Rescue at Waverly

by T J Mott

  But Marcell’s Marines were prepared. One squad of eight men advanced to the front of the hangar with a couple crates of equipment they had withdrawn from their transport. They placed breaching charges around the hatch. Then they used the contents of one crate to assemble a portable airlock, finally hooking it up to the fast-acting atmosphere pumps and air bottles stored in the other crate. The airlock was made of lightweight materials, just strong enough to withstand a one-atmosphere pressure differential, and just large enough to hold about four men and their equipment.

  “Squads One and Three, stack up!” The breaching charges ignited within the temporary airlock, completely silent in the vacuum, and melted the hatch’s hinges and edges. “Door is breached! Go! Go! Go! Cycle through!” Half of Squad One entered the airlock and shut the outer door. Bright indicator lights changed color as it quickly pressurized, and then the men had access to the cruiser’s interior.

  “We’re inside! Light resistance,” a voice announced over the comm. The crack of discharging small-arms laser capacitors carried through the channel between his words. “Squad-sized opposing force here, unarmored and carrying laser pistols.”

  “Copy. Clear them out! Next group, go! Go! Go!” The process repeated and within a couple minutes the two squads were inside the ship’s main corridors. As the soldiers reported in or gave updates, Thaddeus continued to hear weapons fire over their comms.

  Rossell and Weber alternated between barking orders to their soldiers and announcing updates to the task force’s commanders. “The zone outside the hangar is secure. Squad Two, advance! Squad Four, guard the transports, but be ready to join us in a hurry!”

  Thad’s squad finally cycled through the airlock and entered the Cassandra. He stepped into a T-shaped junction in the cruiser’s large central corridor. The main corridor passed forward, right through the center of the cruiser. It was bare and utilitarian, but large, with rows of exposed conduits and wiring hanging from the ceiling. To each side, the junction split into two smaller, somewhat-cramped corridors which ran parallel to the front bulkheads of the hangar and eventually met up with other, smaller fore-aft passages at their far ends.

  Several bodies lay on the deck before him, their dead faces locked in expressions of shock and pain. Wisps of smoke stringed into the air from the laser wounds burned into their bodies, following the faint air currents which slowly sucked it all into the vents hidden somewhere within the tangled networks of piping and conduits and ductwork which decorated the ceiling above.

  Thad looked away from the bodies and glanced down the corridor. Up ahead, the first two squads were carefully advancing. As the point men kept their attention forwards, those at the back of the formation stopped to test doors and see what was open and what was locked. The sounds of occasional gunfire rang out as they cleared rooms, but most of the areas they searched were unoccupied cargo bays, empty bunkrooms, or access closets for the ship’s systems. The Cassandra clearly ran with a very light crew, which was not uncommon for the average smuggling vessel.

  “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way,” said Lieutenant Rossell. “We gained access to a computer terminal but they don’t have any records on their cargo layout. We need to search room-to-room.

  “Squad One, continue to advance and clear the main corridor. Squad Three, start a room-to-room search. Start with the rooms we identified as likely slave quarters. Squad Two, sit tight by the airlock and keep our backs covered. Keep an eye on those side corridors at the back.”

  Thad and his squad were still at the end of the corridor. He knelt down by the airlock, partially to reduce his size if a counter-attack occurred, but also to rest. His heart was pounding and his head still hurt, and at times he felt mildly dizzy. He faced the cramped starboard corridor with his carbine at low-ready, and waited. He listened intently as Squad Three continued to advance up the corridor, blowing open locked doors and clearing rooms.

  “Marcell, Reynolds.”

  “Marcell here,” he replied. “Go ahead.

  “We’ve finally made comm contact. The Cassandra’s captain refuses to cooperate. He seems to believe we’re undercover agents from the Cranger Sector.”

  “Strange. Well, they aren’t putting up much of a fight so far. Any activity at their other hangars? Maybe trying to escape or offload cargo?”

