Starship Tomahawk (The Hive Invasion Book 2) (17 page)

Hammett floated in a vac suit in the bridge of the
Tomahawk
, gazing out through the starboard window. The ruined engine floated not far away, showing a jagged gash where the alien gun had struck. The engine shrank as he watched, receding with distance. The repair crew had given it a good shove planetward after they removed it. Its orbit would deteriorate, and in a few days or weeks it would hit atmosphere and burn up.

Sailors in vac suits and EVA rigs hovered around the replacement engine, nudging it closer and closer to the gaping cavity in the aft of the
Tomahawk
. It was the
Bayonet's
starboard engine, removed the day before by crews from the
Hannibal
. Hammett was still surprised by the engine swap. A cruiser like the
Alexander
would have needed full space dock facilities for an engine replacement.

The sailors outside were made anonymous by their vac suits. The suits were all identical, too, except for a lieutenant with a rank stripe on his chest. There were no black armbands out there, which meant a blended team of sailors was working together without any of the suspicion and cliquishness he'd been seeing for the past week.
It should always be like this. One big team. One Navy. Us against the aliens, and the endless subtle dangers of working in deep space.

A familiar muted anger rumbled in his belly.
You cockroaches have broken my Navy. Will it ever be whole again?

He grimaced. The Naxos system was about to gain a lot of unity, but not in a good way.

The
Tomahawk
was cold and airless around him, but she would be coming back to life soon. Her magazines were full, every weapon worked, and there was even a new fighter clamped to the top of her hull. These developments should have pleased him, but they made his stomach twist in impotent frustration. Much of the ordnance and spare parts had come from the remains of the
Bayonet
, but the fighter and a laser turret were from a corvette in what he thought of as the EDF fleet. The fleet was being stripped to resupply the
Tomahawk
and the
Achilles
.

The reason was simple. The EDF fleet was going back to Earth.

It was stupid. It was beyond stupid. The war was here, not back home. Humanity had gained a tiny slice of momentum. They had the Hive on the run, and every warrior's instinct Hammett possessed told him they needed to press their advantage. They had a chance to roll up the enemy like a carpet and liberate one colony after another.

Instead, all his reinforcements were going home. The new Statsminister had to show the majority of his voters he was looking out for their interests, keeping them safe.

And he needed to show his detractors he could crush them whenever he liked.

The worst part was, Hammett's original orders hadn't changed. General Zara Akbar, officer in overall command of the EDF fleet in Naxos, had clarified his instructions in an unpleasant meeting in a commandeered office building in Harlequin. "It's quite simple, Richard," she had said, smiling in a condescending way. "You have your job, and I have mine. I defend the Earth. You take the war to the aliens. You've done a brilliant job so far, although I did have to bail you out at the end. You won't have me to rescue you next time." The smile became a smirk. "Your orders are to press on to Deirdre as soon as your ships are spaceworthy." She wagged a thick finger at him. "Try to take better care of your fleet this time, all right?"

He hadn't been able to do anything but grind his teeth in frustration. He'd lost a third of his tiny fleet, and he'd taught the Hive what to expect from corvettes. Advancing alone to Deirdre would be suicide.

It wouldn't be too healthy for the colonists on Ariadne, either. They'd be completely unprotected.

Hammett's new commanding officer wasn't any happier. It still felt unreal to Hammett. Major David Swanson was now officially in command of the
Tomahawk
. He was a plump, nervous man who didn't like being in space, and he had yet to set foot in his new command. The idea of pressing on to Deirdre terrified him, but he was as trapped as Hammett.

Outside the window the replacement engine drifted into place and Hammett squinted at the sudden bright flare of arc welders. The repair crew knew their jobs. Hammett really had nothing to contribute, but he had no desire to spend more time on the surface of Naxos. The planet was where the redshirts hung out. Up here he could at least pretend to himself that not so much had changed.

"Captain Hammett," said a voice in his helmet. "This is the shuttle
Hindenburg
. We're preparing to head planetside. Would you like a lift?"

No
, he thought.
I'd rather stay here.
But with most of the fleet already gathered around the Gate there wasn't much traffic between Harlequin and orbit. He would be wise to catch a ride while a ride was being offered. "Yes, please," he said, and twisted around. He hated to leave a boot track on the window, but nothing else was quite in reach. He kicked off from the steelglass and floated for the hatch.

