Hartford again smiled thinly then stalked off. He’d taken to touring the systems assigned to the naval defense sector and was appalled at the lack of discipline among those stationed there. Such behavior wouldn’t be accepted in Sagittarius. I’d have personally spaced anyone who acted like this. Still, a command was a command, and it felt good to be back. He reached the end of the passageway and stepped into an elevator, headed for the control room of the station. Its controls were ancient, buttons worn out from use with the numbers rubbed off from so many presses.
The doors slid open to reveal a short corridor with a sentry at the end of it. The central hub of the station was at the very top of its spire, an older design that, in a way, was a weakness. It would allow an enemy who zeroed in on it to destroy the command structure of the base with a lucky shot. The security officer at the end raised his arm to his chest in the classic salute of the League.
The sentry unlocked the control room door, and Hartford walked in.
Those present immediately stood and brought themselves to attention, all slapping a closed fist to their chests.
“As you were,” Hartford said as he took in the room. Unkept uniforms, sloppy haircuts, and general mess around the various stations told him all he needed to know: Gliese’s defenders suffered from an extreme lack of discipline. He strolled around, silent. Tension built, as there had been no warning of his visit, and he’d taken pains to ensure his shuttle was not marked as carrying a flag officer. Finally, he turned toward the woman who occupied the commander’s chair. “The status of this station is disgusting. It does not reflect the standards of society, nor does it reflect mine.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied.
“Sorry?” he asked, his voice dripping acid. “Sorry will not get you anything in combat, commander. Where is your political commissar?”
“She was reassigned last month, Admiral. A replacement hasn’t been named.”
Interesting. “And so, you shirk your duties?”
“No, Admiral. We’re understaffed.”
“Do not dare to give me excuses,” Hartford replied, his tone angry. “I expect drills to be run for the next week, ensuring this base is ready to fight at a moment’s notice.”
“Half our weapons are offline due to lack of spare parts, sir.”
Fire showed in his eyes as he whirled around and stared her down. “I’ll address that with the quartermaster for this defense district. You will have the systems that function working at an optimum level. Anyone who doesn’t pull their weight will be treated as an individualist.” He counted off three seconds and watched the expressions of terror spread across their faces. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir, Admiral!” The bridge shook from the sound of their voices, as all replied with a roar.
Perhaps this command isn’t so bad after all. Cleaning up a mess like this will get me another star. Maybe that’s why I got it in the first place. “I will return in a week. See that I am not disappointed again,” Hartford finished, and without another word, turned and left.
10
After four weeks of around-the-clock training in the specially constructed mockup of a League Cobra class destroyer, MacDonald felt like he could run the operation in his sleep. Half the time, I’m sleepwalking too. They’d already run the simulation three times so far today, reviewing every variable and looking for even one more second to shave off the plan. He lifted his battle rifle and checked the stun rounds it contained one last time. Instead of his normal position rushing the engine space, he’d rotated Alpha team to the bridge breach squad.
“Ready?” Harrell called out over the commlink.
“Hoorah!” Rostami echoed.
MacDonald brought his arm up and pumped twice down the corridor—which the limited AI in his suit recognized as the signal for “move” and transmitted the order to the entire team. Led by him, they charged forward, quick-walking through the passageway, weapons at the ready.
A group of opposing force personnel, which were lying in ambush, opened up. Simulated bullets caught Harrell in the center mass of his suit, freezing it. He collapsed in a heap even as he continued to fire on full auto. The result was a neutralized enemy team. “I hate these stupid stun rounds. In real combat, I’d keep going from a few puny Leaguer rifle hits.”
“Yeah, but this is how we keep it interesting,” MacDonald commented. “Cover our six, just in case.”
“Right, boss.”
The rest of them pressed forward, the element of four shooters reduced to three. While the destroyer was small, a lot of time was spent checking corners and otherwise trying to prevent another ambuscade as much as possible. Twice more, actors playing the enemy jumped out of seemingly empty compartments, only to be cut down in seconds.
