There Will Be War Volume X

by Jerry Pournelle

“Sir?” The Irishman’s voice squeaked with surprise.

  “Don’t fire back at the sonsofbitches,” Hazard snapped. “Is that clear enough?”

  Feeney raised his hands up above his shoulders, like a croupier showing that he was not influencing the roulette wheel.

  “Miss Stromsen, when the next laser beam is fired at us, shut down the main power generator. Miss Yang, issue instructions over the intercom that all personnel are to place themselves on level four—except for the sick bay. No one is to use the intercom. That is an order.”

  Stromsen asked, “The power generator?”

  “We’ll run on the backup fuel cells and batteries. They don’t make so much heat.”

  There were more questions in Stromsen’s eyes, but she turned back to her consoles silently.

  Hazard explained, “We are going to run silent. Buckbee, Cardillo, and company have been pounding the hell out of us for about half an hour. They have inflicted considerable damage. However, they don’t know that we’ve been able to shield ourselves with the lifeboats. They think they’ve hurt us much more than they actually have.”

  “You want them to think that they’ve finished us off, then?” asked Feeney.

  “That’s right. But, Mr. Feeney, let me ask you a hypothetical question…”

  The chamber shook again and the screens dimmed, then came back to their normal brightness.

  Stromsen punched a key on her console. “Main generator shut down, sir.”

  Hazard knew it was his imagination, but the screens seemed to become slightly dimmer.

  “Miss Yang?” he asked.

  “All personnel have been instructed to move down to level four and stay off the intercom.”

  Hazard nodded, satisfied. Turning back to Feeney, he resumed, “Suppose, Mr. Feeney, that you are in command of Graham. How would you know that you’ve knocked out Hunter?”

  Feeney absently started to stroke his chin and bumped his fingertips against the rim of his helmet instead. “I suppose…if Hunter stopped shooting back, and I couldn’t detect any radio emissions from her…”

  “And infrared!” Yang added. “With the power generator out, our infrared signature goes way down.”

  “We appear to be dead in the water,” said Stromsen.

  “Right.”

  “But what does it gain us?” Yang asked.

  “Time,” answered Stromsen. “In another ten minutes or so we’ll be within contact range of Geneva.”

  Hazard patted the top of her helmet. “Exactly. But more than that. We get them to stop shooting at us. We save the wounded up in the sick bay.”

  “And ourselves,” said Feeney.

  “Yes,” Hazard admitted. “And ourselves.” For long moments they hung weightlessly, silent, waiting, hoping.

  “Sir,” said Yang, “a query from Graham, asking if we surrender.”

  “No reply,” Hazard ordered. “Maintain complete silence.”

  The minutes stretched. Hazard glided to Yang’s comm console and taped a message for Geneva, swiftly outlining what had happened.

  “I want that tape compressed into a couple of milliseconds and burped by the tightest laser beam we have down to Geneva.”

  Yang nodded. “I suppose the energy surge for a low-power communications laser won’t be enough for them to detect.”

  “Probably not, but it’s a chance we’ll have to take. Beam it at irregular intervals as long as Geneva is in view.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir!” Feeney called out. “Looks like Graham’s detached a lifeboat.”

  “Trajectory analysis?”

  Feeney tapped at his navigation console. “Heading for us,” he reported.

  Hazard smiled grimly.

  “They’re coming over to make sure. Cardillo’s an old submariner; he knows all about running silent. They’re sending over an armed party to make sure we’re finished.”

  “And to take control of our satellites,” Yang suggested.

  Hazard brightened. “Right! There’re only two ways to control the ABM satellites — either from the station on patrol or from Geneva.” He spread his arms happily. “That means they’re not in control of Geneva! We’ve got a good chance to pull their cork!”

  But there was no response from Geneva when they beamed their data-compressed message to IPF headquarters. Hunter glided past in its unusually low orbit, a tattered wreck desperately calling for help. No answer reached them.

  And the lifeboat from Graham moved inexorably closer.

