Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck
by L. S. King
appearing in Ray Gun Revival
"Suicide Run, part one"
Now away from Medan, the ship was recharging for the next jump while Tristan and Carter discussed strategies in the lounge. Slap checked for the last of the stew and sighed to find it gone. Both men had said they weren't interested in it; one of them must have changed his mind. He filled his coffee cup and slipped into a seat, the expressions on his two companions' faces making his stomach tighten. What had he gotten them into?
"The one thing that bothers me," Carter said, waving at the data display, "is that procedures tend to change over time. I'm not sure if the carrier will be in a geo-stationary orbit, or patrolling the sentry turrets. Either way, getting off-planet is tricky."
Tristan pointed a finger at the image of the carrier. "Then we need contingencies for getting safely away from the planet regardless of where that carrier is located, not to mention, what we do if we're discovered and attacked while offloading cargo."
"If the carrier detects us—on ground, or lifting off afterwards, we won't have much time."
"Is there a way to take out the carrier first?" Slap asked. "Before we land?"
"The carrier—and all her fighters?" Carter pursed his lips with a woeful wag of his head. "Like the captain said before, we can't outfight them—we have to outsmart them." His eyes began to gleam, and he stared off into space. When Carter got that look, his mind was twisting into craziness. Slap held his breath, and Tristan pinched his lips with his fingers, watching the engineer.
Finally, Carter muttered, "You know, if we have scattershot MITEs as well as the MIRVs it might create more confusion. And if some are actually torpedoes—that are remotely activate-able...and self-targeting on Confederation capship signatures—"
Tristan's eyebrows rose. "That's not a bad idea."
Slap wrinkled his nose, tired of feeling stupid. "Huh? What's a MITE?"
"Multiple Independently Targetable Explosive," Tristan said absently. "Similar to a MIRV but only meant to play hell in space. Not capable of re-entry."
Carter nodded and continued as if never interrupted, "—then when we're detected, we can activate the torpedoes—blam! I doubt we'd toast the carrier, but she wouldn't be in good shape. We'd have the fighters on us, but I think we'd be able to make jump-point easily since this girl has a military drive. The real thing we'd have to worry about is reinforcements. Probably a battle fleet at the minimum."
"The only thing we'd have to worry about?" Slap interjected.
"Which," Carter continued, lifting his shoulders, "will only be a problem when we go back to take a second bite out of our elephant."
Slap stared at Carter in disbelief. Could he really dismiss a battle fleet with a simple shrug?
Tristan sniffed. "We need to concentrate on how fast we can unload that cargo. The bay is full. Even if all three of us are working on it, I can't see being done sooner than an hour. That's a long time to be sitting on the ground, vulnerable."
"If our signature is masked, and we're not powered, we shouldn't be detected."
Tristan inhaled deeply, shaking his head. He didn't seem convinced. "Shouldn't being the operative word." He drained his coffee cup and stood. "We need to get moving. Carter, compile a list of anything you need for your torpedo plan and order those items, so we can load and leave Cassiopeia Station as quickly as possible."
"Yes, Sir."
Slap stood, slowly, eyeing Tristan as his buddy left the lounge, looking worried. Slap had never seen Tristan disconcerted. Battle fleet? Brago's Bands!
#
Slap found Carter—no surprise—in engineering, a huge stack of something piled on the bench in front of him.
"What are you doing?"
"Reprogramming transponders."
"Is that hard?"
"Piece of pie. For me, anyway." Carter's grin flashed then he bent over his work again.
"Oh, that reminds me. Did you eat that last piece of apple pie? I don't mind," Slap added hastily, "I just wondered cuz it's gone."
"No. Maybe Tristan did."
Slap shrugged. Tristan hadn't wanted it, and wasn't one to snack much anyway. He hesitated and brought his mind back to the reason he'd wanted to talk to the engineer. "Uh, Carter? Is it really going to be that bad? I mean, Tristan looks worried. I'm not used to seeing him worried."
Carter's head tipped to the side, and he squinted up at Slap. "Honestly? No. It'll not be a piece of pie. But...it just might be survivable."
