by Brian Smith
“Aye, aye, sir,” came the somewhat skeptical reply. The captain’s first choice was asking for a near-impossible gunnery shot, given everything else happening around them. Fortunately, their pilot was heads-up and listening in.
“Weps, conn. I’ll give you the alley-oop,” she called.
In space, things were happening at a lightning pace. The first salvo fired from Reuben James was given its marching orders; the EMP round detonated close aboard of Aurora, to unknown effect. All interplanetary craft were hardened against solar flares, so EMP weapons weren’t always that useful when employed against them.
The defensive torpedoes did what they were programmed to do: they fired their miniature torches and arced in against the four torpedoes fired at the frigate by the two gunships. Both torpedoes hit their targets, leaving only two torpedoes for the ship’s point-defense weapons to engage. Reuben James’s first offensive torpedo managed to surprise one of the gunships and score a rapid, lucky hit—in hindsight, that one shot may have been the deciding factor in the engagement.
Reuben James punched well above the weight of a single corvette, but not enough to make the outcome a foregone conclusion. Against two gunships working together against her, it might have gone badly. In this case, however, the first torpedo was part of the early-launch salvo and was already close to the enemy when orderd to go active. It bored in from almost point-blank range—it was doubtful the corvette’s crew had more than a few seconds’ warning, and not nearly enough time to react. The impact and detonation blew the corvette wide open, cracking her hull like an eggshell and sending debris ripping through space. What fire there was burned out almost immediately in the hard vacuum—the briefest of funeral pyres.
Point-defense fire from Reuben James arced out in streams of explosive cannons shells and particle beams. Both remaining enemy torpedoes were destroyed as they approached, doing no damage. As soon as the immediate threat to Reuben James was eliminated, the pilot was true to her word: she flipped them back to the proper angle and throttled up to 8.5-g, firing RCS thrusters to roll their single, heavy particle-beam mount into line of fire with Aurora and match the latter’s trajectory change.
Reuben James had a little proverbial ground to make up; by cutting her burn for defensive fire, she’d opened the velocity gap between the two groups of ships. Santos, the pilot, was aggressively closing that gap now, which went a long way toward easing the fire-control solution for the particle-beam mount. The problem was that the James was exposing herself to enemy fire by holding predictably steady for the disabling shot—an unhappy tradeoff.
On the bridge and in the CDC, the captain and his first officer gritted their teeth along with everyone else—both against the crushing acceleration and at the view, on their screens, of the surviving corvette burning hard and maneuvering to bring her main battery to bear.
Fortunately, the export-Triglav class had only four one-shot torpedo tubes, and these couldn’t be reloaded during a fight. She’d fired two offensive rounds, and her other two had been defensive—those weapons had successfully countered the second salvo fired from the James.
Unlike her opponent, the frigate’s tubes were reloadable—it just took a bit of time, especially under heavy acceleration. The weapons officer was watching his readiness display with one eye, and the tactical screens with the other—as soon as the tubes were reloaded, the third salvo would fly. In the meantime, they had to prevent the freighter from blowing past them if they wanted their plan to succeed.
“Target is entering weapons envelope. . . . Firing!” weps reported.
Frigate and freighter suddenly appeared to be tethered for several seconds by twin red-orange energy beams. Where they contacted the freighter, the alloy of her hull bubbled, melted, and sloughed away rapidly. Controlled by the ship’s computer, the fire-control solution adjusted itself automatically to match the variation in relative speed as Reuben James finally matched velocity, settling in abeam Aurora and throttling down to a merciful 0.3-g to match the freighter’s burn.
The weapons officer passed a snap-order to one of his top gunner’s mates; one of their facing point-defense cannons spat a brief burst and disabled Aurora’s deployed comm dish without shredding it completely—a fine example of pinpoint on-the-fly naval gunnery. It also freed the James from worrying about the freighter’s burning a message through to 5111 Omega.
“Nice shot!” Captain Keith nearly shouted, his enthusiasm and excitement breaking through his stoic demeanor. “Bravo Zulu!”
