by J. F. Holmes
Meric had met with the ship’s officers earlier, and, after going over the assault plan, explained everything, the idea of a New America, to them. The only one who had had a problem with the whole thing had been Guns. His complaint was that he liked fighting, and the idea of running off to a new world didn’t interest him. As for the rest, well, he hadn’t told them everything, but enough that they were on board with the idea. He had thought they would be; living as a privateer required an independent streak.
Now, however, was the hard part. The enlisted, noncoms and chiefs were a different breed of people, often not very interested in abstract ideas like liberty and freedom, though they were the first to fight for their personal ones if threatened. There would be no appealing to high falutin’ ideals, they wanted to fight and grow rich. “Crew,” he started, and then stopped. He really didn’t know what to say. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“This mission is going to be no shit dangerous, and I’m only taking volunteers. Midshipman Schmetzer willingly went to what she thought was her death to save us all, and I expect, if any of you have any loyalty in your hearts, to repay her the favor.” He looked, and saw grim determination in their faces. No question about that. They would fight.
“Shipmates,” he continued, “I haven’t been honest with you. Although you have all been paid well for what you’ve done, and many of you fly with me for revenge against the French, I have another agenda. How many of you are from Earth?” More than half the crew raised their hands. It was a result of his picking and choosing carefully, for just this eventuality.
“And how many of you are from what used to be the United States?” A few hands went down, but it was still at least half the crew. As planned.
He motioned for them to put their hands down, and continued. “As you all know, I’m sure, I grew up in Nebraska, the former United States, under the heel of the United Nations and the Star Kingdoms. Non-citizens, nobodies. One of the things I’ve been working for, if it’s even possible, is that someday, maybe, we might have a chance to have our own nation again.”
A murmur ran through the crew, surprised looks on their faces. Some looked angry, but most just waited, so he continued, “I’m a bit of a history buff, and, seeing as to where I’m from, well, I had an idea when I first found this ship. The idea behind America was a place where people could be free to make their own decisions about their lives, and live in peace with their neighbors. So I’ve been working towards that goal.” Meric took a deep breath, trying to gauge their reaction. Here was the dangerous part. Meric had to let them know his dream, without letting slip the existence of the US military, while trying to win them over.
“I apologize for deceiving you, but any of you who want your share of the five ships that were condemned, after this operation, I will pay you out of my own funds. Those of you who want to join me in this dream, as your captain, and your comrade, I will welcome you.”
He noticed that Chief Sparks had slowly moved over to stand beside him, as a low rumbling went through the crowd. Meric started to speak again, but Sparks held up her hand, asking for the floor.
“Alright, kids. You might think the Captain has blown smoke up your ass, for a good cause. That’s his job, to deal with big picture shit, and to have an eventual goal. He’s also made many of you, hell, most of you, richer than you ever dreamed. A lot of you were drunks living in the bowels of shitty stations, stealing for a living. He’s given you your pride back, and never asked you to do anything he hasn’t risked himself.”
Before anyone could say anything, Sparks walked up to one of the engine room crew. “Indira, have you had to turn any tricks to eat in four years?” The woman smiled a gap toothed grin at Sparks and shook her head no.
“And you, John, no more running with a gang on Forth? You’d be dead by now, instead of being certified in ship’s gunnery.” Sparks rattled off half a dozen more, calling out those members of the crew who she had the most doubts about.
Turning back to face them all, she said, “As for me, well, I’m with the Captain. He’s always done right by me. Anyone else?” she asked, and then turned her back on the crew and walked out of the hangar.
Meric didn’t know where to go from there, so he just said simply, “If my dream ever comes true, all of you, and your families, are welcome to join me. We can learn from the mistakes of the Old America, and make something new, and better. Not for nothing, but I’m a bit sick of the killing myself, and I want a place called home.”
There was silence for a moment, then Petty Officer Gar said, from the back, “Will you take aliens, too, Captain?”
“That, Gar, is the whole point of America. It’s for everyone who’s willing to pull their weight,” he answered simply.
“Then I’m in!” said Gar, “three cheers for Captain Meric!” He burst out in a loud barking noise that echoed around the hangar.
With that, the crew burst into applause and shouts that filled the hangar bay.
****
“You were a bit overly-dramatic,” said Chief Sparks to PO Gar, handing him fifty credits.
The amphibian snorted and answered, “You’re lucky I’m not in heat! Otherwise you’d be paying me five times as much just to touch my tail.” He instantly realized he’d stepped over the line when the fifty credit note stopped in midair.
“Ah, whoops! How about you just keep the money, and let’s say that I did that for Captain Meric because he’s a nice guy, for a human!”
“I thought so. Now disappear, Gar,” whispered Sparks. And he, no fool, did.
****
“Don’t mess up my ship!” called Meric. He watched her maneuvering away through the grimy windows of the Hannover, amazed at how she disappeared so quickly into the background. The active background mirrored the starfield, and she blinked out.
“I hope you paid your insurance this month!” joked Merrifield. “We’ll be fine, go kick some Frenchie’s ass. See you under a different sun, Boss.”
“And under a strange sky. Meric out.” There was a brief ripple in space where the Lex had been, and then nothing.
