Major (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 5) Read online

  “Yeah, that or hostages,” Ryck said.

  Ryck was actually quite shocked that not only was there someone evidently trying to sneak away, but that the Confed AI’s had almost been right in their calculations. Was that really how good they were, or was this pure dumb luck? The Federation analysts were going to have to spend many long nights working on that question.

  The CO was issuing a steady stream of orders, calmly but with a firmness of conviction. When she ordered the on-board deca to get suited up, Ryck felt his pulse rising. There was no way to know if the soldiers would even be needed, but this was more visceral to him, and he felt the pull of potential combat. He knew this feeling was screwed up. It was not logical to want to rush to the sound of gunfire, but there it was. Even with a Confed deca, he wanted to suit up with them. Call it a character flaw, but he’d accepted it—not that he would admit this desire to go into harm’s way to Hannah, or anyone else, for that matter.

  The feeds from the Path of Glory kept streaming in, and there was definitely something coming. Just what it was was still quite difficult to determine. But as it was fleeing the fight, chances were that it was SOG, and that made it a viable target.

  “Guns, I want a fire solution for just prior to perigee,” Captain Nuzzi ordered her weapons officer. “Give me the D88, but prepare the belly boy, too.”

  Ryck’s mind raced as he identified the two weapons. Not having his PA on the bridge made simple things like this far more difficult. The D88 was an energy weapon using a meson beam, but with far more spurling that diminished its effectiveness at range. The “belly boy” was a kinetic sub-light torpedo, something for which the Federation had no exact counterpart.

  “Lieutenant Kinkelly, I want that deca ready to launch on a moment’s notice.”

  “They are already locked into their carruca,” the lieutenant replied.

  “Carruca?” Bill whispered to Ryck.

  “A sled. Like our reki and your Ferogis, but bigger. Named for a Roman carriage of some kind,” Ryck whispered back.

  “Shit. I should have guessed that,” Bill said.

  “I wonder if they know the word is a Roman loanword, from Gaulish,” Ryck said.

  “No shit?” Bill said with a chuckle, then as several of the Confed sailors glared at him, he quieted down and asked, “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “History, my dear sir, history. He who does not know history will be doomed to repeat it.”

  The two officers turned their attention back to the developing situation. It would be interesting to see how Captain Nuzzi reacted. Ryck wondered if having them onboard and the political advantages of that outweighed the Intel Ryck, and the rest of the delegation, would be collecting on Confed procedures. He may not be able to record anything without a PA, but his still had a mind that could remember what he’d seen.

  “Ma’am, the target has made a slight course change, taking it farther away from us. Perigee at, uh, at 18,050 km from our position,” one of the techs told the skipper.

  “Nav, increase speed to .12c and change bearing to minimize perigee,” she ordered.

  The navigator, Lieutenant Sampal, let the AI interpret the order and come up with a course correction.

  Ryck guessed that 12% the speed of light was probably the max the ship could do while cloaked. The less-trusting part of him wondered if the tub could do better, but that even in a combat situation, Captain Nuzzi did not want to reveal to her three observers just what the ship could do.

  “Perigee now estimated at 4,740 km,” the navigator said as he read his readouts.

  Captain Nuzzi was really working on her nails, Ryck noted. She had to have gnawed them down to the quick by now. He could imagine what was running through her mind. The target, whatever it was, had not been identified positively as an SOG vessel of some kind. If she engaged before it was identified, her ass was on the line. If there were hostages on board, that would not go over well, despite the fact that along with most governments, the Confederation considered hostages already dead as a matter of policy. Then the poorly armed CT-83 had only two weapons that could be effective, but to use the more powerful D-88, she had to drop her cloaking. If the target was a capital ship, that could open her up to a lopsided fight she couldn’t win.

  As Ryck was onboard the ship with her, he hoped she guessed right. He’d fought too many battles for the Federation to buy it while a tourist on a Confed support scow. He watched the display numbers count down as the ship and their target got closer. Tension was rising on the bridge while no one said a word.

