The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  “Okay. So we’re going in.” Rimes looked around at the Commandos; everyone seemed relaxed but ready. “You going to be all right?”

  “Yeah.” Kleigshoen smiled lopsidedly and took a deep, cleansing breath. “It felt good proving myself. I could’ve done without the audience.”

  He nodded at her. Of course you can do it. You were a blown-out knee away from being a Commando.

  In the situation room, Lazaro had stood and was pacing around the room’s cramped confines. Rimes switched his audio back to the general conference.

  “What the hell do you mean there’s no one aboard?” Lazaro shouted. “Why would SJG refuse to allow us to board an empty orbital station?”

  McNabb slowly spun his glasses in his hand. “President Lazaro. We’re receiving a communiqué over emergency channels. The shipyards are reporting an attack of some sort. Details are sketchy, but what got out would seem to point to casualties. Quite a few casualties. They’re speculating it’s something in the air, or a failure of the ventilation system.”

  “X-17,” Rimes said. The shipyards? Their target was the shipyards? Why?

  Lazaro froze, glaring at the camera to see who had spoken. Rimes quickly muted his mike.

  Weatherford said, “Mister President, I believe Sergeant Rimes is correct.”

  Admiral Fodor turned to Lazaro. “Mister President, we have billions tied up in those shipyards. Our largest ships are under construction. The Powell’s still there.”

  Lazaro twisted, looking to his staff for guidance. No one met his glance. Finally, he turned, gripped his hands behind his back, and paced a step. He turned again and, with dramatic flair, held up both hands, looking at McNabb and Weatherford.

  “We have no choice.” He lowered his hands and stiffened. Faced with the potential loss of billions of dollars, he seemed to find his way. “Colonel Weatherford, you may deploy your Commandos to the shipyards immediately. Is that clear?”

  Weatherford smiled grimly. His brow wrinkled, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Loud and clear, Mister President.”

  42

  20 March 2164. The thermosphere over the Pacific Ocean.

  * * *

  The shuttle banked hard in one direction, then in the opposite. Rimes rocked in his harness, sucking at his EVA suit’s odorless, stale oxygen in an effort to fight off nausea. He twisted in an attempt to see how everyone else was doing. In the passenger bay’s wan light, they were ghostly figures, phantasms. They were all caught in the same dance as him, twisting, rocking, holding on for dear life.

  They’ve been through simulation training before. Dana hasn’t.

  The shuttle dipped, throwing Rimes forward against the harness. He set his jaw and breathed deep again. Genie shuttles had engaged them two minutes out from the shipyard, and they were finding their range now.

  The genie pilots seemed to have a clear edge in reaction time, but they faced far-superior vehicles, and had already lost one of their four shuttles.

  The Commando mission had three primary targets, two of them capital ships. If the genies managed to gain control of the ships, the situation would become elementary. The genies—and the ships—would quickly be gone.

  We’ve got to get past these shuttles.

  Rimes closed his eyes. The weight of the last few days pressed on him, and he nodded off for a moment. Shots rattled off the hull, triggering integrity alarms. Rimes jerked awake, ashamed of himself. Before he could shout a warning, the alarms cleared; the hull was fine.

  The pilot suddenly initiated a radical maneuver that left Rimes disoriented. A sustained humming filled the bay: the shuttle’s belly-mounted railgun array. Rimes located a blinking genie shuttle on his display just as it winked out.

  Another one down!

  “Sergeant Rimes, we’re breaking off,” the pilot said. “Orders are to proceed to the Powell.”

  “Understood.”

  The shuttles were a distraction, buying time.

  Rimes watched the display for a few more seconds before switching his focus to their target, the USS Powell. The shuttle’s feed was filling in details that made the mission ever more real. An idea—desperate, flawed, but still an idea—took shape.

  The shipyard was a kilometer-long tube with artificial gravity capability. A dozen spokes radiated outward, with larger ships hanging off them. Shuttles from orbitals would normally arrive around the clock, depositing workers—engineers, electricians, even construction workers—and materials in the central hub to support the shipyard’s insatiable needs.

