Sixteenth Watch

by Myke Cole

  “Not with me flying, ma’am,” Pervez answered. The Navy boat was bigger, heavier, but that amounted for very little in the Moon’s thread of exosphere. There was nothing to create drag. “Ma’am,” Ho’s voice on her private channel was shaking. “If she’s wrong… we don’t want to hit a Navy small boat going this fast.”

  Oliver wished she could see Pervez’s face through the smoked glass visor. Either you trust her or you don’t. And if you don’t, then what the hell are you even doing out here?

  “Light ’em up, Chief,” Oliver said. Chief hesitated only for a moment before hitting the lights. Oliver could see the blue ripples washing across the Navy boat’s hull markings, close enough now to read with the naked eye.

  “That Navy boat is still CBDR, admiral,” Okonkwo was working not to yell now. “They’re not slowing. Still hailing us. Three hundred meters, two hundred meters.”

  Oliver could see Chief turning to look at the instrument panel, the Navy boat through the window, and then back to Pervez.

  She would never be able to assert the Coast Guard’s authority if she let the Navy shove her off her own intercept mission. But she sure as hell wouldn’t be able to assert it if she had a collision either.

  The risk was too great. She’d pushed the limit far enough.

  “OK, BM1. Ease it back. I want to beat them, but not if it means risking a coll–”

  “I’ve got this, ma’am,” Pervez said. “I can get us docked.” She gave them one more hard burn as they gained on the runner so rapidly, it looked as if a toy-vessel suddenly grew into a full-sized one before their eyes.

  “BM1!” Oliver yelled.

  “Hold on!” Pervez said, firing the bow thrusters. Oliver felt herself sink into her chair, as if she were pushed there by a giant hand, heavy on her chest.

  “Navy’s not slowing! CBDR!” Okonkwo practically shouted. “I say again, CBDR!”

  “I got this!” Pervez answered, tapping the port side thrusters and nudging them to one side.

  Oliver’s heart was hammering so hard she felt it pressing back against the heavy hand of the inertia on her chest. The Navy boat was growing even faster than the runner. She could make out the masthead light in her peripheral vision, blinking so bright and close that it rivaled the distant Earth. The gun barrels projected from its ball turrets like massive insect limbs, casting shadows over the longhorn’s cockpit. Can we even avoid it now? It’s coming too fast. It’s much too late.

  “BM1!” Chief shouted, but Oliver could see Pervez’s focus, her hands on the joysticks, her shoulders hunched forward over the longhorn’s controls. The Navy boat wasn’t catching her unawares. She believed she was making the right call. She believed she could get them docked safely. She didn’t want to die any more than the rest of them. Oliver was a veteran of boarding after boarding… and she knew that experience still paled beside Pervez’s. But what if she’s wrong?

  Pervez goosed the aft-thrusters one more time and the runner’s tow fender filled their front window just before Pervez yanked the control stick back. “Okonkwo! Get the nipple on!”

  The port side window rose, giving Oliver a perfect view of the Navy boat’s bow. Her stomach leapt into her throat as it filled her vision, streaking toward them as quickly as a shooting star. They were so close she could see the boarding team of marines through the front window, on their feet, hanging onto handrails in the Navy boat’s ceiling, clustered around the cockswain’s seat. Oh God we’re dead we’re fucking…

  And then there was a puff of blue-white, and the Navy boat was gone.

  Oliver stared at the dissipating cloud of spent propellant before she realized she was looking at the exhaust of the Navy boat’s starboard thrusters, burning hard to roll the vessel out of the way as it peeled off.

  They’d won this game of chicken.

  “Boss,” Ho came through on her private channel. “Did you shit yourself? Because I’m pretty sure I shit myself.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Chief breathed.

  “Okonkwo!” Pervez shouted again.

  “On it!” Okonkwo sounded dazed. “Soft dock!”

  “Outstanding,” Oliver said, managing to keep her voice calm and even, her stomach still doing backflips. There was no time to deal with this now. “MK3, I want hard dock right now.”

  Okonkwo didn’t respond, but Oliver felt the longhorn tremble slightly as he jumped down into the nipple gangway, cutting gear in hand.

