The Firestorm Conspiracy

  Back Cover Copy

  Two reluctant heroes. A meeting that will alter the fate of billions of lives…

  On long-term leave from the UESF, Fleet Commander John Thompson is drifting through life until an old war buddy-turned-politician swoops in and shatters his carefully constructed illusion of contentment. In fewer than fifteen minutes, John’s worries go from avoiding the attentions of a professor with marital baggage to saving the human race - again. Done with ships, and space, and fighting wars, John insists on maintaining his civilian persona for the duration of the mission. However, adjusting to life on board a warship proves more complicated than he imagined. John is horrified to discover he actually enjoys aspects of a journey he thought would be hell. Of course, anything that seems too good to be true always is. A disaster with a quantum generator vaporizes nine crewmembers--including the captain and executive officer. In addition, his secret is blown out an airlock when Diplomatic Officer Rebeccah Santiago gains access to his confidential records. With the mission on the line, John must decide: refuse to take command of the Firestorm and jeopardize the operation by allowing someone unqualified to take over, or take command and go against every vow he made after the war. Oh, and save humanity while he’s at it.

  Highlight

  Grock’s eyes shone with excitement. “I can’t believe a human is coming here. And my best hatch-mate is the important agent who gets to meet it.”

  Kree ran his hands over his skull. Grock completely missed the point. Avians, very rough and uncouth avians, knew about his communications with the humans. They’d hurt and scared him. Somehow he doubted they were trying to help him preserve the peace.

  “Can I come too?”

  “What?” Kree yelled, then lowered his voice. “Are you shell-cracked? I don’t know who these fellows are, but you can be guaranteed they’re up to no good. I can’t drag you into this.”

  “But you’re going to meet a human. A real live human. With soft, mushy skin.” Grock rose and began to scan his news clippings. “I suppose the human will be clothed. I wonder, how will you tell its gender? Is it possible to tell humans apart without examining their genitals?”

  Kree lowered his head into his palms and let out an exasperated peep. He almost wished he were back in the alley with the ruffian. Almost.

  The Firestorm Conspiracy

  9781616502768

  Copyright © 2011, Cheryl Angst

  Edited by Antonia Tiranth

  Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc.

  Cover Art by Renee Rocco

  First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: May, 2011

  Lyrical Press, Incorporated

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  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  Dedication

  To my loving family, without your support and encouragement this book would never have seen the light of day.

  To my students, for your good-natured teasing and support along the way.

  And to my cheerleaders, you know who you are and you know you rock. You kept me writing when I wanted to stop. Your constant and unwavering praise brings me to new heights.

  This book is for you.

  Cheryl.

  May 2011

  Chapter 1

  Kree’s tail flicked in amusement as he deleted another dire warning, this one a government plot to eliminate free will by adding hormones to the water supply.

  Assigned to investigate all incoming reports involving humans--terror plots, conspiracies, mind control, abductions--he read dozens of claims every day. He shook his head, amazed by the insanely determined writers.

  The predicted success of the treaty negotiations sent his daily report counts spinning into space. He had processed over two hundred today alone, compared to the paltry forty before the peace talks took center stage in the newsfeeds. Kree glanced at the clock, calculating how much longer he could stay before he risked missing the last shuttle home. He was the only agent on the floor with permission to remain after hours, and he couldn’t help puffing out his chest whenever the others filed past his cubicle at the end of the shift. He loved the scowl on Preen’s face. It was worth the torrent of reports eating up his computer’s memory.

  The air filters hummed overhead as he entered data, his desk lamp the only light on the floor. After working non-stop for several hours, Kree was pleased to discover he’d almost finished wading through his inbox. Another half hour and he’d be home in time to catch his favorite entertainment video. He paused to stretch his long neck and peered over the partition. Kree gasped as he caught a furtive movement on the far side of the room.

  He wasn’t alone.

  “Hello?” he called. “Is anybody out there?” His voiced faltered as his question faded to nothing across the rows of stations.

  The cleaners had done the floor almost two hours earlier and Wheeta would have told him if someone else was going to be working with him.

  He lowered his body back into his chair, powered down his computer, and turned off his lamp. His pulse beat a staccato rhythm in his ear canals as he craned his neck around the side of his cubicle. Kree wondered how a field agent would handle the situation and wished he’d received basic operative training.

  Kree decided the circumstances called for a measure of stealth. Images of his cinematic hero, super-spy Flawr, flashed through his head. As he worked up the courage to investigate, he lamented his lack of theme music. He launched himself into the aisle and cringed as his footwear clacked on the tile floor.

  Darting glances around the deserted office, he pulled his shoes off and placed them to the side.

