Intrepid Page 11

  Kris learned a new thing or two. High-gee stations were never intended to cope with full ground battle rattle.

  The Wasp would be under high-gee maneuvering until a few minutes before Kris took her Marine company into the boats. Thus, Kris found herself pinned by armor and gear weighing two and a half times its normal burden. Kris really wanted to meet the guy who decided it was “normal.” Had he ever lugged it?

  At 2.5 gees, it was just past bearable. And Sulwan was just getting started. Kris gritted her teeth and tried not to moan . . . at least into an open mike.

  The forward screen ticked off the critical movements of the Wasp and Thorpe’s ship. Just now, Thorpe was on the far side of Panda, expecting to come around for a perfect shot up the Wasp’s engines as Kris’s ship finished its final break into orbit.

  Instead, he’d get a look at the front end of the Wasp as it vanished into a lunar orbit swinging far out behind the moon. Kris wished she could see Thorpe’s face when he found himself with a whole different set of ballistic problems on his hands.

  Captain Thorpe held his face a rigid mask as every plan he’d made in the last three days shattered into question marks.

  “What the hell does that Longknife girl think she’s doing?”

  Mr. Whitebred shouted. As one of the financial backers of this expedition, he considered it his right to shout at everyone. The man would benefit much from trading in his three-piece suit for an ensign’s commission. Fifteen minutes under Thorpe’s command, and he would learn a lot about leadership.

  Unfortunately, the man already considered himself a leader. He had the money, didn’t that make him a leader? Not for the first time, Thorpe wondered if this was such a good idea.

  But it put that Longknife brat in the crosshairs of his eighteen-inch pulse lasers. That made up for a lot.

  “We shall see what the Longknife girl is actually doing in a moment,” Thorpe said, voice even, controlled. Around the bridge, his crew responded to his voice. His orders. Not the other man’s screeching.

  “She’s been maneuvering at 2.5 gees,” his sensor boss reported.

  “I am projecting her deceleration and course,” his offensive weapons officer announced. On the main screen, the moon took the center view. The pulsing red pip that portrayed that brat’s ship slowed its hurtling flight toward Pandemonium, then cut back to skim a mere hundred kilometers above the moon and head out for a long, looping orbit that would take them a major part of the way to the jump point.

  “Do you think she has finally done something logical?” Whitebred asked. “Is she headed back out?”

  Thorpe shook his head even before the fool civilian got his question out. “Longknifes don’t run,” he snapped. “Weapons, project a revised course. Assume continued use of as much as three gees of deceleration. Can she cut off that time-wasting soar over the far side of the moon?”

  “Working the problem, sir. Wait one,” Weapons answered.

  “Sensors, have you found what I asked you to look for?” Thorpe demanded, switching concerns. The young woman on weapons was good. Not as well trained as a naval officer, but certainly more trustworthy than a Longknife. She would attend to her course projection and reply when she had something.

  “Yes, sir,” Sensors replied. “I have the low-level chatter that is the signature of Smart Metal™, sir.”

  “Very good,” Thorpe said, and allowed himself a smile. “Very, very good.”

  “What do you mean?” Whitebred asked.

  “Just a moment, kind benefactor,” Thorpe said. Whitebred preened on the title. Most of the crew knew it for what it was, a true warriors’ curse for the money that was foolish enough to think gold could motivate a warrior.

  “Weapons?” Thorpe said.

  “I have a solution coming up, sir. Just a moment . . . I have a solution. Putting it on the screen.”

  The old high-soaring ballistic curve dissolved, to be replaced by a new one that swung a bit out over the moon before heading back to skim even lower over its surface.

  “How close this time?”

  “Less than fifty kilometers, sir. If they aren’t lucky in their course, they may plow one big hole in an inconvenient mountain.” Weapons’ grin showed tiger’s teeth at her own joke.

  Thorpe allowed a grin in return. “That Longknife brat’s luck is bound to go sour sooner or later. She uses so much of it. But let’s assume her deal with the devil holds for one more orbit. Where does that put her final approach to our guns?”

