MISSION VERITAS (Black Saber Novels Book 1) Read online

  MISSION VERITAS

  A BLACK SABER NOVEL

  BOOK ONE

  JOHN MURPHY

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle WA 2015

  Copyright 2015 John Murphy

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Derek Murphy

  Edited by Deborah Natelson and Kevin Miller

  Proofreading by Tricia Parker

  Previously published as Mission Veritas, BookBaby, 2012

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Print ISBN 978-1-62015-695-7

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-706-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902524

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Personnel

  United States Sovereign

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author Bio

  Bonus Content

  Author Interview

  Author Essay

  More Great Reads from Booktrope

  To my beloved wife for putting up with me all these years, and for letting me bounce off crazy ideas. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.

  To my sons who have each turned out to be better men than I was at their respective ages. I couldn’t have asked for better kids, but that won’t stop me from offering free (unsolicited) advice.

  A special thanks to my early readers and the blog sites who took the time to review Mission Veritas.

  PERSONNEL

  Naval Transport Delaware:

  Commander Andrew “Burdie” Burdette:

  Commanding Officer

  Chief Petty Officer Banks:

  Ranking Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO)

  Planet Veritas Outpost Station Blue Orchid:

  Commander Alexandra Connor:

  Commanding Officer

  Master Sergeant Houlihan:

  Ranking NCO

  Mission Veritas Candidates:

  Benson, Jeremy—18, male

  Carmen, Brenda—19, female

  Dohrn, Dana—18, female

  Goreman, Amelia—19, female

  Kerrington, Stiles—18, male

  Killian, Vaughn—18, male

  Mitchell, Tyla—18, female

  Pima, Solandra—19, female

  Sowell, Thomas—19, male

  Spalding, Jeffery—19, male

  Tucker, Ian—19, male

  Vasquez, Alexander—19, male

  UNITED STATES SOVEREIGN

  MILITARY RANK STRUCTURE

  Naval Ranks—Enlisted

  E1—Crewman Recruit

  E2—Crewman Apprentice

  E3—Crewman

  E4—Petty Officer Third Class

  E5—Petty Officer Second Class

  E6—Petty Officer First Class

  E7—Chief Petty Officer

  E8—Senior Chief Petty Officer

  E9—Master Chief Petty Officer

  Naval Ranks—Officer

  O1—Ensign

  O2—Lieutenant Junior Grade

  O3—Lieutenant

  O4—Lieutenant Commander

  O5—Commander

  O6—Captain

  O7—One-Star Rear Admiral

  O8—Two-Star Rear Admiral

  O9—Vice Admiral

  O10—Fleet Admiral

  Marine Corps Ranks—Enlisted

  E1—Private

  E2—Private First Class

  E3—Lance Corporal

  E4—Corporal

  E5—Sergeant

  E6—Staff Sergeant

  E7—Gunnery Sergeant

  E8—First Sergeant and Master Sergeant

  E9—Sergeant Major

  Marine Corps Ranks—Officer

  O1—Second Lieutenant

  O2—First Lieutenant

  O3—Captain

  O4—Major

  O5—Lieutenant Colonel

  O6—Colonel

  O7—Brigadier General

  O8—Major General

  O9—Lieutenant General

  O10—General

  Veritas – [ver-i-tas, -tahs] noun, Latin, “truth”

  PROLOGUE

  Annual Meeting of the Seminatore Society

  Paris, France

  Shrine to the Original Race–formerly known as Notre Dame

  March 23, 2072

  9 months, 23 days to Chrysalis

  BARRETT KERRINGTON, vice president of the United States, was more the type to smile and knee someone in the balls, which is what the Carthenogens were likely expecting.

  Barrett got up from his seat in the massive Gothic chamber and strode forward on the gilded purple carpet. He glanced up to see that the stained glass windows from centuries of Catholicism had been replaced with depictions of historical figures from the Carthenogen home planet, Carthogena.

  His ornate black silk robe fluttered, enhancing the urgency in his pace.

  Two hundred fifty similarly clad Society members glowered behind him. None of them wanted to make this walk of shame. Ahead, fifteen ivory-robed Carthenogens awaited him on the dais. His petition appeared futile. He hid his cunning delight behind a mask of somber worry.

  He’d devised a gambit for this very day of his defrocking. He had known this was coming for some time. Rather than disappear like so many other gelded saps, he found a way to keep ten moves ahead and parlay his discharge into something much more enduring.

  They were likely expecting him to go down in a big ruckus. He had to set them off-balance, disrupt their expectations. There would be no “ball kicking” today. Instead, he would delude them with slobbering, sniveling incredulity.