New vac suits numbered among the equipment delivered to the
Tomahawk
during this improvised refit. Hammett again had access to multiple radio channels and automatic scanning of suit transponders. He wondered if he could pick up Radio Free Naxos. He was in the mood for a bit of irreverent snark.

The shuttle held a dozen technicians, some of them with tool belts and suit thrusters full of compressed air. They shifted over to make room for him and the shuttle began its descent.

"It's nice to work on a ship that stays fixed," a man said. There was no way to tell which suited figure had spoken. "If I never see the
Achilles
again I won't miss it. I swear they're unplugging things as fast as I plug them back in."

Someone else made a rude noise over the radio. "Yeah, right. Remind me not to fly on anything you've worked on."

That set off a chorus of insults and good-natured bickering that made Hammett smile. Clearly no one realized an officer was listening in, and he did nothing to remind them.

"Be good to get home," someone said. "I know my kids are worried about me."

That comment killed the raucous edge of the conversation pretty quickly. Someone else said, "I'm worried about my kids too. I wish we were doing some actual fighting. I'd feel better if we were jumping to Deirdre right now." He sighed, a gusty, gloomy sound. "I wanna fry me some aliens."

"Not me," a woman declared. "Dying for my planet is one thing. Getting my implants fried, though? That's where I draw the line."

That set off a chorus of laughter and more banter that lasted until the shuttle touched down. The hatch opened, air rushed into the shuttle, and Hammett gratefully opened the faceplate on his helmet. He was getting used to the smell of plants. He was beginning to like it a lot.

He had his helmet tucked under one arm and was walking toward the partially-repaired terminal building with its locker rooms when a man's voice said, "Hammett. You know, you're damnably hard to get ahold of."

Hammett turned to see Major Swanson hurrying across the tarmac toward him. "I won't apologize for taking damage from enemy weapons, Major." The title was his personal form of compromise. Swanson was a major, if only in an organization Hammett detested. Addressing him as 'Major' allowed Hammett to meet the minimum requirements of deference to rank without using the word 'Sir', which implied respect.

"Of course, of course," Swanson said, stopping as he reached Hammett. "It's bloody inconvenient, though. I don't know how you stand it."

Knowing that people like you are trying to reach me makes it easier.
He didn't voice the thought. Instead he said, "What can I do for you, Major?"

Swanson glanced around, waiting for the other shuttle passengers to move out of earshot. "How long do you think repairs will take?"

"On the
Tomahawk
?" Hammett shrugged. "Probably another thirty-six hours or so. Two full days on the local calendar." He considered. "That's if everything goes well."

Swanson frowned. "How long will it take if something goes wrong?"

Hammett shrugged again. "I can still hardly believe they're swapping an engine without a full space dock. I wouldn't be surprised if they couldn't fix the
Tomahawk
at all." A look of alarm crossed the major's face, and Hammett said, "The techs tell me it's all straightforward. They've got the engine welded in place. It's all just reconnecting systems and testing them, now. All of that's pretty straightforward. We'll probably be ready to go in a couple of days."

Swanson nodded distractedly. "Right. Good." He looked at Hammett, fidgeting. "The fleet has orders to leave as soon as the
Tomahawk
is ready to go."

Damn it. I was hoping they would come to their senses.
He briefly thought about sabotaging the repairs to force the fleet to stay. Kaur was already pushing her luck with that tactic, though. And Hammett wasn't entirely sure he wanted an EDF-run fleet in the system anyway. "That's … interesting to know, Major," he said at last.

"We'll have to leave for Deirdre," Swanson said. His face was the color of ash. "We're doomed."

The
Tomahawk's
forward observation room was a tiny compartment in the nose of the ship on the lower deck. It ran the full ten-meter width of the ship, but a tall person would be able to touch the steelglass window and the back wall with outstretched fingertips.

The compartment had been designed as a leisure room, a small quiet space where off-duty crew could sit and look out into the vastness of space in front of the ship. The view was particularly good just now, with the Milky Way forming a dazzling splash of light dead ahead and the bulk of Ariadne turning below. The room had been repurposed, thought, fitted with telephones along the back wall and telescopes that made it downright awkward to cross the little chamber.

A sailor was perched on a chair, peering through a telescope, when Hammett entered the room. The young man glanced over, then stiffened. "Hello, Captain."

