by David Weber
Metzger’s eyes flicked to Travis. “On the contrary, I think Haven would thank us for keeping their warships out of enemy hands.”
“They might,” Guzarwan said. “If you had any proof that Saintonge was, in fact, in such hands at the time of your attack. I doubt you could muster anything that would satisfy them. Certainly not the more aggressive faction of the RHN. I presume you’re familiar with the truism that an unused military either fades away or finds a reason to go to war?”
Metzger’s lips compressed briefly. She did have such proof, Travis knew. More than that, she had Commodore Flanders’s explicit order to destroy both Saintonge and Péridot if necessary.
But that was apparently something she wasn’t yet prepared to share with the enemy.
“What do you want, Guzarwan?” she asked instead.
“I called to explain the new reality.” The banter was gone from Guzarwan’s voice now, with only coldness remaining. “Thanks to you, Péridot is no longer of any use to us. My men and I have therefore boarded a shuttle and will soon be joining our friends aboard Saintonge.”
“Traveling along our line of fire?” Metzger asked pointedly. “What makes you think you’ll reach your destination?”
“For starters, my men have control of Saintonge,” Guzarwan said. “Along with the ship herself, we have a great many Havenite hostages whom we weren’t planning to kill but whom we also don’t especially need alive. I doubt you’d enjoy watching us execute them one by one in full video view of the other ships and the entire population of Marienbad.”
“They’re military men and women,” Metzger said, her voice steady. “They’re prepared to die for their nation.”
“Of course they are,” Guzarwan said. “But Ambassador Boulanger may not be so sanguine about giving his life for the Republic. Are you, Ambassador?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Guzarwan,” a new voice said calmly. “A diplomatic post carries the same risks as a military one.”
“Perhaps,” Guzarwan said. “Still, I doubt Commander Metzger would want Guardian to be the instrument of your death. And she certainly wouldn’t wish to be the instrument of her own captain’s death.”
Someone behind Travis snarled a quiet curse. Metzger’s expression didn’t even twitch. “You really think I’d hesitate over one life in the midst of a battle?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Guzarwan agreed. “But that’s not really the situation, is it? Your ship’s not in any danger, I have your captain and a Havenite ambassador, and you really can’t justify killing them when there are other, less violent options for stopping me.”
“Really?” Metzger asked. “What options are those?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Guzarwan said. “But I know you won’t give up looking for them until we raise Saintonge’s wedge and head for the hyper limit. Perhaps not even then.”
“You’re absolutely correct on that point,” Metzger said. “So let me offer you a deal. If you surrender your hostages and abandon Saintonge, I’ll give you safe passage to your own ship and allow you to leave unhindered.”
“Please, Commander,” Guzarwan chided. “We’ve put in far too much effort to simply walk away. Especially when we still have the upper hand.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“You aren’t?” Guzarwan countered. “Fine—here’s my counteroffer. Since you’ve already cost us one warship, give us the other and we’ll call it a draw. As a good-faith gesture, we’ll leave Captain Eigen and Ambassador Boulanger aboard this shuttle when we disembark. As soon as they can cycle the flight systems back around, they’ll be free to leave and join you aboard Guardian.”
“Very generous of you,” Metzger said. “And the rest of Saintonge’s crew?”
“They’ll be put into escape pods and sent out as soon as we’re ready to leave orbit.”
“And you’d let them go? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Guzarwan assured her. “Of course, some of those pods will be on tight intersect courses with the atmosphere, so you’ll have to make a choice between rescuing them or chasing us. But I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
“Guzarwan—”
“I have to go now, Commander,” Guzarwan cut her off. “I’ll speak to you again once we’re aboard Saintonge. Oh, and I presume I don’t have to tell you that trying to tractor us in to Guardian will be the same as opening fire on us. Ambassador Boulanger and Captain Eigen will be the first to be executed, with the crews of the two Havenite ships next in line. I’m sure you’d enjoy the temporary promotion to captain, but I doubt such an incident would do much for your long-term career advancement. Until later, Commander.”
