"How the hell did his happen? I should have seen it."
"With the Exec and the Security Chief both in on it? Between them they had enough access to shut everyone out. I should have seen something as well, I'm supposed to be your damn Tactical Officer."
Marshall looked at the clock on the wall, and did a quick mental calculation. "We were supposed to be on alert ninety seconds ago. The interception maneuver has to happen in exactly twelve minutes."
"Twelve minutes to retake the ship?"
The doors opened to pandemonium. Corporal Stiles was arguing with Lieutenant Quinn in the far corner by the drive monitors, a gaggle of technicians were swarming about, and a pair of computer techs were swearing in five languages as they frantically typed into their workstations. Ryder was in a corner, patching together some sort of control system, and Mulenga was talking to Weitzman, pointing at a panel.
"Captain on the deck!" yelled Caine, and immediately Mulenga and Quinn broke off from their conversations, walking over to the elevator.
"We thought you'd had it on the bridge, skipper," Quinn said.
"Thanks to Mr. Dietz, I got away."
"Where is he?" Mulenga asked. Caine and Marshall looked at each other, and the astrogator's face dropped. "I see."
"Not dead, and if Duquesne has anything to say about it, he won't be." He looked around the remaining cluster of officers. "We have exactly eleven minutes and forty-two seconds to regain control of this ship. I need ideas, and I need them now."
Quinn looked around the room, "The bridge is the major problem at this point. My spooks are dueling with their spooks, but we've nailed enough processing power down here that we should win that particular battle, just a matter of time. They have the sensor decks, but we can remote link anything we need for the present; they've got life support, but right now it's useless to them. We still trying for the interception maneuver?"
"Damn right."
"We will need weapons control to make that work. Tactical systems have been deactivated, so the bridge doesn't have them, but neither do we," Mulenga said. "Mr. Quinn, can you get them back on-line, routed to an alternate station?"
"We still hold weapons control, so sure. I can make that a priority, skipper."
"Good. What about maneuvering?"
The engineer's face turned downcast, "That's going to be more difficult. Guidance systems route to the bridge at all times, and they've also got auxiliary systems control. Ryder's working on re-routing them to an alternate interface here using some of the simulator software, but we've having to trick the computer into thinking that the simulation is the reality. Or something like that."
Marshall nodded, "I'm assuming that their computer technicians are working to prevent just that."
"Yes, sir. Our best guesses have us regaining control in about ninety minutes."
"Too long."
Corporal Stiles walked over to the huddle of officers, and saluted. "I'm glad you made it out, Captain."
"I'm glad that none of your team turned traitor."
He grunted, then replied, "Not bloody likely, sir. I have an idea."
"By all means, Corporal, let's have it."
"We've simulated this before on other ships. There's an emergency airlock just behind the bridge, over the elevator access terminal."
Quinn nodded, "Before the last upgrade, there were a pair of escape pods mounted up there."
The corporal turned to the engineer, nodding his head impatiently, "Yes, but the actual airlock is still there, sir?"
"Yes."
"Then, Captain, I can lead a squad along the side of the ship. In nine minutes we can be in that airlock with enough force to take down the mutineers." He pulled a triangular-shaped box from his pocket. "A pair of these will tear a hole in the door without damaging the hull, or the equipment inside, if we get it right."
"That's crazy," Caine said. "All it would take would be a few short bursts on the maneuvering thrusters, and you'll be thrown off the side of the ship. A blast from the main engines and we'd never get you back again."
"My men are prepared to risk it, sir."
Mulenga rubbed his hand across his chin, "We could feed a dummy program into the sensors from one of the output feeds. Corporal, if I might borrow a few of your men, I could probably arrange such a diversion. It would not last for long, but long enough to give you time to complete your work."
"There's another snag. We'd not have enough time to get a flight crew up to the bridge to make the maneuver." Caine nodded, reluctantly, "It would get us back the ship, though. With control of the tactical systems from the bridge, we could have the mutineers confined in a matter of minutes."
