Junkyard Dogs 1: The Scrapyard Incident (17 page)

Chapter 28

"It's the waiting that gets to you.
Your mind can play the damnedest tricks, especially if you have plenty of time
to think before an engagement. Most men rise to the occasion and beyond when
the action starts!"

Hartwell Wrist
Comp reference note highlighted for further review by Tamara Carlisle. Quote is
attributed to Commander Tobias Arthur, Leader of the Obsolete Destroyer
Squadron in the Battle of New Ceylon.

UTFN Reclamation Center,
onboard the wreck of the
FNS Terrier
,
October 7, 2598.

The Scrapyard
defenders checked in the direction of New Ceylon through the
Terrier's
bridge periscope every ten
minutes or so for the bright points of light that would be the drives of the
decelerating raider ships on approach to the Reclamation Center. The defenders
had been able to make some rough estimates of how much time they had remaining
and expected the enemy to show up sometime in the next few hours. To get back
to the Scrapyard from New Ceylon, a raider Captain would first use the ship's
reaction drive to transport his vessel beyond the minimum distance from the
planetary gravity well to a zone where it was safe to activate the ship's
Whitney hyperdrive, a distance that required several hours to traverse. He
would then use the hyperdrive to execute several microjumps, each of which
would transport the ship about a third of the distance to the Scrapyard. While
the crew of the vessel might experience the passing of only a few minutes while
the ship was in jump mode, several hours of real time would actually pass
during each jump. When a jump was completed, even a good navigator needed at
least an hour to reprogram the Whitney drive for the next one. After the last
jump, the Captain would then switch back to reaction drive for matching
velocities and the other inevitable maneuvering necessary to bring his ship to
its final destination. With no large gravity source nearby, a ship could
microjump much closer to the Scrapyard than it could to any planet. After the
reaction drive signatures became visible, the defenders had perhaps one, maybe
two, hours to prepare for the enemy's arrival.
 

Hawkins,
exhausted from all the activity, had immediately fallen asleep after the group
had shared a quick meal. Carlisle was strapped into the Navigator's chair, on
the port side of the bridge, reviewing files on her wrist computer while
Harris, who had the watch, intended to sit down and try to make some sense of
the ship's log using the bridge command console that he had managed to power up
earlier. First, he went back over to the periscope to check for signs of the
enemy. Seeing nothing, he returned to the command console. Less than a minute
later he hit a snag.

"I think
we're going to need some kind of access code to read these log files,
Ensign."

"Oh, sorry, Sir.
I should have that in my computer somewhere.
The Admiral got me a list of the ship commanders and their access codes, just
in case we managed to find any intact logs. I don't know why they made such a
big deal about it. There's no need for any of the information to be classified
anymore."

"It's a
military thing."

"Yeah, I
suppose some level of paranoia is to be expected."

He looked over at
her and, seeing that she was concentrating on her wrist computer display, kept his
gaze on her for a quite a bit longer than was necessary. She looked really worn
out, her tired eyes scanning lines of text and blinking frequently as she
worked intently on ferreting out the information they needed. He couldn't help
but admire her spirit; she'd kept fighting every centimeter of the way through
their shared ordeal. He smiled. He had grown accustomed to seeing her lips move
and hearing the jumbled sounds she made as she thought out loud. That would
drive most men nuts. Oddly, as he watched her working, he discovered that he
found the quirk endearing. It was just her way. Suddenly, his heart went out to
her. She'd come here to do nothing more dangerous or exciting than examining a
few wrecked ships to help her complete a research project. Yet, somehow, she
found herself caught in the middle of an incomprehensible plot to accomplish
God knew what with every chance that she, and her two companions, would be
killed sometime in the next few hours.
 

"It's well
after midnight," said Harris. "I suggest you wrap it up and try to
get some rest, Tamara."

She felt his
gaze, but didn't look up. Her heart skipped a beat. Could he be interested in
her
? Immediately she wrestled the
feeling down. No, probably not. More likely she was just overtired, imagining
things. She responded.

"I know I
should, Sir, but I'm way too keyed up. I've been checking my files on Meridian
to see who might have an axe to grind with the current government."

"And?"

