“First impact, sir. No significant damage,” Ivanov reported. “I’ve got a damage control team heading that way, though. Another strike in the same region might get through.”
“See that doesn’t happen, helm,” Volkov ordered.
“Working, sir,” the helmsman replied, setting the ship into a slow roll, trying to ensure that any impacts were on untouched areas of the ship. Volkov turned to the communications station, glancing impatiently at the screen, before finally Lopez raised her hands, crying a war whoop that echoed across the bridge.
“I presume that means you’ve cracked the enemy security, Specialist,” Volkov said with a wry smile.
“In and digging now, Major. Fifteen seconds and we’ll have everything we need.” She looked up at Donovan, and asked, “Is it accurate?”
“Give me a minute,” Donovan said, trying to match the incoming information with the sensor data they had already gathered.
“We don’t have a minute,” Volkov replied. “Judgment call, Specialist. Now.”
She frowned, looked at the screen once more, then said, “It’s real. It’s the information we’ve been looking for. I can start work on interpretation right away.”
“Datalink closed,” Lopez replied. “The chair’s all yours, Ronnie.”
“Helm, get us the hell out of here,” Volkov said, turning back to the viewscreen, the harried technician at the flight controls bringing the ship around, burning the engines hotter as he dived into a long, wide arc, twisting her tail to dodge a large piece of debris. “How long before we get clear?”
“Forty seconds, sir,” the helmsman replied. “Moving to full speed.”
“I’ve got more resolution on the sensors now, Major,” the monitoring technician added. “Getting a better picture of what we’re facing.”
The turrets continued to pound, but the debris was getting thicker, and soon a new pounding echoed on the hull, fragments of rock smashing into the armor plating. Volkov looked across at the engineering monitor, an amber halo enveloping the ship as first-alert warnings from incipient hull breaches flooded in. Ivanov looked across at him, shaking his head. The turrets weren’t keeping up with the incoming asteroids, and the ship couldn’t maneuver fast enough to dodge all of them.
“I might be able to take us deeper, sir, try and find another way out,” the helmsman said. “Or slow us right down, and...”
“Threat warning!” the sensor technician said. “Those two monitors have woken up. Engines lit, and they’re heading our way.” She paused, and added, “If they try and go through at that speed...”
“This is their home territory,” Volkov replied. “They know where they’re going. Helm, full ahead. We’re going to pound our way through. Evacuate all forward compartments, all turrets to fire into our line of flight. In thirty seconds, it’ll be over.”
“One impact in the wrong place...,” Ivanov warned.
Gesturing at the sensor display, Volkov said, “Those ships can be on us in fifteen minutes. We don’t have time to pick our way through, and we’re sure as hell going to need some speed to outmaneuver them once we clear the field. Helm, full ahead, now!”
The engines surged as the ship hurtled through the rubble, a series of anguished wails from the monitor board as a succession of hull breaches flooded through the forward section of the ship. There was no pretense at evasion, not any more, and he winced as the damage reports came in, knowing that despite all of his attempts to evacuate non-critical areas, casualty reports were certain to follow.
“Come on, old girl,” the helmsman muttered. “Come on.”
“Fifteen seconds,” Ivanov said.
An eternity, with the constant hammer-blow of impacts pounding on the hull. The ship was fighting its way through, alarms ringing across the bridge, the engineering technicians struggling to route damage control teams to critical areas, knowing that it was too little, too late. Volkov gripped the armrests of his chair tight enough to whiten his knuckles, watching as the enemy ships closed on them, still gaining speed.
“We’re through!” Ivanov said, his voice shaken with disbelief.
“Helm, do you still have full maneuverability?” Volkov asked.
“Just about, sir. I’ve lost a few forward thrusters, but not enough to cause serious trouble.”
“Put us on an evasive course, then. I want us well clear of those bastards. And if you can force them to loiter in the debris field for a while longer, so much the better.”
“Aye, sir. Executing course change.”
“What’s the damage, Lieutenant?” Volkov asked, turning to the pale-faced Ivanov.
“It’s bad, sir. We’ve lost all forward sensor pickups, and twelve compartments are open to space. Seven dead, four injured. Damage control teams are heading out now to take a proper look.” Grimacing, he added, “Three turrets are disabled as well, all forward mounts. We’d have trouble in a firefight.”
“What about the hyperdrive?” Lopez asked.
“Operational,” Ivanov said. “We can get out of here if we have to.”
Donovan turned to Volkov, and said, “I think I’ve got the information we need. There’s a flaw, a big one. One hit in the right spot should do the job. There’s a problem, though.”
“What is it?”
“We’ll never get a probe through. They’ve got defenses on the surface of the rocks, turrets. Fighters should be able to get past them, but I don’t see how a slow-moving probe could ever manage it. They’re going to have to do this using their targeting computers alone.”
“Is that even possible?” Lopez asked. “I know they’ve got six shots, but...”
“Somehow, Flynn and Benedetti are going to have to make it possible,” Volkov replied, looking at the sensor plot. “There isn’t any other choice. Work out an approach path, then contact Commander Flynn and break the bad news. Now we get to find out what Benedetti’s pilots can really do.”
