* * *
“We have bandits!” The navigations officer’s voice rose with excitement.
Bedan’s eyes shot to the overhead screen. The blips were faint, making it difficult to identify the number. “How many are there?” He called back to the navigations officer, her face now hidden in the ship’s enhancement-scope view-finder.
The woman gave a half-muffled reply. “At least twenty, Sir. Their erratic movements are making it too hard to tell. But they are advancing in our direction.”
Desperation was growing in Bedan’s voice. “We can’t outrun them! At our present speed, they’ll be on us in ten minutes!”
At that moment, the communications officer shouted up to the captain’s bridge. “It’s the Divulsion and its escorts, teamed up with the OjibSheannon along with a compliment of WolfPack and Tarezabarian vessels. They had just engaged three Stasis ships, destroying two. It reports to have the enemy on its scope and is closing.” She put a hand to her headset. “It’s preparing to send off fighters.”
Darla grinned, her nostrils flaring with the smell of battle. “Let’s have at ‘em!” She clutched Bedan’s arm in her excitement. “If we die today, it should be facing our enemy, not fleeing it! Let go the fighters and then double refuse our track!”
Bedan argued, “The ship’s down already! We have half speed at best. And our fighters are little more than armed scout craft. If what you say is so, if we stay on this track, it’s possible we may make contact with the Fleet’s pickets and be able to get away safe.”
Darla was indignant, her fiery retort abusive. “This is a ship o’war! It is our duty to play our part in combat! The Divulsion is not our rescuer! It is our ally! We do not abandon our allies while on the field. We started this war, and we either need to finish it or be finished by it!” Glancing at the upper view screen, she argued, “My Marine pilots will take out the enemy, two for one. It’s better to die with triggers pressed and engines full than to see your ship taken out while cowering in a cave!”
Darla stared Captain Bedan in the face, slamming a fist in her hand. “They want me?! Well, I’ll give ‘em what they want! I’ll not die with a whimper!”
Bedan threw his hands up in surrender, “All right! All right!” He turned and shouted across the bridge, “Send out the fighters and bring us around! We have some unfinished business to attend to.” then exclaimed defensively, “There are no cowards here!”
Darla squinted, her reply caustic. “Captain, do not fear cowards. Be afraid of incompetent leaders.”
The hurt in Bedan’s eyes was obvious. It stung deep. Still, ‘the greater the pain, the closer to truth the arrow has struck’. He bowed his head, attempting to hide his feelings, and quietly replied, “Yes, Colonel, you’re right...”
Darla glanced around and, catching a yeoman’s attention, ordered the woman off to get her uniform. Speaking to no one in particular, she exclaimed, “I want them to know whose sword is ripping them up.”
Darla excused herself from the captain’s bridge to talk with Jebbson who, along with the two Marines had been patiently waiting near the entrance door, below and behind the captain’s bridge, to receive further orders. After Darla descended the ladder, she began to inform Jebbson what was being done, seeking his input for dispersing her Marines about the ship.
Darla was about to make a reply to one of Jebbson’s recommendations when the demon within screeched in wild laughter. She stumbled forward, being caught in Jebbson’s arms. At that moment, a violent explosion pitched them back into the bulkhead wall.
Coming out of their daze to the sound of hazard bells and red flashing emergency lights, Darla and Jebbson struggled to their feet. Smoke was filling the room from a small but intense fire on the forward bridge, the deck just in front of the captain’s bridge. Cries for help and painful moans could be heard over the din of the bells. The forward communications deck was little but a shambles of wrecked machines and torn bodies.
“Bedan!” Darla shouted, as she hurried for the ladder. Jebbson and the two Marines quickly followed.
The captain’s bridge was nearly unrecognizable. The explosion had ripped up through the forward part, blowing out the front wall below the floor, spraying thousands of pieces of jagged metal and glass across the communications deck. The front rail was torn away as well as the steerage and navigation stations, leaving a gaping hole just in front of the captain’s station.
Darla and the others carefully made their way across a slippery, blood-smeared deck. The bridge officer’s body was piled in a crumpled heap down on the communication's deck, entwined in the twisted bridge rail. The navigation officer had been busy studying her viewfinder when the explosion occurred directly under her station. Her decapitated body lay splayed across the floor, the muscles in her hands and feet still twitching.
A huge piece of the forward rail had also skewered the steerage officer through his chest. He lay unconscious on the floor, bleeding profusely from the wound. “Help that man!” Darla shouted to her Marines while she and Jebbson hurried to the captain’s aid.
Bedan was sprawled on the floor beside the starboard side rail. He had been standing near the navigation officer when the blast killed her, showering him with blood and gore. At first, the two thought him dead, but then Bedan stirred and moaned. As they rolled him over, he opened his eyes and attempted to sit. It was obvious the captain was in shock, possibly with a concussion. Jebbson took hold of his arm, helping Bedan lie back on the floor.
Everything was bedlam and mayhem. Fire and medical rescue crews were converging on the command bridges, attempting to quench the flames and assist the wounded. But the greatest danger was not yet addressed. The now blind and crippled Shikkeron was heading straight into battle.
