Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (22 page)

“Glad we didn't cut that line,” Butch said.

For once he was doing some real welding. The fuel valves of the Horvath ships were different from the Glatun design the human ships used. Since cutting them out of the tanks was out of the question—the liquid helium wasn't going to remain liquid long if it was exposed to vacuum—a mating valve had to be installed on top.

The destroyer, alone, had four taps on each tank. It was taking a while. And that was after the valves had been flown up from Earth. Fortunately, some far thinking individual had already had them made.

“I'm wondering how much this is worth,” Price commed. “And if it counts for our salvage shares.”

“We're not cutting it out,” Butch said. “And I got a call from my mom the other day. They've got rolling blackouts since the power plants are all down on earth. Dad said the plants having to run half time. So I ain't so worried if we're getting paid salvage.”

“Dude, the only thing that matters is if we're getting paid,” Price commed. “If you wanted to be all heroic, you should have joined the Navy.”

The fuel point was inside an armored hatch on the exterior of the mangled, and still slowly twisting, destroyer. They'd had to find the internal release system, power it up, get the hatch open, then get to work.

“There's more to life than getting paid, BF,” Butch argued. “The dudes that mined for the Horvath didn't get paid crap. The Russians used prisoners. The South Africans just paid 'em crap. I'd much rather just be pulling overtime and be able to live free, you know?”

Butch had managed to get himself wedged into the hatch with three arms stabilizing his sled while he welded. Around him, unnoticed, the star field slowly wheeled as if watching the puny humans battling universal entropy.

“I think I've been talking to Purcell too much,” Price said. “He was going on the other day on the reason capitalism works. I didn't get most of it but the one thing I did get is that getting paid is really what matters. Freedom and getting paid for your work go hand in hand. End of philosophical discussion. You done with your bead?”

“Just sanding it down,” Butch said, regarding his handiwork. “Looks good.”

“Better be,” Price said, sliding his sled around. “They want to try them without doing a gamma test. They're in a real rush for this fuel.” He extended a grinder and ground out an imaginary spot. “Now it's good. Salvage Control, Fourteen Alpha.”

“Fourteen Alpha, Control.”

“Houston, we have a valve.”

“Roger, Fourteen Alpha,” Control replied. “Sending over the tanker.”

“And now we got to mate it up,” Price grumbled. “Welders get paid dick so we get all the EVA jobs nobody else wants to do.”

“We're just slightly expensive robots,” Butch said. “Which means we get overtime and we get paid. Which you just said was the only thing mattered.”

“Butch, I'm holding a laser and the skin on that sled ain't all that thick.”

“Not the only thin skin around here.”

“We got to match to this thing while we're pumping it off?”

The tanker was a small one, one of three that kept all the ships in the system supplied. Normally, it filled up at Troy, trundled around the system fueling ships and then went back.

Now the three minor tankers were all that Sol had to manage and transport their remaining fuel. And they were not designed for salvage work.

“Do you see an alternative?” Price asked. “Just extend the probe and we'll get 'er hooked up.”

“I don't think we have the delta,” the tanker pilot said, dubiously. “This thing has got a lot of rotation. And we're not real fast on maneuvering. And since the probe is rigid, if we get off by even a flicker, we're going to crack it. I say this is a no-go.”

“Well then how the hell are we going to get the fuel off?” Butch asked.

“That's somebody else's problem,” the tanker pilot said. “I'm headed over to that cruiser that's not spinning around like a top.”

“Bloody hell,” Purcell said. “Control, the tanker's refusing to match to Sierra Seventeen because of rotation. Advise.”

“We're working with the military on a work-around,” Control commed. “Have your people stand by.”

“Okay, A, they're just about on triple time. B, they're soaking up radiation which is why they have a maximum period in EVA. So whatever you're going to do, do it quick.”

“Roger. Understood. Control out.”

“Comet, ready room,” CM1 Glass commed.

Since the boats were grounded, Dana had been working on her certifications. The basic coxswain position was only the start of training. To make CM she had to pass a battery of courses as well as a more flight tests.

She was, currently, working with the simulator on a complex maneuver and the ping was sort of startling.

“Roger, CM,” Dana commed. “Be right there.”

