Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  “So why are we still sitting here? We need to go … while he’s nursing his injuries.”

  “Can’t.”

  Ryan moved to the side observation window and looked out along the starboard-side outer hull. “We’re not clamped together like we were before,” Ryan said.

  “No, but the van’s gangway at the stern is jammed into the tanker’s port-side hatchway.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I wouldn’t joke about such a thing.”

  “Then how did Orloff get back into the ship?”

  The AI said, “There’s another hatch on the far side of the vessel. With his injuries, it took him forty minutes to access the other entrance.”

  “He must really hate me.”

  “Understatement.”

  Ryan asked, “Have you tried firing up the thrusters and yanking the van away?”

  “No. Consignment Freight vans are flimsy, inexpensive craft. The probability of separation of the stern airlock cowling is far too great. The van would lose atmosphere and you’d most likely be killed, although I’d be fine.”

  “And if he engages those big rear thrusters? The same effect, right?”

  “Undoubtedly. To be honest, I’m somewhat surprised he hasn’t done that already.”

  Ryan made the determination—right then and there—to suit up in the van’s remaining environ suit as soon as he had a moment to spare.

  “Can the ramp assembly be uncoupled … somehow? Preferably from inside the van?”

  “I don’t have any records indicating that that procedure has actually been attempted other than within a dry-dock situation,” the Two-ton AI said.

  * * *

  The prospect of removing the gangway turned out to be a beast of a problem. The living compartment’s stern area deck plating was removed first then stacked in the kitchenette. Lying on his stomach and holding an electric socket wrench, Ryan—hot and tired—lay below the living compartment’s deck. He was covered from head to toe in grime and grease. Above and over the more than two hundred various sized-bolts holding the retractable unit in place would be a new, gaping, forty-two-inch-wide by thirteen-inch-tall opening at the stern—just below the rear airlock hatchway that would be left behind—resulting in the cabin losing pressure. No amount of Starlite goop was going to fix something like that.

  “I’m down to the final four bolts, Two-ton. Did you come up with something to cover this opening?”

  “Yes, well … sort of. You’ll need to drill matching mounting holes and install a replacement sealant, like weather stripping.”

  “Uh huh … okay. And where do I get that?”

  “Promise me you won’t shoot the messenger?”

  “Damn it, Two-ton … I’m way too tired to play games.”

  “Let me put it this way: it’s actually a good thing the gangway is still attached.”

  * * *

  Changed into his last environ suit and standing within the confines of the van’s airlock, Ryan secured his washed-out helmet. The AI confirmed Orloff Picket was indeed fast asleep within his cabin, near the bow of the Paotow Tanker. Apparently, he’d taken enough painkillers to put even a Budweiser Clydesdale out for twenty-four hours. Two-ton had easily hacked the vessel’s onboard AI, which provided them a complete listing of the tanker’s inventory of spare parts.

  The AI assured Ryan that the parts he needed were quickly accessible from the partially opened rear starboard hatch. And although too tight a fit for someone the size of Orloff, Ryan—far leaner and with a bit of maneuvering—would be able to squeeze into the tanker’s airlock just fine. Once inside, it was simply a matter of hurrying into one of the stern holds.

  “Two questions: First, if I’m going back over there anyway, why can’t I also disengage the gangway from the tanker’s hatch? Second, with the hatch jammed open like that, once I open the inside airlock, won’t the tanker’s atmosphere begin venting out to space. And won’t that kill sleeping beauty snoring away in his cabin?”

  The AI said, “You can attempt to disengage the gangway. Have at it, but from my analysis of the situation, it won’t come away without hours of disassembly. Both stern hatchways access the same rear airlock. As far as showing concern for Orloff, remember he’s tried to kill you several times now. Fuck him.”

  Ryan laughed out loud at the AI’s frank disregard for the crazed lunatic’s well being.

