“Let's hope it tells us what we need to know.” She looked at the tactical display, the battle beginning to take shape, just as she had imagined it. Admiral Knight must have realized what she was planning, but couldn't have guessed they'd move this soon. Under normal circumstances, she'd have waited until Churchill could leave the system, four more days, to give them a quick escape. They didn't have the time for the safe option. If this went wrong, they'd be no way out.
The defensive strategy to counter her move was almost too obvious. Scramble fighters to attack the cables, setting the asteroid out of control. The enemy station couldn't move, and even a thousand missiles would hardly make a dent in the asteroid up ahead, slamming into the rock. Churchill was the weak link in the system.
A tangle of trajectory tracks moved into position, all diving cautiously towards Churchill, the enemy squadron leader taking his time to press home his attack. Given the sluggish speed they were making, there certainly was no hurry.
“Coming up to maximum acceleration now, Captain,” Clayton said. “Just over one-tenth. A little better than we expected.” With a grimace, she continued, “She's sluggish. I'm having real trouble initiating course changes. Don't expect any fast turns, ma'am.”
“Just keep us locked on collision course with our target,” she replied. “We need to take down that station, no matter what.” Turning to Finch, she added, “Prepare for defensive missile fire against the fighters if we need it.”
“That's it!” McGuire said, throwing his hands in the air. “They've broken the datastream. I've got everything tracked down to Sickbay.”
“Bridge to Sickbay,” Mallory began.
“Simmons here. I'm already on it, Captain. Looks like we've got about a month's worth of observations, and a lot of the hard computation has already been done. If I can get priority access to the network, I should be able to give you my analysis in ten minutes.”
“I'll hold you to that, Professor,” she replied.
“Target in thirty-one minutes,” Morgan said. “We're really crawling, Captain. The fighters will be on us in three, and they'll have time for at least half a dozen passes.” Shaking her head, she added, “I don't think we're going to get away with this.”
“Don't give up yet,” Mallory replied. “Send out a warning on all channels that the station will be destroyed in half an hour. Just because we can't get a signal to our people on the station doesn't mean they can't hear us.”
“And the rescue mission?”
“Not until we're a lot closer than we are now, Lieutenant.” Turning to the tactical station, she said, “Finch, get your finger on the trigger and deploy the package at your discretion.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, resting his hands on the controls. She looked back at the sensor display, watching as the fighters closed into combat range, smoothly sliding into position. Taking out the cables would take precision targeting, but Churchill couldn't use any of the usual tricks to throw off an attack, and with the quantum computer still in operation, McGuire was hopelessly outgunned by the enemy electronic warfare team.
“Two minutes, ten seconds,” Morgan said.
“Can you get any more speed, Clayton?” Mallory asked.
“I'm sorry, Captain. We're red-lining as it is. I'm having trouble keeping a straight heading.” Shaking her head, she said, “I need more power on the thrusters.”
“Cruz,” Mallory said, tapping a control.
“I know, I know,” the frustrated engineer replied. “We've only got so much power, Captain, and most of my people are running around dealing with cracks in the hull. I think I remember telling you that Churchill isn't designed for this. There are incipient breaches in five places, and they're only going to get worse while we're putting this much stress onto the superstructure.”
“Keep her together, Chief.”
“What the hell do you think I'm doing!” Cruz snapped. “Just keep those bastards from shooting holes in the hull, and I'll get this bird down to the target. Somehow.”
“Red Flight requests permission to launch, Captain,” Finch said.
“Not yet,” Mallory replied. “Time to combat range?”
“One minute, twenty seconds. I have a firing solution and a salvo in the tubes, ready to launch.” There was a loud crack from the hull, a series of amber lights running down the starboard side of the ship status monitor. “That didn't sound good.”
“Micro-fractures,” Morgan said, shaking her head. “No pressure loss yet, but...”
“For God's sake make sure we don't get any breaches!” Clayton yelled, running a quick hand across her forehead. “I'm having enough trouble keeping the ship stable now.”
“Hold it together, Sub-Lieutenant,” Mallory warned.
“Sorry, ma'am,” she replied, keeping her eyes focused on her controls.
“Fifty seconds,” Finch said, his face now reddening as the enemy ships approached. “Theseus in ten minutes at her current speed. She's hanging back.”
“Waiting to see if we've got another fighter strike,” Mallory mused. “The package?”
“Armed and ready, Captain.”
“Stand by.”
She looked at the harried Clayton, poised over the helm controls, her hands dancing from one to another as she struggled to maintain the delicate balance that kept the ship stable. One wrong move, and it would all be over, the ship ripped asunder by the stresses she was forcing on her. Another whine echoed from the hull, more amber lights flashing on the monitors, new micro-fractures heralding what was to come.
“Cable Seven, now,” Morgan said. “We've got to drop the rock, Captain.”
“If we do that,” Finch said, “It'll be the better part of six hours before it hits. They'll have time to push it out of the way. We only get thirty minutes if we're pushing it until the last possible moment.” Turning to her, he continued, “And without our screen, we're dead.”