  “Did you see those marines?” Ho asked on the private channel.

  “Yes, Wen, I did,” Oliver answered as she punched out of her restraints and checked her boarding gear.

  “They’re going to be really unhappy about that, ma’am.”

  “Hard dock! Venting atmosphere!” Okonkwo called as he cranked the lever and the vacuum lock engaged. An instant later, sparks were spraying across the nipple gangway’s entrance as Okonkwo cut into the inner hatch.

  Oliver glanced hopefully up at McGrath, but the ME3 was simply sitting there, waiting for orders. “McGrath!” she said. “You’re the boarding officer! It’s your ship!”

  He punched out of his restraints at last, stumbling over his words. “Aye aye, ma’am. Dusters only! Stack on me!”

  McGrath dropped down into the nipple gangway.

  Oliver snatched her duster from the clips over her head, and kept her voice even with an effort. “Orders, boarding officer?”

  She could hear the tail end of McGrath’s muttered curse as he toggled into the channel.

  “Everybody on me, standard order. Ma’am, you stay in the ship.”

  “With all due respect, boarding officer,” Oliver said, “I just graduated school for this. I’d like to come with.”

  “OK,” McGrath swallowed, eyes on the growing seam from Okonkwo’s cutting torch, “keep it tight.”

  Oliver raced along the nipple gangway, checked her momentum as her shoulder made contact with McGrath’s. She could feel a nudge behind her, knew the next member of her stick was there, but resisted the urge to visually check who it was. Keep your eyes on the breach, it could open at any second.

  Okonkwo completed his last cut, dropped his gear, dashed to take up the stick’s anchor position. “Dusting first,” McGrath sounded completely calm now. “Then crisscross by twos. Here we go.”

  Oliver saw his hand snake down and snatch a dust grenade off his waist. “On three, two…”

  McGrath slammed the butt of his duster into the cut section, sending the metal plate toppling inward. Oliver resisted the urge to move, knowing she was out of the line of fire, the stick trailing off to the breach’s side. “Fire in the hole!” McGrath shouted and threw the grenade into the open space.

  “MUNITION DEPLOYED” flashed across Oliver’s internal HUD, followed by a timer. The eerie silence of the vacuum implied a calm serenity she did not feel. An instant later there was a flash, and Oliver watched the metal dust spray out from the breach, rocketing past the stick and lodging in the nipple’s protective cladding.

  “Let’s go!” McGrath shouted to the stick, then bridged over to the runner’s radio. “United States Coast Guard! Get down on the deck! Let me see your hands right now!”

  Oliver came after him, disengaging her spider boots’ setules and high stepping. Okonkwo had cut the breach perfectly – not so large that the adversary would have a clean shot at the boarding team, but not so small that it would be impossible to get in. Still, in her rush Oliver caught the top of her hardshell’s boot, felt herself stumble into the runner’s cockpit. She let go of her duster to steady herself, her outstretched hand finding McGrath’s back as he raised his own weapon to fire.

  The grenade had done its work. Oliver could see the six-pack’s interior riddled with the tiny impact craters left by the explosion of dust. The interior glass looked as if it were clouded, covered with thousands of minuscule scratches. Nylon strapping hung in tatters.

  But the six-pack’s binnacle was covered with an extra plate of what looked like ad-hoc armor, t
hick slats of metal crudely bolted over the instruments, swung down on a rough hinge probably just as soon as they had seen the sparks of Okonkwo’s cut. Only committed criminals would do something like that, Oliver thought, feeling sick tendrils of fear slithering around her stomach. The metal plate had absorbed the lion’s share of the dust, and the six-pack’s four man crew were rising from behind it. One of them was lurching toward McGrath, a double-handed length of metal conduit pipe in his hands. Another was leveling a gun – the long barrel much too graceful to be a duster. She could see the extended magazine below it, long and wide enough to contain the rocket-propelled munitions that would allow the round to exit the barrel gently before igniting the thruster that would grant it lethal force.

  A hornet gun. There would be no surviving a direct hit from it.

