Paul took a long, deep breath, then studied the display for remaining trouble. Though the space above the asteroid had calmed, scattered symbols revealed that some sort of ground combat was still going on between the cops and the settlers on the surface of the asteroid.
"Mr. Sinclair."
Paul shook his head to clear it, feeling slightly stunned by the press of events and the recent chaotic movements of ships in the small area around the asteroid. "Yeah, Senior Chief."
"Sir, there's two main pieces of the Smith heading outward. If there's still any survivors, they'd most likely be on one of them."
Paul eyed the symbols the chief had highlighted, taking long moments to comprehend why she'd emphasized the point. Then the reason finally came clear. He glanced at Commander Garcia, who was watching the situation on the asteroid's surface with a sort of horrified fascination and seemed unaware that Imari had spoken. "Thanks, Senior Chief. Bridge, this is Combat. We have two primary pieces of wreckage from the Smith headed away from us. They may hold any survivors."
Hard to say how the information would be received, given everything else the captain and the rest of the bridge crew had to worry about right now. The maneuvering thrusters punched a couple more times, jarring Paul and countering an attempt by the Gilgamesh to clear its line of fire to the asteroid.
The commonplace sound of a bosun pipe shrilled across the general announcing system. "Gig crew to the gig, on the double."
Paul grinned and gave Senior Chief Imari a thumbs-up. There wasn't any doubt that the gig would be sent out to try to catch those big pieces of wreckage and see if there was anyone left alive on them. But his elation faded as he took another look at the combat display. The Russians and Southern Africans hadn't moved, holding their positions as the situation swirled around them. Both the Alsace and the Middle Kingdom were finally sliding in between the SASAL ships and the asteroid, further limiting the ability of both the Gilgamesh and the Saladin to fire or maneuver. Paul almost shuddered as he saw how close the other ships were now. If somebody zigged when they were supposed to zag, there'd be a collision for certain.
The combined obstacles of the Michaelson, the two Euro ships and the Han Chinese had finally brought a halt to the SASAL firing on the asteroid, but the temporary structures Paul had spent so many long hours watching had all been shattered and breached. The Michaelson 's own sensors and the data links to the police teams couldn't tell him how many had been destroyed by the SASAL ships and how many by ground fighting or the suicide attacks the fanatics had threatened. Dammit. Most of those people must be dead. Dammit. We were here to stop something like this from happening and we couldn't.
Paul blinked as the last traces of action calmed with amazing quickness. One moment the situation was a swirl of action, with weapons firing and ships moving too close too fast, the next the weapons had fallen silent, the ships had settled into new positions that might be too close but were nonetheless almost stationary relative to each other, and even the battle symbols on the asteroid had dwindled to nothing.
It almost felt peaceful. Except for the scattered wreckage of the Smith tumbling outward. Except for the venting of gases still taking place at a few sites on the asteroid where wrecked and probably lifeless structures now littered the bare rock. Except for the smoldering anger and sense of futility Paul felt as he watched the SASAL ships pivot under the push of their thrusters and begin accelerating away from the asteroid.
"Secure from General Quarters. Set Readiness Condition One Alpha."
There was still so much to do. Support the cops. Coordinate moving the Michaelson and the other warships further out from the asteroid again. See if they could help anybody, somehow. Paul looked around, his head aching and fuzzy with fatigue, as he heard reveille being sounded. Have I been in Combat that long?
Senior Chief Imari yawned, rubbing her face. "I need a drink," she announced.
Paul managed a smile. "Coffee? Yeah, me, too."
"I didn't mean coffee, sir. Not after tonight. But it'll have to do, won't it? It's times like this I wish I was on the Brit ship with a fully stocked bar."
One of the operations specialists was sent to get coffee from the mess decks. When he returned, the sailor also carried a carton of battle rations. Paul and his sailors studied the food dubiously. They were all hungry, but if ordinary Navy food could be atrocious, battle rations could be inedible. In the end, Paul cautiously nibbled on some sort of food bar, which seemed fairly tasteless, and drank his coffee gratefully.