"Relax," Hammett told him. "As you were." He spent a moment racking his memory. "Daltrey, isn't it? From the
Bayonet
?" The handful of survivors from the
Bayonet
had been distributed between
Tomahawk
and
Achilles
. It seemed the EDF commanders were as distrustful of the Attack Fleet personnel as Hammett was of the EDF fleet people. The only crew from
Achilles
,
Bayonet
, and
Tomahawk
going back to Earth were the wounded and the dead.

Daltrey nodded. "Yes, Sir." He glanced at the telescope, unsure if it would really be appropriate to go back to looking through the eyepiece with his captain standing beside him.

Hammett grinned to himself. "What do you see, Daltrey?"

"The fleet's gathered in front of the Gate. They haven't gone through yet." Daltrey leaned forward and peered into the telescope. "Wait a minute. I can't see the
Hannibal
." He leaned back, blinked, then returned to the eyepiece. "Another ship just disappeared. They're going through the Gate right now, Sir."

Not really. The Gate was a long way off. More than three light-hours. The fleet was gone, had been gone for hours. He looked at Daltrey. "Are you on a light-duty cycle right now?" The crew was doing "three sixes", alternating six-hour shifts. Six hours of active duty, six hours of light duty and recreation, and six hours of sleep.

"Yes, Sir."

Hammett took a seat beside him. "I haven't learned the local names for the constellations. Do you see the pentagram of five stars there?" He pointed.

Daltrey nodded.

"That's the direction the Hive survivors retreated to after the last fight. I want you to keep an eye on that piece of sky. If they're around, they might be watching the Gate. Waiting to see if we bring in more reinforcements. Waiting to see if we leave. They might have seen the fleet departing."

Daltrey gulped.

"If they come back, that's where they'll come from." Hammett pointed at the pentagram. "We've got some of our scanners working again, but I wouldn't say they're perfectly reliable. So I'd like to have some human eyeballs on the job."

"I understand, Sir."

"Good man," Hammett said, and left the compartment.

Every corridor on the ship was narrow, often to the point where two people couldn't pass. Ahead of Hammett a young man pressed himself into a tiny alcove to let the captain go by. A black stripe showed on the man's sleeve. That meant it was Ken Hardy, the only crewman on board from the EDF fleet. Hardy was the new fighter pilot.

"Thank you," said Hammett as he passed. He paused. "How are you adjusting to the new ship, Hardy?"

"It's fine, Captain. I mean, Sir." Hardy flushed, then gave a hesitant salute.

Hammett stared at him. Before the Hive invasion pilots had all been officers. Now Spacecom was recruiting pilots with a very specific and unusual skill set, experience with manually-controlled small ships. Baca had been a sailor. Hardy, though, was acting as if he had no military experience at all.

"How long have you been in Spacecom?" Hammett said.

Hardy's flush deepened. "Tomorrow it will be three weeks, Sir. I mean, Captain."

"Three weeks?"

"Yes, Sir." Hardy suddenly looked impossibly young. "Recruiters came to my club. I'm in the Auckland Eagles. We fly Sparrows and Finches. We were South Pacific League champs last year and the year before."

"You're … Australian?"

Hardy's eyes narrowed for just an instant. "New Zealander, Sir."

"Right. No offense." Hammett sighed. "Have you had any military training at all, Hardy?"

The boy scratched his head. "Well, we had a two-hour lecture from the Spacecom academy. After that, we spent all our time drilling with these new fighters." His eyes lit up. "They're incredible! Um, Sir."

This is what you get for complaining that the military is too hidebound and needs to be more flexible.
"When you're in the cockpit of a fighter, do you know what you're doing?"

Hardy nodded, looking much less flustered. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. That's the important thing. Don't worry too much about all this military protocol. You'll figure it out."

"All right. Thank you, Sir."

"Carry on, Hardy." Hammett turned away and walked to the bridge, shaking his head.
Was I ever that young?

He had the captain's seat to himself, a fact for which he was deeply grateful. Swanson was planetside and would be staying there for as long as he could.
I wonder if I could leave him behind when we go on to Deirdre. It's not as if he would actually mind.

"Status," he said as he dropped into his seat.

"Everything's green so far," said Sanjari. "Mr. Geibelhaus says he can't make any absolute guarantees about the new engine until we really push it, but it's passed every test he can think of."

"Internal communications are still down," Ramirez said. "The phones work, though."