  The AI continued, “He’s up on the top deck where the bridge and living compartments are. Those compartments appear to be adequately sealed off from the rest of the ship by hatchways at the top forward and aft stairways. As long as they remain sealed, he’ll keep breathing. With that said, he was forced to completely depressurize the ship because of the wedged-open airlock. His remaining supply of breathable oxygen reserves is approaching a dangerous level.”

  “So eventually he’ll run out of air, right?” Ryan asked.

  “Let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later.”

  Ryan, thinking about what the AI relayed, was still nervous. His earlier spacewalk hadn’t gone well. “And you’re certain I’ll find what I’m looking for in that hold? That I’ll be in and out … fast?”

  “Yup, like shit through a tin horn.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Fortunately, both the freight van and the Paotow Tanker’s running lights were on—offering adequate illumination of both ships. Ryan pulled himself along the extended gangway, vowing that this would be the last spacewalk he’d undertake for the rest of his life. Attaching the two safety lines as he had before—clipping on to anything that was sized appropriately—he proceeded toward the tanker.

  “You’ll tell me if he moves, right?” Ryan asked.

  “Hey … if he farts in his sleep you’ll be the first to know.”

  Ryan, on reaching the rear of the Paotow Tanker, assessed the gangway and the partially open hatch. The two vessels, not in alignment with each other, were canted at a ninety-degree angle, causing the now sideways ramp to extend into the top portion of the hatch. The hatch door opening was no more than fifteen inches wide. Ryan, studying the gap, thought, I should be able to squeeze through there okay … maybe.

  He unclipped the end of his safety line from an outer flange on the gangway and was suddenly aware he was floating unsecured in space. Keeping a tight grip on the underside of the ramp, he pushed headfirst through the gap. Reaching in further, he found a section of the mangled gangway to grab on to and pulled himself inside. A snug fit—his chest and back rubbed against the partially open hatchway. Halfway in, with the exception of several blinking indicator lamps, Ryan had difficulty catching much detail within the tanker’s dark airlock compartment.

  “You’ll need to turn on your helmet light, Ryan.”

  In the process of doing just that, he silently wondered how it had gotten turned off in the first place. He said in a whisper, “It’s not working. It’s not coming on.” Perhaps he’d done too vigorous a job earlier, cleaning out the vomit from all the nooks and crannies inside his helmet. His decision to save the spare helmet for future use, he realized in retrospect, was stupid.

  The tanker’s gravity generators were operational and his body was pulled downward toward the deck. Once his legs and feet cleared the hatchway, he dropped into a kneeling position. As his eyes adjusted to the space, he realized that the faint glow emanating from the indicator lights did provide him sufficient illumination to see by. “I can sort of see … I think it’ll be okay.”

  “That’s good, Ryan. I see that you are approximately midway into the airlock. You’ll need to pivot around clockwise fifteen degrees.”

  Ryan did as instructed and squinted into the semi-darkness. “Okay … I see the closed inside airlock hatch in front of me.” Taking several tentative steps forward, he noticed a flashing red touchpad to the left of the hatch. Below it was a multi-digit keypad. Now, unquestionably the brightest illumination in the compartment was coming from a rapidly blinking message displayed over the hatchway:

  WARNING
— REAR AIRLOCK NOT SECURE!

  “Will the inside hatch open?” Ryan asked. “Even the freight van has safety protocols that won’t allow both hatches to remain open at the same time.”

  “Orloff would have dealt with the same problem,” the Two-ton AI said. “There’s a touchpad override code … let’s just hope it’s still in place.”

  “I’m betting this will make a lot of noise,” Ryan said, his hand poised before the large release pad.

  “Undoubtedly so. You’ll need to move fast. Once the latch releases, the hatch will raise upward into the bulkhead. You’ll then be fighting the lower level expulsion of atmosphere, so hang tightly onto something. And it’s not like Orloff can come running down the stairs. First off, he’s injured. Second, he won’t jeopardize losing any upper compartment oxygen.”