  “Negative. It looks like all other hangars were closed up and converted for other use. Your team has their only active hangar on lockdown. We’re in complete control of the situation.”

  “Great. Keep me informed. Marcell out.” He closed the channel, changing his comm unit to a notify mode to keep the ops channel quiet unless someone specifically contacted him, and switched to the platoon’s own command channel which linked him to the squad leaders, Rossell and his platoon sergeant, and some operations analysts back aboard their frigate. “Status?”

  “Mostly light resistance so far. We heavily outgun their security team, at least the ones we’ve encountered. Most of them don’t even have comm units. We’ve advanced about 75 meters up from the hangar. No sign of the objective yet.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. Carry on.” Thad mentally recalled the limited blueprints they had of the starship, an exercise he struggled with due to his headache. It was a large vessel compared to most of his own ships, around 600 meters long. During the mission planning, his officers and analysts had figured that any slave quarters would be in the back half, near the main hangar, where they could quickly be transferred to transports and shipped out to a customer’s starship, although that was nothing more than a wild guess.

  “Squad Three, executing door breach…” Something well out of Thaddeus’s sight exploded and then the distant sounds of gunfire echoed through the corridors. He heard the fairly muted discharges of their opponents’ cheap laser pistols, suddenly silenced by the sharp cracks of his own men’s far more powerful carbines. “Squad Three has found slaves, I repeat, Squad Three has found slaves,” a corporal announced over the platoon channel. Thad felt his heart flop over violently inside his chest, and he fervently wished to be searching through the crowds of slaves with Squad Three rather than guarding the airlock with the medics. “Guards are neutralized, beginning our search now.”

  “Copy that,” Lieutenant Rossell acknowledged. “Squad Two, stay put for now but be ready to move. I want you at Squad Three’s location ASAP if they find her. Squad Four, since the hangar is quiet I want a fireteam to enter the cruiser and take up Squad Two’s current position at the airlock.”

  The fleet command channel opened back up. “Captain Reynolds here. Admiral, we’ve lost communications with the Shrike and Owl. Waverly Depot has launched its squadron, ETA about thirty-five minutes.”

  Thad swore. “I thought the Depot was under control! What the hell happened?”

  “Unknown. They blocked us from their sensor network when we began our attack and not much is happening on the local broadcast channels.”

  Thad grimaced. “What are they sending out?”

  “Six Uhlan gunships. And we’re in no shape to tangle with them.” Uhlan-class patrol craft were small, slow, but well-armed for their size, often used by station or planetary fleets for short-range defense. Thad knew from their mission planning that these were likely Mark IV’s, which were normally armed with a pair of oversized railguns that allowed the ships to punch well above their weight class. They would be easy to outrun, even considering the Caracal’s significant thruster damage, but if they moved into range before the Marines could locate and escape with Adelia…

  We have to delay them. “Okay. Get your lasers ready for long-range fire and open fire as soon as you can. I’ll speed things up over here.” Their laser weapons had far greater effective range than the patrol ship’s railguns. However, because laser weapons were cheap and popular among civilians and pirates, most systems defense ships had highly-polished armor plating designed to reflect lasers, allowing them to close in relatively safely. If they were lucky they could score some hits on exposed sen
sor probes, which might at least disrupt targeting or navigation.

  He returned his comm unit to the platoon command channel. “You catch all that, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Admiral.” He paused as he switched to the general platoon channel. “Platoon, Waverly Depot has just launched defenses. Speed it up!”

  “Riley checking in. She is not in this group, we’re moving on. Guards are disarmed and tied up.”

  Thaddeus stood and nearly threw his carbine at the bulkhead in anger. “Rossell, Marcell. Can we split the search teams up? We’re running out of time!”

  “I recommend against that, Admiral. If they are able to build an organized counter-attack, I’d rather not have our men spread out too much.”

  Thaddeus weighed his options. 600 meters was a lot of ship. And Adelia, from Earth, was somewhere aboard it. If they were lucky, they might find here soon and they’d be on their way. If they weren’t that lucky…they’d have to withdraw. Without her.