“We're picking up some field fuel bladders and assisting the civvy salvage crew on taking fuel off the scrapped ships,” Glass said. “Our objective is a destroyer, designated Sierra Seventeen. It has a rotation of about two point five rotations per hour in three axes and a velocity of nineteen kilometers per second relative to the gate. It's also gotten well out of pocket. We're not going to stabilize it, we're just going to pull off the fuel. Which will be . . . ticklish. Thermal?”

“This is going to take some coordination,” Thermal said. “The blivets are just about the size of the interior of the shuttles. We're going to have to pump down, open up the personnel hatch and pull off the pipes. The civvies will then hook them up. Once they're hooked up, we use the onboard pumps to pump them up to pressure. All that time the coxswain is going to have to maintain a close position on the derelict.”

“Ticklish is right,” Dana said, looking at the view of the derelict. The thing wasn't spinning fast but maintaining position was going to be a pain in the ass. She wasn't even sure it could be programmed since the center of mass of the derelict made it constantly work off its standard trajectory. She'd seen some asteroids with worse spins but not many.

“Once you're full, head over to the tanker,” Glass said. “There the engineers are going to have to EVA to hook up and cross-load. Then back again.”

“What about our own fuel?” Thermal said.

“The tanker has refuel points,” Glass said. “We are authorized to tank up. But that doesn't mean we get to use it. This is the last mission until the fuel plant is up and running. So get all the qual time in you can. Let's go warm some seats.”

“Dana, I need a hand, here,” Thermal commed.

The whole boat was pumped down so Dana just headed through the hatch into the cargo compartment.

“What's u . . . Oh,” Dana said.

The engineer was wrestling with something that looked like a giant Mylar balloon. A Mylar balloon that was fairly staticy.

“I think the balloon is winning,” Dana said, grinning. But she grabbed a couple of handfuls of fabric and started getting it unstuck from the engineer.

“I should have read the manual more carefully,” Thermal commed. “It said to keep it in its container until ready for use, but it was a pain-in-the-butt to move that way. So I figured, hey, how much trouble could it be?”

“Do we even have an SOP for this?” Dana asked, starting to get wrapped in the thing as well. She managed to pull it off and pound it into a corner. “Down!”

“I don't think so,” Thermal said. He'd gotten unstuck and was helping her get it under control. While Dana held it down he wrapped a couple of bungies around it. “That's done it.
None that I've found. I'm going to fricking write one when we're done. ‘Field portable annie-plant fuel blivet still in container for movement?' ‘Field portable annie-plant fuel blivet still in container for movement, aye.' ”

“I hope we don't rip this thing,” Dana said. “That would suck.”

“It's made of nanotubes,” Thermal said. “A nuke could barely rip it. Okay, a nuke would rip it. We can't.”

“Sailors can . . .”

“Break anything. I know. Speaking of which, next step is getting the pump out of storage . . .”

“Fourteen Alpha, this is Myrm Thirty-Six,” Thermal commed. “We're on approach for tanking operations, over.”

“Hey, guys. Bout time you showed up. We've been sitting out here in the rads for an hour doing dick all.”

“Probably pulling triple time,” Thermal commed to Dana. “Comet, you got this?”

“I've got it,” Dana said. It was tricky. She was having to constantly adjust in three dimensions and there wasn't a real good algorithm for it. But she could maintain it.

“Fourteen, I'm going to open the door and extend the pipe. You're going to have to snatch it. I don't have the delta with a navopak to maintain this.”

“Got it.”

Dana watched the operation through one monitor while keeping an eye on the focal point she'd chosen, one corner of the hatch, to maintain station. The big problem was judging distance. She was having to keep a third eye on the range indicator. She was also having to keep an eye on the engineering controls with Thermal working the transfer. Which was too many eyes.

“I'm going to snatch the pipe and hand it to you,” Price commed. “Just hold your points.”

“Got it,” Butch said.

Price crabbed his sled over to the shuttle where a guy in a suit was holding out one end of what looked like one of those pipes gas delivery trucks used. Except it was shiny silver. With all the equipment moving in about nineteen different directions, the intercept was a stone bitch, but Price made it look easy. Butch had to admire the older welder, he was a master of using a sled.

“Get this,” Price commed, extending the pipe.

Butch carefully latched onto the grab point and brought it over to the mating collar.