  Ryan pushed the square touchpad. Nothing happened. Just as he was about to complain to Two-ton, a shrieking alarm blared all around as the hatch began to rise. The strong burst of atmosphere that entered beneath the hatch knocked Ryan off his feet, forcing one hand to lose its grip on the strut. Only barely, with his arm extended, was he able to maintain a grasp with his other hand. Feeling his fingers ready to lose their grip on the vertical bulkhead strut he was clinging on to for dear life, he looked back at the narrow gap opening of the outer hatch. About to be sucked back toward it—so fast it would surely kill him—he forcibly used his arm and fingers to haul himself closer yet to the bulkhead strut. Mustering his last vestige of strength, he reached out with his free hand and managed to close his fingers around the same vertical strut. He held on tightly, eyes closed, and waited. A full minute passed before he felt the tension in his arms subside, his outstretched legs lower to the deck. Then only silence.

  “You need to get moving.”

  * * *

  Ryan stepped into the Paotow Tanker’s primary compartment, the same one he’d peered into before when he was outside one of the tanker’s forward portholes. From his present angle, he could see Orloff’s workbench. Everything that was strewn atop it earlier was gone—now drifting out in space somewhere. High up on the right were the gruesome mounted heads. This time, Ryan managed to avoid looking over at Two-ton’s, hanging some fifty to sixty feet away.

  “As expected, Orloff is on the move up on the upper deck. Listen, on this level … on the starboard side of the ship … are a series of small compartments. Turn to your right and you’ll notice an open passage.”

  Ryan, seeing it ahead, hurried in that direction. The passageway quickly forked into two directions. The passage on the left continued down the length of the ship, while the one on the right led to a closed hatchway.

  “That hatchway leads to stairs, which go to the upper level and the bridge, so keep left and find the second hold compartment.”

  Ryan ran. It struck him as strange, seeing the regular, old-fashioned, hinge-type doors. He passed the first compartment and came to a halt outside the second. Turning the knob, he swung the door inward. Sure enough, it was a storage hold, equal in size to the one on the freight van. The shelved bulkheads were filled with containers of varying sizes.

  “Okay … what am I looking for?”

  “To your right. The bottom shelf has an assortment of outside hull patching materials. Orloff’s records show there’s a slew of loose panels—”

  Ryan cut him off: “Okay, I see ’em.” There were several stacks of both quarter-inch and half-inch-thick sheets of a composite material. “Huh … this guy is organized.” Stacked in order of size—the largest sheets were arranged toward the bottom. Realizing this was taking too long, he quickened his efforts and found a rectangular sheet almost the perfect size to patch up the freight van’s hole. “Will this one do?”

  “Yes, now grab the box on your right that’s on the middle shelf. Within it is a spool of insulating material and a full canister of Starlite. Hurry … get going!”

  Since there were three boxes, all similarly sized, Ryan peered into them all in order to select the right one. Grabbing on to it with his free hand—the other holding the composite sheet—he stopped mid-step, feeling a series of vibrations come up through the deck.

  “He’s awake … isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me if he moved.”

  “You needed to first find what you came for. I hadn’t accounted for the aft stairway sealing off from the rest of the ship … for hatchways at both the bottom and top of the stairs. He can use that stairway as an inter-ship airlock. In retrospect … that makes sense. He’s wearing an environ suit.”

  “Does he know I’m in here?”

  “Considering he’s headed for the starboard passage, I suspect so. One more thing, Ryan … he has a weapon.”

  “Crap, what kind?”

  “A pistol … perhaps something like a like a Glock 17 semi-auto. On the positive side, he is badly injured.”

  Ryan looked about the hold for something he could use as a weapon. In the dim light, he spun full-circle, then quickly turned back. Looking for something long, like a broom handle to swing at him, he almost missed the gun rack, hanging on the bulkhead. There were three vertically mounted rifles. “You see what I’m seeing?” Ryan asked.

  “Those weren’t listed on the hold inventory,” Two-ton’s AI replied defensively.

