Sue Ellen sat down beside Sherman, who took her hand.
There's a weakness there, he thought. A weak link in the unit. But what am I supposed to say, 'Stop loving each other for the good of the Legion?'
"Do we have any idea yet what we're facing in the way of space defenses?" Martinez asked.
"Not yet," Grayson told her. "There'll be DropShips, certainly, on the Verthandian moon...and Citizen Erudin states that there are AeroSpace Fighters on the planet. He doesn't know how many."
"Great!" Sue Ellen muttered. "We're flying into another bloody, malfing trap..."
"That's enough!" Grayson's open palm came down on the table top, startling the room to absolute silence. He let his words hang there for a second, looking at each person in turn. His reaction had been sharper than he'd intended, but there was no going back now. "You two do have a choice.... You can fulfill your contracts with the Gray Death—and that means obeying my orders to the letter—or you can buy out right now. That means you remain aboard the Phobos for the balance of this mission, in your cabins, relieved of all duties and rank. At our earliest convenient opportunity, we will return you to Galatea or some other planetary commerce center...and by God, you'd better not get in my way in the meantime!"
Sherman folded his arms. "You did say you needed us, Captain."
"Did I? I need your ships, Mister! They may be your property, but so help me, I'll seize them as military contraband if I have to and appropriate them as Legion property!"
Klein looked shocked. "You wouldn't! You have no pilots—"
"That's my concern, Lieutenant. Your only concern is to make that decision, and make it now! Are you going to work with me, or am I going to have to trample you under?"
There were further protests, but in the end, Sherman and Klein backed down as gracefully as possible. They would obey Grayson's orders, and they would fly the screening mission as the Phobos approached her destination.
When the meeting broke up, Grayson remained seated while the others filed from the room, his hands pressed over his eyes. He was tired, so tired...
When he opened his eyes, it was to see Use Martinez still standing there. "Well, Major" she said. "You realize those two have a third option, don't you?"
He blinked at her. Her smile and tone of voice were unsettling; her use of the honorary rank of Major was a step removed from calculated insult. Aboard the DropShip, she was Captain, the Captain, and naval tradition and protocol dating back to wet navies on old Earth would not tolerate two people called 'Captain' aboard any vessel. In such situations, officers such as Grayson were given an honorary, and temporary, promotion of one grade. He knew Martinez was using the word "Major" like a weapon, as some kind of test, but he had neither time nor patience for these, interpersonal games.
"What do you mean by that?" Grayson said curtly.
"Hell, they could sign on with the opposition. They'll have to if they can't make it back to the ship. Where else can they go?"
"They wouldn't do that," Grayson said, but without conviction. Though he had tried to accurately read the characters of the two fighter pilots, who really knew what another person might do? "Sue Ellen's too bitter about her brother...and he died fighting Kurita ships."
The DropShip captain touched her tongue to her lips. Like Tor, she was a native of House Marik's Free Worlds League, and she wore a cosmetic design popular among many in Marik space: blue wings tatooed onto the skin over her eyes. Grayson found the effect sinister.
"Those two are sleeping together, you realize," she said.
The pilot's abrupt change of subject irritated Grayson. "So?"
"God, you are young, aren't you? So, that's going to be a problem. Two fighter jocks, the only two, and they're more concerned about each other than about your unit or your plan. I don't call that a good situation...Major."
"You take care of getting us through the Combine blockade," Grayson said, his headache even worse now. How long had it been since he'd had a decent off-watch sleep? "I'll worry about my people."
My people. How was he to make Martinez a part of the Legion? Or Sherman or Klein? Simply worrying about the unit was becoming a full-time occupation of late. First Lori's fears, and now this.
Moving tail-first and balanced on a flaring stream of light, the Phobos neared Verthandi and the planet's lone, giant moon. Long-range radar had already detected the garnering of the Kurita forces as they approached. In a mere ten hours, the Gray Death would have its first encounter with the enemy. And Grayson already knew that his unit was fatally flawed.
