Cry of War: A Military Space Adventure Series

by R. L. Giddings

  Faulkner had to admit that, considering that this wasn’t his crew, they seemed to be responding well to the demands he was putting upon them. They were well trained and didn’t seem inordinately concerned that he was leading them straight into combat even though Meyer had famously avoided direct action of any kind. He was hoping he’d get a better sense of his crew’s strengths and weaknesses over the next few hours. If they were going to go into battle together he needed to know just how hard he could push them. So far, there’d been precious little opportunity for that.

  Something flashed on his display and he looked down to see a yellow banner marked: Navigation. McNeill.

  He was quick to respond.

  “Alright, McNeill, what have you got?”

  “The XO asked me to notify you of any course changes with the Loki, sir, however small.”

  “Good. Let’s have it.”

  The images appeared instantly on his viewscreen. He stared at the new bearings for several moments trying to make sense of them, then he over-laid the original course. A clear change of course, yet so small as to be almost imperceptible. Yet why would the Loki bother to make such a change if they were pouring all their efforts into simply getting away? Surely, the shortest distance between two points was always going to be a straight one.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  “Okay, McNeill, good work for flagging it up. If anything else happens be sure to let me know.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Faulkner couldn’t afford to overlook anything, no matter how small. Committed as they were to this pursuit, they were in a fairly perilous position simply because their opponent could predict, with some certainty, where they’d be at any particular point in time. Schwartz had assigned some of her deck crew to scanning the area ahead of them in search of any potential pitfalls, particularly so-called loiter missiles. It was an obvious ploy in this kind of cat-and-mouse situation but so far Loki had not chosen to employ it. Either that, or this wasn’t a tactic that the Da’al were familiar with.

  Perhaps they had some other technique for dealing with their pursuers. It wasn’t impossible that the Loki was leading them into some kind of trap, but he doubted it. Not unless there were other Da’al ships out there lying dormant in the dark. But they would have had to plant such ships long before Faulkner and the crew of the Mantis had arrived in the system. For all that that might seem like an unlikely scenario it was not something that Faulkner could completely disregard.

  “Comms. I want our long-range scans sweeping the area directly ahead of the Loki.”

  “Sorry, sir. Did you say: ahead?”

  “That’s right. Is there a problem?”

  “Er, no, sir. How far ahead of the Loki would you like us to go?”

  “Half a million klicks ought to do it.”

  “That’s a lot of klicks, sir.”

  “Then you’d best get to it.”

  *

  Noah tried to control his anger as he sat waiting for someone from the Montezuma to get back to him.

  He understood that they were busy over there, the Heimdall’s missiles had done a fair degree of damage to the entrance to the cargo bay. This was why, seventy-two hours after the attack, the Motar had still been unable to dock with her sister ship. And the longer this dragged on, the more convinced he became of the idea that Tomas, his older brother, was using this as some kind of excuse to keep him out of the loop. Certainly, after what he’d just heard, that seemed the most likely option.

  Looking out through the main portal, he was unable to see his brother’s ship. What he was anxious to check was whether or not there were any signs of repairs currently underway. He strongly suspected that there weren’t and that Tomas was using his brother’s enforced absence to give himself time to think. Normally, once a salvage mission got under way, everyone was up against the clock, moving heaven and earth to get the affected ship back to the dockyard. The sooner that was accomplished then the sooner the ship could return to service – damaged vessels cost their owners money for every day that they were out of service.

  But here they were, having done the bulk of the work - hauling the ghost ship up into orbit – sitting around doing precisely nothing.

  Noah could see the ghost ship now, sitting off to his port side, and every time he looked at it he seemed to see some new feature. Indeed, it seemed to have very little in common with the frail wreck they’d first come across down on the planet’s surface. That ship had seemed so denuded by long years of neglect that it looked like it might break apart at any time. There was simply no comparison with that ship and the one he was looking at now. It was as if the ship had thrown off its disguise only to reveal its true nature: its paint job slicker, its lights brighter, its lines sharper. Some designer had put an awful lot of thought into creating such a sleek aesthetic, the tail fins long and sinuous, the nose cone curved and distinctively hawkish.

  Indeed, if they’d had any doubts about the ship’s efficacy before then they’d evaporated when the ghost ship had taken precisely a hundred and forty-eight seconds to completely annihilate the Heimdall and all her crew. The fact that she was capable of such a fearsome act of destruction had forced them all to re-evaluate their attitude towards her and their reasons for being there. Suddenly, the terms that Winterson had offered them didn’t seem half so generous now.

  “Hi, Noah. Coach here. What can I do you for?”

  Coach was holding his monitor flush against his chest so that all Noah could see was a low angled shot of the man’s ample beard.

  “How’s things? Hope Tomas isn’t working you too hard.”

  “You guys wouldn’t know what hard work is. You want to try a couple of months working maintenance on one of those old interstellar cruisers. Eight hours straight working in vacuum. You ask your dad about that.”

