House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (18 page)

“You
can’t
scrap the power plant op!” Ussher reached the GroundComm board in a few strides, all but shouting into his mike, and Garris whirled, face scarlet to the roots of his grizzled hair.

“What the
hell—
”

“Damn it, those power plants are vital!” Ussher stared into Barret’s face on one of the screens. “You can’t give them up just because you ran into a few Confleet ships!”

Barret’s voice cracked in his ear, his face was almost unrecognizable in his sudden fury. That was something Ussher had never seen, or ever thought to.

“Predis, this is
my
decision.”

“And you’ve made the
wrong
decision!” Even before the words were out, Ussher realized his error, but he didn’t have time to amend it.

Barret snapped coldly, “Captain Lanc!”

Calvet Lanc, at his console only a meter from Ussher, responded with a quick, “Yes, sir?”

“Get him off my lines and
keep
him off!”

Ussher stood rigid, hearing a sharp click, then silence from his ’speaker. Garris sent him a single, baleful glance, then resumed his dialogue with Barret, and finally Ussher stepped back, finding nearly everyone in the comcenter staring at him incredulously, then turning away with something like embarrassment.

An error. Yes, it was an error, but damn it, those power plants
were
vital. And Jan—who did he think he was, talking to the chairman of the Council like that?

The countdown clock read zero +04:00: 14:00 TST.

Ussher again occupied his chosen position in the center of the chamber, hands clasped behind him. A new set of figures appeared on the progress screen; another report on the Obsat stations.

Now all the eyes were blinded, or at least dimmed. Two more equally satisfying reports followed.

The screen remained blank only long enough for Ussher to savor those statistics before the next ones appeared. Those he couldn’t savor. Phoenix casualties.

Ussher frowned over the last division. Unaccounted for. Inevitably, that meant ships either destroyed or captured. He turned, bracing himself mentally, and looked out into the hangar. Fifteen falcons and four Corvets had already come in, carrying a total of twenty-three dead and sixty-two injured. More crippled ships were out in the sea depths making their way toward the lock.

But victory has its price.

The medsquads and towcrews went about their work with the same concentrated efficiency as the staff here in the comcenter. The Phoenix would bear its casualties as it must, even proudly.

After a moment he said to Garris, “I’m going out into the hangar. Perhaps I can help in some small way . . . a few words with those brave young men.”

Garris gave him such a blank look, Ussher wondered if the old man might be getting deaf. Or just senile. Ussher turned on his heel and went to the door.

The noise was staggering. Soundscreens insulated the comcenter from the onslaught, and Ussher wasn’t prepared for it. The low-pitched thump of the pumps, the thunderous clank of the lock gates opening periodically with a huge rush of air; there wasn’t time to wait for the pressure to equalize. The whines of loaders, towcars, winches, the explosive hiss of cutting lasers, the shouted exchanges of orders, questions, demands. The sounds reverberated in the great vault where the helions were dimmed in a fog of acrid smoke from burning metal as the docking crews cut open the smashed sides of ships to get at survivors trapped behind jammed locks.

Ussher held on to the railing as he descended the steps to the hangar floor. A grating shriek and a crash brought his head around abruptly. A Falcon had slipped its tows and careened into the wall of the tunnel into Hangar 2. Towcars and crews rushed to its assistance. The tunnel was blocked; more ships were stacking up behind the slewed Falcon. Another Corvet rumbled through the lock tunnel, sending a miniature tidal wave across the water-washed floor.

The towcrews shot out their snakes of cable and magnetic hooks and hauled the ship into the hangar. A medsquad was at the ship’s lock before it had come to a stop, and by the time Ussher reached the ship, the crew was already disembarking, the injured carried out on stretchers by the medtechs. Ussher looked up at the bow of the ship. The
Hopewell
. From the outside, only a seared concavity was visible, but through the lock, he could see that the explosion had made a shambles of the condeck; he wondered vaguely how the ship had managed to get back to Fina.

“Excuse me, sir . . .”

Ussher stepped back as two medtechs brought another stretcher and hurried up the ramp into the lock.

“Yes, of course, men. It looks pretty bad in there.”

One of the techs nodded. “It is.”

“Fer Ussher?”

He turned. One of the crew; a young man, Second Gen. Strange, he was having a hard time remembering names.

“Corpral Stennis, isn’t it? Looks like you took a bad lump on your head there.”

He smiled dazedly. “I guess . . . I was lucky. Sir, how is it going? The offensive?”

Ussher put his arm around Stennis’s shoulder, smiling.

“We’ve got them howling, Corpral. They don’t even know what hit them, and we’re
still
hitting. Now, you’d better get to the infirmary. You’ve done your part, and I want you to know I’m grateful. The Phoenix is grateful.” And with a pat on the shoulder, he sent him on, turning as another stretcher was maneuvered out of the locks.

“Dr. Huxley, any problems in the infirmary?”

The doctor looked up, then, on recognizing him, smiled fleetingly.

“Not yet, Fer Ussher. This is just the beginning.”

The beginning? Ussher blinked at him, frowning.

“Well, let me know. Is this . . . Major March?” The man on the stretcher was unconscious, half his head covered with a blood-soaked temporary bandage.

“No. Major March . . . well, he’ll leave the ship last. Excuse us, sir. We’ve got to get this man to the infirmary.”

