“What happened?” Romano asked. Overhead, loudspeakers crackled, and a voice barked through the corridors.
“Attention. This is the Governor of Zemlya. My people have withdrawn to the detention area, and we have all of the penal workers with us, under our weapons. Any attempt to attack, and we will open fire. Their deaths will be on your conscience, not ours.”
“Easy enough for him to say,” Flynn said. “Sounds like he doesn’t have one.”
“Surrender at once, and I will spare their lives and yours. Your vessels in orbit are outmatched, damaged. Some have already fled the system, and the rest will follow. You cannot win this battle, but if you make the right choice, you may yet be able to survive it. Why throw your life away for people you’ve never met?” He paused, then added, “You can’t win. Choose to live instead.”
“He’s worried,” Kuznetzov said. “And with good reason. We can still proceed with the second half of our objective, even if we can’t accomplish the first.” Gesturing at a shaft, he added, “The transport has a sting in the tail. A quarter-megaton charge, one designed to detach as soon as it lands. More than big enough to reduce this installation into its component atoms.”
Turning his rifle on his erstwhile ally, Romano said, “Make one move, just one, and I’ll kill you myself.”
Flynn pulled out his communicator, and said, “Calling Major Yegorov. Do you read?”
“I read you.”
“Major, I must ask what your intentions are?”
“Free the damned prisoners, of course. What do you think we came here for?”
“I’m looking at an intelligence agent who seems of the opinion that our primary objective is the destruction of this facility.”
There was a brief pause, and Yegorov replied, “That’s a nice bonus if we can pull it off, Commander, but I don’t think that I’m interested unless we can reduce the price. If it was just my platoon and I, maybe, but I’m not willing to sacrifice five hundred innocent lives for this, and I don’t think that my government would be willing to do that, either.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Flynn said. “Kuznetzov, I’m going to assume that you’ve just cracked under the pressure, but I’m going to insist that you hand your weapon over to Romano and make your way back to the airlock. McBride, you go with him.”
“Yes, sir,” the gunner said, aiming his rifle dangerously at the agent, whose eyes darted back and forth, as though picking out potential targets. There was a loud crack, an explosion somewhere underneath them, and Kuznetzov took the opportunity to sprint away, McBride firing a shot over his head as he ducked down a corridor.
“Leave him,” Flynn said, shaking his head.
“He’s right,” Romano added. “He survived down here on his own for weeks. He knows these corridors a lot better than we do, and if he wants to get lost, he can. That just means we’ve got an even more urgent deadline.” Looking at Diego, he asked, “How did you get out?”
“Food processor. I was working on the systems when they came to get us. The hatch was open, the maintenance hatch, and I climbed inside. They didn’t see me.” Romano looked at his side, seeing fresh scars down the man’s back, the wounds fresh from a recent beating. Diego glanced at his back, and added, “After you escaped, they took it out on your roommate.”
Kneeling down beside him, Romano said, “I’m sorry, Diego. I’m so damned sorry.” Gesturing down the corridor, he asked, “Can you handle a spacesuit? There’s a secured airlock at the far end of the passage, on the right. Make your way to one of the people with an American flag on their shoulder. They’ll make sure you get safely off this world and into the best medical care we can give you. It’s the absolute least I can do in the circumstances.”
“I’m free?” Diego asked, tears running from the broken man’s eyes, a small trace of the person he had been beginning to emerge. “I’m going home?”
“With a little luck,” Romano said, allowing a smile to drift across his face. “Get going. You’ll have a lot of company in a minute. That inspection hatch down that way?” At Diego’s nod, he turned to Flynn, and said, “I guess we’ve got our way in.”
“So, what’s the plan?” McBride asked. “Charge inside, shooting at anything in a black uniform and hoping we distract the enemy for long enough to allow the Marines to storm the place before we all get shot?”
“That’s a lot better than what I had in mind,” Flynn said. “Take point, Lieutenant. And no shooting unless necessary. We can’t afford to tip our hand.”
Romano moved quietly down the corridor, flashing a last smile at Diego as the former prisoner raced to escape, desperately seeking his freedom. The sounds of battle were beginning to ebb as they progressed, the Major’s Marines using the lull to consolidate their position. None of them had any intention of giving credence to the Governor’s threat, but equally they couldn’t afford to take lightly the possibility that he might undertake the massacre he had described. Diego had been proof enough that they didn’t care about the well-being of their prisoners.
The inspection hatch was swinging back and forth in the corridor, a scattered toolkit left strewn on the floor where Diego had abandoned it. The three men crawled inside, cautiously making their way through the darkened tunnel, snaking their way through the bowels of the complex. Belatedly, it occurred to Romano that they could easily be walking into a trap, that either Diego might actually have been working for the enemy, or that the befuddled man could have been permitted to escape in a bid to lure Romano and the others in.
With five hundred lives at stake, they had little choice other than to take that risk.
