Cry of War: A Military Space Adventure Series

by R. L. Giddings

  “We need to find some way of humanely destroying her. It’s the only way.”

  “Well, that’s my oxymoron for the day,” McNeill said. “Humanely destroy. What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. Look, we’ve done everything we’re supposed to do. We’ve tried to hail her but she’s ignored us. And, if there’d been any survival pods, we’d have seen them by now.”

  “The Da’al aren’t renowned for their love of survival pods,” Faulkner pointed out.

  Khan didn’t seem to have heard.

  “We can’t enter the ship without putting ourselves at significant risk and yet, until the ship has been thoroughly searched, it can’t be said to be clear of all threats.”

  “So,” Schwartz said. “What are you proposing?”

  “A ship-buster missile. Just so we’re sure.”

  Faulkner looked up and down the table.

  “But we don’t have anything like that on board, do we?”

  As Tactical Officer, all eyes turned to Whaites who held his interlocked fingers in front of his face.

  He seemed to be considering his options.

  “We could rig one up. Correction. Khan could rig one up,” he turned to his left. “Is that right, Stephen, or am I letting my mouth run away with me here?”

  Khan shrugged. “I could give it a try, I suppose.”

  “But you think it’s possible?” Faulkner asked.

  It was Khan’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Yes, sir. I believe it is.”

  “And what would it do?”

  “Same principle as dropping a hand grenade inside one of those old World War II tanks. You use the actual hull to contain the explosion and thereby magnify its effectiveness.”

  “Alright,” Faulkner sat back in his chair. “If Mr Khan can rig it up, I think that’s decided …”

  Schwartz made to object but he shook his head.

  “I understand your objections, Lieutenant Commander, but I’ve made up my mind. And I think if you’d look at the next item on the agenda you’ll see why.”

  He called up the document he needed before sending it out to each of them in turn.

  “This is of course, highly classified,” he said darkly. “None of this must leave this room.”

  When they’d all finished reading, they looked to Faulkner for further clarification.

  “And has this been confirmed?” McNeill said.

  “Only in so much as it came through the admiral’s office. The necessary codes were in place if that’s what you mean.”

  “It would have been nice to have known some of this stuff beforehand,” Khan said sourly.

  “I can’t see how it would have made that much difference,” Schwartz was going through the document again. “Admiral Winterson’s fleet was involved in a direct engagement. There’s a world of difference between that and a full-on pursuit.”

  “Though the benefits of what we’ve both achieved has been extraordinary,” McNeill said. “Let’s not forget that. Between us, we’ve detected weaknesses in the Da’al’s defences that’ll be game changers in the future. Not often you can say something like that.”

  “I’d agree,” Whaites said. “Though I’m not sure where that leaves us.”

  “What do you mean?” Khan said.

  Whaites turned to Faulkner, seeking permission to try and pull the disparate parts of this new intelligence together.

  Faulkner indicated for him to continue.

  “Whilst the fleet has done some great work introducing the Sloth Gun to proceedings, their destruction of both Odin and Tyr has come at some considerable cost. The loss of the Charles W Morgan. And that’s not to mention the considerable damage sustained by the other ships involved, not least The Spur herself.”

  “Do we have any more information on their casualties?”

  The crew of the Renheim would invariably have friends and, in some cases, family members on board. To find out that one of them had been killed would no doubt have a devastating effect.

  “I’m afraid details are a little sketchy at the moment,” Faulkner conceded. “All I do know is that the bridge was hit. Captain Hoyt was killed and the admiral was badly injured although it’s not thought that his life’s in any danger.”

  “So, who’s in charge over there now?”

  “A Commander Kerrigan who, I have to admit, I have no knowledge of.”

  “I know Tom Kerrigan,” Schwartz said. “I worked with him on The Indomitable.”

  “Okay,” Faulkner said. “And what’s he like?”

  “I can’t say that he’s the most inspirational person I’ve ever met,” she gave an awkward smile. “He’s competent enough, though.”

  “Come on, Katherine,” McNeill said. “What is it you’re not telling us.”

  Schwartz suddenly looked as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t say he’s difficult to work with but he’s very intractable. Likes to do everything his way, which doesn’t always go down well. He’s been in a fair number of scrapes in his time but he always seems to come out smelling of roses. Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Isn’t that what Napoleon said when being introduced to one of his new generals,” McNeill said. “’I don’t care if he’s any good, I want to know if he’s lucky.’ Or something like that.”

  “Well, Napoleon would have loved this guy,” Schwartz said. “Though I can’t say the same.”

  “Not that it’s going to make much difference who’s in charge,” Whaites said. “What with all the damage The Spur’s sustained, the only place she’ll be headed to is the nearest shipyard.”

  “But aren’t we forgetting this other Da’al ship,” Faulkner said. “What is it again? Only I’m starting to get confused.”

  “Oh my God, yes,” Schwartz said. “Thor. I’d completely forgotten about her. Sir, do we have any idea what she’s up to?”