The freighter’s torch sputtered and flamed out after a few seconds under the frigate’s heavy particle beams. The pilot cut thrust almost simultaneously, jinking defensively as she simultaneously pitched the ship a full 120 degrees, laid on a half-g of acceleration, and rolled to engage the remaining corvette, which was firing on them with gusto.
The pilot’s quick reactions and inspired maneuvering saved their reactor and the torch, but Reuben James still took some hits despite her best efforts. One tungsten-rail round went straight through the bridge—it didn’t hit anyone, but it was an eyeopener.
Ford caught a momentary white-hot streak in the corner of his vision and felt a jarring thud from the soles of his boots to the top of his helmet. When he looked, there were two holes: one high in the portside bulkhead, the other in the deckplate on the opposite side—he realized that the round must have passed through the corner of the CDC as well, but probably not at an angle that would have endangered anyone. Both bridge and CDC were in the heart of the ship’s hull—not even adjacent to space bulkheads. The kinetic round had passed completely through the ship—in one side and out the other. If any atmosphere had been present, it would have ignited and cooked them even before the decompression blew the compartment clean. Jesus Christ! he thought to himself. For a moment, he was glad his face was hidden by his helmet and snoopers.
Several more rounds passed through different compartments of the ship, along with a single stream of particle-beam fire that cut out rapidly under the frigate’s precise counterbarrage.
Weps let fly with the third round of torpedoes as soon as his status lights went green, but by that time it was overkill. Return fire at close quarters swiss-cheesed the small corvette with a steady progression of rail rounds fired at about one-second intervals, targeting her weapons first while the frigate’s twin particle beams sliced through her reactor compartment, wreaking havoc on her drive systems. By the time the torpedoes finished her off, she had already gone dead in space.
“All stations, TAO. Track Omega-3 eliminated,” Gordon reported. “Cease fire.”
“Bridge, captain. Get us back alongside Aurora and prepare to send over the boarders.” He switched circuits. “Doc Keibler, how’s the marshal holding up?”
“Still in one piece, captain,” came the report.
“We’ll be alongside and rematch velocities in eight minutes,” Ford announced. “Our fuel ladder is as bad as we figured on—she’d better not have dry tanks. Skipper, is everyone in one piece down there in CDC?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” came the sharp reply from Captain Keith.
Ford grinned nervously. “Captain, take a look at about your two o’clock high—starboard side.”
“Good lord! I retract the question. We’re all fine in here, XO.”
“Well, I don’t know about that!” LTJG Gordon blurted, almost reflexively. “I think I need a new battle suit!”
Ford laughed inside his helmet, but the sound didn’t transmit.
“Captain, damage control. We took multiple hits. Multiple hull breaches are reported. I’m dispatching bots and repair parties for initial assessment. No fires reported. Complete power loss reported portside amidships—we can’t soft-dock with Aurora until we can restore juice to the clamps. Repair stations are on it.”
“Very well. Doc Keibler—casualties?”
“Three dead, eighteen wounded, captain. Request permission to release teams to render aid.
Nobody heard Keith’s tortured
sigh—all they got was the slight pause before his reply.
“Granted. We’ll be null-g for a bit. Better fire up your centrifuge quick if you have any internal bleeders.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“TAO, captain. Paint the freighter with high-res lidar as we approach—imaging scan. Look for exposed weapons add-ons—any that you find, melt with particle-beam fire. I don’t want any surprises at close range. Capiche?”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
“Captain, signals. Aurora is painting us with a low-power maser—the equivalent of an old-fashioned lamp signal. She’s using Morse to signal her surrender!”
“Signal our acceptance,” Keith replied lightly before going shipwide. “All hands, this is the captain. Now hear this! Both enemy gunships have been destroyed and our target has struck colors, but we’ll maintain posture until our Marines have physically secured the vessel. Bravo Zulu to every man and woman on board—exceptionally well fought! Stand fast at your stations and remain vigilant. Carry on.” He switched circuits. “XO, captain.”
“Yes, sir?” Ford replied.
