Packmule

by Blaze Ward

  The surface showed what looked like old Imperial fighters, including a few of the A-7b fighters and the venerable A-3f strike fighters. Veitengruber had been flying an A-6j fighter seven years ago when he was captured at Samara.

  At one of the target zones, Evan had flagged what looked like a line of old C-type Cutters, normally used for Search & Rescue and Customs Enforcement. Police more than military. Why and how Buran had captured them suggested raids on other systems that Fribourg hadn’t talked too much about.

  At the other primary zone, Evan had flagged what looked like a pair of D-type escorts, which were far more common in Fribourg service, usually permanently attached to big carrier squadrons as the outermost ring of defenses.

  Heather was torn as she stared at the image. She had reviewed the recognition files on both types of boats. D-type ships were bigger by about a third, on average, and better armed, with a pair of Type-2 beams, a pair of Type-1’s, and two missile tubes.

  They were still eggshells with guns, against anything that could shoot back, including snubfighters.

  C-type hulls, the police cutters, tended to have a single, bigger Type-3 beam on the bow with a good arc, and a pair of Type-1’s with side coverage. As ships, they weren’t much bigger than Queen Anne’s Revenge, when you got right down to it, with a big gun wrapped by tissue paper shields.

  Still, if they managed to steal one, it would immediately become the second-most dangerous vessel in the squadron, just for having guns. Even if Phil stripped some for CS-405.

  Heather called up a roster and checked the time. Galin was awake. She would ask the engineer his thoughts. This would be her raid, Phil had been clear, since she was the only one who could remove significant parts from the surface. Anna had tools and a repulsor truck with a winch, but very little internal space for something at this scale. Heather had a number of empty storage containers now, with so much food transferred to the other vessels.

  “Tuason,” the man replied when the line opened.

  “You studied enough Imperial engineering to dismantle ships on the ground?” Heather asked.

  “Maybe,” the engineer said after a beat. “What were you wanting to steal?”

  “Guns off of a carcass on the ground, with minimal time, rednecked tools, and trouble overhead,” Heather said, grinning at the usual impossible deadlines in Navy service.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to fly them off to zero-g and strip them there?” he asked, getting exactly to the center of her conundrum.

  Nobody had any idea what kind of shutdown procedure Buran had done when they put the ships on the ground. It hadn’t been freefall from orbit. Maybe a larger ship or a tug had dropped them like cargo containers, but many were in solid shape, at least from the pictures.

  She and the pirates would have to walk aboard and push buttons. Hopefully, there was enough fuel for reactors and engines to lift off. The surface gravity would only be about one-seventh, so they didn’t need much, but they would have to transition to JumpSpace to truly get away.

  Packmule wasn’t a carrier that could launch a bunch of fighters. And they didn’t have the manpower or equipment to convert enough of the ships to pull it off, even after she had asked Galin and Markus for a few ideas. They had come back with something like a Corynthe Mothership, with random small craft docked ass-inward into a silo made from four shipping containers.

  “You and Markus will be on the ground with Kam,” she said, invoking CS-405’s Chief Engineer, Kamila Rushforth. “Granville will be there as well, but he’s going to focus on ships. I want you thinking about getting us guns. Anything to alter the balance of power on a raid.”

  “Gotcha, boss,” Galin said.

  She cut the line and went back to enjoying a good funk. There were no right answers here. Probably no wrong ones, either, with everything on a long, fine grade of grays.

  What was the best way to skin that cat?

  A second thought struck her and she keyed the man’s cabin. System showed Veitengruber was awake. Probably reading, since lights were on and the video system playing.

  They weren’t on a formal watch rotation right now. Not with only nine crew.

  “This is Veitengruber,” the voice came back a second later.

  “Granville, it’s Heather,” she replied. “I’d like to spend a few minutes with you on the bridge, going over things while I have some questions.”

  It sounded like a request, but it really wasn’t. She was Command Centurion here. And in command of the raiding teams.

