“Copy that,” said Chang. “Apologies for the unpleasantness before.”
“Unpleasantness is an understatement,” said Spears, a coy smile coming over her. “But I can officially tell you: it’s quite all right. No harm done.”
“No harm done,” Chang agreed.
Spears considered. “But that, of course, does raise the interesting question of what actually happened, and why. The first interaction we had with you was your targeting radars locking us up.”
“First we had with you was your range-finder lasers establishing distance.”
Spears blinked. “The Caernarvon is not equipped with range-finding lasers,” she said, matter-of-fact. “We use a passive, differential coincidence rangefinder that relies on secondary data from radars. Unless the radars are turned on—which they weren’t—it’s a passive system. And we were definitely not locking you up with it. Either way, no lasers.”
“Interesting,” said Chang. The confusion in his voice seemed genuine. “I’m just double-checking the logs now. Standby.” A brief pause. “We just checked. Definitely laser rangefinders.”
“Well,” said Spears, “we certainly didn’t shoot them at you.”
“Okay,” said Chang, “so where did they come from?”
Chapter Fourteen
Aft Airlock
HMS Caernarvon
Deep Space
Lieutenant Pierce Daylin-Rutland adjusted the collar of his space suit, taking in a deep breath of recycled air. He stepped out of the airlock and onto the outer hull, his magnetic boots sticking to the thick metal. A squad of Royal Marines stepped out behind him.
“Exiting,” Daylin-Rutland said. “Radio check.”
“Check,” Spears returned. It was comforting to hear her voice on the other end of the line. “Proceed, Lieutenant. You and your team are cleared to go.”
Daylin-Rutland wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for—none of them were—but Spears had ordered a full sweep of the outer hull. They needed to find the laser emitter. It might be big, might be small; might possess its own power system or be tied into the ship’s systems… a simple targeting laser was small enough to have its own battery.
“Confirmed, Captain,” said Daylin-Rutland. “Never fear, we’ll find that bastard.”
“Roger. Report to me when you’ve found it. Spears out.”
Daylin-Rutland closed the connection, then switched frequencies so he could address his team. “Team Alpha, head to the superstructure. Bravo, take the underside of the hull. Charlie and Delta, port and starboard respectively. Sweep the ship from aft to stern, and sweep the EM detectors over anything that protrudes, beeps, blinks, or buzzes.”
“But sir,” protested Lipham. “We won’t be able to hear any buzzing in our suits.”
Staff Sergeant Whitcomb Lipham. The ship’s resident blooming moron.
“That is correct, Staff Sergeant,” said Daylin-Rutland, putting one foot in front of the other on the Caernarvon’s hull. He turned his head from left to right, patiently scanning the bare hull. Nothing. Just armored plates. “We won’t be able to hear anything because the vacuum of space prevents the transmission of sound.”
“Okay,”Lipham said. “So why did you say that?”
Daylin-Rutland stepped carefully over a sensor array, grunting slightly as his magnetic shoes got drawn in; he fought the invisible pull. “Because it’s a metaphor, Lipham. Our goal is to find the laser system that’s been installed on the Caernarvon and, if possible, see if we can find some clue as to who installed it.” He passed his EM scanner over the sensor. Nothing.
“Okay,” said Lipham. There was a moment—a brief, blessed moment of quiet—and then Lipham’s voice came back over the line. “Hey, is this it?”
Daylin-Rutland switched his helmet’s view to Lipham’s helmet camera. The idiot was peering at a sensor module, identical to the one that he had just stepped over. “No, Staff Sergeant. That’s a sensor module and its whitelisted.”
“How do I know if it’s whitelisted?”
“Use your sensor,” Daylin-Rutland said, patiently. God, that man…
“Oh.” Lipham waved the device over the module. It lit up green.
Someone snickered over the line. “God, Lipham. Stop being such a wanker.”
