"Commander, most of Major Franks’ badly wounded have been transferred to the hospital ship and a medical team has been dispatched to the Crazy Horse!" Winslow hastily announced.
"And the Earth fleet?" Paladin knew the answer to his question.
"We’ll be in range of their weapons in two minutes!" Winslow verified hesitantly.
Paladin frowned. "If the gate is not operational in two minutes, we'll have no choice, but to attack their fleet. Give the order to standby." his voice trailed into silent.
Winslow simply nodded and went to transmit the command.
Back in the control room of Guardian One, Franks also glanced nervously at the time. "We have less than five minutes," he spoke out loud to himself, “What the hell is keeping that repair team?”
Suddenly, there was a burst of humming in the control room equipment, as their lights flickered from red to green.
"WE'VE A GOT A GO, MAJOR!" the marine manning the gate controls happily trumpeted. "ALL SYSTEMS NOW ONLINE!"
"QUICKLY!" Franks yelled, "NOTIFY THE FLEET! AND AS SOON AS THEY'RE READY, ACTIVATE THE GATE!"
"AYE, SIR!" the marine confirmed.
* * * * *
The race was coming down to the wire, as glimmers of light danced off the hulls of the advancing Earth fleet. A few of the massive vessels were even taking long-range shots at the Martian vessels as they seemingly closed in for the kill. They were still too far away, however, to register any hits.
Finally, the giant wheels of the gate began to spin. Faster and faster they turned, forming a spiral of swirling red energy from its rotating electromagnetic fields. It flowed in beautiful patterns that were speckled with small patches of shimmering lights, while enormous lightning bolts jumped menacingly about. Yet, it quickly stabilized into the technological wonder of a man-made wormhole: a direct tunnel to somewhere else in space.
"NOW!" yelled Paladin with all the breath he could muster.
With that, Martian fleet started towards the gate. As each ship entered the tunnel, they were pulled irresistibly forward and vanished in streaks of blue light.
As the Martian fleet entered the wormhole ship by ship, the Crazy Horse positioned itself next to the gate. Wakinyan watched from his command chair as events took on a life of their own.
Whether or not the Earth fleet would reach the gate before the last of Martian ships warped away, was a question of fate. Regardless, the Crazy Horse was the rear guard and duty-bound to attack if the Earthers got too close. Wakinyan knew, however, that his ship would not survive if it came down to that. There was no trick or tactic that would save his destroyer against such a huge and well-prepared armada. A last grasp at glory proceeded by a brilliant, momentary fireball, he thought, would be the epitaph of the Crazy Horse and her brave crew.
Nevertheless, Wakinyan waited to give the order to attack. It was times like this he felt like praying, but it was not within him any more. He saw such pain and misery in the universe that it made him question the apathy of the Supreme Being he still believed existed. However, Wakinyan was not to be abandoned.
"That's it! They've all through the gate!" Lieutenant Randall yelled at the top of his lungs.
"Communications! Tell Major Franks and his marines to their asses over here, RIGHT NOW!" Wakinyan shouted.
"Aye, Sir!" the communication's crewman acknowledged.
* * * * *
The Earth fleet was dangerously close as Franks and the last of his marines boarded the Crazy Horse. Yet, the Earthers only fielded sporadic fire against the lone Martian ship, which constantly missed. Although it seemed odd to Wakinyan, he was more focused on retreating into the depths of hyperspace than musing over why they were such bad shots.
The Crazy Horse quickly fired up its engines and spun around 180 degrees. As it did, the Martian destroyer raked Guardian One with its laser cannons. The space station then began to rock from internal explosions as the Martian ship sped past, opening a tunnel into hyperspace with its own dimensional engine. A moment later after the Crazy Horse departed, the station exploded, showering the area with streaming clumps and particles of debris, some of which would eventually join Jupiter’s faint rings.
* * * * *
Admiral O'Donald sat nonchalantly in his command chair on the bridge of the dreadnought Ruthann as he surveyed the Martian destroyer making its daring escape. The pretense of pursuit was nothing more than the opening phase of Selena's planned operation. If they were to track the Martians to the unknown location of their new home world, things were not to seem too easy.
