Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga) (29 page)

Steve explained his experience aboard
Leona
in the Radetski system. “I learned from that, Sir. I don’t want my teams to be mousetrapped in the same way. By having armed members of the party provide overwatch while others search, smugglers will have a hard time catching my team off–guard. We let people swap roles now and then to keep things interesting, but I usually task Marines with overwatch because they’re better trained in close quarters combat. Spacers, on the other hand, know more about ships, their structure, and where contraband might be hidden. This way we play to everyone’s strengths.”

“
We don’t normally arm our search parties, except for pistols for the officers,” Maram noted. “We’ve always relied on the presence of an armed orbital patrol craft to deter resistance.”

“
I’m sure it does that, Sir, but if you should come up against desperate people, fanatics like those we encountered at Radetski, that probably won’t be enough.”

“
I take your point, Lieutenant. We’ve never had to deal with such people in this system. Let’s hope we never do! In order to avoid any controversy, I suggest only your Marines carry weapons while you’re working with us. We can explain that by pointing out that Marines are more frequently armed when on duty than Spacers, who’re issued personal weapons less often. I’d also prefer them to carry bead carbines rather than their usual beam rifles, because beams will burn right through a spaceship’s hull or bulkheads. I want to minimize the danger to anyone beyond visual range.”

“
Very well, Sir. I’ll brief my people accordingly. I assume it’s in order for me to retain my sidearm?” He patted the holster at his waist.

“
If you wish, Lieutenant. I imagine you’d feel naked without it after your experience at Radetski.”

“
Something like that, Sir. Thank you.”

Miriam joined Steve and Brooks for supper that night. As they ate, she gave them more background information about the challenges faced by the orbital patrols.

“We simply
can’t
check every ship as we should. It’d take weeks to examine all their cargoes, even with robotic inspection to speed things up. The best we can do is check their cargo manifests, pick out a couple of shipments that might possibly conceal contraband, and go through them with a fine–tooth comb. All the rest has to be checked by Customs as it’s offloaded at the Cargo Terminal. Trouble is, they have the same problems we do — too much to inspect in too little time. Even automated inspections using scanning technology can’t cover everything in sufficient depth.”

Brooks nodded soberly. “Even though I’m new to this business, I can see that a multi–million–ton cargo ship is a pretty big haystack in which to look for a needle.”

Miriam made a
moué
of frustration. “You said it! If we tried to inspect all cargoes in detail, every shipper on the planet would complain to their political representatives, who’d come down on us like a ton of bricks for obstructing commerce. Of course, those same representatives will crucify the System Patrol Service if we don’t solve the smuggling problem! It seems like we can’t win for losing sometimes!”

“
I hope we can help you for a few days at least,” Steve said.

“
I’m sure you will. I’ll accompany each of your groups in turn, a different one each day. I want to make sure your people are working well with ours. If there’s any friction or uncertainty, I’d like to nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand.”

“
Fair enough,” Brooks agreed. “We’ll instruct our NCO’s to co–operate with you, to make sure things are kept in hand.”

~ ~ ~

On the fifth morning of their assignment, Steve met with the skipper of the patrol craft aboard which his team had been operating. Junior Lieutenant Vikram was a short, wiry man with an engaging smile, while his Inspection Officer, Ensign Melchin, didn’t seem deterred in the least deterred by his junior status. Miriam also attended, as she’d be accompanying Steve’s team that day.

“
I know our searches haven’t produced any results over the past few days, but that may change this morning — at least, I hope it does,” Vikram informed them, frowning. “SS
Vargash
will be entering orbit within the hour, inbound from Sigma and points between. She’s owned by the Fargin conglomerate. We suspect they’re trafficking in smuggled goods, both for their own account and transshipping them through our system to other destinations. The problem is, their overall trading activities are on such a large scale that they can easily conceal shipments of contraband beneath that cover. We’ve been trying to catch them in the act for over a year, but without success so far.”

“
What sort of commodities d’you think they’re smuggling?” Steve asked.

“
Precious stones and metals, transuranics and other high–value, low–bulk items. They deal in them legitimately, but their known transactions don’t seem to add up to the volume of those commodities their ships have been known to carry. However, they always manage to find ways to explain the discrepancies. We’re sure they’re up to something — the difficulty is proving it.”

Ensign Melchin nodded. “A very high value in those items can fit into a very small space. Since they’re high–weight and low–bulk, how about weighing some of the containers or crates? That’ll pick up any discrepancy that might be missed by a purely visual inspection.”

Vikram frowned. “I’m not sure. It’s a lot of hard work.” He glanced at Steve and Brooks. “You see, the cargo–handling tractor beams’ weight measurement readout can’t be trusted — it’s too easy to adjust it to give a false reading, which will conceal anything a smuggler doesn’t want displayed. We have industrial–grade tractor–beam scales on board our patrol craft, but we don’t normally use them for inspections because of the time and hassle factor. We have to set them up in a hold, move a crate or container to them, read its weight, compare it to the factory–certified weight — making allowance for any difference between the gravity where that was measured and the ship’s artificial gravity settings — then move it back to its place and bring the next one to the scales. It’ll be very time–consuming to do that for more than a few crates or containers.”

“
Sure, Sir,” his assistant agreed cheerfully, “but since we’re suspicious about these guys anyway, what have we got to lose?”

Vikram shrugged. “You have a point. All right, send the cutter back to me after it drops you at the ship. Find a hold where you want to weigh something, open its freight doors and call me. I’ll have the cutter deliver the scales to your location.”

