The Rampant Storm

by J. Alan Field

  Ensign Kuyper’s voice broke in on Pettigrew’s introspection. “Enemy firing on Brigand!”

  The Nobunaga was letting loose a torrent of missiles on the slow, crippled Union frigate. Several missed but most did not as the frigate’s company fought valiantly for life itself.

  “Sensors indicate there’s been a reactor breach aboard Brigand!” exclaimed Swoboda. “Life pods are—” Before he could finish his thought, the frigate exploded in a fiery cataclysm. Two life pods had just been launched, but neither had gotten far enough away from the doomed vessel—they were taken along with the rest of their crewmates.

  “They’re turning, sir.”

  Pettigrew struggled to come back into the moment. It was the voice of Nyondo.

  “Enemy turning.”

  “They’re turning to fight,” Pettigrew said. “Tactical, make ready maximum salvo of missiles and prepare to fire on my mark.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Pettigrew saw Olivia Kuypers working to follow his orders. Her face had assumed an odd expression—a frightening expression—as a dark smile washed over it. It should have been disturbing, but instead he found her grim countenance comforting. He was reminded of a quote from his school days. O’er the strife shouted for glee Enyo, sister of Ares. She was his Enyo, his goddess of war. Her fingers were primed on twenty-sixth century technology, but the death and destruction she was about to unleash was horribly timeless.

  Pettigrew watched his tactical display as the two heavy cruisers closed on each other. Six hundred klicks… Five hundred klicks… Four hundred klicks…

  “Fire salvo one!”

  “Birds away,” confirmed Kuypers in a steady voice.

  “Helm, slow to one-third pulse drive,” ordered Pettigrew. “Rotate tubes and prepare the next spread.” The initial volley wasn’t going to do much damage. The greater the distance they had to cover, the more likely the missiles would be intercepted by point defenses. The first barrage was just the set up for subsequent waves of missiles in an attempt to overwhelm the enemy’s defenses. It would be difficult with this opponent—Nobunaga’s point-defenses had already shown themselves to be very effective.

  “Fire spread two!”

  “Spread two away…”

  “Fire spread three!”

  “Spread three away… Birds running true,” declared Kuypers.

  Just as the second and third missile waves were about to strike Nobunaga, the enemy ship executed a sharp turn, twisting hard to port and rising upward relative to the system’s elliptical plane. It was all done at full speed, which made the maneuver even more impressive for a warship that large. Several missiles managed to strike home but many more were picked off by enemy’s defenses, and dozens of the Union projectiles lost their target lock completely, harmlessly sputtering out in the Black.

  “Son of a bitch,” muttered Sunny Nyondo.

  The two adversaries were now trading missile salvos. Pettigrew had ordered Tempest to brake to a near full stop in order to maintain distance between the ships for as long as possible, but Nobunaga was still hurtling toward them at full speed.

  Tempest was fighting off enemy missiles successfully, their point-defense crews picking off what the shields hadn’t stopped, which wasn’t many. Unlike the Second Battle of Earth, the shields were performing admirably this time. The Commonwealth cruiser, however, was defeating Tempest’s attacks with almost equal efficiency, even without the benefit of the shield projectors that Central Command had put so much faith in.

  “Enemy range thirty klicks,” declared Nyondo.

  “Ms. Kuypers, prepare a spread of Scion torpedoes,” ordered Pettigrew.

  “Scions ready at your command, sir.”

  “Fire!”

  “Bloodhounds away and running hot, straight, and normal,” Kuypers said, then added under her breath to Nyondo, “just like I like my men, heh, heh!”

  Her comment wasn’t quiet enough, however, as XO Swoboda snapped at her. “Ensign! Keep the banter professional!”

  “Apologies, Mr. Swoboda, sir!” the redhead responded. “Just trying to insert a little levity into the situation—sir.”

  Some of the ensign’s Scion torpedoes struck home doing moderate damage, but the Nobunaga kept coming. As the enemy ship moved closer to energy beam range, Chaz Pettigrew decided it was time to put it all on the line.

  “Commander Mullenhoff,” he said to his Chief Engineer who was still working from her station on the bridge. “Prepare to fire the Electromagnetic Pulse Projector.”

