The Ghost Ship (MOSAR Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Credits

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Ghost Ship

  C. R. Turner

  Copyright © 2020 C. R. Turner

  The right of C. R. Turner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic or mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holders.

  ISBN ePub 978-0-6483813-6-5

  ISBN Mobi 978-0-6483813-7-2

  ISBN Pbk 978-0-6483813-8-9

  Illustration © Tom Edwards

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Editing and development by AJC Publishing and Connie Spanos.

  With a special thanks to Nikki Bielinski for her medical review.

  The MOSAR Series

  Canine Maximus Max

  The Arcadia Legacy

  The Ghost Ship

  Social Media

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  Chapter 1

  Riding Max through the markets brings back memories from a time when the Union ruled with authoritarian power. How things have changed. I no longer have to hide my face with my MOSAR scarf now that the Terra Primus government has swept through the Union, cleaning out most of the corrupt and criminal. I think about my dream of setting up the striker pursuit teams and going after war criminals, and I can’t help wondering how many are still walking the streets?

  Two small kids return my smile as they step back off the street holding hands, scared of Max’s huge frame as he walks by, his massive muscles flexing with every step. I remember being in awe the first time I saw pictures of MOSAR attachments sitting high on their jet-black Canine Maximi’s backs – all-black uniforms, Ashras slung over their backs – paramedic and canine a picture of power and strength. Although I never go off-world without an Ashra myself, I refuse to carry one around the city, only my father’s knife, sheathed in my thigh holster.

  The markets are so exciting, as always – hundreds of people packed into narrow streets, hands waving as people barter for food, clothing and handmade items. Max and I pass a store that now stocks electrical appliances – a sign of progress now that the Terra Primus government has rebuilt the city. People swarm the entrance.

  The market atmosphere is so familiar, yet people’s faces are different, their spirits lifted, a sense of optimism in the air. It fills my soul with warmth, how we’ve moved on. Even the Union uniform no longer instils fear in people’s eyes. As we leave the markets, we pass modern steel and glass townhouses, which have replaced buildings once obliterated by weapons fire. Everything smells new. It’s hard to recognise the place.

  Four Makri soldiers walk by carrying energy weapons. I nod. Most of the Makri have left now, but the few that remain, people don’t seem to mind.

  Starships criss-cross the sky as Hati sets, and I catch myself smiling. For me, a smile used to be like a gunshot into silence. Startling. Rare. It used to only make me feel worse, make me reflect on how long it had been since I last smiled. Now my smile grows larger as I think about all the good things in my life: Sam, Max and us being full-time members of Striker Force Raptor. Not to mention living in the city and having the cabin on Arcadia to go back to on our downtime.

  Max turns into the barracks without my direction – he knows the way. Two soldiers greet me and ask for identification. What an elaborate ruse that would be: getting your hands on a Canine Maximus and a striker force uniform, just to gain entry to the MOSAR barracks. I love working with such high-calibre men and women, but sometimes the bureaucracy is downright exhausting. The security’s a necessity though; the civil war between the Terra Primus Republic Army and the Union may have died down, but it’s still a simmering threat, and with large swathes of society now being left behind – missing out on jobs, housing or even food – there’s a lot of animosity driving petty crimes.

  I direct Max down the passageway between the chain-link fences to the centre of the twelve wedge-shaped yards and dismount. There are only two other canines in view. I guess the other canines are snoozing in their stables or off-world on missions.

  Jade trots over as I open the gate to our yard. Her eyes are so beautiful – like circular kaleidoscopes of jade around pitch-black pupils. It’s like she’s staring right into your soul when she looks at you. I give her a sympathetic pat on the forehead. Her second MOSAR rider in as many years has been killed. Hopefully, her temporary secondment to SF Raptor will bring her more luck. It has to; I don’t believe in curses.

  Two MOSAR support staff leave one of the yards. I smile and wave – they’re always helpful. After feeding Max and Jade, I leave them in their stable and head to the back door of our little house. I’m barely inside when Sam greets me with a huge smile and kiss. She’s wearing the same striker force uniform as me: black boots, thick black fabric pants and black long-sleeved shirt with the SF Raptor shield sewn on the shoulder. The only difference between her uniform and mine, I have the MOSAR attachment badge – two pointy chevrons symbolising a Canine Maximus’s big ears – sewn just below the SF Raptor shield. I never thought I’d ever get used to seeing Sam in uniform, but after two and a half years, it’s become a way of life. Her sky-blue eyes and long straight hair pulled tight in a ponytail accentuate her striking face, making her look like a beautiful tomboy in full uniform. I guess she is – an extremely smart one.

  “How did your simulation go?” I ask, walking into our tiny kitchen.

  Sam’s grinning so hard her cheeks have turned red. “The software worked! Out of ten thousand simulations, it achieved a ninety-seven per cent success rate of determining a starship’s destination.”

  “That’s great. What did Pisano say about it?”