* * * *
A sleek, black JumpShip materialized in the darkness at Norn's nadir jump point, 1.28 AU from the star. Once certain that no other ships lingered nearby, the starship unfurled its sails and began to soak up hypercharge for its next jump. At the same time, onboard computers swung a highly directional dish antenna until it pointed at the amber fleck of light that was Verthandi. A burst of microwave energy lasting less than one ten-thousandth of a second pulsed into space.
Its mission complete, the courier vessel began preparations to return to Lyran space. The Galatean spy's report would reach Verthandi in less than eleven minutes.
* * * *
Fleet Admiral Isoru Kodo looked up in irritation at the staff Captain who had handed him the report. "Why are you bothering me with this routine garbage?"
Captain Powell stood at rigid attention, her eyes fixed steadily above and beyond Kodo's egg-bald scalp at the harsh and rugged splendor of the airless plain revealed through the curved windows of his office. Verthandi, a gold-edged scimitar knifing through heaven, filled a quarter of the sky, its night side blotting out the stars beyond. Mountains, silver white and raw, thrust themselves from the moon's plain toward the planet's beauty. The moon, Verthandi-Alpha, was a rugged, low-G wilderness, a stark contrast to the life-rich glory of its planet.
Powell brought her inner trembling under control and steadied her voice with words crisp and concise. If the Admiral was not the most forgiving of commanders, neither was he the most exacting. Duty at the Kurita naval base on Verthandi's lone satellite was boring, but still preferable to the constant strife on Verthandi under the iron hand and sharp temper of the Governor General.
"Lord Admiral," she said, "the incoming ship appears to be a Union Class vessel, but there are discrepancies." Kodo gave her no encouragement beyond a black scowl, but she plunged on. "The IFF transmission from the starship was in a code and frequency that has been out of date for over two standard years. Further, no starships have been scheduled to call at the Norn system until four standard weeks from now."
"So?"
"Lord, the intruder could be a raider with out-of-date codes."
"Am I surrounded by complete idiots?" He spoke the words softly, almost wonderingly, with a slow shaking of the head from side to side. "Don't you think I know which codes are current and which are not?" He slapped the computer printout with the backs of his fingers. "Is it possible that no one on my staff can use his own initiative, can even think for himself? That starship is an independent freighter hired by the Combine Admiralty to deliver cargo. I notified the Governor General's office hours ago, and they concur with my evaluation."
Captain Powell's eyes widened slightly at this, but she held any further reaction in check. The schedules of incoming ships were carefully set and monitored by the Combine Port Authorities at each world in the net of trade among Kurita's suns. It was most irregular for supply ships to arrive so far ahead of schedule. By their very nature, privately registered freighters were much more likely to arrive late than early. The Procurement Departmentof the Combine Admiralty was not known for its efficiency, either
Keeping her voice calm and professionally level she made herself continue. "My Lord, we ran a a careful analysis of the DropShip's drive flare, course, and delta-V. The StarShip's transmission indicated the DropShip to be a Union Class, but there are discrepancies. A Union Class masses 3500 tons, and—"
"Don't you think I
know the mass of a Union DropShip, Captain?" Kodo's voice was silky now, and dangerous.
"Of course, my Lord. The...intruder masses 3200 tons. While this could be explained in terms of a light cargo load or low expendables, the discrepancies seemed important enough to warrant bringing them to your attention."
"You have done so. Your analysis of the DropShip's mass discrepancy is masterful, a brilliant piece of routine deduction! The freighter has arrived on a purely routine resupply mission...a bit early, yes, but purely routine! Routine!" His head shook again in the shocked silence, sour disapproval etching the corners of his mouth and eyes. "Your file states that you have initiative. Captain. I can't say that my entry in your service record is going to support that contention. I suggest that, in future, you use that vaunted initiative and let me get on with my work!"
The bald head swivelled back to Study the terminal screen at his desk. Recognizing the end of the interview. Captain Powell saluted, closed fist to breast. "Thank you, Lord Admiral."
Outside the Admiral's office suite, she put a hand against the corridor wall and let out a long sigh of relief. Lords of Space, but Old Baldy was in a bad mood today!
