Galactic Bounty (6 page)

"Your stuff's in there," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Hello to you too," he replied as he opened the bag and rummaged through it. Inside were the things he'd taken along as he chased Cadien from one system to another. He'd last seen them in a cheap hotel near the Pink Asteroid. It was mostly dirty laundry now. At the bottom, his hand encountered the familiar feel of his slug gun. As he pulled it out, he saw someone had cleaned and oiled it. "Thanks, Lieutenant. By the way, did the navy issue you a first name?"

When she laughed it was warm and open. "My friends call me Laurie . . . although it's actually Lauren. May I call you Sam?"

"I wish you would," McCade replied. "Drink?" He motioned toward the autobar.

She shook her head. "No thanks. Not just now. Is everything squared away?" She glanced around the lounge.

"I think so . . .," McCade answered, taking another sip.

"So what happens now?" she inquired.

"I try to bring Bridger in," McCade replied with a slight smile.

"Just like that? You just go out and pick him up?"

"No . . . I think a squad of marines might come in handy," McCade answered dryly.

"You're serious, aren't you," she said, leaning forward eagerly. "You know where he is."

"Correction," he replied. "I
think
I know where he is."

Laurie frowned thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on the armrest of her chair. "Obviously you think he's close . . ." Suddenly her face registered surprise. "You think he's right here—on Earth!"

McCade smiled as he shook his head. "No you don't. We're doing this my way. Your people had their chance. Besides, if I'm right we don't have much time. Certainly not enough to waste trying to convince your superiors to get off their butts. Now here's what I need—"

"What
we
need," she interrupted. "Where you go, I go. Besides, if it's like you say, you'll need some help, and I was top of my class in hand-to-hand combat." Her features were set in hard, determined lines.

"I'll bet you were," McCade said reflectively as he pretended to think it over.

Six hours later McCade sat next to Laurie as she expertly nudged their small troop carrier out of Earth's atmosphere and into high orbit. She'd insisted on piloting the craft herself, pointing out that without her, he wouldn't be able to get either the ship or the marines. Unless of course he wanted to go through regular channels. He had reluctantly agreed. Going through channels would take forever, plus he'd probably end up with Walt looking over his shoulder, and that would be even worse. Whether he liked it or not, he needed help, and allowing her to run this part of the show was a price that had to be paid.

He glanced back, and received an answering grin from Section Leader Amos Van Doren. McCade had approached the marine, looking for some volunteer help. Van Doren quickly agreed to round up some "off duty" buddies. They all turned out to be friends of Reynolds, the marine the assassins had killed. They were eager to even the score. Van Doren himself had refused to remain behind, in spite of his wound. When McCade started to insist, the marine gently suggested that if he didn't go, the others wouldn't either. McCade knew when he was beat. Maybe they weren't doing it his way, but at least they were doing it. So the section leader sat behind him, wearing full space armor, and an ear-to-ear grin.

As Laurie skillfully maneuvered the troop carrier through the maze of satellites, orbiting ships, defense installations and cast-off junk which circled the planet, McCade popped a stim cap and hoped he was right. Still, it seemed like the only possibility that made sense. What if Bridger and Votava hadn't left Earth? What if they'd holed up somewhere waiting for the search to die down? But they'd still need transportation off-planet. How could they get it without alerting the authorities?

Votava's paper had suggested a possible answer. She'd written about a whole new generation of cargo carriers. They'd be huge. Each would carry what it presently took ten freighters to move, and as a result, shipping costs would be greatly reduced. The key to their design was that, except for central power-control modules, the giant vessels would make one-way trips. That meant many systems required by conventional ships could be simplified or eliminated. The result . . . even more savings.

But more important from McCade's point of view was that the ships would be unmanned. Computers already did most of the work involved in piloting ships anyway. Except for atmosphere landings or emergencies, human pilots were little more than expensive back-up systems. So the ship's computer would take it into hyperdrive and then out in the vicinity of the destination. All without aid of a human pilot.