  “He said it showed a lot of potential. He’s going to talk to one of the research and development leads about using their facilities to develop its practical application.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I say. “I told you you’d make a name for yourself in the SESS Division. Do you think you’d like to work in R&D?”

  Sam scrunches up her face and thinks for a fraction of a second. “Nah … I enjoy going off-world too much.”

  I grin too. I can’t imagine giving up a spot on a striker force team for a desk job in the Starship Electronics and Software Systems Division either.

  Sam’s smile quickly fades.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “They arrested a senior SESS specialist this morning.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He was managing Union funding meant for development of aircraft, but for years he’s been skimming money away.”

  “How did he get away with it for so long?” I ask.

  “He was still spending most of the funding on development, so whenever he was audited, he had something to show for it. Apparently, the delayed aircraft development is why the Union’s had to buy Kyts from the Makri.”

  I shake my head. “After the dissolution of the Union police and so many high-profile heads that have rolled over the past few years, I still can’t believe the crap people still try to pull … Meanwhile, I’m stressed out thinking about pitching my idea to Warain.”

  “Why?” Sam asks.

  “I’m worried about who might have committed war crimes and if they�
�re still in service to the Union. I’m also worried about stuffing it up. I may only get one shot at it.”

  “You’ll do well,” Sam says.

  “Do you think people are destined for just one career?” I ask. Sam responds with a frown, so I add, “I’ve always wanted to be a paramedic because of my father, but after seeing my parents’ killers jailed, all I can think about is going after more war criminals.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sam says. “If you get the go-ahead for the striker pursuit teams, you’ll still be a paramedic. I think going after war criminals is a calling … something you found later … after your father’s influence.”

  “I’m just worried I’m heading down a path I can’t return from.”

  Sam hugs me, then lets go, her face drawn. There’s something else on her mind.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, her ponytail swishing from side to side. “I had lunch with Dad today.” She pauses for a long moment.

  “… and?” I ask.

  “Every time I try to get close to him, he pushes me away. He puts up this wall and won’t share. I know he’s had it hard and that he carries a burden, but I thought it was just guilt for leaving me. After today, though … I don’t know anymore.”

  I hold Sam’s hand and gently rub it with my thumb.

  “I was only twelve when he left, and I wonder if I’ve been building him up in my mind. Maybe he’s always been like that, and I just don’t remember.” Sam looks me in the eye. “Do you think? Or do you think he’s suffering from some sort of trauma from being imprisoned on Ollen-5?”

  “His time in prison hasn’t dampened his drive at all,” I say. “But I’ve noticed it too. Whenever I’m around him, I struggle – like I find it particularly hard to have a conversation with him.”

  Sam clenches my hand and purses her lips.

  I add, “But considering what he’s been through, and keeping in mind he lost you for six years just as much as you lost him, I’d say he’s doing fairly well.”

  In the morning, a thud from a Union four-wheel drive’s heavy door comes from the street.

  “Sam,” I call out as I open the front door.

  “Hey, mate. How’s it going?” Prime Bradley asks, all chipper.

  I smile. “Good.”

  Bradley’s in his striker force uniform, like mine, except his SF Raptor shield has a gold border, signifying the rank of Prime. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen him – since our last mission – and by the looks of it he’s been working out. Like he needs to be any tougher! He’s nearly fifty now, and the fine vertical lines on either side of his mouth seem to have grown more distinct in the couple of years I’ve known him. We grab each other’s forearm in the striker force tradition that shows unity – to unite arms.

  “How are your virology studies going?” Bradley asks.

  “Good, it’s hard … and terrifying. I’ve been working with natural viruses as well as genetically engineered ones.”

  “I think what you’re doing is a good thing for SF Raptor … and the Striker Division. Having someone on the team with those skill sets could come in handy one day.”

  I smile, feeling proud to be studying something I never imaged I’d ever be capable of doing.

  Sam runs out and greets Bradley.

  Bradley’s face suddenly hardens. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Miller.”

  Sam’s expression becomes serious, reflecting Bradley’s.

  “I’m worried about Marcus’ mental state,” Bradley says. “He’s passed the psychological fitness for duty assessment, but I’m still unsure. Do think his head’s on straight, Miller?”

  “Yeah,” Sam says, her tone brusque.

  “I was in the general mess hall the other day with Marcus, when a gust slammed a door shut. It was fairly loud, and quite a few people turned around, but your father nearly jumped out of his skin.”

  Sam says nothing, and there’s an awkward silence.

  “Also … an SESS specialist came to me. He saw your father’s back when he was removing his lab coat and his shirt lifted,” Bradley pauses, “He told me your father’s back is covered in bad scars, like knife wounds.”

  Sam gasps and narrows her eyes.

  “I take it you didn’t know about it?” Bradley asks.

  “No. If he’s been tortured in prison, then I’d say he’s doing really well … all things considered.”

  Bradley glances at me, then returns his stare to Sam. He nods. “Thought I’d ask.”

  I lock eyes with Sam, her usual radiant happy glow gone. Her shortness, I guess, is about not wanting to betray her father.

