Barrett’s Privateers – Plague Ship II

Two

 

The mining station

“Orlando get off on time?”

“You bet, Boss,” Remy Brichot answered.

“Special job done?”

“Just as you ordered.”

“Good. Send a message to ‘Mr. K.’ Tell him where to find them.”

“You bet, Boss.” Brichot left to send the message – and to send another, one his boss didn’t know about, to the space dock at Halifax.

***

The Shade Tree

“There we are,” Barrett said, “that’s perfect. We’re right on his six. Damn, but Baxter’s coordinates were right on the money. Paolo, bring us up close behind him. Maneuvering thrusters only. We’ve got plenty of overtake speed, and I don’t want them picking up a drive signature from us.”

“Roger that, Cap’n. Moving in now. He sure isn’t in any hurry – just motoring along at about one-third drive.”

“He’ll want to move slowly – navigation is tricky in here, and he can’t run for subspace until he’s clear of the Belt,” the XO pointed out.

“Gillian,” Barrett called to the Weapons station, “arm particle beams. I want the upper forward on their drive tunnel outlet, the lower forward to engage their aft shield emitter. Can you do that?”

“Piece of cake, Captain.” Weapons tech Gillian Bates began tapping contacts. “Pee-beam emitters charged and ready, target solutions checked and valid. Ready to fire on command.”

“Good. Stand by.”

On the main viewer, the converted light cruiser crawled closer, as the display slowly ticked off the decreasing range.

“Five kilometers,” Ophelia Watts called out from Scanning.

Barrett stood up. “Fire!”

Two lines of shimmering force shot out from the Shade Tree, shattering the freight-hauler’s aft shield emitter and lancing through the port side of the ship’s Gellar tunnel.

“Ahead one-third,” Barrett ordered. “Bring us alongside. Gillian, if they try to fire thrusters, knock ‘em out.”

“I’m on it,” Crewman Bates replied. Once, only once, the Orlando tried to fire maneuvering thrusters before pee-beam hits from the Shade Tree knocked them out.

“Alongside,” helmsman Paolo Guerra sang out. “I’ve got us a hundred meters off to their port side.”

Barrett tapped the contact on the arm of her bridge chair. “Away boarders – say again, away boarders. Gomp, make sure you send that lander back as soon as you’ve secured the airlock.”

“On our way, Captain,” Hector Gomp called back from the ship’s starboard docking port.

Gomp was one of Barrett’s veterans. A former Sergeant in the Confederate Marine Corps, he had served on the Shade Tree through the entire Grugell War. He and the other five former Marines of the ship’s impromptu boarding party would secure the Orlando’s docking port.

The clamshell clampon lander shot away from the Shade Tree and crossed the gap quickly, opening and sealing against the Orlando’s docking hatch.

“Indira, take the conn. I’m going to the docking port – I want to see this cargo myself.” Barrett stood up.

“Careful, Captain,” the Exec warned.

“I’m always careful,” Barrett grinned at her. “Besides, Gomp will have it under control. He always does; Gomp hasn’t yet met the ass he couldn’t kick. Call down to the port, tell Peters that I’m stopping by my cabin for my pistol, then I’ll be down.”

At the docking port, the lander was already approaching when Barrett entered the docking compartment. “Heard from Gomp?”

“You bet, Captain,” Louis Peters answered. “Signals just called down, said to tell you he’s got things under control over there. Hardly any fight at all.”

“Good. I like it when things go smooth.” She pulled her pistol out of the leather holster she wore low on one hip, examined it carefully; it was a true antique, an ancient Springfield Armory 1911A1 Tactical Combat in .45 caliber. The pistol was old, but Barrett knew the arm, knew how to shoot it, and ammo was still readily available. She racked the slide to chamber a round, set the thumb safety and holstered the weapon.

The lander docked with a loud clunk, and the hatch swung open to reveal a smiling Hector Gomp.

“You want to come over and have a look, Captain? I got a couple of the boys looking for the stuff now.”

