The freighter waited for clearance to make its final approach to Chronos Station while Connor Gates and his squad hid in a shipping container in the vast belly of the vessel. Connor glanced at his men. They were the most famous squad that no one outside the NA Command had ever heard of. Officially they didn’t exist. For hundreds of years, black ops military platoons had celebrated a long tradition of working in the shadows, and their effectiveness was measured by the undetected execution of their missions. Even within the shadowy confines of black ops, Connor’s Ghosts were a bit of a legend. When failure was not an option, it was the Ghosts who were given the toughest missions. Connor had been the CO of the Ghosts for ten years—not even a blip in the prolonged lifetimes of people in this day and age.
“We’re patched in, Colonel,” Sawyer said.
Connor used his implants to access the open comms channel on the bridge.
“Freighter JEC 2701, hold your approach while we validate the codes for your ship,” the harbormaster said.
“Copy. We’ll hold the approach,” the freighter’s helmsman replied.
A sub-screen appeared on Connor’s heads-up display that showed the ship’s codes being matched up with the records being transferred from the lunar shipping yards.
The station comms channel was muted by someone on the freighter’s bridge, and Connor heard the helmsman speaking.
“Captain, with as many deliveries as we make to this station, you’d think they’d give us a warmer welcome,” said the helmsman.
“They’re following standard protocol,” said the captain.
“Yeah, but targeting us with their weapons systems every time we come here is a bit much. It’s not like we’re part of the Syndicate or anything,” said the helmsman.
“And here I thought you couldn’t wait for some shore leave on a luxurious seventh-generation deep-space station,” said the captain.
Connor muted the comms channels and clenched his teeth at the mention of the Syndicate. He’d been hunting them for the past five years, patiently working his way closer to the vast crime family that had the power to challenge the nation-states of old.
The soldier next to Connor checked his weapon while he waited. “If they only knew the head of the Syndicate had taken up residence on this station,” Major Kasey Douglass said.
Kasey had been Connor’s second in command for almost as long as he’d been hunting the Syndicate.
“Only if our intel is good. Remember Sandy Springs?” Connor asked.
Kasey nodded. “Kinda hard to forget that crapstorm of an op.”
“This is the right place. I know it. A civilian space station that has weapons capabilities to defend itself from attack matches his MO,” Connor said.
“You still think the entire Syndicate is run by just one person?”
“It is,” Connor said.
“But we don’t have a name for this guy,” Kasey said.
“We have his location. He’s smart. Even if we’d come here with combat shuttles under stealth, we would have run the risk of alerting him. And even though the Sandy Springs op was a disaster, we learned a lot,” Connor said.
“Yeah, not to trust the chain of command in our own org. We’re completely off the reservation with this. No backup,” Kasey said.
“Had to be this way. I couldn’t risk the mission becoming compromised. Besides, it’s not like we’re breaking any rules. I do have authority to conduct this mission,” Connor said.
“I won’t argue about authority, but this is a civilian station—and not just any civilian station. This is Chronos. Only the most affluent dignitaries, ambassadors, and heads of corporations use this place as their go-to spot. If we have an incident here, it could hurt us. We should report the op to COMCENT,” Kasey said.
Connor regarded Kasey for a moment. The major was doing his job, voicing his concerns to his commanding officer. “Your concerns are noted, but this is still a comms blackout op. COMCENT will be notified after the op is complete, Major,” Connor replied.
“Of course, Colonel,” Kasey said and let the matter drop.
They all knew why they were there. The Syndicate had a significant research and development operation that did not abide by the Earth’s R&D accords, freely testing anything and everything on human subjects regardless of sex, age, or ethnic origin. Some of the research stations they’d shut down throughout the solar system still gave him nightmares as he recalled cross-species genetic experimentation that created horrific monsters that were set loose to test how well their experiments had worked. The Syndicate had become the NA Command’s highest priority, but the real work fell into black ops command channels. The Syndicate was among the most ruthless organizations in history. They had little regard for human life and operated above the law. The fact that they’d set up operations at a place like Chronos Station was a testament to their practices in maximizing collateral damage.
The harbormaster cleared the freighter to dock, and within the hour the large freighter was being guided to its docking slip. The Ghosts waited in silent anticipation. Once the ship docked, they could move under the cover of offloading activities. No one would suspect that one of the shipping containers carried an infiltration force.
