Frontier

by Patrick Chiles

  “Feet,” Max confirmed. “Not meters?”

  “It’s for landing,” Marshall explained. “Everything’s calibrated to Imperial.”

  “Just checking,” he said, and finished strapping in. “What about the gear?”

  Marshall thought about doing that himself but decided it was better to have a willing assistant who knew his way around a cockpit. He pointed at the gear handle. “Ever work one like that?” Because it did matter.

  “Out to unlock, then down?” Max guessed.

  “Exactly. Don’t touch it until I say so.”

  Max held his hands up. “Your spacecraft.”

  Marshall smiled to himself. Max had flown multicrew airplanes before, which was good to know. He’d make it a point to find out what types later, assuming they were around to talk about it. “This thing has skids, not main wheels. It was meant for landing on the lakebed at Edwards and they never got around to putting proper gear on it.”

  “Seems like an unfortunate oversight,” Max said. “Until now.” He looked out over the forward sill, at the big radiator wings. “You’re going to snag those, aren’t you?”

  It was good to see the man’s rekindled enthusiasm, and Marshall realized his new copilot was just delighted to be doing something proactive instead of being treated like precious cargo. “That’s the idea.”

  “Why not just smash the laser itself?” Jasmine asked from behind them.

  “I thought about that,” Marshall said, “but that thing’s had time to build up a charge. Getting in front of the optics would be suicide.” He turned to face her. “I don’t like this either, ma’am. Best case is this bird never lands on Earth again. But if we can do enough damage to those radiators, that thing becomes an expensive paperweight.”

  Colonel Liu Wang Shu had been watching the battle unfold from his perch in Peng Fei’s command module. An uncomfortable silence had taken over from the time Captain Huang reported their entry of Borman, during which he’d watched with alarm as his boarding team was picked off by fire from within the very debris cloud which obscured so much of their target.

  Clever, he thought. Use your environment to your advantage. Was Poole a devotee of Sun, or Clausewitz? He was originally a Navy man, Liu remembered. He’d have been steeped in the views of Mahan and Rickover, which were not without merit, but this was a new theater of operations. He understood the Western temptation to think of space warfare in naval terms; entire subcultures had been devoted to “Starfleet” fantasies.

  He knew the reality was different, would be different, in ways few had yet foreseen. There were similarities to be sure—there always would be—but the differences were profound. Limits to maneuver and endurance, the inability to hide heat signatures, the agonizingly long timeframes and supply lines . . . all combined to make space combat a theater as unique as air had been in the early twentieth century. The particulars might be wildly different, as a cruise missile was from a longbow, but the fundamentals would never change: Know your enemy, his capabilities, and your surroundings. Battles are won by first letting the enemy defeat himself.

  Simon Poole was one of the original space warriors and he no doubt understood these concepts intuitively. Liu would not be surprised if he eventually composed a philosophical tome that would define this new arena of combat just as the American pilot John Boyd had for their Air Force.

  If Liu permitted him to live.

  Their weapons had been trained on the American ship the entire time. Had he not received the call from Huang, he would have ordered it destroyed.

  “I have secured the primary objective and taken control of the Borman,” Huang radioed.

  “What about the secondary objective?” Liu demanded.

  Huang paused. “The traitors are not aboard, sir.”

  “Could you not extract this information from the crew?”

  “None are left to extract from, sir,” Huang replied. “The only men left aboard were the captain and his command pilot.”

  “Then you do not have control yet, Captain,” Liu cautioned him. There was a commotion behind him. He turned in irritation to Zhou. “What is the problem, Lieutenant?”

  “Their shuttle, sir,” Zhou said. “It has been evading the laser platform.”

  “As expected,” Liu reminded him. “If your enemy has a maneuver element in play, you neutralize it. They will run out of propellant long before our gun emplacement does.”

  “Yes sir,” Zhou agreed, “but it’s closed the distance. It’s inside the blackout zone.”

