"One minute." Nicastro's voice shows some life. This is waking htm up.
"Eleven's ready, Commander. She tests go all the way. We're coming in."
"Good, Chief. Hang on where you are. We're going norm. Scramble when we do."
"Aye, Commander."
The alarms play their cacophonous symphony strictly by the book.
"Mr. Varese, stand by the airlock." That has to be the most needless instruction I've heard all mission. Half the engineering gang will be there waiting. "Throdahl, you ready to fix on Haesler's beeper?"
"Ready, Commander."
We drop.
Holtsnider comes through on radio. "Commander, I don't see any suit lights. Have they reached the lock?" The lock, at the bottom of the Can, can't be seen from the torus.
"Over there, Chief," Gentemann says.
"Shit. Commander, they fell loose. They're drifting pretty fast. Okay. They've spotted us."
"Lights on," the Commander snaps.
Kinder's voice whispers, "There she is, Tuchol. Yo! I see you! I'm bringing us in on my jets."
Manolakos is babbling.
"Kinder, this's the Commander. What's the matter with Manolakos?"
"Just panic, sir. He's calming down."
"You see Haesler's lights? Anybody?"
"Not..."
Fisherman interjects an "Oh, goddamn!" startling everyone. "Commander, I've got another one.
Coming in from two seven zero relative at forty degrees high. Destroyer."
"Berberian?"
"Singleship in norm, Commander. Tracking."
"She's coming in, Commander," Fisherman says. "We're fixed."
"Time?"
"Five or six minutes to red zone, Commander. In the yellow now." Red zone: optimum firing configuration. Yellow zone: acceptable firing configuration.
"Damned instel link with the singleship," Yanevich growls.
The Old man thunders, "Holtsnider, get your ass in here now!"
"Commander, I've fixed Haesler's beeper," Throdahl says. "Nineteen klicks out, straight past Manolakos and Kinder."
"Commander, the destroyer is launching missiles," Fisherman says. "Double pairs. Multiple track."
"Time. Canzoneri."
Weapons has the missiles boarded but can do nothing to stop them. They're coming in hyper, will drop at the last second. The way a Climber beats that is maneuver. We can't maneuver. We're no Main Battle. We carry no interceptors. All the Commander can do now is Climb.
Piniaz orders the accumulators discharged again. He does so on his own authority. The Commander doesn't rebuke him.
"Throdahl, get on the twenty-one band and put a tight beam on that singleship," the Commander says. "Stand by for Climb, Mr. Westhause. Mr. Varese, do you have anyone up to the lock yet?"
"Negative, Commander."
A murmur runs through the ship. Men releasing held breath. The situation is tighter than I suspected. Looks like the Old Man is going to tell the other firm he has to leave people behind.
There's no policy, no agreement, but in those rare instances where something like this happens the other team usually honors the lifesaving signals—if they're heard over the tactical chatter.
They're even kind enough to relay the names of prisoners taken.
Our side isn't always that polite.
"Holtsnider, where are you?"
"Coming up on the lock, Commander. Five meters more. I have Kinder and Manolakos with me."
"Damn it, man..."
"What's happening?" Kinder demands. He's been holding up. Panic now edges his voice. Manolakos is babbling again.
Chief Canzoneri says, "Commander, we're running out of time. We won't clear the fireballs if we don't go soon."
"Mr. Varese, get those men in here!"
Westhause has more guts than seems credible. He holds Climb till the last millisecond. A
schoolteacher!
And still we go up without the Chief or Machinist, without Kinder or Manolakos or Haesler.
The walls mist. And Varese sighs, "Oh, shit. I can see Holtsnider.... He's trying to turn the wheel-----He's gone.
Just seemed to fall off."
He falls, with Gentemann, Kinder, and Manolakos, into multiple fireballs. The ship bucks, rattles, and warms appreciably. They're shooting straight over there.
Pale faces surround me. Four men have reached the end of the line. Maybe Haesler was lucky.
"Think they'll count us out?" Westhause asks.
"Organics in the spectrum?" Yanevich counters. "I doubt it. Not enough metals."
"Evasive program, Mr. Westhause," the Commander snaps. Take her up to fifty Bev." His voice is tightly controlled. He's become a survival computer dedicated to bringing the rest of us through.
His face is waxy. His hands are shaking. He won't meet my eye. This is the first he's ever lost a man.
"Too old a trick, waiting till the last second," Yanevich says. His voice sounds hollow. He's talking just to be doing something. "They won't buy it anymore."
"I wasn't trying to sell anything, Steve. I was trying to save four men." Westhause too is shaken.
The CUmber bucks again. And again. The plug-ups skitter around. Odds and ends fall. Gravity acts crazy for a second. "Damn!" somebody says. "She's got us figured close. Damned close."
"See what I mean?" That's Yanevich. I can't tell who he's talking to. Maybe the Commander.
The Old Man isn't one to abandon a tactic because it's familiar. Nor will he not take advantage of the inevitable loss of men. He'll try anything once, because it might work, and do his crying later. In this situation his inclination is to sit tight and hope the destroyer thinks she got us.
First move in a larger strategy.
The Climber rocks again. The lights wink. So much for fakery. Someone snarls, "It's that damned singleship. She has a fix on our point."
So it begins. The run after the Main Battle was never this hairy.
I have a feeling it'll get hairier.
My expression must be grim. Seeing it, Yanevich smiles weakly. "Wait till his family comes to the feast. That's when we separate the men from the boys." He chuckles evilly, but forcedly. He's as scared as I am.
This kind of action is part of every Climber mission. You'd think the old hands would get used to it. They don't. Even the Old Man shows the strain.
The hammering continues.
The Ship's Commander aboard the hunter-killer will have tactical control now. He'll be nudging countless brethren into position throughout the spatial globe defined by our estimated range in Climb. Their strategy will be to jump us when we try to vent heat, forcing us to Climb before we can shed it. Thus, the globe they have to patrol can be reduced, densifying their operation. And reducing our chance of venting much heat next time we go down.
And round and round and round again, till the Commander is faced with a choice of abandoning Climb or broiling.
When they can't pull the noose that tight, they try to force a climber to exhaust her CT fuel.
That takes patience. Unfortunately, they have patience to spare.
"Looks like the fun is over," I tell Yanevich.
"Yeah. Damned Tannian. Just had to go after Rathgeber."
"Stand by, Weapons," the Commander orders. "Get your accumulators on the line."
"What the hell?" Even the first Watch Officer seems puzzled. "We're barely getting warm."
"Junghaus, Berberian, I want a course, range, and velocity on that destroyer instantly. Take her down, Mr. Westhause."
The walls solidify.
We shed our heat in seconds, amid probing beams.
'Take hyper." The destroyer is closing fast.
Mr. Piniaz discharged his weapons hi her direction just to be doing something.
"Four missiles, Commander," Berberian says. He adds the data the Old Man ordered before going down.