by P J Strebor
So far resistance had been surprisingly moderate. The marines expected to take care of business with little difficulty. After all, the enemy were nothing more than a ragtag bunch of pirates. Nathan frowned. Why is my back throbbing so painfully?
“LT,” Hookes said, “I detect a large concentration of warm bodies in section one-niner on your current deck. I read no energy emissions. It could be the civvies.”
“Roger that,” the marine acknowledged. “Proceeding to section one-niner.”
Nathan's back flared, causing an involuntary gasp to escape his lips.
“Are you all right, ensign?”
Nathan had been concentrating so intently on the unfolding scene he had not noticed the captain step behind him to observe the mission on his more detailed screens.
“Yes, captain.” The fire between his shoulders continued to burn ferociously. What should I do? Tell the captain? Tell her what? I have a sense of impending disaster? Nathan knew danger lurked in the shadows of the very near future. Not for him, but for the boarding party.
“Something's not right here, captain.” His eyes stayed locked to his readouts.
“Are you exercising another hunch, ensign?”
“I can't explain it.” He committed the cardinal sin, abandoned his screen and stared at the captain. “This feels wrong.”
If anyone could appreciate the value of good instincts it would be Donatella Waugh. Nathan had his premonition pain to warn him and she had thirty years on the deck of a monitor. Her eyes narrowed.
“Lieutenant Jakovich, report.”
“Approaching section one-niner, captain.”
“Lieutenant Hookes, is there anything out of the ordinary?”
“Captain, I read twenty live bodies. No weapons signatures.” Hookes paused briefly before adding, “In fact I detect no energy emissions at all on that deck.”
Nathan caught fleeting the exchange between the captain and D-O. It was as if two minds connected for an instant. The commander's head shook ever so slightly.
“Lieutenant Jakovich, withdraw to the landing boat.”
“We’re almost there, captain.”
“Lieutenant, withdraw immediately.”
“Very well, captain, we ar …” The transmission ended with a forbidding abruptness.
Nathan gaped at his screens. The energy signals from the landing party had vanished. Astonishingly, all signs of life had disappeared from the enemy vessel. What the hell?
“Lieutenant, respond.”
Nothing.
“Tactical, what's happening?”
Bewilderment replaced Hookes' normally composed features. “I'm not sure, captain. I'm detecting nothing from Picaroon’s interior. I can’t explain it.”
“Luis?”
“Nothing,” he said bitterly. “I have tried every channel, all overrides. I can't raise them.”
Nathan examined his screen to assure himself that Picaroon had not self destructed. Landing Boat one remained tethered to Picaroon. From the outside everything appeared normal.
Several silent, agonizing minutes passed before a scratchy attempted transmission came through. The D-O’s face creased in frustration as he attempted to clean up the signal.
LB one disengaged from Picaroon.
“… one respond. I say again, Truculent, this is landing boat one.” The distress in Scaroni’s voice made her words difficult to read. “Am returning to the boat now. Require immediate medical assistance. I have wounded aboard.”
“Bring her home, COB,” the captain said, “we’ll be ready for you.”
“Roger that. LB one out.”
CHAPTER 48
Orson’s fought to control his temper. He longed to slowly garrote every idiotic headhunter aboard. Picaroon's bridge crew grinned like panting dogs. Foss scowled at their behavior. At least he knew the score.
“Helm,” Foss said, “ETA at the frontier?”
“Sixteen point two hours, captain.”
“Captain,” Weiss said, “permission to secure from Alert Condition one.”
Foss bared his teeth. “Why in God's name would I do that?”
“We beat them,” the XO said. “They won't follow us across the border, so we're clear. The crew has been at alert condition one for six hours and I think – ”
“I don't give a fuck what you think.” Foss’ infuriated voice thundered against the bulkheads. “Comm Officer, pipe me throughout the ship. All departments, including crew quarters.”
