The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2) Page 4

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Our source says it will be off-world. Triton, perhaps, or more likely Hyperion here in the Atlas system…. In either event we have people on the payroll – it will be easy enough to arrange the hit.”

  “Make it so,” he said.

  “However, I was wondering,” said Hobbs. “If in this particular case it might be in our interests to make a statement. To try something bolder, something more conspicuous.”

  “Perhaps,” said St.Clair. “What do you have in mind?”

  CHAPTER 3: Murder Most Foul

  Harland Shipyards, Atlas.

  ‘Health and Safety Inspection’ read the notice above the time clock. ‘Employees are reminded that between 9:00 am and 4:00 pm today a team of inspectors from the Health and Safety Directorate will be carrying out spot checks in all areas of the facility. Please ensure that you are in full compliance with shipyard health and safety ordinances’.

  Spot checks? News to me, thought Jimmy Franks as he clocked in. Still, there was nothing particularly unusual in that; the company was pretty strict about that kind of thing, and so were the health and safety people. And rightly so – far too many accidents happened simply because folk didn’t have the proper gear.

  As a consequence he wasn’t unduly worried when he was summoned to the shift foreman’s office a few hours later. Arriving at the door he re-checked all his necessary safety gear – hard hat, ear protectors, safety glasses, steel capped work boots and radiation detection badge. With everything in order he gave a knock and stepped inside.

  “Hi,” said Jimmy.

  “Good day,” said a man sitting at the foreman’s desk. Another was leaning up against a cabinet, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” said Jimmy. “I suppose you’d like to check all my safety gear.”

  “Not really,” said the man behind the desk. “Do you want to check this gentleman’s safety equipment?” he asked his associate.

  “Not particularly, sir.”

  “Actually, Mr. Franks, we’d just like to have an informal chat.”

  “Oh, safety protocols,” said Jimmy. “Ask away.”

  “Can’t say that we know very much about safety protocols. Well, not as far as shipyards are concerned.”

  “No?” said Jimmy in bewilderment.

  “I’m afraid not. In actual fact, my name is Burns. Detective Chief Inspector Burns, Atlas Police. What we’d really like to talk about is the Oceana, the Blaise, the Argos and the Skylark. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Mullins?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mullins as Jimmy’s jaw dropped like a dead weight.

  “Of course, those are just the ones that we know about. For certain, that is, though we have another probable and a couple of possibles… which we were rather hoping you could help us with.”

  “I don’t know anything,” said Jimmy, just a mite too quickly.

  “Ah, but we think that you do, Mr. Franks, and while this will probably come as a surprise to you, we really are here to help. I urge you to believe this, because before very long you’re going to need all the friends you can get.”

  * * *

  Just as Burns and Mullins were going about their daily business, Sam and Chumly were going about theirs, tailing a government official who, it was rumored, had some peculiar sexual tastes which, while not exactly illegal, would make his position difficult – if not untenable – should they ever become public knowledge. The plan was simple enough; follow him around until he compromised himself, take a few photos and then blackmail him for whatever he was worth. Government officials were always good for something when it came to blackmail, though in Sam’s limited view they were good for very little else.

  On this particular day, their route took them right past Jimmy Frank’s apartment building. It was pure chance that as they passed by, a car pulled up outside the building and three men got out. They had that look about them – a professional look, a purposeful look, a look that that told Sam that they weren’t here to have afternoon tea with their dear old grandmother.

  Sending Chumly to continue trailing the target, Sam entered a conveniently situated coffee shop. Settling himself down at a table by the window he gazed over at Jimmy’s building. It wasn’t very large, just four floors with two or three apartments on each floor. Jimmy’s was on the third floor. In a matter of seconds one of those professional looking faces appeared at Jimmy’s living room window, quickly surveyed the road outside and then closed the blinds.

  Mr. Hobbs isn’t going to like this, thought Sam. He isn’t going to like it at all.

  * * *

  “Who do you work for?” said Burns. “Who are you’re handlers?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jimmy stubbornly.

  “Mr. Franks, perhaps I should explain that a warrant was issued this morning. A warrant to search your apartment. You’ll know, of course, what we found… a large sum of money – a very large sum of money. Far more than you would expect for a man of your means, and all hidden in your refrigerator under a leg of mutton.”

  “It was lamb,” said Jimmy.

  “Whichever. Funny thing is that date on the pack almost exactly matches the date that the Oceana was lost. An amazing coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I can explain the money. I… I like to gamble.”

  “Then you’ve backed a loser, Mr. Franks, because while you might be able to explain away the money, I doubt very much if you’ll be able to explain away these. Sergeant?”

  Mullins stepped aside and removed an evidence bag from the cabinet, laying it on the table in front of Jimmy’s eyes. The bag contained several lengths of metal tubing.

  “These are fuel lines, recovered from a scrap bin adjacent to the Skylark. We’ve checked the part numbers against the ship’s service history, according to which they were installed when the ship was built and by all rights should still be there. Inspection of the Skylark shows that the engine room fire was caused by a failure of non-standard, not to mention very sub-standard parts. Question is, who made the switch?”

