"The situation is not routine," Nagumo said, once Kodo had fallen silent. Around him, the Techs and staff in the Regis Command Center also listened apprehensively. "I am gratified, at least, that you had enough daring and initiative to order a patrol to check out the intruder. That is, after all, the purpose of a blockade, is it not?" The last words were thrust at Kodo's bald image, like edged weapons.
"Yes, my Lord." Kodo was sweating heavily, the overhead fluoros in his office gleaming from his moist scalp. "I...I felt it my duty to position our patrol, with a heavy back-up, to check the intruder carefully, and to be in position to block him from Verthandi, just in case. He cannot possibly avoid us."
"Good. You will take precautions that the intruder not be allowed closer than 70,000 kilometers to Verthandi. When it lands at Verthandi-Alpha, I want your Techs to take that ship apart if necessary to search for contraband or hidden passengers. The cargo is to be reloaded and transhipped here on one of our DropShips. Understood?"
"Y-yes, my Lord."
Nagumo nodded, but his scowl deepened. Kodo had proved himself incompetent in having only a single patrol—a Leopard Class named Xao, and two fighters—in a position where they could approach the intruder. Two more fighters were in close orbit around Verthandi and could be deployed if the intruder broke free of the outer patrol and made a run for the planet. Other fighters and another DropShip were being readied now at Verthandi-Alpha's base in case the intruder's object was a sneak raid on the planet's moon.
Too many possibilities remained. The intruder should have been intercepted farther from Verthandi, hours ago when the blockading force had more options and more time to exercise them. At that point, the intruder would have been travelling at a higher speed, of course, and so more fuel would have been needed for an intercept, but certainly that was preferable to gambling all in the last handful of hours before the in-bound vessel hit Verthandi's atmosphere. The ships that were in place ought to be sufficient to handle the threat, but... damn Kodo!
Nagumo clenched his jaw. It was too late now for recriminations, nor could he choose a replacement for Kodo at the moment. "Very well," was all he said. "How long until visual contact is made?"
"Patrol One-Nine has the intruder in sight, Lord. It will be another few minutes before they close enough to make out details."
"I am putting all space defense forces on full alert. Maintain an open line to this office. I want to listen directly to the communications between your patrol and the intruder."
"Yes, my Lord."
Minutescrawled. The intruder was approaching Verthandi from the system's zenith point, to sunward, and was now some 200,000 kilometers out, somewhat above the plane of the ecliptic. Verthandi-Alpha was on the opposite side of Verthandi from the approaching DropShip. Was that deliberate? Nagumo wondered. In any case, the intruder would have to be escorted past Verthandi and to a safe grounding on the moon.
A voice half-smothered in static cut through the command center. "What the hell is that thing?"
The terminal screen of the Tech seated in front of Nagumo glowed with the traceries of voice patterns and stress analysis. Quick-flowing words of light identified the speaker as Lieutenant Kestrel Syrnan, pilot of the lead patrol fighter. Other data showed vector, range, and scan data. The target itself appeared on another screen, relayed by the Shilone's on-board cameras to the DropShip Xao, and thence to receivers on Verthandi and Verthandi-Alpha.
"I'm reading a normal scan. Lieutenant. Radar profile and computer ID make her to be a Union Class, 3500 tons. She could be one of ours." That voice was Smetnov, the wingman. Stress patterns flared. Though his voice was unnaturally calm, the instruments measuring the stress in his tone betrayed his fear. This, Nagumo had learned, was Smetnov's first active patrol sighting.
"I know what the computer says, Pilot," Syrnan replied. His voice was showing stress too, though it was well-controlled. "But she just doesn't feel right, somehow."
Nagumo studied the TV image transmitted from Syrnan's ship. The screen showed a dully-reflective, metallic globe, rust-streaked and worn. On one flank was the black-on-scarlet circled dragon, emblem of the Combine. Chinese ideographs picked out the vessel's name—Li Tao—and the name of her parent vessel, Chi Lung.
A confusion of voices intruded on the radio link. Nagumo heard someone—a woman, he thought—speaking with rapid urgency, and then Kodo's bark, "Get her out of here!"