"Too much to go on.
Like most Muslim governments, there
are multiple factions. It could be any one of them.
Or
someone else entirely.
The current prime minister is well liked and his
reforms have been very effective. All of the major factions have been getting
along for the last three years or so. By the way, the Ambassador is his
son-in-law."

"No obvious
threats?"

"Well... a
renegade who calls himself the Sheik of Barsoom has sworn to kill the
Ambassador, but he might have only made the threat to increase his status among
the dissidents."

"Good work,
Ensign."

"Thank you,
Sir."

"I still
think you should be trying to get some sleep."

She leaned back
from the display, stretched, yawned, and rubbed her eyes.

"I know
you're right but... I don't know if I can. I feel awful. My head is throbbing
and my stomach hurts. I feel just like I used to before a gymnastics
competition, except that this is about ten times worse!"

She closed down
her wrist computer display, blinked deliberately several times, took a deep
breath and let out a long sigh. She unhooked the strap that had been holding
her loosely in the chair and moved over nearer to Harris so that the two of
them could converse more quietly without disturbing their companion, stopping
just a meter away from him. He looked at her questioningly. Those incredible
green eyes, now the color of a sea before a storm, were looking steadily right
into his, and they were filled with worry. The Spacer Clan markings on her left
cheek lent an exotic air to a face that was already very attractive. That same
irrational and totally unwelcome longing that Harris had been experiencing all
too often lately flashed involuntarily through him once again.

That close to
him, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, but had no idea what to
make of it. She swallowed.

"Permission
to speak freely?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Are...Are
you scared?"

He should
probably have anticipated the question, but it caught him off balance, anyway.
His look became serious.

"Yeah,"
he replied earnestly, "you're damned right I'm scared! This is all so
bizarre! How did we get into this mess? What's the best way to handle it?
Unlike you, I've never trained for combat. I haven't studied the...the Art of
War and I don't have your instincts for it. I'm just an engineer who loves old
ships and engineering puzzles." He looked away from her. "I'm praying
we don't have to go through with this crazy plan. Our best hope is that they
just destroy the tracking station and leave us alone. All we'd have to do then
is lay low until the Ambassador's ship comes."

"That would
be the best," she acknowledged, "but at least we're ready to do
something if we have to." She sighed again, shook her head. Her look
became distant. "The Art of War...I've read so much about combat in my
research, strategy, tactics,
intangibles
, all of
it..."

"A good
thing, too," he interrupted quietly. "It's your instinct for strategy
and tactics and that never give up attitude that might just get us out of
this!"

She glanced at
him and smiled absently at what she perceived as well-intentioned flattery and
continued, "...and I
have
been
trained for combat, hand to hand, small arms, other stuff. I know at least six
ways to kill a man with my bare hands!" She closed her eyes and took a
deep breath, letting it out slowly, before looking back at the Lieutenant.
"None of it prepared me for this...this damned intolerable waiting!
That,
and all the doubts. I know how to do it, but could I
really kill someone if I had to? I always wondered what it would be like to get
ready to go forth and do battle. I guess I'm finding out. I don't think they
can teach you about this part, I guess you just have to live it."

"For what
it's worth, I think you're doing just fine, Tamara."

She could read
the sincerity in his expression and in his eyes...and something else. Maybe she
wasn't imagining things, maybe he
did
like her.

"Thanks...Ryan.
I'm scared too."

He took a moment
or two to sift through his thoughts.

"I don't
know how to say this...My head is...spinning...I keep running this plan over
and over in my mind and..."

"Think it would
help if you talked to me about it?" Carlisle asked.

"I don't
know...
Maybe?"

"Go ahead,
I'm listening."

"Well...what
is
the best way to handle this mess?
I'm supposed to be in command here and I...I'm not sure I know what I'm
doing!"

Carlisle's innate
analytical tendencies combined with the undeserved isolation imposed upon her
because of her Spacer background meant that she had spent much of her time over
the last several years in an internal world where she could remain blissfully
oblivious to the feelings of those around her. This system had worked fine,
most of the time, but there had been too many occasions when she had
unknowingly violated some social boundary and then had no choice but to endure
the consequences. These experiences had driven her even deeper into that
internal world. She was also far too intelligent not to recognize that
something about this arrangement needed to change. She sensed that this
occasion not only represented something totally new and totally unfamiliar but
that her response was critical. In no small part aided by her growing regard
for the Lieutenant, she felt a real connection with another person for the
first time since leaving home some five years ago. She could see the pain in
his eyes, feel the anguish his doubts were causing him, and sensed that he
needed...what?
 
