At forty meters from the Siegel, Lobo abruptly brakes, dropping speed to zero. Far behind, the convoy is close to exiting the funnel.
The hull of the enemy ship swiftly goes down; the Marine flies to the control room. Olga cuts the powerful jamming. Clutching the lining, Lobo brings the gun to the porthole; Olga has time to look at the female pilot, who sees the Marine for a second before her death. A short burst tears her chest; Lobo overtakes the broken porthole and gets on board the pirate vessel. It takes one tenth of a second to break the locks on the backup console and connect to the ship's network.
“I still do!”
In the next few moments, a lot happens. Olga sets up an interference-free communication channel with the cruiser and launches Buran at full capacity, drowning out a distress call from the Bugsy. The icebreaker program breaks through the main computer, passing the ship over to Voronov’s control: she blocks the Bugsy’s crew in the compartments and then opens access to the main mechanisms of the captured ship.
“He's ours!”
Having received a light signal, the JUDAS PRIEST, the leader of the convoy, turns sharply, heading straight for the minefield that covers the left bandit’s squadron. The first mines start detonating two seconds later, and the Syndicate ships open fire.
“Engage!”
Standing to the Bugsy’s guns, the Twins fire a few inaccurate shots in the direction of the Band and then synchronously point the guns at the two nearest Syndicate ships. The first volley hits Mo Greene, and after two tenths of a second, Collosimo gets his portion of shells.
“Full steam ahead!”
Granddad is forcing the engines of Bugsy: a hundredfold overload kills most of the crew, and the captured ship flies to the center of the squadron, to the barely visible torpedo-bearer.
JUDAS PRIEST in the meantime breaks through the minefield: The explosions merge into a solid white cloud, crushing the truck with shrapnel. The container turns into a sieve within a couple of seconds; one of the engines is broken, and a violent fire begins, but the truck is still running and maintains its course, blazing a safe way for the other ships.
Panic reigns in the air. The orders of the Syndicate boss don’t reach the subordinates, drowning in a continuous white noise. The left link continues focusing its fire on the trucks, while on the right flank, bandits are trying to get rid of the traitor that has arisen in their ranks.
On the third volley, the Twins manage to thrust a pair of shells into the torpedo-bearer, but Bugsy falls under the crossfire. Olga tries to blind the attackers, but despite all her efforts, Boddicker manages to make several accurate shots. The reactor compartment is destroyed, the guns can’t fire a single shot, and fuel and oxygen are rushing overboard, but the control of the ship remains in Tokarev’s hands, and he points Bugsy directly at the torpedo-bearer. For a couple of seconds before the inevitable collision, Olga cuts off the connection, noticing how Lobo falls out of the porthole and flies to the side.
“Well, piglets, now I'll huff and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house away!”
Contact! Like a giant bullet, Bugsy crashes into the torpedo-bearer. The signal is replaced by dense snow, and the usual black space in the optical sights gives way to the dark blue flame of the detonated reactors.
“We’ve passed the minefield!”
Having accomplished the suicidal role of the minesweeper, beaten by mines, shells, and laser beams to the state of scorched scrap metal, JUDAS PRIEST continues its uncontrolled flight, falling apart on the run. The trucks go to the safety corridor, moving towards the enemy at full speed. The destruction of the right-wing transport causes a short-term loss of control over the whole squadron, but now the brief confusion has passed–the Syndicate intends to shoot the trucks that cross the minefield. The bandits are only hampered by one thing: they still don’t see the Bolshevik.
“We begin the educational work!”
The low rumble of engines fills the air, and the cruiser rushes forward, diving under the burning JUDAS PRIEST, hangs for a split second, fires a volley at the nearest bandit, and then again regains altitude. Even before the shells hit the target, the Bolshevik rises for a moment over the burning truck, firing at the next Syndicate ship, and again leaves the line of fire, using the transport as a shield.
Striking with hard radiation, Olga manages to burn enemy EW stations: a solid wall of interference breaks up for a couple of seconds, and Anastasia now clearly sees the marks of multiple targets. Having found the transports, hidden in the center of the squadron, Nastya switches to the short-wave scanning mode, transforming the radar signal from the whipping beam into a narrowly directed needle aimed at a particular ship, which now can’t be protected by interference.
