by Peter Telep
Shane glanced at her watch phone. "We're up in thirty-eight mikes. Hangar bay six. We'll join you down there."
"Sounds good. I'll let myself out," he said.
Wang, whose expression of resentment was as evident as the steel walls, muttered, "You do that."
Shane glared at Wang, but the lieutenant's gaze was locked onto the departing android. Swearing under her breath, she returned to her dressing.
Nathan rounded the comer, then went to his locker. "I almost forgot my electronic jock warmer." Slowly, he craned his neck to grin back at her.
"I love you, West," Shane said, unable to help her smile.
Once everyone was suited up and rucksacks had been loaded, Shane led the five-eight in single file out of the bunk room. They walked down to hangar bay six, drawing the attention of nearly every officer and enlisted person they passed. While their mission was classified, it was well known aboard the Saratoga that when the five-eight went out, it was for anything but a routine assignment. And it also usually meant that the Saratoga herself was not far from harm's way.
"Entering Wolf 359 star system," the chief of the watch reported over the intercom.
"Very well. Set course four-niner-five for target," Commodore Ross said. "Launch the fifty-first squadron."
"Recon squad slotted and now pulling away, sir."
Shane listened to the rhythm of orders and responses from the Command Center until she and the rest came to parade rest before the MFH bomber in hanger bay six. The intercom in the bay had been turned off in deference to Colonel McQueen, who had, strangely, not yet arrived.
Unfortunately, the silicate had decided to show, and he stood to Shane's immediate right. "Just wanted to let you know, Captain, that I've been fully briefed, and if there's anything you want recounted, I'll be more than happy to recite it for you."
"That won't be necessary. What we need to do is establish some working rules, you and me. Rule number one: When we're not in a combat situation, do not speak until spoken to."
"Yes, Captain. Though perhaps a tad immature, and, were I a female, definitely sexist, I can abide by that."
"Rule number two," Shane continued. "You will attempt to answer most questions with a yes or no answer. Understood?"
He paused, and she had to look at him. "Problem?"
"No problem, sir. It's just that I love to talk."
She let that hang.
"Are there any other rules?" he asked.
"You've just broken rule number one."
"Sorry, sir."
One thing Shane did find acceptable about the silicate was that he didn't emit those erratic tonal bursts of A.I. communication since his link to the CPU had been severed. Give him a pair of blue contacts, and you'd never know he didn't have a soul. Another thing she noticed about him was that he didn't pepper his speech with gambling jargon the way other A.I.s did. That, too, was probably symptomatic of his reprogramming.
With little else to do, she stared at the MFH bomber, a flying wing whose hull appeared to be made of black chrome but was, in fact, designed of a new composite material that purportedly helped to absorb Chig laser fire. Shane would believe that when she saw it. She had come to the understanding that new, wartime technologies were often as dangerous to the user as they were to the enemy. She thought about the time the Corps had issued version 4.0 of the LIDAR software, and how it had had so many glitches that two squadrons from the USS Alabama had accidentally engaged each other in long-range combat. Only three zoomies came out of that one alive.
Colonel McQueen walked at double-time into the bay.
Nathan sounded the entrance. "Ten-hut!"
"At ease." Flush and a little out of breath, he came to stand in front of them. "I'm late because our recon detected the departure of two enemy tanker ships from the dark side of Bulldog. They're big ships, slow movers, and we're not waiting for them. We've changed the grid coordinates of your drop zone and fed them into your AP-Vs. Unfortunately, this means you'll be doing a little more hiking than you thought." He focused on Cooper. "Hope you paid attention in CWS class."
Cooper's Adam's apple moved. "I did, sir."
McQueen went on. "Once you establish visual contact with the aqueduct, you'll be responsible for your own intelligence gathering, bearing in mind that your charges must be placed inside the structure to bring it down. Your window of operations is limited only to your rations: three to six days. Budget everything. Get off communications when you can, if you can. But that's not a priority. Blowing that aqueduct is. We suspect that the Chigs have difficulty transporting their food long distances, making it necessary for them to find other sources along the way. The aqueduct on Bulldog's Belly may be their sole source in this sector. Destroy the duct, and the Chigs' ability to operate here should be severely limited."