  He couldn’t do that. Not when he was already this close. And if a heavy firefight broke out after the Marines split up…well, that was one of the risks of the job. Thad’s men all knew that when they joined him. “Do it, Lieutenant!” he growled. “Split up and tear this ship apart until we’ve found her! I will not accept failure on this mission!”

  “Aye, Admiral.” Rossell paused as he switched his comm channel. “Platoon, listen carefully! New orders! Squads One and Three, split up into fireteams! Fireteam Alpha, stay in the central corridor at the head of the formation. The rest of you spread out your search, and pick up the pace!

  “Squad Two, split into three fireteams. I want the regulars in Fireteams Charlie and Delta doing search operations. Fireteam Echo, you’re the Admiral and the medics, keep that central corridor on lockdown and wait until we’ve located the objective.

  “Squad Four, keep doing what you’re doing. Platoon, if any of you encounter more resistance than we’ve been facing, retreat immediately and call for backup! We’ll be spread thin so don’t take any stupid chances!

  “When the target is located, Fireteam Echo make your way there ASAP. All other fireteams will converge on the central corridor and make sure they have a clear path back to the hangar. Now move!”

  The eight regulars in Thad’s squad broke off to join the search operations, leaving him with four nervous medics with little or no combat experience. Thad ordered his fireteam to advance up the corridor, taking position about halfway between the leading group and the makeshift airlock, while the fireteam from Squad Four kept the airlock and side corridors covered.

  Thad briefly switched to the fleet command channel. “Caracal, what’s the ETA on that squadron?”

  “Twenty-five minutes.”

  “Thanks. Marcell out.”

  He looked around the central corridor. His head continued to pound in perfect time with his galloping heart. The space battle had not gone well, but his Marines were unmatched. The Cassandra’s undersized crew was either not equipped or not willing to repel a full platoon of boarders. Most of them didn’t even have comms, and without effective communications they were incapable of presenting an organized resistance. Those that tried to resist died quickly.

  And yet, the Caracal was damaged and several enemy Uhlans were on their way…

  He crouched near the port wall, carbine still at low-ready, doing his best to stay alert of his surroundings despite how ill he felt. He rarely went into ground combat anymore, and the medics on his team were accustomed to dealing with casualties aboard a friendly starship, not serving as footsoldiers. If any enemies showed up, Thad knew the best his team could do was take cover and call for help.

  “Fireteam Foxtrot, we have slaves!”

  “Fireteam Charlie, we also have slaves! Searching now!”

  “Copy!” Rossell shouted. “Platoon, get ready to move as soon as they make the call!”

  Come on, come on! Thaddeus silently pleaded, well aware of the incoming squadron of patrol ships. He didn’t want to leave without Adelia. And if they waited too long, his warships would have to leave the platoon stranded aboard the Cassandra. And the Cassandra was disabled. Thad’s ships had destroyed her main reactor in the space battle. Even if they could commandeer the cruiser, they couldn’t fly it away.

  “Fireteam Charlie, we have her! Repeat, we’ve found her! We are a hundred forty meters fore of the airlock. Attard, step back out and wave so they know where we are!”

  Thaddeus felt an overwhelming adrenalin surge slam through his body. He jumped to his feet, completely forgetting about his headache and the enemy patrol craft, and began sprinting forward. The four medics quickly rallied up behind him. They advanced together, keeping their heads locked forward and scanning for a waving Marine in the distance.

  He smiled inside his helmet. I’ve found you…

  Several moments and dozens of meters later, they saw him, one large armored Marine standing on the starboard side of the corridor and frantically waving them on.

  “Copy, we see you!” shouted Thaddeus. “Let’s go!” Laden down with a massive, vacuum-rated armor suit, he continued his awkward sprint. The sound of his own heavy breathing seemed strangely muffled inside his helmet, and his sides began to hurt, but he ignored the pain and continued to run. The medics followed a few paces behind him and struggled to keep up.

