Adapt and Overcome (The Maxwell Saga) (16 page)

“Right.
Lieutenant Sashna, I suggest a couple of your people secure the prisoners here while we enter the bridge and check it out.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

She detailed two of her people to guard the pirates, then ordered the rest of her fire team to perform an assault entry to the bridge. She clearly didn’t trust Gazzarda’s assumption that the bridge had been hit. The team blew open the door with their beam rifles, then covered each other as they hustled through the gaping hole their weapons had made. One of them stuck his head out almost immediately. “He wasn’t lying, Ma’am. It’s a charnel house in here.”

The Marine hadn’t exaggerated. It looked like Steve’s target designation had been spot-on. At least two plasma bolts, possibly three, had torn through the bridge – it was difficult to tell for sure, so great was the damage. There had been several pirates in the compartment at the time, but they’d been blasted into so many
scattered body parts that it was impossible to tell at first glance how many there’d been. The detritus was now floating in zero gravity, along with sticky globules of body matter. It spattered on Steve’s spacesuit and the Marines’ armor, no matter how they tried to avoid it.

Behind where what Steve presumed had been the command console had once stood, the remains of a tall, burly figure were still strapped into his seat. A plasma bolt had erupted through the floor at his feet. The blast had vaporized most of
the console and his lower legs, leaving only the stumps of his thighs; the furnace heat of the bolt had seared his face and torso, briefly igniting his clothing, hair and beard before the ship’s atmosphere vented to space; and his remains were rapidly desiccating through exposure to vacuum. He was not a pretty sight.

Steve looked at the dead man for a long moment.
Vince, if you can hear me, you can rest more peacefully now,
he thought to himself.
I gave the bastard who ordered your death what he had coming. I hope his soul – if he had one – passes near you on its way to hell, so you can piss on it!

He thrust the thoughts away. “Lieutenant, would you get that pirate officer in here, please?”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

A Rolla NCO shoved Gazzarda ungently onto the bridge, using his flex-tied arms to control his movements. Steve cut off his protests by indicating the figure in the command chair.

“That your boss?”

Gazzarda
looked, and gagged. “I think so, Sir. Hard to tell with him looking like that, but that’s where Cap’n de Bouff sat.” He hesitated. “I… we never figgered he could be killed at all. He always seemed… I dunno, immortal, somehow. He never got so much as a scratch before, that I know of.”

“That’s because he had the sense to stay out of the way of the Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet before now,” Steve said flatly. “He shouldn’t have changed his mind. We’ll run tests to make sure it’s him. We can use the DNA of his son Jan for comparison – he’s already serving a life sentence on a prison planet.”

The pirate turned towards him. “W – what’ll happen to us prisoners, Sir?”

“You know the penalty for piracy. Unless you can offer something worthwhile in mitigation of sentence, you’ll either hang, or spend the rest of your lives breaking rocks on some God-forsaken planet light years away from civilization.”

Gazzarda flinched. “W – what about Cap’n de Bouff’s base, Sir? His contacts on other planets to dispose o’ ships and their cargoes? I know some o’ that. Will that be enough to get me any leniency, Sir?”

“I’m neither your prosecutor nor your judge, so I can’t say: but the more you tell us, the better your chances will be. I suggest you think about that very hard indeed!”

Steve turned to Abha. “Lieutenant, you and your team have done very well. Thank you very much. As soon as Gunnery Sergeant Bradshaw’s finished clearing the forward section of the ship, let’s get back to the shuttle. We’ll leave OrbCon’s boarding teams in charge of this ship while we head for
Mauritania.”

~ ~ ~

Steve contacted Captain Packer as they approached
Mauritania,
to warn him of their arrival. Somewhat to the disappointment of his Marines and Rolla NCO’s, it turned out their assistance wasn’t needed.