  Sick panic bubbled in her throat. Tom’s small boat flashed in her mind’s eye, seeing the anti-materiel gun sighted in on him, powerless to do anything but yell a warning. She still shouted “McGrath!” on the team’s channel, her hand scrambling to get her duster back up, knowing it was useless.

  She saw the puff of propellant as the hornet gun ejected its munition, the flash as the munition’s motor ignited.

  She felt McGrath lean forward, his legs trembling slightly as his boots’ setules engaged. His duster tracked a fraction to the right and fired. Oliver saw the man with the hornet gun fly backward, his hardshell venting oxygen from a thousand tiny holes.

  But not before the munition launched for them.

  The split second delay between the rocket munition ejecting and igniting allowed McGrath an instant of movement before it struck him. Oliver watched it slam into his hardshell’s shoulder, saw the puff of oxygen blasting out as it penetrated, tore out the back, carrying clouds of polyester and fleece with it.

  But no blood. Not yet, anyway.

  McGrath flew backward, locked to the floor by his spider boots, bending so hard that his hardshell helmet rebounded off the deck. The boots emergency-disengaged, but not before Oliver heard his grunt across the channel and knew his knee had taken a hit from the sudden bend sideways. So long as he’s not shot through, I’ll take it.

  She turned to him, scrambling to get her duster up. His autoseal should have engaged, closing off the suit, but she needed to be sure… Idiot! You are still in a goddamn firefight! Get back to…

  Her head rocked to the side even as she turned back to the enemy. She disengaged her setules right as the floor raced up to meet her, her helmet colliding with it hard enough to crack the faceplate. But the suit’s breach alarm was already sounding, the interior visor dropping and the shrink layer closing around her to contain the precious oxygen. She got her hands under her and launched herself upright, already knowing what had hit her – the length of conduit pipe had cracked her helmet’s casing, and if she had to hazard a guess, her attacker was even now raising the weapon for the coup de grâce. She launched herself up, trusting to the suit’s failsafe, hoping to sommersault over her attacker and…

  The six-pack’s low ceiling was not having it. She collided with it just as the pipe impacted her hardshell’s shoulder, spinning her in place and bringing her into contact with her attacker. She fumbled, grappling with their hardshell, unable to even locate her duster, let alone raise it for an attack.

  Whoever they were, they were ready. She saw the pipe floating away out of her peripheral vision, felt the enemy placing one gauntlet against her chest, trying to push her away to get enough space to throw a punch. She scrambled closer, clawing her way up her attacker’s arm, trying to keep as close as she could. And then what? If you’re too close for him to hurt you, then you’re too close to disable him.

  But she already knew. She wasn’t alone on this op. She was with a team. Trust them. You’re the novice here. Just keep this motherfucker tied up long enough to let them get the rest of them wrapped up.

  She tried not to think about McGrath, his knee likely popped, his suit breached. He’s a pro. If anyone can fight through that, he can.

  She wrenched herself forward, felt her faceplate click against her assailant’s. He had his visor smoked, but she could just make out his features through it – pale skin, thick lips disappearing into a thatching of matted beard. His eyes were narrowed, not in anger but concentration, a thinking opponent. The worst kind.

  He pushed again, this time with both hands, but made no headway, tried to raise one of his arms. Oliver wasn’t sure what he intended, but if he wanted to do it, then she passionately wanted the opposite. She scrambled for his free arm, felt her gauntlet’s fingertips brush against it, scrape off. He lifted his arm and chopped down, the bottom of his fist colliding with her hardshell’s elbow joint. Her arm slammed downward, losing purchase on him, and she felt the distance between them widen. He cocked his fist back for a haymaker she knew would crack her failsafe visor. This is it. This is how I die.

  She exhaled sharply, expelling all the oxygen she could, silently grateful for insisting that she go through NCD/0G school. Asphyxiation would take a while, but the effects of depressurization would be near-instant. Her eyes scanned over his shoulder, desperately searching for a way to seal the coming breach as his gauntlet grew larger in her vision.

  And then suddenly he rocked sideways and was gone.

