All across his heads-up display, red text streamed down the screen, his on-board systems begging and pleading for him to change course, to try and escape, but he continued to charge towards the approaching missiles at full acceleration, knowing there was nothing he could do to affect them, no strategy left other than the one he had committed to.
Time seemed to slow as the tracks converged, the enemy fighters holding their course, keeping tight control of the missiles as they approached. Twenty-four objects were diving towards each other, the seconds ticking down as he entered the final details of the course change, tapping a control that would commit the decision, over the insistent protests of the navigation system. He could just about see the enemy now, points of light from their engines racing towards him, and he settled back to brace himself for the engine surge that was to come.
With less than a second to go, the thrusters on the three fighters of his squadron fired, those of Sullivan and Xylander an instant before his, giving them the best chance of survival. Space all around them flooded with chaff and flares, the physical countermeasures adding to the problems facing the guidance computers, the missiles all slamming together, unable to change course in time.
The explosion ripped a savage ball of flame into brief existence, a loud rattle echoing across his cabin as the shrapnel hit home, his sensor display fading and dimming as the exterior pickups were torn to pieces. An alarm began to sound, a hull breach low down in the cockpit, and he reached for a patch, holding it high as he tried to find the leak, and his engine died in a wave of damage reports, the fuel tanks ruptured and torn in a dozen places, the blast sending his fighter spinning, tossing his trajectory plot across the screen before it finally settled.
Out ahead, the enemy fighters struggled to turn, one of them slamming into the debris before he could change course, a second explosion to add to the mess, while the others drifted away, uncertain what to do next.
He finally found the breach, slamming a patch in position, and reached to call for help, only to receive a roar of static and another damage report, informing him that all of the communications relays were out. Now he was just a silent observer, watching the rest of the battle play out. Sullivan and Xylander looked to have made it out in one piece, their tracks heading gently back to Churchill. He'd have to wait for the SAR shuttle, and he sat down to try and relax, before a second alarm snapped him back to attention.
The engine burn hadn't changed his orbit. The acceleration he'd pulsed through had been mostly countered by the spin when he lost control, and he was on a direct course for the debris cloud, the remnants of the missiles and the shuttle. Given time, it would safely disperse, but he didn't have time to waste. He quickly calculated his trajectory, but none of the news was promising. In seven minutes, he was dead, tossed into a piece of wreckage, and an experimental tap of his thruster control revealed that it had suffered the same damage as the rest of the equipment on the hull.
Even if they had reacted instantly on Churchill, they wouldn't be in time to retrieve him, and neither of the other fighters would be able to get him out in time. Both of them seemed to have suffered damage of their own, from the little information he could coax out of the sensors, and they were going to have problems enough just making it back to the carrier.
He paused, smiled, and reached down for his helmet, tucked safely under his seat, tugging it free and placing it in his lap while he turned a key on the side of the flight console, unlocking a panel that was never supposed to be used, except in the direst emergency. Abandoning ship in space was as easy as opening a hatch, and this fighter even had an atmospheric purge that would allow him to gently float free. He wasn't going to be making use of that today.
Locking his helmet into position, he held his hand over the control, taking one last look around the cockpit. He didn't have enough time to calculate whether this plan would work. Either he'd be lucky today, or he'd die. Those were the only two options left on the table, and given the alternatives, they weren't bad ones.
He slammed his hand down on the control, and a series of explosive bolts fired, ripping the top of the cockpit free, the blast of air hurling him clear of his fighter, sending the ship drifting in the other direction. Reaching down to his wrist computer, he started the long process of determining whether he and his ship would live, clumsily entering commands with gloved fingers, before finally grinning in satisfaction. He'd be flying over the debris, and his ship underneath it. Somehow, despite everything, the battle was over. At least up here. Turning on his suit thrusters, he looked at the rapidly receding base. They'd won two out of three today. All they had to do now was complete the set.
Chapter 19
“That's it,” Sokolov said, dropping into position next to Morgan. “All controls have been switched out. There's nothing more we can do here.”
Morgan squeezed the trigger, unleashing her penultimate burst of ammunition to keep down the heads of the waiting guards, and replied, “When I give the word, make a run for the airlock. There's no point all of us dying today.”
“If you think we're leaving without you, you're very much mistaken,” Sokolov said, shaking his head. He leveled his rifle at the corridor, Medina moving behind her to examine her foot, injecting a second painkiller and wrapping bandages around the wound, taking advantage of the brief lull in the action.
“Damn it, I wouldn't get ten feet with my foot like this,” she said. “I'll hold them off as long as I can.” Gesturing at the tempting airlock at the far side of the passage, just after the corner concealing the guards, she added, “One burst to keep their heads down...”
“And they charge in and kill you an instant later,” Sokolov replied. “Those missiles hit home, Ensign, which means that pirates are finished. All we've got to do is live through their death throes.”
Shaking her head in frustration, Morgan shuffled on the floor, trying to make herself more comfortable, her foot still a mass of agony despite the ongoing ministrations of the doctor. She wiped her forehead, sweat and grime smearing onto her hand, and saw another figure moving around the corridor, the familiar face of one of the traitors. She wasted her last burst, firing past him as he ducked back into cover, his goal of robbing her of the last of her protection completed.
