The silver fleet the com.., p.122
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 122
“Sir?” the Tactical commander said, the unexpressed question clear on his face.
“Yes, you heard: power it down. We’re switching back to our conventional weapons as of this moment.”
While the other officers regarded one another in the stunned silence which followed, the Tactical officer was already implementing the changes.
*
LaCruz sat in the back of the cargo bay feeling aggrieved.
Barnes’ stretcher was strapped in next to her. He wasn’t able to stand due to the frostbite damage his feet had suffered. They’d told him that he’d be lucky not to lose at least some of his toes. Whether that was enough to qualify him for a medical pension, she wasn’t sure.
LaCruz had hated being confined to sick bay and couldn’t wait to get out of there. They kept telling her they were worried about her weight but she wasn’t listening. She thought they were just interfering little busy bodies. That was until she sat on the edge of her cot and looked down at her sorry ass legs. She resolved then and there to build herself up, only that wasn’t likely to happen with all the crap they served in sick bay.
So she’d managed to persuade one of the corporals to smuggle over some chicken wings. She’d been waiting for him to return when the bombardment had started up and they’d all had to haul ass over to the Motar.
Looked like she was never meant to have those chicken wings.
“Any idea what’s happening?” Barnes asked from his reclining position.
“Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is we didn’t make it to orbit.”
Barnes turned his head to take in the entire cargo bay.
“And that’s not all. Where is everybody?”
For the first time since they’d boarded, LaCruz took a proper look and saw how few troopers were milling around.
“You’re right, there’s nobody here,” she turned to look at Barnes. “Is this the only transport?”
“Did you see any others cluttering up the ice?”
“This is turning out to be one helluva shitty day.”
“You still mad about those wings?”
“You’d do well to keep your mouth shut about those wings.”
“Oh, wait up!” Barnes, suddenly serious, lay back on his stretcher. “Sarge is coming over. Try not to rile him, LJ.”
“How’re you two holding up?” Markham said as he approached.
“We’re trying to keep our spirits up, sir,” Barnes said.
“Yeah, well good for you,” then he turned his attention to LaCruz. “And what about you? How you holding up?”
LaCruz gave a noncommittal shrug.
“I’m worried about her, sir,” Barnes said. “I think she might be clinically depressed.”
“Really? And why’s that?”
“Sir, it’s complicated. Something to do with a delivery of chicken wings that went astray.”
LaCruz kicked the side of his stretcher. Hard.
“I’m fine, sir,” she said. “Don’t listen to Barnes. I think the cold back there messed with more than just his toes.”
Markham conspired not to hear. “I’m serious about the state of your health though, Jackson. I was wondering if you’d be up for a stroll around the deck?”
“Er, yes, sir,” she looked at Barnes who was enjoying her obvious discomfort. “I think I’d be okay with that.”
LaCruz unstrapped herself but then had to take a second before pushing herself to her feet.
“Look,” Markham seemed suddenly unsure of himself. “Perhaps I’ll just come back later.”
“No, sir. I’m fine. Just need to get my sea legs, is all.”
Markham indicated a deserted section of the deck and they walked over together. Markham checked that there was no one within earshot before he spoke.
“Look, Jackson, I need your help. Seven minutes ago we got word of a Da’al shuttle entering orbit. We don’t know what they’re planning but best guess is that the Da’al are trying to sabotage the Montezuma somehow.”
“What are we talking about, sir? Engines?”
“That’d be our guess but obviously we can’t be sure.”
LaCruz nodded. That’s what she liked about the sergeant: he never tried to bullshit you. Always gave it to you straight.
“Okay, sir. And what would you like me to do?”
He turned and signalled for a private to come over.
She didn’t give the private a second look, she was too busy staring at what he was carrying.
A gun bag.
“What’s in there?”
Markham took the bag and held it out to her.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t get you a Koningsburg but I think you’ll find this to be a pretty decent alternative.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she was careful not to touch the bag. “You want me to do what?”
“We’ve spoken to the pilot. He thinks he can give you a reasonably clear shot.”
She pulled a face.
“Where from? The cockpit? What’s he planning to do – open a window?”
Markham seemed genuinely surprised at her response.
“We were thinking more along the lines of him being able to lower the rear ramp? Give you a shot from there.”
LaCruz scowled at him as though that was the most stupid idea she’d ever heard.
“Sorry, sir. Can’t be done and whoever says it can is an idiot.”
Markham hugged the rifle bag to his chest. “Really? Can’t be done?”
“Not for anyone’s money. Firing from an unstable platform is a giant fail straight off the bat. You might see it done in the holo-vids but that’s about it. Plus, the wind factor’s going to be all messed up - not to mention the down draft from all these engines.”
“Oh,” Markham held the bag in both hands as though weighing it. “Can’t be done then? So how do drones manage it?”
“Drones tend to use rockets. Different system all together.”
“Yes, I understand.”
He handed the rifle bag to the private with a certain reluctance. The private took it and disappeared.
