Penance (RN: Book 2) Page 19

  “Nothing.” Stavener said tamping the last of the items into the near overflowing carton with flattened hands. “Where’s the unit?”

  “On the shuttle. Do you want me to take the cables?”

  “No, take this box and place it as close to my seat as possible. And don’t drop this one, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Accidents happen.”

  Not with a six billion pound comm unit, they don’t. Stavener grumbled under his breath. Yoshcenti’s thin faced fat cheeked smile was beginning to bug him and he couldn’t wait to be rid of the man.

  “What’s the state of the Brunel?”

  “They’ve loaded their primary cargo and are rooting about like you.”

  “OK, when you come back start looking through those cabinets for more data –“

  A radio crackled. “Stavener, report status!”

  The operations man took the communicator from his belt, “Primary mission accomplished and we’re starting a second sweep for –“

  “Negative! Return to the boat.” Canthouse’s voice carried an urgency he had not heard before.

  Stavener shared an edgy look with Yoshcenti who had lost his pleasant smile, and stood with his mouth frog like as if told he’d been outsourced. “But we haven’t finished our –“

  “Negative. Return to the boat, now! Egress one.”

  Egress one was only used during the most hostile of withdrawal situations. A shiver ran down Stavener’s spine as he asked, “Why?”

  “They’re back!”

  Stavener shouldered the bag and made a gimme gimme gesture to Yoshcenti who passed him the box. “Grab the cables,” he said as he hurried past and out the door.

  ***

  “Move!” McWhitney bellowed as he ducked through the bulkhead with a stern faced Denz following in close pursuit. Crewmen pressed themselves against the metal walls as the two officers hurried past toward the mid-bilges area. The men raced down narrow passageways, through bulkheads and areas of the ship Denz never even knew existed, until arriving at a small room with a metal door on the opposite wall.

  Hewton and Acting-Lieutenant Callows awaited their arrival.

  “Report!” Denz barked, pushing past McWhittney as he entered the room.

  Callows took a step forward, “Commander, we have a hostage situation involving three abductors and two hostages. We believe the men to be the ones responsible for the incident with Leading Hand, Esta Brula.” The short Irish man explained in his usual calm tone.

  “Who have they taken?” Denz glanced between the men when no immediate answer was forthcoming. “Well?”

  “Sir, the captives are Specialist, Celia Hempsey, General Hempsey’s daughter and …and Senior Petty Officer, Rachel Cummings.” Callows raised his hands as if to push a car, when in reality he was preparing to restrain Denz from flying to the door. When this didn’t happen he lowered them.

  To everyone’s surprise, Denz responded with little more than a grunt and an acknowledging bob of the head. Yet internally he had become entirely disconnected. The moment he had asked Who, he knew one of them would be Cummings, and iIt was as if the white gloved hands of some shadowed advisor were passing him notes on events yet to occur and he unfolded it to see her name. He had genuine affection for Rachel, but the immediate desires to react and protect had accelerated at such a rate that they had torn themselves apart like a dragster blowing its transmission, leaving him feeling hollow and impudent.

  “What do they want?”

  “They’ve made no demands. We’ve tried communicating with them, but they won’t even acknowledge our presence.”

  “Where?”

  “In the LAW pre-fire chamber, Commander,” Callows pointed to the door. “This room here.”

  Denz moved to look through the portal only to be bodily blocked by the barrel chested Hewton. He glared up at the big man, his eyes burning and lips peeling back with such anger that when he said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tom!” The much larger man looked genuinely shocked.

  “Commander! Please. I just need to tell you. These men ... They’re using some form of drug or hallucinogen. They’re giving it to the women. They’re using on them …they’re using it on the women as they…” Tears appeared in Hewton’s eyes, his mouth flapped wordless as he tried to translate the debauchery he had witnessed to a friend who had a loved one amongst them.

  Denz could feel the living emotion shaking his great frame , and he smiled his understanding as he gently squeezed Hewton’s bicep to ease the big man aside. Denz looked through the glass portal, only to wish he hadn’t.

