Actually, he wasn’t sure what emotional shape he’d be in, even without having to keep them calm. This was not an exercise with excess manpower standing by for recovery.
None of the team or the crew said anything. He wasn’t sure if it was discipline or fear, but he wanted to minimize the latter.
“Count off again, just so I know you’re awake,” he said. It was as much for his reassurance as theirs.
The team rattled off numbers fast. The crew called their names, some sounding a bit quavery. They all responded, though. “Milton.” “Sarendy.” “Diaken.” “D’Arcy.” “Aufang.”
The projection on his visor said they were close to Mammy Blue. Now they had to find it and board. He took his bearings from Iota Persei and his nav system, and faced in the right general direction.
He saw nothing, and instinctively checked his O2 level. Fifteen divs, plus the emergency bottle. They’d be fine. No, it was nothing like an exercise, but they’d be fine. He lowered the ratio slightly. He didn’t want to hyperventilate.
A reflected splash of light indicated Engineer Milton’ s searchlight had caught the derelict. Then he saw the faint glow of the plasma stinger. He used the active sensor retrofitted to his sled to tag the target, and knew Hensley was, too, as was Sarendy. They couldn’t miss.
“I have it, firing grapnel,” he said. He reached up and armed the canister. Once back behind it, he swiveled the gun until the reticle lit, and fired.
They were actually very close; no more than two hundred meters. The question then was how well had they matched velocities?
He found out as the grapnel contacted and stuck and the line started spooling out with a thrumming vibration he could feel right through the sled and his suit. The drum friction brake engaged, and acceleration built quickly; blood rushed from his head to his feet.
In theory they were to string out in line, one behind the other. In practice, lines got tangled and they wound up in a clump.
Sarendy tried to grip the side line with a second, hand-held drum, but something didn’t work. He cursed twice, then said, “We’re going to impact. Everyone turn best you can and brace.”
He said it just in time for them to smack into the side of the ship hard enough to bend some hardware and knock the breath out. He gasped and struggled for air, as gear and people buried him. Someone clutched at him, his right leg was pinned painfully at the thigh between two sleds, and he heard grunts, pants and whimpers over the air. It felt like hanging off a mountain, in darkness, while the mountain shook from a low grade earthquake.
Hensley said, “I have a second lock. We’re secure.”
Bowden firmly said, “No one do anything until told. First, I want at least two personal lines on padeyes, if anyone can reach. Four or five would be better.” They were putting a hell of a strain on that harpoon, and it could fail, or the hull could, at any time.
“Linked.” “On line.” “Connected.” “On line.”
“Should I cut loose lines sir?”
“No cutting!” Gods, no. Cut the wrong one and they’d have a Dutchman.
They hung in a tangled mess of suits and sleds, lines all over. It took three concerted segs to weave in and out, disconnect and reconnect one careful line at a time, and ease the sleds aft. Eventually, they had two groups standing off the hull, hanging by line at what felt like 1.5 G. The crew had one attached bundle of their gear, the team another.
Milton asked, “Do you need us to wait on engine shutdown?”
“No, go ahead and do it. Sooner is better, just keep me in the loop. We need to go forward five frames and around two hundred mils.”
“Good luck.”
Just then, Diaken shouted, “Look out!” It wasn’t a practical warning. It did alert everyone to take a look around. Another section was separating, pulling back and ripping free. It appeared to be just a skin plate of sheet polymer and metal, tumbling lazily in the Iolight as it fluttered delicately away. Of course, it was in orbit and might eventually collide with some other ship. The repercussions of this disaster would linger for years.
“And we’re moving,” Bowden said. “Time is short.”
Once free of the sleds, the tangle of lines and the crew, their progress went quickly, even with the subjectively lateral G load. They lined together, swung around in bounds while linking to padeyes as they went. He insisted on at least three padeyes at a time, since he didn’t trust this flying scrapyard.
