by Andrew Keith
"Sister, I haven't liked anything I've seen yet today," Rodland said with more feeling than he'd shown since the beginning of the crisis. He turned toward the exec. "Mister Ullestad, I want all our communications and sensor logs compressed into a fast squeal for transmission before we jump. Can do?"
"Aye aye, sir," the lieutenant responded smartly. "Five minutes."
"Good. Then in ten minutes we're out of here. Anything else? No? Then get to your station and make sure that rust-bucket is good and ready."
"Merkur, this is Red One," said Free Skye squadron leader Hobart. "Target in range in six minutes. Any special instructions?"
Listening to the comm chatter, Weltalleutnant Sean Ferguson eased back on his thrust. Hobart's question sounded worried, and anything that worried the squadron's veteran leader made Ferguson nervous.
"Red Squadron, Merkur," came the reply a few seconds later. Ferguson recognized the Voice, and it didn't do anything to make him feel better. If Weltallkommandant Jaeger, the Merkur's captain, was becoming personally involved in the fighter squadron's operations it could only mean trouble. "Your orders are to destroy the enemy JumpShip."
"D-destroy, sir?" The slight quaver in Hobart's voice was audible even to a rookie like Ferguson.
"Those are your orders, man. Now carry them out." Jaeger's voice was flat, harsh.
"They . . . they may surrender, sir," Hobart said. "When they see us coming."
"You will offer no quarter, Red Squadron," Jaeger ordered. "Whatever that JumpShip does, it is to be destroyed."
"Aye aye, sir," Hobart responded slowly. The commline fell silent.
Ferguson's chest felt tight. The squadron's training had dwelt more on the practical matters of fighter combat than on any sort of military philosophy, but Hobart had been strict about instilling a knowledge of the rules of war in his charges. And one of the first rules of space combat was that a JumpShip was inviolate. The technology represented by those interstellar transports was all but irreplaceable today. So much so that many superstitious pilots attributed almost mystical powers to the hyperdrive's ability to twist space around itself to move a JumpShip instantaneously between stars. Ferguson wasn't prepared to believe all the stories he'd heard, but he knew Hobart could never have conceived of the idea of attacking a JumpShip. It was even worse if the enemy ship should surrender. The Fourth Ares Convention, one of the written rules of war, guaranteed that mercenaries who surrendered in combat would not be subject to reprisals.
But Jaeger's orders left no room for doubt. And Ferguson had to admit there was good reason to strike hard and without mercy. After all, the Free Skye Movement was only a tiny resistance organization compared to the size and power of the Federated Commonwealth. The only way to make up for that disparity was to prevent the enemy from using its superior assets.
War to the knife. In a fight for freedom, there might not be room for the niceties of a civilized war.
"All right, Reds," said Hobart, his voice sounding gruff but determined over the channel. "You heard the orders. Arm all weapons, and increase to full thrust. Commence attack run on my mark."
Ferguson eased his throttles forward, feeling the weight of the increased gee-force settling across his chest. Lucky or unlucky, it didn't make any difference now. They were committed to the attack.
* * *
"Lucifers coming into firing range, Captain. Estimating thirty seconds."
"Damn," Rodland muttered. "Guess we cut it a little too fine."
"Weapons officer!" Ullestad snapped. "Plot a firing solution and open fire when ready. Mister Rischel, your attention to your terminal, if you please. ..."
Rodland swung to face the JumpShip's communications station. "I want a full replay of the CAT logs ready to send out, Gundersen," he ordered. "Just in case they lost anything we transmitted in real time." In theory, it was impossible to jam a tight-beam laser link even over interplanetary distances, but the Gray Skull's captain wasn't taking any chances. Not after all the risks run, all the costs paid for lingering this long. Now the information the Gray Skull had been collecting and sending out in a steady stream for hours would be reduced to a set of signals that could be transmitted at high speed in a last, single burst before the JumpShip triggered her hyperdrive. "Compress the data we've gathered and get the transmitter on line. I want a zip-squeal at a thousand to one."
"End the sensor feed, Captain?" the commtech asked.
