by Richard Fox
"Our armor is holding," Steuben promised. "Except for that volley right there. That section is definitely not stopping anything.”
Hoffman jerked his feet backward as holes appeared in the floorboard. Garrison continued to shield the admiral, even though they were in the Mule and climbing fast.
"It's hard to get between Admiral Valdar and the rounds coming through the floor!" Garrison shouted, following up the assessment with a long string of profanity.
"We should be clear unless they have more response craft in the area. Checking radar now," the pilot advised.
Hoffman gazed through a small port window and saw the planet turning away from his vantage point, the sun peeking over the horizon. He prayed there were no void fighters to try and stop them.
****
Masha opened the door of the armored car and stood on the side rail as it slowed, then jumped to the ground before it came to a stop. She ran for the nearest vehicle, an Ibarran version of a Mule. She hated to admit it, but the Terran Union had continued to improve on their transport craft while her people were still using models not uncommon during the Ember War.
"We don't have any pilots," one of her legionnaires complained gruffly.
"I'm a pilot, but I don't think the Strike Marines cut corners this time. Check each of these ships. I imagine they’ve all been sabotaged, so try not to get blown up," Masha said.
She ducked into the closest vehicle, made her way to the cockpit, and looked down at a tangle of wires. Hoffman's team hadn't been subtle. The pry bar they'd used to tear apart the controls leaned against the door like a gift. She picked it up and hurled it against the window, where it bounced back at her, forcing her to dodge out of the way. She cursed all the way back to the tarmac.
Far above, the contrails of the escaping Mule and local response ships converged and disappeared into the upper atmosphere. She didn't have the comms ability right now to learn whether or not Hoffman had escaped with the admiral.
Knowing the troublesome lieutenant, he probably had.
Chapter 23
Duke dropped down from the ceiling, landing softly and remaining crouched, watching and listening for movement. If what Gor’al had told him was true, there weren't a lot of people on the ship. That didn't mean he could be careless.
“Do you read me, Gor,” Duke whispered.
“Barely. Can you speak more loudly or move your mic?” Gor’al asked.
“No. Now be quiet. I will give you updates when I can,” Duke said, moving stealthily forward.
He didn't have a QRF to pull him out of the fire if things went sideways. If he didn't secure the flight deck, Hoffman and the rest of the team wouldn’t be able to complete their mission. If he didn't secure the armory, they would be outgunned by whoever controlled that critical point.
He tightened the straps to his backpack, then pulled his carbine forward. It was a better close-quarters weapon than the sniper rifle across his back. Every twenty or thirty feet, he looked for a place to down his gear—the last thing he wanted during a knife fight was to be burdened by all the stuff he had to carry. He missed having a partner to share the load and spot for him.
Gor’al might have been able to help him, but he didn't think the Dotari was sniper material. Plus, he had his own job to do.
“I am securing Ibarran crew at the non-commissioned officer’s lounge. Why are you so slow? This is easy,” Gor’al said.
“I’m sorry, what?” Duke tried to whisper. It felt like he was on a ghost ship.
“I went to the armory and surprised several guards who were not attentive to their duty. They have been disarmed and are quite alarmed at the sight of me. Much like the redheaded woman I stuffed in a locker,” Gor’al said. “Was that the right thing to do? Lieutenant Hoffman was very clear about President Garret’s no-kill stipulation.”
“Which was the stupidest thing I ever heard of, but yeah, you did good, Gor’al. Play nice with the tube babies. Don’t go all John Wayne Rambo on me and get caught,” Duke growled as he changed positions.
“It was not planned. I will be careful. What is it you say about luck?”
“Luck is when opportunity meets preparation,” Duke said. “And you were supposed to secure the armory.”
“I stumbled into this place first. Apologies…for being so awesome.”
Duke chuckled. “You’ve been hanging around Garrison and Max too much. Stay put. I’ll just do all the real work and we’ll meet up at the flight deck with your prisoners.”
“Richard, Richard,” Gor’al said.
“It’s Roger, Roger.” Duke wasn’t sure the Dottie would ever get the knack of the Terran dialect. “Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.”
He thought about his friend’s odd statement about fighting a redheaded Ibarran woman and tried to piece the story into some type of logical sense. Sometimes the Dottie could be hard to follow. He really needed a professional language tutor—or some time away from Garrison and Max, who intentionally taught him expletives as incorrect bits of vocabulary.
The first juncture Duke came to was vacant, so he marked it off his mental list of areas that needed to be secured. Next, he found a locker room where he might store his gear if he needed to lighten his load a bit. One of the doors was hanging from the hinges as though something or someone had forced it open from the inside.
Making a mental note of the scene, he moved on, keeping his gear with him for now.
At the next junction, he heard voices. Moving slowly to avoid excess noise, he screwed a silencer onto his carbine, downed his pack, then crawled forward on his belly.
The ship was on emergency lighting, creating lots of shadows, which would help conceal him. He also knew that few people looked at the ground or ceiling unless something drew their attention. Even trained soldiers were creatures of habit and might not see him if he stayed low and motionless.