  “That would depend on how hard she’s willing to accelerate away from the moon and decelerate into orbit, sir.”

  “Assume no more than three gees.” Thorpe advised.

  “And probably no less,” Weapons said. Now she was really smiling as she went about her work. She had a dimple on the cheek nearest Thorpe. She was cute, and young, and so optimistic. Thorpe envied her that. And the chance to do well a job that needed doing.

  He turned to see what Whitebred was yammering about now. “Are you sure she can’t do more than three gees?”

  “Honorable men that I know and respect paid a high price to discover that the Kamikaze-class Smart Metal™ ships can’t handle more than three gees,” Thorpe bit out.

  “But didn’t I read somewhere that the Peterwalds had solved that problem?” Whitebred fancied himself an expert in military matters because he had read a lot of things “somewhere.”

  Thorpe curtly shook his head. “That Longknife brat has served on my corvette and those silly fast patrol boats. They are pure Smart Metal™. There are no reports of Nuu Enterprises learning anything from the Peterwalds and producing hybrids. That’s a Wardhaven gunboat messing in our affairs. I know Wardhaven gunboats up close and personal.”

  Whitebred eyed the upper-left-hand corner of the forward screen. There, the best picture they’d gotten of the incoming ship was on permanent display. Thorpe had told everyone to get familiar with that target. To memorize it.

  Whitebred hadn’t been able to ignore it. “It does look like a merchant ship,” he pointed out. “It’s got that long spin between bow and engines in the stern. And it sure looks like those are containers, making the whole thing look boxy.”

  “Whitebred, walk with me,” Thorpe said, teeth clenched.

  Whitebred looked like a deer in headlights. Thorpe pointed him toward the captain’s underway cabin. Whitebred went.

  And once there, shrank as if from the white-hot rage of a maddened devil. “You will never question me before my bridge officers.” Thorpe slammed the businessman in a voice so low and frigid as to have glacier force. “Never again will you raise a doubt about any order that I issue. Do you understand?”

  Whitebred tried to step back but found himself forced to slump down on the captain’s bed. Thorpe towered over him. Whitebred tried to stand up again, but failed. “You can’t issue orders to me. I’m not one of your sailors,” he insisted.

  “No, you are not as useful as the cook’s junior helper. All the other financiers stayed back where it was safe . . . comfortable. What are you doing out here, Whitebred?”

  “Someone had to look after the moneyed interests.”

  “You think I couldn’t? That Colonel Cortez would be cavalier with your money if you weren’t here to nursemaid us?”

  “No, Captain, no.”

  Thorpe shook his head, showing no belief in his master’s words. “Whitebred, understand me. One more display like the last one, and I will have you locked up in your fine stateroom. Are we clear on this?”

  “You can’t do that. None of the crew would turn against their paymaster.”

  Thorpe snorted, and the smile he showed Whitebred was the ancient one. The kind tigers gave their prey just before they tore their throats out. The financier found his hands rising as if to protect his neck.

  “Whitebred, these men and women will march with me into hell. They will go because they know I will lead them out again. You are far beyond your comfort zone. People with your soft hands and doughy white
bellies should not trifle in the affairs of true warriors. I would hate to report to your associates safe at home that while we were defeating this Kris Longknife brat, regretfully, she killed you. Think about that.”

  Thorpe turned to go, then turned back again. “And stay off my bridge. I could suffer your idiotic rumblings when I had only unarmed farmers to chivvy. Longknife may be a spoiled brat, but she is no fool. Killing her will be a fight. A real fight is no place for the likes of you. Do we now understand each other?”

  Whitebred already suspected that he would never understand the likes of Thorpe. Never wanted to. But even a lifelong civilian could understand when he’d been given an order as blunt and threatening as this one. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

  Thorpe opened the door and headed back to the bridge. Whitebred, stood, tried to smooth his suit, and turned aft toward his room.

  “How many gees are you going to need to get us into orbit?” Kris asked, or maybe she moaned. Sulwan almost sounded distressed as she gave Kris the answer she pretty much expected.