  He wasn’t looking directly at her, but he was sure Mullenhoff just cringed. “Captain, if we use the EMP projector again, it could fry every piece of electronics on Tempest.” We could be dead in space—permanently.”

  “I know, Commander, I know,” Pettigrew said, some fatigue showing in his voice. “I understand the risks.”

  “May I also remind the Captain that to fire the EMP, we have to power down the shield generators,” added Mullenhoff.

  “I have confidence in our point-defense teams,” declared Pettigrew, which made Swoboda stand a little taller. “Prepare to shut down the shields and fire the EMP projector.”

  “On it, sir!” replied Mullenhoff sharply. He knew his friend wasn’t enthusiastic about this idea, but he also knew the reality of the situation: in a one-on-one beam duel with this enemy vessel, his ship could very well lose. It wasn’t that he lacked confidence in his crew—the enemy was just that good. The EMP projector was their best chance of victory—if they survived using it.

  “On your command, Captain,” Mullenhoff said, hands hovering over her console.

  “Very well,” Pettigrew said checking his tactical display. The enemy was at ten klicks distant now. “We’re going to swallow a few beams before we get close enough to fire the EMP. Commander Nyondo, a surge of pulse drive, if you please. Bring us to within one klick of the enemy ship.”

  The Tempest bolted forward, just as Nobunaga launched a volley of torpedoes.

  “Cheetahs incoming!” shouted Swoboda too late as the ship quaked. Several of the swift torpedoes struck home, but fortunately, most were destroyed by shields and point-defense. As the ships got closer to each other, particle beam cannons fired from both sides. Enemy beams battered a heavily armored portion of Tempest, as Nyondo had tilted the ship, keeping the tough ablative armor of the dorsal section toward Nobunaga, using thrusters and inertia to close on the foe.

  “One klick, sir,” said Nyondo.

  “We may need to get closer,” said Mullenhoff. “This may be too far out to be effective.”

  “We’ll have to chance it,” declared Pettigrew. “If one of those enemy particle beams hits the EMP projector, we’ll lose our chance. Helm, bring the bow into firing position. Engineering, disengage the shield generators.”

  Nyondo fired thrusters as the energy barrier surrounding Tempest evaporated. Three enemy missiles slammed into the ship. “Direct hit on number four particle beam battery,” reported Lieutenant Rojas.

  “Kuypers! Now!” roared Pettigrew.

  “Projector coming on line and powering up. Firing EMP!”

  The battle continued for almost another full minute, but gradually, fewer energy beams leapt from the enemy ship, and the missiles that once raged against Tempest were nowhere to be found. The Commonwealth cruiser fell silent. As it did, Pettigrew ordered his own ship to cease firing. Some on the Union vessel would no doubt have argued for the swift destruction of the enemy, but Tempest was not a democracy, and he would not slaughter defenseless people.

  “Sensors are picking up no electrical activity over there,” Swoboda reported. “They’re dead in space.”

  “How dead?” asked Pettigrew, turning to Mullenhoff. “How soon can they get things back on-line?”

  The engineer’s eyes glanced upward, mentally calculating. “At least an hour—maybe more.”

  “Commander, what about their life support?” asked Nyondo.

  “Like ours, their environmental support systems are
mostly bioenergy, so they should be all right for an extended period. They’ll be replacing their other systems as best they can, but it will take time. They may never get some things up and running without outside help.” Mullenhoff stopped, cupping her hand over an earbud she was wearing. “Here we go again—systems going out all over the ship. Sir, permission to leave the bridge?”

  Pettigrew was already waving her toward the turbolift. “Mr. Paruzzi,” the captain turned to his communications officer. “Before comms fail, contact Helios and have her rendezvous with us at best possible speed. Also contact Zaria and order her sweep the area of the Sinopa wreckage for any surviving life pods.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And, Mr. Paruzzi,” added Pettigrew. “When you’re done with that, start trying to contact the enemy ship. I have a feeling communications will be one of the first things they repair.”

