by David Weber
The disadvantage of drop-locks, Massingill had been taught, was that they offered no freedom of movement whatsoever if you came under fire. Their advantage was that the small volume translated to a quick cycling time. Another three minutes, and the team was at the shuttle’s docking collar, peering cautiously into the deserted bay and passageway beyond.
Massingill gave a scan with her suit’s audio sensors, just to make sure, then gestured to the others to pop their helmets. “Looks clear,” she murmured, feeling a twinge of guilt as they opened their heads to the outside air. Her own Marine vac suit included a full sensor package, and was designed to be kept zipped during an incursion.
Unfortunately, the others’ standard-issue ship suits weren’t so well equipped, and the risk of blundering into an enemy because you couldn’t hear him was higher than the risk of taking gas, debris, or a grazing shot. Hence, it was buckets-off from here on.
Not that their helmets would be much good against a full-on shot anyway, she knew. Or their suits, either, for that matter. “Sling your helmets—make sure your headsets are muted but receiving—and let’s go.”
They headed down the passageway, swimming quickly and mostly quietly through the zero-gee. Guzarwan’s shuttle, Massingill knew, would be docking soon, and someone from the first group of hijackers would be there to meet it.
Whatever Guzarwan had planned for his reception committee, it was about to get a little bigger. And a whole lot livelier.
“It’s risky,” Metzger said reluctantly. “But I think you’re right. We really don’t have any other choice.”
“Well, if we’re going to do it, we need to start now,” Calkin said. “We’re not going to beat Guzarwan’s shuttle there as it is.”
Floating behind them, Travis felt his throat tighten. He’d hoped they might be able to use the same trick on Saintonge that they had on Péridot. But the mathematics of geometry—Guardian was still orbiting below Saintonge and stern-first to her—plus the physics of inertia—it would take nearly six minutes on thrusters for Guardian to rotate the necessary one-eighty degrees to bring her weapons to bear, plus however more minutes it would take to gain altitude to match her orbit to Saintonge’s current level—had combined to made that tactic unusable. There simply was no way to get into a position where they could send a missile wedge along the Saintonge’s axis to take out her nodes.
And with nothing cleaner to go with, Metzger and Calkin had fallen back on their original plan for Péridot: to instead send a missile at Saintonge at an upward angle where it would slice across its bow endcap, tear through its forward impeller ring, bridge, and CIC, and hopefully disrupt things enough to keep her from bringing up her wedge.
And, as an inevitable consequence, kill every Havenite unlucky enough to be trapped in that third of the ship.
But the timer was rapidly counting down, and Metzger had to do something. Sixteen minutes from now, if Kountouriote’s calculations were correct, Saintonge would have her full wedge and be ready to make a run for the hyper limit and freedom. The fact that Guardian would have her own wedge up three minutes before that sounded like it should be a tactical advantage, but really wasn’t. Not unless Guardian wanted to destroy the battlecruiser, which Metzger had already made clear that she didn’t.
So instead of a kill, Guardian would try for a decapitation.
“Still, if we’re fast enough, Captain Eigen shouldn’t be all the way to the bridge before we’re ready to fire,” Metzger continued. “Especially if Massingill’s able to pin them down in their shuttle. Any idea what the penetration of autocannon shells on a stationary target would be?”
“Not sure anyone’s ever run those numbers,” Calkin said. “I wouldn’t count on them doing any good, though. Explosives designed to take out a missile coming in at five thousand klicks per second probably won’t do much against an armored endcap or impeller ring.” He waved a hand. “But we can try it first if you’d like.”
“Probably not worth it.” Metzger hit her intercom key. “Missile Ops; bridge. Status?”
“Nearly ready, Ma’am,” Donnelly’s voice came back. “We were having trouble charging the capacitors, but we’re back on track. Two minutes, max, and we’ll be ready.”
“Let me know when you are.” Metzger broke the connection and looked at Travis. “Long?”
Travis winced, his eyes flicking guiltily away from her to the tactical display. What was he supposed to say?