It was hard to watch the Lexington go, but if the plan was to work, well, it had to be done. He looked around the bridge of the Hannover, noting the bloodstains on the floor in front of the Captain’s chair. That had been a hard fight, one of the first ships he had taken with the Lexington. He wondered for a moment why a commander wouldn’t give up his ship in the face of overwhelming odds, but then, would he? Only to spare his people, he supposed.
The cargo, which he had been directed to capture by General Voronin, was ten thousand metric tons of genetically engineered seeds. The stuff to start a new world. One of the things that the United States was going to need if it were to be independent. It had sat here, ticking over, for four years, and he had a lot of explaining to do to his crew. Thank God for Chief Sparks, he thought, for the hundredth time.
****
Commander A.J. Merrifield was comfortable in the Captain’s chair; he’d sat there many times before, up to and including attack runs on armed merchant ships. This, however, was different. A Montcalm class frigate was designed to fight on its own, and win. If she got a whiff of the Lexington, they were toast. Outgunned, though maybe the Lex was a little faster. Not that that mattered at relativistic weapon speeds. It was going to be jump, hit hard, and hope for the best.
As they settled down through Miranda Prime’s atmosphere to wait, he said, “Hope is not a plan,” not realizing he’d said it out loud.
Guns belched and said, “Shoving 3 kilos of titanium, ceramic and steel, plus a full spread of missiles, up his ass is a plan.”
“No doubt, Guns, no doubt.” The ship settled ponderously on the surface, and they waited.
Chapter 40
“Miranda station, this Hannover, out of Neu Bonn, requesting permission to dock for engine refit, eleven crew aboard,” called Warrant Stueben in his heavily accented English.
“Hannover, this is Miranda Control. Transmit credent
ials.” Steuben did so, and watched the station’s heavy guns track them via millimeter band radar on his sensor.
“Hannover, we show you as having been lost three months ago outside Imbutu system. Explain.”
“Roger, Miranda, we took a heavy hit from a privateer we identified as the Lexington. It’s taken us that long to refit for nullSpace in an Abo system. You know how it is here in the Reach. Be advised, our ship’s AI is down and cannot, I say again, cannot talk to the station.”
“Understood. Docking rights at Bay 39C. You are in quarantine for three hours until bio declares you free of contaminants. Please have your captain meet Port Security at the airlock once you get the all clear.”
“Das is gut. Hope those scheisskopfs on the Lexington aren’t in port. Wilco, Hannover out.” Stueben shut down the coms, and watched as Zlatcov carefully navigated the big freighter to the designated docking station.
“Easy there, Nadija, it’s not an attack shuttle or a fighter,” said Meric.
The Russian swore under her breath as the freighter drifted closer to the station hull, and slapped at switches. “It would help if you reactivated the AI, Captain. This things handles like a pig.”
“As soon as I did that, our cover would be blown. Just get us hooked up and I’ll com Marjorie.”
With a few more curses, Zlatcov managed to get into place, and an umbilical stretched out, plugging into the Hannover’s systems, checking air quality and sampling for any contamination. Hardwire communications were established, and Meric had Steuben place a call to the station manager. It was possible, even probable, that the station net was compromised, but it was something they had to risk.
“To station manager, January,” was Stueben’s simple message. It covered a multitude of things, but basically requested an in person meeting, as soon as possible. It was privateer code, one that demanded immediate attention, from her only. No station security. Marjorie Brown ran the station with an iron fist.
“Should I ask what’s going on?” asked the old woman, standing in the airlock, a sharp look on her face. No one bullshitted her and got away with it, but Nate Meric had been one of her most profitable customers, and had never tried to screw her. She was also one of the few non-Americans who knew about the U.S. military’s existence, but had never said anything about it, remaining neutral.
“Come on in, Marjorie,” said Meric, cycling the lock. She followed him into the ship’s receiving room.
“Grapevine says the Brits AND the French are looking for you, Nate,” she began. “Where’s Lady Lex?”
“Away on a mission with AJ,” he answered, ignoring the first part. “Marj, I know you walk a very fine line between all the combatants, but I think the French are planning on taking you out.”
“Why would they?” she asked. “We provide a valuable service to them; French privateers are welcome here.”
“There’s a Legion Major who doesn’t really care about that. We’ve hurt them, badly, and I think the balance has tilted toward you being more of an annoyance than a help.”
He quickly filled her in on the French picket ship, and then mentioned that there might be a merchant ship docked with the station, within the last two weeks, that wasn’t really what it seemed.
Her face remained perfectly neutral, and she said, “Nate, we don’t ask anyone’s business here, just a transfer tax if moving cargo.”
“Marj, they’re holding one of my crew on that freighter,” he answered simply, and played the holo of Schmetzer being tortured.
She sucked in her breath; Marjorie Brown had three daughters, one a merchant, one in school at Newton, and another in service with the BRN. The youngest was about Schmetzer’s age. Her brown skin flushed even darker, and she said, “They’re docked at 32E, have been for two weeks. I figured they were an illegal colony ship.”
“How many?” asked Meric.