  The commander stepped back smartly, his face shock white and horror filled eyes fixed on the small glass window as if he’d glimpsed through the keyhole to hell.

  “Open it.”

  “Sir, we can’t it’s a –“ Callows began.

  “Open – it - now!” Denz said through clenched teeth, his red rimmed eyes filled with such unadulterated savagery that Callows raised his hands again.

  “It’s a secure area, sir. We don’t have the codes. Only Lieutenant Avery can open it.”

  Denz glanced toward the fifty symbol keypad etched with Koll glyphs, “Get Avery. Bring him here.”

  “We sent for him, sir. But he’s not in his quarters. We can’t find him,”

  “Thermal gun: cut it open!”

  “It’ll do no good. It’s Teride: a Koll metal. We can’t cut it.”

  “Explosives: blow it open.”

  “The concussive blast will kill everyone insi –“

  Den’s fingers found Callows’ throat with such swift brutality that he lifted the man from the floor and against the wall before anyone realised what had happened. Denz looked subhuman, he smiled a Cheshire cat smile, the skin on his face almost translucent like latex stretched over a naked skull, his eyes red raw orbs protruding from the sockets with his lips bloodless and joker like as he said, “I don’t care what you do. I don’t care how you do it. Just open – the fucking – door!” He sounded cool, calm and wholly possessed by unshackled insanity.

  Denz ignored the comments from behind, the hands pulling at him, the voices urging him to let go as he glared at the terrified Callows, but he paid them no heed. Someone needed to suffer for what he had witnessed, so why not this man, and – the demon left him and Denz broke. He fell to his knees, his body shuddering and tears streaming at what he had witnessed, at what he had seen being done to his woman and he was powerless to stop it. He had felt a good few miseries in his time, but seeing her crying naked form astride that tattooed man, the pointed metal tracing her body was …it was.

  He found his feet in an instant, his hands hammering the cold metal as he screamed at them through the window. Three men were covered with blood and excreta so as to look as if they’d been rolling in it like dogs. The limp blonde form on the floor, a fat man hunched over her head, her legs spasming as his bloody fingers gouged. The skeleton thin man unravelling grey-purple intestines from her abdomen sliced chest to pelvis; pulling at them until everything came out and he looped the whole grizzly mess around his neck like grizzly Hawaiian garlands.

  The large tattooed man smiled on seeing Denz observing them. Snatching Cummings by the hair, he angled her face toward the window, shaking her violently, slapping and hitting so she opened her drooping drug misted eyes, so she could see directly into the wide horrified gaze of her lover. The man pulled her close, his blood shot grey eyes fixed on Denz as he whispered to her, as he told her what he was going to do to her, as he bit off the top of her ear and spat the bloody crescent toward the crazed man whose fists hammered at the glass. The bloody smile gleeful as the knife roamed the l screaming woman’s body, the tip leaving bloody cat scratches as it moved between her breasts, around the pale protuberant belly, moving up, then down, a flick of the wrist, what should be in coming out and Denz exploded.

  The ricochet entered McWhitney’s head just below his left eye to which he simply said, “Oh!”, and fell to the floor.
<
br />   Denz pumped the trigger of Callows’ side arm, the snub nose inches from the toughened glass as he screamed his torment with two more ricochets finding none fatal marks before they took him down.

  He had no knowledge of the screaming klaxons or the man at the door saying they needed him on the bridge. All he knew were the restraining hands and the pressure of bodies, with his ranting cries of inconceivable hurt echoing down the corridor.

  ***

  “What do you mean he can’t be located?” Canthouse cried into his communicator as he beckoned to the running Stavener with full arm swings.

  “Sir, there’ been an incident on board. Commander Denz attended and no longer answers the comm.” Guimar responded.

  “C’mon, man, c’mon,” Canthouse shouted at the panting, sweaty faced Stavener as he lumbered toward the shuttle door with the box clutched to his chest. Crew members instantly relieved Stavener and Yoshcenti of their loads, urgently beckoning them to board as the fuel pumps whined like over sped turbines.

