“Watch this, gentlemen and women,” Pilot Arnold called down. “Our fate is about to be decided in the next four seconds.”
The nearest frigate targeted the missiles that were nearly upon it. Four of the fourteen disappeared in a green impact followed by a white flash. Those that survived fired what appeared to be retrorockets mounted in their nose just before reaching the frigate’s hull. The reduced speed apparently allowed them to pass through the defensive screens and detonate! Well, six of them did. Two missiles hadn’t slowed enough and disintegrated upon impact with the screen. Nuclear blasts and carbon-coated depleted uranium pellets destroyed the final two before they reached and passed through the Primus frigate’s defensive screen.
“Wasn’t that pretty?” the pilot shouted down.
“A thing of purest beauty,” the lieutenant replied.
The Chicher Handler chattered excitedly, his translator failing to share what he said.
McAllister added, “Let’s hope those minor victories aren’t fleeting.” Her frowning face held little hope.
One breaching pod slowed and tumbled for a moment before righting itself. Com Specialist Villet raised a hand to his ear. “That one took a pair of friendly pellets. Penetrated the primary hull but not the secondary. Sounds like she’ll make it.”
“Hold on again, gents,” the pilot said, the breaching pod veering to keep the massive transport between it and the undamaged Primus frigate for as long as possible, even if that meant only an additional ten seconds. “Diverting energy to hyper-charge our shearing devices.”
With that the gravity plate zeroed out. A few unsecured tools began floating, as did the ends of McAllister’s braids extending beyond her helmet.
Lt. Burian glanced at Smith, who then barked at Nollie and Brooker. “Secure those. Stuff them in your pockets if you have to.”
Poor discipline again, I thought, reaching out and snatching a pair of needle nose pliers. O’Vorley grabbed a micro-capacitor switch, traces of carbon soot showing it’d burned out. The two Marine privates managed to secure five other items, sheepish looks telling me the policing of loose items had been their responsibility.
My experience with Smith, soldiers under him didn’t get ‘lost’ and out of contact. Things were always done right. Lt. Burian seemed competent and aware. Somewhere I was missing something. Some variable or changed dynamic.
It concerned me even more. I looked around and counted. O’Vorley and McAllister. The Chicher and the Bahklack. Smith and probably Burian. Those six I could count on. The rest? The pilot wouldn’t be going in with us. He’d stay with the pod. Man the external auto cannon, oversee the automated defense systems, fight and do all he could to make sure the Turbo Crank was there when we returned. He was a veteran, been around.
The rest? They weren’t a unit, bonded to fight for one another. Probably thrown together. Corporal Pallish and Private Umpernilli? Slackers. Villet, Brooker, Nollie and Xiont? I’d wager this was their first mission, first time facing combat.
Biting his lip, O’Vorley was coming to the same conclusion. The look of disgust plastered on McAllister’s face said the genius, nearly as socially inept as me, had figured it out too.
Except for Smith, the Marines probably didn’t think much of a shotgun-carrying Relic Tech Security Specialist. What they didn’t know, might keep them alive. What I didn’t know, might get me dead.
A lot of things happened at once.
The damaged Primus frigate used what thrusters it had to distance itself from the closing swarm of breaching pods, or at least delay our reaching it.
The def-sat’s silvery energy beam cut into one of the damaged frigate’s engine ports.
The undamaged Primus frigate split its fire between the breaching pods and the def-sat.
Emergency escape pods began racing from the doomed orbital dock, despite its lasers scoring hit after hit.
All of the breaching pods, including ours, sent bursts of auto cannon fire at the damaged frigate. The rounds appeared as effective as hail striking an armored personnel carrier. The Primus weapons however, struck like emerald bolts of hot magma against a tin lunch pail.
Pilot Arnold shouted, “Hold on!” At the same time the Turbo Crank shuddered like an old-style pickup truck racing downhill on a gravel road, then slammed on the brakes. A massive thump rocked the breaching pod, like that truck got hit by a hurled brick.
A warning claxon went off, along with pulsing yellow lights.
