by David Adams
I heard footsteps on the metal deck. “Let me guess,” came Shaba’s voice, “they didn’t read the brief.”
Shaba, Mace and Bobbitt crossed the deck, joining our group. We stood in a circle, next to the Broadsword that had shuttled Scott and I here.
“Neither did you,” said Scott. “I was there.”
“I read the rest en-route.” Shaba gave Ginger a sideways look. “I’m not an idiot.”
“That would have been smart,” said Ginger.
I probably should have too, but I kept my mouth shut. I resolved to read it on the way to the insertion point. I felt vaguely guilty about that.
“So,” said Shaba, “Major Scott. What now?”
Scott narrowed her eyes ever so slightly as Shaba spoke. It was interesting, seeing the two of them together and how quickly Scott had taken a dislike to Piggyback’s pilot. There were fewer women than men in most militaries, and although the Israeli armed forces allowed women to serve in any capacity a man could, they were rare. Was this how Gutterball and Shaba were like before they had really, truly gotten to know each other? It was a fascinating look back in time but I wasn’t sure I liked what I was seeing.
“Piggyback’s being prepped for pre-flight. We’re still testing the modifications.”
Shaba stiffened. “Modifications?”
“Of course. Your Broadsword had to be altered for the mission.”
The corners of Shaba’s lips took a dive to the deck. “What exactly did you do to Piggyback?”
“Well, our engineers swapped out the loading ramp for a breaching airlock and magnetised the seal. It should be working but we’ll need to test it first.”
Shaba’s glare could have curdled milk. “Who authorised the modifications to my ship?”
“I did. And it’s not your ship, Lieutenant Kollek. It’s the property of the Israeli Air and Space Arm. You’re paid to fly it, nothing more.”
“Replacing the loading ramp’s going to take more than the time it took us to get into orbit. How long have you been working on these modifications?”
“Three days.” Scott drummed her finger on her folder. “Ever since you got back.”
“What if my crew hadn’t accepted the mission?”
“Then we would have had another crew fly the modified Broadsword.” Scott held up her hand. “And, yes. That means we began cutting apart your ship before you accepted the mission. This is a war, Lieutenant, we don’t have the luxury of emotional attachments to our tools.”
If Shaba were a volcano, she would be erupting fiery doom all over the entire hanger bay, burying it in lava just like Pompey. I could see the rest of the crew edge away as though anticipating this exact scenario. Even I wasn’t happy at the way Scott had phrased it. Cutting apart.
“No, of course not ma’am.” Shaba forced out each word through gritted teeth. “I must have forgotten we were at war while we were burying Lieutenant Rubens. My mistake.”
Scott didn’t immediately answer. Instead, the two women exchanged a stare that could have melted the buttons on their uniforms.
“I’ll meet you back here at 1400,” said Scott. “I have to receive and brief the marines.”
“One hour. Very good, ma’am.” Shaba gave a stiff, angry salute. Scott turned and left.
Mace whistled. “Wow. She’s queen of the ‘no fun zone’, isn’t she?”
Shaba looked like she might punch something. “She’s a fucking festering cuntbag. That is, I mean to say, a literal bag of cunts swarming in centipedes and maggots.”
“Creative,” said Bobbitt. “I’m impressed.”
“You’ve never heard me swear like that before?”
“Of course I have,” said Bobbitt, “I’m mostly impressed you stopped there.”
Shaba grumbled something in Hebrew that I didn’t understand. Mace replied, also in Hebrew, and then everyone shared a laugh. Even Shaba.
The use of Hebrew, though, annoyed me. I felt isolated, as though I wasn’t a part of the crew and couldn’t share in their jokes.
Mace noticed. “Sorry, man. She was just saying—”
I held up a hand. “Hey, forget it. It’s cool.” I didn’t want to dwell on it. “So, when are we meeting our new Combat Systems Officer?”
Shaba snorted. “You really didn’t read it, did you?” She poked a finger at my chest. “Guess what.”