  “I still don’t–”

  “We managed to lift several fingerprints from the fuel lines, Mr. Franks. They match prints taken from your locker and I’ve no doubt that when we take your fingerprints they’ll match those as well.”

  “And finally, we also have an eye witness who saw you drop these fuel lines in the scrap bin,” said Burns. “We have you dead to rights, Mr. Franks. All that matters is where we go from here.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure?” said Hobbs.

  “Positive,” said Sam. “We got the number of the car and ran it through one of our contacts. It’s government owned, presently attached to the police.”

  “And where is Franks now?”

  “He’s at work, off planet. Do you think he’s squealed?”

  “Either that or he’s been caught, in which case he’ll squeal anyway. Retire him – first available opportunity.”

  Sam nodded. Pity that, he thought. He rather liked Jimmy. He was an uncomplicated character; didn’t make any fuss and never caused any trouble. Not until now of course. Oh well, shit happens, as they say.

  Hobbs also thought it was a pity. Not that he had any personal feelings for Jimmy Franks one way or the other; he really couldn’t care less if he lived or died. But they would be losing a very useful asset and one which would not be easy to replace. It was bad for business. Inevitable, of course, he mused. People like Franks had a shelf life, after which they became a liability, and there was only one thing to do with liabilities.

  Busy day, he thought. It was the second time he’d authorized an execution... and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

  * * *

  “Mr. Franks,” said Burns, tapping his ‘Health & Safety Directorate’ name tag. “Have you not wondered why we are travelling incognito?”

  Jimmy shook his head.

  “Well, have you ever heard of
a guy called Oliver Knowles? He worked over at the Criterion shipyards.”

  “No, never heard of him.”

  “He was doing much the same thing as you. Sabotage. You know how it works – a stooge at the shipyards sabotages a ship…” Jimmy closed his eyes at the word stooge and flinched at the word sabotage. “Then a salvage ship turns up in the nick of time and claims salvage rights. Or maybe the ship ends up like the Oceana. And by the way, we know that the Oceana wasn’t destroyed in an engine core explosion. When the area was surveyed, they found a lot of radiation as you might expect, but no debris field, which you definitely wouldn’t. Either way, it’s a very nice profit for all involved. Was it worth it, Mr. Franks?” Jimmy shook his head.

  “But back to the story. Do you know what happened to Oliver Knowles?” Another shake of the head. “No, neither does anyone else. He just didn’t turn up for work one day – disappeared without a trace. Of course, by that time the police were on to him. They’d already pulled him in for questioning and figured that he’d most likely done a bunk with his share of the profits. Then one day he turned up – well, part of him – in a lumber yard, of all places. When the owner arrived to open up the yard one morning he found the guard dog fiercely defending a piece of jaw-bone. He wouldn’t have thought much about it except that the bone contained a couple of pre-molars, both of which showed signs of dental work which, by the way, is how we came to identify Oliver Knowles. As I say, nobody knows exactly what happened, though we think it’s safe to assume he wasn’t eaten by the dog. What everyone does agree on is the fact that Knowles is very definitely dead, and was almost certainly eliminated by whoever he was working for, and I don’t mean the Criterion shipyard. And that is why we are travelling incognito, Mr. Franks. We don’t want the same thing to happen to you. I’d love to lock you up, you know. With things as they stand you’re looking at twenty five years minimum, and you deserve every one of them. The monetary aspects go without saying, and aside from that you’ve caused injury, damaged a lot of reputations and cost at least one ship’s master his career. However… we’d much prefer to put away the people who masterminded this operation and the key to them,” continued Burns, “is you.”

  Jimmy slumped down in the seat. “I didn’t mean any of this to happen… I really didn’t.”

  “We tend to hear that a lot. So how did you get started in all this? Who approached you?”

  “It was a gambling debt. They said if I did what they asked, the debt would go away.”

  “Who told you?”

  Jimmy related all the events from that terrible night at the Cascades, the encounter with Hobbs, the visits of Sam and Chumly, the delivery of boxes of parts and detailed instructions… everything that had happened up until the present day. Well, almost everything.

  “Well here’s the deal, Mr. Franks. You give us your full co-operation – and that means going on the stand to testify – and we’ll get you into the witness protection program. A new name and a new life on a new planet. The alternative is that we arrest you here and now and you take your chances with the judicial system, but I can’t guarantee that you won’t end up like Oliver Knowles. The choice is yours.”

  After a brief consideration of his position, Jimmy decided that he was firmly wedged between a rock and a hard place or, more accurately, a rock and a new life on a new planet. The new life won hands down.

  “So what happens now?” he asked.

  “Just go about your daily business as usual. In the meantime we’ll have your apartment bugged so that next time Sam and Chumly come calling we’ll have a record of everything they say. And just so that you know, you’ll be followed pretty well everywhere you go so don’t do anything stupid like trying to make a run for it. Clear?”

  “Yes,” said Jimmy.

  “Right,” said Burns. “You’d better get back to work. And just to maintain the charade, Mullins and I will spend the next few hours checking safety equipment.”