Officer's call was held that morning in a corner of Combat. From the way he glared at his division officers, Commander Garcia's anger from the night before didn't seemed to have diminished much. "For those of you who haven't heard, the cops have recovered seven members of the cult alive. Everybody else they've found so far is dead."
Paul tried not to openly flinch at the news.
Garcia paused, glowering down at his data pad. "The entire crew of the Smith is confirmed dead. Our gig found no survivors on the wreckage. Neither did the Alsace 's gig." He looked up again, his expression seeming to blame Paul and the others for the bad news. "The cops are securing what's left of the structures on the asteroid. We're to return to Franklin."
Only Ensign Taylor had the nerve to ask the inevitable question. "Have the cops found any heavy propulsion devices? Anything that those people could've used to kick that rock toward Earth?"
Garcia's face shaded a little redder. "No."
Taylor grimaced and nodded.
Garcia shook his own head, his mouth tight, then turned and left. Commander Moraine left with him, her expression an odd mix of relief and dread.
Taylor, Paul and Kris Denaldo exchanged glances. Finally, Taylor shook her head. "Some days this job really sucks."
Paul nodded in agreement. "Yeah."
"We did our best," Kris insisted. "We did everything we could."
"Yeah. Everything we could do just wasn't good enough, though," Taylor observed. "Well, boys and girls, it's been real fun talking with you but I need to see my division and pass on the happy news. See ya."
Kris watched her go, then looked at Paul. "Yeah, let our sailors know what happened despite our best efforts. Then what do we do?"
Paul shrugged, too weary to think anymore. "You heard Garcia. We go home." Part of him knew that should be good news, but the rest of him was too numb to care.
Chapter Three
The chartered freighter Prometheus Rising arrived near the asteroid that afternoon. Paul was on watch again on the bridge when the Prometheus 's captain called the Michaelson. Paul, not being a fool despite operating on hardly any sleep for the past couple of days, immediately called Captain Hayes.
Hayes came onto the bridge, looking as tired as Paul felt and in a lot worse humor. The bosun mate of the watch was still crying "Captain's on the bridge" when Hayes pulled himself into the captain's chair and glared at Paul and Val Isakov. "What the hell does that merchant captain want?"
Val Isakov looked at Paul, who faced the captain. "Sir, he said he needed to talk to you. He's standing by on frequency channel eight."
"Great." Hayes glowered at the displays before him for a moment, then reached to punch the controls. " Prometheus Rising, this is Captain Hayes of the USS Michaelson."
The captain of the Prometheus had a Midwestern American twang to his voice and the casual manner of a civilian. "Hey, thanks for calling back. My passengers wanted me to talk to you about helping them out."
"Passengers?"
"Yeah. I'm carrying forty US citizens."
At that news, Captain Hayes got a "why me?" expression his face. "What are they doing here and what do they want from me?"
"Well, they're, uh, here to, uh, sort of protest against you guys."
"What?"
"Maybe I didn't say that right. They're with a couple of church groups. Mainline stuff, none of the cult outfits. They were coming to try to intercede here. Try to, you know, get this resolved without any loss of life."<
br />
Paul couldn't read Captain Hayes's expression, but the captain's voice didn't betray the frustration he surely felt. "I'm afraid they're a little late."
"Uh huh," the captain of the Prometheus agreed. "We saw bits of that from where we were, and we got some news updates flashed to us. So, uh, you see, they know pretty much what happened."
"Then I suggest you and they depart," Hayes advised shortly.
"Well, captain, they'd like to do something first, and the guys in charge on the asteroid won't talk to them. They figured you might help."
Hayes pressed both palms against his face for a moment, then lowered his hands and spoke carefully. "I'm sorry, but-"
"All they want to do is lay a couple of wreaths, captain. That's all. For the dead, you know."
Hayes sat silent for a moment, then looked over at Paul. "Did we receive any heads-up that this ship and those people were coming?"
