Beyond Mars Crimson Fleet (18 page)

"My Indian blood can sense
you gawking at me, Jim," Richard's voice tiredly
admitted.

Randall paused and turned
slowly to his friend. "I really didn't want to disturb you. I
thought I let you sleep a little bit."

Wakinyan slowly came to
life and began to rub the sand from his eyes as he raised his head.
"Well, you don't have any right to let me, damn it; the crew is
just as tired."

Randall, however, was
sympathetic to Richard's fatigue. "You've been up longer than most.
Between the final planning, the prep, and the combat; fifty-two
hours is a long time."

Wakinyan finally stood up
and stretched. "A ship's captain doesn't have the luxury of sleep,"
he flatly stated. "Give the order to stand-down. Start rotating the
crew for food and rest—and make sure you get some yourself, Jim.
You have the command."

Richard then began to walk
towards the hatchway.

"Rich, where are you
going?" James inquired.

Wakinyan paused and
half-turned in the hatchway to his friend. "I going to inspect my
ship—or what’s left of it," the small joked escaped from his lips.
And with that he left.

As
Wakinyan made his way from the bridge through one of the ship's
many corridors, he carefully watched his step. The ship’s gray
painted interior was nearly identical to the compactness of an
ancient nuclear submarine, and the crowded passages of crewmen and
marines presented a constant barrier to any movement. The marines
sat sleeping, talking, or gambling; while the mariners of
the
Crazy Horse
carried out repairs and normal ship routines. A few times,
Wakinyan either tripped over or bumped into parked marines. This
included one disgruntled corporal who cussed the officer for
disturbing his slumber. Wakinyan, however, took no offense. As he
passed by each battle-weary face, he regarded the space marines in
respect; their grimy and blood stained uniforms were reminders to
their previous collective heroism.

As
Richard continued through the ship, he witnessed the extent of the
damage that the
Crazy Horse
had sustained. Cables hung from dislodge or broken
conduits and wrecked panels, while some of the hydraulic lines
leaked their smelly oily fluid. Occasionally, he heard or smelled
electrical arching, accompanied by a smoky haze. He also found a
gaping hole through a compartment that something had exploded in.
Whatever it was, however, had been since removed by several crewmen
who were busily engaged in sealing the opening with steel repair
plates. From all of this, it was evident that the
Crazy Horse
had taken
quite a beating. He pressed onward, moving in the direction of
raised voices that resonated faintly in the
distance.

In
another corridor of the
Crazy
Horse
, a group of marines and sailors stood
by while an argument between a bosun's mate and a marine gunnery
sergeant heated up.

"SERGEANT, MOVE YOUR UGLY
BUTT SO WE CAN GET OUR WORK DONE!" bellowed the burley bosun's
mate, gripping a laser welder.

But Sergeant Gagarin was
one not to be bullied. Like all marines, he wasn't about to take
any guff from a sailor.

"Listen to me, swabby! If
you don't get that thing out of my face, I’ll shove it so far down
your throat that every time you break wind, you’ll be shooting
sparks out of your ass!"

The mate sneered in reply,
and was about to use a little stronger language when, however, he
spotted Wakinyan approaching. Not wanting to be on the losing end
of the verbal exchange, the mate crafted his next words
carefully.

"Look, marine, these are
some very serious repairs we’ve got to make! Get out of my way or
I'll have to report you!

"Yeah, to who, some
goat-screw fresh out of OCS?" Gagarin challenged.

"TRY TO ME, SERGEANT!"
another voice more loudly and forcefully trumpeted from
behind.

As both men turned to face
Wakinyan, several voices from the group yelled out "ATTENTION!"
Their stances became as stiff as boards as they eyed the twin bars
of rank on Wakinyan's collar.

"Sorry, Sir! I didn't see
you standing there!" Gagarin tried to apologize.

"Apparently not!" Wakinyan
sounded indignant. "Where's your commanding officer?"