“Or not,” Ivanov added.
Chapter 21
Romano lay behind the sniper rifle, reaching back to scratch an itch in his leg, stiff from lying prone in the same position for so long. They’d been waiting for what seemed like hours, long enough that he was beginning to think that either their trap had been too subtle, or that they might have already overwhelmed the enemy forces without realizing it. A glance at Grogan suggested that she agreed with him, but Kirkland remained resolutely at the door, pistol in hand.
“We wait,” she said, in response to his unasked question.
“Ma’am, we really should be at our battle stations,” Grogan said.
“I think we already are,” Kirkland replied. “Until we’ve beaten off the last of the saboteurs, we’re exactly where we need to be. They’re waiting for a moment when anyone is distracted. This moment, not that we’ve sustained a few hits, with technicians swarming around the decks. Nobody will notice if a few people decide to slip away for a moment. And that moment will be all the time they need if we don’t stay focused.”
“Check your sights,” Grogan said with a sigh. “We’re still zeroed in.”
Sinaga coughed, then said, “I am detecting something. Heat signatures in the corridor, four of them, heading in this direction. Though not conclusively so. There are other directions in which they might be planning to progress.”
“Distance?” Kirkland asked.
“Thirty meters, reducing.”
“Get ready. Don’t fire unless fired upon, but if they start something, we’ve got to finish it.” She peered into the darkness, then reached across for a light switch, bringing the illumination to maximum across the whole area. Romano looked down the corridor, eyes widening as he saw Commander Singh, leading a trio of technicians, all of them armed with pistols.
“Stand down, Lieutenant,” Singh said. “Stand down, right now. That’s an order.”
“How did you f
ind us, sir?” Romano asked.
“Internal sensors tracked you all the way from the cells. I don’t know what it is that you are planning, but it ends right here, right now.”
“Take him, Lieutenant,” Kirkland said. “He’s the saboteur! It all makes sense.”
“More like that she’s the saboteur, Lieutenant,” Singh replied, taking another step forward.
“Freeze, Commander,” Romano said. “Commander Kirkland, drop your weapon. You too, Commander Singh. Grogan, if either of them moves, take the shot.”
Grogan looked at Sinaga, then back at Romano, replying, “Yes, sir.”
“Damn it, Romano, I’m on your side!” Kirkland said.
“I’m sure that Commander Singh would sing the same song, ma’am, but until I get some sort of proof that I can count on, we’re all staying right here. Where we’re all nice and safe, until we can clear all of this up.”
“Grogan,” Singh said. “There’s a chance that Lieutenant Romano is the saboteur. He’s certainly been heavily enough involved with the investigation, and he was quick enough to push himself forward on it. You’ve got to end this, and now.”
“No,” Kirkland replied. “No, Grogan, don’t. Follow Lieutenant Romano’s orders. He’s right. You don’t have any reason to trust either of us.” Turning to him, she said, “Tony, I can give you my word that I’m loyal, and I can tell you that I have no reason to betray my country.”
“And I do?” Singh asked.
“You were passed over for command, three times. Your career dead-ended by a mistake made by someone else. It wouldn’t be at all surprising if you’d decided that you didn’t owe any loyalty where none was given.”
“You’re reason is just as good. I know all about your affair with Admiral Crawford, and...”
A flash of inspiration caught Romano, and he turned the rifle on Singh, firing a quick shot that lanced through his shoulder, sending him tumbling to the deck. Instantly, Grogan followed his lead, firing two quick shots at the surprised technicians working with him.
The third turned and ran, spiriting down the corridor, weaving from side to side as he dodged the hail of bullets slamming through the air all around him, diving into one of the maintenance shafts, pausing only to return fire with a short burst, one of the bullets catching Kirkland in the leg, sending her crashing to the floor. Sinaga looked at Romano, shook his head, then ripped a medical kit from the wall, making his way to the nearest wounded man, looking over his injuries. Grogan moved to assist Kirkland, a bandage in her hand, as the officer struggled to her feet.
Romano rose from the rifle, walked over to Singh, and looked at the wound in his shoulder, saying, “Nice and clean. You’ll live to stand trial.”
“How did you work it out?” Kirkland asked, wincing as Grogan ripped her trousers to access the bleeding wound.
“Logic and instinct, Commander. You were in a perfect position as Admiral’s aide to send a lot of valuable intelligence to PacFed. If the enemy had wanted intelligence, they’d have left you exactly where you were, not sent you out here into exile. Or at least, arranged a far more valuable posting.” Looking down at Singh, he continued, “You didn’t have a choice, though, did you. Your treason came after you arrived on this ship.”
“Smart boy,” Singh said. “Finish the job. Get after Klein. Tried to stop him, slow him down. Charges. Charges in the lower dorsal spine. Big enough to tear the superstructure to pieces unless you can stop him.” His desperate eyes locked on Romano, and he continued, “Not much time. He’s the last one.”
“It’s a trick,” Kirkland said. “He’s lying.”