“Aye-aye, captain. Inter-ship channels open.”
“This is the captain,” Foss continued in the same uncompromising tone. “We still have an Athenian monitor on our stern and I for one do not take these Athenians for granted. They have an exceptional reputation. All platoon leaders prepare for boarding party action." He paused and sighed heavily. "All departments will remain at alert condition one until further notice. That is all.”
“Captain,” the xo said, “you don't seriously think they’ll attempt another boarding after the pasting we gave them?”
“There is nothing more certain in the universe. They are Monitor Corps.”
“In that case we’ll capture or kill them,” Weiss said. “Either way we’ll get a good bounty from this mission.”
Foss ignored him. Orson suspected that, like himself, Foss resisted the urge to agree. With what Picaroon had up her sleeve the Athenians were as good as dead.
CHAPTER 49
Commodore Waugh rested her hands on the briefing room table. She had lost people before but never like this. Sergeant Redpath sat to her immediate left. His dark, rigid façade could not disguise his monumental rage. Doc Kelso had treated Redpath’s superficial wounds and Waugh spared him what recovery time she could. She had never seen the veteran marine so shaken.
“All right Rusty, let's have it.”
“It was a standard boarding op. Any of the pricks who stuck their heads up, lost them.” His eyes glazed over as he recounted the nightmare. “Resistance minimal. Our scans showed zero weapons emissions, no booby traps, nothing out of the norm. It was too easy. I should’ve known something was wrong.
“We got your comm. and began pulling back to the boat. Picaroon’s internal power went down. The ‘droids froze. Their power readings were in the green but they didn’t respond to commands.” Redpath drew his sidearm and tripped the selection stud to stun. Officers leapt aside when he raised the weapon and fired. The energy dissipated harmlessly against the far bulkhead. “On Picaroon this did not fire. A full charge in the mag but nothing happened when I pulled the trigger. Same with my rifle.”
“Energy dampener?” Waugh suggested to her D-O.
“Sounds like it. We’ve been trying to develop one for years. How could a pack of savages get their hands on such advanced technology?”
“We’ll leave explanations to the science division,” Waugh said. “Go on Rusty.”
“Lieutenant Jakovich and I fixed bayonets and began to withdraw. The hatch to section nineteen opened. There must’ve been twenty of them. It reminded me of one of those old Gothic horror vids. They were armed with swords. Swords for fuck’s sake. They came at us in waves, screaming like wild animals. The landing boat was within sight but we couldn’t break free of the surrounding pack. The LT took a blade to the chest but fought on. We were barely holding our own but we couldn't win against those odds. We were dead meat. Then the boat crew came out for us. The COB, Chief Lerner and … young Mister Saunders. They punched a hole through the pack and held them off while we made a run for the boat. The LT had taken another hit to the arm and was bleeding out. I dragged her into the LB. The boat crew were bloody magnificent. They used their rifles as clubs and fought like warriors. They almost made it back to the hatch when Mister Saunders fell.
“They hacked into him like wild beasts.” Rusty’s haunted gaze dropped to the deck. “If we tried to rescue him we would have been overrun and lost the boat. We had no choice but to seal the
hatch and withdraw.”
Luis slid a tumbler of rum along the table to the marine. The double shot of courage disappeared in a single gulp.
A deathly silence enveloped the crowded room.
Waugh took in the room. The faces of Truculent’s senior officers were set in uniformly grim, determined casts. “Does anyone feel like going home?”
Redpath’s back straightened, a murderous glint lighting his eyes. Waugh saw the same spark burning from every eye in the room.
“Very well. We’ll finish what we started. Now that we know what we’re up against we’ll make the bastards bleed.” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s time to review our available assets.”
