Rebellion 2456_Martian Wars Trilogy Book 1

by M S Murdock

  The cargo net rolled at the end of its tow cable. “Steady! If the load grazes the hatch, it’ll bounce off the track! Keep it steady!”

  “All right, all right. I don’t want to haul this one out and make another docking run any more than you want to talk me through it.”

  The captain of the tug Modestine concentrated on aligning his bulky load with Salvation III’s central bay hatch. Larger than the opening Buck had negotiated, it was still a tight fit for the wallowing net of salvage. Torn panels from a defunct solar collector poked out of the net at crazy angles, the thin metal pitted by years of meteorite rain. Supporting struts from the same solar collector ran the length of the net, though broken arms were stuffed haphazardly into the load.

  His docking speed roughly that of an elderly snail, the tug’s captain hauled the unwieldy net into position in front of the hatch. It had to line up perfectly with the catcher, an extendable arm that projected from the open hatch. The catcher was set into a track, and once a load was secured to its three-fingered metallic hand, it moved down the track, drawing the salvage into the station.

  The Modestine’s starboard landing thrusters coughed, and the ship slid sideways, drawing the load with it. The catcher beckoned, rising exactly parallel to the tug’s stubby nose. From inside the spacegoing garbage dump, NEO technician James Bowie ordered the mechanical band’s descent. “Got her!” he crowed as the metal fingers tangled in the net.

  “You better lock her,” cautioned Cochise, holding the tug’s nose steady with a delicate touch on its throttle.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not taking any chances,” Bowie assured him. The metal fingers closed into a fist, clutching the net.

  “All clear,” said Cochise.

  “Disengage.” Bowie’s voice was tense.

  “Roger,” responded Cochise. He disengaged the tow cable, and the line slid sinuously into the Modestine’s hull. Under his direction, the tug dropped into space. “Haul her in,” he said.

  The load jerked, then began to move deliberately down the tunnel. Bowie watched it go, holding his breath. The load moved straight and true to the end of the tunnel. There the catcher stopped, waiting for further orders. Bowie watched as it registered new programming and moved to the left, hugging the wall of the huge interior docking bay. Once through the Opening, the hatch door began to close.

  “Phew,” said Cochise. “We did it.”

  “We sure did. Six of them. That’s some day’s work. Come on in.”

  “I’ll buy you a cold one.”

  “You’re on,” Bowie accepted.

  The workday was over for Salvation’s two technicians, but in the depths of the station it was just beginning for everyone else. Three men stood in a tight huddle before Buck Rogers. Carlton Turabian, Salvation’s administrative leader, stood at their head, his arms folded in a defensive posture only partially dispelled by the sight of his fringe of white hair. It poked out in untamed tufts, rather like the artificial hair worn by clowns Buck remembered from his youth. Turabian’s face, however, held authority. Behind him stood Thomas Paine, a bored expression on his pale, bland face. He was NEO’s computer administrator on Salvation, and as such, one of the organization’s ranking officials. He rarely performed a social function, and Turabian’s summons irritated him. He intended to get whatever business there was out of the way, and get back to work. Perched behind Turabian’s shoulder was his second-in-command, Lafayette. His bright eyes peered at the bulging cargo net. He cocked his head like an inquisitive span row. “Well, Captain Rogers?”

  Buck glanced at Wilma. She was leaning nonchalantly against the nearest cargo net. “It’s your show,” she said, her eyes showing amusement.

  “Get on with it, Rogers,” said Turabian. “When you demanded I clock this shipment, I went along with you, but only because Colonel Deering assured me there was good reason. I’ve wasted eighteen hours of my employees’ time, not to mention fuel and storage space. I’d like to see some results.”

  Buck grinned. “Gentlemen, I could talk to you all day about this, but somehow, I think it’ll be more effective to show you. Barney?”