She said, “Though, of course, there is another way.”
LaCruz wasted no time laying out the details.
“But that’s ridiculous,” he said upon hearing the last bit. “And who could we get at such short notice?”
“Looks to me like you’ve got two prime candidates right here. Though, unfortunately, one of them is laid up at the moment.”
She turned to look at Barnes.
Barnes waved and she waved back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There wasn’t any doubt now, as Tyr and Thor continued outward intending to close with Winterson’s fleet, that the Odin was falling behind.
“What do you think their intentions are?” Hoyt said.
“They’re trying to draw our fire, hoping they’ll be able to protect their flagship,” Winterson said.
“Weapons loaded and checked, sir,” Tactical said.
Winterson nodded, though more to himself than anyone.
Things were moving quickly now and he wanted to be certain that he was doing the right thing.
“PWO,” he said. “What’s the status on our other two ships?”
The PWO consulted his instruments.
“The Molly Maguire is still in the process of reloading.”
Damn, that was the trouble with using civilian crews. No matter how good they were, they were never quite good enough.
“How long?”
“According to Lieutenant Runacre, another two and a half minutes,” the PWO arced his eyebrows in apology. “Blackbeard, on the other hand, are ready now though it’ll be another ten minutes before they’re fully in position.”
“I’m not concerned about that,” Winterson sounded almost angry. “I want multiple launches from all three ships simultaneously. As soon as Runacre gives us the green light, we go for it. Understood?”
The unease of the deck officers was self-evident. They were used to a clear, timely progression of events and they couldn’t help thinking that they were being rushed into this. Things were changing far faster than they were used to and they didn’t like it.
Hoyt came to stand beside him.
“Aren’t we cutting things a little fine here, sir?”
Hoyt raised his chin in the direction of the countdown clock for the incoming bogeys.
Four minutes and fifty-six seconds.
“Not if we work together. If you can stay on top of our defences, I’ll co-ordinate the main offensive.”
“I comply with that, admiral. But is there some reason why we’re holding back on our own barrage. Surely, a three-stage launch plan would be just as effective as a fully synchronised one?”
Winterson thought about this before responding.
“That may be true, but there’s more to this than simple efficiency. I want to send a message here. How do you think the crews on those other Da’al ships are going to react when they realise we’re attacking their flagship?”
Winterson’s words were almost drowned out by the speakers.
“Incoming missiles in four minutes and counting.”
“I don’t know,” Hoyt admitted. “Panic, perhaps? Confusion. Disarray?”
“I was going for ‘Awe’ but those others’ll do just as well,” Winterson raised his voice so the PWO could hear him. “How are we doing with that launch deadline?”
“Blackbeard is good to go, we’re just waiting on Lieutenant Runacre now.”
On the mission screen the incoming red carets were nose to nose with the blue defensive missiles.
By all rights, The Naked Spur should have launched their offensive salvo a long time ago. Winterson knew it and every officer on the bridge knew it too. You were taught never to assume that you would survive an incoming attack. You had to plan to get your retaliation off as soon as was humanly possible and The Spur was well behind the curve in that regard. To leave it this late was either a sign of poor planning or downright hubris on someone’s part, and that someone would invariably be him.
But it was just such a wild change of tactics as this stage that Winterson hoped would work in their favor. The element of surprise - especially during the heat of battle - was as telling a weapon as the sharpest blade.
The first nine missiles were tearing down on The Spur at just that moment but, fortunately, their defensive missiles were heading out at almost a thousand kilometres per second.
And when they intercepted their targets, they did so with unerring accuracy.
Not a single missile in the first wave succeeded in getting through.
Hoyt turned towards Winterson, his arms folded tight across his chest. He was eager not to jinx things by saying anything but the delight on his face was clear for all to see.
But, no sooner had that moment passed than the second wave was coming into range.
“This is going to be close,” someone said.
“Get the ship ready for incoming,” Hoyt said.
All over the ship, the air-tight doors slid closed in an attempt to limit the damage should the hull be breeched.
“Admiral,” the PWO was looking straight at Winterson. “Confirmation from Molly Maguire. They’re ‘go’ for launch.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Winterson surprised himself by how calm he sounded. “Fire when ready.”
No one heard the PWO give the final order so they were all surprised when the three screens ranged in front of them monitoring Molly Maguire, Blackbeard and The Spur itself all lit up with the silent ferocity of thirty-eight missiles all launching simultaneously. It was something none of the crew had ever witnessed before nor, in all likelihood, would ever see again and it sent a tremor down Winterson’s spine.
“Attention, all hands,” the speaker boomed. “Prepare for impact.”
Winterson stood his ground, though he did so with stiff legs. There was no point scurrying back to his chair now. The design of The Naked Spur meant that the bridge was most likely one of the safest places to be at that moment, but it certainly didn’t feel that way.
He and Hoyt just stood there, their eyes locked on the welter of information thrown up by the screens, resigned to the fact there was no longer anything more they could do.
