“Understood,” Metzger said. “Recommendations?”
“I don’t know,” Gill said reluctantly. “I was hoping that you had some ideas.”
“I have one,” Flanders said. “Commander Metzger, I presume Guardian has a laser and is carrying a full complement of missiles?”
“Yes, to both,” Metzger said cautiously. “What are you proposing?”
“You know what I’m proposing, Commander,” Flanders said, his voice stiff. “As captain of RHNS Saintonge and commander of Havenite forces in-system, I’m directing you to destroy Péridot and Saintonge before their hijackers can fully activate their wedges and escape the system.”
Again, Gill expected an audible gasp or curse. Again, there was only silence. Maybe Metzger and Calkin had already known Flanders was going to say that.
Maybe Gill had known it, too.
“You know we can’t do that, Commodore,” Metzger said. “Firing on a Havenite ship would be an act of war.”
“These aren’t Havenite ships anymore, Commander,” Flanders said bitterly. “They’re pirate vessels, and as such are not entitled to share space with civilized nations.”
“That may be. But—”
“No buts about it, Commander,” Flanders cut her off. “Now, you’ll need to log both my order and my personal command code to confirm my authorization when the—when this is all over.”
Gill felt his stomach tighten. When this was all over, and Metzger and the entire Star Kingdom were hauled before a Havenite court on the charge of starting a war.
“The code is as follows,” Flanders continued, and rattled off a complex series of numbers and digits. “Do you need that repeated?”
“No, Sir,” Metzger said, her voice stiff and formal.
“Good,” Flanders said. “I know this is going to be hard, Commander Metzger. But if you can’t frame it as what’s best for the galaxy, frame it as what’s best for your people. Because if you don’t destroy them, I guarantee the first ship they’ll go after will be yours.”
“I’m thinking about my people, yes,” Metzger countered. “I’m also thinking about yours. You have, what, around a thousand men and women on those two ships?”
“Nine hundred eighty, plus your captain and several planetary diplomats,” Flanders said. “None of that matters. Whatever action you do or don’t take, none of them is going to survive the day. If any of our people are still alive, it’s only because Guzarwan hasn’t had time yet to kill them.”
“What if we send a boarding party?” a new voice cut in.
Gill stiffened. It was Jean. His Jean.
What was she doing on Guardian’s bridge?
“Do you have armored assault shuttles?” Flanders asked.
“Negative.”
“Then your boarding party will be dead before it even gets close,” Flanders said bluntly. “You’re way the hell over there, we’re way the hell over here, and there’s no place to hide along the way. Guzarwan will have plenty of time to prepare, and if he can’t kill them with Péridot’s wedge, he’ll kill them with shoulder-launched missiles. These people are well-equipped, and they came prepared. I have no intention of adding two functional RHN warships to their arsenal.”
There was a moment of silence. Gill tried to conjure up his wife’s face against the soft glow of the radar status board. Tried to imagine the rigidly controlled expression she was even now hiding behind.
Because Flanders was right. They had to make sure Guzarwan and his killers didn’t leave Secour with his prizes.
And at the moment, Gill couldn’t see any way to do that except at the cost of all of their lives.
“I assume there’s no way for you to get to the impellers and shut them down,” Metzger said. “More time means more options.”
Gill smiled, his eyes unexpectedly misting up. More time means more options. The same phrase, the same exact words, that Jean trotted out whenever Gill was frustrated by some insurmountable problem. She must have said it aloud just now, and Metzger had picked up on it.
But in this case, there was no way to buy more time. Not with the hijackers in control of all the critical sections of the ship.
There was only one thing left they could try.
“There may be a way, Commander,” he spoke up. “We know that most of the officers and visitors are trapped in Alpha Spin, and we can probably assume that Guzarwan has at least some of the enlisted in Beta Spin. Assuming the sections are now locked vertically—are they, by the way?”
“Yes.”
