The silver fleet the com.., p.125
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 125
When it realised that it was losing, the creature became desperate, managing to squeeze off two rounds which zipped off over her head.
LaCruz was running out of time – she could already see the other termite bringing up its rocket launcher – and so with one quick flick of the wrists, she pulled the gun clear before bringing it down repeatedly on the termite’s head.
There was no telling how much damage she’d done but it had to have been enough because when she did drop the gun, the creature made no effort to retrieve it and simply watched as the weapon slid off the roof and disappeared.
At the same time, the creature with the rocket launcher was preparing to fire. She saw the flare of gases as the business end swung round, targeting her at point blank range. LaCruz threw herself to the right at the same time as she was pushing the rocket launcher over to the left.
It didn’t go off although some kind of countdown had already begun - she could see the alien numbers on the side being counted down on.
She couldn’t risk it hitting the Montezuma.
*
When Winterson came round he feared that his head was liable to explode. His lips had swollen to twice their normal size and he couldn’t see out of his left eye. He lay on his back but was in no hurry to sit up. A thick veil of fog hung in the air along with the smell of fried circuitry.
He had no recollection of how he’d come to be in this state but he knew it couldn’t be good. He probed the front of his uniform with his right hand, his fingers brushing against charred, blackened fragments.
He decided to leave that alone and lightly explored the left side of his face. There was no feeling there, he may as well have been touching the side of a balloon. He briefly considered exploring his injured eye but then thought better of it.
He couldn’t hear anything and when he did eventually try and sit up, he found that he couldn’t.
Oh, God, don’t say I’m paralysed!
And yet, if he was, why was it that he could still feel his toes?
He threw out his right arm and felt around a bit. The floor he was lying on was gritty to the touch and when he explored a little further afield he came up against something reasonably solid. On further examination, it turned out to be a shoe.
He brought it over so that he could get a better look at it.
Kinda small.
A woman’s shoe? It didn’t make any sense.
None of this did.
He decided he’d just close his eyes and wait for help to arrive.
But a nagging voice in the back of his head told him that would be the very worst thing he could do.
No, he had to at least sit up. Find out what was going on.
By levering himself up using his elbow he found he could just about manage it. He was momentarily distracted by the sound of something ringing but it was faint and far off and clearly not intended for him.
As he sat up, his head lolled to one side and his eyes started to swim.
There were people moving about the place in bright blue hazard suits. He tried to remember why that was significant but found that he couldn’t recall.
Then it came to him.
Radiation.
Those were radiation suits.
Slowly, the events of the last few hours started to become clearer, although there were still some gaps.
The ship had clearly sustained a substantial amount of damage and they were going to need all hands to report to their stations immediately.
Only he still couldn’t get his legs to work no matter how hard he tried.
He looked down to find that someone was lying across them.
Big guy, whoever he was.
He struggled to free one of his legs but quickly ran out of energy.
Instead, he decided to try and get someone’s attention.
There were several people moving about but they ignored him. The place was a mess with lights and electrical conduits hanging from the ceiling. Over to his right, there was a bank of workstations but they were in a poor state: like an elephant had tried to sit on them.
Kind of funny but kind of sad, too.
Finally, he managed to get his leg free and then used it to push the figure back. He felt bad about doing it but the guy eventually rolled over onto his side and stayed there.
Only, something about him looked familiar. In fact, from this angle he looked a bit like Hoyt. Only Hoyt didn’t have black hair.
But, when he reached over and tapped him gently on the head, Winterson’s fingers came away black. And that’s when he realised that this really was Hoyt.
Only someone appeared to have taken a blow torch to the top of his head. It was starting to come away in layers, like caramelised onion.
How could this be happening?
Winterson felt a sudden overwhelming urge to get as far away from his former captain as he could and scurried away from him. In doing so, he found that the legs of his trousers were all wet and he didn’t know from what.
Then one of the figures in the blue hazard suits came over and squatted down. He took a moment to assess Winterson’s injuries. But when they attempted to speak with him, Winterson couldn’t hear them. He thought at first, that it was the mask getting in the way but then he realised that the fault must be at his end. He really should have been able to hear more than just a dull, persistent ringing.
Next thing, the figure had a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down to the floor. Winterson wanted to resist but the fight had gone out of him.
There was the flash of a syringe, followed by a sharp pain in his arm.
After that, nothing.
*
She couldn’t risk it hitting the Montezuma.
So, instead LaCruz had to provide it with an alternative target.
And that gave her an idea.
So, instead of trying to wrestle the launcher away, she simply pulled it high and to the left. She let the launcher do the rest, scanning the sky for possible targets. It was only a matter of time before it found one. The display provided a helpful overlay providing her with three possible targets, all she had to do was to hit one.
