* * *
“Why aren’t you bringing up your impellers?” Captain Soren Hauser demanded, his face starting to turn a familiar shade of red as it glared out from the com screen on Tarantel’s command deck.
Schmiede’s CO sounded distinctly nervous, Captain Ditmar Stoffel noted without any particular surprise. Feyman had been right about Hauser’s probable reaction, although it was a bit hard for Stoffel to understand exactly how even he could panic over a single incoming cruiser. Especially one so stupid—or so pig-ignorant—that it clearly had no idea what it was accelerating into.
Fortunately, Stoffel was senior to him, which meant Hauser was going to be denied the opportunity to screw this one up.
“Because, Captain,” he said, trying to sound as if he didn’t consider Hauser a complete idiot, “our visitor is still an hour from his turnover point for a zero-zero with Prime. I’d prefer for him to get past that point before he figures out what he’s poking his nose into. The closer he is to turnover, the less likely he’ll be able to evade us when we move out in pursuit.”
“And if he gets close enough to fire off a couple of missiles?” Hauser demanded. “You may not realize how damned near naked Schmiede is.”
Stoffel pursed his lips. There, at least, the other had a point.
The base itself was completely unarmed. Its only defense was the pair of missile platforms floating in space over a thousand kilometers away from it. And while those platforms were great at offensive fire, each mounted only a single counter missile launcher and a single autocannon to defend both themselves and the base.
And with no impeller wedges or sidewalls on either base or platforms, it was for damn sure none of them would be taking evasive action.
So if the intruder decided to fire missiles at them, the chance that something would get through was a definite, even high, probability. Assuming Tarantel and the other ships didn’t prevent that from happening.
“I understand,” Stoffel soothed. “Don’t worry. Even if he comes all the way in, we’ll be able to nail him long before he starts shooting. More likely, at some point he’ll realize he’s bitten off more than he can chew, and then his full attention will be on getting his skin out in one piece.”
“I don’t like it,” Hauser rumbled. “Why should somebody decide to come buzzing around out here? And especially when the Admiral’s away?”
“Assuming any of his personnel survive—and I’m feeling generous; I’ll at least give him the option of surrendering—we’ll ask them,” Stoffel replied. “Whatever their thinking, though, they obviously don’t have a clue what they’re facing. Even without Tarantel, we have more than enough mobile units to deal with a single cruiser.”
* * *
“Turnover in three minutes, Ma’am,” Lieutenant Lukanov announced into the quiet of Casey’s bridge.
“Very good,” Clegg replied.
It was odd, Travis thought, how utterly calm the captain sounded.
To some extent, she was like this during training exercises. But even there, he’d always been able to hear the tension bubbling below the surface, the hawkeyed attention to detail that would get some hapless officer or tech a hot-to-icy reprimand in the after-action analysis.
But there was none of that now. Not today. Not facing an exercise, but actual combat.
Just as Travis himself had realized a TO’s chair was where he was supposed to be, perhaps the command chair was Captain Trina Clegg’s designated place. She’d spent three decades of her life preparing to defend her Star Kingdom.
Now, in this moment, all that training and experience was going to come together.
Maybe this was a turning point in her own character. Or maybe she’d go back to being prickly once the shooting stopped.
Unless they managed to get killed during it.
Travis shook his head to himself. Now there was a cheerful thought.
“Turnover in thirty seconds, Ma’am,” Woodburn reported.
“Execute on profile,” Clegg said with that same calm.
“Aye, aye, Ma’am. Executing…Now.”
HMS Casey flipped end for end and began burning off her speed toward Walther Prime at the same hundred and ninety gravities.
* * *
“And that, Captain Hauser,” Captain Stoffel said quietly under his breath, “is why I didn’t bring up any wedges.”
