How did they get onto the ship? Parks asked himself, as he and Potter hurried down corridor after corridor, pushing themselves past other members of the crew, attempting to get to the bridge.
“They must have come aboard from your lander,” Potter said, as though reading his mind.
“No; that’s impossible. My lander’s complement consisted of no one other than Confederate personnel.”
“Well, I didn’t bring them; I accounted for all of my men,” Potter said.
The two passed a set of open doors, leading into an officer’s private quarters.
Parks glanced briefly inside as they went, seeing an untidy bed and some clothes lying scattered on the floor. The view outside, normally conveyed by the generously sized window within, was sealed off by the blast screen that now protected the thick, yet vulnerable, glass. He wondered as to the scene he might have witnessed should the blast screen not have been there – the fighters, rockets and cannon fire surging past the windows; the eerie sight of Independent fighter craft firing on one another, as if engaged in their own bitter disputes. The answer suddenly came to him.
“They landed the fighters themselves,” Parks said.
“What?” Potter said, pushing someone out of the way just as they came to the lift leading to the bridge.
“They landed fighters on Grendel’s Mother, under the guise of friendly craft.”
Potter looked hard at Parks for a moment, as if still blaming him for the incident. He opened his mouth to speak, when the lift doors slid open and a figure tumbled out. It grabbed on to them as it fell, managing to keep itself from going down completely. The figure then looked up at them. “Parks..!”
It was Parsons. The man looked like he’d been set on fire. “Governor,” Parks started, his eyes flickering over the man’s injuries. Parsons’ face, clothes and hands were badly burnt. “What happened?”
“Console next to me … bloody thing exploded. No … it looks worse than it is. Really, I’m okay. I just felt … felt a little dizzy from the shock and being in the lift.” Parsons pushed Parks off him as soon as he was upright.
That’ll be the pride again, Parks thought-Parsons’ refusal to allow himself to be assisted by someone such as Parks. Parsons was far from okay. He looked as though he had just jumped into a vat of boiling oil. By all appearances, his clothes had been set alight, but he had succeeded in dousing the flames.
“What was the cause of that explosion earlier?” Potter said.
“The Enemy detonated some bombs on the flight deck,” Parsons said.
Knew it, thought Parks. Most vulnerable location on any ship. “How did they do it? Did you see?”
Parsons nodded and detailed what he had seen on the security camera feeds, before they had shut off.
The flight deck of the carrier had been a scene of organised chaos, long before the wheels of the plot had begun to turn. Workers hurried to remove fighter craft from their bays. Pilots, having previously disembarked, began to gear themselves up to once again throw themselves into the fray. But as a pilot pulled themselves up the ladder of a waiting Firefly, poised on the catapult to launch, the bombs had gone off. The first was within the Firefly itself, set upon the catapult. The ascending pilot had been vaporised instantly, as had the deckhands close by, assisting. The bomb alone had not been very powerful, though enough to take out both the fighter’s reactor and its missile payload. But the timing and positioning couldn’t have been worse. The effect on the catapult was devastating, putting it immediately out of commission and putting paid to Grendel’s Mother’s desires to influence the battle any further with her starfighter complement. If the first bomb hadn’t been bad enough, then the ones that followed had had an even worse effect on the carrier. No one could have counted the number of starfighters that went up, but they had consisted of a number of Fireflies and Nymphs that had recently returned to the ship. The explosions spread all the way across the deck, the flames and blasts consuming and tearing apart everything in their path. Other craft, resting next to the booby-trapped ones, also detonated, along with rack upon rack of munitions, fuel and maintenance equipment. The blast had impacted every area of the ship, injuring crew, damaging vital components and shutting down the shield and weapons systems.
Parsons’ swollen eyes studied Parks for a moment, before he looked back to Potter. “Why is this man here? Why isn’t he locked in the brig as I ordered?”
