Technokill

by David Sherman

  "Your sailors are all engineers, right, Chief?" Gunny Thatcher asked.

  "Of course they are. They wouldn't be in engineering if they weren't."

  "Mostly nuclear and electronic?"

  Magruder thought for a moment, then nodded. "Every last one of them."

  "You need a mechanical engineer for this job. We've got one. Corporal Doyle will operate the interior controls if we have to breach the hull."

  Chief Magruder stared at him for a moment. "All right," he finally said. "Send him down to Engineering. I'll start training him on it immediately." He headed for Engineering himself, muttering something about "Marines, they've always got to be goddamn heroes, doing shit that ain't their goddamn jobs, just so long as it puts their goddamn lives on the line."

  "Say what?" Corporal Doyle squawked when Top Myer told him Gunny Thatcher had arranged for him to operate the controls of the Tweed Hull Breacher if they had to conduct a hostile boarding of the Marquis de Rien. "That's a squid's job, Top. I ain't no sailor-boy, I'm a Marine!"

  "You're not a..." Myer reconsidered what he was about to say. Doyle might only be a clerk, but, yeah, he was a Marine—and he had that damn Bronze Star to prove he was just as tough a fighter as any blasterman in the company. Damn that Charlie Bass for giving Doyle the chance to earn it. The first sergeant conveniently forgot that he was the one who'd assigned Doyle to that patrol, and that Bass hadn't been particularly gracious about the whole business.

  "You're not a squid," Myer corrected himself. "But you are a mechanical engineer. The job requires a mechanical engineer, and you're the only one on board ship."

  "No I'm not, Top! I'm not a mechanical engineer. That was my minor. My major was accounting. I'm an accountant, Top, not an engineer!"

  "But Corporal Doyle, you came up with such an elegant solution to the problem," Myer said, holding his hands out. "It's only right that you should demonstrate it."

  "But, Top—"

  "Corporal Doyle!" Myer snapped; his patience, never great, was totally gone. "You volunteered for this job. That's an order. Do you understand?"

  Corporal Doyle pulled himself into something that vaguely resembled the position of attention.

  "Aye aye, Top." He looked about uncertainly. "Uh, which way is Engineering?"

  "Ahoy, freighter Marquis de Rien." The voice crackled from the comm speakers on the bridge of the Marquis. "This is Confederation Navy Starship Khe Sanh. Spin down your engines and prepare to receive a boarding party."

  Sly Henderson slapped the button that gave him a visual to the rear. Most of the view was blotted out by glare from the star they were rapidly closing on. Only the very brightest of the stars in the heavens were visible. And one that showed a disk—the Khe Sanh.

  "My God," the radar tech cried, "they're right on top of us! "

  "Give me a reading, Flinders," Henderson snapped.

  Flinders pulled himself together and looked at his display. "They're a hundred kilometers and closing."

  "What's their relative speed?"

  Flinders calculated. "Twenty-five kph," he said.

  Henderson tapped a few keys on his console. "We reach the slingshot in five hours," he said. "We're in good shape."

  "Five hours? But they'll be next to us in four!"

  Henderson shook his head. "Do you know how they conduct hostile boardings? They send men in armored vacuum suits with equipment that breaks through airlock hatches, that's how. It's a slow process." He barked a laugh. "We're so close to this star that all we'll have to do is spin around our long axis. The boarding party will spend so much time in direct sunlight, eating that radiation, they'll cook before they can blow a hatch. And that's if they can manage to latch onto our hull at all!"

  "Marquis de Rien." The speakers crackled more than before. "This is the CNSS Khe Sanh. I say again, spin down your engines and prepare to receive boarding party."

  Henderson picked up a comm set and said into it very clearly, "CNSS Khe Sanh, this is the Marquis de Rien. Eat my vacuum." Then he turned the planetary space comm off. "Won't be long before all we get out of it is static anyway."

  "But—"

  "It's too late for ‘buts,’ Corporal Doyle. You volunteered for this, and there isn't enough time to train someone else."

  "No, I—"

  "Yes you did, I heard you volunteer. Didn't you hear him, Gunny?"

  "I sure did, Top," Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher said, nodding vigorously.

