The silver fleet the com.., p.123
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 123
“Can you see them yet?” Markham asked.
“Not yet. I’ll be rounding the rear section in another ninety seconds. Should be able to get a better look then.”
She had to remind herself that Markham was effectively blind. There hadn’t been enough time to synchronise her feed with the surveillance cameras on the Motar. They’d had enough to do just to get her suited up. They hadn’t even had time to track down the barrier gel, which she’d personally been pleased about. The idea of having to stand in the cargo bay while they slathered that stuff all over her was enough to put anyone off.
As she readied herself to round the corner, she let out a low sigh which immediately causing the inside of her helmet to steam up. Gears whirred in her helmet as dry air worked to clear her vision.
She’d better not do that when the enemy were about, unless she wanted her ass handed to her.
The rear of the ship was immense. She wasn’t sure where she was when the Da’al shuttle suddenly came into view.
This shuttle was different to the one Commander Webster had acquisitioned. It was bulbous and ungainly, more suited to delivering heavy loads from orbit than performing sophisticated stealth mission. From the look of the outsized drive lashed to the back, she imagined that it wasn’t lacking in thrust and would easily be able to outpace her if she decided to make a run for it. On the plus side, its stubby wings suggested that its speed would come at the price of its maneuverability.
Up until this point, she had been approaching them from behind so, unless they were using camera feeds, it was unlikely they’d have noticed her. Also, her superior elevation meant that her angle of approach was pretty near perfect. Too few checked above them for impending threats and even fewer checked above and behind them. For the moment at least, she was safe.
“You see anything yet?” Markham’s voice sounded overly loud.
“Sorry, sir, I forgot. That’s an affirmative. I have contact at exactly,” she consulted her HUD for the details, “six hundred and seventy-three metres. Approaching their six at an elevation of a hundred and forty-three metres.”
“You sure they haven’t spotted you?”
“Well, they haven’t started shooting yet. When they do I’ll be sure and let you know.”
“Knock off the attitude, Jackson, we’ve got work to do. What is it they’re up to?”
“At present, I’m not actually sure. I’d expected something more heavy duty but this is just a regular transport with some armor strapped to the sides. Heay, wait a minute.”
She tweaked her optics to give her the best close-up she could handle without the screen jiggling all over the place. She had to concentrate on levelling out in order to get the best view. Then she was rewarded with some movement along the top of the shuttle.
A panel rolled back exposing a dark interior, sort of like a sunroof on one of those classic cars. As soon as that was open, a heavy weapon was eased out. She caught sight of a series of radiating flanges which glinted silvery grey in the moonlight. This was followed by the appearance of one of the Da’al troopers which immediately started going through a series of weapons checks. For a moment, she thought that it might be targeting her. But then a second termite appeared armed with a pair of heavy binoculars with which it started surveying the Montezuma’s main engines.
“Looks like some kind of targeted missile system.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Markham sounded relaxed now he knew what they were up against. “What are we looking at, a missile pod? Something like that?”
“Nothing so sophisticated. Two-man operation. One spotter and one operator. Want I should take ‘em out?”
There was a pause while Markham considered his options.
“Normally, that would be a simple affirm, Jackson. Thing is, they’re not on their own out there. We’ve got another trace so we can’t have you opening up until we know what it is we’re dealing with.”
“Roger that, sarge. Only trouble is these guys are getting ready to party. We don’t act soon, we might not get another chance.”
All the while she was talking, LaCruz’ body was going through the rote motions of selecting her main and secondary weapons, in this case her own set of short-range missiles backed up by a heavy calibre machine gun. She could only watch as the missile’s targeting reticule began sweeping the area looking for possible threats.
“Suggest you stand down until we can get a fix on this second bogie.”
Part of the average grunt’s life was given over to being told to stand-down. It came with the territory, but the frustration LaCruz felt now, was almost too much to bear. She’d worked hard for this and she was ready: locked and loaded and ready to bear. This was what all her years of training had been leading towards. Proper aerial combat.
And now, Markham was telling her to stand down.
She watched as the enemy rocket launcher was hefted into position, little spurts of gas emanating from a central ring. Last minute preparations prior to the attack: aiming right for the pounding heart of the Montezuma’s main engine.
“Sir, they are currently going weapons hot. If we don’t take this opportunity…”
“I don’t take kindly to being hurried, Marine,” Markham snapped. “Now just hang back while we get this sorted out.”
Her proximity alarm was the thing that saved her.
She didn’t panic, even when the Lock Acquired icon flashed up on her HUD. She just nudged the control yoke smoothly to her left, enjoying the kick of the maneuvering jets as she was wrenched to one side. Her automatic responses were a long way from the jerky imprecision she’d displayed the first time she’d activated her cone jets.
When the missile screamed past her a mere three seconds later, it felt like so much old news.
“Sir, be advised. That second bandit, the one you were looking for? I think I’ve found it.”
