Throdahl's comm gear pings gently. The games die. Work stops. Everyone stares at the radioman.
We're lying dead in space beside the instelled beacon. The rest of the squadron is parsecs away.
We assume that we'll be ordered to catch up.
Command has other ideas. Only now does Fisherman tell me we've been awaiting special orders.
That little ping brings the Commander swinging down from his cabin, an ape in a metal jungle.
"Code book," he calls ahead. Chief Nicastro produces the key he wears on a chain around his neck.
He opens a small locker. The closure is symbolic. The box is hardly more than foil. A screwdriver could break it open.
The Chief takes out a looseleaf book and pack of color-coded plastic cards banded with magnetic stripes.
"Card four, Chief," the Commander says after a glance at the pattern on Throdahl's screen. He slides the card into a slot. Throdahl thumbs through the code book. He uses a grease pencil to decode on the screen itself.
Only the initial and final groups translate: COMMANDER'S
EYES ONLY and ACKNOWLEDGE.
Muttering, the Old Man scribbles the text groups in his notebook, clambers back to his hideout.
Shortly, a thunderous, "Jesus fucking Christ with a wooden leg!" rips through the compartment.
Pale faces turn upward. "Throdahl, send the acknowledge. Mr. Yanevich, tell Mr. Varese to establish a lock connect with the beacon."
The beacon begins feeding a sector status update while he's talking. Our chase, kill, and escape has kept us out of the biggest Climber operation of the war.
The convoy that took so long to gather at Thompson's System is on the move. Second Fleet pecked at it and let it get away. In his grandiose way, Tannian has declared that none of those empty hulls will survive his attentions. One hundred twelve and one twenty are the estimates. Thirty-four Climbers are hi the hunt. Every ship hi three squadrons. Except ours and Johnson's.
"Shee-it," Nicastro says softly. "That's one hell of a big iron herd." His eyes are wide and frightened.
"Bet that escort figure goes up fast," Yanevich says.
"Hell. With that many Climbers they should take the escort first."
"Smells Eke a trap to me," I say. "With bait Tannian couldn't resist."
The fighting hasn't yet begun. Our brethren are still maneuvering into attack positions.
At first I think the Commander is upset because he's been ordered into the cauldron, too. Wrong.
The sense of that is too clear. Instead, our orders are bizarre.
The Old Man explains over coffee, in the wardroom, with all officers present.
"Gentlemen, we've been chosen—because of our superb record!—to initiate a new era of Climber warfare." There's an ironic cast to his smile. He taps a flimsy. "Don't look at me. I didn't make it up. I'm just telling you what it says here. We're supposed to take advantage of the brawl back yonder." He jerks his head as if in a specific direction.
He doesn't pass the message around. He holds to the eyes-only rule. "A hint or two here that they had this planned all along. It's why we were off chasing that Leviathan. Johnson was supposed to go in with us."
"For Christ's sake," I mutter. "What the hell is it?"
He smiles that grim shipboard smile. "We're going to scrub the Rathgeber installations. Right when the other team needs diem most."
Puzzled silence. Makes a strange strategic sense. With Rath-geber's backing the hunter-killers will have a field day, finding thirty-four Climbers hi one small sector.
"Didn't we just get out of there?" I ask, more to break the silence than because I want to know.
"Sure. We were a couple of days away. Still are, on another leg of a triangle." He muses,
"Rathgeber. Named for Eustaces Rathgeber, fourteenth President of Commonweal Presidium. Brought Old Earth into Confederation. Only moon of Lambda Vesta One, a super-Jovian, sole planet of Lambda Vesta." He smiles weakly.
"Been doing my homework. For what it's worth, the base started out as a research station. Navy took over when the research outfit lost its grant. The other firm picked it up during their first sweep."
The wardroom echoes, "But..." like a single-stroke engine having trouble getting started. The Commander ignores us.
"We'll hyper in to just outside detection limits. That and the other intelligence data we'll need will be assembled aboard the beacon. They have a printer. Then we Climb and move in. We go down, tear the place apart, and run like hell."
"What the fuck kind of idiot scheme is that?" Piniaz demands. "Rathgeber? We use our missiles up, we won't have anything to shoot back with while we're getting away. Hell, they've got fifty hunters ported there."
"Sixty-four."
"So how the hell do we get out?"
No one questions our ability to get in, or to smash the base. It's not a plum ripe for picking.
I've been there. It's tough.
"Maybe Command doesn't care about that," Yanevich says.
"Nobody will be home but base personnel," the Commander counters. "This convoy operation will draw them off. Tannian isn't stupid. He figures it's a trap. So we give them what they want, then scrub Rathgeber so they can't take advantage. Hell, everybody's always saying it'd be a rabbit shoot out here if it weren't for Rathgeber."
It makes sense. The strategic sort of sense, where a chess player sacrifices a pawn to take a bishop. Rathgeber's loss would hurt the other team bad, just as we'd be bad hurt if Canaan went.
The Old Man continues, "I think the Admiral is counting on us to pull the escort off the convoy."
"Hitting them with rabbit punches," Bradley mumbles. He and I lean against a bulkhead, staring down at the in-group. Threaten here, threaten there, make them drop their game plan."
"Right out of the book."
He shrugs.
The Old Man says, "Our problem will be ground and orbital defenses. Intelligence is supposed to give us what we need, but how good will the data be? Those clowns can't figure what side of their ass goes in back. Anybody ever been to Rathgeber?"
I wave a reluctant finger. "Yeah. A two-day stopover six years ago. I can't tell you much."
"What about defenses? You were gunnery."
"They'll have beefed them up."
"You look them over? How's their reaction time? They won't have messed with detection and fire control."
"What do I know?"
"What size launch window can we expect? Can we do it in one pass? Will we have to keep bouncing up and down?'
"I spent my time getting snookered. What I saw looked standard. Human decision factor. You'll get seven seconds for your first pass. After that you only get the time it takes them to aim."
"Very unprofessional. You should've anticipated. Isn't that what they taught us? Never mind. I forgive you."
I stare at the Commander. Why has he accepted a mission he doesn't like? He has the right to refuse.
No one suggests that.
They bitch about Command's insane strategies but always go along.
"Mr. Westhause, program the fly. We'll take hyper as soon as all the data comes dirough." He steeples his fingers before his face. "Till tomorrow, gentlemen. Bring some thoughts. I want to be in and out before this convoy thing blows up. Our friends are counting on us."
I smile grimly. He really hopes we get an extended leave out of this.
Is Marie in his thoughts? He hasn't mentioned her for a long time.
Wonder what she did after we left. By now she must think we're done. Our squadron is overdue.
Command knows we're alive, but they don't keep civilians posted.
Varese keeps fidgeting. He decides to tell us what's on his mind. "We've been out a long time, Commander. We're way down on hydrogen and CT."