“Maybe,” Romano said. “What section?”
“Twenty-Four.”
“I can get there quickly,” the young officer replied.
“Not alone,” Grogan said.
Shaking his head, Romano replied, “No. You’ve got to stay. To watch the wounded and take care of the prisoners. One of you could be overcome. If this is a trap, then I’ll face it alone.”
Sinaga looked at Romano, and said, “Not if you trust me with a firearm.” At Kirkland’s glare, he said, “All I had to do was keep silent on the detectors, and these gentlemen would have been able to overwhelm you in a matter of seconds. If this ship is destroyed, I die as well, and any hope of ever rescuing my crew dies with me!”
“You can’t be thinking of trusting him,” Grogan said.
“We don’t have time to take a poll,” Romano replied, snatching a pistol from the deck, abandoned by one of the traitors. He looked at Sinaga, cold eyes on cold eyes, and said, “I’m a faster and better shot than you are, Captain. I’ll take that shot without a second’s hesitation if I think it necessary. Understand?”
“I order…,” Kirkland began.
“Sorry, Commander. You’re on the sick list.”
“I’m on your side,” Sinaga said. “I have no choice.”
“Then follow me, Captain,” Romano replied, making his way down the corridor. Sinaga followed, glares from Kirkland and Grogan tracking him as he walked. Romano stopped half way, then pulled open a maintenance hatch, looking down into the darkness below. He reached for a control panel, then looked back at Sinaga.
“We’ll never catch him in time if we go through the ducts, and I’m guessing that they’ve already shut down the elevator network in this area. It’s a hundred meters, straight down.”
“Then we use a rope?”
“No rope. I’m going to shut down the artificial gravity on this deck. If it works, we fly down. Of course, if our friend down there is watching the systems, then he can turn it back on again. Maybe turn it up a few notches. Still want to risk it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Realistically, probably not,” Romano replied. “I hope you don’t get spacesick. Just in case, you can go first.” He entered an override code, feeling the familiar grinding in his stomach as the gravity slipped way, the underdeck generators disabled. Without even a second glance, Sinaga pushed himself down the shaft, and a few seconds later, Romano followed, easing his way into the passage, using his hands to guide himself down.
When he’d first reported on board, Romano had attempted to memorize the layout of the ship, trying to work out the fastest routes to his battle station from various areas. He’d done his best, but the interior was such a tangle of twisted corridors and tunnels that almost nobody really knew where to go. Any such knowledge existed only in the minds of a few of the long-service maintenance technicians, who tended to hoard their hard-won wisdom to themselves to remain at the top of the performance curve. And hide the fact that they were skirting around restricted areas in order to complete their tasks in record time.
With a thud, Sinaga reached the bottom of the shaft, moving out of the way just in time to allow Romano to descend. They were in time. No sign of anyone else in the area. He looked down at the long quadronium shaft running down the long axis of the ship, one of the dozen primary structural struts. The metal was covered in scrawled graffiti, the aftermath of endless inspections and refits, and at first, he couldn’t spot anything out of place.
Then he found it. A small box, anchored to the strut. That had to be what he was looking for. He raced over to it, and breathed a quick sigh of relief. He’d been afraid that it would have been something unfamiliar, perhaps something he wouldn’t even recognize as an explosive. This was a standard demolition charge, with three additional explosive packs placed in position to increase the yield. He could disarm this. He tapped the control panel to bring up the display, grimacing as he saw a countdown ticking away, less than two hundred seconds to go. It must have been activated remotely, perhaps as soon as the attack force had realized they had lost.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a datapad, calling up the hacking suite and plugging it into the device, impatiently waiting as it completed an electronic handshake. The saboteur had
sliced into the security systems to activate it, and he started to enter in command codes to override that command, one after another, a seemingly endless stream of confirmations of identity.
“How long?” Sinaga asked.
“It’ll be tight,” Romano replied. “Four checks to go.”
Then three. And two. Finally one. He waited for the final screen to load, his fingers poised over the keypad to enter his codes, when a crack rang out from the far end of the corridor, a bullet ricocheting from the strut just short of the charge, enough to send Romano diving into cover. He looked up at the datapad, now winking in an attempt to attract authentication, and reached for his pistol, drawing it in a smooth motion and lining up for a shot.
The enemy agent was faster than he. His bullet smashed into Romano’s pistol, sending it flying from his grip and tumbling to the ground, well away from the safety of cover. He looked out at it, weighing up the odds of making a desperate charge to retrieve it, knowing that there were only seconds to go. He couldn’t see Sinaga, and he cursed himself for trusting too easily, too quickly.
Then, just as he was about to charge, Sinaga rose from his hiding place, screaming a battle cry that instantly attracted a bullet, giving Romano just enough time to snatch his pistol and take a single, desperate shot. The saboteur grinned manically, then slumped back against the wall, a perfect bullet wound in his forehead spilling blood down his face, his limbs grotesquely twitching as what remained of his brain realized that he was about to die.
Never In Vain (Lincoln's War Book 2) Page 17