Fire with Fire(115)

“And?”

“And his pal, the one supposedly knifed in an alley, had a very interesting blood-type.”

“Let me guess: A negative.”

“Bingo: same type as on the floor in Riordan’s suite. Doesn’t prove anything, but—”

“Yeah: ‘but.’” What the hell was going on? Why would the Russians have sent someone after Caine? That made less than no sense—unless these Russians were moonlighting, were being paid to do it by someone other than their superiors.

“Commander, even if the Russians were involved somehow, there’s something I can’t figure.”

“What’s that, Stosh?”

“Well—the outcome. They bust in on Riordan and through some miracle, he takes one out. But that means there must have been at least two intruders. Otherwise, who removed the body of the first guy that Riordan tagged? But if there were two attackers, the second guy should have been able to grease Riordan and then remove his buddy’s body. But our guys find Riordan still alive, just unconscious. It doesn’t add up.”

“No, it doesn’t, Chief. You’ve got more?”

“Yeah—but not on this.”

“What on?”

Witkowski looked down, moved one foot slowly toward the other and away again. “Boss, some of this—well, some of this is about your dad. Sort of.”

Trevor frowned. “Go ahead, Chief.”

“Yes, sir. Well, one of the ratings who was on liberty last night was new to the team—just got in a few days ago. In fact, he arrived on the ship that your pal Downing came in on.”

“So he’s just in from Earth.”

“No, sir, that’s the weird part. He was stationed out in the asteroids at a secure site. And although Downing came in from Earth, he changed ships along the way. And conducted a little business beforehand.”

“Such as?”

“Well, it gets pretty thirdhand, here. But here’s how it seemed to go down.

“Our newbie from the asteroids pulled special duty as security on board a Navy transport. It was carrying a replacement crew for a patrol boat that was approaching Mars with a government clipper in tow. A day before the rendezvous, our newbie is standing a comm watch when the transport makes contact with the patrol boat. It turns out the guy minding the secure lasercom on the patrol boat is his buddy from Basic. Said buddy shares some interesting scuttlebutt about the clipper’s departure from low Earth orbit. Turns out that rather than heading straight for Mars, the clipper went way up out of the ecliptic and picked up a small package—less than a cubic meter. Downing was the only one who knew the coordinates, and later, he cryoed the whole crew just before docking with the patrol boat.”

“Ooooo. Cloak and dagger. Frozen men tell no tales.”

“It gets better. Before our newbie from the asteroids signs off, his buddy proposes they share a meal during the crew swap. So the next day, the Navy transport makes rendezvous with the patrol boat. But before the crew swap, the transport sends its medical officer and the XO aboard the patrol boat. About an hour goes by. Then comes the green light for the crew swap. Our newbie on the transport expects to find his friend waiting for him. What he finds is Downing, the XO, and the medical officer.”

“Just them?”

“They were the only ones he saw—awake, that is. Seems that the crew of the patrol boat—including our newbie’s pal—were all put into cryogenic suspension by the CMO and XO before the swap. Just like the clipper’s crew. Meaning that Downing built a one-hundred-percent info firewall around his activities from the time he left Earth.

“Then all the cryocells—from both the clipper and the patrol boat—were transferred to the Navy transport. Which was also given new orders.”

“Not back to the asteroid belt?”

“Nope: a deep-space rendezvous with the next outbound shift carrier. And if I was a betting man—and I have been known to indulge in that vice—I’d take decent odds that both cryoed crews are already outsystem, the whole bunch of them in some popsicle holding yard at Alpha Centauri. Or beyond.”

Jesus H. Christ: what the hell was Uncle Richard up to? “You mentioned something about my father?”

“Yeah. When they were moving the cryocells, they moved some cargo, too. One item was a coffin for space burial. Our new guy—given his EVA rating—was sent to check out its seal integrity. He recognized the occupant: it was your father. In full dress whites.”

Trevor’s first reflex was one of the most useful he had acquired during more than a decade of active service: to put on a poker face when his mind became a roiling chaos of conflicting ideas and emotions. What the hell was going on? His father had wanted to be buried around another star, if possible, but his own instructions had precluded that: after Parthenon, the outbound cargo priorities became absolutely rigid. But Dad’s body was now outward bound for Alpha Centauri—and without consulting his family? What the hell was Richard playing at?