  The rifle on the left, the largest of the three weapons, was a Barrett .50 caliber—capable of hitting an extreme long-distance target. One of the most expensive sniper rifles available, it meant Orloff was indeed a serious hunter. In the middle hung what looked like a standard issue AR-15 assault rifle; on the right was an older model Tavor TAR-21—bullpup assault weapon … developed by the Israelis. Ryan was familiar with the small compact weapon from his stint in the Navy. Since he’d spent his years in the service sitting on his ass flying aircrafts, he only had a passing knowledge of guns. Even so, he knew he could hit whatever he aimed at with any of these weapons. Tavor would be the best choice for close-in combat. Fortunately, none of the weapons were locked down. Putting down the box and the sheet of composite, he lifted out the Tavor; releasing the clip into his palm he then checked the load. A full magazine. He replaced the clip and chambered in a round. Nothing he did made a sound—not with a present lack of atmosphere. He knew the way modern ammunition was manufactured—containing its own oxidizer, a chemical that triggered the explosion of gunpowder—that firing off a round, even in space where there was no oxygen, would still be just as lethal.

  Ryan looked toward the partially open door. Orloff had probably figured he’d discover the weapons, and maybe that was for the best. Truth was, things didn’t have to get too Western: Just go back upstairs, nutball … and I’ll be on my way.

  Ryan had left the passageway door partially open. Positioning the stock of the weapon tightly into his shoulder, he aimed forward, slightly increasing pressure on the trigger.

  Ryan said, “Tell me when he’s halfway down the passage.”

  “He’s there now.”

  Ryan stepped into the passageway and leveled the muzzle of the weapon at Orloff’s head, some ten feet away. A gesture that spoke Hold it right there. Make a move and I’ll put a hole between your eyes without giving it a second thought.

  The bearded man looked even more imposing than he remembered. Wearing a new environ suit in dark-gray, he stood favoring his one side—obviously in pain. Behind his helmet visor was an expressionless, badly battered, face. He looked as if he’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Ryan, recalling the repetitive battering from the gangway, almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.

  Orloff’s eyes were on the gun. “Two-ton … can you patch me in to his helmet comms?”

  “Done.”

  Ryan gestured with his weapon and said, “Place the Glock down on the deck, then step backward. Do it now!”

  Orloff said nothing. After several moments, he did step back—the gun still in his hand, though not aimed directly at Ryan. Keeping a safe distance apart, Ryan followed
him all the way back to the still-open hatchway. Behind him, he saw the rising stairway, which led to the second level.

  “Don’t make me kill you. This is over. You understand me? I’m disabling your ship … then I’ll be on my way.”

  Orloff backed toward the stairwell and paused. He filled the space—his shoulders nearly touching both sides of the hatch threshold. For the first time he spoke—his voice was calm and contained the same lack of emotion as his expressionless face. “You should kill me now, delivery man.”

  “He’s right about that,” the AI said.

  Ignoring Two-ton’s voice, Ryan said, “Yeah, well … I’ve had enough killing for one lifetime. Why not chalk this experience up to bad luck. What do you say we just forget about this … crazy situation? Go close the hatch and get back up those stairs. But do know this … the next time I see you, I will kill you, I can promise you that.”

  Orloff Picket’s face instantly transformed into a menacing sneer. In that moment Ryan knew, beyond all doubt, he should empty the full magazine into the sick fuck. Then the hatch swung closed. As Ryan watched the latching mechanism engage he let out a long breath of relief.

  Backing away, Ryan headed toward the hold, needing to grab the items he’d selected to patch up the freight van. He scanned the compartment until he found what he sought. Perhaps even older than him was an oversized, green and brown, camo backpack. Peering inside it, he found a small folded tent, along with aluminum support poles, rope, and ground stakes. Ryan spilled the contents onto the deck and replaced them with the patching sheet and sealing materials. Slinging the pack over one shoulder, and holding the Tavor in both hands, he moved back out into the passageway.

  “Talk to me, Two-ton.”

  “He’s back on the top level. And Ryan, there’s something else. Remember when I said he was the only one on board?”