“I get the distinct feeling the Lion’s security detail is tired of losing to us,” Rostami commented through his link. “They’re using some inventive tactics.”
“All the better,” MacDonald replied in his gruff voice. “Leaguers won’t be as challenging.”
At last they reached their objective: the security doors to the bridge of the vessel. Unlike Terran Coalition capital ships, they didn’t have extensive security precautions on League ships, and the bridge was a relatively easy target. The team, by now, had their roles down to muscle memory. Rostami charged forward and attached a line of detcord around the opening, while everyone else stood back to the safe distance of five meters.
“Fire in the hole!” Rostami roared. A moment later, the explosive detonated with a flash of white light and flame. Shredded pieces of alloy composite rained throughout the passageway.
“Go, go, go!” MacDonald yelled into his commlink, and he surged through the gap the explosion made, taking point. His battle rifle at the ready, he felled a defender that popped up from cover, then quickly pivoted toward another enemy who was firing on full auto. A moment later, it was over, and the bridge crew was all either stunned or had their hands up in surrender.
The end of the simulated bridge began to crank open, revealing the hangar bay of the Lion of Judah beyond. Captain Singh and members of his command element stood patiently as it fully rolled back.
“Two seconds off your best, Master Chief,” Singh commented, though he wore a smile. “Still, good job.”
MacDonald came to attention. “Captain on deck!”
“As you were, gentlemen. Master Chief, got a moment?”
“Of course, sir. Everyone, take five,” MacDonald barked.
Rostami and the rest of the commandos, as well as the opposing force actors, headed out the back, leaving the men alone.
“How’s it look? Don’t sugarcoat this for me, Master Chief.”
“Sir, we’re running roughly fifty/fifty on these simulated run-throughs.”
“That’s what I thought. I’d ideally like to see you up to ninety percent success,” Singh replied as he glanced around the room laid out to be the bridge. It wasn’t a perfect replication; there were boxes of supplies labeled as consoles, but it did the job.
“We’ll keep practicing, sir, but I fear fifty/fifty may be the best we’re going to get.”
Singh pursed his lips together. “I hate those kinds of odds.”
“You know, sir, I’ve been in a lot of ops with similar odds, and we seem to come out on top. Maybe God’s got his thumb on the scale for us.” That’s what I tell myself anyway. Maybe it’s blind luck.
“I, too, share that feeling,” Singh replied. “I pray to Ik Onkar for our cause daily.”
MacDonald’s eyes glanced at the patches on the Captain’s shoulder. One was for the nation-state of Pakistan, the other the symbol for Sikhism. He hadn’t known much about it until meeting his commander. “Maybe our Leaguer friends have some bad karma coming their way.”
“We live in hope, Master Chief.”
There was silence in the room as both men glanced around, then back at each other. MacDonald spoke. “Captain, I get the impression there’s something you want to say to me.
”
Singh paused and bit down on his lip. “You know I’m a man of few words and much action, Master Chief. I am concerned, shall we say, about this operation.”
“Why, beyond the obvious?”
“Bluntly, because of the obvious. You’re going to engage a League destroyer with a stealth raider, hope to hell it’s able to disable the enemy, then board and capture. All the while, if the Leaguers figure out what the goal is, the standing orders they have from their political officers are to self-destruct rather than allow us to take them intact. A better question is, aren’t you concerned?”
The stream of words from Singh was a shock to MacDonald. The Captain doesn’t sound like himself. He’s usually gung-ho to get in there and raise Cain. “I’m a tier-one operator, Captain, with all the baggage that entails. Someone in my chain of command tells me to shoot some Leaguers, capture a target, or destroy it, and I respond. It’s in my blood. Frankly, I love my job,” he said with a sardonic grin. “I don’t feel remorse for the bad guys I put down, and I long for the day we finally defeat these assholes. Since our politicians are being replaced by a feckless lot, I’ll settle for a longshot op to make it easier down the road when the war starts again.”
