“Step back,” he warned. “Just in case.”
“You know what you’re doing?”
“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there,” he said, reaching in with a fine cutter, his hand somehow stable despite his trembling nerves. With a great effort, he gently tapped the wire, exposed specifically as a safety feature, and cut the cable in precisely the spot required to disarm it. He heard an ear-splitting whine from the mechanism, and for an instant feared that he would be immolated after all, finally relaxing when he saw the flashing red light that indicated that the device had been rendered safe.
“Got it,” Romano said, gingerly pulling the charge loose from the wall. “We should be safe now.” He carefully slid it into his pocket, taking the toolkit and the remains of the detonator, then followed Kuznetzov as the agent resumed his trip down the passage, more cautiously than before. Inwardly, Romano cursed. They had no way of knowing how long they had before they might have company coming down from the ship, no information about troop strength, and no reliable way to contact anyone else short of an implanted transmitter that, in all likelihood, everyone on the base could overhear.
“It’s closed!” Kuznetzov said, briefly providing Romano with an unexpected education in Russian obscenity. “Sealed shut, and no way through.” He turned back to the young officer, and said, “They’ll have done the same to the others, welded them shut. They’ll have all the time they need to cut them open after the battle, but we’ll never live to see it. I don’t know how much air there is down here, but there’s not going to be enough for us to last more than a few days at the most.” Slumping down to the floor, he banged his hands on the wall, and said, “I guess we’re going to have to sit this one out. Even if there was an airlock working down here, we don’t have any damned spacesuits.”
“Good thing I salvaged an explosive charge, isn’t it,” Romano said. “The walls are solid rock. Not much danger of breaching them unless I actually plant it at a weak spot.” He looked at the doors, running his experienced eye over them, and said, “Nice seam right there, dead center. Pretty clumsy welding job, but they must have been in a hurry.”
“How are you going to detonate it?” Romano pulled a clip out of his pocket, removing the nearest round, and Kuznetzov shook his head, saying, “That only works in bad movies.”
“I’m not using the charge.” He worked his fingernail into the groove, finally finding the microscopic catch, forcing it open. “These are smart rounds. Armor-piecing, discriminatory. There’s a lot of sophisticated hardware packed into this, and some of it has some useful secondary functions.” With a smile, he added, “My special weapons instructor offered a few extra summer courses, out at his brother’s dude ranch. Three weeks of riding horses and learning some of the little secrets behind our equipment. Strictly off the record, of course.”
“Sounds like the sort of guy I’d like to meet,” the agent replied. “How far back should I go?”
“Around the next corner, but don’t go too far. If they’ve got anyone watching us, then I’m damn sure they’ll make a move rather than let me blast a way through.” He pulled out the explosive again, attaching it to the door, pressing firmly to make sure the reused adhesive took hold. It didn’t have to be precisely placed to do its job, but he wanted to at least attempt to control the blast area.
Then he looked at the detonator, drawing his sidearm and toggling the fire selector down to the bottom, twisting the knob to enable remote activate. A little trick the Space Force used to turn ammunition clips into improvised grenades. The tiny digital display lit up, and he pulled out the tiny control panel underneath, entering the serial number of the round he was planning to detonate before gently sliding the remains of the bullet into place.
He tugged at the charge one last time, satisfied that it would remain in position, then rapidly withdraw to Kuznetzov, lying on the ground behind the corner, pistol in hand. He mentally counted to ten, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
A loud report echoed through the corridor as the charge exploded, the round still working just as had been intended by its creative designers, all those centuries ago. A cloud of choking dust and debris filled the air, and Romano waved his hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to clear it, Kuznetzov spitting some of the foul material on the floor before it could get into his lungs.
“You think they might have heard us?” Kuznetzov said with a smirk. He moved cautiously forward, looking up at the ceiling, and added, “Structure looks sound, which is a nice bonus. The doors are just so much smashed alloy. I think we did it.” Turning to Romano, he added, “You’re a lot more dangerous than you look, Lieutenant.”
“I had some good teachers,” he replied, walking over to the gap. The lower rungs of the ladder were twisted, ruined, and the remnants crumpled under his foot as he attempted to climb. A standing jump barely took him to the first usable rung, and he pulled himself up with an effort, struggling to keep clear of the wall, finally dragging himself onto the ladder.
As Kuznetzov made to follow, droning sirens began to wail through the air, a cacophonous row that almost deafened them, echoing from every surface. Romano almost let go of the ladder, his instincts to clap his hands over his ears, but he shook his head and continued to climb, peering into the gloom above for any sign that there was a reception committee waiting for them at the top. He paused at the halfway mark, the sirens louder than ever, and looked down at Kuznetzov, who shook his head.
“Doesn’t sound like the intruder alarm,” he yelled. “I haven’t heard this one before. Maybe our friends are on the way.” The sound of ringing boots echoed on the deck, and he continued, “Someone is, though!”
The two men sprinted down the corridor, and Kuznetzov’s communicator began to activate again, locking onto the nearest speaker, and saying, “Flynn to Romano. We’re on our way now, landing in a few minutes, but we’re going to need to get inside. Ideally without blowing a hole in the side of the dome. Can you do something?”
