They'd already stowed their plasma weapons in the armory, but most of their low-impact shipboard weapons were still in evidence, holstered on belts or hanging over shoulders; several of them were checking them over, making sure they hadn't been damaged in transit.
Orlova was lurking in the background, trying not to attract anyone's attention. Aside from a couple of catcalls, she had succeeded. Esposito counted under her breath for a minute, then dropped a pocket holoprojector on the ground, throwing up a schematic of the lower portions of Mariner Station.
"Listen up. Our new Captain's given us a job, and we've got damn little time to throw it together, so pay attention."
Hunter looked over at a scrappy young man at the back, a single stripe down his sleeve, his eyes wandering. "That means you, Wolfe. We may have let you graduate training early, but that does not give you speaking privileges!"
Esposito looked at her sergeant, wondering how he managed to lace his voice with such easy authority. She looked around the troopers in front of her – a nice mix of male and female cut-throats, all of them looking as if they could take on the universe before breakfast without breaking a sweat. Typical space marines, even if a lot of them looked as if shaving was a recently-acquired skill.
"Our orders are to retrieve an assortment of mission-critical components that were stolen from this ship over the last forty-eight hours. They are being stored in warehouse levels here, and here," she gestured at two spots on the map, buried in a maze of tunnels and corridors, "and presumably guarded by civilian security."
One of the troopers at the back raised her hand. "Yes, Riley?"
"Ma'am, you telling us that we're being ordered to move some crates around?"
Hunter shook his head, "You deaf, Corporal? We've being ordered to beat up some bad guys who stole our kit and get it back. We love this stuff. I'm guessing non-lethal weapons only on this operation, Ensign?"
Esposito nodded. One of the group at the back muttered something to the medic, Floyd. "What is it, Private McBride?" asked Esposito, trying to get a stern tone in her voice.
"I was just saying to Doc here that I can't go on this operation."
"Why would that be, Private?"
"Because my hands are lethal weapons, ma'am!"
A couple of the other espatiers on either side grabbed the hands in question, and some of the others applauded. "Easy enough to fix, Private," Esposito replied. "I know I've got a combat knife around here somewhere."
That set off another round of laughter from the men. The stony-faced squad Corporal, Clarke, frowned, "How are we being inserted?"
"Civilian transport shuttle will drop us off at the nearest dock. You'll have time on the way through to go over the route with the squad holoprojectors."
Orlova shook her head, and stood up, making her way over to the officer. "That's not going to be any good at all, Ensign. You basing those on the schematics in the system?"
"Yes."
"Those decks have been torn down about a dozen times since the station went operational back in the '20s. I doubt a single panel remains of the original corridors. All you'll do if you follow those projections is get yourselves lost."
The troopers mumbled, shifting around, evidently unhappy. Sergeant Hunter kicked the wall with his boot, sending a ringing noise running down the corridor, and somehow managed to give each of them their own personal glare at the same time.
"What do you suggest, pilot?" Esposito asked, frowning.
The young shuttle pilot looked around, slightly uncertain. "I can give you directions, I guess."
"We'd be better if you showed us the way. Obviously you know the area we're heading into rather too well."
Orlova sighed. "That wasn't the deal. I'll write down some directions for you on the flight over. Once we're there, you're on your own."
"What's the matter, kid? Scared of us big ugly marines?" yelled one of the troopers.
"Who wouldn't be scared of you, Henderson?" replied Hunter.
"My shuttle's parked aft of here. Plenty of space for all of your gear, you can take seats in the passenger compartment," said Orlova, ignoring the remark. "Don't touch any buttons, the crate's barely holding together as it is."
The troopers looked at each other, grumbling, and headed down to the nearest equipment lockers, shedding themselves of a truly impressive array of lethal items, before grousing their way down the corridor, led by the sergeant. Esposito stayed behind with Orlova, watching them.
"Force of nature, aren't they, Ensign?"
"That they are. Look, we really would be better off if you would come with us. Those schematics are useless enough as it is."
The pilot shook her head. "I can't risk it. You and your apes down there get to fly off in this big fancy ship once this mission of yours is over. I have to live here. Something I might not get to do for that long if certain people found out I told you were certain goods were stored."
"Pity."
The two of them followed the troopers down the corridor and into the airlock; none of them seemed to have noticed the accumulated junk scattered across the cabin, instead concentrating on getting themselves settled down as comfortably as possible. Paradise for a espatier – an assault run with no weapons to prepare, no tactics to memorize, no battle plan to discuss. Hunter looked like he was contemplating finding something suitably diverting to do, while Orlova and Esposito strapped themselves down in the forward couches. Without bothering with a warning, the pilot detached the shuttle from the side of the ship, using the spilled atmosphere in the airlock to provide the initial boost. Not waiting for a launch approval that was unlikely to come, she kicked the engines into full and punched in a course for the lower levels of Mariner Station, again making an attempt to look like a part of the normal traffic flow. She ostentatiously sat back in her chair, her feet up on her pilot's console, and relaxed.
"Is that it?" asked the Ensign.