  “Be right there, sir,” the man said.

  The line went dead a beat later and Heather was alone with her thoughts. The team on the ground was going to be alone for at least two and a half days, observing radio silence, assuming everything went well. Enough time to get into trouble. Not enough to get out.

  They would be running down the thin edge of the blade on this one.

  The hatch slid open and the Imperial appeared.

  Ex-Imperial. Granville Veitengruber wore the black and green of an Aquitaine Centurion today, with Flight tags for now, although she had suggested that he was probably too old to requalify in snubfighters, once they got home, and would need to pick a new career track.

  He had asked if they had a tag for piracy. Fortunately, neither Phil nor Siobhan were around at the time, or they might have taken the man seriously. With all that that might have entailed.

  “Sit,” she pointed, before he could come to attention and salute, or any of that.

  The man took the pilot’s chair with a curious face.

  Heather went back to studying the map on the wall.

  “We won’t have time to steal everything I want to from the surface of Three,” she began.

  Granville nodded. That much was self-evident, for the pirates.

  “What are your thoughts on prioritization, Centurion?” she continued.

  She watched his face relax as his thoughts wandered inward.

  “My personal preference would be a Starfighter for myself,” he said with a grin they shared. “But since that’s not an option, I lean towards a C-boat. The D-class has better armaments, but we would need a crew of at least twenty to work it effectively, and I don’t see where we could recruit them, short of going home and falling under Formal Order again.”

  Formal Order. The rules and regulations that made up the Fribourg Fleet. An end to piracy, as it were.

  “It would be nice to steal some missiles off of a D-carcass, if we could,” Granville mused. “I bet we’ve got enough crazy engineers to mount them in the belly of Queen Anne’s Revenge as a Q-ship. Or rebuild a pair of cargo containers as missile racks. Fly one of the shuttles right up to a station and then hammer the shit out it when their shields are down.”

  “You willing to fly that mission, Centurion?” she asked, voice suddenly serious.

  Something caught his ear. He turned to her and she could see seven years of forced servitude, slavery, well up inside with a red tinge of anger.

  “Aye, sir,” he growled.

  She nodded and keyed a comm switch.

  “Tuason,” Galin acknowledged.

  “You doing anything in engineering that you can’t leave, or watch from up here?” Heather asked.

  “Negative,” the man said. “Be right there.”

  “Forlorn mission?” Granville asked.

  It was a formal term, for sailors. Technically not a suicide mission, since there was always a chance you could do whatever job you had in front of you, and still escape afterward. It was still a slim chance, usually. Either a full frontal assault against overwhelming defenders, just to distract them, or a last-ditch defense, Horatio holding the bridge by himself sort of thing.

  “I don’t think so,” Heather snapped back sarcastically. “Pirates don’t go all in for that death or glory thing, Sailor. We’re here to steal shit and make a profit in the process.”

  “I see,” he relaxed again as she watched. “And armed stations over prison planets?”

&
nbsp; “A bank vault that needs to be bypassed,” she grinned. “Blowing the damned thing in place is always an option, since we are not going to have the right cover story to sneak in. And we only have to take out one of them, as near as I can tell. The other seven might fire missiles at us, but that’s about all they can do, and CS-405 is an escort specifically designed for things like that.”

  “What’s up, boss?” Galin said as he came through the hatch.

  Heather pointed at the poster as an introduction.

  “How many standard, Imperial missiles could you fit into a single shipping container, if you wanted to fire them with surprise at a short-range target?” she asked, gesturing at Granville.

  “Three for sure,” he replied instantly. “Had this talk with Markus and Bok at one point. Technically, you could fit six in there, fired in two salvos of three, but you need to have a blast barrier mid-way down to protect the back three. Then you have to come up with a way to clear it as a blockage before firing the second batch.”

  “What about hinged pie-slices?” Granville suddenly asked. “Attached to the outer skin so they can retract upward and open the throat, once the first batch is clear?”