“Outer hull penetrated,” Arnold announced. The shuddering stopped as the pilot returned to what was equivalent to full throttle. “Appears to be a one-and-a-half meter gash. Heat damage to the secondary hull…but she’ll hold.”
The holo-display showed nineteen breaching pods still closing. One of those was damaged worse than us, coming out of a tumble and limping back on course.
The damaged frigate opened up, but with only two firing ports. That left seventeen breaching pods.
I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer, for us on the Turbo Crank, all of the other pods, and for everyone—human—dead or dying. Yes, even for the CGIG traitors. Even if they survived now, something akin to karma was going to get them in the end.
I opened my eyes seconds before the Jormungand crashed into the Bizmith Orbital Dock.
The transport’s captain had aimed to strike dead center along the main structure, but the dock must’ve shut down its stabilizers at the last moment, jettisoned or blew air, causing her to rise above the transport’s trajectory. It wasn’t enough as the enemy still had some maneuvering thrusters.
The Jormungand, even being a behemoth class transport, was dwarfed by the orbital space dock. The enemy ship’s upper third tore away like a twelve-foot-tall bus trying to drive under an eight-foot overpass. The orbital dock buckled as its center was driven up, reactivated stabilizers unable to compensate. The transport continued on with unstoppable momentum, shards of metal spinning away and the emptiness of space snuffing out random gouts of fire.
“Gutless bastards!” Xiont shouted.
“Harness that anger,” Lt. Burian said. “You’ll be needing it shortly.”
Umpernilli said, “I wouldn’t count on it, Lieutenant.”
The officer turned on the stocky Marine. “You, Private, might think on letting go of that pessimism. Won’t benefit you, me, or anyone else—except the enemy—whatever happens.”
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Arnold shouted down.
Everyone saw what he meant when the undamaged Primus frigate’s main engines came online. I held my breath, waiting for the damaged frigate’s engines to fire up.
They didn’t and we were still gaining on her. A few seconds later and a barrage of emerald blasts, and there were twelve breaching pods left.
“Lieutenant,” Arnold said, “all things remaining the same, you have four minutes to give final orders to your men. After that, we’ll be clamped on. Things from then on tend to be on the loud side.”
Umpernilli had opened his mouth to comment when the holo-projection showed a sparking shot race past the swarm of breaching pods and find its mark. Arcing jolts of energy rippled across what could be called the top half of the damaged frigate’s northern hemisphere. Without a defensive screen, she was vulnerable to an ion cannon, just like any human ship.
“That should scramble a few systems,” I said, wondering how one of the Oxen’s ion cannons managed to survive the early onslaught. The undamaged frigate might at least split its attention, giving us hope of surviving that final four minute run—if it couldn’t burn us off like ticks attached to its partner’s hull. But those remaining on the Iron Oxen had just called the crosshairs back onto them, an unarmored, dead-in-space freighter.
“Private Brooker,” said Sergeant Smith, “How long until the cavalry arrives?”
“Five minutes ago is too long for me,” he said, staring at the holo-projection. “Marines dying in combat against the enemy is one thing. Being obliterated while strapped down insid
e one of these tin cans is another.”
I shook my head. That was unprofessional.
Smith’s retort was interrupted by the pilot. “Well, lookie there,” Arnold stated from above. “Speak of the devil.”
The holo-projection image provided by the early detection satellite showed the Star Splitter drop out of condensed space travel. Behind the battleship appeared her three escorting destroyers. No sign of the troop transport, yet.
The undamaged Primus Crax frigate pelted the Iron Oxen with its emerald fire, saving enough to take out the two leading breaching pods, before it turned to intercept the Star Splitter approaching from its, and roughly our, ten o’clock high.
The nuclear detonations and ion cannon strike must’ve inhibited the damaged frigate’s ability to get its main engines online as we continued to close, faster as the ion strike had cut its maneuvering thruster speed by roughly a third. And she wasn’t able to target us, fire her main weapons, or both. One thing she lacked was close-in defensive weapons. Her main guns were supposed to serve double duty for that.
Bad news for her and her crew. Lucky for us.
I lost all interest in the holo-projection as did everyone else as we closed the distance.
