Chains of Command (23 page)

“Then we go in on that end over there,” Philbrick suggests, and marks a secondary hatch on one of the outer pods at the end of a station spoke. “Jack the hatch or blow it open. That looks like a fifty-meter dash to the central module once we have the airlock open.”

“I wish we could send Second Squad around to pop into the hatch on the other side at the same time, but we only have one bird and one docking collar.” I circle the hatch Philbrick suggested. “That’ll have to be the one. Get First Squad briefed and ready to be on the bounce.”

“Copy that, LT,” he replies, and it takes me half a second to process that he means me.

The target asteroid is large, maybe a kilometer from one end of its vaguely football-shaped bulk to the other. Our drop ship pilot matches course and rotation with the asteroid as we approach, still on the far side from the relay station, and begins his approach to the target.

“At the apex of the next rotation, we’re moving in right above the deck,” the pilot says to me over our local tactical channel. “That gives you nineteen minutes before the station rotates back toward the system interior and they start sending again.”

“Copy that,” I reply before relaying the information to my squad leaders. With the ship under full EMCON, we are on our own right now, and I have to make all the tactical decisions without being able to consult with Major Masoud or anyone else in our task force, which is standing by four hours away.

“Station over the apex in thirty seconds. ETA two minutes.”

“First Squad, lock and load,” I order. “Form up for entry in the EVA lock.”

Gunny Philbrick and his squad unbuckle and get out of their seats to move up past me and into the EVA lock that’s between the bulkhead to my right and the cockpit section. Like the Dragonfly class, the Blackfly has a separate airlock system for its two exterior access hatches in the flanks of the ship, to enable personnel launch or retrieval in zero-atmosphere environments without having to open the tail ramp and decompress the entire cargo hold.

I swivel around in my chair and check the squad as they file by. Sergeant Humphrey gives me a jaunty little thumbs-up. Gunny Philbrick brings up the rear, and we exchange nods.

“Careful out there, Gunny,” I say as he walks by.

“Always,” he replies, and pats the hard plastic of his M-66 carbine.

We approach the station right above the deck, so low that I can make out the texture of the asteroid’s surface in sharp detail on the camera feed. The pilot weaves the Blackfly through the little crags and nooks formed by the asteroid’s irregular surface, and his deft hand on the stick reminds me of Halley’s flying skills.

“Two hundred fifty meters,” he sends. “Eighteen minutes until the next rotation apex. Two hundred meters. One hundred fifty meters.”

We coast into position next to one of the station’s outlying pods. The station itself is a modular construction, pods and access tubes anchored to the asteroid’s rock surface with heavy bolts. Our pilot expertly slows down the drop ship and then brings us exactly parallel to the target pod’s external airlock hatch. I don’t know how fast this asteroid is moving through space or at what rate it is spinning around its own axis, but the pilot of our ship has matched the velocity and rotation rate perfectly with a seventy-ton drop ship on the first try.

“Extending docking collar.”

With the drop ship’s starboard hatch right next to the airlock of the station, the pilot extends the flexible docking collar from the hull of the Blackfly to the exterior wall of the station pod. There are many ways for SI troopers to enter an enemy space installation, and this one is the fastest and most preferred way—making a hard link between the assault ship and the target to be boarded, and then just cutting open the hatch or hacking it open electronically.

The collar attaches itself to the hull around the airlock soundlessly.

“Collar extended and latched on,” the pilot sends. “Stand by for pressurization.”

There’s now a flexible black umbilical connecting the drop ship’s starboard hatch to the airlock of the station pod, just big enough for a squad to rush through in single file. I know that Philbrick and his squad will still have their helmet visors down and their suits’ oxygen supply switched on, because any incoming fire or emergency maneuvering will tear the docking collar from the hull or depressurize it.

“Pressurization complete. You are ‘go’ for main hatch release and EVA.”

“Copy clear for hatch release and EVA,” Gunny Philbrick replies.

As First Squad gathers behind their leader and prepares to exit the ship and assault the station, I bring up all their visual feeds on my command console, then arrange the feed windows to make a row slightly above my field of vision. With the command feed, I can see what the squad sees and monitor everything from my jump seat without even turning my head, and I can selectively talk to the squad as a whole, the fire team leaders, or each individual trooper. It’s a lot like my regular job as a combat controller, only now I’m directing people with rifles rather than air assets or artillery batteries.

“Pressurization confirmed. Opening main hatch.” Sergeant Humphrey wrestles the lever for the hatch control downward, and the hatch moves out and away with a soft hiss.

The squad moves out in single file, Sergeant Humphrey in the lead. There’s air in the docking collar, but no gravity, so they all use the hand- and footholds set into the side of the collar at regular intervals to move with practiced swiftness through the zero-gravity tunnel formed by the collar. While she’s using her left hand to grab the assist loops and pull herself forward, Sergeant Humphrey’s right hand holds her fléchette carbine, and the green dot from her targeting laser never wanders off the outer airlock door of the station.

“Hack it,” Gunny Philbrick tells her. “Thirty seconds. Then we’ll go in the hard way.”

“Copy.” Sergeant Humphrey pulls herself up to the outer hull of the station and opens the external protective cover of the airlock control panel. Then she gets her PDP out of the pocket on her armor and attaches it to the data jack.

