by John Bowers
Carson touched a button that fired a burst transmission back to the carrier, a precoded signal that announced they had reached a disabled ship, and included such variable data as their position, fuel status, and other miscellaneous information. If anything happened while affecting the rescue, the carrier would know their last reported position.
"Attent: ETA to target signal thirty seconds. Beginning continuous retro thrust now."
In spite of himself, Carson felt his pulse quicken. It happened every time, even after six years of war. When you pulled up next to a blasted fighter, anything could — and sometimes did — happen. There were no guarantees.
"Okay, people, look alive!" he said into the intercom. "We're almost there!"
In the distance he thought he saw it, a gleaming speck of metal that rapidly grew larger as the rescue ship arrowed straight for it. Within seconds it took on size and shape, and then they were alongside, drift and velocity matched, and the AI announced arrival. The fighter hung between Carson and the planet, tumbling crazily as fighters usually did after being hit. It was a GalaxyFighter, shot all to hell and blackened by laser fire. The turret was jammed at a 160-degree angle to the rear, as if the gunner had been tracking at the time of impact; both 29mm cannon and the laser rifle appeared intact. Three cannon shells had penetrated the cockpit and the windows were dark. Carson stared at it for ten seconds and observed no visible signs of life, save the transponder signal on the HH, which now blinked a harsh and brilliant yellow.
"Okay, people," he said then, "we're on station. Sergeant McGarrity, you have the mission." He glanced at Ho. "Advise any contacts," he added.
Ho nodded.
Carson's ship was a Lincoln SMR-97eX ResQMed, one hundred ten feet long, basically rectangular in shape, looking something like a cracker box. Although it was aerodynamic enough to operate inside an atmosphere, its primary purpose was to conduct rescue operations in deep space and provide initial medical care for survivors.
Gunnery Sgt. Collin McGarrity swung into action the minute Carson gave him the word. His first task was to stop the rotation of the other ship, and from his duty station in the compartment just abaft the cockpit he nodded to his subordinate, Space 1/c Willie Wolters.
"Apply tractor beams, myte."
"Aye, Gunny."
Wolters lifted the helmet off his spacesuit and set it aside; Space Force regs were adamant that suits be pressurized at all times during combat operations, but Willie was claustrophobic when trying to work in the damned thing, and McGarrity never said a word. He tuned his master console to the damaged fighter and began manipulating controls. Two tractor beams from each end of the ResQMed switched on and reached for the wreck, struggling to get a grip and stop it from tumbling. It took nearly a minute as Willie fiddled with his controls, tuning and retuning, until the fighter began to achieve stability. Tractor beams were invisible arms of electromagnetic energy, popularized in ancient science fiction as able to jerk full-thrust starships out of the sky; in reality they were relatively weak compared to the energy output of a real star drive, used mostly as a docking tool or for towing drones. In this sort of operation they were invaluable.
The GalaxyFighter finally stopped spinning and sat dead in space, slightly angled in relation to the ResQMed, but stable.
"Target is stationary, Gunny," Willie reported, and even before McGarrity gave the next order his fingers were already working the console.
"Awright, then, let's git a telemetry link and download survival stats. See if anyone's alive over there."
"Aye," Willie murmured, even as the datalink light blinked to signal a connection. At least the fighter's AI was still working, he thought. People might die if life support failed after a hit, but unless the ship was blown to bits, the computers usually survived. Willie admired the Lincoln designers who'd built the GalaxyFighter; the ResQMed was also a Lincoln, and everyone in the service said you just lived longer if you flew a Lincoln. He started the download and seconds later it was complete. He scrolled it up on his text screen and he and McGarrity bent over it, quickly reading through the encrypted shorthand to determine what they needed to know.
"Gawd!" McGarrity breathed. "Pilot's a bloody goner, poor bugger! Vital signs are zero."
"We can still save the gunner," Willie agreed. "She's hurt, but she looks stable enough."
"Right." McGarrity straightened abruptly and punched the intercom into sickbay. "Kept'n Ferracci, looks like we got a survivor. Stand by for one."