“Wil, are you in the station’s systems yet?” Connor asked.
Wil Reisman waved his hands around, working through an interface that only he could see. “I’m in but only with transit access. We can get schematics and access the maglev transport, but I’m not in the secure Mosi system, Colonel.”
“Good. Those systems are closely monitored. I don’t want them tipped off to our presence,” Connor said.
“I’ve uploaded the station’s schematics to our suit computers,” Reisman said.
Connor brought up the schematics, and his suit computer showed a one hundred percent match for what they had on record. He inputted the latest intelligence overlay, and a path highlighted to a destination called Rabbit’s Foot.
“Send coded message to Bravo Squad. The op is a go,” Connor said.
The ship’s status showed that it was docked and the automated loaders would begin offloading the shipping containers to the station. Connor glanced at Tiegan, waiting for his tech ops specialist to give them the go-ahead.
Large lifts came for the priority pallets first, and Connor felt himself shift to zero gravity until their shipping container was brought within the station’s gravitational field. He engaged his combat suit’s camo-mode, which rendered them invisible to anyone watching, as well as to the station’s sensors. The secure latch of the shipping container’s door popped open and Connor pushed his way out, dropping down sixty meters to the ground. His combat suit absorbed the shock of his landing, and he quickly moved to the side while the rest of the squad came down and took up positions on the space dock.
The space dock was a massive open area through which all ship traffic to the station was routed. Freighters like the one they’d stowed away on docked in a designated area away from civilian transports.
“Contact,” Denton said.
Connor looked over and saw a standard Bosheir Security Mech patrolling the dock. The large mech could either be piloted by a person or engaged in patrol mode, allowing the mech’s AI or pilot to remotely operate the machine. Large cannons gleamed on the mech’s metallic forearms, and its head swiveled in their direction.
“Hold. It’s a T-series 10-01 and can’t detect us,” Reisman said.
Connor waited. Samson had the mech in his sights, his heavy rocket launcher ready to go if needed, but the mech turned away from them and stalked off.
The Ghosts headed in the direction the mech had gone, watching as work drones went about unloading the shipping containers after transfer off the ship. The heavily armed soldiers systematically moved forward two by two, with the first group clearing the area before the next group came up and took point. Most of them were armed with a third generation M32 pulse rifle with grenade launcher. The compact firearm packed quite a punch for its size and was ideal for close-quarters combat.
The few actual dockworkers in the area didn’t notice them as they made their way across the docks and entered one of the large freight elevators.
“Reisman, we need those markings,” Connor said.
His intelligence officer worked through the options on his holo-interface while Connor kept a careful watch on the elevator’s progress toward one of Chronos Station’s many common areas. An empty elevator would certainly be noticed by the local security office.
“Okay, time to blend in with the locals,” Reisman said. He gestured with his hand as if flinging something at his squad mates. Within moments their combat suits produced a realistic-looking hologram of someone who lived on the station.
Samson growled. “Come on, man. You turned me into a pregnant woman.”
The others grinned. Connor glanced down at his own combat suit and saw that Reisman had assigned him the hologram of Chronos Station security force personnel—black armor and a helmet that only showed his jawline underneath the visor.
“That’s the way it goes, Samson. This time you drew the short straw. Congratulations! You’re about eight months pregnant,” Reisman said.
Samson turned toward Hank. “What are you laughing at? You got stuck with the grandma this time.”
Connor glanced around at all of them to be sure there were no abnormalities in anyone’s hologram. “Alright, by the numbers. Check each other out,” Connor said.
The disguises were preconfigured for operations that brought them among civilians, and they used forms that put the casual onlooker off guard. Not many people would look twice at a pregnant woman or an elderly couple.
Connor checked Kasey, whose outward appearance resembled a morbidly obese man. Maintaining the hologram was taxing on their combat suit computers and couldn’t be sustained for more than a few hours.
The elevator doors opened and the Ghosts exited. They followed a few corridors and were ushered through a security checkpoint. They didn’t carry any heavy ordnance, and the scanners wouldn’t be able to detect the ceramic composite that made up their combat suits. They did, however, need to store their weapons so they couldn’t be detected.