"What...um, what makes you say we 'might' survive?"
"Well..." The engineer wiped his hands on the pants of his jumpsuit. "I didn't think we'd survive landing on Eridani, much less actually finding you, and getting off the planet. And we did. So..." He shrugged. "You never know."
Slap just stood, watching Carter's silver-blond hair as he hunched again over the bench.
After a few moments, he threaded his way through the packed cargo bay to the ladder and ascended. He entered the galley and crossed to the counter, then absently poured himself a cup of coffee. What had he gotten them into?
#
Tristan strode toward the bridge, Slap on his heels, and Carter trailing them both. The engineer had gotten all the components and equipment he needed from Cassiopeia Station; now it was time to leave for their hopefully-not-final destination.
"Sure is quiet without Addie aboard," the cowboy said.
"She was bad news." The door slid open, and Tristan settled into the pilot's chair, beginning his pre-flight check. "All women are."
Carter chuckled. "Are you a misogynist?"
"No, I'm a misanthrope." Tristan twisted to look at the engineer. "Carter, this is your last chance."
The Adam's apple bobbed in Carter's throat, bespeaking his anxiety, despite his grin. "I'm going, Captain."
Slap jerked a thumb at the co-pilot's chair. "You want to sit here? It ain't like I can do anything really useful."
Carter shook his head. "I'll go below." His smile grew sad, and he added, "You're a praying man, aren't you, Slap? Say some prayers for us."
Tristan snorted and returned his attention back to checking systems.
Slap shook his head. "The Zendians have tried to turn me into one. I'm still struggling with their teachings, though."
"'Angels and ministers of grace defend us,'" Tristan murmured.
At the silence, he turned to see both men staring at him with dumfounded expressions. He shot back, "Shakespeare!"
"Who?" Slap asked, while Carter nodded and replied, "Ah."
Tristan shook his head. "I will have to introduce you to the Bard of Avon," he said to the cowboy.
"That I want to see," Carter quipped, backing out the door. It slid shut before Tristan could retort.
"The Bard of who?" Slap asked, strapping in.
"The Bard of Avon." Tristan opened the comm to request permission to depart, then he continued, "Shakespeare—a great writer from ancient earth. His plays are still popular on many worlds"—his eyes flicked to Slap—"where there is still a reverence for our history and for culture."
Giselle departed Cassiopeia Station without fanfare. The stone lodged in Tristan's gut wouldn't move, however. If anything, it grew heavier. How had he gained such a reputation for the impossible that Slap, the Medani queen—and yes, even Carter—had such confidence in him?
#
Slap wandered into the lounge and out again to the galley, feeling useless. Carter continued doing whatever it was he did below, while Tristan worked either on the bridge or in his cabin. Carter ate a sandwich when Slap finally took it down to him; Tristan waved off food, although he made and carried a cup of tea away with him not long ago.
A snack might ease Slap's anxiousness. He leaned down to grab an apple from a bin, but a scratching noise in the corner closet stopped him. Can't be a rat—a flashback to the first time he'd been on Bertha, and heard a similar noise cut off his thoughts. Oh, no! It can't be!
He snatched the door open and groaned. Before Addie could say a word, he hauled her to her feet and slapped a hand across her mouth before she could start jabbering. He hissed softly, "You stupid kid! What are you doing—never mind! Hush! Get to your cabin! If Tristan finds you aboard, he'll space you, and I ain't jobbin'!" He dragged her to the door of her cabin, hit the switch to open the door, and tossed her inside.
"You can't order—"
Slap pounded the switch, and as the shut the door behind him, he said, "I can too! And you'd better listen, cuz I ain't playing! Shut up! You stay in here—don't you dare leave this cabin!"
"I have to if I want to use the bathroom!"
Her defiant look made him want to spank her. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "The head is almost right outside the door. That's as far as you go! I'll sneak you meals. You understand? You—stay—here!" Slap jammed his fingers in his hair, realized he was copying one of Tristan's habits, and dropped his arms. "If we survive this mission, which is doubtful, then we can worry about you surviving when Tristan finds out you stowed away."
