their operations.
“You may have been wondering why we have been favored by a visit from Admiral Huang,” Klyber interrupted. “Here is your answer.”
The planet disappeared from the screen and was replaced by the image of a man with a neatly trimmed, white beard. “Recognize him, Harris?” McKay asked.
“Crowley,” I said.
“General Amos Crowley,” McKay said. “How about these men?”
The picture switched, and we saw a video of three men holding a friendly conversation in what looked like a private living room. One of the men sat on a plush chair—Crowley. The other two, whom I did not recognize, sat on a sofa. The camera closed in on Crowley, then panned the others. When the camera reached the third man, the image froze, showing a slender man with dark skin and dark eyes.
“This is Warren Atkins.”
“You’ve heard of his famous father,” Klyber said. “Considering recent events on Ezer Kri, we were more than curious when Fleet Intelligence intercepted this video feed. Until now, we had no proof of a link between Atkins and Crowley.”
“How do we know this was shot on Ronan Minor, sir?” Shannon asked.
“Good question,” McKay said. He allowed the video to resume at a slowed speed. As the camera faded back to take in all three men, a window appeared along the right edge of the screen. McKay stopped the feed. He approached the screen and pointed to the window. “At present, the Department of Reclamation has thirty-five seeded planet projects in the Scutum-Crux Arm. Of those, only twelve are at stage three.”
“Admiral Huang came all the way out here to oversee a mission with one-in-twelve odds?” Shannon asked.
“Not likely,” McKay agreed. “Intelligence was able to lift a serial number off that climate generator.”
“Not meaning to show the captain any disrespect, but is there any chance that they meant for us to intercept this file and locate the planet?” Shannon asked.
“You’re asking if this is a trap?” McKay asked. “It may be a trap.”
“Admiral Huang and I have discussed that possibility,” Admiral Klyber said. “Sergeant, I should think that you above all people would recognize the importance of capturing Atkins.”
“Find Atkins, and you find the GC Fleet,” Shannon agreed.
“Something like that,” Klyber said, looking not at us but at the picture of Warren Atkins on the monitor. “The Navy has improved its ship designs since launching the Galactic Central Fleet. Atkins beat a frigate with three dreadnoughts, hardly something to crow about. Had he run into a battleship or a carrier, the outcome would have been different.”
I did not want to say anything, but I was not sure that I agreed. The attack on the Chayio had been smart and well executed. Somebody had analyzed our blockade and found a weakness.
“Are we sending a platoon to Ronan Minor, sir?” Shannon asked.
“Huang isn’t taking any chances on this one,” McKay said. “He brought a team of SEALs.”
Shannon’s lips broke into a sardonic grin. He looked from side to side as if hoping to see if the rest of us had caught the hidden punch line of a bad joke.
“Is something funny, Sergeant?” McKay asked.
“I know what our sergeant is thinking,” Klyber said. “You are correct, Sergeant Shannon, but it cannot be helped.
“For now I suggest that you go get some rest. We’ll be in position around Ronan Minor in five hours. Your transport leaves at 0500.”
“Okay, what did I miss?” I asked, as we rode the elevator down.
Shannon smiled that same sardonic smile. “Huang has SEALs. Why do you think he asked Admiral Klyber for a couple of Marines?”
I thought about this for a moment. “I have no idea,” I said, shaking my head.
“He’s covering his ass,” Shannon said. “If we run into an enemy army, he can say we led them into a trap. If Crowley and Atkins get away, he’ll report that we specked the god-damned mission. And that, Corporal Harris, is why they call out the shit-kicking Marines.”
There was something of the poet in Sergeant Shannon. ***
If Crowley and Atkins were down there, they did not have radar. Radar was a luxury fugitives could not afford. The Navy could detect a radar field from thousands of miles away. Having radar would have warned them we were coming, but it would also have confirmed for us that they were there.
Huang’s orders directed us to land a full day’s hike from Atkins’s camp so that no one would see us coming. We would drop in the morning, cut our way through the jungle, and surprise the enemy at dusk. I liked the plan’s simplicity, but I was nervous about working with SEALs.
Having only been on active duty for one year, I had never seen SEALs in action. All I knew about them was that they were not clones, nor were they, unlike the other officers, the errant sons of Earth-based politicians. SEALs were volunteers. Adventurous young men from around the galaxy applied to join. Only the absolute best were admitted into SEAL training school, and less than half of those who entered the school graduated.
The SEALs were already aboard the AT when Sergeant Shannon and I walked up the ramp into the kettle. This was the first time I had ever gone out with a team composed of all natural-born soldiers, and I was curious to get a look at them. Most of them were on the short side—between five-foot-six and five-foot-ten—with taut builds, clean-shaven heads, and alert eyes. As we boarded, they became quiet and watched us warily.
The SEALs traveled light. We had a twenty-mile hike from the drop site to the target zone. If we got bogged down in the jungle, Huang wanted us to stop for the night rather than travel blind. Shannon and I had brought packs. The only supplies the SEALs carried were what they could wear on their belts.