Alien Bounty (22 page)

"Doin'? I'm lookin' for a number three laser welder, that's what I'm doin'. You haven't seen it, have you? Big sucker with three tanks and a safety frame. Belongs to the dockyard."

The same voice again. "I know what a number three laser welder looks like, you blockhead. How did it get away?"

McCade added a whine to his voice. "It wasn't my fault, honest. Logan, he's the lead on my shift, he told me to bring him some insulation. When I went to get it, the welder just floated away."

"And he sent you out here looking for it?"

"That's right. Logan said to find it, or to plan on sucking some vacuum."

The voice laughed. "Well, buddy . . . the welder isn't likely to be this far out. And that being the case, I suggest you get your butt back toward the dock. Maybe next time you'll remember to rig a safety line.
Comprendez
?"

"
Comprendez
,"
McCade replied humbly as he took the controls from Henry. He put the sled into a long graceful turn and tried to figure out his next move.

A glance to the rear showed that the gig was still there. If they attempted to contact the non-existent Logan, he'd be well and truly screwed.

Turning forward, he saw something part company with the dockyard and move slowly his way. A ship! As it altered course and headed for the passageway, an idea started to form.

Looking back he saw the gig was gone. Good. Putting the sled on an intercepting course he mentally crossed his fingers.
If
the ship maintained its present course and speed,
if its
crew missed him on their scanners, and
if
the gig failed to reappear, his plan would work. It seemed like a lot of ifs.

Neither the ship nor the sled were moving very fast but their combined speed was fairly high. Given that, and given the fact that if he missed a head-on approach, he wouldn't get a second chance, McCade decided to come in from behind. That way it would be easier to match speeds and there would be less chance of being seen. When you're leaving port there's a natural tendency to look at what's up ahead rather than behind.

As he got closer McCade saw the ship was an armed merchantman. Chances were it had been captured and converted for use as a raider. He put the sled into a tight turn and gave chase. As he straightened the sled out, he saw that the raider was already pulling away from him.

McCade squeezed both handgrips and felt the sled surge forward. The forward motion pushed him into his seat and put pressure on some of his worst sore spots. McCade bit his lip and forced his mind back to the task at hand.

Up ahead the pirate ship grew steadily larger. If they maintained their present rate of speed, he'd be okay, but if they piled on some power, he'd be out of luck. The sled was going full out as it was, and if the pirates upped the ante, he'd never catch up. Not only that, but at the rate he was using nitrogen, he might not have enough to make the trip back.

Angling in to stay clear of the ship's drives, McCade held his breath. Now the raider was huge, blotting out the stars beyond, its black hull absorbing almost all the available light.

Dark though it was McCade saw that the hull was fairly smooth, typical of smaller ships that could negotiate planetary atmospheres, and far from ideal. While the smooth hull would help him land, it would also make him easier to see.

Closer . . . closer . . . almost there, now. The sled touched down with a gentle thump. McCade triggered the electro-magnets embedded in its skids as the sled made contact with the ship's hull. The sled would remain locked in place as long as the power lasted.

"Nice job," Henry said in his ear. "Your navigation lacks a certain mathematical elegance, but it gets the job done."

"Thanks," McCade replied. "Now let's see if anyone noticed us getting aboard. Things might become somewhat unpleasant if they did."

Five minutes passed, ten minutes passed, and finally a full half hour passed. During this time the ship continued to accelerate toward the passage, and McCade began to relax. If the pirates hadn't spotted him by now, he figured they never would.

It felt good to relax. McCade felt suddenly tired. The hard work, the tension, and the succession of stim tabs seemed to catch up with him all at once. "Henry, I'm going to take a little nap. Wake me up when we're half an hour from the rendezvous point."

"You've got it, Sam," Henry replied cheerfully. "Sweet dreams . . . whatever dreams are."

McCade awoke with a struggle. It seemed as if he were far, far away, lost in some place where the air was sweet and his body didn't hurt. He wanted to stay there, tried to stay there, but the voice dragged him back.

"Sam, it's time to wake up, Sam . . ."