  The gloom in the CIC was thick enough to stuff a mattress as Geneva disappeared over the horizon and the boat from Graham came toward them. Hazard watched the boat on one of Stromsen’s screens: it was bright and shining in the sunlight, not blackened by scorching laser beams, unsullied by splashes of human blood.

  We could zap it into dust, he thought. One word from me and Feeney could focus half a dozen lasers on it. The men aboard her must be volunteers, willing to risk their necks to make certain that we’re finished. He felt a grim admiration for them. Then he wondered, is Jon on board with them?

  “Mr. Feeney, what kind of weapons do you think they’re carrying?”

  Feeney’s brows rose toward his scalp. “Weapons, sir? You mean, like sidearms?”

  Hazard nodded.

  “Personal weapons are not allowed aboard station, sir. Regulations forbid it.”

  “I know. But what do you bet they’ve got pistols, at least. Maybe some submachine guns.”

  “Damned dangerous stuff for a space station,” said Feeney.

  Hazard smiled tightly at the Irishman. “Are you afraid they’ll put a few more holes in our hull?”

  Yang saw what he was driving at. “Sir, there are no weapons aboard Hunter—unless you want to count kitchen knives.”

  “They’ll be coming aboard with guns, just to make sure,” Hazard said. “I want to capture them alive and use them as hostages. That’s our last remaining card. If we can’t do that, we’ve got to surrender.”

  “They’ll be in full suits.” said Stromsen. “Each on his own individual life-support system.”

  “How can we capture them? Or even fight them?” Yang wondered aloud.

  Hazard detected no hint of defeat in their voices. The despair of a half hour earlier was gone now. A new excitement had hold of them. He was holding a glimmer of hope for them, and they were reaching for it.

  “There can’t be more than six of them aboard that boat,” Feeney mused.

  I wonder if Cardillo has the guts to lead the boarding party in person, Hazard asked himself.

  “We don’t have any useful weapons,” said Yang.

  “But we have some tools,” Stromsen pointed out. “Maybe…”

  “What do the lifeboat engines use for propellant?” Hazard asked rhetorically.

  “Methane and oh-eff-two,” Feeney replied, looking puzzled.

  Hazard nodded. “Miss Stromsen, which of our supply magazines are still intact — if any?”

  It took them several minutes to understand what he was driving at, but when they finally saw the light, the three young officers went speedily to work. Together with the four unwounded members of the crew, they prepared a welcome for the boarders from Graham.

  Finally, Hazard watched on Stromsen’s display screens as the Graham’s boat sniffed around the battered station. Strict silence was in force aboard Hunter. Even in the CIC, deep at the heart of the battle station, they spoke in tense whispers.

  “I hope the bastards like what they see,” Hazard muttered.

  “They know that we used the lifeboats for shields,” said Yang.

  “Active armor,” Hazard said. “Did you know the idea was invented by the man this station’s named after?”

  “They’re looking for a docking port,” Stromsen pointed out.

  “Only one left,” said Feeney.

  They could hang their boat almost anywhere and walk in through the holes they’ve put in us, Hazard said to himself. But they won’t. They�
��ll go by the book and find an intact docking port. They’ve got to! Everything depends on that.

  He felt his palms getting slippery with nervous perspiration as the lifeboat slowly, slowly moved around Hunter toward the Earth-facing side, where the only usable port was located. Hazard had seen to it that all the other ports had been disabled.

  “They’re buying it!” Stromsen’s whisper held a note of triumph.

  “Sir!” Yang hissed urgently. “A message just came in — laser beam, ultracompressed.”

  “From where?”

  “Computer’s decrypting,” she replied, her snub-nosed face wrinkled with concentration. “Coming up on my center screen, sir.”

  Hazard slid over toward her. The words on the screen read:

  From: IPF Regional HQ, Lagos.

  To: Commander, battle station Hunter.

  Message begins. Coup attempt in Geneva a failure, thanks in large part to your refusal to surrender your command. Situation still unclear, however. Imperative you retain control of Hunter, at all costs. Message ends.