"Another two deadlines right there," Quinn said, "if they get life support and tactical, then all of our plans are meaningless."
Marshall looked up at the clock, and smiled. "I can solve the flight crew problem. All we need is one man at guidance."
"I get the idea, but who? Franklin and Kibaki were in the living quarters, and we're cut off from that area of the ship," Caine said. "Ryder? Quinn?
The captain shook his head, "Ryder's staying here in case this goes wrong. Quinn has to supervise our tinkering down here if we're going to make any of this work." He smiled, and clapped Stiles on the shoulder, "I spent a year sitting at one of those consoles, I think I still know how they work. Let's get going, Corporal."
Chapter 22
It had been months since Marshall had last worn a spacesuit of any kind, during his annual emergency training, and that had been the lightweight flight suit worn in a fighter cockpit, designed more for agility and ease of use than protection. The armored space suit he was putting on under the supervision of Corporal Stiles was a completely different animal; armor was the only way of putting it. Multiple layers of material, double reinforced helmet with connectors to his rifle for a heads-up display, tactical information network linked to the other members of the squad. His boots rattled against the deck as he slowly walked to the airlock.
"Remember, normally when anyone does anything on the outer hull, we take the spin off for safety," Corporal Stiles said to the group. "This time we don't get to do that. So make sure you stay attached to the hull, and that you keep in mind that for the purposes of this walk, you're climbing rather than floating." He grinned. "And make sure you use the right hand-holds. I don't want the engineers claiming that you've broken anything."
Marshall reached the airlock door, his hand hovering over the release, waiting to hear the call that the sensor station had been captured. He looked down the corridor, saw a familiar body lying on the deck; Petty Officer Diego, a pistol still clutched in his hands. He spent a few seconds wondering whose side he had been on.
Seven minutes and counting; say ninety seconds to get into the bridge from the outer hull and engage the course. Odds were that Cellini would have wiped it from the bridge's navigational computer, but he had a data crystal in his pocket. All he had to do was slam it into the emergency control relay and hit three buttons, and they'd be on course. It didn't matter whether they'd recaptured full control of the ship in time for the intercept, just that the freighter captain believed they had.
A voice burst over his intercom, punctuated with the occasional crack of a bullet, "Mission accomplished, Captain. You are go to proceed." A scream echoed inside Marshall's helmet before the automatics could lower the volume, and Mulenga continued, "I'm not sure how long we can hold this position, though."
"Give me five clear minutes, Lieutenant. Hold the line."
He slapped his gauntleted hand down on the release button, and was bathed in light reflecting off Ragnarok's ice sheet as the door receded. Taking a deep breath, he cautiously moved onto the step outside, feeling a clunk on his back as Stiles attached a safety line to him.
In his youth, he'd done some mountaineering on Mars, but the gravity now was half again as heavy as it had been in those days, and he wasn't wearing full armor. Looking up at what seemed like an endless cliff, he shook his head
, wondering what had possessed him to come up with this plan in the first place.
"After you, sir," Stiles said, evidently sensing his commander's doubts. With an uncertain hand, Marshall grabbed onto one of the hand-holds and pulled, then a second, then again. Dozens of links of hand-holds ran up the side of the ship for maintenance; if all was well, this would be as simple as climbing a long ladder. He heard the ringing of his boots on the hull, echoing through his boots. Strange to hear anything in space, but it was a reassuring sound.
In the back of his mind was a voice from his past, his EVA instructor cautioning him to clip onto to the ship at all times, a series of long and gruesome lectures ready for anyone who was careless enough to forget. He hadn't forgotten his safety harness; it was still swinging from his belt, drifting back and forth.
Five minutes – four and a half, now – was a woefully small time to reach the emergency airlock, even without taking precautions. One blast from the main engines, or worse a change to the rotation of the ship, and it wouldn't make much difference anyway. While the harnesses were strong enough for normal purposes, they wouldn't take anything like that heavy a load.