His orders were quite explicit; he was to put up a convincing act in attacking the Martian fleet, but no Martian ships were to be targeted. This constraint had forced him to reduce the speed of his warships as they approached in order to maintain distance while sporting random inaccurate fire as a ruse to encourage the Martians on their way. These considerations to Selena's operation were not to be jeopardized—at least yet. It was so critical that an unlucky hit on the wrong ship would do just that.
"Lunda, have you located the cipher scout?" O'Donald questioned his female cyborg second-in-command.
"Yes, Sir. It's just off our starboard quarter," she answered.
"Splendid. Begin retrieving data," the admiral ordered.
Not too far from the Ruthann, a cylinder rotated unseen. Viewed as a small distortion to the gas giant’s clouds, by any means, it was nearly totally invisible. The casing of the small object was evenly studded with layers of thin pins, arranged in such a pattern as to bend light around it as Einstein’s theories predicted. These were used to create the illusion of transparency, making it extremely difficult to see it from any direction. Furthermore, the casing had been manufactured using a special resin that absorbed sensor fields used in detection. A master of stealth, this was a cipher scout; a device used for infiltration, reconnaissance, surveillance, and spying.
As the Ruthann closed in, the warship transmitted a low powered recognition code to the cipher scout in the Extremely High Radio Frequency range of the electromagnetic spectrum. In response to the encrypted 290 Giga-Hertz signal, a red beacon popped slowly up and illuminated itself on the cylinder, marking its position. Gradually, an antenna mast silently extended out of the casing of the device. From the top of the mast, four evenly spaced stubby rectangular metal fins unfolded and locked into place to create an open corner box called a waveguide—a specialized antenna purposely designed for use with such high radio frequencies. At the same time, a cluster of elongated metal fingers emanated out from the cylinder around the base of the mast, each one set precisely at an adjacent 45 degree angle. The beacon then changed from red to green indicating that the cipher scout was now ready to broadcast its recorded information. With the transmitting of a start key from the warship moments later, the transfer of telemetric data from the device to the Ruthann began.
* * * * *
Chapter 10: Rhianna
Lieutenant James Randall was a conscientious officer who had a knack for organizational leadership. Once the Crazy Horse had leaped into hyperspace, he set about the task of not only repairing the vessel, but also bringing the ship back into a state of complete readiness. He puttered about the bridge supervising various teams over his headset while going over his operational checklists. All systems were to be scrutinized thoroughly, leaving nothing to chance.
As Randall moved about the bridge, he spotted Wakinyan collapsed in his command chair. The man's head was leaning forward as his chin touched his chest with his eyes exhaustively closed. Randall just smiled to himself and quietly tried to walk past his captain.
"My Indian blood can sense you gawking at me, Jim," Richard's voice tiredly admitted.
Randall paused and turned slowly to his friend. "I really didn't want to disturb you. I thought I let you sleep a little bit."
Wakinyan slowly came to life and began to rub the sand from his eyes as he raised his head. "Well, you don't have any right to let
me, damn it; the crew is just as tired."
Randall, however, was sympathetic to Richard's fatigue. "You've been up longer than most. Between the final planning, the prep, and the combat; fifty-two hours is a long time."
Wakinyan finally stood up and stretched. "A ship's captain doesn't have the luxury of sleep," he flatly stated. "Give the order to stand-down. Start rotating the crew for food and rest—and make sure you get some yourself, Jim. You have the command."
Richard then began to walk towards the hatchway.
"Rich, where are you going?" James inquired.
Wakinyan paused and half-turned in the hatchway to his friend. "I going to inspect my ship—or what’s left of it," the small joked escaped from his lips. And with that he left.
As Wakinyan made his way from the bridge through one of the ship's many corridors, he carefully watched his step. The ship’s gray painted interior was nearly identical to the compactness of an ancient nuclear submarine, and the crowded passages of crewmen and marines presented a constant barrier to any movement. The marines sat sleeping, talking, or gambling; while the mariners of the Crazy Horse carried out repairs and normal ship routines. A few times, Wakinyan either tripped over or bumped into parked marines. This included one disgruntled corporal who cussed the officer for disturbing his slumber. Wakinyan, however, took no offense. As he passed by each battle-weary face, he regarded the space marines in respect; their grimy and blood stained uniforms were reminders to their previous collective heroism.