“No way.”
“Yep, you’re it.”
I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. I’d never commanded a Broadsword before, but much like acting as the ventral gunner I had in the last mission, I was qualified. It was fairly simple.
Sort of.
“What about the ventral gun position?” I asked.
“Won’t need one,” said Shaba, “like the brief says. If it comes to a scrap, the Broadsword’s cannons won’t do shit. They’re using the ventral gunner’s spot to store the gas until they’re ready to inject it.”
I gave my best cocksure grin. “Well, guess I’m moving up in the ranks.”
Ginger laughed, just a little too loudly. “Yeah. Hope you do better than the last CSO.”
That cast a pall over everything. I didn’t know what to say, and I suspected that everyone felt the same way. Shaba turned and left without saying anything, and I followed her.
“Hey,” I said. “Ginger’s just being an arse. Don’t worry about it.”
“I know.” She stopped, turned towards me, and I could see that she was struggling a bit. Still, she smiled. “You’ll be fine. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s been put in a commander’s position without preparing for it. You’re an officer. They train you for this kind of thing. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to appear more confident than I felt. “No worries.”
Hanger Bay
1400 hours
“Oh chabibi, what did they do to you.”
Shaba looked like someone had murdered her puppy. Piggyback, her noble steed, was an ugly warfighter at the best of times; now it looked even more misshapen than usual. A long cylinder had been welded to the front and the loading ramp had been jammed open then sealed. It looked, to my mind, like an angry toad sticking out its tongue to catch a fly. It even had turrets for warts.
“How do we even get on board?” I asked. “Through the airlock, I guess?”
She wasn’t even listening. “How am I supposed to fly with that thing? That hunk of shit has got to weigh fifteen, twenty tonnes. It’s going to shift the centre of gravity too far forward. The reactionless drive isn’t balanced for this. I’ll have to retrim.” She gave a long, exasperated sigh, gesturing towards the ship with both hands. “This is aircraft gore. We are looking at the corpse of a beautiful airframe.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “Besides. We’ll get the engineers to restore the loading ramp when we’re done with this op.”
“Ergh. You can’t give my baby plastic surgery, I won’t allow it.”
I squinted in her direction. “Sometimes I worry about you.”
Shaba walked around the ship, dazed. She ran a hand along the hull of the airlock as though sceptical it were real. One by one the flight crew assembled behind me, watching her.
Major Scott arrived, two dozen marines in tow. They wore a different uniform instead of the Task Force Resolution ones, and different from Major Scott. I didn’t recognise it. One of them wheeled a tall drum with a yellow chemical symbol upon it. The rest had the large automatic grenade launches the Chinese had developed to deal with the Toralii, with a missile tube over their back.
“Lieutenant Williams.” She nodded my way. “Are we ready to go?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, “as soon as we can figure out how to get aboard.”
I got a dark look for that comment, but I smiled through it, as though it were unintentional. “I see,” she said, “it is a complex puzzle. Fortunately, I am here to assist you.” Her boots clicked as she walked over the flight deck, towards the front of the long airlock, and pressed the thick re
d button on the side. The doors slid open. She turned back to me. “Any questions?”
“What are those?” I pointed to the tubes the marines had over their backs.
“Anti-armour rockets,” said Scott.
"Anti-armour rockets? What for?"
She looked at me like I might be crazy. "Killing… armour?"
"Good answer."
“Any more questions?”
“No ma’am.”
“Good.” Scott nodded to her soldiers. They filed in through the open airlock, then we went in after them. The cylindrical airlock lead to the cargo area, which had been retrofitted with rows of steel seats. I didn’t like how cramped it was, full of marines, and I was glad when I was able to move through to the CSO’s seat.
When I saw it, though, I just stopped. This was where Gutterball had been shot. Last time I’d seen this seat, it was covered in blood. Now, though, it looked like nothing had ever happened. The flight techs had even replaced the seat, reupholstering the cloth. I reached for the head, turning the seat around. The back had been replaced too. No bullet holes, nothing. A brand new seat, completely hiding the past.