  “If we want to reach orbit exactly opposite where Thorpe’s ship is in its orbit, we’ll have to maintain 3.5 gees for most of the next hour, Your Highness.”

  “Do it, Kris said, then tried to turn it into a joke. “Weighing seven hundred pounds for an hour will be a good reminder to watch what I eat and exercise regularly.”

  “I recorded that, Your Highness,” Nelly said from where she was contributing her own three and a half pounds, all but one of them the result of Sulwan’s course. “I’m sure if I offered it for licensed use, we could make a small fortune.”

  Kris didn’t have the energy to roll her eyes at Nelly’s latest attempt to be a real girl, chasing the almighty dollar. “I’m sure we could, Nelly, but erase that file. I don’t know what Grampa Ray’s idea of his kingship is, but I kind of doubt it includes his family selling their princess’s voice for media commercials.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nelly said, her voice a strange blend of contrition and lost financial opportunity.

  “Don’t you dare erase that, Nelly,” came Abby on net. “You hold on to that file. You can never tell when it might come in handy. Who knows what kind of mess it could get us out of.”

  Around Kris on the bridge, chuckles were breaking out. Small ones, to be sure, since everyone carried three and a half times their normal weight; still, the argument between a princess, her pet computer, and her maid had to at least match the best the comic net had to offer.

  “Abby, I do not even want to think what kind of mess those words might get us out of. Nelly, I want that file vanished.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am erasing that file,” Nelly said.

  “Good,” Kris said, and started to nod. Then she remembered her present weight and canceled the nod. And on further reflection, she wondered if she should never have said that “good.” Nelly erased “that” file. Not “the” file. And certainly no mention of all backup files. There had been a bit of a lag in the whole conversation. Had Nelly been conferring with another young lady, full of all of twelve years of wisdom?

  Kris let out a sigh. Not a big one worthy of Tommy’s Irish ancestors. Just a small one, like a dog’s pant.

  She needed one twelve-year-old off her boat!

  But first. “Thorpe’s ship is behind Panda,” Kris said. “He probably got a glance at us as we got of him. Now we see what we can do about putting one princess and Marine company where they want to be.”

  15

  Captain Thorpe was livid. He had all his lasers charged and nothing to shoot full of holes. “Where’s my target?”

  “There is no ship anywhere in the space between the moon and our orbit. Nothing to target, sir,” Weapons reported.

  “There’s got to be a target,” Thorpe snapped, searching the forward screen. “There has to be.”

  “Sir,” Weapons asked, “could she have done another burn and ducked behind the moon again. Or done more than three gees on her approach to orbit?”

  “Not possible, or at least not probable,” Thorpe said, forcing his mind to adjust to what his eyes told him.

  “Sir, Sensors here. I’ve got a rapidly dissipating trail of reaction mass.”

  “Show me,” Thorpe growled.

  A glowing yellow cloud blazed a trail between the moon and Pandemonium on the forward screen.

  “Can you estimate the gee forces that reaction mass would generate on a ship the size we saw on approach?”

  “Ah, considering that it got them from the moon to orbit without us getting a single peek at them, I’d say they must have pulled at least 3.5 gees. Sir, I’d also say that the ship is heavier than us by a factor of fifty percent.”

  Someone on the bridge began a soft whistle. Thorpe whipped his head around, and the noise died. “They said they’re carrying containers for this lost corner of the boondocks. So they’re heavy. Doesn’t say a thing about their combat load. We’ve got two eighteen-inch lasers and a second pair of 4.7-inch long guns. They are an exploration ship. She should have run when she could.”

  Heads nodded with him.

  “Sensors, get me a full updated scan of this planet. Next orbit, one Princess Kris Longknife will be stumbling around down there, looking for a hairdresser. Let’s make sure she gets dressed up right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kris ached in every muscle of her body. “What a great way to start a fight,” she softly muttered to herself as she glided in full battle rattle for the drop bay of the Wasp.

