Churchill seemed to pause for a moment, then ducked back down towards the portal, the gravitational surge overwhelming any possible acceleration. Clayton paused for a second, looking up in wide-eyed panic, before returning to her controls with renewed vigor, diving down towards the portal, carefully adjusting the thrusters to take them just to one side, attempting a slingshot maneuver.
Mallory could see the tempestuous portal ahead of her, could almost make out the strange universe beyond, dancing lights seeming to fade in and out of existence, a gravitational siren luring them to their doom. Entering hendecaspace was hazardous enough under ideal circumstances, but under these conditions, Churchill would very rapidly be reduced to its component particles. There had been periodic attempts to weaponize the drive, but all of them had quickly fallen by the wayside when it became apparent that such a weapon would be more likely to destroy the ship using it than the enemy.
“More speed,” Clayton muttered. “More speed. Come on, old girl, give me all you've got.”
Silently, Mallory urged the pilot on, glancing at the status reports to the rear, amber warnings flashing from all the hull sensors, warnings of impending doom if the stress factors on the outer plating weren't reduced at once. They were still falling, the course dragging too close, and Clayton spun the ship, trying to use what velocity she could muster in her escape.
With a final, blinding flash, the portal closed, and Mallory released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, looking up at the sensor screen as Churchill settled onto a new course, curving directly back towards the enemy fighter squadron. That unorthodox maneuver had helped them more than she'd expected, killing their forward velocity and allowing them an easy run at their targets ahead.
“Damage report,” she said, turning to Dixon.
“Lots of stress alerts from the hull, but no actual breaches.” Shaking her head, she added, “That's going to have had an effect though, Captain. I'd say one missile hit could tear out a whole side of the ship. I've got damage control teams on the way to take a look.”
“We'll have to make sure we don't take that hit, then,” Mallory replied, turning back to the sensor display. “Finch, I want a firing solution on the enemy fighters as soon as you can, and I expect the fastest reload in history. We're going to have to start lowering the odds a little.” She looked at the trajectory plot again, and added, “Tell our interceptors that they've got an extra friend coming into the fight.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Finch replied, running his hands over the control with an eager smile, while Clayton expertly swung Churchill onto her new heading, now running directly towards the enemy fighters. Any moment now, the pirates would realize that they had been fooled, but as long as she could keep the enemy distracted for a little while longer, it wouldn't make any difference.
“Interceptors will make contact with the enemy in twenty seconds, Captain,” Dixon added. “We'll be there thirty-one seconds later.”
Nodding, she watched the screen, urging the pilots to hold on until Churchill could arrive to even the odds. The enemy fighters were still advancing in two waves, the second more than two minutes behind the first, and she watched as they slid into a by-the-book attack pattern, the first wave attempting to concentrate on the interceptors, the second setting up for a strike on the carrier. That might have worked well enough had she been following the same rules, but as it stood, she had an excellent chance of ruining their day.
“Churchill to Green Leader,” she said. “Defensive on first salvo, then a coordinated strike with the second. Copy?”
“Copy,” Bennett described. “Thanks for the assist. It was looking a little crowded out here.”
The interceptors arced back, cutting their acceleration to buy themselves some time, at the price of a longer spell in the firing area when they made contact with the enemy. A trade-off that was more than worth it, with Churchill and its missile tubes ready to fire. Still the fighters continued towards their target, swinging out into a wider formation in their sole concession to creative thought.
“Missiles ready,” Finch said. “Targets locked, and I've integrated us into the tactical net of our interceptors.” Shaking his head, he added, “I thought the fighter screen was meant to protect the carrier, not the other way round.”
“Let's hope the bad guys feel the same way,” she replied. “McBride, I want full...”
“On it. Locking onto their missile launch systems, programs loaded and ready, all good to go.” Turning to her, he said, “I have done this before.”
“Just get it right this time, and no showboating. Keep it simple.”
“Never get to have any damned fun around here any more,” he muttered, hunching over his station.
“Energy spike!” Dixon said. “Eight missiles in the air, all targeted at our interceptors. Defensive salvo is in the air, but they're facing two to one odds.”
Two missiles left in the interceptor screen, but that didn't matter as long as Churchill could reach them in time. She watched the seconds drag past as the ship slid into firing range, the engines driving hard to push them onto trajectory, Finch holding his fingers over the controls, ready to launch the missiles at the first possible second. The interceptors scattered, diving in all directions in an attempt to evade the incoming warheads, Sterling hovering back, a second later than the others before breaking away.
“Three on Sterling,” Dixon said.
“Now!” Finch yelled, and the ship rocked back as four missiles raced away, their tracks plotted to intercept their enemy counterparts, joining forces with those launched by the interceptors scant seconds ago. New tracks jumped on to the sensor display, and Mallory leaned forward in her chair as she watched them move into position, willing them to race ahead of Sterling, the inexperienced pilot desperately swinging around, trying to dodge the incoming missiles.
“Green Leader to Green Three,” Bennett yelled. “Full burn, towards the defensive screen!”
“They're closing on my tail!” Sterling replied. “I can't shake them!”
