by P J Strebor
“Mister Telford, have you tractored aboard a monitor before?” Scaroni had read his file but today’s exercise was about more than landing boat orientation. The middies, regardless of rank, came within her sphere of responsibility.
“Yes COB, many times.”
“In that case how would you like to try a fast trap instead of this boring old tractor nonsense? Hey? What do you say?”
“Sure.” As with most grommits he employed the sort of false indifference that made Scaroni feel warm and fuzzy inside.
“Good for you.” Scaroni keyed her larynx mike. “LCC, we’re going for a fast trap approach. Drop tractor on my mark.”
“Roger that LB three.”
“Three, two, one mark!”
The tractor dropped. Scaroni pushed the LB into a tight three gee turn. Telford’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down appreciably. She could almost smell the salty taste in his mouth. She had seen this so many times before. His perplexed expression said much. Surely this should not be happening to him? No words escaped his slightly parted lips but she would bet a month’s pay he was reciting the academy anti-yack mantra in his mind: 'It's all in your head, all in your head, in your head, your head, head.'
The slight nausea affected the best of the grommits their first time on Combat Interdiction Patrol. The environmental and gravity fluctuations took time to adjust to. Rusty Redpath had mentioned to her that one of the middies yacked in his helmet. Would this be the next candidate for the hall of shame? The others had managed to keep their lunch down, although Hayden was a close run thing. He had been lucky that Doc Kelso prescribed medication to aid his equilibrium.
Telford swallowed hard and stared past her through the starboard view-plate. At dead slow speed Truculent ran parallel to the depression with LB three matching her speed. She continued to prowl for business, stealth engines only. The power emissions from a single landing boat would not jeopardize the even running of her stealth patrol.
Scaroni had received nothing but good feedback about this young officer. He had garnered a lot of supporters from within the ranks as word of his mismatched confrontation with Tivendale spread throughout the boat.
Even Dearkov, usually too surly and self-absorbed to be interested, had become a fan. Apparently, a certain senior rating, name withheld, had been informing Tivendale on Telford’s movements. Although no fan of junior officers, Dearkov chose to intervene. The multiple bruises on the anonymous rating's face suggested Tivendale's inside card had been removed from the deck.
If Telford could get someone like Dearkov on side, perhaps miracles were possible.
“Chief, is there any chance of …” Telford eyed the controls hopefully. He officially outranked her but in reality he knew better than to push his luck.
Scaroni snorted. If he hadn’t asked to pilot the boat she would have been extremely surprised. She examined the external scanners and except for Truculent found clear space in all directions. “How many flight hours do you have?”
“I have eleven hundred and fifty two hours in sims.”
No doubt he thought it would be extraneous to mention he had spent all but forty-nine of those hours in fighter simulations.
“How many real flight hours?”
“Nearly fifty.”
“Do you believe you can pilot this craft?”
“Not up to your high standards, chief,” he said.
“Very well, Mister Telford, the boat is yours.” Scaroni leaned back and folded her arms.
Telford pounced on the controls and adjusted for the expected shift to port. He made small experimental adjustments to pitch and yaw. A curious expression crossed his face when he glanced out the starboard view-plate. Truculent had disappeared. He checked the sensors and found her, two point seven kilometers astern.
Running parallel to a hyper depression created some interesting conditions. Such as encountering a Hyperspace Fluctuation while still in normal space.
“Was that a class four hyper eddy?”
“No Mister Telford that was only a class three. Interesting sensation isn't it.”
“Ah, yeah. Permission to come about, chief.”
“Granted.”
Telford glanced at the COB, noted that she stroked her chin with a rabbit’s foot and snorted.
Scaroni braced herself. Telford would have few opportunities like this during the remainder of the cruise. He would undoubtedly push the envelope.
“Coming about to port, now!”
Scaroni’s chest compressed as the weight of the four gee turn pressed against her. She showed no outward signs of concern and continued to stroke her chin with the rabbit's foot. She loved messing with a grommit's head.