Because he had nothing. The XO was clearly still hoping he could come up with something clever. But he had nothing.
The physics were as clear as they were unyielding. The minute Guardian kicked in full thrusters and started her yaw rotation, Saintonge would undoubtedly start an upward pitch of her own in hopes of rotating her ventral stress band and putting it between her and potential attack. Even an incomplete wedge would diffuse the fury of Guardian’s laser, and it would certainly destroy the wedge of an incoming missile.
If Saintonge won the leisurely pas de deux, the hijackers would escape. If Guardian won, she would get her shot, and do her best to destroy as little of the Havenite battlecruiser as she could manage.
Either way, they were all looking down the throat of disaster.
“Long?” Metzger repeated.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Travis said. “I—nothing’s coming to me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Calkin said with a grunt. “You’re already one for two in the idea department today. That’s not a bad average for anyone. Ma’am, I need you to look over these numbers.”
Travis frowned, Calkin’s voice vanishing into the background of his perception as a sudden thought flicked across his mind. We’re having trouble charging the capacitors, Donnelly had said . . .
“Commander, Guzarwan’s shuttle has reached Saintonge,” Carlyle’s voice came from CIC. “Docking now.”
“Thank you,” Metzger said. “Missile Ops; bridge. Lieutenant?”
“Prep countdown starting now, Commander,” Donnelly reported. “We’ll be ready to launch by the time Guardian’s in position.”
“Acknowledged. Helm—”
“Commander?” Travis cut in. “I’m sorry, Ma’am—”
“Spit it out, Long,” Calkin snapped.
Travis braced himself. “I was wondering what happens if you wreck one of a reactor’s radiator vanes.”
“There’s a small spike in the plant heat output, and then it settles down,” Calkin said impatiently. “That’s why each reactor has two radiators, so that one can take up the slack if the other’s damaged in battle.”
“Wait a minute, not so fast,” Metzger said, her eyes narrowed in thought. “If I remember right, the temp spike gets smoothed and rerouted because the engineers in the reactor room make that happen. I doubt the hijackers have a full slate of trained personnel back there.”
“No, no, you’re right,” Calkin said, his scorn fading into sudden interest. “The reactor was already going—they didn’t need to put anyone with any brains back there. If the RHN has the same automatic backup scram system we do—” Abruptly, he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Saintonge’s running its aft reactor, and there’s no way we can hit either of its radiators from our position. Not without slicing off the aft third of the ship and probably blowing the reactor along with it. If we’re going to do that, we might as well put a missile down its throat and be done with it.”
“We don’t need a missile,” Metzger said suddenly. “We’ve got one. We’ve got Massingill’s shuttle.”
“Hell on wheels,” Calkin murmured, his hands abruptly skating across his board. “Can we even get it going fast enough to do the kind of damage we need?”
“You run the numbers—I’ll get Massingill,” Metzger said, gesturing to the man at Com. “Simons, get me Colonel Massingill.”
“Too late, Ma’am,” he said tightly. “Massingill and her crew are already engaged.”
It was about as perfect a setup as Massingill could ever have hoped for. Two hard-fa
ced hijackers were waiting for the shuttle from Péridot, their carbines slung over their shoulders, their full attention on the task of docking the incoming vessel.
And Saintonge’s new commander had even shut down the ship’s random twitchings while the shuttle docked and hadn’t yet started them up again. Peering down the barrel of her carbine as the passengers filed out, Massingill waited for the critical moment when the hostages came into sight. A quick two- or three-shot to take out the primary guards, then a hail of covering fire, and Captain Eigen should have the few seconds necessary to get himself and Ambassador Boulanger to cover. Then an ordered retreat to the fallback spot Massingill had picked to make her rearguard stand while the others got the hostages back into the shuttle, and her part in this drama would be almost finished.
As usual with military plans, it didn’t work out that way.
