Kris perked up. “Where’d you get those?”
“The factory’s been running them up the beanstalk as fast as they could. This last batch arrived just as we were locking the hatches. We put twelve aboard each boat.”
“How many boats?”
“Twelve,” the tug skipper said softly.
“So two of your boats don’t have a rendezvous.”
“Turns out that way.”
“But they have 944s and Foxers. Tom, you want them?”
“Aren’t the 104 and 111 boats the lowest? They were closest to Heather and Chandra and did an awful lot of shooting.”
“You’d have to be next.”
“Give them first call,” Tom said.
“I’ll call and see who they can match orbits with,” the tug skipper said. “Now my board says we have a good hookup for power. What’s your board say?” Tom agreed. And a minute later they agreed that they had a good hookup for reaction mass as well. That left them looking at opening up the quarterdeck to space so the tug crew could start dropping off goodies.
“I’m thirsty,” Chief Stan said, unbelting himself. “Anybody else here could use a drink?”
“Make mine Scotch, neat,” Tom ordered.
“I’d kill for a Margarita,” Penny said.
“I’ll take a beer,” Moose muttered.
“Me, too,” Fintch put in through a shadow of her usually sunny smile.
“You’re underage,” the Chief growled.
“And didn’t all of us age ten years this last week,” she answered back in a perfect imitation of Tom’s brogue.
Ignoring her performance, the Chief sailed aft. A few moments later, he popped back up from the mess area below the bridge and started throwing drink bulbs at the bridge crew. “Have a cold one,” he ordered Fintch.
“Yes, Mother,” the helmswoman answered, but she drank.
Kris took a sip of the fortified water . . . and then drained the whole liter bulb and called for a second. She hadn’t realized she was so dehydrated until she got some water into her. Then again, a glance at her shipsuit showed it soaked through. That water had to come from somewhere.
“We drink this, and we’re gonna have’ta pee,” Penny warned.
“And in zero g.” Fintch sighed. “You’d think in three, four hundred years some guy would have invented a decent zero-g toilet for a gal.”
“Or a gal would have,” Tom said.
“Quit changing the subject, Husband,” Penny said.
“Warning, young man,” Moose said, “when women are exercising their God-given right to complain about men, don’t interrupt.”
“Kris, what do we do now?” Tom asked.
“He interrupted you,” Kris said to Penny.
“Worse, he brought up business. Think spacing him’s too extreme?”
Fintch and Kris shook their heads.
“May I point out, I am the Captain of this boat, and unlike some ships the princess here has stolen, this one is an honest-to-God man-o’-war duly commissioned by a sovereign planet.”
“I thought we were a pirate ship. Didn’t you think we were a pirate ship?” Penny said, turning to Moose.
“Don’t ask me, ma’am. I was just an innocent civilian, walking down the street, minding my own business, when I got shanghaied into something I know nothing about.”
Penny patted his arm. “For someone knowing nothing about what you were doing, I was glad to have you doing it.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Tom had that beautiful grin of his as he relaxed back into the captain’s chair, watching the love of his life. Kris wished she could let this go on forever, let the crew crack jokes for at least another hour or three, but the clock on her board was counting down the time until they swung out from behind Wardhaven. They’d have to be ready for something by then. As much as she wanted to crawl under her bed, say it was time for someone else to step up and take their turn, she knew there was no one else in a position to do anything.
It was either her and her tiny band or no one.
Well, not exactly. This time, there was no use trying to fake anything. The hostiles had to have figured out that there were no battleships hounding their flanks. Next attack would be all-out. There was no tomorrow.
“Tom, could you switch us back to the main battle net? Put me through to everyone. We need to talk.”
He pried his eyes away from Penny, took in a deep sigh and let it out, then tapped his board. The refrain of “How Many of Them Can We Make Die!” shot across the bridge. Below them, there was the clank of missiles being attached to the quarterdeck, courtesy of volunteers from the Milna Spelunking and Scavenger Hunt Club. Kris took a deep breath and mashed her commlink.