“Yeah,” Barrett agreed. Gomp moved aside to make room for Barrett to climb into the shuttle – not easy, given the former Marine’s considerable bulk. Hector Gomp was a bit over two meters tall, 118 kilograms of solid muscle, with fists the size of new born infants; his bulk was surmounted by a ruddy, good-natured face. His nose was broken from repeated breaks and his left ear had been partly removed in a knife fight years before, and Gomp refused to have it regenerated; he thought the scar lent him a dashing air. His reddish hair was cropped close in the traditional Marine Corps jarhead style. “Sergeant” Gomp was utterly reliable in any sort of scrap, and Captain Barrett trusted him as she did few people.

“OK. Get us over there.” The captain relaxed in a bucket-seat as Gomp manipulated the lander’s controls.

One of Barrett’s men met them at the Orlando’s docking port. There was a faint smell of ozone and smoke; three of the Orlando’s crewman sat on the deck, their backs against the bulkhead, held there by a splatter of catch-web fired from a Tangler.

“Any more of them around?”

“These three were at the port, Captain,” Gomp said, “but Tim nailed them before they could get a shot off. We had a bit of fun getting the corridors secured, but we did her – got the rest of the crew and the officers sealed in one of the cargo bays forward.”

“Good work.”

“Funny, though,” Gomp said.

“What’s that?”

“Seems like they gave up awfully easy. I wonder…” A sudden buzz sounded from Gomp’s combat harness. He tapped his earpiece. “Gomp. What?” He listened intently for a moment. “Good. Captain, we got it.”

Gomp led the way through the dirty, poorly lit corridors of the converted cruiser to what was obviously a converted missile bay. Several black shipping containers were strapped to the deck at the far end, with Tim McNeal and Yvette Langstrom standing over them.

“And there we are,” Gomp whooped. “Payday!”

Barrett held out her hand. A grinning Gomp placed a large combat knife in it. Captain Barrett dropped to one knee and popped the polymer seals off the cargo container, flipping open the lid.

“That’s the stuff, all right,” she breathed.

Diamonds. A coffin-sized cargo container full of them.

“Open the others.”

The Marines quickly opened the other three containers. “Diamonds here, too, Cap’n,” Gomp called out. He quickly popped open another container. “And in this one.”

“Looks like germanium here, Captain.” Tim McNeal was standing over another, a spectral analyzer in his hand. “Some gallium, too.”

“Leave it – it’s not worth our trouble. McNeal, Crowe, Davis, Langstrom, get the diamonds back over to the lander; get them to the Shade Tree, and head back here, quick as you can. Gomp, you and Wilson come with me – since we’re stealing anyway, let’s see if these smugglers have anything else worth taking.”

Gomp chuckled. “Roger that, Captain.”

“Sickbay first,” Barrett ordered.

“Need water, Captain,” Gomp observed. “Food would be nice, too – getting tired of drycake.”

“All right – Wilson, you go to the galley, get what you can.”

“By herself?” Gomp wanted to know. “Won’t be able to carry much.”

“We’ll be at Halifax in six days,” Barrett said, “and food and water are cheaper than medicines. Let’s have a look.”

“Yes’m.” They walked swiftly through the ship’s ill-kept corridors, up two ladders, Gomp leading by memory from having served on a similar cruiser years before. “Here we are.”

The hatch swung open at a touch.

Inside were two bodies, each laid on a separate treatment pallet. Blood pooled on the floor under each one.

“Thought you said they didn’t put up a fight,” Barrett said, grimacing. She felt her stomach lurch suddenly at the smell of decay.

“They didn’t,” Gomp breathed. “These have been dead a while.”

He took a step closer – just one – and craned his neck to look at the nearest body’s face, which glistened strangely in the dim light. There were marks, like bruises, around the eyes…

“Oh, shit,” Gomp said. “Oh, shit, oh shit!” He slapped his earpiece. “Wilson, drop what you’re doing, get to the docking port now!”

Barrett took a step back. The smell was worse close up; she was perilously close to losing the drycake she had chewed for lunch. “What is it?”

Gomp grabbed the Captain’s arm, dragged her from the sickbay. “Forget the medicines, Captain – we’ve got to get out of here. Shit!”

“Gomp!” Barrett yanked her arm free. “What’s wrong? What’s got into you?”