Pilot Arnold fed energy back into the artificial gravity plate just after he spun the Turbo Crank 180 degrees to land on the enemy frigate’s hull.
“Once again, gentlemen and women,” Pilot Arnold warned, “hold on.”
The 180-degree spin had proven disorienting enough for me. When he fired the auxiliary deceleration rockets, it felt like we were in a freefalling elevator while its emergency braking system tried to catch.
With a thump that rattled my teeth, we made contact. Metallic slams, clangs, and screeching followed. Vibrations in the floor plate ran up through my boots.
Lt. Burian unbuckled. “Up and ready, Marines,” he shouted. I barely heard him. He signaled with his hand, showing three fingers. “Three minutes.”
The Chicher immediately removed an aerosol can from its harness, slid open one of the wooden slats and pointed it into a cylindrical hole.
Someone grabbed my shoulder. I turned to see it was McAllister, a fierce gleam in her mismatched blue and green eyes. “Forget the rat and these Marines,” she shouted in my ear. “Me and you are going to wreak havoc, like we done before.”
Chapter 30
With the seats retracted, I stood next to the Bahklack, helmet on, Troh-got defensive screen on my belt activated, and shotgun ready. The oversized crab alien stood rigid, Umbelgarri energy baton gripped in its smaller claw, some sort of oblong hunk of metal in one of its small, manipulative appendages under its jaw. Silvery light glowed like LED bulbs nestled in tiny fissures spread across the otherwise dull, rippling piece of metal.
Private Brooker stood with his own remote device, ready to control the Thuckich Hive’s movement. The Chicher was perched on top, hunched down with his prehensile tail curled around one of the straps for additional support. Holstered on his harness were two small firearms that I hadn’t noticed before. They were roughly the same shape and size as a .22 caliber pistol, a little bigger than a pocket derringer. He also had a sheathed pair of fighting knives and a tail blade.
McAllister had her MP sidearm holstered and the Colonial Marines each had a medium duty laser carbine with a 20mm grenade launcher, and an MP pistol like McAllister. They also had cylindrical grenades the size of old-style D-size batteries. Smith tossed me a few.
“You know how to use these more modern ones?” he asked, leaning close.
I nodded. “White ones are white phosphorus, brown speckled ones are fragmentation, and metallic are flash stun, of which you didn’t give me any.”
“That’s because we’re here to kill, not stun,” he said with a crooked, wicked grin.
“And capture the frigate, if at all possible,” the lieutenant reminded, still having to shout over the screeching caused by the cutting torches and molecular blades.
Or hack and steal whatever we can get before setting the energy systems to destroy the ship. I didn’t say it, but knew it was running through McAllister’s thoughts. With only ten breaching pods, the odds were longer. I didn’t know what the crew complement was aboard a Primus Crax frigate, as this might be the first time humans managed to board one of their ships. But they were certain to have some nasty internal defenses.
Arnold stepped down from his pilot area holding a four-barreled medium duty laser plugged into a backpack battery. Mounted beneath it was a standard 20mm grenade launcher.
The pilot saw I’d taken notice of his weapon. He leaned close. “Built it myself,” he said, patting the top two of the four barrels. “Kit was expensive as hell, but I intend to hold the fort in case you gents have a notion to retreat.”
McAllister rolled her eyes, but O’Vorley said, “Good to know, Pilot. Thanks.”
Pilot Arnold nodded to O’Vorley and glanced up at a readout. “Fifteen seconds, gentlemen! They’re jamming my cameras. Every pod’s for that matter.” He walked over to a wall mounted computer while saying to the lieutenant, “Allow the Turbo Crank to deploy her area denial welcome mat and then it’s all your show.”
I wasn’t sure what this model had for area denial. Old models I’d read about had napalm jets and automated rotary cannons combined with various timed explosive shells similar to mortars, all of which could be nasty in an enclosed area. They were also used to deny enemy access after the boarding teams exited. If the Primus got past that, the pilot’s impressive kit-built carbine probably wouldn’t make much difference.
