Infiltration (Murphy's Lawless: Mission Critical Book 1) by Griffin Barber

Author:Griffin Barber [Barber, Griffin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beyond Terra Press
Published: 2021-10-15T05:00:00+00:00

* * * * *

Mendacity

“He doesn’t look special,” Umaren said, voice pitched to carry over the roar of the engines as the seaplane turned to shore and the dock.

Chalmers, crammed into the space between the pilot and co-pilot, and trying not to hit anything important, squinted at the figure emerging from the trees on the foreshore. Unable to make out dick for details and unwilling to admit it, he simply nodded at the pilot and stepped back into the small gangway between cockpit and cargo bay.

Now that the plane was plowing through the water, the late afternoon suns began to heat her interior faster than the cooling system could rid the hull of heat. Chalmers was sheathed in sweat by the time he’d eased his way past some of the goods they’d picked up in Kanjoor and made it to the water cargo hatch. He plugged his headset into the intercom system and opened the small porthole set in the cargo hatch. Hot, humid air began to puff into the seaplane. It didn’t do much to cool him off, even standing in front of the opening.

“Man, it’s fucking hot! Crack a window, Umaren!” Chalmers barked.

“Wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t insisted on stripping her biggest cooling units to make room for your contraband!” Umaren snapped.

“Contraband that’s made you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams,” he said, sweating. The words were Umaren’s own, or close enough. The pilot and his partner had appeared at a Twin Stars soirée in Liberace-level outfits. When asked to tone it down a bit, Umaren had claimed such conspicuous display was necessary to convey their undreamed of level of success.

He felt a strong draft of—if not cool, then at least fast-moving—air as the pilot opened one of the cockpit windows.

“Thank you, Umaren,” he said with heartfelt sincerity.

Chalmers spent the next few minutes twisting and turning to cool various body parts in the artificial breeze. That had to stop when Umaren slowed the seaplane even further for the final few yards to the docks. The heat quickly rose to sweltering again, but, not wanting to flood the plane with an errant wave, Chalmers waited for the command from Umaren to unbutton.

“Make secure,” Umaren said a sweaty minute later.

Chalmers undogged the hatch and pushed the upper half up just as they pulled alongside the dock. He reached out and cast a line across a convenient bollard, making the toss the first time, despite the prop wash. He smiled. He’d never have been so good with a rope just six months past. Hell, he’d not known a tenth of the nautical and aviation vocabulary—in English or R’Bakuun—he used on a weekly basis when they’d started this op.

“Starboard roped,” he said.

“Bow roped,” Vizzel reported from the bow hatch, just forward of the cockpit.

“Secure,” Umaren said. A moment later the engines died, props slowly spinning to a halt.

In the relative silence that descended, heat expansion summoned the occasional ping from the upper hull, a counterpoint to the gentle lapping of wavelets on the lower hull.

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