“What about his adjutant?” Sirocco asked.
“Gone forward to the outer lock.”
Sirocco looked worried. “Look, there is a force on its way forward to occupy the nose. We want to avoid any senseless bloodshed. Those locks must be kept open. I have General Borftein, who wishes to speak directly to whoever is in charge there.”
“I can speak for them,” Chaurez said. “You can tell the general that the news is good.”
Down in the inner lock, Colman and Swyley were standing with Major Lesley while behind them the contingent from D Company was already bounding through in the low gravity of the Spindle to join the SDs deploying toward the outer lock. “You took a hell of a chance, Sergeant,” Lesley said.
“Fifty-fifty,” Colman answered. “It would have been zero the other way.”
“You think pretty smart.”
“We’re all having to learn how to do that.”
Lesley held his eye for a second, then nodded. “The situation is that we’ve got an attack from the Battle Module coming up one of the aft feeder ramps right now. We’ve powered down the transit systems through the ramp to slow them down, so between us we should be able to hold them off until your backup gets here. How long should they take?” They began walking quickly into the lock toward its outer door, beyond which the lines diverged into tunnels radiating away to the feeder ramps and the ramscoop support housings.
“How far have they penetrated?” Colman asked.
“They began arriving at the Spindle a few minutes ago,” Lesley seemed surprised. “How come you didn’t know?”
“It’s been kind of. . . an unorthodox operation.”
Ahead of them, Jarvis had positioned soldiers to cover all of the tunnel mouths, with the strongest force concentrated around the outlet from the feeder ramp along which the SDs from the Battle Module were approaching, and he had retired to a sheltered observation platform from which he could direct operations with a clear view into the tunnel. Lesley, Colman, and Swyley moved behind a stanchion where Driscoll and a couple more from D Company were crouched with their weapons. A few seconds later the soldiers all around tensed expectantly.
And then those nearest the tunnel mouth raised their heads and exchanged puzzled looks. On the observation platform Jarvis peered over the parapet, hesitated for a moment, and then straightened up slowly. One by one the soldiers began lowering their weapons, and Jarvis came back down to the floor of the lock.
An SD major with a smoke-blackened face and one of his sleeves covered in blood emerged unsteadily from the tunnel mouth; immediately behind him were four more SDs looking disheveled and one of them also bloodstained around the head. Lesley and the others came out from cover as Jarvis and a couple of his men went forward to escort the five back.
Lesley and the major obviously knew each other. “Brad,” Lesley said. “What in hell’s happened? We were expecting a fight.”
“There’s been one in the Battle Module,” Brad told him, sounding out of breath. “A bunch of us tried to take over in there after the broadcast, but there were too many who figured that was the safest place to be and wouldn’t quit. It was all we could do to get out.”
“How many of you are there?” Lesley asked.
“I’m not sure . . . maybe fifty. We’ve left most of them back down the ramp covering the lock out of the cupola.”
“You mean the way’s clear right down to the Battle Module?” Colman asked.
Brad nodded. “But Stormbel’s people are in the cupola. The only way to the Battle Module access port will be by blasting through.”
Lesley turned to Jarvis. “Power the tubes back up and get some more guys down there fast. Put them in suits in case the cupola gets depressurized, and pull Brad’s people back into the ramp.”
“We’ve got a section already suited up,” Colman said. “Are those cars running?” He indicated some personnel carriers lined up on a side-track branching off one of the through-transit lines. Jarvis nodded. Colman turned to Swyley. “Get the section loaded up and move them on down the ramp.” Swyley and Jarvis hurried away.
“The Army’s on its way through the Spindle,” Lesley said to Brad. “They should start arriving here any time now.”
“Let’s hope they don’t waste any time,” Brad replied. “Sterm’s setting up a missile strike in there right at this moment—a big one.”
Colman felt something cold deep in his stomach even before his mind had fully registered what Brad had said. “Sterm?” he repeated numbly. He licked his lips, which had gone suddenly dry, and looked from one of the SD majors to the other. “You mean he’s already in there?”