  Now—

  The pilot’s face filled a small window in Rimes’s display. “Ninety seconds to target.”

  Rimes gripped his harness and shifted in his seat. “We’re going to need two drops, Chief. I want you to drop Lopez’s squad at the hangar entry. Then you’ll need to drop my squad off on top of the bridge structure. I’ve uploaded the locations.”

  “Looks simple enough.” The pilot grinned. “Let’s hope they didn’t activate those missile batteries, or this could get even more interesting.”

  Rimes opened a shared workspace with Lopez and Kleigshoen’s earpieces and dragged the Powell’s floor plan into it.

  “It’s a pretty straightforward mission: protect the Powell and deny the genies control. We need to treat this just like any of our operations. We want to minimize damage, but we’re authorized to destroy the reactors. We have to assume they’re expecting us and are ready to repel. You can toss out any thoughts about surprise or superior training. They’re faster, stronger, and smarter than us.”

  Lopez bit his bottom lip so hard it lost its color.

  “We have a couple of advantages, though,” Rimes said. “They’re fighting time. And as good as they are, they can’t possibly be experienced in repelling attackers in space. Nobody is.”

  “That’s it?” Lopez said. His face twitched nervously such that his nose rose and fell.

  “Our best bet would be getting in through the airlocks, but they’re sure to have those covered, disabled, or mined. Maybe all three. We still have to try. Most importantly, we have to use the terminals in the airlocks in order to try to inject soft-bots into the ship systems. Software assault is probably every bit as important as our physical assault.”

  Kleigshoen sighed. “They’re going to be ready for anything.”

  “We could really have used Barlowe.” Rimes closed his eyes momentarily. “We have to test their defenses. Maybe it’ll distract them for a moment.

  “Priority one, we need to retake the bridge. We do that, we can shut down the reactors from there. Failing that, we have to disable the reactors. Four reactors go offline and they won’t have enough power to make the gravitic drive work. If we can’t secure the bridge or shut down the reactors, we have to render the bridge uninhabitable.”

  “How?” Kleigshoen asked.

  “Put a hole in the hull,” Rimes said, slowly balling his hands into fists, then relaxing them. “When we’re dropped on top of the bridge, locate an observation porthole—one of the weakest points of the ship. We lay down explosives and set a timer. If none of us make it, the timer does the job.”

  Kleigshoen’s brow furrowed. “We blow the bridge, what’s to protect us from getting sucked out?”

  “These suits have a heavyweight line off the belt,” Rimes said, tapping his right hip. “There are attach points every twenty meters in the ship.”

  “And what if none of that works?” Lopez asked.

  “Then the shuttle puts a few hundred rounds into the engines. We can’t let them have this ship.”

  “Ten seconds,” the pilot said.

  Rimes checked the external cameras. “Lopez, get your squad into the airlock.”

  Lopez popped his harness and ordered his squad to the airlock. He stopped at the airlock hatch and pivoted, hand tight around an overhead grip. “What if the hangar isn’t accessible?”

  “Make your way aft,” Rimes said as the airlock hatch opened. “There should be lifeboats about five
meters from the hangar. You can pop the hull covers from the outside. Eject the lifeboat and override the single-purpose terminal underneath. Let the compartment decompress and you’re in.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  Rimes growled, “Then think of something else.”

  The shuttle twisted, slowed, then stopped. The airlock indicator went red. Rimes counted and watched the shuttle’s aft camera view. Four seconds, and the airlock closed and began its cycle. Lopez’s team was on the hull. The shuttle accelerated.

  “First team is away,” the pilot.

  “We’re on the hull,” Lopez said. “Moving toward the hangar bay hatch. It’s closed.”

  “Check if you can override,” Rimes said. “Let’s get into position, folks.”

  A new image appeared. One of the other Commando team leads was busily working at something to his right. “Sergeant Rimes, we’re on approach to the Valdez. ETA, two minutes. What’s the plan?”

  Rimes forwarded the details he’d just discussed with Kleigshoen and Lopez. “Give this a look, see what you can come up with. The Valdez is pretty close in layout. Approach it like it’s an airplane hostage rescue. I know you can do this.”

