Pointblank, p.11
Pointblank, page 11
“We can lose them if we want,” she said.
“Maybe,” Lytle said. He didn’t sound as if he believed it, but he backed away from Dwan and said to Gossner, “Second squad’s providing security for you.”
Gossner nodded. “Sergeant Kare’s a good Marine, he’s got a good squad.” He looked to where first section’s second squad stood waiting for the return of the AstroGhost. Those four Marines, like Dwan and himself, were in their chameleons, but with their helmets and gloves off for visibility. Sergeant Brigo Kare looked ready for anything. Corporals Anton Quinn and Rufus Kassel also looked ready. Only Lance Corporal Jadzi Ilon, looking at Dwan, displayed a hint of uncertainty. All four were carrying blasters; sidearms alone wouldn’t provide enough security if they ran into trouble. Gossner himself was carrying his M111 fin-stabilized rifle—Dwan wasn’t the only sniper in the team.
Minutes later, the AstroGhost returned from dropping off the first wave of Force Recon squads. While it refueled, all three sniper teams, each with a fully armed squad for security, along with three other squads going on independent missions, boarded. Refueling didn’t take long, and soon the stealth shuttle was once again mimicking a meteorite as it plunged through Ravenette’s atmosphere.
Two Days’ Fast Flight West-South of Ravenette
The cutter Hope’s Folly, out of Trinkatat, jumped out of Beamspace, cut all engines except for the few small motors necessary to maintain her life-support systems, and drifted toward Ravenette.
Lieutenant Commander Phopaw Irian, late a lieutenant in the Confederation Navy, was the cutter’s captain. He sat in his station on the bridge, a position he’d keep until his ship reentered Beamspace more than a week standard hence on the other side of Ravenette. If she lived that long.
Hope’s Folly hadn’t been designed to carry cargo; she was meant for speedy interdiction of smugglers’ starships in planetary space. Her name was meant to tell smugglers that it was folly for them to hope to get past her.
Lieutenant Commander Irian couldn’t help but wonder if her name referred more to her current mission—for on this mission she carried cargo she wasn’t designed for: two Essays, which, like Hope’s Folly and her captain, were late of the Confederation Navy. Just as a third of the 120 soldiers berthed in the Essays for lack of space elsewhere on the cutter were late of the Confederation Army. The soldiers were confined to the Essays except for meals and head calls.
When Trinkatat had joined the secessionist Coalition, the government had seized Hope’s Folly, the two Essays she now carried, and all other Confederation military craft, vehicles, weapons, and stores they could. That seizure was greatly aided by the significant number of Confederation military personnel, citizens of the twelve worlds that formed the Coalition, who switched sides to join the secession. Now Lieutenant Commander Irian was one who’d switched and was rewarded with a promotion and command of the cutter on which he’d served before capturing it for Trinkatat.
Irian had wondered more than once en route from Trinkatat to Ravenette why he’d volunteered for the mission.
The Confederation Navy controlled planetary space around Ravenette, including approaches to the planet. The Confederation could land reinforcements to its beleaguered garrison on the peninsula on Pohick Bay at will. The Coalition could land reinforcements only at great risk. Which was why Hope’s Folly was carrying two Essays, and the Essays were filled with troops.
The plan was simple. Drift in as close as possible to Ravenette without being spotted by the cordoning task force. Fire main engines full thrust to pick up the greatest velocity as rapidly as possible. Skim the top of the atmosphere, breaking just enough to launch the Essays. Get the hell out of Dodge.
Others had done it, feeding needed reinforcements to the Coalition ground forces. Some of the starships that had made the run had even made it out alive. So, even though Irian sometimes wondered why he’d volunteered for the mission, he knew it wasn’t really a suicide mission. Not always.
Over four days, Hope’s Folly cut her distance to Ravenette in half before one of the Confederation starships in the cordon finally had an indication the drifting cutter might be something other than a large chunk of space debris. Irian watched the starship, a destroyer, turn her bow and fire her engines to break orbit on an intercept course. That was all he needed. He hit the panic button.
