Tycho wasn’t wearing a uniform—no human-issue type would fit the alien’s tall, slender physique. But he had obligingly changed skin color in order to blend in. Raoul had tucked his long hair up under his hat, was dressed in uniform, sort of—if one discounted the glittering rhinestone earrings and other pieces of gaudy jewelry he’d added to “liven things up.” Since the Adonian was to remain on board the plane, with orders to participate in the raid only in case of emergency, Xris hadn’t wasted time in arguing. Raoul was applying his lipstick with particular care—it was the poisoned variety. Xris watched a moment, turned away. He hoped to God it wouldn’t come to that.
As for the Little One’s disguise, Raoul had pinned commander’s bars onto the fedora—with what intent or purpose Xris had no idea and knew better than to ask. He started to pull out a twist, decided against it, stashed the case in his pocket. He might be picked up on visual and he had to look the part.
“We’re ready. Begin transmission.”
Harry flipped a switch, activated the distress signal. He sat back, wiped his face again.
The response was immediate.
“Navy Four Four Lima Three, this is Zen Rengazi Naval Control. Do you receive me?”
Harry opened a vid channel. “Zen Rengazi, this is Navy Lima Three. We are declaring an in-space emergency. We require landing clearance at your facility.”
The female ensign whose face appeared on the screen didn’t blink, didn’t pause. “Navy Four Four Lima Three, you are not cleared for docking. Repeat: Do not dock. Proceed to the civilian facility at Veer Rengazi.”
“Damn it, Zen Rengazi!” Harry banged his fist on the console. “Your own fuckin’ censors should tell you that we can’t survive a planetary landing! Our goddamn computer’s malfunctioning and our goddamn shielding’s down and that includes our goddamn heat shields! Ma’am,” he added belatedly.
Harry’s anger and frustration weren’t all play-acting. His sweat was real. He’d actually shut the shields down and there was nothing more vulnerable in space than a Schiavona with no shields.
Rowan had warned them that the Naval facility wouldn’t dare countermand the orders given under Operation Macbeth. Xris’s contention was that the commander of one insignificant NOROF post—which, since it was unarmed, couldn’t possibly be considered a threat to anyone—would be likely to make an exception in the case of a dire emergency. He waited tensely to see which of them had been right.
As usual—it was Rowan.
The ensign’s face hardened; so did her voice.
“Navy Four Four Lima Three. I repeat: Do not dock! We are on red-alert status. We cannot allow you to dock. We can activate a tractor beam, hold you in place for the duration—”
“Cut communication,” Xris ordered.
The screen went dark. Xris hoped NOROF would figure they were having power problems as well. “Back off. The last thing we need is a blasted tractor beam grabbing hold of us! What’d the sensor scan pick up? Anything we can use?”
“Hang on a minute.”
While Harry was studying the scan, Xris stared out the viewscreen at NOROF—which looked exactly like a large and shining metal ball covered with spikes. Each spike was, in actuality, a docking arm. Ships arriving at the facility would maneuver to connect to the end of one of the arms. Once attached, the arm would lower the vessel to the main body of the station, if major overhaul or rebuild was required. Minor repairs could be effected while the ship was attached to the arm.
Xris counted twenty vessels of various types docked at the facility—a light load, considering that each NOROF could accommodate well over one hundred at a time. As he watched, the docking clamps on all of the arms retracted and the arms began to pull back telescopically into the station. NOROF was serious.
“Shit!” Xris swore. All he could see were frigates, and they wouldn’t be of any use whatsoever. He looked at the chronometer. rIventy-four hours. It had taken them half an SMT day to find this place, another half day to reach it. This time tomorrow, unless they stopped the assassins, the young king might be dead.
“I thought you told me there were two drop ships docked here,” he said over his shoulder to Rowan.
“There are, according to the parts requisitions I found,” she maintained. “They specifically listed two drop ships, located at this site. One is an LST-208 and the other—”
“Got it!” Harry announced triumphantly. “Sensors are picking up two drop ships, both on the other side of the facility. One’s an LST-208 and the other is a 209.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Harry was dubious. “Are you sure, Xris? They might suspect what we’re after.”