There was a click, and Travis looked at the board to see that the shuttle’s carrier laser had winked off. “Here they come, Ma’am,” Carlyle’s voice came from the speaker. “Shuttle leaving Péridot and bearing our direction. Moving at full speed.”
“I see them,” Metzger said. “Drew, did you get everyone out there calmed down?”
“More or less,” the TO said. “No one’s happy, but none of the other ships is in any position to do more than just yell right now.”
“What about Chu?”
“He says that if we plan to fire any more missiles we’re to damn well inform him of that fact beforehand. Aside from that, I get the impression he’s rather impressed by our ingenuity.” Calkin flicked the backs of his fingertips across Travis’s shoulder. “I told him ingenuity was just SOP for the RMN. Anything from Colonel Massingill?”
“They’re nearly there,” Metzger said, leaning closer to her displays. “What’s happening to Saintonge?”
“I don’t know,” Calkin said, frowning. “Carlyle?”
“She’s . . . jittering, Sir,” Carlyle said, sounding confused. “Running her thrusters . . . it seems like almost at random.”
“It is,” Metzger said sourly. “They’ve spotted Massingill’s shuttle and are trying to keep it from docking.”
“Massingill will figure something out.” Calkin waved at the display. “Meanwhile, Guzarwan and his hostages are ten minutes out from Saintonge. We need to decide what we’re going to do with them.”
“Okay, we’re doing it,” Vachali’s grouchy voice came over the shuttle speaker. “But bouncing everyone around like this is going to play hell with our containment.”
“Why, are you getting bounced around more than the Havenites?” Guzarwan scoffed. “They’re the ones trying to move. You’re in fixed positions.”
“Fixed like we’re riding a hurricane,” Vachali countered. “I thought these grav plates were supposed to dampen out jitters like this.”
“I guess they don’t. Or else you just don’t know how to sweet-talk them.”
“Yeah, right,” Vachali growled. “Come on, Chief, this is ridiculous. I say let ’em aboard and have at it. Bouncing around like this won’t stop them forever.”
“I’m not interested in stopping them,” Guzarwan said, getting a hard grip on his temper. Vachali was a good fighter, but a lousy strategist. “Not right away, anyhow. We want Metzger dithering around until the last minute, hoping she can find a way to pull this out of the fire. If we let the shuttle dock and play Capture the Hill, it’ll be over way too fast. Better to let them pop in through a bunch of different hatchways—probably the same ones you froze the sensors on—and go out in their own private blazes of glory. Not knowing what’s happening will slow Metzger down, make her think she’s still got a chance. Right now, that’s what we want.”
“If you say so,” Vachali grumbled. “I’d still rather have ’em all in a bunch.”
“It won’t matter,” Guzarwan said patiently, stifling the urge to roll his eyes. “This is the Manticoran Navy, remember? They’re not going to have more than three or four Marines aboard. Probably not even that many. You’ve got fixed positions, and you’ll be dealing with a few professionals plus a few more amateurs. Trust me—it’ll be a duck shoot.”
“Yeah
. I suppose.”
“More to the point, if they dock, their shuttle will be attached to the hull,” Guzarwan went on. “If, instead, they have to go in through the hatches, they’ll probably have the pilot hang around, just drifting . . . and with your thrusters already moving you around, he won’t even notice when you maneuver him into range of one of your com lasers and fry their transmitters.”
“Ah,” Vachali said, understanding finally coming. “And since their suit coms will be relayed through the shuttle . . . ?”
“The whole team will be cut off,” Guzarwan confirmed. “Metzger won’t have any way of knowing what’s going on, or whether the team’s even alive or dead. Like I said, it’s all about uncertainty and buying time.”
“I’d rather just blow the shuttle now and be done with it,” Vachali grumped. “But you want to play it cute, fine. You’re the boss.”
“That’s right, I am,” Guzarwan said, putting an edge on his voice. “Get back to work. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to dock.”