  * * * *

  The hour predicted by Uschi Mullenhoff stretched into two, then three. Sensors on Tempest picked up a few systems here and there going active aboard the Nobunaga but not many. For her part, the Chief Engineer and her team were busy repairing many of the same elements they had replaced the first time the EMP weapon was fired. Work went quicker the second time around however, as they knew where to look for the problems.

  Nearly four hours into the standoff, Communications Officer Paruzzi turned to Pettigrew.

  “Sir, it’s the enemy captain—he’d like to speak with you.”

  “I bet he would,” said Pettigrew as he keyed in the comm channel at his command chair. On the small holoscreen that floated before him appeared a serene looking man dressed in the uniform of a Commonwealth Space Service captain, his hands clasped together. From the background, Pettigrew guessed the captain was in his stateroom and not on the bridge of his ship.

  “Captain Nguyen, of the Commonwealth cruiser Nobunaga. Do I have the honor of addressing Captain Pettigrew?”

  “You do, sir. I regret that we meet under such circumstances, Captain.”

  Nguyen gave a slight smile. “Not as much as I, Captain. We were unaware that the Union possessed a functional EMP weapon. My compliments to your engineers. Am I to assume that you will refrain from destroying my vessel, since you could have done so many hours ago?”

  “That, sir, is up to you. Do you have your sensors back up and running?”

  “Partially,” Nguyen said.

  “Then you understand your situation. My ship and the Union destroyer Helios are five hundred meters off your bow. Our weapons are locked on your vessel, ready to open fire unless you surrender your ship unconditionally and agree to be boarded. It’s your call, Captain—how do we finish this?”

  Nguyen shifted in his seat, not looking as relaxed as he had a few seconds ago. “Captain, I would like time to consult with my senior officers. Surely, you can see—”

  “What I can see,” interrupted Pettigrew brusquely, “is you stalling for time in order to make repairs to your ship and hope for reinforcements to arrive.” He held Nguyen’s gaze firmly and then said something to the man that he would want to hear if the situation was reversed. “I give you my word that your officers and crew will be treated honorably, just as you did for the crew of the Sinopa.”

  “I appreciate that, Captain.” Nguyen hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more. “Captain Pettigrew, the frigate—it was not my intention to destroy it, merely incapacitate it.”

  “I know. There was a reactor breach. I understand what you were trying to do, it just…” Pettigrew searched for a way to finish what he started to say. “It just turned out badly.”

  The Gerrhan captain looked down at his hands, then back at the viewscreen. “Very well, Captain Pettigrew,” Nguyen relented. “Send over your boarding parties.”

  Pettigrew spoke into his comm badge to the CO of his Marine detachment. “Captain Cruz, begin launching your shuttles.”

  “It is an ironic thing, is it not, Captain?” said Nguyen.

  “What is?”

  A thin smile crossed Nguyen’s lips. “Well, I have lost the battle, and my crew and I are now Union prisoners. For us, the war is over. But because you were victorious, you will be sent to fight on. The rewards and punishments of the situation seem somehow—unfair.”

  Pettigrew considered what Nguyen was driving at, but he didn’t respond. Frankly, he didn’t know how to.

  32: Aquila

  Village of Deerwalk

  Planet Kition

  Carr was right, Sanchez thought to herself. This is going to be nasty.

  Even before they got out of the corridor leading from Acree’s room, they had to fight. At the end of the hallway, the trio ran into the sergeant from the front desk as he turned the corner. His sidearm was already drawn, but before he could use it, Carr shot him in the leg, and Sanchez took a feet first, flying leap at him, kicking him in the head and into unconsciousness.

  Carr’s gun, like nearly every slug pistol manufactured in the twenty-sixth century, had a built-in silencer. Even so, violence was usually a hard thing to hide. The four guards on Acree’s room, Pascoe, and now the sergeant. The sheer volume of falling bodies was bound to draw attention soon.

  With the sergeant neutralized, that left the two guards outside on patrol and the pair on the clinic roof. Carr exited the building first and by himself, waiting until the Marines on patrol were near Hanley Pascoe’s rental car. Sanchez and Acree watched and waited to make their move.

  “Hey, guys!” shouted Carr, walking briskly toward the sentries.