***
With Lt Hookes in the briefing room, Nathan occupied the Tactical Station. Ensign Allan Mattich had the helm, Lt Alderman took up the Operations Station and had the Conn. Everyone was vigilant to any change from Picaroon. Allan grimly concentrated on his readouts, his fingers never far from the firing studs. The sinister side of Nathan’s mind hoped Picaroon would try something. Allan and Leo had been friends for three tours. In Allan's current mood he would likely obliterate the headhunter from existence if she twitched. That was fine with Nathan. As for the civilians? Far better they die quickly now than to spend the rest of their lives as slaves.
Leo's smiling face intruded into Nathan’s thoughts. The image brought with it a terrible pain Nathan had not experienced in many, many years. He forced the tragic picture from his mind and worked the problem.
Nathan examined Picaroon’s sensor logs while absently rubbing at the bump on his right eye brow. The dampening field had been disengaged. Throughout the enemy ship pockets of sensor darkness confirmed various sections had been security sealed. A level one security field surrounded the engineering section as well as the bridge and forward weapons bays. Somehow the enemy found a way to generate the energy soaking field without effecting gravity and life support. Throughout the rest of the ship red icons indicated roving patrols.
Five key areas had been marked as possible sites for the missing civvies. What lay behind the double-ply battle armor and internal shielding was anyone’s guess. Only a direct assault would provide the answers. The enemy's energy dampener field awaited them. If they could not solve that problem the boarding parties would be massacred. For Nathan the real impact came, not from the discovery of a new form of technology, but in the reality that Lt Jakovich would probably die from her wounds, and Leo was dead. The image of Leo’s young wife and tiny son pushed into Nathan’s thoughts. With an angry shake of his head he pushed the picture aside.
Nathan rubbed his hands across his face, digging the heels of his thumbs into his eyes. What’s taking them so long? The senior officers had been locked in the briefing room for hours. Talk, talk, talk. The headhunter would slip across the Rio Grande into the safety of Pruessen space in less than fourteen hours. They needed to return to Picaroon and kill every last headhunter. Nathan held his head in his hands, taking deep, steadying breaths until he brought his murderous rage under control. As his hands slid from his face the bridge hatch opened.
Moe stepped onto the bridge followed by Meta and Ozzie. They leaned against the tactical console. Moe stared at him reading his confirmation. She spoke for all of them in a low, morose voice.
“The rumor’s true then. Leo …”
Nathan nodded. The middies hung their heads.
“Don't you dare!” Nathan’s savage tone caused his friends to recoil. “Don't you dare grieve for him. Not yet! Not till we trade blood for blood.”
“I’d like nothing more than to get my hands on the bastards who did this.” Meta said. “But you don't seriously think they’ll take us on a boarding mission do you?”
“They better not try stopping me.” His comm beeped and he keyed the larynx mike. “Telford.”
“Have the middies arrived, Ensign Telford?” the D-O asked.
“Aye, sir.”
“Show them in.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” He glared at his friends, knowing full well how they reacted when his fury surfaced. Well bad luck. They’ll have to get over it and grow up real fast. “If anyone wants out of this, say so now.” His friends shook their heads. “Good. Let's see what the skipper wants.”
Nathan led them across the bridge to the briefing room hatch, stopping by the Operations Station. “Sir, permission to leave my post.”
Lt Alderman glanced over the rim of the console. “Permission granted.”
They stepped through the hatch into the briefing room. Nathan’s skin tingled in a most unfamiliar way.
CHAPTER 50
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close up the wall with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becoming a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of a tiger.
William Shakespeare, Henry V.
Date: 16th August, 320.
Position: Monitor Truculent. One hundred & sixteen minutes from the Northern frontier.
Status: Alert Condition One.
Redpath huddled on the landing boat’s deck surrounded by his team. He had selected the members of Alpha team for their physical strength and steely nerve. They were also the six most notorious brawlers aboard Truculent. They enjoyed a good scrap and Redpath would throw them into the fight of their lives.
The violent specialists who comprised Strike Team Alpha opted for the same primary weapon that hung from his shoulder strap. Axes were not standard issue aboard a monitor, as the new supply officer pointed out. Until a few hours ago this weapon did not exist.