  Doc, the Wasp’s erstwhile medical support, had set up shop just outside the drop bay’s hatch. As Kris approached him, he handed her two small pills.

  “What are these?” Kris demanded. She’d quit taking anything handed her at twelve . . . and was much the better for it.

  “Just a pain reliever. And don’t tell me Sulwan’s joyride didn’t leave you aching in every bone you got, Princess.”

  Kris took the pills with a swig from her suit’s water while she surveyed the organized confusion of her drop bay. In addition to the four LACs, Jack had managed to cram in both of the lighters Drago had leased. Those two held empty transport containers, which Marines were stoically climbing aboard and improvising ways to strap themselves down to.

  “You going to fly the lead LAC?” Jack asked her.

  “For the northern platoon,” Kris said smoothly, not giving Jack any opening to debate again the proper place for a princess in the coming battle.

  “I’ve assigned Gunny to you as well as First Lieutenant Troy. Now, before you change your mind about leading a platoon, please excuse me while I look over my half of this lash-up.” Without waiting for a reply, Jack threw her what might pass for a salute and left. Since space armor wasn’t really intended for parade and ceremonies, Kris attributed his display to the equipment and not insubordination.

  Not that Kris had any right to complain about a little insubordination here and there.

  She turned to Gunny. “Let’s land the landing force.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, but there was no salute with the words. He reached for Kris’s suit and began tightening this, moving that to where it belonged. “Don’t you hate the way high gees make a mess of your web gear,” he muttered.

  Kris stood patiently through his inspection and corrections. Officially she should be doing the same to him. She did do the proper eyeball check, but, as she expected, there wasn’t a single item of equipment out of place on Gunny’s battle rattle.

  It wouldn’t dare.

  Shipshape to Gunny’s high standards, Kris turned to the four-Marine squad that would ride down with her while Gunny turned his mothering eye on the LT. Maybe Gunny had been down them before. Or maybe Sergeant Bruce had acquired Gunny’s eagle eye for anything out of place. Kris’s inspection yielded nothing.

  “Abby know you’re dropping with me?” Kris asked the sergeant as she finished up her inspection.

  “Now, why would I be worried about what an Army LT, and an intel weenie at t
hat, wanted?” he said. But he said it with a smile.

  Lately, the two had spent more than their usual workout time together. Make that three; Cara was usually underfoot. Was this Marine trying on the role of dad in a ready-made family?

  Kris found a word of personal concern on her lips. She swallowed it and settled for, “Sergeant, board the troops.” Which the Marines did, smartly and by the numbers.

  Sergeant Bruce checked his team, then took the last seat. Kris did a double check before taking the pilot’s slot on what the Marines optimistically called a Light Assault Craft. Kris thought a racing skiff was the least vehicle for going from orbit through the fire of reentry and landing on a planet.

  Then she’d been introduced to a LAC.

  The landing craft was the very epitome of “just enough.” Just enough wing to slow it down and fly it to the ground. Just enough controls to get it somewhat close to where you wanted it. Nothing else. The canopy over the crew made paper look thick. It was only there to confuse radar’s searching eye. Oxygen, cooling, water . . . came from the space suits Marines wore.

  But Kris had yet to meet a Marine who complained about the accommodations. When Sulwan released the LAC to space, the Marines behind Kris greeted it with a confident “Ooo-Rah.”

  Kris could only smile. They’d been fully briefed, even if it had been painfully brief. The mission was a search for a needle in a haystack. A needle that didn’t want to be found. Oh, and there was a gunboat in orbit ready to blast them from space if it could spot the Marines. And an unknown-size force of trigger-pullers ready to collect anything the gunboat left alive.

  The troops had taken their brief with a shrug. One wag seemed to sum it up. “Sure beats hanging around the boat with nothing to do but hit the chow line.”

  It was good to be back with line beasts, Kris thought.

  16

  Kris’s job was a bit more complicated than the Marines riding behind her. She had to put the LAC into a small lake about fifteen klicks north of the Fronours’ latest homestead.