Smythe ignored that comment. He had silently said a damned good prayer and wanted to keep it for future use. “Colonel Bishop, I think we have it from here. Unless something else goes wrong.”
“What are the odds of that happening?” Bishop laughed nervously. “Every mission has some glitch, maybe you got yours out of the way early. Bishop out.”
Smythe looked at his new team and smiled, at first a forced expression, then growing into a genuine grin that lit up his eyes. “As I told you, Bishop is a bloody brilliant commander.”
“Oh, sure,” Skippy sniffed. “Like it was all his doing. What about me, huh?”
“Be nice, beer can. If you are a good lad, maybe I won’t smear your precious Velvis with moondust off my boots when we return to the Dutchman.”
Skippy’s voice shuddered with horror. “You, you wouldn’t do that!”
“Try me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Almost there, almost, aaaalmost, done!” Skippy lifted his voice above the whisper the pilots had been using. “Ok, you are now below the sensor field coverage, in the shadow of that mountain range. You are free to maneuver, your stealth field will conceal you from detection.”
“I am picking up active sensor pulses,” Reed noted with concern.
“Oh, yeah. The Bosphuraq know this area presents a security risk as a gap in their sensor field coverage, so they have active sensors on the mountain ridge, sweeping the area. They are sort of like, motion sensors, something like that. Do not worry, the Falcon’s stealth field, enhanced by the incomparable awesomeness of me, is concealing you quite effectively. So long as you fly a smooth course, I can predict the pattern of sensor pulses coming at you, and I can proactively feed back the return pulse their sensor system expects from an empty valley floor. That sensor system will see only what I want it to see, which is nothing. Ok, you see the landing zone, through that low spot in the ridge?”
The hatch closed with a clang Reed felt rather than heard, her helmet being sealed as a safety measure. That sound was the closing of the outer airlock door, as the last of the assault team stepped out onto the moon’s surface. Reed and Beazer were alone, with the Falcon parked at the bottom of a steep-sided, narrow ravine. The active sensor system did not penetrate into the ravine’s depths, and the stealth field wrapped around the ship protected it from the prying eyes of satellites orbiting the moon. The ravine had been chosen as a landing site not only because the sensor network did not cover the area, it also had a valuable feature that the amazing Skippy could not match; the rock floor of the canyon was almost free of the gray dust that covered the moon’s surface. No stealth field could conceal dust kicked up by the Falcon’s belly jets, so the craft had to land in an area relatively free of the fine dust that stuck to every surface of the airless miniature world. Cameras on the outside of the Falcon showed its skids and belly were already tinted faintly gray by the dust, and the away team’s boots also would have been coated by dust adhering by static cling, except the Kristang armor had a handy-dandy feature that repelled the dust. The small amount of dust swirling in the ravine could still be detected by satellites, so the mission had been timed to coincide with the harmless impact of a small meteor near the area. That small meteor had been captured by one of our Falcon dropships four days ago, and guided on a course to impact the moon at the appropriate time. When the satellites noticed dust floating above the ravine, that phenomena would be dismissed as being caused by a rockslide triggered by the meteor impact, and ignored.
“What’s next?” Reed’s copilot asked, twisting in his seat to get comfortable.
Reed considered that for a moment. The away team was already beyond the Falcon’s stealth field, so they could not be seen except for through the synthetic vision provided by the alien AI who was oddly named ‘Skippy’. “Now, I am going to use a real bathroom,” she announced as she popped the seal on her helmet and lifted it off her head. “The closer Smythe’s team gets to the objective, the more likely it is they will need a fast evac, so this is the time for housekeeping here. We will get everything set up for immediate dust-off,” she smiled at the term that was ironically appropriate. “And we will continually update a flight plan for picking up the away team, as they progress toward the objective. If Smythe calls for help, we should not have to think about what to do.”