The flight deck looked bigger when it was empty, but when everything was secure, he made his way to the armory, already planning how he would creep up behind the sentries and knife them.
As he approached, he heard their voices and realized they were playing dice. Their weapons were close, but not in their hands. He stepped out of the shadows, aiming his carbine at their faces.
“Don’t move. I’ve already killed your friends,” Duke lied. “Do what I say unless you want to join them,” Duke said.
The leader gulped. “We surrender.”
His Basque accent was so thick, Duke barely understood him.
“Gor, bring your prisoners this way. There are escape pods with their names on them, I think.”
“We don’t want to go into escape pods,” said the leader.
“You wanna go Dutchman into the void without a suit instead? Options are limited.”
“Uh…no. We could still fight you,” the man said, building his courage.
“Do it. See what happens.” Duke shifted his stance, ready to start shooting or fighting hand-to-hand if they got close.
One of the other Ibarrans put a hand on the leader’s shoulder. “I think we should go into the pods.”
“Listen to your friend. You’ve already lived longer than I’m comfortable with. I hear any more shit from you, I put you all down right here.”
The leader held his hands up in submission. “We surrender,” he said, then lunged forward, yelling, “For the Lady!”
Duke pulled the trigger, hitting him with a stun round that sent the Ibarran to the ground in a gibbering mess of electro-shock.
“Anyone else?” He reached behind his back for the stun pistol he could have used on the man, just to be sure it was there. This wasn’t the time or place for half measures. There were too many prisoners to take the less lethal approach. If the rest of the Ibarrans were as brave as the one he had just shot, they could rush him and he’d have problems.
No one spoke, so he separated them and kept watch until Gor’al arrived with the others and the first Mule with Scipio crew members arrived.
“Good work, Marine,” a Scipio officer said, staring at the Ibarran prisoners.
“Zertan zabiltza?” asked one of the prisoners to the Scipio security ratings now marching them toward the escape pods.
Duke drew the pistol containing stun rounds and dropped him before anyone else could move. “That’s how I speak Basque.”
The Scipio officer recovered from his surprise a beat slower than Duke would have liked, but then he got control of his team and the prisoners. “Uh…right. Maybe I should meet your language instructor.”
Duke laughed. “I’m self-taught.”
“Right. Of course.”
The Scipio security ratings and non-commissioned officers finished loading the captured Ibarrans into life pods and launched them into the void.
Duke put down his sniper gear and stood watch, his carbine clipped to his front sling. Gor’al did the same, not once asking for a dip. The Dottie was probably tired.
Glancing at blood and amniosis stains on the deck, thoughts of Gideon’s death struggled up from Duke’s dark memories.
“I’m tired, Gor.”
“Snipers never get tired. Isn’t that what you told me?” Gor’al said.
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
Gor’al’s shifting quills were slightly visible through the visor of his helmet. “I didn’t believe you, but it seemed rude to argue.”
****
Marc Ibarra strode around the bridge, quietly remembering all the historic events that occurred there. The Scipio captain, Tagawa, nervously approached the helm.
“Is something wrong, Captain?” Marc asked.
“We’re on the bridge of the most famous ship in human history. It’s a little intimidating,” she said.
Marc drew his hand along one of the work terminals. “Big ship, long history.”
“Yes…” Tagawa seemed like she wanted to say more but lost the words.
“It may be a bit rough getting her away from the dry dock,” Marc said. “Don’t worry about scratching the paint. She’s been through worse.”
****
“Hammer Six for Ibarra One, can you read me?” Hoffman asked, relaxing slightly now that his team and their principal were in the Mule. They weren’t out of danger, but things were looking up—as long as Marc had control of the Breitenfeld and Duke had taken out the communication arrays between the station and the planet.
“I read you, Hoff. Just stay en route. The process of securing the Breit and minimizing the station’s comm traffic has been a bit uneven,” Marc Ibarra said through the quantum-dot communicator.
Hoffman held up a hand for silence. “Is there a problem?”
“There are always problems. Take nothing for granted. We’ll be waiting for you on the Breit. I can’t wait to reunite with my old friend, Valdar. Is he with you? Tell him Marc says hi.”
“We have the principal and are en route,” Hoffman advised.
The Mule maneuvered steadily between maintenance vessels as pairs of void fighters patrolled the area methodically.
"They're going to see us," Garrison complained. "I really hate this part."
"They are not going to see us," Max said. "Right, Steuben?"
The Karigole nodded. "I checked your coding very carefully. If the comms array was not disabled and the Ibarran agents on Liberty broadcast an alert, they would still need an actual physical description of the shuttle. What we are using doesn’t look much different than a routine delivery craft. The computers will not know it is stolen. But I’m sure your legendary sniper has done his job.”
"I think you give Max too much code-hacking credit," Garrison complained. "I mean, he's mostly self-taught. But I agree Duke knows what he’s doing.”
"I have multiple certifications," Max argued. "And I'm not flying this thing. If Steuben’s cool, we're cool."
Garrison held up his palm. "Talk to the hand. I'm going to get ready to fight off the boarding parties. You can thank me later for saving your life."
"There aren’t going to be any boarding parties!" Max exclaimed.
