“Who the hell are you people?” the admiral demanded. He hadn’t lowered that gun.
“Mandrake Company.” Val decided that explaining her provisional status in the unit wasn’t necessary or wise at the moment. “We’re here to rescue you.”
The shuttle tilted in the other direction, then back, the nose thrusting in the air as Gregor evaded who knew what out there. This time, Val lost her grip on the chair. She flew backward, smashing against the door. Her head bounced off with a thud that made her glad she had some hair back there for protection. It didn’t help much though. How was it that the admiral, who wasn’t belted in, either, didn’t go flying out of his seat?
“Mercenaries,” the man grumbled, saying it like a curse. “I was wondering where in the hell you people were.”
Not the most appreciative rescued person Val had met. She wanted to give him a sarcastic response—maybe if he hadn’t gotten himself kidnapped and missed the rendezvous point, he could have had a more fulfilling experience with Mandrake Company—but reminded herself that he was an admiral. He wasn’t likely to invite her to call him by first name, nor was he likely to care that she was a civilian and not under his command.
“We’re here now,” she said, “and if you’d stop pointing that pistol at me, I’d be happy to strap you in, and I wouldn’t mind strapping myself in, either.” The shuttle swerved, this time performing some maneuver that wasn’t even on the books. It probably wasn’t there because it made her stomach drop into her boots.
“I can strap myself in,” the admiral snapped.
Val gritted her teeth. She had only offered because she thought he might be partially disabled from the drugs.
“What’s your rank, soldier?” He sneered at her purloined police jacket.
“This week… cadet. I’m a new recruit. Well, I haven’t been recruited yet. I’m… being assessed.” Why was she explaining this? The admiral’s exasperated scowl said that he didn’t care. He just wanted something to call her. Maybe she should be flattered he hadn’t opted for something more derogatory than soldier.
The admiral was less disabled than Val would have expected. He stuffed the pistol into his belt and strode to the front of the craft, using the seat backs to stay upright as the deck bucked and dipped. His alacrity made her wonder if he had been feigning his unconsciousness, at least in the end, because he hadn’t wanted them to know he was awake until he was sure they weren’t enemies. She didn’t know when he had gotten that pistol, but it hadn’t fallen into his hand while he had been knocked out.
“What the hell are you doing to this craft, pilot?” the admiral demanded, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat. “This is a shuttle, not an Airshark 8000.”
“Evasive maneuvers and departure, sir,” Gregor said with admirable calmness, considering he was both piloting and dealing with a sanctimonious prick.
Val pushed herself to her feet. She had a feeling she should try to get the admiral to sit down and not distract Gregor, but surely an officer with that much experience would figure that out on his own. Or maybe not. The admiral’s hands were twitching toward the auxiliary panel, as if he meant to wrest control from Gregor.
Val grabbed her laser rifle, which was wedged under a bank of seats, and jogged to the front. She sat down behind Gregor and let the weapon rest on her lap, where the admiral couldn’t miss seeing it. He glowered back at her, as if he were reading her thoughts. Good.
7
Gregor was aware of Admiral Summers’s presence, of him grabbing the co-pilot’s headpiece and watching Gregor’s every move. He didn’t let it rattle him, nor distract him from the eight fighters slicing through space all around them. Even if there weren’t that many men who outranked him on the Albatross, he’d had years of experience piloting with senior officers breathing down his neck.
Lasers fired, scorching the starry sky with white and red beams, and trying to scorch the shuttle, as well. He kept it in constant motion, watching all of the enemy fighters, not letting his craft line up in their sights. He had to pay extra attention to the pair of two-seater fighters; they had overhead mounted guns that could swivel 360 degrees and wouldn’t need to be lined up with a target to shoot.
Gregor was tempted to loop back and engage the enemy craft, instead of simply evading them, to show the Orenkans—and maybe the admiral, too—what this clunky combat shuttle could do. He had flown it in battle numerous times, and what it lacked in agility it made up for with superior armor and weapons. But getting Summers to the drop-off point had to be the priority. Trying not to feel disappointed, Gregor veered away from the moon’s slight gravitational field and angled toward the planet. Staying near the base wouldn’t have been a good idea, anyway; if the forces there had mustered eight fighters on short notice, they might be able to spit out another twenty more.
“Heading to the planet at these coordinates,” Gregor informed the admiral, flicking a finger to display the longitude and latitude, as well as a map that showed mountains smothered with ice. In the past, he had observed that senior officers were rarely content to let a pilot do his job without comment, often demanding to be kept informed each step along the way.
“That’s the base I’m expected at,” the admiral said. He had been sniping at Val earlier, but must have realized the gravity of their situation. He was being, if not contrite, then at least unobtrusive now. It could have something to do with the fact that she was sitting behind Gregor and holding a rifle.
“Yes, sir.” Hoping his information had won him a few minutes of uninterrupted work, Gregor returned his full focus to the fighters. They were forming up behind him, intending, he feared, to chase the shuttle all the way to the planet. They nipped at his sides with deadly intent. He swooped erratically, unpredictably, doing just enough to evade their attacks without sacrificing much speed. If they followed him all the way, that could be problematic, because the planet itself might provide more obstacles: more ships. Mandrake Company was supposed to be in orbit somewhere, distracting the other mercenary unit, but there would still be native ships to deal with. Gregor hoped the Malbakians had defenses spread out over those mountains.
