Wearing one of the generic black combat skins Farquhar also wore, he laid back and double-checked the seals. It could be closed for protection in vacuum or hostile environments, and with the ship about to throw itself into the upper atmosphere of the Gas Giant, he was glad for it. He would have preferred his flight suit, but this was the next best thing.
The tight fitting, tailored combat skins were designed for stealth operations rather than direct combat and he couldn’t imagine getting used to the skin, not after wearing a flight suit for so many years. The combat skins were made of similar material to the flight suit, with hard-woven malex fibres offering protection against slug throwers and energy weapons, while the dark chameleon skin would reduce any infrared and thermal signature, allowing him to blend into background shadows whenever it was activated and he was on the ground undertaking a special mission.
There were other types of combat skins available, some lighter and thinner versions on the civilian market, while others were reinforced and given additional protection so they could be worn in normal combat operations. More commonly, Marines used combat skins as an underlying layer beneath combat armour, the thick, padded suit that was worn by the frontline forces of the kingdom. He had been told that he’d even be given several sessions in the use and equipping of combat armour, in case he ever needed to field it while serving on this deployment.
They way they were talking, he sometimes felt like he was being sent to the frontline of a warzone as a soldier or marine, rather than an on-going intelligence gathering operation way out past the frontiers of civilised space. At least there had been no mention of him learning to use powered battle armour, the heaviest protection used by the military for war. He’d learned enough during his time in the navy to know that mastering battle armour would take months, if not years to gain confidence in using it without putting a fist through a starship’s hull or leaping into the top floor of a skyscraper.
An ear piercing ‘whoop-whoop’ siren echoed through the berth, and then he heard the same voice come over the tannoy. “All hands, all hands, brace for scooping operations. Department Heads, standby at your DC station.”
The shudder in the hull began shortly after. First it was felt as a growing vibration, subtle and constant but managed by the inertial compensators to keep excessive g-force under control and maintain the standard one gravity environment aboard the ship. Within minutes, the first of the atmospheric turbulence hit the ship, either as it was passing through a high altitude storm cell, or influenced through the build-up of static charges and drawing a response from the Gas Giant’s weather patterns.
A loud crash echoed from down the corridor, and as his stomach plunged into his throat when they suddenly dropped hundreds or thousands of metres in bare seconds, he braced himself for a rough ride that seemed to be getting worse. With short, sharp tapping sounds like someone was hammering on the external bulkhead with little hammers, they dropped deeper into the atmosphere and fought against the colossal pressures trying to crush the hull as the scoops pulled in what would soon be filtered and refined into fuel. It was only for five or six minutes, but the shaking and vibration soon stopped and the ride became gentler, no different to a standard cruise in space.
Closing his eyes and realising he was biting his lips, he discovered how much he hated relying upon someone else flying a ship when he was strapped in the back and unable to see what was going on. For a pilot, there was nothing worse than relying on a stranger flying the craft and you not being in control. Sighing to himself, he knew he’d have to relax and trust in the skills of whoever was flying the ship, to do otherwise would drive him mad.
With the hours flying past, he knew he should be studying but found this was one of those rare times where he could escape his routine for just a short time. He’d catch up on the reading once the refuelling had ended, but until then he had no choice but focus on surviving and practicing his meditation skills.
Almost six hours after starting the scooping operation, the ship finally pulled itself out of the mucky, multi-coloured atmosphere and headed for a high orbit. With the tanks topped up, they would spend the next day refining hydrogen from what had been scooped up and purifying it, until usable by the powerplant turbine and TEL Drive. By this time tomorrow, they would probably be back in TEL Space on the final stages of the voyage to Lexington.
Stifling a yawn, he reached for his comlink to open up the next manual he was tasked to study before he could be trusted to fly his new starship. To his disgust, it was applied theory of TEL Space physics and one of his most hated topics. It was why he had become a TAB pilot, so he wouldn’t have to learn more about engineering and drive physics, but here he was, forced to learn because his life would depend on understanding the theory.
When the siren began whooping again, he was expecting it to announce the refuelling and refining was over so the hands could stand down, but as the words were repeated a second time, he discovered he couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“All hands, this is the Captain speaking… we’re being given warning shots by a ship firing across our bow. They were hiding in the shadows from one of the Gas Giant moons and appeared on our sensors as we left orbit. They’re ordering us to stand down and prepare for boarding in the name of the United Systems Empire.”
He sat up suddenly in his bunk, dropping the comlink as the words sunk in.
“We’re being ordered to stand down, but I’ll be damned if I let a common privateer take us as a prize. We’re pushing for the grav gradient at max acceleration, and even though they have us boxed in against another of the moons, I’m countering their missiles so far. We’re calling for help and have made contact with an Indie Light Cruiser patrolling the system, except they’re too far away to be much assistance.”
Privateers were the bane of small ships like this, and flagged with a letter of marque giving them a license to act as supernumeraries for the Ukie navy, they were nothing but semi-legalised pirates. With the current system they were in between the ISA and Britannic Kingdom, it would be a prime hunting ground for ships like this to try and capture packet boats or unescorted merchants.