Her
input...her help...her approval?
For some reason, this simple admission
on his part made her feel even more attracted to him. Was it the vulnerability?
The honesty?
The fact that he
trusted her?
All those things?
More?
A thought came unbidden, why was it that none of the
men who had been in her life since she'd left home had ever had even a fraction
of this young man's character? Knowing that it was important, she considered
her reply carefully for several moments.

"That's not
unusual."

"What do you
mean?"

"Well, as I
said, I've studied a lot of battles, the strategy, the tactics, what went wrong
and what worked out, and what had to be changed on the fly. One thing is
certainly clear: most commanders have doubts about their plans and their
chances before going into battle -- especially the good ones. The
ones
who don't worry, because they're overconfident or just
plain stupid, are also the ones that usually lose."

He managed a weak
smile but she could sense his relief.

"Thanks,
Tamara."

She found a
hidden cache of resolve and drew on it to pump them both up a little.

"It could be
worse. Our enemy has a powerful weapon but it's flawed. The weapon has a slow
rate of fire and he has to make deliberate, predictable movements to use it. We
have the element of surprise. He knows nothing about this ship. Besides that,
we're on our home turf. You and Hawkins know the ins and outs of this Scrapyard
better than anyone in the quadrant. We dictate the terms of engagement. If we
do wind up in a fight, there're a lot of hazards out here. He might even
blunder into something if he tries to take evasive action. I'm telling you this
could work!"

"I'm with
you, Tamara. If we have to fight, I think we may actually have a chance."

She could
scarcely believe it when she yawned. The conversation had been good for both of
them and it had relaxed her just enough. Suddenly she was very tired.

"Thanks for
listening," she said, with a brave smile that seemed only a little forced.
"I feel a lot better. Maybe now I can get a little sleep."

She returned to
her station in the center of the bridge and strapped herself down. The next
time Harris looked in her direction, she was fast asleep.

Harris
concentrated on staying awake, poking around on the command console,
periodically going back over to check the periscope and frowning with concern
-- and maybe something more -- as his eyes occasionally strayed over to look at
the sleeping woman across the bridge and the old engineer curled up a couple of
meters away.

Hawkins relieved
him several hours later and the Lieutenant managed to get some badly needed
sleep. Carlisle relieved Hawkins after four more hours had passed.

Two and a half
hours into Carlisle's watch the enemy came.

"Wake up
guys, I have a drive signature!" She announced. She paused for a few more
moments and then said, "Thank God, it's only one of them!"

Chapter 29

New Ceylon Orbital Station, Deck Five,
October 7, 2598.

Out on the fifth level
of the Orbital Station, Orville Steuben carefully drove an electrically-powered
maintenance cart towards the sixth spoke stairwell area. With him were Kathy
Haines and CPO Perry Allen. Kresge and Gibbons followed in a separate cart.
When they were near enough that only a short walk remained, the group stopped
and went the rest of the way on foot. They met up with the observer who was
stationed by the stairwell. The entire group, including the observer, huddled
together to ensure that their interactions made as little noise as possible.

"Anything
goin' on Kyle?" asked Gibbons, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Nope, it's
been pretty quiet,"
came
the equally quiet
response.

"You think
we could get to the spoke access door on deck four?"

"It
shouldn't be a problem. This far away from the governor's side of the station,
the guards are pretty lax. This one sleeps most of the time."

"Anybody
besides Steuben ever been in the southern level of the spokes?" asked
Kresge.

"I
have," said Haines. "I went along when a technical crew had to check
one of the ventilation shafts a month or so ago."

"How long
does it take to get to the spindle?" asked
Kresge.

"All we got
is that ladder along the flat wall, Commander," said Steuben, "and
it's about a kilometer to the spindle. Of course, the climb gets easier as you
get towards the middle 'cause the simulated gravity gets lower."

"You said
that already.
How long?"

"I bet it'll
take at least an hour, maybe more."

"Who all is
going?"