“We turned around when the red alert began,” explained Potter. “We were heading up to the bridge to meet with you and Commodore Mandeep.”
“The bridge is inaccessible,” Parsons said, shaking his head. “We have to prevent the Enemy from finding the TSBs; we need to get them off the ship.”
What had happened on the bridge? Parks’ head was filled with visions of it engulfed in flames, the frontal viewport threatening to give way and space its remaining occupants. “Where’s Commodore Mandeep?” Parks found himself asking, ahead of everything else. “Was she with you?”
“She’s still on the bridge, as far as I know.”
“Is she safe?”
Parsons gave a nod. “I left her in charge.”
Thank God.
The governor turned to Potter. “Brigadier, you need to get to the main cargo hold and get those bombs to safety. If anything happens to them, then all is lost. I’m going to get to the flight deck whilst I still can; they don’t know how much longer they’ll be able to launch shuttles before it becomes unusable.”
Parks became aware of two other people making their way out of the lift car. The governor’s bodyguards. He hadn’t seen them before. They put their arms around Parsons and began to help him hobble off.
“I leave things in your capable hands,” Parsons added, before turning his back on Parks and Potter.
How typical of Parsons, to turn and run when the going gets tough. Coward. You’re happy to delegate and do all the talking, but when it comes to actions, you’re far from a man of substance. If you can’t stand the heat … He looked to the lift, whose doors remained open and inviting. For a moment, he considered taking it to the bridge.
“Let’s go,” Potter urged him, starting off. “We have to get those TSBs off the ship.”
Sima … No, she’ll be okay. He’d come back for her once he had dealt with the TSBs. He followed after Potter, feeling a sense of relief that, despite what was going on around him, Sima was safe.
*
Parks and Potter made it to the main cargo hold without incident, picking up along the way a further eight men and women, whom they had ordered to assist them load the bombs onto a transport shuttle.
The main cargo hold was packed solid with all manner of equipment, crates and other assets that were needed by the UNF carrier. Potter immediately began to dart between the stacks of boxes trying to locate the containers housing the TSBs, sending Parks to search in the other direction. It wasn’t long before Parks’ eyes fell upon five neatly stacked, dark green, rectangular containers. Along the sides and on the top of one was written – TSB-001. Another read TSB-002. 003, 004, and 005 lay beneath. The markings were preceded by the Round Table-esq emblem of the United Naval Forces. Five boxes only. The prototype had obviously been left behind.
“Is this them?” Parks called to Potter, who bounded quickly over to Parks’ side.
“That’s them,” he confirmed. He called and whistled to the eight men and women who had come with him, as the carrier shuddered once more, a horrible grinding noise from somewhere not far below urging them to hurry. “Take one of these between you and get them onto the shuttle. After that, get yourselves back to defending the ship and await further orders. Okay, come on – one between two.”
The men and women came forward, heaving the containers off the stack and beginning to carry them towards the back of the hold, where they could be placed onto the shuttle.
Parks took hold of the last container that rested on the ground. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Potter said. Both men lifted.
It was just as heavy as it looked, and Parks could already feel his arms beginning to protest against the weight. Potter grunted as he lifted, a number of curses following. Parks was sure that the effort of lifting had ruptured the wound on the man’s side. A dark patch appeared, slowly growing in size. If the brigadier had received stitches for his injury, then they had clearly just burst.
Parks was glad that they didn’t have to carry the container very far. The flight deck was in completely the opposite direction; a good five or six hundred metres along tight, twisting corridors, with personnel and Pandoran soldiers to negotiate along the way.
“Brigadier, where’s the shuttle?” a voice called back to them.
“Rear of the hold,” Potter answered.
“That’s a negative, sir. There’s no shuttle here.”
Potter, leading Parks and walking backwards, sped up, yanking him forward to reach the back of the hold. It was as the woman had said – there was no shuttle.
Potter swore. “Where the hell is it?” he said, looking around.