  He read it aloud, in a guttural whisper, so that Feeney and Stromsen understood what was at stake.

  “We’re not alone,” Hazard told them. “They know what’s happening, and help is on the way.”

  That was stretching the facts, he knew. And he knew they knew. But it was reassuring to think that someone, somewhere, was preparing to help them.

  Hazard watched them grinning to one another. In his mind, though, he kept repeating the phrase, “Imperative you retain control of Hunter, at all costs.”

  At all costs, Hazard said to himself, closing his eyes wearily, seeing Varshni dying in his arms and the others maimed. At all costs.

  The bastards, Hazard seethed inwardly. The dirty, power-grabbing, murdering bastards. Once they set foot inside my station, I’ll kill them like the poisonous snakes they are. I’ll squash them flat. I’ll cut them open just like they’ve slashed my kids.

  He stopped abruptly and forced himself to take a deep breath. Yeah, sure. Go for personal revenge. That’ll make the world a better place to live in, won’t it?

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  Hazard opened his eyes and saw Stromsen staring at him. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “They’ve docked, sir,” said the Norwegian.

  “They’re debarking and coming up passageway C, just as you planned.”

  Looking past her to the screens, Hazard saw that there were six of them, all in space suits, visors down. And pistols in their gloved hands.

  “Nothing bigger than pistols?”

  “No, sir. Not that we can see, at least.”

  Turning to Feeney. “Ready with the aerosols?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All crew members evacuated from the area?”

  “They’re all back on level four, except for the sick bay.”

  Hazard never took his eyes from the screens. The six space-suited boarders were floating down the passageway that led to the lower levels of the station, which were still pressurized and held breathable air. They stopped at the air lock, saw that it was functional. The leader of their group started working the wall unit that controlled the lock.

  “Can we hear them?” he asked Yang.

  Wordlessly, she touched a stud on her keyboard.

  “…use the next section of the passageway as an air lock,” someone was saying. “Standard procedure. Then we’ll pump the air back into it once we’re inside.”

  “But we stay in the suits until we check out the whole station. That’s an order,” said another voice.

  Buckbee? Hazard’s spirits soared. Buckbee will make a nice hostage, he thought. Not as good as Cardillo, but good enough.

  Just as he had hoped, the six boarders went through the airtight hatch, closed it behind them, and started the pump that filled the next section of passageway with air once again.

  “Something funny here, sir,” said one of the space-suited figures.

  “Yeah, the air’s kind of misty.”

  “Never saw anything like this before. Christ, it’s like Mexico City air.”

  “Stay in your suits!” It was Buckbee’s voice, Hazard was certain of it. “Their life-support systems must have been damaged in our bombardment. They’re probably all dead.”

  You wish, Hazard thought. He gave the order to Feeney. “Seal that hatch.”

  Feeney pecked at a button on his console.

  “And the next one.”

  “Already done, sir.”

  Hazard waited, watching Stromsen’s main screen as the six boarders shuffled weightlessly to the next hatch and found that it would not respond to the control unit on the bulkhead.

  “Damn! We’ll have to double back and find another route.”

  “Miss Yang, I’m ready to hold converse with our guests,” said Hazard.

  She flashed a brilliant smile and touched the appropriate keys, then pointed at him. “You’re on the air!”

  “Buckbee, this is Hazard.”

  All six of the boarders froze for an instant, then spun weightlessly in midair, trying to locate the source of the new voice.

  “You are trapped in that section of corridor,” Hazard said. “The mist that you see in the air is diluted oxygen difluoride from our lifeboat propellant tanks. Very volatile stuff. Don’t strike any matches.”

  “What the hell are you saying, Hazard?”

  “You’re locked in that passageway, Buckbee. If you try to fire those popguns you’re carrying, you’ll blow yourselves to pieces.”

  “And you too!”

  “We’re already dead, you prick. Taking you with us is the only joy I’m going to get out of this.”

  “You’re bluffing!”

  Hazard snapped, “Then show me how brave you are, Buckbee. Take a shot at the hatch.”