Gomp was already sprinting down the corridor. Barrett hurried after him. “Gomp! What?”

“Fever,” he called back as he dropped down the first ladder.

“Fever?” A sudden chill gripped Captain Barrett. She plunged down the ladder after Gomp.

“Avalonian hemorrhagic fever,” Gomp called over his shoulder as he ran for the docking port. “Bayer’s Plague. Seen it once before.”

“Isn’t it…”

“Contagious as hell – and almost always fatal,” Gomp said. He skidded to a stop at the dock, looked out the tiny viewing port. “Shit, they’re still over at the Shade Tree.”

Corporal Annette Wilson came pounding down the corridor, a large bag in one hand. “Got some frozen stuff – meat, would you believe it?”

“Leave it, Annette,” Gomp ordered. “Leave everything.”

“Why?”

“Plague,” Gomp told her.

Captain Barrett was already on her radio. “Shade Tree, this is Barrett.”

She heard a voice in her earpiece in a second. “XO here, Captain.”

“Indira,” Barrett barked, “This ship is infected – Bayer’s Plague. Notify Doctor Dodd. Isolate the Marines that just came back on the lander. Strip them, their clothes and everything goes out the airlock. Full decontamination.”

“And the cargo?”

“Boil it. Give it the works. Full UV and e-beam sterilization protocol. Repackage the valuables, boil them again, the containers go out the shitport. If we live, we’ll need that cargo – even if it’s just to pay for decon of the ship. ”

“On it, Captain.” A moment’s silence. “The lander is on the way back now.”

“Strip down,” Barrett ordered. “Right here. To the buff. Nothing goes back but warm bodies and weapons.” She pulled her pistol out of the holster, laid it on the floor. “What are you both looking at me for? Strip!”

Gomp, surprisingly, turned a dark red, but pulled his shirt over his head. Barrett pulled off her t-shirt, threw it down the corridor, kicked off her sandals and dropped her fatigue pants, kicking them after the t-shirt. She looked up at an embarrassed Hector Gomp, clad only in a blush that extended from the top of his stubbled head to his navel, his carbine in his hands. Behind him, Annette Wilson stood calmly, birthday-naked, one arm across her breasts, the other cradling her Tangler.

“Good.” Barrett picked up her pistol just at the lander arrived with a thump. “Get in. Move!”

The ride back passed in silence.

Decontamination protocols on starships were practiced regularly, and the Shade Tree was no exception. A chemical shower, UV bombardment, another chemical shower and an antibiotic cocktail later, Captain Barrett finally left the ship’s docking port and made her way to the Bridge, clad only in a towel.

Eyebrows were raised at the Captain’s state of undress, but her barked orders got the watch’s minds back on their jobs. “All back one-third. Back us away from that abomination. Gillian, target two Shrikes on the Orlando.”

“Captain?”

“You heard me.”

“Captain, there are still thirty or forty people on that ship,” Indira Krishnavarna said softly. “More, if they’ve got passengers.”

“They’re already dead, Indira. Hell, the Navy has standing orders – I think it’s General Order Twelve – to destroy plague ships. You think they wouldn’t blow it up? Gillian, get those Shrikes ready!”

“Two weapons armed and ready, Captain,” the reply came quickly. “Firing solution set.”

Barrett looked up at the main screen, where the converted cruiser wallowed in space, growing slowly smaller as the Shade Tree backed away. The readout showed twenty kilometers distance – plenty. “Fire – now-now-now.”

Two Shrike missiles leaped from the privateer’s port stub wing, crossing the gap quickly and blasting the cruiser into flying parts.

The Bridge was silent. They stared at the expanding debris field of the plague ship, nobody moving, nobody talking, until Captain Barrett started snapping out orders.

“Helm, get us on course for Halifax. Best possible speed. Weapons, fast work on those Shrikes.”

“Damn,” the XO breathed.

“Yeah, at least.” Barrett looked down, suddenly remembering her lack of attire. “Um. I’m going to my cabin to change. I’ll be right back – Indira, take over. Keep us on course.”

“Yes, Captain,” Indira Krishnavarna breathed.

 

 

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