"Sir? What about the other squadron, sir? What if we find 'em?" Cooper asked.
Shane winced over the question, realizing she probably should have told the others a little more about the meeting.
"Captain Vansen has received orders regarding the two-one, and she will keep you informed." McQueen looked sternly at her, but he only held his gaze for a second, as he was distracted by something behind her. "If any of you want to go over there and see the chaplain, he's here now. Otherwise, Semper Fi. Good luck. Dismissed."
Shane watched Damphousse drag Cooper by the arm toward the chaplain. Wang followed them. Nathan went directly to the AP-Vs, which were positioned on mobile hydraulic lifts beneath the MFH bomber. Clean-suited techies clustered around the torpedoes, completing their final inspections.
Moving toward her, McQueen gestured with his head to the chaplain. "You gonna go make peace?"
"Thought I'd bake a cake instead."
"Don't think he can help you?"
Shane stiffened. "He's never helped you."
"I've never asked him for help." McQueen turned his attention to the activity below the bomber. "But were I being stuffed into one of those things, I might consider it."
"It's funny, I got this strong feeling that I know I'm going to live. I'm coming out of this. There's no doubt in my mind."
"You don't sound happy about that."
"I guess I'm not."
"Why?"
"When I come back, I don't know. I want to be somebody else."
"Maybe you will be. Now get a move on. The sooner you get this thing done and return, the sooner you'll know." He left in the same hurry which had brought him to the bay.
Within five mikes the squadron reassembled beneath the bomber. Nathan and Cooper had chosen masks instead of the heavy rebreather helmets worn by everyone else, and they waved and demonstrated their flexibility.
A techie double-checked Shane's environment suit and helmet, then he spotted her as she climbed a short staircase. She lowered herself into the AP-V, and the techie sealed the hatch after her.
When she had been in the AP-V simulator, Shane had learned that the way to beat the claustrophobia that came on as relentlessly as a gas giant's gravitational pull was to focus on the trio of active matrix screens that hung before her. But presently, they only flashed standby or booting up messages, doing little to provide her with a distraction. She heard a tiny beep begin to sound in her headset; it was the belt restraint alarm.
"Any problems, Captain?" the techie asked over the intercom.
"No. Just forgot to put on my seat belt."
Now strapped tightly into the thing, the hatch sealed, the inner hull so close she could not fully extend her arm forward without hitting something, Shane felt her breath begin to shorten.
"Attention five-eight. A reminder that this is C and C, communications monitored. Standard call names are filed nine. This is Wolfpack Six," McQueen identified. "Captain Vansen, Silver Bullet One. West, Two. Hawkes, Three. Damphousse, Four. Wang, Five. And Mister 404, Six. Com check commencing."
The AP-V shook a little, and she heard a muffled thud. In her mind's eye, Shane pictured the giant claws of the lifter as they clamped
onto her torpedo, then swung it toward the bomber. "Silver Bullet One, check." As the others reported in, Shane felt another thud, this one much more pronounced. She checked the screen to her left. Multiple data bars reported the status of, among many other things, fuel, inertial guidance, ejection control, battery max times, LIDAR jamming modes, and what was now a particularly vital piece of information: the wing mount. The three-dimensional status button glowed green, and the switch to override release from the bomber's cockpit remained red and active. In case of an emergency, she could release the AP-V herself from the bomber. She would hate to be attached to a plane that had been hit, the pilots killed, and the craft sinking toward an alien atmosphere at a suicidal angle of descent.
"Wolfpack Six to Silver Bullet One. Switch to secured channel," McQueen said.
Shane reached for the oversized keyboard below the monitors, and with a gloved hand she typed in the code. "On channel."
"Relax, Captain. You'll be out of that tin can before you know it, and you'll probably be wishing you were back in it. Bulldog's a little cold this time of year."
"Once that forward view screen engages, I'll be all right. There's just no depth in here. I'm buried alive," Shane said.
