Rescue at Waverly

by T J Mott

  “Hmm.” He frowned slightly and ignored the threat. “And what about Captain Reynolds?”

  Her expression lightened, almost imperceptibly, before flashing back to blankness. “He’s a very experienced commander.”

  He could sense that she was holding back. There was something between Poulsen and Reynolds, but Green couldn’t quite figure out what. It seemed like mutual respect, but that was very unusual for her. Real respect—especially for authority—was not something he’d ever seen from her, and he’d often wondered how she survived in the fleet. Marcell’s organization was pretty loose and informal, but it still had some standards, standards which somehow didn’t seem to apply to Poulsen. She was an unconventional beauty for sure, and the cloak of mystery which wrapped around her only added to his interest.

  “But?” he asked carefully, hoping he could prod more out of her.

  She kept her expression blank. “But, I think he sometimes trusts Marcell too much. Takes him too seriously. What’s this all about?”

  He looked into her eyes—looking slightly upwards, since she was a couple centimeters taller than him—and tried to clear his mind of extraneous thoughts. “I don’t think this mission is likely to succeed. We’ve been too hasty and under-prepared. And I think everyone realizes that except for Marcell and Reynolds.”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you trying to suggest?”

  “Just stay vigilant,” he responded carefully. “Be ready to act. You know, keep the hyperdrive warm so we can get out if things start going wrong when we’re outnumbered.”

  Her blank face sharpened into an angry scowl. “That’s already how we operate,” she pointed out stiffly. “Don’t tell me how to fly a starship, gunner.”

  He felt a pang at the waves of hostility which rolled off her. “You’ve seen the Admiral at the past couple planning sessions,” he said, dropping his voice to barely above a whisper. “He gets really irritated whenever someone points out problems. He thinks he’s on the brink of proving his delusions and won’t back down. When the time comes, he won’t sound retreat, and I’m worried he’ll commit the whole task force to disaster. And I don’t think Reynolds has the spine to stand up to him.”

  Poulsen stood silently, her expression blank and unreadable once again—except for the way she squinted her eyes at him in complete disdain.

  He smiled warmly, although the expression did nothing to soften her up. “We’re mercenaries, not soldiers. I fight for money, not ideals. And certainly not for Earth.”

  Her face briefly shifted to an expression of irritation before returning to blankness. She was getting better at hiding her emotions, when she wanted to. But they still broke through at times. “Is that all?” she asked. Green carefully nodded, realizing she was already at her limit for tolerating him and that any more interaction would only increase his chances of being sent to the infirmary with blunt injuries. But inside, he was still smiling. Somehow, the sense of danger he often felt around her could be strangely exhilarating.

  A few minutes later they walked into the Command Center’s main briefing room together. Green took the first seat open he found. Poulsen searched out a seat as far away from him as possible.

  Most of the staff were already assembled. Admiral Marcell stood by himself in one corner of the room. He leaned back slightly into the corner with his arms crossed in front of him and one hand holding his chin. His face was ashen and his eyes were dark and sunken in. He looked both tired and annoyed.

  “Commander Green,” Reynolds said after calling the meeting to order. “Please report on your progress.”

  “Yes, sir.” Here we go again. I’ll report the same thing I reported yesterday, Marcell will get upset, and Reynolds will play the good guy and try to buffer the crew from him while simultaneously taking the Admiral’s position and suggesting that we aren’t working hard enough to find a better solution. “Gunnery Department spent all of second watch running simulations and drills again. Once again, for scenarios involving only the target we’re in fair shape with about seventy percent chance of success. Once we’re in range, we can take out weapons and maneuvering within forty seconds.” His eyes momentarily flicked to Marcell. “If our intelligence on the Cassandra is correct,” he added.

  Reynolds nodded. “But what about other scenarios?” he asked.