  The six boarders hovered in the misty passageway like figures in a surrealistic painting. Seconds ticked by, each one stretching excruciatingly. Hazard felt a pain in his jaws and realized he was clenching his teeth hard enough to chip them.

  He took his eyes from the screen momentarily to glance at his three youngsters. They were just as tense as he was. They knew how long the odds of their gamble were. The passageway was filled with nothing more than aerosol mists from every spray can the crew could locate in the supply magazines.

  “What do you want, Hazard?” Buckbee said at last, his voice sullen, like a spoiled little boy who had been denied a cookie.

  Hazard let out his breath. Then, as cheerfully as he could manage, “I’ve got what I want. Six hostages. How much air do your suits carry? Twelve hours?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got twelve hours to convince Cardillo and the rest of your pals to surrender.”

  “You’re crazy, Hazard.”

  “I’ve had a tough day, Buckbee. I don’t need your insults. Call me when you’re ready to deal.”

  “You’ll be killing your son!”

  Hazard had half expected it, but still it hit him like a blow. “Jonnie, are you there?”

  “Yes I am, Dad.”

  Hazard strained forward, peering hard at the display screen, trying to determine which one of the space-suited figures was his son.

  “Well, this is a helluva fix, isn’t it?” he said softly.

  “Dad, you don’t have to wait twelve hours.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Buckbee snapped.

  “Fuck you,” snarled Jon Jr. “I’m not going to get myself killed for nothing.”

  “I’ll shoot you!” Hazard saw Buckbee level his gun at Jon Jr.

  “And kill yourself? You haven’t got the guts,” Jonnie sneered. Hazard almost smiled. How many times had his son used that tone on him.

  Buckbee’s hand wavered. He let the gun slip from his gloved fingers. It drifted slowly, weightlessly, away from him.

  Hazard swallowed. Hard.

  “Dad, in another hour or two the game will be over. Cardillo lied to you. The Russians never ca
me in with us. Half a dozen ships full of troops are lifting off from IPF centers all over the globe.”

  “Is that the truth, son?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Our only hope was to grab control of your satellites. Once the coup attempt in Geneva flopped, Cardillo knew that if he could control three or four sets of ABM satellites, he could at least force a stalemate. But all he’s got is Graham and Wood. Nobody else.”

  “You damned little traitor!” Buckbee screeched.

  Jon Jr. laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’m going to be a live traitor. I’m not dying for the likes of you.”

  Hazard thought swiftly. Jon Jr. might defy his father, might argue with him, even revile him, but he had never known the lad to lie to him.

  “Buckbee, the game’s over,” he said slowly. “You’d better get the word to Cardillo before there’s more bloodshed.”

  ***

  It took another six hours before it was all sorted out. A shuttle filled with armed troops and an entire replacement crew finally arrived at the battered hulk of Hunter. The relieving commander, a stubby, compactly built black man from New Jersey who had been a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, made a grim tour of inspection with Hazard.

  From inside his space suit he whistled in amazement at the battle damage.

  “Shee-it, you don’t need a new crew, you need a new station!”

  “It’s still functional,” Hazard said quietly, then added proudly, “and so is my crew, or what’s left of them. They ran this station and kept control of the satellites.”

  “The stuff legends are made of, my man,” said the new commander.

  Hazard and his crew filed tiredly into the waiting shuttle, thirteen grimy, exhausted men and women in the pale-blue fatigues of the IPF. Three of them were wrapped in mesh cocoons and attended by medical personnel. Two others were bandaged but ambulatory.

  He shook hands with each and every one of them as they stepped from the station’s only functional air lock into the shuttle’s passenger compartment. Hovering there weightlessly, his creased, craggy face unsmiling, to each of his crew members he said, “Thank you. We couldn’t have succeeded without your effort.”

  The last three through the hatch were Feeney, Stromsen, and Yang. The Irishman looked embarrassed as Hazard shook his hand.

  “I’m recommending you for promotion. You were damned cool under fire.”