Infernal Sky (13 page)

The mission is what concerns me . . . us! It has to. It's too damned important for lovesick marines to mess up. However slim the chances for success, I must guarantee maximum commitment.

Funny. Now that I'm thinking this way, the mission just got a boost in the arm. My grandmother believed in good omens. Up ahead, washed in moonlight, tiptoeing around our sleeping monster, it sure looks like the navy has arrived.

*   *   *

I'll never admit this to Fly but right at the end, I almost cried. Jill finally stopped arguing. She came over and hugged me. Then, without saying a word, she did the same to Fly and Albert. I was stunned. She stood in the open hatch, her back to us as if she couldn't decide if she wanted to do something.

She turned around and said, “I'll never forget any of you.” Then she did the most amazing thing of all: Jill saluted us.

Of course none of us returned the salute. We're all conditioned marine robots. Mustn't ever break the precious rules. There are rules about who and when and what and where to exchange a precious salute. If Jill took seriously my offhand comment about joining the marines, she might earn the right to dress the way we do and perform the rituals. Maybe she'd wear a high-and-tight if she proved herself macho enough to earn the right, like me. Like me.

I didn't return her salute. But I made myself say, “Thank you, Jill. You are a true hero.”

Then that spry little teenager walked out of my life. As she clocked out, the new cast of characters clocked in. Hidalgo came bounding up those same stairs like a kid who's gotten everything he wants for Christmas. For a moment, I didn't recognize him. It was the first time I'd seen him smile. He had the face of a man who believed in the mission. Absolutely.

He brought us a fine crew to pilot the barge. God knows how they arrived here. I hadn't seen any of them in Hawaii. When I asked where they'd been, I was rebuked with my least favorite word in the English language: “classified.”

I didn't press the subject. I would have been happy to press their uniforms if that was what it took to keep everyone happy. They'd been outfitted with brand-new flight suits, combat boots, inflatable vests, helmets, gloves. . . . They looked a lot better than we did. I'd have liked to know how they did it.

Fly's big grin reminded me of arguments we used to have about luck. How he could live through what he had and not believe in good luck was beyond me. The moment we found all the demon guards asleep, I started believing in luck again. I'll take good omens where I can find them, too. Maybe the doom demons are becoming careless when we can penetrate a base so easily. That means we just might win the war.

The woman running the show inspired confidence: Commander Dianne Taylor. She was five feet four, weighing in at about one hundred pounds, with beautiful hazel eyes. I felt that we'd traded in a young female computer whiz for an older female space pilot. There was another woman on board as well, the petty
officer, second class. For some time now, I hadn't been the only girl among the boys. I loved the fact that men with SEAL training had to answer to a female P02.

“I'm a big enthusiast on the history of space flight,” Commander Taylor addressed the latest member of the Big Four. “This ship is the latest generation of the old DC-X1 Delta Clipper. Basic principles remain the same.”

“That's why we have faith in them,” volunteered Albert.

“Exactly,” replied our skipper happily. She was a natural teacher. That could take some of the boredom out of the trip. “The fuel is the same for the 2004 as for the first in the series—good old hydrogen peroxide.”

I laughed. She raised an eyebrow in my general direction and I answered the unasked question. “I was thinking I could do my hair in it.” She returned the laugh minus some interest: she allowed herself a smile.

“Or we can fuel up with hyper-vodka and have martinis with what's left over,” she suggested. “Well, just as long as we all understand what the primary risk will be in taking off.”

“What's that?” asked Hidalgo as if he'd missed something.

Taylor pointed at the monitors on which we'd watched Jill slip away to safety or death. We could still see the recumbent forms of various hell-princes and steam demons.

“When we begin our launch procedures,” she said, “they are going to wake up. And then our principal goal in life will be to keep them from blowing us up.”