  Green hesitated, wondering if there was any way to avoid this part of the briefing. He pretended to look at his notes, although nothing had really changed since his last report. “We practiced a number of other contingencies involving other ships coming to the target’s defense. None of them go well. We break even if one of Waverly’s Uhlan patrol ships joins the fight. They win half the time, we win half the time. But with more targets than that, I estimate heavy damage and a failure to achieve mission goals.” He paused. “With six Uhlans we just don’t stand a chance,” he said frankly. We just don’t have enough guns or armor. We brought the fastest ships from Blue Fleet, not the best-armed.

  “And we only know of six,” Bennett added pointedly, and Green watched as Marcell’s expression began to sour into one of thinly-masked irritation. It always happened when the meeting took this direction. “The station does not publish their defenses so it’s possible they have more ships in reserve.” Green nodded in silent agreement.

  “Well, we’ll just have to hope those ships don’t come into play,” Reynolds said dryly. Green fought the urge to glare at him. Wishful thinking does not win battles, Captain. “What are the chances of them staying uninvolved?” the captain asked.

  That’s a stupid question. “Zero,” Green answered bluntly.

  “I agree, as before,” said Bennett. “If we attack within their airspace, they’re obligated to defend. It’s not good public relations to let outsiders prey on your commerce right at your front door.”

  Captain Reynolds stood and stepped away from the table to study the terminals along the wall. Three of them showed the corvette captains’ faces via a short-range video comm channel. Several others showed starmaps, the Cassandra’s profile, estimated defenses, and a detailed schedule of their rapid flight to Waverly. After scanning the flight plans, he turned to Marcell who was still quietly standing—no, he was sulking, Green decided, looking more like an angry, depressed teenager than the admiral in charge of multiple fleets—in the corner. “Admiral…what kind of relationship do you have with the Waverly government?” Reynolds asked. “Any chance of calling in favors or working out a deal?”

  Marcell shook his head in disappointment. “Gray Fleet informed me that the government here finally linked me to last year’s StarFreight convoy raid,” he said, his first words of the meeting. His voice was both quiet and hoarse, and undeniably tired. “The system has a warrant for me. I definitely can’t reveal myself.”

  “Can we deal with them under a pseudonym?” suggested Reynolds. “If they don’t know it’s you, and we offer them a bribe—”

  “No,” the Admiral interjected sharply, his voice suddenly sounding strong, as if fueled by his anger and frustration. “We need to lay low until we strike,” he continued, speaking quickly now. “There’s just way too much at stake. We remain as inconspicuous as possible. We tell them nothing except that we want to refuel, and if they ask any questions, which is unlikely unless we draw attention to ourselves somehow, we stick to the cover story.”

  “Can we try a different approach?” Lieutenant Rossell, the Marine officer, asked. “Instead of disabling and boarding, let’s plant a tracker and let them go. Then we can catch up later on a better battlefield.”

  “No,” the Admiral said again. “We could track the ship, but not the cargo. And it could take months, for the tracker’s reports to get to us via the regular courier networks. By then, Adelia could have been sold or traded away and we’d have nothing. I won’t risk that.”

  Damn, he’s obstinate, Green thought to himself. “Admiral, frankly, we need more ships,” he said. “We just don’t have the firepower to defend ourselves if any
one gets involved. And I don’t just mean Waverly’s patrol boats. Even civilian ships may decide to protect a stranger under unprovoked attack.” Especially if they figure out who you are.

  Marcell looked at him with eyes that seemed to pierce out from under his brow, an experience that Green found very uncomfortable. “Well, unfortunately, we don’t have more ships,” Marcell responded slowly and rather condescendingly. “We have to work with what we have.” He was getting exasperated, again.

  Bennett sighed. “Admiral, based on Green’s simulations, the only way this can succeed is if nobody else gets involved. If the Depot launches its Uhlans, our only option is immediate retreat.”

  “I don’t like that option!” Marcell said loudly, sounding to Green very much like a whiny little kid who wasn’t getting his way. He shifted his gaze to Bennett, and Green almost thought he felt the air around himself cool down as Marcell’s attention turned away. “Keep working until you find something else!”