“Horatio, Custer, say your status.”
“Horatio, here,” came in Sandy’s matter-of-fact voice. “I got about a dozen skippers champing at the bit and threatening mutiny if you go charging off again and leave them behind.”
“You got that right, honey,” Luna cut in.
“But with the princess around,” van Horn said dryly, “I thought mutiny was kind of the norm.”
“But I prefer to lead them, not have somebody else cut in on my act.” Kris tried to sound lighthearted. Maybe she did.
“Well you just get yourself ready to have one thrown your way if you do that again,” Luna drawled.
“Custer, what’s your status?”
“Lower than I’d like, but higher than I expected. Say 34 percent of what I started with. Enough for one hell of a last stand.”
That was what it would have to be. One last stand. One all-out attack on the battlewagons as they came up on High Wardhaven station. Kris hunted for the right words as she keyed her mike.
“All right folks, this is what we came for. We’re all going in together this time.” There was a quiet cheer on net. Beside Kris, Fintch shook her head slowly as if to say, They don’t know what they’re asking for.
“The battlewagons are going to be slowed down to come alongside the station, make orbit to smash and batter Wardhaven. If we don’t get them, the four reactors on those bastards are going to be powering up lasers to hack and slash Wardhaven to burning rubble. You want that for your families?”
“No,” came back at Kris.
“You going to let them do that to your wives and husbands?”
“No,” was almost a shout on net.
“Wish I had one,” came from Fintch beside Kris.
“Get with the program.” Tom grinned at her.
“I will, I will,” the helmswoman promised. “Just offer me something I really want to fight for.”
Kris lifted her finger off the mike. “They’re gonna shoot up the yacht club on High Wardhaven. No more racing skiffs.”
“They gotta be stopped,” the young woman growled.
“All right, troopers,” Kris went on, back on net. “When the time comes, Custer’s gonna fire off every missile they’ve got. Then we go in right behind them, every fast patrol boat and destroyer, every armed yacht and runabout. Anything that can fire or draw fire goes at them in one charge.
“And this time, we hold our speed down, no wild charge, ’cause this time we ain’t whizzing past them. Nelly will give you evasion programs that let you dodge at one or two g’s. This time, Luna, you get to go gunning up close and personal. If they try to dodge away from you, you chase them down and shoot your lasers right up their engines.”
“Up the kilt, I like that.” The woman chortled.
“Their hide is too thick, so we don’t aim for ice, we aim for specific targets. They flash a laser turret, you burn it. They raise an antenna, burn it.
“Now, if your 12-inch pulse lasers are anything like the ones I’ve used, they have one setting. Shoot the works,” Kris said.
“You got that right, honey,” Luna drawled. “When’d you ever work one of my holdout guns?”
“She stole a boat once with a set of them,” Tom cut in.
“Tom, don’t
give away state secrets,” Kris chided him, but there were general chuckles on net.
“Anyway, when I had cause to use armed yacht lasers, Nelly came up with a software patch that let me fire pulses at half down to one-tenth power. Anyone interested in that option?”
“You bet.” “Yeah.” And “Yes, please,” came back at Kris. Nelly sent the patch, and Kris waited while the yachts loaded it.
“Hey, this really is nifty,” Luna said. “If a troublesome 5-incher pops up, I can stomp it and still have something left to shoot up the kilt of a battlewagon. Good going, kid!”
“Just remember, your 12-inch pulse lasers probably have a heat problem just like these battleships do. So you can’t fire them too often before they’ll overheat.
“But we can hit them,” Luna growled. “We can shoot them hot, straight, and up so close that they can’t dodge, they can’t hide. They came to Wardhaven not expecting a fight. Well, we’re going to show them the fight those cowards never expected.”
That got cheers, even on the 109’s bridge. For a moment, even Kris was cheering.