“Captain Shelby gave them hell!” Packer informed him gleefully. “The first thing he did was blast the two cutters in which they’d arrived. Next,
while waiting for the arrival of OrbCon’s teams, he asked me to dump the atmosphere from all our engineering spaces. Since only about half the pirates were in spacesuits that put them in a world of hurt, and completely disorganized them while he formed up his assault force. His people swept forward through our engineering spaces, pushing all the surviving pirates ahead of them until they were concentrated against our starboard hull; then he used his armored troops to roll right over them.”

Steve grinned.
“Outpost One-One to Packer. Sounds like he made short work of it.”

“Packer to One-One, yes, he did – almost as short work as you made of that pirate ship between you
. We recorded the whole thing on our external cameras. You shot the living daylights out of her! I’d never have believed that the small plasma cannon carried by shuttles could do that much damage to a spaceship. You did an absolutely
magnificent
job, Lieutenant, and I’ll make sure the Admiralty hears about it from me personally. Over.”

“One-One to Packer.
Thank you, Sir, but we all had a part to play. There’s more than enough credit to go around, including to you, Sir, and your crew, for taking care of business aboard your ship as you did. Please monitor this frequency for further developments. Maxwell out.”

He passed the news to the others aboard the shuttle. “Looks like we won’t have another fight,” he concluded.

Gunnery Sergeant Bradshaw snorted disdainfully. “Cap’n Shelby’s hogged all the fun to himself!”

Abha chuckled. “Considering we’ve just collected a shipload of pirates of our own, I don’t think we’ve done too badly, Gunnery Sergeant.”

As they entered
Mauritania’
s docking bay, the two pirate cutters came into view. Each had been blasted open at the bow by a bolt from a plasma cannon. However, the destruction seemed limited to the cutters. The docking bay itself appeared to have suffered little except cosmetic damage. Clearly Brooks had inserted reduced-power loads in his cannon before firing at them.

Sergeant Higgs slid the shuttle expertly into an airlock bay. The huge liner had six of them of
standard size, plus four more for the outsize passenger shuttles she used to transport her guests in the luxury they expected. They waited in the shuttle until the atmosphere had been restored to the ship’s engineering spaces, then disembarked through the airlock. Inside the docking bay vestibule they found Brooks and his party, escorting a dozen pinioned pirate prisoners.

“What the hell happened to you?” Brooks exclaimed, looking at Steve’s blood-splattered spacesuit. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. That’s pirate blood, not mine.” He explained about the human detritus floating in the weightless vacuum of the destroyed bridge.

“Oh. OK.” Brooks relaxed, and indicated his prisoners. “There was a lot of pirate blood spilled here, too. These are all that’s left of the seventy-nine who boarded
Mauritania
. The others died when the atmosphere was vented, or tried to fight us – very silly of them, considering they were unarmored. Oh, well, it’s too late for them to learn now! How did things go aboard their ship?”

“No problems.” Steve gave him a brief account of what they’d found and accomplished.

“I’m glad to hear de Bouff’s dead at last,” Brooks approved. “The reward on his head will be added to any prize money we earn from today’s affair. An extra twenty-five million credits will sure help sweeten the pot!”

“Yes, it’s as much as his ship would have been worth at auction before we shot it to pieces. All it’s good for now is scrap metal, I’m afraid.”

“Any word on Shuttle Three?”

“I sent a cargo shuttle and ambulance cutter to rendezvous with it. They haven’t reported in yet.”

Brooks exhaled softly, sadly. “We’re going to have casualties aboard her. They may be heavy.”

“I know.” Steve’s voice was chagrined. “
I guess that’s my responsibility.”

“I don’t see how you could have avoided it. Don’t blame yourself. Casualties are part of the deal when it comes to combat, and we’re all volunteers. We all knew what might happen to us.”

“True. I’d hoped against hope we could hit her without being hit ourselves, but I guess that was too much to ask, particularly because that ship had a much better fire control system than any other pirate I’ve heard about. It looked like it was taken off an old warship. I noticed the remains of the consoles while I was on their bridge.”

“That’ll have to be investigated. Have you talked to Captain Packer yet?”

