Junkyard Dogs 1: The Scrapyard Incident Page 16

  "How do we access that area?"

  "You'd have to go up one of the spokes," said Jenkins, "and they're all being guarded by terrorists."

  "Maybe not," said Steuben, "we could use the maintenance side of the spoke."

  "The maintenance side?" asked Kresge.

  "He's right, Commander," said Murdock. "The spokes have a wall inside that divides them into two separate compartments. The compartment on the north side, the one you're familiar with, has the public elevators and stairways that go to and from the spindle. What most people don't know is that all of the electrical conduits, ventilation shafts, and plumbing that channel power, fresh air, water and sewage back and forth between the spindle and the wheel are located in the other compartment of the spoke, to the south."

  "Can a man get through that compartment?" asked Jenkins.

  "No problem," said Steuben. "There's a big long ladder that runs along the flat part of the wall. You know, one of them caged ladders so you can't fall off?"

  "How do we get into that part of the spoke?"

  "There's an access door for each spoke next to the main stairwell of the ring up on deck four," Steuben continued. "Next time you're in a stairwell take a closer look, Commander, the spokes go clear out to the fourth deck. Makes the whole structure stronger that way. You hardly notice the door, it's normal-sized and says 'authorized personnel only' on the outside."

  "Does your key card work?"

  "Yes, we could use a maintenance key card or my handprint to get in," said Steuben.

  "We could use my security keycard, too," offered Haines.

  "My handprint should work," said Steuben. "I've been in the spokes lots of times. It's weird how the simulated gravity gets less and less the higher you climb. By the time you get to the spindle, you're almost weightless. 'Course it's just the opposite coming back out. You gotta be careful if you go in there."

  "Thanks, Steuben," said Kresge. He turned back to Haines. "What about communications?"

  Haines thought for a moment before replying. "The communications complex is on deck one just a little ways down the corridor from the governor's suite," she said finally. "No doubt the enemy has complete control of that area."

  "That's not good," said Kresge. "We'll need some kind of communications capability."

  "Actually, there might be something," said Murdock. "There's a small communications complex in the spindle itself, all the way at the southern end. They used it while the station was under construction. I doubt the enemy knows about it."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because I don't think the governor or any of his people know about it either. We used the room for storage while I worked here. You'd have to get all the junk out of it and then you'd need someone who works with communications to get the equipment back up and running. I'll help anyway I can but communications wasn't my area."

  "Think you could handle it, Allen?" asked Kresge.

  "I think so," replied the chief. "Unless it's something other than standard equipment." His face lit up. "Does it have Stage II capability? We could contact the Santana Nexus!"

  "Sorry, we're talkin' station wide communications," said Murdock. "Come to think of it, there was a Stage I communications console in there. They used it while they were building the station. It was there while I was working here. It's probably still there."

  "We might at least be able to warn the Ambassador about the danger," said Allen.

  "I wish our information was better," said Kresge. "We know they boarded the station through the main airlock on the very north end of the spindle and they've taken over the first level of the ring. We need to know how much of the spindle and the ring is under enemy control."

  Haines looked thoughtful. "I doubt they got any deeper into the spindle," she said.

  "What makes you say that?," asked Kresge.

  "Because the hatch between the airlock area and the lower portion of the spindle is too small for a man in battle armor to fit through, Commander. Anyone trying to go through there would have to be in a standard suit or in regular clothing. I'll bet they haven't even tried to go south!"

  "It'd be great if you were right, Kathy!" said Kresge. "Anybody got any more information on the spindle area?" Hearing no response, he continued. "Okay, next we need to find out how many of the enemy there are and where they're stationed."

  "Getting some better numbers would seem to be our next course of action," said Davis-Moore.

  "Tell all of our observers that we need a head count on these guys," said Kresge. "Anything we can get will be helpful. How many terrorists are there? Where are they located? How many of them have battle armor? How often do they change guards? Hell, I want to know how often these guys go to the head!"

  "We'll do the best we can, Commander," said Gibbons, "but, from what we've heard so far, I have the feeling that the enemy is spread pretty thin."

  "So do I, Dan, but some real numbers would be nice," said Kresge. "At the same time, remind our people to be careful. We don't want anyone getting hurt or, just as bad, getting caught and being forced to tell them about our clandestine little operation here."

  "I'll tell them to be careful, Commander."

  "The enemy is right about one thing," said Kresge.

  "What's that Commander?" asked Haines.

  "That people should stay in their quarters. Tell the people at the guard stations to send anybody wandering around back to their quarters unless they bring something we really need, like weapons or combat experience. Someone's either gonna get hurt or, worse, give us away."

  "I think we have most of the thrill seekers in our group already, but I'll get the word out," said Gibbons.

  "Okay, let's get back at it everyone. Steuben, show me where those access doors are located, would you?"

  "Follow me, Commander."

  "Haines, Allen, you'd better come too. If we can get into that spoke, you two are going up."

  Without anyone seeming to notice, Kresge had all but assumed command of the resistance group.

  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 th
at 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.