Feyman smiled tightly in agreement. He was actually a bit surprised the intruder hadn’t already spotted Tarantel, despite the battlecruiser’s inactive impeller nodes, with the range down to only seven and a half light-minutes. But that was still over 135.9 million kilometers, he reminded himself. Quite a few things could get lost in the background noise at that range. Especially with all of the emissions coming from Schmiede.
And if their sensor resolution was so bad they’d missed Tarantel, it was highly probable that they’d put the orbital station’s missile platforms down to additional bases or simply orbital warehouses, as well.
Feyman smiled again. That should make Hauser happy.
* * *
“About now, I think, Captain Rhamas,” Llyn said thoughtfully.
Three hours and forty minutes had passed since Gensonne’s force had split up. During that time, Banshee’s velocity had risen to 23,999 KPS, and she’d traveled just over 158,397,400 kilometers towards Bergen 2. In thirty-three minutes Gensonne was due to begin decelerating in his approach to the Danak shipbuilding platforms.
It was time for Exodus.
“Yes, Sir,” Rhamas said. “The programming’s locked in on both the primary and the backup systems, and I’ve double-checked everything. The only thing I’m really worried about is the com side. What if Gensonne insists on talking to you? Those recordings aren’t perfect, you know.”
“The computers will be up to the task,” Llyn said. “Worst-case, he gets suspicious and pushes the button early, at which point Banshee does its magic trick and everybody on both sides wonders what the hell just happened. Not as neat and tidy as I’d like, but it would do the job.”
“Yes, Sir,” Rhamas said. He was still a little doubtful, Llyn knew.
But there was no need for either doubt or worry. Axelrod believed in providing its operatives the best computer support available, and Llyn had taken full advantage of those capabilities during the voyage to Danak. He and Rhamas had spent hours refining the list of keywords the software would look for in any incoming transmission. They’d spent even more hours providing the computer with prerecorded responses, both audio and video.
Unfortunately, those responses had to be fairly nonspecific, which was where the fancy software came in, choosing which message to use in any given set of circumstances. In a pinch, the software could also manufacture its own CGI talking heads if the prerecorded messages weren’t adequate for the task.
Llyn wasn’t crazy about using the latter, mindful of its weaknesses. But in this case he doubted anyone would have time to do the kind of scrub that would unmask it.
Actually, Llyn was rather looking forward to having Gensonne carry on a conversation with his computer doppleganger. After all, he’d been setting up for that the entire trip from Walther, making a habit of letting his attention apparently drift away during conversations, acting preoccupied and then suddenly jumping back in.
Gensonne had probably assumed he was doing that simply to annoy him. But what the Volsung believed didn’t matter. The pattern had been established, and that was all Llyn cared about.
A shame, really, that it had to end this way. It wasn’t often that Llyn came across someone so easy to manipulate.
Taking one last look around, Llyn picked up his minicomp and the single briefcase racked beside his console.
“Time to go, Captain.” He gestured toward the hatch. “After you.”
* * *
Massingill’s delaying tactics—with all the supposed miscommunication, lost orders, missing supervisor signatures, mislaid tether connectors, inexperienced platform crews, tug malfunctions,
and enough official and long-winded apologies to fill a light cruiser—was over and had been successfully played. The three pirate heavy cruisers were docked at their respective platforms at Bergen 3 and the boarding tunnels extended. No one aboard, as far as Massingill had been able to ascertain, suspected a thing.
And then, completely unexpectedly, the whole plan started to unravel.
“That’s ridiculous,” Massingill said, staring at the displays. “That’s what they’re here for.”
“I know,” Major Bastonge murmured over the com. “I don’t understand it either. All they said was that no one was getting aboard Mollwitz and Burkersdorf until Rossbach’s commander had satisfied himself that the techs knew what they were doing and weren’t going to screw anything up.”
Massingill ground her teeth. “Probably worried they’ll get charged for extra breakage.”
Which made no sense at all. Just because one team didn’t screw up or start stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down didn’t mean the next team wouldn’t, no matter how long they made that team wait.