"That's enough," King said. "The admiral will think you're a bunch of dressed-up children pretending to be Strike Marines. Get it together."
"Yes, sir," Garrison and Max said in unison.
Hoffman went forward to speak to the pilot. "What's the approach look like?"
"I think we're golden," the pilot said. "They must be doing a lot of repairs for there to be so many parts deliveries. I heard the Breitenfeld took a beating, but it always does. I’m not seeing any vessels from Liberty or picking up any security alerts.”
"All right, keep it steady. Put us down in the first landing bay they open to us. You'll be on your own after that. You can stay in your ship or clear out in case they send a bunch of pissed-off legionnaires to investigate this unscheduled delivery," Hoffman said.
"I'll be sitting right here in case you need me," the pilot said.
Hoffman returned to his team, gathering them together with Valdar in the center. “Remember, we don't want a firefight. We move fast and with purpose and we don't stop for anyone or anything. We have to get the admiral to the bridge. There shouldn't be a lot of security on the ship. It's locked down for maintenance."
"My crew will be working their way into place," Valdar said. "We can operate with a skeleton crew if we have to. I don't know who they left here, but it’ll have to be enough."
"We're ready when you are, Admiral," Hoffman said.
"Gott mit uns," Valdar said. "Let's get moving."
****
Valdar strode onto the bridge with several of his crew. Hoffman and his team had gathered critical personnel as they moved through the ship. They’d run into Gor’al, who told a story about fighting with some crazy woman who almost killed him, but the details were disjointed and confusing.
“Egan, it’s good to have you back,” Valdar said.
“Happy to be here, Admiral,” Egan said, already getting to work on the bridge.
“Lieutenant Hoffman, if you can leave a security element, then finish clearing the ship. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Right away, sir,” Hoffman said, pointing at Duke. “You have bridge security until we can get to the armory and send someone to relieve you. You’re already geared up. Steuben can help us secure the rest of the ship. King, find out how many of the rescued crewmen are Marines or security ratings. We need them in place as soon as possible. My team’s already depleted.”
“Yes, Marc,” Valdar was saying, “I’m here. Reading you loud and clear. You can un-slave ship controls and security now. We’ve got it. Yes, yes. Of course. We’re all very impressed and grateful for all you’ve done.”
Hoffman headed for the armory with what was left of his team.
****
Hoffman twisted the final latch that secured his helmet to his Strike Marine armor.
“Wow, why does my armor stink?” Garrison asked.
“Because you’re a filthy human being. Remind me to remind Gunney King to do an inspection when this is over.” Booker checked his armor then did the same for Hoffman. He returned the favor then inspected Max’s load-out.
It was a rush job. In ideal conditions, he double- and triple-checked everything. Enough things would go wrong without unnecessary equipment problems.
“Breitenfeld actual for Hammer Six,” Valdar said. “We’re shorthanded. I need help on the guns.”
“None of my people are gun bunnies, but we’ll do what we can,” Hoffman responded.
“Very good, Lieutenant,” Valdar said. “Breitenfeld Actual, out.”
“It’s time to earn our paychecks,” Hoffman said.
His team gave him a flat look.
“Really?” Booker asked. “Did we get a raise recently or something?”
“I don’t care what we’ve earned or what we’re paid, I’d just like to actually see the money,” Garrison said.
Hoffman listened to further instructions from a crew chief in charge of a gun battery, then gav
e his team orders. “We’re heading for deck three to gun battery…16? 16. No time to waste.”
They arrived a short time later to see two sailors attempting to do the job of four people.
“Max and Garrison, get to it,” Hoffman said.
“Yes, sir,” they answered.
“I’m Petty Officer Jacob Neilson. The auto-loaders are down. I need all the help I can get. Either of you have any training?”
“Nope,” Garrison said.
“No, sir,” Max said.
“I’ll talk slow then. And by the way, thanks for breaking us out.”
“It’s all good…sir,” Garrison said.
The sailor shook his head. “Strike Marines.”
Hoffman surveyed the rest of the gun battery, looking for work. Lights above each door indicated combat conditions were in effect. Every man or woman who had found their void gear was ready for decompression in combat.
“I heard Strike Marines are strong,” Neilson said. “Wheel that crate here, lock it down here, and don’t open it until I tell you.”
Garrison and Max followed instructions then stood waiting impatiently.
The gun crew chief listened to something in his helmet comms then faced them. “All right. There are five tungsten-coated slugs—we call them shells or slugs, so try not to get confused. I can draw you a picture if the words I’m using are too big. Bring me one. It’ll take both of you.”
“We have pseudo-muscle under this armor,” Garrison pointed out.
“The same as my loaders would have if they were here. Don’t think you’re stronger than you are.”
“I’m pretty strong,” Garrison said.
“He is,” Max admitted.
“Don’t care. Bring me a shell. This is on-the-job training. Not as easy as it looks. Got to slip the shell into the magazine just right. Follow the laser-leveling indicator, then ease it down. Don’t rush. The indicators will tell you how fast to put it down and how to keep it in line with the magazine rails. There’s a reason for everything. It’s idiot-proof if you just follow directions.”