“They did, but they had to build them around their own private broadcast network. They had mini broadcast engines that sent and received messages.”
“Maybe these ships have mini broadcast engines, too,” Franks said. He slurred his words as he spoke. “You don’t specking know if they have mini broadcast engines on their ships.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But why would they have come in alone if they could have called for help?” I asked. “They would have called for backup.”
Franks started to reach for his bottle, and paused. “They had newer, better ships,” he said. “Those cocky pricks probably thought they could take us easy.”
“They probably did,” I agreed.
Franks nodded. Warshaw tossed back yet another shot of whiskey. If he wasn’t properly lubricated by now, he never would be.
Deciding to make my move, I said, “You know, you and I are both in the shits,” to Warshaw. “My second-in-command is a Fallzoud sinker, and yours is in the brig.”
“Fahey? Don’t you worry about his ass. I’ll take care of him,” Warshaw said.
I heard sharpness in his voice. My bringing up Fahey burned through the whiskey haze. “You told me that no Marine was fit to command a fleet,” I said. “Do you remember that?”
“Something like that, yeah,” Warshaw agreed.
“Engineering officers don’t cut it either,” I said. “When was the last time you heard about an engineer making admiral?”
“You son of a …” He jumped to his feet, his fists tight and his arms flexed.
I put up a hand. “I’m not trying to take over. I don’t believe either one of us is fit for command.”
Warshaw calmed slightly. His fists opened, and his shoulders relaxed, but he did not sit down. “What are you saying, Harris?”
“I’m saying we both need to step down,” I said.
“And get passed over for command?”
“You think Marines aren’t fit for command because they don’t understand naval operations.”
“Damn specking right they don’t,” Warshaw said. He dropped back into his seat.
“You’re right. We don’t. The problem is, engineers don’t know shit about operations, either. What this fleet needs is a bridge officer, not a wrench jockey.”
“You mean him?” Warshaw asked, his mouth working into a sardonic smile. He nodded toward Franks, who sat passed out in his chair, his back slumped, his face flush against the conference table, saliva forming a pool in front of his opened mouth. He snored softly.
“You’re joking, right?” Warshaw asked.
Feeling embarrassed, I said, “He’s next in line.”
Warshaw laughed.
“Bullshit. I’m next in line, Harris. Admiral Brocius gave me this command.”
That was how we left it. Warshaw running the fleet, me commanding the Marines, and Franks passed out in his seat.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Technically, I should have brought Hollingsworth on this mission, but I’d already sent him to run Fort Sebastian instead. I should have left Thomer as a liaison with fleet operations, but I thought some action would do him good. I needed to know if I could count on him in battle, and this seemed like a safe testing ground. All we had to do was explore a derelict ship, locate and capture any survivors who wanted rescue, and offer a fatal helping hand to any survivors who wanted to go down with their ship.
I sat in the cockpit with the pilot as he flew my team out. It was the same clone pilot I had hijacked the last time I came out to the Mogat home world. Back then he was a sailor. Now he’d put in a transfer to become a Marine—as my staff pilot no less. Apparently we’d bonded while dodging U.A. battleships in our unarmed transport.
The newly destroyed U.A. battleships did not resemble the wrecks around them. It wasn’t just the difference in their shape and color. The Mogat ships were not just sunk, they were annihilated. Some had imploded hulls. Several decks had been entirely sheared away from one Mogat destroyer. The U.A. ships had gone dark, but they looked like they could be repaired.
“I like the look of this ship a lot better now that it’s dead,” the pilot said as we approached one of the wrecks. He and I had played a serious game of tag with this ship not all that long ago.
“Let’s just hope it stays dead,” I said.
Light still shone through cracks in the battleship’s hull. The batteries backing their emergency lighting might hold out for months. Flames, fed by oxygen leaking out of improperly sealed cabins, flickered deep in the recesses of the ships. Their unsteady glow reminded me of candles.
“I feel like I’m sneaking up on a sleeping bear,” the pilot joked.
“A dead bear,” I said. I hoped it was dead.
“You better hope it’s dead, sir,” the pilot said. He acted like we were old friends. I didn’t mind. More than anything else, I felt embarrassed for what I had done to the guy. I had done what I felt I had to do, but I still felt bad about pistol-whipping him.
Without its shields, the battleship had the same beige and gray colors as the ships in the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Its skin had laser burns and trenches along its outer hull, the scars of war. The white glare of sparks flashed in some of the crevices. Most of the ship was dark. The sparks and flames added up to little more than a scattering of bright scales.
We moved in slowly, our runner lights blazing on the hull. Toward the bow of the ship, about a hundred yards back, we found the hatch to the docking bay and sent a team of technicians armed with laser torches.
The process went slowly. The pilot opened the kettle doors. A couple of minutes later five techs drifted into view. They spent fifteen minutes evaluating the situation, then finally got to work. The laser-resistant outer wall of the ship cut slowly, but it did cut.
“Do we have our shields up?” I asked the pilot.
“Do we need them up?”
“Luck specks the unprepared,” I said.
Outside, our techs stripped away the outer skin of the hatch, revealing a panel filled with rods and hydraulics. Once the shield covering was gone, the work went quickly. A few more cuts, and the outer hatch fell away from the ship.
“Looks like we’re in, sir.”
The techs went ahead of us to clear the atmospheric locks. A few minutes later, we entered the runway at a crawl. Our runner lights revealed the signs of battle. The deck was cracked. Sixty feet ahead of us, the doors of the next lock hung askew. Beyond the broken hatch, a lightning-colored bouquet flashed over the top of a shorted-out electrical panel.
“Looks like you’re on your own from here, sir,” the pilot said.
“Looks that way,” I agreed.
“Okay, Thomer, lead them out,” I said over the interLink.
“Everybody out. Hit the deck and fall in!” Thomer yelled. The men obeyed. As I left the cockpit, I saw the last of the men floating down the ramp. Off-loading and forming ranks took longer in zero gravity.
Not showing any traces of Fallzoud confusion, Thomer took charge. He sounded more like a sergeant than a general. That was good. In my experience, generals did not bring much to the battlefield.
I looked over the ranks. The hundred armor-wearing Marines were a sight for sore eyes. They did not wear jetpacks. Unlike the motivators used by Navy techs, our jetpacks gave off flames. In the wrong environment, those flames could trigger an explosion.
“Listen up,” I said. “The fleet sent us here to look for survivors. It’s probably a waste of time, but that is why we are here. Search each deck for heat signatures. If you find something, report back before going in to investigate. I repeat, if you find somebody with a pulse and a face, call for backup.”
I should have given them a more detailed briefing, but I did not think it would be necessary. Instead, I said my short piece and let Thomer divide up the company. He sent them out in fire teams, four-man units that made a lot more sense in other situations. Fire teams were supposed to include a rifleman, an automatic rifleman, a grenadier, and a team leader. In this situation, everyone carried a particle-beam pistol.