  Black Barney walked over to the load Wilma was using for a backrest. She gave way before him, picked up a “rivet kicker” from a nearby workbench, and handed it to him. Barney motioned it away and extended his cybernetic arm. His metal fingers, not unlike the fingers of the catcher, curved around one of the net’s rivets. He used his thumb to pop it off. The rivet heads bounced to the floor like marbles as he went swiftly down the net, unable to resist the opportunity to show off.

  “Careful,” cautioned Turabian, “or the load will collapse on you.”

  As Barney popped the last rivet, the net fell away, but, contrary to Turabian’s warning, the cargo did not collapse. One solar strut rolled off and clattered on the floor. Barney reached up and began to pull down trash. Buck moved to help him, but Wilma stood back, watching the faces of her three NEO colleagues. As Barney pulled a solar panel off the pile, she heard Turabian gasp. She wouldn’t have missed his expression for all the cash on Mars.

  “By the great seas of Mars!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

  Buck stood back from the trim lines of RAM’s newest superfighter. The new paint of the Krait’s black and red fuselage sparkled amid the faded colors at its feet. “RAM,” he said succinctly.

  “But how?”

  “To be frank, Commander, we stole her.”

  “Stole her? But we have nothing capable of that,” insisted Turabian.

  “Oh, yes, we do,” Buck said.

  “There isn’t a ship in the fleet capable of facing anything like this,” commented Lafayette.

  “I know. That’s why we need them.” Buck petted the ship’s side.

  “Them?” three voices said in unison.

  “There are five more.” Buck turned to the officers.

  Turabian sagged at the news. He moved to the workbench and leaned on it.

  Wilma placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know, sir. It’s quite a shock. When Buck told me what he was planning, I thought he was crazy, but he pulled it off.” Her eyes shone. “Now we have the power to meet RAM on its own ground.”

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” a worried Paine asked. “RAM won’t ignore this. The retaliation . . .”

  “Win or lose,” said Wilma lightly, dangerously, “we’ve got a better chance now.”

  “Look,” said Buck. “This wasn’t a one-man operation. We wouldn’t have these ships at all if it weren’t for Doc recoding that transport voucher, or Barney picking up the shipment. That’s why we’ve got a chance-because we all worked together.”

  “Captain Rogers, I truly do not know what to say. This is overwhelming.” Turabian still looked stunned.

  “Am I to understand,” said Paine, “that you used Huer.dos to tamper with RAM shipping?”

  “Yep,” replied Buck.

  “Do you know how dangerous that was for Salvation? I assume the transmission originated here.” Paine’s hands began trembling, whether from fear or anger, Buck couldn’t tell.

  “Please, Major Paine, we are not imbeciles,” interjected Wilma. “The transmission was forwarded. To any investigation, it will appear to have come from Rhea. Is that sufficiently out of the way for you?”

  “And you think RAM will accept such a transparent deception?” asked Paine.

  “Why not? Rhea is home for pirates and renegades. If one of them came across the information a shipment of experimental spacecraft was heading for Hauberk, don’t you think they’d try to commandeer it?” said Buck.

  Paine opened his mouth, but Barney cut him off. “I would,” he said, his voice echoing through the dock.

  “You see?” said Buck.

  “How long,” asked Paine stiffly, “do you think you can hide them? Every second they stay here, they jeopardize the security of the station.”

  “Nonsense, Paine,” Lafayette chipped in. “This station is a covert operation rooted
in dangerous is NEO itself.”

  “Major, these ships will give us the ability to defend Salvation-really defend her. Until now, you were only as safe as RAM’s ignorance of your existence.” Buck felt a growing ground swell of support.

  Paine looked unconvinced, but he closed his mouth.

  “Well, Captain.” Turabian shook his head. “I am still dazed. Now that you’ve got them, what do you propose to do with them?”

  “Fly,” answered Buck.

  Wilma smiled, lights of amusement in her eyes.

  “Somehow I knew that,” said Turabian. “I was looking for something more specific.”

  “A plan?” queried Wilma comically.

  “Yes.”

  Wilma cocked an eye at Buck. She wanted to see how he responded. “Captain? This was your idea.”

  “I thought we might paint them,” he said, eyeing the scarlet and black hulls with disfavor. “They look like red pencils.”

