about. “You will have the advantage of surprise the first time you fire. But not the second.”
Of course, if Durkee waited too long and the sub got under way, the opportunity to destroy it would disappear. So a compromise was in order. And, because the target was currently broadside to him, Durkee decided to go for it.
He paused, brought his missile launchers online, and “felt” them deploy from recesses located along the top surface of his hull. Then, as the ready lights appeared, he fired. There was an explosion of bubbles as the missiles sped away. Durkee “heard” a tone and felt a momentary sense of jubilation as the weapons locked onto their target. But that emotion was snatched away as the sub began to turn toward him. The chits knew! They had been a little slow on the uptake, just as Rona-Sa predicted they would be, but they were reacting now.
The cyborg swore as the sub fired a salvo of minitorps from side-mounted tubes. The underwater flares exploded, forcing the guidance systems in Durkee’s missiles to choose between the original heat source and new ones. One of his weapons fell for the ruse and veered away. The other hit the sub and exploded. But it was still in the process of turning. So even though some damage had been done, the Ramanthian ship remained operational.
That was too bad. So was the fact that the sub was equipped with torpedo tubes in addition to deck guns. Durkee’s onboard computer had a tendency to belabor the obvious. “Two enemy torpedoes have been fired and are running. Estimated time to impact is thirty-two seconds. Thirty-one… Thirty… Twenty-nine…”
Despite the fact that Durkee’s war form could operate underwater, it hadn’t been designed to battle submarines and had no defense against incoming torpedoes other than the thickness of its hull. So all Durkee could do was fire another salvo of missiles in hopes of scoring a lucky hit. Meanwhile, he was backing around the sunken barge in an attempt to take shelter behind it. The strategy worked to some extent as one of the Ramanthian torpedoes hit the wreck and exploded.
Durkee’s brain registered the momentary flash of light and “felt” the resulting concussion. But his senses were immediately overwhelmed by a searing pain as the second torpedo struck his right foreleg and blew it off.
Durkee knew that when his war form took a hit, the onboard computer was programmed to provide him with negative feedback by stimulating his thalmus and somatosensory cortex. The idea was to force cyborgs to protect their extremely expensive bodies. The fact that it was artificial didn’t make the pain any less excruciating, however.
What happened next was more a matter of instinct than logic. Even though Durkee had lost a leg, he could still move, albeit not very gracefully. Alarms battled for his attention, and the stump flailed wildly as Durkee ordered his body forward. One of the follow-up missiles had scored a hit. And there was a momentary lag as the Ramanthians reacted to the blow. Precious seconds during which Durkee was determined to close with the sub and get directly beneath it. Because once in place, it would be impossible for the bugs to fire on him without endangering themselves as well.
Mud dislodged by Durkee’s foot pods rose to cloud the water, a dark ribbon of bloodlike hydraulic fluid trailed away from his stump, and there was a terrifying thud as a Ramanthian torpedo hit the quad. But, rather than going off, the weapon simply fell away. That raised the possibility that Durkee had entered the zone where an explosion would threaten the sub, a theory reinforced by the fact that the cyborg was “looking” up at the enemy vessel by that time.
The realization that he was safe, for the moment at least, was followed by an overriding question: How could he destroy the sub? At close range, his missiles were just as impotent as the Ramanthian torpedoes were. Then, like a bolt out of the blue, the answer came to him. Durkee blew his tanks. And as a large quantity of water was forced out of the war form’s hull, it shot upwards. Durkee shut his eyes, or tried to, and waited to die.
Santana was worried. And for good reason. He was standing on the seawall out in front of Colonel Antov’s home. The Ramanthian submarine shuddered, as if it had been hit from below, but continued to shell the north side of the bay. Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed since Private Durkee had entered the water. And rather than the quick kill that he had envisioned, a protracted battle was under way. Now, with the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight, Santana knew it had been foolish to pit an inexperienced legionnaire against a Ramanthian submarine.
One aspect of the plan had gone well, however. True to his prediction, the sub’s commander had turned both of his guns on the north side of the bay in an attempt to suppress the fire coming from that direction. But he couldn’t let that continue for much longer. Not if there was to be any hope of bringing Temo’s O-Chi Scouts back into the Confederate fold. Plus, there was the matter of civilian casualties to consider. So he was about to recommend that all of Antov’s forces including the TACBASE open fire when something unexpected occurred.
As Santana and hundreds of others looked on, something struck the Ramanthian ship from below and lifted it out of the water. The submarine seemed to hang there for a moment, as if suspended in time, before breaking open and spilling some of its contents into the swirling sea. A terrible groan was heard as the metal hull was torn apart, and both halves of the submersible took a final dive. Onlookers caught a brief glimpse of a boxy hull before it, too, slid beneath the waves.
“Damn,” Antov said from a couple of feet away. “What was that?”
“ That was a quad,” Santana replied as he lowered a pair of binos.
“Really? How many did you send?”
“One.”
Antov looked incredulous. “Only one?”
“There was one submarine.”
Antov laughed. “What now?”
“We’ll regroup,” Santana replied. “And get some rest. Then, first thing in the morning, I’ll pay Major Temo a visit.”
The night passed without incident. Santana’s alarm went off at 0400. After a shave, a shower, and some of the O-Chi caf that Antov had provided, Santana was ready to face another day. Captain Zarrella was already in the process of inspecting the first platoon as he made his way across the base to visit Durkee.
Having returned home under his own power, the quad had been able to back into his parking bay and successfully reintegrate himself with the fortress on top of Signal Hill. A damage assessment had been carried out, and the results weren’t good. There was no way to recover, much less repair, the missing leg-and the TACBASE was too small to carry a full array of spares. A significant amount of damage had been sustained when the cyborg surfaced under the submarine as well. So rather than hand the job off to Zarrella, Santana had assigned himself the task of delivering the news.
Durkee’s cargo bay was open. Santana entered, went over to the fold-down seat intended for use by the quad’s platoon leader, and sat down. After pulling a headset on, he spoke. “Private Durkee? This is Major Santana… Do you read me?”
There was a slight hesitation, as if Durkee had been caught unawares or was worried about getting in trouble. “Sir? Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll get right to the point. First, you did a damned good job yesterday, and I was very impressed. So was Captain Rona-Sa. And he doesn’t impress easily.”
Durkee sounded relieved. “Thank you, sir.”
“Second, I’m promoting you to corporal effective today, and I’m putting you in for a DSM. Of course, the approval process takes time-so you may be forty by the time you actually get it. That’s the good news.
“The bad news is that we can’t repair your leg. So, rather than accompany us on the mission, I’ll have to leave you here. But I understand the bugs come by to shoot the place up every now and then, so stay sharp. I’m counting on you to protect the TACBASE and the local civilians.”
Durkee was both surprised and pleased that Santana would come to visit him. And put him in for a medal. His mother would be proud.
As for the leg, and limited duty, well that was something of a mixed bag. Durkee didn’t know them very well as yet, but he still felt a sense of kinship with the other legionnaires and wanted to accompany them. Still, he had a bad feeling regarding the mission and knew he’d be safer in Baynor’s Bay. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do my