“W
e'll do a cold takeoff,” said Taylor. She seemed to know her business, but I didn't like the way she stressed that word, “cold.” When I was a kid, the first strong impression I had from television was of the Challenger space shuttle blowing up. My parents had rented a documentary on the history of space flight. I remembered the white-porcelain appearance of the craft in the early morning. A frosty morning, the announcer told us. They'd never launched in such cold weather before. Some of the engineers, it later turned out, were concerned about icing. They were worried about certain wires.

The green light was given. The shuttle blasted off . . . and into eternity.

I wondered what our naval commander had in mind other than running a taut ship. She told us: “Normally we'd give the
Bova
a half hour of foreplay. A cold launch is when we start everything at once, flooding the engines with liquid oxygen. The risk is that the lox could pump through the lines so fast they'll crack. The good part of this risk is that the ship will be ready to launch in ten minutes. We are in the
period of our launch window. The weather is on our side. The enemy is still asleep.”

“Like you said, starting the ship will wake them up,” I said.

“That's right, Taggert, and that's why we'll take only ten minutes instead of thirty to get ready. Those plug uglies down there are going to investigate. I'm hoping they're as dumb as they look.”

“Yes, Commander Taylor,” Arlene marveled, as awareness dawned. “They may think it's their guys in the
Bova.”

“Sure,” agreed Steve Riley, joining us in the engine room. He was Taylor's radar intercept officer. Of course, he had to go through all that navy stuff with a superior officer before joining in the conversation. And they call us jarheads.

Riley had a neat little mustache, same as Hidalgo. It twitched a little when he became colorful: “By the time they realize we're not part of a scheduled bogeyman flight, they'll be toast from our thrusters.”

“Even dummies might figure it out with thirty minutes to work in.”

“So we don't give it to them,” Taylor summed up.

“We could station a sniper in the hatchway in case they wise up,” Albert said.

“Too dangerous,” countered the skipper. “They might return fire.”

“We're sitting on a Roman candle,” I contributed. Suddenly I was very glad we'd sent Jill away.

“We have another problem, too.” Taylor generously shared her apprehension with us—the mark of a good leader. “Along with passing up the luxury of a thirty-minute warm-up, I've decided not to use the start-up truck.”

“What's that?” asked Albert.

“You probably saw it when you were sneaking in here. It's got a big plug the ship can use to get a charge for the blastoff. You may have also noticed that one of the cyberdemons is almost using it for a pillow.”

“We call 'em steam demons,” Arlene threw in gratuitously. (She probably doesn't think I know a word like “gratuitous.”)

“I like that,” said Taylor. “By whatever name, I prefer that it remain asleep.”

“How can we take off, then?” asked Arlene, exchanging glances with me, her fellow expert on seat-of-the-pants rocket design.

Riley and Taylor exchanged meaningful looks as well—pilot-to-copilot looks, how-the-hell-are-we-going-to-make-it-work-this-time looks.

“We can start off our own battery,” said Lieutenant Riley.

“I'm no rocket scientist,” commented Albert and it took me a moment to realize our somber Mormon had made a joke. “But won't that drain the battery?”

“Yes, it will,” admitted Taylor, “but not to the point of doom.” It was funny how that word “doom” kept cropping up in everyone's conversation.

“It'll be like we were on a submarine,” said Riley. That wouldn't be very hard for us.

“Run silent, run deep!” Arlene got into the drift.

“Yes,” said Taylor. “We'll use a minimum of electronic devices in the ship. No radio broadcasts, no radar, no microwave. You'll be eating your MREs cold.”

“What about light?” asked Albert.

“We have a good supply of battery-powered lanterns,” Taylor said in a happier tone.

It didn't sound all that bad. I remembered the flight from Earth to Mars when they took me up for my
court-martial. The trip was under a week. So what if we had to do it this time sitting in the dark most of the way? The trip might feel like an extension of our Hawaii vacation. There was nothing wrong with resting up before going through the Gate on Phobos. God only knew what we'd run into this time.

God only knew if we'd survive the takeoff.