  “Got it. What about the others?”

  “They need to secure the Newell,” Rimes said. “Once that’s done, there are two other Newell-class frigates they can focus on. Tell the others to pull up the plans; it’s all the same basic concept, except the Newell’s shuttles are externally-mounted.”

  “Got it. Good hunting.”

  “Good hunting,” Rimes repeated.

  “Five seconds,” the pilot said.

  Rimes popped his strap and waved everyone toward the airlock, taking position just behind Kleigshoen. He checked the CAWS-5 attached to her back and patted her helmet. They were using the automatic 20-gauge shotgun package loaded with caseless flechette shells. The flechettes had enough power to shred most EVA suits without any real chance of penetrating an inner hull. In theory, they would be ideal for boarding actions.

  Time to test that theory.

  The airlock hatch cycled.

  They entered and all grabbed handholds. The indicator on Rimes’s display went amber as pumps began rapidly emptying the chamber. Another few seconds, and the outer hatch opened.

  The team exited, gently diving toward the bridge.

  Orr overshot his target, barely managing to grasp an antenna array, and saved himself from sailing over the bridge and into space.

  “Orr?” Rimes called over the squad’s channel.

  “All good,” Orr replied. His voice was tense. “Just got a little excited.”

  “Squad is away, Chief,” Rimes told the pilot. “Take up position five klicks out. Be ready to strafe those engines if you get the call.”

  The shuttle accelerated away, banking hard toward the battlecruiser’s aft. “Roger tha—”

  A missile flew past the bridge, trailing a stream of fire.

  The shuttle juked, accelerated, spat chaff, then, in the blink of an eye, disappeared in a blinding flash.

  The pilot’s words became a hiss.

  43

  20 March 2164. USS Powell.

  * * *

  Scattered pieces of debris slammed into the hull, making it vibrate.

  Rimes dropped to his belly, thankful the genies had the gravitic system operational. “Lay flat. Hold on.”

  It may not be much, but it’s enough to keep us on the surface.

  Most of the debris bounced away harmlessly, but one arm-length sliver pierced Chung’s left foot, pinning it to the hull.

  Chung gasped. “Sarge, my suit’s penetrated. I-I’m losing oxygen.”

  “Hold tight.” Rimes gently kicked off from the hull. “Let’s get the explosives planted, people.”

  Rimes skimmed the hull’s surface on all fours as he might the muddy bottom of a shallow river, frequently gripping the surface to pull himself forward.

  As he approached Chung, he grabbed what appeared to be a camera housing. Rimes’s momentum spun him completely around. He grabbed another protrusion and regained his footing, then cautiously edged toward Chung. Once he was close enough, he hooked his left leg around Chung’s.

  Rimes pointed to the camera housing. “Hang onto this.”

  The debris appeared to be a sheet of heat shielding, nearly a meter long and a few millimeters thick. Rimes guessed it had barely penetrated the hull.

  Where it entered Chung’s boot, a fine dark mist of blood particles suspended in oxygen escaped. The blood quickly boiled away.

  Rimes gripped the heat shielding cautiously, testing for sharp edges and residual heat. His gloves were lined with carbon fiber weave meant to handle such threats without trouble, but vacuum was unforgiving.

  He tightened his left leg around Chung’s and braced with his right, then began applying steady pressure. Seconds passed before the shielding tore free. Rimes momentarily drifted up with the force of his push.

  For a fleeting moment, Rimes floated into the darkness of space. His mind filled with thoughts—fantasies or terrors—of drifting into the void, dying alone.

  Chung grabbed him with his free hand and pulled him back. “Got you,” Chung gasped. “That hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  Rimes shivered, then planted his boots back on the hull, pulled a strip of sealant from Chung’s thigh pad. “Agent Kleigshoen, any update on that porthole? We need to get those explosives planted and get off this hull. Lopez, they obviously know we’re here. The shuttle’s gone.”

  “Saw that,” Lopez said. “Hangar is inaccessible. We’re going to blow two lifeboats to force them to cover multiple entry points.”