Parks joined him, hunting about urgently for the craft, unable to see it anywhere. He had a hunch what had happened – fearing that the carrier was minutes away from destruction, some of the crew must have boarded the shuttle and fled, seeing their chances of survival in the battle beyond being far greater than if they had remained. Cowards! Idiots!
A tremendous boom came, reverberating its way through the ship and plunging the hold into darkness. Parks felt his grip slide and heard his end of the heavy container slam down onto the ground. What sounded like a couple of others followed in its stead. Moments later, the dim lighting returned, allowing the ten men and women the chance to gather themselves and the containers back up.
The red alert then suddenly shut off and a different alarm began, its purpose made clear to all by the loop of a female voice, repeating the same call over and over. “All hands, abandon ship! This is not a drill!”
Potter swore, then said, “Everybody okay?” There were acknowledgements from all. “Right, flight Deck! This way!”
“We won’t be able to carry them that far in time, Brigadier,” Parks objected as he heaved the container up again. “If Parsons was correct, then the flight deck maybe unusable by the time we arrive.”
“We don’t have much choice, Commodore!” Potter said.
“We can bring a shuttle around here, instead.”
“That would take just as long! Come on, everyone, move up!” He indicated for the four other teams to go ahead of him, before he led Parks out the hold.
*
Parks had to stop again, lowering the container to the floor. His biceps were burning, feeling as though they were about to tear apart.
“Sorry,” he said, looking past Potter to where the other four pairs had walked quickly and without stopping. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of undertaking. Though he trained and exercised regularly, it was only to stay healthy and in shape, not to handle such extreme tasks as this.
Despite his wounds, Potter didn’t appear to be struggling with the weight of the container. Either that or he was just very good at hiding it. Parks felt a sense of shame at being unable to keep up with the others, who were almost racing ahead by comparison.
“We don’t have time for this,” Potter said, clearly losing patience with Parks’ inability to keep up the pace. He grabbed a tall, stocky man who passed by him. “You there. Take the commodore’s place and help me get this to the flight deck.”
“Sir, flight deck is no go, except for special circumstances,” the man said.
“This is a special circumstance,” Potter said, then to Parks, “Thanks for your help, Commodore. Now, I would suggest you get yourself to the escape pods, as the lady is recommending.”
Fleeing to the escape pods was the last thing on Parks’ mind. There were more pressing matters that he had to deal with before that. And, even though he was unable to carry them, he still needed to ensure the safe removal of the TSBs from Grendel’s Mother. That was his first priority.
So why was the need to find Sima and ensure her safety vying for prominence in his mind? She had promised to come and support him in his hour of need. The very least he should do is support her in her own. The very least.
No, he would make sure that the TSBs were safely transported off the carrier and then he would find Sima. What was the point of finding her first, if he couldn’t keep her safe for longer than it would take the Pandoran forces to scourge the galaxy?
“No, I’m coming with you,” he said to Potter. “I need to make sure these things get off Mother, so we can execute the operation as planned.”
“Commodore, I don’t think—”
“I can make it, Brigadier,” Parks said, dismissing the man whom Potter had summoned to assist.
“As you wish,” Potter said, with some reluctance.
Further up the corridor, there came a cry. Between the eight men and women who were carrying the four TSBs, Parks saw a figure become suddenly enveloped in flames. A panel on the adjacent wall had exploded, a powerful jet of flame issuing forth. Blazing droplets of some kind of chemical splattered onto the floor and stuck to the walls, starting to burn their way through the metal. The next instant, a fire door began to rapidly close.
“No! Stop it!” Potter cried out, as the door threatened to separate them from the rest of the team.
Parks darted forward, wrenching open an adjacent control panel and attempting to override the mechanism. It refused to comply with his requests and, in no time at all, had done its job of sealing off the affected area.
“Keep going! Get to the flight deck!” Potter cried out to the four forward TSB handlers, just before they disappeared from sight altogether. “Right, back up! Quickly!” he said to Parks.
