Vicky Peterwald: Target Page 5

  A minute passed. Then another.

  Vicky was just beginning to wonder if she had made a fool of herself when the explosion came.

  She heard the roar of it, and then felt the overpressure in her ears even through the closed door.

  The ship’s alarm went off. Shouting and the pounding of heavy boots announced the arrival of the damage-control party. Lighter footfalls no doubt meant corpsmen and maybe even investigators.

  “Kit, open the door and take a look outside.”

  Kit moved quickly. The door open, she glanced outside. “There is no fire in the passageway, Your Grace,” she announced. Across the passageway, a Marine still stood his post, though blood flowed from his ear. A sergeant glanced inside. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes looked red.

  He saw she was safe and turned away.

  “You may close the door, Kit,” Vicky said. She did.

  Vicky raised a questioning eyebrow to Mr. Smith.

  He shrugged. “It was either very primitive or quite sophisticated. I won’t know which until I have a chance to examine it.”

  “We must arrange for you to have that chance,” Vicky said, feeling very imperious for the moment. It was also nice to be alive.

  A few minutes later, there came a firm rap on the door. Vicky sent Kat to open it, and Admiral Gort was admitted.

  He did not look happy.

  “You knew it was a bomb?” he demanded.

  “I knew that I have no secret admirers,” Vicky answered. “Mr. Smith, here, suggested that I not take a chance, and I chose not to. I hope it did not cause major damage to your ship.”

  “Nothing a new coat of paint can’t handle,” the admiral muttered.

  “It would seem, Admiral, that you are not the only one who received pay from outside sources.”

  “Yes, it does,” he agreed. “I do not like that. I do not like that at all.”

  “My man, Mr. Smith, would like the opportunity to join your investigation into that unpleasant event. It may be that he is better prepared for this kind of event than your good Sailors are.”

  The admiral eyed Mr. Smith, then nodded. “It seems that we are playing in a game where good sailormen are at a disadvantage. I would appreciate help from any source.”

  “My lieutenant and chief have received some training and extra equipment from Kris Longknife’s security experts as well. That was the real reason I ended up on the Wasp when we went to war. If you don’t mind, I’d like all three to help your investigation.”

  The admiral turned to Mr. Smith. “You have my leave to do anything you feel necessary to get to the bottom of this.”

  Mr. Smith nodded at his assignment, made eye contact with the two Navy members of Vicky’s team, and motioned them toward the door. The chief went to gather his gear, and the three of them left together.

  “I’m assuming that you find this bomb aboard your ship as unacceptable as I find it,” Vicky said with an arched eyebrow.

  “Yes, Your Grace. I expect my orders to be obeyed quickly and completely. I object strongly to anyone else’s orders taking precedence over mine.”

  “Has this helped you resolve the decision we talked about earlier?” Vicky asked, playing with the zipper on her shipsuit.

  “I believe it has. And thank you for the offer, but you are a lieutenant, and I am an admiral. That alone establishes standards for our relationship.”

  Vicky took her hand away from the zipper. “I fully understand, Admiral. Admiral Krätz introduced me to the Navy’s standards of behavior, and I am only too happy to comply with the professional standards of the Navy’s proud tradition.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other. Supper will be served in my wardroom at 1900 hours. I hope you and your team will join me.”

  “We would be honored, sir. What is the uniform of the day?”

  “Undress whites,” the admiral said, giving her a firm look.

  “I will be proud to wear them, sir.”

  Done, he turned on his heels and marched out.

  “Kit, Kat, we all need undress whites for dinner tonight. Check my gear. If we don’t have smart uniforms, Kat, draw some from the ship’s stores.”

  That set the two women to furious activity. Vicky stayed on the settee, thinking.

  It appeared that she had eliminated one threat to her life, and indeed, turned him into an ally. Whoever had made the bomb attempt had been a fool. Not only had they missed, but they had cemented the Navy to Vicky. There would be no more talk of the battle squadron she had lost, not with Admiral Gort. No, someone had tried to take his prerogatives from him.