“Then what we’ve got is a flank that’s wide open,” Gill continued. “A single, close-in shot could theoretically cut through both the fore and aft impeller rings without opening and depressurizing either of the spin sections.”
“He’s right,” Flanders said, an odd note to his voice. “A single properly aimed laser shot or a close pass with a missile’s roof or floor, and you could cut through Péridot’s flank without killing anyone but the hijackers.”
“Along with any of the crew still in the main hull,” Calkin put in.
“I doubt there’s anyone left,” Flanders said.
“What about the reactor?” Metzger asked. “Won’t a shot like that risk taking down the bottle?”
Gill looked at Flanders . . . and in the Havenite’s eyes he saw they had indeed both come to the same inescapable conclusion.
Péridot was doomed. One way or another, Guardian had to take it out.
But Metzger was clearly reluctant to open fire on them. So he and Flanders would offer just enough hope to persuade her to take the shot.
The fact that there was no such hope was irrelevant.
“We’ll be all right,” Flanders assured her, with a sincerity that even Gill found convincing. “Even if you nick the edge, it should just blow the plasma out that side of the hull and leave the rest of the ship intact.”
“All right.” Metzger still didn’t sound happy, but Gill could visualize her face settling into what he’d always referred to in officers as command mode. She’d made her decision, and now she was committed to carrying it out. “We’ll hit Péridot’s portside flank. Is there anywhere you two can go where you’ll be safe?”
“I know some places,” Flanders said. “We’ll be all right. Good luck, and good shooting to you.” He took a deep breath. “Péridot out.” He keyed off. “Shall we just leave the setup as is?” he added to Gill.
“Might as well,” Gill said, his heart aching. Ever since Jean had left active Marine duty, he’d always assumed he would have a chance to say good-bye to her before their final parting.
And indeed, he’d just had that opportunity. He was here, she was on Guardian’s bridge, and he could have said his farewells.
Only he couldn’t. The words he would have said, and the way he would have said them, would have tipped Metzger off that the tale Flanders had spun was nothing but feathered air. The XO might have had second thoughts, and with enough second thoughts the missiles would stay in Guardian’s tubes and Guzarwan would get away clean. “There isn’t really a chance, is there?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Realistically?” Flanders shook his head. “No. It would take a miracle to cut through the impellers and not breach the bottle, too. When that happens—” He spread his hands wide.
“That’s what I figured. So what now?”
Flanders rubbed at his chin. “You said I have five seconds’ worth of fuel in my thruster pack?”
“About that, yes,” Gill said, frowning. “Why? You want to make a campfire we can sit around?”
“I was thinking something more constructive. If we can get into the reactor room without being shot, there may be enough fuel for me to start a fire.”
“Ah,” Gill said, a hint of unexpected hope flickering through the ashes. “And when the suppression system comes on, the hijackers will have to evacuate or suffocate?”
“Exactly,” Flanders said. “I’m hoping you know a quick way to scram a fusion reactor.”
“I know at least three of them,” Gill said, the flicker of hope warming to a solid ember.
Because if the reactor was already cooling down from a scram when the bottle was breached, there was at least a chance the blast would only take out the hull nearest the breach, as Flanders had described, and not the entire ship. Granted, it wouldn’t be nearly as intact as the commodore had implied, but parts should at least still be habitable. “I’m guessing we’re talking the accessways?”
“We are indeed,” Flanders said. “Follow me.”
“Very well, Commander Metzger,” General Chu said, his eyes boring out of the com display like twin lasers. “I don’t know the format for Havenite command codes, so I can’t confirm that Commodore Flanders’s authorization is legally valid. For that matter, given the unorthodox transmission and associated voiceprint degradation, I can’t even confirm that that is the commodore.”
“There are other aspects of the communication that convince me the transmission is valid, Sir,” Metzger said.