  From all around the cruiser, the other fireteams returned, taking up positions in the central corridor to guard Thad and the medics and keep a clear path back to the hangar.

  “Fifteen minutes, Marcell!” Bennett announced over the fleet command channel. Thad said nothing and continued running. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and his lungs burned within his chest. His legs began to ache, but a few moments later the group reached Attard, who quickly stepped aside to let them pass through, barely avoiding being stampeded by Thaddeus and his medics.

  He stepped through the hatch and ran past three of the Cassandra’s guards whose wrists were zip-tied to a conduit. “Over here!” someone to his left shouted. He turned his head, spotting another door, this one a large transparent one that separated the guards’ cove from the actual slave quarters.

  The room beyond could hardly be called quarters. It was nothing more than a modified cargo hold. The ceiling was about four meters high, the floor a rectangle about eight-by-twenty, the walls made of bare sheet aluminum. Less than a third of the overhead lights functioned, leaving the room in a gloomy, depressing darkness. Off in one corner, Thad could see unenclosed facilities for the slaves to bathe and relieve themselves, with no privacy other than the relative darkness on that end of the hold.

  There was no furniture anywhere. Thad guessed about two hundred were in the room. People of all ages sat or laid on the floors, a few even had blankets or mats to lie on. Very few of them seemed to notice the Marines’ presence, and those who did simply watched blankly. Even the sudden presence of strange soldiers did nothing to stir them.

  Some of them were clearly dead.

  Several of his Marines were congregated at the far end of the hold, their dark, armored shapes contrasting against the dull gray walls. “Over here!” one shouted, waving them over.

  Thad’s fireteam quickly approached, carefully stepping over and pushing past the mass of slaves packed tightly into the room. The medics dropped their packs immediately, and began pulling out various medical instruments and a disassembled lightweight pressure suit.

  He stopped. His heart pounded, each beat feeling like a kick to his chest. Every breath brought sharp pain to his sides and chest, and his legs burned from the effort of sprinting while loaded down by the heavy Marine combat armor. His head hurt and his mouth was dry and he suddenly wished his helmet was equipped with a water supply.

  He peered through the darkness, looking past a semicircle of dark, armored forms which knelt on the deck, and saw a petite woman sitting on the hard, metal deck plates, illuminated by the helmet lights of the Marines who surrounded her. She wore a simple, pocketless jumpsuit that had pro
bably once been a pristine white, but now it was stained, soaked through and discolored by months’ worth of dust and sweat and spilled food. The short-sleeved garment ended halfway down her thighs. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms hugging her pale, bare, shivering legs. Her ankles were crossed and her feet were caked with dust.

  Thad barged through the group and knelt down beside her. She looked at him. Her eyes looked dull and distant, but they were wide open in terror, and her mouth hung open slightly.

  It was her. Adelia.

  For a long moment, Thad knelt there with his eyes locked on hers through his mask. He felt frozen, unable to move or even speak, and his mind was flooded by old memories from his days aboard the Lunar Dawn. Mostly just images. Suddenly, he was standing in the cruise liner’s grand lobby as the crew welcomed new passengers, but he was paying no mind at all to the customers as they entered, instead watching a certain smiling attendant greet them as they came aboard. Watching from afar in the ship’s high-class, formal dining room as she easily calmed a screaming and terrified child who had slipped away from his parents and was now lost. Standing on the main bridge beside the pilot while they discussed some minor irregularities in the ship’s systems, only to completely forget what he was supposed to be doing when she walked in as a tour guide.

  That night before he’d disembarked, when he’d finally found the courage to talk to her. He’d been a nervous wreck, too. He could easily give a technical presentation about fusion turbines to a crowd of a hundred, but talking to a pretty girl? Somehow, that had been almost impossible for a much younger Thaddeus.

  “Hey. Hi. I—uh—sorry, I know this is out of nowhere—I was wondering if you’d, uh, I don’t know, want to go out for lunch, or something, sometime?”