  Oliver drifted gently backward as Pervez tackled him into the binnacle, her duster wielded like a club. She bashed it into his helmet, once, twice, three times, puffs of oxygen venting as his faceplate stove in. Shards of that have to be going into his face, Oliver thought as she got her feet down on the deck and engaged her setules, fumbled for her duster.

  Pervez had the man down on his back, smoothly reversed her duster to hover the barrel over his failsafe-sealed face. “Motherfucker, do you want to get shot?”

  The man spread his hands in answer, making no move to counter.

  Oliver raised her duster to the low ready and scanned the cabin. McGrath, shockingly, was standing, covering down on the remaining three bad guys. Two were on their knees, with Chief putting the restraints on the second of them. The third drifted on his stomach, blood misting from the wreckage of his hardshell’s chest.

  “Everybody OK?” Oliver radioed the team’s channel. “Sound off!”

  “Yeah,” McGrath replied.

  “Check,” Chief said.

  “Jesus Christ, I think I pissed myself,” Ho groused from the control room.

  “Good to go,” said Okonkwo.

  “ME3, are you sure?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” McGrath answered. “It punched through the shell, but it didn’t hit me.”

  “Will I go to jail if I shoot this fucker?” Pervez asked. “Because I really really really want to shoot him.”

  “Please do not shoot the helpless prisoner,” Oliver said. “No saving that… clearly dead guy?”

  “No way,” Chief answered. “He kept fighting and I doubled-tapped him. Second shot must have shredded the failsafe.”

  “Christ,” Oliver said.

  “If he didn’t want to die,” Pervez said, “he shouldn’t have picked a gunfight with the US Coast Guard.”

  Oliver felt the tremors rise in her, like they always did when the immediate danger was past. Sickness coiled in her belly, made her arms shake. She lowered her duster and clamped her arms to her side. “We sure we’re clear?”

  Pervez rolled her guy onto his stomach, wrenched him upright and began applying restraints. Chief had finished with the second of his captives and began making a circuit of the cabin. “We’re clear, boss. Ready to call it in.”

  “No need,” Okonkwo jerked a thumb at one of the scratched windows. “The Navy is here to save the day.”

  Oliver followed the direction of his gesture and saw the Navy small boat firing attitude thrusters as it drifted alongside, autocannons trained on the vessel. They’d surely have docked themselves if SAR-1’s boat hadn’t already been covering the sole tow-fender. But the boat’s tiny shape was dwarfed by the massive shape
of the Perry Class frigate moving into position just overhead.

  “Wow,” Oliver breathed, “cavalry has truly arrived.”

  “Good thing,” Ho said, “never know when you’ll need a Perry Class to… blow a small boat to smithereens with a Coast Guard boarding team still on board it, I guess.”

  “Logic definitely escaping me too,” Oliver agreed.

  “Boss,” Chief said, “I don’t want to speak for anyone here, but I know I sure don’t want to get blown to smithereens personally. And it would really help with that anxiety if you’d answer their hail.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’d better,” Oliver said, then bridged to the six-pack’s comms array, silently grateful for the hinged armor-plating that had protected it from the gunfire in the cabin.

  She saw the Navy’s transponder signal flashing on her HUD, likely hailing both the six-pack and the longhorn at the same time. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, patched it in. “United States Coast Guard, Admiral Oliver.”

  The singer’s base on the other end of the line sent a chill through her. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised to find General Fraser responding to the incident, but she was.

  “Admiral Oliver,” he didn’t bother to identify himself, his voice tight with anger, “you mind telling me what the hell just happened?”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Oliver said, acutely aware the hailing frequency was sounding in the helmets of every member of her boarding team, “but you should in no way misconstrue that to mean that I am in any way obligated to tell you. But, you know, since you asked nicely, SAR-1 just intercepted a six-pack evading quarantine. We have one KIA, three perps in custody, and we will now relay them to the Captain of the Port for booking.”

  “So, they’re US persons,” Fraser said after a moment, “which means you got lucky. If they’d been Chinese, you could have been sitting on an international incident. Tensions are high enough.”

  “If they were Chinese, they wouldn’t have embarked via a US port.”

  “And this is why you don’t have a homeland focused agency handling these things. Foreign nationals fake papers through US ports all the time.”