That should save them against anything except another chunk of hull breaking loose with them on it, or half on it. Which, he tried not to dwell on, was entirely possible.
“Warrant Bowden, this is Sergeant Lowther. I am aboard, over our proposed entry point.”
“Lowther, good to have you,” he replied. It was. More professional help was welcome, as was knowing that area wasn’t in the process of breaking up at this moment.
“Just so you know, I have a relayed message through Auburn. Apparently, the owner wants us to avoid excess damage.”
Bowden finally felt emotion other than fear.
“He knowingly operated a bomb; he can suffer. Likely he’s going to die in a duel with one of the victims anyway.”
“Or a victim’s next of kin.”
“Screw that. They’re entitled to take justice out on this sewerweasel personally. I intend to see they all get that chance.” His scowl was dark.
“Just so you know,” Lowther repeated. He didn’t sound particularly concerned about the owner’s plight. “I’m ready when you are, and have marked five padeyes I think are strong enough to hold us.”
“Excellent. We’ll be around in a few seconds.”
A helmet appeared as they swung over the curve of the hull. That had to be Lowther.
He said, “I’m over a lounge that’s designated priority for rescue.”
Bowden said, “Okay. Are the passengers centralized?”
“Some of them. It’s full of kids.”
“Kids?” Bowden asked.
“Yeah, daycare center. Or kids’ lounge. Something.”
“Triff. How are they going to respond to us busting in in gear?” It was largely a rhetorical question, but necessary.
“Either thrilled or terrified. And they’re already terrified.”
“Right. No adults in there?”
“Maybe. The crewman relaying the info wasn’t sure, and the locks have all sealed.”
“We need some phones on the bulkhead so we can talk.”
Blazer Arvil said, “Will do.”
While he did that, Bowden introduced his team. They each waved as he tagged them. “This is our medic, Sergeant Marchetti. Structural tech, Hensley. Arvil on life support and systems. Lemke on flight controls if we need that. Bulgov on everything else. He’s Combat Air Control, but we don’t need that at the moment.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’ve got all the medical gear we had and fifteen rescue balls.” That explained the bulky pack over his tank.
The acceleration was high and irregular. But it was ceaseless, which was putting a strain on an increasingly damaged craft, and it was a massive inconvenience outside the hull. Inside it might actually prove useful. But they weren’t inside yet. They hung on their harnesses and waited, shifting to keep circulation moving and to minimize pressure numbness in the acceleration.
“Hensley, what’s your take on the structure?”
Hensley was qualified on surface, air and space craft. “Holding for now. I think we can open it here without damaging struts, but any loss of material weakens the whole, and will affect mass ratio and tension under load. I can’t guarantee it won’t shatter what’s left of it.”
“Well, we’re getting farther away fast, so let’s work faster. In, out, done.”
Stadter didn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Exposed?”
The Black Watch’s engineer, Milton said, “Yes, the feed lines are exposed, as are some of the valves.”
“How’s the radiation level? Those aren’t made f
or adjustment in flight.”
“Correct. We’re lowering people by line and cut the line once they reach exposure limits.”
That was too insane for words. Stadter felt nauseated himself, and not just because they were now shifting G to match the derelict.
He said, “They’ll fall through the wash, and be lost as well.”
“Yes, they’ll need to kick off, then cut the line.”
“I can’t order anyone to do that. It’s double suicide.”
Milton said, “We volunteered.”
“Of course you did. I can’t see a logical argument against the shutdown, and it’s less dangerous than doing nothing, may God help us all. Do it.”
“Can you coordinate pickup?”
“Yes.” That was part of the mission profile. However, juggling them aboard ships that could immediately have rad treatment available if needed would be harder. “Vela,” he began.
“I’m looking for boats that will have at least emergency rad treatment,” she said.
“Excellent.”