  “Take about ten or fifteen seconds,” Galin guessed. “Pretty good chance that at least one of that second batch fails from heat and pressure and then either explodes in the tube, or turns sideways and maybe flies through the shuttle.”

  “I can live with those odds, Galin,” Granville spoke up before Heather could reply.

  “Boss?” Galin turned to her.

  “Draw me up plans,” Heather decided. “We won’t know until we land what we can steal, but that adds one hell of a safe-cracker to the mix. How about fuel?”

  “We’ve got enough to keep flying for maybe decade,” Galin smiled. “Easy enough to top off one of the shipping containers and send it down with Caravan or Saddlebags. Even empty, we ought to be able to get more things to orbit than we can fly.”

  “Today, Galin,” she corrected him.

  “Sir?”

  “More things than we can fly with the two hundred people we have on hand today,” she continued. “There’s a whole planet of folks we can recruit, once we can kick the front door in.”

  War Plan (October 3, 402)

  Siobhan practically salivated at the possibilities as 405’s shuttle docked with Packmule to pick up the rest of the crazies. Right up until she did the math and realized that it was a losing proposition.

  On the one hand, stealing a pocket warship from the little moon would give them something that they could get dangerous with. But they were running dangerously thin on crew right now. And Phil wasn’t about to send Lan and Kiel on their merry ways with Queen Anne’s Revenge. Their ship was still the best way to sneak into an unsuspecting port, at least until Buran figured that trick out, which Siobhan didn’t expect to happen anytime soon.

  Those folks tended to be even more linear than Imperials, if that was possible.

  The shuttle thumped and clanged as the airlocks mated. It was easy enough to do it this way, rather than rearranging the small flight deck on Packmule to land a shuttle. The airlock beeped its way open and people began joining them.

  Galin and Veitengruber looked too proud of themselves. Yamaguchi had a goofy grin. Well, goofier than usual. Andre looked like he had sucked a lemon, but that was normal for him.

  When Heather boarded last, Siobhan knew there was something utterly evil afoot. The woman practically glowed as she slid into the seat next to Siobhan and grinned.

  “Out with it,” Lady Blackbeard growled. “You’re up to no good. And doing it without me.”

  “Perish the thought,” Heather replied snidely. “You’ll be there with us. Promise.”

  “Uh huh,” Siobhan was not mollified.

  “Besides,” Heather continued in a voice made of honey. “I don’t want to have to explain it twice, and Phil still needs to give his blessing.”

  “Worse than anything we’ve done so far?” Siobhan caught her breath.

  They had raided mining colonies and stolen trucks, freighters, cattle, horses, chickens, and one sixth of the sector’s food transport network. What would top that?

  Siobhan felt a growing excitement, just at the possibilities, but the others remained aloof for the rest of the flight over. Grinning silently to any question she or Trinidad or Markus put to them, eyes big and bright and innocent.

  Like she was going to believe any of that.

  It felt like forever before they finally docked with CS-405. Interminable trudging through hallways to get to the conference room that seemed to be where all the best plans got hatched.

  Phil was already there, along with Kam and Evan. The dozen people with Siobhan filled the space to capacity.

  Phil looked at her, and then Heather. Siobhan figured the man was suppressing an eyeroll as everyone settled.

  “Andre,” Phil began. “You look the most sour, especially compared to Heather. What terrible news did she share with you?”

  Siobhan nearly giggled at the side-eye from the nurse who was 2IC on Packmule now.

  “That I’ll be in charge for several days,” Andre said. “While those people are off having adventures on the surface of Three.”

  “Really?” Phil asked with a grin. “So you’d have bridge time under your belt, if I needed to put Evan on an independent command and pull you back aboard 405 as my temporary First Officer?”

  The room erupted into howls of laughter at the terrible, thunderous scowl that overcame Andre’s face. Any time he had to leave Medbay, for any reason, Andre grumbled. Not much. He was an officer and took his job seriously, but would have happily spent his entire career at a base hospital somewhere.

