by David Weber
“Yes.”
“Then what we’ve got is a flank that’s wide open,” Gill continued. “A single, close-in shot could theoretically cut through both the fore and aft impeller rings without opening and depressurizing either of the spin sections.”
“He’s right,” Flanders said, an odd note to his voice. “A single properly aimed laser shot or a close pass with a missile’s roof or floor, and you could cut through Péridot’s flank without killing anyone but the hijackers.”
“Along with any of the crew still in the main hull,” Calkin put in.
“I doubt there’s anyone left,” Flanders said.
“What about the reactor?” Metzger asked. “Won’t a shot like that risk taking down the bottle?”
Gill looked at Flanders…and in the Havenite’s eyes he saw they had indeed both come to the same inescapable conclusion.
Péridot was doomed. One way or another, Guardian had to take it out.
But Metzger was clearly reluctant to open fire on them. So he and Flanders would offer just enough hope to persuade her to take the shot.
The fact that there was no such hope was irrelevant.
“We’ll be all right,” Flanders assured her, with a sincerity that even Gill found convincing. “Even if you nick the edge, it should just blow the plasma out that side of the hull and leave the rest of the ship intact.”
“All right.” Metzger still didn’t sound happy, but Gill could visualize her face settling into what he’d always referred to in officers as command mode. She’d made her decision, and now she was committed to carrying it out. “We’ll hit Péridot’s portside flank. Is there anywhere you two can go where you’ll be safe?”
“I know some places,” Flanders said. “We’ll be all right. Good luck, and good shooting to you.” He took a deep breath. “Péridot out.” He keyed off. “Shall we just leave the setup as is?” he added to Gill.
“Might as well,” Gill said, his heart aching. Ever since Jean had left active Marine duty, he’d always assumed he would have a chance to say good-bye to her before their final parting.
And indeed, he’d just had that opportunity. He was here, she was on Guardian’s bridge, and he could have said his farewells.
Only he couldn’t. The words he would have said, and they way he would have said them, would have tipped Metzger off that the tale Flanders had spun was nothing but feathered air. The XO might have had second thoughts, and with enough second thoughts the missiles would stay in Guardian’s tubes and Guzarwan would get away clean. “There isn’t really a chance, is there?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Realistically?” Flanders shook his head. “No. It would take a miracle to cut through the impellers and not breach the bottle, too. When that happens—” He spread his hands wide.
“That’s what I figured. So what now?”
Flanders rubbed at his chin. “You said I have five seconds’ worth of fuel in my thruster pack?”
“About that, yes,” Gill said, frowning. “Why? You want to make a campfire we can sit around?”
“I was thinking something more constructive. If we can get into the reactor room without being shot, there may be enough fuel for me to start a fire.”
“Ah,” Gill said, a hint of unexpected hope flickering through the ashes. “And when the suppression system comes on, the hijackers will have to evacuate or suffocate?”
“Exactly,” Flanders said. “I’m hoping you know a quick way to scram a fusion reactor.”
“I know at least three of them,” Gill said, the flicker of hope warming to a solid ember.
Because if the reactor was already cooling down from a scram when the bottle was breached, there was at least a chance the blast would only take out the hull nearest the breach, as Flanders had described, and not the entire ship. Granted, it wouldn’t be nearly as intact as the commodore had implied, but parts should at least still be habitable. “I’m guessing we’re talking the accessways?”
“We are indeed,” Flanders said. “Follow me.”
* * *
“Very well, Commander Metzger,” General Chu said, his eyes boring out of the com display like twin lasers. “I don’t know the format for Havenite command codes, so I can’t confirm that Commodore Flanders’s authorization is legally valid. For that matter, given the unorthodox transmission and associated voiceprint degradation, I can’t even confirm that that is the commodore.”
“There are other aspects of the communication that convince me the transmission is valid, Sir,” Metzger said.
“Regardless, it’s clear we don’t have time to debate the issue,” Chu said. “I do agree with you that alerting the pirates that we’re on to them would be counterproductive. The Secourian Defense Force will therefore hold off any overt action or communication for the time being. But understand this: we will not allow enemy ships to threaten our world, our people, or our commerce. You’re authorized to take whatever action you deem proper to neutralize these ships. If you’re unable to achieve that goal before their impellers are fully active, we’ll take our own action against them.”
“Understood, General,” Metzger said, her voice steady. “Thank you for allowing me time to rescue our captain and the other personnel trapped aboard.”
Chu’s lip twitched.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Commander Metzger,” he said, a shade less stiffly. “Their lives are valuable to us, as well. But our priority must be with our own people.”
“As it should be,” Metzger said. “Again, thank you. We’ll keep you informed.”
“Do that, Commander,” Chu said. “And good luck.”
The transmission ended, and it seemed to Travis that the lines in Metzger’s face grew a little deeper. “TO?” she asked.
“The laser would be the best for the kind of surgical strike we’re talking about,” Calkin said doubtfully. “But with us mostly broadside to Péridot, there’s no way to turn into firing position fast enough for them not to have time to counter. They’d see the movement, and all they have to do is roll and pitch to put their wedge between us and them.”