  “And?” prompted Wilma.

  Buck grinned. “Okay,” he said. “First, we’ll learn to fly these birds. We’ll fly them better than they’ve ever been flown before. Krait has both atmospheric and space capabilities. We’re going to master both until we can fly her in our sleep.”

  “And then?” asked Turabian.

  “Then we look for a target.”

  “A target. You mean you’re going to pick a fight with RAM?” Turabian was incredulous.

  “Isn’t that what we’re here for?” asked Buck.

  “It’s what we’ve been doing for decades, Commander,” commented Wilma.

  “But this is on a different scale. This isn’t a skirmish. This--” Turabian ran his hand over his thinning hair “-really means war.”

  Buck nodded. “If we lose,” he said quietly, “RAM will be in a position to wipe us out. These are high stakes.” “This takes some getting used to.” Turabian’s voice was strained.

  “Why?” asked Buck. “Haven’t you been playing for high stakes all along?”

  “Not like this,” put in Paine.

  “You’ve been putting your lives on the line since you joined NEO,” said Wilma.

  “That," said Buck, “is about the highest stake there is.” “You realize there’s going to have to be some discussion about this.”

  “Let the council discuss it,” said Wilma. “I plan to be much too busy.”

  Turabian ran his hand over his hair again. The gesture was becoming mechanical. He did not like the implication of Wilma’s words, nor did he like the flippant tone in which they were uttered. It was clear that, whatever the council’s decision, she had no intention of letting the ships go to waste.

  “And you, Rogers? Are you willing to abide by the council’s decision?”

  “Nope.”

  “What?”

  “I said no. N-o. Not if it decides to keep Krait locked away for some unspecified future action. Her value lies in using her now, while she’s still the hottest rocket in the system. We have an advantage. We’ve got to use it.”

  “We’ve never had this opportunity, Turabian. We’ve always limped along in RAM’s shadow, nipping at its heels like a frustrated sheep dog. This is the chance we’ve waited for!” said Wilma.

  The passion in Wilma’s voice was contagious, and Turabian felt his Spirits rising. “You have six ships. You and Colonel Deering have some experience in high performance craft. Most of our men do not where will you get pilots?”

  “Where does anyone get pilots?” responded Buck. “We’ll train them.” He turned to Paine. “You can help us there.”

  Paine’s bland face registered mild surprise. “Me?”

  “Sure. We need computer checks on the pilots.”

  “That makes sense,” said Paine. “Can’t afford a security breach on this one.” He aimed a suspicious eye at Barney. “What about him? And his crew? They aren’t exactly pristine.”

  Buck regarded the pirate. “We understand each other,” he said.

  Paine looked unconvinced. “I hope so, Captain.”

  “And,” continued Buck, “we’re going to need a special crew of mechanics for these babies. They don’t have the tough hides of the ships you’re used to. They’ll need cuddling, but they’ll be worth it.”

  "I suggest we get technical read-outs on the ship’s systems, Turabian,” said Paine.

  “I concur,” said the commander. “Lafayette, mechanics are your area. Will you work with Paine on this?”

  Lafayette tore his eyes away from the fighter. His conspicuous silence during the conversation was due to an attack of adoration. He itched to get his hands on Krait’s innards. “You could not have given me a more welcome assignment, Commander.” He moved toward the spacecraft. “Come, Thomas. Let us see how she flies.”

  The two went to the ship, deep in technical conversation. Turabian smiled. “Peace, for the moment,” he said. “By the way, Captain Rogers, you mentioned a worthy target for our new fleet. Did you have anything in mind?”

  “Yes? said Wilma. “Hauberk.”

  Chapter 15

  Colonel Deering, you’re joking!”

  “No, she’s not,” said Buck.

  “But Hauberk! It’s the best protected RAM outpost near Earth.”

  “That may be. It’s also the most strategic target you have. If we can sever its ties to Mars, isolate it, we can stop its pipeline of pain and resources.”

  “To attack Hauberk is suicide,” Turabian declared.