“No. Let me do that now.” He adjusted his suit radio channel and called the ship’s Captain. “The atmosphere has been restored to breathable levels, Sir. You can come through to inspect the damage.”

Brooks added, “Sir, be advised, it’s messy back here. There are more than sixty dead pirates, and many of the bodies aren’t pretty, particularly those exposed to vacuum without benefit of spacesuit. I suggest you keep your passengers well clear until the area’s been cleaned up. I’d be grateful if your Engineer Officer would please conduct a quick survey. Our beam rifles did some damage to your equipment and structures, I’m afraid. However, any holes in the pressure hull were small enough to be automatically repaired by its self-sealing systems.”

“That’s all right, Captain Shelby. That’s one reason we pay insurance premiums, to cover that sort of damage. Your assault was brilliantly handled! We recorded it through our security vidcams, as we did your strike on the pirate ship. It’s going to make spectacular viewing for the newscasts, and for your superiors. Before you leave the ship, I’d like to meet you all and shake your hands, and thank you for all you’ve done for us and for the Group of 100 this day. A representative of the Group would like to do the same.”

“That’ll be fine, Sir,” Brooks assured him. “We’ll wait for you in the docking bay vestibule.”

Captain Packer didn’t keep them waiting long. He walked into the vestibule accompanied by several uniformed techs and an older man, tall, erect, wearing an immaculately tailored charcoal-gray double-breasted civilian suit. Brooks and Steve recognized him immediately, to their surprise.

As
tactical commander, Steve spoke first. He saluted the man in the civilian suit. “Good morning, Admiral Methuen, Sir. Captain Shelby and myself recognize you, although you probably don’t remember us. You gave the graduation address at OCS when we were commissioned.”

The Admiral smiled. “Ah! That
would have been a few years after I retired. I’m very pleased to meet you again, gentlemen, although I could have wished for more salubrious circumstances.”

“Sir, if I may ask
, how are you connected to the Group of 100?” Brooks asked.

“I’m the Chairman and Managing Director of Methuen Investments, a family trust. It was a
founding member of the Group.”

The Admiral and Captain Packer insisted on being introduced to and shaking hands with every Marine and Rolla NCO, thanking them individually for their assistance. They were in no hurry, taking their time, and their audience clearly appreciated their courtesy. As they finished, Admiral Methuen assured everyone, “I’ll be submitting a formal report on this morning’s affair to the Board of Admiralty, along with recordings of the action made by
Mauritania
and OrbCon. A retired Admiral’s words are still taken seriously at Admiralty House, I assure you. I’ve no doubt your outstanding performance today will soon receive appropriate recognition.”

He and Captain Packer made their farewells and headed back to the passenger quarters. The Marines and Rolla personnel filed aboard their shuttles, while Brooks turned to Steve. “What next?”

“We’ve got to hand over your prisoners to OrbCon, to add to those we took aboard de Bouff’s ship, and find out what happened to those aboard Shuttle Three. After that, we’d better make our excuses to Colonel Houmayoun and Rolla’s PSDF. They were expecting us to attack Hill 37, remember? For all we know, they still are.”

Brooks grinned. “Oh, well
. At least we’ve demonstrated one security risk a planet can face, and why it needs armed forces to cope with things like that.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “We’ll be busy all day debriefing everyone, analyzing the vid from
Orbcon and
Mauritania
as well as our armor and shuttle sensor recordings, and preparing our reports.”

“
Probably most of tomorrow too,” Abha observed, rolling her eyes.

“You’re right, dammit! The news media will also be all over us.” Brooks frowned,
then looked more cheerful. “At least they’ll have the recordings of the attack to keep them happy.”

Steve nodded. “All right, we’ve got a lot to do – and we haven’t even had breakfast yet
. Let’s get to it.”

Steve stood before the charcoal grill in the twilight, carefully tending half a dozen bacon-wrapped filet mignon steaks. He was barefoot, luxuriating in the feel of grass beneath his feet. He wore shorts and one of his favorite T-shirts, its chest displaying a cartoon of two emaciated vultures sitting on a tree branch. The caption below the picture read, ‘Patience, hell! Let’s kill something!’