  That held his full attention.

  Vicky marveled at how little the civilian world understood the military. What to one side was just a good double check on a business deal, to the other was a violation of their honor and hard-earned rights of seniority.

  Someday she would have to thank her dad for sending her to the fleet for her training.

  Poor brother. He had thought he could transfer into the Navy and apply his freshly learned business skills to running a fleet. And he might have gotten away with it if he hadn’t run up against Kris Longknife.

  Vicky sighed. She was headed back into that nest of snakes now officially known as the Imperial Palace. Clearly, her Navy training would be of little use in that poisoned atmosphere.

  Here was a lesson for her to learn and apply. That something worked in one time and place was no guarantee that it would work in another. This might keep her breathing long enough to find some safe port in this stormy sea.

  But where is that safe port?

  Should she suggest to the admiral that he take his other bribe? Was she ready to raise a flag of rebellion against her own dad?

  Over supper, she would suggest to the admiral that he hold his ships to a single gee of acceleration. That would give her more time to weigh her options. That would also give her time to gather data. Greenfeld was never an easy place to understand. Lies were more often the only truth available. Still, the Navy must have sources it relied upon.

  Yes, she would ask the admiral to admit her to those reports he had alluded to. If Admiral Krätz had been reporting on her, certainly other reports were coming in from wherever the fleet was located. Reports for Navy eyes only would not spin or hide the harsh truths of what was happening to the Greenfeld they all loved.

  Mr. Smith returned, though the lieutenant and chief stayed with the ship’s investigative team. “The bomb,” he reported, “was both very simple and very sophisticated.”

  “Explain yourself,” Vicky snapped, in no mood for puzzles.

  “The explosives were C-16, hidden in the stems of the flowers, dipped in nonvolatile plastic so that there was no degassing from the chemicals. Standard issue in some circles these days. The vase, by the way, had been scarred on the inside, so when the explosives blew, it shattered into a thousand shards with dagger edges. The detonator was simplicity itself. The special paper was designed so that when you removed the letter from the envelope, it would create enough static electricity to activate one detonator. No battery. No wires. Alternately, another detonator was immersion in water and would, over time, as it actually happened, oxidize and provide the charge that set it off. It was so very simple, no electronics for us to spot. My hat is off to the expert who did this.”

  “And will we find that expert?”

  “Maybe. Very likely not. The others are doing the scut work, looking for fingerprints, anything left that might lead us to where the bomb was assembled. I don’t need to be involved with that. You and the admiral will have a report by morning. I’ll review the findings and see if they overlooked anything.”

  “Good,” Vicky said. “Now, I have an hour before we all must dress for dinner. Won’t you step into my boudoir? I’m sure we can find more to discuss.”

  Mr. Smith only smiled as she played with the top of her zipper. “Don’t mind if I do, ma’am.”

  Mr. Smith proved to be extraordinarily skilled at whatever h
e applied himself to. After half an hour, Vicky was confident that he would earn his paycheck from her in many pleasant ways.

  CHAPTER 6

  DINNER that evening in the admiral’s wardroom was quite splendid.

  Admiral Gort had each of the cooks who had prepared a dish bring it in him or herself . . . and taste it in front of the diners.

  The chefs were not surprised by this requirement. They had been told in advance that they would be required to prove the safety of their dishes, and that outside input might be attempted to any meal the Grand Duchess shared. If they valued their own lives, they had best assure that their contribution to the meal remained free of tampering.

  The admiral was taking no chances. Vicky was delighted at his newfound concern for her safety.

  She broached the topic of her interest in the specifics of the world she would be returning to. The admiral seemed understanding and ordered his chief of intelligence to join them at the table. The man was a young and alert commander. He quickly joined in the conversation, giving Vicky a quick rundown of which planets had fallen into rioting and how the disorder was being suppressed.

