"Yes, sir."
"I want you to implement it." Turning to Jarolic, he yelled over the intense noise in the bay. "Think you can find this section eighty-five?"
"Sure," answered the environmentalist with a determined grin. "It's aft, right?"
"That's what the captain said." Turning back to the officer, Hawkes grabbed a hand-link out of the console, shoved it into his sash, and then shouted, "We're going to try and release the water. We'll let you know when we're ready. It'll be up to you to get the rest done."
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the young lieutenant. Reaching under the console for a thick wrenching tool, he said, "We'll handle this scum."
Hawkes then turned to Martel. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he sucked in a deep breath, then reached out to push a strand of her dark hair away from her eyes. Giving her a smile, he squeezed her shoulder, then said, "Care to cover our escape, deadeye?"
"Certainly," she answered. Pulling the automatic she had used earlier to save the ambassador's life, she chambered a round and asked, "Would you say things have gotten past the tiff stage yet?"
Another explosion went off, sending three bodies flying through the air. Their wounds were so severe it was impossible to tell which side they had been on. His eyes following the grim sight, Hawkes answered grimly, "Yes. I think they have."
The ambassador turned to Jarolic, who only gave him a curt nod. Hawkes returned it. He looked from the environmentalist to his aide, then said, "Let's go."
All three stood up at the same time. The others who had been next to them on the floor immediately slid into their safer position behind the console. Hawkes and Jarolic ducked low, squinted through the rolling smoke, and then broke in the direction of the rear exit.
Martel held her automatic ready, sighting along the barrel, skipping from target to target, watching only for those of the enemy who might notice the ambassador. Then, after Hawkes and his companion had disappeared from sight, she started over again . . . this time pulling the trigger.
THE FIRST THING HAWKES NOTICED AS THE EXIT DOOR
sealed behind him and Jarolic was the silence. Since the attack had started, the noise in every part of the ship had escalated with every passing minute. The aft access passages seemed completely quiet, however.
Hawkes was grateful for the respite, but its totality made Jarolic suspicious. As the two men worked their way down the pipe-filled hall, the environmentalist whispered, "Ambassador, can you hear me?"
"What?" asked Hawkes, his voice slightly louder. Not quite able to understand what the ambassador had said, Jarolic repeated his question, speaking even louder than Hawkes. It took them another round before the environmentalist's fears became apparent to Hawkes.
"All the explosions—the fighting and shooting," Jarolic explained in a louder voice. "It's deafened us. We think it's quiet, but it's not. Not this quiet. If we're not careful we're liable to walk right into some of the enemy, or let them sneak up on us."
"Point taken," agreed the ambassador. "You keep an eye on where we're going. I'll watch where we've been."
Jarolic smiled and nodded sharply. Exercising greater caution, the pair returned to making their way to their destination. Each tried to keep moving as fast as possible. Both men were aware that every minute they wasted brought more death to the rest of their shipmates.
How many have died already? wondered Hawkes. He had already seen the captain die, and his aide Dordman— both good men.
Just like Wagner.
The ambassador thought of his last sight of the big marine, holding the invaders back so that he and Martel would have time to escape. Another loyal innocent killed by an unknown enemy.
Just like Dizzy.
Hawkes could feel himself going cold inside. Too much suffering. Too many dead.
For what? For whom? What the hell is at stake here that people are willing to go to these lengths—to spend this kind of money?
The ambassador rolled it all over in his head. Buying off Stine, sending in the mercenaries who had attacked his ranch . . . now a full ship-to-ship battle in deep space. And those were only the things he was aware of.
Someone is pouring money out by the truckload. Why? What are they after? And what in hell do I have to do with it?
"We're here."
Hawkes turned at the sound of Jarolic's voice. He noted the large 85 painted on the metal wall ahead of him and nodded. The ambassador was struck by the large black number. He remembered his days in the service, when the "innovators" had tried to replace such things with digital readouts, voice boxes, and a hundred and one other technological enhancements. It had not taken long to prove to everyone involved that spending money as an end in itself was not a good thing, and that gimmicks did not necessarily mean progress.
Jarolic led the way inside the water-containment area. The ambassador asked him, "Does this type of system look familiar to you?"
"It will if I can find a dump release," answered the environmentalist as he eyed the machinery before him. "Or at least a semblance of a feeder-rejection series."
"Well, then," said Hawkes, slumping back against a wall, "I'd keep looking."
The ambassador let Jarolic move off into the room. His line of work gave him a chance to find what they needed and get their job done. Hawkes's plan at that point was simply to stay out of his way and try to catch his breath.
The pair had been lucky not to run into any more pirates on the way. Both men were tired and more than a little nervous. Both would have been willing to admit that armed combat was not their preferred line of work. They were out of their league and they knew it. The ambassador shut his eyes and mopped at his brow as he thought, We've been awfully lucky so far.
He felt the throbbing in his sword arm. It had been a
