Battle of Hercules Page 8
“You could be over-thinking this.”
With a smile, Carpenter said, “If I was working on it properly…” She glanced down at Orlova’s datapad. “That’s a priority message you’re getting.”
“Damn. Sound on this unit’s on the fritz, I need to draw a new one.” She pulled it out of her pocket, looked at the message, tossed the datapad onto the deck with a rattle, and started to swear in three languages.
“Something wrong?”
“I’m being transferred. To Hercules.”
“What?”
“That was the message. Apparently my services are no longer required here. Damn it, I know what’s going to happen.”
“What?”
Sighing, she said, “The Captain’s going to send Hercules home, with yours truly stuck running Tactical on a ship that won’t be fighting any battles, and then go out again. Leaving me behind, and destined for a desk job.”
“Come on, now you’re over-thinking things.”
“Hercules already has someone to ride that station, Susan. I met him once, and that was enough. They don’t need me over there.”
Carpenter picked up the datapad, scanning the message, “This is a class-one, a mandatory transfer, just like the one I got. No option.”
“To hell with that,” she replied. “I’m going to see the Captain. If I’ve done anything wrong, I’ll grovel.”
“Have you?”
“Not that I know of. Must be damn serious though. See you later.”
Clutching the datapad, she stormed into the elevator, a finger jabbing the controls to send it to the bridge. She read the message four more times on her way up, the cold text of the automatically-generated order ringing through her head. Perhaps it was just some sort of mistake, an error.
The door opened, and she walked out onto the bridge; Nelyubov, the man she had just been assigned to replace, was hovering over Caine at tactical. He looked up, flashing her a dirty look – evidently he had received the same message that she had, and she couldn’t blame him for being angry. Pacing over to the Captain’s office, she tapped for entry, rapping her fingers on the door while she waited for it to open.
“Come in, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall said, and she stormed in, placing the datapad on the desk.
“Sir, why I am I being transferred?”
“Direct as ever. Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand, sir.”
“Don’t mistake an order for a request.” She sat down, and he continued, “The order is correct, and there has been no mistake, and I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Did I do something wrong, sir?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “Quite the reverse, Sub-Lieutenant. You are an excellent officer, and fully qualified to handle the tactical station. My father and I have reviewed the record of Lieutenant Nelyubov, and to be honest, we both feel that you are a better choice for the job.”
“I’m sure he’d do a fine job…”
“He rode that station for two months before Hercules was captured, following the death of his predecessor, and never even went to Tactical School. You’ve got the edge on him.” He paused, leaning back on his chair. “Look, if this goes according to plan, neither Hercules or Alamo are going to see any sort of combat, nothing to speak of, in any case. But if things go wrong, they’ll need an excellent officer at that station.”
“I would prefer to remain on Alamo, Captain.”
“Whilst I am happy to know that you like it here, that isn’t how the service works. You go where you are sent, where you are needed, and right now, that is on Hercules, not Alamo. We can do without our Security Officer for a while.”
“For a while? This isn’t permanent?”
Marshall paused before replying, “I honestly don’t know. That’s going to depend strictly on what happens after we take Hercules. I will try to get you back, though – assuming the Major is willing to let you go.”
“And Nelyubov?”
“I understand he is to revert to his old job commanding, ah, Gamma Watch,” he said, glancing at a list on a screen. “Try not to let him give you any trouble – and feel free to provide him with some training if you have ideas about replacing yourself.”
“I will, sir,” she replied.
“This is nothing personal, Sub-Lieutenant. I’m sending you over there because of my regard for your abilities, and because you are needed there.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Better start arranging to hand your duties over to Quinn for a while. I’ll make sure there is still a Security department for you to come home to. Dismissed.”
Saluting, she turned and left the room, now deflated, walking out across the bridge without really being aware of her surroundings; it took a shake on the shoulder from Zebrova to jerk her back into reality again.
“Are you with us, Sub-Lieutenant?”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Indeed. I need to speak to you, anyway.” She turned to the duty officer, “Kibaki, you have the deck.”
“I have the deck, ma’am,” he replied, and Zebrova led Orlova into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind them. Instead of punching for a destination, she locked them in, freezing it in position.
“Major Marshall has borrowed my office for the moment, so we might as well use this. No-one’s going to hear us, in any case.”
“Why should anyone want to?”
“I can guess what your little meeting with the Captain was about; if it makes you feel any better, sending you over to Hercules was my idea.”
“What?”
She smiled, “I suppose I can retroactively give you permission to speak freely. Has it occurred to you how...convenient, all of this has been?”
“Ma’am, I found the original message, and it was a very clever piece of work…”
“Even so,” Zebrova interrupted. “I still don’t like the chain of coincidences. Nevertheless, Hercules is valuable enough to take the risk.”
“What has that to do with my transfer?”
