by Smith, Glenn
“I thought medical science had mapped the human brain a long time ago.”
“It did, but there’s still a lot we just don’t understand.”
“Bridge to Commander Rawlins,” the ceiling speaker called.
“Of course,” Forrest continued, ignoring the page, “she might just be aggravated as all hell over being stuck down here while her wounded ship limps helplessly toward home under someone else’s command.”
“That much seems pretty certain to me,” Rawlins said. Then he tapped the comm-link at his neck. “Rawlins here,” he answered. “Go ahead.”
“We’re within magnified visual range of the jumpstation, sir,” Lieutenant Irons advised him. “Still maintaining complete communications silence, per your orders.”
“Are the emergency nacelle teams in position?”
“Affirmative, sir. Standing by for instructions.”
“All right. Set course directly for the jump ring and adjust our velocity to allow them time to complete the installation on the run. Smallest possible safety margin, Lieutenant. Then have Sergeant Noonian send them a flash message on a tight beam and advise them. Be sure he gives them our exact course, speed, and E-T-A to the ring. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“Rawlins, out.” He tapped the channel closed, then gave Forrest one final bit of advice. “Remember, Doctor, your patient is still the captain of this vessel. Do whatever you have to do to take care of her, but show a little more restraint in enforcing your instructions, will you, please?”
“I will if she will, Commander.”
Not exactly the complete capitulation he wanted, but it would have to do. “Fair enough,” he said. “Let me know if there’s any change in her condition. I’ll be on the bridge.” He stepped out of the doctor’s office nonchalantly, but once out of her sight he left the Medbay as fast as he possibly could and headed back to the bridge, relieved that the confrontation was finally over.
* * *
What he had intended to be a quick detour to Engineering had turned into a long and very detailed technical briefing courtesy of the very stressed out chief engineer, so by the time Rawlins finally made it back to the bridge, Commodore Van den Engel, commanding officer of the Rosha’Kana jumpstation and of all Solfleet personnel permanently assigned to the sector, had long since deployed one of his station’s two mobile repair isolation gantries—‘RIG’ for short. The engineers who’d been assigned to retrofit the emergency jump nacelles to the Victory had begun to accelerate it back toward the jump ring, paralleling the Victory’s course per Rawlins’ request, and Ensign LaRocca had split the viewscreen’s image to show both the RIG on the left and the jumpstation on the right.
Even magnified ten times, Rawlins observed as he approached the command station, both the jumpstation itself and its enormous ring were still far too distant to readily identify, or even to differentiate between without the ship’s scanners. Especially without the telltale point of flickering bright blue-green light that normally served to make a jump ring in standby mode so easily identifiable, even from such distances. There was good reason for that, of course. Because of its relatively close proximity to the all too porous border of enemy space, the Rosha’Kana station’s ring, unlike those of all of Solfleet’s other jumpstations, always remained de-energized and dark until it was actually needed. Otherwise it would have been too easy for the Veshtonn to locate and destroy.
But the RIG was another matter entirely. Basically nothing more than a self-propelled, semi-cylindrical construct of crisscrossed heavy-duty latticework that served as both a portable dry-dock and a secure mounting platform and external power source for numerous construction and repair modules, it was nonetheless gargantuan—larger even than the jump ring. In all his years in the space service, Rawlins had never actually seen one of them before. Pictures and computer generated images, yes, but never the real thing. Despite its relative simplicity, he found it to be quite impressive.
“Status report, Mister LaRocca,” he requested as he sat down.
“The RIG has matched our velocity and is closing on our port side at five point five meters per second, sir. Contact in approximately one minute.”
“Ensign...uh...Engineer?” Rawlins prompted, forgetting the young man’s name again.
“Ensign Zurilkowski, sir,” the engineer dutifully reminded him for the umpteenth time since they’d met. “Commander Marshall reports ‘ready’. Two teams per nacelle are in place and standing by.”
“Thank you. And...I’m sorry I keep forgetting your name.”
“You’re not the first, sir,” the young man commented without any resentment evident in his tone.
Rawlins didn’t doubt that one bit. Still, he felt a little ashamed of himself, regardless of whether the ensign resented it or not. As the ship’s executive officer, not to mention its acting commanding officer, he knew he should make whatever effort was necessary to remember the names of all those he worked with, especially those who served with him on the bridge. Not to do so set a poor example for the department heads, and probably wasn’t very good for the morale of those whose names were forgotten, either.
“Tactical?” he called for next, putting his deficiency behind him for the time being. He could review the crew roster later, when the ship was safe.
“All operational sensors show clear, sir,” Lieutenant Irons reported from the comfort of her brand new, enhanced comfort chair.
“Sensors?” he asked, peeling his eyes away from the screen and looking over at her. “Haven’t you been running active scanners, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty-four hours a day as ordered, but I had to shut them down a few minutes ago or we would have risked overloading some of the RIG’s more sensitive equipment.”