“Hijacking a drop ship? Not likely. They’ll figure we’re hanging around sulking, trying to make them feel guilty. Take it slow. Don’t make it look obvious. Oh, and go back on the comm. Whine a little.”
Harry whined. The NOROF ensign was overly patient, as if dealing with a child having a temper tantrum. The Schiavona glided, apparently aimlessly, around to the far side of NOROF where they worked on the larger vessels.
And there were the two drop ships. One was obviously in dry dock. It had been lowered to the main portion of the facility. Covered with scaffolding, the drop ship looked like a bug caught in a steel web. But the other . . .
Harry, whining and sulking, once again ended communications.
“That’s our ship,” he announced. “The LST-209—there, on the docking arms. Sensors indicate the engines are still operational. It doesn’t look like they’ve started any major work. My guess is that the ship’s being prepped for overhaul.”
“Bring it up on visual,” Xris ordered.
Harry brought it up, adding magnification. The drop ship filled the screen.
“It sure is a weird-looking son of a bitch. Sort of like a grasshopper holding on to a pie plate. I’ve seen ‘em before but I’ve never flown on one. You, Xris?”
Xris shook his head. “The major has, though. This was his idea. Jamil! Come take a look at this!”
Jamil came clattering down the stairs, stood behind the pilot’s chair. “I served on several when I was in Special Forces. The drop ship’s actually two separate units. That part you call the grasshopper”—he pointed—”is the command module. Where the cargo hold would be on a normal ship is the landing module. They cut the cargo hold out, leaving the supports and ductwork that connects the engines at the rear of the command module to the bridge. The ‘legs’ hold the landing module on during flight. When we orbit the planet, the landing module disconnects, drops to the planet’s surface.”
“The landing module has no maneuvering controls, no way to fly itself, huh?” Harry asked, regarding the drop ship with interest.
“It has inertial nullifiers,” Jamil responded, adding with a grin, “That’s so you don’t end up as space mush plastered on the ceiling when you land. Even so, it’s pretty rough. We call the ride down the ‘elevator to hell.’ The landing module’s intended for ground-based deployment. Like I told Xris earlier, the landing module normally houses a mission command bunker and a bay holding small armored attack vehicles. Our Special Forces unit was moving on the ground less than five minutes after touchdown. Once the mission is complete, the blast rockets under the landing module fire, lift the module into orbit. We rendezvous with the command module, reattach.”
Harry was giving the drop ship the once-over. “Not much in the way of weapons. Why’s that? You Army guys working in favor of gun control?”
“The command module has special intruder shields,” Jamil said. “A destroyer could blow up a ship that size with one lascannon tied behind its back, to quote friend Tycho. And generally, when you’re on a special mission, you don’t want to alert the local bad guys to your arrival. Once in space, these shields go up, and the drop ship is—to all intents and purposes—invisible. Of course, if anyone actively goes looking for it, they’ll find it. But you’ve got to know it’s there first.
“The landing module is ar
med to the teeth, though. Once on the ground, you want a good firebase for operations. See over there? That’s the lasgun turret and below it is the vehicle bay door. This thing is a fortress once it hits dirt.”
“Sounds perfect,” Tycho said, leaning over the rail, peering down into the cockpit. “Now how do you suggest we get hold of it? They won’t even let us dock.”
Xris took out a twist, thrust it in his mouth. They were no longer in visual contact with NOROF, and besides, he was going to give them a lot more to worry about than the fact that a Naval officer was caught smoking on duty.
“Harry, can you land the Schiavona on top of the command module?”
“Shit, I could land this thing on Tycho’s head if you wanted me to.”
“Maybe next time. The facility doesn’t have any guns; all we have to worry about is that damn tractor beam locking on to us.”
“They have to catch us first. I can do it, Xris, but it’ll be a wild ride.”
