Frontier

by Patrick Chiles

  Muzzle flashes erupted from the surrounding debris cloud, giving away the team’s positions. It was a risk they had to balance against trusting the enemy to not behave like an enemy, and that was a loser’s bet. Their fire converged in a cloud of lead, turning the space outside the P-3 airlock door into a killing zone.

  The howling wind subsided as the remainder of Borman’s atmosphere vented into space. Now in vacuum himself, Poole reached for the door to pull it shut and repressurize the ship. As he did, a gloved hand thrust out from behind it to grab him.

  36

  Marshall felt as if he’d swallowed a block of ice at the sight of the H-K platform turning toward them, still intact and no doubt building up another charge. He didn’t know its specifics, but its heat signature was lighting up his IR sensors and a reactor that small wasn’t capable of pumping out all that energy at once. Those big capacitor banks encircling it had to be storing power for its next shot. He didn’t know how much time that bought them, but he’d take whatever he could get.

  He knew the killsat’s ion engine could get a lot more mileage out of its fuel than his own, but the problem with high specific impulse was that it typically delivered very low thrust, whereas the chemical rockets in Specter’s OMS could give him a hell of a kick from their hypergolic fuel.

  So what? For a fleeting moment he was tempted to announce he had civilians on board. His mission had been to keep them out of harm’s way, and in any other context that might have been the right thing to do. But this maniac driving Peng Fei didn’t seem to care much about collateral damage—and if the Jiang’s suspicions were right, he might even welcome it.

  As the H-K’s optical muzzle came about, he pulsed lateral thrusters to pivot them out of its line of sight. This would be a turning fight, and he had no weapons. All he could do was try to keep a step ahead of that thing’s business end. His mouth suddenly felt dry, as if filled with cotton. He took a hasty drink from the tube in his helmet, flexed his hands and tightened his grip on the controls. This is crazy, but waiting to get blasted is crazier.

  He gave the translation controller a tap forward, taking them closer to the H-K. He had to turn down his intercom volume to mute the Jiang’s frantic protests.

  With his feet still secured to the floor, for the moment Poole had the advantage. He instinctively recoiled and jerked back his arm, but whoever had grabbed him held his grip and came flying out into the corridor. He saw only a jumble of gray and black digital camo patterns flash by; his attacker had tucked himself into a ball and sprang off against the opposite wall, kicking his feet out and bringing his weapon to bear.

  His EVA suit was skintight, a mechanical counterpressure garment like he’d seen the Marines use for their transatmospheric combat teams. Light armor protected the vital areas; his backpack and helmet were connected as one unit.

  Poole kicked his feet free and launched himself toward his attacker, shocked that the man hadn’t gotten off any rounds at him yet. He unslung his own M55 and raised it.

  Huang had much practice controlling himself in unfamiliar environments; it was a principle of zero-g combat training that firm ground was wherever you could find it, no matter the orientation to what you thought was normal. The American habit of arranging spacecraft interiors along an octagonal profile had been used here, as he expected. He untucked himself and extended his limbs, slowing his rotation and giving them a surface to push against.

  His enemy wore only a lightweight blaze-orange launch-and-entry suit, protecting him from vacuum but not for extravehicular use. Certainly not for a fight, though he found himself looking down the barrel of an American space-rated carbine just as he aimed his own. He did not intend to shoot; his orders were to commandeer the American spacecraft and keep it in operating condition. But with a weapon pointed at him, his training took over and he pressed the trigger.

  He pressed harder. There was no travel, no break. Huang swore at himself and reached up with his thumb to disengage the safety. He knew it had switched off earlier; it must have been brushed and engaged when his team went flying back out of the airlock.

  The man in orange flew toward him, also not firing his weapon.

  Poole bellowed with rage as he sailed across the corridor, launching himself into the Chinese invader. He wrapped him up like a linebacker, driving them both into the bulkhead at the far end of the corridor.