“Can you see the hatch?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s right there straight down the tunnel ahead of us,” Bastonge confirmed. “Sealed tight.”
Massingill shifted her eyes to one of the other monitors. Theoretically, that meant Bastonge could pull back until such time as the pirates graciously allowed them access. If he could get to Dorrman’s dock fast enough…
But he couldn’t. On Platform Three’s monitor she could see that Rossbach—or as Massingill knew her, Mamba—had already opened her hatch. Dorrman and her three-man team were prepping their equipment cart and getting ready to head across the boarding tunnel. Even if Bastonge or Danzer could magically teleport across Bergen 3, the fact that Dorrman’s techs were suddenly being replaced by someone else was bound to raise eyebrows, questions, and suspicions.
Bottom line was that Massingill’s very best teams were going to have to sit on their hands while Dorrman and her group walked into enemy territory alone.
And if they screwed up, and the alarm was given to all three ships, the 303rd might lose two of its intended targets. Maybe even all three.
Massingill took a deep breath. Plan A had been sidetracked. On to Plan B.
“Sergeant Frijtom, you copying all this?” she asked.
“Yes, Brigadier,” Frijtom confirmed, his voice muffled and oddly echoey inside his heavy assault armor. “You want us to do a full breach?”
“Not yet, but be ready,” Massingill said. “We’ll give Dorrman a chance first to beguile their way aboard Mamba and lock the hatch open for her assault team. But if that blips and the alarm goes up, I want you ready to charge in and try to open them up the hard way. You got that, Bastonge?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the Team One commander said. “You want me to call it, or will you?”
“I’ll call it,” Massingill said. She was the only one with clear contact with Dorrman and Team Three, which meant she would be the first to know if the balloon had gone up. “Same instructions for you, Broussard,” she added.
“Understood, Ma’am,” the leader of Danzer’s heavy-weapons attack leader confirmed. “We’ll be ready whenever you need us.”
“Copy as well,” Danzer said. “Also, I’m seeing just one camera by Copperhead’s hatch that’s inside the tunnel. If we can blind that one, it’ll give the breach team a few extra seconds before anyone inside knows what’s happening.”
“Same here,” Bastonge said. “Give us a few seconds’ head’s-up, and we can take care of it.”
“Understood,” Massingill said.
She would try to give them those seconds. She really would.
Because the entire plan was suddenly on the tightrope here. Plan A had counted on the disguised tech squads getting aboard at the same time and then being able to simultaneously lock the hatches open and let the armored full-assault teams swarm inside. Now, only Dorrman’s team would be able to follow that procedure.
The catch was that once the alarm went up, Adder and Copperhead would still have a solid hullmetal hatch between themselves and the commandos. In theory, they could probably breach the hatches within ninety seconds…but ninety seconds was enough time for a competent commander to figure out a good counter response.
It was more than enough time for an incompetent one to panic.
And for an armed ship with hot nodes tethered to a floating space dock, there were a lot of nasty forms a panic reaction could take.
Dorrman and her people were on the move now, rolling their cart down the tunnel. “Good luck,” Massingill murmured. “All of you.”
* * *
“Elsie Dorrman,” the head of Mamba’s six-man reception committee growled out Dorrman’s name as he stared at her ID tag.
“That’s right,” Dorrman confirmed, looking casually around the airlock area. There had been two cameras outside the hatch, one of them partially obscured by the boarding tunnel, but there was only one in here.
And it was right below one of the floodlights the pirates had rigged up to point at the hatch.
Mentally, she shook her head. No doubt they thought having a light they could shine in an attacker’s eyes as he charged through the hatchway would be to their advantage. No doubt they also thought that putting their camera beneath it would help hide it from view.
But with the light currently running at maybe half power, putting out just enough to illuminate the visitors, neither half of the ploy actually worked. In fact, in this instance, they’d have done better to shut the light down completely.