Petty Officer Limpski's saving grace, and the reason the skipper kept him aboard, was his transformational genius in the maintenance workshop. Within hours of hearing Redpath's terse demand for a battle-ax in the tradition of barbarian warriors, Limpski had produced a dozen weapons tailored to the sergeant’s specifications. The one-piece, case-hardened battle-steel ax, boasted double edged blades and a swing radius close to a meter. Limpski gave no guarantees how it would fare against enemy body armor. However, he did guarantee that if a marine of Redpath’s robust physique were to deliver a full-blooded impact, the kinetic energy alone should take his opponent down. Despite the marine’s foul mood the lethal news incited a gruesome smile.
Augmenting their medieval arsenal, all combatants carried a sidearm or a shoulder slung pulsar rifle. The sergeant looked forward to chopping into headhunters with case-hardened steel but did not want to be caught with an ax in his hands if the power was restored. They were inventing tactics for this kind of combat on the run. Only time would tell how well their planning worked.
Redpath examined the middies who clustered against the aft airlock hatch. The eager beaver, false bravado could not mask their fidgeting. However, the middy with the killer's eyes appeared genuinely unfazed by the forthcoming conflict.
Telford spat on the sharpening stone before running it along the sword's newly honed edges. He sighted along blade. His lips compressed as he examined the keen edge.
Swords! Redpath could barely believe the captain agreed to send academy kids into combat armed with swords. In his twenty years in Marine Special Forces he could not recall a more bizarre situation.
All operational personnel wore the same kit: Fighting suits under light, body armor and standard combat helmets. The only people not so equipped were the medics and the hares. Used as runners, the hares relied on their speed and agility for protection.
Telford and Okuma sported a quiver of arrows over their right shoulders. The marine had serious reservations about how effective the toy bows would be against armored troops. The captain insisted they could be of use. Redpath never argued with the captain.
He eyed Telford again, wondering if he would risk this wild card if things got dicey. As if Telford did not carry enough weapons, a bone handled hunting
knife hung from his webbing under his left shoulder and a bayonet under his right. The acting ensign glanced at him as if sensing the marine’s eyes.
Although Telford nodded and forced a tight smile he could not hide his smoldering hostility. He had become noticeably livid when Redpath assigned Telford’s team to Tactical Reserve. Telford did not want to watch from the sidelines. Yet if the speedily fashioned plan stood a chance of working, Redpath did not want untried amateurs getting under foot.
Next to Telford, Dearkov lovingly stroked the head of her ax. Redpath had been quietly astonished when she volunteered to keep an eye on the middies. She stayed close to Telford, saying little, but ready to act, even eager to please.
Cmdr Demianski caught Redpath’s attention and held up one finger. “Listen up people, one minute to go,” Redpath yelled. He struggled through the crowd and squeezed onto the flight deck.
Through the view-plate Picaroon loomed large as Truculent closed the gap between them. Much larger than the pursuing monitor she followed the basic design of most space-going warships. A long, broad, wedge-shaped vessel, four decks higher than the monitor and eight-times her displacement.
Truculent fired two torpedoes. At a preprogrammed point on either side of Picaroon's sensor array, the torpedoes detonated. Instead of a massive wash of nuclear fire, a ripple of Weapons Counter Measures discharge washed over the headhunter. Until the enemy physically carried out repairs she would be as blind as a drunk in a closet.
“We have a go, sir,” CPO Stokes said from the pilot's seat.
“Very well, chief,” Demianski said, “proceed.”
Redpath headed aft as the engines increased to full power. Seconds later Stokes disengaged the magnetic skids and the landing boat broke away from Truculent’s topside.
While Redpath checked the hatch controls he noticed Okuma lean in to Telford's ear.
“Well Stanley,” she whispered, "here's another fine mess you've gotten us into."