Paul thought before answering, not entirely trusting his memory. "We knew the Prometheus Rising was on her way to this area, sir. But I don't remember seeing anything about her carrying protestors."
"I don't remember anything about that, either. Funny no one knew." Hayes stared at nothing for a moment. "But it's even funnier that the cops went in the night before that ship got here. If those idiots kept important information from me…"
Paul didn't know what to say to that. Had someone rushed things to avoid having to deal with the people on the Prometheus? If so, they'd bungled things badly. And if the fact that protestors were on the way had been known to the cops but not shared with the Michaelson, somebody had been exceptionally stupid.
Captain Hayes addressed the captain of the Prometheus again. "I don't have control over what happens on the surface of the asteroid. You need to talk to the head of the law enforcement people on the surface."
"Captain, they won't talk to me."
"Hold on. I'll get back with you." Hayes drummed his fingers on his arm rest for a moment, then hit another communications control. "This is Captain Hayes of the USS Michaelson. I want to talk to Colonel Trey."
"I'm sorry, sir. Colonel Trey is not available. This is Major Veshak. May I help you?"
"Yes. I've got a merchant ship up here with U.S. citizens on board who want to lay a couple of wreaths on the asteroid. I understand they can't get anybody down there to talk to them."
"Sir, we're exceptionally busy."
"Did you people know they were coming?"
The circuit stayed silent for a moment, then instead of replying to Hayes' blunt question, Veshak passed the buck. "Sir, I believe Colonel Trey is available now."
Hayes glanced around the bridge. "I think I'd better handle the rest of this in my cabin." He unstrapped and pulled himself off the bridge.
"Captain's off the bridge!"
Paul gave Val Isakov a questioning glance. She shrugged.
Twenty minutes later, Hayes called the bridge from his cabin. "The people on the Prometheus are legitimate, but the cops on the surface won't let them take any transport from the merchant down to the asteroid. I agreed to use our gig. Notify the XO that we're going to send it to the Prometheus to pick up a couple of representatives and their wreaths. They'll be taken to the surface, brought back to the Prometheus, and the gig will return straight here. Any questions?"
Val Isakov frowned. "Captain, when is our gig to depart?"
"I want it at the Prometheus in one hour."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Oh, one more thing. Paul, you're going along."
Paul stared at his display. "Captain?"
"You're the legal officer, and you've got experience dealing with protestors. You'll be in charge on the gig."
"Aye, aye, sir." Paul felt a headache starting to come to life. Oh, Garcia's going to love this. He hates it any time my legal officer job gets in the way of my primary job as Combat Information Center officer, and he hates it when the captain tasks me directly because I'm the legal officer. He wondered what the protestors would be like. They couldn't be anything like Greenspacers or the captain wouldn't have agreed to help them even if he was ticked off at the cops for keeping the Navy in the dark. I hope I don't fall asleep in front of them.
Garcia turned out to be just as angry as Paul had expected. Commander Moraine just gave Paul a suspicious look. But neither could override the captain, so Paul found himself twenty minutes later strapping into a seat on the gig after hastily turning over the watch to a perturbed Randy Diego. "I'm the First Lieutenant," Randy had complained. "I should be commanding the gig."
"Randy," Paul had stated wearily, "if you can convince the captain to let you go instead of me, be my guest."
Randy hadn't seemed interested in trying that, however. Even Randy had learned that there were times when you just did what the captain said.
Paul checked his straps, then glanced over at Ivan Sharpe, the Michaelson 's master at arms. "It's funny seeing you in khakis, Sheriff."
Sharpe shrugged. "I was bound to make chief petty officer someday, sir, with an officer of your caliber mentoring me."
The two bosun mates sharing the gig's cabin grinned.
Paul nodded, keeping his expression serious. "I'm glad you appreciate that, Sheriff. That's why I make sure you get to participate in outstanding training opportunities such as this."
"I thought I had you to thank for drafting me on this mission, sir. Thank you so much. There ain't nothing I'd rather do than chauffeur a bunch of hippies around the solar system."