  Until the same technician almost shouted out, “Ma’am, the contact is speeding up.”

  “Is it changing course?” the CO asked in a calm voice.

  “No, Ma’am. Just speeding up. Passing .35c now.”

  If the target hadn’t changed course, then it probably had not detected the CT-83. It was more likely that it was building up speed to enter bubble space, probably thinking it was out of range of detection and reaction from the two other Confed ships.

  “Guns?” she asked.

  “We are within range of the D-88. At the targets relative speed, the torp won’t reach her.

  “Scale back the D-88 to 40%, Guns,” she ordered immediately.

  That took Ryck by surprise. Marines were trained to hit and hit hard. The Confed captain was going to lessen the effectiveness of her main weapon, obviously in an attempt to disable the vessel rather than destroy it. She had to be thinking about the possibility of hostages aboard. That was ballsy, Ryck had to admit, and he personally approved of it, even if it exponentially increased the risk to the CT-83. If there were hostages aboard, those were living, breathing people, fellow citizens of her, even if their government had officially written them off.

  “Firing data entered,” the gunnery officer said calmly.

  “Fire,” was the captain’s immediate response.

  The CT-83 didn’t have any of the high-tech displays as on a Federation vessel, no beam of colored light simulating the reach of an energy weapon. One minute, the screens showed nothing, and then next, a target appeared.

  “Direct hit. I’m showing no propulsion, but intact interior power. There are bio-readings registering,” the DCO[4] said as her screens lit up with the flood of incoming data now that the target’s cloaking was knocked out.

  Ryck looked to Bill, and they both nodded with grudging respect. Her gamble had seemingly paid off. With the D-88 at 40%, it seemed to have been powerful enough to knock out the cloaking and the propulsion, but not strong enough to destroy the ship and kill everyone on board. That was an amazing tightrope act. On a Federation ship, the separation between propulsion and cloaking, which were on the outside of the ship, and the inner life-support shields, was razor thin, so for the captain to manage to hit that sweet spot on an unknown vessel was impressive.

  With the target now on the display, the distance between the two vessels was indicated: 9,408 km. But the target was still heading out at .38c. Ryck didn’t know what the CT-83 could do before hitting bubble space, but it couldn’t be much faster than that.

  “Guns, what do we have on the D-88?”

  “Twenty-three percent, ma’am, and recharging. We will be up to full charge within two minutes,” the gunnery officer answered.

  Bill gave Ryck a hard elbow, but Ryck had already noted that. This was real Intel. The D-88, even when firing at less than 100%, still took two to three minutes to recharge. The bigger capital ships had different energy weapons, but the D-88 was still on many vessels, and this was a good piece of Intel.

  “Bring it up to 100%. If the target renews propulsion or if we become targeted by their weapons systems, fire. Do not wait for my order,” Lieutenant Commander Nuzzi ordered.

  “Lieutenant Kinkelly, I want that deca ready to go as soon as we are within reasonable crossover distance. And I want you with them. I’m not taking anything away from Chief Masterson, but I want you to take command. Better get going now, Caesar, if you’re going to ge
t suited up.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” the excited lieutenant junior grade almost shouted as he bolted from the bridge.

  Ryck winced at the idea of putting a navy officer in charge of an army boarding party. He was sure the Army chief warrant officer would be none too happy about that.

  “Nav, turn off cloaking and bring us up,” she made one last order before starting in on her nails again.

  By firing the D-88, the CT-83 had given her position away, so there was no use keeping the cloaking up. It took away from the ship’s maneuverability and used power that could be routed to the shields.

  Ryck only half-listed as the ship’s XO reported to the commander on the Path of Glory. That ship would have been monitoring the situation, but the XO was giving details and letting the task force commander know what the LCDR Nuzzi intended. Both the CT-83 and the target ship, which looked to be a clipper, were speeding away from the Sisyphus, and as the task force had not pacified the station yet, the target ship was the CT-83’s concern for at least the immediate future.

  “Wish I could be down with the deca,” Ryck whispered to Bill.