“Chief, permission to barrel-roll the craft.”
“Granted.”
Telford kicked the boat onto her side and held it for a count of two before rolling onto the topside and holding it for a count of two. Telford’s anguished growl accompanied the third maneuver. As he slid the boat onto her starboard side she slipped off the line. Half inverted he over corrected. The boat dropped onto her belly with a decided bump.
“Shit!” His eyes dropped to the sensor readouts. The landing boat had slid off course and was now two kilometers closer to Truculent. Although still within safety tolerances he should not have allowed it to happen. Scaroni knew he had studied, in minute detail, the effects of flying this close to a depression, knew how they could push a vessel even the size of Truculent off course, had trained like a demon to avoid and counter it and still failed to correct for the variation. Telford pushed the LB back on course, irritation written across his face.
“Have we learned something today, Mister Telford?” The COB asked.
Telford gritted his teeth. “As exacting as simulators are they cannot prepare a pilot for every contingency.”
“Wonderful, straight out of the manual. But what have you learned?”
“I have learned that flying this close to a hyperspace depression takes hands-on practice and should never be underestimated.”
“And?”
A sickly smile formed as he glanced at her. “Don't fuck with the Chief Of the Boat?”
“There is hope for you yet. Head for the barn and take it easy.”
“Roger.”
Telford brought the landing boat about, setting course for the landing pattern. Five clicks from the boat he faced her. No, you can't land the boat.
As he opened his mouth to speak, Scaroni heard the flight deck alarm blare Alert Condition One.
CHAPTER 47
Nathan pressed his back firmly against his chair. The burble from Truculent’s engines vibrated through the seat of his v-suit. Scaroni’s face remained rigid as the landing boat hurtled toward the boat bay. Nathan fought against the instinct to avert his eyes.
The landing boat breached the environmental force field. The skids struck the boat bay deck with a bone-jarring jolt. Heartbeats later it slammed into the arrester field. Nathan’s seat belt dug painfully against his shoulders and chest. He unbuckled, opened the hatch and jumped from the craft. With the COB on his heels he raced for the drop shafts. Nathan felt the boat's acceleration building.
The COB took the starboard drop shaft to her combat station in maneuvering. Nathan swung into the drop shaft and passed through two pressure hatches before swinging onto deck one. A short walk brought him to the final hatch. He punched in the code before stepping onto the bridge. While he strapped into his jump seat he quickly scanned the crew. No joking today. A glint of excitement sparked in Leo’s eyes. He motioned Nathan closer and whispered into his ear.
“We’ve received a distress call from the Francorum freighter Genevieve. She claims to be under attack by a headhunter.”
“A Franc?” Nathan said in an incredulous tone.
Leo’s face hardened. "Ensign, she is a civilian craft with a crew of eighty-seven and the capacity to carry thirty passengers. You of all people know what headhunters do w
ith captives."
“Yes,” Nathan said. “Sorry.” Even Franc civilians don’t deserve that fate.
Nathan examined his readouts and nodded to himself. Genevieve's captain had foolishly chosen to enter the Fenchurch Depression. At its narrowest point a fast ship could cross it in thirty-two hours. For the dubious benefit of saving a day's flight time the Franc captain had exposed his ship to indefensible risk. A headhunter had run her down and attacked. Within the hyper depression Genevieve stood no chance of escape.
“Helm, report,” Waugh demanded.
“Reactor is at eighty-seven percent and climbing, captain. Primary engines are increasing to flank speed,” O'Donnell said. “ETA with Genevieve is five point three minutes.”
“Damn,” Nathan whispered, “we’re that close?”
“The boat’s been overdue for a change of luck,” Leo replied.
“Captain,” the D-O said, “I have comm from Genevieve’s captain.”
Her bearing reminded Nathan of a badly beaten dog.
“Captain,” Waugh said, “what is your status?”