Metzger pursed her lips. “Ioanna, what’s their wedge looking like?” she called.
“Still less than halfway up,” Kountouriote’s voice came from the speaker. “But the TO’s right. Even a partial wedge will diffuse a laser somewhat, maybe enough to render it useless.”
“And even if the shot got through, that much of a shift in Péridot’s attitude would mean we’d need two shots to take out both impeller rings,” Calkin added. “Getting one through would be dicey enough. Two would be seriously pushing it.”
“But at least their reactor would be clear of our shots,” Metzger pointed out. “Though that’s not much help if we take out the central plasma lines. So a missile is our best bet?”
“Probably,” Calkin said reluctantly. “We’ll still need to rotate into alignment with Péridot, but we’ve got a ten- to twenty-degree slack in our initial launch vector, so we don’t have to be quite lined up with her before we fire. If they’re not paying close attention we may be able to ease into position without them noticing.”
“And if they do, they still might buy our green helmsman excuse,” Metzger said reluctantly.
“If they bother to ask,” Calkin warned. “They might just open fire instead.”
“We’ll just have to hope the Havenites locked down their weapons systems better than they did their impellers,” Metzger said. “Assuming we get that far, who do you recommend to set up the shot?”
“I’d give it to Lieutenant Donnelly,” Calkin said. “She’s consistently shown excellent or outstanding in simulations.”
“Fine,” Metzger said. “Get her started, but I’ll want the two of us to look over her course and programming before we commit. And have her use a practice missile—we’re going to do enough damage without risking a warhead going off along the way.”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am.” Calkin glanced at Travis, as if wondering why he was still on the bridge w
hen the crew were supposed to be at their assigned Readiness One stations. But he turned back to his board without asking. Keying the intercom, he began talking softly into the mike.
Asked or otherwise, it was a good question. And it was one Travis didn’t have an answer for. He’d started to leave when Metzger signaled Condition One, but halfway to the hatch the XO had waved him back. She’d finished her conversation with Flanders and Massingill, then moved immediately to the question of how to destroy Péridot’s nodes without killing the ship and everyone aboard.
Meanwhile, Travis remained floating in a corner of the bridge, wedged between two overhead displays and trying not to block either, trying to stay inconspicuous as he awaited orders.
And watching the bridge personnel age right before his eyes.
Metzger and Calkin were bad enough, with the lines and shadows in their faces deepening and darkening. But Colonel Massingill was worse. Her face had gone steadily more rigid as Flanders’s description of Péridot’s situation drained away more and more hope. Now, with the decision made, the stiffness in her expression had dissolved, leaving behind it the face of someone gazing at death.
Which she was. Travis knew enough about the positioning of impeller nodes to know it would be almost impossible to successfully cut through both rings with a single shot without also slicing away enough of the reactor’s peripheral containment equipment to precipitate a catastrophe. If the blast was contained enough, or the reactor was ejected soon enough, the two spin sections and their occupants might survive. But the rest of the hull would be shattered.
Massingill surely knew that. And if she and Travis knew it, Metzger and Calkin must know it, too. So why were they going through with the charade?
A bitter taste tingled at the back of his tongue. Because they had no choice. Guzarwan had to be stopped, and this was the only way to do it without straightforwardly blasting Péridot to atoms. Even if the chances were slim, they were better than no chance at all.
The RMN oath included a willingness to die for the Star Kingdom. It had never occurred to Travis that such an oath might also include a willingness to kill your own for the same cause.
Back on Vanguard, he’d disagreed with Captain Davison’s decision not to trade a slim chance of rescuing Phobos for the near-certainty of rescuing Rafe’s Scavenger. Disagreed with it violently. Now, looking back, he could better see the situation the captain had been in, and the heart-wrenching decision he’d had to make.
It was the same decision Metzger had just made. And it carried the same cost.
Part of that cost would be the life of Colonel Massingill’s husband.
“Colonel?”
As if someone had thrown a switch, the deadness vanished from Massingill’s face as her heart and soul shifted back from being a wife to being a Marine. “Yes, Commander?”
“What’s the status on your assault team?”
“The Bosun and I have collected nine likely names, and Sergeants Holderlin and Pohjola are gathering them outside Shuttle Two for a quick assessment and briefing.” Massingill’s eyes flicked to Boysenko. “We just need to get Boysenko down there to join them.”
Metzger turned her head, her eyes widening momentarily with surprise. “Patty?”
“I did competitive shooting in high school, Ma’am,” Boysenko said, a slight quaver in her voice. “I’ve kept up with it.”
“I see,” Metzger said, back on balance. “Very well. Report to Shuttle Two. Colonel, let me know when you’re ready to move.”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am.”
Massingill flicked a glance across the bridge at Travis…and as she did, a memory flashed to his mind. Massingill, her face looking so much younger than it did now, gazing up at him from her desk as Gunner’s Mate First Class Jonny Funk—the late and still heart-wrenchingly missed Jonny Funk—described for her the boots’ theft of cookies from the Casey-Rosewood mess hall.
At the time, Travis had thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened in his whole life. Now, it seemed unbelievably banal.