“Right,” Rawlins conceded. “Sorry, Lieutenant.” He faced front again, disappointed in himself. How could he have forgotten something so basic so easily? The long hours must have been getting to him. But as quick as he was to question himself, he was just as quick to put his doubts behind him and move on.
Four hours to go. Four long hours from initial linkup with the RIG to their jump, and then they would be home free, assuming of course that they didn’t run into any problems with the installation of the nacelles. And assuming the Veshtonn didn’t show up out of nowhere all of the sudden to spoil the whole party.
“RIG pilot is requesting final authorization for docking, sir,” Noonian reported as that approximate minute to contact came to an end.
“Authorization for docking is granted, Sergeant,” Rawlins responded, “by authority of the executive officer, U.E.F.S. Victory.”
Noonian started to transmit his message, but then hesitated and looked over at the commander to request verification. “Shouldn’t that be by authority of the acting commanding officer, sir?” he asked innocently.
Rawlins turned his chair—the captain’s chair—toward the communications NCO and asked, “Has Solfleet issued change-of-command orders that I’m unaware of, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I have to assume Captain Bhatnagar is still the commanding officer of this ship. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Noonian answered sheepishly. “Transmitting now.” Seconds later the RIG deployed its tethers and linked up with the Victory, and the combined teams of the station’s and the ship’s engineers got to work.
Rawlins sighed. Four hours. An eternity, with nothing to do but sit patiently and wait. As patiently as possible anyway.
Before long it dawned on him that it would probably be a good idea to retire to the captain’s ready room for a while and get some rest. But as he sat there and surveyed the bridge, he suddenly realized just how comfortable he felt right where he was. After three days of essentially being the ship’s captain—never mind the admonishment he’d just given Sergeant Noonian—he was indeed beginning to feel quite at home in the command chair, and that made him wonder. Should the captain’s injuries turn out to be sev
ere enough to prevent her from ever returning to her duties as the Victory’s commanding officer, might the job then fall to him by default? On a temporary basis almost certainly, but what about in the long run? Between this and his previous assignment, he’d served more than enough time as an executive officer, and he was, after all, eligible for promotion. If he...
He shook his head, banishing the thought from his mind. Suja was still the captain, and he was her executive officer. For him to contemplate replacing her in the immediate future, especially when she was so seriously injured and out of action, was not only disloyal, but in his eyes was despicable as well. The starcarrier Victory was Suja Bhatnagar’s ship until Solfleet Central Command said otherwise.
He sighed. Four long hours.
Chapter 10
Not knowing what else to do with them, Admiral Hansen shoved his hands in his trouser pockets as he paced back and forth from one end of the Narcotics Investigations office to the other, pausing every few seconds to glance at the row of six surveillance monitors that Detective Sergeant Franco had reluctantly set up for him there. Each member of the squad had his or her own specific part to play in the operation, so none of them had been available to stay behind and watch with him. He’d changed into the most nondescript civilian clothes he owned before coming so as not to attract too much attention, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched himself—that the eyes of every cop who happened to walk down the hall outside turned to him at every opportunity. In or out of uniform, they knew who he was, and he knew it. They probably knew why he was there, too.
He took a seat on the distinctly uncomfortable chair that sat facing the monitors and slid forward to its edge, rested his elbows on his knees, and started wringing his sweaty hands as he stared anxiously at the far left monitor—the one tuned to the camera that focused on the public area just outside the main entrance to the Rotunda’s maintenance offices. According to the timer in the lower right corner, twenty-seven minutes had passed since they started recording. Almost half an hour and so far, nothing—no Heather, no narcotics dealer, and strangely enough not very many passersby. Then again, maybe that wasn’t so strange. Maybe the Rotunda never got that busy on a Tuesday night.
Half an hour of pacing back and forth across the office, of sitting down and fidgeting, of standing up and pacing back and forth again. Half an hour of watching and waiting. It felt more like half the night, but at least he could watch. Not that that hadn’t taken some doing.
The narcotics team, or the ‘Narco squad’ as he’d overheard some of their fellow police officers affectionately referring to them, had an apparently well-earned reputation for being an exceptionally effective team. It also tended to be quite secretive about its methods, so Hansen initially hadn’t had much luck convincing Sergeant Franco to allow him to observe the operation. But once he found out how long the squad had been after this particular dealer and just how badly they wanted to get their hands on him—the sergeant himself had let that useful little gem slip out somewhere along the way—all he’d had to do was threaten to withdraw his hard-earned permission for Heather to help them out. Faced with the loss of his only inside resource, Franco had finally given in.
But monitors or not, what still occupied his mind most prevalently at the moment was the question of why he’d ever let Franco talk him into allowing Heather to get involved in the first place. Just what the hell had he been thinking, anyway? Narcotics enforcement was a dangerous business, perhaps more dangerous than any other area of law enforcement, and she was just a fourteen year old girl. Still a child. His child. Not even a high school sophomore yet. Far too young to be playing undercover cop. And yet there he was, sitting idly by, watching and waiting while she prepared to walk straight into what was probably the most dangerous situation she’d ever gotten herself into.