“You sure you don’t want to go EVA, too?” Vachali asked sarcastically.
“I’ll let you know when we’re ready to dock,” Guzarwan repeated. “Out.” With a sharp flick of his finger, he cut off the com.
“He’s right, you know,” Eigen said from behind him. “It won’t work. None of it will.”
Guzarwan swivelled in his station to look at his two hostages, strapped into two of the fold-down jumpseats on the cockpit aft bulkhead. “You don’t think so?”
“I know so.” Eigen nodded past Guzarwan. “I can see the gravitics readouts from here. Guardian’s going to have her wedge up before Saintonge.”
“Probably,” Guzarwan agreed calmly. “And?”
“So she’ll be fully maneuverable before Saintonge will be,” Eigen said. “Even if you’ve got enough wedge up to partially protect you, you’ll never be able to roll before she can line up along your bow and open fire.”
“You assume she’ll risk war with Haven over a measly little battlecruiser that the RHN probably won’t even miss,” Guzarwan pointed out. “But, really, the argument’s moot. No matter how fast or maneuverable Guardian is, she’ll still have to turn around if she’s going to bring her bow weapons to bear.” He waved a hand toward the distant planetary horizon behind them. “Sadly for Guardian, halfway through her turn Jalla will bring Wanderer up over the horizon and put his missile through her unprotected flank.”
Boulanger’s eyes went wide. Eigen didn’t even flinch.
“You assume Commander Metzger will be so focused on Saintonge that she won’t be keeping an eye on everyone else in the system.”
“No, actually, I assume there’s no way she’ll guess Wanderer has a military-grade missile aboard,” Guzarwan countered. “But it’ll be interesting to watch. Don’t you think so?”
“If you’re still alive to see it.”
“There’s that,” Guzarwan agreed. “Still, in light of this new information, perhaps you’d be interested in making some kind of deal that would ensure Guardian’s survival.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I don’t know,” Guzarwan said frankly. “Some way to disable her weapons would be best. As I’ve already said, we’re not interested in causing any more deaths here. Since we aren’t going to be able to activate Saintonge’s weapons, disabling Guardian’s would put us on an even keel. At that point, once our wedge is up we can all retire from the field and go our separate ways.”
Eigen snorted.
“Even if I was willing, how exactly do you think I could disable Guardian’s weapons from here?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Guzarwan said. “It would probably involve contacting someone aboard and making the deal. Figuring that part out is your job.” He made a show of consulting his chrono. “But I’d advise you think quickly, because in approximately twenty minutes this offer will go away.”
“As will Guardian?”
Guzarwan smiled. “Yes. As will Guardian.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“There it goes again,” Marine Sergeant Pohjola commented, nodding out the shuttle viewport as Saintonge’s starboard thrusters flared, sending the massive battlecruiser drifting to their right. “Sort of like a slow-motion pinball. Docking with something bouncing around like that would be a real trick.”
Massingill nodded. She’d figured that was what Saintonge’s hijackers were up to when Pohjola first spotted the battlecruiser’s random thruster blasts.
Just as well she’d never planned on docking the shuttle in the first place. “I hope they’re enjoying themselves,” she said. “Just make sure you keep us some distance. Holderlin, you ready?”
“We’re ready, Ma’am,” Sergeant Holderlin said calmly from inside the aft-starboard airlock. His three teammates were lined up behind him, Holderlin’s own rock-steadiness in sharp contrast to their restless fidgeting.
Massingill didn’t blame them. RMN basic training had included a couple of units of close-quarters self-defense, but no one who went through those classes ever seriously expected to use any of it. Now, not only were they going to be fighting, but they were going to be fighting in a foreign environment, against an unknown enemy, and for a nation and people that weren’t even their own.
Personally, Massingill didn’t mind fighting for the Havenites. Right now, she didn’t care who she was fighting for or, really, whether she was fighting for anyone or any cause at all. All she cared about was that she was getting to take the battle to the people who’d killed her husband.