“Regardless, it’s clear we don’t have time to debate the issue,” Chu said. “I do agree with you that alerting the pirates that we’re on to them would be counterproductive. The Secourian Defense Force will therefore hold off any overt action or communication for the time being. But understand this: we will not allow enemy ships to threaten our world, our people, or our commerce. You’re authorized to take whatever action you deem proper to neutralize these ships. If you’re unable to achieve that goal before their impellers are fully active, we’ll take our own action against them.”
“Understood, General,” Metzger said, her voice steady. “Thank you for allowing me time to rescue our captain and the other personnel trapped aboard.”
Chu’s lip twitched.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Commander Metzger,” he said, a shade less stiffly. “Their lives are valuable to us, as well. But our priority must be with our own people.”
“As it should be,” Metzger said. “Again, thank you. We’ll keep you informed.”
“Do that, Commander,” Chu said. “And good luck.”
The transmission ended, and it seemed to Travis that the lines in Metzger’s face grew a little deeper. “TO?” she asked.
“The laser would be the best for the kind of surgical strike we’re talking about,” Calkin said doubtfully. “But with us mostly broadside to Péridot, there’s no way to turn into firing position fast enough for them not to have time to counter. They’d see the movement, and all they have to do is roll and pitch to put their wedge between us and them.”
Metzger pursed her lips. “Ioanna, what’s their wedge looking like?” she called.
“Still less than halfway up,” Kountouriote’s voice came from the speaker. “But the TO’s right. Even a partial wedge will diffuse a laser somewhat, maybe enough to render it useless.”
“And even if the shot got through, that much of a shift in Péridot’s attitude would mean we’d need two shots to take out both impeller rings,” Calkin added. “Getting one through would be dicey enough. Two would be seriously pushing it.”
“But at least their reactor would be clear of our shots,” Metzger pointed out. “Though that’s not much help if we take out the central plasma lines. So a missile is our best bet?”
“Probably,” Calkin said reluctantly. “We’ll still need to rotate into alignment with Péridot, but we’ve got a ten- to twenty-degree slack in our initial launch vector, so we don’t have to be quite lined up with her before we fire. If they’re not paying close attention we may be able to ease into position without them noticing.”
“And if they do, they still might buy our green helmsman excuse,” Metzger said reluctantly.
“If they bother to ask,” Calkin warned. “They might just open fire instead.”
“We’ll just have to hope the Havenites locked down their weapons systems better than they did their impellers,” Metzger said. “Assuming we get that far, who do you recommend to set up the shot?”
“I’d give it to Lieutenant Donnelly,” Calkin said. “She’s consistently shown excellent or outstanding in simulations.”
“Fine,” Metzger said. “Get her started, but I’ll want the two of us to look over her course and programming before we commit. And have her use a practice missile—we’re going to do enough damage without risking a warhead going off along the way.”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am.” Calkin glanced at Travis, as if wondering why he was still on the bridge when the crew were supposed to be at their assigned Readiness One stations. But he turned back to his board without asking. Keying the intercom, he began talking softly into the mike.
Asked or otherwise, it was a good question. And it was one Travis didn’t have an answer for. He’d started to leave when Metzger signaled Condition One, but halfway to the hatch the XO had waved him back. She’d finished her conversation with Flanders and Massingill, then moved immediately to the question of how to destroy Péridot’s nodes without killing the ship and everyone aboard.
Meanwhile, Travis remained floating in a corner of the bridge, wedged between two overhead displays and trying not to block either, trying to stay inconspicuous as he awaited orders.
And watching the bridge personnel age right before his eyes.
Metzger and Calkin were bad enough, with the lines and shadows in their faces deepening and darkening. But Colonel Massingill was worse. Her face had gone steadily more rigid as Flanders’s description of Péridot’s situation drained away more and more hope. Now, with the decision made, the stiffness in her expression had dissolved, leaving behind it the face of someone gazing at death.