It was a literal button, which he’d had installed to issue a number of commands instantly: Horns whooped, sounding general quarters throughout Hope’s Folly; Navigation put the cutter on an evasion course; Engineering fired the main engines; the soldiers in the Essays strapped in.
“Project courses,” Irian ordered.
The main screen showed the locations of all known vessels around Ravenette. A limb of the planet’s primary satellite, a fifth the diameter of Ravenette, was visible on the far side. Three traces appeared on the display: a line of fine dashes showed the course Hope’s Folly had been on; a line of stronger dashes showed her current course, curving away from the original course; a third line of blinking dashes was the projected intercept course of the Confederation destroyer. That intercept path missed the cutter’s current path.
Irian allowed himself a satisfied grunt. His starship was far enough away from the destroyer that it would be a couple of minutes before light traveled from her to the destroyer to tell the picket that Hope’s Folly had come to life and changed course. Of course, it might also be a couple of minutes before light from the destroyer’s current position reached out to let him know if she’d changed course.
Maneuvers at distances measured in light minutes were a tricky cat-and-mouse game, but Irian had become skilled at it when Hope’s Folly had been interdicting smugglers for the Confederation Navy.
Three minutes passed and the destroyer showed no sign of adjusting course or velocity to intercept Hope’s Folly’s new course. Neither did any of the other starships in the cordon display any reaction to the cutter’s presence.
“Navigation, set course to drop point,” Irian ordered. Steering engines fired, and the cutter slowly changed vector to skim the planet’s atmosphere. Twenty-five seconds later, the blinking dashed line of the destroyer’s path began to shift, to intersect where Hope’s Folly would have gone had Irian not ordered the latest maneuver. No other starships were responding as yet.
Irian repressed a sigh of relief; he didn’t want the crew to know he’d been concerned. The cutter was fast, she could outrun a fast frigate in Space-3. The destroyer had waited too long to adjust to her first course change, she’d never catch up now. And neither would any of the other Confederation starships visible on that side of the globe. Hope’s Folly carried enough defensive measures to deflect any missiles the blockading starships were likely to fire at her—unless they fired a large enough salvo to insure a hit on a heavy cruiser, and Irian couldn’t believe the Confederation Navy would waste that much weaponry on a mere cutter. He settled back to wait.
The Top of Ravenette’s Atmosphere
Hope’s Folly plunged deeper into the planet’s atmostpheric envelope than a troop carrier would. Like most starships and spaceships, she was built in orbit and would never make planetfall, but she was designed to chase smugglers to where they’d have to surrender or break up. Which meant deeper into atmospheres than any but a few very specialized space-going craft were capable of. The launch of the two Essays went off without a hitch, and Hope’s Folly went to full velocity, heading for sufficient distance from Ravenette’s gravity well to jump into Beamspace—and right into a six-missile salvo fired by a light cruiser orbiting Ravenette’s moon; the cruiser had been concealed from view by Ravenette until the cutter reached its side of the planet.
“Hard a port,” Irian ordered as calmly as he could. “Fire forward flares. Forward guns, screening fire.”
Hope’s Folly lurched as her main engines, aided by thrusters on her starboard side, swiveled to turn her to port—headed back toward atmosphere. Muted thups sounded as flares shot out of forward tubes. The cutter shook as the two rapid-fire guns in her bow sent out thousands of pellets in a steady stream.
Irian watched the main screen closely. Two of the approaching missiles were fooled and went off chasing the flares. One, then a second, were met by the pellets from the guns and erupted far enough away that they were no threat. The other two missiles continued to home on Hope’s Folly. Like a flat rock skimming the surface of a pond, the cutter bounced when she hit the atmosphere. That jink, unintentional though it was, threw off the aim of one of the remaining missiles.
“Fire rear flares,” Irian ordered. More muted thups answered him. “Crash course starboard.”
The starship screamed as her main engines twisted hard to change her course again, all the thrusters on her port side fired, and the braking thrusters in her bow swiveled to add their sideways thrust.
The last missile continued to close, but was no longer on a direct intersect course for the cutter. Then it began to adjust.