“All hands, prepare to repel boarders! Chiefs and Department Heads break open your arms lockers and equip your divisions. The privateer is a Gun-Brig, so be ready on all decks for incoming boarders. Mister Farquhar, please move your charges forward to the forefoot machinery space.”
Unstrapping from the bunk, he leapt down and opened the hatch. Farquhar was directing his other charges down the narrow access way and waved for him to join them, a gauss rifle slung over his back. Following the others, they made their way down a deck and into the tighter confines of the lower deck, pushing themselves against the walls as crew rushed past carrying carbines, pistols and cutlasses.
Even though he’d been through this same process in his early naval years, it never ceased to amaze him that this must have been what naval crew did during the ancient ages on Earth, when ships battled under sail on the high seas. Despite being two millennia in the future, history had a weird manner of repeating itself.
Entering the small, dimly lit machinery space he pushed to one side and leaned against the internal bulkhead. The other four passengers were people he’d been aware of but never allowed to meet or speak. He watched as they looked around with frustrated expressions. Following them inside, he saw the Doctor holding her hand over her chest as if her heart was pumping at double speed, which considering her career choice, it probably was. Everybody were dressed in combat skins, except one of the men he placed as a Special Forces soldier, standing with a red-faced expression as all eyes fell upon him clad not in a combat skin, just his underclothes.
“Come on, Sammy, let us get out there and help the crew.” One of them uttered to Farquhar, waving his fist at the heavy hatch they’d entered through. “They might need us….”
It was the first time he’d seen the other passengers, and running his eyes over them surmised that all but one were
former Special Forces personnel based on the build and body shapes. It was either that, or the thick, heavy necks and well muscled arms combined with watchful facial expressions and calculating glances that flittered everywhere to assess risk and escape routes had become the new body norm while he had been on Aran.
One of them was different, and studying the man he realised it was a face he’d seen some years back in the RNFC before it had been transformed into the RFC. With dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes, the medium height and slight figure was a pilot he’d seen in another squadron. He couldn’t place the name but as he stared at him he knew it would come soon.
Farquhar turned to the man that had spoken and made the familiar motion as if he was chewing gravel with his mouth. Glaring while his fat finger stabbed out to impact in the chest of the speaker, he hissed.
“Stow it, Harry, we’ll wait here until the skipper needs us. Mo, behind you there’s a storage locker with arms, open it up and we’ll do a weapons issue. Gibney, why aren’t you in your combat skin? Are you looking to get spaced or just decided to have a lobotomy while we were skimming fuel?”
Glancing at him, Farquhar said nothing and then turned his eyes upon the other pilot.
“Mister Brilliant, do you know what a privateer of that type is armed with and how many fighting men it carries?”
Nodding, the other pilot opened his mouth to answer when Mo interrupted.
“Sleeky… three cutlasses and a gladius, two Grails, and four snub pistols. I’ll take a Grail and the gladius.” The man announced, lowering his chosen weapons to the deck at his feet while the other Special Forces men tried to jostle him for access to the locker.
“Stand down!” Farquhar ordered. “Gibney, you get nothing without a combat skin and you’re staying here for the duration. Mo, take your weapons and step aside for the others. Harry, take up the other Grail and a cutlass, Mister Brilliant take a snub pistol and cutlass, Montclare you get the same. Doc, I want you to take the remaining pistol. We’ll split the clips and mags between you evenly. I’ve got my own weapons, so between us we’ll make a handy reserve force.”
Jonty, that was the other pilot, he recalled. They used to call him ‘Mister Brilliant’ due to his cool-headed flying ability in the Fast Attack Boats and the many fighter kills racked up against the Franks and Ukies. The last he’d heard about the skilled, young officer was that he’d headed off to command a squadron of new Mosquito Mark IV Fast Attack Boats undertaking deep strike missions on the other side of the kingdom, however that had been years ago and he’d never heard of him since.
Collecting the weapons handed to him by the man called Harry, he checked the safety of the snub pistol and then verified the chamber was empty. Both dual clips were full of stun rounds, and he was handed another four clips with flechette rounds that he pushed into his thigh pockets after using two of them to replace the stun rounds for something more lethal.
“Okay, lads shut up for a minute and listen to Mister Brilliant.” Farquhar trumpeted through the small room as the noise of different weapons being checked or opened echoed within the space.
“Umm, okay then.” He began, clearing his throat as all attention was fixed on his face. “It’s a Gun-Brig, and they’re generally displacing between one to three thousand d-tons. Armed with at least four three-inch dual barrel gauss cannons, it should have one or two missile bays and assorted close-in defences. If it’s a smaller Brig, she can carry a crew of thirty, although the larger displacement vessels mean you could be facing fifty boarders. It all depends on the specific type and age, and how many crew they allocate to the boarding operation.”
There was silence at his words as the gathered men considered how outnumbered and outgunned they were aboard the Packet Boat.
“There are literally hundreds of designs for Brigs out there from most nations, but despite whoever built her, they’re going to be restricted in what they can do to take us, especially with an Indie ship in the system. If I was the enemy privateer, I would aim to assault our external hatches near engineering and the bridge, and that’s where you’ll find them… midships and aft airlocks.”