"He's in the shuttle bay,
Sir!" the sergeant directed.

Wakinyan
took a step to walk away, but he quickly turned back to the group.
"Some advice for you and your marines, Sergeant. This man is a part
of the ship's repair team. It would behoove you to cooperate unless
you would prefer that the bulkhead blowout. In which case, you
won't be trading insults, but gasping for every breath of air. But
that's only my
goat-screw
opinion
, mind you!"

"Yes, Sir! Sorry for the remark, Sir!"
Gagarin again tried to apologize.

Wakinyan's face etched a
guarded smile. "Like hell you are! Carry on."

Both the bosun's mate and
Gagarin then briskly saluted Captain Wakinyan. Richard returned the
salute in the same manner. With a quick about-turn, the officer
ventured away from the group in a proud and distinguishable
military gait. As soon as he vanished down the corridor, Gagarin
let out a large sigh of relief.

"Good
going, dumb and ugly," the bosun's mate gloated. "Is it any wonder
why they call you marines,
jarheads
!"

Gagarin turned and sneered
at his wily and obnoxious adversary. In a flash, the gunnery
sergeant's fist connected with the sailor's chin. As the mariner
flew against the wall, a fistfight erupted between the small band
sailors and marines, slowly drawing in reinforcements for both
sides.

Unaware of the altercation
that had just started, Wakinyan continued his journey towards the
shuttle bays. However, he decided to make a quick detour into the
engineering area. Wakinyan was troubled over the true status of his
ship, not wanting to hear any filtered appraisal. For this, there
was only one man he had to see: Chief Engineer Marcus
Benitez.

Wakinyan
found Marcus with some of his
Black
Gang
of engineers and technicians making
repairs on several pillars of panels, hoses, and cables. Although
the term
Black Gang
was a holdover from a time when men stoked coal into ship’s
boilers for power and were covered with soot, the engineers,
nevertheless, took a special pride in the nickname. They knew they
were they lifeblood of the ship, and reveled in their abilities to
meet every new technical challenge.

As Richard stood silently
watching, he realized that he couldn't quite identify the equipment
being worked on. This, however, was no surprise. For each Martian
ship was secretly upgraded with stolen parts and improvised
equipment to try to put them on par with Earth's front line
units.

Marcus'
head unexpectedly swung towards Wakinyan momentarily, but then
quickly back to his work. It was the safety and functionality of
the
Crazy Horse
that Marcus valued, and not the rituals of military protocol.
Still, Richard appreciated the engineer’s skills and thoroughness
even though he was at times a little discourteous and lost in his
own world.

"How bad is she hurt,
Chief?" Wakinyan dared a question.

Marcus continued working,
uttering not a sound. Richard waited patiently until the engineer
was ready to speak. About a minute later, Marcus finished his task
and lowered his hand tool. He then turned to Wakinyan, wiping the
sweat from his brow with his right sleeve of his
uniform.

"She took two major
breaches and about a half dozen minor ones. There were numerous
control and power overloads. Parts of her superstructure have been
shot away, torn apart, or otherwise crushed. Also, some of her
internal stress points are showing signs of fatigue. Do you want me
to go on, Sir?" Marcus was brief, but to the point.

"Continue," Wakinyan
pressed to know the full extend of the damage.

Marcus became a little
grimmer. "The overloads caused quite a few fires that are still
being put out. Many of the computer functions went down and some of
the manual overrides came very close to failing. Captain, we almost
lost her!" Marcus finished.

Wakinyan gave a slight
smile. "And the good news?"

"We were lucky we didn't!
Sir, it is my professional opinion that this ship is in need of at
least a month in dry dock, and should be withdrawn from service
immediately!" the engineer surmised his conclusion.

Wakinyan frowned and then
sighed. "That's not about to happen, Chief. We've still a long way
to go, and there is no telling what we'll encounter. However, with
you as witness, I'll note your recommendations into the ship's log,
and take full responsibility for it," he said with the heaviness of
command.