  They bounced off the hard wall, Poole briefly losing sight of his enemy. He hoped the other guy got the worst of it, but then he heard air hissing and noticed a hairline crack in his faceplate. He turned his head, searching, but was limited by his helmet’s field of view. He pushed off with one foot to pivot and raised his weapon when a gray-camouflaged arm reached out and roughly brushed it aside. He felt an elbow drive into his side, sending him flying against the wall.

  There was flash out of the corner of his eye.

  Huang had only fired when he was absolutely certain of his target and reasonably certain his background didn’t contain any critical systems that might react badly to a stray round.

  They used fragmentation bullets anyway, technically illegal in warfare by the Geneva conventions but used in practice by nearly every law-enforcement organization across the world because they were effective and limited collateral damage. A jacketed round in this environment could have easily gone through a person and damaged something vital. And as he’d learned being attached to the PLAF, nearly every bulkhead and sidewall concealed something vital. Their spacecraft was packed to the rafters with plumbing, air ducts and electrical conduits; the Americans were no doubt the same and in fact had seemed to be less concerned with hardening their vehicle.

  Blood sprayed from his target’s leg; he saw him instinctively move to stanch the bleeding with his hands. Huang grabbed the man by his waist harness before he could shoulder his weapon, bringing him upright until they were face to face. He read the name badge Velcroed to his chest: S. POOLE.

  He’d just wounded their commanding officer. If the ship’s captain was defending their entry point alone, then where was the rest of the crew? For that matter, where were the traitors they were protecting? He already knew from news reports they were operating at minimum capacity. Some of them had been lying in wait outside; that’s how they’d eliminated Chen and Guo. He’d have to own up to that failure later, during the after-action reports. At least one pilot was flying the shuttle; that left very few crewmen aboard here, and the Jiangs had to be with them.

  Huang debated whether to kill him. On the battlefield, he wouldn’t have wasted a moment debating it but at this point it would be an execution. An American field-grade officer would be a valuable prisoner. The heads-up displays in their helmets recorded everything and he had no idea how Liu or their superiors in Beijing would react. He was not ready to put his trust in selective editing later.

  He’d already wasted too many seconds debating the matter. He angrily took Poole’s weapon, spun him about, and shoved him up into the medical bay before sliding the inner hatch shut. He jammed the M55’s barrel behind the locking lever to delay the inevitable return of the American EVA team still outside, assuming they weren’t about to be preoccupied with saving their captain. Huang would simply use another exit.

  He pushed away, flying toward the forward end of the corridor where he knew the command module would be. He kept his weapon at the ready, anticipating resistance. If anyone was left aboard, they had to be up there.

  Huang made his way slowly forward, where he knew the command deck would be. He stopped at every node, clearing each compartment before moving on to the next. His confidence grew with each push ahead as it became clear there would be no resistance. The ship was empty but for its captain and perhaps one or two others. He would soon find out, as he arrived at the entryway to the command module.

  It was a blind entry, its access tunnel from the main corridor not even two meters deep. But it was narrow, filled with electrical equipment racks as he recalled from the specs they’d acquired. Sensitiv
e, so not likely to be something their own crew would want to shoot into. But it still created a chokepoint for him.

  He looked around for anything to use as a diversion. The only spacecraft he’d ever served on was the Peng Fei and its Soyuz-derived craft used for ferrying back and forth from Earth. Colonel Liu had insisted on a clean, orderly interior, nothing like the tangles of straps and packages and cables he’d seen in American and Russian videos. It seemed as if their spacecraft had been turned into orbiting storage closets.

  Borman fared better, clearly subject to more disciplined leadership though still more chaotic than the strict order aboard Peng Fei. He found two large bundles strapped into a corner of the module, like seemingly everything else aboard. They were soft, extra uniforms perhaps? He pulled them free, placed them squarely in front of the entryway, and readied himself behind them with his weapon up and feeding the computer-generated sights in his helmet display.

  He pushed the two bundles ahead, through the entry, and followed behind. A flash of gunfire confirmed his suspicion, as both bundles exploded in a cloud of shredded fabric.

