Starship Insurgent (The Galactic Wars Book 6) Read online

  “Keep talking trash,” Colton said. “I’m going to laugh my ass off if you ring the bell at Biscuit.”

  Reaper candidates could drop upon request (DOR) at any time. All you had to do was ring the bell, and you were out.

  “Never going to happen.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ryan had never quit anything in his life. He figured he’d let Reaper training kill him before he rang the bell and quit. The gauntlet had been thrown down, and Ryan was never one to back down from a challenge.

  5

  Emma

  The hospital room was antiseptic—a stark white room with a minimalist design. Bio monitors flickered with vital signs. Emma Castle lay in bed with a bandage around her head and an IV dripping into the vein in her arm. The outer hallway bustled with the continuous activity of nurses as they scurried about the intermediate care unit.

  Emma’s eyes finally peeled open. The room was fuzzy as she looked around. She looked perplexed, not quite sure where she was, or how she got there. But it didn’t take long for the memories to come flooding back. She tried to sit up just as a nurse entered the room.

  “Just relax,” the nurse said in a soothing voice. “You’ve suffered a mild concussion. The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation. They pulled a pretty big chunk of shrapnel from your leg.”

  “No. I’ve got work to do.” Emma tried to get herself out of bed but the nurse stopped her.

  “Not anymore you don’t.”

  “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

  “If you want to walk out that door, I can’t stop you. I’ll get the paperwork to check you out, but please wait until the doctor comes to see you. Can you do that for me?” It wasn’t the first time the nurse had to deal with a combative patient.

  Emma nodded.

  “I get it, honey.” She lifted her brow at Emma. “You think I like spending my life in this place?”

  Emma softened.

  “I pulled two 12 hour shifts. Believe me, I’m ready to go home.”

  “Are there any other survivors here?”

  “A few.”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “I only know what the news tells me,” the nurse said. “You people are tightlipped.”

  “It goes with the job.”

  The nurse started out of the room, then she turned back, remembering something. “Oh, Mr. Graham was here to see you. He said he’d be back shortly.”

  “That’s my boss.”

  “He was very worried about you. Cute too.” The nurse smiled and darted out of the room.

  Emma found the remote and clicked on the TV. It didn’t matter what station she turned to, all she could find was news about the attack. Lots of aerial views of the smoldering rubble.

  Emma waited for what seemed like an eternity. She was getting restless. She wasn’t a woman who liked to sit still. Every second that she was lying in this hospital bed was a second that she could be tracking down leads. She lived alone. She didn’t have family in the area. She didn’t have a boyfriend—there was no time. Work for the agency was all-consuming. It took a special person to put up with the long hours and extended absences. It took a relationship with a lot of trust. And it’s hard to establish trust when you can’t tell your significant other the intimate details of your workday because they are classified. Emma was a rule follower. She went by the book. She was a damn good agent.

  It was well into the evening by the time Doctor Patel arrived. He looked over her chart as he entered the room. “Miss Castle, how are you feeling?”

  “Fine. When can I get out of here?”

  “Well, it seems you’ve suffered a concussion. I took a piece of shrapnel from your thigh, but you got lucky. No major veins or arteries were involved.”

  “That’s what the nurse said.”

  “Your vitals are all excellent. But your scans did reveal something a little… troubling.”

  “I feel fine. I don’t even have a headache. And my leg doesn’t feel like anything more than a scratch.”

  Dr. Patel just blurted it out. “Your scans indicate the presence of a glioblastoma.”

  “A glio-what?”

  “It’s a cancerous brain tumor.”

  Emma’s face went pale.

  “It’s location makes it inoperable. Median survival time is 14.6 months. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Emma was speechless.

  “Have you had any headaches, nausea, vomiting prior to today?”

  She shook her head. “What are the treatment options?”

  “Each case is different. We’ll have to do further genetic testing. We have a multiplicity of treatment protocols.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “I’ve had patients go into full remission. Others didn’t make it six months.”

  Emma deflated. “It’s 2385 and we haven’t solved this yet?”

  “It’s a challenging diagnosis.”

  Emma looked dazed. “Do me a favor. Keep this between us. Do not let my employer know.”

  “I am bound by oath to keep your medical records private. Only the hospital and the insurance provider will have access to the information. But knowing your employer, they will find out eventually.”

  Emma frowned.

  “If you’ll agree to stay overnight, I can run further tests and we can establish a game plan for treatment.”

  Emma reluctantly nodded.

  “Keep your chin up. There are many possible outcomes.” Doctor Patel left the room.

  The news was no easy thing to hear, and it left Emma numb. But she wasn’t going to let a silly thing like cancer get in the way of her finding the terrorist cell responsible for this heinous act.

  She took a deep breath and tried to think about things rationally. Everybody has to die sometime, she thought. It was just going to be a little sooner than she expected. She tried to put a positive spin on it. She had been given a gift. She probably should have died in the UIA building. She would go about her life like every day was a bonus—only now, she had a time limit to bring the terrorists to justice.