Before Rodland could reply, Petty Officer Lund, the JumpShip's sensor technician, broke in. "Sir, I think I can get a VE on those fighters." He hesitated before plunging on. "It might be important, sir."
Rodland nodded reluctantly. A visual enhancement of the incoming Lucifers might give them a view of any markings or emblems the fighters were displaying. Even if there wasn't time for the Gray Skull's crew to identify whatever the long-range visual sensors picked up, the data could be very useful back on Glengarry. "Right. Gundersen, maintain the feed. Keep processing the condensed signal as the data comes in, and be ready to transmit on my word. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Gundersen said. "I'll set up a tie-in to the jump countdown. It'll go out automatically at J-minus-five seconds."
"Good . . . good." Rodland nodded curtly. "But be ready for a manual transmission, too. Just in case." He didn't add that a single missile could get through their defenses, take the computers off-line before they could jump. The data had to get out, even if the Gray Skull couldn't escape.
The thought made Rodland frown. He still hated this whole mess. But he couldn't run. Not this time. Not after what Drake and his crew had done.
"Do we jump, Captain?" Ullestad asked calmly.
"Start the final check list," Rodland replied, trying to match his exec's apparent detachment.
"Final check list," the lieutenant echoed, then hit the intraship speaker control. "Jump warning! Jump warning. Five minutes! All hands, jump stations! Report status and stand by!"
Rodland tapped an intercom key on his board. "Io, confirm jump warning."
Use Martinez replied quickly. She had returned to the bridge of her own ship, apparently content to trust Rodland after all. "Confirmed," she reported. "Io now at jump stations, four minutes, fifty seconds . . . mark!"
"Navputer confirms coordinates for jump," Ensign Rischel announced.
"K-F drives on line and reading nominal-to-profile," Haugen chimed in. "Auto-sequencers engaged. Charge reading ninety-six percent."
It was the standard litany of a bridge crew preparing for the trip through hyperspace, though Rodland was conscious of the edge in all their voices, the atmosphere of tension that underlay everything they did and said.
Then the routine was shattered.
"Missile launch! Missile launch!" Lund chanted. On Rodland's board, dozens of tiny blips representing enemy missiles suddenly appeared like clouds of tiny insects around the six fighters.
He checked his clock. Four minutes . . .
* * *
"That big bastard's just hanging there! Target practice is on for today!" Sean Ferguson could hear the excitement in Archie
"Wildfire" Strachan's voice even through the distortion and static on the commline. The Weltallfahnrich had the point position in Red Squadron's diamond formation, and sounded like he was back in the simulators on Skye instead of leading the six Free Skye ships into combat.
Ferguson couldn't muster the same enthusiasm. He kept thinking about the orders to violate the rules of war by destroying the JumpShip. None of the simulators could ever have prepared them for this situation, because an attack on a JumpShip was simply unthinkable, even in practice. So there was no telling what to expect from this battle.
He kept telling himself the attack was a necessary measure, but his mind rebelled against the thought. His fingers clutched tight around his joystick in what Hobart contemptuously called a "rookie's hold." Ferguson was barely conscious of it.
"Rein it in, Four," Hobart's voice cut through the static sharply. "Concentrate on flying and shooting
, and save the chatter for the party when we make pickup."
The enemy JumpShip was still too far away to be visible to the naked eye, but Ferguson's instruments showed it still hanging all but motionless in space. The squadron's first wave of missiles streaked toward the target, and Ferguson found himself holding his breath.
For an instant half his sensor readouts broke up, then reformed. An energy discharge . . .
"Skipper! Skipper! I'm hit!" Strachan shouted.
"PPC fire from the target," Hobart said, voice level. "Spread formation. Attack pattern Beta. Now . . . talk to me, Wildfire. What's the BDA?"
"S-systems nominal . . . l-light damage to port wing armor ..." Strachan sounded surprised to be alive.
"Right," Hobart said. "At this range we're still pretty safe. But watch yourselves." He paused. "Shadowcat, Chevalier, fire your loads and go to Beta! Execute."