At the lieutenant’s signal we all activated our anti-gravity harnesses. Right on cue the screeching from the cutting blades and torches stopped and reverberations from concussive explosions ran through the floor grate to my boots. Lt. Burian nodded to Smith, who signaled with his laser carbine’s barrel for Nollie and Xiont to proceed.
Nollie dropped a camera bot. I watched through my ocular as the bot’s video transmission digitized then went black.
“Two can play at that game,” Pilot Arnold said, tapping at several icons on the wall-mounted screen. It did a retinal scan. “Secure all unhardened equipment for EMP.”
I flicked off my com-set and set it for secure. I shut down the sound dampener attached to my wristwatch’s band. Nobody messed with their anti-grav equipment and I knew the CNS device on my neck and spine was built to resist EMPs, even those generated by A-Tech equipment. That thought reminded me to flick off the Troh-got shield generator.
“Ready?” Arnold asked, holding his finger over a red switch. “Three, two, one.” He depressed it.
No sound or hint of the EMP burst, other than a red warning on the computer screen and the pod’s chronometer flashing EMP twice before reverting to displaying the time. Why we didn’t do that initially, I didn’t know. Maybe it could catch friendly teams unprepared?
This time Xiont dropped a camera bot, also wired into the pod’s systems. My com-set was just coming online. Using the Turbo Crank’s floodlights, the 360-degree camera showed a shaft corridor with scorched and twisted metal and tubing—probably the walking rails with a nearby shaft angled down toward the bowels of the ship. It was dark beyond the floodlights’ reach, at least in the down shaft as evidenced by the shadows. The straight on shot of light reached out along the transit tunnel as it curved with the frigate’s outer hull.
Keeping within the mission’s radio silence protocol, the lieutenant signaled Private Nollie to take point, showing us he wanted Formation 4. That didn’t make me happy as it’d put Corporal Pallish behind me.
Nollie leapt down, his weight mostly compensated for during the eight-foot drop, looked both directions, and then stepped toward the shaft-like corridor. Smith and Xiont went next, followed by Umpernilli, Brooker controlling the Thuckich hive with the Chicher right beside him. Then Lt. Burian and McAllister flanked by O’Vorley, me and the Umbelgarri thrall, then Com-Specialist Villet and Corporal Pallish.
“Good hunting,” Pilot
Arnold said, his voice jovial while tainted with underlying concern.
We didn’t advance in single file, more like pairs with one member a half step ahead of the other, except for Nollie on point. I’d expected a harsh welcoming party. Maybe they were offering up such festivities to the other breaching pods.
Everything was silent, except for the increased hum emanating from the Thuckich hive. Only a faint trace of burnt metal and plastic lingered. No smoke, which said a lot about the Primus life support and air recycling systems. The Bahklack’s faint fishy smell was stronger.
Atmosphere felt warm, like on a summer day in the shade with low humidity.
The floor had two pairs of parallel conduits as described, elevated about eight inches from the floor. Pink, turquoise, faded emerald, lilac as described in the mission brief. They were scorched and scarred, like the walls. Evidence of the Turbo Crank’s area denial weaponry. Away from the damaged are,a the metal was smooth. Not reflective, but clean, almost antiseptic. The tunnel made even a luxury transport’s corridors appear a little cluttered and dingy.
Thinking on the colored rails, I didn’t believe advanced aliens would climb everywhere. There had to be an elevator or something. Kneeling, I touched, then brushed my little finger along the porous pipe for a few inches. Dry, although it appeared to have a sheen of dampness. A cloth texture as described, combined with a barely perceptible…buzz of energy, like if you touched a nearly dead 9-volt battery to your tongue. Maybe the rails were for carts, sort of like old-time trollies? Like water pipes, they split off, part of each line going straight, and the other curving down into the dark shaft.
McAllister caught what I was doing, slowed and whispered into my ear. “There’s a faint electrical current in them.” Her voice carried just above the hive’s buzzing hum. The clamshell computer in her hand was collecting data through some sort of passive mode, similar to the remote that Nollie held in his off hand. “We need to move faster.”
I nodded in agreement. A pace no faster than a walk gave the enemy more time to respond to our incursion.
Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2) Page 29