I could still smell the blood though. The cordite from the gunfire. The smell of the fire extinguisher I’d used to blind the Kel-Voran we were transporting. It smelled like a swimming pool, an intensely artificial, synthetic smell that I now associated with combat. And the blood. It had been all over my hands.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, my hand on the headrest of the seat, staring at the place where Gutterball had been fatally wounded, but someone walked out from the cargo hold. The motion returned me to the present.
It was one of the marines. A woman. The only one on-board apart from Scott. “Lieutenant Williams?” She asked, with a vaguely European accent.
“Yes?”
She extended her hand. “Oberleutnant zur See Hanna Keller, Marinestützpunktkommando Kiel.”
I tried to process that. Failed. “I have absolutely no idea what any of that means.”
She seemed to be used to that response and just pointed to the German flag on her shoulder. “Call me Keller, sir. German marines. Oberleutnant zur See is equivalent to OF1.”
“Ah.” It made sense. They were Bundeswehr. Elite.
“Major Scott said that we’re all squared away. She wants to know what the holdup is.”
I was the CSO now. Launch was at my discretion. How long had I wasted staring off into nothing?
“Tell her that we’re just waiting on a couple of things.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
That stopped me. Captain? Technically I was the commander of the Broadsword, but CSOs were never referred to as Captain. They were more analogous to tank or bomber commanders.
“It’s just Lieutenant,” I said. “Broadswords are under the jurisdiction of the Israeli Air and Space Arm. This isn’t a naval vessel. It’s more like an aircraft.”
“Correct,” said Keller, “and there’s considerable debate about that, but we’re out here to take a ship. That’s definitely a naval asset. You’ll be a Captain then.”
“I thought Major Scott will be in charge after that.”
Keller smiled. “I think not, Lieutenant. Marines and the navy are always kept separate. It’s extraordinarily rare for marines to lead a ship. Last time it happened in a modern military was in the early 1800’s.”
I knew that, but it was interesting to hear someone else say it. “I’m in the Australian Air Force. Not the navy.”
Keller shrugged whimsically. “It’s closer than the army, like Scott, and marines are verboten.”
“Right. Well, that’s something I’ll keep in mind. Dismissed.”
Keller left. Forcing myself to overcome my discomfort, I sat in Gutterball’s chair.
No. It wasn’t Gutterball’s chair anymore. She was just a memory now. It was my chair and I had a job to do. I slipped the CSO’s headset over my head, turning on the ship’s integrated systems and letting everything boot up.
“This is Magnet. Initiating pre-flight launch sequence. All elements radio check.”
Everyone sounded off, ending with Major Scott.
“Marines, green light, ready for operation.”
“Right,” said Shaba, “let’s get this show on the road.”
I flicked the master arm and heard the hum as the ship’s power source switched on. I touched the ship’s external communicator, talking to the control tower.
“Sydney, Piggyback. Request departure clearance.”
They knew we were leaving. The response was swift. “Piggyback, Sydney. Launch clearance granted via main hanger. Preparing launch guidance system.”
My systems lit up, screens showing the integrated links and the guidance systems for Shaba. There was a lot more going on from this seat. The faint rush of air as the hanger bay was decompressed and exposed to vacuum. Two Wasps, our escort designated Striker 1 and Striker 2, lifted off the deck and flew above us. Shaba lifted the ship into formation, wobbling slightly as its artificial gravity fought with that of the Sydney. She was right. The added airlock did affect the ship’s flight characteristics.
But soon we floating above the deck, stable and level. The hanger doors opened and we flew out into space.
“All hands, Magnet. We are away.”
There were no windows in the CSO’s seat, no way to see the outside space except through radar screens and external cameras presented on tiny screens. The ventral gunner’s seat at least had a good view. Here all I could see were computers and keyboards. There was no peripheral vision. I could see now how someone had been able to sneak up on Gutterball.
