Cry of War: A Military Space Adventure Series

by R. L. Giddings

  “Like I said: this is all the captain’s idea.”

  “By captain,” LaCruz said. “You talking about that kid?”

  Ferguson laughed, “Yeah, well, we generally avoid calling him that to his face.”

  “Worried he might rough you up?”

  “Him? No, not so much. But I wouldn’t want to cross her.”

  Markham’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember seeing a woman on board.”

  Ferguson turned, looking back at the pair manning the barricade.

  When he next spoke, he was careful to lower his voice. “Like I said. A lot’s changed in the last few hours. You didn’t hear it from me, but it looks now like we’re going to be docking with the Peter the Great.”

  Markham turned to LaCruz. “That would explain the quarantine thing.”

  Ferguson said, “It does?”

  “Yeah. No point quarantining us from your people. You’ve already been exposed to whatever it is we’re supposed to be carrying. But these others on the Peter the Great, they’re different. Are you on good terms with the guys over there?”

  “What? Those guys?” he looked horrified at the mere suggestion. “No. Bunch of cut-throats, the lot of them. Normally, we’d have nothing to do with them. Only there’s a lot at stake here …”

  “You talking about salvage rights?” Markham probed.

  Ferguson, realising that he’d said too much, started to back away. “Look, we just stick to salvage. That’s our thing. These other guys – well, they’re into all kinds of stuff. That’s all I’m saying.”

  LaCruz said, “This woman you’re talking about? Who is she?”

  Ferguson leered at her. “The lovely Elina Saratova? You must have heard of her? They call her The Widowmaker.”

  LaCruz turned to Markham as Ferguson returned to his position behind the barrier.

  “That meant to be sexy, or scary, or what?”

  “I guess we’re going to find out.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Faulkner reviewed the specifics of his planned approach for the twentieth time. It was very content heavy and managed to take up all of his available screens. Even then he had to keep scrolling back and forth in order to cross check specific details.

  It was an extremely time-consuming operation but he had to ensure that he was getting this right. He’d learned a long time ago that the outcome of any military engagement was often determined long before the two sides came within hailing distance of one another. At this stage, it was all about managing the resources you had available. In consulting his military history, he’d lost track of the number of engagements where superior forces had lost the initiative simply because they’d mismanaged their own resources. The troops had arrived too early or too late, they advanced too far forward or failed to engage quickly enough because they were out of position. The crack troops who’d been placed in areas where they went unchallenged while the new recruits were confronted with overwhelming odds.

  A relatively simple error of judgement could quickly lead to defeat and he didn’t want that happening here.

  He looked up to see Schwartz standing at her own workstation.

  “In the end, it comes down to one thing,” he said. “How much damage are we willing to sustain in order to get within striking distance of this thing?”

  “It would be nice if we could avoid taking any damage at all,” she replied without looking directly at him.

  “Which is a nice idea, if not exactly practical. The Loki’s captain has one goal in mind here: get to the Henrietta Gate and destroy it. That’s it. And he’ll do absolutely anything in his power to achieve it. Even if that costs him his whole ship.”

  “You’re probably right,” Schwartz had a habit of twisting her mouth as she considered her options and she was doing it now. “But that doesn’t mean that we have to jeopardise our own safety does it? I mean, we don’t have to actually destroy her, do we? Wouldn’t disabling her be just as good?”

  “To be honest, I’ll be happy with what I can get. But we have to act decisively. We can’t allow her to get anywhere near that gate.”

  “And we also have the issue of their shields to contend with.”

  “As if I needed reminding.”

  Faulkner had been the first to determine that the Da’al shields could be short-circuited using an electro-magnetic pulse but to do so meant using a nuclear warhead and that came with its own set of risks.

  “So, do we have a plan to take them out? Because if we do, I’d love to know.”

  Faulkner took a moment to bring up the schematic of the Loki which McNeill had prepared for them.

  “When we’ve launched against their ships in the past, we’ve found that they tended to channel most of their energies into their forward shields. It’s a defensive weakness which reflects their aggressive approach to battle. Luckily for us, this tends to leave them vulnerable to an attack from the rear.”

  “I remember reading those initial reports myself. Chief Engineer Davitz, wasn’t it?”

  Faulkner looked down. Lost in remembrance.

  “Yes. Chief Davitz. That’s right.”

  “But do we have anything to suggest that the same still holds true here?”

  “I think it’s a cultural thing. Same reason that none of their ships come equipped with escape pods. They’re all about aggression.”

  Schwartz didn’t look convinced.

  “Yes, but isn’t it possible that these ships only affect this arrangement of their shields when they’re going into battle? Would it not be possible for them to re-configure their shields so that – in the case of a pursuit, say – they could transfer the bulk of their defences to their aft shields? That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

  “If we lived in a perfect universe, then that might be the case but we don’t. So, I’m inclined to think that, like us, the Da’al’s military budgets are limited. So, they’re stuck with the same operational compromises that we all have to make.” He rotated the model so that the aft section was facing towards Schwartz. “I’m sure that when these things were first designed, their rear shields were as strong as their lead ones. But then somebody at the top of their chain of command will have decided that it was too expensive and they’d have to shave off twenty percent. First place you’d look to make those savings is back here.”