"Captain?"
"Eh?" A young Lieutenant from the Commo Department saluted as she looked up. "What is it?"
"Priority message from a courier, Captain. It just came through.”
“I'll take it."
He handed her the sheet, saluted, and retreated. She read it, paused, then read it through again. So. Here was proof that the drive flare she'd watched through the telescopic scanners above the base hadn't belonged to a Combine resupply mission. It was a DropShip ferrying mercenary ‘Mechs to support the rebellion on Verthandi. That was critical information. The question was...how best to use it?
If she gave it to Admiral Kodo, he might do nothing or else he might call an alert and take the credit for himself. In either case, it would be dangerous, personally dangerous, to directly contradict the man again when he was in such a mood. If she sidestepped Kodo and alerted Nagumo's headquarters directly, she would be court-martialed for bypassing the rigid Draconian chain of command. Well, the foggy old bastard wanted initiative, did he? She'd give him initiative.
Straightening, Powell turned and stalked toward her office. She couldn't put the base on alert without old Kodo's direct approval, but, by all the Black Hells of Space, she could intercept, that DropShip with a routine patrol. Routine! Patrol One-Nine ought to be in a favorable position for a quick burn that would swing it close for a look-see. When the patrol was close enough to eyeball the intruder and bring it under its guns, and with other officers there as witnesses, then she would show the message to the Admiral.
Maybe then Baldy Kodo would recognize initiative when he saw it.
* * * *
Verthandi was swelling in the Phobos's after screens. It appeared as a globe of gold and tan mingled with dark green and blue patches at the pole, and painted with the swirls of gilt-edged storm clouds and weather fronts dwarfed by distance. The world's moon, an airless, ancient, and crater-pocked rock a scant 110,000 kilometers from its primary, moved in stately procession along its orbital path. It circled Verthandi about once every four-and-a-half standard days. World and moon filled one of the narrow bridge viewscreens, as stars and glory crowded through the others that revealed the encircling Deep to the instrument-crammed bridge.
Grayson stood on the command podium, just behind the horseshoe of screens and terminals of the captain's seat. He leaned across Martinez's shoulder and pointed at the nav console screen where a pair of blips marked targets tracked by the DropShip around the curve of the planet on an intercept course.
"I see them, Major," she said. There was neither scorn nor fear in her words, but he sensed the underlying tautness. "Escorts, I'd say. They're not shaping for an attack pass."
The ship's senior commtech looked up from his own console nearby. "Incoming message, Captain," he said. "Standard Combine protocol...but their IFF code is a new one."
"We expected that," Martinez said. "It's been a few years since the Invidious visited Kurita space and took those recordings. Open a channel, and pipe it up here. We'll play dumb."
Grayson looked across the bridge crowded with ship personnel and instrumentation to catch the eye of their Verthandian employer. He could see the sweat glistening on Erudin's forehead, and he found himself holding his breath. The plan for their approach to Verthandi had been worked out long before the boost from Galatea.
"Inbound DropShip, this is a fleet blockade patrol in the service of the Duke Hassid Ricol and the Grand Fleet of the Draconis Combine." The radio voice was sharp through the hiss of static. "You have entered interdicted territory. Identify yourself."
Grayson picked up the microphone. The encounter had been discussed and rehearsed, but his throat was tight with tension. "This is DropShip Li Tao, inbound to Verthandi with a consignment of military supplies from the freighter Chi Lung." He paced his words carefully, overriding his nervousness. The eyes of everyone on the bridge were on him as he spoke to the unseen fighter pilot in the void beyond. A computer screen by Martinez's right elbow flickered, then rearranged patterns of green light and black into schematic outlines of the approaching fighters, flanked by the cold words of statistics and performance. They were Shilones, canted, twin-finned wing shapes massing 65 tons each, carrying missiles and a trio of lasers. No threat to a real Union Class, they could savage the lighter armor of the Invidious's converted DropShips, and they promised the rapid approach of heavier warships against which the Phobos could not last long.