“Luna, you decoys better shuck those cocoons. Everyone, get it tightened down and dialed in. As soon as I bring Squadron 8 around to one hundred thousand klicks from those bastards, we all go in from both directions. See how they like that. Longknife out.”
There were some more cheers on net. Kris let out a sigh; she must have found words that weren’t too far off. She glanced at her board. An hour before the hostiles came to a halt at High Wardhaven. Forty-five minutes before Kris could intercept them.
Another long wait.
“109, Tug 1040, we’ve left our Father Frost gifts on your quarterdeck. You want to pressurize and get them? And, you want any of our folks to help you load them rockets?”
“Appreciate the offer,” Tom answered, “but I don’t want to have to bleed air again to let your folks leave, and I can’t afford to take them with us. No extra high-g stations.”
“Thought the princess said it would be low g this time.”
“Two g is still rough when you’re dodging like we’ll be.”
“Who’s this Nelly, and how do I get an evasion program?”
Tom raised an eyebrow at Kris. She hit her commlink. “You’re a tug, 1040. Your mission is rescue and salvage.”
“Ma’am, a target’s a target. Give them enough, and they’re bound to miss the one they ought not to.”
“Sure you aren’t risking a mutiny?”
“Ma’am, looking around my bridge just now, talking to the folks out in suits, if I don’t make this run in, I suspect they’d leave me outside walking home, and do it without me.”
Good Lord, where do we get these people? What has Wardhaven done to deserve them? Father, you must be getting someone else’s well-earned deserts.
“Thank you, Tug 1040, your support is much appreciated.”
“Not just me, ma’am. I don’t think there’s a hull out here today that won’t be in there with you.”
“May God bless us all,” Kris said, the unfamiliar benediction borrowed from Tom. He smiled at its use and blessed her with a wink.
“My folks are clear, you can pressurize now,” the tug skipper reported.
Tom did, and ordered all hands amidships to stow stores. Kris, with nothing to do but bite her nails for half an hour, dropped aft along with the rest. There was not one but two antimatter containment boxes, ready to be mixed with reaction mass and power the rocket motors of the 109. And there were twelve long 944’s cases lashed carefully to the deck along with boxes holding four Foxers each.
Each missile and box of decoys got two crew members to help guide them forward. While the two hundred kilogram missiles might be weightless, they still had all their mass, and the damage they could do . . . to themselves and to the boat . . . was not something anyone wanted. Not now. Not with the attack only minutes away. Now was no time to have a wayward missile take out a comm unit as it was passed up through the radio shack, or the sensor workstation on the bridge, or smash into a just-recharged laser capacitor on its way to the rocket bay.
Each of the rockets was carefully handled. They had a date with a battleship.
Loading the Foxers was easy; their canister was opened and the rockets fed in. The 944s were longer and a problem. Each canister had to be freed from its launching tube, then gently maneuvered to where it floated above the main passageway where the missiles were coming up. Then the rocket had to be carefully slid from its traveling case into an empty canister slot.
“Do we just reload one canister?” The gunnery ensign asked.
There was a long pause. “I’d rather have six more in each,” Tom answered. “One could hang up, get damaged. You know the saying. All your eggs in one basket.”
The ensign nodded. “You heard the old man. Do it right. But do it fast.” Kami and the gunner’s mates went to work, doing it by their book, just as they’d practiced for, what, three days.
Kris left, not wanting to juggle elbows or add pressure.
Nelly was another matter; her computer had no elbows. “Have you gotten evasive schemes out to everyone who wants them?”
“They all want them.”
“So I’m told.”
“The salvage ships aren’t even on a secure net. I’ve sent them tables of random numbers in code, and told them to jump from place to place in a random pattern, using one set of numbers to set up that pattern. Their pick. You know this has to meet every book in my database’s definition of crazy.”
“Yes, but it’s also magnificent.”
“I don’t have a definition of magnificent.”
“It’s a human thing, Nelly.”
