Harris went quickly over and opened the panel containing the circuit breakers for the command area of the auxiliary station. After a short inspection he flipped one of the breakers.
"Communications console...nonspec heater, Tamara...nonregulation..." The heating unit stopped. "That's the right switch, Lieutenant."
Hawkins came out from under the console.
"Sorry, Lieutenant, I'll nay be able to get it reconnected with my spacesuit on. It be just too cramped in there."
"I understand, Hawk, we'll give you a hand."
Carlisle and Harris both helped him remove his suit. Hawkins immediately thrust the upper part of his body back under the console.
"I don't think anyone's used this console for at least a couple of years," said Harris, still angry, "but what kind of bonehead would do something like this? Definitely against even the most basic regulations, not to mention common sense!"
"Might one of you officers be handin' me my powered screwdriver?" said Hawkins, his voice muffled from inside the console. Carlisle unclipped the tool from the belt on Hawkins' utility suit and put it into his hand. A few minutes later Hawkins came out from under the console.
"That should be doin' it. Hit the breaker."
Harris flipped the breaker and Hawkins thumbed the switch on the console. After a short warm up, the viewscreen finally came to life. Harris came back over to the console, checked the frequency and pressed the transmit button.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is Lieutenant Ryan Harris from the Reclamation Center calling the New Ceylon Orbital Station and Federation Destroyer Boise. The main facility of the Reclamation Center has been attacked and destroyed by two ships of unknown origin that bear NITrans markings. We believe the same forces are on their way to attack the orbital station and the Boise!" He repeated the message several times before a disheveled looking man in an orbital station coverall finally came on the screen.
"What? All due respect, Mister, but you've got to be joking! Attack on the Reclamation Center? What attacked you?"
"Two armed cargo ships with NITrans markings. Get me Governor Larkin or Commander Kresge, Immediately!"
"NITrans cargo ships? Armed? What kind of crap is this?"
The technician's expression went from half asleep grumpiness to wide awake shock in the next instant.
"What the...?" The Scrapyard survivors watched in renewed horror as the image of the technician was shaken violently and the man disappeared from the view, apparently thrown from his chair. "Holy shit!" they heard him exclaim. "We are under attack!"
With the initiation of the attack on the orbital station, the three survivors realized that their attempt to warn the planetside personnel had been valiant, but ultimately futile. Time had been against them from the start. They had spent hours on the bridge of the old cargo ship laying low in fear that the raiders were still nearby. More time passed while they surveyed the damaged station in a vain attempt to find any other survivors and chased down the errant utility sled. Finally, it had taken more precious time to get to the Auxiliary Station and get the communications console working. Still, they had come tantalizingly close to success...
On the audio feed, there was the unmistakable sound of an alarm klaxon and the Reclamation Center survivors knew that the orbital station and the people on it were in mortal danger. For some unknown reason, the technician shifted his communications console to a view that showed the stationary and hapless Boise, surrounded by a cloud of smaller support vessels, under heavy attack by what looked like the same two raiders who had hit the Scrapyard. Carlisle's assessment had been very accurate, their beam weapons were indeed powerful. And the attackers seemed to know where to aim the beams for maximum effect.
Chapter 13
New Ceylon Orbital Station, Spaceview Restaurant, October 6, 2598
Kresge nodded to the maître d' of the Spaceview Restaurant which was located on the southern edge of the first deck of the huge, slowly-spinning torus of the orbital station. This prime location allowed the upscale restaurant to provide spectacular views to the outside through rows of viewing panels that lined the entire ceiling and nearly the complete southern wall of the establishment. The immaculately-dressed functionary led him through the moderately busy dining room towards a table right next to one of the large, rectangular, round-cornered viewports. A similar viewport was positioned at right angles to the first, in the ceiling directly above the table. Irene Marshall, a stunning, elegant woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, dressed in a lavender coverall, looked up from the menu she was studying and greeted Kresge with a smile that lit up the room as she saw him approaching. She waved discreetly. Kresge smiled and gave a small wave back. He and the maître d' arrived at the table.
"Hello, Irene. Sorry I'm a little late."
"It's okay, Oskar," said Irene. "I just got here myself."
The maître d' seated Kresge on the opposite side of the table. They ordered coffee from the waiter who had appeared almost immediately. Kresge reached across the table and took Irene's hand in both of his.
"Irene, you look wonderful!" he said. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you again."
"Oskar, you are so full of BS." Her words mildly chastised him, but her deep blue eyes twinkled at the compliment. He squeezed her hand and released it.
"I do have some good news, though," he said.
"Yes?"
"I finished the monthly station report before I left my quarters. I'm free for the afternoon and all of the evening."
"Oskar, that's marvelous! I've just got one more appointment this afternoon and then I'll be free too. This is great; we can stop at Doebermann's and pick up some wine and a few other things. I'll cook for us!"
"I was hoping you'd say something like that."
The waiter came back with their coffee and took their orders. Both ordered light luncheon fare. The prices were outrageous but the food was so good it was almost worth it. Kresge savored the outstanding New Ceylon coffee that the restaurant served.