The moon base was scarcely out of sight when more trouble appeared. He had been worrying about the planetary forces prematurely. Another squadron of fighters flew out from behind the moon’s curvature, as if it had been lying in wait for him.
“Hang on,” Gregor said.
He plowed ahead with determination, but knew they would take hits. Nothing in all of his experience promised he could successfully evade sixteen fighters at once. The shields were at full power; he would have to hope that was enough.
“President Morrikhan promised I’d be slipped in stealthily,” Admiral Summers grumbled. He tapped his headpiece. “You want me firing over here, or what?”
The co-pilot’s seat had auxiliary controls and access to another bank of weapons. Gregor didn’t want anyone—legendary admiral or not—touching the thrusters or navigation equipment, so he didn’t relinquish control over them, but he did stab the release switch that would allow Summers to fire. “Go ahead, sir. I’m concentrating on keeping us from being hit.”
“Yeah. Do that.” The admiral sounded bleak—even Gregor’s limited ability to deduce emotions could pick that up. Of course, everything that could go wrong for his visit already had. He must not believe a couple of mercenaries could keep him alive and get him to his meeting point.
Gregor thought about saying something reassuring, but he wasn’t good at that, and the admiral probably wouldn’t want to be coddled, anyway. He would simply show Summers that all wasn’t lost by ensuring he made it to the planet in one piece.
For the next fifteen minutes, he concentrated on that. He was aware of Summers shooting whenever an opportunity arose, but Gregor’s only goal was to evade the blockade. At one point, he had half of the enemy pilots fooled that he intended to run away, circling back around the moon, but as soon as they were following, he dove for the planet, raking the underbelli
es of four fighters as he streaked past. Lasers seared the side of the shuttle, and he kept the alarms and indicators in his peripheral vision, but mostly, he concentrated on finding the space, the angles, that others might not.
“Nice,” the admiral purred at one point when Gregor managed to cross two of the fighters up with each other, so that they clipped wings and spun out of control.
Gregor filed the praise away to consider later—because of the source, it pleased him more than it might from another—and let the planet fill his vision. He thought he might spot the Albatross out there somewhere, but none of the ships that showed up on his sensors were familiar. He was tempted to hail Mandrake Company and check on its status, as well as letting the captain know that he and Val had acquired the admiral, but communications might be monitored. He didn’t need to give the enemy any more information about Summers’s whereabouts and where he was going than they already had. Besides, wherever the rest of the company was, it was doubtlessly busy. Lieutenant Sequoia would be at the helm, guiding the vessel against the numerous ships of the other mercenary outfit. Gregor wished he had the firepower of the Albatross at his fingers at the moment.
But maybe he wouldn’t need it. Nearly thirty seconds had passed since anyone had fired at him. In fact, the fighters were falling behind now, some of them veering away. Odd. They were XR-RIFS. That model should have been able to reach the planet. Ah, but Gregor saw the true reason for their turn around at the same time as a warning light flashed on the sensor array.
“More company,” the admiral said.
“Yes, sir.”
“What are they?” Val asked from behind him. “They look like barges. But those are weapons, aren’t they?”
The admiral frowned back at her. Gregor was focused on the world around them, which was displayed by the headpiece, but he imagined Val returning the admiral’s frown without fear. He wondered if she was irritated that Summers had presumed to take the other pilot’s seat. Gregor could have stopped Summers—this was Mandrake Company’s shuttle, a privately owned craft, so he ought to be able to choose his co-pilot, but at the same time, GalCon regulations allowed for the usurpation of private vessels in times of war. This wasn’t a war that GalCon itself had much of an interest in, but Gregor didn’t want to squabble with a man who was a hero.
“They are barges,” the admiral said. “Mining barges that were converted for the war effort decades ago—the same uglies were floating over the continent when I was a kid. They belong to the Orenkans. I suggest we avoid them.”
“Planning to, sir.” Gregor had already altered his course. The barges would see him—they doubtlessly had the same sensor capabilities he did—but he was hoping they were as slow as they looked. He aimed for the mountain range that housed the tunnel mouth where someone was supposed to be waiting for the admiral.
“Yes, you’re doing well, soldier. Keep it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a name? Captain Mandrake is… known to us—” the admiral’s voice took on a chilly tone, “—but few others in his outfit are.”
Gregor had to answer—the admiral would find out sooner or later—but he was reluctant to do so. If Summers didn’t care for Mandrake, who was down on the books as a deserter because he had refused to take part in the destruction of his own home world, then he might not respect an officer who had also resigned because of the Grenavine atrocity, especially not one who had been on an upward career trajectory that many had noted. Of course, years had passed. Maybe the admiral wouldn’t remember him or wouldn’t have heard of him to start with. It wasn’t as if he had served long enough to become famous, especially outside of the piloting sphere. Besides, why should the man’s opinion matter anyway? Gregor wasn’t some starry-eyed cadet, longing for the approval of a senior officer. Even if that officer was a legend, and even if he had read all of the man’s papers…
“Gregor Thatcher, sir.” He guided the shuttle away from one of the barges that had turned in their direction, glad for a distraction, so he wouldn’t notice the admiral’s silence—stony silence?—so much.