  “Good idea.” Rimes pulled the sealant strip tight over the top of the boot and pressed hard against the entry and exit points, counting to five. “This isn’t going to do anything for the bleeding or pain.”

  “I can walk,” Chung said.

  Rimes looked around at the rest of the team. They were pressed against the hull, their suits all but lost against the gray panels.

  “Agent Kleigshoen?”

  “We finally found a viewport.” Kleigshoen sounded relieved. “Fawcett’s planting charges now.”

  “Sarge,” Orr said excitedly. “Take a look at this.”

  Rimes shrank Kleigshoen’s video feed and expanded Orr’s. He was looking at a small hatch near the base of the antenna array Orr had latched on to. “What’ve you got there?”

  “I was gonna ask you that. I was thinking it looks like a maintenance hatch.”

  Rimes pulled up the Powell’s plans again and zoomed into the bridge. “No, it’s noth—”

  The Powell’s plans showed a blank area, but he could see the hatch. He pulled up the plans and changed his search from airlocks to hatches—bingo.

  “Got it. You’re right, it’s a maintenance hatch. It’s not pressurized, but it runs to a dedicated airlock about twenty meters inside—the manual only covered the external airlocks.” Rimes opened the channel to the other Commando teams and made his way over to Orr. “I’m sending you something that may help. Find … antenna array four on the bridge. There should be a maintenance hatch that’s not on your plans, about three meters aft of that. Check your ship’s plans for any reference to maintenance access.”

  Orr squatted next to the hatch, then brought up a virtual display to interface with the hatch terminal. He looked at Rimes, who nodded. Orr rapidly typed and swiped through the interface, and, after a few seconds, the hatch slowly rose.

  Rimes tapped Orr on the shoulder and motioned for him to enter the shaft, then waved the rest of the team over. Orr entered feet first, adjusting to the sudden shift in gravity after a moment. Bhat and Pasqual, supporting Chung between them, entered next, then Kleigshoen and Fawcett.

  Rimes watched the team descend. “Lopez, you still read me?”

  “Copy. Go ahead.”

  “When I close this hatch, we’ll probably lose communication until we’re both inside the ship.”

>   “Understood,” Lopez said. “Good hunting.”

  “Good hunting.”

  Rimes entered the maintenance shaft and sealed the hatch. As he’d feared, Lopez’s signal strength faded. Three meters down the shaft, the last of it was gone.

  Rimes quickly descended the rest of the way, then dropped through another roof hatch into the airlock where the rest of the team had taken up position. They had their weapons ready. Rimes sealed the roof hatch and nodded at Orr, already plugged into the terminal.

  The hatch opened onto a large maintenance bay filled with workstations, tools, and crates. Rimes signaled Fawcett to cover the entry hatch opposite the airlock.

  Once Fawcett was in place, Rimes sent Bhat and Orr forward, then had Pasqual help move Chung to a workstation. Pasqual immediately went to work removing the damaged boot.

  Rimes pointed to a terminal. “Agent Kleigshoen, if you can get in, dump everything we’ve got into anything with a chance at success.”

  Rimes pulled up the deck plans again. “Okay, this maintenance bay opens onto the main passageway that leads to the primary and secondary stairwells. We have to assume they have them both covered. Pasqual, you, Chung, and Agent Kleigshoen come with me. We’ll take the primary stairwell. Bhat, Orr, and Fawcett take the secondary stairwell. We’ll exit the primary stairwell first. Gauge our success and adjust. How’s Chung doing?”

  “That foot’s going to need treatment when we get back,” Pasqual said. “I put some local anesthetic and a coagulant on it.”

  “Can you still shoot?” Bhat joked.

  Chung flipped Bhat off.

  Rimes gave Chung a reassuring punch in the shoulder. “Dana, any luck?”

  Kleigshoen shook her head. “I’ve tried a dozen attacks. I think two of them may have lasted long enough to matter. If they did, we should see some false signals hitting soon; we may even get lucky and have the hangar hatch open. They had the reactors locked down tight, though. But at least we had one thing go our way.”