“Ten minutes to landing,” Flynn whispered. “If there is a warhead attached to that transport, we might only have a few minutes more than that to get away. We’ve got to get this done, rapidly.” Romano crept forward as they approached the cavernous mess hall, hearing the occasional rattle from the walls as Yegorov’s men moved into position to take advantage of their attack. The timing would have to be precise, down to the second, or all could easily be lost at the last moment.
There it was. The entrance they were looking for, secured only with a manual catch. The panels underneath the container were opened, and just before Flynn could work the mechanism, Romano raised his hand, shaking his head as he looked at the exposed machinery. The basic design had to be the same as the food processors on Lincoln, though all of the specifics were different. That didn’t matter, though. The relay cables working their way into the wall made it clear that these controls would affect every processor in the room, and he vaguely remembered that there were a couple of dozen of them, ringing the mess.
“One order of hot soup, coming up,” he muttered, pulling the toolkit from his pocket and removing a long metal rod, jamming it into the mechanism in a move that yielded an extremely satisfactory spark, a curl of smoke rising into the air. Yelled curses came from the far side of the hatch, and McBride shook his head at the strange smells wafting through the gap.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Lieutenant. You’ve got a real flair for culinary warfare.”
“On three,” Flynn said, poised for action, the channel on his communicator left open to allow Major Yegorov to properly time his assault. “One. Two. Three!”
He kicked open the hatch, the weak latch snapping under his assault, and the three men tumbled out into the deck, Romano almost skidding on the mess of congealing custard that was still spilling out of the machine beside the entrance. The attention of the guards had been drawn away to the malfunctioning equipment, and he had managed to win himself the momentary distraction he’d been looking for.
Long enough for him to get off the first shots, anyway. Chaos erupted throughout the room as the prisoners finally took a chance to revolt, gunfire echoing around as Romano dived into cover, picking his shots carefully through the mass of tangled humanity, guards attempting to use their slaves as shields, th
e three of them firing round after round more to keep the enemy confused than anything else.
After only a handful of seconds, the Guilders recovered, concentrating their fire into bursts that crashed into the wall behind them, adding more chaos as sirens wailed to lament the destruction of essential equipment, flickering flames coming from a ruptured conduit. Their aim was improving, and Romano tried for a new firing position, attempting to advance, only to trip on a fallen prisoner, the wind knocked from him as he crashed into the wall.
It was over. He was dead.
And then, at that instant, the doors on all sides of the room erupted in smoke and flame, precisely-timed demolition charges erupting to admit the Marines, uniformed figures charging in, rifles at the ready. A handful of shots echoed around the room, but it was over, and all of them knew it. A pair of decorated figures, one of them the woman from before, raced for an exit, but two shots rang out, blood spilling from their legs as two marksmen found their targets.
“You aren’t going to die,” Yegorov said, stepping forward. “Not until some friends of mine have had a chance to ask you some questions.” His gun raised, he continued, “I am Major Sergei Yegorov. You may call me God. I am in charge of this facility, and anyone who refuses to obey my orders will be shot. All Guilders will throw their weapons away, and submit to arrest and detention. Rest assured that we will be asking your former prisoners about your conduct. Prey that they give you a good report, because I am damned sure that nobody else will.” Turning to the three officers, he said, “I haven’t had the pleasure until now. That was some excellent work.”
“Likewise, Major,” Flynn said, as Romano struggled to his feet, McBride offering a hand to help him up. “My watch says that we’ve got about seven and a half minutes before we have company on the surface.”
“Not a problem. We’ve got a path to the airlock staked out, and I’ve already ordered your men to move into position to protect the landing zone. For an improvised operation, this seems to be going rather well.”
Romano moved to the single observation window, and spotted a familiar shape on the landing pad, saying, “My fighter. They must have retrieved it.”
“What was wrong with it?” Flynn asked.
“Fuel tank. The gauges were wrong, and I launched with less than a quarter of my normal loadout. I landed clean, but purged the computer systems.”
Flynn nodded, patted his pocket, and said, “I think I can handle that.”
“We refueled her,” one of the former prisoners said. “They were going to try a test flight.”
“Better and better,” Flynn replied. “Romano, McBride, make your way to the transport. I’ll leave you to load the shuttle on board while the prisoners get inside. We’re not going to need it now.”
“Sir,” Romano said, “That’s my ship.”
“You’ve done your part, Lieutenant,” Flynn said, gesturing at the window. “Now I’ve got to do mine. We’ve still got to get off this planet and into orbit.” Walking over to the prisoner, he said, “I need to know the fastest way to the landing pad from here, and I need to know it now.”
Chapter 24
Tanaka took a deep breath as the orchestra reached a crescendo, the final movement of the piece coming to an end, the applause of the crowd fading away as the speakers in his cockpit reverted to their previous setting, systems reports flooding in. He’d recorded that concert only a few months ago, the Lunar Symphony Orchestra at its best. And all of them were gone, long since dust, his recording likely the only one left in the universe.
