Task Force Mars - Kevin Dockery [41]
Suspicious but intrigued, the LT pushed the plug into the canal of his right ear. The gold-braided visitor spoke again.
“Are you Lieutenant Jackson?” he asked. The sounds emerging from his mouth were smoothly and immediately translated by the device in the officer’s ear so that he could understand perfectly.
“That would be me,” Jackson replied. “Who wants to know?”
“Please come with me.” The man turned and quickly stepped back through the hatchway.
There seemed to be no point being stubborn at that juncture, and so the lieutenant followed him, nodding as Chief Harris whispered, “Be careful, LT.”
The SEALS all looked at their platoon leader as he moved toward the door. They saw the lieutenant’s right hand open flat and then close into a fist twice, as if he were flexing his fingers. The men remained sharply alert but would not move for now. They all had read the signal for them to stop and wait on the lieutenant. They would follow his orders until they knew it was time to move.
The two guards stepped back, providing no opportunity for the SEALS officer to grab for one of the guns, even if he could have used it. But Jackson had no intention of doing anything rash, at least not yet. He needed intel desperately, and this little excursion seemed like the first, and maybe best, chance to get it. The pair of soldiers fell in and followed a half dozen steps behind as Jackson trailed his guide down a long corridor. All four of them entered a small room, which the lieutenant guessed was an elevator; his guess was confirmed as the doors snapped shut, and he sensed the momentum as they whooshed upward at a surprisingly high velocity.
Given the speed, it seemed that they rose for a long distance before the elevator stopped and the doors opened. They emerged at a confluence of six corridors radiating out like spokes from a hub. Each of the passages was a good fifty meters long, and so Jackson knew he was in an immense ship.
That impression was confirmed as his guide led him through an electronic hatch past another pair of guards, onto what he guessed was the bridge. There were dozens of people in view, many of them manning consoles, consulting screens, or operating keyboards and other equipment.
But a few of them apparently were waiting for him. He immediately recognized Professor Zaro and Consul Char-Kane. Zaro was wearing one of the white tunics that seemed ubiquitous on this ship; Jackson noticed with a start that the professor’s eyes were that shocking green that seemed to characterize their captors. He remembered the way the man’s eyes watered and realized that he must have been disguised with contact lenses.
So that son of a bitch is one of them. You will get yours, Professor—I promise you that.
The consul wore her metallic golden bodysuit, a shocking drop of bright color amid all the white clothing. She did not seem to be a prisoner, but she was watching him with an expression that looked sympathetic, not threatening.
Between her and the professor stood a tall hawk-faced man who studied Jackson with disconcerting intensity as the lieutenant was led into the room.
He’s in charge here. There was no question in Jackson’s mind even before he took in the rings of pure gold extending up and down the man’s sleeves. He continued to stare with eyes so dark yet so fiercely penetrating that Jackson almost felt as though his mind, his very thoughts, were being scrutinized. He tried looking back, realizing that those almost-black eyes were actually a very dark green, but he couldn’t meet the man’s gaze for more than a few seconds.
The lieutenant advanced with all the dignity he could muster, and when his eyes shifted from the face of the enemy commander, he stared at the treacherous Professor Zaro. He noticed a slight smirk on Zaro’s face and made a silent vow that the spy would pay for his betrayal somehow, someday.
The hawk-faced man lifted his head with a haughty expression of disdain. Jackson thought the fellow was about to say something, but instead it was Zaro who spoke in his slightly