  “Not me! I’m fine here on the bridge,” Bill replied. “I’m happy to give you grunt-types ground support, but scooting around in vacsuits, in open space? No, not for me.”

  “Hell, you’re Army, Bill, you should love this.”

  “Army pilot, not grunt. I knew who my father was.”

  Ryck rolled his eyes at the old retort, one that had to go back to Babylonian times. He didn’t have a handy comeback, so he left it at that. He’d probably think of one in a couple of hours.

  Ryck leaned back against the bulkhead. The ships artificial gravity was set at .75 g, but tiny fluctuations made it seem more than that, and he wished he had a seat.

  Grubbing hell, Ryck. Man up. You’re a grunt, and you were in recon, and now you’re moaning about your feet? he thought, pushing himself back up off the bulkhead to stand unassisted.

  He stood quietly while the distance between the two ships closed. There was no change in the target that the CT-83’s sensors could pick up, but tension remained high. The target ship still had to be taken.

  At 1,000 km separation, the skipper ordered the deca to mount up. Ryck really wanted to get down to the hangar deck to watch the launch, but he knew that would not be approved. And as a Marine, he understood that the soldiers would not need some foreign officer, a former enemy at that, watching over them as they prepared. Professional courtesy, if nothing else, dictated that he stay out of their way.

  Finally, the CT-83 slowed down the closing range and stopped only four kilometers from the target ship. “Stopped” was relative, though. Both ships were hurtling away from the Sisyphus and the two other Confed ships at .36c. But relative to each other, they seemed to hang motionless in space.

  “Launch the boarding party,” the skipper ordered.

  A “deca” was supposedly a 10-man squad, but with Lt(jg) Kinkelly in command of the mission, there were 11 soldiers and the one naval officer on the carruca that launched out of the hangar deck and started crossing over to the target.

  “Send it,” the CO ordered.

  “Unidentified vessel, this is the Confederation of Free States vessel CT-83. We have disabled your propulsion system and order you to stand down. We are sending over an armed boarding party, and you are ordered to surrender to that party for inspection. Our actions are in compliance with Joint Universal Declaration 3008.453 and CFS Security Code 700934. Please respond with our intentions,” the comms officer passed to the target ship.

  There was no response, not that Ryck expected any. If that was an SOG vessel, it would probably fight to the death before surrendering. The clipper was not very big, and if it had hostages, that would limit the number of SOG soldiers that could be onboard. Still, even a handful of pirates could make things difficult for the Confed deca on its way.

  The comms officer repeated the message twice more before the skipper cut him off. With the carruca approaching the ship, it was getting to be go time. Ryck leaned forward in anticipation, more than just a mere spectator. He was putting himself with those Confed soldiers, thinking through what he would do.

  At less than 200 meters, a flash filled the screen, momentarily burning out the display. Ryck took several steps forward to the screen as if that could better help him make out just what had happened.

  “Data!” shouted the skipper.

  “Working on it, ma’am,” the DCO shouted back, her fingers flying over her controls.

  Within moments, the screen cleared to show a wrecked carruca slamming into the side of the clipper, and sticking there, the bodies of the soldiers pinned to the outside of the ship.

  Ryck immediately realized what had happened without needing the DCO to explain it.

  “There was a an EMP round fired from a concealed culverin. The EMP partially disabled the carruca, and then the target employed their tractor hooks to pull the wreck and the deca and crew to the side of their ship,” the DCA said excitedly.

  “The deca?” the skipper asked.

  “Uh, I’ve got no signs of life from two in the deca, Lt Kinkelly, and Petty Officer Cheung.”

  “Ma’am?” the gunnery officer asked, fingers poised over the bright red fire button.

  “Hold off, Guns,” she said as she took in the situation.

