Far Space (15 page)

“Lines are free,” Langdon verified.

With the crew at VAS Control still tied in through the camera mounted at the forward end of the module, Yates ordered, “Take us out, Captain Maytree. Secondary engines and ACS only.”

“Secondary’s on-line,” Pearl reported. Under his breath, he said, “You know Robert; It’d been sweet to blast out of here with the main engines burning.”

“Steady, Steve,” Yates replied.

From the pilot’s station, Maytree took her hands from the controls and, looking straight forward, said, “Lieutenant Langdon, you have the stick.”

Yates had to resist the urge to squirm in his seat.

YES!

This was the moment every star pilot longed for – to be in complete control of all the power a spacecraft could deliver. Okay, so it was not lighting off the main anti-matter engines…yet, but it was good enough for Ian.

“I have the stick,” Ian managed to say smoothly. He silently thanked God his voice did not crack.

Ian carefully rechecked the ACS configuration and the readiness of the secondary engines. The secondary’s, basically old-style chemical rockets, were meant to be used in just this sort of situation when using the full power of the anti-matter drive system was dangerous or simply provided too much specific inertial thrust.

Taking a deep breath, Ian tapped the big red bar on his board, activating the control program. The program would handle the balancing of thrust from the eight secondaries and tweak the Cheyenne’s attitude if needed.

For a moment, it seemed as if nothing had happed. Ian rechecked his board. All secondary’s had ignited and the ACS was functioning. A full thirty
seconds after the command was given, Ian felt the push back into his seat which told him the Cheyenne was indeed accelerating.

No one spoke as Ian monitored the Cheyenne’s laborious initial start. After three minutes, the dormant anti-matter drive unit at the extreme aft of the ships stack cleared the outermost girder of the VAS.

“USS Cheyenne has cleared dry dock,” Ian said. He could not help adding, “Next stop, Saturn Space.”

Ian glanced up at the main display when the crowd in VAS Control erupted into cheers.

The normally reserved VAS crew were busy hugging and patting each other on the back. Only the controller still maintained any composure, although Ian noticed she did have an unusually wide grin on her face.

“VAS Control acknowledges clearance of dry dock,” the controller said. “God speed and good luck, Cheyenne.” The cheering redoubled before the controller cut the VAS control video feed.

The Bridge was oddly silent after the celebratory crowd cut out.

“Well, here we go again,” Pearl said from his station.

“Yes indeed, Mr. Pearl,” Colonel Yates said. “You and your team run a final diagnostic on the AM drive. I want to go to full power as soon as L5 is out of our tail wash.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Pearl said, happily tapping on his control boards.

Ian smiled at the engineer’s blatant abuse of protocol.

“Good job there, newbie,” Maytree said softly to Ian.

“You could have warned me you were going to do that,” Ian replied.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“All right people,” Yates announced, “we’re on our way to retrieve some space junk which may save humanity. If any of you wanted to get off this ride, it is too late now.”

USS Cheyenne

Near Space – En Route to Saturn

Ian tried to keep his eyes forward since looking around just made him feel sick.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Ian asked over the local net.

The dark armored figure next to him turned to face Ian. The heavily tinted visor hid the man’s face.

“Being outside a spacecraft which continues to accelerate thanks to the wonders of anti-matter or giving you a gun?” Captain Alvin “Al” Rucker asked.

“Both, actually,” Ian replied. “You do realize I’m a space pilot, not some, and pardon the expression, ground pounder, sir.”

“No offense taken,” Rucker replied. “Someone’s got to hold the ground you boys fly around. Still, you’re military with some amount of training. Course, I had not realized just how inadequate the training was.”

“Yeah,” Ian said. “I keep hearing that.”

“Good thing we got to you before the little green men then, huh?” Technical Sergeant Eric Anderson said as he approached Ian and Rucker with long strides. There were times neither of the Marine’s mag boots was in
contact with the hull in direct violation of one of the most basic rules which had been drilled into Ian’s head during his brief extra-vehicular instruction during pilot training

Anderson wore an armored space suit matching Rucker’s. Their names and rank were stenciled across the chest.

“You let him shoot yet, Captain?” Anderson asked.

Ian lifted the M-25S automatic rifle in his gloved hands. The weapon was basically a space-rated mini rail gun. The M-25S, as the manual Ian had skimmed last night indicated, could accelerate slugs fast enough to punch through most armor. It could also host a variety of ammunition. Ian had figured they would be shooting the flachette rounds, tiny packets of sharp needles. Flachettes were designed for fighting inside ships; they were great for tearing apart your opponents but lacking the punch to rip open a hull. The weapon Rucker had given Ian was loaded with the heaviest round available for an M-25S.

Rucker was saying, “Just waiting on the Chief.”

Ian turned to see a third armored figure approaching. Chief Master Sergeant Luis Cordella was huge without his suit. Add the armor, weapons, and mag boots and he was simply a giant.

Cordella came up to the loose formation and saluted Rucker. “Sir.”