“Closing speed!” Irian ordered. The main engines fired straight to the rear, and the thrusters on the port and starboard sides, as well as those on top and bottom, swiveled backward.
The dotted lines on the display showed the cutter’s course and that of the missile intersecting, the missile crossing behind the cutter. Then the missile began changing course again, once more shifting along Hope’s Folly’s path, toward intercept.
“Aft guns, fire screen,” Irian ordered. “Fire rear flares.” The rear guns turned to fire at the closing missile, and oxy-magnesium flares shot out and ignited almost immediately.
The missile seemed to pause indecisivly for a moment, then continued shifting to intercept the cutter. But the missile’s line was crawling up Hope’s Folly’s line more slowly than before. More flares shot out of the rear of the cutter; the missile ignored them. The aft guns fired another many-thousand pellet screen; and missed. The missile continued closing.
Then the flame from the missile’s engine flared out, its fuel expended, and it exploded.
Hope’s Folly lurched as fragments from the exploding missile hit her. Horns whooped throughout the cutter, and a voice commanded damage control and fire crews aft. On the bridge, Irian watched the image on the main display begin wobbling; he suspected one of the main thrusters had been hit. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Number two thruster’s been hit,” Engineering reported. “The thruster wall was penetrated and gases are venting through the break. Skipper, we have to reduce thrust, or the entire nozzle structure will be damaged beyond repair.”
On the main display, Irian saw the previously hidden light cruiser on her flank accelerating in an attempt to close enough to fire another salvo. If he allowed Hope’s Folly to slow down by reducing thrust, the cruiser would get close enough well before the cutter reached the sanctuary of jump point. As it was, her acceleration was so reduced by the loss of direct thrust that intercept was possible.
He couldn’t allow the Confederation starship to capture or kill his ship.
“Negative on reducing thrust, Engineering,” he said. “We need as much acceleration as we can manage if we’re going to get out of here alive.”
“It’s possible that the damage to the nozzle could escalate and cause the entire engine to explode,” Engineering replied. “If that happens, we get killed.”
“If we don’t keep accelerating, we will get killed,” Irian said sharply. “Bridge out.”
The captain of Hope’s Folly continued to watch the oscillating image on the main display. The dotted line indicating the light cruiser’s path slowly, ever so slowly, crept up the cutter’s path toward intercept. Irian wondered who the warship’s captain was; the cruiser was closing faster than anything that big should be able to. Then he more closely studied the actual path of his cutter. Thanks to the uncontrollable movements of thruster two, and the variable amounts of gases being vented through the breach, the path wasn’t the straight line it should have been. Even though Hope’s Folly wasn’t accelerating as fast as she normally could, the wobble in her path should make intercept more difficult.
Irian looked at the time. Thirty hours to jump point. He projected the two paths thirty hours into the future. Yes, the light cruiser should begin falling behind before she closed enough to fire another salvo.
It was beginning to look as if it hadn’t been a suicide mission after all.
CHAPTER
* * *
THIRTEEN
Liberty, Marine OTC, Arsenault
They were well into their third month at OTC before either Jak Daly or Manny Ubrik seriously considered taking some liberty in Oceanside. The training schedule for that week left seventh day free for most of the candidates—those not in remedial training or on some duty roster, neither of which applied to either Daly or Ubrik. So, pockets stuffed with recent withdrawals from the Navy Credit Union, at first light they waited for the liberty bus to Oceanside.
It was summer in that part of Arsenault, so the small crowd of candidates waiting for the bus outside the main gate to the OTC campus were dressed informally in ill-fitting clothing hastily purchased the day before from the Marine Corps Exchange store, loose shirts over shorts, feet stuffed into sandals or light shoes.
“These goddamn sandals are too big,” Ubrik groused, loud enough for a buxom candidate standing nearby to hear.
“Well, look at this blouse,” the woman complained. “I pulled it off the rack because I like the flower design, but see how it hangs on me like a general-purpose tent?”