The squad divided as they made their way across an expansive common area. Chronos Station sported blue skies and a parklike setting for its patrons. Though Connor couldn’t smell the air, he imagined it was as fresh as if he were standing on a forested pathway back on Earth. Chronos Station was among the largest in the solar system and was restricted to the more affluent population. There was enough space for everyone and hardly any crowds, so the risk of someone accidentally brushing past the hologram and actually bumping into them was almost nonexistent.
The Ghosts converged on the platform for the maglev trains. Maglev trains didn’t make any noise, and the top-of-the-line inertia dampeners gave no indication that they were traveling nearly five hundred kilometers an hour. The train cars were luxurious, and Connor noticed a few squad members glance longingly toward the food stations. Being topside on an op was a rare treat. Usually, they traveled through the bowels of a location and stayed out of sight, but there was no doubt the Syndicate would have ample security monitors watching all those entry points. Connor was wagering that their unorthodox approach would get them close enough to where the head of the Syndicate kept himself that their surprise attack would make escape all but impossible.
A flickering of light caught Connor’s eye and he turned toward it. Samson’s hologram was slipping, and Connor’s mouth tightened. No one else on the train seemed to have noticed, so Connor walked over and gestured for Kasey to follow him. They were joined by two of the others as they circled around Samson. Reisman went over to Samson and swore.
Connor glanced behind him and saw Reisman working on Samson’s combat suit. The hologram was nowhere to be seen. Perfect. He just wanted this to run smoothly, and having a damn suit processor fail on them wasn’t that.
Kasey cleared his throat, and Connor turned back around. A small boy was looking at him, and his gaze narrowed suspiciously.
Connor waved. “Hello there, Citizen,” he said, using the deepest official voice he could muster.
The boy’s eyes widened and he backed away a few steps. Then he turned around and darted over to his family.
“Check this out,” Kasey said, gesturing toward the wallscreen.
The image of a massive spaceship under construction at the Martian shipyards was displayed and a commentator began to speak:
The Ark—humanity’s valiant effort to reach beyond the confines of our solar system to establish the first interstellar colony out among the stars. We’re now just weeks away from the Ark’s christening, Earth’s first interstellar colony ship will begin the longest journey ever embarked upon by mankind—a journey that began over a hundred years ago in 2105 when the star XPA6 was first observed among a group that held our best hope of an Earth-sized planet. Probes were sent out to see if any of these stars could support life as we experience it here on Earth. In 2182 we finally got our answer and the Ark program was born. Now, in 2217, three hundred thousand people will embark on a journey that will take eighty-four years to complete…
Connor stopped listening and glanced at the info-terminal beneath the wallscreen. The train was approaching their stop. “You have twenty-five seconds to get it fixed,” he whispered.
The boy returned with a teenage girl who was probably his older sister, followed by his parents. The boy was gesturing toward them.
Connor stopped himself from shaking his head. He hadn’t come all this way to be pestered by an overprivileged eleven-year-old brat. Connor faced them and put as much stern into his stance as he could while the others stood poised to knock out the family with stunners if they became a problem.
Just look away, kid, Connor pleaded in his mind.
The train came to a stop and Connor felt someone tap his shoulder.
“I’m feeling much better now. Thank you,” Samson said, but his voice sounded like that of a woman.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Connor replied.
The boy rubbed the back of his head as if he wasn’t quite sure what he’d seen while his father ushered him off the train. Connor motioned for his squad to wait a few seconds and then they exited the train as well.
“Commander, I bypassed a bad processor branch, but the hologram’s gonna overload it if we can’t find cover in a few minutes,” Reisman said.
“Understood,” Connor replied.
They quickly left the platform and headed toward a nearby service tunnel. His nav computer noted the change in their path and updated the time-to-destination on his helmet’s heads-up display.
With Reisman close behind, Samson went ahead to the maintenance tunnels, where they overrode the locking mechanism and went inside. They locked the door behind them and Connor hoped the unauthorized access hadn’t been detected. One by one they disengaged the holograms and their combat suits returned to a deep gunmetal-gray color.