  Jimmy rose from the chair and was half way to the door when he paused and turned around. “There’s something you should know. There was another ship, just the other day. It was unusual – a rush job.”

  “What kind of ship?” said Burns.

  “It was a government owned ship. It didn’t have a name – just a designation. D47.”

  “D47?” said Burns, looking over at Mullins. “Rings a bell. Sergeant, you’d better continue that equipment check on your own. I’m going back to base and find out all I can about D47. Keep me informed.”

  * * *

  San Francisco Spaceport

  Ex-Commodore Jacks couldn’t help but marvel at the view as he shot upwards. Nearing the top of the space elevator the sky gradually changed from the most brilliant of blues to the blackest of blacks. As his surroundings darkened he briefly wondered how long it would be before he saw his next blue sky, if indeed he ever did. He quickly chided himself for dwelling on such thoughts; they would serve no useful purpose. He had gambled greatly and lost greatly. Whatever the future held in store he would face it as he always did, back straight and head held high. He still had his wits, he still had his resourcefulness… and with any luck he still had friends.

  His escort – two rather overweight prison guards – stood one on each side. Jacks was amused to see both eyeing him warily, though exactly what they expected him to do in the confines of the elevator pod was anyone’s guess. Handcuffed as he was, Jacks would still have quite happily beaten the pair of them into submission, but the tactical situation was poor at best. A better opportunity would present itself and if it didn’t, he’d just have to manufacture one.

  As the elevator stopped, the doors opened and Jacks was guided along a deserted gantry to the waiting transport, on the outside of which the designation D47 was written in large, yellow letters. He was led through the airlock, along a passageway and ushered into small holding cell complete with bunk, chair and ablutions. The reinforced glass door swished shut and the two prison guards exchanged the necessary paperwork with one of D47’s crew. Then giving Jacks a final look up and down they stomped off to enjoy the view on the downward leg back to the surface. Meanwhile, the crewman pressed a button outside Jacks’ cell and spoke into the intercom.

  “Morning,” he said brightly. “My name is Clive and I am your cabin attendant. On behalf of Captain Slattery and the rest of the crew I’d like to welcome you aboard Penitentiary Air flight 101. We are just finishing our final pre-flight checks after which we will be making our departure. Our flight time is estimated at eighteen hours. We regret that there is no in-flight entertainment, no duty free service and there are no complimentary drinks. You can, however, find drinking water and ration packs in the locker below the sink.”

  “Most amusing,” said Jacks.

  “May as well make the best of it,” said Clive.

  “How about these?” said Jacks, gesturing to his handcuffs.

  “The cuffs will automatically disengage once we are underway. Anyway, enjoy the flight. If you need anything, just holler – not that I’m allowed to open the door or anything.”

  “Medical emergency?” mused Jacks.

  “Don’t worry – your life signs will be monitored throughout the flight. If you get sick, we’ll know about it before you do. By the way, you are our only passenger today. You must be important.”

  “At least they got that part right,” said Jacks.

  * * *

  Completely powered down, the Reaper drifted silently on the edge of the great void outside the Atlas Kuiper belt. They had already been here for six hours even though the target wasn’t due for another two or three. Larson sat back in the pilot’s seat, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. A great part of his job involved waiting and like the ship he commanded, he was powered down but ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  Barnes sat at the tactical console, equally relaxed. A third person sat at the back of the flight deck. Barnes watched as the young man rose from his chair and paced around the deck, clenching and u
nclenching his fists. He removed the pistol from the holster on his belt, ejected the magazine, shoved it back with a sharp clack and then threw himself back in his chair, exhaling loudly. His right foot then began a staccato beat on the deck plating.

  “Relax,” said Barnes.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t you get your head down for a while?” said Larson.

  “I said I’m fine,” the young man said coldly. Then he jumped to his feet and stalked off to the rear of the ship, slamming the flight deck door as he went.

  “Bit edgy, isn’t he?”

  “Wound up like a top,” said Barnes. “Think he’s up to it?”

  “Hobbs chose him personally,” said Larson. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Barnes stood and opened a locker beside his console. Withdrawing his own personal firearm he fastened it to his belt. “Insurance,” he said.

  Captain Slattery removed his hands from the control stick and flexed his shoulders. “You have control,” he said.

  “I have control,” said Second Officer Hansen.

  “We are on course and on schedule. ETA two hours and ten minutes.”

  “Roger.” said Hansen. “How’s the passenger?”

  “Asleep on his bunk,” said Clive, checking the monitor on his console.

  “Right then,” said Slattery, rising from his chair. “I’m going to have forty winks. Wake me up when–”

  Before he could finish his sentence the ship lurched violently to starboard, a loud ‘whump’ echoing through the hull.

  “Christ, what was that?” said Slattery. “Did we hit something?”

  “I think something hit us,” said Hansen. “We’re losing power… main power is down. Switching to auxiliary… auxiliary is down too… we’re on batteries. The communications array is offline. All we’ve got is the short range transmitter.”

  “Get a message out anyway.”

  “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is prison transport D47. Two hours out from Hyperion base. We have a probable meteor impact. Main and auxiliary power down. Life support failing. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday….”