  He reached round and indicated with his finger.

  “Which is a brilliant theory, sir,” she said diplomatically.

  “But you’re not buying it?”

  “You said yourself that there are major cultural differences between us. Who’s not to say that on their planet the warriors aren’t the dominant social group? That, when they do build their ships, they do so with an unlimited budget.”

  Faulkner grinned at that. Then he pressed a button on the arm of his chair.

  “Mr McNeill, can you come over here? We’ve something we’d like to discuss.”

  While they were waiting for him to appear, Schwartz came over and stood by him. This prompted Faulkner to get to his feet.

  “Katherine, what I said earlier…” he paused, unsure how best to continue. “Look, I didn’t handle it very well. This whole thing is new to me and I’m trying my best to get it right but be assured I had no intention of questioning your ability. I was just trying to give you some more options, that’s all. I got it wrong. I’m sorry. You’re much better placed to judge this situation than I am so, in future, I’ll follow your lead. Okay?”

  “Sir, there’s no need to apologise. I’m getting regular check-ups and everything seems to be fine. I was just taken by surprise, that’s all. I’ve worked so hard to get here, I just didn’t want you thinking that I wasn’t up to the job.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’ve got that out the way,” he said, relieved not to have made things worse.

  They acknowledged one another and then just stood there awkwardly, waiting for McNeill to arrive.

  McNeill approached the command chair. At just under a metre tall and with hi
s odd, rolling gait he tended to stand out.

  He gave Faulkner a crisp salute before stepping forward to have Schwartz take him through the salient points of their discussion. McNeill listened carefully, every once in a while, taking a side-long glance at Faulkner.

  “So, what do you think?” Faulkner asked.

  “Er, in the absence of any nuclear option, I think that I’m going to have to take another look at this.”

  “So, we won’t know what we’re up against until we’ve loosed off a couple more missiles?”

  “That sounds like the top and bottom of it, sir. I’ll have to consult with Tactical to see what our options are.”

  “All of which is going to take time,” Faulkner said. He’d been hoping for a more definitive answer yet knew that he’d been overly optimistic expecting everything to run smoothly. He suddenly felt that the room was stifling him and snapped off the image of the Loki as a way of bringing the meeting to a close.

  “If I may say so, sir,” McNeill said stiffly. “My father was a great admirer of yours.”

  Faulkner drew himself up sharply then. “Really? And where did he serve?”

  “On the Alexandria, sir. Came through three tours.”

  “Brave man.”

  “Not as brave as my mother. He’d be the first to tell you that.”

  Faulkner glanced at Schwartz, unsure where this was going.

  “And where was she stationed?”

  “She was an officer on the Verdun. She was in her bunk when the ship was hit.”

  Suddenly, everything became clear. The Verdun had been ambushed by three Yakutian ships and had done well to escape though the ship’s twin reactors had been badly damaged in the process. They’d been on the verge of going critical when the crew had been taken off by two Confederation ships. One of the reactors had gone into meltdown and, in the subsequent explosion, the ship had been completely destroyed.

  “That was a bad show,” Faulkner said. “And was your mother injured?”

  “They didn’t realise it at the time but the shielding in her part of the ship had been breached. As a consequence, she received a massive dose of radiation. She never returned to active duty.”

  Faulkner stirred uneasily. This was all just a little too close to home.

  “And was your mother pregnant?” Schwartz managed. “At the time, I mean?”

  McNeill nodded gravely. “Fourteen weeks, yes. The doctors advised her to…”

  “Terminate the pregnancy?”

  McNeill stiffened at her candor. “That’s right. Only she was determined to go ahead with it. Then, four and a half months later, I arrived.”

  “I’d like to meet this mother of yours,” Faulkner said.

  “She’s a remarkable woman, sir. Even if I do say so myself.”

  “And she’s … well?” Schwartz probed.

  McNeill gave her a little lop-sided grin. “She’s still with us, if that’s what you mean. My father looks after her now. She has her good days and her bad. I visit whenever I can.”

  “That’s one hell of a story, lieutenant. I appreciate you sharing it with us.”

  “Story of my life, sir.”

  *

  LaCruz got back from her shower to find the cargo bay in uproar.

  In return for Markham presenting him with a manifest of everyone in the hold – Marines, scientists, engineers - Ferguson had arranged it so they had access to the showers, though on a strict ‘one in, one out’ policy. The guy ahead of her in line was stripped down to his boxers and rolled his eyes when LaCruz appeared. She flipped him the bird and took her place. With everyone crammed into such a small space, privacy was in short supply and it was only a matter of time before tempers began to fray. The little salvage ship just wasn’t equipped to deal with so many passengers and the air re-cycling system was struggling to keep up. Everywhere you went there was that same ‘wet dog’ smell.

  She didn’t like the way things had turned out but the reality of the situation was that they were very much reliant upon the Motar crew for things like food and medical supplies. Barnes, for one, needed his painkillers. His feet had started to smell and, while they’d done their best changing his dressings, it was clear that he was fighting an infection although all their requests for anti-biotics had met with blank faces. The sooner they could get him somewhere that he could receive proper medical attention, the better.