“I don’t want to see you and your team throw your lives away.”
The softness in Singh’s voice made MacDonald pause. “I appreciate that, Captain. Trust me when I say if it cost me my life and the lives of my team to see this mission a success, it’s a price we’re all willing to pay.” He held up his hand. “That said, I won’t engage in reckless actions, or take extreme risks. The safety of my men is one of my deepest concerns. But we must accomplish this mission.”
Singh slapped MacDonald on the shoulder and gave him a half hug. “Go with God, Master Chief.”
* * *
The solar system known as Teegarden—named back in the 21st century—was a mere twelve light-years from Earth itself. The idea that a ship of the Coalition Defense Force was quietly moving through space so close to their long-abandoned home planet sent chills down Mancini’s spine. He suspected it unnerved the rest of the crew if they bothered to consider it as well. They’d jumped in well “above” the solar plane, much like they had at Gliese 667 C. Teegarden was a small red dwarf, though, not the tri-star system of Gliese. As a result, it was far more compact and harder to hide in, with ships jumping in and out with regularity.
“Another milk run,” Godat remarked.
Mancini glanced at him with one eye. “Don’t even go there.” He stared at the tactical plot with the ring of red icons around the Leaguer shipyard that was home to over a third of their shipbuilding capability.
“Conn, TAO. We’ve IDed another space elevator from Teegarden’s third planet. It’s directly connected to the shipyard.”
“That makes three,” Cosentino said from behind the CO’s and XO’s chairs.
“Maybe they do everything in threes,” Mancini said with a chortle. “Any sign of detection, TAO?”
“No, sir.”
Of course there isn’t. They would’ve already alerted me. When he felt everyone was nervous, Mancini broke out the small talk. Asking things he already knew the answer to, with the thought of letting everyone hear it to calm down the control room crew. So they continued, seconds turning into minutes, which turned into hours. He was close to going for a sandwich and leaving Godat in command, when Oleson’s voice rang out.
“Conn, TAO. Sir, I’ve got something on passive. Sensor room is evaluating, but it’s an intermittent contact.”
Mancini’s ears perked up. He punched a button on his chair. “Sensor room, conn. Estimation of intermittent contact?”
“Conn, sensor room,” VanDyke replied immediately. “Unknown class, but it’s small. If it’s a ship, no more than twenty meters wide. It could also be a sensor—”
“Conn, TAO!” Oleson cut in. “Contact designated Master Seventy-Three. Still unknown classification, but it’s putting out an active sensor sweep.”
It only took a moment for Mancini to put two and two together. The mystery contact was a League listening satellite. Probably stealthed. “COB, SCRAM the reactor!”
“Aye aye, sir. Reactor SCRAM in progress,” Cosentino replied.
All hint of vibration through the deck disappeared within ten seconds, the result of their power generation source shutting down. Mancini let out a breath. They were already rigged for ultra-quiet, but there were still a few things he could do to limit their exposure. “Deactivate all external systems.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Conn, sensor room.” The speaker on the CO’s chair crackled with VanDyke’s voice. “Positive identified. League sensor picket. Two more on screen. It looks like an electronic fence to me, sir.”
“TAO,” Mancini began. “Superimpose our projected course with the sensor pickets approximated. We can assume they’ll have them in a ring around the shipyard.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Oleson said.
A moment later, the viewer above Mancini’s head came to life, and he stared at the plot. The dotted line of the Tucson’s path was visible, as were the red dots indicating the League satellite network. Two rings, one inside the other with overlapping coverage—and they were heading right for one of the enemy contacts in the second ring.
“Shit,” Godat uttered under his breath.
“That about sums it up,” Mancini said with a slight smirk. “If we try to maneuver, we’ll be spotted for sure.”
“We could try a series of split-second burn from the thrusters, skipper,” Cosentino interjected from his perch behind them.
“Not a bad idea, COB. We’re still too close, though.” Wait a minute. “COB, is our shuttle bay fully pressurized?”