“Okay,” Bowden announced, “we’re going to place cutting charges here and there,” he splashed the hull with an intensely bright light. It could be a weapon if aimed at eyes, but here it served to illuminate for cameras. “Small for entry. Then we’re going in in fireteam stacks just like a compartment clearing operation. Each troop will carry as many rescue balls as they can manage. Grab the kids, stuff them in, inflate them and bring them out. We blow the entire hull section for that. If you have to stun them or slap them to get compliance, do it. But we’d rather you took some bruising than the kids. Anyone worried about a few scratches?”
“Can’t be worse than my bitch of a little sister,” Arvil said. “Sharp nails.”
“Good. But then we’ve got to clear the rest of the compartments, and do so fast. You can see the damage so far. Blowing those holes shouldn’t hurt structural struts, but who knows what else is wrong with this piece of garbage. We can expect pressure cracks at least. There are bound to be more casualties, sorry, passengers, elsewhere, and they’ll be going into anoxia fast. Open every hatch, clear every cubby, hit them with oxy and get them out.”
Lemke said, “With active oh two depletion, brain damage starts in under eighty seconds.”
“Correct. The longer they’re in zero pressure, even if they have an oxy mask, the more risk of damage there is, right before death. Hopefully that won’t be a problem.” Even if they all knew it, it was good to go over the details. Every training exercise was a mission, and every mission a training exercise.
“I have phones up,” said Arvil. “Talk away.” He handed over a plugged wire.
Bowden clicked the plug to the patch on his helmet. He paused a moment to decide what to say.
“Hello onboard. This is Warrant Leader Bowden, Blazer Regiment. We are here to rescue you. Let me speak to someone in charge.”
There was some shouting and crying, but not a lot. A teen voice, probably male, said, “There is no one in charge. They went to get help when the explosion happened. Do you want the oldest?”
“That will be fine. Anyone who can follow directions while we get you out.”
“That’s me, I guess. Gordon Rodriguez. What do you need?”
“Gordon, I need an accurate count of everyone in that compartment, and I need to know about anyone else in that air space, if you know what that means. That’s first, more afterwards.”
“Okay, hold on.”
The crying and calling went on, distant sounding, but plaintive. Small kids were unhappy, slightly older ones were being bossy and scared, a few were trying to offer advice, and Rodriguez was counting out loud. “Twelve, thirteen, dammit, stop! The soldier wants me to count you, let me do it! One, two . . . ” His voice faded with distance or pressure, then finally came back with, “Seventeen, officer. Can you hear me?”
“Seventeen, one-seven understood. Stand by.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stadter was glad he couldn’t actually watch the engine shutdown procedure. On the far side of the hull from the Blazers, their boat crew proved themselves equally gutsy, or equally mad. He listened in as they began, and set a screen to track IDs. He didn’t know how they’d do this without modern commo. He could tag one way or two way for anyone involved, or go through the chain, or listen in, and it would transcribe and tell him who each speaker was.
“Milton on winch.”
Aufang: “Winch on.”
Milton: “Four zero. Five zero. Six zero. Seven zero. Slow to one meter per second.”
Aufang: “Slowing to one meter per second.”
Milton: “Eight zero . . . nine zero. Slow to point five meters per second.”
Aufang: “Slowing to point five meters per second. You have four-seven seconds safe exposure.”
Milton: “Nine two . . . nine three . . . nine four . . . stop.”
Aufang: “Stop. Four-two safe.”
Milton: “Adjust down one zero centimeters.”
Aufang: “One zero down. Three-nine safe.”
Milton: “Set payout length. Images and data transmitting.”
Pause.
Aufang: “Received. Three-two seconds. Length set.”
A rich alto voice said, “Sarendy now on winch.”
Aufang: “Winch on.”
Milton: “Three-five millimeter connection at seven zero newton-meters torque.”
Aufang: “Recorded. Two-five seconds.”
Milton: “Sarendy will need to reach inside far left at once to have time to adjust Feed Number Two.”
Aufang: “Recorded. One-eight seconds.”
Milton: “Released locking clamp on Feed Number One. Expect gee boost before reduction.”