"I can pull on levers and push buttons to make it look good if you want, but it won't make any difference. Old Man Newton is in the driver's seat right now, I'm just watching the computer."
Esposito looked nervously around the cabin, as if expecting one of the panels to explode at any moment. With an effort, she pushed aside some of the used food wrappers and hunched over a datapad, looking over some schematics. After tapping some directions onto a datapad for a few minutes, Orlova looked over at the ensign.
"What's that?"
"Personnel files on the squad."
"Ah." She waited for another minute or two. "Don't you know all that stuff already?"
Esposito sighed, put the pad away and turned to face the pilot. "Yes and no. I've read it, but...you don't get the idea how anything will actually go until you lead them into action. Not that I've ever done that before, and they all know it."
"Nervous, then."
"Not at all. I spent three years training down on Mars for this in ROTC. I know what I'm doing."
Orlova chuckled, shaking her head. "No you don't. That's exactly how I felt when I did my first solo. Confident as hell on the outside – had to be to talk the instructor into letting me take that shuttle up ahead of schedule. Inside I was a bundle of nerves. I'm still here, though, and I'm a damned good pilot, so something obviously worked."
The young espatier looked around, out at the stars. "If you are trying to say something..."
"Only that the only reason I know you are nervous is that I've been where you are. It doesn't show. Let that sergeant of yours do all the barking, that's what he's paid for. Just keep them all pointed in the right direction, and you'll be fine."
Esposito looked over at the pilot with a slightly quizzical look, before nodding. "I'll remember that. Thanks."
"We're coming into dock. Hold on."
The shuttle spun around on the thrusters, spilling powdered aluminum liberally, then the engines briefly flared dull red before dimming as the craft slowed down to a crawl, the station getting dangerously close.
A final tap on
the thrusters – which yielded an interesting series of warning flashes that translated to 'are you sure you want to do this damn stupid thing' on Orlova's panel – and they dropped down a dozen levels to the airlock they were looking for. With a dangerously loud slam that rattled the entire ship, they docked.
Hunter was out of his seat first, running towards the airlock. With a single movement he overrode the safeties and opened both doors at once, peering out into the corridor to see if anyone was about. He looked back at his officer, who curtly nodded, then stepped back from the door.
"What the hell are you morons sitting about for! Tactical deployment by fire teams, get moving people!"
Four of them quickly ran out into the corridor, taking advantage of whatever cover they could find, but no-one was in sight. The second team ran out, heading in the opposite direction. A few hand signals later, and Hunter made his way back into the shuttle, looking from side to side.
"All clear, ma'am. Ready to move out."
"Right, let's go. You got your scout picked out?"
"Voldinski."
"Get her moving, and we'll follow in thirty seconds."
"Aye."
Esposito turned to the pilot, waving a mock salute. "I guess this is where we part company."
"Something like that. I'll hang around for a few minutes in case you run into any trouble right off the mat." Orlova tossed the pad with the directions over to Esposito, who snatched it out of the air.
"Thanks. See you around."
The group made their way down the corridor, leaving Orlova alone in her shuttle. Nice kid, she thought, if a little out of her depth. Maggie sat back in her chair, looking out at the stars for a moment, then reached underneath her couch, carefully pushing it in two different places with an outstretched hand.
With a pop, one of the hidden compartments opened out, and a pair of old pistols, heirlooms as much as anything else, spilled out under her chair. She flicked a magazine into each of them, and lay them down on her control console, just in case something went wrong.
The troopers made their way down the corridor, following the instructions hastily scrawled by Orlova on the flight over. After the initial deployment, Hunter had them form into slightly less obvious clumps, in a bid to make them seem less like an armed raiding party.
One corridor blended into another with a series of twists and turns, the flicker of the bio-luminescent lighting on the walls testifying to a failing series of systems, odd chemical tangs filling the air as they steadily marched towards their objective.
Up ahead, Voldinski raised her arm in the traditional gesture of a forward scout to stand still; she made her way quietly back to the group, pulling a datapad out of her pocket, her fingers dancing across the keys.
"Warehouse ahead. Two guards, one either side of door. Bored."
Hunter nodded, turning to the officer for approval before pulling a long, smooth, bamboo pipe out of his pocket with one hand, a worn leather pouch with the other. Clarke likewise pulled another blowgun out of his pocket, and both of them slipped off their shoes and quietly made their way forward to the corridor junction.
A confused look crossed Esposito's face; Lance-Corporal Riley gave her a cheeky thumbs-up and a smile in response, which did nothing to dispel her puzzlement. The two veterans reached the junction, and the corporal dropped to his knees, both of them raising the tubes to their mouths, sliding a dart into the end, carefully drawing in a deep breath. With a chopping motion from the sergeant, the two of them blew at the same instant, the darts flying through the air to land on their targets.
One of the two guards went down instantly; the other took a few seconds to go down, grabbing at his collar as if he was unable to breath. Hunter sped back to the waiting troops, gesturing them on to the door, while Corporal Clarke quickly checked over the two fallen guards, reliving them of the clips for their sidearms.