The first thing he noticed was the lack of vibration. The ship was gone and he was floating in space but where?

"We're at the rendezvous point," Henry said, anticipating his question. "Rather than wake you up I released the magnets and left the ship about ten standard hours ago."

"Ten standard hours . . ." McCade's eyes flew open. Ten standard hours plus, my God, damn near two days in the belt—what about his oxygen? McCade looked at the readout and saw that he was into the emergency reserve.

"What the hell are you doing, Henry? Why didn't you wake me? I'll be sucking vacuum in a few minutes."

"True," Henry said agreeably. "But I thought it would be rather cruel to wake you up just to point that out. Fortunately you don't need to worry. Take a look around."

McCade looked up and out. Ships. He was surrounded by ships. And not just any ships but a strange mix of vessels. Imperial destroyers next to Il Ronnian cruisers, next to—could it be? Yes, it looked as if the Brotherhood was represented as well, their ships being huddled together as if wary of the rest.

Then he heard Swanson-Pierce's familiar voice boom in over his speakers. "Hello, Sam. While the sled suits your personality to a T, you might want something a little more substantial around you when the shooting starts. How about a drink and a good cigar?"

The assault boat was brand-new. It looked new, it felt new, it even smelled new. McCade was doing his best to change that with a freshly lit cigar.

Reba wrinkled her nose from the copilot's seat and Neem coughed loudly from behind.

McCade didn't notice. Together with the fifty marines riding shotgun in the back, they were about to lead an assault on Pong's base, and his attention was focused on staying alive. As the first boat in, that would be difficult enough without any electronic or mechanical failures.

McCade scanned the indicator lights in groups. Hull integrity, locks sealed, no leaks. Drives on and green. Communications on and green. Jammers on and amber. Countermeasures on and amber. Chaff launchers on and amber. Weapons, primary and secondary, on and amber. They all looked good but McCade decided to cycle the boat's diagnostics one more time just to make sure.

"Henry, let's run the diagnostics one more time," McCade instructed. "If anything's belly up, let's find out about it now."

"That's a roger," Henry answered crisply. Henry had taken on a slightly military air ever since he'd been asked to download the assault path to the rest of the fleet's NAVCOMPs. Not satisfied to serve in any other boat, he'd disappeared into the control panel and taken over from the resident computer. What
it
thought of this arrangement nobody knew.

McCade checked the boat's main battle tank. The fleet made an impressive sight. It resembled a snake, shimmering with electronic scales, each one a ship. McCade's boat was located at the tip of the snake's nose, followed by a delta-shaped head full of interceptors and a long, thick body swarming with destroyers and cruisers.

It was a powerful force but a strange one. Behind his A-boat, Il Ronnian and Imperial interceptors jockeyed for position, each eager to lead the way, each determined to outshine the other.

Farther back pirate destroyers vied with Imperial cruisers for the honor of going in first while an Il Ronnian Star Sept Commander tried to pull rank on both.

It was one of the strangest military alliances ever put together and a rather temporary one at that. The Imperial Navy was attempting to avoid a galactic war, the Il Ronnians were trying to recover the Vial of Tears, and the Brotherhood was afraid of getting caught in the middle. And everyone would go their separate ways the moment their objectives were achieved.

In the meantime the partnership made sense.

Methuselah
had practically fallen out of hyperspace seconds ahead of a major control systems failure. Fortunately the old ship emerged almost on top of the Imperial naval base that the Geezer had been instructed to find. Hours later
Methuselah
was in the friendly grasp of a naval tug and on its way to the Kodula Naval Base.

Once in orbit Neem and Reba were rushed down to the surface where they were interviewed by the base commander. And much to Reba's amazement Commander Moreno took their story seriously, fired off a message torp to sector headquarters, and began to organize the few forces she had available.

Like every other senior officer within Imperial space, Moreno had orders to provide someone named Sam McCade with anything he wanted. And the
anything
had been underlined.

The orders didn't mention pirates and Il Ronnians, but Moreno lumped them under
anything
and did what they asked. That included provision of two message torpedoes that were launched toward destinations outside of Imperial space.