“Oh . . . yes. Of course.” Last to leave the ship. March was dead, then. He’d never get his cornel’s wings.

“Sir! Watch out!’’

A tow cable sprang to singing tautness directly behind him, a towcar swished past, people were running through the treacherous skim of water, shouting back and forth. The ’car driver leaned toward him.

“We’ve got to move her out of the way, sir. More ships coming in!”

Ussher stumbled, dodging men and machines until he was finally clear of the
Hopewell
. One of her steering vanes sliced within centimeters of his head. He retreated toward the corridor entrance as a rush of air and a resounding clank marked the opening of the lock. He looked back. Two Falcons. One was towing the other.

Near the corridor doors, medtechs were lifting stretchers onto the specially designed racks on the loaders. Each machine could carry six wounded, but only one was present, and four men lay on stretchers on the floor propped on makeshift supports to keep them out of the water.

“Dr. Kaosu, where are the rest of the loaders?”

A harried woman was bending over one of the stretcher-borne wounded, ripping open the front of his uniform. She glanced up at Ussher, but only briefly.

“Jerris, a coag injection. Hurry. Where’s that antisep sheet? And, Del, you’d better give him some pentaphine.” She rose as two medtechs knelt by the stretcher to carry out her orders. A warning beeper announced the arrival of an empty loader.

“Oh, thank the God.” She snapped off her reddened plaskin gloves, took another pair from her pocket, tore off the protective envelope, and pulled the gloves on as she went to the next stretcher. “I ’commed John M’Kim, Fer Ussher. He’s sending more loaders. Oh, damn—the tourniquet slipped.”

The man she was leaning over was already covered from the chest down with an antisep sheet. One sleeve had been cut away, his forearm loosely bandaged. She tightened the strap and turnbuckle above his elbow, and his head rolled toward her, mouth taking the shape of a smile, eyes glazed with pain and terror. The tourniquet slipped loose again.

“Damn thing won’t hold. Fer Ussher, hold this tight until I get another one.”

Her tone broached no argument, and before he realized it, he was kneeling beside the man, holding the strap tight, and Dr. Kaosu had vanished.

Names—why couldn’t he remember names today?

“Fer Us-ussher? ’S ’at really . . . you?”

“Yes, Sargent. You just relax now. You’ve done your part, and I want you to know . . .” He swallowed hard, looking down at his boots. The water around them was red. “You—you’ll be all right. This arm doesn’t look too bad. They’ll have you up and . . . and . . .”

The man was coughing. Horrible, retching sounds. Blood sprayed from his mouth, his free hand was locked on Ussher’s arm.

“Help m-me . . . help . . . me . . .”

Ussher felt droplets on his face and hands, burning like acid. He tried to pull away, but the man’s grip seemed unbreakable; his body heaved and shuddered.

“Doctor!” Ussher shouted in a frenzy of desperation. “Doctor—help! Help me!”

“Let him go, Fer Ussher. Let him go. There’s nothing more you can do for him.”

She was kneeling on the other side of the stretcher, fingers pressed to the man’s throat. He was still now.

Ussher drew back. His uniform. Blood. It was spattered with blood.

“Is he . . . ?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

“But he—he can’t be. That arm . . .”

“It wasn’t just the arm.” Before she pulled the sheet up over the man’s head, she turned it back so Ussher could see the chest and abdomen.

“
Oh, Holy God
. . .”

He staggered to his feet, doubled over with cramping nausea. There was no place in this pounding cacophony to be sick, but he couldn’t hold it down.

The countdown clock read zero +05:00: 15:00 TST.

A new report was materializing on the progress screen.

Ussher devoured the figures. Against those losses of facilities and ships, the Phoenix had gotten off easily, and the statistics from the Confleet bases didn’t include the ships lost in combat off-planet. He smiled grimly. The latest figures on that came next.

Let the Lords think on
that
. Over 1,200 ships damaged and destroyed. So Phoenix casualties were running higher than he expected. What were those losses laid against the Concord’s? Victory has its price. He looked down at the PubliCom screen, one side of his mouth twitching again into a smile.

The frantic ’casters babbled reports of new disasters every minute, of rampant confusion and panic, of cities paralyzed, while Concord officialdom flailed about helplessly, feeding the ’casters the only salve it could think of.

Confleet was sending a thousand-ship wing from the Solar System. Over and over, the ’casters spewed forth that pap. It would be here soon; within the hour.

Ussher laughed. Where did they think Confleet would find a full wing? In the ruins of Mars? And did they think that creaking dinosaur could organize a thousand ships and the twelve thousand men to staff them in so short a time? It would take days, even weeks.

“Sir, there’s a call . . .
sir
?”

He frowned irritably. How did Isaks expect him to hear anything in this hubbub of voices, gabbling out of the screens, buzzing in his ears. And why in the God’s name wouldn’t they keep the comcenter door closed?

“What is it, Alan?”

“Dr. Cabot in the infirmary. For you, sir.”

Ussher nodded, then Cabot’s face appeared on a screen. At first, he didn’t recognize him. The man looked like a specter.

“Yes, Dr. Cabot?”

“Sir, we’ve run out of room in the infirmary, so we’re setting up an auxiliary station in the SMR level dining hall.”

“You’ve run out . . . oh, well, that seems a . . . a very sensible decision, Doctor.”