  “Why can’t Kermit handle the job?” Andre finally grumbled, referring to 405’s Surgeon, Senior Centurion Kermit Hanley. Another one like Andre, who would have happily remained in Medical, handing out aspirin and taking temperatures of sailors with sniffles.

  “Oh, I’d send him over to Packmule to replace you,” Phil smiled. “Have Heather get him bridge time as well. Need to have trained medical staff on as many ships as we can.”

  That suddenly brought an evil, wicked smile to Andre’s face. Perhaps enough to actually consider doing it, if he could give his own boss, his former boss, whatever, the same sort of discomfort that came from making life and death decisions on the bridge, rather than the operating table.

  “Okay, Heather,” Phil grinned and turned to the two primary pirates, Heather sitting next to Siobhan. “I’ve teased Andre enough and somewhere, Kermit’s ears are burning. What have you got for me?”

  “How do you feel about a full, frontal assault on Mansi-B?” Heather grinned back. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth right now.

  “Possibly the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” Phil replied. “Why do you think it might work?”

  Heather gestured to Galin and Veitengruber.

  “Been consulting my experts,” Heather said. “None of us can see any reason for Buran to remove missiles from captured ships, and if they did, why do more than stack them nearby for safe keeping?”

  “That station will have enough defenses to stop a sortie of missiles,” Phil noted, his voice growing serious.

  “Not if we sail right up to it and punch him in the mouth,” Heather’s smile also got serious.

  Siobhan’s breath caught.

  Audacity itself.

  “Talk to me,” Phil commanded.

  “Packmule drops into system with special orders that need to be hand delivered, plus a secret cargo for the surface,” Heather began. “Centurion Veitengruber flies Caravan over like he’s going to make the delivery. As they bring their shields down, he fires twelve missiles from point blank, if everything works. Show me a station that can take that level of damage, especially if more pirates come along and rake the place with beams after he’s been knocked down.”

  “Twelve?” Phil turned to Galin with a feral gleam in his eyes.

  “Th
ink so, Commander,” the engineer stood his ground. “I can put three in a container, with another three as a second salvo behind them after the first set fires. Two containers. Six in the first salvo shouldn’t be any problem. Might blow up the shuttle firing the other six.”

  “Odds?” Phil pressed.

  Galin shrugged. Siobhan agreed. They were down to counting angels on the head of a pin at that point.

  “Veitengruber?” Phil turned to his newest crew member.

  “Noble tasks tend to be the most dangerous, sir,” the ex-Imperial replied in a somber voice. “Is there anything more noble that rescuing all my old comrades from this fate?”

  “Okay,” Phil acknowledged.

  Easy as that.

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “My goal is to land Saddlebags, Caravan, and Anna on the surface of Three,” Heather said. “With as many engineers and crew as you can risk being caught on the surface, if something goes wrong. Galin and Markus for sure. I’d like Kam, too, if we can, since Bok’s not here and he’d be the third leg.”

  “Already part of the overall plan,” Kam spoke up. “Someone needs to keep the pirates in line.”

  Another laugh rippled around the room. They were all pirates now.

  “I’m aiming to get a C-class hull working, if we can, and fly it off,” Heather said. “That will be Veitengruber, for now. Then we’ll pivot to the D-class boats and the fighters sitting on the ground, to be stripped for parts. Any missiles we can liberate get trucked into Anna and the insertion shuttles.”

  “Why not a D-type?” Phil asked. “Why settle for a C?”

  “Not enough warm bodies,” Heather replied. “However, once we steal everything and go back to Lighthouse Station, the plan is to come back and blow apart one of Mansi-B’s stations, if we can, and liberate as many prisoners as can get away. That gives us enough crew to do all sorts of dangerously crazy things, all over the sector. You’ll have to brevet to Imperial Admiral, by the way, Phil.”