"How are things going for you during this...circus?" asked Kresge. He watched her patrician face as she spoke and was struck yet again by what a beautiful woman she was.
"I'm doing fine. Things have been hectic, but we're usually a little ahead of the game. My assistants really know their stuff. My biggest worry is that I have to coordinate a meeting between the trade people and the Ambassador the day after all of the festivities take place."
"Are you ready for that?"
"I think so -- there's only so much you can do to prepare. The trade representatives will ask their questions and try to further their own agendas, as usual. I'll be there to defuse petty disputes and soothe any ruffled feathers, but I don't know how you rehearse for something like that."
"Larkin made mention about some kind of organized black market activity onboard the orbital station at our meeting this morning," said Kresge. "Do you know anything about it?"
"Not really," she replied. She thought for a moment. "There're rumors and speculation and every so often some minor player gets caught but they haven't been able to net any of the big fish so far. Someone from security is probably involved but no one has been able to find out anything yet. To be honest, I haven't been paying that much attention to it."
Kresge sat back in his chair and looked up and out the viewports. The spectacular view included most of the station's ring, the center spindle of the station and the eight spokes that connected the torus to the spindle. From Kresge's view through the ceiling viewport, the station was a huge arch that started larger on either side of them and got narrower as parts of it got further away. Off to one side was the business-like shape of the destroyer Boise. Kresge realized that the docking facilities for the cargo ships that served the New Ceylon system were behind them due to the current position of the station in its rotation.
"Looks like the Boise is getting a lot of attention," he said, as he noticed the cloud of ships and other craft surrounding the sleek warship.
"I wonder if
they're going to get all their preparations ready on time?" asked Irene.
"Dortmunder said they were going to finish up sometime today."
The waiter came back with their food.
Kresge was surprised that he was hungry, then remembered that the small pastry and a cup of dreadful coffee he had endured in the Governor's suite was all that he had eaten since dinner on board the cutter the night before. He and Irene were just finishing up their meal and refining their plans for the rest of the day when Irene caught an unexpected movement through the viewport overhead.
"Oskar? Isn't that a little strange?" Irene was looking upward, over Kresge's right shoulder.
Kresge pushed his chair back from the table and turned around so he could share her view. They both watched as two NITrans cargo ships slowly overflew the station and decelerated to rest, one facing the Boise and the other swinging around so its bow pointed towards the station. Kresge couldn't be certain, but it looked like they both had their bow cargo doors open. His jaw dropped in astonishment as both ships simultaneously fired pulse beams out those open cargo doors. Kresge and Irene both felt a slight jar as one of the beams hit somewhere on the station.
Automatic alarms began to sound.
Several of the smaller craft surrounding the Boise went scattering soon after the first pulse hit the destroyer. Kresge could see that the Boise had taken some pretty heavy damage from only the single hit. With a sinking feeling he realized that the destroyer wouldn't have had time or reason to raise her shields and that the conditions on board were total chaos due to all the preparations going on. Whoever these people were, they had timed their attack perfectly. The ship that had fired on the station then turned around and joined its companion in attacking the Boise.
Kresge had a hard time comprehending what was happening. Pulse beams? On cargo ships? What the hell was going on?
They watched in muted shock as the two ships repeatedly hammered the all but helpless destroyer with slow, deliberate fire from extremely powerful beam weapons. Finally a pulse from one of the ships tore the Boise in half.
"My God," said Kresge. "The poor bastards didn't have a chance!"
"What should we do?" asked Irene, eyes wide.
"I don't think we should stay in here -- one of those pulse beams could easily take out these viewports. Come on!" While most of the other patrons were still standing or sitting in shocked and frozen disbelief, he grabbed Irene's hand and led her quickly out of the restaurant.
"Where are we going, Oskar?"
"For now, I need to get to my quarters. I've got some things, including a pulse pistol, in my gear. Let's get my stuff and then we'll take it from there.
They were halfway to Kresge's quarters when an announcement came over the station public address system.
"New Ceylon Orbital Station, stand down or be destroyed. Prepare to be boarded!"
Kresge remembered his earlier conversation with the NITrans executive about pirates. He was pretty sure that these were the two missing NITrans cargo ships that they had been discussing on the cutter. If these guys were pirates, they were the boldest he'd ever heard of, attacking a Federation Military vessel and an orbital facility at the same time. Something was definitely going on!
"Come on, Irene, let's not waste any more time!"
Chapter 14
UTFN Reclamation Center, Auxiliary Tracking Station, October 6, 2598
From the view on the screen in the auxiliary tracking station, the lopsided fight was over in a matter of minutes. Two halves of the formerly proud Boise slowly cartwheeled apart, spewing debris, vapor, even an occasional corpse. The attackers each followed a different end of the destroyer for several more minutes, making sure that very little was left intact. Finally, with any threat from the destroyer utterly neutralized, the two raiders turned their attention back to the station. Over the communications console the three Reclamation Station survivors watched as the raiders sent their first communication of any kind since the entire affair began.