Doing so required a certain amount of professional courage on Moreno's part, courage that was severely tested when a small fleet of Il Ronnian ships suddenly left hyperspace and dropped into orbit around her planet.

Within a few minutes the alien was busy gabbing with an Il Ronnian big shot named Teeb, her XO was on the verge of having a heart attack, and Moreno was wondering if she'd committed a serious error.

Fortunately the next group of ships to arrive brought Admiral Swanson-Pierce with them. Otherwise the subsequent manifestation of pirate ships would have shaken even Moreno's considerable poise.

But Swanson-Pierce listened to Moreno's report, promoted her to full captain, and proceeded to invite the senior members of all three groups to dinner.

After a report by the Reba woman and the Il Ronnian civilian, everyone agreed to a joint assault on Pong's base and hoisted a few to seal the bargain. It was then that Moreno learned that Il Ronnians can not only handle alcohol, they can do so in prodigious quantities.

Now the mixed fleet was awaiting orders from a cashiered naval officer/ bounty hunter who claimed to know a secret passage through the thickest part of the Nakasoni Asteroid Belt. If it wasn't the craziest thing Moreno had ever heard of, it certainly ran a close second. However there was no sign of these thoughts on her handsome face when she turned to Admiral Swanson-Pierce and gave her report.

"There's still a little squabbling toward the rear of the formation, Admiral, but ninety percent of our units are where they're supposed to be, and all things considered that's pretty good. We stand ready to attack on your command."

For a naval officer who was about to risk his career on what most of his peers would consider an insane mission, Swanson-Pierce looked very relaxed. He leaned back in his command chair and smiled. "Not this time, Captain. This is McCade's show, and he won't raise the curtain without an attempt to irritate me first."

Unlike McCade's cramped assault boat, the bridge of the cruiser
Tenacious
was both spacious and comfortable. Pilots, electronic warfare specialists, and weapons officers tended their various boards with the quiet reverence of priests before an altar. All wore space armor in case of a sudden loss of cabin pressure.

A com tech appeared at Moreno's side. "I've got a com call from A-boat One on channel three, Admiral. Will you take it?"

Swanson-Pierce grinned at Moreno. "See?"

Then he turned back to the tech. "Put McCade through by all means."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Seconds later one of the four com screens mounted in front of Swanson-Pierce lit up and Sam McCade appeared. There was a half-smoked cigar clenched between his teeth and he was in dire need of a shave.

"Hello, Walt. Well, I never thought I'd say it, but for once your people seem to have their shit together. My compliments to Commander Moreno. According to Reba she's real sharp, although I find that hard to believe, since really sharp people avoid your chicken-shit outfit like the plague."

"It's Captain Moreno now," Swanson-Pierce replied dryly. "And I'll give her your message."

"Thanks," McCade replied, removing the cigar from his mouth and rubbing it out on the heretofore spotless control console. "Now, if you naval types are done polishing your posteriors, we can get this show on the road."

"Lead the way, Sam, we'll be right behind you."

"That's just great," McCade replied sourly. "Try not to blow my ass off." And with that the screen faded to black.

"He really
is
obnoxious," Moreno said wonderingly.

"Yup," Swanson-Pierce replied cheerfully. "And as Mustapha Pong's about to learn, you haven't seen anything yet."

McCade turned to look at Neem. Since his tail was enclosed by his space armor, the Il Ronnian gave him a human thumbs-up, as did Sergeant Major Valarie Sibo. Her marines were out of sight in the main compartment but their status lights were solid green.

"All right, Henry, take us in at full military speed."

The boxy-looking assault boat wasn't pretty but it was fast. As Henry goosed the boat's dual drives, McCade flipped all the weapons systems from amber to full green. After that he enabled all the automatic defensive systems, opened his visor, and lit a cigar. Even at high speed they wouldn't hit the first sensor station for another two hours.

He was just leaning back in his seat when every alarm on the board lit up, went off, or printed out. A single glance at the main battle tank told the story. Two of Pong's ships were on their way out!

He'd known it was possible but hadn't really expected it to happen. Damn!