  “Get in now as we can’t leave with your boat attached to ours,” Canthouse shoved Yoshcenti inside, even though he needed little encouragement.

  “What’s wrong, LC?” Stavener asked boarding the Brunel.

  “Our friends are back and they’ve brought big brother.” Canthouse secured the door and ushered Stavener through to the Bayden-Powell, unceremoniously sliding the door shut in his face before he could utter a word.

  A crewman yanked Stavener further into the shuttle as another man secured their door and yelled, “Sealed!” into his headset. The Bayden-Powell unlatched throwing the operations officer first sideways and then backwards as they powered away from the Jeremiah with the Brunel in hot pursuit.

  Stavener manhandled himself to the cockpit where he fell into the co-pilot’s position just as the pilot fire-walled the twin throttle levers and ignited the emergency boosters, with the operations officer making a strangled oooohhhhh as they surged towards the Bristol.

  “What the hell is going on?” he cried as he secured his restraints.

  “Our rednecks have returned with the whole clan. Looks like they brought Big Bubba, too.” The pilot tapped a center console screen that displayed sensor data relayed from the Bristol. What looked like a bees swarming around a large solid object occupied the top of the screen.

  A million questions ran through Stavener’s head, questions he knew that pilot had no answer to. “How long until that thing reaches the Bristol?”

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “How long until we reach the Bristol?” Stavener asked dreading the answer.

  “Eight minutes.”

  Stavener nodded, “Eight minutes. That’s good. Then we can leave.”

  The pilot glanced at him, “Then we need to dock.”

  Stavener stared, his mouth poised to ask something but for some reason unwilling to commit, “How long will that take?”

  “Three minutes.” The pilot smiled teasingly, “Then we need to transfer the fluid to the gate drive.”

  “I fucking hate you!”

  The pilot grinned as he manipulated the comms controls. “There’s some chatter between the Bristol and Brunel,” he increased the volume -

  Canthouse: Who’s in charge?

  Guimar: Lieutenant Hewton.

  Canthouse: Tom, you there?

  Hewton: Yes, LC.

  Canthouse: Tom, don’t wait for us. Fire up the motives and move the ship away as fast as you’re able. Tell the launch bays to prepare for unassisted landing as we’ll be coming in hard. And have the engineering crews ready with the refuelling lines.

  Bristol: *unintelligible voices*

  Hewton: LC, the bandits have split up with some smaller craft heading to the Jeremiah and the rest pursuing you with the lighter units advancing on your position. Can you go any faster?

  Brunel: *low conversation*

  Canthouse: The pilot says we’re on maximum burn, so we’ll just have to run for it. Send us your solution for keeping them off us and we’ll stick to it as best able. Be ready for us Tom.

  Hewton: Aye, sir.

  “What does he mean - unpowered landing?” Stavener asked.

  “We normally dock automatically with the boats being pulled in by manipulators. This is what takes three minutes.”

  “And unpowered is different?”

  “Yes.” A wry grin formed on the pilot’s face as he knew what the follow up question would be.

  Stavener picked up on the pilot’s teasing him, but had to ask even if he was going to dread the answer. “How?”

  “We’ll be approaching at full speed with maximum braking at the last moment and entering the bay manually.” The pilot gave him a wry side glance, “It may get bumpy.”

  “You mean we’ll be crashing into the ship?”

  “Essentially.” A flashing light attracted the pilot’s attention and he flicked a switch to cancel it. He stared at the console display for several seconds before speaking into his microphone. “Brunel – Bayden-Powell, we’ve got closers coming from 290 with superior delta-vee.”

  “We see them, Bayden,” the Brunel pilot responded.

  “LC, request we commit to zero evasisves?”

  Canthouse’s voice came over the comm, “Roger, Bayden. Kill the attractors and commit to a dry run as the Bristol has a solution, so don’t stray.”

  “Roger.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Stavener asked his eyes widening in proportion to his mounting trepidation.