“Right,” Beazer turned his attention back to his console. Having a continually updated ‘what-if’ plan was sound practice for any pilot. If an engine went out at 35,000 feet over the Rocky Mountains, the pilot should already have landing fields selected, and revise those selections as the flight progressed. Even without mechanical failure creating complications, a pilot should have a radio ready for the frequency of the next controller along the flightpath, reducing the workload when crossing that imaginary boundary.
If Smythe’s team got into trouble on the current mission, it was unlikely the Falcon could do anything to help them, or even to help itself. But, with nothing else to do while the Falcon sat wrapped in a stealth field, running through ‘what-if’ scenarios was a useful exercise.
Reed not only used the Falcon’s tiny bathroom, she took time to partly remove her flightsuit, apply a cream to an area on her left hip where the suit had been irritating her skin, put the suit back on, and make coffee for her and Beazer. “Thank you,” he beamed at her briefly before his face returned to the neutral expression of intense focus, as he used his console to run a simulation of a flight to attack the moonbase, if that disastrous scenario ever happened. The Falcon did not have a prayer of surviving such an attack, the only purpose of an attack would be to cover a retreat by the ground team. In effect, the pilots would be trading their two lives for ten, a trade Beazer would make if absolutely necessary. What made that scenario particularly sour was the knowledge that, regardless what happened to the Falcon, Smythe’s ground team would be unlikely to return to the ship. Twelve lives would be lost, not ten, and all for nothing. He paused the simulation as Reed ducked down to avoid the low overhead in the cockpit and wriggled into her seat. The original much-too-small Thuranin seats had been ripped out and replaced by couches that could fit humans. That was a great improvement in terms of length but Skippy’s redesign had not been able to do much about the narrow width, and pilots learned to keep their elbows up to avoid bashing into the consoles on either side. Getting in and out of the couches required gymnastic moves that made Reed grateful for the moon’s low gravity. “Six potential sites for evac,” Beazer pointed at the display between couches. “None of them are good. The first five allow us to hug the mountains and stay out of active sensor coverage until we have to turn for final approach. Then we’ll be exposed over this flat, open terrain. The only cover out there,” he meant inside the vast, shallow crater that housed the enemy base, “is this little ridge here. “To use that cover, we will need to fly all the way around this ridge,” he indicated the lunar mountain range that currently hid them. “That takes another seven minutes of flight time.”
Reed shook her head while blowing on the super-hot coffee. “I don’t like that. If Smythe needs evac, he will need it right away. If they are here,” she highlighted a circle within two kilometers of the base, “it would take a miracle for us to pick them up. The whole bottom of that crater is dust knee-deep or more, our jets would kick up a fountain the stealth field could never conceal. We may as well drop stealth and send up a flare announcing our presence. I say we forget about planning an evac anywhere out in that crater?”
“Works for me,” Beazer agreed.
Twenty minutes later, they had five flightpaths planned that allowed at least a chance for the Falcon to pick up the ground team and survive for a return flight to the Flying Dutchman. The flying would be tricky and the routes very restricted, because the microwormhole was with the ground team and the Falcon could not rely on a magical beer can fooling enemy sensors. “I think,” Samantha Reed relaxed back in her seat and sipped the last of the coffee, “that covers everything.”
&nb
sp; She was wrong.
Three minutes later, Skippy called. “Hey, are the two of you bored? I can load crossword puzzles on your consoles if you like.”
“No,” Reed was already irritated with the beer can, who rarely left her alone. “We are not bored. We have been planning potential sites to pick up the ground team, if needed.”
“Huh. Let me look at your work. Hmm, good, good, yup, good work. Looks like you have just about covered all possible scenarios.”
“Thank you.”
“Exceeeeept, you know, for the scenario you actually do need to run right now. Or in a minute, when Colonel Smythe calls you.”
“Damn it!” Reed looked for a place to stow her coffee mug, but one feature the Falcon lacked was cupholders. With one hand, she restarted power flow to the main engines, while with the other hand she drained the dregs of her mug and tucked it in a mesh bag under the seat. “What happened?”
“Well, heh heh, this is kind of a funny story-”
“There is nothing funny about any of this.”
