Viewpoints critical, p.8
Viewpoints Critical, page 8
McCaine shared her feelings about good machinery abused by poor operation, but that was only one side of the question.
"Yes. Because I don't want the RV-2 to kill someone, or a skitter full of someones."
"Still the crusader?"
"No. Just a tired man, trying to do his job before it's taken away." And you 're a tired woman, working twice as hard as anyone because of me.
Without any reaction, she went on. "The second RV-2 will come up watch after next."
"Will you be ready?"
"Yes. Better me than some young tech. Especially with an old lecher like you." She couldn't quite bring off the laugh.
McCaine watched her glide down the curved corridor back toward the tech deck. He didn't go back into his small office/quarters until she disappeared. Belatedly, he realized he was standing outside his door barefooted.
"Captain, I still don't think this is a wise course. Suppose something happens to you, sir?" protested Mort Wyemouth.
McCaine was checking over his oversuit for the last time before heading for the door where Angel Zero Eight was waiting.
"Commander, you're moderating, I believe."
McCaine knew he was overdoing by continually baiting Wyemouth, but the big man was a slimy little bastard at heart. Mort Wyemouth was hoping that McCaine would blow himself and Zero Eight apart. McCaine wasn't going to give him that opportunity—he hoped.
The launch was a false alarm. Not a single Macedonian needleboat approached the Anemone skitter pickets. But McCaine still intended to use the watch.
"Primus operations, this is Angel Zero Eight. Request clearance for shakedown reentry approach."
"Zero Eight, cleared after Apollo One docks." "Roger."
McCaine waited until the tail-end skitter's screen blob merged with the station's image. Then he slipped the test tape into autoconsole and upped thrust. The tape contained a recommended maneuver for the RV-2 ... on the high-gee side. McCaine knew the tug wouldn't take the stress loads without something busting loose.
"Seal up, Lyn."
"Roger, Captain."
McCaine watched the instruments for any trace of a wiggle, any sign of motion.
Three-quarters through the recovery brake, the slosh levels of the reserve tank began to drop abnormally, followed by the cabin pressure light. McCaine eased his fingers over the abort stud but wanted to hold the run through to the end. He waited through the final decel as the tug shuddered to a halt. Primus was in visual.
Cabin pressure was below safe minimums and dribbling away. The
heads-up display and the more pressure-sensitive instruments had quit. He knew the tug frame was overstrained.
"Primus, this is Angel Zero Eight. Blown a gasket or two. Request a tow to maintenance dock."
"Roger, Eight."
McCaine expected a hot reception when he left the maintenance wheel and pulled himself hand over hand into the operations half of the station. He was disappointed. The atmosphere in the squadron spaces was distinctly cold.
"Will you be taking Zero Five out when she's ready?" asked a junior tech from the corner of the cramped ready room. Someone had put her up to it. "That's affirmative."
The duty crews were suddenly very busy with their battle dice or their status sheets as the hush evaporated.
The watch for Angel Zero Five, the third of the four RV-2s, was also without Macedonian contact. Half the time, McCaine thought, the Macers would launch a needleboat just to get the skitters out on line. Then the needleboat would turn tail just before the skitters got into position.
McCaine used the watch as an excuse to bring the tug back under three-quarter thrust. He blew the forward thrusters and the underhull with a half-thrust decel maneuver . . . well within the design envelope. He left the RV-2 as a pile of junk in the maintenance recovery lock. The once-spacious maintenance area was beginning to look like the junkyard of broken tugs.
McCaine went straight to his stateroom, and to the pile of paperwork that waited. Imperial form this, and Imperial form that, officer evaluation sheets . . . and who was going to accept his evaluations after this?
And the maintenance record . . . they showed poorly enough without his destroying three new tugs in a row. Lyn's predecessor as tech officer apparently hadn't known a bolt from a screw, nor flexiplast from gasket foam. What made it worse was that not even the common expendables had been reordered in sufficient quantity. With the time it took the supply types to respond, it would be months before some of it arrived. He wondered why he bothered. He wasn't going to be here months, one way or another. But someone had to.