Lesley nodded. “He’s been there all evening. Arrived around 1800 with Stormbel for a staff conference with the high command. They’re all in there . . .” He frowned at the expression on Colman’s face. “Nobody knew?”
Colman shook his head slowly. There had been too much to think about in too little time. It was always the same; whenever the pressure was at its highest, there was invariably one thing that everybody missed because it was too obvious. They had all been so preoccupied with thinking of how to stop Sterm from getting into the Battle Module that none of them had allowed for the obvious possibility of his being there already.
“What’s the target for the missile strike?” Colman asked hoarsely.
“I don’t know,” Brad replied. “I haven’t been in on it at the top level. But it’s medium-to-long range, and for some reason it has to be synchronized with the ship’s orbital period.”
Colman groaned. The target could only be the Kuan-yin. If the strike succeeded it would leave Sterm in sole command of the only strategic weapons left on the planet, and in a position to dictate any terms he chose; if it failed, then Sterm and his last few would take the whole of the Mayflower II with them when the Kuan-yin rose above Chiron’s rim to retaliate. Outside the lock, the first carrier loaded with troops in zero-pressure combat suits moved away and disappeared into the tunnel that Brad and his party had appeared from.
“You look as if you might know something about it,” Lesley said to Colman. “Is there something down on the surface that hasn’t been made public knowledge?”
“No . . .” Colman shook his head distantly. “It’s too much to go into right now. Look—”
An SD sergeant interrupted from behind Lesley. “They’re here sir. Carriers coming through the lock.” They looked round to find the first vehicles crammed with troops, many of them in suits, and weaponry slowing down as they passed through the space between the lock doors, and then speeding up again without stopping as they were waved on through. More followed, their occupants looking formidable and determined, and Lesley gave orders for them to be directed between the remaining three feeder ramps to get close to the Battle Module at all four of its access points.
Then Colman’s communicator started bleeping. Bernard Fallows was calling from the Communications Center. “I guess you did it,” he said. “But it’s not over yet. We’ve found out where Sterm is.”
“So have I,” Colman said. “And it’s worse than that. He’s setting up a missile strike right now. The target has to be the Kuan-yin.”
Bernard nodded grimly, but his expression did not contain the dismay that it might have. Evidently he had been half-prepared for the news. “Borftein’s been checking on that possibility,” he said. “It’ll be forty minutes before the Kuan-yin goes behind the rim. Sterm won’t launch before then.”
“Will the Chironians let him wait that long?” Colman asked. “Do they know he’s in there and what it means?”
Bernard shook his head. “No. We’re in touch with them, but Wellesley vetoed any mention of it.” Colman nodded. He wouldn’t have risked their deciding to fire first either. Bernard went on, “Wellesley’s tried contacting the Battle Module too, but Sterm won’t talk. We figure he’ll keep the module attached until after the attack goes in—in other words if he doesn’t pull it off and gets blasted, we all get blasted. The same thing applies if the C
hironians decide to press the button. We have to assume he’s on a forty-minute countdown. Hanlon and Armley are on their way there, and Sirocco left a few minutes ago. Borftein is sending through everybody he can scrape together. What are the chances?”
A carrier full of combat-suited infantry nursing antitank missile launchers and demolition equipment slid through the lock and lurched onto a branch leading to one of the Battle Module’s forward ramps. “Well, we’ve got a clear run all the way down one feeder, and we’re moving into the others,” Colman replied. “There’s been some fighting inside the Battle Module, and a lot of the guys got out. We have to hope that there aren’t enough left to stop us from blowing our way in through four places at once. Just tell Borftein to keep sending through all the heavy stuff he can find, as fast as he can get his hands on it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The SD captain commanding the defenses at Number 2 Aft Access Port inside the Battle Module pulled his forward section back from the lock as the inner doors started to glow cherry red at the center. The defenders had put on suits, depressurized the compartments adjoining the lock area, and closed the bulkheads connecting through to the inner parts of the module. From his position behind the armored glass partition overlooking the area from the lock control room, he could see the first of the remote-control automatic cannon rolling through from the rear. “Hurry up with those RCCs,” he shouted into his helmet microphone. “Yellow section take up covering positions. Green and Red prepare to fall back to the longitudinal bulkhead locks.”