  Huang launched himself through the portal, weapon up and in the general direction of fire. He found one man, in an orange vacuum suit like Poole, sweeping the room with his carbine. He fought the urge to change positions and shift his fire, instead letting his own momentum do the work. He flew in sideways, holding his position and letting the confusion act as its own cover. He waited for his muzzle to cross his target and fired off a three-round burst.

  His target spun about, scattering fragments of his shattered chest pack. He saw no blood, which told Huang that his fragmentation rounds had shredded the man’s life-support controls. Ice crystals soon spewed from multiple holes as his life-giving air escaped into the vacuum, some of it red. So he had not escaped unscathed.

  Huang needed this man alive, for the moment. He bounced off a bulkhead, back to the entryway, and dogged down the hatch. He soon heard air hissing around him as pressure returned.

  Finding a foot restraint in the floor, Huang placed his other foot on the American’s abdomen, pressing him against the sidewall. He raised his visor, keeping his weapon leveled at the man’s chest. “I am Captain Huang of the People’s Liberation Army. This vessel is now under our control.”

  The man lifted his own visor. “Wylie. Lieutenant, US Space Force,” he coughed, “and you can’t have it. Now that we’ve made introductions, get the hell off of our ship.” His voice was hoarse, and Huang noticed blood escaping as he breathed: mostly internal injuries, then. Good.

  “You are in no position to make those demands,” Huang scoffed. “You have fired on military assets of the People’s Republic of China.”

  “Pretty sure you shot first,” Wylie gasped. “That’s why you’re here, right?” He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and swallowed. “We lose a propellant tank far from home, and you show up to rescue us. Convenient. Or was that all just bullshit?”

  Huang smiled thinly. “As you say, ‘bullshit’.” He pressed in harder with his foot, keeping his weapon centered on Wylie’s chest. “You are also harboring two traitors. Tell me, where are they?”

  Still in vacuum and nursing a gunshot wound to his thigh, Poole sealed himself in the med bay. With any luck, the fight outside had gone in their favor and he’d find his crew making their way back inside soon. He’d lost comm with them during his scuffle and had not retuned his radios. He punched up the first channel with Garver’s sentry team outside. “Six, this is Actual,” he coughed. “Report.”

  Garver replied immediately. “Holding our position with three tangos down. Got them as they were flying out of the airlock. Quite the turkey shoot, sir.”

  “That’s good. These guys are no joke, Chief.” He coughed. “I just went a few rounds with one of them. He’s somewhere forward, still an active threat.”

  Garver’s tone changed. “What’s your status, sir?”

  Poole swallowed. No point in sugarcoating it. “Shot, Chief. Left thigh. I’m in the P-3 med bay, closed off from the ship.”

  He heard Garver mutter a curse. “You’re still in vacuum? Did your auto-seal activate, sir?”

  “Affirmative,” Poole said. “Wouldn’t be talking to you if it hadn’t.”

  “Good point.” The chief paused, no doubt signaling his team. “Okay, Skipper, we’re Oscar Mike.” On the move. “Sit tight.”

  Poole laughed, staring up into the open airlock. Like I’m going anywhere. He opened the secure VHF channel with Marshall aboard Specter. “Specter, this is Actual. Report.”

  Marshall wasn’t sure how to answer that. They were unharmed, but they sure weren’t safe, either. Every time he moved Specter, that damned H-K sat began slewing around. At the moment it was easy to evade, but he couldn’t keep it up forever and the plan that was forming in his mind didn’t seem like much of an improvement.

  “Actual, Specter. We are maintaining close proximity with the H-K. It’s maneuvering, trying to target us. I’m staying on its six but that won’t last forever.”

  “Understood,” Poole said. “How’s your cargo?”

  “Intact and functional.” It was all he could say. Poole no doubt understood they couldn’t be happy. “How’s the fight at your end, sir?”