The glance ended, and Massingill and Boysenko headed together for the hatch. A moment later, they were gone.
“You think this is a good idea?” Calkin asked quietly. “Flanders warned that Guzarwan’s men have hand-held missiles. Not much point in sending a shuttle full of people to Saintonge if it’s just going to get swatted out of the sky.”
“Saintonge is a lot closer than Péridot,” Metzger pointed out. “Whoever’s over there won’t have nearly as much time to react. I think there’s a fair chance they can get to her, especially if the hijackers are still working on taking over the ship. Anyway, we have to try.”
There was a brief pause. Possibly, Travis decided, his best chance to get out of here. He cleared his throat—
“You know how to work a com board, Long?” Metzger asked, looking over at him. “No, of course you don’t. Doesn’t matter—there isn’t anyone out there for us to talk to anyway.” She pointed to Boysenko’s vacated station. “Strap in.”
Travis felt his eyes goggling. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, fighting the confusion. What in the world? Maneuvering himself into position, he fumbled the straps into place. “Uh…Ma’am…?”
“I don’t know, either,” she said absently, drifting toward him as her eyes shifted methodically between the various displays. Looking for information. Looking, maybe, for hope. “All I know is that you’re not really needed at Three-Ten Damage Control,” she continued, “and that you’ve demonstrated a talent for outside-the-lines ideas. Right now, that’s what we need.”
Travis swallowed hard. “Ma’am, I don’t know—”
“No—don’t know,” Metzger interrupted. “Don’t think. Just let your brain spin and see what it comes up with.” A ghost of a pained smile flicked across her face. “And if you don’t get anything, we’re no worse off.”
Travis felt his stomach tighten. No, Metzger and Péridot might not be worse off. But he would.
Because thirty seconds ago, he’d been an observer to the unfolding drama. Now, suddenly, he’d become one of the participants.
And if he didn’t come up with something, he would forever feel responsible for what was about to happen.
Which meant that he’d damn well better come up with something. And he’d better do it fast.
Keying the computer to bring up everything the RMN had on Havenite Améthyste-class cruisers in general and Péridot in particular, he began to read.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Got it!” Dhotrumi said triumphantly. “We have got control. Hooray for me.”
“Yeah, and about time,” Vachali growled, keying the intercom. “Impellers, you’re a go. Get us up and running.”
He got acknowledgments and keyed off. “About time?” Dhotrumi echoed. “You’re joking, right? Show me one hacker this side of the League who can get into a military computer that fast.”
“When we find him, I’ll be glad to introduce you,” Vachali countered. Actually, he was pretty damn impressed that Dhotrumi and his team had cut through the barriers as quickly as they had. That was why Guzarwan had hired the kid in the first place, of course, but even so it had been a remarkable performance.
Not that he would ever tell Dhotrumi that. He was puff-headed enough as it was, and Vachali had long ago learned that complimenting people only made them lazy.
“So what do we do for the next forty minutes?” Dhotrumi asked.
“Well, I’m going to run our new ship,” Vachali said. “How about you seeing if you can keep your streak going by cracking the weapons systems?”
Dhotrumi shook his head. “It’s not a matter of cracking the codes,” he said. “Impeller and helm systems are designed for idiot grunts to start up if they have to. Weapon-work requires a lot of people and a lot of specialized training, and that’s not this team’s particular skill set. Once we’re back at base we can tackle that. But not here.”
“Whatever,” Vachali growled. Guzarwan had warned him in adva
nce that that would be the case. But it never hurt to try again, especially with Dhotrumi in the flush of self-congratulatory victory. “In that case, how about figuring out what that weird vibrating radar thing was a minute ago?”
Dhotrumi snorted.
“It was probably Munchi hallucinating. Ships use pulsed radar all the time. No one uses the kind of thing he described.” He waved a hand. “If you’re worried, call Guzarwan and ask. It supposedly came from his ship.”
Vachali looked at the main display. He would love to call Guzarwan, if only to let him know that Saintonge was up and running.
Unfortunately, the only secure way to do that was via communication laser…and whether by accident or design, Guardian’s slow drift had dropped it squarely between Saintonge and Péridot.
He scowled, running his eyes along Guardian’s lines. The destroyer was still lying crosswise to Saintonge, its portside flank wide open to anything the battlecruiser wanted to throw at it. Vachali didn’t have anything he could throw, of course, but Guardian didn’t know that.
The question was, how much did the Manticorans know?
It was a critical question. Were they still lying there fat and sassy, taking Péridot’s and Saintonge’s communication-problem lies at face value? Or had they seen through the ruse and were even now gearing up for battle?
“Is Guardian bringing up its wedge?” he asked suddenly.
“No idea,” Dhotrumi said, peering briefly the display and then going back to his monitors. “A good gravitics man could probably tell you. Too bad we don’t have anything like that here.”
“Can they tell that we’re bringing up ours?”
“The exact same complete lack of an idea,” Dhotrumi said sarcastically. “How many types of genius do you expect me to be, anyway?”
“Whichever types don’t have a smart mouth,” Vachali growled. “Fine. Just get back to work.”