  Coach had set off walking while he was still talking and, from the look of it, he was in the main cargo bay – at least that’s what Noah assumed from what he could see of the ceiling. He couldn’t think of many other places on the Montezuma with ceilings that high. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the reflected flash of a welding laser.

  “Just handing you over to your brother now.”

  Noah got a close-up of someone’s hand and then Tomas’ face loomed into view.

  Noah’s stomach twisted. Something was wrong. He was sure of it.

  Tomas placed the monitor on top of a work bench and then angled the screen so that Noah could watch him as he worked with the laser.

  Tomas slid the goggles down over his eyes. “What’s happening your end? You keeping an eye on that ghost?”

  “Yeah, I’m watching her now. Nothing’s happening.”

  “Good. Just so long as it stays that way.”

  “How are the repairs coming?” Noah asked, careful not to jump in with his accusations straight away.

  Tomas held up the head of the laser. “Well, as you can see, they could be better. We’re still trying to sort out the main door. It didn’t look too bad at first but now I’m worried the seal’s damaged.”

  A corner of the screen flared bright white as Tomas set to work again.

  “So, you’ve been working on this all morning?”

  “No, me and the guys been having a table tennis tournament. What do you think?”

  “Me? Well, I think you’re up to something. Actually, I know you’re up to something: doing deals behind my back.”

  Tomas turned off the laser and looked straight at the monitor.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think – tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Okay, who’ve you been talking to?” he said with sudden irritation. “Was it Elina?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. She didn’t want me to say anything.”

  “Did she tell you I’d spoken with Winterson?”

  “She might have done.”

  Tomas put down the laser and pulled the goggles off his face. “Look
, I was gonna tell you once we’d got all this lot sorted out. I’ve spoken with Coach and he’s fine with it. And I’d have spoken with you as well, but you weren’t here.”

  “But you found time to talk to Elina. Good old Elina. Is it true what she told me, by the way? Is it?”

  “Depends what she told you.”

  “That you told Winterson where to stick his money. That we’re pulling out – effectively voiding the contract. Something like that?”

  “Yeah, I suppose that’s the top and bottom of it – though I didn’t tell him where to stick his money. Just told him to find someone else. This is military grade stuff. Way out of our league. I should have seen that from the beginning.”

  Noah gripped the sides of his monitor. “And you didn’t think to check with me first? I thought we were supposed to be partners?”

  “Look, like I said: you weren’t here. Then, when I spoke to Winterson, it seemed obvious what I needed to do for the good of the team. Dad would have done the exact same thing.”

  This infuriated Noah more than anything his brother had said so far. He hated it when Tomas used their father as a way of justifying his own actions! It was lazy and indefensible.

  Everyone said that it was Noah who was the impetuous one and yet it was Tomas who, once he got an idea in his head, couldn’t be talked out of it.

  “Don’t try and bring dad into this. He’s not here, so there’s no way of telling what he might do. The truth is, you decided this all on your own and just assumed that I’d go along with it. Well, this time, you’re wrong.”

  Tomas stared resolutely at the floor.

  “Okay,” he said. “I admit it. I shouldn’t have done it without consulting you first. Only trouble is it’s done now. Contract’s been cancelled.”

  The two of them stared at one another, the apology that Noah had been hoping to hear resolutely failing to materialise.

  “What about the money? What’s happening with that?”

  “Nothing. There is no money. We didn’t fulfil the contract. Simple as that.”

  “You got to be kidding me. We’ve got to have made something out of this after all the work we’ve put in.”

  Tomas looked at him blankly. “No, nothing.”

  A thousand conflicting thoughts roared through Noah’s mind at that moment. How were they going to cover their operating costs? How were they going to pay the crew? Was the business still viable? But each question seemed so trivial in light of the massive payday that Tomas had just passed up that it hardly seemed worth worrying about.

  Tomas would have been aware of all these questions and yet had not let a single one of them deter him from his final decision.

  How very noble of him.

  How incredibly stupid!

  “Can’t you call him back?” Noah asked. “Tell him you got it wrong.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I’ve no idea what’s controlling that ship but I do know one thing: it’s very bloody dangerous. And we only saw a small part of what it’s capable of. We start messing around with it now, start hauling it off in a direction it doesn’t want to go, and there’s no telling what it might do. So, you can say what you like, Noah, but as far as I’m concerned, this thing is over.”

  Noah leaned into the screen. “Yeah, Tomas, and that’s where you’re wrong.”

  *

  LaCruz was conducting an EVI of her Armored Personnel Suit. An Extensive Visual Inspection used powerful electro-magnets to check for cracks in the suit’s armor and it took forever to set up. Then, just as they were getting ready for the first scan, she was distracted by approaching Markham’s bed. From the look of their unkempt beards she figured them for personnel from the original Tigris camp. Scientists and engineers for the most part.

  Now, what did they want?