As Richard continued through the ship, he witnessed the extent of the damage that the Crazy Horse had sustained. Cables hung from dislodge or broken conduits and wrecked panels, while some of the hydraulic lines leaked their smelly oily fluid. Occasionally, he heard or smelled electrical arching, accompanied by a smoky haze. He also found a gaping hole through a compartment that something had exploded in. Whatever it was, however, had been since removed by several crewmen who were busily engaged in sealing the opening with steel repair plates. From all of this, it was evident that the Crazy Horse had taken quite a beating. He pressed onward, moving in the direction of raised voices that resonated faintly in the distance.
In another corridor of the Crazy Horse, a group of marines and sailors stood by while an argument between a bosun's mate and a marine gunnery sergeant heated up.
"SERGEANT, MOVE YOUR UGLY BUTT SO WE CAN GET OUR WORK DONE!" bellowed the burley bosun's mate, gripping a laser welder.
But Sergeant Gagarin was one not to be bullied. Like all marines, he wasn't about to take any guff from a sailor.
"Listen to me, swabby! If you don't get that thing out of my face, I’ll shove it so far down your throat that every time you break wind, you’ll be shooting sparks out of your ass!"
The mate sneered in reply, and was about to use a little stronger language when, however, he spotted Wakinyan approaching. Not wanting to be on the losing end of the verbal exchange, the mate crafted his next words carefully.
"Look, marine, these are some very serious repairs we’ve got to make! Get out of my way or I'll have to report you!
"Yeah, to who, some goat-screw fresh out of OCS?" Gagarin challenged.
"TRY TO ME, SERGEANT!" another voice more loudly and forcefully trumpeted from behind.
As both men turned to face Wakinyan, several voices from the group yelled out "ATTENTION!" Their stances became as stiff as boards as they eyed the twin bars of rank on Wakinyan's collar.
"Sorry, Sir! I didn't see you standing there!" Gagarin tried to apologize.
"Apparently not!" Wakinyan sounded indignant. "Where's your commanding officer?"
"He's in the shuttle bay, Sir!" the sergeant directed.
Wakinyan took a step to walk away, but he quickly turned back to the group. "Some advice for you and your marines, Sergeant. This man is a part of the ship's repair team. It would behoove you to cooperate unless you would prefer that the bulkhead blowout. In which case, you won't be trading insults, but gasping for every breath of air. But that's only my goat-screw opinion, mind you!"
"Yes, Sir! Sorry for the remark, Sir!" Gagarin again tried to apologize.
Wakinyan's face etched a guarded smile. "Like hell you are! Carry on."
Both the bosun's mate and Gagarin then briskly saluted Captain Wakinyan. Richard returned the salute in the same manner. With a quick about-turn, the officer ventured away from the group in a proud and distinguishable military gait. As soon as he vanished down the corridor, Gagarin let out a large sigh of relief.
"Good going, dumb and ugly," the bosun's mate gloated. "Is it any wonder why they call you marines, jarheads!"
Gagarin turned and sneered at his wily and obnoxious adversary. In a flash, the gunnery sergeant's fist connected with the sailor's chin. As the mariner flew against the wall, a fistfight erupted between the small band sailors and marines, slowly drawing in reinforcements for both sides.
Unaware of the altercation that had just started, Wakinyan continued his journey towards the shuttle bays. However, he decided to make a quick detour into the engineering area. Wakinyan was troubled over the true status of his ship, not wanting to hear any filtered appraisal. For this, there was only one man he had to see: Chief Engineer Marcus Benitez.
Wakinyan found Marcus with some of his Black Gang of engineers and technicians making repairs on several pillars of panels, hoses, and cables. Although the term Black Gang was a holdover from a time when men stoked coal into ship’s boilers for power and were covered with soot, the engineers, nevertheless, took a special pride in the nickname. They knew they were they lifeblood of the ship, and reveled in their abilities to meet every new technical challenge.