“It was Lieutenant Commander Thatcher in the military, wasn’t it?” Summers finally asked. Yes, his tone was cool, his encouraging words of earlier forgotten. “You taught at the academy and flew in the Moon Thunder Operation. And then you quit for no reason.”
“There was a reason, sir.”
“No good reason. You had a promising career ahead of you. And now you’re a mercenary.” Summers made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat.
Gregor didn’t answer. What more could he say? Summers obviously hadn’t found the destruction of a planet a reason to leave the military, so he would hardly understand why Gregor had.
Strange, but he was relieved when the barge opened a few doors, and a squadron of fighters flew out. They were down in the atmosphere, so these were jet airplanes rather than spaceships, but they would have as much, if not more, firepower. Gregor spotted a couple of bombers in the contingent that soared after them.
“How far to the coordinates?” Summers asked. He still had his headpiece on, so he would have seen the new problem too.
“ETA, less than one minute.” Gregor ran his fingers across the sensor computer, trying to find the tunnel he was supposed to be aiming for. The instructions he had received promised it was large enough to fly into and that there was a hangar inside. Artillery weapons were supposed to be guarding the entrance. He didn’t see any of that. All he saw was—
“Not to doubt you, sir,” Val said, “but why are we flying straight at that mountain?”
“That’s not a mountain,” Gregor said, pulling the nose up. “That’s a landslide.”
The guns, the road that should be leading to the tunnel, the tunnel itself… everything was gone.
“Don’t go yet,” Summers said. “Open communications. My people wouldn’t have left us like this. Even if something happened, they would have found a way to leave a warning.”
Gregor wanted to take them straight back up into space—running around in these chasms and between these mountains would only get them into trouble with the fighters who knew this terrain a lot better than he did—but he turned to port instead of heading up and out. “Yes, sir.”
He poked the comm button on the console between them, wishing he hadn’t paid so much attention to his earlier reservations about contacting the ship. They might have an update on the coordinates. “Thatcher to Albatross, respond, please.”
Blasts of red laser fire streaked through the sky, hammering into the landslide just below the shuttle. Rocks flew in dozens of directions, and gray smoke poured into the sky. Gregor frowned at the comm controls. He needed to fly, not talk.
“Where are they?” the admiral murmured, leaning forward, as if the headpiece would give him a better view that way. His voice lowered to a whisper, “It can’t be too late. It can’t.”
Gregor hadn’t seen much to represent Malbakian forces yet, but he kept his mouth shut. He was having to weave and veer once again, trying to elude a growing number of fighters that were chasing him through what had turned into a canyon. The sensors showed that big barge approaching, as well. The terrain, steep walls on either side, limited his maneuverability. The shuttle shuddered, taking fire.
“The sensors aren’t showing any other caves,” Gregor said, wanting the admiral to order them to leave the area. “Albatross, this is Thatcher. Do you read me?”
“—read you, Thatcher.” That sounded like Sergeant Prandor—he was usually a weapons man. What was he doing at communications? “We’re having a few complications here.” A boom sounded through the comm. A cannon hammering the ship? Something worse? “Why didn’t you answer the comm earlier? We were trying to get you hours ago.”
Had the Albatross called? Gregor had been busy flying ever since his butt had landed in the chair. He hadn’t thought to check.
“We were locked in a freezer,” Gregor said. He was about to add that they’d found the admiral, b
ut someone behind them launched a torpedo. He cursed, and veered for higher—and less fenced in—air. There was nothing in the canyon.
Someone snorted. “Knowing you, that’s probably literal. Look, the Malbakians sent updated coordinates for that cargo you’re dropping off. I’m sending them over.”
“Understood.”
Summers stared at the side of Gregor’s head. With disapproval? Gregor grimaced even as he steered the craft upward. He should have taken the time to call—or he should have assigned Val to do it. She might have thought to do it anyway, if the admiral hadn’t taken her seat. Gregor wished she were beside him now. She couldn’t do anything from the passenger row.
“This is only five miles away,” Summers said, reading the new coordinates as they popped up. “Get us up over that peak and down the other side. There’s supposed to be a new tunnel, same mountain, different side.”
“I see it, sir.”
Down here, in their own milieu, the jets were more adroit than his craft, and with the sun and snow, his black hull must have made an easy target. Despite his best efforts to shake their pursuers, the shuttle took several more hits before the ridge came into sight. There were no compliments flowing from the admiral’s lips now.
An icy gray sky came into view above the icy white mountaintop. Gregor pushed the engines, planning to surge around the peak rather than over it, then dip down and hug the contours as he descended, so the jets would have to be careful following the terrain to get to him. But just as he crested the ridge, a big black-winged ship came into view, its head—and weapons turrets—pointing straight at him. The sensors didn’t show anything, and neither did his headpiece. Only the view screen displayed the craft—one nearly as big as the Albatross.
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 38