“Aye, sir. No reason for it not to be.”
“You’ve got an idea,” Godat said with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
It was Mancini’s turn to grin. “Maybe.” He turned toward the tactical and helm stations. “Navigation, if we vent out the shuttle bay, would it be enough to alter our course far enough to avoid the enemy contact?”
“I’ll run the calculations, sir,” the navigator replied.
Nail-biting tension permeated every cell of Mancini’s being. Each tick of the clock brought a slight change to their position, and the Tucson moved ever closer to discovery. He ran through scenarios to escape but realized none of them were good. If they showed up on a League sensor scan, they were probably dead.
“Conn, navigation. Got it, sir. We’ll need to vent twice, but I think it’ll work.”
Mancini exhaled through his mouth. Too close. Way too close. “COB, on the navigator’s mark, vent it.”
“Aye aye, skipper,” Cosentino replied.
Thirty more seconds counted off before the navigator spoke up. “Conn, navigation, mark, sir!”
“Emergency blow, shuttle bay,” Cosentino said as he stroked the ops console he sat at. The effect was immediate: the release of atmosphere pushed the vessel to port, away from the first satellite.
“Conn, sensor room,” the voice of VanDyke interrupted from the speaker on Mancini’s chair. “The closest sensor sat just went active. It's searching for us, sir… must’ve picked up a ghost echo.”
Cosentino didn’t need an order—he shut down the vent on his own before reporting. “Secured, skipper.”
With a quick glance, Mancini confirmed his fear. They hadn’t corrected their course entirely, and the Tucson would pass within spitting distance of the nearest League satellite. “COB, secure the boat. Turn off the batteries, shut down life support, and black us out.”
“We’ll be blind, sir,” Gadot whispered. “If they see us, we’ll have no way to react. Or get away.”
“I know, XO. CDF engineers have been telling me for years how great their stealth coating is. I hope it's good enough.”
“There’s still time to burn out,” Gadot insisted.
“And blow the entire operation?” My XO’s got a point. We could cut bait and run,
but no. This boat has come too far, and I won’t be the one that loses our chance to nail the Leaguers before it gets off the ground.
Gadot pursed his lips together but said nothing further. His jaw was tight, and sweat dripped off his forehead.
One by one, screens shut down, the overhead lights blinked off, air handlers ceased operation, and the control room was suddenly quiet. So much so that Mancini thought he could hear his heart pounding in his chest and taste fear in the air. Red emergency lights came on, bathing them in an eerie glow.
“All systems shutdown, skipper. We’re dead in space,” Cosentino announced.
“Conn, navigation. Best guess, forty-five seconds to clear the first ring and resume ship functions.”
“Thank you,” Mancini replied. He sat in silence, counting down the seconds mentally, expecting the crash of League weapons at any moment. God, help us. Please. Hands grasped together, the time ticked by. After fifty, he glanced up. “COB, power us up. Emergency batteries, control room consoles, and passive sensors only.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It took a few moments for the vessel to, in effect, reboot. The overhead lights came back with their steady blue light—the ship remained at general quarters, condition one. Then, one by one, the screens brightened.
“Conn, sensor room,” VanDyke’s voice crackled through the speaker on the CO’s chair.
“Go ahead, Chief.”
“Sir, we’ve cleared the first satellite. Second picket line dead ahead, we’re still out of position. No change in League ship tracks.”
Thank you, Jesus. As Mancini let out a sigh, it seemed as if the entire staff present did too. “Navigation, plot out the next shuttle bay depressurization release.”
“Aye aye, sir.” A moment passed. “We need a ten-second full atmosphere release, sir. In about twenty seconds.”
“COB, stand ready.”
“Ready enough I’m starting to get frosty, skipper.” Cosentino’s voice had a trace of mirth in it.
Time again seemed to crawl—from Mancini’s perspective, each agonizing tick of the second dial on his mission clock was an eternity. Finally, ten more seconds passed. “COB, vent the bay!”
Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six Page 11