“Oh, I meant it is funny for me, because I am safe and warm aboard the Flying Dutchman. And, hey, it will be funny for you too, years later when you are looking back on these golden times of adventure. If you survive, of course. That’s looking kind of unlikely right now, so-”
Reed bit back a curse word and focused on the facts. “What is the problem?”
“This is ironic, in the true meaning of ironic. The two of you thought you had accounted for every possibility for retrieving the ground team, but you assumed the ground team would stick to their assigned route. That is not happening. Smythe right now is- Uh, I just told him that I am explaining the problem to you- Right now, the ground team is here, and they are proceeding to climb this ridge into the valley to the north,” the route was highlighted on the display. “You need to pick them up in this valley, um, that is going be very delicate flying, there is an active sensor beacon on top of this hill here, right above that valley. After you pick up the ground team- See what I did there? I said ‘after’ instead of ‘if’ to boost your confidence- Although, sheesh, good luck with that,” he muttered. “Anywho, after a miracle happens and you flying monkeys pick up Smythe’s team, you need to fly back along nearly the same route, and drop them off here.”
Shan peered at the display. “We are flying this complicated route just to relocate the ground team by,” she connected the two dots and the map showed her the distance was a mere seven kilometers. “Seven klicks? They can’t just walk there?”
“No, they can’t. Crossing that distance would require transiting an area of deep dust, the ground team’s passage would kick up too much dust for their portable stealth field to conceal. Plus, they would have to climb and descend this steep ridge. The ground team could do all that, just not quickly enough. The source of the problem is that crawler from the moonbase decided to take a route different from the one I expected. Big jerks,” he grumbled. “Those birdbrains followed the same route every other day for the past seven weeks, but are they doing that today? Noooo, of course not! That would make Skippy’s life way too easy. I hate the freakin’ universe!”
The two pilots shared a disgusted look. Beazer spoke first. “Yes, Skippy, because it is all about you.”
“Wow, you understand that? This is great. Usually it takes me months to train a new monkey to have the proper respect for my awesome- Hey! You jerk, you were being sarcastic! I should-”
“Ya think?” Reed interrupted. “We need to reposition the ground team so they can intercept that crawler?”
“Maybe I don’t feel like telling you,” the beer can pouted.
“Mister Skippy,” Beazer shot a warning glance at Reed. “Please ignore my rudeness, we are under stress and, truthfully, your awesome presence is a bit overwhelming for us poor monkeys,” he finished while crossing two fingers of his right hand, hoping the beer can would not look through the cockpit flight recorder video.
“Huh,” Skippy sniffed. “Well, Beazer, that is the proper attitude. I accept your apology. Yes, the ground team needs to be relocated so they can intercept the crawler. Smythe debated whether to walk back to your Falcon and wait two days for the next crawler trip, but two days cooped up in that little dropship would reduce his team’s effectiveness, and I told him there is no guarantee the crawler will resume its original route. Plus, every second you are there risks exposure, the base commander could decide to conduct a combat or search and rescue drill and send space fighters over your location. Smythe wants to go now, and Uber said they couldn’t help him, so it’s up to you.”
Reed bit back a retort. We need the beer can, we need the beer can, she told herself. “Understood.”
The flight was almost impossible, because the microwormhole was in Smythe’s backpack. Without Skippy to fool the active sensor beams, the Falcon’s flightpath needed to hug steep-sided mountain slopes, hover in shadows until sensor beams passed by, then dart across the gap to hover again. Twice, their belly jets kicked up small pockets of dust on ledges or hidden in crevices, they held their breath as the statically-charged particles hung suspended over the airless surface, but no alarm was sounded. By the time they set the Falcon down ever so gently to avoid being detected by enemy sensors that could pick up the ground shaking from thumping the craft down in a rough landing, both pilots were shaking from the strain. Half an hour later, their backs inside their flightsuits were still damp from sweat as the ground team approached.