  Liu frowned and pulled up the feed from an external camera. The American shuttle was almost riding atop their orbiting cannon.

  “We can target a PDC salvo, sir,” Major Wu suggested. Specter now stood between the Peng Fei and its remote weapon, and would absorb all the rounds.

  “No!” Liu barked as he realized the American’s ploy. “That shuttle,” he said, “holds our next objective. They removed the traitors, thinking that would keep them from harm.”

  “A reasonable assumption, sir,” Wu said. “Shall we prepare our own shuttlecraft to retrieve them?”

  Liu rubbed his chin as he considered the options. “Put Shenzou-1 on standby, but do not launch it. We have other means at our disposal. Perhaps their pilot can be persuaded.”

  An unfamiliar voice announced itself over the open unicom frequency. “Attention US spacecraft Specter. This is the PRC vessel Peng Fei. Please respond.”

  Marshall and Max exchanged curious looks, and he glanced back at Jasmine. She shook her head vigorously. Marshall ignored the radio calls as he approached the H-K satellite.

  “Specter, this is Peng Fei. Your commander has been wounded and we have assumed control of the Borman. Respond or your ship will be fired upon.”

  “They’d do it, wouldn’t they?” Marshall asked. “Even if it takes out one of their own vehicles?”

  “You’re the military man, not me,” Max said. “But yes. The People’s Army is ruthless if you stand in their way.” He practically spat the words.

  Jasmine maintained her regal composure, despite—or perhaps because of—her mounting alarm. Marshall saw it was an innate quality of hers: As the world went to hell around her, she grew stronger in the face of it. “The reason we left the mainland—the last straw, as you’d call it—was when a Party demolition crew destroyed our church”—she paused—“during a service. Lives mean nothing to them once they decide you’re a great enough nuisance.”

  Her eyes pierced his, and he tried to imagine the scene: a building full of worshipers, and the walls start coming down around them. Driving the point home, a warning squealed in his ears—they were being painted by a fire-control radar. “I have to let them know,” he said, apologetically.

  “I understand,” she said. “They won’t care. It may even encourage them.”

  Marshall screwed his eyes shut, realizing his tactical error. Damn it. “We’re a nuisance, all right.” He had placed them squarely between Peng Fei and its remote gun emplacement. He reluctantly switched on his mic. “This is Specter. Hold your fire.” He faced his passengers with a sorrowful look—he was supposed to protect them, but had made them unwitting combatants. “Be advised, there are civilians aboard.”

  A thin smile crept across Liu’s face, ending at his eyes. “We have our confirmation,” he said with satisfaction. “The traitors are on that shuttlecraft.”

  Wu stood ready at the tactical station. “Shall I proceed, sir?”

  Liu held up a hand. “Negative, Wu. That is no longer necessary. Just keep the starboard PDC trained on them and stand by for new targeting.” He picked up the microphone. “Specter, you are holding two of our citizens, both of whom are wanted for sedition. We are under orders to bring them safely back to the People’s Republic of China. You are also operating in unacceptably close proximity to a valuable military asset. Disengage, or you will force us to fire.”

  “Guess that answers the question,” Marshall said, and thumbed the mic switch by his side. �
�Can’t do that, Peng Fei. Not as long as your goons are on our ship. I am in position to disable your killsat’s coolant system; all I have to do is retract my landing skids. Evacuate Borman now.”

  The warbling radar alarm faded, replaced by a steady droning. “They’re standing down?” Max asked in disbelief.

  “Doubtful,” Marshall and Jasmine said simultaneously. He turned to see her arch an eyebrow, somewhat amusedly. “That was a missile lock warning,” Marshall explained. “They’ve still got close-in weapons trained on us.”

  “Can we cycle the gear fast enough?”

  Marshall checked his limited sensor display, confirming the range to Peng Fei and doing the math in his head. He didn’t know the specifics of their defensive weapons, but they all worked on the same principle: fling a precisely aimed cloud of steel at their target, typically an incoming missile. “Doesn’t matter now. Just be ready for a rough ride.”