  Lieutenant Poulsen suddenly slapped the table in anger. Half the group startled. “Dammit, Admiral, we’ve been working on this for four days now!” she scoffed. “And we keep getting stuck on this same point! Our task force is too damn small! I know we pulled all the Blue Fleet ships that were fast enough, but some of Gray Fleet was right there when we left! We should have pulled some of them in, too!”

  Marcell now turned his angry glare to the pilot. “Gray Fleet is entirely set up for covert recon and does not have anything that could be considered a regular warship.” Then he looked back at Green, who shuddered slightly in anticipation of a verbal lashing. “How well will we perform against the Cassandra if two of the corvettes do not participate?” Marcell asked. His voice was suddenly—and surprisingly—calm.

  “I, uh…” he stuttered in confusion. Our problem is we don’t have enough warships, so you suggest using an even smaller force? He noticed Marcell’s reddened eyes. Are you drunk? “We tried some scenarios short one corvette in case of a misjump, with a generally poor outcome. We didn’t try with two ships out. I assumed we’d scrap the mission if half our force didn’t arrive.”

  “But could it be done?” Marcell asked.

  “Against the Cassandra and only the Cassandra, maybe, as long as we maintain the element of surprise, get the first shots in, and hit with perfect accuracy. They’re not that heavily armed. But the Uhlans—”

  “Quiet!” Marcell barked. He finally stepped out of his corner and approached the table, managing to appear imposing despite his average height. “Here’s the plan,” he said, his voice suddenly loud, confident, and in command. “Two of the corvettes separate from us now and speed up. They need to get to the Depot before us, by several hours if possible. They request hangar space for some reason. Hull inspection, radiator repair, whatever. Land inside the Depot. Then, if and when we begin our strike, we broadcast that we have two warships inside the Depot that will open fire if anyone at all interferes in our operation.”

  “What if they don’t call your bluff?” Bennett asked.

  “I’m not bluffing,” Marcell answered. “If anyone tries to interfere, we start shooting at parked starships until they stand down. They’re a big truck stop, not a military base. They’ll give up easily if we threaten customers.”

  “That could work,” Captain Reynolds said with a subtle smirk that irritated Green. A responsible starship captain would try to reign in Marcell’s folly, but Reynolds actually looked amused. “They’ll be foolish to keep fighting once we start damaging paying customers. It would be a public relations and insurance nightmare. It could take months for their economy to recover.”

  “How do we leave the hangar?” asked Captain Simon over the video link. “If it comes to that, every ship in the area will be waiting outside. Exiting would be suicidal.”

  “Keep the hyperdrives spooled up,” Marcell offered. “When we’re done with our raid, melt a hole in the hangar walls, away from the doors, and jump through it. Again, it’s not a military base. The hangar walls won’t be armored, they’re probably actually pretty flimsy.”

  Green shook his head. There are traditional commanders, there are mavericks, there are insane commanders…and then there’s Marcell. Maybe I should transfer to Yellow Fleet after this mission. Commodore Wilcox might be annoying, but at least he’s sane.

  “Very tricky,” Poulsen stated. “I don’t know how large those ships’ hyperdrive fields are. Anything nearby might get caught up in it. The hangar deck plating, nearby cargo or refueling equipment, even parts of other starships. It’ll really fuck up the hyperspace trajectory solutions.”

  “What’s the danger?” Marcell asked.

  She shook her head. “Not much danger to the corvettes. Just a large potential for collateral damage, and lost time figuring out where they end up after the jump.”

  “If it comes to that, we’ll already have done a good share of collateral damage,” Reynolds replied. “Build some simulations to send them before they split off from the group, so they can practice en route.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  ***

  That is not good at all, Commander Allen realized as he read the latest engineering summary from the Panther. The corvettes Shrike and Owl had already split off, increasing speed and leaving only the Panther to escort the Caracal. They no longer had comm access to the entire force, but the two remaining ships still exchanged reports with each other after every hyperspace jump.

  “I have an update from the Panther,” he reported to the Command Center. He really hoped that Admiral Marcell was not present there. As the group approached Waverly, it was getting easier and easier to set him off. Lately, the frigate’s officers had been walking on eggshells around him, trying to avoid him entirely and strictly funneling everything up through the chain of command, preferably when the Admiral himself was not around.