Connor retrieved his M32 from his storage compartment and the others did the same. Now was the time for speed, so they blazed a path through the maintenance tunnels that were normally frequented by maintenance bots. The bots hardly registered that they were in the tunnel with them, most likely due to the bots’ rudimentary recognition systems determining the Ghosts’ combat suits were just more bots on maintenance duty.
The Syndicate’s stronghold was in the middle level of the station toward the interior. This was the part of the station that would be least vulnerable to attack. Connor had studied the station’s schematics and knew all the ins and outs for this section. He’d seen enough military installations to recognize the design, even with the lavish furnishings. According to the schematics, they were on the premises of a luxurious hotel.
They came to a stop outside a maintenance door. Connor was certain it was being monitored, so he gestured for Reisman.
The tech specialist moved forward. “Nothing to see here. Just another lowly maintenance bot trudging along,” Reisman muttered.
The door retracted into the ceiling, and the Ghosts went through to a nearby station where two guards were posted. The guards glanced over toward the open door, and when no maintenance bot came through, one of them went over to investigate.
The guard peered through the door and activated his comlink. “Central, we have a maintenance door open on Deck 19, but no bot has come through. Do you have any bots on sensors?”
The guard stepped through the doorway. The door shut, and he turned and banged at it from the other side.
Connor engaged the charge they’d placed and the banging stopped. The Ghosts then waited while the second guard came out of the station to investigate. As he stepped away, Connor fired a stunner dart into the guard’s exposed neck, the shock of which caused the guard to drop to the ground, unconscious.
“Station 19, do you copy?”
Connor glanced at Reisman, who nodded that he was okay to speak.
“We’re here, Central. That door is shut now and won’t open. We’ll need to schedule a repair crew to come check it out,” Connor said. The hacked signal disguised his voice based on the speech patterns recorded from when the guard had spoken earlier.
“Confirm. Repair crew will be sent out. Carry on.”
The comlink signal deactivated, and Connor looked at Reisman. “Good work,” he said and looked over at Kasey. “Any word from Bravo Squad?”
Kasey shook his head. “Negative, sir.”
“Alright, we go on. You’re cleared to only engage hostiles, so if you don’t see a weapon, we can’t use ours. Clear?” Connor said.
The squad replied that they understood.
“Okay, Samson, you’re on point with Jefferson and Oslo,” Connor said. “Reisman, you’re with me. Kasey, you’re with the others.”
Samson was six feet eight inches tall and a bear of man. Connor had seen him fire a T49 assault rifle in each hand while maintaining accuracy.
Samson led them forward, and Jefferson covered him. Oslo was just behind. The trio moved forward on point, and the rest of the squad followed in pairs. They left the maintenance tunnels behind and made their way through the lower levels of the hotel, stopping at a service elevator and waiting while Reisman overrode the controls so they could get to the sixtieth floor.
Reisman stopped what he was doing and looked at Connor. “Special access required, even to put in the floor number. If I override it, they’ll likely detect it.”
Connor’s brows pulled together in thought. “What about the fifty-ninth floor? Can you get us close?”
Reisman checked. “Ah, there it is. Fifty-eighth floor is still under construction.”
“Perfect,” Connor said.
Reisman punched in the new destination and the service elevator began its ascent. Connor would have preferred to break the squads up into six-man teams lest one of them got pinned down, but he chose speed over caution for this op. He checked the comms status for Bravo Squad, which was being led by Denton, but there was nothing. He had doubled up for this op, breaking their platoon into two squads. They had separate ships and approach vectors, but even with comms blackout there still should have been at least an encoded check-in. Connor frowned and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end—a feeling he’d get when an op was about to go south.
The service elevator stopped and the Ghosts readied their weapons. When the doors pulled apart, a dark, half-finished floor could be seen beyond. Samson checked his corner while Jefferson checked the other. Both men ducked out of the elevator with two more Ghosts behind them. The rest of them followed, and Connor scanned the area ahead. There were large stacks of construction materials amid offline machinery. Connor narrowed his gaze and switched to enhanced view, cycling through different bands until the area came alive with soldiers wearing combat suits just like theirs.
“Take cover!” Connor cried and lunged behind the nearest construction vehicle.
The rest of the Ghosts scattered toward cover as the Syndicate soldiers opened fire. The head of the Syndicate had known they were coming for them. This whole op had been a trap.
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