"We're ready, Gunny," the doctor replied in his headset. "How long?"
"Dunno yet, luv, myebe half an hour. I'll have to let you know."
He switched off and turned to his other crewman. "Dennis, get the sled ready. We're goin' across."
Space 2/c Dennis Carrington acknowledged the order from his equipment bay and quickly shoved a multi-purpose jet sled into the airlock, then returned for a bulky pack filled with miscellaneous other gear that he attached to the underside of the sled. When McGarrity reached the airlock Carrington was waiting. McGarrity sealed the inner door and depressurized the lock. The outer door slid open, creating a ten-foot gap in the side of the ResQMed. The two men stood exposed to the vacuum of space, six feet from eternity if one of them should lose his footing and drift away.
Working with careful deliberation, yet wasting no motion, they prepared to cross the void to the stricken fighter sixty yards away. Carrington went first, after attaching an umbilical to a ring inside the open airlock. Using the jetpack strapped to his shoulders, he kicked off like a marathon swimmer and began the trip across, correcting gently with steering jets as he progressed. Less than a minute later he'd reached the fighter, rotating his body to land on his feet, clamping tight against the metal fuselage with magnetic boots. Within seconds he'd slapped a portable locking ring onto the root of the retracted starboard wing and pulled the pin, which fired a tiny charge that melted the metal just enough to fuse the ring into it. The metal froze instantly and the locking ring looked as if it had been designed into the fighter's skin. Carrington clipped his umbilical to the ring and signaled to McGarrity.
"Okay, Gunny, umbilical attached. Take her up!"
McGarrity touched a switch in the airlock and the excess slack from the umbilical was wound onto a spool, leaving a rigid cable that connected the two ships, with just enough slack to prevent a tension fracture. McGarrity now hooked an anchor line from the jet sled onto the umbilical and pushed off, using his own jetpack to propel himself and the sled across to the other ship. Moments later he used the sled's retro jets to stop before it crashed into the fighter, then locked the anchor line to suspend the sled ten feet from the ship. He joined Carrington on the wing root.
The problem they now faced was getting into the gun turret. The access hatch was on the portside, and they were on the starboard. One of them had to crawl across the fighter, either under the belly or over the top. Going over the top meant crawling in front of the guns, for in their present position they pointed toward the rear. McGarrity wasn't thrilled about that; he knew that when a fighter has been disabled nothing about it can be trusted. Most likely the gun switches were still turned on, and any movement inside or outside the turret could cause an accidental discharge. He knew two rescue techs who'd died that way right after the war started.
On the other hand, crawling under the ship meant possible radiation exposure; if the stardrives had been breached and there was an ion leak, the underside of the ship would be the site of the most dangerous exposure.
"Whose turn is it, Gunny?" Carrington asked tensely, grinning through his faceplate.
"I think it's yours, myte," McGarrity replied. "Before you go, let's see if we can ryse the gunner, hey?"
McGarrity located the external voice jack on the side of the turret through which ship handlers could talk to those inside. He pulled a thin cable from his helmet and plugged it into the socket, then twisted a knob on his helmet that sent power surging into the fighter's intercom.
"This is Gunnery Sergeant Coll
in McGarrity, 309th Medical Rescue Squadron. Can you hear me in there?"
His only response was static. He waited a moment and then manipulated the channel selector on his helmet. He repeated the statement. This time he heard a moan, a whimper, then a pained gasp.
"Hello," he said. "Kin you hear me, luv? Answer if you can."
"Oooooooooh, God!" The voice was reedy with pain, definitely female. McGarrity nodded at Carrington, then spoke again.
"Okay, luv, sounds like you can hear me. I know you're hurtin' in there, but I need to know about your injuries. What can you tell me?"
"Please!" the voice from inside gasped. "Please, get me out of here. Please hurry!"
"We're gonna git you out, sweet, don't worry about that. But first you have to help me. Is your pressure suit intact? Do you have any leaks anywhere?"
There was a hesitation and a mumble.
"I think it's okay," she said. "It's been breached but it seems to have sealed itself. How long … is this gonna take?"