  “You both ready?” Bradley asks.

  “Yup.”

  Bradley chuckles.

  “Pos, sir,” Sam replies, when she remembers who she’s talking to.

  We step outside and I pause. “Oh, wow. Is that the Union’s new four-wheel drive?”

  A beaming smile breaks through Bradley’s standard-issue deadpan. “Yeah, the Hurricane R12. One of the first off the line. Constant four-wheel drive, total device connectivity and a one-thousand-horsepower hydrogen pulse engine.”

  I gawk as we circle it, taking it in. One thousand horsepower, that’s ridiculous! It’s a spectacular machine, painted light grey with charcoal-grey wheels. A four-door wagon, with two spare wheels secured to the vertically split rear doors, it stands at roughly seven feet. Handrails run along the roof, running boards beneath the doors, and a solid bull bar protects the front. With snorkels coming out of the engine bay, on each side of the windscreen, I guess the vehicle could be submerged up to its windows and still drive. I stand next to a wheel – it comes up to my waist.

  Bradley and I must be wearing the same expression I’ve seen on Sam when she’s looking at starship electronics because she laughs and shakes her head.

  Bradley jumps in the driver’s side, I climb in the front passenger side, and Sam jumps in the back. A strong chemical smell of new plastic and fabric hits me. I’ve not experienced this before, and I glance over at Bradley, both of us still grinning. When Bradley starts the engine, even Sam’s eyes light up. The sound is like a cross between a heavy diesel engine and a jet – a deep rumble coupled with a high-pitched whistle. It sounds as if we’re about to take off.

  “You know the hydrogen pulse engines run on water?” Sam says.

  I look back at Sam, my mouth ajar. “Hey, don’t suck the fun out of it.”

  Bradley pulls up in the shade of a fifteen-foot-high concrete perimeter wall with a sign that reads “The Core. All vehicles must yield”. Two men-at-arms emerge from one of two guard huts that flank the entrance, their Ashras in hand.

  Bradley opens his window and addresses one of the men. “Gunner.”

  The other man-at-arms opens the rear doors and searches the vehicle, while his partner questions Bradley. After a short interrogation, the man-at-arms enters a command into a keypad, and the huge steel gate opens.

  Inside, hundreds of vehicles are precision parked, along with two Kyts. Having only been here a few times, I’m still excited by the place – the high security and the thrill of travelling deep underground. We leave the Hurricane and walk toward the only structure on ground level: a single-storey building, not much bigger than a house. I shield Hati’s glare with my palm as I crane my neck to look at one of the massive aerials extending hundreds of feet skyward. A dozen or so men-at-arms surround the central building, some on the roof overlooking the carpark and landing pads.

  Bradley opens the door and holds it for Sam and me. The building is little more than a large open reception with five lift wells on opposite walls.

  “Prime, what level, sir?” asks a man-at-arms.

  “Thirty-two, Gunner,” Bradley replies. He swipes his wrist on a device the man-at-arms is carrying.

  Bradley, Sam and I enter the lift, followed by the man-at-arms, who selects the floor number. The touch screen recognises his fingerprint and turns green. My stomach churns when t
he lift drops at high speed – a good indication of the distance we have to travel. The man-at-arms opens the door a minute later. “Have a good day, sirs, ma’am.”

  The Core has a unique smell; it’s like a melting pot of electronics, military hardware and the day-to-day scent of paper and fabric. We walk along the curved hallway that follows the cylindrical shape of the underground complex. Bradley swipes his wrist to a receiver, and the door unlocks with a heavy metallic clunk.

  Marcus and the rest of the team are already in the planning room.

  I shake Marcus’ hand. “Mr Miller, how are you?”

  Marcus doesn’t even crack a smile. “Stinson.”

  Sam’s dad is several inches taller than me, putting him at roughly six feet. His grey hair and crisp facial lines give him a distinguished look. Although the room is filled with conversation, Marcus and I stand side by side, silent. He constantly looks toward the door, the same way a wild animal might if it were trapped. I’ve always felt a little awkward around him, but it seems the closer to this mission we get, the harder it is to find any common ground with him.

  A flight crew and a couple of SESS specialists, who I’ve not seen before, are sitting around the tables. The windowless room is probably thirty by forty feet in size and is fitted out with a myriad of electronic devices. Pisano is present, and although he won’t be joining us on the mission, he’s been teaching at the SESS Division and acting as a mentor to Sam. Butterflies rise in my stomach when I see Prime Bradley’s boss. Bradley has warned me he can be a brute, wayward at times, and I’m anxious as to how he’ll take my proposal.

  I chat with Pisano for a short while, until Master Regulator Warain calls the room to attention. Not surprisingly, his voice is loud, authoritative. “Alright, people.” The room goes silent. “SESS Specialist Marcus Miller has convinced me that this mission has significant military value. Thus, we’re here today to plan the mission and ensure it’s a success. It’s been approved by my superiors, and I can tell you they expect results.” He looks toward Marcus. “Miller.”