“Alert your prize crew as briefed. If we can get her repaired and underway, we can use her to infiltrate the facility as planned. If not, we’ll revisit plan A.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ford replied. So far so good, he added to himself, sparing another quick glance at the double-hulling the compartment had received. ENS Tanner was on the bridge as junior officer of the deck (JOOD); he ordered her to take over his duties at astrogation, and began the task of mustering the crew members who would be transferring over to the freighter after the Marines secured her.
***
The Marines secured Aurora in short order; the crew didn’t offer any resistance, and most of the ship’s systems were down anyway, courtesy of Reuben James’s EM-tipped torpedo. When Ford ’locked aboard through the soft-dock gantry with Diane Hutton trailing along behind him, he was met by CPL Danvers, who braced up and rendered a sharp salute. Ford returned it before popping his helmet faceplate, seeing that Danvers had done so already—Aurora was fully pressurized, at least amidships.
The first thing Ford noticed was the smell. It was different from Reuben James, and not particularly bad, although it had a slight ozone tang to it. If anything, the air quality was a little better here than aboard his own ship. The frigate’s filtration and recycling systems had been a little strained for the past several days, given all the extra bodies they had on board.
Behind Ford, a fair-sized group of navy personnel were locking in; they were suited up and bearing all manner of equipment. Ford took the report from Danvers.
“The ship is physically secure, XO,” Danvers reported. “We’re locked out of the computer, but we’ve swept every compartment and we’re holding the crew in the main hold. There are thirty-three, mixed gender, all dressed in Aurora gear and most of them claiming to be ship’s company pressed into service under threat of being spaced. A few are obviously bad guys despite what they claim. Some we aren’t too sure about.” He glanced uncertainly at Hutton as he admitted this last statement, and she smiled encouragingly.
“That’s why I’m here, corporal,” she replied. “I’ll parse ’em out, never fear. This is an awfully big ship and there are a lot of places to hide. Are you sure you bagged everyone?”
Danvers hesitated, then shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not until we restore power to the internal sensors. There might be a few strays hiding out somewhere aboard.”
“Then the ship is not secure, at least not yet, corporal!” Ford barked sternly. “Detail a Marine to act as Marshal Hutton’s escort until further notice. Pass the word to Staff Sergeant Vargas that I want two sentries guarding the engineering spaces, two more on the bridge, and a roving patrol. Nobody goes anywhere alone for the time being—the buddy rule is in effect.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Danvers replied. He called over one of his Marines and assigned her to Hutton, although the marshal didn’t really look like she needed a bodyguard. Her exosuit was lightly armored; it was nothing like a navy battle suit or the even heavier marine combat suits, but her sidearm was back on her thigh and she looked thoroughly unafraid and competent. Hutton didn’t waste any time; she and her escort left immediately for the hold.
During Ford’s conversation with Danvers, CW3 Ayers appeared next to him with one of her petty officers in tow, a hard case slung casually under her arm. “Locked out of the computer, eh?” she grinned. “Get me some power on the bridge of this tub and I’ll have her singing in no time.”
“Don’t wait on the reactor—if the ship’s APUs are down, send for a portable and jury-rig a line. We need to get access to their systems along with power and communications, or the charade isn’t going to hold up. If anyone down on that asteroid is watching, they’re probably wondering why this ship has suddenly gone dark.”
“No worries, XO. I’ll have this bitch hacked in no time,” Ayers promised. She jerked her head for her assistant to follow, and the pair of them clomped off in their magboots, heading for the bridge with a pilot in tow.
Technically, they didn’t need a combat-rated pilot to helm Aurora—any conn-qualified coxswain could have done the job—but why not stack the deck in their favor? At least that was how Ford approached the problem. Besides, having the pilot along meant that he had an extra officer on the bridge if he needed one. Ayers was the only other officer in the prize crew aside from himself, but she wasn’t qualified to handle the ship.
Ford reached down and checked his own sidearm, making sure it was easily accessible if someone surprised him. He headed for the bridge, dropping his snooper visor and calling up Vargas on the way. “Vargas, this is the XO. Did you check the hold?”
“Yes, sir. There’s no cargo,” he replied.