Smythe was first through the Falcon’s airlock. Taking his helmet off, he offered a grim expression, but Reed beat him to the punch. Wagging a finger, she scolded the SAS man. “Did you forget your lunches again? You kids never learn.”
Smythe’s lips turned upward in a tight grin. “Someone,” he jerked his head toward the airlock, “forgot to use the bathroom before we left. Skippy tells me the flying you just did was exceptional, thank you.”
The next leg of the flight was slightly less stressful, but only because the nerves of the pilots were not capable of being more jangled than they already were. A complication was the only place to land the Falcon was a ledge of rock jutting out from the mountainside, and the approach of the crawler meant there was no time to fly an egress route after dropping off the ground team. The Falcon would need to rest on the ledge, in full view of the crawler as it drove by less than a half kilometer away. If the stealth field failed, or the crew of the crawler happened to look closely in the direction of the ledge, they could not fail to notice something amiss. Skippy had tuned the enhanced stealth field to pulse between frequencies so dust would not be attracted to the static generated by the field, but after time there was nothing the beer can could do to prevent dust from clinging to the field like an invisible dome.
“Right. Let’s try this again, shall we?” Smythe attached his helmet once more in the Falcon’s crowded cabin. The timing was difficult, the enemy crawler was moving quickly toward the landing zone and Smythe needed to get his team away from the Falcon and into position, with little slack in the schedule. He would have preferred to pump air out of the cabin and lower the back ramp so his team could all exit at the same time, rather than two at a time through the side airlock. Skippy had vetoed that idea because the pumps in the cabin were not efficient at getting all the air out, and if they popped the back ramp, there was a good chance enemy sensors would notice the oddity of nitrogen and oxygen gas drifting over the airless moon’s surface. “Skippy, you are certain the crawler will follow the expected route?”
“Um, hmm, I had not thought of that. I guess the crawler actually has multiple routes it could take before it gets to that low spot in the ridge ahead, I kind of assumed the driver would take the most direct, fastest route.”
Smythe paused, hand ready to swing his faceplate down. “You do not bloody know? We might have to do this a third time, if the driver decides to take a holiday to see the sights along the way?”
“Hey, how am I supposed to know what some birdbrain is thinking? Now that I c
onsider it, there is a route that would take that crawler within fifty meters of the Falcon. That would be bad. Um, perhaps you should keep your fingers crossed that driver is in a hurry?”
Five, four, three, Smythe counted down five seconds to control his anger. “Can you estimate the odds the crawler will take the direct route? Please?”
“Sure, that is a simple math problem. Um, hmm, not so simple. Colonel Smythe, I am pleased to tell you the odds are a solid, a solid shmaybe in your favor. I think. It’s hard to say.”
Smythe pondered the fact that the Flying Dutchman still carried a dozen tactical nuclear weapons in a cargo bay. Perhaps if the beer can was placed between them and all dozen detonated- He could daydream about that pleasant thought later. “Is being aboard a crawler a sought-after assignment?” He was wondering whether crews stuck underground at the moonbase might compete to get aboard the crawler for some time away from the routine.
“No,” Skippy answered, surprised by the odd question. “No, crews generally hate being made to take a crawler out on this particular assignment. The route they have to drive is dull and mostly does not provide good views of anything interesting. Plus, they have to get out fourteen times to check sensor domes, and the work of inspecting sensor equipment is painstaking and tedious. Why does morale of crawler crews matter to you?”
“Because,” Smythe lowered his faceplate with confidence. “Crews that dislike an assignment will wish to get it over with quickly. The driver is very likely to take a direct route. One last question, please. The crawler has two Bosphuraq aboard, are they new to the assignment?”
“No. Why do you want to know- Oh. You are thinking that birdbrains who have not been on that assignment for a while might be more like to engage in sight-seeing. That is good meatsack thinking. I can assure you the crew roster tells me that the two people in that crawler are considered knuckleheads by their commander, she has assigned them to that duty nine times in a row, as a punishment.”
Renegades (Expeditionary Force Book 7) Page 21