  Poole gave him the shortest possible explanation. “Three tangos down, one to go. But he’s in the CM and I’m stuck in medical with a GSW.”

  Marshall grimaced. The CO was wounded and a bad guy had taken the flight deck, which meant Wylie might already be dead. It was time to rebalance the equation. Any plan, no matter how crazy, was better than no plan.

  He goosed thrusters one more time, moving beneath the killsat and matching its slow turn.

  “What are you doing?” Jasmine demanded from behind him. “Because it looks like you’re getting closer.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m doing, ma’am,” he said patiently. “We can’t keep this up forever, and as soon as we pull away we’re literally toast.” He activated his landing systems.

  A pilot himself, Max recognized what he was doing. “Are you trying to—land on that thing?”

  “Something like that.”

  Poole noticed shadows crossing overhead, and looked up to see two of his crew fly in through the outer door, one by one.

  Rosie, to no surprise, was the first one by his side. Without a word, she began maneuvering him over to a waiting bed that her partner folded out from a sidewall. She looked up impatiently at the remaining two spacers floating in as she strapped him into place. “We good to go?”

  Garver was the last one in and slammed the outer hatch down behind him. He lifted the cover on a switch labeled EMERG REPRESS, and the sound of rushing air began building to a crescendo around them. “Go!” he said, watching the gauge climb to a safe level.

  Rosie shucked off her helmet and gloves and began cutting away Poole’s already ruined launch-and-entry suit, its fabric giving way much more easily than the ballistic fibers of their EVA gear. She stopped at the auto-tourniquet’s cuff and made sure it was still getting air before replacing it.

  Poole watched her work from behind the full-face oxygen mask she’d given him, trying to judge his condition by her reactions. She caught Garver’s eye, who floated over to his side while she prepared an injection.

  “Chief.”

  “Skipper. You look like hell, sir.”

  “Feel like it.” He turned to Rosado. “What’s the verdict, Rosie?”

  That she flinched at all told him it was grave—Rosado was the most dedicated rescue spacer he’d served with, and she gave up nothing when it came time to do the job. She glanced at Garver before turning back to him, examining his ruined limb beneath the auto-tourniquet.

  “Sir . . . I’m sorry—”

  Before demanding to know about what, he lifted his head to see for himself. Besides taking a bullet, most of his left leg had now been exposed to vacuum since his fight with that PRC officer. That had been, what, ten minutes ago? Poole frow
ned. The desiccated tissue of his exposed leg had become a grotesque palette of purples and blacks beneath the dried blood surrounding his entry wound. That there was no exit wound told him the bullet had fragmented inside his thigh—between dual traumas of gunshot wound and vacuum exposure, he knew what came next. The tourniquet alone had probably sealed that fate, even if it had kept him from bleeding out.

  He reached for her hand, gripping it as strongly as he could as he met her eyes. “I know, Rosie. I trust you. Do what you have to.”

  “Aye, sir.” She lifted a syringe to show him before inserting it with an IV line. “This is for the pain. Begin counting backwards from ten for me, sir.” She motioned for a technician, out of sight, to begin setting up an isolation tent around him. This was going to be a real mess in zero-g.

  “Screw that,” he growled, mustering his strength. As he felt the cold rush of sedatives entering his bloodstream, he gave one last order to Garver. “Master Chief. Get that sonofabitch off of my ship.”

  The world faded from his view.

  37

  “What’s your main gear span?” Max asked, guessing Marshall’s intent.

  “Twelve feet, three inches,” Marshall said, reciting from memory a fact about Specter’s dimensions which he’d long wondered why he’d need it in the first place. “Height four feet, four inches.” He’d had to look up the service manual for the amount of hydraulic pressure activating them; it would be enough.

  “More than enough to straddle that satellite,” Max said approvingly as he settled into the copilot’s seat beside him. “What can I do?”

  “Glad you asked.” Marshall pointed at the radar altimeter. “Call out altitude—well, distance, but you know what I mean—inside of twenty feet.”