It struck Hazard that only a few minutes had passed since he himself had entered the CIC.
«Very good, Mr. Feeney,» he said. «With the bridge out, we’re going to have to control the station from here. Feeney, take the con. Miss Stromsen, how much time before we can make direct contact with Geneva?»
«Forty minutes, sir,» she sang out, then corrected, «Actually, thirty-nine fifty.»
Feeney was worming his softboots against the Velcro strip in front of the propulsion-and-control console.
«Take her down, Mr. Feeney.»
The Irishman’s eyes widened with surprise. «Down, sir?»
Hazard made himself smile. «Down. To the altitude of the ABM satellites. Now.»
«Yes, sir.» Feeney began carefully pecking out commands on the keyboard before him.
«I’m not just reacting like an old submariner,» Hazard reassured his young officers. «I want to get us to a lower altitude so we won’t be such a good target for so many of their lasers. Shrink our horizon. We’re a sitting duck up here.»
Yang grinned back at him. «I didn’t think you expected to outmaneuver a laser beam, sir.»
«No, but we can take ourselves out of range of most of their satellites.»
Most, Hazard knew, but not all.
«Miss Stromsen, will you set up a simulation for me? I want to know how many unfriendly satellites can attack us at various altitudes, and what their positions would be compared to our own. I want a solution that tells me where we’ll be safest.»
«Right away, sir,» Stromsen said. «What minimum altitude shall I plug in?»
«Go right down to the deck,» Hazard said. «Low enough to boil the paint off.»
«The station isn’t built for reentry into the atmosphere, sir!»
«I know. But see how low we can get.»
The old submariner’s instinct: run silent, run deep. So the bastards think I’ll fold up, just like I did at Brussels, Hazard fumed inwardly. Two big differences, Cardillo and friends. Two very big differences. In Brussels the hostages were civilians, not military men and women. And in Brussels I didn’t have any weapons to fight back with.
He knew the micropuffs of thrust from the maneuvering rockets were hardly strong enough to be felt, yet Hazard’s stomach lurched and heaved suddenly.
«We have retro burn,» Feeney said. «Altitude decreasing.»
My damned stomach’s more sensitive than his instruments, Hazard grumbled to himself.
«Incoming message from Graham, sir,» said Yang.
«Ignore it.»
«Sir,» Yang said, turning slightly toward him, «I’ve been thinking about the minimum altitude we can achieve. Although the station is not equipped for atmospheric reentry, we do carry the four emergency evacuation spacecraft and they do have heat shields.»
«Are you suggesting we abandon the station?»
«Oh, no, sir! But perhaps we could move the spacecraft to a position where they would be between us and the atmosphere. Let their heat shields protect us—sort of like riding a surfboard.»
Feeney laughed. «Trust a California girl to come up with a solution like that!»
«It might be a workable idea,» Hazard said. «I’ll keep it in mind.»
«We’re being illuminated by a laser beam,» Stromsen said tensely. «Low power—so far.»
«They’re tracking us.»
Hazard ordered, «Yang, take over the simulation problem. Stromsen, give me a wide radar sweep. I want to see if they’re moving any of their ABM satellites to counter our maneuver.»
«I have been sweeping, sir. No satellite activity yet.»
Hazard grunted. Yet. She knows that all they have to do is maneuver a few of their satellites to higher orbits and they’ll have us in their sights.
To Yang he called, «Any response from the commsats?»
«No, sir,» she replied immediately. «Either their laser receptors are not functioning or the satellites themselves are inoperative.»
They couldn’t have knocked out the commsats altogether, Hazard told himself. How would they communicate with one another? Cardillo claims the Wood and two of the Soviet stations are on their side. And the Europeans. He put a finger to his lips unconsciously, trying to remember Cardillo’s exact words. The Europeans are going along with us. That’s what he said. Maybe they’re not actively involved in this. Maybe they’re playing a wait-and-see game.
Either way, we’re alone. They’ve got four, maybe five, out of the nine battle stations. We can’t contact the Chinese or Indians. We don’t know which Russian satellite hasn’t joined in with them. It’ll be more than a half hour before we can contact Geneva, and even then what the hell can they do?
Alone. Well, it won’t be for the first time. Submariners are accustomed to being on their own.
«Sir,» Yang reported, «the Wood is still trying to reach us. Very urgent, they’re saying.»
«Tell them I’m not available but you will record their message and personally give it to me.» Turning to the Norwegian lieutenant, «Miss Stromsen, I want all crew members in their pressure suits. And levels one and two of the station are to be abandoned. No one above level three except the damage-control team. We’re going to take some hits and I want everyone protected as much as possible.»
She nodded and glanced at the others. All three of them looked tense, but not afraid. The fear was there, of course, underneath. But they were in control of themselves. Their eyes were clear, their hands steady.
«Should I have the air pumped out of levels one and two—after they’re cleared of personnel?»
«No,» Hazard said. «Let them outgas when they’re hit. Might fool the bastards into thinking they’re doing more damage than they really are.»
Feeney smiled weakly. «Sounds like the boxer who threatened to bleed all over his opponent.»
Hazard glared at him. Stromsen took up the headset from her console and began issuing orders into the pin-sized microphone.
«The computer simulation is finished, sir,» said Yang.
«Put it on my screen here.»
He studied the graphics for a moment, sensing Feeney peering over his shoulder. Their safest altitude was the lowest, where only six ABM satellites could «see» them. The fifteen laser-armed satellites under their own control would surround them like a cavalry escort.
«There it is, Mr. Feeney. Plug that into your navigation program. That’s where we want to be.»
«Aye, sir.»
The CIC shuddered. The screens dimmed for a moment, then came back to their full brightness.
«We’ve been hit!» Stromsen called out.
«Where? How bad?»
«Just aft of the main power generator. Outer hull ruptured. Storage area eight—medical, dental, and food-supplement supplies.»
«So they got the Band-Aids and vitamin pills,» Yang joked shakily.
«But they’re going after the power generator,» said Hazard. «Any casualties?»
«No, sir,» reported Stromsen. «No personnel stationed there during general quarters.»
He grasped Feeney’s thin shoulder. «Turn us over, man. Get that generator away from their beams!»
Feeney nodded hurriedly and flicked his stubby fingers across his keyboard. Hazard knew it was all in his imagination, but his stomach rolled sickeningly as the station rotated.
Hanging grimly to a handgrip, he said, «I want each of you to get into your pressure suits, starting with you, Miss Stromsen. Yang, take over her console until she …»
The chamber shook again. Another hit.
«Can’t we strike back at them?» Stromsen cried.
Hazard asked, «How many satellites are firing at us?»
She glanced at her display screens. «It seems to be only one—so far.»