  Kree crept across the office, keeping his head below the cubicle tops as he moved. He reached the area where he’d spied the figure and relaxed as nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  Some agent you are, getting into a flap over invisible phantoms!

  He prepared to return to his desk, relieved no one was around to catch him behaving like an old hen, when voices drifted out from the office at the end of the walkway. An orange glow framed the edge of the partially closed door and he tiptoed forward, curiosity overwhelming his common sense.

  Kree stopped and pressed his body against the wall.

  “The chimps won’t know what hit them.”

  “I should hope so.”

  Kree didn’t recognize the voices. The first speaker’s nasal tone irritated Kree’s ear canals.

  “A few thousand deaths ought to scramble everything.”

  The second voice was deeper, more resonant, like traditional wooden temple chimes.

  “Will that be sufficient?”

  “Are you a fuzz-head? You think they’ll still want to talk peace after--”

  “Watch your
tone, Squaa.”

  “Look, the plan is perfect. I’m positive.”

  “What do you need?”

  Reports of aliens experimenting on rural livestock paled in comparison to this. The blood rushed to Kree’s feet and his field of view shrank to a small tunnel. He repeatedly opened and closed his jaw to restore circulation to his head.

  “I need you to get a message to your contacts on the Firestorm. Tell them to expect the signal. The Brown Wren will be in position by the end of the sunturn.” The sound of fingers typing on a console echoed in the hallway. “Send the communication, and let’s go.”

  Kree’s knees buckled. He whipped his head left and right, searching for a place to hide.

  Nothing.

  He inched his way along the wall, toward the cubicles. The door opened, cutting a swath of light across the tile. Not daring to breathe, Kree closed his eyes and prayed they wouldn’t notice him. He pressed his hands against the surface, willing it to lose substance. His fingers brushed what felt like a control panel.

  A door.

  Kree thumbed the panel and sighed in relief as the storage closet unlocked with a soft click. He slipped inside and collapsed against the back of the door as the locking mechanism reengaged. The sound of shoes on the tile barely registered over the pounding of his heart. First one set, then the other, walked past his hiding place.

  The footsteps receded and he began to breathe more easily. He would wait five minutes and exit the closet--and the building--as quickly as possible.

  “Squaa,” a deep bass hissed. “Squaa, someone’s here.”

  Kree’s heart threatened to burst through his ribs.

  “What? Impossible.”

  Kree winced at the high-pitched reply.

  “How do you explain these, then?”

  “Footwear? You’re alarmed about some peon’s shoes? There must be dozens of pairs tucked under those desks.”

  “But--”

  “I’m going home.”

  “I found this pair in the walkway.”

  “So?”

  “I didn’t get this far ignoring my suspicions.”

  “More like fantasies.”

  “Call me shell-cracked, but I’m sure we’re not alone.”

  “Whatever.” Squaa sighed.

  Squaa’s sarcasm annoyed Kree. If he hadn’t been so terrified, he would’ve given the buzzard a lesson on propriety.

  “Squaa…”

  “All right, one quick search.”

  “By the nine sons of Aesculdan, what am I going to do?” Kree whispered as he paced the confines of the supply closet. He balanced his need to move with the necessity of keeping his tail from brushing against the shelves of electronics supplies.

  He had a matter of moments before they started looking in closets and storerooms. If only he’d been brave enough to take the field agents’ training. Then he’d know what to do.

  Kree flicked his tail angrily, knocking over a spool of computer cable.

  He flinched. Strutting around and waving a giant feather would be almost as stealthy as hiding in the dark, rattling pots and pans like some old hen.

  Kree froze at the sound of doors being opened. He panted to cool himself and stroked the sides of his legs in agitation. His right hand brushed the device in his pocket and a cold flash of brilliance washed through him.

  * * * *

  Kree placed his ear canal against the door and listened.

  “Someone’s coming,” Squaa called from the far side of the floor. “Security, by the looks of the lightbeam.”

  “Sculdan’s testicles,” replied the other.

  “I knew we shouldn’t have wasted time hunting for your fictional spy--”

  “Let’s go.”

  The entrance to the maintenance stairwell opened and closed with a sucking sound as the humidity control seals broke and reengaged. Kree smiled.

  “Hello?” the guard called. “Is anybody here?”

  Kree thrummed his fists against the door of the storage closet. He kept banging until he heard footsteps jog to a halt outside. Kree bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited for the male to activate the control panel. He had to make this good.

  “What are you doing in here?” asked the guard as he shone his lightbeam into Kree’s eyes.

  Kree raised his arm to block the light. He blinked several times before replying, “Oh, thank you so much! I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come.”

  “What are you squawking about?”

  “I was trapped.”

