Junkyard Dogs 1: The Scrapyard Incident (10 page)

Chapter 17

UTFN Reclamation Center, Auxiliary Tracking
Station, October 6, 2598.

As she had been
instructed, Carlisle woke up Harris and Hawkins after four hours had passed.
While the men blinked and stretched, she handed each of them a tube of food
concentrate before grabbing one for herself, tearing off the seal and taking a
long pull on the contents. Wearing a very determined look, she went over to the
tracking station computer, sat down in front of it and began checking files.
She also began to unconciously think out loud again.

"Succession
War destroyers, Tamara...
Fairmont, Osage,
Terrier
...battle damage reports..."

"What is it,
Ensign?" asked Harris, yawning.

"Oh, sorry, Sir.
I woke up about an hour ago and
couldn't get back to sleep, so I started running some options over in my head.
We may be dead anyway, but I don't like the thought of just sitting here
waiting for them to come and take us out. Could we pull the communications
console out of here and be somewhere else when they get here? There's no way we
can save this station, but maybe we could last long enough to warn the
Ambassador's ship away."

"Aye, Lass,
that we might," observed Hawkins. He took a pull on his food tube, went
over to the communications console and looked beneath it, thankful that they
hadn't bothered to replace the inspection panel yet. "The console
be
hooked up to the station controls only by the three wires
I reconnected." He looked around some more. "There also be a cable
that hooks up to the send/receive dish. All we have to be doin' is to be
gettin' power to the console and be riggin' up some kind of dish." He
looked around some more. "This top section be havin' all the workings and
it looks like we could just be unboltin' it. I'll be thinkin' it would fit
through the hatches if we wanted to be takin' it out of here. We could be
loadin' it onto one of the
Rovers
and
be hidin' out inside most any of these old wrecks. With what there be on the
sled and what there be here in the auxiliary station, we be havin' plenty of
air. In our suits we might be lastin' a week, maybe more."

"We might,
but it wouldn't be a pleasant experience," said Harris, finishing off his
breakfast. "The sanitary facilities in these suits might be able to handle
twenty-four hours or so of moderate use but after that..." He let his
voice trail off.

"This may
sound a little crazy...," said Carlisle. The two men looked at her.
"But we might be able to make use of one of my Succession destroyers.
Perkins confirmed that they're here, I'm trying to locate them right now with
the tracking console."

"Okay...
I'll bite," said Harris. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, if
any of the three ships is reasonably intact, maybe we could pressurize part of
a deck or something. Hell, maybe we could get an airlock to work. We could just
seal up an area -- several compartments maybe -- air it up and heat it. Hawk
says we've got air and we could maybe rig some solar panels for heat and power
for the communications console. The destroyers are perfect because they're
small and have small compartments. I think we have a better chance of success
if we don't try to work with anything too big."

"Aye, Lass,
it might be doable. Solar panels could be a wee bit tricky though. We'd have t'
be strippin' 'em from this station and then be figurin' out how to mount 'em. I
don't know if we be havin' the time. Remember my
Rover
be havin' them heavy duty electrics. They'd be doin' the
trick, especially if we dinna be
needin'
too much
power. We'd likely be havin' to shut everything else down while we be tryin' to
transmit, but that should nay be too much of a problem. "

"Maybe we
could make this work!" said Harris, getting into the game. "Military
ships are designed to shield their heat signatures. We'd be all but impossible
find out in the yard." His face lit up. "You know what? If the bridge
area were intact, we'd be able to use the command periscope to keep an eye out
for the enemy. They wouldn't be able to see us and we wouldn't have to be
outside somewhere to see them. Maybe we could even use the Stage I dish, if one
was still intact."

"I be sure I
could be makin' an airlock work, if it were nay too badly mucked up," said
Hawkins, "but a small compartment with a bulkhead door on two sides could
be rigged t' be workin' like an airlock. It'd nay be perfect but it'd nay have
t' be permanent neither. If we be having a compartment or two to pressurize, we
might just be havin' a shot. I
be
with you, Lass,
anything but sittin' here like a dent in a bulkhead."