“As soon as that lock cycles, they’ll know they have visitors,” Gunny Philbrick says to the squad. “Through the outer lock, open the inner lock, and then into the pod by pairs. Humphrey’s team, left side. Nez, right side. Giddings, you have the tail end. And if you have to shoot in there, watch your fucking fire. Not a lot of space for stray rounds.”

“Head for the main control cluster,” I add. “Should be in the central pod. Secure any personnel and make sure nobody flips any switches.”

“Copy that,” Philbrick replies. “Ten seconds, Humphrey.”

“Stand by a sec. And . . . got it.”

Humphrey drops her PDP and lets it dangle by its data cord. The outer airlock door moves inward with a resonating thump. Then the door halves slide back into their wall recesses. Inside, the lights of the station’s airlock come on with a flicker. At least half a dozen green targeting lasers appear on the inner airlock door as Philbrick’s troopers bring their rifles to bear.

“Up and at ’em,” Humphrey says. She pushes off the wall, grabs the edge of the airlock hatch opening with one hand, and slingshots herself into the space beyond, aiming her rifle with her free hand. Behind her, the rest of the squad follows.

The feed from the squad’s individual helmet cameras turns into a collage of disjointed, rapid movements as the squad fans out into the station pod. The interior of the station is lit by overhead light strips, and the SI troopers have powerful helmet-mounted illuminators that add their lumens to the enclosed space, making shadows dance and washing out one another’s camera feeds intermittently.

“Pod is clear. Cover the tube.”

I hear the hard breathing from Philbrick’s squad as they clear the pod and then advance into the connecting tube that links this pod to the main section of the station. I see equipment racks, control panels, a desk with a coffee mug and a switched-off data pad on it, the trimmings of a boring garrison post on the ass end of nowhere.

I look at Humphrey’s feed because she is the trooper in the lead. She moves down the access tube methodically, shining her weapon light into every nook and cranny. Then I see movement in her field of vision—a human silhouette, right at the hatch to the main section of the station.

“NAC Defense Corps,” Humphrey shouts. “Freeze and show me your hands!”

She barely finishes the command before I see muzzle flashes at the end of the corridor, and the report from an automatic weapon reaches my ears twice—once from Humphrey’s audio feed, and then again muffled a fraction of a second later as the sound travels through the docking collar and the EVA lock of the Blackfly.

Several more rifles cut loose in the narrow passage. Their rapid reports make my audio feed go cataclysmic, and the computer dials down the volume automatically to preserve my hearing.

“Contact front!”

“Motherfucker!”

“Watch your fire, watch your fire!”

“I’m hit,” someone else adds to the chatter. I check the voice tag to see that it’s Sergeant Nez, in the middle of the group and on the right side of the wall. Two of his squad mates move up and over to him. There are too many troopers in too narrow a space, easy targets for someone at the other end to just hose down with automatic fire, but the SI troopers under my command know ambush drills and give back about five times as much as they’re receiving.

“First Squad, advance,” I shout into the comms. “Second Squad, cover Sergeant Nez and support.”

“On it,” Sergeant Humphrey shouts back.

First Squad rushes forward, charging out of the killing zone, textbook response to an ambush. The gunfire ahead of them ceases, and the hatch to the main part of the station closes just as Sergeant Humphrey reaches it and throws her weight against it. The hatch pops open again, but only a few centimeters. I see shadows moving in the space beyond. Someone on the other side curses, and the hatch slams shut again, propelling Sergeant Humphrey back into the connector. She shouts a curse back at the hatch.

“Blow the hatch,” Philbrick orders. “Right now.”

Two of First Squad’s troopers swiftly retrieve plastic explosive charges from their leg pouches and slap them against the hatch hinges. Then they prime them with remote detonators.

“Back,” Sergeant Humphrey orders. “Fire in the hole.”

The charges explode with a muffled bang and blow the door inward, where it lands on the deck of the main station pod, trailing wisps of smoke. The troopers from First Squad take no chances. As soon as the hatch hits the floor on the other side, Humphrey follows it up with a contact flash-bang grenade. It explodes in the main pod with a crack that’s loud enough to make my helmet’s built-in audio cut out momentarily. First Squad follows the flash-bang into the room not half a second after it explodes.

“Clear left!”

“Clear right!”

The main section of the station is empty except for scattered equipment and a body near the hatch First Squad just opened violently. It’s a male trooper in SI armor, wearing the rank insignia of a corporal. The dead trooper wasn’t wearing a helmet when the shooting started, and it looks like several fléchettes from First Squad caught him in the neck and head during the brief but violent firefight. His weapon lies nearby, a standard M-66 carbine just like my own SI troopers are carrying. Sergeant Humphrey picks it up, ejects the magazine block, and works the bolt to clear the firing chamber of the weapon.

“The fuck did they go?”

“Clear every corner of this place,” Philbrick orders. “Second Squad, move up. We have one enemy KIA, but there’s at least two more of theirs running around in here.”

“Three, I think,” Humphrey says.

“Suit controls say pressure’s dropping,” I warn. “You have air escaping somewhere. Someone must have shot through the station hull.”

Humphrey and two of her troopers check one of the nearby hatches leading to the next pod’s connecting tube. As she puts her hand on the release handle, there’s the unmistakable sound of explosive decompression on the other side, and the status light on the hatch panel jumps from green to red.

“Got a lot of air escaping nearby,” the drop ship pilot sends. “One of the other satellite pods, on the other end of the station from me.”