“Airlock controls are on this level,” Kuznetzov said. “They will be protected.”
“Do we have a choice?” Romano replied. “Right now those bastards think that they’re the hunters. The last thing they’ll be expecting is for us to turn that around and make them the prey. Let’s take the initiative for once.” Glancing up the corridor, he said, “We’re on it, sir.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Watch yourself.”
“Any ideas just how we’re going to do this?” Kuznetzov asked. “Those bastards are getting closer by the minute.”
Without a word, Romano charged down the corridor, rifle in hand, taking the lead for once as the agent struggled to keep pace, skidding around a corner. A group of guards were heading in the opposite direction, but throwing his rifle to the dreaded full-auto setting, Romano opened up, a hail of bullets slamming into the advancing men, sending them collapsing to the floor. Kuznetzov watched as Romano tossed his rifle away, taking a replacement from the dying Guilder guards.
“Why...”
“I told you, the damn rifles don’t work after a full-auto burst. I haven’t got time to fix it now.” He looked over the rifle, and said, “This looks like something out of a museum.”
“It’ll work,” Kuznetzov said. “That’s enough.” Gesturing down the corridor, he added, “Down there, then to the left. A protected room.” He looked at Romano, and continued, “You realize they’ll throw everything they’ve got at us as soon as they realize what we’re doing, right?”
“At least we’ve got reinforcements on the way.”
Romano turned back to the corridor, snatching a pair of spare clips for the rifle from the belt of one of the dying slavers, and raced towards their destination, firing a couple of rounds to test that the weapon was working and discourage anyone that might be tempted to attempt an ambush. Just before reaching the corner, he skidded to a stop, poking the weapon out of cover
and firing a short salvo of shots, emptying the clip, rewarded with a cry of pain on the far side.
Kuznetzov looked at him, shook his head, and asked, “Who are you?”
“An officer in the United States Space Force.”
“And I’m a maintenance tech. Seriously, who are you?”
“That’s need to know. You don’t.” He looked around the corner, a pair of bullets flying through the air around him, sending him ducking back into safety. “That didn’t work quite as well as I’d have liked.” He reached into his pocket for a concussion grenade, tapping the control before rolling it down the corridor, placing his hands over his ears.
That barely helped, and the loud report almost deafened him. Somehow keeping his wits around him, he turned around the corner, taking advantage of the stunned troopers scattered on the ground to take a series of well aimed shots, forcing them into cover. Kuznetzov raced past him, the hatch to the airlock control room open, and slid inside before the security system could work, holding the override to prevent it from closing.
“Come on!” he said, and Romano followed, just making it over the threshold inside. He leaned back on the wall, panting for breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Start opening doors,” he said. “Company’s coming.” A loud rattle came from the door, the recovering Guilders opening up with their weapons. “Soon, I hope.”
Chapter 21
“Thirty seconds,” Flynn said, craning his neck around to look at the assembled team behind him, nervously sitting in their chairs in the shuttle’s passenger cabin. “Remember, you guys aren’t meant to be taking part in the actual battle. Just surround the dome and allow the Zemlyan forces to do their job. They’ve got the expertise today.” He glanced at the officer at the rear, who was looking around as though praying for someone to drag her away. “Ensign Kowalski, you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Hey, Commander,” McBride said. “Someone coming out of the dome. Airlock cracking open.” He paused, then added, “Vehicular airlock, by the look of it. How much fuel have you got?”
“I’ve got a seventy-second reserve, but only for hovering. I can’t do any fancy flying without jeopardizing a return to the surface.”
“Hold off as long as you can, sir.” Flynn slid his hand across the heads-up display, bringing up the same view of the dome that McBride had through his turret pickup, and saw the rugged shapes emerging onto the plain at the same time as the gunner. Tanks. Two of them, with turret-mounted cannons swinging in their direction.
Not needing any further warning, Flynn hurled his shuttle to the left, burning seconds of precious fuel, ducking out of the way only a second before the turret cannons opened up, blue bolts racing through the sky and slamming into a nearby outcrop of rock, sending a shower of stones flying into the air. McBride was hastily charging the shuttle’s proton cannons to maximum charge, firing a few low-power bolts as tracer, kicking into the dirt.
“Level in two seconds,” he said, and Flynn complied, easing off his evasive maneuvers long enough to allow McBride to take his shot, one quick discharge of energy that sent the cabin lights flickering as the power distribution network struggled under the unaccustomed load. The tank erupted in smoke and flame, a brief flare as the atmosphere inside exploded into the vacuum beyond, tearing the structure apart in an instant.
The second tank lumbered forward, tracks tossing dust liberally around, sending another burst of energy into the void that barely missed the shuttle, forcing Flynn into a series of wild maneuvers that sent half the troopers in the cabin stumbling to their knees. He looked at the fuel gauge, grimacing at the rapidly tumbling levels.
“Ten seconds! I’ve got to set her down now, or we’ll never get out of here!”
“Come on,” McBride said. “Come on. Got him!”