“Easy now,” said Daylin-Rutland. “Let’s stay focused. See if we can find this blasted laser.” He waved his EM sensor back and forth in front of him, searching for strange signals. They had shut down everything they could think of to try and eliminate background noise, but they hadn’t had any luck. He made it nearly a third of the way down the ship before the silence broke.
“Lieutenant?” Lipham again. “I think I got turned around. I don’t think I’m where I’m supposed to be.”
Daylin-Rutland really wanted to slap himself in the face, but the thick visor prevented it. He stopped walking. “How can you get lost walking in a straight line, Lipham?”
“I don’t know,” said the guy. “But I’m back at the stern.”
“Okay,” said Daylin-Rutland, straightening his back. If Lipham was lost, then the sweep was compromised. “All units, halt. We have a man out of position.”
The entire team groaned into his ears.
“Sorry,” muttered Lipham. “I’m coming back.”
“Okay,” Daylin-Rutland said, with a touch of real sympathy. It was actually pretty easy to get turned around on a starship hull; there was no true horizon, only the metal below and the stars above, so it was definitely something even a non-moron could do. “Just turn toward the bow and move forward. Try to catch up with where you were.”
“Roger,” Lipham sounded back.
More moments ticked away with absolutely nothing to do but stand stand still and watch the distant, untwinkling stars above. They were so beautiful this far out of the solar system…
Spears finally cut in. “Lieutenant? What the devil’s going on out there?”
Biting his lip, Daylin-Rutland opened the channel. “Just some minor delays, Captain. One of our men found himself out of position, so we’re just getting him right.”
“Very well,” said Spears, the slightest edge of sarcasm creeping into her voice. “Take your time, no need to rush.”
Biting wit aside, that was his plan. “Right.”
“Lieutenant Daylin-Rutland?” Lipham. “Uhh, I was going back to where I think I got separated, and… well, I tripped.” He huffed and puffed, attempting to catch his breath. “I went to look at what it was, and… I do think I found something this time. It’s me.”
Daylin-Rutland sighed and sucked in another breath of recycled air. Stars above. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Lipham, “that I’m seeing an image of me on the hull. Like, it’s been super polished or something.”
A reflection? A dark sense of foreboding came through him. “Is the object on the white list?”
“I don’t… think so,” said Lipham, with his signature confusion. “The sensor doesn’t recognize it.”
“Is there an EM signal from… whatever you’re looking at?”
“No,” said Lipham. “Nothing. But sir… maybe you should take a look at this.”
Daylin-Rutland lowered his EM sensor, running a gloved hand over the thick perspex of his visor. Maybe it was nothing… “If this is another sensor module,” he said, trying with some difficulty to keep his voice even. “I swear to God, Lipham, I will lose it.”
“It’s not, but it’s… super weird,” Lipham whispered. Magic words for piquing interest. Daylin-Rutland tapped his wrist, adjusting his view to match Lipham’s.
He saw it instantly. A square, reflective surface attached to the hull with a simple spring-loaded clamp. No EM signature at all. Of course there wouldn’t be, it was just a mirror. It showed the stars and the black, a reflection of the endless void. It was nearly impossible to see anything against the dark hull plating.
“Is it whitelisted?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Lip
ham waved his sensor over it. “No, sir. I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t have tripped over it.”
“Bully for you, Lipham,” Daylin-Rutland whispered, eyes wide. “You’re a bloody genius. We need to show Commander Blackwood—stay there.”
Chapter Fifteen
Aft Airlock
HMS Caernarvon
Deep Space
Mattis stepped in beside Spears, cautiously folding his hands behind his back. “What do you think they found, Captain?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral. “Because I tell you what, the crew of the Stennis found a lot of stuff on their ship too…”
Spears didn’t answer immediately, though it was clear that her mind was going the same places his was. “Lieutenant Corrick couldn’t have put the laser on the ship,” she said, flatly. “She was either under lock and key, or being transported under armed guard, or literally sitting opposite me inside a locked metal box before and during the incident. She didn’t do this.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Mattis said. “But someone did.”