  A few hours later John Graham came to visit her. “Well, you look…” he fumbled for words, “better than most people who were at the Hive.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “The good news is that most of the staff were out for the holiday break. Otherwise, the death toll would have been a lot higher.”

  “Right now right, the death toll is at 7325. But we expect that number to rise over the next few days. There are several people here in critical condition that don’t look like they will make it.”

  Emma looked crestfallen.

  “By now I’m sure you’ve heard the news about Raptor Stadium.”

  Emma nodded.

  “This is the worst terrorist attack in Federation history. We lost a lot of good people today.” Graham gave a solemn pause. “You are now the senior agent in CTU. If you’re up to it, I want you to nail this scumbag. You find this Ragza Vin Zelcor, and you bring me his head on a stick.”

  Emma’s face turned hard with determination. “I’m up to it, sir.”

  6

  Ryan

  The scoreboard wasn’t at all what Ryan was used to, especially at this point in the game—23 to 20, with four minutes left in the fourth quarter. For the first time all season, the Spartans were losing. And they were in their own house. The Darrell J. Sully Stadium held 22,000 people. Not bad for a high school football game. But a hell of a crowd to lose in front of. They had been kicking ass and taking names all season. But so had the West End Wolverines. This was the Federation championship.

  Both teams came into this game with undefeated records. The Wolverines were notorious for dirty play, and they had been getting in cheap shots all night. Their boys were big. There wasn’t one of them on the field that was under 6’2”. They hit hard. The only thing you could do was try to hit harder. The Wolverines had the highest percentage of players that transitione
d into the Professional Football League of any high school in the Federation. If you were serious about playing pro ball, you did everything you could to get into the West End High School. Parents bought houses within the district just so their sons could attend. Scouts from the PFL were a common site at Wolverine games.

  Ryan didn’t care who they were, he didn’t like to lose. The odds were against the Spartans. The Wolverines were favored to win this game by 20. That didn’t sit well with Ryan. It was third-down and seven and the Spartans were on their own 26 yard line. All they needed to do was score once, then let their league-leading defense do the work.

  The lights of the stadium were blinding. Ryan looked out at the crowd—they were on their feet, cheering. They chanted Spartans, Spartans, over and over again. It was almost deafening. Kendall was out there somewhere. She didn’t much care for football, but she had never missed one of Ryan's games.

  Ryan's eyes darted back to the scoreboard. In the back of his mind, the terrorist attacks still loomed large. An event this size could be a target. Everyone in the stands knew it, but they tried to go about life as if nothing had happened. The odds were slim that a high school football game would become a terrorist target. But still, the thought was there.

  The offensive coordinator called the play over the comm system. He was a short, stocky, bald man with a mustache. Probably about 35. He had a look on his face like he was perpetually constipated. His vocal cords were frazzled from continuous screaming. “I Double Right Bootleg Pass Lima Romeo F 32 Slam, on two.” His angry voice blared through the in-helmet speakers as he repeated the play.

  There was no need for a huddle. The entire game was analyzed and fed into a predictive modeling algorithm in real time. The limited AI would spit out the next play based on its probability of success. Football games were basically two computers playing each other, with the only variables being the human element. Computer assisted coaching had been banned in the PFL, but it was still legal in high school, for the time being. Though, it didn’t seem to make the game any less exciting.

  The Spartans got into formation, and Ryan prepared to take the snap. He surveyed the defensive formation—a bunch of angry snarling giants ready to crunch him into the ground. “Ready. Set. Hut. Hut.”

  The clack of helmets and pads crashing into each other filled the air. There were grunts and groans. A symphony of chaos. As soon as Ryan felt the leather ball in his hand he dropped back and play faked a handoff to the fullback. Then he hid the ball and rolled right. His eyes scanned left then right. The tight end, Noah Denver, had a lead on the defensive cornerback.

  Ryan’s arm sprang back, then launched a perfect spiral down the right side of the field. That was the last thing he saw. A defensive back wrapped him up and took him to the ground. Ryan felt like he had been hit by a Mack truck. It was bone crushing, and he felt a sharp pain in his left forearm as something snapped. The wind was knocked out of him, and he gasped for breath. He got a face full of dirt and grass in his helmet, and he was seeing stars. He rolled onto his back and saw a few of his teammates hovering over him.

  “You okay, buddy?” one of them asked.

  Ryan grimaced with pain. “Did we get a first down?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  Ryan smiled.

  Before long, the team trainer was attending to him. “Where does it hurt?”

  “I think my arm is broken.”

  The trainer evaluated his forearm. After a few moments, with help from some teammates, Ryan made it to his feet. The trainer ushered him off the field. He crossed paths with Chance Nichols, the backup quarterback. It was his first time on the field for the entire season, and Chance couldn’t totally hide his glee.

  “Give’em hell,” Ryan said.

  “I will,” Chance called back as he trotted to the line of scrimmage.

  Ryan heard the offensive coordinator begin to call the next play. He pulled off his helmet and walked down the long hallway to the locker rooms. His cleats clacked against the concrete floor as the roar of the crowd echoed down the hallway.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed up,” the trainer said.