A second burst of energy rippled through the shuttle’s turret, catching the tank at the rear, an explosion briefly lighting the sky as the power packs of the enemy vehicle erupted, the shot precisely aimed at the most vulnerable spot. Not waiting for the all-clear, Flynn engaged the landing thrusters, letting the shuttle drop where it was, a good quarter-mile away from the original descent site. They’d gone off-plan, but there was no time to correct it. Not with only a handful of seconds left on the clock.
“Descent override off, engine stop,” he said. “Damn it, one and a quarter seconds left. We’re not going to make it back to Lincoln. A low orbit’s probably about the best we’re going to be able to do.” Throwing off his restraints, he said, “Prepare to disembark.” He reached for his helmet, sliding it over his head and locking it in position, and turned to McBride, already prepared for exit, rifle in hand.
“Eager?”
“Ready,” McBride replied.
“Right,” Kowalski said, looking around nervously. “By the numbers, people. Just like we did in practice. Two by two out of the airlock, and make directly for any egress points. Watch your IFF codes. The Zemlyans have all managed to get logged into our system, but the Guild haven’t.”
“Be careful, though,” Flynn warned. “Someone might have hacked it. Don’t take any shots you aren’t sure of, but don’t be totally dependent on the systems either. Use your judgment and your instincts.” The first pair stepped into the airlock, Flynn and McBride at the rear, and he turned to the gunner, asking, “You sure you want to do this?”
“Are you? You’re the pilot. If we’re following any sort of normal doctrine, you probably should be sitting at the controls right now, rather than preparing to lead a commando raid.” He paused, and said, “You’ve never even met Romano.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Doesn’t matter a damn. He’s one of my pilots, at least temporarily, and that means I go out and get him. Period.” Cracking a smile, he added, “I guess you feel the same way. Besides, he volunteered to ride fire to save us. I figure the least we can do is return the favor.”
The last of the troopers clambered through the airlock, leaving Flynn and McBride standing at the threshold, ready to depart. Flynn hefted his rifle in his hands, quickly checking his heads-up display to ensure that the platoon was moving into position as instructed, racing around the perimeter of the dome to prevent any chance of escape. Over on the far side, just as planned, the Zemlyan shuttle was beginning its descent, precisely where they had originally intended to come down.
They’d had no time to come up with any sort of a joint battle plan. Everything was going to have to be organized on the fly, but the enemy’s two major defenses had already been knocked out. Now it would be the hardest type of space warfare, toe-to-toe battles.
“Flynn to Romano,” he said, waiting for the airlock to cycle. There was a two-second delay on the communications link, the signal bouncing around the inter-ship network before filtering back down to him. “Flynn to Romano, do you read me?”
“I read. We’re pinned down in one of the lower levels right now. There are sirens going off all over the place. I presume that’s you, sir?”
“Down and safe, at least after a fashion.” The two of them stepped into the airlock, and he said, “What progress have you made inside?”
“There’s an emergency airlock, second level. We should have it open for you in a minute. They know what we’re doing, so expect trouble.”
“Right, will do. Thanks, Lieutenant. We’ll be inside in a minute.”
“Aye, sir,” Romano replied, closing the connection. By the time they had finished their conversation, the airlock had completed cycling, and the two men stepped out onto the surface, bouncing slightly in the reduced gravity. The dome dominated the horizon, hundreds of meters across, and already most of the troopers they had brought down were out of sight, speeding to their planned guard positions.
“That must be it,” McBride said, gesturing at a hatch. “A red light just flashed on. Unless it’s some sort of
trap.” He raised his rifle, and said, “You want to take point, sir?”
“Why not,” Flynn replied, racing for the ladder, using his suit thrusters to give him an extra boost, speeding his upward progress. The outer hatch swung open, and he scrambled inside, reaching down to help McBride, the pair slipping into the cramped space between the hatches as the outer door slammed shut.
“Yegorov to Flynn,” the Zemlyan unit commander radioed. “We’re moving in now. Should be cracking into our side in about a minute. Looks like your people have managed the open a few doors for us.”
“Understood, Major,” Flynn replied. “We’re making our entry now. Any news from orbit?”
“Only that the big battle is about to start. Everything down here won’t mean a thing if they don’t hold back the enemy in orbit.” He paused, then said, “Coming under fire now. Watch yourself. Good hunting.”
“And to you.”
“Green light,” McBride said, the status panel flashing. Rifle at the ready, he slammed his hand onto the control, and a loud whine filled the air as the inner door opened. The two men braced themselves for a battle, ready to repel the anticipated enemy force, knowing that their spacesuits made them vulnerable.
The corridor was empty. Gunfire echoed in the distance, and the two of them raced towards it, rifles at the ready, knowing that they were already running out of time. A whining tone rang through their helmets, the signal that one of Yegorov’s people had activated the landing beacon, spotting a suitable place for the transport to descend. They had no more than twenty minutes to secure the facility and evacuate the prisoners, assuming the orbital forces could keep the Guild monitors at bay for long enough to allow them to complete their mission.
Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Page 17