  She tried to get her mind off all this while she enjoyed her shower. The water was too hot for her liking but she made the best of it lathering her hair and body before the water cut off after three minutes. That left her to wipe off the soap suds with her towel before trying to dry her hair.

  After she’d slipped on her underwear she re-emerged in the cargo bay to find the place in uproar. While she’d been gone, they’d managed to cut the cargo bay into two halves by lowering a huge partition screen. She’d noticed earlier that there was a narrow channel running straight down the middle of the cargo bay and now she realised what it was there for. This way they could partition the whole bay off into two self-sufficient, air-tight compartments. Only now, everyone was packed into a space half the size of what they’d enjoyed thirty minutes earlier.

  This allowed the crew to open up the huge cargo doors on the other side, allowing the ship access to incoming traffic.

  There were diamond glass windows set in the partition wall at roughly head height and LaCruz went over to take a look. There were a couple of guys, she had them tagged as scientists straightaway, who were also trying to get a look see.

  “Where’d that shuttle come from?” she asked, dismayed.

  “Only just arrived,” the guy next to her said. “They didn’t waste much time.”

  They watched as the pilot cut the shuttles’ engines, allowing the grav clamps to slide forward before locking the ship in place.

  All this activity was bathed in a menacing dark red glow but she could still see two figures in pressure suits moving about on the other side. They worked together to ensure that each of the two umbilicals were securely attached, one to handle water and gases, the other to supply the electrics. They’d have to wait while the pressure was equalized before it would be safe for any passengers to disembark.

  LaCruz went to look for Markham and found him chatting to the Marsh woman. LaCruz had suspected at first that Markham seemed to have a thing for her – he was only human, after all - but now she was starting to realise that perhaps that wasn’t the full reality of the case. She really didn’t like Marsh and would have preferred it if they’d left her back on Tigris.

  Marsh struck her as the sort of woman who’d readily use her sexuality to get what she wanted, and that didn’t sit well with LaCruz.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing good,” Markham said. “Ferguson came down with a group of guys. He didn’t say anything to us but he’s clearly not happy with the situation.”

  “You think this could be Kaminsky’s brother?”

  “The Montezuma’s captain? Could be, I suppose. But if that’s the case, what’s with all the artillery?”

  Markham pointed over to where the Motar crew members were standing waiting for the pressure hatch to open. There were five of them and they were well armed.

  “I don’t think it’s him,” Kate Marsh said. She was smoking one of those ‘herbal’ cigarettes the scientists were so fond of. Just the smell of it was enough to turn LaCruz’ stomach. “I think it’s more likely to be this Saratova woman.”

  “The Widowmaker.”

  They all turned at that. It was one of the scientists. The big one with the ginger beard. He threw out his hands when they all looked at him.

  “What? That’s what the crew’s been calling her.”

  “The Widowmaker. Really?” LaCruz scoffed. “What does that even mean?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But that’s what they call her: Saratova the Widowmaker.”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Markham said, moving off. �
�Dr Marsh. If you’d kindly stay here, I need to go and have a word with someone.”

  He didn’t invite LaCruz to join him but he didn’t discourage her either, so she tagged along.

  “Heay, Ferguson!”

  The tall, wiry figure of Ferguson hefted the strap on the rail gun he was carrying and turned to face them.

  “How you doing?” he asked, seeming pleased to see them. “Thanks for that list, by the way.”

  “Glad to be of help,” Markham inclined his head in the direction of the pressure doors. “Like to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Can’t say,” Ferguson rolled his eyes. “But we’re getting ready for a special visitor.”

  “I understand,” Markham said. “So, it’s not the other Kaminsky brother, is it?”

  Ferguson looked through the observation window to see what was happening on the other side. They were getting ready to open the shuttle’s rear ramp.

  “Nah. Not him,” he lowered his voice. “This lot are over from the Peter the Great. They’re looking to give us the once over.”

  LaCruz squinted through the diamond glass. As the people exited down the ramp they had to take turns being hosed down with some kind of sterilising spray.

  “I’d have thought you’d be in a hurry to get us out of here,” LaCruz said indicating the cramped surroundings. “Not recruit more passengers.”

  “That’s the problem, right there. They want to check out that there are no health concerns before they start shipping people over. Though, trust me, they’re not doing any of this out of the goodness of their hearts.”

  “So, where do you stand in all this?” Markham asked. “If you had to pick a side?”

  Ferguson grimaced at the mention of ‘sides.’

  “Personally, I don’t want anything to do with all of this. I’d sooner be back on board the Montezuma but it seems that the brothers have had a falling out so I can’t see that happening anytime soon.”

  “They’re arguing over the ghost ship?” Markham said.

  “Pretty much,” Ferguson nodded. “Oh, looks like they’re ready for us.”

  The light on the pressure door glowed bright green.

  LaCruz watched as Ferguson’s team removed the safeties from their weapons. Despite what anyone else might be saying, there was clearly no love lost between the two crews. LaCruz’ main concern though was what would happen if either side did start shooting. With nowhere to hide, the cargo bay would quickly be transformed into a bloodbath.