“I don’t trust the crew.” She paused, raising a hand, “Their abilities, primarily. They’re rusty, Sub-Lieutenant, and in a crisis situation, that could be extremely dangerous. I need someone over there who can react quickly, and who has recent combat experience. You are the best choice for that job.”
Frowning, she replied, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“That...and I want someone over there I can trust. I want you to keep an eye on….”
Lines formed on Orlova’s forehead, “I will not spy on any crew I am a part of.”
“And I wouldn’t ask you to. I do ask that you keep an eye on anything going on around you, and that you be ready to act if the situation calls for it. We had an outburst on the bridge, Captain Lane wanting to take on that patrol craft. Suppose she had the bridge of Hercules and a similar situation took place.”
“What are you saying?”
“That the commander of both ships, the overall operational commander, is Captain Marshall, not Major Marshall. Both of them are the same equivalent rank, but our Marshall has the seniority. Most of the Hercules crew will not think that way, understandably. I need you to remind them who is in command.”
“The Major wouldn’t do anything.”
Shaking her head, Zebrova replied, “I’m inclined to agree. I’m not so sure about Captain Lane, Lieutenant Nelyubov, or any of the others.”
“You’re putting me in a very difficult position, Lieutenant.”
“I’m aware of that. Think of this as the penalty you pay for being an excellent officer. You’ve reacted quickly in a crisis before, and in such situations, you have performed well. I need a known quantity in a senior position, and what more senior than the one in charge of the weapons and defenses.”
“Does the Captain know about this talk?”
“I see.”
Folding her arms, Zebrova said, “All that I am asking you to do is to keep your eyes and ears open, and respect the chain of command. That shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“It isn’t, ma’am.”
“Then I think we can both go about our business. The best of luck to you in your new posting.” She unlocked the doors, and walked back out onto the bridge.
Calling after her, Orlova said, “Thank you, ma’am, I think I’m going to need it,” then closed the doors before she could react. Her finger hovered over the button for the Engineering deck, but she decided to switch over to her quarters instead. It was going to take her a long time to put everything into storage on the cargo decks. She’d be damned if she’d take everything over to Hercules. Not when she had every intention of coming back as soon as possible.
Chapter 11
Datapads were strewn across Marshall’s desk, but none of them were capturing his attention; his gaze was totally focused on the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until emergence. He’d hoped to distract himself with the paperwork backlog, but it had been a hopeless exercise. A cup of cold coffee sat moldering on his desk, next to a half-eaten sandwich; relics of his three-hour vigil. Finally, he stood up, took a last glance down, and stepped out onto the bridge.
Without a word, Zebrova stood up from his command chair, moving to the standby crewman position at the rear of the bridge while he slid in, smiling. That position was meant for a midshipman, waiting in case someone fell in a critical moment, not the executive officer. His father was hovering over the sensor station at the rear, breathing down the duty technician’s neck; Spinelli was looking up at his controls, hands poised, ready for action.
The elevator doors slid open and Caine walked out, making for her station, rubbing her hands down the side of her trousers. Less than a minute to go, but bitter experience taught him that it would be yet another of the longest minutes of his life. His father moved over to stand beside him.
“Nervous, son?” he whispered.
“I’d be crazy not to be,” he replied. “Steele, what’s the story?”
“All systems at stand-by readiness, all stations are ready for normal space.”
“Midshipman, you have the call.”
“Aye, sir,” Tyler acknowledged.
Taking a deep breath, he turned to Caine, “Lieutenant, bring the ship to battle stations, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, leaning over a microphone, “Tactical to crew. Battle stations, battle stations. This is no drill.” A series of lights began to wink from green to red on her status panel, and after just ten seconds, she turned to Marshall. “New record.”
“They’ve been on standby for long enough.”
“Three weeks,” his father muttered. “That’s long enough, all right.”
The strategic holoprojection popped up on Marshall’s left, and he started to examine it once again, occupying himself through the last seconds. All they had on the system was based on the testimony of the Hercules crew and a few long-range observations, Alamo had targeted the innermost planet of the system, a battered brown ball with two large moons, close in – a nice, tight emergence point. The station was in orbit over the planet, as low as the Cabal dared. Most of the markings were provisional, the details they needed sorely lacking. At least they’d come out of this with some decent observations.
“Five seconds, Captain,” Tyler said from the helm. “Four.”
“Let’s go get ‘em,” his father said.
The lights flickered for a second, and the stars reappeared on the viewscreen, all slightly changed from their last positions. The moon was instantly dominant, a series of browns with a pair of gleaming ice caps, a gash ripped down the equator as if someone had hacked at it with a sword in the primordial past. The view wasn’t his first thought, though.
“Spinelli?”
The sensor operator turned with a predatory grin, “Just as advertised, skipper.”