Ferguson hit the stud that triggered his Holly LRM rack for a second barrage, then pushed his joystick hard to starboard and advanced his throttles to full thrust. Hobart's order for plan Beta called for Ferguson and his wingman, Ian "Chevalier" Henderson, to fire; and then peel off. From here on, each pair of Skye fighters would make separate attack runs in waves to maintain constant pressure on the enemy.
Ferguson let out his breath slowly. Maybe this mission wouldn't be so bad after all. He'd had visions of the enemy's weapons being able to take out the heavily armored fighters with single hits, but evidently the JumpShip didn't mount anything more sophisticated than any other vessel in the Inner Sphere.
The knowledge brought a measure of relief, but Ferguson's grip on his joystick was still tighter than it had ever been in practice.
* * *
"Concentrate all fire into the missile swarm! Execute!" Captain Einar Rodland gripped his chair arms, every nerve focused sharp on the sensor monitor in front of him. JumpShips weren't supposed to engage in direct combat, but most mounted a number of laser and PPC batteries to aid in repelling boarders. He'd heard of ship captains employing their offensive weaponry for antimissile work, using a targeting program originally developed to deal with meteor swarms that could destroy a JumpShip's solar sail, but this was the first time he'd ever had to use it for the Gray Skull. He prayed that Ensign Wingate, the JumpShip's weapons officer, would be up to the task. She was the only one on his bridge today who hadn't been part of the original crew, and she'd had precious little opportunity to practice her craft these last two years.
"Firing," Ensign Brooke Wingate responded, unruffled. Seconds passed, each an eternity for Rodland.
He saw the results on his board before Lund started reporting. "Multiple hits," the sensor technician said. "I count nine . . . ten . . . twelve missiles knocked out. Still eight zombies incoming."
"Continue firing!" Rodland snapped.
"Weapons are cycling, sir," Wingate replied, some of her calm gone now. "If you want enough heat sinks on line when the drive kicks in, we can't push it—"
"Brace for impact!" Ullestad's voice overrode the other noise on the bridge. An instant later the first missile struck the JumpShip. Rodland winced with each successive explosion that shook his command.
"Damage assessment!" he ordered.
"Three missile hits," Ullestad replied. "Section twenty-four . . . Docking Ring Three is out of action. Hull breach in the docking area. Looks like a hit on the Io as well."
"Status?"
"Nothing serious that I can read, Skipper," the exec said. "We were lucky. Jump countdown is still on . . . forty-five seconds now."
Rodland stabbed a button on his console. "Io . . . report status!" If the DropShip had been seriously damaged by the strike, it could complicate the jump, perhaps even endanger the Gray Skull.
"We're in one piece, Captain," Martinez reported. "But we didn't need another hole in our armor."
A ragged cheer went up from the rest of the bridge crew. Aunt Ilse, it seemed, was winning friends aboard Rodland's ship as she already had throughout the rest of the Legion.
"Thirty seconds," Ullestad reported.
"Another wave of missiles closing fast," Lund said. "It's going to be tight ..."
"Power down all unnecessary systems," the exec ordered. A klaxon alarm shrilled a warning through the ship. "Navputer is feeding coordinates. Jump field is now forming ..."
"Sensors off-line," the petty officer said.
"Message compressed and in the slot," Gundersen added. "Counting down to transmission . . . Transmission beginning . . . now!"
"Go for jump! Go for jump!"
The last seconds seemed to stretch into infinity. . . .
* * *
"Power discharge from the JumpShip!" Sean Ferguson shouted as his instruments registered the expansion of the enemy ship's hyperdrive field. "Get the hell out, High-six!"
"Too late, kid," Hobart replied. "Too late . . ."
The expanding bubble of hyperspace around the Jump-Ship swelled to its maximum diameter. Ferguson heard shouts, then an inhuman scream, over the commline as the four fighters still pressing the attack were caught in the field and literally torn apart.
"Sweet Jesus," his wingman muttered, sounding as horrified as Ferguson felt. Four men and their high tech fighters, all destroyed in an instant.