“Oh, dear God!” Tycho rolled his eyes. “I hate it when he says that!”
“Strap yourselves in good,” Xris warned, and gave Harry the go-ahead.
Harry permitted the computer to return, ordered it to go into combat mode but advised it to leave the shields down until further orders. The computer began rerouting and shutting off some systems, activating others. The interior lights dimmed to emergency status only; the supply of cool air was cut off, replaced by circulating air. It would soon grow moderately warm in the living quarters. Power to onboard amenities was cut. No showers, no hot food, no flushing the head. Tycho and Jamil climbed into the gun turrets. A bombardier wasn’t needed; they’d opt for speed over heavy weaponry.
When each person reported ready, Harry nodded his head slowly, placed his big hands on the controls. On his face, an expression of intense concentration—which Xris had come to associate with these times—replaced the slightly foolish and occasionally goofy look Harry generally wore. Almost like an idiot savant, Harry was good at only one thing—flying. But he was supremely good at that, one of the best pilots Xris had ever known.
Harry melded with the plane in some strange way, as if it were just another body part. Weird to watch and see in action, scary to be along for the ride, but worth it at the end. Or so Xris hoped.
“I’m taking over manual control,” Harry said, and even his voice sounded different—confident, deeper. “When I give the signal, computer, activate shields. Brace yourselves,” he added for the benefit of everyone on board. “This is going to be one mother of a dive. Now!”
Shields came on. NOROF, picking this up on their sensors, wouldn’t be overly concerned. They’d probably be relieved, in fact, figuring that this nuisance of a Schiavona had managed to repair itself and would now fly away and leave NOROF in peace. They were going to be in for a shock.
The Schiavona rocketed through space, traveling far too fast near a solid, massive object such as the orbital platform. The highly unpleasant sensation of negative Gs dropped the stomach down around the bowels, jumped the heart into the throat. The plane hurtled forward. The orbital platform seemed to be rushing at them. It grew and swelled at an alarming rate.
Slow down, Harry, Xris found himself ordering mentally. You’ve got to slow down! We’ll crash! We’re going to crash!
But he didn’t order aloud and Harry didn’t slow down. He wouldn’t have heard Xris anyway. Harry was thinking, feeling, reacting, responding only to his plane.
The orbital platform was coming at them so fast that objects on it were now clearly visible, or would have been if they hadn’t merged into a dizzying blur because of the dive.
The computer warned of approaching impact.
Harry flew on. Heat vectors, rising from the platform, began to buffet the plane. It bounded from side to side, lurched wildly up and down. Cries and howls echoed throughout the plane as the team members made involuntary and painful contact with certain hard objects. Xris managed to turn his head, which was plastered against the back of the chair, looked up into the living quarters.
Rowan, white to the lips, was staring with wide eyes at the viewscreen, at certain death. Quong, seated beside her, had shut his eyes, his lips moving either in prayer, a mantra, cursing Harry, or maybe all three.
The computer announced imminent collision.
Xris decided that shutting his eyes was a wonderful idea. He heard a crunching sound, wondered vaguely what it was, paid it no attention. He would discover, later, that he had gripped the chair arm so hard, his cybernetic hand had crushed the metal.
Through a dry throat, with a dry tongue, he managed to croak, “Harry, stop—”
Harry had been, in actuality, slowing their rate of descent, a fact that wasn’t immediately obvious—they had drawn so close to the platform that the proximity made it appear as if they were going faster. At the instant when it seemed to Xris that he could count the number of rivets in the deck plates, Harry brought the spaceplane out of the dive.
They were flying among the docking arms, weaving in and out, dodging through a forest of girders and cranes and metal scaffolding. The Schiavona flipped and rolled and sailed up and slid down and went around and over and slipped in between such tight cracks that Xris was certain he could have gone back and found that they’d left paint streaks from their hull on the platform’s steel beams.
