Honor Bound

the elevator doorway to wrestle off the helmet.

Ari gave the man a once over, then nodded to Roza. “They’re who they say they are.” He turned back to the two men, pulling off his own helmet

“Captain Shamir, thank God…” Von Paleske sighed. He’d met the young man before, though briefly, during the spin-up of the last few weeks.

“Let’s not be thanking anyone just yet,” Ari muttered. “Who’s she?” He nodded towards the civilian. “And what the hell went down here?”

“I’m Dr. Maggie Cochrane,” the woman stammered. “I work for Mr. Riordan…”

“She was in charge of keeping Antonov healthy,” Reynolds interjected. “Captain, I was covering the rear entrance and Von Paleske came back to my position after he got shot… we couldn’t contact anyone except the lander because we were too far underground.”

“Stop wasting time, dammit!” Ari nearly jumped at the hoarse, labored voice that came from the gurney. Tom Crossman pushed himself into a seated position, waving aside Dr. Cochrane’s objections.

He looked, Ari reflected, like hell: His armor had been cut off and his utility fatigues were torn and coated with blood all along the right side of his body. Smart bandages were stuck to his right thigh and hip, his right arm and the right side of his neck; and an IV in his left arm was attached to a pump and reservoir on the gurney, feeding his veins a blood substitute. His face was ghostly pale and his hair was matted with sweat, but his eyes were alert.

“Captain,” he said, taking a breath and wincing as it hurt his neck, “Antonov was waiting for us… it was a trap. The place was full of biomechs…”

Ari inadvertently glanced around in alarm. “Where are they now?”

Crossman shook his head impatiently. “They’re down in the holding area…”

“They’re just standing there,” Reynolds interrupted, “not moving, like they’re waiting for orders. They didn’t even move when me and Von Paleske finally went in.”

“They haven’t moved since Antonov left,” Crossman snarled, giving the lower ranking noncom a glare that made him shut up. “Captain, the room where Antonov was being held was rigged with stunners. Everyone else is dead, but the Russian psycho captured Major… I mean Colonel Stark.” Even under the circumstances, Tom’s face had a hint of a smirk at the promotion. “They thought I was out, and I let ‘em think so, but I was awake for all of it. He had me in there… he told her that he’d let Fourcade cut me up unless she submitted to it.”

“To what?” Ari demanded impatiently, feeling a pit opening up in his guts.

“A hypnoprobe,” Crossman replied grimly. “Sir… he has her brainwashed. He used her to get in the lander and escape. He promised her that he’d leave me behind and let the Doc here fix me up if she didn’t fight him and make it take longer.” There was agony on Crossman’s face that wasn’t just from the pain of his wounds. “You’ve got to track them down, because God knows what he’s going to do to her when he doesn’t need her anymore…”

Ari swallowed hard, looking back and forth between Tom and Roza.

“Holy shit,” he blurted, eyes wide. “I just realized, I have no idea who to call.”

“I think perhaps,” Roza said slowly and quietly, “I do.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Mr. President,” Captain Di Ndinge called, “we have a report from Fleet Headquarters!”

Daniel O’Keefe stepped across the crowded, chaotic, makeshift ready room that had been set up in an antechamber off the Senate floor, pushing aside staffers, both military and political, making his way to the small tactical readout that had been hooked up to a terminal in a corner of the chamber. Divungi Di Ndinge was a slender, gracefully-featured officer from Gabon in the African Confederation and he was normally a reserved and soft-spoken gentleman, but at the moment he seemed almost giddy.

“What’s happening out there, Captain?” O’Keefe asked the man, who was part of Admiral Patel’s senior staff.

“A cislunar patrol craft received a transmission from the Bradley,” the Captain told him. “It was fairly low power-the ship is in pretty bad shape. But according to their report, they managed to destroy both enemy craft.”

“Thank God,” O’Keefe sighed in relief, leaning heavily against the back of the officer’s chair. There was a smattering of applause and relieved exclamations around the room as the word spread. He even heard someone softly sobbing. “You said they took damage… how many casualties?”

“There are a few serious injuries-bad burns and shrapnel wounds in engineering mostly, but just one fatality, Mr. President: Captain Perez, the ship’s commanding officer. He apparently somehow broke his neck during the intercept maneuver with the first enemy vessel. The report wasn’t clear on how it happened.”

“My God,” O’Keefe murmured, shaking his head sadly. “The man died saving our lives, Captain. I’ll make sure his sacrifice isn’t forgotten. For now… do we have any ships that can get help to the Bradley?”

“Yes, sir, there’s an antimatter freighter that was on the way from the Mercury production facility out to Fleet Headquarters. I’ll have them divert to the Bradley and aid her in repairs.”

“Excellent, Captain. Keep me informed of their status, please. And let me know if any of the other cruisers return from outsystem” They’d ordered a recall weeks ago, but when the fastest interstellar message went at the same speed as the ship carrying it, there was no way to know when the half dozen interstellar warships on routine patrols would make it back. He turned to Zhakarova. “Spread the word that the threat is over and sound the all- clear to the people who went to the shelters.”

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged before hurrying out of the room.

The President stepped over to the small workstation where Marine General Rietveld was hunched over a communications display, speaking in hushed tones to someone wearing a flight helmet.

“Any word from Colonel Stark?” O’Keefe asked him.

“Nothing yet, sir,” the tall, shaven headed officer reported, coming to his feet. “I have Captain Shamir’s pilot on the line, but the last report he heard was a few minutes ago when Shamir and the others entered the bunker.”

“Can’t we track where her lander went?” O’Keefe demanded, exasperation in his voice. “I mean, we do have satellite coverage, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the General assured him. “It’s going to take a while… we’ve been concentrating on the threat from the Protectorate ships… now that we know they’ve been destroyed, we can run a tracking procedure on Colonel Stark.”

“Make it happen, General,” O’Keefe told him, clapping a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “I want to know where that lander went and what happened to Colonel Stark.” And Antonov, he thought but didn’t say. No one else needed to know that yet.

“Sir.” O’Keefe looked up to see an aide handing him a plate with a sandwich and sliced carrots. He opened his mouth to say he wasn’t hungry when his stomach reminded him he’d skipped lunch and was, in fact, starving.

“Thanks, son,” he said with a nod, taking the plate and grabbing a bite as he leaned against a wall, suddenly feeling the nervous energy of the last few hours running out of him.

I’ll have to see that Lt. Franks gets a medal for this, he thought, his mind beginning to wander with exhaustion. Can’t promote him though… that’s up to Stark, or McKay when he gets back. I’ll just let them know that I approve of any promotion they want to give him.

“Mr. President?”

O’Keefe’s eyes snapped up and he saw Svetlana Zakharova half-in the door of the room, looking a bit frazzled. “Yes, Svetlana?” He set his plate down on one of the few bare spots he could find, noticing out of the corner of his eye that it was wobbling and threatening to fall before one of his aides grabbed it with fortuitous timing.

“Sir,” Zakharova went on breathlessly, “it’s Colonel Stark… she’s back. She just landed and wants to meet you privately in your office.”