  “It means …” The pilot flicked through a series of switches and keyed his mic, “Going ZG folks, so hold tight.” He reached to an overhead binnacle and reversed two stubby red levers and palmed them flat. “It means I’m killing the gravity rotor as it impedes our manoeuvrability, you may feel a little light headed.” He punched a large black knob on the forward console and Stavener felt light in his seat with every movement of the boat suddenly clear and jarringly sharp.

  “It also means that the bandits are approaching faster than we can out run them, so the Bristol is lending a hand to keep them off our arse. Look -” The pilot pushed the control yolk to the left with the carbon scarred hull of the Bristol coming into view.

  The gunboat’s elongated rugby ball hull looked impossibly distant with a thickening haze trailing from her three flaring engines as she crawled through a ponderous turn to starboard. Three bursts of white steam erupted from behind the stumpy sensor tower to arc over her rear, with the vaporous tendrils reaching toward them until the interceptor missiles flashed past at insane velocities.

  A repetitive beep beep beep came from the instrument panel, “Here they come!” The pilot yanked back on the control yolk and the operations officer screamed as the boat suddenly arced up, spun to arc back the way it came, with the interceptor exhaust washing over their hull as the pilot commenced evading what pursued them.

  Then Stavener saw them. Undulating streams of golden orange sparks that sprayed from behind and appeared to be seeking them out like someone chasing a cat with a water jet. It took him several seconds to realise they were heavy calibre rounds from the pursuing bandit ships, but when he did he almost screamed again.

  The beep beep of incoming fire was constant now with the boat bucking and lurching as they spiralled, arced and jinked to avoid the pursuing fire and stay close to the path of the Bristol’s streaming missiles and blue white meteors spitting from her two functioning rear turrets.

  “Those class twos are bloody quick!” The pilot turned a dial and then palmed it in. Balls of manmade sunlight lit up the smoking missile trails as streams of flares spat from the launch in an attempt to foil the pursuing missiles. Many of which spiralled on their approach to the lumbering Bristol, some to be detonated by the hunting streams of Phallanx fire, others to become mini-supernovas on finding her hull.

  A heavy gravel Tak came from Stavener’s side of the ship when something struck the hull. The pilot grimaced, stabbing at switches as a Christmas tree of fault indicators li
t up the console and more alarms blared.

  The shuttle was shaking so hard that Stavener could barely see, and he wondered how in hell the pilot could make out where he was going when a dark form to their right caught his eye. The Brunel spun and danced through angel wings of ejected flares, and Stavener cried out when a flak round detonated on-top of the co-pilot’s window with the Brunel corkscrewing out of view.

  The mine cart ride all became a little too much for the operations officer who felt as if he were on some form of hallucinogenic trip with alarms, flashing lights and stars bursting all around them as they spun down the rabbit hole. The twinkling form of the Bristol transformed into a plump maggot, with her podgy segmented body arching and stretching cartoonishly as she crawled further and further away with his every drawn out blink, and then things got a whole lot worse.

  “ - so be ready!” The pilot cried as he fought with the controls to keep the boat within the solution.

  Stavener stared at the distant gunship. He had been so far into his reverie that he had missed what the pilot had said, but he obviously needed to be ready for something. The operation’s officer’s face creased as he carefully composed a query that would get him the required information without his looking ignorant, “What?”

  The pilot gave him a frustrated grimace, “We’re about to transition to the Bristol’s secondary solution.” The grimace melted away to be replaced by the same wry look as before, “It may get bumpy.”

  Every one of the Bristol’s rear defence pods lit up with her hull disappearing behind a curtain of explosions that swallowed the launch like a fiery thunderhead as it transitioned into the secondary grenade solution.

  Stavener curled into a ball, hands clasped over his ears and cries lost to the roaring hailstorm of shrapnel battering the hull as the launch shuddered and bucked as if caught in a rock slide. The hits were coming fast now and he lost count of the spider web cracks in the armoured front screen, but then they were through with the Hadian curtain terminating as abruptly as it had started.