As Richard stood silently watching, he realized that he couldn't quite identify the equipment being worked on. This, however, was no surprise. For each Martian ship was secretly upgraded with stolen parts and improvised equipment to try to put them on par with Earth's front line units.
Marcus' head unexpectedly swung towards Wakinyan momentarily, but then quickly back to his work. It was the safety and functionality of the Crazy Horse that Marcus valued, and not the rituals of military protocol. Still, Richard appreciated the engineer’s skills and thoroughness even though he was at times a little discourteous and lost in his own world.
"How bad is she hurt, Chief?" Wakinyan dared a question.
Marcus continued working, uttering not a sound. Richard waited patiently until the engineer was ready to speak. About a minute later, Marcus finished his task and lowered his hand tool. He then turned to Wakinyan, wiping the sweat from his brow with his right sleeve of his uniform.
"She took two major breaches and about a half dozen minor ones. There were numerous control and power overloads. Parts of her superstructure have been shot away, torn apart, or otherwise crushed. Also, some of her internal stress points are showing signs of fatigue. Do you want me to go on, Sir?" Marcus was brief, but to the point.
"Continue," Wakinyan pressed to know the full extend of the damage.
Marcus became a little grimmer. "The overloads caused quite a few fires that are still being put out. Many of the computer functions went down and some of the manual overrides came very close to failing. Captain, we almost lost her!" Marcus finished.
Wakinyan gave a slight smile. "And the good news?"
"We were lucky we didn't! Sir, it is my professional opinion that this ship is in need of at least a month in dry dock, and should be withdrawn from service immediately!" the engineer surmised his conclusion.
Wakinyan frowned and then sighed. "That's not about to happen, Chief. We've still a long way to go, and there is no telling what we'll encounter. However, with you as witness, I'll note your recommendations into the ship's log, and take full responsibility for it," he said with the heaviness of command.
Marcus gazed into Wakinyan's tired face. The engineer suddenly realized how old and exhausted the man looked from the tremendous strain he was under. Decidin
g not to make the situation any worse for Wakinyan, the chief engineer backed away from his frustrations.
"That's not necessary, Captain," Marcus smiled unexpectedly. "She's my responsibility too—and I'll hold her together," the engineer stated flatly.
"I know you will, Chief. In the meantime, I'll send you ever warm body I can spare, along with some hot food—and maybe a jigger of rum."
"Rum makes me sick, Sir. However, I wouldn't mind a shot of bourbon and a cigar," Marcus became friendlier.
"Oh?"
"Captain, you wouldn't deny me some of life's little pleasures, would you?"
Wakinyan almost laughed while patting Marcus on the shoulder. "I think I can manage that," Richard replied. And without another word spoken, Wakinyan left Benitez and his Black Gang to their tasks, while he proceeded to the shuttle bays.
Several minutes later, Wakinyan reach one of the corridors outside Hanger Bay One. As he turned a corner, it was a shocking and unimaginable sight to the Captain of the Crazy Horse. The narrow passage was cluttered with the bodies of the mangled and the wounded on makeshift stretchers. Blood stained not only their garments, but was also splattered on the walls and dripped freely onto the floor. The emanation of human bodily fluids and matter was strong, and filled the very air with an unsettling stench. For a long moment, the scene of gore repelled him, but the man braced himself, and carefully began to step through the mass of tormented souls and broken bodies.
The majority of the casualties were men and women of the Martian Marine Corps. However, some of those lying on litters wore the black or tan uniforms of Earth's security forces. Apparently, Major Franks gave in to his own humanity rather than his hatred for the Earthers. As typical of Martian Marines, he did not leave the helpless or the severely wounded behind regardless of who they were.
A hodgepodge of ship's crewmen and marines—now turn medics and orderlies—did what they could for all those in physical distress, but it was simply not enough. The cries and moaning of the wounded resounded and echoed down the metal channel in litany of pain that appeared to grow louder.