Farquhar nodded at the information. Grudgingly, he turned the gaze across to him. “Anything to add?”
“No, I think Jonty has covered everything. The only point I’d add is what you probably already know, those boarders will be armed with shotguns, swords and trying to cause as many casualties as quickly as possible. With an Indie ship in the system, they’ll only have a small window of time to board, capture and escape to a transition point. It’s the ship they want, along with any cargo so they can profit from the prize money… so they won’t hesitate in killing the passengers or crew to get the ship captured.”
“Okay, I’m going to talk to the skipper and see if he knows this… with only fifteen crew aboard, we’re going to assist wherever he needs us. Except for you, Gibney, you’re staying here to guard the Doc. At least she had the sense to stay in her combat skin, and she’s a bloody non-combatant.”
“Aw, come on, Sammy, even in my underwear I’m better than the rest of these layabouts. Give me a sword or pistol and let me join you.” Asked the man, spreading his hands wide in supplication. “You owe me, for old time sakes.”
Ignoring him, Farquhar turned away and went to one of the comm-points located against the bulkhead beside the hatch. As he connected with the bridge, he saw Gibney shake his head.
“It’s just like eighty-one again and I’m left out of the fun… not bloody fair!”
“Wasn’t that when you got caught in the sheik’s harem on Quriyat when the marines began landing around Assalt?” One of the other men asked, working the slide of his weapon as if it wasn’t moving to his satisfaction. “They still tell the story to everyone going through selection about how not to choose a sniper hide in a harem full of veil covered beauties.”
“I was trying to get into position for fire support and it was easier if I wasn’t wearing my combat armour. It’s not true what they said I was doing, honest!”
“Firing what?” Asked one of the others, punching Gibney in the shoulder. “Blanks?”
“I heard it wasn’t a harem of women but the eunuchs he was found with!” The other said, following up with another punch and a cackle of laughter.
“You’re jealous! There was one, she was….”
Tuning them out, he stepped over to the other pilot.
“Jonty, the last I heard you were out on the rimward border commanding a squadron aboard the Carrier Furious. What are you doing in this group?”
“I thought I saw you last week in the cargo bay, Bren, but Farquhar wouldn’t confirm it. I was headhunted by them and asked to join this project for a deployment. They searched me out while I was on leave after getting shot down near Aramis and….”
“Knock it off!” Farquhar ordered, turning away from the comm and facing the bickering Special Forces men. His eyes caught his and he frowned. “Brilliant and Montclare, no talking between the pair of you, this isn’t recess in kindergarten.”
As the room went silent, he felt the hull beneath his boots tremor with the pitter-patter of what sounded like rain echoing through the bulkheads. They were taking fire from the Gun-Brig.
“We stay as the quick reaction force when the bastards come aboard. Doc and Gibney, you stay here and don’t move no matter what you hear. Brilliant and Mo, you’re with me… and that leaves Montclare and Harry paired up. When they come aboard and focus their efforts on engineering and the bridge, we’ll take them from behind. My section will head aft to the engineering spaces, and Harry I want you to try and cover the bridge.”
Searching each of their faces, Farquhar smiled at what he saw.
“Remember your training, and cover the rest of your section. We don’t need any heroics, only to delay the privateers as long as possible until the Indie cavalry arrive. The skipper says they’ll be here in half a day… but he also says the brig displaces two thousand d-tons, so if they throw all in to take
this ship, the tangoes will outnumber us by three to one. Check your combat skins and weapons while you have time because we’re waiting for the skipper to give the word before we head off to our targets. Any questions?”
“Any deckplans so we can plan our ambushes?” One of the other men asked.
Farquhar gave him a look of disdain, chewing his cheeks before spitting out an answer. “You’ve been aboard this ship for three weeks, Mo, and if you haven’t learned all there is to know about it in that time then I think our people made a mistake in selecting you for the project. Anyone else?”
“What do I do if you men fail?” The Doc asked, her voice quiet and showing nerves.
Laughing at the question, Farquhar grinned.
“If we fail, Doc, then we’re all dead. This ship is rigged with a deadman trigger the skipper is carrying and between you people, the cargo, and whatever they might scrape from the datastore, we can’t let them have any of it. He’s already activated the trigger and if he is taken down by the tangoes at any time, you’ll have thirty seconds to say goodbye. So, Harry, protect the skipper with everything you’ve got when it comes time to rock and roll.”
“Sammy, I have to come with you… between Harry and this Brylcreem Boy, we haven’t a hope to stop the skipper getting killed. Come on?
There was no further sound of incoming fire, but feeling the inertial compensators lurch and his stomach move with it, he knew they were under high-gravity manoeuvres to make life hard for the privateer ship. It wouldn’t be long until boarding teams broke through the airlocks to storm the ship, and then they’d all be fighting for their lives.
Farquhar studied the man in underwear, chewing his cheeks and finally giving a grunt. Passing over one of his weapons, he shook his head. “Maybe you can scare the privateers with your skid marks and send them running. Go with Harry and keep an eye on the flyboy.”
Chapter 5
Artemis Files 0.5: Lexington Page 5