A coded signal sweeps the cruiser—Marshal Zhukov is equipped with a nuclear charge. The distance between the two squadrons has been reduced, and both survivors’ transports back up, leaving the battle—and then the Bolshevik opens fire on the minelayer. Two shots, a pause for three-tenths of a second, a shot, another moment of waiting, and a nuclear shell is rushing toward the target. Severov, who shoots at the maximum range, is perfectly precise—dodging the first three shells, the minelayer rushes towards the fourth. The commander doesn’t get a direct hit, but it is for such a case that a nuclear charge is used.
Radio communication is interrupted, the radars are blinded for a short time, the blue glow in the telescopes is waning, and in place of the minelayer now hangs a spherical orange-black cloud with a burrowed red mane.
“The enemy is retreating along the whole front!”
Anastasia's report confirms the end of the battle—the Syndicate, unable to withstand the crushing blow, is hastily retreating, headed by the supply transport. They aren’t pursued.
* * *
This homemade single-seater Russian bath was once a lifesaving “coffin,” but now everything is real: the pine walls, the steam, the high temperature. The water is strictly rationed, weightlessness hasn’t been canceled, and birch brooms aren’t available, but still nothing better has yet been invented to rest in after months of a combat mission.
Olga lies on her back, covered with a red terry towel, hovering at centimeter above the hot boards, lazily listening to the relaxing music. She is restoring her strength after visiting the medical compartment, where she was once again conjured by Chernova. First, she was given artificial kidney tissue. Then, her blood was completely replaced, removing the remnants of the many stimulants and other drugs used in recent months. The bones that were weakened by the extreme overloads and her muscle tissue were restored. She went through many other complicated procedures, and her reward was a ticket to the bath. Now the girl is enjoying a wonderful sixty minutes, during which she must try to forget about the overload, the combat anxiety, and the danger. For a while, it's all over.
After the destruction of most of the enemy squadron, the surviving bandits fled. They didn’t pursue them—Domcheev brought the Red Star out of the hangar and went to pick up Lobo, while Klimov collected the surviving trucks to continue their march. The ship that was ruptured by the mine field, the JUDAS PRIEST, isn’t able to be restored. Olga had never seen such a broken ship before. The crew of the truck had quietly left the board shortly before the suicidal breakthrough; now, the mechanics are patching the riddled shunting engines to give one last impulse and throw the broken truck off the road, after they remove a few surviving containers.
Anastasia and Severov continue to carry the watch, shooting the mines—they can’t endanger the other ships that pass this way. Olga is immersed in repair work: the rest of the trucks were also badly affected in the last fight, especially the GENESIS, in which five were wounded. Two of them died a couple of hours later, and another one died on the IRON MAIDEN. The battle cost the Band two ships and six men; the Bolshevik didn’t seriously suffer.
The repair took twenty hours, after which the convoy was ready to proceed further. There is one more last thing to be done.
Six rescue “coffins” th
at have now become real coffins are heading beyond the boundaries of the solar system. The captains of the Traveling Band send off their comrades in this way with an ancient ritual, created long before man first rose above the gravity of his planet.
“Since our comrades have met their dead in a dangerous flight and can’t lie in any land, waiting for judgment in eternity, we entrust their bodies to the great depths of Infinity, so that they will wander in the emptiness until that day when the last trumpet calls from the cosmos its dead …”
The Bolshevik’s main caliber releases a volley of illumination shells, after which the crew hears the captain continue:
“To die in a battle—is there a worthier death? Joseph, give the trumpet signal—we leave.”
CHAPTER TWELVE: OLGA WAS HERE
“Still, size matters,” Olga says, staring at the giant ball of Jupiter. Telescopes aren’t needed—the disk of the largest planet of the solar system encloses half the world. The Great Red Spot is clearly visible, slowly creeping over the gray-orange face of the giant. Simulators don’t convey the scale of this silent greatness; the colossal world must be seen with one’s own eyes at the minimum distance, four centuries after Galileo Galilei first observed Jupiter through his small telescope.