Ten passengers had emerged, some heading for the bridge, the others hovering outside the shuttle as they apparently waited for further orders or traveling companions, when two oblivious hijackers came bouncing around the curve of the outer ring behind Massingill’s group and careened smack into the center of their formation.
There was no option. Cursing under her breath, Massingill let go of her carbine with her right hand, leaving it pointed at the docking bay, then snap-drew her sidearm and shot both of the newcomers. “Fire!” she barked at her team.
And with that, as the old phrase so succinctly put it, all hell broke loose.
The four Manticorans opened fire, sending a barrage of 10mm rounds into the group by the docking collar. The hijackers were also in motion, some trying frantically to retreat to the cover of the shuttle, others realizing they were too far out of position for any chance of escape and coolly drawing their sidearms or trying to bring their own carbines to bear. Massingill let her team handle the distraction fire, concentrating her own efforts on sniping out the most competent-looking of the enemy. Vaguely, she heard a voice shouting from her headset, but the gunfire was too loud for her to make out any of the words, and she was too busy to pay attention anyway.
She’d killed five of the enemy, and the rest of the Manticoran fire had taken out two more, by the time the rest made it back into the shuttle. A few random shots came from around the edge of the collar, but another couple of rounds from Massingill and the rearguard pulled back.
And an echoing silence descended on the passageway.
Massingill took a quick moment to check her team. They seemed uninjured, though all three looked a little traumatized and more than a little tense. No surprise there.
Unfortunately, there was no surprise left anywhere else, either. Guzarwan was under cover, the hostages were still in his hands, and the whole ship had been alerted to the threat. Even if Holderlin and Pohjola were successful in pinning down their share of the hijackers, that still left an unknown number of reinforcements available for Guzarwan to send up Massingill’s kilt.
“Massingill! Massingill?”
Massingill worked her jaw, trying to clear away some of the ringing in her ears. The voice was coming from her headset. Probably a follow-up to whatever Guardian had been trying to tell her earlier. “Massingill,” she replied into her mike.
“New orders,” the voice said. “Urgent. Take your shuttle—”
And then, abruptly, all was again silence.
“Say again?” Massingill called, glancing down at the radio. Her equipment seemed to be functioning all right. “Say again, Guardian?”
But there was nothing. She started to key to a new frequency—
“Colonel Massingill?” a distant voice called. From inside the shuttle, Massingill’s numbed ears tentatively concluded. “This is Guzarwan, Colonel. I want to offer you a deal.”
Massingill felt her lip twist. At this point, a conversation was probably either stalling or an attempt to zero her in from the direction of her voice. “Fall back,” she murmured to the others. “Riglan first—”
“I won’t bother trying to bargain for your captain’s life, Colonel,” Guzarwan continued. “I know how you military people are, all stiff and noble and self-sacrificing. So let’s try this instead.
“Tell me, Colonel: what would you trade for your husband Alvis’s life?”
It had taken five minutes of careful maneuvering, but Saintonge and the target were finally in the proper positions. “Go,” Vachali ordered.
On the status board, one of the com lights lit up . . . and with a mere two seconds’ worth of fire from Saintonge’s mid-starboard com laser, the Manticoran shuttle’s own communications capabilities were neatly and permanently fried.
And with the attackers’ link to Guardian gone, it was time to do something about that ruckus back in the docking bay. “Labroo, get your people to Docking Three,” he ordered into the intercom. “Kichloo’s managed to lead the chief into an ambush. Go get them out of it.”
“On our way,” Labroo said briskly. “What’s status?”
“Seven casualties, we think,” Vachali said. “The chief and the others are pinned down but safe. And watch your flanks—two other teams came aboard, and one of them may be waiting to hit you along the way.”
“Let ’em try. I’ll call when they’re clear.”
“Boss!” Dhotrumi cut in. “Guardian’s on the move—yaw rotation to port. You get that, Munchi?”
“I got it,” Munchi confirmed from the helm. “Boss?”
“Go ahead,” Vachali said, feeling his lips curl back in a vicious grin. So the Manticorans were making their final bid to stop Saintonge from leaving the system. Too bad for them. “We want a—what was it again?”