Paul leaned back against his seat, closing his eyes. "They're not hippies, Sheriff. They're strictly mainstream people who happen to believe in peace, love and understanding."
"I believe in those things, too, sir. And I have some very effective methods for keeping everything peace ful because I understand what it takes."
"You left out love."
"Love? All my love is for the Navy, sir."
Paul opened his eyes and snorted in derision. Sharpe was smiling with exaggerated insincerity. "Sheriff, sometimes I wonder about you. Just help keep an eye on the peaceniks and help keep those cops on the asteroid happy until we leave."
"I'll try, sir, but those cops are probably not going to be happy with us."
"I have every confidence in you, Chief Master at Arms Ivan Sharpe. After all, you're a cop, too. You speak the same language they do."
"Sort of. These are paramilitary, SWAT guys. They're a bit different."
The chief bosun signaled to Paul from the conning station. She wasn't going to let anyone else drive the gig on this run. "All ready, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Yeah, Boats. Let's go."
" Michaelson, this is the gig. Request permission to get underway."
"Permission granted." Paul had no trouble recognizing the XO's voice. Commander Kwan's going to keep a personal eye on this little mission. Great. I'd better pray nothing goes wrong in even the smallest way.
The chief bosun tapped her controls. Paul felt force pushing him to one side as the gig's cradle pushed it gently out and away from the Michaelson. Then he was back in a zero-g state again as the gig drifted out of its dock. Only when it was well clear of the ship did the bosun once again reach for her controls, using thruster firings to bring the gig up and around, then triggering the gig's main drive to propel it forward.
Paul craned his head to see the maneuvering display. The gig's systems were well capable of auto-piloting their way to the Prometheus, but he could tell the bosun was controlling the gig manually. Officially, that was frowned upon except during training for loss of automated control. Unofficially, experienced spacecraft drivers loved to eyeball their way through maneuvers, depending on experience and skill to do everything any automated control system could do, but often with more style.
Paul leaned his head back again and closed his eyes once more. The flight should take about fifteen minutes, and no experienced sailor would let that time go to waste.
"Reveille, reveille, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul popped open his eyes
at Sheriff Sharpe's droll wake up call, yawned and then stretched as well as the straps holding him to the seat would permit. "I think I just doubled the amount of sleep I've had in the last twenty-four hours," he remarked.
Sharpe put an expression of exaggerated interest on his face. "Sleep, sir? What would that be, sir? Some privilege restricted to the exalted ranks of junior officers?"
"Sheriff, you sleep more than anyone on board except the supply officer."
"That, sir, is the worst insult I've ever received." Sharpe grinned. "And even if I did, at least I work for a living when I'm awake."
"Is that what you call what you do?" Paul peered at the maneuvering display again. The bulk of the Prometheus loomed close by now. Even as he watched, the bosun hit the main drive again, braking the gig to bring it to a halt relative to the freighter, then using gentle taps on the thrusters to bring the gig close to the freighter's dock. A magnetic grapnel launched from the freighter, slowly heading for gig while its line trailed out behind. Then the grapnel locked onto the gig's mooring plate and the line began very gently retracting, pulling the gig behind it.
The Michaelson 's chief bosun watched intently, ready to react if the gig started moving too fast toward the dock or if anything else went wrong. Navy sailors never trusted their merchant counterparts to do things right. But the gig came to rest gently against the padded surface of the dock cradle. They could hear a humming transmitted through the hull of the gig as the freighter's air lock moved to mate with the gig.
The bosun finally turned and nodded to Paul. "All secure, sir. It's okay to crack the hatch."
"Thanks, Boats. Good driving." Paul unstrapped, pulled himself to the hatch, and cycled it open.
There were three people awaiting him. One, obviously the captain of the Prometheus, wore a bright coverall betraying the sheen long use. He grinned at Paul. "Did you drive that gig in here?"
Against All Enemies ps-4 Page 5