"Launch in three mikes," he said assuringly. "Wolfpack Six, out."
The colonel had tried to make her feel better, but the act left her feeling worse. She couldn't blame him, though. Rarely did his In Vitro naivete surface, but when it came to complex emotions like depression, he seemed out of his element; then again, most men would have trouble advising her in her current state. Trembling slightly, she focused on the pre-flight checklist. Status was nominal for each item except intership communications. She keyed the channel. "Silver Bullets report in."
One by one they did so, and then Shane listened to communications between the Command Center and the bomber pilots. "We're in the slot. ARI indicator's a go. IR coolant switch, go. Inertial Navigation System, go. PPCL complete. Darkhorse One, request burner takeoff."
They received their clearance, and with a force that seemed much more powerful than the simulation had presented it, the bomber rumbled, moved slowly forward, then shot off into space.
"Silver Bullets. Expect vector two-three-niner in twenty-nine mikes. Hack," the pilot said.
"Copy that, Darkhorse One," Shane responded. "Vector two-three-niner to insertion in two-nine mikes. Switching to frequency three-two-seven-point-two. Squawk is five-one-five-four."
"Roger, Silver Bullet One. CS until insertion."
With the standard skipchatter thankfully complete, Shane switched on the forward view.
Space had become more than a home to Shane; it had become a friend. It gave her time to think, room to evade Chig fighters, and what she deemed a true view of eternity. To pull in just a little bit of it through a crude, artificial display was still enough to calm her. The world did not only consist of the innards of the AP-V. Out there lay forever, and she was, if only for a short time, headed for it.
Adjusting the view to port gave her an image of the growing planet. Bulldog's Belly didn't get much light from its cool M-6 star, and so its features were cast in a foreboding shadow. Jagged bolts of brown struck the more rounded shades of white and light blue. She caught sight of tiny glimmers encircling the planet: the sentry satellites. The LIDAR screen had already come alive with a digitized view of the planet and had plotted the orbits of the sentries it could detect. The bomber pilots could only take them within two MSKs of Bulldog. Any closer and the sentries would pick them up.
As the flying wing streaked on, Bulldog's glaciers and oceans became evident, and Shane had to repress a chill while imagining the temperature down there. She checked her data bars once more, then closed her eyes and tried to purge her mind of everything. She listened to the steady rise and fall of her breath.
"All right, Silver Bullets. One mike to insertion. Our AOD is laid in, check your own," one of the pilots said, causing Shane to snap open her eyes. An on-screen clock told her she had dozed for about ten mikes.
"Silver Bullets, this is SB One. Electronically report AS and AOD status." The networked information spilled across Shane's screen. Each AP-V's guidance system was pre-programmed with the correct velocity and trajectory for insertion. Course corrections would be made automatically, as would ejection. But as a precautionary measure that was SOP in the Corps, Shane and the others had been trained to do everything manually. "Darkhorse One, Silver Bullets report ready for insertion."
"Roger. Stand by."
"Thruster priming sequence initiated," Shane said. "Eggs are warm, Darkhorse One."
"Confirmed. Coming up on the IP in five, four, three, two, one. Mounts released."
Shane swore her heart skipped a beat as she felt her AP-V drop away from the bomber. She mentally ticked off the seconds until the thrusters kicked in. When they did, she was slammed into her harness and wondered for the umpteenth time why she had joined the Marine Corps in the first place.
five
The descent toward the planet reminded Nathan of an amusement park ride gone haywire. Apparently, the software that controlled the ride had crashed, and the part-time college sophomore who had been trained to deftly handle such emergencies had stepped out to the bathroom to fix an errant wisp of hair and apply a fresh layer of lip gloss.
"My God! Are they serious about this AOD?" Cooper cried over the intercom. "I think we're gonna skip off the atmosphere or burn up in it."
"Trust the techies, Coop," Wang said.
"Trust 'em? They aren't lookin' at what I'm lookin' at right now."
Nathan grinned inwardly. Leave it to Hawkes to complain at just about any time. Nothing fazed the lieutenant's sense of discomfort and disgust; his was all-terrain, all-weather, all-purpose.