That almost brought Ford up short, but he kept moving. “Empty? Well, that doesn’t make a lick of sense!”
“I agree, sir. Nevertheless, that’s the answer to your question. I asked one of the prisoners about that, but no one’s talking.”
“Have you isolated them all from each other?”
“Yes, sir. I could use a few more bodies down here, sir, if you want me to set up roving patrols with my Marines.”
“I’ll have the master-at-arms send over a few stout ratings before the ship releases soft-dock. I’ll get ’em to you soonest. In the meantime, Marshal Hutton is on her way down. Treat her as your relief, then coordinate the effort to make sure everyone aboard is accounted for.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Vargas replied, then signed off.
When he and SSGT Vargas first met a week or so before, Ford had been curious as to why the Marines had come over without an officer of their own. Vargas explained that he was the platoon sergeant for the one-platoon MARDET on the Marineris; when they had to split the group for any reason, the lieutenant stayed with the larger contingent of the platoon while he took the smaller group. It was a testament to the trust and faith the MARDET commander had in Vargas to send him into possible action while remaining behind, but Vargas had proven nothing but exceptionally professional and proficient so far. The only error Ford could see Vargas had made was prematurely declaring the ship secure; other than that, he’d done a great job.
Vargas’s team consisted of fifteen Marines: three fire teams of four, with a sergeant as squad leader. A navy “greenside” corpsman was along as well, with Vargas in overall command of the detachment. They’d all integrated into the tight-knit family aboard Reuben James easily enough, although berthing was a little cramped at present.
Ford stopped on the bridge long enough to assess the situation and take reports. He found it a little odd that the massive freighter’s bridge wasn’t much larger than Reuben James’s and had far fewer stations. There was one for the captain, the deck officer, and a duty quartermaster, along with one jack-of-all-trades auxiliary station. There were only four acceleration couches, and that was it.
Ayers had commandeered the auxiliary station and already had half the a
djacent panels removed; she and her assistant were running hard lines from their own gear into the freighter’s depowered systems. She informed Ford that the EMP had simply scrambled most of the onboard electronics, kicking them offline without seriously damaging many of them. As expected, the electronics were hardened against solar flares. Once power was available, Ayers could reboot most of the ship’s systems and expect them to come up normally.
Ford turned to their pilot. “What’s the word on the mass tanks?” he asked warily. That was the critical question.
WO1 Hagen grinned ruefully. “Unknown, without power to the bridge displays. I redirected a couple ratings to visit the tank module and get readings off the backup sight gauges, so we’ll know soonest. I received word from Mr. Yoon that the James is passing over refueling lines. We’ll get them hooked up pronto and find a way to crack the valves manually if we need to. The James can suction the deuterium out of her if necessary. I can’t drive this puppy until the reactor is back online. I can handle the mass transfer and anything else up here for the time being.”
“Very well. You have the deck on the conn,” Ford informed him. Giving him the deck wasn’t strictly kosher—Hagen wasn’t OOD qualified, nor was he qualified as a SWO. But Hagen wore gold naval aviator wings, marking him as an endo/exo-rated combat pilot. That said, he’d stood countless bridge watches at the helm aboard Reuben James and commanded the ship’s auxiliary boats on any number of occasions. In this case, it hardly mattered anyway: until power and propulsion were restored, they were all passengers along for the ride.
Hagen grinned toothily at him. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome! I have the deck!”
“If only it came with a beer and a promotion,” Ford grinned in return, before heading for the engineering spaces. He was pretty sure the damage there would be a little more substantial—it was the one spot they’d shot at, after all.
The reactor compartment was remarkably intact; there were only four small hull breaches on either side of the compartment where the particle beams had burned through, already patched. Several ratings under the leadership of a chief petty officer were evaluating the damage and starting the repairs necessary to bring the plant back online. As Ford entered, he found the chief engaged in an argument with the greenside corpsman assigned to the MARDET. The corpsman was hollering at the chief’s back as the latter continued to work. Chief Hogan’s battle suit and the side of his helmet were splashed liberally with blood.