“That much is clear,” said Spears. “Someone put a foreign object on the hull of my ship and I’ll be damned if I don’t find out who did it.”
As Mattis watched, the airlock began to cycle, pumping air out and letting in a troupe of space-suited Royal Marines. They were transporting something large and flat, with a reflective side.
“Well,” said Blackwood, helping to gingerly lower it to the floor of the airlock, reflective side down, “search teams didn’t locate a laser. But we did find this.”
“What the devil is it?” demanded Spears. Then, with a soft tut tut tut noise, “That doesn’t look like any kind of Royal Navy equipment I’m familiar with.”
“Hmm. It looks like a mirror to me” Mattis considered, grinding his teeth. “Damn. Such a simple thing—no wonder our sensors didn’t pick it up. It was so simple our scanners didn’t notice it.”
Blackwood gave a little smile. “Maybe Spectre got so sick of losing that he just decided to plant mirrors on our ships so he could watch his own stupid face when he lost next time.”
Spears wasn’t amused. “A winner is a loser whose tried one more time.”
True enough. Mattis’s chest started to hurt as he thought it over. Fighting with Spectre had caused him so much agony. So much loss. His fight had taken the Midway, had taken Chuck… and now Jack was with Elroy, off-world, having a well deserved vacation.
The airlock completed its cycle and Spears stepped forward, examining the thing with a skeptical eye. “What do you reckon it is, Admiral Mattis?”
“Well,” he said, considering, “it’s definitely not a laser. But a device could be concealed within it; we should have it X-rayed, and then disassembled. Or—” Suddenly he had an image of the one-way mirror in the interrogation office. The pieces came together in his head. “What if this really is just what it looks like? A simple reflective surface. But a tool, nonetheless.”
Spears’s look said she made the connection at the exact same time. “The Caernarvon was, itself, painted by the laser which had its origin in some other source?”
He nodded, eyes narrowed. “But such a feat would require them to be close,” he said. “Very, very close. They would have to avoid hitting our passive sensors, avoid the laser dissipating… they would have to be in a precise spot, and they would have to have an excellent visual on us. They couldn’t have been on Goalkeeper—they would have detected the emission—but… the source couldn’t have just been exposed in open space. We would have seen them.”
“Still,” said Spears. “The panel was mounted flush to the hull, wasn’t it?”
“Yes Ma’am,” said Blackwood, unclipping her helmet, her hair spilling out down around her shoulders. There was a very brief moment, a strange moment, when Mattis thought she… was doing that for him. Flirting with him maybe. It was odd. Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe he was missing Ramirez more than he thought.
“Well,” said Mattis, trying to move past those strange thoughts. “We know our orientation at the moment the target lock was established. And we know Goalkeeper’s position. So we could extrapolate back… we can draw a line, bounce it, and see where it goes. They must have been along it.”
Spears nodded firmly. “I’ll have my boffins look into it,” she said. “Should be some simple trig. But that doesn’t explain where the laser came from, and why it was hidden…”
Mattis squinted, trying to think. “Maybe they were always there.” The picture slowly formed. “It’s possible the laser was fired from a ship using stealth technology,” he said, an edge of caution in his voice, careful not to mislead her. “But no class of either human or Avenir ship that I know of uses that technology.”
“Who might have?” Spears asked impatiently. “Do you know anyone who could help us?”
Only two people leapt to mind. Mattis swore darkly.
“What?” asked Spears, turning back to him. “Admiral Mattis, I have a fresh bar of soap in my quarters if you need to clean out your mouth.”
He grimaced. “My apologies, Captain. It’s just… there are only two people I can think of who might know about stealth technology. Commander Lynch, who’s—” he hesitated, “still recovering from his wounds. And Admiral Yim of the People’s Republic of China Army Navy.”
“Well,” said Spears, nodding emphatically. “I suppose we better find Admiral Yim double-quick then, shouldn’t we? He seems like our best chance.”
Or…
Mattis smiled slightly. “Do you know what the best thing about being in space is?”