The crew was the bare minimum, but it would do just fine for our purposes. It also meant there were enough acceleration couches for everyone. The
Bova
was cramped enough as it was. Along with the skipper and her copilot, we had Chief Petty Officer Robert Edward Lee Curtis and Petty Officer Second Class Jennifer Steven. Across the gulf of different services, we felt like comrades. We were the same rank. There were only three regular crew members.

Back to space for Arlene and me, though I never would have believed we'd voluntarily return to Phobos. I wondered what the chances were of passing by Deimos on the way to Mars, now that Deimos was a new satellite of Earth. Not our fault! We didn't drag it out of the orbit of Mars. We only hitched a ride.

As we neared the countdown—what do you call a countdown to the countdown?—I started to worry. I blamed my anxiety on my stomach. Many portions of my anatomy could make peace with zero-g, but my stomach would always be a stubborn holdout. When I finally admitted the truth to Arlene, I was speaking for my stomach.

One member of the crew, Christopher Olen Ray, was going into space for the first time, and the other guys were giving “good old Chris” a hard time about it. He couldn't have been older than his early twenties. He was worried about the g-forces of the takeoff. The first time is something to write home about. The
way I look at it, that part is over quickly. Weightlessness lasts and lasts when some rich guy hasn't spent the money to keep your craft doing a full revolution so that you can enjoy the benefits of centrifugal force.

If this continued, I'd risk a good thought for the Union Aerospace Corporation. At least they were willing to spend some of their filthy lucre.

For better or worse, Commander Taylor gave the order to start the ten minutes that would feel like eternity. The old tub made a lot of noise when it was turned on. From my uncomfortable position on the acceleration couch I had a good view of a monitor. I saw the big ugly bastard right next to the ship wake up. Hell, the retros were noisy enough to wake me up. Hell-princes were so damned big that I found it fascinating to watch the thing fight the gravity to which we little humans are so accustomed. The ponderous minotaur stumbled as he got up, as if he had a hangover. I laughed. Doom demons bring out my mean streak.

Commander Taylor made sure that “all her babies” were securely fastened into their seats. This marine “baby” felt constricted by his safety harness. Then the ship started to quiver as it came alive, the fuel beginning to course through its veins. The vibration shook me in the marrow of my bones.

Suddenly I couldn't tell if the roaring came from the ship or the intercom, which was picking up sound effects from our playmates outside. Were they pissed off? Were they saying “Top of the mornin' to you?” (It was past midnight.) After all this time, I still didn't have a clue when these critters were happy or sad. A roar is a roar.

We had ringside seats, but there was nothing we could do if the monster squad decided to freak out.
The navy had its pet marines all trussed up. I didn't like the idea of playing sitting duck, but I understood that all we could do was stay put on top of our giant bomb.

On the screen, a large spider-mind scuttled over to the hell-prince. I didn't like that. If Ackerman's theory of broadcast intelligence turned out to be correct, it didn't change the fact that the spiders were the “smart” ones . . . and right now we needed all the dumb ones the enemy could spare.

Time was on our side. We didn't have that much longer to wait. I could hear Taylor and Riley running through the checklist. They spoke with the kind of precision that assured me we were in competent hands. I'd hate to die because of someone else's negligence. The little voice in the back of my head whispered that I had Viking blood in my veins, because I'd rather die with a battle-ax in my gut than fouled up by some numb-nuts who meant well but pulled the wrong switch.

As I heard the steady voice of the copilot announce, “Minus three minutes,” I felt pretty good about the situation. These guys had a clue what they were doing, all right. Once we were under way they'd put on their oxygen masks and I wouldn't be able to listen in. Passengers didn't need to wear oxygen masks back where we were hog-tied, but there were emergency oxygen tanks in case the ship lost pressure.

I couldn't keep my eyes off the monitor where the big creeps were running around in search of some kind of authorization. That was why I was so happy to hear Riley say, “Minus two minutes.”

“How you doin'?” asked CPO Curtis.

“Fine,” I returned. I couldn't see much. If I
stretched my head at a really uncomfortable angle I could make out Arlene's legs.

“We're ready to weigh anchor,” he threw back.