“That's it,” she said. “All we've got left is the rifles.”
“Four shots in mine,” Sokolov said. “One short burst.”
Throwing a switch, she locked her rifle onto single-shot, then glanced at the counter on the ammunition clip, replying, “I've got six.” Leveling her sights onto the target, she started to take deep breaths, calming herself down just as her old instructor had taught her on the firing range, back on Mars. Brace for the recoil, lead the target, don't over-anticipate.
She glanced down at her watch, cursing the loss of communication with Churchill. She knew that the missiles had hit somewhere outside, but that was all she knew. A rescue shuttle might be on the way down, reinforcements streaming through the airlock towards her, or all of her friends might have been shot down, and this final pocket of resistance would be wiped out in the next minute.
“Hold still,” Medina said. “This isn't that bad. I'm going to try a strong local.”
“Nothing that affects my concentration,” Morgan said. “I've got to keep my focus.”
Another figure crept around the corner, waiting for the burst of machine gun fire, hesitating before his charge. Morgan had bluffed a few times over the course of the battle, holding back until the final second before unleashing a devastating surge of bullets at the enemy, and the corpses scattered down the corridor were a testament to her skill.
Finally, the pirates decided to take a chance, four of them charging around the corner, screaming a battle cry as they raced towards her, weaving from side to side as she fired her last rounds, smashing into the walls as she struggled to concentrate, the pain from her foot finally beginning to overwhelm her. One of t
he traitors dropped, clutching at his neck, and Sokolov threw her a grim smile before turning back to the fore. Time seemed to have slowed, every breath an eternity as she fought for her life, the traitors raising their pistol, ready for a shot at point-blank range that couldn't miss.
Then the airlock door slammed open, an emergency release, and Angel raced through the hatch, rifle in hand, dropping the three remaining traitors with three quick shots, their leader collapsing just short of the machine gun, reaching for it with a claw-like hand as his blood spilled out onto the floor.
“The corner,” Morgan replied, trying to rise, wincing from the pain surging through her leg, Sokolov reaching down to help her. Angel nodded, raced around with her rifle raised, firing four wild shots before turning back, shaking her head.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just an abandoned barricade they'd half-finished and another dead guy. Recently, by the looks of it.”
“That wasn't me,” Morgan replied.
“Larson to intruders,” a voice boomed over the ceiling speakers. “You might think you have the upper hand, but you can take it from me that I've made arrangements for this little eventuality. There are bombs planted all through the alien city underground, enough to reduce the whole mess to rubble, including that starmap you're all so anxious to find.” He paused, then said, “The intercoms are all set to two-way, so you can go ahead and reply.”
“Petrov is down there, as well as some of your people,” Morgan said. “You'd be signing their death warrants.”
“That worm can rot for all I care, and my comrades knew the risk they were taking going in. I still think that it's going to pay off. Here are my terms. You will leave the base at once, all except Morgan, who will remain as my hostage until a ship comes to pick me up. And take my word for it, a ship will be along very soon to get me out of here. I may or may not kill her, depending on my mood, but you'll have to chance that. In exchange, you can take all the crap you want from that hell-hole down there.”
“Not in a million years,” Angel said.
“Then I hit the button, and maybe this base goes with it and maybe it doesn't, but either way, you'll lose, and that's enough for me.”
Walking over to the nearest wall communicator, Morgan snapped it off, briefly silencing the traitor. Turning to Angel, she asked, “What about the rest of the prisoners?”
“McCormack should have secured the shuttle by now,” she replied, pulling out her communicator. “Sheriff, this is Angel, come in.”
“We've got them,” McCormack replied, the voice croaking from the small speaker.
“Good. Immediate launch, Sheriff. Get them back to Churchill on the double. Larson's rigged the base to explode.”
“What?” he asked. “Sergeant, I'm...”
“To hell with that,” Morgan yelled. “You've got thirty people out there, Sheriff, all of them with families down on the surface. Get the hell out of here.” Turning to Sokolov and Medina, she added, “You've got time to go with them.”
Shaking his head, Sokolov ran back into the control room, and said, “Turn that bastard back on, and keep him talking. I might be able to work out where he's coming from. Give me a hand, Doc.”
Nodding, Medina followed him, and Morgan limped in agony over to the wall, tapping the control again, and said, “We're listening, Larson. What are your terms?”
“I think I made them rather clear, but once more for luck. You will stay here as a hostage.” He paused, then added, “Though I will accept Captain Conway as a replacement. I'll leave that to you. In exchange, I'll disarm the bombs from here, and you can have full access to the alien city below. Naturally, I'll have a gun pointed at your head the whole time, so if someone decides to do something clever, you'll be the one paying the price.”
“Almost there,” Sokolov muttered.
“You know that we can't accede to those demands,” Morgan said. “How about this. Safe passage for you out of the system. We'll give you a shuttle and a head-start.”