  The guard flared his nostrils in disbelief. “The door isn’t locked from the inside.”

  “It was dark.”

  He snorted.

  Kree wrung the tip of his tail sleeve and added lamely, “I couldn’t find the panel.”

  “There’s a light source in here.”

  “Well--”

  “Let me guess, you couldn’t find that either.”

  Kree nodded and hoped he looked sheepish. He shuffled past the guard into the hallway. “Thank you again. You can go back to your post now.”

  He felt the security officer’s glare as he hopped on his stocking feet.

  “Why’d you take your shoes off before going into the storeroom?”

  “I--”

  “Wait. On second thought, I don’t want to know.” The guard turned and walked toward the entrance to the office floor. “You eggheads are all shell-cracked if you ask me.”

  “Thanks for your assistance,” Kree called, waving enthusiastically.

  The male muttered something under his breath and shook his head.

  The instant the security officer disappeared Kree rushed through the maze of partitions, retrieved his shoes, and dashed to his cubicle, where he collapsed onto his seat. He tapped his tail against the back of his chair. This wasn’t the byproduct of some splattered fuzz-head’s inebriated fantasy; this threat was real. He had to report it.

  But to whom?

  To his supervisor? She’d never believe him. Besides, how was he to know she wasn’t involved in the plot too? His colleagues transformed into terrorists as his imagination rapidly gained momentum.

  He restarted his computer.

  Kree had only one option. His fingers shook as he accessed the communications network. He sent a prayer of thanks to the supervisor who’d granted him permission to monitor transmissions from Earth. An agent of his stature shouldn’t have clearance for the array, but it was deemed necessary given the sheer quantity of human-related reports he received each shift. Kree thanked the nine sons for being tasked with dealing with the wing-nuts as he pulled up a high-traffic channel.

  He paused before typing. He could be fired for this.

  Kree flexed his jaw and came to the same conclusion: what he’d overheard was too serious to leave unreported. He typed as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, hoping a short missive wouldn’t attract notice in the Agency’s logs. He transmitted the message, shut off his computer, and sagged against his chair waiting for the shaking to cease.

  Kree’s anxiety spiked to new levels when he realized the conspirators might return.

  He leapt to his feet and fought to get his cloak off the small hook behind his desk. He fumbled with the clasp in his haste to collect his belongings and escape. Kree patted his pockets to make sure he had everything, took one last look around his cubicle, and spied his shuttle pass. He needed that if he wanted to get home before sun-up.

  Habit led him to the main doors to the office floor, but adrenaline propelled him in another direction when the possibility that Squaa and the other male might be waiting for him outside crossed his mind. Kree’s journey through the neighboring wing was punctuated by repeated glances over his shoulder and several run-ins with potted plants and decorative statues.

  He placed the bust of the sixteenth Alpha back on her pedestal then slipped through the doorway to the maintenance stairway. Kree took the stairs six at a time, leaning on his forearm as he slid down the railing.
He opened the door at the base of the shaft, peering around the edge before stepping out into the humid night. He scurried across the deserted branchline to the nearest platform. As the shuttle pulled out of its berth he finally allowed himself to relax.

  Chapter 2

  Nathan McDonnell returned from an extended lunch meeting with a fellow minister. Both the food and the discussion had been worth the trip, he mused as he absently rubbed his ever expanding girth. He strode through the vaulted halls of the North American headquarters of Earth’s global government, but stopped when he spotted a couple of familiar politicians loitering next to an intricately carved marble pillar.

  “Here’s the man of the hour,” chimed one.

  “Ah, yes, the esteemed Mr. McDonnell.”

  “Good afternoon,” Nate said as he patted the Sub-Director of Agricultural Planning’s shoulder.

  “Is it true?”

  “Is your department close to brokering an agreement?” asked the other.

  “I can’t comment on specifics,” Nate said. “Besides, we’re not the brokers.” He crossed his arms and grinned. “We just gather the necessary information and pass it along.”

  “Right.” The Sub-Director smirked.

  “Of course.”

  “Gentlemen, would I lie to you?”

  “There’s a rumor circulating that you’re a lock for a third term.”

  Nate feigned surprise. “Really?”

  “They’re saying Taylor’s on the outs--”

  “No, it’s Chin whose neck is on the block--”

  The Sub-Director’s cheeks flushed an angry red. “Do you doubt my information?”

  “When it comes from the intern in charge of filling the coffee pot--”

  “Gentlemen.” Nate inserted his substantial frame between the two men. “You need to check your sources. I am certain neither minister will lose his post because of the failed metalworkers’ agreement.” He smiled as both men assumed he had privileged information. “The President is sacrificing Greer instead.”

  “Finance?”

  “She wasn’t even involved--”