The Cole Protocol Page 4

  Diego handed him a cigar, letting it hang in the air thanks to the lack of artificial gravity. Delgado looked down. “A Sweet William? I didn’t realize there were any left.”

  “A Council member gave me one of these. Hinted around that he could get me more, said he had a smuggling operation out of Charybdis IX with one of his ships. He says that the UNSC Navy has been getting ready to crack down on slipspace jumps by citizens. They want everything to be militarized.” Diego practically spat the last word. “This Council member has been shipping weapons of some sort he purchased from the Covenant for brother Insurrectionists back in the colonies, but he’s worried that whatever is destroying the navigation data throughout the Rubble may get to him. He wants to give it to the Kig-Yar before something happens. He claims he’s making his last smuggling trip now. Afterwards, he wants to give the Kig-Yar his ship, and the navigation data aboard it. I’m getting this secondhand, but it looks like he’s trying to bribe a majority Council vote for selling the navigation data.”

  “You’re going to let that happen?”

  “I had Juliana hunt for a likely candidate among recent ship activity.” Diego smiled referring to the Rubble’s AI. “She came up with one. The ship’s name was Kestrel. It is the only known ship that could still be in the colonies and able to make it back. It hasn’t returned to dock, as far as we can tell. All our other smuggling ships have been destroyed, or had their data erased. We’re truly cut off from the rest of humanity.”

  “Your Council member could have been lying; he could have just found some boxes of Sweet Williams.”

  “Maybe,” Diego said. “But Juliana thinks the Kestrel is our ship.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Delgado handed the cigar back by bumping it back through the air at Diego.

  “Find out more about the Kestrel, Ignatio. See if they were really working for a Council member. Find out if they’ve snuck back into the Rubble. Because if you can connect them to our Council member, then I can move against him. There are better things to be trading for those weapons. Like . . . medicine instead of damned cigars.” Diego crushed the cigar, and the pieces of tobacco flakes hung in the air between them. “And since I’m giving you this lead, please work hard to keep it quiet.”

  “I can do that.” Delgado brushed the crushed cigar out of the air between them. “What’s his name?”

  Diego sighed. He looked very reluctant to be giving out a name of a fellow Security Council member. Maybe he was having second thoughts. He turned and looked out of the tube. The entire collection of tubes and asteroids housed the remains of Madrigal’s proud colony: its people.

  It was called the Rubble because that’s what it had once been. Detritus, rubble, rocks, and slag left over from the creation of the solar system, trailing the gas giant Hesiod.

  “You’ve done a lot for me, Diego, I appreciate everything,” Delgado said. Diego had taken in both Maria and Delgado when they arrived those years ago, after Madrigal was destroyed. Diego had joined the Insurrectionists years before Madrigal was glassed, and he’d been the only person waiting for them after they’d fled the planet. Delgado owed Diego a lot. But before everything changed, Diego planted bombs in passenger ships, spaceports, and on stations. He’d smuggled and pirated, and everything that implied. Delgado always felt a sense of awkwardness, accepting what his hard-working parents, had they lived, would have called blood money. There was a tension in his friendship with Diego. But then, maybe that wasn’t fair. Since the fall of Madrigal, Diego had thrown himself at the idea of the Rubble. Delgado changed the tone of his words. “So please give me the name. I won’t kill the man. I’ll bring him to justice. We’re not the rabble we used to be, we’ve changed since the Fall of Madrigal.”

  Back then, the Rubble had just been a massive Insurrectionist military base, quartered and scattered throughout the asteroids trailing the gas giant in a trojan orbit.

  But in short time, using spaceships, raw materials, and anything they could lay their hands on that hadn’t been destroyed by the Covenant, they’d built the Rubble that they were now looking out on. It was something to be proud of.

  “I know.” Diego turned back to him. “Doesn’t make it easier. The man you’re looking to link the Kestrel to is Peter Bonifacio.”

  Delgado looked down the length of the tube. Bonifacio did a lot of smuggling back before the Covenant glassed Madrigal. Now he was reduced to occasional sneaks back to the Inner Colonies, though even those trips had become too dangerous as he lost ship after ship to both UNSC and Covenant forces. Delgado had moved stuff from asteroid to asteroid for the man, who always paid late. How he’d managed to get on the ballot to be voted onto the Security Council Delgado had never understood.