“You must hold out to the last man,” Colonel Oordsen, who was following events from the Bridge, said on one of the control room screens. “We’re almost ready to detach the module.”
“We will if we have to, sir,” the captain assured him.
Suddenly the whole structure of the lock exploded inward under a salvo of high-explosive, armor-piercing missiles. Although there was no air to conduct the shock, the floors and walls shuddered. Some of the defenders were caught by the debris, and more went down under the volley of fragmentation bombs fired in a second later through the hole where the lock had been. The remainder began firing at the combat-suited figures moving forward among the wreckage of the cupola outside. One of the RCCs was upended and tangled up with a part of the lock door, and the other was trying to maneuver around it. “Red section, move to fallback positions,” the captain yelled. “Covering—”
Another missile salvo streaked in and smashed into the walls and structures inboard from the lock, wiping out half the force that had just begun to move. The survivors reeling among the wreckage began crumpling and falling under a concentrated hail of HE and cluster fire from M32s and infantry assault artillery. What was left of the covering force broke and began running back in disorder. “Get everybody out! Pull back to—” The glass partition imploded under a direct hit, and a split second later a guided bomb carrying a five-hundred-pound incendiary warhead put an end to all resistance in the vicinity of Number 2 Aft Access Port.
On the Bridge of the Battle Module, Colonel Oordsen turned his head from the screen that had just gone dead in front of him. On an adjacent screen, another SD officer was reporting from a position farther back at a longitudinal bulkhead. “Negative at Number Two Aft,” Oordsen said to Sterm, who was watching grim faced. “They’ll be through there in a matter of minutes.”
“How long before the Kuan-yin is eclipsed?” Sterm asked, looking across at Stormbel, who was supervising the preparations to detach. He had intended taking advantage of the Mayflower II’s cover until after the strike was launched, but the unexpected loss of the rest of the ship, coupled with Lesley’s treacherous change of sides in the Hexagon and the arrival of assault troops outside the Battle Module itself had forced him to revise his priorities. There would be little point in destroying the Kuan-yin if he lost the Battle Module in the process.
“Eight minutes,” Stormbel replied. “But its reaction dish is still aimed away from us. We are now ready to detach.”
“You are certain that we could make the cover of Chiron safely?”
“The Kuan-yin will not be able to maneuver instantly,” Stormbel answered. “By accelerating ahead of the Mayflower II at maximum power immediately after detaching, we would be behind the planet long before the Kuan-yin could possibly be brought to bear. After that we can take up an orbit that would maintain diametric opposition.”
“Number One Forward Port has surrendered,” Oordsen said tightly, taking in another report. “The firing has stopped there. Nickolson is leading his men out, including his reserve. We have no choice.”
Sterm’s eyes smoldered. “I want a full record kept of every officer who deserts,” he reminded Stormbel. “The ones in the Government Center, the one in Vandenberg, Lesley in the Hexagon, that one there—all of them.” His voice was calm but all the more menacing for its iciness. “They will answer for this when the time comes. General, detach the Battle Module immediately and proceed as planned.”
Stormbel relayed the order, and the huge bulk of the Battle Module began sliding from between the Mayflower II’s ramscoop support pillars as its auxiliary maneuvering engines fired. The sound of twisted steel scraping across the outside of its hull reverberated throughout the module’s stern section as one of the feeder ramps, none of which was retracted, first bent, and then crumpled. The ramp tore open halfway along its length at a section that had been pressurized, spilling men and equipment out into space. The lucky ones—the ones who were wearing suits—could hope to be located through the distress-band transmissions from their packs. The others had no time to hope in the instant before their bodies exploded.
“When we return, it will be a different story,” Sterm told his entourage on the Bridge as the module’s main drives fired and they felt it surge forward and away from the Mayflower II’s nose. “But first, we have to deal with our Chironian . . . friends. What is the report on the Kuan-yin?”