  Liu’s voice returned. “In that case, Specter, we will target the Borman as well. I need not remind you that without it, our vessel is your only path back to Earth. Your intransigence will only add to your troubles.”

  If he only knew. Marshall took a deep breath. “Challenge accepted.”

  Garver climbed along a service handhold along the hull, moving as swiftly as he could between modules. He slowed down at the forward command module, not wanting to give himself away by creating any noise inside the now-pressurized cylinder. Whoever this gomer was, he’d sealed himself off inside and declared himself in control.

  We’ll see about that.

  He checked his watch, synchronized with Powers who was approaching the same module from inside the connecting tunnel. They couldn’t risk communicating but for brief microphone clicks, and Garver needed to be in position at the forward ’lock at the time they’d agreed on.

  He was behind schedule—as usual in “EVA Time,” everything took longer, especially when he was avoiding the external camera mounts. He stopped at the command module and checked his direction, avoiding the cupola or any open portholes, and pushed away. He tapped the controls of his maneuvering pack and a puff of compressed gas sent him jetting forward. After a few seconds he squeezed off a jet of gas in the opposite direction, coming to a stop abeam the forward airlock. The outer door was lightweight and opened easily. He slipped inside the chamber, careful to not bump against anything.

  The inner door had a simple spin latch. He laid his hand on the crank and waited for his watch to count down. A single, long microphone click from Powers signaled he was in position on the other end of the module.

  Thirty seconds.

  “Captain Huang, what is your status?”

  He looked around the control deck, still working to familiarize himself with its setup against the intelligence estimates he’d memorized. Much was as predicted, but there were just enough variances to slow him down though he’d managed to access an inventory list at their weapons console. “I’m examining their tables of equipment now, sir. They are mostly unarmed. The missile they fired at the laser platform was one of only two. Point-defense magazines are at fifty percent capacity.”

  “As expected, then,” Liu said. “They left a great deal behind in their haste.” He expected the Americans’ future doctrine would prohibit such decisions, no matter the mass penalty. For now, it worked in his favor. “Can you disable their defensive weapons?”

  Huang wasn’t entirely certain he could. “Yes, Colonel. It is possible.” It was as much equivocation as he dared allow.

  “Then do so, and be prepared to evacuate on my order.”

  “Yes sir,” Huang answered, just before his surroundings disappeared in a fog.

  Two mic clicks had signaled Powers was about to vent the module. Garver watched the small porthole in the center of the hatch. Water vapor would condense immediately with the sudden pressure drop. When the window turned white, he cranked the latch over and sprang the inner door, flying into the command deck.

  The mist dissipated as quickly as it had formed as the compartment emptied to vacuum. Garver swept the nearby corners with his weapon as he flew inside, angling for the overhead. Motion at the far end caught his eye—in the shadows, he saw two forms struggling with each other. It was a tangle of colors, the petty officer in his yellow EVA suit struggling with a figure in the same gray digital camo suit as they’d seen outside. There was a flash of silent gunfire, silhouetting one figure with his weapon raised.

  No time to think, to sort out who was who—they were wrapped up in a tangle and he’d have to figure it out when he got there. Garver planted his feet against the forward bulkhead and pushed hard, flying across the open compartment and turning midair. He landed boots first against what he hoped was the enemy spacer, tearing their tangled limbs apart to send him flying down the darkened corridor.

  Garver recoiled from the impact and bounced into the hatchway. He reached out to steady himself and brought his carbine up. Glowing crosshairs danced in his visor as he searched for his target and cursed. That camo pattern was damned near perfect in this environment.

  Being Poole’s “Chief of the Boat,” Garver’s advantage was that he knew every nook and cranny, every bulkhead and panel. And the lumpy gray mass moving across the overhead about ten meters away definitely didn’t belong there.