  “Go ahead,” replied Reynolds.

  “They suffered a catastrophic cooling system failure while exiting hyperspace. They’re still isolating the issue but think a primary heat pump may have a seized motor.”

  “Repair estimate?”

  “It’s way too soon to know, sir. If it is a seized motor we’ll have to bring it here and try to overhaul it quick. The Panther is too small to have a machine shop aboard.”

  Reynolds began issuing orders in rapid sequence. “Helm, fly us to docking range of the Panther. Engineering, Deck, and Logistics, assist the Panther in any way possible. Medical, stand by in case they have wounded. Gunnery, run some one-versus-one simulations for the Caracal against the Cassandra with no corvette support.”

  Nearly two hours later, Allen and five of his technicians clung to handholds in the wall of the Caracal’s hangar. Gravity for the compartment was disabled, allowing some men from the Panther to slowly maneuver the three-meter-wide hydraulic motor into the airlock using the microthrusters on their EVA suits.

  “She’s definitely seized up,” the corvette’s chief engineer reported over short-range comm as his team from the Panther brought the motor down while the airlock repressurized. “I hope it’s just some blown bearings. Hey, can we get point-zero-two G in here? Just enough to help this thing down to the deck.” A moment later, Allen felt his feet just barely touch the deck.

  The airlock finished pressurizing and Allen called out over the comm for full artificial gravity. Seconds later, the inner airlock door opened, but only by a couple meters, just enough to let his team into the airlock.

  The damaged piece of equipment sat on the deck near the middle of the airlock. It was a large, flat oval about three meters wide on the long axis and just over half that on the short axis, sitting a meter and a half deep. Two gargantuan oil-covered hydraulic disconnects extended from the top.

  “So what’s the story, Boegrin?” Allen asked his counterpart from the corvette.

  “Well, this isn’t a stock motor,” Boegrin answered as he stripped out of his EVA suit. The short, pudgy middle-aged Chief Engineer was absolutely drenched with sweat. He removed h
is shirt, exposing a rather hairy belly which hung over his belt, and vainly attempted to wipe the sweat from his face with the soggy garment before tossing it aside. “One of our primaries failed several months ago and we had trouble sourcing an exact replacement. This one was available but under-spec. Didn’t matter until some jackass decided we were going to run two light-years per hour. The tach was disconnected from the databus because the software doesn’t know how to talk to this brand of motor, and Junior over there—” he pointed an accusing finger at one of his own technicians “—didn’t bother reporting that it was running three hundred percent overrev! Hey, I heard the Admiral used to be an engineer. Tell him to get his ass down here and fix it himself!”

  Allen grimaced uncomfortably at the tirade. “Cool it, Boegrin.”

  “Dammit, I wish. It was over sixty degrees over there when we came out of that last jump! Do you know how miserable we are? I already have two men down with heatstroke, my balls feel like a bog in hell during a monsoon, Medical keeps pouring liter after liter of hot water down our throats, and I gotta somehow keep up with all this shit while having to stop and take a piss every twenty minutes. What’s so important anyway that we gotta run like this? Damned starship probably looks like a protostar on the thermal scans!” He stopped, scowled at his men, and snapped his fingers. “Hey boys, what the hell are you standing around for? Get some wrenches and get this case off! Pronto!” The collection of junior engineers sprang into action and the piercing whine of power wrenches soon filled the airlock.

  Boegrin’s mood was going to kill his men’s morale if he didn’t reign it in. They were rapidly approaching Waverly and a tired and angry crew would be a liability. “Hey, Hobbs!” Allen shouted over the noise. One of the techs stopped his power wrench and looked up at him. “Go grab whoever you can find and run an aux coolant line out to the Panther. Get her patched into our cooling systems, see if we can give them some relief.”

  “Aye, sir!” He dropped his wrench and quickly left the airlock. Every little bit would help since one of the two primary heat pumps was offline.