“If I get out of this in one piece, I think I will begin to understand magnificent.”
“So will we all.”
Kris settled into her seat, pulled on her helmet, and tapped her commlink. “Sandy, how’s it going? I’ve been busy doing housekeeping chores.”
“Until a while ago, there was nothing to do but wind the clock, take out the cat, here, too. Unfortunately, I think our boy’s getting smart. Five minutes ago, the battle squadron recovered their radiators, and they just put on a defensive spin.”
“Oh damn,” Kris muttered and turned to Penny.
“The Avenger reports she can not maintain a five-revolutions-per-minute rotation, sir,” the Duty Lieutenant reported.
“Then tell him to fix what is wrong and do what I ordered,” the Admiral snapped. He had taken the seat at the battle board that put his back to the spin now on the Revenge ; the defensive maneuver did not bother him. It also did not bother the techs at the intel stations, since they also had their backs to it. Saris was side on to the spin. The future governor of Wardhaven had the biggest problem. He was in the chair across from the Admiral. Now he leaned forward as the spin tried to force him out of his chair.
“Is this damn whipping around really necessary?” the political appointee demanded.
“I suspect so, Mr. Governor,” the Chief of Staff said.
“I would not like to guess wrong,” the Admiral added.
“But you said you had beat them. You had won.”
“I may have been premature,” the Admiral muttered.
“They have nothing left to fight with.”
“So it seemed an hour ago, but they do not act like that now, and I do not intend to assume anything where a Longknife is concerned, Mr. Governor. No, look at the board. The jackals are still nipping at our heels.” He waved his hand at the forces hanging on his spaceward flank. The so-called battleships had, like snakes, shed their skin and now were smaller . . . and deadlier, if not in ability, certainly in intent.
“And now we have this.” He pointed at the twenty plus targets coming up from a swing around Wardhaven.
“What are they?”
“They appear to be the survivors of the patrol boats that attacked us two hours ago.”
“But patrol boats can only attack once. They have to go back to port. Refue
l. Recharge. Even I know that,” the governor said with a dismissive wave of his well-manicured hand.
“That is what they say on all the talk shows. Chief, talk to me about the ships coming up from Wardhaven.”
“Ten are fast patrol boats, sir. They are not even bothering to mask themselves. The others are salvage tugs. All have oversize reactors for tow and salvage work. Right now, they’re boosting right along with the patrol boats.”
“Could the salvage tugs have passed a power line to the patrol boats, recharged their capacitors, Chief?”
The Chief coughed as if he’d swallowed a fish bone. “That’s a bit above my pay grade, Admiral, but our fleet tugs do have the capacity to transfer major amounts of power to a ship in need.”
“Your conclusion?” the Admiral said, eyeing Saris.
“That damn Ray Longknife figured out a way to get two attacks out of one squadron of fast patrol boats.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” the Admiral growled. “And I do not intend to lose more of my battleships. We have five meters of armor. We will rotate our ships at five rpms, and we will make sure their pulse lasers only melt ice.”
“What about those other ships?” The future governor suddenly sounded worried.
“Two of them are destroyers we actually have to worry about. But only two. Maybe a half dozen of those yachts have pulse lasers hiding under their brightwork. 12-inchers at best. This may be more of a fight than you were promised Governor, but rest assured, we will begin the bombardment of Wardhaven on time in”—he glanced over at a corner of his board—“thirty minutes.”
19
Kris knew from her history books that attacks in the ancient world . . . twentieth century and earlier . . . were sometimes delayed for hours. She’d seen vids where actors had done a good job of showing the conflicted nature of officers and men . . . wanting to go forward and fight . . . afraid to go forward and die.
Kris and her crews may or may not have felt conflicted about their future, but delay was not an option. Orbital mechanics swung the battleships at High Wardhaven. Similar mechanics swung Kris’s task force up from Wardhaven at them. Only a slight braking maneuver would send Horatio slicing down at them.
Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant Page 36