  He braced against the door frame, raised his muzzle until the crosshairs were centered and closed his fist around the pistol grip, pressing the trigger paddle for a three-round burst. Recoil thudded against his shoulder, the report carrying through the fabric of his suit like dull, distant thunder. The muzzle flash dazzled him.

  Droplets of dark liquid and a fog of vapor erupted from where his shots landed. Hope I didn’t just shred a coolant line. He trained his helmet lamp at the spot and found a figure in dark gray camo crumpled against the overhead. He pushed off slowly and came to a stop at a nearby handrail.

  The dark liquid was blood, streaming from three separate entry wounds in his chest. The intricately woven fabric of his counterpressure suit had quickly unraveled, exposing him to vacuum. Garver reached up to pull the body level with him. Judging by the blank stare from the man’s face, vacuum exposure was the least of his problems.

  “Team, this is Six. One tango down. Repeat, one tango down.” He left the PRC soldier and flew back to check on Powers. A single shot, through his faceplate of all places. Garver swallowed back against the bile rising in his throat. “And one KIA.”

  Liu’s voice rose, reflecting his mounting irritation at their lack of progress. The longer this took, the more options the enemy could find to exploit. “Captain Huang, report!”

  The channel was silent, as it had been for several minutes. “Do you have telemetry?” he asked of Wu.

  “Negative, sir,” his first officer replied somberly. “We have lost both biomonitor and visor imagery.” He drew a breath. “I believe we must consider the captain to be neutralized.”

  “Neutralized,” Liu repeated with disgust. As in, killed or captured. How had they done it? Regardless, he could no longer consider them to be in control of the American ship. Much as he would have preferred to avoid it—a clean victory being far preferable to a bloody one—they would be forced to escalate. “Target their remaining hydrogen tank, two missiles,” he ordered.

  38

  Garver was just beginning to repressurize the crew decks when alarms blared and an angry buzzing sound stirred the hull. The PDCs had burst to life and he flew up into the cupola to see. Sure enough, two clouds of gas expanded into space perhaps a kilometer away as both missiles’ remains clattered against the hull.

  He slapped the nearby intercom switch, though with so few people left aboard he could’ve just as easily called Rosie directly. “General quarters, general quarters! Incoming fire! Secure your compartments!” Fragments from a defeated weapon were still moving fast and could do almost as much damage as the weapon itself, so he hastily closed the petals that shielded the cupola’s ring of large windows. Hopefully one of the spacers cou
ld be spared from their emergency surgery on Poole to seal off the other modules.

  The defensive guns had fired automatically, still on standby despite the PRC infantry’s best efforts. The grunt he’d shot had been putzing around with the weapons console, and it was a good thing the controls hadn’t been made too idiot-proof or they would’ve surely been sitting ducks. No doubt that had been the intent. And the skipper of that PRC ship had been smart enough to translate up as soon as it released weapons, getting out of the way before the inevitable defensive rounds came back downrange.

  Offensive weapons required a little more of a personal touch. Garver activated the one missile they had left and targeted Peng Fei’s big cement-drum propulsion section—take out their power source and not only could they not shoot, they couldn’t maneuver. It would even the odds.

  The fire-control radar locked on quickly but was just as quickly jammed. They’d come ready to play, but Garver had marked their relative position and slaved the missile’s guidance to that. One bearing was better than nothing. He pressed the firing switch and felt a mechanical thud as the missile was ejected from its magazine. “Missile away!” he announced on the intercom. “Brace for evasive action!”

  He pushed off for the pilot’s console and really wished they’d had an actual pilot left aboard.

  Marshall watched the plumes of fire and clouds of gas erupt between the two ships, still many kilometers apart.

  “Is that weapons fire?” Max asked, looking up through the rendezvous windows with him.

  “Afraid so,” Marshall said. He watched as Peng Fei began moving aggressively while the Borman seemed to lag. He motioned for Max to bring his focus back to the instrument panel. “Get ready. They’re really not going to like this part.”