Six months have passed, and the convoy has traveled seven hundred and fifty million kilometers, having been successful in heavy fighting. The Band has reached the target. They only need to deliver the cargo to the Union ports on the four largest satellites—the Galilean moons. The convoy is still traveling in close combat order, and the Bolsheviks continue to maintain their watches, but the probability of an attack is extremely small—the Union Navy has already begun to escort them. There is almost no work, and Olga uses her free time for physics lessons and plays checkers with Uncle Joe.
The first stop is scheduled for Ganymede, which is now rising above Jupiter. Europe looks like a big snowball in the black sky. Io's sooty rock, moves slowly over the vast expanses of the gas giant. Callisto isn’t visible—this satellite is now on the far side of the planet.
“The Red Star has returned.”
The shuttle brought an unexpected passenger—Tatyana Andreeva, representative of the Ministry of Commerce of the Martian Republic. Now, Tatyana is sitting in the saloon and eating Navy spaghetti, enchanted looking out the porthole.
“You know, when I received a diploma from the Moscow Trade Institute twenty-five years ago, I never thought that I would get to the Galilean moons. Of course, I assumed that I would have to work in space, but I was sure that I wouldn’t rise above the lunar orbit. Are you also here for the first time?”
“Yeah,” Olga replies vaguely, pondering over her next move and noting that Tatyana is overly excited and talkative—the consequences of a long hibernation and a sudden awakening. It turns out that she spent those entire six months among cargo containers in a passenger capsule, with a constant body temperature plus five degrees Celsius, getting one serving of oxygen every ten minutes, and missing all the fights. She doesn’t have any regrets about the last.
“I'm a trade expert; why do I need all this? I can’t help the crew. Well, then I won’t interfere, and if bandits kill me, I won’t even notice it, which is very convenient. In any case, thank you very much for bringing me here safe and sound. Now I have to work out my tickets.”
Having finished breakfast, Tatiana began to note her financial balance and study the current situation in local markets. Olga, out of curiosity, glances at her documents a couple of times and remains very surprised by local prices.
The energy here costs the same as in the near-Earth colonies—the lack of solar batteries compensates for numerous gas production stations. Olga never saw such low prices for water and oxygen anywhere else. The thirst and lack of air constantly experienced by the Martians are unknown here, because of the abundance of water ice. But in regard to products, medicine, and organic materials, you could easily go broke—for the opportunity to eat well, you have to pay a fortune. It is necessary to get a suggestion from a knowledgeable person, and Olga calls Chernov.
“Elena, can I disturb you?”
“Yes, I'll survive it. What's my darling interested in?”
“I heard that life here isn’t cheap, but this is … There is a serious shortage of food; don’t the hydroponics greenhouses do well?”
Elena is distracted for a second from the planning of another brilliant operation, and gives Olga access to one of her secrets—a tiny farm, hidden in the depths of the medical compartment. The whole farm consists of several short tanks, united by autonomous water and electricity supply system, as well as a complex network of unknown mechanisms.
“There is no soil in the Galilean moons: local rocks and stones can be processed into cultivable soil, but it is so expensive that it’s cheaper to bring land from Mars. Look at the LED ZEPPELIN cargo manifest; it’s fully loaded with the earth. Here, it’s a running product for which good money is paid.”
Yes, here they are—eighteen thousand metric tons of soil grade A+, saturated with all necessary microorganisms and minerals, ideal for sowing grains.
“Soil-less plant cultivation is a complex task, even for a high-class specialist like me. Look—here I have only green algae; they serve as an uninterrupted source of oxygen, plus a small personal bed, and nothing more, too difficult. Many plants in hydroponics greenhouses can’t grow at all, and for the others, precise engineering and cleanliness are required. The slightest biological contamination kills the crop, plus one must strictly observe the temperature regime, lighting, pressure, and many other parameters. In view of the complexity and high prices of equipment, there aren’t enough local greenhouses for all; they are owned only by the first settlers and their descendants. The number of immigrants increases, and everyone else has to be satisfied with the compound—a synthetic food mixture. The same is eaten by the poor on Earth. It’s a rare muck, extremely harmful, but there is often no other option. As a result, scurvy is rampant on distant worlds, so natural foods and vitamins will come in handy. Everyone will get his or her share, and while you consider the profits, take a look at this handsome one.”