Sizing up the situation, Darla sprang into action. She ordered emergency workers to take the captain to sickbay, then, stepping to the edge of the shattered bridge, shouted forward, “I have the bridge! Back to your stations! Back to your stations, now!” There was no hesitancy in the woman’s gruff, demanding voice, forcing the remaining crew back to their duties by rifling orders, one after another. “Give me status report on the enemy! Communications officer to your post! Communications officer, give me a report!”
A lower-midshipman limped toward Darla, answering up to her. “The officer’s dead, Colonel… most of ‘em are.”
Darla’s face showed only resolve. “Sailor, do you know the ship’s routine for the bridge?”
“Y…yes, I do.” The woman answered back.
“Good!” Darla snapped. “You are now the officer in charge. Get me a status report on damages. Call in all remaining bridge officers. Tell the operations room we need them to transmit visuals up here. Inform the defensive batteries to decide the battle for themselves.” She paused. “And get Major Ardon up here, on the double!”
Darla attempted to ignore the joyous sniggers and sinister cackles from the demon in her head. She managed to catch Jebbson’s attention. “Have you studied this ship enough to know how it works?”
Jebbson grinned, holding up bloodied fingers, shouting, “Like the back of my hand. Captain! Like the back of my hand!”
“Good!” Darla shouted, motioning. “Go to my command room and assist placing the Marines in defensive fighting positions around the ship. Make sure they are well equipped to offer a powerful resistance if we’re boarded.”
Jebbson acknowledged and started to leave. Darla stopped him. “And Major, this was no accident. Someone waited for me to leave the bridge. The skulker may still be up to some mischief. If you see anyone acting strange or sly, take ‘em out. Whatever you have to do! Understood?!”
Jebbson grinned again. “You got it, Captain! Shoot first and ask questions later! You got it!” He slipped away from the bridge just as Ardon came through the rear hatch.
The midshipman hailed Darla. “Bandits coming in…about eight or ten.”
“Tell the crew to seal all bulkheads and don hazard suits!” The colonel ordered. “Prepare for missile attack!”
The midshipman hurriedly carried out the orders.
Darla now took time to examine the damage. There had been over twenty officers and crew on the crowded forward deck and five on the captain’s bridge. Of that number, eight were killed outright and another twelve seriously injured. The visuals on the both bridges were destroyed, along with the sonar and radio systems. Communication systems with the rest of the ship still existed, and the operations room soon was using that to transmit vital information up to the bridge.
Ardon was beginning to climb the ladder to the captain’s bridge when he heard a shout. “We’re under attack!” The next moment, he was desperately clinging to the ladder’s climbing rails as the shock of multiple rocket hits made the Shikkeron shudder and yaw. He managed to finish the climb just before the second barrage of rockets pummeled the lower hull, taking out a battery and smashing apart the mid and aft torpedo rooms.
Ardon picked his way across the slippery, cluttered deck, struggling to maintain his balance, reaching Darla just after she had received the latest damage reports. He anxiously asked. “Are we dead, Colonel?”
Darla was gripping what remained of the captain’s station support rail. She shook her head. “No. No. Not yet. Few of those rockets actually penetrated the ship’s energy field, but the concussive force impacted the hull. Right now it’s the energy field keeping the air in and space out. We have suffered a great deal of damage and there are large numbers of casualties. But we’re still alive.” She added grimly, “The real problem is we’re crippled in our ability to take major evasive action because of the bridge damage. Until I can get down to the operations room, or we can get things working here, that will remain the case.”
The midshipman cried out again, “They’re coming in! Prepare for missile attack!”
Four newly arrived fighters swooped across the stern of the Shikkeron. Defensive batteries hammered away, destroying one and forcing a second to veer off, but the other two made good their attack. Three missiles hit their mark, one even penetrating the brig’s energy field. In a blaze of light that even flashed across the bridge’s portholes, the port igniter and number one boiler rooms blew out through the side of the ship, scattering debris and bodies into the sky. The Shikkeron groaned as if mortally wounded and heeled to starboard.
Lights flickered as forward power faltered. Clutching her rail, Darla shouted for damage reports. When informed, she ordered the command room to have Jebbson sent to the engine room to assist with needed repairs in order to restart the engines. She now faced Ardon. “Major, our fuel cells are all that’s keeping the energy field active. If we cannot restart our generators, this ship will soon be dead.”
As the Shikkeron slowed and began to drift, the crew busied themselves preparing for whatever defensive actions were possible, waiting with bated breath for the next fighter attack. Meanwhile, Jebbson and the remaining engine and boiler room crews worked frantically to restart the starboard engine, it still being undamaged. It was hoped that by connecting the port cooling pump to the starboard engine they could bypass the ruined starboard pump and also possibly re-fire the number three boiler.
There was sudden commotion on the communications deck. The midshipman, grinning in relief, rushed over, shouting, “They’ve broken off! The fighters have left off their attack!”