One minute down. Four and a half to go. They seemed to be making reasonable progress, but his neck movement was so restricted in his armor that he couldn't tell how the rest of the squad were doing, though the drag of the line behind him suggested that something was back there. He looked up at Ragnarok to distract his mind while he continued hand over hand up the side of the ship, looking again at the jagged black mountains braking through the solid ice sheets. Then the feeling on the line changed, going slightly limp.
"Zinowitz, watch out!" called an unfamiliar voice. Marshall stopped for a moment and turned around, cautiously keeping one hand and one foot steady on his rung. The trooper at the end of the chain had managed to miss his step and was drifting off the ship, further away with every second. The one above him was trying to grab at the line, but was dangerously close to losing his grip himself.
"I'm loose, Corp," Zinowitz yelled.
"Damn," Stiles said. "Hold on a minute, I'll come down. Winston, see what you can do."
Marshall shook his head, and reluctantly cut in, "Belay that, Corporal. Zinowitz, detach your cable. Make sure you stay within twenty meters of the hull with your thrusters. Once we get up top-side, make your way back in and report to Engineering."
"I could try and get back onto the hand-holds, sir."
"We don't have the time, Zinowitz. This is taking seconds we just don't have. Cut loose. That's an order."
Disappointment crackled over the speaker, "Aye, sir." With a carefully calculated tug, Zinowitz detached his safety line and began to drift away, reaching down to his thruster controls to hug close to the hull.
"Everyone take extra care. Three minutes and ten seconds left. We should do it if we hurry," Marshall said, continuing his climb. He could understand how the drifting trooper felt; he wouldn't have wanted to be left behind either, not at this stage, but there wasn't any choice if they were going to make that deadline. With a jerk, he saw his own foot slipping off the rung below, and clung tightly with his hands, swinging his foot back into place.
More climbing. The squad passed the primary antenna complex, timing their moves to dodge it as it swung around, automatically ranging from target to target. Every step required greater and greater effort, sweat was pouring from his brow and he felt the need to brush his hand across his forehead to wipe it off – he almost did it out of instinct. Up ahead, he saw a flickering red light, flashing on and off; the entrance to the emergency airlock. Redoubling his efforts, he scaled the remaining rungs, stepping out gratefully on to the lodge, locking himself into place.
His helmet communicator crackled again, "We've lost it! Having to fall back!" Mulenga yelled.
"Everyone strap in. Now." The squad rushed to follow his instructions as he tapped the release button. He didn't really expect a response, and he wasn't surprised. Less than five seconds warning; whoever was running the tactical station was obviously on the ball. Then it hit him suddenly.
"Engineering! They've got bridge tactical control back!"
"Christ. I'm on it, sir," Quinn's voice replied, distantly, "I think we...". The engineer's voice collapsed into a wave of static; they were jamming communications. He could still speak to the squad; the safety cord had a commlink built in.
"Candero," he called down to the squad's combat engineer, "get up here now. I need this lock broken."
The ship began to rock underneath him, back and forth, playing on the thrusters. Not enough to shake them loose, but enough to keep them secured. Marshall was about to order Candero to keep his position when the trooper detached himself from the ship and started to climb, hand over hand, trying to judge the movement of the ship before it happened.
It was a deadly guessing game to play, and with the squad secured to the ladder, he was pulling himself up by whatever hand-holds he could find, leaving a trail of damaged equipment in his wake. As he finally got up to Marshall's level, he began to slip, running out of secure footing; trusting in his safety cord lasting for long enough, Marshall let go, swinging down to grab the trooper by the arm, sending them both crashing into the side of the hull.
"If they didn't know before, they'll know we're here now," Stiles said, sotto voce.
"Ninety seconds, Candero. Get moving," Marshall said.
The trooper nodded, and pulled a pair of small boxes out of a pocket on the outside of his suit, carefully placing them on either side of the magnetic locks, then attacked a wire between the two. He leaned back, and started to count down from ten, while the rest of the squad waited impatiently.