“And your fighters shoot me down once I'm clear of the planet,” he said. “No deal.”
“Wait!” she said, shaking her head. “How can we trust you, Larson, after everything you've done.”
“It's a simple choice, Ensign. Either you trust me and have a chance of completing your precious mission, or you don't trust me and you take a chance that the base doesn't collapse when I hit the button.”
“You'll die too,” Angel said.
“As long as I take you with me, I don't mind.”
“Got him,” Sokolov said. “Larson's office, down at the end of the hall. I'll kill the cameras in that area so he can't see you coming.”
“Let's go,” Morgan said, reaching for her rifle.
Shaking her head, Angel asked, “Where do you think you're going?”
“With you,” she replied. “I've got to see this one to the end, no matter how much it hurts. You can either give me some ammunition and lend me a hand, or watch me struggle. Your choice.”
With a sigh, Angel reached into her pocket, tossing her a clip, then grabbed her waist, holding her up, supporting her in the microgravity as she walked, every touch of the deck by her foot a new exploration in a universe of pain, grim determination forcing her onward. Out of a corridor viewport, she saw the two shuttles taking off, a smile crossing her face. At least most of the prisoners were going to make it back home, one way or another.
“We could just leave,” Angel said, shaking her head. “Our shuttle is still at the airlock, and we could rig it so that Larson didn't know anything about it until I started the launch sequence.”
“Petrov's down there,” Morgan replied, “as well as everything we've been looking for.” Turning to her, she said, “If you want...”
“Don't say it,” her friend said, a smile crossing her face. “I guess I'm as big a fool as you are when it comes down to it.” They turned a corner, a sealed door blocking their path, another body sprawled on the floor, one of the prisoners they had massacred before she returned to the base. “One more reason to bring this bastard in.”
Angel raced up to the door, sliding in beside it with her rifle at the ready. She paused as Morgan stood in the corridor, her rifle poised in position to sweep the room when the door opened, and shook her head.
“You don't want to take cover or anything?”
“If we don't take him by surprise, we're dead anyway. Blow it.”
Nodding, Angel reached into her pocket and pulled out a slender metal case, opening it to reveal several strips of explosive, sliding them into position along the seam of the door, quickly but precisely connecting cables to the detonator before stepping back to safety, standing next to Morgan, both of them ready to fire.
“On three,” she said. “Two, one, now.”
At the touch of a button, the door ripped asunder, both of them flooding the room with the contents of their magazines, bursts of flame covering the room, slamming into the walls and furniture, the dull thud of a dying man dropping to the ground, his hand clutching a control, the grip of his thumb releasing before Angel could get to him.
“Dead man's switch, bitch,” he said, choking his final breath. Angel dived for the man, slamming her thumb on the control an instant too late, an explosion echoing from the shaft to the rear, sending a plume of dust and smoke rising to the ceiling as the floor shook underneath them, Morgan toppling from her feet with a burst of pain. She looked up, waiting for the roof to fall in, for the familiar, dreadful wail of a decompression alarm, but all was silent, Angel gripping the control in her hand.
“Just the one,” she replied, shaking her head. “Maybe he was bluffing, but I'd feel a lot happier knowing that for sure before I let go of this.”
Morgan dragged herself over to the cave, her face falling as she saw the shaft filled with rubble, the caverns beneath buried under mounds of collapsed rock. There was no sign of life down
there, no sound of movement at all. Angel stepped over, looking past her, and shook her head. Even if anyone had survived in the deep caverns, by the time anyone could dig through them, they'd have long run out of air.
“So it was all for nothing, after all,” she replied.
“No,” Morgan said, reaching into her jacket, pulling out the scrap of paper that was Petrov's final legacy. “Let's get out of here. There's no one else left.” She looked down at the hole, weary emptiness filling her soul. She'd sent the archaeologist, hoping that he was getting the safe option, a place to hide. Instead, she'd left him to his death. Glancing at the paper again, determination gripped her. Too much blood had been spent here. One way or another, she was going to make it count.
Nodding, Angel reached down with her free hand, hugging her friend as they limped towards the airlock, Sokolov and Medina walking down the corridor to meet them, glum expressions on their faces.
Angel's communicator chirped, and she passed it to Morgan, who replied, “Go ahead.”
“Ensign, what the hell is going on down there?” Mallory asked. “We picked up a sub-surface explosion.”
“And you're going to get some more in the near future,” she replied. “Having lost the game, Larson decided to tip over the table. We're on our way up now. Have all the starmap information fed to the shuttle.”
“Doing it,” she replied. “I want a full report when you get back, Ensign. Is there anyone else alive down there?”
“No, Captain. Just four of us. Petrov's dead.” She sighed, then said, “Morgan out.” She slid the communicator back into Angel's pocket as she limped back to the airlock, looking around once more at the shattered devastation that had been wreaked on the base, bodies scattered on the floor, either traitors or prisoners, shattered consoles from the gunfights, flickering lights evidence of the damage the base had sustained in the underground detonation.
Interceptor (Strike Commander Book 2) Page 18