  Vicky found his report factual and free of opinion.

  It was also just the bare bones of what she needed. She hoped when he joined her tomorrow that she would not have to pry all the extra details, the ones that might determine if she lived or died, out of him.

  When Mr. Smith commented that the Grand Duchess’s computer had been recently upgraded and could help in collating and correlating the data, the commander seemed impressed and offered to begin a data dump to the Grand Duchess’s computer as soon as they were sure the U.S. had not slipped any eavesdropping capability aboard while they were tied up to their station.

  Vicky offered to drop by the secure intelligence facilities after dinner and have her computer given a direct, secure line into the database.

  The admiral seemed impressed by Vicky’s willingness to accommodate Navy security requirements. “But then you were trained by Admiral Krätz, the best of the best.”

  “I am open to the graduate course, Admiral. Indeed, I am looking forward to it.”

  The dinner broke up on that happy note.

  Vicky accompanied the commander back to his workspaces. His chief easily connected Vicky’s computer to their main system and data began to flow into it. It took a bit longer than the chief said it would.

  “But then, bringing a strange computer into the net often requires a bit of extra time,” he admitted.

  Even as Vicky walked back to her quarters with the lieutenant and the chief, she could feel her computer running through the data. She offered priorities for her information tree and discovered that her computer, in its private conversation with her, was asking more questions than she expected.

  In her quarters, she left the men behind and headed straight for her bedroom. There, sitting at the desk, was Mr. Smith.

  He had several gadgets out of his pocket, which he only glanced at before saying, “I’ve disabled several bugs. They are still reporting, but reporting a rerun of our earlier tryst. Now, shall we see what your intel haul is?”

  “I take it that my download was much more than they realized?” Vicky said as she took a seat on her bed. “The download took a bit longer than the chief expected.”

  “It shouldn’t have. You were downloading at triple the speed they thought. If it took a tad longer, then we really did make a haul.”

  “For whom?” Vicky asked, her voice going hard.

  “For you, ma’am, for you. We’ll go through it tonight, and if you don’t think it’s something you need or should have, you can delete it, and it will be gone.”

  “You sure your computer isn’t getting a copy of my download as we speak?”

  Mr. Smith dramatically placed his right hand on his heart. “Ma’am, you wound me greatly.”

  “I notice that you didn’t lie to me. I appreciate that. Shall we begin our examination of my homeland? Be aware, Mr. Smith. It is my homeland, and I love it. Likely more than you love yours, assuming you can call anywhere home.”

  “Sadly, I don’t, ma’am.”

  “Then be warned. You are on a ship of my fleet. If you ever hope to leave it alive, don’t make me doubt your commitment to me and my ends.”

  “Says the black widow to the vampire bat,” Mr. Smith replied with a confident smile. “I think we understand each other very well. Shall we start with the two-thirds of the database they didn’t intend for you to have?”

  In her mind’s eye, Vicky saw her data divide in two, one in red, the other in green. Quickly, headers began streaming down in both sections, but the red section kept going long after the green one finished. Then the green vanished away. The remaining headers showed the source of the data: admirals’ reports, intelligence reports, political developments, economic and production statistics headed tables of content that rapidly expanded.

  “Search the admirals’ reports for information on your stepmother,” Mr. Smith suggested.

  “Are you reading my computer?” Vicky demanded.

  “Only the very surface. I can see the headers but nothing under them.”

  “Let’s check political developments instead. See if there are any surprises there,” Vicky said.

  Mr. Smith greeted that with a shrug but said nothing.

  Politics seemed to be pretty much the same. Imperial proclamations were going out, taxes were being raised. Later proclamations complained about the failure of said taxes to produce the expected income. Planetary governors were encouraged to do whatever it took to find the expected money.

  Vicky wondered where the money was going to be spent.

  She stopped the fast run-through when she spotted a familiar name.