Brooks was bare-chested, wearing old tattered shorts, his close-cropped hair still bristling from the shower. He stood at a folding table, cutting slices from a block of tangy cheese, while next to him Abha, more decorously clad in sweatpants and T-shirt, diced tomatoes into a salad. Whole onions and potatoes, wrapped in foil, were baking on the coals, and a pan of mushroom gravy waited atop a warming plate on the table. Delicious smells filled the air.

Steve glanced at the empty container in his hand. “I’m declaring an emergency at this time.”

“Never fear. The Marines are here!” Brooks struck a dramatic pose, took a beer from the cooler next to the table and tossed it over.

“Thanks, buddy. Grilling’s thirsty work.”

“So is cheese-cutting.” Brooks took another beer for himself, thumbed the seal, drank deeply, and sighed with satisfaction.
“Aah!
That hit the spot!”

Abha grinned. “I wonder how the unit’s getting along?” she mused. Brooks and Steve spluttered simultaneously into their beers.

The Senior NCO’s Club of Rolla’s PSDF had decided that the previous day’s events merited a special celebration. They’d invited all the surviving Marines and Rolla NCO’s who’d participated in the fight to a victory celebration that night, block-booking an entire local pub and steakhouse for the group and their partners. Brooks, Steve and Abha had been highly amused to learn that the senior NCO’s had ‘taken up a voluntary collection’ from their troops to fund the festivities. Brooks had observed that it sounded more like extortion, or at least
force majeure
; but Master Sergeant Ioannou (one of only two miraculously uninjured occupants of Shuttle Three) had ‘respectfully submitted’ that no ‘true Marine’ would ever ask awkward questions about the source of free steak and beer. Brooks had solemnly apologized for his lack of ‘true Marine’ spirit – but had privately warned Ioannou that he was responsible for keeping things in hand.

The Master Sergeant had nodded. “No need to worry, Sir,” he’d responded somberly. “We’ve got seven dead comrades to remember. This will be as much a wake
for them as a celebration of victory. There won’t be any trouble.”

Despite this assurance, Brooks had
taken the precaution of discreetly advising the PSDF’s Shore Patrol to avoid the venue like the plague, if they knew what was good for them. Their Duty Officer had turned pale on hearing that the Marine instructors, plus many of Rolla’s NCO’s, plus everyone’s partners, would all be celebrating that night. She’d watched news coverage of the recent events, and seen how they fought. She’d hastily assured Brooks that her people would stay away. Far away.
Very
far away. In fact, they’d devote all their efforts to making sure that no ‘troublemakers’ – including civilian authorities – got anywhere near the celebrations, for fear of what might befall them if they did.

“I’m sure the party’s well under way by now. They chose a good steakhouse, by all reports, so they’ll eat well tonight.” Steve took a flashlight from his pocket, lifted one edge of a steak, and examined the underside carefully. “Speaking of steaks, these have stopped mooing.”

“Sounds edible to me.” Brooks glanced at his watch, and switched on a portable holovid. “We can eat while we watch the evening news. We should be the lead item again.”

Steve lifted the steaks, onions and potatoes onto serving dishes and took them to the table. They helped themselves lavishly, added condiments and salad dressing, and settled down to enjoy the food, watching the newscast as they ate.

Brooks was right. The entire half-hour bulletin was devoted to the pirate attack. After a day and a half, the initial excitement had abated somewhat. Relieved of the immediate pressure of breathless, over-hyped news coverage, the station’s editors had woven together vid coverage from OrbCon, the internal and external cameras on
Mauritania
and the shuttles, and the armor recorders of the Marines and Rolla’s NCO’s. They’d produced a vivid and occasionally gruesome special report covering the entire affair from start to finish.