  “’Fraid so,” Faulkner said. “I received this just over an hour ago and haven’t had a chance to make sense of it. As far as I can tell, Thor was picked up on the approach to Laxx station, supposedly heading this way. But then they lost her. The station wasn’t able to positively identify her one hundred percent, I imagine, because she wasn’t carrying a transponder, but it certainly looks like her: speed, tonnage, it all matches up.”

  Then he sat back, allowing them to put the pieces together themselves. It was a terrible position they’d just been placed in. After everything they’d faced up until now, they were going to have to resign themselves to the fact that this was far from over.

  A fresh ship, similar to the other ships they’d faced but with its own strengths and weaknesses was, even now, heading their way.

  Faulkner had faced down worse odds than this but that had been when he was young and foolish. Before he’d fully realised the true enormity of what he’d be up against. Now, he was older, more experienced and a darn sight more realistic about what their chances would be.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if the people around him hadn’t been so certain that he’d be able to get them through this. Schwartz, in particular, seemed to have an unshakeable faith in his abilities. She’d started regarding him as if he were some kind of military genius and not what he was: some tired old man who’d been riding his luck for far too long.

  And he didn’t see himself as being defeatist in thinking that. Rather, he was being realistic. Their ship was on its last legs having just taken the most incredible pounding and with a crew that was fit to drop.

  They were all badly in need of a rest. Only now it didn’t look as if they were going to get one.

  Admiral Winterson might have been on his sick bed when he’d written his orders, but he’d been very clear about one thing.

  Captain Faulkner,

  Congratulations on your defeat of the ship designated >>Loki>>.

  Imperative that you now bring your entire capability to bear on ship designated >>Thor>>. This ship poses a clear and present danger to the
safety of the Henrietta Gate.

  You are to transfer all available resources to tracking, intercepting and destroying ship designated >>Thor>> with immediate effect.

  This is Priority Balthasar.

  Repeat, Priority Balthasar.

  Good sailing captain,

  Admiral Julius Winterson

  Faulkner attempted to distract himself from the tenor of what he’d just read by taking a moment to scrutinise the admiral’s signature. He’d seen Winterson’s signature several times before and he knew it as an intricate thing embellished with a mass of overly ornate flourishes. Only, this signature was different, with only the looping W suggesting that this came from the same hand.

  He didn’t doubt its authenticity for a moment, indeed the marked differences in the two only served to confirm something he’d long since resigned himself to. How the harsh realities of battle could quickly work to unpick a man’s character. Transform him into something other.

  “Priority Balthasar?” Khan was looking to him. “Sorry, sir, that’s a new one on me.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve seen it actually written down,” Faulkner said, remembering how relatively inexperienced this crew actually were. “Though I’m sure the XO’s heard of it.”

  Schwartz gave the smallest dip of her chin.

  “Priority Balthasar,” he went on. “It’s one of the last things they teach you when you’re sitting your captaincy exams. Katherine? You want to explain?”

  “Let me see if I can recall the other two first. Priority Orion requires you to engage a superior enemy only surrendering when casualties reach, I think, forty percent. Priority Magnus only allows surrender if the ship itself becomes compromised in some way. I believe you’ve had experience of that one yourself, sir?”

  “Just the once. Though that was more than enough.”

  “I think I can see where this is headed,” McNeill said.

  She went on. “The fact that the admiral has chosen to invoke Priority Balthasar suggests that we’re in desperate straits. It instructs the captain that, in the instance that he or she believes that they are about to be immobilised they should resort to the Five Point Plan.”

  “Initiate self-destruct?” Khan couldn’t keep the alarm out of his voice. “I thought that was abandoned years ago.”

  “It’s only to be used in extraordinary circumstances,” Faulkner said. “But I’m afraid it’s very real.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Now our first client’s just up ahead,” the man was saying. “Guy called Mancini.”

  The pimp was checking the numbers on the doors, anxious because they were late. Mariele and the other woman had already headed off on their own.

  “Now, you have to be careful with this one, especially if he’s been drinking. He’s been known to be a little heavy handed in the past. Just try not to antagonise him. Think you can do that?”

  “Think so. What happens if he does?”

  “Does what?”

  “Starts to get heavy handed. What am I supposed to do then? Call for you?”

  The man’s laugh turned into a cough.

  “Nah. Nothing I can do. You’re just going to have to get on with it.”

  “But what if he hits me?” she pointed to her face. “Here?”

  The man squinted at her in confusion. Which was when LaCruz hit him.

  His head re-bounded off the wall just as his legs gave way, dumping him onto the floor.

  LaCruz stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar. The man fell back, unconscious.

  LaCruz grabbed his chin so that she could see where she’d hit him, the top of his cheek already marked red. She turned his chin from side to side as she studied his face.

  “I’ve seen worse!” she said, before releasing him and marching off.

  She wasn’t exactly sure where she was heading, so she concentrated on trying to re-trace her steps back along the corridor. She was about to take a right turn at the intersection when she remembered something. This was the corner where they’d left Mariele and her minder and they’d gone right, so LaCruz supposed that that meant she had to keep going straight on.