She selected the third.
The termite holding the launcher became suddenly frantic, trying to turn the weapon away, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.
The harsh bark of its discharge was enough to quieten them both and for a second they stopped fighting and just watched. The missile flew from its tube seeming to hang in the air for an impossibly long period of time.
Then, the propellant kicked in, sending it speeding off towards its newly acquired target.
The drone appeared to do some kind of double take, pulsing from side to side as its modified AI system estimated the best course of action to ensure its survival. But then it froze just as the missile did something completely unexpected, dropping away as if targeting something on the surface. It entered a bank of low-lying cloud and for several seconds it disappeared.
When it reappeared, it did so in a blur of activity coming straight up at dizzying speed, striking the drone from below. The detonation which followed was fierce enough to rock the shuttle she was sitting on, threatening to pitch her into space.
As she watched bits of armor flying in all directions, LaCruz realised that she needed to leave.
And she needed to leave now.
But the termite she’d been dealing with seemed to have other ideas. It had dropped the launcher and gripped her now about the waist. For various reasons, the mid-section was one of the most vulnerable parts of the suit and she couldn’t risk this thing causing any more damage. With its multiple arms, it seemed to have acquired a killer grip because, try as she might, she couldn’t find a way of freeing herself from it.
She was caught.
Like a spider in a web.
But even spider’s webs aren’t perfect. Everything has a weakness.
And silk is prone to catch fire.
The Da’al trooper by this time had reached up into the suit’s armpit and was trying to undermine the hydraulics there but rather than attempt to push it off, LaCruz instead fought to lever her elbow around so that it was hard against the creature’s head. Then, once she was happy with this, she selected the activation process for her cone jets. They ignited all at once but the one she was most concerned with was the one lying flush against her opponent’s face.
The creature cried out as the full force of the jet started to melt its features and the noise only got louder the longer it went on. She had expected the thing to let go as soon as the jets were activated but for some reason, it seemed incapable of doing so.
Even inside the suit, the acrid stench of the creature’s flesh being super-heated to a thousand degrees was difficult to miss. This went on for three or four seconds before something popped and the termite’s arms simply fell away.
With nothing else to restrain her, LaCruz’ cone jets carried her into the air but she was all out of position and it took valuable seconds to arrange her limbs into a position suitable for flight.
She slowly rose into the air, until she came to a point some twenty metres relative to the shuttle itself. Neither of the two Da’al troopers were moving by this stage. The shuttle was still in one piece and, under power, still capable of ramming those engines.
She raked the whole ship back and forth with heavy machine gun and although it felt good getting some payback, the sound of her rounds ricocheting off the roof could only placate her for so long.
Next, she armed two missiles and dropped down so she was facing the shuttle’s rear engine.
If it ain’t broke , the Marines’ motto went, we’ll booby trap it .
She fired first one missile and then, just to be completely sure, she fired the second.
The twin explosions almost drowned out the plaintive shriek of the turbines as the shuttle’s systems all shut down simultaneously.
After watching its savage plunge to the ice plains below, she was on the point of returning to the Motar when she saw black smoke billowing out of the Montezuma’s main engine.
Markham was going to give her hell over that.
Only he couldn’t.
Because she’d muted him earlier.
Oh, oh!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Faulkner had been asleep when the call came. Lying on his bed in his uniform.
He’d been so tired, he hadn’t even taken off his shoes.
But this was a good thing. He felt good. Not exactly fresh but clear headed.
It was as though a fog had been lifted from his brain. It had been there ever since the operation and without even acknowledging it, he’d become reconciled to the idea that it might be something he’d have to live with.
The fact that it was gone gave him a real sense of purpose as he strode down the short corridor which separated his quarters from the bridge.
He was using only one walking stick nowadays, having ditched the other one the previous day.
Really, he wanted to be rid of both of them but common sense told him that that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon. As good as his recovery had been, he didn’t want to rush it. He needed the one stick for balance as much as anything else. It wouldn’t look good for him to take a tumble in front of the entire bridge crew.
As he came through the doors he was aware of the ripple of attention his presence caused. Nothing too obvious but it was there. They were far too professional a crew to allow themselves to become overly distracted. He supposed that came from working under Klaus Meyer. Say what you liked about him but the man had run an efficient bridge.
They were all waiting to see what he was going to do. He’d briefed them on Winterson’s orders, of course - there was no way he was going to keep that kind of information from them. But now it came down to how Faulkner proposed to interpret those orders.
No doubt they’d be expecting a new and radical approach. Faulkner had, after all, built his reputation on a more aggressive leadership style. One that was not averse to risk taking. A markedly different approach to that of their former captain.
So they must have been surprised when he came onto the bridge and did nothing.