Steve was fascinated to watch a high-res
olution recording of the attack on de Bouff’s ship, which they’d subsequently learned had been named
Blanco
. The news editor had skillfully cropped, magnified, sharpened and combined the vid recorded by the shuttles, OrbCon and
Mauritania
. The ship filled the display, shuddering as the plasma bolts struck home. The impacts sent ripples around and along her hull, so powerful that in slow motion they could be seen distorting the plating like waves passing through water. He watched, amazed, as
Blanco
seemed to buck and writhe in agony, almost as if she were alive, vomiting debris as the bolts ripped through her. A laser cannon turret was blasted right out of the hull by a direct hit, tumbling over and over as it sailed off into space.

“Damn!
We blew the hell out of her!” Brooks observed.

Steve nodded soberly. “I couldn’t see that at the time from below her, of course. I’m no longer surprised there were so few survivors.”

The newsreader reported that there had been no sign of Constandt de Bouff’s ship – only a hyper-jump signature, recorded at a distant point on the system boundary several hours after his father’s ship had been destroyed. It could only have been made by the younger pirate’s vessel as he left the system. Abha looked disappointed as she said, “Well, they’ll just have to ratchet up the search for him again.”

“Yes, but I don’t know whether they’ll ever find him,” Steve pointed out sourly. “The entire Fleet was looking for both of them after the
Cabot
affair, and put out an interplanetary arrest warrant for them. Nothing worked – they were never found until they revealed themselves here. The settled galaxy’s several thousand light years across. There are an awful lot of planets where people like that can hide, particularly if they’ve got enough money to offset a big reward.”

They ate in silence as they watched the rest of the special report.
It concluded with a brief statement by the main hospital in Beaumont. The six wounded survivors of Shuttle Three who’d been admitted there were doing ‘as well as could be expected’. Warrant Officer Labuschagne, the most seriously injured, had lost both legs. New limbs were already being grown in the cloning vats, and would be transplanted onto his stumps within three months. The other injured personnel would be discharged within a few weeks, all being well.

Abha
observed, “I’m really sorry we lost so many, but frankly, I’d never expected as many as eight survivors. I’m amazed only seven were killed.”

“That’s because of the enhanced armor on the Mark XIII Plus shuttles,” Steve pointed out. “It fragment
s and spalls much less than earlier types, even under the energy dump of a laser beam. There’s not so much shrapnel effect.”

“You got that right,” Brooks agreed emphatically. “If we’d been in Mark IX’s, none of
those inside would have made it.”

“If we’d been in Mark IX’s, I wouldn’t have attempted th
e assault at all!”

At last, as the closing credits rolled,
Abha laid down her fork and sat back, replete. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Brooks,” she said, covering her mouth to stifle a soft burp of satisfaction. “You picked the best steaks in the shop. They were aged just right, tender enough to cut with a fork. What’s your secret to choosing them?”

“Simple. All the food stores offer the same pre-cut, pre-packaged steaks, despite the different labels. They come from just a few producers. Thing is, those producers compete for orders and shelf space. One of the ways they do that is to reserve some good cuts for store managers and buyers. I simply got hold of the most promising-looking employee, slipped him a twenty, and asked him to wrap me half a dozen choice filets from the management meat in the back. After yesterday’s publicity, he was happy to help. I paid for ’em, all legal and
above-board, and he made a little extra for himself too.”

Steve grinned.
“Aha!
Bribery and corruption! That’s conduct unbecoming an officer, I’ll have you know!”

Abha gurgled with amusement. “Perhaps, but just look at the steak it got us!” she objected.

“Um. Yes. In that case, my son,” and Steve looked magisterially over his nose at Brooks, “all is forgiven.”

“I should damn well hope so! I’ve got to hand it to you, too. You’ve got a master’s touch with steak over coals. You sear the outside, but only lightly, and the inside’s perfect. I can never get mine to come out that well.”

