by Terry Mixon
But with political commissars watching over their shoulders and their families held hostage, he didn’t think he was going to get many chances.
Wincing as he connected the plumbing of the suit, he looked up to check the others. The Marines were wearing simpler gear, basic emergency vac-suits they’d ditch to fit into their armor when the time came. Falcone was in the same combat suit as he was and had been changing with the same disregard for the audience.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
“T-51Bs are aboard. Guns are aboard. Bomb is aboard,” the Marine Corporal reeled off. “Shuttle is fueled; heat sinks are ready to go. I don’t know this ship as well as my usual ride, but she checks out by my math.”
“I’ve got a checklist in the cockpit we can run through,” Falcone added. “We’re running short on time. Ready or not, it’s time to go.”
There was no point in activating the stealth systems immediately, but there was still enough shuttle traffic around the fleet for Falcone to be able to launch without drawing attention.
“So, what happens if someone in First Fleet sees us now?” Saburo asked.
“They report it up the chain and the chain of command goes, ‘Yes, thank you, we’re aware of it,’” Brad replied. “Unless an OWA agent sees us themselves and decides it’s worth risking their cover to transmit, we should be covered.
“It’s not like they’re going to assume the Admiral has just snuck off on a stealth ship with a giant bomb aboard,” he added. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a lot better than ordering, say, the fleet to turn off all of their sensors.”
“I certainly considered the latter, but our luck says that would be the exact moment a bunch of OWA ballistic torpedoes arrived,” Falcone said grimly. “Now, the gravity plates on this toy are perfectly fine for her built-in engines, but they can’t handle the boosters.
“I’m going to turn them off. Strap in, boys and girls; we get about four hours at five gravities before this show gets boring for about twenty-five more hours. Are we good to go?”
“Never better, Agent Falcone,” Brad told her. “Let’s go end this nightmare.”
No one else said anything and Falcone gently touched a command on her screen. A moment later, over seven times the weight Brad was used to pressed him back into his chair.
He and Falcone were the only ones in the cockpit, though they could talk to everyone else through the open door. He took advantage of the screens to double-check their stealth systems.
A moment later, he shook his head in wonder—then winced and leaned his head back against the rest. That had hurt.
“Built-in heat sinks in the boosters?” he asked.
“Yep. And the only people seeing our heat plume is First Fleet,” she confirmed. “That’s more vulnerability than I’d like, but…”
“That’s what we’ve got.” Brad skimmed through the system. Despite having read the full specifications of the little stealth ship, part of him had still expected to see guns. The only part that would really require human intervention was the stealthy ion engine that would slow them down to board Immortal.
“Assuming no one decides to do anything crazy, we’ll reach the OWA fleet an hour before the battle begins,” Falcone told him. “We’ll be maneuvering directly under their guns to board Immortal, so pray to whatever you hold sacred that the stealth systems hold.”
“Because if they don’t, we’re dead,” Brad concluded.
“Exactly.” Finishing up her sentence, Falcone slapped the black armband she’d shown him before around his upper left arm. The band tightened and linked into his vac-suit.
“And now the deadman switch is armed,” she told him. “Try not to lose an arm this time; that would probably convince the sensor you’re dead and then we all get blown to plasma.”
“Trust me, Kate, losing a limb is something I very much want to keep a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
Chapter Forty
“This is insane,” Saburo breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I understood how crazy this stunt was, but this is insane.”
The stealth ship’s engines were silent now. Everything that could leak even the tiniest scrap of revealing energy was now wrapped in a shell of radio-absorbing materials Brad didn’t even pretend to understand.
The Agency insertion ship’s stealth systems were to a cruiser’s what a battleship was to a rowboat. Brad had used Fleet military-grade stealth systems to deadly effect throughout his career, but he’d never dream of what they were doing right now.
The First Fleet of the Outer Worlds Alliance spread out across his screen. One of the lead OWA destroyers was close enough that he could see her with only minimal magnification. The warship was maybe fifty kilometers distant.
“I want to say we told you, but I agree,” Brad admitted. His own voice was no louder than Saburo’s.
“Quit it, you two,” Falcone snapped. “Sound isn’t a problem. Energy is a problem, and we’ve got that wrapped for about, oh”—she checked the systems—“another forty-seven minutes.”
“What happens in forty-seven minutes?” Saburo asked, his tone more normal…but still subdued.
“We have to eject about seventeen tons of molten superheated metals to stop the ship incinerating us,” the spy replied. “At that point, the heat sink stream provides a giant ‘shoot me now’ arrow to the entire OWA fleet and someone spares a mass driver from the battle to blow us to hell.”
“We should be aboard Immortal by then, yes?” Brad asked.
“And if we’re aboard Immortal, we can dump a lot of heat into her hull,” Falcone agreed. “The heat sinks won’t be reusable to the same extent as a capital ship’s, but at least we don’t have to dump molten metal in deep space.”
“Time to contact?” he said quietly.
“Twelve minutes, unless whoever’s flying that hunk of metal gets unexpectedly fancy.”