Marcus gazed into
Wakinyan's tired face. The engineer suddenly realized how old and
exhausted the man looked from the tremendous strain he was under.
Deciding not to make the situation any worse for Wakinyan, the
chief engineer backed away from his frustrations.

"That's not necessary,
Captain," Marcus smiled unexpectedly. "She's my responsibility
too—and I'll hold her together," the engineer stated
flatly.

"I know you will, Chief.
In the meantime, I'll send you ever warm body I can spare, along
with some hot food—and maybe a jigger of rum."

"Rum makes me sick, Sir.
However, I wouldn't mind a shot of bourbon and a cigar," Marcus
became friendlier.

"Oh?"

"Captain, you wouldn't deny
me some of life's little pleasures, would you?"

Wakinyan
almost laughed while patting Marcus on the shoulder. "I think I can
manage that," Richard replied. And without another word spoken,
Wakinyan left Benitez and his
Black
Gang
to their tasks, while he proceeded to
the shuttle bays.

Several
minutes later, Wakinyan reach one of the corridors outside Hanger
Bay One. As he turned a corner, it was a shocking and unimaginable
sight to the Captain of the
Crazy
Horse
. The narrow passage was cluttered
with the bodies of the mangled and the wounded on makeshift
stretchers. Blood stained not only their garments, but was also
splattered on the walls and dripped freely onto the floor. The
emanation of human bodily fluids and matter was strong, and filled
the very air with an unsettling stench. For a long moment, the
scene of gore repelled him, but the man braced himself, and
carefully began to step through the mass of tormented souls and
broken bodies.

The majority of the
casualties were men and women of the Martian Marine Corps. However,
some of those lying on litters wore the black or tan uniforms of
Earth's security forces. Apparently, Major Franks gave in to his
own humanity rather than his hatred for the Earthers. As typical of
Martian Marines, he did not leave the helpless or the severely
wounded behind regardless of who they were.

A hodgepodge of ship's
crewmen and marines—now turn medics and orderlies—did what they
could for all those in physical distress, but it was simply not
enough. The cries and moaning of the wounded resounded and echoed
down the metal channel in litany of pain that appeared to grow
louder.

"Jim! Can you read me?"
Richard activated his communication device.

"Yes, Sir," came the
response from his friend.

"Jim, it's a freaking mess
down here!" Wakinyan's voice was filled with a condoling emotion.
"The wounded are all over the place! Have you seen it?"

"No, Sir. I haven't,"
Randall truthfully admitted.

"I won't have them lying
on the deck like this!” Richard’s voice trembled simultaneously in
anger and pity. “Allocate half the living quarters as makeshift
infirmaries. My cabin, too. Rotate the rest of the crew in shifts
to the other racks, half on half off." Wakinyan commanded. "Also
there’s no way the surgeons brought enough blood with them for
this. Set up blood donors from the crew—and the marines too. And do
it as fast as possible, they’re all going to be needed. As soon as
you're ready, give me a yell."

"Aye, Sir," Randall
acknowledged.

Wakinyan wandered further
through to the shuttle bay. Suddenly, a weak hand gripped his
booted ankle. Richard stopped immediately, his head snapping
quickly to look downward at a female marine. She was clearly
wounded in the stomach, which was covered in bloodstained
bandages.

"Help me!" she
pleaded.

Richard knelt down beside
the young woman, and gently touched her face with his hand. Their
eyes lock for a few seconds. He saw pain and fear in hers; she saw
compassion and warmth in his.

Spying a medic nearby,
Wakinyan yelled to the marine. "CORPSMAN, GET OVER HERE! NOW!"
Richard's command tone was imperative and final.

The marine medic quickly
made his way through to Wakinyan and the woman. As the medic knelt
down, he first stopped and looked at the woman for a moment.
Putting his fingers to her throat, he checked her pulse. His hand
then moved over to her nose and mouth, there was no sign of
breathing.