"Well, we knew an EMP strike would likely fry us for the duration," said Hammett. "It's what we planned for and trained for. We have partial scanners, which is more than we expected. I'd say we're doing fine." He looked around the bridge. "How much time do we need for further testing? One shift?"

"A full shift should do it, Sir," said Sanjari. Ramirez nodded his agreement.

Hammett said, "The next phase will be-"

A phone buzzed on Ramirez' console. He answered, then twisted around to look at Hammett. "Forward Observation Room reports enemy activity." He turned to Sanjari. "He says it's in the direction of that pentagram constellation."

Her hands moved across her console.

Hammett hit the buzzer button wired to the side of his chair. Six blasts signalled General Quarters, and he heard running feet in the corridor outside. "Contact the
Achilles
," he said. "Tell Kaur to get upstairs."

"Aye aye."

"Sanjari. What can you tell me?"

"I count three contacts so far," she said. "I can't tell how large, but they're bigger than the individual ships. Wait! There's a fourth contact, Sir. They're maybe four light-hours out." She glanced up at him. "That's all I can say for sure, Sir."

Ramirez said, "
Achilles
reports she can lift off in ten minutes."

"Copy that. Sanjari, can you tell what direction they're heading?"

"No, Sir. I've got two new contacts, though. They're quite spread out." A moment later she said, "One contact just disappeared. Let me see …"

Hammett waited, trying not to fidget. The vast distances involved in space travel caused delays that could make combat maddening.
Well, you'll be busy soon enough. Enjoy the lull while it lasts.

"New contact," Sanjari said. "If it's the same ship that just disappeared, I can make a good guess as to their heading." Her fingers tapped on the arm of her chair in a burst of nervous energy. "There's no way to triangulate. I'm guessing at the range." More tapping. "I think I have a bearing." She swivelled her chair around. "This is just an educated guess, Sir. I can't be certain."

"I understand. What can you tell me?"

"They seem to be heading for the Gate, Sir."

Which was exactly what he would have expected. Either they had a massive fleet and they would pour through to attack Earth, or they planned to destroy the Gate, cut off reinforcements from Spacecom, and focus on retaking Naxos.

Benson said, "We'll be ready to jump in ten minutes or so. Should I line us up with the Gate?"

"No." Hammett shook his head, weary of the whole mess. "If they're heading for the Gate, they're there already." It was already too late by the time Daltrey spotted the ships. The light he'd seen had taken hours to reach the
Tomahawk
.

I should have headed for the Gate earlier. Before the fleet left. Then I'd already be there. But what if they went for the planet instead? Maybe I could have-
He squashed the spiralling thoughts with the ease of long practice. Recriminations were crippling, and the "what if" game was worse.
You're here now. Deal with the situation as it is. Not as you imagine it could have been.

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. He watched through the starboard window as the
Achilles
rose and took up station a few hundred meters away. She was a comforting presence, and Hammett was glad he'd rejected the idea of sending one corvette to the Gate and keeping the other in orbit around Ariadne.
If they divide you, they'll conquer you. Keep your firepower concentrated.

"This is interesting," said Sanjari.

When she didn't offer any further comment Hammett said, "Don't leave us hanging, for pity's sake. What's interesting?"

Sanjari looked up, startled. "Oh, did I say that out loud?"

"Yes," said Hammett with what patience he could muster.

"I count sixteen contacts," she said. "It's definitely more. Probably a lot more. They're kind of … leapfrogging. They're making fast, short jumps." She hunched forward, peering at her screen. "It's taking them less than five minutes to recharge before they make another wormhole. But they only jump maybe a hundred million kilometers."

"Radio message from groundside," Ramirez said. "It's Colonel O'Hare. Oops, he wants the
Achilles
." With their electronics fried, each ship and both fighters had crystal radios, tuned to the same frequency. The days of private encrypted radio communication were over.

"Ooh, he's angry," said Ramirez. "It seems the
Achilles
took off without him. He's not too pleased."

"Tell him it was an emergency," Hammett said. "Tell him Kaur was following my orders. Then tell him the emergency is ongoing and we need the channel kept clear."

As Ramirez murmured into a handset Hammett thought,
We still have decent electronics on the fighters. They were never fried. We've got a way to have secure communications between the two corvettes. We've even got decent short-range scanners, until the cockroaches fry us again. I need to remember that.

"Captain!"

Hammett looked up. It was Daltrey, standing breathless in the entrance to the bridge. "I spotted some more ships, Sir. They're coming straight at us."