"I think you
should stay here, Commander," said Haines. "They know me and Steuben
up there, and we need Allen to look at the communications equipment. If we make
contact, we'll come back as soon as we can."

"I
agree," said Kresge. "I'd better stay here. Just be careful. No
heroics."

"I hear you,
Commander," said Haines. "Lead the way, Steuben."

Kresge and
Gibbons went back to their cart to return to the hideout.

The stairwell was
empty as Kathy Haines and the two men made their way up to the landing between
the fourth and fifth decks. Steuben put his index finger to his lips and
pointed to the door that would allow access to the southern level of the spoke.
Fortunately, the door was in a position that could not be seen from the guard
post up on deck one. The three intruders would only be visible for a brief
interval along a short stretch of wall before they would again be out of sight.
Haines nodded her head in assent and she and Allen followed Steuben's lead as
he hugged the outside wall until they came to the door. To their right was the
stairway that led upwards to the third deck. Steuben carefully placed his right
hand on the palm reader next to the door. A green LED lit up softly. He opened
the door and motioned his companions inside the dimly-lit compartment. After
following them through, he carefully closed the door behind himself. A ladder
ran up the wall to an airtight hatch in the ceiling one level up. The hatch was
operated with the standard wheel-type tightening system used on just about
everything that might need to be airtight. Steuben worked the wheel, opened the
hatch, and, after going through, motioned to his companions to follow him. They
found themselves inside the southern level on the wheel end of one of the eight
spokes of the station. Steuben closed the hatch and spun the wheel to seal it.

The area they
were in was lit by soft, greenish, emergency lighting. The maintenance
partition of the spoke required only about the bottom fourth of the
large-diameter tube that made up the spoke. The outer, southernmost wall of the
compartment was gently but noticeably curved while the inner or northern wall,
the one that divided the spoke into two long, narrow compartments, was flat.
Along the flat wall, a three meter diameter ventilation tube tapered away
upwards, towards the central spindle area of the station. Next to this ducting
were a number of smaller tubes, some that presumably were filled with
electrical and communications cables along with some that transported water and
sewage. Sure enough, a caged ladder also ran up the flat wall, right next to
the ventilation ducting. The whirr of ventilation fans was surprisingly loud.

"Don't
worry," said Steuben in a voice just loud enough to be heard, "it
gets a lot easier after we get closer to the spindle."

"I should
hope so," said Allen, just as softly. "What's on the other end?"

"There's
another airtight hatch and, after that, another door with a security module on
it. I think my palm print will work but if it
don't
,
we'll still have Kathy's keycard"

"Let's
go," said Haines.

They began climbing
the ladder. The cage of the ladder had an opening to a small work platform
every fifty meters or so. The trio took a break after they had passed two
platforms, all three of them breathing a little heavily.

"How many of
these platforms are there?" asked Allen.

"Each
platform is fifty meters closer to the spindle," said Steuben. "It's
about a kilometer from the wheel to the spindle, so there's another eighteen or
so before we get there."

"You say it
gets easier?"

"You'll
really notice it after we do another four or five platforms."

"Is that a
promise?"

Steuben chuckled.
"Wait and see."

They resumed
climbing. Steuben's estimate had been correct; Haines and Allen noticed a
definite reduction in climbing effort after their next rest stop, which had
taken them up another four platforms. They were able to make the remainder of
the distance with only one additional rest stop, the effort required to climb
the ladder becoming less and less as they shed angular momentum on their
approach to the central spindle area. Finally they came to the airtight hatch
with the wheel on it that Steuben had said would be at the end of the spoke.
Again Steuben worked the wheel and motioned the others through the opening.

They found
themselves in a space similar to the one on the entrance to the other end of
the spoke, with the ductwork and the electrical piping disappearing into the
ceiling. A door with a palm pad and a card slot next to it was to the right of
the ducting. Steuben put his palm on the pad. A red LED lit up on the panel. He
tried again and got the same result.

"Better try
your security card, Kathy," he said. "I hope we didn't come all the
way up here for nothing!"

Haines ran her
card through the slot and was rewarded with a green light. They pushed the door
open slowly.

"Stop right
where you are!" The voice came from behind the light from a hand torch
that was bright enough that none of the three could tell how many people were
confronting them or who they were. After a short hesitation, all three raised
their hands in surrender.