Immortal and the rest of the fleet were already engaging in basic evasive maneuvers. They’d have to get much more evasive before Falcone couldn’t get the stealth ship into contact…and they might well do so when the shooting started.
“Twenty-three minutes until Bailey is scheduled to take full command,” Brad reminded them all. “Five minutes after that, all hell is going to break loose—and that’s assuming that nobody on our side tells OWA about the command change and they get paranoid.”
“Well, it’ll all be fine so long as we’re aboard the battleship by then,” Falcone said grimly. “So, I suggest you all shut the fuck up and let me fly this. Marines—tin can release in nine! Suit up.”
“Oorah.”
Behind him, Brad was vaguely aware of the coffin-like lockers being unsealed. The suits opened up and the Marines stripped off and climbed in.
So long as the T-51Bs were in their lockers, they weren’t burning through onboard battery and air. The thirty-minute timer didn’t start until they unlatched from the coffins.
“Take a look out the window, people,” Falcone said, her voice suddenly soft. “Not many people get to see this. That’s a battleship in full flight, visible with the naked eye.”
It was a slight exaggeration, Brad knew. The shuttle’s screens were using digital and optical zoom to show them the battleship, but the range was already under fifty kilometers and dropping fast.
“Initiating final intercept now,” Falcone reported. “If you’re the praying type, now is most definitely the time.”
The stealth ship’s ion engines were stealthy, but this was something beyond even them. Canisters of carefully chilled gasses were buried at the base of the ship, as far away from the heat sinks as possible to make sure they stayed chilled.
Now, those gasses were fired from the ship in carefully calculated jets. They were still going fast enough that impact wouldn’t resemble “boarding attempt” so much as “missile hit.” Artificial gravity was the only reason they were going to survive.
A velocity indicator popped up on the screen, accompanied by Distan
ce to target.
They needed to keep enough velocity that Falcone would be able to adjust for the evasive maneuvers at the last moment—while shedding enough velocity that they didn’t pancake on the warship’s armor.
“Madrid, pull up the schematics and flag our best landing sites,” Falcone said distractedly, her focus on the engines. “Flag deck or his office?”
“Office,” Brad said quickly as he pulled the data. A wireframe model of Immortal appeared in front of him and he quickly highlighted the target zone. “Flag deck will be more secure, no matter what. And it’s easily fifty-fifty on where he’ll be.”
Brad didn’t think he needed to specify who he meant by that. This day was going to end with only one Mantruso left breathing…or potentially none.
He marked four locations on the main screen for Falcone.
“Any of those will put us within five minutes of his office,” he told her. “I’ll keep an eye on her rotation.”
She nodded silent thanks, another burst of thrust slowing the ship further as they crossed the five-kilometer line.
At this range, the nuke they were carrying would cause serious damage to Immortal’s sensors and targeting. Even if they were detected now, so long as the bomb went off, they’d help tip the odds.
Part of him didn’t believe they could make it. As Saburo had pointed out, the plan was insane. There was no way this could work.
Four kilometers. This was suicide range. A mass-driver round would hit them before they even knew they were under attack. Immortal’s defensive maneuvers were now fully visible on the screens, the kilometer-long battleship now clear on the screens.
“Boarding velocity,” Falcone whispered.
Two kilometers. One. Brad was holding his breath as the boarding ship dove for one of his marked locations and the jets flared one last time.
Contact.
Plasma cutters flared to automatic life as he clapped Falcone on the shoulder.
“Well done, Kate,” he told her. “Let’s go find ourselves a dictator, shall we?”
She nodded and he turned to the passenger compartment.
“Marines! This is it. Show me what those tin cans can do!”
The plasma cutters had sliced open the hull, clearing the way for the power-armored Marines to lead them forward.
The four hulking suits were carrying massive shotguns with drum magazines, the oversized weapons still looking fragile in the T-51Bs’ gauntlets.
The three boarders in regular armor followed them with rifles and blades. The first encounter with the ship’s defenders suggested that they might be redundant.
Half a dozen men and women in armored bodysuits with a red phoenix sigil on their shoulders charged around the corner. They were carrying rifles and blades of their own and opened fire as soon as they saw the intruders.
The Marines ignored the incoming fire, forming a wall across the corridor as they opened up with their shotguns. Not one bullet made it past the suits, but they seemed unbothered as they mowed down the defenders.
“They almost certainly called that in,” Falcone noted. “We’re going to see heavier weapons fast. The only good news is that I’m pretty sure these bastards don’t have power armor of their own.”
“The problem is that if any of the OWA troops do, it’ll be the Phoenix’s Praetorians,” Brad pointed out.
His friend glared at him for several seconds.
“You didn’t think to mention that before.”
Brad shrugged. “Seemed obvious. Office is down that corridor; let’s move.”
Falcone kept glaring at him as they ran, but they thankfully didn’t run into power-armor suits immediately. Two corridors down, they ran into their first crew.
Half a dozen unarmed men and women cowered against the wall, clearly terrified by the immense T-51B suits.
“Bind them,” Brad ordered. “Then we leave them. We don’t have time for this shit—Marines, scout the way.”