  "See? It's settled. Now cooperate with this nice sailor. He's trying to fit your armored vacuum suit so nothing leaks out and nothing nasty gets in"

  "But—" Corporal Doyle's protest was cut off by Engineering Mate Second Class Goldman, who settled the suit's helmet into place.

  The modifications made the armored vacuum suit twice as bulky as normal. There was extra radiation shielding all around it, an outsized cooling unit was mounted on its back, and shallow fins protruded from all surfaces to radiate excess heat.

  "I'm going to have to turn his comm on, First Sergeant," Second Class Goldman said apologetically.

  "Whatever you have to do. It's too late for him to back out, and he knows it."

  Goldman opened a panel on the suit's chest and briefly fiddled with the insides. "Can you hear me, Corporal Doyle?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I can hear you fine, but—"

  "All right, you've got atmospheric audio pickup. Now I'll test your radio." Goldman fiddled with the inside of the panel again to turn off the atmospheric speaker—Corporal Doyle could still hear what they were saying, but they couldn't hear him—then Goldman donned a helmet and adjusted it on his shoulders. He looked at the two Marine senior NCOs and said, "Somebody say something," through his atmospheric speaker.

  "Testing, testing, one-two," Top Myer said, looking into the faceplate.

  "Thanks." Second Class Goldman hadn't heard anything; Doyle's helmet was properly in place. He toggled on the suit-to-suit radio. "Corporal Doyle, how do you hear me?"

  "I hear you five by, but—"'

  Goldman missed the rest of what Doyle said; he popped his helmet seal and toggled off the radio as soon as Doyle said "five by." He busied himself for a few moments attaching wires and cables to Doyle's suit. A low, almost inaudible chugging and humming filled the small engineering compartment they were in.

  "Raise your right arm straight up, Corporal Doyle," Goldman said. Doyle reluctantly raised his arm. "Now rotate it in a full circle, down to the front, up to the rear." He watched a gauge while Doyle rotated his arm.

  Top Myer and Gunny Thatcher mostly watched Second Class Goldman. Looking at the dials, gauges, and blinking lights on his instruments wouldn't tell them anything, and neither of them had the heart to watch Corporal Doyle silently mouthing objections and complaints behind the face shield of his helmet.

  "Now hold it straight out to the side." Goldman said. Doyle did. "Swing it fore and aft." Satisfied with the movement of the suit's right arm, Goldman had Doyle repeat the movements with his left arm. "Stop!" he ordered when Doyle's left arm was halfway up the back of the circle movement. He stepped close and made an adjustment. "Do it again." This time he nodded, satisfied. "Now walk forward two paces." He nodded at his instruments. "Go there, please." He pointed at a mock-up of the cutter controls of the Tweed Hull Breacher. "You know the sequence, I want you to go through it now."

  Clumsily, reluctantly, Corporal Doyle went through the motions of operating the cutters and closing the hatch.

  "Your suit fits properly, Corporal Doyle," Second Class Goldman finally said. "Good luck out there, Marine." He grabbed one of Corporal Doyle's gloved hands in both of his and shook it. He reopened the chest panel to turn the atmospheric speaker back on.

  "Thank you, Second Class Goldman," Myer said. Then to Thatcher, "Let's go see how those men from second platoon are coming along."

  "Second platoon?" Corporal Doyle squawked. "What men from second platoon?"

  Myer looked at him quizzically. "The boarding party."

  "I
'm not going!"

  "What did you say?" Myer asked in an ominously low tone. He clenched his fists and advanced on Corporal Doyle.

  "I said I'm not going." Corporal Doyle awkwardly folded his armored arms across his chest and leaned back against the mock-up.

  Engineering Mate Second Class Goldman looked at them nervously. "Uh, First Sergeant, I advise you don't try to do anything physical."

  Myer speared him a withering glance and continued to advance until his nose was millimeters from Doyle's faceplate.

  "You're going, Corporal Doyle, if I have to suit up and take you myself."

  "Nossir, First Sergeant," Doyle said in the firmest voice Myer had ever heard him use. "Not with second platoon, I'm not. You want to court-martial me, then court-martial me. I'm not going with second platoon. "

  Myer glared, unable for a moment to think of anything to say.

  Thatcher noticed Doyle's emphasis on second platoon. "What's wrong with second platoon?" he asked.

