Unger turned to Brogan and slapped him on the back. “Good going, Brogan, you passed your first test. It wasn’t real smart, but it
was
gutsy. Come on, let’s get some more grub.”
*
The days wore on, and the novelty of Brogan’s surroundings wore off. He pondered how consistently his assignments landed solidly on the dull side of boring as he labored over yet another stultifying task. He and Murphy were busy tightening down bolts in the engine room when the klaxon sounded a pattern Brogan had never heard before.
Looking at Murphy, Brogan saw a mingled expression of astonishment and apprehension. Lurching to his feet he leaped over Brogan, knocking him off balance, and raced down the corridor. Not knowing what else to do, Brogan followed as best he could.
As they were running, the klaxon ended and a voice came over the intercom: “Battle stations! Battle stations! This is not a drill! I say again, this is not a drill!” Brogan felt his chest tighten and his scalp begin to prick. In the crush of personnel, he focused all his attention on catching Murphy.
As he rounded a corner, he glimpsed Murphy diving into their squad bay.
I didn’t have to keep up with him after all,
thought Brogan with disgust. But when he entered the bay, seamen were everywhere, frantically donning their spacesuits.
As he calmly slipped on his own suit, he found himself grateful for the mandatory practice. He did not know what was about to happen, but he was sure he’d feel safer once he was into his suit. Part of him secretly hoped to get in on the action.
Just then an officer appeared in the door. “Report to hatch four!” he shouted. “The armorer there will issue you your weapons. Let’s move! Hustle!”
As they were on their way, the intercom cackled once again into life. “Now hear this! Now hear this! All assault personnel report to assembly points immediately!”
The effect of this command was to strip the ship of everyone not absolutely essential for ship operations, namely, maneuvering, fire control, and atmosphere breech control. It sent the crew hurrying like so many ants to their various duties.
A number of men had already assembled by the time Brogan arrived at hatch four. He was pleased to see that Unger was among them. The ensign immediately began to organize the newcomers into squads. Brogan was assigned to Murphy’s squad, which he was glad of, but he was not happy that Crow was also in his squad.
“Oh, no!” Crow exclaimed. “We don’t have ta be saddled with this amateur, do we? He’s liable to get somebody killed!”
“Stow it, Cromartie!” Unger said. “Try to be a professional for once. We need all the manpower we can get.”
An old chief warrant officer plodded down the corridor. In his wake were four droids and a small sled, all supported by null-grav units. The sight reminded Brogan of an ugly mother duck leading her ugly ducklings, and he suppressed a grin.
“All right, men, listen up. I understand there’s a new recruit here, so it won’t do any harm to review these weapons for everyone.”
Lifting a short rifle with a disproportionately large canister in front of the trigger guard, the armorer began his monotonous monologue. “This is a naval shipboarding assault rifle, G76. It weighs seven kilos, is one meter long, and fires 3.6mm projectiles. It will fire 1,000 such projectiles without reloading. Sustained depression of the firing mechanism, or trigger, will cause the G76 to fire a three-round burst every nine-tenths of a second. If the firing mechanism is pressed briefly, then released, it will fire one three-round burst only.”
Because of the disaster suffered by the
Arcadian
in a boarding skirmish—the hull was so badly breached by lasers that all hands were lost—boarding parties were forbidden by Imperial command to use laser or radiation weapons. Only droids were authorized to employ laser fire.
The historical development of the personal laser weapon was plagued with many problems. Chief among them were safety concerns. In the early years accidental death, injury, or dismemberment of the user himself or another person occurred more often than anyone cared to admit. The recurring problem of unanticipated long-range death or destruction due to the undiminished effectiveness of laser fire over long distances was another problem. Two eventual developments largely resolved such disasters.
First, instead of firing a laser beam of destructive energy, when the trigger was depressed it activated a tight but harmless beam of light that served as a targeting locator. The user then pressed a button that fired a brief, destructive pulse of light rather than a beam of continuous duration.
A second development related to the effective distance of the destructive pulse. Most
handheld lasers were now effective to only two hundred meters. The heavier weapons, however, boasted longer effective distances. But in spite of these developments, laser weapons were still considered too risky for shipboard use.
“Normally the projectiles fired by the G76 explode on contact,” the warrant officer droned on. “This reduces to a minimum the damage done to ship operating components. If your enemy is armored, however, turn this selector on the side,” he said pointing, “from I to D. This delays the projectile explosion, giving it time to penetrate most armor. Otherwise keep the setting on I.”
Jerking his hand in the direction of the four droids, he continued. “These droids here are programmed to assist in the assault. Mortimer 1 and 2 will guard this hatch against intruders. The other two are programmed to assault any laser droids guarding the hatches of the enemy ship.”
Having finished his speech, the warrant officer began to issue weapons, and Ensign Unger took the opportunity to address his men.
“All right, men. Command informs us that our long-range detection has spotted an unidentified ship on an intersect course with our transport group. On its present trajectory it will reach the transports that are in advance of our course twenty minutes before our ETA.
“The captain wants to avoid ship-to-ship combat in such close proximity to the cargo ships, so the plan is to link up with the transport complex on the side opposite the intruder, hopefully without detection. Once docked the tractor systems will be activated so that all components, including the unauthorized craft, will be unable to break free.
“Once the tractor systems are engaged, our job begins. It will be up to us and the detachment at hatch six to force entry and secure the ship and the marauders. Just remember. This is no game. Make sure of your target, then shoot to kill without hesitation.
“Only officers and NCOs will transmit over the signal units inside your helmets. No one else! If you do have anything to say during the assault, it had better be important! That’s all for now . . . except for the waiting.”