One hour to the jump point. I sat back, relaxing for the first time since I’d sat down, and my mind wandered.
Gutterball. Our passenger. What it was like, setting foot on an alien world. How fragile people were, and how a tiny bit of metal could kill you despite having immediate medical care.
Someone touched me on my arm.
I leapt out of the seat, pushing myself up with one hand and drawing my pistol with the other. Acting solely on reflex, I slammed my knee into something soft, then racked the slide on my pistol, bringing it to a ready position.
Major Scott groaned from the floor, clutching her abdomen.
I raised my pistol to the roof. “Sorry ma’am.”
She’d had the wind knocked out. I wanted to help, but the consoles flashed with an urgency I couldn’t ignore. Instead I holstered my gun, took my seat and touched the mic.
“This is Magnet. Medical emergency in the CSO compartment.”
Smoke and Ginger came running. Sometimes it was useful having a doctor and a trauma surgeon on the ship.
“What the fuck?” said Smoke, throwing his bag on the deck and crouching over Scott. “Where’s she hit?”
“She isn’t,” I said, hooking my hands behind my head. “She just touched my arm and I panicked. I kneed her in the gut.”
Ginger sorted through the bag, pulling out compression bandages. “She’s not hit,” I said again, but my attention was drawn back to the screen. I’d forgotten to charge the jump drive. I began the sequence.
“I have to work,” I said, “let me know when she’s okay.”
“You’ll be fine, Major,” said Ginger, “just focus on breathing.”
“It’s coming back.” I heard the Major’s laboured gasps as her diaphragm began to work. “Got a mean… ng—kick there, Lieutenant.”
“I’m really sorry, ma’am. You startled me.”
“Little jumpy are we?”
I twisted in my seat. She was sitting up and Smoke was taking her pulse.
“Yeah.” I tapped some keys on my console. “This is where Gutterball got shot. Someone snuck up behind her and shot her. I was just thinking about it when you touched me.”
Scott seemed to understand. “Right. Loud knocks, then.”
“Loud knocks,” I echoed, then into the mic, “thirty minutes to jump point. Shaba, begin deceleration.”
“So what did you want?” I asked Scott.
“I wanted to sit beside you during the operation. I think I’d work better being somewhere I can communicate with you, which is also seems like it’s a good thing if you’re going to start kicking anyone who comes up when you’re distracted.”
That seemed reasonable. There was a spare chair here. It was with some degree of hesitation that I considered this. That was where Groomzilla had been seated. I could see, now, how he had easily gotten hold of Gutterball’s gun. And how defenseless she would have been.
But Scott wasn’t an alien being involuntarily transported to an arranged marriage, and she wasn’t going to shoot me. Still, irrationally, I was glad that my pistol was on my other hip. “Sure. No worries. And I’m sorry again.”
She pulled herself up with Ginger’s help. “Thank you,” Scott said. “And don’t worry about it.” She sat beside me, turning some of the monitors I had towards herself and plugging in a roll-out keyboard she had.
“We’re coming up on the jump point,” I said. “How’re you feeling?”
“Let’s just focus on the job,” she said, squinting at her monitor. “Six minutes?”
“Six minutes.”
The ship slid into the jump point, Shaba timing the deceleration so that Piggyback was in the epicentre of the jump point. I entered the coordinates from Scott’s mission brief, checking them with her, then my hand hovered over the large red button.
“All hands, prepare for jump.”
The wail of proximity alarms greeted me the moment the ship jumped and sensors turned back on. I looked at the close range radar screen. It was a soup of tiny contacts stretching out as far as our radar could see.
I tried to figure it out as I talked to the crew. “Jump complete. Weapons tight, condition one.” I flipped a switch to charge the Broadsword’s hull, draining power from the reactor to induce rigidity. The ship’s reactor flared to full power, compensating for the drain.
The crew called in, one by one, reporting their alert status. The reactionless drive hummed as Shaba manouvered.