"Survive what mission?"
Slap stuck his fists on his hips. "We told you we were going on a dangerous mission. Didn't you listen?"
"Yeah, but I thought you just wanted to get rid of me."
Slap scowled and bit back some colorful cussing that would have made his pa tan his backside once upon a time. "Did you think this was a game? You ain't got the sense God gave a floppy-eared mule, girl! Stay in here and shut up. You understand?"
"But—"
He leaned over Addie, gritting his teeth. "Do—you—understand?"
She blinked and took a step back. "Yes."
Hoping she really did, and would obey, he nodded and backed out of her cabin. As the door slid shut, he closed his eyes and moaned to himself. Great. Just what we need...
#
"Is our signal masked, and Giselle's beacon disabled?"
"Yes, Sir, and I've kept a warhead transponder on board so they think we're just that."
"All right..."
"Capacitors at full..."
"Opening jump point." Tristan's hands danced over the controls.
"Slow in...we only want to accelerate a little as we drop the mines and torpedoes mid-jump."
"Carter, I know my job."
"Sorry, Sir....missile separation successful...jump point closed."
"We're on target, hurtling toward the planet."
"You'll need to dead-stick her for re-entry, powering the engines would alert them to us."
"Carter..." Tristan's voice held a warning.
"Sorry, Sir, just nervous."
Slap clenched the arms of the co-pilot's chair, staring into the near dark. Only the emergency lights in the bulkheads provided any illumination. They had minimal power, to help slip by undetected. He hoped this worked. If they could pass as one of the MITEs or MIRVs or whatever Carter was using, and be ignored, they could get down to the planet unnoticed. But if it didn't work, if masking their ship's signature failed, if someone noticed the one of the mini-missiles didn't burn up in the atmosphere, or tracked them and realized the MITE had a re-entry approach—Slap closed his eyes, not wanting to think about the possibilities.
Actually, it wouldn't be that bad an ending; it'd be quick. Better than his two near-endings: at Lyssel's hands and on Eridani. Slap's grip loosened a bit. His mind wandered to Addie, and his hold tightened again. Stupid girl. Tristan and Carter's running commentary sidetracked his silent grumbling over her. Whether they really needed to communicate verbally or were trying to ease each other's minds by telling each other what they were doing—or perhaps for Slap's benefit?—he didn't know. But it did help a little, he thought.
"Re-entry approach has a burn-up trajectory," Carter muttered.
"I know. Too early to engage maneuvering thrusters."
"Yes, Sir."
Slap watched Tristan watch the displays, the man's slender fingers posed over the controls, his face calm, eyes intent. Did Tristan's heart pound at times like this, like Slap's, or was he really as cool as he appeared?
"Orienting for re-entry," Tristan said after about fifteen minutes.
"Use a very subtle pulse," Carter said.
Tristan's jaw muscles jumped, and his voice sounded terse as he replied, "Thrusters pulsing at point zero zero five second increments to adjust to powerless re-entry sequence."
"Sorry, Sir," Carter repeated. "I'll shut up."
And he did. Slap wasn't certain if the silence was worse than Carter's babble, but Tristan seemed to enjoy the quiet. Since at this moment, his piloting was essential, making him happy was all that was important. Twenty, slow, agonizing minutes passed. Finally, Tristan said, "Giselle has reached atmosphere boundary. Beginning deorbit burn."
That sounded like something tricky and dangerous, but Slap didn't want to ask. Why hadn't he just stayed in his cabin so he could pace? This was killing him!
In a couple of minutes, Tristan said, "Deorbit burn completed."
Slap let out his breath loudly, earning a quick glare from his friend.
Bertha bumped and thumped—not much, but the inertial dampers usually kept things steady, so the jarring feeling unnerved Slap. He glanced at the display in front of him and bit back a yelp. It looked like they were plummeting out of control!
"The thrusters are stabilizing us," Tristan murmured, his gaze never leaving his own display, as his hands deftly moved over the controls.