“Which way?”
“The long way!” Potter said.
Parks once more gripped the inlets on the side of the box, heaving it up. Dear God, it was heavy. And now he had to go even further.
*
The two men continued to struggle against the weight of the bomb and the container that it was housed within, their route taking them along a gantry that ran high above the carrier’s main engineering deck. Though the gantry was wide and lined with high safety rails on either side, the continued rocking and lurching of the carrier didn’t fill Parks with much confidence. Before they were even halfway across, both Potter and Parks lost their grips on the container, the big metal box crashing down heavily onto the walkway, narrowly missing their feet. More injuries were certainly not wanted at this moment, not with Potter in the state he was already.
“We’ll have to call the lift,” Potter said as he shuffled backwards, trying to maintain a fast and even pace.
Parks squinted at the display by the door. A small green arrow was lit up, pointing down and marking the car’s descent towards the gantry. “Don’t have to,” he said, “it’s already on its way.”
Potter stopped walking and managed to lean around enough to see for himself. The lift arrived only a few seconds later, the doors parting, a tall man stepping out of the car.
Parks froze and his eyes grew wide as he recognised the figure that had exited. Hawke! He couldn’t think of anyone he might have been more surprised to see. The man still wore the Imperial Naval Forces uniform that Parks had seen him in earlier. It was slightly crumpled and creased now; he must have pulled on a loose-fitting flight suit over the top of it, shedding it once he was onboard the carrier.
Potter didn’t pause for even one moment, putting down his end of the container and darting over to engage the man. He didn’t pause to draw his gun – there wasn’t time. With Hawke’s already in his hand, Potter had no choice but to attempt to engage him in hand-to-hand combat. It was an exceptionally short-lived affair.
Hawke aimed his weapon smartly at the brigadier, a bolt of plasma striking Potter in the shoulder. There was a horrible sizzle, but only the smallest of grunts from Potter. The wound didn’t stop him, an
d before Hawke was able to fire again, Potter kicked out, catching the hand that gripped the weapon and sending the pistol flying from his grasp. The gun spun away, bouncing off the wall running parallel to the suspended walkway, before it tumbled down to the main floor of the engineering deck, bouncing off various structures as it went.
With Hawke momentarily distracted by the loss of his weapon, Potter took the opportunity to swing as powerful a punch as he could muster. Hawke turned his attention back just in time to parry the blow and return one of his own. The blow struck Potter squarely in the face, the second and third blows being all that were needed to stun the man. Potter staggered back from the hits, appearing momentarily dazed and searching for the strength and coordination to continue fighting. But it was all for naught as Hawke strode forward, grabbed the brigadier about the head, and twisted it around in one fast and powerful motion. Parks heard a sickening snap as Potter’s neck was broken. The man’s body slumped down onto the gantry floor, Hawke stepping over it quickly, preparing to take down his next target.
It seemed as though he was actually unaware of just who his second adversary was, and he paused for a moment as his eyes came to rest on Parks. Hawke’s lip curled, but he said nothing, only resuming his step forward with added vigour.
Parks was still reeling from the swiftness of Potter’s death, but managed to pull himself together in time to leap forward, reach for the gun that Potter had given him and aim a shot at Hawke’s head. He surprised himself at the speed he not only managed to draw the gun, but also line up his target and fire. It may have been even more impressive had his shot been more accurate. The bolt mostly missed Hawke’s head, grazing his left cheek and leaving a wide, bloody gash across his face. Like Potter, the wound didn’t stop Hawke for even a second, and now, with the two men right next to one another, he grabbed hold of Parks’ outstretched arm and gave a quick twist. Parks once more heard the horrible snapping sound of bone breaking; only this time, it was his own. Pain raced the length of his arm, his pistol falling from his limp fingers and clattering down onto the floor.
The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy) Page 87