  They’d been on-board the Motar for forty-eight hours now and tempers were starting to fray. They’d expected to be on the ship for no more than a couple of hours, enough time for them to get into space and establish an orbit. From there they had expected to be transferred to the main salvage ship but when the Montezuma had been damaged in the Da’al attack, all that had had to be put on hold. Now, tensions were starting to rise and it was all down to a lack of communication. Still, LaCruz hadn’t been expecting the civilians to kick-off quite so quickly.

  Markham was sitting in his t-shirt, checking through the notifications on his tablet seemingly without a care in the world as the group formed up around him.

  LaCruz drifted over.

  A tall, red headed guy was talking when she arrived. He was carrying his parka in one hand and a towel in the other.

  “And so, we said: what are we supposed to do about the wash-rooms? And he was like: try again tomorrow. Completely uncooperative. Like he didn’t really care either way.”

  Markham didn’t look up. This was hardly his concern but he was trying to be polite. “And that’s it. Nothing else was said. You didn’t say anything they might have taken offence at?”

  “That was the thing – we hadn’t said anything to them. We were just walking through, like we did yesterday. We didn’t even realise they were guarding the place.”

  That got Markham’s attention. “They’ve posted a guard on the wash-rooms?”

  The red head looked to the others for support.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’ve got two of them over there.”

  Markham lifted his head, counted eight men in the group.

  “Are they armed?”

  “You bet. They’ve got the whole place sealed off. They’re not letting anyone through.”

  “Just to the shower block? What about the Heads?”

  “It’s all cut off, though they have brought down a couple of portable toilets.”

  “Yeah, like we haven’t seen enough of those already,” one of them lamented.

  Markham turned off his tablet and stood up. He located his tunic and started shrugging it on.

  “Okay, I’ll have a word with them. You guys wait here,” he looked across at LaCruz and beckoned her over. “You’re with me.”

  At first, the men thought they’d tag along – keen to see how this was going to play out - but Markham was quick to discourage them. He waited until they’d returned to their make-shift camp before he and LaCruz struck out for the shower block. On the way over, they spotted five WCUs, waste management units, stacked against one wall.

  LaCruz could feel Markham starting to bristle. They’d all had to use similar units down on the planet but the idea that they were now going to be denied access to the ship’s facilities smacked of high-handedness.

  As they approached, LaCruz could make out three members of the Motar crew. She’d come across roughnecks like this before and would normally have given them a wide berth. They were standing behind a pile of crates which they’d dragged over to act as a make-shift barricade. Directly behind them was the entrance to the shower block but off to the left were the steps leading up to the enormous engine housings and it was no doubt these that they were trying to protect. She saw at a glance that two of them were carrying plasma rifles.

  “Want me to get a couple more guys?” LaCruz asked Markham.

  “Not yet. Let’s just get the lay of the land first.”

  “Your call,” she said, sliding her knife out of its sheath before hiding it inside her shirt sleeve.

  As they approached, one of the crewmen came out and headed straight for them.

  He was tall and rangy and wore a grey flying cap complete with fur ear flaps. LaCruz had helped him when he’d been setting up the heaters the previous day. She thought his name was Ferguson.

  “Hi there, sergeant,” he extended a hand. “I was just coming to see you.”

  “Yeah, sure you were.” Markham didn’t take his hand straight away. Made him wait before he shook it. “So, what’s going on?”

  Ferguson turned towards the barricade as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, this? This is the captain’s idea. Kind
of a quarantine type thing.”

  “Quarantine?” Markham looked around at the sixty or so people ranged about the place. “Kind of late for that now isn’t it?”

  Ferguson shrugged. “I just do what I’m told.”

  “So, this is permanent: the barricade, the WMUs?”

  “To be honest with you, I have no idea. Things seem to be a bit screwed up right now and we just want to get on with our jobs.”

  “When are we supposed to dock?” LaCruz said.

  Ferguson gave her a pained look. “See, that’s the thing. The Monte got banged up pretty bad when that missile went off. Damaged the seal on her main cargo doors, which is a real downer. With no seal in place, we can’t dock.”

  “Okay,” Markham said purposefully. “So, where does that leave us?”

  Ferguson might not have noticed the change in Markham’s tone but LaCruz certainly did. He was telling her to be prepared for trouble, but LaCruz was way ahead of him. She held her arms behind her back, knife at the ready.

  She’d already worked out the angles. The guy with the rifle slung at port arms was a long way from being able to take a shot and would no doubt hesitate with Ferguson standing in the way. She thought she could hit him with the knife, no problem, and that would be enough to put him off his aim. It was the third guy she was worried about. He’d either freeze completely or just start firing wildly and that was what she was most concerned about. There was no telling who might get hit if that happened though just to be certain she’d positioned herself so that Ferguson was standing between the pair of them.

  Ferguson was considering his reply. He clearly liked Markham but was wary about how much information he could share with him.

  Eventually, he leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner.

  “To be honest, this’d be a lot easier if you could see your way clear to doing me one small favour.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I need a list of all your people. Basic stuff: age, skill set, medical conditions. That kind of thing.”

  “What you want all that for.”