“An upward pitch,” Munchi told him.
“Right,” Vachali said. “Whatever we do to get our bottom wedge—”
“It’s called the floor.”
“Whatever the hell it is, get it between us and Guardian,” Vachali said impatiently. Smartmouths, every single one of them.
“Yeah, got it,” Munchi said. “What about the shaking? You want that back on?”
“Don’t bother,” Vachali said. The random ship movements would drain power from the thrusters, and Saintonge needed all the power it could get to keep its lumbering battlecruiser’s defensive pitch movement ahead of the smaller and nimbler destroyer’s turn.
Besides, the shaking hadn’t stopped the Manticorans from boarding. It probably wouldn’t do any better at spoiling their aim in the running gunfight back there.
But that was all right. The Manticorans’ time had run out, and even their nuisance factor was about to be erased. “And call Jalla,” he added. “Tell him to get his butt over the horizon.
“Tell him it’s time to use his missile.”
“Simons?” Metzger demanded, her throat tightening as she stared at the monitor. Suddenly, without even a sputter, the carrier signal from Massingill’s team had vanished. “Simons, talk to me.”
“It’s the shuttle, Ma’am,” Simons said, peering at his displays. “It’s stopped relaying our signals. They must have fried its systems somehow.”
“Did Massingill get the message?” Metzger asked, switching her gaze to the tactical. Saintonge was on the move, pitching her bow upward, hoping to raise her floor high enough to put it between her and Guardian. “Come on, look alive. Did she get the message or not?”
“Ma’am . . . no, Ma’am, I don’t think so,” Simons admitted. “The first time through there was a lot of gunfire, and the second time was cut off.” Simons gave her a hooded look. “I’m sorry, Commander.”
“Never mind sorry, Com,” Metzger bit out, her mind racing. “Tell me how we can reestablish contact.”
“I—” Simons lifted a hand helplessly. “Another shuttle could do it, Ma’am. But—”
Metzger jabbed at her intercom. “Docking One; bridge. Get that shuttle into space—emergency launch.”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” a voice came back. “It’ll be clear in five minutes.”
“You’ve got two,” Metzger said tersely and keyed o
ff the intercom.
“They can’t do it, Ma’am,” Calkin said, almost gently. “Not in time. Unless Massingill somehow got more of the message than we thought, we’re going to have to go with either the laser or a missile.”
“I know.” Metzger tapped the intercom. “Missile Ops; bridge. Confirm readiness.” She took a deep breath and looked back at Calkin. “Stand by to fire.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was a trick, Massingill’s suddenly numbed mind knew. A stupid, meaningless trick designed to pin her and her team in place until Guzarwan’s reinforcements could arrive.
But somehow that didn’t matter. If there was even a chance that Alvis was still alive . . .
“Colonel?” Riglan asked tentatively.
“Get to the fallback,” Massingill told him. “All of you. Wait for me there.” She threw a sideways look at Riglan’s pinched face. “You hear me? Fallback position, damn it.”
“You still there, Colonel?” Guzarwan called.
“I’m here, Guzarwan,” Massingill called back, shifting her attention to the passageway beyond the docking collar, then to the collar itself. So far, no signs of reinforcements from outside or a sortie from inside. The counterattack was probably forming up somewhere behind her. “Talk fast. Is Alvis there with you?”
“Here? No, he’s safely locked down with the rest of the officers and dignitaries in Péridot’s Alpha Spin section. But he won’t be safe much longer. Have you ever heard the phrase dog in the manger? It refers to selfish individuals who, if they can’t have something they want—”
“I know what it means,” Massingill cut him off. “Get to the point.”
“The point is that before we abandoned Péridot we left the survivors a little going-away present,” Guzarwan said, his voice suddenly ice-cold. “A small but powerful bomb in the fusion bottle regulator. If it goes off, the reactor goes with it. And for a few moments our little trinary system will have a fourth sun.”