“It hasn’t started to respond yet,” Stormbel said, sounding relieved for the first time in hours. “Perhaps we took them by surprise after all.” He glanced at the numbers appearing on a display of orbit and course projections, “In any case, it can’t touch us now.”
Sterm nodded slowly in satisfaction. “Excellent. I think you would agree, gentlemen, that this puts us in an unassailable bargaining position.”
* * *
In the Mayflower II’s Communications Center, Borftein, Wellesley, and the others who had been coordinating activities all over the ship and down on the surface watched and listened tensely as pandemonium poured from the screens around them. Spacesuited figures were cartwheeling away from the mangled remains of one feeder ramp, and the exposed interiors of the cupolas at the ends of the others; all showed battle damage and one of them was partly blown away. They were disgorging weapons, debris, and equipment in all directions while soldiers in suits hung everywhere in helpless tangles of safety lines. “Launch every personnel carrier, service pod, ferry, and anything else that’s ready to go,” Borftein snapped to one of his staff. “Get them from Vandenberg or anywhere else you have to. I want every one of those men picked up. Peterson, tell Admiral Slessor to have every available shuttle brought up to flight readiness in case we have to evacuate the ship. And find out how many more we can get up here from Canaveral.”
“Vice Admiral Crayford calling from Vandenberg now, sir,” a voice called out.
“The Chironians on channel eight are requesting a report, sir.”
“Major Lesley calling from the nose, sir.”
“Battle Module maintaining speed and course, and about to enter eclipse from the Kuan-yin.”
Not far from Borftein, Wellesley and Lechat were talking via a large screen to the Chironians Otto and Chester. Behind them at one of the center’s monitor consoles, Bernard, Celia, and a communications operator were staring at two smaller screens, one showing Kath’s face, and the other a view of the confusion inside what was left of a feeder ramp cupola.
On
the second screen Hanlon, in a spacesuit blackened by scorch marks, was clinging in the foreground to the remains of a buckled metal structure sticking out into empty space, and hauling on a pair of intertwined lines with his free arm, while behind him other soldiers were pulling figures back into the shattered cupola and helping them climb to the entrance into the feeder ramp. “I think this might be the man himself now,” Hanlon’s voice said from the grille by the screen. “Ah, yes . . . a little the worse for wear, but he’ll be as good as new.” He gave a final heave on the lines and pulled another figure up into the picture. Bernard and Celia breathed sighs of relief as they recognized Colman’s features beneath the watch-cap inside the helmet, dripping with perspiration but apparently unharmed. Colman anchored himself to another part of the structure that Hanlon was on, unhitched his safety line and untangled it from the other one, and then helped Hanlon pull it in to produce another spacesuited figure, this time upside down and with a pudgy, woebegone face that was somehow managing to keep a thick pair of glasses wedged crookedly across its nose.
“Hanlon’s got him,” Bernard said to the screen that was showing Kath. “He looks as if he’s all right. They’ve got Swyley too. He seems okay.”
Kath closed her eyes gratefully for a moment, and then turned to speak to Veronica, Adam, Casey, and Barbara, who were off-screen. “They’ve found Steve. He’s all right.”
Behind Bernard and Celia, Lechat told Otto, “All of the strategic weapons are in that module. The remainder of this ship represents no threat whatsoever.”
“We are aware of that,” Otto said.
“We had to try,” Wellesley insisted from beside Lechat. “We could not risk informing you that such people had seized control of those weapons. The decision was mine and nobody else’s.”
“I think I’d have done the same thing,” Otto told him.
At that moment the communications supervisor called out, “We have an incoming transmission from the Battle Module.” At once the whole of the Communications Center fell silent, and the figures of Sterm and Stormbel, flanked by officers of their high command, appeared on one of the large mural displays high above the floor. Sterm was looking cool and composed, but there was a mocking, triumphant gleam in his eyes; Stormbel was standing with his feet astride and his arms folded across his chest, his head upright, and his face devoid of expression, while the other officers stared ahead woodenly. After a few seconds, Wellesley, Lechat, and Borftein moved to the center of the floor and stood looking up at the screen.
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