Saburo and Falcone were on it immediately, tying the crew’s hands behind their back with zip ties. Pushing the prisoners into a side room, they took off again.
By the time they caught up to the Marines, they’d managed to find resistance. Gunfire echoed through the corridor, and Brad grimaced as he recognized at least one weapon: the Praetorians had grenade launchers. And if they’d brought the launchers, knowing they were facing power armor, they’d brought AP grenades.
“On three,” he murmured to his companions, holding up three fingers. He counted down, then dove around the corner with his rifle tracking for targets.
The Praetorians had started with at least a dozen troopers, mobile riot shields, and grenade launchers for all them. Several of the shields had been blown aside and at least a third of the commandos were down.
So, unfortunately, were two of Brad’s Marines. The armor-piercing grenades were apparently quite effective against the power armor—though the state of the corridor and the armor of the standing Marines suggested they weren’t as effective as the Praetorians might have liked.
Focused on evading the rapid-fire shotguns, however, the defenders weren’t ready for three people to open up with precise rifle fire. Brad took a moment to breath and aim…and realized that ready or not, the Praetorians were very good.
A bullet hammered into his shoulder and sent him reeling back, the moment to aim clearly a moment too long. The round failed to penetrate his armor, however, and he bounced back around the corner and opened fire.
Falcone had already taken down one, and Saburo had shot two more. Brad dropped a fourth, and the last two went down to the Marines.
“We have to leave them,” one of the Marines told Brad as he went to check on the downed Marines. “Suit telemetry says they’re dead and we don’t have time. Combat range for the fleets is in under two minutes.”
Brad nodded grimly and checked his map. The intersection they were currently standing in wasn’t the only way to the office, but it was one of two…and the one more convenient to the bridge.
“Hold here,” he ordered. “I’m guessing the bastards cut the entrances to the office down to one to protect the Phoenix better.
“Falcone, Saburo, you’re with me—in case I’m wrong.”
One of the Marines traded out his shotgun for one of the Praetorian grenade launchers, checking its systems as Brad spoke.
“We’ll hold, sir,” she told him. “Semper fi.”
The two Praetorians holding the door to the office turned out to have a tactical network with the others or something. They were ready and waiting when Brad and his companions came around the corner, opening fire with assault rifles instantly.
Saburo took several solid hits and went down, but not before emptying half a clip down the hallway. One Praetorian went down; the other managed to duck for cover and keep firing.
Brad tried to return fire, only to realize he’d survived the initial fusillade because several rounds had hit his rifle instead of him. He tossed the weapon aside and dove under the incoming fire.
He was scrabbling for his pistol as he came up and found himself facing the business end of a bayonet. The Praetorian, however, froze when she caught sight of his face—a moment of hesitation at the familial resemblance, Brad presumed.
Whatever the reason, it was enough for Falcone to put a three-round burst into the woman’s head.
The Praetorian collapsed and Brad rushed back to Saburo.
“He’s alive,” Falcone told him crisply. “I think I can stabilize him, and we’re secure here. Look.”
She gestured at the crude new wall blocking off the corridor, emblazoned with the same phoenix sigil as the Praetorians.
“That room has the override. It’s up to you now,” she told him. “Go!”
Falcone knelt over Saburo, pulling a compact emergency medkit out of her belt as she did.
Brad hesitated.
“Go!” she snapped.
He went. The door attempted to resist him for a few moments, but he was out of time
and patience alike. The control panel failed against several bullets and the door slid slightly open—enough for him to get the mono-blade through.
Brad sliced a gap in the door and barged through.
Then an alarm sounded, and he dove away from the door, both his weapons skittering away as a security hatch slammed shut behind him. There was no way out now, but he hadn’t activated anything…
“I’ll admit, brother, I wasn’t quite expecting this,” a familiar, cultured voice said calmly. “I’m not even sure I know what your plan is, but this seems…appropriate.”
Brad looked up from the floor as Jack Mantruso stood up from his desk. The Lord Protector was unarmored, wearing an elegantly cut black suit, but he held a massive pistol in his hand.
“I was content to know you died when we vaporized your flagship, but this…” Mantruso grinned. “No audience, no stupid games. Just you, me, and one gun.”
Chapter Forty-One
Brad promptly dove for the gun he’d dropped, only to watch it skitter away as a bullet slammed into the weapon. There was no way the pistol had survived that, but he’d almost never seen aim like that.
Stopping, he turned to face his brother and rose, waiting for the bullet that would take him down. Now that he took a moment to study Jack Mantruso, he saw the problem: the other man was wearing a targeting eyepiece that was talking to the gun. So long as he had that, he wouldn’t miss.
The good news was that it seemed to be making him overconfident. He didn’t appear to notice Brad catching his mono-blade between his feet. Safety protocols had disabled the weapon when he’d dropped it, but it was within reach now.
“So shoot me,” he told Mantruso. “It’s not like that toy will let you miss.”
And when he killed Brad, his whole ship was going to go up in smoke.
“Oh, believe me, brother, I have no intention of being goaded into giving up any advantage,” the older man told him. He tapped a command on the desk and the wall behind him lit up with a view of deep space around them.