  Corporal Doyle turned his head slightly to look at the company gunnery sergeant. "I've never been in combat with second platoon, that's what's wrong with them. You want me to go? Make third platoon the boarding party. I'll go with third platoon."

  Myer exploded, waving his arms and spraying spittle on the suit's faceplate. "Third platoon! Third platoon can't go. They've seen more than their fair share of the action on this mission. And they're shot to shit! Everyone in that platoon is wounded."

  Corporal Doyle shook his head. "I visited them a few hours ago. The ship's surgeons and corpsmen have done a real good job fixing them up. Some of them are a bit sore, but most of them are in good shape now. They can do it. I'll go with third platoon or I don't go at all." He looked at Myer defiantly.

  Thatcher was talking on his personal comm unit as soon as Corporal Doyle said he'd go with third platoon. "Top, Charlie Bass says Corporal Doyle's right; most of his men are in good condition. Everybody in the platoon volunteered to be in the boarding party. He's bringing his sound men to suit up."

  Myer spun and glared at Thatcher, then slowly turned back to Corporal Doyle.

  "Your ass is mine, Corporal Doyle. You hear me? Your ass is mine. Stand by when this is done. Just you stand by."

  "Aye aye, Top." Doyle did his best to sound firm and uncowed, but couldn't keep his voice from cracking.

  Chapter 27

  Commander Spitzhaven knew at least as much of the orbital mechanics involved in the Khe Sanh's overtaking the Marquis de Rien as Sly Henderson did. In fact, after more than twenty years working his way up the hierarchy of navy starships, he knew them better than Henderson did. Once the Khe Sanh closed the distance to the Marquis de Rien, it would take about forty-five minutes to move the hull breacher into position on the hull of the other ship. That would leave only fifteen minutes to breach the hull and to enter the ship and take possession of it before it reached slingshot. Since nobody involved with the operation was familiar with the equipment or procedure, Spitzhaven knew he had to add a fudge factor of at least fifty percent as a safety margin. That meant there were two chances in three that the smugglers' ship would slingshot before the THB was in place. In any event, it was almost certain the smugglers' ship would slingshot before the full boarding party entered her. He was certain the abrupt acceleration would throw the THB off, which meant it was necessary to have a pilot and navigator in the initial boarding party. Since the increased bulk of the armored vacuum suits shrunk the size of that party from ten men to six, that didn't seem like such a great idea. Also, he'd have to break off pursuit to rescue the sailors and Marines who'd be scattered about when the THB was thrown off. It was likely that some of those men might not survive. The Marquis de Rien would probably get away whether or not he stopped to pick up the cast-off men.

  Commander Spitzhaven needed a way to close with the Marquis de Rien and leave enough time to board before the slingshot. He gave the problem a few moments of thought, then angled his ship to face directly into the solar wind, hoping to reduce its drag and effectively increase its speed relative to the Marquis. That helped. The Khe Sanh closed the distance three hours and forty minutes after Henderson told it to "eat my vacuum." That gave Spitzhaven the fudge factor he needed.

  Chief Petty Officer Magruder suited up to personally supervise the movement and attachment of the THB to the Marquis de Rien. A dozen sailors in modified vacuum suits gripped hold-ons along the edges of the THB. Engineering Mate Second Class Goldman, who knew the suit modifications better than anybody else, came along in case anyone had a problem with them. Barely visible to the naked eye from any distance, the THB looked like a pimple on the flank of the Khe Sanh.

  At a signal from Magruder, Seaman Qim, the rating who operated the maneuver controls, threw the lever that fired the main thrusters. Flames blossomed from four points around the bottom of the breacher and flowed into a flickering blue puddle on the ship's hull. Chief Magruder watched his control panel as the thrust equaled and surpassed the mass and inertia of the THB. He released the grapples that held the massive box to the Khe Sanh's hull, and it began accelerating toward the Marquis de Rien, which appeared to hover like a lost pyramid two and a half kilometers away. Magruder looked back and saw the twenty-four Marines in their extra-bulky armored vacuum suits trailing on their tether, which was centered below the THB where the thrusters' flames wouldn't hit them. Well, they weren't all Marines. The eleventh and twelfth men in the string were a navy pilot and a navigator.