“And we have good connect,” Price commed. “Opening the valve, Myrm.”

“Roger, Fourteen.”

“Ask your coxswain to try to maintain closer position,” Price commed. “We don't want to yank your tank out of your little boat.”

“Copy, Fourteen. Comet, you copy?”

“Yeah,” Dana said. “I'm on it.”

To maintain good station meant keeping within a few inches of center. It wasn't happening. Maybe Mutant or Lizzbits could do it but Dana just could not stay that close on station keeping.

“I'm not on it,” Dana admitted. “I'm just not able to . . .” she glanced at the engineering controls and tried not to scream. “Thermal, we've got a flicker in the lower starboard thruster controls. I could feel something starting to go. That looks like it.”

“Dammit,” Thermal commed. “Always something. Fourteen, Thirty-Six.”

“Go, Thirty-Six.”

“Our little boat is having issues,” Thermal commed. “Be ready to yank that connect. We may be going into out-of-control condition . . .”

“I just lost main breaker,” Dana said to the darkness. “Thermal, I don't have anything!”

“Clear it!” Price said. “Release the valve!”

“Okay,” Butch said, hitting the release on the connect. Helium started spurting into space and his temperature monitors started screaming.

“And shut off the valve!” Price said.

“Got it . . .” Butch said and the arm he was using broke. Then the valve, which was following the shuttle, slammed into the side of his sled. He'd been hit harder by debris plenty of times, but the sudden scream of his breathable monitor said that this time it mattered. “Uh . . . BF? I think I've got a problem . . .”

As EM1 Hartwell entered the flight compartment, the power and lights came on.

“All I had to do was reset the breaker,” Dana said, pulling herself into her chair. “Gravity coming back up.”

“Roger,” Hartwell said. “But we've got a deadlined bird until . . .”

“Thirty-Six, I see your lights came back on. If your boat's fixed we could use a hand here.”

“Roger, Fourteen. We're discontinuing this evolution until we can determine what caused the malfunction.”

“Great. Does that mean you can take us back to the Troy? Because I don't want to rush you or anything but when you pulled out the valve you cracked my partner's sled. And he's in vacuum.”

“I hope like hell he's in a suit.”

“Oh, he is. But he's not exactly a happy camper. And we are, as you said, discontinuing this evolution.”

“Helium is cryogenic,” Purcell said, looking at the trashed sled. “Steel works pretty well in space as long as you don't get it too cold. Even space shade in this region isn't as cold as, say, Pluto. He3 is right above absolute zero. When it hit the steel it made it brittle. Then the valve, which is an alloy designed for cryogenic temperatures, hit the arm and the sled, and shattered them like glass.”

“Yes, sir,” Butch said, looking at the sled. It sure looked like the steel broke like glass.

“I hope we don't have to deal with Navy again,” Price said. “That was massively fracked up, Purcell.”

“You can see where the port thruster started to act up,” Dana said, pointing to the readout from the flight recorder. “I started having control problems. I thought it was the destroyer shifting its trajectory again and corrected. Then there was the overheat indicator. It wasn't high but it was moving out of range so it sort of caught my attention. Then we lost main power and I went into out of control. I then reset the breaker,” she said, pointing to the indicator. “And we're back. There wasn't a flicker on the return trip, even carrying the fuel we'd loaded and the civilian sleds and the welders. It's like it just went away.”

“I pulled the breaker and the full set of relays for the port thrusters,” Thermal said. “I ran them all through standard tests including overpower tests and long runtime tests. They all came up fine. I've replaced everything, but I still can't find the fault. It's apparently intermittent.”

“An intermittent fault that can throw a main breaker is an intermittent fault we have to run down,” Chief Barnett said. Any incident involving flight in the squadron had to involve the Chief Coxswain. Since the normal name was “Chief Cock” the fact that the chief coxswain was a female led to some ribald humor. “Engineering input, sir?”

“I hate to say this,” Lieutenant Commander Brandon “Brad” Horn said. The Squadron Engineering Officer was an Aussie seconded to the United States Space Navy. He'd been a deep wreck diver before the War as well as a qualified watch officer. Making the transition to space navy had been relatively easy. Since he also had a mechanical engineering degree, he was a natural for the first Engineering Officer of a Myrmidon squadron.