“Certainly not the food,” Blackwood interjected dryly.
“Guns,” Mattis said. “Without gravity, rounds travel in a straight line.”
Spears blinked. “Yes. So?”
“So,” Mattis said. “We know where they were. The biggest weakness of stealth technology is that moving risks exposing you—and if the source was so meticulous about establishing this precise point so close to Earth, they aren’t going to want to leave it.” He grinned. “We know where they are. Let’s go blow ‘em up.”
Chapter Sixteen
Guano’s Quarters
HMS Caernarvon
Deep Space
With Not-Roadie and Ken in her quarters, Guano couldn’t sleep. She tossed her sheets aside. Might as well accept it. With an annoyed grunt, she dragged herself up into a sitting position. “Okay, I’m going to get changed, so… out.”
The Marines didn’t move, but—to their credit—they did clear their throats and look away.
It would have to do. Guano pulled on some BDUs. She had hoped that the British quartermasters had American uniforms on hand, and given the two forces’ pattern of cooperation, it wouldn’t be unusual, but no such luck. She was dressed like a redcoat with American epaulets. Which wasn’t a bad look, really, but for some reason, it made her cranky. She stormed out of her quarters, into the Caernarvon. Not-Roadie and Ken followed.
Their presence didn’t annoy her as much as she had expected it to. She needed to talk to someone, to figure out what she was going to do and how she was going to help… so went to the quarters just beside hers, and—barely able to stifle a yawn—went over to the door to her right. She had no idea who was there, or if anyone was there at all, but… she just wanted to hear a comforting human voice. Anything to take her mind off Not-Roadie, even though he was right behind her. All she had to do was just ignore him. All she had to do was pretend he wasn’t there…
A group of British sailors turned into the corridor from the junction farther down, laughing and chatting inanely. Her hand hovered over the metal of the total stranger’s door, about to knock, but for some reason she couldn’t. Annoyed, she waited for the sailors to move away.
For someone seeking out human company, you sure have a dogged determination to avoid it. She grunted softly, playing that thought in her head. Maybe all those months in solitary were not good for her after all. Who could have known?
Suddenly, from be
hind the sailors, Guano’s eye caught a fleeting glimpse of a face in profile, walking through the junction. Her stomach plummeted. Doctor Brooks.
She froze, rooted to the spot, memories of Brooks holding her prisoner on Chrysalis screaming back into her head.
He was here. He was here and he was Spectre and he was aboard the ship.
“Hey!” Guano roared, jabbing her finger toward Brooks. “Ken! Not-Roadie! Arrest that man!”
Understandably baffled, the Marines just looked at her. So Guano did the stupidest thing she could possibly imagine doing in her situation—she snatched Ken’s pistol from its holster and pointed it down the corridor at the gaggle of British sailors. Damn it. They were in the way. “Stop that man!”
Ken gaped. But Not-Roadie recovered more quickly from the confusion and pulled his gun on her. “Drop the weapon!” he shouted. At the other end of her sight, the clump of sailors still obscured her shot.
“Out! Move! Make a hole!” Guano made a break for it, pistol in hand. “Get out of the way!” She shoved past the crowd of idiots, shouldering one of them roughly into the bulkhead.
“Oi!” He shouted.
The Marines yelled after her and gave chase, but she knew they wouldn’t shoot in the crammed corridor. She sprinted to the junction. Goddammit, if Brooks was here she wouldn’t worry about a trial, a jury, or due process; she would put a bullet in him right now and watch him die.
She’d already killed him once. Twice, actually. Maybe third time would be the charm?
“Out of the way!” she shouted, skidding around a corner, seeing the back of his head bobbing over another flock of British sailors. There he was, the son of a bitch. She drew her pistol, aiming carefully.
A head moved in front of her target. She swore and kept her aim steady. Then, a clear shot presented itself as Brooks stopped to ask someone a question. She heard laughter as her finger tightened over the trigger.
The Last Strike: Book 5 of The Last War Series Page 8