  “Is it? I don’t think so,” said Buck.

  “Captain Rogers, I don’t believe you’re aware of the full ramifications of what you propose. Colonel Deering, surely you know better?”

  Wilma smiled. Her expression made chills run up Turabian’s Spine. “I don’t say there aren’t risks, but I think it can be done,” she said.

  “Look, Turabian, let’s ask a logical source. Doc! Mousetrap.” Buck called the latest in a series of coded access words.

  The terminal on a diagnostic computer winked on. The computer’s main function was to check the circuitry and mechanics of salvage, but it was tied in to the station’s main computer system. Huer’s face appeared on the screen. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  Buck suppressed a smile at Huer’s formality, knowing that it, like the rest of the discussion, was for Turabian’s benefit. “Give me what you know on Hauberk.”

  “Oh, my,” Huer said.

  “See, even your computer is taken aback,” said Turabian.

  Buck ignored the comment. “Doc, I need anything you can give me.”

  “Hauberk is top-security. There may not be much.”

  “As I recall, you’re pretty good at security,” Buck countered.

  “Hmm,” said Huer. The ends of his clipped mustache turned up. His eyes clicked in and out of consciousness, and specifications began to appear on the bank of screens above him.

  Buck watched the display with absorption. The station’s defenses marched across the screen, their exact placement pinpointed in standard scale. Shields, station-based artillery, and missile pods were delineated. It was an impressive array, but as the parade of weaponry continued, a light of satisfaction grew in his cobalt eyes. “Doc, didn’t you say Hauberk has its own fighter detachment?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see only two docking bays. How may ships are stationed there?”

  “Two full flights. One usually is in the air.”

  “Only two flights? That’s not enough to cover a station this size. What’s their flight pattern?” Buck thought he may have found one of Hauberk’s weak links. With any luck, breaking it would weaken others and loosen the station’s chain of defenses.

  Huer’s eyes refocused again. “They fly sentinel between the shields and the station. They’re supposed to pick off anyone who gets past the shielding."

  “That’s crazy! They ought to be flying outside the shields, warning off unauthorized craft. Those lighters aren’t earning their keep.” Buck frowned, trying to figure RAM logic. Obviously the figh
ter squadrons, like Hauberk’s other defenses, were considered purely defensive by command. That was a mistake that would cost it-another link in the chain.

  Abruptly the transmission froze.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” said Huer, “but I couldn‘t get any farther without risking detection.”

  “1 think you’ve given us enough to chew on. Notice anything, Turabian?”

  “You mean the overwhelming obstacles of Hauberk’s defenses? Oh, I noticed those.”

  “You hit it, Commander.”

  The station commander’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I don’t catch your meaning, Captain.”

  “Defenses. That’s the key word.” Buck grinned.

  “Hauberk is a bulwark of RAM’s control over Earth. No place in the system is so well defended,” Turabian continued.

  Wilma chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it," she said. “Try reversing your thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Ever heard the saying, ‘the best defense is a strong offense’?” asked Buck.

  “No,” Turabian admitted.

  “It’s another one of my archaic truisms,” said Buck. “It means you can’t have one without the other. A good defense means strong offensive, or strike capabilities, and a strong offense means the ability to protect the home base. They go hand in hand. Hauberk has forgotten that.”

  “All her weaponry is geared to protecting herself by hiding under an arsenal,” contributed Wilma.

  “Hauberk has forgotten an arsenal can be an active, as well as a passive, weapon,” Buck said.

  “That is consistent with its logic,” said Huer. “When the nucleus of Hauberk was launched in the early twenty-first century, its mission was strictly peaceful. It was to act as a fail-safe mechanism for orbiting weaponry. Its defenses were merely to ensure its survival in space-shields to ward off meteorites and space trash. In all the years of its development, that original logic has never been changed.”

  “Hauberk’s entire weapons system is geared for defense,” Buck said in summary.

  “I still fail to understand what difference that makes, considering it has the most advanced weep one in the solar system,” said Turabian.