“We're dead anyway if the hull fractures,” she replied, turning back to her controls. “Thruster Nine is close to a cable junction. We might lose it.”
“Clayton, prepare to compensate...”
“I can't,” she replied, her fingers almost a blur on the helm. “If I lose a thruster, we've had it.” On the screen, the trajectory arc dropped for a second, staggering back onto the original course. “Losing tension on one of the cables. We're slipping.”
“Twenty seconds to combat range,” Finch said. “Fighters have moved into hammerhead formation. Looks as if they're going for a single salvo.”
“Good,” Mallory replied. “That ought to make this a bit easier.”
Shaking her head, Morgan said, “Twenty-four missiles in that first run.”
“Fifteen seconds to go,” Finch said. “All ready here, Captain.”
“Morgan, connect me to the ship.”
She threw a switch, and replied, “You're on.”
“This is the Captain. Stand by for turbulence. All hands, brace for variable acceleration.” Turning to Finch, she said, “Get this right, Lieutenant. We've only got one chance at this.”
“Five seconds.”
Clayton froze on the helm for a second, turned to Finch, her face pale, then returned to her console. Mallory leaned forward, watching the monitor, as the fighters began their attack. The instant they entered firing range, twenty-four new targets appeared on the screen.
“Impact in thirty-five seconds. Looks like they're going for the cables.”
“Finch?” Mallory asked.
“Not yet,” he said, eyes locked on the sensor. “Any second.”
“Thirty seconds,” Morgan said. “Closing fast. Finch...”
“Not yet,” he repeated, his hand poised over the firing control. “Three seconds. Hang on, everyone.”
His finger dropped, and Mallory's world shook as the charges placed on the surface of the asteroid
detonated, ripping into the fabric of the rock and sending a furious surge of debris racing out towards the approaching fighters, hundreds of thousands of pieces of rubble rippling through the void, fanning out to envelop the enemy formation.
Churchill lurched to the side, a dismal wail from the hull, sirens sounding as the cables anchoring the ship into position rippled. Clayton furiously worked her controls, trying to stop the roll, struggling to force the ship back onto the correct heading, fighting a battle with the exploding asteroid as the center of gravity shifted.
Ahead, the enemy squadron leader turned, trying to react to the explosion, but they never had a chance, and they must have known it. First the missiles were slammed out of the sky in a series of brief, blinding flashes, followed by the fighters themselves, swamped by the sheer mass of debris flying in their direction.
“Come on, come on,” Clayton muttered, still waging her personal battle against the helm controls, firing bursts from the thrusters to fight the starboard roll. “Hold together, old girl.”
“Finch, status?” Mallory said, gripping the hand-rests of her chair.
“We've got the lot, Captain!” he said. “Clean sweep. All missiles, all fighters. Theseus is turning away. She's running, skipper! She's running!”
“Damage report, Ensign?”
“Hull breaches on four decks, but we've managed to prevent any serious air leaks. No casualties reported, no damage to combat-critical systems. We were lucky. Nothing more than that.” Shaking her head, she said, “She's lost all her strength, Captain. One impact, and we've had it.”
“Captain?” Finch said. “There's something strange.”
“What?”
“Theseus has made a new course change, and I don't get it. She should be going for a side-on intercept. That would bring her into firing range in about twelve minutes, for two and a half. A sure shot.” Turning to her, he said, “She isn't. It'll be more like twenty on the course she's on now, and for less than forty seconds.”
Stepping over to him, Mallory said, “Let me take a look.” She scanned over his course projections, and her eyes widened. “She's on her way out of the system. A slight course chance after our encounter, and she makes it to the near hendecaspace point.”
“They're running?” Clayton asked. “Why?”
A sick feeling ran into her stomach, and she reached across for a control, saying, “Mallory to Sickbay. Professor...”
“I was about to call you,” he replied. “I'm afraid I don't have good news.”
“They've found the alien homeworld.”
With a sigh, Simmons said, “A few hours ago, if my readings are correct. I've got the co-ordinates, Captain. We can head there at your discretion.”
“Not for a little over four days,” a defeated Morgan said. “We're stuck here until then, and if they get there first...”
“This battle isn't over yet,” Mallory replied. “At current speed, how long before the asteroid impacts?”
“A little over three hours,” Finch said.
“Clayton, cease acceleration. Morgan, cut the cables. The rock can make its own way to the target now, and destroying that base just became the bonus, not the objective.” Sitting back on her chair, she said, “Plot a course for Theseus. Maximum acceleration.”
“She's undamaged,” Morgan protested, “and we're outgunned two to one. Without fighters...”
“We've got to stop that ship,” Mallory said. “Or we lose everything. Cut the cord, Morgan. We've got work to do.”
Chapter 16
“Where are we going?” Clarke asked, as Blake confidently led the way forward.
“Security offices,” she replied. “I'm guessing that's where the Security Officer lives.”
“Not a bad guess,” he said, jogging after her. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the knife he had been holding since Carpenter Station, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand for the first time. It felt far too slender, far too light to be effective. “Would this be a good time to say that I've had no lessons in knife combat?”