"Kodo! What's going on?"
The Admiral's voice came over the speaker. "Nothing, my Lord. One of my junior officers chose an inopportune moment to present a courier message."
Syrnan was right. That vessel didn't feel right. There was something missing...what? "What message?" Nagumo demanded.
"My Lord, it is nothing."
"Read it to me!"
"Uh..." There were muttered sounds and confused background noises as the image of the intruder grew larger. What was odd about that vessel?
There! It was difficult to see in the orange-dim light of Norn, but the vessel was rotating slightly, and the play of shadow against the hull cried out to Nagumo's experienced eye. That DropShip was no Union class. The particle projection cannons normally mounted on bow and flanks were missing. Paint had been artfully applied to imitate the weapons' shadows, but now that the ship had rolled, the angle of light made the disguise less convincing. There should be autocannons, too, but the vessel had none.
"My Lord!" Kodo's voice was urgent. "It's from one of our agents on Galatea! 'Report mercenary unit probably in employ of rebels en route to Verthandi.'"
"It's a trick!" Nagumo shouted. "Relay command here, my authority! Attack! Attack the intruder!"
The fighter pilot had already arrived at the same conclusion. Long fractions of seconds before Nagumo's command could have reached him, his own order was heard at the command center. "Smetnov! Overthrust! Punch it!" The TV image was lost as the Shilone fighter wheeled and accelerated at a gruelling four Gs.
"Emergency! Emergency!" Syrnan's voice was frantic now. "Flight One-Niner to base ship! Intruder is hostile. Repeat, hostile! Intruder now changing course to zero-zero-three mark fiver, at two Gs!"
Nagumo glanced up as the static hiss from the overhead speakers chopped off. "What's happening, dammit?"
"Transmission interrupted," a Tech said. "Contact lost with both elements of One-Nine. Xao confirms the intruder's new course." The Tech glanced up at Nagumo, his face pale under the center's harsh lighting. "The intruder is accelerating toward Verthandi, Lord."
Nagumo paused, considering. "Get me Colonel Kevlavic."
Mayhap the intruder could be stopped before it entered atmosphere. If not, it would be up to Kevlavic to eliminate the danger as soon as the ship touched down on Verthandi's surface.
Mercenaries', he muttered inwardly. Damnation'.
* * * *
Grayson and the bridge crew of the Phobos had been listening in to the radio transmissions between the two Shilone fighters and then-base ship. The transmissions were unintelligible without the computer codes that would unscramble an enemy's battlespeech, but the sudden surge of emotion in the Draco pilot's voice had been unmistakable.
The alarm had been sounded. Use Martinez glanced across at Grayson and with a raising of her eyebrows asked his permission to fire.
"You may fire, Captain," he said with studied formality, and a lance of coherent light from the Phobos's single heavy laser gutted one of the Shilones.
"Stand by for high-G maneuvers," Martinez said, her voice sharp but calm. Grayson scarcely had time to lower himself into an empty bridge observer's chair before the Phobos's drives throbbed to a full two Gs, and her captain gave the orders that swung her onto a new course.
The damaged Shilone was out of the fight. The other was boosting at a back-breaking 4 Gs, angling for maneuvering room.
Missiles blossomed from the Phobos's missile bays in the next instant. Two struck the accelerating fighter, disintegrating one wing and sending the craft off, powerless and tumbling e
nd over end. Either or both fighters might yet still be in the fight, but their radios and radars were silenced, their power plants momentarily stilled. At twenty meters per second squared, the Phobos sped toward the swelling golden globe of Verthandi.
Moments later, Martinez cut the ship's boost and the Phobos fell free, saving fuel against the maneuvers that would soon be necessary. Radar and imaging cameras showed the Leopard Class DropShip, with a pair of fighters flanking her, now balanced on dazzling drive flares in an attempt to cut the Phobos off from Verthandi. The Leopard was already cutting between Phobos and the planet, in a position to anticipate her maneuvers. All Captain Martinez could do was to make those maneuvers unpredictable enough to keep that Combine DropShip guessing.