  Sanchez couldn’t hear exactly what Carr was saying, but she could imagine—Carr could bullshit with the best of them when he had to. As her colleague engaged the sentries, she turned to Acree.

  “Get ready, Doc,” she said in a whisper. “Carr’s going to take care of those two and create a distraction in the process. Stick close to me—we’re going for your physician’s shuttle.”

  Sanchez suddenly noticed movement out of the corner of her eye—it was the lone clinic nurse they had spotted earlier. The woman saw Sanchez and Acree lurking by the front door and then got a look at the pistol in Etta’s hand. As she started to scream for help, Sanchez wheeled and shot at her, the bullet going wide by a good three meters. The shot was intended to scare the woman off, not harm her. It did the trick, but as the nurse ran away, she shrewdly reached out and smacked the fire alarm button mounted on a nearby wall.

  Wherever Carr was going with his deception, he never got the chance to finish. When the fire alarm sounded, he coldcocked the guard nearest him, knocking the man to the ground. The other sentry drew his sidearm, but Carr kicked the pistol out of his hand. The gun landed behind the Marine, who backed away from Carr to retrieve it. He was almost to the pistol when the man suddenly fell to the ground, clutching his left leg in pain. Sanchez had put a bullet into his calf as she and Dr. Acree were fleeing toward the shuttlecraft.

  Carr started to wave a ‘thank you’ to Sanchez but never got the chance as a shot whizzed by his head. The guards on the roof had turned their rifles on him, still unaware of Sanchez and Acree, who were hugging the building wall. Carr jumped into the groundcar, hit the ignition, and drove it toward the landing pad, positioning the vehicle between his companions and the building to give them cover as they sprinted toward the Aquila.

  A dozen or so deer lingered near the edge of the shuttlepad, grazing on patches of sweetgrass and blissfully unconcerned with the human fracas. Even the pop of the Marine rifles from the clinic rooftop only marginally drew their interest—until one of them was struck by a stray bullet aimed at the groundcar as it passed nearby. The deer scattered, many of them running alongside the car as it pulled up in front of the shuttle. Sanchez and Acree quickly entered the Aquila as Carr climbed out of the groundcar and took up a defensive position behind it.

  “Carr, can you hear me?” asked Sanchez as she slid into the pilot’s seat.

  “Affirmative,” he said over the earbud communicators both agents had slipped on. “The rest
of the platoon is starting to show up. I figure we have five, maybe ten minutes at the most.”

  “Copy that,” said Sanchez. Dr. Acree was already pulling off one of the cockpit access covers to get at the ignition controls. “How long, Doc?”

  “Oh, I should say around twenty minutes—fifteen if we’re lucky.”

  “You have five—ten if we’re lucky,” snapped Sanchez. She then turned her attention away from Acree toward the only other source of help she could think of.

  “Ship, emergency override for ignition,” she commanded the shuttle AI.

  “Apologies, Pilot, but there is no such procedure,” the Aquila’s AI replied. “Voice password must be given to implement ignition.”

  Sanchez sat looking at the cockpit controls in frustration. Through her earbud, she could hear random gunshots being fired outside and Carr occasionally cursing. Dr. Acree sat in the co-pilot’s seat to her right working on the ignition controls, also muttering the occasional four-letter word. A holographic alert leapt up before her on a display panel.

  “Carr,” she said grimly.

  “Yeah.”

  “They just launched areos from the air base in the capital. We have about five minutes until they arrive.”

  “How is Acree doing?”

  Sanchez glanced over at the Earther, who was gazing at the ignition controls and scratching his head. “Not so good.”

  “They’re getting ready to rush us out here,” said Carr. Almost a minute of silence passed, broken only by the occasional gunshot. “Well, we almost pulled it off, didn’t we?” he said finally.

  “Almost,” replied Sanchez as she stared straight ahead, only now concentrating on what she was seeing—a small holographic picture of a woman, looping in the corner of the cockpit control panel. The woman in the portrait was probably in her fifties, dark-haired, and dignified looking.

  “Dr. Acree, did your physician ever talk about his wife?”

  “Gods! Did he ever!” responded Acree. “I think he hated me because I was taking him away from his beloved wife and home.”