“Straight and level,” Bennett ordered. “You won't dodge them that way!”
“Five seconds to impact,” Finch said, shaking his head. “Three seconds late.”
“McGuire...,” Mallory began.
“I'm trying, damn it!” the hacker said, “You think I want to see that kid burn?”
“More speed,” Sterling said. “Port thruster failing. I don't...”
The channel died as a flash lit up the sensor display, two of the missiles and one interceptor replaced with a cloud of debris, a shroud for the mangled body of the pilot. Silence reigned on the bridge for a long minute, no one willing to break the gloom.
“Focus, people! If we don't do our job, he's going to have company!” Mallory said. “Finch, I want another salvo into the air. Have Green Leader move back into defensive formation, and tell her to hold her missiles for the moment.”
“Ranging on target,” Finch said.
“Second wave is turning,” Dixon added. “Looks like they're going to do a fast swing around the planet. They'll be back at the base in six minutes. Just behind us.”
Another flash on the screen, one of the enemy fighters caught by a missile in the side. The trajectory plot was clearing as the rival missiles collided with each other, only two enemy fighters remaining, both desperately trying to get away.
“End this, Finch,” she ordered. “Now.”
“Salvo in five seconds,” he said, tapping a control that sent Churchill rocking back again, four more missiles sweeping out into the sky, diving towards the enemy fighters as they launched their two remaining warheads to meet them, one of them hanging back in another attempt to take the fire upon himself.
“Split-shot, Lieutenant,” Mallory said. “I want those bastards brought down, right now.”
Four missiles vanished from the screen, leaving one for each of the
enemy fighters, racing behind them while the pilots did their best to evade, the same futile dance that Sterling had tried, knowing that there was no one out there to help them, no defensive salvo to snatch survival from the jaws of death.
One of the pilots decided to save his life, hurling himself from his craft an instant before the missile hit, but the other kept fighting until the last second, random course changes, spilling out physical countermeasures, but the end was inevitable, a tissue of flame heralding his end.
Nodding, Mallory tapped a control, and said, “Conway, this is Churchill. The coast is clear.”
“Roger that,” Conway replied. “T-Minus Two Minutes and counting.”
Looking around the bridge, Mallory said, “Good work, people. We've done our part. The rest is down to the bombers.” Glancing up at the sensor screen, her eyes lingered on the tangled remnants of Sterling's fighter, doomed to drift around the planet forever. They had to finish this. For his sake, if nothing else, and for Nakadai. Otherwise their sacrifice would be in vain.
Chapter 17
Morgan ducked low behind the rocky outcrop, looking down at the cavern from her vantage point near the roof. The trio of guards she had encountered earlier had been expended to ten, most of the pirates now down here trying to find her and Petrov. She glanced at the pistol, checking it one last time to make sure it was ready for the task at hand. If she only had a spare clip of ammunition, this would have been simplicity itself, but she had only five shots.
She glanced down at her watch, knowing that somewhere in the darkness, Petrov was doing the same. Less than a minute to go before the deadline imposed by Captain Mallory, and the beginning of whatever rescue operation she'd managed to devise. All she knew was that she had to distract the guards and disrupt their missile batteries for a few minutes. With five bullets, that didn't promise to be easy.
The deadline ticked past, and she silently cursed, waiting for Petrov to gather up his nerves to make a move. Finally, the sound of falling rocks echoed through the tunnels, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps, and eight of the guards immediately sprinted into the gloom to chase down the archaeologist. They had to suspect it was a trap, but they didn't dare pass up the opportunity to capture one of the escaped prisoners either.
Petrov had the easy job. All he had to do was get himself lost in the tunnels, following the route she had carefully mapped for him while they had waited for the action to begin. In a couple of minutes, no one was going to be interested in him any more. She intended to make herself the center of attention. Counting to sixty, giving the guards time to get well clear of the tunnels, she lined up a shot on the nearest of the two remaining pirates, a young woman clutching her rifle, eyes darting around. For an instant, a flash of doubt crept into her mind, the knowledge that their roles could so easily have been reversed weighing down upon her, but too much was at stake for her to hold back now. Steadying her breath, she squeezed the trigger, and as a resounding crack echoed from the walls, the woman crumpled to the ground, blood running down her side.
Her comrade reacted quickly, running towards the tunnels, either out of cowardice or cunning, but she felled him with a second easy shot in the back, sending him collapsing into a wall, the crack of broken bones as he dropped back to the ground.
She had to move, and fast, and in one huge leap she dropped down to the cavern, racing in the familiar long, low-gravity strides to reach the shaft, jumping again to grab onto the line that dangled from the roof. Even in Martian gravity, this would have been impossible, but here it was easy to snatch hold of the rope and pull herself up, the cavern quickly disappearing behind her as the sound of pursuit echoed from the tunnel. As she climbed, she hooked the bottom of the rope to her foot, tugging it clear to prevent anyone from leaving in a hurry, the tangle wrapping around her legs as she climbed the final yards to the top.