  In thirty steps, he knelt on a riser and bowed his head in humble reverence—already, something out of character for him.

  “May it please the Society that I should speak?”

 
Carthenogen Supreme Minister of Earth Huzan said, “It so pleases. Speak.” Huzan’s voice, normally monotone, bled with repugnance for those fallen from favor.

  “Your Excellency,” Barrett began, keeping his eyes cast downward, “I fail to see any transgressions I may have committed.”

  “You have not,” Huzan said.

  “Your Excellency, then I fail to understand why I am being denied the position of president.”

  “This is a matter of preemption, rather than punishment.”

  “Please, Your Excellency, help me to understand,” Barrett said with a pleading quiver in his voice. He understood perfectly. He was being thrown overboard for someone more charismatic, more slick.

  “You have nurtured a reputation within the Society and the citizens at large, Barrett. We need someone to carry a message that is less—abrasive.”

  Barrett had blustering down to an art, an efficient tool in extorting cooperation.

  “Your Excellency, I have been extremely loyal to Carthenogen…guidance. I have carried out every policy the Society has decided.”

  “To be sure, you have been useful and effective,” said Huzan. “The Society is indeed grateful.”

  “Then why, Your Excellency?” asked Barrett. “Why haven’t I earned the position? I have done innumerable things to benefit the Society, some of which were against my very moral fiber. All for you.”

  “You no longer have a soul with which to bargain, Barrett.”

  Minister Rooda interjected, “Whatever worth your human soul may have had, Barrett, yours was depleted on the vice presidency.”

  Indeed, his soul was running at a substantial deficit.

  “Your Excellency,” said Barrett, “if it pleases the Society, I can do so much more for you in a position of greater power.”

  “We’ve already decided on the occupant of the position you desire,” Huzan said. “Your services are no longer of advantage to us. Retire quietly when your term is up and be grateful.”

  There it was—exactly what he needed, to be relieved of responsibility. He would no longer be in the fishbowl. He’d be spared the expense of political capital on an election run, and would no longer be beholden to the whims of donors.

  At the same time, he had an open acknowledgement of his good standing with the Carthenogens. He’d averted the ugly mistake of being forcibly removed from the Shrine. He’d dodged pariah status among his colleagues in the Society.

  Still, he had one more gambit.

  His head still bowed, he squeezed his eyes closed several times to force tears. Groveling wasn’t his forte, but he had practiced.

  “Wait!” He looked into Huzan’s eyes, his trembling hands emerging from his robe. It was a startling breach of every protocol to look directly into the eyes of any Carthenogen, let alone the supreme minister of Earth. But startling was what he needed.

  “I beg of you, Your Excellency!” he rasped.

  An astonished murmur arose from the Society. Not known for showing any expression, every one of the Carthenogens on the dais looked surprised.

  Minister Rooda’s spindly fingers shot out, pointing at Barrett. “There is no begging!”

  Rooda’s timing was perfect. Barrett glanced desperately at his accomplice, his mouth flopping open, his hands still outstretched and trembling. The deposed would normally have been dragged off by now. Others might choose to walk away with a dignified stiff upper lip. Begging created drama. Doubtless, the Society members were on the edge of their seats.

  Supreme Minister Huzan raised a hand to suppress the commotion.

  “Your Excellency,” Barrett continued, “may I still provide—special service—to you?”

  “Your service is done, Barrett.”

  “But!”

  “Done, Barrett!”

  Barrett hung his head and struggled to lift his aging frame to a standing position. He slowly turned away. In a quick movement, he turned back toward the ministers.

  “I know your true agenda!” For authenticity’s sake, Barrett had an edge of anger—another startling move.

  Gasps of shock and excited babbling echoed through the cavernous halls of the Society. Everyone there knew the true Carthenogen agenda. They were, by their own silence on the matter, complicit. Barrett was teetering on heresy.

  Huzan raised his hand again. The murmuring ceased. “Are you threatening?”

  “I gave you the plans for Chrysalis,” Barrett said.

  “Chrysalis is already underway.”

  “In the short time I have left in my term, Your Excellency, I can arrange an event—a commencement of sorts. Something my…replacement…may campaign for, or against, as you see fit.”

  Neither Huzan nor any other minister made a move to cut Barrett off. He had their full attention.

  “The event,” continued Barrett, “will create a crisis. The crisis will permit your newly elected president to rally the nation—indeed, the world—and harness substantial power. The crisis will provide a compelling impetus for launching Chrysalis, and, at the same time, will quell your opposition.”