"Not long, hon. You hang in there. Now, look, can you see the turret pressure displye? Is the turret pressurized? Can you tell?"
"I can't … can't see it. The screen is out. I've … Ow! Oh, God! God, it hurts!"
"Keep talkin', luv. Tell me what you see."
"The turret integrity screen is out. Big hole in it. I think … a fragment went through it." She panted for a moment in pain. "Smoking. Screen is smoking."
"Okay, luv, sit tight. We'll be inside shortly."
McGarrity pulled the plug from the socket and let it retract into his helmet. He spoke to Carrington.
"She's got smoke in the turret, so it's still pressurized. When you pop the hatch, keep clear. It's gonna come out like a bullet."
"What about her suit?"
"She thinks it's pressurized, but she's got fragment wounds. Can't tell for sure. She may have a leak, and if she does you've only got a couple of minutes to find it. Think you can work that fast?"
"No problem. I've done a couple like that before."
"Okay. Then scoot around to the other side and get ready. No! Wait!" McGarrity plugged the cable into the socket again.
"Hello inside!"
"Yes?"
"Listen, luv, what's your nyme?"
"Third Lieutenant … Judy … ," She gasped and he lost her for a moment. "Judy Rogers."
"Okay, Judy. Look, can you tell me this — are your gun switches on or off?"
Another long pause. McGarrity could hear the girl inside whimper with pain as she shifted her position to look.
"They're … still on," she reported back.
He closed his eyes as the implications sank in.
"Okay, Judy. Shut them off, please. Can you reach them?"
"I — think so. Uh! There! They're off."
"All of 'em? Lyser, too?"
"Yes. Master switch. Everything … disabled."
"Good girl. Sit tight, sweet, I'll be back to you." He unplugged again and nodded to Carrington. "Okay, Dennis. She syfed the guns. Git going."
Carrington scrambled over the top of the fighter, keeping close to the skin while at the same time being careful not to snag his suit on any sharp protrusions. In spite of the wounded gunner's assurances that her weapons were disabled, he ducked as he passed in front of them, keeping his helmet as low as possible so that an accidental discharge would pass over him. He slid down the opposite side and settled onto the portside wing root, next to the access hatch. Keeping to one side of the hatch itself, he pulled open a control panel, which could be used to open the turret under emergency conditions.
If the girl's suit had been seriously impaired, the rescue team would have been forced to set up an external pressure lock, a temporary airlock to enable them to open the hatch without voiding the pressure inside. To do so, however, required at least one extra hour of rescue time, and sometimes more. Service policy was to keep rescue times to a minimum, due to the very real possibility of discovery by the enemy. The Sirians had been known to destroy rescue ships as they attempted to save wounded fighter crews, so it was imperative to get in and out in the shortest possible time. The ResQMed was unarmed.
Dennis Carrington checked the switches in the control panel and satisfied himself that everything was ready.
"Okay, Gunny, I'm ready to blow the hatch. It's your call."
"One minute." McGarrity plugged in again and spoke to the girl inside. "Judy, we're ready to blow the hatch. Are you still strapped in?”
"That's … affirm. Go ahead. I'm — I'm ready."
"Too right. Hang on, sweet. Dennis, let 'er rip!"
Carrington took a deep breath, leaned as far to the right as he dared, and pulled the wire cover free of the red emergency button. With the index finger of his left hand he punched the button.
There was no sound, but the explosive bolts in the access door fired and the door exploded outward in a puff of water vapor, tumbling crazily as it streaked like a rocket toward Saturn. Willi’s tractor beams kept the fighter from being propelled into their own ship.
Two seconds later, the hatch disappeared into the distance. Carrington quickly pulled himself toward the hole that now gaped in the gun turret and peered inside. The turret wasn't very big, just three hundred cubic feet, packed with electronic consoles and weapons controls. Suspended in the middle in an acceleration harness was the gunner, five feet two inches of curvaceous black flesh encased in an expensive pressurized space suit that had been holed through the small of the back. Dried blood smeared the harness straps.