Nonetheless Votava's paper indicated that cramped living quarters were included in the power-control modules for use by emergency repair crews. She'd been very specific about that. So much so that McCade had begun to wonder. What if Bridger and Votava were aboard one of the huge ships? Hidden away in the emergency living quarters which no one would think to examine. Waiting until the search died down. Sweating out the days and minutes until the giant vessel hurled itself into hyperspace. It made a great theory, McCade reflected as the tiny troop carrier skimmed along the flanks of a mighty battlewagon, bristling with turrets and launch tubes. And he was going to feel damn silly if it was wrong.

Bright sunlight poured into the cockpit as the troop carrier emerged from the battleship's shadow. Ahead, the huge cargo carrier gleamed in the sun. It wasn't pretty. Built to voyage only in deep space, it had none of the streamlined beauty common to ships designed to negotiate planetary atmospheres. It was long and cylindrical. The hull was not a proper hull at all, but comprised of thousands of cargo pods, each connected to those around it by standard fittings. As a result the ship had a bumpy, textured look. Their angle of approach hid it, but McCade knew from the diagrams he'd studied that the power-control module was suspended in the center of the hollow space running the length of the cylinder.

They were closer now. He could see four tugs, dwarfed by the freighter's tremendous bulk, cautiously starting to tow it out of orbit. It was the largest ship he'd ever seen. No wonder they'd christened it
Leviathan.

There wasn't much time left. His foot tapped out an impatient rhythm until he became conscious of it, and forced himself to stop. Being a passenger was driving him crazy. As soon as the vessel was clear of other traffic it would enter hyperspace, where the little troop carrier could not follow. Days or weeks later it would emerge in the vicinity of Weller's World, a relatively primitive planet just inside the frontier.

"Sam . . . look." Laurie pointed to the main detector screen. It showed a luminescent outline of the cargo carrier and the four tugs. Now a sixth ship appeared. Its outline suggested an atmospheric shuttle, a guess confirmed moments later when the computer inserted "AS Type IV" in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. Until moments before, it had been hidden on the far side of the
Leviathan.
Now it had cleared the larger ship and seemed headed their way. At first McCade was unconcerned. Chances were it was on a perfectly innocent errand. In any case it was an unarmed model, and there wasn't much it could do short of ramming them.

However, as it got closer, it became increasingly apparent that the shuttle intended to intercept them. The com screen came to life with an excellent likeness of Cadet Votava. He noticed with amusement that she'd promoted herself to lieutenant commander. Nonetheless she was quite convincing. Her voice carried just the right mix of bored authority and arrogance.

"This is a restricted Naval Operation Area under code one-niner-zero-two alpha. Reverse course immediately or be fired upon." Her image faded to black before McCade could reply.

"We've got 'em," McCade said with grim satisfaction.

"Maybe," Laurie replied, turning up the magnification on the detector screen. The shuttle had slowed and opened its cargo bay. A dozen tiny figures dressed in space armor spilled out. One maneuvered a space sled. On it rested the unmistakable form of a recoilless energy cannon.

McCade felt his pulse begin to race. The energy cannon was designed for surface action against enemy armor. Its use in space was extremely unconventional. But it would work. One of Bridger's ideas no doubt. Walt was right—the man was dangerous. That kind of creativity applied to an entire battle could be devastating. Meanwhile the cannon was a very real threat. It had its own integral tracking system, and more than enough power to vaporize the small troop carrier. A fact not lost on Laurie, who hurled the troop carrier into a series of gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, evasive maneuvers that made the hull creak. She seemed to enjoy it. McCade didn't, but was determined not to show it. If he'd been at the controls himself, it wouldn't have bothered him, but just sitting there watching, it made him feel queasy.

Laurie switched on the suit coms and her voice boomed into his helmet. "Attention all personnel . . . button up and stand by for cabin depressurization. Section Leader . . . by the numbers please."

McCade went over his gear, checking seals, power supply, oxygen and so forth, while behind him Van Doren and his men did the same. McCade glanced up to see the shuttle getting uncomfortably close. It appeared the energy cannon would be operational any moment.

"Section One, combat ready, Captain," Van Doren said formally. "On your command."