"That's the
spirit, Hawk." She ran down the inventory descriptions for the ships.

"
Osage
...multiple compartments damaged...
Fairmont
...bridge damage...
Terrier
...starboard hull breach..."
Growing more accustomed -- or perhaps resigned -- to her thought processes, the
two men waited for her to work it out. She spoke up. "Well, it's no wonder
they weren't salvaged. In addition to being obsolete, they were pretty badly
damaged, all three of them. Okay, here they are, we have the
Osage,
the
Fairmont,
and the
Terrier,
all
Orion Class destroyers. They're Mark IVs, leftovers from the pre-Succession
days that got pressed into service because the Federation needed every ship
they could lay their hands on. Damaged or not, it doesn't matter, we have to
check them out. Lieutenant, I request permission to take Hawkins and have a
look at those ships."

"This
is
crazy," said Harris, shaking his
head, "but I don't have a better idea. Permission granted! Go for it, but
be damned careful!"

Within twenty
minutes, Carlisle and Hawkins were on one of the utility sleds and making their
way out to a remote part of the yard. Harris waited onboard the tracking
station and monitored their progress. Ten minutes later they arrived at the
first of the three old wrecks.

"Send me the
video feed from your suit, Vixen," said Harris, sitting at the communications
console in the tracking station. "I'll record it on the tracking console
so we can take a closer look after you get back."

"Roger,
Java.
Sending video on the
Fairmont
now."

The process was
repeated for the two remaining destroyers. The three ships were actually in
close proximity, making the inspection tour a fairly short affair. An hour and
a half later, the three survivors were united back on the command deck of the
tracking station going over the videos of the three ships.

"The
Osage
looks pretty hopeless," said
Carlisle, "I don't think there's a compartment that wasn't vented to
space. Looks like she got hit by a cloud of shrapnel from a fragmentation
missile or she was next to another ship that suffered a catastrophic explosion.
It's almost like she got blasted by a giant shotgun!"

"Aye, and
the
Fairmont
is nay bein' much
better, the bridge be all but gone and the hull be holed in dozens of
places."

"Well, that
leaves the
Terrier,
" said
Harris. The trio looked at video of a pre-Succession destroyer so old that it
had two
squat
, slope-sided, honest-to-God
projectile
turrets, one fore and one aft
of the stubby bridge superstructure. She also had a gash along the starboard
side, starting near the bow, a jagged wound that ran nearly half the length of
the old ship.

"Obviously
there are some areas on this ship that wouldn't hold air, but the upper two
decks and the bridge area look pretty good. That and the Stage I communications
disk is still there," said Harris.

"The notes
on the inventory list say she made it in here under her own power," said
Carlisle. "Gentlemen, we may have found our sanctuary!"

***

Hawkins and
Carlisle took the
Rover I
and headed
back out to the
Terrier
in an attempt
to make a small part of the old destroyer inhabitable again. Harris went to
work getting the built-in communications console disconnected and ready to haul
over to their new digs, wherever that might be.

Hawkins and
Carlisle talked with subdued enthusiasm on the short trip out.

"Do you know
anything about pre-Succession destroyers, Hawk?"

Hawkins kept his
attention on the forward progress of the sled, but replied, "My first post
out of boot camp was bein' machinist's mate on the
Belfast
, Lass, one of the last Orions bein' in service."

"Was it a
Mark IV?"

"Nay, she
was a Mark V. But they were nay that different. From what they be tellin' me,
the Mark V be heavily based on the Mark IV." He thought for a moment.
"Mind you, ours be havin' pulse beam weapons in front and only an aft
projectile turret. They be finishing her just after the Big War be startin' and
she was better built than anything they slapped together during the War. Them
old Orions was good, stout ships, they was."

"Do you
remember much about it?"

"Aye, Lass!
You'll never be forgettin' your first post. The chief be makin' me learn every
centimeter of that ship. I could be goin' from one end to the other
blindfolded."

"Blindfolded?"

"Aye, Lass,
blindfolded. You'll never be
knowin'
if you'll have to
be after doin' something complicated in the dark. Most sailors still have to be
doing something like that durin' their trainin'."