“We’ve been boarded, captain.” Her glassy eyes reflected terrible misery. “We fought them but were overwhelmed by their numbers. Ten of my crew are dead. They detected your approach and fled.”
“What is your ship’s condition?”
“Our shields are still down, one engine is damaged. Both are repairable. But there is something else." The Francorum captain paused, as if dreading her next words. "They have taken my passengers, captain. Twenty-three men, women and children.”
“Do you require our assistance, captain?” Under space maritime law she had to ask.
“Thank you captain, but no.”
“Then I will bid you good day, captain. Truculent out.” Waugh swung to the Tactical Station, expectation burning in her eyes.
Lt Hookes kept her eyes fixed on her readouts. “I have her, captain. I confirm she is a headhunter.” Her eyebrows arched. “Badger class. She’s running for the Rio Grande at top speed. Feeding course and speed to the helm.”
O'Donnell's hands flew across his console controls. “Course set, captain.”
“Both ahead flank at your earliest,” Waugh barked.
Nathan sensed an inner suspicion about their luck. The Badger class ship is one of the weakest assets available to headhunters. What would it be doing this deep into league space? Even though he knew Waugh would be thinking the same thing, the spot between the shoulder blades began to ache.
Within twenty minutes Nathan felt the slightest of vibrations through his console.
“Captain,” O’Donnell said, “we are about to hit the compression barrier.”
“Very well, helm,” Waugh said, “maintain speed.”
“Aye, captain.”
With each passing minute the vibration increased as the monitor fought against one of Tunguska’s most challenging anomalies, the compression barrier. In Tunguska it caused similar problems to the of old Earth’s Sound Barrier.
Minute by minute they gained on the enemy ship.
The chase continued for five more hours, with the monitor shaking vigorously as the strain on her systems increased. Finally the gap between the two vessels closed.
“The enemy ship is at extreme torpedo range, captain,” Hookes said, breaking the long silence.
“Very well.” The captain straightened her back and unknotted her neck. “Helm, time to optimal range?”
“Nine minutes, captain.”
“Very well. Shut down the primary engines.”
As soon as the engines stopped pushing against the compression barrier the vibration stopped. Nathan’s ears popped.
The captain addressed the Auxiliary Operations Station.
“Feel like getting your feet wet, Ensign Saunders?”
Leo's face lit up like an aurora. “Yes, ma'am.”
“You observe on this one, ensign. Do not leave the landing boat. Clear?”
Showing far less enthusiasm, Leo said, “Aye, ma’am.”
“On your way.” Leo sprinted for the hatch as the captain’s eyes settled on Nathan. “Do you think you can handle Auxiliary Ops, Mister Telford? Or should I get CPO Cairns to assist you?”
“I'm familiar with the systems, captain.”
“So I've been led to believe.” She paused for a moment, her inscrutable gaze unblinking. “But how will you react when they start shooting at us?”
“I've been shot at before, captain.”
Waugh nodded once before turning away.
Nathan carried out an immediate diagnostic of all systems. Within four minutes it confirmed that all systems were green across his board. Happy with the results he realigned his sensors to the bow opticals.
His main screen gave him his first live view of the huge enemy ship. Yes, there you are, you Pruessen bastard.
“One minute to optimal firing range, captain,” O'Donnell said.
“Very well.” Waugh slipped into the combat chair. “D-O, ship to ship.”
“Channel open, captain.”
“To Badger class Pruessen vessel. This is Commodore Waugh of the Athenian warship Truculent. I order you to cut your engines and prepare to be boarded. If you fail to do so I shall fire into you.”
“This is Captain Foss of the independent trading vessel Picaroon.” His tone was atypically civilized for a headhunter. “I am holding twenty-three Francorum civilians aboard my vessel.”
“I am aware of that, Captain Foss. Heave to immediately and prepare to be boarded. Consider this your last warning.”
“Typical Athenian arrogance, but no matter. If you want the Francs come and get them.”
Waugh drew her hand across her throat. “D-O, I'm going downstairs.”