Out of the corner of his eye McCade saw Laurie was pleased by the honorary "Captain."

"Roger," she replied with equal gravity. "Ejection and enemy contact in approximately four minutes. Secure the energy cannon by whatever means possible. Take prisoners if you can . . . but don't risk your men unnecessarily. I don't know who they are, but one thing's for sure, they don't look friendly."

"Aye aye, Captain," Van Doren answered calmly.

McCade flinched as a pulse of blue light raced by in front of them. A ranging shot. A vise closed on his chest as they went into a tight turn and raced straight toward the cannon. The troop carrier shuddered as an energy pulse slid down its side. A red warning light blinked on in front of McCade. The cabin was fully depressurized. Laurie's gloved hands danced over the controls. The troop carrier began to zigzag in a random pattern. The little ship shuddered and groaned under the strain. McCade felt the tug of the facial tic that always plagued him in moments of stress. He hoped Laurie wouldn't notice it and desperately wished for something to do.

Laurie touched a button and the top of the carrier split down the middle as the sides were retracted into the hull. McCade felt momentary vertigo as she put the small craft through another series of acrobatic maneuvers.

"Five, four, three, two, one," Laurie counted, and hit the ejection control. Together Van Doren and his marines were blasted out of the troop carrier in perfect formation. As the ship raced away, McCade watched the rear screen on full magnification. Laurie had placed them slightly above and behind the cannon. Once clear of the troop carrier, each marine released his seat and used his suit jets to blast down toward the enemy.

Van Doren was in the lead. His men were spread out in V formation behind him. Lines of blue light rippled and flared as both sides opened fire. A marine disappeared in a yellow-red explosion. Then the cannon and two figures near it flashed incandescent as they were hit by a shoulder-launched missile. "Got the sonovabitch," an exuberant voice shouted over McCade's suit com, followed by a scream as a marine was hit.

"I want radio silence, goddamnit!" Van Doren bellowed.

After that the battle was silent, men moving as though part of an eerie, slow-motion ballet which someone had forgotten to score. Shoulder weapons lashed out, slicing through armor as if it weren't there. Then, as the combatants got closer to each other, hand blasters came into play. Their less powerful beams often failed to penetrate the heavy armor, causing many to draw older and more effective weapons. McCade thought he could make out Van Doren swinging an enormous battle axe as he led his men into hand-to-hand combat. While difficult to use in normal gravity, the axe would be lethal in zero G, especially in the hands of an expert. And Van Doren was undoubtedly an expert. Then the screen went blank as the little ship passed out of high mag detection range.

The enormous bulk of the freighter loomed ahead. The tugs had cut their tractor beams and started to move off. Laurie frowned in concentration as they skimmed the side of the large ship.

"The lock's just ahead," she said. "Get ready."

The lock was located about halfway down the ship's length. A long tunnel running through the center of a support strut connected the lock with the power-control module suspended in the center of the hollow cylinder. McCade was thinking about the length of the tunnel.

"It's gonna be real fun trying to get down that tunnel if there's someone at the other end shooting at us."

"A cheerful thought," she said grimly as she brought the troop carrier down in a graceful arc, killing thrust, and gliding smoothly toward the other ship's lock. She flicked a switch activating a light tractor beam which locked onto the larger vessel and began to reel them in. Moments later they were snuggled up a few feet below
Leviathan's
lock.

McCade hit his seat release. His stomach lurched as he floated free of the ship. An eternity of emptiness stretched away in every direction. He felt the moment of panic that always accompanied free fall for him. They'd almost washed him out of the Academy for it. Forcing himself to concentrate, he fired his suit jets, and moments later was clinging to the other ship's lock, happy to have his hands on something solid again.

Meanwhile Laurie was using the troop carrier's com unit. "Merchant ship
Leviathan . . .
Merchant ship
Leviathan
 . . . This is naval vessel MTC four-niner-two. Terminate departure immediately. Imperial Navy authorization code four-five-one delta zero . . . I repeat . . ."

McCade decided the lock had either been purposely jammed or shorted out.