“I thought you were good at unarmed combat.”
“Top of the class. Emphasis on the unarmed.”
“Toss the damn thing away if you don't want it,” she said, increasing her pace. “You think Churchill got everything it needed?”
“I hope so. I'm not doing it again.”
She frowned, then said, “You realize we weren't meant to succeed, right?”
“I had that impression, yes.”
“Nice people you work for.”
Still leading the way, she turned a corner, sprinting away to her destination. Clarke struggled to keep up, the dull ache in his side worse than usual, his breath coming in gasps. Belatedly realizing that he was in trouble, Blake stopped, turned, and walked back to him, a frown on her face.
“The wound?”
“Hurts like hell.”
She snatched up his tunic, then said, “I don't see anything bad. You're going to have a pretty impressive scar, though.” Fumbling in her pockets, she pulled out a vial of tablets, dropped two into her palm, and passed them to Clarke. “They'll help. For a while, anyway.”
“Side-effects?”
“You'll regret taking them in a couple of hours.”
“If we're not out of here in a couple of hours, I'll have more regrets than I can count.” He dry-swallowed the pills, and the pain began to ease, the drug working through his system. “Let's keep moving. How much further?”
“Three turns and one long straight. I'm surprised we haven't run into anyone yet. I guess our little diversion must have been better than we thought.”
“Or Churchill's giving them something else to think about.”
She smiled, then said, “You realize you're hoping that the station we're on is under threat of imminent destruction?”
“We live in a strange and wonderful world, Alex.”
Shaking her head, she said, “Let's hold off on the first names until we live through this, shall we, Cadet?”
“If you say so,” he replied. “Come on. I think those pills are doing the trick.”
“This way,” she said, taking the lead again, this time setting a steadier, easier pace, allowing him to jog beside her. He looked around the corridors as they ran, trying to find any distinctive signs to guide his way, but the station almost seemed to have been designed to mislead those unfamiliar with the layout, twists and turns almost at random, rooms scattered all around with no identifying markers, no distinguishing features.
At last, their luck ran out, and a pair of black-uniformed guards raced down a side corridor towards them, screaming for the pair to surrender, the cracks of bullets flying through the air over their heads reinforcing their demands. Clarke and Blake raced on, trying to outpace their pursuers, but they knew the corridors better than they did, could use short-cuts that their prey dared not risk.
“In here,” Clarke said, tugging Blake into an empty office, moving with his back to the wall, knife in hand.
Taking the other side of the door, Blake said, “Isn't this a little desperate?”
“I think that's about where we are right now.”
Footsteps raced towards them, heavy boots reverberating on the deck, and the first of the two guards carelessly stepped into the office, gun at the ready, Clarke and Blake slashing their knives into his chest as one, the man recoiling back with blood spilling down his uniform, his eyes widening as he clutched at the blades.
His partner stayed back, firing a burst of automatic fire that ricocheted around the room, denting the walls where the bullets bounced clear, the noise all but deafening. Both of their knives were stuck in the dying man's chest, but before the guard could fire again, this time with greater accuracy, Clarke rolled down low, slashing with his legs, throwing his opponent off-balance, knocking his gun from his hands.
Blake snatched the weapon from the floor, raking the guard's torso with a second burst. A desperate wail escaped his mouth as he died, and Clarke walked over, picking up the other weapon from the floor.
“For someone who wanted to be a doctor, you're pretty good at this.”
“Carpenter Station gave me too much practice.” Looking down at the bodies, she added, “Life on the frontier is a lot harder than it is back on Mars. I found that out when bastards like this killed my father, stole my life.” Peering down the corridor, she said, “It's clear, but I doubt it'll stay that way for long. Let's move.”
Taking one last look at the bodies, Clarke followed her down the corridor, now with a rifle in his hands. Somehow, this was beginning to feel normal now, something he was getting used to, a feeling that made his stomach churn. He wasn't some sort of commando, just a normal officer cadet. Blake raced up the corridor ahead of her, and he couldn't help feeling a trace of fear when he looked at her, the cold and efficient way she'd acted in combat. He longed to look into her eyes, to see whether there was a trace of emotion there, the same anguish that was weighing him down.
She turned back to him, and yelled, “Focus, Cadet! We're in enemy territory, remember.”
He smiled. It was there. Though she might not realize it herself. At least his partner in this crazy scheme wasn't the psychopath he had feared. She frowned at the smile on his face, then raced on down the corridor, almost as though she was determined to beat him to Harrison.
A final turn, and another pair of guards standing in their path, rifles in their hands. Cold instinct took over, and without even thinking about it, he raised his rifle and fired a quick burst at them, the two figures crumpling to the deck before they could return fire. Now it was Blake's turn to look at him in surprise, his reaction faster than hers.
“I guess you got them,” she said, shaking her head. Walking over to the door, she tapped the lock, then shook her head, raising her rifle to the door and firing a tight burst, eight shots close together, neatly severing the magnetic lock. Inside, a man rose, a frown on his face.
“Usually, I prefer any potential interviewees to make an appointment.”
Aggressor (Strike Commander Book 3) Page 14