McCaine shook his head. Given the spotty maintenance before her arrival and the lack of spares, Lyn had done wonders. But even she could only do so much with worn-out plastic and bent metal.
McCaine had only made the situation worse. The combination wasn't helping his popularity on Primus, either in or out of the squadron. Here comes the new salvage CO., and immediately all the tugs fall apart.
Of the five RV-ls, two were fully operational. One was go for close-station push and pull work. Two were beyond the capabilities of the station for repair and were scheduled to go back with the next departing convoy.
So . . . out of nine salvage vehicles, two were operational, one was an untested RV-2, and the other was a cripple. Lovely. Three and a half worked.
Angel Zero Seven was the last RV-2.
The captain thumbed the comm unit on his desk.
"Tech, Relyea."
"McCaine. Is Zero Seven ready to go on standby for the next watch?" "That's affirmative, Captain." "Thank you."
McCaine thumbed Mort Wyemouth's code.
"Mort, I understand station ops is predicting a full-scale Mace needleboat blast-out on the up watch. Think we ought to have two on standby?"
"Wouldn't hurt, Captain. You thinking of taking a standby on Zero Seven?"
"Thought so."
McCaine wondered at the long silence. Mort wasn't known for contemplation.
Finally, the response came. "I'll let station ops know they can count on it, unless you'd rather let them know yourself." "You can handle it, Mort. Thanks."
Even after a few hours' sleep, McCaine was in the ready room before the watch chimes echoed through the station.
"Peg flight clear. Apollo off the deck ..." The commands from the station's ops center were muffled, but understandable, reverberating in the small salvage squadron ready room.
"You set, Lyn?" McCaine asked quietly, walking over to the corner where several tech officers were taking in low voices and throwing battle dice as if it didn't matter.
"Ready as ever, Captain."
McCaine wondered. She'd gotten some sleep, but the darkness under her eyes was still deep. Really quite a person. Again ... he had to keep himself from reaching out to her. Not here. Not now.
He stifled the sigh, then almost laughed at himself. So damn many sighs and groans . . . really taking himself seriously, he was. Still, he'd be glad when it was all over, and he could leave the station's plastic hell.
He sat in the middle of the single table, fully shipsuited, half-listening to the ops circuit and the conflicting skitter common, as the skitters jockeyed around the Macedonian needleboats.
"Pegasus Leader, Peg Three, Splinter forest ten and a half high."
"Roger, Peg Three. Heave Mace club in the meadow."
"Apollo Three here. We'll take the meadow, and you can have the trees."
"Angel Two, clearing for recovery lane." McCaine pictured the old RV-1 moving out from the station.
"Two, you're cleared."
"Roger."
"Apollo Leader, this is Apollo Two, clubbed and sloshing . . . clearing." The damaged skitter's next transmission was to the station.
"Primus, Pol Two, half slosh, high on the recovery lane." Apollo Two, despite damage, was on the way back.
"Primus this is Angel Two. Outbound for Pol Two."
McCaine walked over to the squadron ops desk. Lieutenant Commander Heatherton was the duty ops officer. McCaine looked over his shoulder and studied the vectors unfolding on the small depth holo. Within a few minutes the situation became clear enough to McCaine.
"Haskins!" he barked, and gestured to the far dock.
"Heatherton, run a thrust-kill power check on Pol Two. Then tell station ops we're launching."
Heatherton looked up in surprise and began to fiddle with the computation controls.
Everyone was tired, too tired.
McCaine had seen enough. A year earlier, even six months ago, Heatherton or the main ops desk would have seen what the power and course requirements meant. Maybe not the station. They never understood the limits of tugs. But McCaine was the only relatively fresh officer left on Primus with any experience, thanks to the punitive orders funneled through the War Ministry by the Finance bureaucrats.
Good thing the Anemone project was nearly complete. But shortly, the Royal Engineers would be out demanding protection for another Belt iceberg, citing the need for all-too-scarce water, and another plastic picket station with
skitters and salvagers would go out, supplied for months by convoys while the Engineers set up another orbit fall to Darneill.
