“Shouldn’t we be slowing down?” she asks.
“Yeah right,” he says.
They’re making their move as the first of the corvettes slides out. Their suits’ thrusters flare gently, floating them down onto the hull of that corvette even as Lynx takes the hacks he’s been running to the next level. A hatch opens in the side of the ship, and they drop within. It’s that easy. Though …
“Something just occurred to me,” says Linehan.
“Hold on a second,” says Lynx.
The hatch slides shut and the airlock chamber pressurizes. Lynx looks around at the tiny room, then extends razorwire from his suit and plugs into the wall, tightening his grip on the ship’s computers as that craft draws away from the Montana.
“Look,” says Linehan, “there’s something we should be—”
“I’m sure there is, but will you shut up—”
“Think about it, Lynx.”
“Jesus Christ! Think about what?”
“This isn’t just a matter of getting off the Montana. Szilard won’t just have rigged his flagship. He’ll have these corvettes rigged too.”
Lynx raises an eyebrow. Linehan starts cursing: “Fuck’s sake man! Otherwise, some of the assholes he’s trying to nail might sneak aboard and—why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m way ahead of you.”
Whoever he is, he’s got some kind of special clearance,” says Spencer.
“We’re inside the Eurasian secret weapon, man. What the hell does special clearance mean now?”
“It means I can’t crack him!”
“Because?”
“He’s got some kind of souped-up zone-shield …” But Spencer’s voice trails off as he becomes aware of something else. Something that’s echoing through the ship. With under a minute to go, the countdown’s been patched through onto the loudspeakers. Both men can hear the chanting of the soldiers all around them as they join in. Sarmax nods his head in time with the rhythm.
“This is going to be fun,” he says.
Rocket-powered railcar.
Way too fast.
They roar through Tsiolkovskiy’s maglev station and into wider passages. Carson engages the ship’s guns, slinging shots out ahead of them. Haskell feels him shove her mind even farther out than that as the grids above them click into place. She can see that most of the Eurasians they’re killing are dying because they’re looking the other way—fighting desperately against the American commandos who have occupied the base’s upper levels and are now pushing deeper. The train’s coming in behind a set of last-ditch defenses. Carson’s trying to coordinate with the Americans above. It doesn’t look like he’s succeeding. The Yanks aren’t taking any calls. Up ahead, she can see the rearmost Eurasians turning to face them. Some of them are shoving a makeshift barrier into place. Looks like it’s some kind of wrecked crawler, blocking the tunnel up ahead.
“Fuck,” she says.
“I see it,” he replies—accelerates still further.
“We’re gonna crash,” she yells.
“And how,” he grins.
Szilard’s stacked the whole game,” says Linehan. He’s starting to feel like the walls of this little chamber are closing in—like the man who’s crammed up against him is enjoying this way too much.
“That’s how he plays,” says Lynx.
“So how come you don’t seem concerned?”
“Because I’ve thought of it all already. Of course Szilard would rig this ship. Standard tactic—and it doesn’t matter. It’s still the only possible way off the Montana. Which, by the way, is about to go up like a fucking roman candle.”
“After which we do the fucking same, huh?”
“Charges are rigged just aft of the corvette’s cockpit. They’ll get detonated by wireless transmission.”
“Can you stop ’em?”
“Sure as fuck can try.”
The countdown’s reaching its final seconds. The chanting of the soldiers has reached a fever pitch. The noise is deafening. Spencer adjusts his magnetic-clamps one last time. He takes in the zone around him—the whole expanse of it crammed into this craft that’s about to vault toward the heavens. The last man to get aboard remains impervious to all attempts to breach his barricades. It’s the same with the cockpit. It’s going to be difficult to do much about that until more systems come online. Which presumably is going to happen once things get moving. Spencer glances at the man next to him.
“We’re about to find out how deep this goes.”
“And how high it’ll reach,” replies Sarmax.
The screens hit zero.
Shit,” says Haskell.
“Believe it,” replies Carson; he seizes her with both hands, firing his suit’s jets and bursting through the train window, out into the tunnel as their vehicle blasts past them and into the Eurasian position up ahead. There’s a blinding flash—but Carson’s already crashing through a side door and out into a labyrinth of industrial plants. Haskell feels her body shift as he twists and turns at breakneck speed. He’s obviously trying to steer clear of the bulk of the fighting. She’s doing what she can to oblige.
Lynx has hacked into this corvette’s computers. He’s got them covered. He’s having a little more difficulty with the charges rigged right beneath the pilots’ asses. And he’s running out of time. Because now white light’s permeating the pilots’ view, blossoming across the windows.
“Fuck,” says Lynx.
“What’s up?” asks Linehan.
What’s up is that the SpaceCom flagship just blew to kingdom fuck. A series of microtacticals, rigged at judicious intervals: a gaping hole’s opened at the very center of the L2 fleet. Lynx can see the way the charges have been rigged to minimize the debris—can see the firing patterns of the fleet adjust automatically to take into account the fact that one of their capitol ships is no longer available. But all of that’s secondary to the more immediate problem. The two corvettes have now traversed more than half the distance to the ship they’re making for. Only they’re not going to get there—
“I just thought of something else,” says Linehan.
“Shut up,” says Lynx.
“Even if you defuse the charges, surely the rest of the fleet can just—”
“I said shut up,” snarls Lynx.
The other corvette detonates.
The noise is overwhelming. The floor beneath them’s shoving upward. The G-forces are going to town. The ship’s rising out of the root of the mountain while door after door opens above it. Kilometers of rock are surging past.
“Looking good,” says Sarmax.
Spencer’s barely listening. He’s just probing on the zone, pressing in at the entryways to the ship’s cockpit, calibrating the communications going on all around. He’s gaining more room to maneuver as the weaponry systems come online—all too many bomb-racks, far too many guns. But the real weapon is the ship itself, the name of which rises into view on its own zone like something glimmering within oceanic depths …
“Hammer of the Skies,” says Spencer.