At a range of 90,000 kilometers, the Leopard Class vessel opened fire.
The endless Succession Wars that had engulfed humanity for centuries had claimed many victims. One of the first was the high-level of technology required to manufacture the sophisticated electronic gear necessary to keep both warships and BattleMechs in operation. Mankind had long ago lost the know-how to construct the comparatively simple computer chips needed to direct self-targeting and fire-and-forget homer missiles, for example. Space battles now resembled the maneuver and broadside exchanges of gunfire characteristic of the ancient Age of Sail more than they did battles of the 20th and 21st centuries. Missiles arced across intervening space along courses and at velocities set by heavier shipboard computers, aiming for predicted impact points. Would-be targets combined random bursts of powered flight or deceleration with free fall so that predicted impact points were always someplace other than where the missile actually exploded.
The first enemy volley missed. The enemy DropShip and its two tiny escorts, in close orbit now around Verthandi, passed around the curvature of the planet and out of sight. Verthandi's moon slowly settled behind the sweep of the planet's green-patched north pole as the Phobos dropped ever nearer.
Grayson swam to the captain's console, weightless now as the Phobos drifted in unpowered freefall, her drives silent. "We'll need our screen out, Captain," he said. Martinez nodded.
"Those fighters will try to close when they come around the planet's curve again," she said. "They'll try to pin us down to let the DropShip move in and work us over at leisure. We can't let any of them get too close."
Devic Erudin was clinging to a stanchion, looking deathly ill. Grayson did not particularly enjoy freefall, but he was not as badly affected by it as some. Combat, especially, could be rough on anyone not used to being shipboard during rough maneuvers. He swam across to Erudin's side.
"Do you want to go below?"
Erudin managed a greenish smile, and shook his head. "Strange to talk about below, when I seem to have lost my grip on up and down," he said. He belched once, heavily, and added, "I seem to have lost my grip on my stomach as well."
"If you feel sick," Grayson warned, "leave the bridge. These people can't take the time to clean up after you."
Erudin nodded and seemed to make an effort to collect himself. "What's happening now? What's the Captain doing?"
Grayson glanced across at Martinez, who was speaking with steady urgency into a microphone at her console.
"We're dropping our pups...the two Chippewa fighters we brought on board at Galatea. We'll need them to screen us from the Combine fighters. We're releasing them while the enemy blockading vessels are hidden on the other side of the planet, along with the planet's moon." He shrugged. "We're probably under observation from the ground, so what we're doing won't be much of a surprise. You never know, though. Every little bit, they say..."
"And...and the enemy DropShip I heard them talking about?"
Grayson shook his head. "We'll have to wait and see about that one. It's going to be a squeaker, though." He raised one eyebrow. "So much for the nonexistent blockade, Citizen."
"I...I don't understand. They haven't been this vigilant."
"You've been away for awhile. Or maybe it was just bad luck that we ran into their patrol."
"Will...will we get through?"
Grayson looked across the deck toward the bridge viewscreen, which showed the bulk of the planet whose golden light now flooded the crowded bridge.
"Well, Citizen, I guess we'll find out in a few minutes."
When the Combine ships emerged again from behind the planet, they would strike.
8
Sue Ellen Klein was wedged so tightly into the narrow cockpit of her Chippewa that she could scarcely move, but it was times like this when she felt most free and alive. The Chippewa was large for a fighter, massing 90 tons, yet most of that was in the broad, knife-lean wing-body of the craft. The cockpit was perched at the wing's center, between the aft-jutting, boom-joined double tail. From that vantage point, the pilot had an unobstructed view of Glory through the transplex cockpit bubble. The stars crowded close, and the golden light of Verthandi bathed Sue Ellen's face when she unsealed and raised the visor of her helmet.
The wing-body of Jeffrie Sherman's Chippewa glittered sharp and bright against the stars a kilometer distant. She knew, too, that the Phobos was again balanced on white fire, decelerating at over two Gs aft and beneath the sweep of her own wing.
