big ship spun out to space, winked out, gone FTL.
A pack of U.S. Rattlers that were outside the grid jumped past the light barrier to give chase. It was nearly impossible to chase an FTL target, but Rattlers had high threshold velocities and were probably hoping that Horatius had winked out because she was wounded.
As soon as the lockdown lifted from the dock to let the trapped travelers retreat back into the station, Farragut ran to the stationmaster’s office.
General Weld was not there. A cadre of Marines told him where the general had gone. Two of the Marines escorted him to the Fort Ike command center. They ushered him through a crush of reporters who were camped outside the command center hatch.
The reporters reacted with a horrified frenzy to see Captain John Farragut here, away from mighty Merrimack, in this time of crisis. Recorders followed him. He heard his name reported in voices of alarm and doom, talking about him like Samson without hair. Merrimack without her Captain Farragut. A mortal blow to station defenses. They transmitted their apocalyptic reports to Earth under huge banners: UNDER SIEGE!
Farragut made it through the hatch into the command center, where all the voices were low, quick, clear, and efficient.
General Weld was organizing his forces, taking in tactical reports. He glanced up. Double-took. Eyed Farragut up and down. Much calmer than the reporters, he said, “Well, this is unsettling.”
General Weld had the most formidable battleship in the United States on hand—except that its head was cut off. Figured.
“Commander Dent doesn’t play in the farm league, sir,” Captain Farragut defended his exec.
Weld returned to his com, demanding of someone: “Where’s the Striker? Anyone pick up the Striker yet?” It was a tired sort of demand.
Weld clicked off and gave his attention to Farragut. “If you have any suggestions, I’ll listen to them.”
Farragut jumped at the invitation. “You’ve got Rattlers outside searching for Horatius. Don’t let them get suckered into a chase. Marcus will just draw them out, turn around and eat them. If your boys and girls want to shoot at Horatius, don’t worry, he’ll come back. He’s not going to stay out there with nothing to shoot at. He has orders to take the fort or die trying.”
“Horatius” Weld echoed. “That was one of yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Horatius had been a member of Commodore Farragut’s Attack Group One.
Weld issued the recall to the pursuing Rattlers.
Farragut heard someone else in the command center signaling Fort Ted. “Fort Roosevelt. This is Fort Eisenhower. Are you under attack?”
The answer came back negative. There had been no attack on the Near Space terminus of the Shotgun. Damaging one end was all it took to disable the Shotgun. With one end out, the other was useless.
Tactical reported: “Roman drones inside the containment zone.” Weld put off any exclamation of shock and impossibility that came to mind. He told the controller to put Merrimack on the interior drones.
The controller complied. “Merrimack. Merrimack. Merrimack. This is Fort Eisenhower Control. I have trade for you. Seek and destroy enemy hostiles within the containment zone.”
Only then did Weld say to one of his officers, “How in bloody hell did they get inside the grid? Locate the breach.”
“Grid holding solid, sir,” Tactical advised. “Nothing came through the containment field.”
Closer flashes appeared now, clearer without the distortion barrier in between. The new lights would be Merrimack annihilating Roman rovers inside the fortress’ energy sphere.
Farragut turned his com to the Marine harmonic so he could listen to the Swift pilots’ excited chatter, shooting skeet.
“Mine mine mine mine— Oh, you hog!”
“Don’t polish that cannonball, Darb! Take the foxtrotting shot!”
“Ho! Shitska! Didja see that!” That was the voice of Alpha Six, Kerry Blue.
“See what?”
The station controller
A pack of U.S. Rattlers that were outside the grid jumped past the light barrier to give chase. It was nearly impossible to chase an FTL target, but Rattlers had high threshold velocities and were probably hoping that Horatius had winked out because she was wounded.
As soon as the lockdown lifted from the dock to let the trapped travelers retreat back into the station, Farragut ran to the stationmaster’s office.
General Weld was not there. A cadre of Marines told him where the general had gone. Two of the Marines escorted him to the Fort Ike command center. They ushered him through a crush of reporters who were camped outside the command center hatch.
The reporters reacted with a horrified frenzy to see Captain John Farragut here, away from mighty Merrimack, in this time of crisis. Recorders followed him. He heard his name reported in voices of alarm and doom, talking about him like Samson without hair. Merrimack without her Captain Farragut. A mortal blow to station defenses. They transmitted their apocalyptic reports to Earth under huge banners: UNDER SIEGE!
Farragut made it through the hatch into the command center, where all the voices were low, quick, clear, and efficient.
General Weld was organizing his forces, taking in tactical reports. He glanced up. Double-took. Eyed Farragut up and down. Much calmer than the reporters, he said, “Well, this is unsettling.”
General Weld had the most formidable battleship in the United States on hand—except that its head was cut off. Figured.
“Commander Dent doesn’t play in the farm league, sir,” Captain Farragut defended his exec.
Weld returned to his com, demanding of someone: “Where’s the Striker? Anyone pick up the Striker yet?” It was a tired sort of demand.
Weld clicked off and gave his attention to Farragut. “If you have any suggestions, I’ll listen to them.”
Farragut jumped at the invitation. “You’ve got Rattlers outside searching for Horatius. Don’t let them get suckered into a chase. Marcus will just draw them out, turn around and eat them. If your boys and girls want to shoot at Horatius, don’t worry, he’ll come back. He’s not going to stay out there with nothing to shoot at. He has orders to take the fort or die trying.”
“Horatius” Weld echoed. “That was one of yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Horatius had been a member of Commodore Farragut’s Attack Group One.
Weld issued the recall to the pursuing Rattlers.
Farragut heard someone else in the command center signaling Fort Ted. “Fort Roosevelt. This is Fort Eisenhower. Are you under attack?”
The answer came back negative. There had been no attack on the Near Space terminus of the Shotgun. Damaging one end was all it took to disable the Shotgun. With one end out, the other was useless.
Tactical reported: “Roman drones inside the containment zone.” Weld put off any exclamation of shock and impossibility that came to mind. He told the controller to put Merrimack on the interior drones.
The controller complied. “Merrimack. Merrimack. Merrimack. This is Fort Eisenhower Control. I have trade for you. Seek and destroy enemy hostiles within the containment zone.”
Only then did Weld say to one of his officers, “How in bloody hell did they get inside the grid? Locate the breach.”
“Grid holding solid, sir,” Tactical advised. “Nothing came through the containment field.”
Closer flashes appeared now, clearer without the distortion barrier in between. The new lights would be Merrimack annihilating Roman rovers inside the fortress’ energy sphere.
Farragut turned his com to the Marine harmonic so he could listen to the Swift pilots’ excited chatter, shooting skeet.
“Mine mine mine mine— Oh, you hog!”
“Don’t polish that cannonball, Darb! Take the foxtrotting shot!”
“Ho! Shitska! Didja see that!” That was the voice of Alpha Six, Kerry Blue.
“See what?”
The station controller
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