  Barrett paused a moment, looked into Huzan’s eyes, and let out a sly smile. His hand reappeared from his robe as he held up two fingers, a daring gesture. “Two birds,” Barrett said, “one stone.”

  Huzan pursed his lips, blinked twice—a good sign. They were sold.

  “There are factions within your military that are troubling,” Huzan said.

  Barrett had them. They had accepted his offer and were negotiating for more. Barrett was now free to navigate the global halls of power and wrest strategic favors.

  “Yes, Your Excellency. That will take more time.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Bangkok, Thailand

  United States Embassy

  January 14, 2073

  Day Zero of Chrysalis

  A LOUD BOOM YANKED Vaughn Everett Killian out of his trance on the couch.

  He sat upright and listened, adrenaline surging through him. Was what he’d heard real or had he been dreaming?

  He glanced at the antique bookcase against the wall. No, it hadn’t fallen over.

  A trickle of worry seeped into his otherwise crusty teenage indifference. He got up and approached the bulletproof windows in the family’s quarters, pulling back the sheer curtains and looking out across the small embassy lawn. Jutting over the walls surrounding the compound were tattered picket signs and poorly made effigies of what he presumed to be his mother, the US ambassador to Thailand. He could just hear the picketers’ muffled chanting through the thick glass.

  Occasionally, there were protests in front of the embassy for one outrage or another. Usually the protesters’ numbers were anemic, with fewer than a dozen showing up. Today there were thousands milling about like so much gunpowder. The crowd stretched around the street corners, suggesting that there were thousands more protesters just out of sight.

  A staccato of firecrackers gave Vaughn another clue about the explosion that had rousted him. To annoy people into paying attention to their whacked-out causes, protesters often made as much noise as possible. Vaughn had experienced their anger firsthand several times while being driven to school in the embassy’s armored vehicle. Protesters banged on the car, pelted it with God-knows-what, and shouted at him through the privacy glass windows, contorting their horrible, self-mutilated faces in rage.

  Vaughn hated protestors more than he hated the cockroaches that surprised him on occasion when he turned on the bathroom lights. At least the cockroaches were just trying to survive. The protesters seemed like they had devoted their lives to making him miserable, as if they blamed him for things he had never done.

  Vaughn let the curtains fall shut. Watching the hordes this morning was unnerving, like stepping into a room swarming with roaches.

  He returned to the couch and tried to get the images out
of his mind. He hated embassy life and often felt imprisoned. But he hadn’t been asked for his opinion when his mother took the position as ambassador.

  His only escape was the Fantasia console on the coffee table in front of him. He nudged it to check the digital time display. It was 11:30 a.m., Saturday morning. He had promised his fellow captives at school he would be up and on the World Net by noon to resume their game of Galactic Domination. He had about twenty-eight minutes before Jeff, Devon, and Joey could officially give him shit for being the last of their crew. If he were late, they’d make him carry their extra ammo, which would deplete his health points more quickly.

  Knowing he still had some time to kill before the game, he chose to investigate the protesters, suspecting that the thought of them would nag him with worry and disrupt his concentration.

  Vaughn grabbed the last two macadamia nut breakfast bars out of their box, ignoring the eight wrappers scattered on the coffee table and floor. He hiked up his grubby white T-shirt and stuck one of the bars into his bright red Coke pajama pants as he fumbled to open the other.

  At sixteen, Vaughn Killian didn’t have any responsibilities at the embassy other than studying and staying out of trouble. The explosion, however, felt like trouble coming to find him.

  He headed out the door of the private residence wing and approached the balustrade that overlooked the marble lobby. Saturdays were usually so quiet that he’d have to search for the embassy staff. This morning was different. He could hear a few people making noise, moving around, talking on phones.

  The din had an agitated chord, more so than usual.

  More firecrackers and chanting came from outside. Doubtless, the protestors were at the forefront of everyone’s mind. Much like the monsoons of summer, nothing could be done about them, but they couldn’t be ignored, either.

  In a large alcove at the front door, Captain Leon, who was in charge of the embassy’s US Marine security detail, looked out through the ornate bulletproof windows. The captain was six foot even, a striking black man with an authoritative bearing. He was the most meticulous person Vaughn had ever met.

  Normally, the captain wore “alphas”—a drab olive-colored uniform that resembled a suit and tie. Even on his off-duty days, Captain Leon wore a civilian sports coat and button-up shirt. Today, however, he wore digital camouflage fatigues pressed so crisp they could have stood at attention on their own.