Which she was. Travis knew enough about the positioning of impeller nodes to know it would be almost impossible to successfully cut through both rings with a single shot without also slicing away enough of the reactor’s peripheral containment equipment to precipitate a catastrophe. If the blast was contained enough, or the reactor was ejected soon enough, the two spin sections and their occupants might survive. But the rest of the hull would be shattered.
Massingill surely knew that. And if she and Travis knew it, Metzger and Calkin must know it, too. So why were they going through with the charade?
A bitter taste tingled at the back of his tongue. Because they had no choice. Guzarwan had to be stopped, and this was the only way to do it without straightforwardly blasting Péridot to atoms. Even if the chances were slim, they were better than no chance at all.
The RMN oath included a willingness to die for the Star Kingdom. It had never occurred to Travis that such an oath might also include a willingness to kill your own for the same cause.
Back on Vanguard, he’d disagreed with Captain Davison’s decision not to trade a slim chance of rescuing Phobos for the near-certainty of rescuing Rafe’s Scavenger. Disagreed with it violently. Now, looking back, he could better see the situation the captain had been in, and the heart-wrenching decision he’d had to make.
It was the same decision Metzger had just made. And it carried the same cost.
Part of that cost would be the life of Colonel Massingill’s husband.
“Colonel?”
As if someone had thrown a switch, the deadness vanished from Massingill’s face as her heart and soul shifted back from being a wife to being a Marine. “Yes, Commander?”
“What’s the status on your assault team?”
“The bosun and I have collected nine likely names, and Sergeants Holderlin and Pohjola are gathering them outside Shuttle Two for a quick assessment and briefing.” Massingill’s eyes flicked to Boysenko. “We just need to get Boysenko down there to join them.”
Metzger turned her head, her eyes widening momentarily with surprise. “Patty?”
“I did competitive shooting in high school, Ma’am,” Boysenko said, a slight quaver in her voice. “I’ve kept up with it.”
“I see,” Metzger said, back on balance. “Very well. Report to Shuttle Two. Colonel, let me know when you’re ready to move.”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am.”
Massingill flicked a glance across the bridge at Travis . . . and as she did, a memory flashed to his mind. Massingill, her face looking so much younger than it did now, gazing up at him from her desk as Gunner’s Mate First Class Jonny Funk—the late and still heart-wrenchingly missed Jonny Funk—described for her the boots’ theft of cookies from the Casey-Rosewood mess hall.
At the time, Travis had thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened in his whole life. Now, it seemed unbelievably banal.
The glance ended, and Massingill and Boysenko headed together for the hatch. A moment later, they were gone.
“You think this is a good idea?” Calkin asked quietly. “Flanders warned that Guzarwan’s men have hand-held missiles. Not much point in sending a shuttle full of people to Saintonge if it’s just going to get swatted out of the sky.”
“Saintonge is a lot closer than Péridot,” Metzger pointed out. “Whoever’s over there won’t have nearly as much time to react. I think there’s a fair chance they can get to her, especially if the hijackers are still working on taking over the ship. Anyway, we have to try.”
There was a brief pause. Possibly, Travis decided, his best chance to get out of here. He cleared his throat—
“You know how to work a com board, Long?” Metzger asked, looking over at him. “No, of course you don’t. Doesn’t matter—there isn’t anyone out there for us to talk to anyway.” She pointed to Boysenko’s vacated station. “Strap in.”
Travis felt his eyes goggling. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, fighting the confusion. What in the world? Maneuvering himself into position, he fumbled the straps into place. “Uh . . . Ma’am . . . ?”
“I don’t know, either,” she said absently, drifting toward him as her eyes shifted methodically between the various displays. Looking for information. Looking, maybe, for hope. “All I know is that you’re not really needed at Three-Ten Damage Control,” she continued, “and that you’ve demonstrated a talent for outside-the-lines ideas. Right now, that’s what we need.”
Travis swallowed hard. “Ma’am, I don’t know—”