“Don’t know, because they refuse to hook into station life support. Not really my business.” Though he suspected she knew far more about it than she let on.
“It’s going to be your business soon enough. I have a plan to deal with the picket ship, but I need your station security to stay out of my bruisers’ way. I’ll pay for any damage to the lock.”
“What are you planning to do?” she asked.
“Simple. We take the ship.”
Chapter 41
“Let’s go over this again. There are four vulnerable entry points on a Hamlet class freighter,” said Rob Knight. In front of him was a holo of the ship, and he spun it in midair to note each, assuming nothing about anyone’s previous knowledge. The ship itself consisted of a spine with attached individual cargo modules and a pressurized section forward. A corridor along the spine connected the engine room.
“Number One, engine service port, just to the left of the main engine replacement panel. Lin will be using the Scout shuttle to fire on the hatch, creating a diversion, hopefully drawing off some troops and crew. Number two is, as always, the bridge windows. Why they actually keep things like this, I have no idea. Especially on warships, but no matter. This is a cargo ship, so no blast shutters, but not our target this time.”
He hit another key, and the airlock for the cargo personnel door flashed. It led to a voluminous cargo hold, populated with a dozen simulated figures, representing the maximum size of a Legion Étranger d'espace strike team. “Number three, cargo personnel door, leading to interior pressurized cargo compartments. This is where we assume the Legionnaires will be, and our target. These are competent, effective soldiers, but hopefully we’ll catch them sleeping. Be prepared for the worst, though.”
He handed the controller to the Team Scout leader, saying, “Nick, number four is…”
“Thanks, Rob,” said the mercenary. “Number four is the main personnel hatch and docking port. After the diversionary attack on the engine room access has made the Legionnaires suit up and move out, my team will hit the gangway and force the entrance. We go in after Team Poison has gained entrance to the cargo bay. We’re assuming that the hostage will be located around the area of the luxury cabin, here. Zlatcov?”
“I’m flying the Poison shuttle to deliver my team directly to the Cargo access hatch, blow it, and the team assaults through the cargo compartment. Killing everyone, in our attempt to find this French major Scumbag,” she said with a frown. Zlatcov was irritated that her only job was to fly. She wanted revenge so badly she could taste it. “Ensign Lin?”
The pilot, call sign “Orient”, picked up the briefing with his assigned part. “After using the main gun to blow the engine access way hatch, I will use the assault craft’s weaponry to fire only into the entrance way, avoiding damage to the engines, creating a diversion. My main target then is the communications array, to prevent ansible transmission.”
“Good plan, people,” said Meric. “To review, at time hack H, attack on engine access way. At H plus one, Team Poison attacks cargo access. At H plus two, Team Scout hits the docking area. I’ll be with Team Scout, providing overall command and recognition of the hostage. Doc Hamilton will be in charge of hostage evac.”
He took a deep breath and continued with the external plan. “Fifteen minutes prior, the Lexington will lift off planet and rendezvous with us at H plus Ten. The Poison and Scout Shuttles will take everyone off through the cargo area. From there, we jump to hit the French picket ship, before optical or radio can get to them. Hopefully, taking out the antennas will take out the ansible, but we’ll have to assume they’ll see the Lex coming up off planet and get a message out about that. In fact, that’s what I’m hoping. I’d rather they have their drive lit so we can see where they are. Remember the alternate plans, and react accordingly. Be careful, too. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
****
The waiting, as always, was the hard part. Each dealt with it in their own way. The newest to combat existed almost on the edge of panic. The oldest, the veterans, tried to catch what sleep or rest they could. Everyone was scared, right down t
o their bones, except maybe the one or two who were actually sociopaths. There were always a few in combat, the ones who didn’t care if they lived or died. You marked them well, used them where necessary, and kept out of their way otherwise.
In the hangar, Lin and Zlatcov ran checks on the assault craft. The ship’s crew who had piloted the Hannover were carefully plotting their route to a set of coordinates Meric had given them. Team Scout used a holo to map out their assault through the doorway to the target. Room clearing was something they excelled at, and as far as they were concerned, it was just another building. Team Poison sat in the back of their shuttle, doing pre-combat checks and inspections.
At H minus ten minutes, the Lexington was just clearing atmosphere, and becoming visible to whoever was watching from the French ship. Stueben monitored immediate signal chatter coming from the target, radio coms to personnel on station, probably a recall.
“Heads up, Scouts, you may have company on your back at the door,” he called over the ship net. He got a “Check!” from Agostine; Meric was watching the clock.
At H minus four, he shouted “GO!” over the ship net.
“Orient, Roger,” and the shuttle lifted up as the hangar door dropped. It was a tight fit; the cargo ship was only designed to handle freight haulers. The veteran pilot lifted off and slipped into the vacuum of space, the station lights falling dead on the matte black covering. Out, and down toward the French ship.
After an interminable short time, soundless flashes of light from gunfire reflected into the open hangar, Lin opening up on the engine room hatch. Zlatcov licked her lips, whispered a silent prayer, and gave her passengers a heads-up. “Moving, hang onto to your asses, boys and girls!”
“No girls back here, Jumper!” called Yee over the comset.