The light was eclipsed as a figure moved across it, looking down to find out what had happened, but she moved quickly, firing up at the shadow, the recoil sending her tumbling partway back down the shaft, forcing her to slam her hands into the walls to stop her fall. A wail of pain heralded her delayed arrival at the upper level, and she quickly moved to shake free the rope, coils heaped on the floor, and looked down at the dying traitor, failing to find either the weapon or the ammunition she needed.
Two shots left, and the dreadful wail of the siren announced that the whole base was now alerted to her presence. The traitors would be streaming in from all directions towards her, and she had to move, sprinting down the corridor towards the prisoners' quarters, eating up the distance towards the corner, almost slamming into the wall in her haste to save the rest of the captured crewman.
A pair of guards were at the door, rifles raised, and she invested her final two bullets in a pair of precisely-targeted shots, the two men crashing to the floor, one of them firing a burst into the air that sent dust and debris falling from the ceiling, most of the clip spent in his last, desperate act. She raced forward, snatching the unused rifle, then looked into the room, only two people sitting in a room that had housed thirty. Just Sokolov and Medina remained.
“Where are the rest of them?” she asked, fearing the worst.”
“Out on the landing field,” Sokolov replied. “In one of the shuttles. They said they were going to take them down to Sinaloa, but I think they're going to use them as human shields. A few of them protested.” He paused, then added, “They shot them where they stood.”
“Bastards,” she replied.
“Does this mean help is on the way?” Medina asked.
“It means a fighter strike on that same landing field is imminent unless I can warn the attack force.” She reached down for the second rifle, tossing it at Sokolov, and asked, “Do you know how to use that?”
“Not really,” he replied, looking down at the unfamiliar weapon.
“Basic idea is simple. Point at enemy and squeeze the trigger, and watch for the kick. Don't worry about hitting anything, because on automatic, you won't. All you're trying to do is force the bastards to keep their heads down and stop them from shooting us. You've got about half a clip there, so be careful. Short bursts of fire only. Got that?”
“I've got it.”
“Which way to the command center?”
“Back the way you came, then left.”
“It would be.” Shaking her head, she stepped back out of the room. A careless guard walked around the corner at the end of the passage, and was dispatched with a short burst of fire in his direction, his body tossed against a wall by the force of the shot. She was almost knocked from her feet as well by the recoil, the low gravity providing no help under the current conditions. With one quick glance to the rear, she raced down the corridor towards the dead man, pivoting around the corner and ducking back just in time to avoid a blast of machine-gun fire rattling in her direction, a gun emplacement rigged outside the door.
“Any other way in?” she asked.
“No,” Medina replied. “There isn't even an airlock in the room. That corridor is the only way.”
Cursing, Morgan glanced at her watch, then looked back at the corner again. She didn't know what was going on outside, had no idea how much time she had before the fighters began their attack. All she knew was that she had to take the command center, or the strike would have to abort. Or more likely, Conway would try it anyway, and lose most of the squadron in the attempt.
She risked another quick glance at the gun, darting back and forth before the pirates could respond. They'd set up a perfect killing ground before them, twenty feet of empty space, no cover, nothing except bare and empty corridor. They might miss her with the first shot, but they'd have plenty of time to finish her off at their leisure. There had to be another option.
Turning back from the passage, she walked down to the emergency airlock, unguarded and abandoned, and pulled out the spacesuit hanging in the cabinet, dropp
ing it to the ground while the others watched in confusion.
“You're going to try and reach the shuttle?” Sokolov asked. “That's a long way around the perimeter, and they'll have guards waiting to grab you.”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head, a smile creeping across her face as she tugged the oxygen tank clear of its mounting. She hefted in the low gravity, confident that she could throw it the distance required. “I'm going to make a missile. Take cover, and prepare to run when I give the word.”
Pulling out the control keyboard, she disabled the overrides one by one, setting it to collect oxygen from the surrounding air, the sucking sound of the system engaging changing to a dull rattle as it began to work. Throwing a control, she turned off the internal monitors while setting it to input air as fast as it could, compressing it down beyond the usual limits. Left to itself for a few hours, it might make a rather effective shrapnel bomb, but they didn't have that kind of time. She turned to the attachment at the top of the cylinder, the place where it normally connected to the suit, and walked carefully back to the end of the corridor, aiming it into position, swinging her rifle around to be ready. She'd have only a few seconds, and one chance, to make this work. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she glanced back at her waiting comrades, nodded, and tapped the emergency release.
With a blast of air, the tank flew down the corridor, diving towards the machine gun. There was no way it would hit either the gun or its crew, the release value uncontrollable, but it gave Morgan the brief window of opportunity she needed to roll out into the corridor and fire a pair of bursts of flickering flame at the gun crew, ripping into them without destroying the weapon. The cylinder slammed harmlessly into the wall, air spent as it bounced down to the floor, just past the two dead men at the machine gun.
“Quick,” she said, running forward, jumping over the weapon, glancing down to confirm that it was undamaged. She burst through the doors into the control room, a technician raising his hands as she entered, moving to the middle of the room. “Medical kit,” she said, gesturing at Medina. “Knock him out. I don't need to worry about prisoners.”
Interceptor (Strike Commander Book 2) Page 16