Rucker returned the salute. “Okay, let’s see how the LT handles his M-25S.”

“Got it, Captain,” Anderson said. He pulled out a small parcel from a hip pocket and hurled it away from the ship. When it had moved about fifty meters off the port side of the ship, the device expanded.

“Take your best shot,” Rucker said.

The three armored black combat suits of the Special Operations troops backed away from Ian in his gleaming white hard suit.

Ian raised his rifle and selected a three round burst. He took a breath, let out half and held the rest. Sighting down the end of the barrel Ian lined up on the target as best he could, given the restraints of the suit, and pulled the trigger.

The M-25S had no recoil to speak of due to the magnetic nature of the firing mechanism. But, Newton’s Third Law did come in to play; for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Ian pulled the trigger and suddenly found himself bent backwards. “Crap!” He had not expected the reaction and had not braced himself. Luckily, his mag boots held true and he remained firmly attached to the Cheyenne’s hull. Flailing his arms, Ian fell backwards until his backpack hit the deck.

A black clad arm reached out over Ian and grabbed his M-25S before it could whirl off into space.

Ian managed to half push, half pull himself until he was upright again. “Thanks for the warning, sir,” Ian said, turning to face the Captain as the others closed around him again.

“That’s why we’re out here,” Rucker said. He took Ian’s gun from Anderson. In one easy movement, he brought the weapon up, aimed, and loosed four three round bursts.

The report from the target scrolled up along the left side of Ian’s visor; twelve shots, twelve hits.

Rucker handed the M-25S back to Ian. “There’s no back-up out here except you and the other ship crew. Unfortunately, you have the most EVA time and weapons experience of them all. Plus, you got that LEO parachute thing under your belt. They should give you the Space Combat Badge just for pulling it off.”

Ian took the weapon and laughed. “I always said if someone gave me a gun and expected me to use it the human race was in trouble.”

“That would be right now, LT,” Anderson said.

“What about the NASA guy,” Ian asked. “Surely he’s got suit experience.”

“He does,” Rucker said.

“I’d rather have whatever aliens we find watching my back,” Cordella growled.

“You’re it,” Anderson said, thumping his gauntleted hand against the back of the Ian’s hard suit. “Just be sure to keep your weapon in your hand next time.”

“Don’t sweat it, sir,” Cordella said. “Same thing happens to all of us the first time we try this stuff out.”

“Really?”

“Nah,” Cordella admitted. “But try to hit the target this time instead of Orion’s belt.”

Ian tried again. He braced this time and managed to hit the target two out of three shots.

Anderson and Rucker took turns before the target drifted too far out from the Cheyenne for even them to hit it consistently.

Cordella released a second target and everyone took their shots in turn until each man had expended nearly two hundred rounds.

“Not bad, newbie,” Rucker said. “Maybe we can make a FAC out of you yet.”

Rucker and the others were all members of the 700
^th
Forward Aerospace Control Group; one of the US Air Forces and now US Space Corps premiere Special Ops units. Taking their heritage from earlier Forward Air Controllers, today’s FACs were trained to deploy with the Special Ops Forces (SOF) from other services and serve as liaisons to Space Corps forces during combat operations. Their extensive training included infiltration into denied areas and aerospace strike coordination.

“Would I get the cool armor suit?” Ian joked.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you one if you have my back when we go in that thing out at Saturn,” Rucker said.

“You know, Captain,” Cordella said. “We do have that spare.”

Rucker’s suit turned to face the Chief. “Get him fitted.” The Captain turned back to Ian. “Welcome to the Special Forces.”

Ian’s mouth went dry. He was a rocket jockey. He tried to imagine himself in a firefight and failed. “Uh, thank you, sir.”

Anderson thumped Ian on the back again. “Keep the thanks till you see what we’ll be facing out there.”

Ian shook his head inside his suit. How did he manage to get himself into these things?

Back inside the ship, Ian made his way down the pressurized cargo deck where the SOF troops kept their gear. The Space Corps FAC suits hung in their racks across from the nearly identical Marine Recon armor, ready for action.

Ian found a black suit with a piece of tape attached to the breast plate. He was not sure if he was proud our scared to death the tape now read ‘Langdon.’

“So what’s up?” Jennifer said from the ladder way.

“I think I just got drafted,” Ian said, not taking his eyes from the suit.

“Don’t be silly, you’re already my Marine.”

Ian smiled and turned to face Jennifer. She looked great, as always. She was wearing a fitted dark blue jumpsuit and her short-waisted mission jacket. The jacket was zipped down halfway, giving Ian just a clue as to what lay beneath. Ian tore his eyes away from Jennifer’s chest and met her gaze.

“So how’d the shooting go,” Jennifer asked, running a finger down Ian’s arm and stepping close. “Are they going to let you keep the gun?”

“Oh yeah,” Ian said, nonchalantly. “You know, the M-25S, standard issue, space certified slug thrower. All the cool guys have one.”