communication dangerous. So Dent gave Vanderveen a thumbs-up as the FSO positioned her UV on the opposite side of the cable from his unit and made use of a C-shaped grasper to grab hold of the tightly braided fi?ber. Then, with both of them working in concert, it was possible to take the cable in tow. And what would have been diffi?cult on Jericho’s surface was relatively easy in space. The fi?ber came off the reel smoothly, and the UVs were closing with the beacon, when Tragg heard a buzzing sound. His eyes fl?icked to the screen on his right, and that was when he saw icon 2,436,271 emerge from behind the far side of the glowing planet, and shouted a warning. “Watch out! Incoming debris!”
But the fi?st-sized chunk of hull metal was traveling at roughly twenty-fi?ve-thousand miles per hour, which meant Dent was still processing the overseer’s words when the piece of jagged steel passed through his armor, left biceps, chest cavity, and the right arm of his space suit. It missed Vanderveen by less than six inches before continuing on its way.
But the catastrophe wasn’t over. The dead bosun’s mate’s body was still strapped in place, and his right hand continued to clutch the UV’s joystick. Which, because it was jammed forward, caused Dent’s unit to not only race out of control but drag both Vanderveen and the cable along with it.
And that was a signifi?cant problem since once all ten miles of fi?ber came off the reel, it would be a bitch to retrieve. It was something the Ramanthians might very well blame on Tragg if he failed to stop it. So the mercenary fl?ipped a red cover up out of the way, grabbed hold of the Ramanthian-style squeeze bulb, and did his best to crush it. Gas jets blew the little spacecraft free of its mother ship, and the human had to react quickly in order to guide the pod up over the cable reels in front of him. “Hang on to that cable!” the renegade ordered grimly. “Or you’ll wish you had.”
Vanderveen heard the threat, knew she was pulling too much cable off the reel, and struggled to regain control. But that was impossible so long as Dent’s unit continued to run amok. So the diplomat decided to free her suit from the UV, make her way over the top of the cable, and shut the other unit down. The problem was that if she were to lose her grip, both UV’s would continue on their way, leaving her to drift. Would Tragg send someone to fetch her? No, that was unlikely, so any misstep could be her last. Once free of the UV, the fi?rst step was to pull herself out over the cable toward what remained of Dent and his space suit. The gloves felt stiff and clumsy as the POW pulled herself across, secured a grip on the petty offi?cer’s right arm, and gave a tentative tug. Dent’s hand came free of the joystick, his nearly severed arm doubled back on itself, and made a grisly bobbing motion in response to Vanderveen’s movements.
The moment Dent’s hand came off the joystick the UV’s propulsion system shut itself down, causing the unit to coast. However, the crises wasn’t over so long as cable continued to come off the reel. That meant the FSO had to pull herself back to her own UV and strap in before she could regain control. Something she had just managed to accomplish when Tragg’s pod arrived on the scene. “Grab my tow point with your right grasper,” the renegade instructed. “And I’ll pull both you and the cable back to the beacon.”
The FSO did as she was told. The ensuing ride gave Vanderveen a moment to grieve for Dent, marvel at the fact that she was still alive, and gaze at the planet below. Jericho was quite beautiful, which, given the likelihood that she would be buried on it, offered the diplomat a strange sense of comfort.
11.
You cannot run faster than a bullet.
ABOARD THE FREIGHTER
The Solar Eclipse hummed to herself as she passed through hyperspace and entered Ramanthian-held territory. Thanks to intelligence received from agent Oliver Batkin, General Booly and his staff knew Thraki merchant vessels were used to bring much-needed supplies to Jericho, thereby freeing the Ramanthian navy to use its assets elsewhere. Which was why Chien-Chu Enterprises purchased a Thraki-built ship on behalf of the Confederacy and crewed it with Thraki mercenaries for the trip to Jericho. Where, if everything went as planned, Team Zebra would land undetected. Unfortunately, that meant living and working aboard a vessel designed for beings who averaged fi?ve feet in height, which explained why Santana’s knees wouldn’t fi?t under the fold-down desk. But if there was a shortage of space, there was no shortage of work, a great deal of which had been generated by Major DeCosta. A man who, in addition to his overbearing religiosity, loved to produce plans for every possible contingency. All these plans had to be written, edited, and rewritten to the offi?cer’s often arbitrary standards before being electronically fi?led. And, because much of this work fell to the XO, Santana was cooped up in his tiny cabin, plowing through the latest iteration of crap, when someone rapped on the metal next to the open hatch. It was a welcome diversion— and the offi?cer turned to see who it was. Maria Gomez came to attention, or was in the process of doing so, when Santana said, “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat on my bunk, couch, and worktable.”
The surface of the neatly made fi?ve-and-a-half-footlong bunk was covered with printouts, aerial photos of Jericho, and pieces of standard-issue gear that Santana planned to modify prior to landing. The noncom made a space for herself and sat down. It was her opinion that Santana looked tired, which was troublesome, because if there was any hope for Team Zebra, it lay with him. Given her feelings for Santana, Gomez wanted to take the offi?cer in her arms and comfort him. But that was impossible, and rather than make Santana’s life easier as she wished to, the noncom knew she was about to make it more diffi?cult.
“So,” Santana said facetiously. “I hope this isn’t about the chow—because it isn’t going to get any better.”
“No, sir. It’s not about the food,” Gomez answered seriously.
The noncom was pretty in a no-frills sort of way. A fact Santana had been aware of all along but never allowed himself to think about. Because offi?cers weren’t allowed to fraternize with enlisted people, especially those in their own chain of command, no matter how pretty their big brown eyes might be. “Okay,” Santana responded. “If it isn’t about the chow, then what’s up?”
Gomez looked him in the eye. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Santana felt a sudden sense of foreboding. “Permission granted.”
“It’s about the major, sir,” Gomez said gravely. “I think he’s crazy.”
DeCosta was annoying, not to mention eccentric, but crazy? No, Santana hadn’t seen any evidence of that.