"My LIDAR just got a bad case of satellites," Damphousse reported. "Our wedge formation's good, but West, you're trailing a bit, three degrees. Now four."
Frowning, Nathan regarded his guidance system's data bars. "I'm showing nominal course with no corrections. My LIDAR's got the sentries and our wedge on projected tracks."
"I concur with Damphousse's report, West," Shane said. "Hawkes, Wang, and Mister 404, do you concur?"
"Affirmative," Hawkes said. "West is bearing two-niner-point-three-five. Six degrees off track."
"And now I'm showing him at seven off track," Wang confirmed. "Nathan, you sure you're reading that GSR right?"
"I'm looking at it now, and it's showing me on track," he said, hearing the tension creep into his voice.
"Teddy reporting, Captain Vansen. Lieutenant West is off track. Now ten degrees to my port. His AOD is sixteen degrees positive and increasing at a rate of approximately one degree per mike."
"Copy that," Shane answered. "West. You still showing nominal?"
Between the confining cockpit and the deceiving reports from his instruments, Nathan fought to keep himself calm. "Still showing nominal. Switching to starboard view. I wanna see this for myself." He tapped a key, and there it was: a missing-man wedge formation of AP-Vs. The craft were at his three o'clock high and moving away at a depressing rate. "Shane," he began, a crack in his voice, "I'm judying my position. Request permission to engage manual control."
"Granted," Shane said. "Slow thrusters to point-one-seven and adjust AOD by twenty-one degrees negative, coming up to fifteen degrees starboard."
The autopilot had lived up to its nickname of "Egghead." Nathan hit the disengage switch. A message box popped up on the screen. Are you sure you want to disengage autopilot? "Definitely," Nathan answered then tapped in the command. A digital clock appeared, and the countdown began. He gripped the small joystick. "Going manual in three, two, one." He shifted the stick and the ship did not respond. "Manual control not functioning!"
"Repeat the switch over," Wang said.
But then the AP-V jinxed violently to starboard, and Nathan released pressure on the stick. "Wait. Think I got it now." He eased the stick back, scanned his LIDAR, and saw no course correctio
n. "Either my guidance system, my LIDAR, or both are out. Better call the Aerotech factory and announce a recall," he said, trying to keep his spirits up. "It's seat-of-the-pants time."
"And you'll probably do it better than the Egghead could anyway, Nathan," Shane said.
"West, try rebooting LIDAR control," Damphousse said.
Taking her up on the suggestion, Nathan complied. It took only a second to get the dismal results. "She won't do it, 'Phousse."
"West, how you gonna fly seat-of-the-pants, man?" Cooper asked. "If you're one degree off track, you'll trigger a sentry."
"He's going to fly very carefully," Shane said.
"Very carefully?" Cooper repeated incredulously. "He sets one of those nasty boys off, and we're all toast."
Colonel McQueen's voice broke into the channel. "West, this is Wolfpack Six. If LIDAR and guidance system are down, you are ordered to abort. Repeat. You are ordered to abort. Search and Rescue team's on standby."
With his gaze fixed on the starboard viewscreen, Nathan continued to gently pull back on his stick. He knew he could reassume his position in the formation. Making the insertion was another story. Back at Loxley, he had made two hundred and thirty-one manual insertions during Advanced Flight Training, missing the base record by only nine. But the simulator had not limited him to a one-degree margin of error.
"West, do you read me?" the colonel asked.
"Roger, sir."
"Are your systems still out?"
Moments of truth are often inspired by and often shattered by lies, Nathan thought as he wondered what he should tell the colonel. If he reported systems down, the mission would be over for him. But there were too many unanswered questions on this one, too many risks. Shane and Damphousse needed him, if only as another set of eyes to watch the silicate. Cooper and Wang needed him, if only as a referee.
But what if he triggered a sentry satellite? He would endanger all of their lives. And for what? Because he didn't want to be left behind?
The easy way out was to tell the truth and abort. Yet if something happened to the others on planet, he would be left forever wondering: If I had been there, could I have prevented their deaths?