Winterson wasn’t aware of the lasers starting up, though that must have been the case. He was more aware of the impacts rippling up and down the hull.
It was impossible to keep track of everything that was going on so Winterson concentrated solely on the small screen located over to his right. This told him what was happening around the bow of the ship. It was set out in a simple visual format as if viewed from above.
He counted four, five, six detonations and watched as each wave of destruction rippled out like pebbles dropped into a pond. Sealed within his inner sanctum, Winterson was aware of only the slightest movements as the ship dipped and shuddered in response.
His cool eye catalogued the severity of each strike and he was glad to see that all were within tolerance, their shields ensuring that there were no direct hits. But that situation couldn’t possibly continue. The enemy would, even now, be analysing this data as closely as he was, spotting openings, looking for weaknesses and, invariably, finding them.
No question, but next time they faced this enemy, things would be very different.
*
LaCruz stood at the furthest possible point on the ramp, facing back into the cargo bay.
Markham was standing directly opposite her, a restraining line attached to his belt. LaCruz had no such line.
But then she was wearing her Armored Infantry battle suit.
Markham pressed a hand to his ear.
“You sure about this, Jackson?” his voice almost lost in the tumult. “Not too late to reconsider.”
“No, sir. I think I’m good to go.”
For a brief moment, she thought that he was the one about to pull the plug, but then he relented.
“Okay, then. On my mark. Three…”
But she’d already gone, tipping backwards off the edge of the ramp. The ground came around at the top of her vision but not as quickly as she’d have liked. The winds were buffeting her harder than she’d anticipated.
She waited until she was properly reoriented before activating her cone jets. It was only the second time she’d used them in atmosphere and she’d been concerned that they might not function properly with everything else that was going on, but they seemed to work just fine.
Even so, she gave each of her jets a test burn just to reassure herself. Supposedly, these suits would fly on two jets but she was much happier with four.
It was an odd feeling, to be moving away from the Motar - which pretty much dominated her whole field of vision - only to turn and find herself staring at the Montezuma. The whole thing was painted an earthy red colour with vast sections picked out in a black patchwork, but from her angle it looked like she was staring at a huge cliff face, one which disappeared up into the clouds. How the thing stayed in the air like that was just beyond her comprehension. She just had to hope that it stayed that way.
They’d decided that it was important for her not to exit the Motar in full view of the rogue shuttle. She was keen to keep her presence a secret right up until the point she revealed herself - she wanted to lull her opponents into a false sense of security. They’d no doubt be hoping that the two main ships hadn’t detected them and she wanted to preserve that sense of invulnerability for as long as possible.
She wanted the first time they saw her to come as a complete surprise.
And not a good one.
The Montezuma’s engines, four vast Alpaca Mercuries were located at the rear of the ship. Atmosphere ready engines which were also capable of flying in vacuum. These were specialised engines - market leaders in the salvage operation world.
The first few iterations of salvage ship had put the emphasis the other way around: adapting a space-going engine to be able to fly in atmosphere but this had led them down a technological dead end. It didn’t matter how quickly you managed to get to the salvage site if you then got into difficulties once you entered atmosphere. But engines which could cope well in both environments didn’t come cheap. Each engine cost as much as some smaller ships and it was that fact alone which had helped slim the industry down in the past twenty years. From a high of nearly fifty operators in the days before the industry was properly regulated it had shrunk to just over fifteen now.
A friend of LaCruz’ had gone into the industry after leaving the Corps and was constantly sending her pictures of the various exotic locations she frequented on social media. Not that that held any interest for LaCruz. Once she left the Corps, she wanted a quiet life. She wanted to settle down. She didn’t need any more traveling. She got enough of that now.
She traversed her way around the Montezuma’s hull with her arms held away from her body. It felt a little odd flying like that but if it helped make her more stable in the air, she was fine with that. The assumption was that your arms would tire in that position but in fact the jets took most of the strain. If she felt the strain anywhere it was in her back, as she had to maintain such an upright posture. Everything about the battle suits seemed counter intuitive. Whatever you assumed about them was invariably wrong.
The cloud had cleared as soon as she’d left the Motar and bright moonlight now illuminated the surface of the Montezuma. It was then that she became aware of movement, somewhere low on her left-hand side. She still didn’t have the necessary level of expertise with the cameras to track the object automatically and had to turn her whole body in order to get a better look.
For a second, she had the idea that the shuttle had got wind of what was going on and had circumnavigated the entire ship in order to flank her but that thought quickly vanished once she realised what it was that she was looking at.
Her own shadow, cast by the moon, slowly tracking across the face of the vast ship.
She was embarrassed for herself. She wasn’t normally this jumpy. To think, she’d been frightened by her own shadow.
She decided that she’d been traveling too slowly and so nudged her jets to give herself a little more speed. A notification popped up on her HUD to let her know that she was now burning fuel at a less than optimum rate.