Elena shows her a freshly cut scarlet poppy of extraordinary beauty.
“Chernova-5 type: It is insensitive to overload, it gives ten percent more oxygen than normal species, and its seeds go well on buns. Or as opium.”
“Wonderful!”
“Naturally, like all my work.”
This evening, the long-awaited dismissal on Ganymede signifies the end of a military campaign.
“You have twenty-four hours, so don’t be late. We are in the Union’s territory, so behave politely and don’t lose your vigilance. I order you to get as much rest as possible, comrades; we deserve it!”
This is how Klimov instructs his crew before a rare day off, having given each one thousand rubles for expenses, since a good rest isn’t cheap. Then he and Severov toss a coin, and to Olga's joy, the Commander is the lucky winner—his watch will go to the city first.
Going down to the hangar, the girl looks through a short reference document created for those who are entering the ice of Ganymede for the first time. Basic information is known to any cosmonaut: Ganymede is the largest satellite in the solar system, in fact, a planet circling around Jupiter at a distance of 1,070,000 kilometers, one revolution for 171 hours. Like the Moon, Ganymede is constantly facing Jupiter with one side, there is practically no atmosphere, and most of the surface is covered by a large glacier providing cheap water and oxygen to the colonists. The first expeditions reached Ganymede in the mid-forties, and active colonization began a decade later. Now, the population has reached eight million and continues to grow, despite the huge transportation costs. Private settlements are rare; Ganymede, like the other major satellites of Jupiter, is divided equally between the Supernova and the Union, the standard space legislation. In addition, there are extensive enumerations of what is allowed and what is not, the necessary vaccinations, and many other things to which
Olga doesn’t pay much attention—she won’t have to pass customs.
“All aboard!”
It seems a little strange to Olga that none of her comrades are in her company. Of course, for safety reasons, the Red Star won’t carry half the crew in one flight, but still Olga thought that at least a couple of friends would be accompanying her. However, in addition to her, the shuttle carries only Tatiana and six Marines—bodyguards. It's no wonder—all the finances of the convoy are at her disposal, so the Sherkhan’s guys won’t be superfluous.
From an altitude of three hundred kilometers, the rapidly advancing Ganymede resembles the Moon, only the dark spots are shorter and glaciers gleam in the rays of the distant sun. In their radiance, it’s difficult to consider the lights of New Irkutsk, the capital of the Union in the vicinity of Jupiter. Low over the horizon, the IRON MAIDEN and the QUENN are visible, which the local tugs have already approached, and unloading begins.
“Last stop; please release the car.”
The Red Star sits on the open landing pad, a quarter of a mile away from the city. Olga runs over the ramp first to quickly step onto the surface. Over the past six months, the Bolshevik has become her home, but it is so nice to occasionally leave this home and see other lands. At these moments, the girl presents herself as a sailor of an ancient sailboat descending to the shore after a long, dangerous voyage.
On the surface, Ganymede also looks like the Moon—the same gray stone underfoot, the same gravity, and black skies, covered with stars. On this note, the similarities end, and local attractions begin. The city is built on a rocky plateau, rising like an island over the ever-frozen seas. The ice fields, which seemed gray from the orbit, are cast with a pale blue glow from a close distance; she has never seen such water masses, even in a solid state. High in the sky shines a suspiciously diminished sun, which can be viewed without covering one’s eye with a light filter, whereas on the Moon, such a trick risks short-term loss of sight. But dim sun is not the main object in the local sky; here reigns Jupiter—his formidable face covers half the sky. It seems that with a little more, he would just shatter Ganymede under himself, as well as a microscopic figure in a striped spacesuit, standing on the edge of a frozen sea.
The Blitzkrieg Page 18