  “Consider it done,” Delgado said. Halfway around the clear tube a series of streamlined transit cars sped up, moving passengers inside from one habitat to another on a maglev track.

  “Good. Thank you. And Delgado? You’ll need to be careful.”

  Delgado nodded. The two men shook hands, and then floated to go off their separate ways. Diego with sadness in his eyes. Delgado with fire and vengeance.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  OUTER FRINGES, ECTANUS 45 SYSTEM

  Keyes rode the copilot’s seat as Jeffries expertly guided a Pelican full of orbital-drop shock troopers into the inky depths of space between the Midsummer Night and the tattered-looking civilian cargo hauler Finnegan’s Wake.

  Finnegan’s Wake had been slowly edging its way toward the periphery of the Ectanus 45 outer system ever since it left Chi Rho, getting ready for a jump. Zheng had shadowed the freighter long enough to make sure it wasn’t an in-system trip.

  It wasn’t. The ship, unaware it was being followed, had headed off well clear of this system’s ecliptic plane.

  A surprise shot across the bows from the Midsummer Night convinced them to not try accelerating and to allow Midsummer Night to match speed so they could sling the Pelican over.

  Jeffries came in nice and easy, passing over the hull to the other side of the civilian ship and then slipping the Pelican into the cargo ship’s hold.

  “Check your equipment!” the ODST platoon commander Canfield shouted. “Look sharp.”

  In the Pelican’s hold ODSTs stirred, unclipped their safety belts, and lined up. They’d been bugging Zheng about not getting a chance to board the previous three civilian ships the Midsummer Night had stopped, so the commander had finally agreed to let them get some action in.

  “They’re still running a check on the ship’s registry,” Can-field called out from the back. “But we’re ready to rock, sir.”

  “Sure you don’t want to wait for their full report, First Lieutenant?” Keyes asked.

  Keyes kicked himself for the rookie attitude he’d had just forty-eight hours ago, when he’d thought he had an easy three days ahead of him. True, this was a shakeout, prior to a real-live mission with possible action thanks to the ONI spook and his mysterious sealed orders.

  But that hadn’t stopped one exploding pipe and a radiation leak, and several crew from ending up in the infirmary. Two of the point guns on the starboard hull were out. A number of on/off magnets on the MAC, in essence a railgun, were failing, preventing them from getting the full power of the massive cannon.

  The Finnegan’s Wake didn’t know it, but at the moment, thanks to a partially shut-down reactor that the engineers were working on, they could’ve easily outrun the Midsummer Night.

  “Hell no, sir, I’m all for going in,” Canfield said. He vibrated with energy. Keyes had a feeling Canfield wanted some action, and now. He’d have to keep an eye on him, make sure Canfield didn’t get overly rough with some civilian.

  “Okay, Canfield, let’s get this show on the road, then.” Keyes unclipped from his seat, and Canfield stepped forward, waiting for his cue. Keyes nodded at him. Time to give the civvies something to gape at. Impress upon them the absolute seriousness that the UNSC was taking about the Cole Protocol. An
d that included sending an officer to oversee the boarding.

  Canfield spat chew out on the grated floor of the Pelican and shouted, “Lock and load Helljumpers!”

  Keyes turned to the cockpit. “Drop the ramp, Mr. Jeffries. Hard and quick, as long as it’s clear.”

  “Dropping the ramp, sir.”

  The ODSTs of the 105th or Helljumpers as they were also called, clad in black vacuum-rated armor, mirror-faced helmets and all, streamed out. They scattered through the hold of the freighter and its containers, picking targets. They were quick and quiet, with no chatter, and focused on the whole process.

  Keyes strode down the ramp into a canyon between the containers. He glanced in through the tough, scratched window of one of them. Nothing to see but labeled boxes.

  The captain of the freighter and three of his crew stood with their arms folded at the edge of their bay, watching the ODSTs.