  “Prime Minister Bertram has been sacked?” Vicky said, startled. “I know him. I have since I was just a little girl trying to loot cookies and candy from the kitchen. He always had some lemon drops in his pocket when he came to call on Dad. He said he kept them there just for me and his grandkids.”

  “Apparently, lemon drops didn’t cut it with the new wife,” Mr. Smith said.

  “How do you know?” Vicky demanded.

  “I don’t. Call it a guess.”

  “It’s a good guess. The Prime Minister was disgraced over the taking of some bribes. One of the Empress’s uncles has been given the office,” Vicky said.

  “Have your computer search the admiral’s reports on Mr. Bertram. I bet they have something to say on it.”

  Vicky considered that for a moment. It was a good suggestion, but as Mr. Smith had admitted, what she brought to the top of her computer, he was very likely taking in as well. Then again, what could the local admirals have found out that the United something embassy hadn’t already reported to their king?

  How much do you trust this guy? was a major question.

  There was only one way to find out. “Computer, search the admirals’ reports for anything on Prime Minister Bertram.” In barely a second, reports were streaming before her eyes.

  “The admirals think it was a bogus charge trumped up to get him out and make way for a favorite of the Empress,” Mr. Smith said.

  “You read fast,” Vicky said.

  “You need to get you and your computer better synced together,” he answered. “I’ll have it teach you while you sleep tonight.”

  “So now you’re going to upgrade me as well as my computer? I don’t know how I feel about that.”

  “You can feel any way you like,” he said. “But if you intend to run with the hounds, you can’t afford to be slow.”

  “Or run away from the hounds,” Vicky muttered.

  “This is interesting,” Mr. Smith said. “Did you notice where Bertram fled to after he fell from grace?”

  “I didn’t think he had any other home but the palace,” Vicky said.

  “Home or not, he lit out for St. Petersburg. You know that place?”

  “Very well,” Vicky said. “Maybe too well. Computer
, what’s happening on St. Petersburg these days?”

  “St. Petersburg is prospering. It is one of the few planets that paid its taxes in full and on time.”

  “How interesting,” Vicky said. “And how did Mr. Bertram prosper on St. Petersburg?”

  “He was hired by Mayor Manuel Artamus, the mayor of Sevastopol, who is also serving as chief counsel to the St. Petersburg Council of Mayors.”

  “A council of mayors?” Mr. Smith observed. “That sounds interesting.”

  “As documented in Admiral von Mittleburg’s report,” the computer said, “the council of mayors is providing needed direction to both the body politic and economy of St. Petersburg. It is flourishing because of a return of industry and consumption on the planet itself. It is also helping the Navy develop Port Royal and trading with many of the Sooner planets nearby.”

  “Makes me glad I signed that city charter,” Vicky said. “Another good idea Kris Longknife got me into. So, St. Petersburg is doing fine, huh?”

  “There is a report in the intelligence files,” said the computer, “from a cruiser captain, Captain Balk of the cruiser Disdain. Because matters were so well in hand, only his heavy cruiser was at the station when three transports bearing some ten thousand security contractors from Bowlingame Services jumped into the system. He monitored their discussion with Mayor Manuel Artamus. Actually, the captain says it was more like an ultimatum. They were intent on providing security whether the people of St. Petersburg wanted it or not. The Chief of Security said someone on St. Petersburg had hired them. Mr. Artamus did a quick check with the other mayors and replied that no one had hired them, they were mistaken, and should go someplace they were needed. Mr. Artamus added ‘and wanted.’ The Security Chief expressed his intent to secure the space station and proceed from there.”

  “I wonder how that went down,” Mr. Smith said through a grin.

  “Mayor Artamus ordered the station hands not to allow them to dock. The station had some laser defense batteries,” the computer added dryly. “When the Security Chief heard that, he announced that he would have his troops assault the station. That was when Mayor Artamus appealed to Captain Balk to intervene.”