"New Ceylon Orbital station, stand down or be destroyed. Prepare to be boarded!" Within minutes, station governor Larkin capitulated. Shortly after that, a signal came through to the tracking station communications console. There was no video.
"You, meddlers out there in the Scrapyard. You shouldn't be alive. That oversight will be corrected!"
The transmission cut off. The three survivors waited in muted shock, unsure of what to do or say next. Around eight minutes later, they intercepted a standard, non-Whitney broadcast. The video display lit up again. This time it was Governor Larkin of the orbital station.
"Attention New Ceylon Planetary Authorities...Our sincere apologies. There is nothing to fear. The bright flashes that many of you have observed from out here in orbit are...part of a series of military drills we are conducting in preparation for the Meridian ambassador's visit scheduled for later this week. We have been conducting a... simulated attack on the station and on the Reclamation Center. This drill will continue for several more hours. Please disregard the communications associated with these activities. ...Some jamming of communications may also occur. Rest assured that it's all part of the drill. We regret any inconvenience this may have caused or that may be incurred."
The governor looked a little disheveled and his speech had been delivered stiffly and somewhat haltingly as though he'd had little or no time to rehearse it. The three survivors looked at one another.
"They must have had a gun to his head," said Harris.
"Reclamation Center ...orbital station ...Boise ...Stage II Whitney?" mumbled Carlisle, rapidly sorting her thoughts. She shook her head. "Damn! This just keeps getting worse," she said to her two companions
"What is it, Lass?" asked Hawkins.
"Long range communications. You saw the results of that first shot, the one that knocked the technician onto the floor?" Carlisle asked.
Hawkins nodded and she continued, "That shot was almost certainly aimed to take out the Stage II communications dish. I'll bet they hit the Boise's dish at the same time. After that, both ships concentrated on destroying the Boise, the only real threat. Here's the problem: With the orbital station dish gone, the Boise destroyed and the Stage II communications out here in the scrapyard destroyed along with the main facility, the raiders effectively control all outside communication in the entire system. We can't call the Federation, or anyone for that matter, for help. With their damned drill warning, and the atmospheric limitations on Whitney communications, we can't even inform the people on the planet about what's really going on with our own Stage I equipment."
"That's why they hit us out here, isn't it Lass?" asked Hawkins.
"I think so, Hawk, to take out our Stage II transmitter. We sure as hell weren't any kind of military threat. I still wish I had some idea what they're up to."
"We may not know what their overall plan is," said Harris. "But we've got to do something. They're coming back out here to stop us from communicating using this console, even if it is just a Stage I rig. That guy all but said so. They overlooked this Auxiliary Station once. They aren't likely to do it again."
"I hate to say it, but that's what I'd do if I were them," said Carlisle. "If we have working communications, we can still spoil their game by warning the Ambassador's ship that something is up as soon as it gets into the system. Fake drill or not, you can bet the Meridians won't ignore us."
"How much time we be havin'?" asked Hawkins.
"A day, maybe a little more," said Harris. "You saw how long it took them to get to New Ceylon from here. Depends on how soon they start heading back. Assuming those are standard cargo ships, if they left immediately and used the optimum number of microjumps, it would take at least twenty-four hours to get here. I expect it'll be somewhat longer than that. There's no hurry, really. We aren't going anywhere."
"They couldn't ask for an easier target," said Carlisle. "With those beam weapons, they almost certainly have military grade sensor equipment of some kind, even if it isn't
the latest and greatest. If the obvious location doesn't give us away, our heat signature will make us stand out like a damned beacon!"
They talked in circles for the better part of an hour before Harris brought the discussion to a halt.
"I think we've had enough discussion for now. Maybe we can think of something later. Right now, we're all so tired that no one is thinking straight. Ensign, set your wrist computer to wake us up in four hours. Everyone, get some rest. That's an order!"
Chapter 15
New Ceylon Orbital Station, Central Spindle, October 6, 2598.
Salvador Vasquez heard the general warning that the station was about to be boarded. His superior, Gordon Harmon, immediately began barking orders. As head of security for the station, it was Harmon who would call the shots if the station personnel were to attempt some kind of opposition. His security forces were not armed with anything more powerful than nightsticks and stun rods, however. Vasquez had seen the video coverage of the attack on the Boise and was pretty sure that these attackers would be carrying far more serious weaponry.
Along with another fifteen people, Vasquez and Harmon were stationed in the northern end of the central spindle of the orbital station. One of duties of the small security squad was to process people and goods as they came onto the station through the main airlock in the northernmost portion of the spindle. From his post, Vasquez could see the access areas to four of the station's eight spokes. The levels of the spindle southward from the main airlock level were occupied by an ensemble of technicians whose job it was to provide the seamless delivery of power, ventilation, and other services to the station proper. Most of the very southern portion of the spindle was dedicated to the management and recycling of trash and waste while the central portion of the spindle contained the main fusion power plant, which required technical support twenty-four/seven. With very little gravity effect near the center of rotation for the station, the personnel in the spindle were, for all practical purposes, in a weightless state.
Junkyard Dogs 1: The Scrapyard Incident Page 8