He rolled his head around to stretch the kinks out of his neck. Why had he let Franco talk him into it? Why? Because Heather had sided with the detective, and even after all these years, Daddy’s little girl still had Daddy wrapped around her little finger. That was why. That was exactly why. One thing he was sure of, though. Had they been in an open city down on Earth instead of in the closed and relatively safer environment of Mandela Station, he never would have given in. He’d have doled out her punishment, and that would have been the end of it.
But they weren’t on Earth. He had doled out her punishment, but as usual that had not been the end of it. First, in lieu of sending her back to Westcott—as with most everything else, he’d let her plead her way out of that, though he hadn’t really intended to send her back there in the first place—he’d grounded her for an additional five weeks, bringing her total sentence to seven. Then he’d revoked her social communications privileges for the duration, effectively isolating her from all of her friends for almost a month and a half. Grounded for seven weeks with no comm privileges of any kind—confined to her home like an inmate to her prison cell. In the opinion of several other parents he knew, whom he’d happened to run into after church the next day, that was the worst punishment that any almost fifteen year old girl could possibly ever be subjected to.
Not surprisingly, Heather had agreed with their assessment wholeheartedly, claiming that such a long separation from her circles would prove devastating to her social life. She’d offered to do anything it might take to avoid ‘ruining her entire life by having to serve that much time,’ especially since her birthday fell in the middle of it. All the cooking and cleaning, getting a part-time job for the rest of the summer, attending drug abuse counseling—all very good ideas as far as her father was concerned.
And then, yesterday, when Franco had put the idea of her going undercover and setting her supplier up to be arrested on the table, she’d jumped onboard without any hesitation. She’d been that determined to avoid the additional punishment. And, admittedly, Hansen himself had liked the idea of pulling that scumbag drug dealer out of circulation for good very much. As a former Security Police officer, he couldn’t help but feel that way.
And so, once again, he’d let her have her way. No return to Westcott, and no additional five weeks of being grounded. In return for that promise, Heather would participate in what, after meeting with the entire team of detectives, had become the ‘buy-bust’ operation she was now involved in. Then, as soon as it was over, she’d enroll in drug abuse counseling—a very good idea indeed, in her parole officer’s opinion as well as in her father’s—with the understanding that she not miss a single session without prior permission.
But now that it was actually happening—now that Heather was about to literally risk her life to regain her freedom—Hansen was really starting to wish he’d stuck to his guns for a change and enforced the extra five weeks instead. She’d doubtlessly be whining and complaining endlessly by now about not having a life of any kind, but at least she’d be safe at home instead of out there on her own, getting ready to double-cross a dangerous narcotics trafficker.
No. She wasn’t on her own at all, he reminded himself for the sake of his own sanity. The narcotics detectives were all close by her, and they were all professionals. They knew their jobs. If something went wrong they’d be there. They’d protect her. They wouldn’t let any harm come to her. Besides, she’d obviously bought from the same dirt bag before. He knew her, and he had no reason not to trust her.
So why was he so damn nervous?
He glanced at the time for what had to be at least the tenth time since he’d stopped pacing back and forth across the room and sat back down again, which he noted had only been about five minutes ago. He just wanted the whole thing to be over, so he could take his daughter home.
She’d set the buy up for the usual time at the usual place—8:00 P.M., inside the Rotunda maintenance department’s poorly lit and rarely trafficked storeroom. The detectives had set up the hidden cameras late last night, arranging them to monitor the approach to the department, the main hallway, both sides of the storeroom door, and the
entire room itself. Heather would be wired for sound, and as soon as she made the buy and passed the codeword, the detectives would burst in and arrest both her, in order to protect her status as an informant, and the dealer.
At least, that was the plan.
He drummed his fingers on the front of the chair for a few seconds, then stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the monitors...again. He eyeballed the tall stack of disposable cups and the half-empty coffee pot sitting on the warmer in the far corner—they’d been calling to him ever since the detectives left him alone—but the last thing he needed at that moment was more caffeine. He was fidgety enough as it was. Still, he stared at it for a few more seconds, then went over and poured himself a cup anyway.
At least it gave him something to do.
The smooth aroma did nothing to calm his nerves as he lifted the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. Not bad, he concluded as he sloshed it around in his mouth to make the most of the taste. Better than his own, in fact, though not nearly as good as Vicky’s.
“C-I approaching,” a voice from over by the monitors quietly announced. Hansen turned to it, but there was no one there. Then he remembered the comm-link. Sergeant Franco had left one behind, rigged to a small portable speaker so that he could monitor their communications during the operation—another of the specific conditions he’d demanded they meet in exchange for allowing them to use Heather—but it had remained silent until that moment, and in all his anxiousness he’d forgotten all about it.