Reaching to his controls, he quickly began a data dump to Lincoln, sharing his music files with the master system. His recording had been somewhat less than legal, but he doubted anyone would object, and in the event that he died during the course of this battle, he didn’t want the music to die with him. After its unexpected survival, somehow, it didn’t seem fair.
Three minutes, ten seconds to contact. The enemy formation was coming around the far side of the planet, and he was barely able to maintain a signal with his baseship. His fuel warning light continued its incessant beeping, and the cut-off didn’t work, no matter how many times he attempted to engage it. Evidently his computer was determined to ensure that he knew just what sort of desperate situation he was in.
He had one advantage. Speed. Raw speed. He’d pass through the enemy formation in less than fifteen seconds, an insignificant amount of time for anyone below to even attempt to react to it. Without missiles, though, he’d have to go far closer than he liked to press his attack home, and they’d doubtless have their defensive systems working.
That he could do more damage by ramming one of the ships had occurred to him, a thought that he rapidly dismissed. Had it been the only way to win the battle, to only way to save his ship and his comrades, he might have considered it, but on the whole, he considered himself far more valuable alive than dead. If only because he’d be able to launch attacks on three of the enemy ships, swooping back and forth between them using what little remained of his thruster fuel.
He didn’t even have enough for a safe docking. Certainly insufficient for any of the evasive patterns recommended in the Fleet manuals. He had a few tricks of his own to play with, but even then, this was going to be tight. Rattling his fingers across the control panel, he brought up the course projection again, running right through the heart of the formation, every move carefully choreographed for maximum effect, even taking the likely course changes of the enemy ships into account.
At any second, Lincoln would spot that he had deviated from the flight plan they had prepared for him, an admittedly brilliant course that would have brought him into line with the rest of the squadron for its second pass, though still requiring the services of a recovery shuttle. They’d be launching missiles. He wouldn’t. He had to go far closer than they dared, far closer than he would normally have considered reasonable. That’s all there was.
Reaching to the communications console, he locked in his discriminator, ensuring not only that he wouldn’t be distracted by any orders from above that he had no intention of obeying, but that his course couldn’t be altered remotely, some doubtless well-meaning officer who might save his life at the cost of those on the ship.
His sensor display lit up again, new contacts appearing on the display. The freighter was down on the surface, just coming over the horizon, its beacon screaming loud and clear all through the system as though someone was intentionally making it a target. For a long moment, he waited, watching the enemy formation. His gamble had been that they would consider Lincoln and her single remaining escort a greater prize than a collection of prisoners, and as far as he could tell, he’d been right. They held their course, just as planned, five ships together now in what looked to be a textbook defensive clump, the ships poised to give each other maximum supporting fire.
They were going by the book.
He’d never read it, which gave him an advantage. He could only go by what he observed, not the deranged doctrine of someone who had never tasted battle, an odor that contaminated most of the textbooks he’d read during his brief time at the Academy. A part of him had always regretted, somewhere deep down, that he hadn’t completed his course, gone on to wear the uniform. It had been offered, his parents willing to release him from his commitments with the family business, but he’d refused, sensing the greater cost he’d have been called upon to pay in the future.
He wouldn’t turn traitor for anyone, and selling out the secrets of the Space Fleet to a criminal syndicate, even one run by his own family, was not something he could ever contemplate doing. He flew fighters. He defended transports from attack, occasionally led raids against rival organizations, but at least he could convince himself that he was still fighting bad guys.
This time, he didn’t even have to think twice about it. An interstellar organization based on slave labor? He needed no justification to declare his own perso
nal war on the Guild, even if Captain Forrest had ever considered another course.
One minute to firing position. He relaxed into his couch, marveling at the strange simplicity of his attack pattern. The computer knew what it had to do, and when. Could cope with any contingency, but still, a human needed to make the decision. The Central American Union had attempted fully automated fighters once, hoping to gain a critical advantage over its larger neighbors. The result had been the loss of both the capital ships in their fleet, and the end of their interstellar ambitions. As well as the quiet end of a couple of dozen black projects, nurtured by more careful organizations.
He reached for his music again, quietly contemplating what the best soundtrack would be to his attack. Perhaps the score of a movie, a bombastic bombardment on his ears, or something softer, more wistful. Cracking a smile, he shook his head, instead letting the stream of systems reports wash over him, a series of sequential updates that almost had a music of its own, a rhythm and a beat.
Thirty seconds to go. He looked at his battle plan again, nodding to himself in silent approval. The temptation was always there to continue making adjustments, all the way to the final moment of encounter, to keep tweaking and altering your course until you had hopelessly compromised your original plan. His goal was simple. Do the maximum possible damage to the offensive systems of the maximum number of enemy capital ships. And if feasible, to live through the battle, though his hopes of rescue were somewhat limited.
Especially as on his current trajectory, he’d be heading back down towards the planet within the hour, with no realistic possibility of surviving the encounter. He didn’t want to die in battle, but given what he had already learned of the Guild, he had still less interest in living long enough to be captured alive. No torture chamber for Raul Tanaka. They’d probably not even let him keep his music.
Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Page 19