The price of daring to attack a JumpShip . . .
And then the hyperspace field was gone, and with it the ship itself. Gone as if it had never been there.
Ferguson closed his eyes and fought back tears at the loss of his comrades. He barely heard the recall orders from the Merkur.
16
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Free Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
2 April 3056
Governor General Roger DeVries had returned to his office in the Residence after dinner, as he usually did when some ceremonial duty forced him to neglect his work during the day. The Gray Death's Day of Heroes celebration was long since over, and DeVries was thankful to be done with it. He owed his position to Carlyle's Legion, but he still didn't care for any of them, personally or professionally.
He stared glumly at his computer monitor, with its reports of the new business to be taken up by the Council of Twenty in the week ahead. There were drawbacks, he thought, to serving as the governor under a contracted planetholder like Grayson Carlyle. In this day and age, many nobles paid little attention to their fiefs as long as the governor met his obligations for taxes and manpower. Glengarry's titular holder, for instance, had never visited the world, even when local conflicts had threatened the security of his domain. Baron von Bulow seemed to regard Glengarry as just another holding, more to be ignored than a territory to be exploited.
It would have suited DeVries much better if Prince Victor had ordered the Glengarry grant transferred from Baron von Bulow to an ordinary mercenary unit. Certainly it had taken Mech Warriors to put down the rival thanes who had gained their fiefs from the Baron and then used them to build their personal power, not to mention the gangs of desperate men who had terrorized the countryside. Any normal merc leader would have been content simply to restore order and then use the planet merely as a base of operations for his unit. Mercenary planetholds were supposed to provide food, industrial support, manpower, and the occasional wild vacation for weary soldiers. In such an environment, real local power would have rested squarely with the governor.
Unfortunately, Grayson Death Carlyle was not the average mercenary, by any means. He kept a much closer eye on local affairs than DeVries would have liked, always promoting improvements in everything from industrial output to home sanitation. A laudable enough program, DeVries thought, but it made for almost continual interference by the planefholder—backed up by his mercenary army—in the affairs of the government.
Carlyle's involvement was hampering the work DeVries had pledged himself to. After years as a merchant plying the interstellar spacelanes, he had a good idea of what was needed to make his adopted home a viable member of the intersteller community. Where the mercenary colonel
was apt to treat Glengarry as a kind of hobby, dabbling in whatever improvements seemed useful at any given moment, DeVries had set out to harness and efficiently exploit the planet's potential. With a successful stint as governor, he had hoped to prove that his stewardship would benefit not only Glengarry, but the Federated Commonwealth as a whole. After all, Prince Victor would one day be looking for a new planetholder for the Glengarry fief, wouldn't he? It was in the nature of things for merc units to raise ship and move on every so often. The Legion's assignment here would end one day. Then the Gray Death would be gone, reassigned to some other Federated Commonwealth world that needed a military presence more then Glengarry, or perhaps turning to a new employer outside Federated Commonwealth space entirely.
Why shouldn't Glengarry's next holder be the successful administrator who had reformed the corrupt government and made the planet a contributing member of the interstellar community again? Someday it would happen. . . .
But not as long as Carlyle muddied the waters. When the colonel returned from Tharkad, the two of them would settle this matter once and for all, DeVries thought as he cleared his monitor screen. However sympathetic the governor might be to Carlyle's attempts to improve the lot of Glengarry's ordinary people, what was necessary now was a massive program to bring the planet squarely into the thirty-first century, even if it took harsh measures to make it work. It was time to stop squandering planetary assets in a haphazard way, time to put a real reform program into operation.
A knock on his door interrupted the governor's reverie. He frowned. His secretary and the Planetary Guards who were normally stationed outside the office were not present tonight to screen unwanted visitors. But it was probably just one of the servants, easily dealt with. DeVries hit the control on his desk to open the door, then turned in his chair to face it. As he swiveled, he slipped one hand into the drawer that held his Mydron autopistol. One must always take precautions when serving in public office, particularly given the number of disgruntled thanes and council members who still resented Carlyle's backing Roger DeVries for the governorship.
