That was the last bang for a while. The retarder crews headed for the aft bay door for a better view. Howell should have chewed them out for it, but he was among the first to leave his console.
From what they could see—mostly just bright sparks moving against the stars—the bad guys had gotten a surprise. A spark expanded briefly, puffing up to a visible disk before shrinking back to a point, and its pursuer vanished over the top of the ship. Both were too far away to make out shapes, and the sailors shared looks. “Hope that wasn’t one of our guys,” somebody prayed.
The action moved away from aft, leaving the retarder crews and the others who’d chosen that door without anything to see, but Llapaaloapalla executed a swift rotation, ending with the big spark centered in the aft door, surrounded by fast movers. First one, then another of the sparks expanded briefly and ceased to maneuver, but the whole pattern was shrinking. The Grallt were running away, which was not only cowardly, it was stupid. As Peters understood it, the ship couldn’t shift to high phase within a certain distance from the star. They’d come down four, nearly five ande ago, and by the time they got back to where they could shift up the battle would be over, win or lose.
A couple of sparks intersected expanding flowers of flame. Howell had managed to remember the binoculars hanging around his neck and was using them, bent forward slightly like he was hanging over a rail. He waved an impatient hand up and down. “It’s OK, both birds came out of it and turned. The ones that puff up don’t turn afterwards… there’s another one!”
Some of the sparks bunched up, which at least told them who was who; American military thinkers had been teaching dispersal in combat for a century or better. The bunch seemed to head for the larger spark, but the others kept diving in by turns, and more and more of them went puff and stopped maneuvering. Another, smaller, spark separated from the big one, traveled a little way, and blossomed.
Six or seven sparks merged with the big one and disappeared, with the rest of the maneuvering sparks swarming around it. Another missile went out, but that one puffed up like the little ships had, and another did the same. Then the big one seemed to vary in brightness and started moving faster, up and to the right from their point of view, and the smaller ones quit trying to follow it. Cunningham was the first to collect his wits. “Man the consoles, dammit. They’ll be on their way back in, and we need to get the rug out.”
“Yeah,” was the consensus of a dozen murmurs, and the retarder crews headed back for their stations. The small sparks remaining were gathering, with a pair of suspicious outriders well toward the fleeing larger ship. Peters got his console in order, passing a suggestion up the line that they should expect a little more speed than usual.
“Right,” Howell agreed. “And look alive, we’ll have to spot which type they are and get set. We don’t know what the schedule is.”
“We don’t know if they have a schedule,” Kraewitz drawled.
“Right enough. Hell with that,” Howell said impatiently, head down to his own console. “Just do it, people.”
The pattern of sparks was obviously following the ship, but it didn’t seem to get any bigger. “Shit,” somebody mentioned. “The bastards are still running, and our guys can’t catch up.”
They all looked at one another. Ships were slower than planes, weren’t they? Perhaps not here.
“What’s happening, Peters?” Todd came up from behind and slung his helmet over his shoulder by the strap.
“Hnph. Looks like our guys came out on top, but they might not get back. Th’ Grallt are runnin’ like deer from a dog pack.” He spared a look aft. “I’m gonna be needed here when they do catch up. Get up to the bridge and tell ‘em to stop.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s buddies with the Exective Officer,” Todd pointed out.
Peters grunted again. “Hanh. If you can’t convince ‘em I’ll put an oar in, but I’d rather you did it this time. Get your ass in gear.”
“I’ll get Dee.” The younger sailor hurried off, helmet flopping, dodging other sailors standing around kibitzing. Peters shook his head.
It seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, before Todd and Dee erupted from the EM quarters hatch and headed for the elevator. Before they got there their errand became moot. The pattern of sparks aft started growing rapidly; apparently somebody on the bridge had figured out what was going on. “Clear the deck, clear the deck, now now now!” Warnocki shouted.
Sailors started heading back for their posts, clearing the ops deck for recoveries. “I just had a thought,” said Rupert.
“How’s that?” Peters wanted to know.
“What if it ain’t our guys? Far as I can see that’s nothing but moving stars. Can’t tell the difference from umpteen thousand miles away.”
“You got a point,” Peters conceded. “Howell,” he called, then thumbed his earbug. “Green Three-One, Three-Seven.”
“Three-One,” Howell responded. “What’s up, Peters?”
“You got a visual? Rupert wants to know if that’s really the good guys comin’ up.”
“Wait one.” Howell brought the binoculars up, stared for a long moment, then tapped his ear. “That’s confirmed, they’ve got their recognition lights on. Tell Rupert he did good to think of it. I didn’t.” He brought the binoculars back up. “Yep, that’s the right guys all right. Heads up, one of the Tomcats is… what the fuck?”
A spark of light streaked by at an angle to the formation, leaving a blossom of fire in its wake. The bunch broke up immediately, scattering in all directions. None of them went after the one that had bombed them. It took Peters and the rest a long time to figure out why that was.
Several more sparks were crossing the pattern at high speed. One puffed up, but its attacker didn’t break off, just tracked it as it went by, hitting it repeatedly until it separated into smaller sparks.
The big spark was back, high up and to the left as they saw it, and the group of sparks they assumed was the Navy planes headed directly that way, keeping relatively tight. Smaller sparks detached from the big one, but they immediately began to show the brief flares of hits, and this time the humans were taking no chances. One by one the smaller ships were hit repeatedly, again and again until they broke up into smaller bits. Two turned and headed back for the big ship. One made it.
“Look alive there!” Howell screamed, audible both over the earbugs and through the air. “One’s coming in, I’ll bet he’s hurt! Clear the damn deck, Goddamn you!” Sailors scrambled in all directions.
Peters got to his console in time to hear Howell call out, “It’s a Hornet, and she’s not keeping a real good line. Stay on it.” The chorus of ayes was audible through the air, but the processors in the earbugs kept it off the channel.
The Hornet managed to straighten up enough to avoid hitting the doorframe, and a little extra speed was no problem if the retarder crew knew it in advance. They let her twang the first three to give her an easy ride, but when Number Four had brought her down the plane started moving again, still under power. One of the plane directors jumped out with crossed wands, and that was enough to get the pilot’s attention. The Hornet finally stopped almost level with the officers’ quarters hatch, two-thirds of the way down the deck. “206,” said Jacks. “Lieutenant Williams.”
“Hope she’s OK,” Rupert worried. That generated affirmative rumbles, but the canopy went up without anybody pulling the yellow handle. Sailors were converging on the plane, one of them—the plane captain, by his brown outerwear—carrying a boarding ladder stiff-armed overhead at a dead run, a feat none of them would have considered possible before seeing it.