  “Sir, are you the captain of this ship?” Keyes asked.

  The ascetic man nodded a shock of blond hair. “We did nothing wrong. We’ve made the jump to—”

  Keyes held up a hand. “Your ship is leaving UNSC protected space, Captain. You had the choice to make alternate arrangements for this cargo, or request to join a convoy where your navigation would be handled by Navy communications AIs. Either way, we need to wipe your nav data and check the ship out.”

  “This is a violation of our rights as merchants. We need to move our cargo now,” the captain insisted.

  “Sir, there is a war on,” Keyes snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are aliens forcing their way toward the Inner Colonies. Cargo can wait.” ONI was stretching it, targeting civilian ships, but they just couldn’t risk nav data falling into Covenant hands.

  The captain glared at Keyes, boiling with anger. “And here we lose another right.”

  Keyes turned to Canfield, who had sidled over. He looked eager to get his men kicking in doors and checking over cargo. “Do your thing.”

  “Fascists,” the captain spat. Keyes kept an eye on the man. He seemed overly keyed up and angry.

  Canfield’s helmet twisted and Keyes heard the crackle of his radio in his earpiece. “Okay, Helljumpers, move out, Oedant—”

  Keyes didn’t hear the rest of Canfield’s orders. The container they stood next to exploded, throwing Keyes clear and smacking his head against the deck.

  The scene of Helljumpers scrambling for cover faded away as a thick cloud of smoke and unconsciousness rolled over Keyes.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  INSURRECTIONIST FREIGHTER FINNEGAN’S WAKE,

  OUTER FRINGES, ECTANUS 45 SYSTEM

  Four more explosions rocked the inside of the cargo bay. Debris flew through the air and clattered off the walls, then rained down to the floor. A thick haze of smoke filled the air, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Keyes lay on his side, blinking away the blood trickling down his forehead into his eyes.

  He tried to get on his hands and knees to stand, but he couldn’t quite manage it.

  An ODST Helljumper grabbed his arm. “Come on, sir, you just got your bell rung.”

  The man was right. Keyes could hardly focus on the grating of the floor right under the Helljumper’s boots. He leaned against the Helljumper’s body armor, struggling to keep under his own power.

  The thick haze was starting to clear. Keyes let the Helljumper set him down against the side of the container where they’d come in. Keyes could see the high tail of the Pelican around the edge of the container in front of him. The other wounded ODSTs sat by him, armor ripped open or dented from container shrapnel.

  Several of the bodies just lay still, flat out on the floor.

  Keyes swallowed and rubbed his sleeve over his face to get the blood off. He could feel the warm trickle of more coming. “Where’s Canfield?” He wanted to find out what the veteran ODST commander was doing.

  “Canfield’s dead, sir.” The soldier who’d dragged him to safety was checking people for injuries, spraying biofoam into wounds to try and stabilize things. They needed to evacuate quickly before they lost more soldiers.

  “Dead?” Keyes blinked more stinging blood and sweat out of his eyes. “Who’s in charge?”

  Keyes was overwhelmed with the thought that the entire cargo bay had been a trap that he had led good men into.

  “Faison, sir.”

  Keyes felt for his earpiece and realized he’d lost it in the shock-wave. “Someone toss me their helmet ASAP. I need a heads-up and comms.”

  A wounded soldier threw his helmet over, and Keyes slapped it on his head, wincing when it touched. Whatever hit him had glanced off his skull, giving him a head wound and most likely a concussion.

  “Faison, this is Keyes, give me a sit rep.”

  “Shaped charges on the containers, sir. Insurrectionists no doubt. Three of them attacked us when the explosions happened.”

  “Any survivors?” Keyes had hoped that they’d captured them alive, to get some information out of them.

  Faison cleared his throat over the air. “One. He’s with the wounded. Sir, they were shooting at us. We thought it prudent to return fire.”

  “I understand that.” Keyes said. “I was hoping for intel—like how many more surprises might be waiting. You’re securing the ship, checking for others?”

  “Yessir.” Faison sounded a bit annoyed. “Of course, sir. And an emergency beacon has been triggered to bring the Midsummer Night in with reinforcements. We’ll move right on through every inch of this boat, sir.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Keyes muttered.