Some of the men slouched against the corridor walls, some sat down, and others looked around themselves as if expecting someone to give them some answers.
Presently the speaker sounded once again. “Attention, attention, the captain is about to speak.”
“Men, this is Captain Kebler. I am now activating the screens at your stations. You will be able to watch as our ship approaches the transports. ETA is forty-five minutes. I won’t pull any punches with you. We are likely to be outnumbered. But I have every confidence you will win through. Good luck, and good hunting!”
Intuitively, Brogan wondered why their ship had been allowed to fall so far behind the transport group, but the viewing screen sprang to life, distracting his train of thought. There was not much to see yet, however
—only stars of varying brightness, pinpoints in the emptiness of space.
Murphy caught Brogan’s attention, and for the next half-hour, the seaman instructed him in the use of his equipment and the finer points of combat. His final advice was, “Stick close to me, and do what I do.”
The collection of vessels that made up the transport group had grown to model-toy size. Brogan had imagined a trim line of sleek ships nestled neatly together. But the picture presented to him now was a motley hodgepodge of unattractive freighters. The jumble of assorted shapes and sizes offended his instinctive sense of proportion and made him forget for a few moments the imminent danger.
Each transport had been assembled in space by a different world, each reflecting a distinct culture. No two designs seemed to be alike. The only standard feature was the mandatory hatchway used to connect them together. The connection of these modules was necessary for en route inspection of the cargo. It was through these connecting hatchways that the assault teams intended to fight their way to the intruders’ ship. Due to the differing sizes and shapes of the freighters, however, the passageways were a veritable maze of torturous routes. Finding their way through safely would be a neat trick.
Brogan watched the transports grow in size on the screen, ever conscious of his increasingly sweaty palms and his ragged breathing. Soon their target freighter filled the whole frame, and Brogan knew zero hour was imminent.
“Contact with target in thirty seconds,” intoned the speaker.
Everyone made last-minute adjustments and faced the hatch. Brogan began to wonder whether he really wanted an exciting life after all. The hard and boring work at home was becoming more and more attractive all the time. His chest felt like it was being squeezed, and his breaths came in labored bursts. Anticipation made his body throb with the pounding of his heart.
An abrupt clang made him jerk convulsively, and a long, low moan followed, reminding Brogan of harpies come to witness the carnage. Actually the first sound was the docking, the second the activation of the tractor system.
The hatch flew open with startling swiftness. Brogan’s throat tightened in a spasm. Unger leaped into the cavity, but the transport’s hatch failed to respond to his efforts. Turning and stepping to the side, he ordered, “M3, burn it down.”
A blinding light emanated from the front panel of Mortimer 3 and quickly burned open a large section of the offending hatch. Allowing M3 to precede him, Ensign Unger dashed through, careful to avoid the hot, dripping slag. The rest of the contingent followed, with M4 bringing up the r
ear. The passage came to a dead end almost immediately. Here a connecting corridor ran from left to right.
Unger turned. “Seaman Murphy, take your squad with M4 down the right corridor. We will traverse the left. If you run into trouble you can’t handle, give a yell.”
“Yes, sir. Alright men, let’s go.” Brogan scrambled out of M4’s way and followed Murphy with the rest of the squad into the corridor. There were five of them altogether: Murph, Crow, two other ratings, and Brogan. The lighting was dim, and they could not see very far ahead. Soon they turned a corner, and Brogan began to wish he knew what was going on and what to expect. But his worries were shattered by a blinding flash as M4 suddenly engaged in combat.
Without warning, Crow stumbled backward, pinning Brogan to the deck. His bulk totally eclipsed Brogan from view.
Clumsy oaf!
Brogan thought as he tried to twist out from under him.
How could anyone be so uncoordinated as to fall backward when they’re walking forward?
It was then that he noticed the projectiles exploding on walls and ceiling. His throat thickened as he realized that Crow must be dead.
Shadows danced down the corridor as three forms cautiously approached. Brogan remained still as they stopped beside the inert form of Murphy. “Hey, boss, this one’s still kickin’.”
Brogan was startled that he was able to hear his adversary.
They must be monitoring our frequency!
This could mean big trouble for the assault party, even though they were using short-range communications as an extra precaution against the other force hearing them . . . or so they thought. Now Brogan knew that communications were out and that he was isolated, totally on his own.
“Well, finish him off and let’s get going. If we’re going to catch up with the other party and take them from behind, we’ve got to get movin’.” A light flashed, and Murphy’s prostrate form melted into the deck.
Something snapped inside Brogan. He felt a rage he had never before experienced. Suddenly his mind became crystal clear. Carefully freeing his right arm from under Crow, he flipped the selector switch to D and took aim at the nearest figure. Pressing the trigger, he shifted from man to man as each three-round burst exploded from the muzzle. The third marauder managed to get off a defensive shot before the last burst felled him, but it smoldered harmlessly into the inert body of Crow.
Silence blanketed the corridor as Brogan finally freed himself and clambered to his feet. Warily he checked the enemy bodies, but all were dead . . . and so were the rest of his squad. Anger still roiled within him as he gazed at the place where Murphy used to be
—an anger laced with the emptiness of loss. His second friend since leaving home was gone—gone suddenly, violently, and irretrievably. Brogan knew instinctively that he would never be the same again.
Turning away from the corpse-littered battleground, he came upon M4. It and another droid had fused each other into still glowing lumps of metal. Carefully stepping around them, he continued in the direction he had been taking before the encounter.
Brogan’s mind was racing.
What should I do now?
He had not been privy to the combat strategy, so he would have to play it by ear.