She was from another battalion. The few female candidates left in the brigade by then were easily recognized by everyone, healthy men in their prime who’d had no female companionship for over two months. But this woman was extraordinary even in her loose-fitting blouse. “Ah, well,” Daly said, “I think, er, you’d look pretty good even in a GP tent.” Realizing that statement could be taken several different ways, most of them not complimentary, Daly’s face reddened with embarrassment. “Er, I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Candidate.” She grinned, holding out her hand. “My name is Felicia Longpine.”
“I’m Jak Daly. This is my roomie, Manny Ubrik. Manny’s from Solden, in the army, but he’s an honorary Marine, one hundred percent!”
Ubrik bowed graciously and they shook hands all around. “I’m in the army too,” Felicia announced, cocking her head, grinning widely, giving Daly a silent challenge. Felicia was about Daly’s height, blond, muscular, and the loose-fitting blouse could not hide the well-developed endowments that inexorably drew men’s eyes to her chest.
“Well, ah, you two were good enough to get into Marine OTC, so that means, I mean, shit, I’m surrounded!” They all laughed at Daly’s feigned embarrassment. “That means,” he continued, “that I guess I’ll have to take you two”—he almost said “cunts”—“guys to breakfast!”
Oceanside was about five kilometers from the OTC campus. On the short ride into town the trio studied various brochures highlighting the recreational and dining facilities available in the resort town.
“The Four Seasons looks pretty good for breakfast,” Felicia remarked. “It’s on page three of the dining brochure.” The other two turned to page three.
“Jeez,” Daly exclaimed, “looks pretty classy. But what the heck, a roadside soup stand would be classy compared to anything back in Havelock.”
Ubrik shrugged. “Let’s go.”
The Four Seasons restaurant was “classy.” At that early hour the place was not crowded. The maître d’ greeted them warmly and guided them to a sumptuously set table. “God,” Felicia murmured as they were seated, “this stuff looks so fancy I think I’d be committing a sin just to touch any of the silverware.”
“What’s that music?” Daly asked. Muted classical music was playing in the background.
“Vivaldi,” Ubrik responded at once, “Juditha Triumphans, I think.” Then, a look of embarrassment crossed his face as he noticed the expressions of almost shock on the faces of his companions. “Ah, that’s the opening sinfonia. It’s, um, I recognize the hunting horns, er, very distinctive opening sequence,” he finished rapidly, and went back to studying the menu.
“You like that stuff?” Felicia asked.
“Um, well, it’s based on the story of Judith, who cut off this general’s head to save her people from his army.”
Daly pretended to shudder. “She reminds me of Bella.”
“Who’s Bella?” Felicia asked, feigning suspicion.
“I’ll tell you later, maybe.”
Felicia narrowed her eyes at Daly, as if feigning jealousy, then turned back to Ubrik. “Well, jeez, you can’t dance to that music.”
Face turning red, Ubrik nodded. “Well, no,” he went on rapidly, “but I like all kinds of music, you know?”
“Yeah, it does have a sort of very ‘military’ air about it, catchy,” Daly interjected. He found himself a little confused at the coarseness of Felicia’s language and Ubrik’s evident embarrassment. “Old Manny, here, Felicia, he’s a fucking—er, excuse me—I mean he’s a regular genius,” he went on quickly, covering his embarrassment with a weak grin. “He got all of old Mitzikawa’s formulas down pat, first time through.”
“You did?” Felicia asked, genuinely impressed. “That log support class of his was the worst crap I ever had to suffer through. I only got 70 on that exam where we had to figure out the time gaps between ‘serial’ formulas for a road march. Had to get some fucking coaching to pass that block of instruction.”
Daly laughed. “Well, I only made a barely passing grade on that exam myself, and that was because Mannie here coached me through.” He patted Ubrik’s shoulder.
“I’ve always been good at mathematical stuff,” Ubrik said, shrugging.
“Well, good for you!” Felicia exclaimed. “I admire anybody who can do things better than I can. Oh, Manny,” she went on, leaning forward and placing a hand on his forearm, “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental over your taste in music. You know what they say, ‘Never judge a man by the music he likes, his dog, or his landcar.’”