  “And if you don’t mind, sir, I don’t need someone second guessing my orders and looking over my shoulder. All things considered, sir, you’re Navy, I’m the marine. Let’s stay out of each other’s way.”

  The loud roaring in the cargo bay had grown a bit more noticeable. Keyes looked at the soldier checking the wounded over and ignored Faison’s disdain for a more immediate concern. “Son, where are we losing air from?”

  “Everywhere. The explosives punched holes all over this little tub,” came a response.

  “Wish I were a marine right now,” Keyes said, looking around at the ODSTs. “I’m not in vacuumproof armor.”

  “We’ll think of something,” the Helljumper said, glancing over at the Pelican.

  Keyes tapped his earpiece. “Jeffries, Keyes here. Acknowledge.”

  Silence.

  With a grunt Keyes got to his feet and stumbled over to the container. He leaned against it and slid around the corner.

  He stared at the gaping hole in the side of the Pelican.

  “They pulled him out, sir.” Another Helljumper tapped Keyes on the shoulder. “We pumped him full of foam; he’s in bad shape. But Midsummer Night should jockey in here soon. We’ll have them transferred over.”

  Keyes looked at the line of wounded and dead ODSTs. These were the best of the best. Ask for volunteers to hold a line and kick ass, they were the first with their hands up. Happy to face the long odds, happy to face the enemy in the eye.

  All dead from a routine boarding.

  From a trick.

  Keyes knew there could be more. He turned to the one Finnegan’s Wake crewman still alive. He was lying on the deck with the wounded. A Helljumper sat near him, keeping a pulse.

  Keyes looked around the cargo bay. Think laterally, he told himself. This wasn’t a typical fight; he needed to think a step ahead.

  The Helljumpers were combing the ship for more Innies. They’d need transport off the ship once they’d combed it, since the Pelican they’d come in on was holed. Keyes triggered the Midsummer Night’s ship-to-ship channel and tried to make contact, but got nothing.

  Keyes bit his lip. “Commander Faison, Keyes here. Did you trigger the beacon calling the Midsummer Night in?”

  “Faison here. No, sir.”

  “Then who did?” Keyes felt a cold stab of fear. They could all hear the beacon just by flipping to the emergency channel. A steady
series of digital beeps tapping out a number code that, when translated, told any UNSC listening: men down, need backup and medical assistance with all possible speed.

  “I don’t know, sir.” Faison said, annoyed. “We’re in the middle of sweeping the ship . . .”

  “Commander, I’m pulling rank. I’m ordering you to stop the sweep, get a response from every single marine under your command. I want to know who set the beacon off.”

  “Yessir,” came Faison’s clipped reply in Keyes’s ear. “Don’t suppose you want me to interview any of the dead, sir? Could be somewhat difficult.” The Helljumper’s passive-agressiveness was turning into anger. Faison obviously wanted to kick back. And hard.

  “No, Faison. We’ll do that here.” Keyes turned to the Helljumpers standing around him. He couldn’t see any expressions behind those dark blue faceplates. He had a feeling that there wouldn’t be any smiles. But knowing exactly what was going on in a battle was extremely important. And while they might not respect the man right now, Keyes would make sure that even the ODSTs would damn well respect the rank. “Pull the chips on any soldier’s helmets, check the footage and audio, look to see if anyone triggered a beacon.”

  They all stood silent. Then one marine managed a “Sir . . .”

  “Don’t stand there and stare at me,” Keyes shouted, the crack of a whip in the back of his tone. The words echoed in the cavernous bay. “Just do it!”

  They jumped to, pulling chips out of their fallen comrades’ helmets and checking the footage. Keyes looked at the soldier who’d tossed him his helmet, and the man shook his head. Not him.

  As they worked, Keyes switched frequencies and continually called out to the Midsummer Night. Nothing. They could talk inside the freighter, but it seemed nothing was getting out.

  One by one, the Helljumpers all reported their beacon results: nothing.

  “Faison?” Keyes called out over comms.

  “Nothing here, sir. No one standing did it.”