Simply took up his place at the command chair and started to review the ship’s log for the previous eight hours. It was intended as a clear statement of intent.
Nothing to see here. Everything is proceeding as planned. Go about your business as usual.
If anything, he was the one who was surprised when he saw the speed that they were traveling at. Six gees. And yet there was no sense of actual movement, none of the tell-tale pinging of the deck plates which he’d become accustomed to on the Mantis.
That in itself was an improvement.
As he looked through the log, he saw that Loki had moved out just over four hours ago with Renheim moving to match her speed within minutes. He took the time to run through some of the calculations himself. When he was finished and feeling reasonably clear on everything, he called Schwartz over.
“Good work, XO. Did you have any inkling that Loki was about to head off?”
“There were one or two things we were picking up on our short-range scans. Power surges here and there. Nothing major, but enough to get our suspicions up.”
“But it was more than simple suspicion, commander, wasn’t it?” he hadn’t been in the big chair long enough to know that.
“You’re right, sir. It was when she started venting. That’s when I knew she was about to make a run for it.”
“What was it? Gases? Solids?”
“No, sir. Water. Simple H 20, though actually, not that simple. Our scans suggest it was some kind of saline solution. Similar readings to seawater.”
Which was interesting in itself. Water was a valuable commodity on most ships and frequently recycled.
“How much did they get rid of?”
“That’s the thing. We reckon something in the region of six million gallons.”
“Six million? Really? That’s a lot of water,” Faulkner sat back in his chair. “Fascinating. You know what I think that is?”
She smiled indulgently. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“That first Da’al ship we encountered: one of the Marines talked about an internal transport system using sea water being pumped around under extreme pressure.”
“You think it’s that?” she made no attempt to hide her scepticism. “I have to admit I read about that as well, I just assumed they were exaggerating.”
“Well, clearly not. All makes sense now, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What does?”
“All that water. Incredibly heavy. And that’s going to make things difficult when you have to make a fast getaway. That’s why they had to jettison it. I had a quick look at the figures, seems we’re going to be up against it if we’re have any chance of catching them.”
Schwartz came around to the console housed in the arm of his chair.
“I’ve had a little more time to go over it, sir. May I?”
She had to bend over him to see the screen. It couldn’t be easy for someone that pregnant. As she got closer he could feel the heat coming off her. Like a portable furnace.
“Seventeen point six hours before we draw level, sir.”
Faulkner reviewed her calculations. He might not be great with technology but maths had always been a strong point.
“Really? I had it nearer to twenty hours. Nineteen point eight, to be exact.”
“That’s right, sir, if we stick to our maximum speed. But I’ve spoken with the engineers. They can support ten percent over max for a short while.”
“Okay, and they’re happy with that?” Faulkner was impressed. “And how long before Loki reaches the Henrietta Gate?”
“That’s in here as well, I thought you might be interested. Twenty-two point three hours, sir.”
“Six hours to track them down and destroy them. That doesn’t give us long.”
“Actually, we’ve got a little longer than that. We’ll be within missile range within sixteen point eight hours.”
“Yes, of course,” he sat up straight feeling like this might be the lucky break they’d been hoping for. “You’ve done well, Katherine. Your quick thinking kept us in the game back there.”
“Just following orders, sir.”
“Speaking of which, have you had any contact with Admiral Winterson?”
Schwartz quickly filled him in on the details surrounding the attack on the flagship. When she’d finished, he sat there feeling shell shocked.
“And you’re sure about Hoyt?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame. But the admiral’s still alive?”
“Currently in a medically induced coma. A number of bridge crew suffered serious burns. Four of them didn’t make it. The only good news is that the admiral’s condition isn’t being classed as critical.”
“Perhaps not yet. Which puts who in charge?”
“A Commander Kerrigan, sir. Hoyt’s first officer.”
“Commander Kerrigan?” Faulkner savoured the name. “Which means overall …”
“You’re the senior officer in charge, sir. Of the entire system.”
“I see,” Faulkner massaged his temples. “And to think that everything was going so well.”
*
Faulkner sent for Ardent and, when she arrived, spent the better part of ten minutes explaining all that had happened.
“Well, I appreciate the courtesy call, captain, but it seems to me that you’ve got everything in hand.”
“I’d like to think so too, but I’m sure that’s not the case.”
“What do you mean? About the Loki’s intentions? What else could she be contemplating?”
“What she’s been doing all along: sowing terror and despair while forcing us to engage on two separate fronts. Three, if you count Tigris. Ideally we should have concentrated our forces, not split them. It’s our only hope of winning this.”
“So why don’t you do that? If you’re the one in charge, now.”
Faulkner didn’t respond straight away. He was too distracted by Schwartz, deep in conversation with a young doctor who’d only just come in.