  Magruder turned back to the target ship and gave it a hard look. He wondered what he'd do if he were in command of it and saw the THB coming toward him.

  "Qim," he said, jacked into the THB's comm. With radio communications impossible this close to the star, they were plugged into conduction circuits built into the body of the THB. "On my mark, shut down Thruster Two." Because their tether wasn't tied into the conduction circuit, he couldn't communicate with the Marines. Well, he'd have to rely on their much vaunted reputation for thinking fast and improvising. "Aye, Chief," Seaman Qim replied.

  "Three, two, one, mark!"

  The THB slewed slightly as one thruster cut off and it began to alter its approach vector.

  "Ah, Chief?" Qim said. "We aren't heading straight for the hull. Shouldn't I adjust to redirect?"

  "Negative, Qim. This is what I want us to do. On my mark, cut Thruster Four."

  "Aye aye, Chief." But Qim didn't sound sure.

  "Three, two, one, mark!"

  The THB slewed again and slowly turned so it was aimed at the edge of the Marquis instead of directly at its flank.

  "Qim, fire Two and Four."

  "Aye, Chief."

  With all four thrusters again firing, the THB closed faster on the rim of the ship. It wasn't a rapid closure. As fast as it was moving in absolute terms, the THB's speed relative to the Marquis de Rien was little more than three kilometers per hour. In theory, allowing for braking time to match velocity when it got there, the trip to the target ship should take forty-five minutes and a few seconds. Then another fifteen minutes to position it against the hull, board the boarding party, and cut through the hull. Chief Magruder knew the skipper expected them to take longer than that because of their lack of experience with the THB. But he knew that somehow they'd have to do it faster. That was one of his reasons for changing his approach vector. The other reason was the maneuver he expected whoever was conning the Marquis to make.

  Fifteen minutes went by with the Marquis de Rien growing slowly larger. The THB's relative velocity crept upward.

  "Chief, isn't it time to alter thrust?" Qim asked.

  "Negative," Magruder replied. "Steady as she goes."

  "But, Chief—"

  "Steady as she goes, Seaman Qim."

  "Aye aye, Chief."

  Qim was right. The book said they should have cut thrust half a minute ago and been preparing to fire forward thrusters to reduce velocity so they could match speeds with the target ship when they reached it. But Chief Magruder's twenty-five year
s in Engineering had taught him a few tricks.

  "Give it another five minutes, Qim," he said. "I know what I'm doing."

  "Aye, Chief."

  Magruder heard the lack of confidence in Qim's voice and responded to it. "You ever known me to be wrong, Qim?"

  Qim didn't reply. Magruder chuckled. He should have known better than to ask that question of any seaman.

  When the closure rate reached five kph, Chief Magruder ordered Qim to cut the thrusters.

  "Aye aye, Chief." Then a moment later, "Do you want me to fire the brakes, Chief?"

  "Not until I tell you to, Qim."

  Silence.

  Magruder snorted. Were he in the other man's position, he'd be quaking in his suit and seriously considering firing the braking thrusters on his own. He understood the fear a sailor might have now. If they missed the target ship and failed to take proper corrective action quickly enough—and if the Khe Sanh dallied too long to react—they could find themselves on an inescapable spiral down into the primary. But there were three ifs in that, and Chief Magruder thought only one of them was actually possible—and he had too much confidence in his abilities to believe that one possibility would occur.

  With the Marquis de Rien looming only five hundred meters ahead and below them, the target ship began a slow spin along its long axis. Magruder grinned tightly to himself. Whoever was commanding over there did exactly what he would have done. He snapped out orders, "Qim, fire brakes full. Fire main thrusters One and Four."

  "Fire brakes full, aye," Qim immediately replied, relief clear in his voice. "Fire main thrusters One and... Chief, say again?"

  "Fire main thrusters One and Four. Do it now"

  "Fire main thrusters One and Four, aye."

  The THB shuddered as the braking thrusters pushed back on it. The tether carrying the Marines began to collapse toward the box, then tautened again as Thrusters One and Four began swinging the rear of the THB away from them and the ship below. Now broadside and fully out of the shadow of the Marquis de Rien, the solar wind hit the THB hard, further slowing its relative motion. The slowly rotating hull of the ship was less than a hundred meters away—and the THB was circling it, staying almost directly above one spot.