  What the SOG had pulled off was brilliant, Ryck knew. A clipper was a small, fast ship, used for transporting VIPs or high-value good and documents. It was armed to protect itself from common pirates and criminals (which made its use by a pirate organization ironic), but it was not designed to fight. And the ship’s cloaking and propulsion had been knocked out, leaving it crippled. The pirates had managed to fire an EMP round out of a culverin, which would not be effective against a shielded ship, but was enough to damage the simple carruca. Then, by employing their tractor beam, the “hooks,” which assisted it in docking with other vessels or station berths, it had managed to “grab” the soldiers and pin them to their hull. The CT-83 could undoubtedly destroy the crippled ship, but at the cost of the surviving soldiers, who had now become human shields.

  Within moments, the DCO made the announcement that Ryck expected, “Propulsion is coming back online.”

  “What percentage?” the CO asked.

  “Looks like 18%, ma’am.”

  At full power, the enemy clipper could outrun the CT-83, and the skipper would have to react immediately. At only 18%, however, it would take it a long time for it to be able to shift into bubble space, and the CT-83 could keep pace.

  But not forever if the soldiers, pinned to the hull, were to remain alive. Ryck didn’t know their vacsuits’ capabilities, but their endurance couldn’t be more than 6 or seven hours from what he’d seen.

  The skipper had the XO report up while Ryck moved another step closer to the screen and studied the image there. Ryck was vaguely aware of the Path of Glory telling them that no assistance would be forthcoming. The CT-83 was on its own, and it was not to let the enemy ship get away.

  As Ryck studied the screen, things clicked into place.

  “Commander, I can help,” he said loudly to the bridge.

  LCDR Nuzzi turned to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I can help. I know what to do. Give me vacsuits and weapons, and I can take that ship.”

  “You’re a Federation officer, Major, not a Free States citizen. I don’t think that’s going to happen,” she said coldly before turning away.

  “XO, tell the commodore that I need a third of a century and three decas of Exploratores, now,” she ordered.

  After a few moments, the XO looked up from his station and said, “Ma’am, the Chief of Staff wants to speak with you, privately.”

  She pulled herself out of her command chair and went to the XO’s chair in the back of the bridge. He put in the earpiece and listened. Ryck could see her speak, but he couldn’t hear her. After a few moments, she gave the earpiece back to the XO and returned to h
er chair.

  Ryck didn’t need to see her glowering expression to know that no one was coming to help. He took a deep breath and then left his place in the back and walked up to her.

  “Yes, Major? I’m a little busy now.”

  “Look, Commander. You’re on your own. You’ve got no soldiers on this ship except for Junior Regimentalist Csonka, uh, a Brotherhood master sergeant,” he said, still not knowing the man’s name, “and me. You can finish off that ship, but at the cost of your surviving soldiers’ lives and that of any hostages onboard. You performed an amazing bit naval combat to disable the clipper. Are you going to waste that now? Along with your own men and women?”

  “You’re an observer, not one of us,” she protested, but calmly and not as a knee-jerk reaction.

  “I may be Federation, and the other two are not Free State, either,” he said, using the “Free State” that Confeds preferred rather than his usual “Confederation,” that others used to refer to them, “but we’re all you’ve got. “Give me ten sailors, no, give me five who can handle a weapon, and I can take care of this for you.”

  She stared at him as if trying to read into his soul.

  “I know I have fought your people. But enemy of my enemy, you know? And we aren’t even enemies now, officially. We fought together against the Trinoculars, and we can do it against the SOG, too.”

  She seemed to think about it for a moment before calling out, “XO, Ops, come here, please.” After they arrived, she looked back at Ryck and asked, “So just how would you go about doing this?”

  Ryck let out the breath he’d been holding. He had them.

  Chapter 7

  Ryck flexed his arms inside the Confed vacsuit. It was not nearly as flexible as the standard Federation Marine issue, and it felt bulky. It had been fitted to a Chief Madras, who was evidently about Ryck’s size, but not exactly. The suit was off enough to be annoying, and Ryck could imagine he could smell hours and hours of the chief’s sweat and other bodily functions.

  On the other hand, he was assured that the skin of the suit was much more durable than the Federation suits. This was said with more than a bit of pride, but even if that was true, the vacsuit would still not protect him from enemy fire.