Task Force Mars - Kevin Dockery [117]
“We made kind of an unplanned departure,” Jackson explained to the naval officer. “The bastards infiltrated MS1. They had an agent there, an Eluoi disguised as a human with nothing more than some language fluency and good contact lenses. And more of them hijacked that Shamani ship, the Gladiola, that we saw on arrival.”
“What were they after?” Carstairs asked.
Jackson shrugged. “Information, it seems. They heard about us from the Shamani and wanted to see what kind of threat we might pose to them—or what kind of opportunity, for that matter. Apparently, they do a lot of traffic in slave labor.”
The captain frowned, glancing through the porthole at the planet that was still sprawling, green and verdant, below. The sun was rising over the eastern part of the planet, though Batuu City was still experiencing the middle of the night. That great metroplis was in view near the black horizon, a blazing splotch of brightness against the vast wilderness that was the rest of the planet.
“These Eluoi, you call them,” Carstairs remarked. “Sounds like they could be trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson said sincerely. “But I think they’re going to remember my Team and our unofficial visit for a long, long while. Might even give them a little pause before they come looking for us or take the chance of having us make an official military stop on their planet. They have no idea how many SEALS there really are.”
“I would think there may be a few more assigned to your unit when this report makes the rounds,” the captain said with a grim smile.
Consul de Campe Char-Kane emerged from the hatch into the chaos that was H Deck, where the Teammates were taking it easy, relaxing and recovering. They had just enjoyed a hot meal, and several of them were in the process of changing. Teal, Rodale, and Marannis, in their skivvies, hastened back between a pair of lockers as the Shamani woman stood awkwardly, looking around the piles of equipment, dirty clothing, and disassembled weaponry.
“Is the Chief Harris here?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the chief, who had just finished cleaning his G15. He stood up and crossed the room to her, ignoring Ruiz’s low whistle as he passed the master chief.
“Maybe we can take a climb up the transport shaft,” Harris suggested, flashing a murderous look at the rest of his gawking Teammates. Falco, about to make a wise-crack, somehow found a way to bite his tongue.
“Yes, that would be most nice,” Char-Kane replied. He followed her into the hatch, and they climbed up to H Deck. There was no one in the central passage outside the goat locker, so they leaned against the railing and looked out the solitary porthole at the dazzling stars.
“Some of the constellations—most of ’em—look just the same as they do on Earth,” Harris noted.
“Yes. That is because, in terms of the galaxy, we have traveled only a tiny distance between Sol and Batuun,” Char-Kane declared seriously. “The orientation of your view of the universe has changed very little.”
“Uh, yeah, that must be it,” Harris agreed. “Um, listen. Are you going back to our system? Are you going to be there for a while?”
“Not terribly long,” she said, and he allowed himself to think that she sounded a little sad about that fact. “I am due for rotation back to the Spider cluster after two more of your Terran years.”
“Two more years,” Harris said. “Hell, a lot can happen in two years.”
“Yes,” she said. “It can.”
She was very close to him, so close that he could feel the heat of her body emanating from the golden bodysuit. He reached out, and she came to him. Their kiss was about to enter its second minute when Master Chief Curt Swanson, the COB of the Pegasus, emerged from the goat locker and stopped in shock. He gaped for a second, shaking his head, then turned back to his compartment, muttering something