A suffocating bitterness rose into her throat, burning with anger and grief. Alvis had been safe enough when he spoke to Metzger. He’d certainly been alive. But that safety must have somehow deserted him after that. Either the hijackers had found them, or he and Flanders had gone off to do something crazily heroic in an effort to save Flanders’s precious ship.
Thanks to Guardian, Flanders’s ship had been saved. But Alvis had never called back.
And he should have. He should have called to tell Guardian that the attack had been successful and that the hijackers were preparing to abandon ship. He should have called to warn Metzger that Guzarwan had hostages, including Captain Eigen.
But he hadn’t called. Not then, not now. And he should have.
If he was still alive.
Of course he hadn’t gone to ground like Flanders had said they would. He’d probably tried to do something stupid. Scram the fusion plant, maybe, to keep Péridot from blowing when the missile wedge sliced through the hull. Or maybe he and Flanders had gone to try to rescue the hostages. She could easily see Alvis trying one or the other hair-brained scheme.
Only it hadn’t worked. And he was dead.
“Five seconds,” Pohjola called.
Massingill took a deep breath and did a last check of her team. All three of them looked as nervous as Holderlin’s group. “You ready?” she asked them.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Boysenko said. The other two—Riglan and O’Keefe—merely nodded wordlessly.
Combat butterflies, one of Massingill’s DIs had called them. They’d be fine once they hit deck and the shooting started.
Probably.
“Go!” Pohjola called.
In a single smooth motion Holderlin popped the outer hatch and flung himself out into space, the Alpine-style safety lines pulling the others in rapid order out behind him. “Five seconds,” Pohjola called again.
Massingill nodded, getting a grip on her thruster control with one hand and taking hold of the outer hatch release with the other. With only three four-man teams available, they’d decided Holderlin’s group would penetrate Saintonge near the forward fusion plant radiator, with the goal of attacking either the bridge or CIC, while Pohjola’s team would breach somewhere in the vicinity of the hab module, where they could choose between harassing whoever was guarding the trapped Havenites or else tackling the fusion reactor room. Given the situation, standard procedure would normally have dictated that Massingi
ll’s team find a point of entry near one of the impeller rooms, with the goal of damaging or otherwise shutting down the ring.
Massingill had come up with something slightly more creative. Whether it was brilliantly creative or stupidly creative remained to be seen.
“Go!”
Massingill keyed the hatch and pulled on the hand bar, hurling herself out into the vast nothingness outside. She felt the three slight tugs on the Alpine line as the other three fell out behind her in sequence, then keyed her thruster. The tension on the line increased sharply, the shuttle’s stern flashed by, and the line tension decreased as her team kicked in their own thrusters. Checking to make sure all three were still attached, Massingill shifted her eyes toward the massive battlecruiser beneath them.
As always, Pohjola’s timing had been perfect. She and the others were angling straight toward Saintonge’s hab section, with its fancy grav plates that Alvis had been hoping to get a look at. Far more interesting to Massingill at the moment was the narrow zero-gee sheath running around the outer edge of the hab section that allowed for personnel and equipment transfer without such traffic having to go through the ship’s living quarters. Part of that sheath was given over to the docking ring for the battlecruiser’s four shuttles.
One of the docking ports was currently empty. One of them was occupied by the shuttle the first group of hijackers had brought over from Péridot.
And as Saintonge’s crew hadn’t expected an incursion from its own spacecraft, so too the hijackers probably weren’t expecting a counterattack from theirs.
Alone, Massingill could have made the touchdown and reached the docked shuttle in two minutes. Dragging three amateurs along behind her, it was closer to four.
“What happens if we can’t get it open?” Riglan asked nervously as Massingill worked at the cockpit drop-lock, a small emergency escape route that she’d never heard of anyone actually using. “I mean—”
He broke off as Massingill popped the outer hatch. “I’ll go first,” she said as she maneuvered herself into the cramped space. “When it cycles again, it’ll be Riglan, O’Keefe, and Boysenko.”