Aufang: “Noted. One-two seconds.”
Milton: “Two-three turns for full closure. Commencing.”
Aufang: “Eight seconds . . . seven seconds . . . six seconds . . . five seconds . . . ”
Milton: “Achieved four turns. Secure and clear of frame.”
Aufang: “Kick and cut. Two seconds.”
Milton: “Kicking. Cut. Clear. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”
Whoever the man was, he’d voluntarily taken a lifetime safe dose of radiation, and cut himself free into space, trusting in others for pickup.
The female voice said, “Sarendy on station. Inside, far left. Will release locking clamp. Advise at one-five seconds.”
A young male voice sounded. “D’Arcy on winch.”
Aufang: “Winch on—Break—Sarendy, your exposure is increased inside hull. You are at two-zero seconds, one-nine, one-eight, one-seven, one-six, one-five.”
Sarendy said, “Clamp released. Withdrawing. Stuck. Unstuck. Outside hull.” She sounded mechanical, emotionless.
“Six seconds. Kick and cut.”
Her voice was sharp as she said, “Kicking. Cut. Clear. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”
“D’arcy on station.”
Then it was, “Aufang on winch.”
Diaken: “Winch on.”
They were so calm it almost sounded like an exercise.
Vela cut in with, “Don’t worry, sir, I have them both. Their own boat is intercepting, and will shadow for the others. Three of the Mammy Blue lifeboats are in tow. One was depressurized, and the one I mentioned earlier ran dry. There was no way to reach it in time. Twelve passengers in one, sixteen in the other. Fourteen survivors in process, some with anoxic brain damage. Third boat has fifteen alive.”
“Understood. I trust you on this, just let me know if you need help.” The endless tally of casualties, rad levels, elapsed times and coordinates were a blur he couldn’t track. Perhaps those with brain damage could get reconstruction and save some function and memory. If not, it might have been kinder if they’d died. He shifted to relieve pressure on his spine. A wrinkle in his suit was irritating his shoulder, too.
“You won’t like this. One was nothing but cabin crew and what passed for first class. They abandoned ship first.”
> Stadter felt conflicting emotions.
“Well, I guess the crew knew how crappy it was and bailed. They also probably aren’t up to date on proper response. Nor can I believe the owner paid for good people.”
“Most of them are dead.”
He said, “That’s something I’m not going to pass judgment on for now.” He locked that down and concentrated on managing the disaster. Dead could be lashed outside, towed or buried in space worst case. That eliminated some capacity and O2 problems, leaving only some reaction mass problems.
On the hull over the youth lounge, Lowther said, “They’re going to panic. I can’t imagine they won’t.”
Bowden nodded. “Likely.” His harness was tight under boost. His circulation suffered from the constriction. He wiggled to ease things.
“Any suggestions?”
Marchetti said, “Well, I was in Combat Rescue last assignment. I have one suggestion. You won’t like it.”
“I like it.”
“One of the canisters in the standard boarding kit is SV Three. If we can vent it in there before we blow, they’ll all be pretty well relaxed or even blotto.”
That was unorthodox. “I like it.”
Marchetti continued, “The side effects include some panic as they go under, and nausea. Good chance they’ll puke all over the place, as we can’t control the dose and it’s made for adult combat troops, not youth.”
“I still like it.” Puke on a space suit wasn’t bad. Puke in a space suit was bad.
“In that case we need a shipfitter and vacuum welding gear, fast.”
“That would be Hensley.”
From aft, Sergeant Hensley replied, “I heard. I have my gear. Roping that way now. I know where we keep it.”
The ship vibrated again, and rolled a fraction. Everyone clutched lines and padeyes.
Arvil said, “I’m loose! Hull separation at radius two one zero, frame four zero. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”
“Understood, Arvil. Got your transponder. Relaying to recovery ops. Ops, do you have him?” Bowden tapped IDs into the comm on his left forearm, hoping not to lose a good man.
Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation Page 6