If anything, the station was larger than that of Jefferson, gleaming with solar arrays around the outside – and flying out of it, the familiar lines of Hercules. The pilot glided into open space and swung around towards Alamo with evident practiced skill; intercept lines leapt forward between the two.
“Return the favor, Mr. Tyler,” he said.
“Aye, sir.”
“Time to intercept?”
“Thirty-five minutes, sir,” Spinelli said.
Nodding, he turned to Weitzman. “Let’s observe the formalities. Hail them. We need a handshake into their systems anyway.”
“Aye, sir.” Tapping a button, he continued, “Channel open.”
“This is the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall commanding. On behalf of my government I order you to stand down and return the Hercules to Triplanetary control. I will guarantee safe passage for those members of the current crew who were not involved in the original act of piracy that stole her.”
His father stood next to him, implacable. Neither of them expected for a second that they would actually surrender, but it would at least serve to camouflage their actual battle plans for a few moments longer. The screen lit up and a sneering man wearing the same uniform as the Commandant back on Jefferson; all white, with silver flashes of rank on the shoulders.
“This is Commander Osborne of the Hercules. How about this? If you turn over the Alamo to me I will give you safe passage back to the Confederation.”
“Commander?” said his father. “Senior Corporal’s nearer the mark, Dick, and that was temporary.”
“A lot has changed while you’ve been rotting away on that old hulk.”
“Nothing important.”
Osborne leaned forward in his chair, shaking his head, “I know you are trapped here, and so do you. I’ll make a better offer. I’ll trade you fuel for your father.”
Turning to Weitzman, Marshall said, “Turn that bastard off.” The technician hastily complied, and Marshall was kicked back in his chair as Tyler began the burn towards Hercules.
“Your report, Spinelli? Does he have anything to be smug about?”
“I’m not picking up any other activity in space, sir. Some signals from the surface of the moon ahead and the atmosphere of the gas giant, mining operations I think. No sign of anything else coming after us, and nothing from the station except Hercules.” He paused, shaking his head. “Correction. Energy spikes from the far side of the station, fighter squadron launching. Ten, no, twelve, all on an intercept vector. Burning pretty fast, sir; they’ll be on us in fifteen minutes. Four minutes before Hercules now that we’re on the move.”
“Caine?”
“Nothing in the warbook, Captain. I’d say we’re getting our first look at domestic Cabal fighters at work.”
“I could have waited for the experience. Threat assessment?”
“Missile carriers. I’m not picking up any signs of particle beams, and they’re too small to be hiding them.” She turned with a smile, “We can take them.”
“Hercules has gone weapons-live, sir,” Spinelli reported. “No apparent modifications to original Martian specifications.”
“Which gives us the edge in any case,” Marshall said, nodding. “With all due respects,” he continued, looking up at his father.
“A part of me wants to see that battle, but I think I can live without it for another day.” His father walked over the communications station, “If I may, Mr. Weitzman?”
“By all means, Major,” the technician replied, yielding his console to the older man; he started to enter a sequence of commands, pulling a battered datapad out of a pocket and connecting it up to Alamo’s systems.
“Damn,” he said.
Marshall’s eyes widened, “Something wrong?”
>
“They’ve upgraded their firewalls. I should have expected this.” Tapping a button, he continued, “Major Marshall to Security.”
“Orlova here.”
“We need the Hercules firewall breached.”
“Working on it.”
“Work fast, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall added. Turning to Caine, he continued, “We might have to fight this battle after all.”
“Fighters splitting into three attack wings, sir,” Spinelli said. “Looks like they’re going for a three-wave attack. Classic Martian battle tactics.”
“Interesting. They’ve done that a bit early,” Caine said.
“Close all blast doors, lock down the ship,” Marshall said to the flight engineer. A series of slams echoed around the ship as each compartment was isolated from the next, a precaution in the event the ship’s hull was breached. His father continued to furiously work at the communications station, working with Orlova and her crew to get the second half of his virus into position. At a signal, Quinn took the spin off the ship, and Marshall felt the familiar queasiness in his stomach as he adjusted to the reduced gravity, strapping himself into his chair.
Seconds ticked into minutes as the two ships closed on each other, scanners probing for weakness, slight shifts in acceleration to fool the other’s tactical teams, occasional minute adjustments to course to get every possible advantage, any edge that could make the difference in the battle to come. The fighters swept forward, recklessly spending fuel; they were on a one-way mission, dependent on someone to come and rescue their drifting ships once the battle was over.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered, looking over at the communication station. The fighters were now less than a minute away from firing range.
“We’re almost there,” his father replied.
“Work quickly.” Turning his chair forward, he watched the fighters heading towards them, now just about visible to the naked eye as small points of light, their engines burning white-hot.
“Energy spike from the first wave!” Spinelli said, and four lines appeared on the screen, missile course projections.