Brooks was interrupted by the sharp buzz of his official comm unit. He frowned wrathfully.
“Now
what? I warned the Shore Patrol to steer clear of my boys and girls, and let ’em party! If they didn’t listen to me, I’ll…”

He put the unit to his ear.
“Captain Shelby speaking.” His eyes opened wider, and he stiffened slightly as he listened. “Yes, Sir… Thank you, Sir… Yes, Sir, of course… Thank you, Sir… Aye aye, Sir. We’ll be waiting.”

He replaced the comm unit on the table. “That was Colonel Houmayoun. He’s just finished a meeting with the System Patrol Service and the Minister of Defense. He wants to tell us what’s been going on. He’ll be here in ten minutes, along with Admiral Methuen.”

“We’d better get cleaned up and changed, then,” Abha suggested, standing up. “We can’t meet him looking like refugees from a beach bum contest!”

“Well, he said this was an informal visit, so we’d better keep it that way.
Smart casual civvies, everyone.”

By the time Colonel Houmayoun’s official car pulled up in their driveway, they’d cleared away the debris of supper and hastily donned civilian trousers and more suitable shirts. “It still feels odd to dress down for an Admiral’s visit, even if he’s retired,” Steve muttered darkly. “You sure this won’t backfire on us?”

“We’ll just blame the Colonel if it does,” Brooks assured him, grinning.

Steve needn’t have worried. Admiral Methuen and the Colonel refused refreshments, and sat down in the living-room with broad smiles on their faces. They were clearly very happy about something.

“We thought you’d like to know some of what happened tonight right away, as it’s going to affect all of you,” Colonel Houmayoun began. “Since the initial developments concern the Admiral more than I, I’ll let him tell you about them.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” Methuen sat back, relaxed. “We spent an hour discussing orbital and system security with the Minister of Defense. He asked me to thank you all very much for such an outstanding demonstration of why Rolla needs new assault shuttles, and how capable they are. Apparently public support for their purchase was only a bare majority before yesterday’s events – then it zoomed, literally overnight. There’s now eighty-per-cent-plus public approval to buy more shuttles, and raise a second armored battalion as well. Needless to say, he’s going to put that in hand at once, to take advantage of popular support.

“The Minister was frustrated that Rolla currently lacks sufficient funds to do those things and also buy more warships to patrol its star system. It needs ships just as badly, as yesterday’s events highlighted. However, we pointed out that new funds were about to become available which, with a little friendly assistance from me, would solve the problem.”

Steve
pricked up his ears. “New funds, Sir?”

“Yes. Had you forgotten the prize money for
Mauritania?”

“D’you
know, Sir, I
had
forgotten it. We’ve been so tied up with after-action formalities we haven’t even had time to think about it.”

“Well, to refresh your memory, the
Courts of Admiralty take ten per cent off the top of any prize award, to fund their operations. The balance is divided in two. Half goes to those taking the prize – one-third to commissioned and warrant officers, two-thirds to enlisted personnel. The other half goes to the relevant armed force. In this case, since Rolla contracted for your services and owns the shuttles you used, it’ll receive that half rather than the Fleet; and since the attack took place in the sphere of responsibility of the System Patrol Service, which also authorized your operation, it’ll get the money. It’s a windfall, over and above its annual budget. Since it hasn’t been committed to any other purpose as yet, the SPS can use it to buy warships.”

“I didn’t think there’d be much prize money at all, Sir,” Brooks observed. “We stopped the pirates before they could capture
Mauritania,
so she doesn’t meet the definition of a prize; and
Blanco’
s so badly damaged she’s fit only for scrap. I can’t see her bringing much at a prize auction.”

“You’re right about
Blanco
. She can’t even move under her own power any longer, and there are no facilities here to repair damage that bad. She’ll have to be handed over to the SPS to be destroyed as a target, or dropped into Rolla’s star. However,
Mauritania’
s case will be judged by the Prize Court according to the salvage provisions of Commonwealth law. If a salvor recovers a ship before she’s too badly damaged, and restores her to her owners in repairable condition, he can claim a percentage of her value as compensation. That varies depending on the extent of her damage, and on how much more damage she would have suffered if they hadn’t intervened.”