There was an awkward hesitation, a pause of a second or so as radio waves crawled between points a sizable fraction of a light second apart. The delay felt endless.
"Li Tao, your IFF codes are obsolete. We will approach to make visual comfirmation."
"Can't help that," Grayson replied in what he hoped sounded like aconvincingly offhand manner. "We've been in the boonies for quite a while. But come on in and eyeball us, if you like. Hope you guys like what you see."
The approaching patrol ignored the attempt at banter. "Make no attempt to alter your present vector. We will give you precise instructions for additional delta-V and vectoring momentarily. You will proceed directly to the Combine base on Verthandi-Alpha. Under no circumstances are you to approach the planet or make any course or thrust corrections without our specific orders."
Martinez arched one eyebrow as Grayson returned the microphone to her console. "Touchy, aren't they?"
Time passed. The Shilone fighters narrowed the range, their thrusters burning furiously to match course and speed with the still-decelerating DropShip. Martinez watched the latest listing of computer predictions of vector and delta-V for the Combine fighters and shook her head. "If they keep burning fuel like that, they’re not going to make it home."
"There's their ride home," Grayson replied, pointing to another blip rounding the curve of Verthandi's horizon. Fresh information spilled across the computer screen. The new target was a Leopard Class DropShip massing 1700 tons. Though lighter and less heavily armed and armored than a Union, it was still more than a match for the Phobos. "If that thing catches us, we've had it."
Having been trained for ground combat in a BattleMech, Grayson shared most Mech Warriors' general dislike for all AeroSpace Fighters. The interservice rivalry between ground-hogs and air-heads was a long and venerable one, dating back to Terran times. In actual battle, that rivalry became an intense hatred for enemy fighter pilots who could cleave the air above a ‘Mech battlefield, leaving a wake of shattered, burning war machines.
Friendly DropShips were, of course, the only way ‘Mech armies had of moving from a JumpShip to a world and back again, and so members of a ‘Mech unit and the crew of their transport could become quite close, despite the good-natured rivalry. When it came to enemy DropShips, however, Mech Warriors both respected and feared them. On the ground, those heavily armed and armored giants could burn down approaching ‘Mech
s with almost practiced ease.
Worse was the approach to the battlefields of a new world, when Mech Warriors had to sit and watch the developing battle in space around them, unable to affect the course of events, unable to direct their weapons against approaching enemies, unable to do anything but curse or pray. For Grayson, it was somewhat easier being on the bridge, watching the approach of the enemy. For the rest of the men and women aboard the Phobos, locked in cramped cubicles and surrounded by gray metal and the worried faces of their comrades, the wait must crawl on, unendurably.
And this is what you've trained for so long, he told himself. To lead men and women into battle. Victory or death...Glory and honor... All Grayson felt, however, was an agony of fear that he might have made his last and biggest mistake.
Bridge computers unfolded new equations. The Shilones were almost within visual range now. Though much more distant, the Leopard was moving along a course that would block the Phobos if she attempted to bolt and run toward the planet.
Radio telemetry told of other developments. At least two more fighters were swinging in close orbit around Verthandi from the far side, and another DropShip was readying for boost at the base on Verthandi-Alpha. The Dracos might not be certain that Phobos was other than what she claimed to be, but they certainly were taking no chances.
Moment by moment, the Phobos was being boxed in by forces she could not outrun and could never hope to overcome.
7
Governor General Masayoshi Nagumo scowled at the image of Admiral Kodo on the comscreen. The time delay between Verthandi and Verthandi-Alpha was less than four-tenths of a second, but twice that was needed to make the transmission and to receive the reply. The almost one-second delay acted as an unwelcome drag on extended conversations.
The worst part of it, Nagumo decided, was that he could not choose the moment at which to explosively interrupt a subordinate in mid-apology or explanation. Here was Kodo, for example, talking for almost a full second before Nagumo's acid, single-word commentary could cut off the Admiral's complaint about the low level of initiative and efficiency among the members of the Combine garrison stationed on Verthandi-Alpha. The delay was a short one, but enough to irritate an already-irritated Governor General.
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