McCaine had Angel Zero Seven clear of the dock before the pieces had all fallen into the pattern he'd foreseen.
"Primus, this is Apollo Two. Still splintered and burning. No forethrust. I'll be burned and sloshed out in another couple units."
Lord, thought McCaine. Poor bastard's still getting thrust up the recovery lane with no way to kill it. He doesn't know it, but Angel Zero Two doesn't have the power to stop him either. And we're still too far out.
"Angel Two here. Visual on Pol Two. Starting recovery."
"Angel Two, this is Angel Seven. Pol Two is over your power limit. Brake his outthrust to the max, but do not exceed your limits. Repeat, do not exceed your limits."
There was no response.
Damned hero. And likely to be a dead one shortly. McCaine keyed station ops.
"Primus, this is Angel Seven. Interrogative cleared to cross launch lanes."
"Seven, you're cleared to cross."
McCaine eased the thrusters up to 35 percent, then cut back. Even with the heavier converter, he'd need everything.
The heads-up display, perhaps the last one operational in the squadron, showed the closure. While the screens displayed Angel Two's approach and trac, he couldn't see either.
The pinflare of Angel Two's thrusters caught his eye. He began counting. ". . . six, seven, eight," he muttered as the thin flame lengthened and continued. ". . . fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . . stop it, you idiot. . . twenty, twenty-one ..."
The final flare was even brighter.
"Primus, this is Angel Two. Lost converter. Lost slosh, Still carrying out-vector. Interrogative ETA, Angel Seven."
McCaine checked his instruments. Angel Two hadn't lined up his braking thrusts exactly. Probably misaligned instruments, though McCaine. Flexi-plast and rework after rework can only do so much.
Apollo Two and Angel Two were both drifting up and out-system as they orbited each other.
"Two and Two, this is Angel Zero Seven. Have visual. ETA ten. Strap
and suit. I repeat. Strap and suit." They probably were, but this one was going to be rough.
"Roger."
"Roger."
McCaine looked over at Lyn.
"Lyn, can we mag-trac Angel Two enough to throw him along an inter-sect to Primus." "Let me check."
McCaine waited as the tech fingers danced over her console. "Can you spare a 30 percent slosh loss and a five-unit time-add-on before you tackle the skitter?"
"Thirty-one and four units?" countered McCaine.
"Close, but I think so."
"Let's try it. Seal up before we start."
"Roger."
McCaine used the trim jets to tilt the RV-2 nose high to the skitter and fallen angel he was approaching.
"Power!" demanded the tech. McCaine twisted up the flow to the converter, watching the fuel level drop and the drain needle peg-out as the mag-trac built up force.
At first, he was conscious only of a faint humming through his boots. Within a unit, the cabin was shaking hard enough to knock the loose stylus from the plot board, and the heads-up display was impossible to read. Abruptly, it vanished.
He watched the ship's internal pressure drop, seeping away as the bar gauge on the panel dropped toward the red. McCaine didn't realize he was holding his breath until Lyn cut the flow diversion and the drain needle unpegged. He exhaled.
He pulsed the stricken angel to get distance and vector readings. The output from the plotting computer showed a near intersect with Primus station. A bit tight, and Angel Two would need a close-in two, but good enough considering the situation.
"Primus, this is Angel Zero Seven, Angel Zero Two on a reentry intersect. Estimate arrival above the recovery lanes in twenty, and he'll need an in-tow. Two's no thrust, no power, low comm."
"Roger, Seven. We'll get him."
McCaine shifted his full attention to the skitter, which was drifting farther
out-system. He pulsed the thrusters to close up. No fancy bookwork here, but a plain and simple overtake and reverse curve.
"Apollo Two, this is Angel Seven. You strapped?"
"Strapped and ready, Seven."
"Lyn, ready for mag-trac and grapple." McCaine knew the tug would lose mag-trac power by the end of the required maneuvers. "Ready, Captain."
McCaine eased the RV-2 in over the skitter's nonfunctioning rear thrusters, studying the console's distance monitor as the mag-trac pulled the two together.
