Wing Commander #07 False Color William Forstchen (top 10 books to read .txt) 📖

Bondarevsky crouched behind a bank of instruments, uncomfortable in full space armor. With his helmet set to infra-red imaging to compensate for the dim lighting of the flight deck, he was starting to get a headache. And the waiting was starting to get to him. He wondered how the marines could bear it. This was nothing like being in the cockpit of a fighter on the way into battle . . . or even holding down the command chair on the bridge. There you had enough to do to keep you from having to think about what was coming. All he could do now was hunker down and try to keep from worrying.

The Kilrathi shuttle passed slowly through the airlock force field and stooped in for a landing on the flight deck. It was an older design than those used aboard the Mjollnir, somewhat smaller but standing high on landing gear that gave plenty of clearance for the loading ramp that opened from its belly. The design allowed for savings in space aboard cramped ships like the escort, where the ventral ramp would open up into an airlock through the outer hull of the escort when the shuttle was secured to its piggyback position aft of the bridge.

Bondarevsky could almost feel the intensity of the emotion on the flight deck now. He wondered what they were thinking aboard the shuttle. With no Kilrathi in sight to greet them, they were probably getting edgy. He gave a hand signal that he knew Sparks could see from the windows of Primary Flight Control overlooking the flight deck. They had planned for the contingency of boarders, and the sequence had been rehearsed, but Bondarevsky's heart still beat a little faster, knowing that this time it was for real.

If all was going according to plan, the carrier was now broadcasting on the same frequency they'd picked up from the shuttle on its way across, a panicky broadcast as if from the CSTCC claiming the shuttle was in trouble on final approach. There was a localized jamming field here on the flight deck, though, to keep the Cats from realizing they were featuring in an imaginative drama playing for the benefit of their suspicious friends. The Kilrathi communications expert, Dahl, would be playing his role to the hilt. The tough old peasant had seemed to enjoy the notion of putting one over on the aristocracy when he'd helped them hatch the scheme during a council of war at Oecumene.

The ventral ramp opened slowly, and a pair of Kilrathi in armor came cautiously down. After a moment they were joined by more. It looked as if there was entire squad of assault troops there, plus a single Cat in the cockpit of the shuttle. With the troopers beginning to fan out, and no more in evidence, Bondarevsky gave a second hand-signal for Sparks.

In an instant, the silent, darkened environment of the flight deck changed dramatically. The lights came up to full intensity, a siren began hooting an urgent warning, and the artificial gravity cut off.

Then the airlock force field cut off, and a wind like a sudden, unexpected tornado swept through the long, tunnel-like flight deck.

The Kilrathi troops, armored and trained for work in space, were in no actual danger from any of it, but the sudden combination of distractions was enough to confuse them for a few crucial seconds. Unable to see clearly, and instinctively clutching to save themselves as they were blown free from the deck in sudden zero-g by a torrent of escaping air that threatened to carry them into the vacuum of space, none of them was in any position to think of anything beyond the immediate crisis. Even the pilot in the shuttle was caught by surprise, rushing to help his friends.

Colonel Bhaktadil's marines, on the other hand, were braced and ready.

They had been posted in the shadowy corners of the flight deck, wearing full space armor and magnetic clamps that secured them into position. Like Bondarevsky, they had set their helmet vision aids to infrared, so the sudden change in lighting didn't bother them. And, most importantly, they knew what was coming. Neither the rush of air nor the loud blare of the siren disoriented them for an instant. Instead they opened fire with low-power lasers, and sixteen Kilrathi troopers were cut down almost as one. A sniper took out the pilot as he hesitated for an instant at the top of the ramp. It was over almost before it had started, and Sparks cut off the distractions and restored atmosphere and gravity a few seconds later. Bodies hit the deck with loud thumps. Most of the Cats were only wounded, but suddenly being slammed against a metal deck did nothing to improve their already grim condition.

Bhaktadil and his marines swarmed out into the open, moving in to disarm and secure the survivors.

The unfriendly visitors had been secured. Now they had to take the next step . . . and the clock was ticking.

Bondarevsky moved to the nearest intercom terminal and signaled CIC. Tolwyn's face appeared on the small monitor screen with barely a pause. "The shuttle is secure, Admiral," he reported.

"Good. Have the Colonel get his platoon aboard." Tolwyn paused. "That escort's the same class as the one that went down on Vaku. Some of your people went over that ship while you were pulling the castaways out."

"Yes, sir. I was one of them."

"I want a couple of people who know the layout of a Kilrathi escort with the marines. Time is crucial. If someone can save them a few minutes by knowing the layout, it could spell the difference between success and failure." Tolwyn seemed to hesitate. "It's a volunteer mission . . ."

"I'll go," Bondarevsky told him. "And I'll see who else I can round up."

He cut the intercom and strode across the flight deck, shouting as he walked. "Harper! Somebody get me Harper!"

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