The two fighters had been launched while at a higher intrinsic velocity, which was carrying them now beyond the Phobos and deeper into Verthandi's gravitational field. Instruments strained to glean tidbits of data from random noise. Of the multitude of probabilities spilling across the computer screen, which would be the vector of the enemy ships when they reappeared on the Chippewa's scanners?
Klein opened a ship-to-ship direct beam microwave channel. It allowed short-ranged communications for coordinating fighter maneuvers without letting the enemy listen in.
"Chip One to Chip Two," she said. It was cold in her cockpit. The life support systems were deliberately kept at a low setting to conserve power that would be needed later. Besides that, the Chippewa's problem would soon be too much heat, not too little. Sue Ellen's breath puffed in wispy clouds before her face.
"Go ahead. One."
"In position. Keep alert, love."
"Right. Watch it, though. We're still pretty close to the Phobos. We may be monitored."
"The hell with them," she said. "If that bastard wants to eavesdrop, he's welcome." She said it loudly but deliberately, and when no third voice came across the com, she giggled. "I think we're safe, darling, but we're really going to have to stop meeting like this!"
"I'll go along with you there. I'd rather meet you in a nice warm bed, with a bottle of Chateau Davion '09. This gives us more privacy than we had on the Phobos, but I'm afraid it still leaves a little something to be desired."
"Well, I'll tell you. When we get back to the Phobos, we'll open up the watchstander's bunkroom on the fighter bay level and we'll—"
"Hold it. Sue! Bogies! Recorders on!" There was a breathless moment, then she heard, "Two enemy fighters, vectoring low across the planet. Jumping hell, they must be skimming atmosphere!"
Her own instruments showed the same story, close-paired Kurita fighters angling up from Verthandi's atmosphere. Her onboard computer cycled through scanner data and sketched out the ID schematics. They were SL-15 Slayers, delta-winged and sleek, each massing 80 tons and carrying six medium lasers and a heavy autocannon apiece. Slayers were deadly at close combat, fully capable of shredding her heavier Chippewa in a single pass.
A long-range com channel opened. "Phobos to pups," the voice said. "Bandit Slayers vectoring toward Phobos, bearing thu-ree-four-niner, mark two. Intercept and—"
Klein cut the voice off with a savage slap on the power switch, but kept her ship-to-ship microwave channel open. "Arming weapons," she said, then brought the visor down across her face and sealed it. A touch of a switch brought her fighter's heads-up display into glowing brightness an arm's length before her eyes.
"Arming weapons," Jeffrie replied. "Luck, my love..."
"Luck..."
; Blood sang in her ears wth the racing of her pulse. She lived! That exhilaration was edged with fear that something might happen to Jeff. As always, she managed to dismiss the thought. Even then, the memory of her brother crowded to the fore. Alec... She shook her head, inwardly commanding herself, No! Instead, she gave in to the raw consuming passion of coming battle. Personal extinction, the memory of Alec, the possibility of the death of her lover, all were unthinkable with the surge of battle in heart and hands, with the senses so alive, so charged with excitement. Even the sweet thrill of sex paled by comparison.
Her instrument panel flashed red warning; the enemy had fired, but missed.
The Chippewa was not nearly as heavily armored as the Slayer, but the weapons mounted in its broad wings more than made up for it. A pair of light lasers guarded aft, six medium and heavy lasers aimed forward, and the space beneath the pilot's feet extending into the nose contained bundles of short and long-ranged missiles. At a range of 20,000 kilometers. Sue Ellen triggered a spread of SRMs, then punched her PlasmaStar 270 drive into throbbing life. Jeff's drives flared blue-white in almost the same instant. The miniature suns of missile drives intertwined into the distance against Verthandi's growing disk.
With her eyes locked on the readings of her HUD display, Klein counted off seconds, then flipped her Chippewa end for end. Five Gs crushed her into her seat, the roar of the drive hammering through her vessel's hull to pound and claw at her body through the padded seat. The maneuver was precisely timed. Her Chippewa fell tail-first past the approaching Slayers, then accelerated after them with rapidly compounding speed. Missiles laced the sky with burning traceries; a hit flooded her cockpit with silent, white light that polarized her helmet visor black.
Mercenary's Star Page 6