They boarded
Vargash
as soon as she settled into her powered orbit near the Cargo Terminal, to be met by her supercilious First Mate. “Of course, you’re welcome to take as long as you wish,” he assured them airily. “We have nothing to hide. There’s just one thing. We have a new inertial compensator aboard, a replacement for a defective unit on another of our ships, the
Trudish.
She’s been immobilized here for six weeks in a parking orbit, waiting for it. We really need to get her back into service — she’s costing us a fortune sitting idle like that! Would you mind checking and clearing that shipment first, so we can send it over? A cargo shuttle’s already on the way to collect it.”

“
I see no reason why not,” Melchin agreed. “We’ll start in that hold.”

The team took the conveyor down the long internal passageway until they came to the airlock for Hold 9. Sealing the helmets of their spacesuits and the Marines’ powered armor, the team went through the airlock, accompanied by a Bosun’s Mate to act as ship’s representative and deal with any questions or problems. The hold’s cargo doors were already open to the airless vacuum of space, stars glittering brightly in the background. The internal gravity field was on, so they didn’t need the magnetic inserts in their boots to hold them to the deck.

The Bosun’s Mate led them to a pile of crates strapped down near the cargo doors. “This is the inertial compensator,” he informed them over their spacesuit radios. “It’s a standard unit, straight from the factory, with the customs seals from Sigma still on it. I’ll bring up the manifest, along with the invoice, serial numbers and bill of lading.”

Steve looked around approvingly. His Marines, weapons clipped to their chest harness, and his Spacers split up to accompany members of the Midrash search party as they checked the markings on the crates. They moved smoothly and efficiently. He walked over to the cargo station, where Ensign Melchin was going through the documentation on the display. As he called off each crate’s number and details, a member of the search team checked its markings.

Steve switched to the command channel and looked across at Lieutenant Sabran. “So far, everything seems in order,” he commented. “The crates’ details match those on the manifest: dates of manufacture, assembly and packaging, dimensions and weight, and so on.”

“
Sure. Let’s see about their weight.” She tapped Melchin on the shoulder. “Ensign, how about getting the scale over here?”

“
Sounds good to me. I was just checking each crate against the manifest before I did that.”

The Bosun’s Mate was incredulous. “You wanna
weigh
these crates? You gotta be kidding! That’d take hours, and they want them aboard
Trudish
right away! She’s been waiting weeks for ’em!”

Steve looked towards the open cargo doors. A hulking ten–thousand–ton cargo shuttle slid to a halt just outside them, using her own tractor and pressor beams to lock herself in place. A work party of a dozen space–suited stevedores stepped across the narrow gap between the ships. Their magnetized boot soles and heels held them to the deck until they reached the red–painted demarcation line a meter inside the hold, showing where the ship’s internal gravity field took effect. They ignored the search party and moved purposefully towards the crates containing the inertial compensator.

“Bosun’s Mate, tell those stevedores to wait!” Steve ordered sharply. “We’ve not finished yet.” He turned back to Melchin. “Ensign, I don’t like the way they’re trying to hurry things. I suggest we get those scales over here ASAP.”

“
Aye aye, Lieutenant. I’ll contact Lieutenant Vikram at once.”

The stevedores were casting loose the lashings on the first crates. Steve snapped, “Bosun’s Mate, I told you to stop them! Do it!
Now!”

“
You gotta be crazy!” the Vargash spacer blustered. “Why in hell would you suspect these crates of holding anything else? I’ve shown you the damn documents. The Patrol’s never questioned them before! You’re costing us money every minute you hold us up like this! I’m gonna ask the First Mate to file an official complaint!” His hand went to the controls on his chest panel to change radio channels, without issuing any orders to the stevedores.

Steve looked at Melchin. “Ensign, he’s stalling us! Something’s badly wrong here. Can you stop those stevedores?”

Melchin turned to the Bosun’s Mate. “You heard Lieutenant Maxwell — stop them! What channel are their radios using?”

The Bosun didn’t reply. Having already changed channels, he couldn’t hear Melchin. His lips were moving as he spoke, presumably to the First Mate.

Melchin strode over to the stevedores, Steve following him. He held up his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture, then pointed to his ear, raising his hand in a gesture of inquiry. One of the workers indicated the figure 9 using his fingers, and Steve and Melchin set their suit radios to that channel.

“
You men, stop that!” Melchin snapped. “We’re not done with these crates yet, and won’t be for some time. You’ll have to wait for them.”

The man who’d signaled the channel stepped forward. “You can’t hold us up like this! We’ve got a priority rush order to take these over to
Trudish
and get her back in service by tonight. She’s supposed to leave tomorrow with a full cargo. Every minute you waste costs us money! If you mess us around, we’ll sue the Patrol to recover every credit!”

Steve saw the stevedores spreading out behind the speaker, and his instincts screamed a warning. That wasn’t a casual, random movement. They were getting into line, clearing each others’ way. It strongly suggested preparations for a fight.

He switched his radio to his team’s channel, and snapped, “Heads up, everyone! This could be trouble. Don’t start anything, but don’t wait for orders if they do — just stop them.” As he switched back to channel 9, he saw his Marines begin to spread out, watchful, alert, ready to unclip their bead carbines from their chest harnesses at the first sign of trouble. The Midrash personnel were busy with their inspections, but his Spacers were moving towards them to pass on the alert.

Melchin was still trying to argue with the foreman. Steve turned back to him and chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to say anything that would trigger hostilities. He knew every word was being recorded by their suit control panels, and would be analyzed to a fare–thee–well in any after–action reconstruction of events.

“Ensign, I suggest this situation calls for guidance from more senior Midrash officers.”

“
You’re right, Lieutenant. Please deal with this man. I’ll have Lieutenant Vikram contact OrbCon for instructions.”