“My compliments to the torpedo battery,” Randall drawled. “You certainly showed that drone what’s what.”
Sikander nodded in appreciation; sure, it was a practice-range shot, but it was good to see that the torpedo crew knew their business. “Nice shot, Ms. Larkin,” he said quietly.
“Hector, this is Aberdeen Range Control,” the comm unit crackled. “Firing run complete. Your weighted score is eighty-six point nine. You passed Paris, but Pandarus shot an eighty-nine nine, over.”
Captain Markham grimaced. “Damn. I owe Captain Yarrow a bottle of scotch.” She keyed the comm unit in her battle couch. “Aberdeen, this is Hector actual. Thank you for the range time, pleasure working with you today. Hector out.”
“Second place to Pandarus. I suppose it sets the bar for next time,” Randall observed.
“So it seems,” Markham replied. “All right, let’s recover our practice torps and be on our way.”
Sikander frowned at his display. They’d launched two torpedoes, but he had only one torpedo beacon on his screen. The practice torpedoes were designed to be recovered and reused, since they were quite expensive. Each one was a miniature ship, after all—the sort of hardware the Navy wanted to keep track of. He leaned forward and spoke quietly to Larkin. “Ms. Larkin, do you have contact with torpedo two?”
“Number two?” Larkin tapped her display, then began rapping out more commands. She muttered under her breath.
“Ms. Larkin?” Sikander repeated.
The young woman shook her head in disgust. “No contact with the second torpedo. It hasn’t emerged from its bubble.”
Well, that’s not supposed to happen, Sikander told himself. Torpedoes could return to normal space a few seconds early or late, but they very definitely returned—the warp generator cut off when the weapon decided it had been in its warp bubble long enough to reach its target. The torp had launched with good telemetry, so what had gone wrong? “Check the program,” he told Larkin.
“I am!” Larkin snapped—not a very respectful reply, but Sikander let it go without correction for the moment. The torpedo officer was obviously busy.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. North?” Captain Markham asked.
“The second torpedo is still bubbled, ma’am,” Sikander answered. “We’re forty seconds over program. I think we lost it.”
Heads turned throughout the bridge. “Lost it?” Randall snapped. “What kind of program did you punch in? It was a straight shot on a practice range.”
Sikander glared at the operations officer. He was a department head, too, and he didn’t answer to Hiram Randall once they secured from exercises. “We’re checking the program now.”
Elise Markham gave him a sharp look. “Please do, Mr. North,” she said. “That’s five million credits of torpedo now roaming around loose. We need to know where and when it intends to pop out again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sikander called up the ship’s info assistant on his console and duplicated the torpedo-control console’s log for the last half hour, scrolling down to check over every command Larkin had entered during the range run. Building the attack profile for a warp torpedo required far more programming than any human could do in the space of a few moments, but the engineers who’d designed the weapons-system controls had realized that; the attack program really consisted of only a dozen or so selections and variables that the user could assemble and set with a few quick gestures on the console. As far as he could tell from a quick inspection, Larkin’s settings seemed fine, but she did have several personalized macros saved on her console. Many people liked to set up their own preferences and shortcuts for such things, but he’d have to pore over those to see exactly what she’d entered.
“The program is fine,” Larkin announced. Naturally she’d finished going over it much faster than Sikander would have; native Aquilans raced through computer tasks that he had to work through with a good deal of care. “Both torpedoes had the identical attack program. Number one worked, so it must be a hardware fault on number two.”
“Which, unfortunately, is not available for inspection,” Captain Markham said. She shook her head. “Damn. All right, then. Mr. Randall, advise the range of our lost torpedo and make sure you give them all the firing parameters. It’s probably never coming back, but they need to know. And tell the XO we’ll need to get out the Admiralty report for lost ordnance as soon as practicable.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lieutenant Commander Randall replied. He didn’t bother to glare at Sikander or Larkin, but he didn’t really need to.
“Mr. North, better pull the maintenance records for our wayward torpedo and see if there’s anything in the previous diagnostics that might explain where it went.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sikander answered. “We’ll look over the launch-tube mechanisms, too.” He’d also take a good long look at Larkin’s programming, just in case. He didn’t think she would deliberately attempt to conceal an error—that was an excellent way to turn an unfortunate accident into a career-ending blunder—but she’d reviewed her own work in quite a hurry, and she might have overlooked something.
“Good,” the captain replied. She unstrapped from her battle couch and stood. “You have the deck, Mr. Randall. Secure from gunnery exercises and lay a minimum-time course for Fleet Base. Maybe we can beat the paperwork home.”
3
Tanjeer, Gadira II
The parade grounds of El-Badi Palace broiled slowly under fierce morning sunlight. Groves of moon palms at the far end of the field floated in the heat shimmer, while dazzling flashes of light danced on the waters of the Silver Sea to the south. The legendary summer heat in Tanjeer, the planetary capital of Gadira II and the seat of the sultanate, routinely reached 40 degrees Celsius before noon, but Ranya Meriem el-Nasir paid little attention. She was the descendant of thirty generations of Gadirans, and the colonists who had first settled the planet had been carefully selected from desert-dwelling peoples of Old Terra; sweltering heat rarely bothered her. Besides, the lethal mass of the Léopard grav tank resting on the field before had her full attention.
She studied the grav tank, carefully noting its various features and armament. The vehicle rested on its landing skids, hidden behind the tough dura-weave skirts of its plenum chamber. Not strictly a hovercraft, it was designed to take advantage of ground effect to maximize its speed and maneuverability under the weight of its thick armor and heavy weapons. A dual-barrel kinetic cannon—one barrel for high-velocity armor-piercing rounds, the other for lobbing low-velocity explosive shells—made up the Léopard’s main armament. Two small cupola-mounted autocannons furnished more than enough firepower to deal with soft targets such as enemy infantry or unarmored vehicles, and its turret boasted a variety of sensors and accessories. Ranya slowly walked around the tank, admiring it from all sides. She noted that the vendors had finished the armored vehicle in a striking black-and-scarlet paint scheme that matched the house colors of the el-Nasirs, and smiled to herself at the impracticality.
Major Cheney of the Republic Marines took her amusement for approval. “The finest Montréalais military technology, Amira,” he said proudly. Ranya might not have noticed the heat, but perspiration darkened the craggy offworlder’s dashing uniform. “Just like the legendary Terran predator for which it is named, the Léopard is fast and lethal. Nothing short of heavy antitank weaponry or naval fire support can scratch it. Your uncle’s Royal Guard would make a splendid sight mounted in armored vehicles such as this, no?”