When he reached zero, the door slid open, and Candero was the first inside, followed by Marshall and Stiles; in full armor, the small emergency lock could barely hold the three of them. The lock cycled, taking more seconds. Just two more minutes before he had to be hitting that button. They crowded into the nook above the elevator, Marshall reaching to activate the emergency release. Stiles grabbed his hand.
"Has to be me, Captain. Greatest risk is for the first man in, and you've got to enter that course change."
"Corporal," Marshall began, before being interrupted.
"You want to waste time arguing, sir?" Stiles grabbed the release and pulled open the cover, leaping in, immediately followed by Candero, then Marshall. Behind them, the airlock was cycling again, the first wave of their reinforcements on their way to join them. Even if they'd had the time to wait for them, there simply wasn't enough space for any more bodies in that crawlspace. They hefted their weapons, ready to burst in. Stiles tapped the emergency release, then swore when it failed to open.
"Time for my magic," Candero said, reaching into another pocket for a pair of shaped charges. As Stiles moved out of the way, the trooper said, "Looks like I get to go first, Corp."
This time there was no delay. With an immediate fizzing noise, a white line seemed to seep between the two charges, and with a small but satisfactory pop, the locking mechanism broke away and the doors slid open, to reveal a pair of alert guards in the form of Cole and Tyler, their sidearms at the ready, which they fired at the first shape to emerge from the door – Candero. The two of them were excellent shots, and extremely familiar with the weak spots in the suit armor.
With his final breath, the Lance-Corporal managed to collapse forward on top of them, sending them sprawling under the weight of the armor, crimson blood seeping out of two gaping holes in the side of his neck close to the helmet seal. Stiles leapt over the body, firing a pair of rounds at Cellini at the guidance control station, sending the traitorous helmsman collapsing over the console, his arms falling limp.
Marshall's first thought, besides getting to that guidance station, was for tactical, a carefully placed shot sending Khachaturian to meet his maker. A heartbeat later, Stiles fell to his side, clutching at his neck, gasping for breath, and Marshall leaned across to avenge his death, three shots sending Zakharova to t
he deck, spasming by the communications console.
The next group of espatiers were scrambling into the room, Private Blake throwing himself down by the dying Corporal, the contents of his medikit spilled on the deck as he attempted to save his life, the other two keeping Cole and Tyler covered. Retaking the bridge had taken less than twenty seconds. Marshall pushed Cellini's body out of the way and slid the data crystal into the guidance console in a single action, then started to implement the course. An error message flashed up on the screen and he closed his eyes, shaking his head as he sat at the console.
"What is it, sir?" One of the troopers turned his head to him while he placed Cole under restraint.
"We've missed the window, Ballantine. Nine damn seconds too late. We can't intercept the transport." He gestured towards the communications console. "If you've got them secured, put that basic training to use and get a flight crew up here, and medics for Stiles."
"Yes, sir." The private's face was downcast. Marshall smiled.
"Don't worry, Private. We took the bridge, and we'll have our ship back in a few minutes. We won the battle." As the private headed over to the console, Marshall muttered to himself, looking down at Candero's body on the deck, "But I think we might have lost the war."
Chapter 23
The squad marched across the snow, spread out in loose clumps into two fire teams making their way to preselected positions, Hunter taking point. Half a mile to the rear, the wrecked truck continued to smolder; it was only as the squad drew closer to the landing strip that Coop had stopped complaining about the 'vandals' who had ruined it.
The transport was to come down in a shallow crater, the ruins of a long-ago asteroid strike, surrounded by high peaks. A series of beacons had started to light as they approached, their red lights bathing the horizon in an eerie glow. There was less than an hour to darkness, and computer control or no, landing under dark conditions in an environment such as this was a risk that few pilots would take.
"Where are the rebels?" Esposito said, looking at Forbes to her left.
Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty Page 20