"The
Belfast
was a Mark V? What was the
difference?"

"The hull
itself
be
the same. The weapons were bein' a wee bit
different. The biggest difference between the Mark IV and the Mark V
be
the power plant. The Mark V
be
needin' a lot more power."

"Really, why?
Oh, of course.
For the
pulse beam weapons."

"Aye, Lass.
They
be
takin' a heap more power."

Chapter 18

New Ceylon Orbital Station, Deck One,
October 6, 2598.

Clancy Davis-Moore
was in the living room of the luxury suite in the posh Galaxy Hotel that he
customarily stayed in when he had business at the station. He was preparing for
an early afternoon business meeting when he felt the slight tremor in the
station that accompanied the initial attack. Seconds later, he heard the alarm
klaxon go off.

Davis-Moore's
suite was one of several designed into the station that were extremely
luxurious and correspondingly expensive. Situated on the outer northern wall of
the station's first deck, the suite extended outward through the second deck of
the station, providing spectacular views to the outside through a huge viewport
that spanned two levels. Like the Spaceview Restaurant, the suite also featured
a ceiling viewport. Wealthy patrons were provided unsurpassed views of the
station, the stars and, when the station had rotated to the proper orientation,
the planet of New Ceylon. There was a spiral staircase between the two levels
and doors on each deck that provided access to the main corridors of both the
first and second decks. Windows in the walls opposite the huge viewport also
provided a view of the main corridors of each level.

He went over to
the railing on the edge of the first level floor and watched in horror through
the ceiling viewport as the hapless
Boise
was attacked and destroyed. This was definitely not some lame drill or minor
inconvenience, the station was under attack! Davis-Moore immediately doused the
lights in the suite and drew the curtains on both sides.

After a half
hour, he heard the staccato chatter of multiple pulse rifles. Shortly after
that he heard and felt the sound of a fairly large group of people approaching
out in the corridor on the first level. The floor was actually vibrating. He
watched carefully through a small gap between the curtains as a troop clad in
battle armor and armed with pulse rifles filed past. They were trailed by
several more men in regular utility suits and someone in a smaller suit, a
woman maybe? They seemed intent on what was ahead of them and didn't notice the
silent observer in the luxury suite.

Clancy
Davis-Moore thought quickly. He hadn't intended to, but he had overheard a part
of the conversation between Commander Kresge and the NITrans official at the
beginning of the flight out from the Reclamation Center. His ears had pricked
up at the mention of pirates and he couldn't stop himself from listening after
that. Could these people be the pirates that the NITrans official had been
talking about? They had attacked from armed cargo ships, and they sure as hell
weren't military.

What to do?

One thing was
absolutely certain, no pirate or terrorist that he had ever heard of would be
likely to overlook the opportunity provided to them by capturing a wealthy
hostage. He might come out of such a situation alive and well, but, then again,
he might not. Staying where he was could very well mean capture and all the
dangers and inconveniences associated with negotiating a ransom and staying
alive in the meantime. Much better to be in charge of your own fate!

He came to a
decision. As had always been his nature, he would seek adventure, not wait for
it to find him. Not really interested in the diplomatic goings on, he had been
preparing for an early morning departure and most of the things he really
needed were already packed for transport down to the planet.

What to take?

Whatever he took,
he'd have to carry it himself for an unknown time and an unknown distance. That
meant he had no choice but to travel light. He looked his belongings over and
selected a few choice items. He grabbed a small backpack that doubled as an
overnight bag and stuffed it with a several pairs of underwear and socks, a
change of clothes and a toiletry kit. He then grabbed a long, narrow, black,
hardcase -- a little over a meter and a half long -- and slung it over his
shoulder. An additional small but fairly heavy pack with a shoulder strap
completed his outfitting. With any luck, he could exit on the second level and
make his way to the outer levels of the station. In the inevitable confusion,
he should be able to slip away without attracting too much notice. Someone on
board this station would have to be willing to try and put up a fight.

Clancy
Davis-Moore wanted to find that someone.