The grasshopper body of the LST loomed ahead of them. Xris again opened his mouth. Harry, with a look on his face of wondrous satisfaction, eased back on the controls. The spaceplane changed instantly from a darting demon to a delicate dancer. It floated, glided, and finally set down on top of the command module with a very slight, very gentle bump.
Xris breathed.
“I think I peed my pants,” came the plaintive bleat of Tycho’s translator.
Chapter 32
When on surrounded ground, plot. When on deadly ground, fight.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
“I’ll give everybody time to catch your breath and throw up, if I you have to,” Xris said, unstrapping himself.
He reached into the storage compartment in his steel leg. After that wild and unnerving ride, he wouldn’t have been surprised to pull out his stomach. Instead, he replaced his steel hand with his weapons hand, issued orders.
“Jamil, Tycho, Doc, you’re with me. Harry, program the Schiavona for a return flight and send it back to Olefsky. Rowan, help Harry on the computer. Raoul, you and the Little One sit tight and wait for further orders. Everyone got that?”
Everyone did, with the possible exception of Raoul, who had lost an earring during landing and was searching through the seat cushions for it.
Xris left his chair, headed for the airlock. The Schiavona had two airlocks, one located on the deck and one up above, in between the gun turrets. Harry had set the plane down on top of the command module and so Xris went to the lower deck airlock. He waited until he heard the magnets clamp on, then tapped the control to override the safeties. He found himself staring—not at another hatch, but at solid durasteel hull plating.
“What the— Harry, you missed the hatch!”
“There isn’t one,” Harry said serenely, still on an exhilarated high. “Didn’t I mention that?”
“How the hell are we supposed to get on board the damn drop ship?” Xris demanded.
“Spacewalk,” Harry advised.
Tycho scoffed. “We’d be target practice out there, like sitting ducks in a barrel.”
“Cut through the plating,” Harry suggested after a moment’s profound thought.
“Great!” Xris fumed. “So we fly merrily around the galaxy in a drop ship with a goddam hole in it!”
“Calm down, Xris,” Rowan said crisply. She managed a strained smile; she was still pale and shaky. “We’re in an overhaul-and-rebuild facility. We’ll cut through the plating, then patch it back up. Most of these ships are designed to assist in repairs. If I can get to the computer, I can—”
“All right, all right.” Xris knew where that conversa
tion could lead and he didn’t have time. Resignedly, he took off his weapons hand, replaced it with his tool hand. “Someone find a cutting torch.”
The plasma cutting torch melted through the metal efficiently, but far too slowly—at least as far as Xris was concerned. He’d counted on swooping in, grabbing the drop ship, blasting out before anyone quite caught on to what was happening. But it took half an hour to cut through the hull plating supports, time enough for NOROF to call in a fleet of Naval battleships.
He swore softly and fretted, until he remembered Operation Macbeth. NOROF couldn’t even call home to Mother, let alone squawk for help. Still, a Naval facility was more than likely to be able to take care of itself in an emergency.
“What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” Xris had to yell over the hissing of the torch. He gestured in the direction of the main NOROF building.
“Handing out the guns,” Jamil answered grimly.
Xris grunted, returned to work.
The last support melted away, the hull plate fell, hit the deck below with an ear-shattering clang. Xris peered inside, could see nothing. The interior of the command module was in semidarkness, lit only by various red, blue, and green instrument lights and the faint glow of computer screens.
“That should be the bridge,” said Jamil, squatting down for a look.
They kept their voices low, although after the racket the hull plate had made, whispering seemed a bit ludicrous.
“You couldn’t prove it by me,” Xris muttered, replacing his tool hand with his weapons hand. “Jamil, you know your way around— you go first. Set weapons on stun. We’re trying to save lives, not end them.”
“That include ours?” Jamil grumbled.
Carrying his beam rifle, he jumped through the hole. Xris heard a clatter and a soft curse.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“Landed on top of a goddamn chair.” Jamil groaned. “Banged hell out of my knee. I—”
A bright flash of light ended the conversation. Jamil hit the deck. The shot hit the chair.
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 34