Read Online Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1 by Bill Robinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Robinson
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We add some long distance programming to the probe, which at nine gees will be there in four hours.
Laser drills, already at a fever pitch, go to unheard of levels. The Marines recheck their battle armor twice in one day. I'm happy with all of this, except no one says the one thing that we all should be worried about. Why can't we find a ship at least the size of a cruiser? And what happens if it finds us first?
Finally, after dinner, I gather together the crews of the landing ship and the assault ship, eight total bodies, and with Mr. Armstrong keeping time, have them do a continuous visual search by taking photographs ahead of us and looking for missing stars.
When I pull the hair out of the shower next morning (that's out of the shower, not out in the shower, big difference), we are 22 hours from Beta station, closing fast. We're 10 hours from braking start. And, we've got three hours of data upload from our probe.
McAdams and her crew have doubtless been up since 0300 going through the feed, they look a tad raggedy on the bridge, then their aroma hits. My revised estimate is they have been sitting there since yesterday. Maybe the day before.
She acknowledges me, says, "Photo on your pad, Skipper."
I float in front of my screens, touch the key on my right, slide the pointing device, and open the message. I know instantly what the picture shows, Petty Officer Wallace's two day pass well earned. No question, it's the wreck of Trump , scattered across the rocks, shiny streaks of silver against the dark brown airless background, a small debris field in a line to the west. Looks like it went down largely intact and disintegrated on landing, but I'll wait for RISTA to make that determination.
"Mr. McAdams." She looks up.
"Aye, sir."
"For the next 20 hours or so, 100 percent of your activity, and your team's, directed at Beta, and making sure no unidentified space ship sneaks up on Yorktown . Understood?"
"Aye, Skipper. Sorry."
"Courtney, it was my choice to focus on the other evidence, now I'm bring you home. Let's get cleaned up, and get back to work."
She smiles, floats toward the hatch, dragging her team with her. "Aye, aye."
And just like that, I make a nasty odor disappear without the need for noxious chemicals or lots of scrubbing.
The three of them are back within 20 minutes, each settles into a station, unquestionably dividing the sky around us and hunting for wolves, not by scent.
I continue floating at my post, going through Garcia's proposed decel plan. She, obviously, has not been spending her time searching for stealth ships in grainy photos. A little extra hot at the beginning, cleared by Lt. Powell, brings us to a stop 50,000 clicks off the remains of the corvette, and a tad more than that off the station.
By 1600, we're all in our couches, ready. Haven't felt this much anticipation on board since the three minutes leaving dry dock.
"Mr. Garcia. Plan approved. Execute on your mark."
"Flight plan go, on my mark." She sounds the five minute horns, cautious even though I am 150 percent sure 100 percent of the crew is strapped in and waiting.
"Mr. Jordan. Go hot on even numbered lasers."
"Aye, even numbers hot." He plays with his control panel for a minute, I watch on my screen as the outer doors open, the business ends of the guns extend, and the systems power up and stabilize. "All even cannons report ready."
I don't bother Powell, her board is green and we had a little conversation a few minutes ago.
"One minute." The last horns sound. Clearly a waste of time.
Promptly at zero, both good engines fire, bringing us briefly up to three gees, holding it for 30 minutes, then lowering to two. A boring 12 hours later, sleeping on and off as best you can at two gees, our port broadside is locked onto Beta station. At this distance, less than half a second to turn it to gas.
Chapter 4
"Mr. Garcia, well done, engines to standby." I start with the things we need to make sure we can get
Laser drills, already at a fever pitch, go to unheard of levels. The Marines recheck their battle armor twice in one day. I'm happy with all of this, except no one says the one thing that we all should be worried about. Why can't we find a ship at least the size of a cruiser? And what happens if it finds us first?
Finally, after dinner, I gather together the crews of the landing ship and the assault ship, eight total bodies, and with Mr. Armstrong keeping time, have them do a continuous visual search by taking photographs ahead of us and looking for missing stars.
When I pull the hair out of the shower next morning (that's out of the shower, not out in the shower, big difference), we are 22 hours from Beta station, closing fast. We're 10 hours from braking start. And, we've got three hours of data upload from our probe.
McAdams and her crew have doubtless been up since 0300 going through the feed, they look a tad raggedy on the bridge, then their aroma hits. My revised estimate is they have been sitting there since yesterday. Maybe the day before.
She acknowledges me, says, "Photo on your pad, Skipper."
I float in front of my screens, touch the key on my right, slide the pointing device, and open the message. I know instantly what the picture shows, Petty Officer Wallace's two day pass well earned. No question, it's the wreck of Trump , scattered across the rocks, shiny streaks of silver against the dark brown airless background, a small debris field in a line to the west. Looks like it went down largely intact and disintegrated on landing, but I'll wait for RISTA to make that determination.
"Mr. McAdams." She looks up.
"Aye, sir."
"For the next 20 hours or so, 100 percent of your activity, and your team's, directed at Beta, and making sure no unidentified space ship sneaks up on Yorktown . Understood?"
"Aye, Skipper. Sorry."
"Courtney, it was my choice to focus on the other evidence, now I'm bring you home. Let's get cleaned up, and get back to work."
She smiles, floats toward the hatch, dragging her team with her. "Aye, aye."
And just like that, I make a nasty odor disappear without the need for noxious chemicals or lots of scrubbing.
The three of them are back within 20 minutes, each settles into a station, unquestionably dividing the sky around us and hunting for wolves, not by scent.
I continue floating at my post, going through Garcia's proposed decel plan. She, obviously, has not been spending her time searching for stealth ships in grainy photos. A little extra hot at the beginning, cleared by Lt. Powell, brings us to a stop 50,000 clicks off the remains of the corvette, and a tad more than that off the station.
By 1600, we're all in our couches, ready. Haven't felt this much anticipation on board since the three minutes leaving dry dock.
"Mr. Garcia. Plan approved. Execute on your mark."
"Flight plan go, on my mark." She sounds the five minute horns, cautious even though I am 150 percent sure 100 percent of the crew is strapped in and waiting.
"Mr. Jordan. Go hot on even numbered lasers."
"Aye, even numbers hot." He plays with his control panel for a minute, I watch on my screen as the outer doors open, the business ends of the guns extend, and the systems power up and stabilize. "All even cannons report ready."
I don't bother Powell, her board is green and we had a little conversation a few minutes ago.
"One minute." The last horns sound. Clearly a waste of time.
Promptly at zero, both good engines fire, bringing us briefly up to three gees, holding it for 30 minutes, then lowering to two. A boring 12 hours later, sleeping on and off as best you can at two gees, our port broadside is locked onto Beta station. At this distance, less than half a second to turn it to gas.
Chapter 4
"Mr. Garcia, well done, engines to standby." I start with the things we need to make sure we can get
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