Demianski acknowledged with a short nod as the captain dropped into the combat sphere.
“Captain, optimal torpedo range,” O'Donnell said.
"Very well helm. It's my boat."
“Aye, captain, your boat.”
Minutes ticked by as the captain positioned Truculent for attack. A flash erupted from Picaroon's single stern launcher. Waugh fired a three second pulsar burst. Picaroon's torpedo disappeared in a blaze of silver fire.
“WEO - captain.”
“Matrakas,” said the Weapons Engineering Officer.
“Type thirteens in all tubes thank you.”
“Aye-aye, captain.”
Nathan nodded to himself. The low yield type thirteen's would easily neutralize Picaroon's shields, but were not powerful enough to endanger her interned passengers.
The squeal from the targeting computer confirmed the lock-on to the enemy ship. The boat bucked as six torpedoes burst from the forward tubes. They tracked the fleeing vessel’s every sluggish avoidance maneuver. Pulsars struck out from Picaroon but headhunter technology could not match the torpedoes’ sophisticated evasion countermeasures. The torpedoes surrounded the enemy and detonated simultaneously. Nathan averted his eyes as six thermo nuclear explosions flared from his screen.
Sensor readings indicated that more than sixty of Picaroon's shield blisters had been overloaded by the massive blast.
Picaroon maintained course for the Rio Grande. She rotated through her longitudinal axis, bringing her bow to bear on Truculent. Two flashes erupted from Picaroon’s nose. Without altering course Waugh picked off the incoming torpedoes with pulsar fire.
Closing to energy weapons range with any vessel involved inherent dangers. Although the Badger was an obsolete vessel it retained the capacity to hurt Truculent. After all, a drunk holding a knife could do far more damage than a drunk without a knife.
The captain methodically picked away at Picaroon's defenses while deftly evading the headhunter’s pulsar fire. One by one Picaroon’s weapons fire trickled to a splutter then died. Nathan would never forget one moment of Waugh’s virtuoso performance.
“Tactical, report,” Waugh ordered.
“All off
ensive and defensive weapons destroyed,” Hookes said. “Hard radiation on the hull makes internal sensor readings foggy but I confirm zero plague emissions. There are five internally shielded compartments on Picaroon. It is likely one of them contains the civvies. I am collating readings and will transmit same to the boarding party.”
Nathan switched through his menus until he located the marine detachment. They had slipped out of the boat bay, slid their LB under the monitor's shields and latched onto the topside. There they applied full engine power until their speed matched Truculent’s.
“When you're ready, LT,” Waugh said.
“Departing now, captain.”
Two marine Spartans did not constitute an army. However, two marine Spartans and twenty top of the line type K14 combat 'droids, armed to the teeth with the best light weaponry in the League, came damn close.
Three minutes later the packed landing boat latched onto Picaroon's port midships hatch. COB Scaroni would use her universal tumbler to unscramble the locking code of the enemy’s outer hatch. Then, may the Lord have mercy on their souls. The marine's code with headhunters was one of giving no quarter. Nathan’s teeth set. Go for it marines. Kill them all.
“Hatch cracked,” Jakovich reported. “Opening now.” A short pause. “Corridor clear. Boarding vessel, now.
“Watch your step marines.”
“Always, captain.”
Contrary to the marine's suppositions, headhunters were warm-blooded mammals indistinguishable from human beings on sensor readouts. The marines relied on Hookes’ educated guess work to lead them to the civvies.
Nathan followed their progress on his sensors and imagined the scene in his mind. Nathan picked out the individuals from their comm emissions marked by green icons. The COB and CPO Lerner on the landing boat’s flight deck. Leo standing by the hatch with pulsar rifle in hand, observing. Next, a great mass of green mechanical signatures marched relentlessly through the corridors, occasional red icons falling to bursts of fire. Within the storm of metal bodies, two humans directing mission.
The standard complement of a Badger class varied between fifty and sixty crewmen. The marines were justifiably confident of their ability to deal with the larger force.