  In the locker room, a diagnostic scan revealed a simple fracture of the ulna. The trainer was able to set the bone and apply a cast. He injected Ryan’s arm with pain medication and a regenerative compound that would speed up the healing process.

  “You will be as good as new in a few days,” the trainer said.

  “I don’t have a few days. We’ve got a few minutes.”

  “I can’t recommend you return to play right now.”

  Ryan glared at him.

  “But I’m not going to stop you if you want to get back out on the field.” The trainer gave him another shot of pain medication. “How does that feel?”

  “I can’t feel a thing.”

  “Just be careful out there.”

  By the time Ryan returned to the field, the Spartans were down by 10.

  7

  Ryan

  There was 2:30 left on the clock. The special team had returned the kick to the 33 yard line. Ryan was going to have to drive the field twice. The crowd roared as he stepped onto the grass.

  The wide receiver, Curtis Mitchell, greeted him on the field. “I’m beating my coverage deep every time. He’s tired.”

  The offensive coordinator’s voice crackled over the comm system. “Split Pro 48 Sweep Right, on one.”

  Ryan’s face tensed. He didn’t like the call. He yelled for a quick huddle. It was an unusual move, to say the least. Ryan changed the play slightly. “Split Pro Right, Go - Go - Go, on one.”

  “What about coach’s play?” a lineman asked.

  “Do you want to win?” Ryan said confidently.

  They sure as hell didn’t want to lose.

  “We don’t have time to run the ball,” Ryan said. “And could you guys provide some pass protection this time?”

  “Sorry about that,” Dean Oslick said.

  “Split Pro Right, Go - Go - Go, on one,” Ryan repeated. “Ready, break.”

  The team hustled to the line of scrimmage. Ryan glanced to the sidelines.

  The offensive coordinator’s face twisted up, perplexed. His voice crackled in Ryan's ears, “What the hell’s going on, Hunter?”

  Ryan ignored him. He surveyed the defense. “Ready, set, hut.”

  The ball snapped into his hands. Ryan dropped back into the pocket. Curtis streaked downfield. The offensive and defensive lines collided. The split offensive backs blocked the pass rushers. It was like titans smashing into each other. The crunch of shoulder pads and clacks of helmets filled the air.

  Like a slingshot, Ryan heaved the football downfield. It arced gracefully through the air. So flawless it almost seemed mechanical. Curtis was two steps ahead of the defensive cornerback. The football fell perfectly into his arms like a guided missile. Curtis snatched the ball and sprinted toward the end zone, outpacing the defensive cornerback. He strode into the end zone untouched.

  The crowd was on their feet, screaming.

  Ryan trotted off the field with a confident smirk. But that was quickly erased when the offensive coordinator laid into him. “What the hell are you doing, Hunter?” He was spraying spit as he spoke. His face was red, and his veins were bulging. “You think you know more than the goddamn computer?”

  “We scored, Coach."

  "I don't care. You follow the plays I give you. Do you understand me?"

  Ryan nodded.

  “I can’t hear you!” Coach looked like his head was going to burst.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now you’re gonna sit on the bench until you learn some discipline. I don't care if it costs us the game.”

  “But, Coach—“

  “Don’t but me. Sit your ass down.”

  Ryan clenched his jaw. "Yes, sir."

  Ryan took a seat and watched the team score the extra point. They were now within three points. Ryan hoped the defense would hold.

  The kick off
launched the ball deep into the end zone. The Wolverines receiver caught the ball and sprinted out of the end zone, dodging and weaving down the field, slipping past defenders with ease. He was finally brought down at the 42 yard line.

  There was 2:07 left in the game. The Wolverines couldn’t just run out the clock. The two minute warning stopped play, and the Spartans had used their timeouts. They needed to keep the Wolverines from getting a first down. At 3rd and 1, it wasn’t looking good. The Wolverines had a powerhouse of a running back—#34, Big Earl Redding. His legs were as thick as the average man’s torso.

  Ryan watched as the quarterback took the snap and handed off to Earl. He barreled through the defensive line, bowling over defenders. The game was all but over. With a new set of downs, the Wolverines could run out the clock. But a well-placed helmet by a defensive back knocked the football free.

  A Spartan pounced on the fumble. A massive pile-on ensued. By the time they pulled the stack of players off, it was anyone's guess who was in possession. Somehow, the Spartans managed to hold onto the ball. It was 1st and 10 on the Spartan’s 47 yard line.

  Ryan put on his helmet, buckled his chinstrap, and headed for the field.

  “I told you,” Coach Barnes yelled. “You’re sitting this one out.”

  “Come on, Coach!”

  “Nichols is the starting QB now.”

  Ryan’s whole body tensed. He was beyond pissed. He stood on the sideline and watched the rest of the team take the field. Barnes called the play, and the Spartans got into formation.

  Chance Nichols took the snap and dropped back into the pocket, but somebody missed their blocking assignment. A linebacker, #89, plowed in and smashed Nichols to the ground. A loss of 3 yards on the play.