“I sure hope you have, Jackson, because if I thought for one minute…”
“Understood, sir. Permission to engage?”
“Ah godammit woman, yes. Yes, alright. Clear to engage.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
They had been anticipating a second wave launch from the incoming Da’al ships, but it was nearly midnight before they finally obliged.
Twenty-four missiles, same as before.
For some reason, this came as an enormous relief to everyone who was watching. They’d all been expecting something far worse –whatever that might be - so this came as some kind of blessed relief. The boil, finally, lanced.
They’d faced this before, surely they could face it again?
As soon as it was clear what they were up against, Hoyt had sent out for coffee for the whole bridge crew. Although it was true that everyone had access to their own range of stimulants, Hoyt had wanted them to mark this moment together, as a team. The intention was clear enough: they’d faced the Da’al before and come through it with no loss of life. Now, all they had to do was keep their heads and they’d be fine.
It was a noble sentiment, Winterson had to admit.
He only wished he shared it.
So, he was careful to keep his own counsel as he stood sipping coffee with Hoyt. The welfare of the crew was, rightly, Hoyt’s affair and it was important that he kept them fully engaged, especially on a long watch like this. Winterson had other matters to be concerned about but, for the time being, all he could think about was how to get some more of that coffee.
He’d promised that he wouldn’t allow himself to become overly focussed on the threat posed by the incoming missiles but, as the steward re-filled his cup, he couldn’t help but steal a glance at the countdown clock.
Twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds to impact.
Twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds before that second salvo arrived.
Though, by the time that happened, the fate of the Odin would already be sealed. Having said that, there was a certain undeniable irony to the situation in which they found themselves. What if they were to succeed in their attempt to destroy the alien flagship only for their own ship to be destroyed in return?
The history books were filled with such impossible outcomes, there was no point denying it. He just hoped that, simply because the idea had occurred to him, he hadn’t somehow turned it into a reality. It was a ridiculous notion of course. As a rational human being he was well aware of that, but it was one which he knew would greatly have appealed to his younger self. Even as a teenager, Julius Winterson had been precocious enough to believe that all it took was for him just to think about something and that would be enough to effectively guarantee that it became a reality.
Of course, fixating on things like that had spared him from the inevitable line of thought which he should have been engaged in – working out how to justify his decisions so that, if The Spur ever did make it home, he’d have all the answers when the inevitable formal inquiries got under way.
Somebody in the admiralty was bound to ask why it was that they had abandoned their original plan of using the Sloth gun to take out first Tyr then Thor.
And it was a line of inquiry he would have great difficulty countering because, initially at least, that had been his intention. Taking out the Tyr would have halved the number of missiles they were currently facing and surely, as senior commander of this task force, his primary concern had to be the safety of his crew.
It was a good point, he had to concede, and one which he was still struggling to square himself with.
He sipped at his coffee.
“Separation,” Hoyt pointed to the screen.
Their lead missiles had just jettisoned their exhausted fuel cells and would, even now, be accelerating towards their target.
“Won’t be long now,” Winterson said. “How many of ours got through in the end?”
Hoyt didn’t need to consult his instruments.
“Twenty-one,” he stated flatly.
Twenty-one missiles remaining out of the thirty eight they’d fired.
Just over half.
Winterson could live with those numbers.
He’d expected the Odin’s defences to have kicked in by now. Only they hadn’t. In the past, the Da’al had largely relied on their shields to soak up the punishment the Confederation ships had thrown at them. But, with her shields supposedly compromised by the Sloth gun, they were now going to have to rely on more conventional forms of defence and Winterson for one was curious to see what they came up with.
Only, the longer The Naked Spur’s bridge crew waited, the clearer it became that no defensive missiles were to be forthcoming.
“Am I missing something?” he asked Hoyt.
“Well, if you are, sir, then so am I.”
“This doesn’t look good.”
There was real consternation in Hoyt’s face. “What is it? You think they’ve managed to re-boot those shields? So quickly?”
This had always been a concern with them using the Sloth gun: how effective it would be and how quickly the enemy would recover from its effects.
“I think we’re about to find out,” was all he could think of.
Everyone held their breath as the missiles approached the threshold. The point at which, in the past, the shields had vaporised the Confederation ordnance.
After almost a minute, Winterson was obliged to breathe again.
They didn’t have a visual on the situation, for some reason Hoyt had chosen not to activate the cameras the missiles carried so they had to watch patiently as the dots on the monitor approached the disc shape representing the Odin.
Slowly, the positions changed.
Winterson leaned into Hoyt and lowered his voice.
“What about their lasers? What’s going on there?”
“We should see them when they open up, sir.”
Winterson squinted at the screen. Saw nothing.
“Sir, their threat warnings just went hot,” the officer in charge of their long-range sensors announced.
Winterson and Hoyt exchanged glances.
But that was madness. What had happened to the Odin’s long-range scanners?