She looked over at Corporal Rushkoff, currently standing stolidly for his own hard-eyed visual exam. She caught his eye, nodded microscopically toward the light and camera, got his confirming microscopic nod in return, and settled down to wait for the reception committee to finish with the other two jumpsuited members of their team.
“Fine,” the Mamba’s spokesman growled at last. Maybe he wasn’t trying to be intimidating; maybe that was just his normal voice. “Two things. One: you keep your hands to yourselves. You don’t mess with anything that doesn’t have to do with missile launch systems. Two: we’ll be with you every minute you’re aboard to make sure you keep your hands to yourselves. Got that? What?”
“Sorry,” Rushkoff said, sounding a little confused as he lowered the hand he’d raised. “But I think that was actually three points.”
For a moment the pirate seemed at a loss for words. He looked back at his silent companions, then back at Rushkoff, then finally at Dorrman. “Point Four: smart mouths get spaced. Got that?”
“Certainly,” Dorrman said with just the right degree of nervousness. “We don’t want trouble with representatives of the Andermani Empire.”
A flicker crossed the pirate’s face, as if he’d momentarily forgotten the role he was playing. “Right,” he growled. “Let’s go—”
“You got that, Rushkoff?” Dorrman interrupted, turning a two-barreled glare at the corporal. “Because I’m fed up with your games, too, and I swear that if they don’t space you I will.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rushkoff said, rolling his eyes. “Heard it before. So has my uncle.”
“If you dare—” Dorrman broke off, and for a long moment she and Rushkoff stared at each other, Dorrman glaring, Rushkoff responding with smug innocence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other two techs quietly moving the equipment cart off to the side of the hatchway, their attitude clearly that of innocent bystanders who wanted to keep it that way.
Finally, with a muttered curse, Dorrman turned back to the pirates. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Personnel problem.”
“So now are you ready?” the spokesman asked. Dorrman had been wrong; his growly voice could also contain sarcasm. “Good. Let’s get on with it.”
He gestured, and one of his men reached past the equipment cart to the hatch control. He watched while the hatch slid closed, then spun around and led the way out of the airlock, beckoning one of his men to his side. Dor
rman and Rushkoff followed, the other two techs behind them, the last four pirates picking up the rear.
As Dorrman stepped into the corridor, she threw a casual glance over her shoulder. The equipment cart was in position, its hidden electronics package ready to inductively feed the open-hatch command into the control line whenever Dorrman or Sergeant DuMonde and his heavy-weapons squad called for it.
And as an extra bonus, her little drama with Rushkoff had bought enough time and drawn enough pirate attention that the techs had been able to adjust one of the cart’s shiny surfaces to reflect the floodlight back into the camera beneath it.
Which meant that when DuMonde was ready to move, she should be able to get her team well down the corridor toward the spin section and the reactor beyond it before the alarm went off.
Of course, before that DuMonde would have to deal with the hatchway’s outside camera. But she was a resourceful woman. She’d figure out something.
* * *
The calm before the storm.
Lisa had heard that phrase a thousand times during her life. But never before had she appreciated it as much as she did right now.
The Havenite forces were ready. Commodore Charnay’s mobile force was waiting silently at the spot he’d dubbed Point Fusillade, 130,000 kilometers short of Bergen 2 on Swenson One’s approach vector. His ships’ impeller nodes were hot, but their wedges, transponders, and every active sensor were down. With the enemy now only ten light-seconds away, they were effectively invisible.
Of course, they couldn’t eliminate the waste heat from their reactors. But it was highly unlikely the pirates would notice them against the background thermals of Bergen 2’s platforms and busily moving work boats.
Damocles was also ready. Lisa ran her eyes down the status displays; and as she did so it occurred to her that for the first time in her professional life—in exercises, as well as actual combat conditions—her ship was about to go into battle without a single down-checked system. It made her realize all the more pointedly just how hand-to-mouth the RMN’s existence had been.
And not just in equipment, but also in leadership and experience.