"Which means we're gliding downward—like a brick," came Carter's voice, tinged with humor.
"We'll deploy the wings when we're ready to engage the engines."
"Why then? Won't they help us out now?" The display of Bertha falling had Slap's stomach crowding his throat.
"They'll burn off if we extend them any sooner," Carter said.
"So when will we be using the engines?" Slap asked, his fingers tightening on the armrests again.
"When we have to. The longer we hold off, the better the chance of going undetected."
"Lower stratosphere at the earliest, upper troposphere at the latest," Carter added.
Slap nodded to the air, watching them fall, refusing to give in to the urge to bite his nails. Tristan knew what he was doing...
The ground grew closer and closer, and although Slap knew the reality of their distance to splatting was huge, he still found himself fighting to keep from clawing the armrests.
Finally, he heard the thunking of the wings extending, and Tristan announced, "Powering up engines."
Slap relaxed, feeling like a puddle in his seat.
"Carter, are you listening?"
"Yes, Sir. Nothing. If they have any interest in our little event, it’s in salvaging the MITEs, not in what headed for the atmosphere."
"When we set down, you take the gravlift, Slap, and use the starboard hatch to begin unloading. Carter and I can use the pallet jacks."
Slap leaned forward, twisting a bit as he met Tristan's eyes. "Let Carter use the 'lift. I can muscle more'n he can and move those jacks apace."
"That's a fact, Captain," Carter said.
"All right. Keep that bug in your ear the whole time, Carter. If you hear one whisper on a Confed channel, we're taking off—dive into the cargo bay if you're outside, don't stop to bring the jacks or 'lift back in. I won't wait. We can't be caught on the ground."
"How long you think it will take?" Slap asked. Normally, it would take several hours for them to offload this much cargo; they didn't have half that much time.
"I'm hoping in less than an hour. If we can offload and lift off undetected, I can send Her Majesty's message to the three colonies to converge and distribute the supplies."
"If not?"
Tristan shrugged. "Then we play the hand we're dealt."
#
Tristan spared a glance at Slap. Despite the chill of early spring, sweat poured off the cowboy as he leaned into the pallet jack. The motor whined in protest, and it bobbled as he steered it. He did manage to work faster than both of them, even with worried glimpses at Carter.
The engineer hadn't said word, and twice shook his head no when Tristan met his eyes. So far so good. Tristan peered again around the clearing, not trusting their luck. Was it too much to ask for them to offload and leave without being seen?
Slap hoisted the last of the pallets on the 'lift, and Carter maneuvered it down the ramp, the cowboy following with an anxious expression, as if he could hurry Carter by staring holes in the vehicle. As the 'lift deposited the last load onto the grass, Slap whooped. Carter grinned and turned the gravlift to bring it back up into the bay.
Dozens of men stood or stepped forward from the dense foliage surrounding the clearing, rifles aimed at them. Carter stopped the 'lift, face blanching, and Slap gaped.
Tristan froze, his stomach turning to stone. He noted that only some of the men were in Confederation uniforms. What—?
One man stepped forward, light brown hair greying, his tailored suit at odds with this bucolic environment. A jolt of familiarity struck Tristan when the man sneered; Reggie had not aged well. "Well, it has been too long, Gaston," his old partner murmured, his voice as cultured, as silky as ever. "Our mutual friend will be so happy to be reacquainted with you."
I'll bet he will be. "Still doing Dray's dirty work, Reggie?"
"Monsieur Lefevre is still my employer, yes."
A Confed officer walked over to Reggie, who gave him a cold smile. "Thank you, Commander. My employer will be very pleased with your cooperation."
"And mine with yours, Mr. Granger." He gestured and three soldiers stepped forward, sights on Carter, still seated in the 'lift. "You are free to leave whenever you wish."
Reggie inclined his head and turned to Tristan, his eyes glinting with feral joy. "I cannot wait to witness your reunion with our mentor. He's been looking forward to it for so long."
continue to "Suicide Run, part two"
© 2006 - 2010 L. S. King