Hoyt moved towards the sensors desk. “Are you saying that they’ve only just detected us?”
“That would seem to be the case, sir,” the officer seemed very sure of himself but he checked anyway. “Their defences went live eighteen seconds ago.”
Hoyt turned back to Winterson. “How is that possible?”
“The Sloth gun. Must have packed more of a punch than we’d anticipated.”
A ridiculous idea occurred to Winterson at that moment. The images they were seeing were at least a minute old. Was it possible then that they were already victorious?
Immediately, he saw signs of batteries opening up all along the Odin’s hull. There were too many to count and the massive energy flux they created was enough to disturb The Spur’s sensors for long periods of time.
He couldn’t help thinking: is that it? Have they just destroyed every last missile?
Was such a thing possible at such close range?
No, of course it wasn’t. The Da’al had left it too late for that kind of attrition rate. Surely something had to have made it through?
And then they watched in stunned silence as missile after missile surged towards its target.
Winterson had counted fourteen impacts when someone up ahead of him let out a huge ‘whoop’ of jubilation.
“Oh my God. We’ve done it!” a woman acknowledged.
Winterson looked pointedly at Hoyt expecting him to say something about their conduct.
But Hoyt was too busy staring at the orb centre screen. The one representing Odin. Something was wrong because it appeared to be splitting into three separate pieces. Dissolving in front of their eyes.
What had been the Odin, the Da’al flagship, pride of their fleet, was slowly breaking apart, their entire crew dead or dying as they were sucked into the void.
Silence reigned as the ship resolved itself into a ball of vapor, dominating the centre of an ever-growing cloud of debris.
By the time Winterson had managed to regain his composure, he found himself confronted by Hoyt. The captain slowly extended his hand.
As they shook, Winterson tried desperately to put into context what had just happened.
Only he couldn’t.
All he could do was stand there with his idiot smile, broad enough to make his cheeks ache.
*
Ardent stood back as the door to the turbo-elevator opened, holding up both hands as if to say, I’m not touching anything.
Faulkner had decided that he would attend this meeting standing up, which had come on top of him spending the afternoon working with his physio, trying to accustom himself to walking with the aid of two sticks.
But because he refused to stop until he got it right, he had pressed on for far longer than the physio deemed suitable.
So now he was tired and bad tempered. And they hadn’t met anyone yet.
Faulkner moved inside the car, taking his time to place his sticks properly and then walking around them.
Ardent couldn’t help noticing that he stood resting with his back against the wall.
Before the doors had even closed he looked over at her.
“Is it really so essential that I attend?”
Ardent’s nostrils flared and she held out a hand to prevent the doors from closing.
Best to deal with this now.
“Who is the captain of this ship?”
Faulkner lowered his head, found part of a wrapper on the floor and started to press it between his foot and his stick.
“I suppose, I am.”
“Could you say that with any more disdain? I don’t mean this to sound rude, Robert but I have to say this: you’re starting to sound like a petulant teenager. Either you are the captain of the Renheim or you’re not.”
He tried to communicate something by raising his stick.
“It’s just… I don’t know. It’s just that she’s not …”
“What? Not the Mantis? Is that it?”
“Well, she isn’t, is she?”
“No, captain, she is not. But in many ways she is the Mantis’ superior.”
Faulkner snorted at that and Ardent finally lowered her arm.
The doors closed and they started to descend.
“I’m sorry, Sigrid. Truly I am. I’ve asked for your help and here I am behaving like a… what did you call me?”
“A petulant teenager.”
“Yes, that. I don’t know. I’m just very aware that this isn’t my ship and these people tonight…”
“What? Aren’t your crew?”
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s more complicated.”
She stepped across and adjusted his collar enjoying their sudden proximity.
She’d gone to his room to collect him.
It hadn’t been an easy decision. She was aware that he might see it as inappropriate, think that she was being over familiar but he had appeared genuinely pleased to see her, which was a relief.
She’d spent too long shut away from other people since Farnese had been arrested. She’d been lonely. It wasn’t a new sensation, it was one she’d become accustomed to on Blackthorn. But she felt that with Faulkner she could relax a little. Be herself.
She’d pretended that she was there to ensure that he didn’t ‘forget’ but they both knew that wasn’t true.
“They’re not your crew, that’s true enough but they are making the effort.”
“But a cocktail party! Considering everything else that’s going on.”
She plucked at her black layered dress which draped her from neck to ankle.
“Is this a cocktail party? No. This is their way of welcoming you aboard as their new commanding officer. They must be thrilled to at last have someone who’s going to do a half decent job.”
“Now,” Faulkner held up a reproachful finger. “I’ll not have a word said against Captain Meyer. Nothing’s actually been proven, so let’s not go there.”
“And what about Farnese?”
He gave her a meaningful look. “I’m sure you know far more about that than I do.”
She winced at that. Wanted to challenge him over it, but recognised that now was not the time. They travelled in silence until they reached their floor.