"Oh, hell!" He should have noticed sooner, but Apollo Two was still leaking. The mist surrounding the damaged skitter should have warned him, but he'd been thinking three steps ahead. Not that he could do much at this point.
He checked the power flow, slosh reserve, and drift before pulsing the left rear thruster and the side trim jets. He pulsed the left-rear thruster again to bring the nose around.
McCaine began bringing up power on the rear thrusters, favoring the left with a higher setting to bring the two ships onto the return course.
A red light flared on the console. Now the tug's internal pressure was well below minimum safety levels. Suited or not, it would be nice to work with more than basic instruments, but it wasn't likely.
He sighed as the two noses lined up on the return course to Primus, leaning back in the pilot's seat and checking the relative velocities.
That was when the explosion rocked both the salvage boat and the skitter.
McCaine juggled the power to his rear thrusters and managed to get the noses centered again before the rear thrusters quit.
"Apollo Two, this is Angel Seven. Interrogative damage."
"Holed, but no more hulk than before."
McCaine ran through the instruments he had left. On course, but fast, a good 20-percent-plus faster. Twenty-five percent slosh left but no rear thrusters.
Not much choice. We slow down on forward thrusters, well within the suspect specs, or we don't slow down. Too much mass/velocity for the remaining RV-1 to handle ... so it's all ours.
"Lyn, this is going to be rough, real rough."
"Ready, Captain."
McCaine watched as the station drew closer.
What am I doing out here in a salvage tug? At forty-plus, when all I had to do was say. yes, it's a fine tug?
. . . three, two, one, now!
He slipped in the forethrusters, running them up to half power, seeing the relative motion slow, sensing the raggedness, feeling himself being pulled gently forward in his seat, wishing he'd had the sophisticated equipment to plot a more gentle decel curve, being shaken as the whole boron-flexiplast hull shuddered, knowing that if there were any cabin pressure left, the hull would be screaming in protest. No matter what anyone said, the RV-2 wasn't meant to be stopped nose first.
Without warning the left front thruster quit.
Almost in reflex, McCaine cut the right forethruster and diverted the full gasjet reserves to the right-rear trim-squirters. He checked the closure,
He'd stopped the spin/crab, but not all the in-system drift. Without more decel thrust, the combined skitter/tug mass would still be too much for the RV-1 to handle.
"Apollo Two, interrogative gas for side squirt."
"Almost max."
McCaine had hoped for it, knowing the skitter pilots didn't make many trim corrections.
"Roger," he transmitted back. "I intend another decel burst. When I fire, feed full reserve into your right-rear trim." "Wilco."
McCaine jammed the right forethruster to full, held it momentarily, and brought it back to zero. The trim jets of Apollo Two corrected their swing, stabilizing them both at an angle to the recovery path.
He checked the relative motion . . . still drifting, but the RV-1 could handle it from here.
The vibration of the deck caught his attention. As he half turned toward Lyn, he saw the front bulkhead bending toward him, pushing the attached equipment over his couch.
As he jabbed the shield pod switch, the darkness came up around him.
"He's coming around. . . ."
McCaine felt like he'd spent an eternity swimming through a gray soup. The overhead had a disconcerting tendency to waver. Overhead?
He realized he was in sick bay.
"Lyn?" he demanded, struggling to lift himself. "Commander Haskins is fine," a strange voice stated firmly. He let himself slip back into the gray soup.
McCaine awoke with a start, recalling the collapse of the RV-2 around him, wondering whether he should have tried guesswork decel before he even had the relative motions, how he could have handled it better, and he could, he was somehow sure . . . and the strange voice . . .
The other bed was occupied.
"Well, Ed, it took you long enough."
"Lyn . . . how long? You ... all right." His words seemed strangely incoherent.
She smiled. The tiredness was gone from her face.
McCaine forgot the discolored flexiplast walls, the mental fuzziness, the aches across his shoulders and chest, the might-have-beens. He opened his mouth, then shut it, thought about opening it again, and shook his head, all too conscious of the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