  She passed a couple of the raiders, one of whom looked her up and down in a way she didn’t care for but he made no attempt to stop her. The next raider seemed genuinely surprised to see her there and this prompted her to walk all the faster. It was only when she came to the next junction that she had a moment to stop and reassess what she was doing.

  There were several rooms leading off what was a fairly wide corridor and judging by the signage this appeared to be where the ship’s comms offices were situated. She was in the process of backing away when she saw something interesting. Right in the middle of all these offices was a bright yellow door.

  She stepped back out of sight to give herself time to think. Sylvie had gone on and on about how the door to the cleaning cupboard was bright yellow in color.

  Yet, in all the conversations that they’d had, she’d never mentioned anything about it being smack in the middle of the central comms area.

  There would obviously be other cleaning cupboards on this level, but she couldn’t leave this one without at least having checked it out. Plus, according to Sylvie, her cupboard was still a good way away. LaCruz tried to picture the map she’d got Sylvie to draw but found that, without some kind of focal point, one corridor looked very much like any other.

  She waited until she was sure that the corridor was empty before tugging her dress down and making her move. LaCruz had never felt quite so vulnerable, even though she still had her knife tacked into the hem of her dress. It wasn’t the fact that she had so much flesh on show, it was more to do with how she felt about herself.

  “Heay, where are you going?”

  LaCruz froze. A young guy had just stepped out of one of the offices.

  “I asked you a question.”

  She briefly considered telling him she was lost but for some reason she didn’t think that the guy would go for it.

  “I left something in there,” she said, pointing to the cupboard.

  He looked to see what she was pointing at.

  “The cleaning cupboard. What were you doing in there?”

  Thinking quickly, she said, “Guy called Johnson.”

  She’d just plucked the name out of the air.

  The man thought about this, “Works in the mess?”

  “That’s him. He’s got this ‘thing’ for store cupboards.”

  “What? Johnson has?”

  She barely reacted, eager not to over-do this.

  The young guy’s expression turned from one of distrust to one of disbelief.

  “What sort of things does he get up to?”

  LaCruz looked blank. This wasn’t her area of expertise.

  “I try not to judge, you know. That’s not what I’m about. I just try to be accommodating.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he seemed intrigued by the notion yet reticent to press her further. “Anyway, you’re out of luck. They keep that door locked.”

  LaCruz put her hand down the neck of her dress and pulled out a keycard. “I know.”

  The young guy was about to say something but changed his mind. Shaking his head, he disappeared off down the corridor.

  LaCruz didn’t hesitate. She went over and slid the card over the scanner. There was a faint click and the light on the handle went from red to green.

  Bingo.

  She slipped inside, activating the light. Aside from the usual brooms and buckets, there were several shelves loaded with cleaning chemicals. The bleach was on the top shelf in five separate litre containers but she had to look around for the ammonia. That was tucked away in the corner in a twenty-litre drum and she had her work cut out ‘walking’ it into the centre of the room. There was no way she was going to be able to spirit this away.

  But then she didn’t have to. There was a grav sled folded up against the back wall and, after a little trial and error, she managed to get it down. It took her
a minute to find the locking mechanism but then the whole thing automatically fired up. Then it was just a question of lifting up one corner of the drum and the sled did the rest. There was a wire basket on the back and she loaded the four bleach containers into there.

  Satisfied, she turned round to open the door only to be confronted by a full-length mirror.

  “Oh, girl,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

  There was no way of squaring her appearance with the fact that she was transporting large quantities of chemicals around the ship. It was just too incongruous. She looked around, hoping that there was a coat or something that she could put on. There wasn’t but after a little searching she managed to find where they stored their overalls. There were three sizes XXXL, XL and Large. She ripped the cellophane of the large one knowing that it would dwarf her, and it did. Still, she didn’t have much choice so she pulled it on. She had to roll up the sleeves and there were cords to help her cinch in the waist but it was still far too big. She rolled up the legs and then regarded herself in the mirror.

  The heels she was wearing were something of a giveaway but then they did lend her some much-needed height, so she decided to keep them.

  She pulled open the door, readied herself behind the grav sled and off she went.

  *

  Schwartz sat on the old foot stool in Faulkner’s quarters. Because of the pregnancy, she’d been having difficulty finding a comfortable seating position and had found that the stool offered her some degree of relief. But to do so, she had to sit forward, feet braced on either side, allowing her stomach to hang down.

  It wasn’t particularly lady-like but there were only the two of them there and by this stage, she was long past caring what she looked like.

  Besides, she was angry.

  She was angry with Faulkner for giving the order for the ship buster bomb to be built. Then she was angry with for Khan for building it.

  After all that had happened in their pursuit of the Loki, its destruction had proved to be deceptively simple. One of the drone operators had piloted the bomb in through a hole in the Loki’s aft section. Then he’d had to rely on the on-board cameras to get the thing in place.