"I'm in!" Carrington reported as he crawled through the hatch and squatted unnaturally facing the wounded gunner.
"Judy," McGarrity said through his filoptic cable, "you still with me? Speak to me, luv!"
"I'm — okay!" she grunted. "I see … a man … in the hatch. I see him!"
"Good, Judy, that's bloody wonderful! His name is Dennis, and he's gonna get you out of there."
Carrington reached for the girl and touched her gently on the shoulder. She gazed at him through the clear Solarglas of her helmet and he saw the pain mirrored in her eyes. He grinned at her and spoke gently, though they weren't connected and she couldn't hear him. She managed to curve her lips slightly in response. Carrington spoke to McGarrity, who relayed to the girl and gave her replies back to him. When the wounded were conscious it was standard procedure to explain to them what was going on; being wounded and stranded in deep space was a terrifying experience that could send a person into emotional shock all by itself. A person in such condition could respond erratically.
Carrington worked his way under her suspension harness and checked her suit at the point where she'd been wounded. He saw a lot of blood but it was all dried; the suit had sealed itself, just as it was designed to do. She might still be bleeding, but that would be inside the suit. At the moment he was concerned about pressure integrity — if the suit depressurized she would die within seconds, and blood loss would mean nothing. Next he checked the gauges built into the back of her shoulders, and though the pressure was twenty psi lower than normal, it was constant. Good enough.
"Okay, Gunny, she looks good. I'm gonna bind her feet now." Carrington went to work even as McGarrity explained it to her.
"It's routine, Judy. We have to tie your feet together to keep them from floating about. Nothin' to worry about. You okye with that?"
"Yes. I just want out of here!"
"I hear you, sweet. Keep yer chin up, Judy, you're doin' lovely."
It took fifteen seconds to secure her feet, then Carrington ran a strap around her waist and secured her wrists to it. Next he began releasing her suspension harness and twenty seconds later she was ready to move.
In spite of himself, Carrington's adrenaline pumped at being inside the gun turret. He personally didn't see how anyone could fight a war inside one of the damned things. Thankfully, he didn't have to. Through the open hatch all he could see were the shifting yellowish colors of Saturn, and the edge of one ring. It seemed terrifyingly clo
se, as though its gravity would suck them all into oblivion at any second. He took a moment for a deep breath before taking the next step.
"We're coming out, Gunny!"
"She's ready," McGarrity responded a few seconds later. "Hang onto 'er now."
Carrington didn't answer. Instead he turned the girl's legs toward the open hatch, pushing her to within a foot of the opening. At that point he attached an umbilical from his belt into the strap he'd tied around her ankles. If he lost her, he could reel her in. He exited first, backing out until his magnetic soles took a grip on the wing root. Once his helmet was clear, he pulled the umbilical slowly and gently guided the wounded gunner through the hatch into open space. It required no more than thirty seconds to get her completely free; making certain that her suit didn't come into contact with any part of the ship.
Once outside the fighter, 3/Lt. Judy Rogers's helmet radio was no longer in contact with the intercom and McGarrity pulled his cable free for the last time. He returned to the jetsled and began preparing it for the casualty. Carrington now had to execute the most difficult — though not necessarily most dangerous — part of the rescue. He and the girl were on the portside wing root, but the jetsled was attached to the umbilical, which was anchored to the starboard wing root. They had to get to the other side of the fighter without drifting away, and there was no question of crawling across the skin the way he'd come.
Using yet another strap from his belt inventory, Carrington strapped the girl to himself, both of them vertical to each other, like two people in an embrace. Then it was a not-so-simple matter of using his jet pack in small, measured bursts. The first carried them above the back of the GalaxyFighter with ten feet of clearance. Before they could drift farther he rotated and fired again, carrying them to the starboard side, then another rotation and a gentle nudge to guide them toward the umbilical and the jetsled. McGarrity snagged them and reeled them in; together he and Carrington unstrapped the girl from Carrington's suit and strapped her onto the jetsled. It was tricky, but they'd done it many times before. The jetsled then powered itself back down the umbilical toward the ResQMed.