Esposito whispered to her sergeant, "What the hell was that?"
Hunter pulled the blowgun out of his pocket again, "Primitive but extremely effective at close range. Don't show up on a scanner, and the drug on the tip of the dart knocks you cold for hours. They don't cover them in Basic anymore since the officers took over."
"Got any more of them?"
"Couple of spares."
"Get some more. And I want at least two men in each squad trained in their use as soon as possible."
He raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised. "I'll make it happen, ma'am. Very easy to fabricate. I guess we've got some crates to move."
The squad filed in through the doors, a pair of troopers taking position on either side while the guards were dragged inside. Their trousers were close enough to uniform-issue to pass a cursory inspection, and their jackets fit the troopers reasonably well.
As she walked into the storeroom, Esposito pulled out the datapad with the required inventory and started scanning for the ident tags they were looking for. The room was huge, more than a hundred meters across, with racks scattered liberally around the room in what was probably someone's idea of order, crates scattered ten or twelve high around the room. The only sound was the whirring of air recirculators overhead not quite working properly.
"Hey, Sarge, look over here!" said Riley, pulling a box down from on top of a large stack. "This place is a god-damned treasure trove."
Hunter frowned for a moment, but Esposito shook her head, "Only take any crates that have 'Alamo' written on them or that match the tags I'm scanning for. We're going to have enough problems getting our own stuff home without dragging anything else with us."
The Sergeant looked a little disappointed, but nodded, "OK, you bastards. You heard the officer. Clarke, Flanagan, see if you can find something we can get this stuff out on. The rest of you start stacking crates, and I'd better not see you slipping anything else in our load!"
Sergeants were still renowned for their creative use of language, Esposito briefly mused. She was quite confident that anything of value that could easily be pocketed would be removed from the room upon their departure, and equally confident that none of it would ever be found.
While the troopers started to load crates, grumbling about the weight, she looked around the back of the room. A thin layer of dust covered some of the older containers, and she rubbed it from the label to get a proper look at it, squinting at the unfamiliar characters.
"Anyone speak Mandarin?" she yelled.
Voldinski put down the crate she was moving, slapping her hands against her side as she bounded over to the far side of the room, "My grandma was born in the Lunar Republic. What you got, ma'am?" Esposito gestured, and the private bent over to read it out, giving a long whistle, "Mark III Plasma Pistols, off Republic Spaceship Ma Kong. Date about two years ago."
"That's a lot better than the sidearms we've got back on the Alamo, ma'am," Hunter offered.
Esposito looked back and forth between the crate and the door. "Will our clips fit these sidearms?"
"Might have to do a little work with the energy interface, but I reckon our armorer can manage it," the sergeant replied.
"Grab 'em."
That opened the door for full-scale scavenging, of course, but it was probably worth it. The Lunar Republic had always had the edge on plasma weaponry, and they never exported their best kit. Getting those issued to the platoon could make all the difference at some point. The young officer looked around, and noted that the troopers were not even bothering to conceal their scavenging now, their pockets bulging at the seams.
"Got some grenades back here!", Clarke shouted. "Half-kiloton yield."
Esposito and Hunter looked at each other in shock, the sergeant reacting first. "You make god-damned sure that they aren't booby-trapped, Corporal. What the hell would someone be doing with weapons like that on a space station?"
"You sure, Clarke? Voldinski, take a look," the Ensign said. The private made her way over to the small box, reading the label and nodding. The crate made its way to the growing pile, with Esposito making a no
te to make sure that they were disarmed and stored very carefully in the armory when they got back.
"We're getting distracted now, Sergeant. How much left?"
Hunter peered at the pile and down at his datapad. "Two crates missing, but no sign of them. I make seventeen crates of Alamo stores and three more that we're interested enough in to take back with us."
"Three?"
"Riley found a crate of spices we probably ought to donate to the mess. Smart kid; obviously she's been exposed to ship rations before."
Esposito walked over to the door, where Clarke and McBride were starting to load the crates onto a pair of motorized trolleys. She looked over the dilapidated equipment and the worn tracks, then up at the corporal, who shrugged his shoulders with a 'best we could do' look on his face. Before she could speak, one of the two guard on the door ran into the room.
"Take cover!" he yelled, and the troopers threw themselves behind crates, pulling their tasers out of their pockets. A couple of them looked longingly at the plasma pistols on the trolley, but without clips they were nothing but small, expensive clubs. A pair of green blasts shot through the room, blowing out a pair of crates, sending shards of white-hot plastic raining down on the troopers.
"Plasma weapons? In a station? What the hell?" Riley yelled at no-one in particular.
The sergeant peered over the crate he was hiding behind, then yelled at the scout, "What did you see, trooper?"
"Six of them, in shock armor, with plasma rifles. Two of them took station in the corridor, the others heading for the doors."
Esposito looked at her sergeant, "What do you think?"
"I think we're screwed, and they knew we were coming."
"The pilot?" Esposito said.
"What do you think, ma'am?"
Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty Page 5
