Battle Station by Ben Bova Page A

a matter of time before we’re finished.
    Aloud, he announced, “I’m going to check with the damage-control party. Call me if anything unusual happens.”

    Yang quipped, “How do you define ‘unusual,’ sir?”
    Stromsen and Feeney laughed. Hazard wished he could, too. He made a grin for the Chinese American, thinking, At least their morale hasn’t cracked. Not yet.
    The damage-control party was working on level three, reconnecting a secondary power line that ran along the overhead through the main passageway. A laser beam had burned through the deck of the second level and severed the line, cutting power to the station’s main computer. A shaft of brilliant sunlight lanced down from the outer hull through two levels of the station and onto the deck of level three.
    One space-suited figure was dangling upside down halfway through the hole in the overhead, splicing cable carefully with gloved hands, while a second hovered nearby with a small welding torch. Two more were working farther down the passageway, where a larger hole had been burned halfway down the bulkhead.
    Through that jagged rip Hazard could see clear out to space and the rim of the Earth, glaring bright with swirls of white clouds.
    He recognized Varshni by his small size even before he could see the Indian flag on his shoulder or read the name stenciled on the front of his suit.
    â€œMr. Varshni, I want you and your crew to leave level three. It’s getting too dangerous here.”
    â€œBut, sir,” Varshni protested, “our duty is to repair damage.”
    â€œThere’ll be damage on level four soon enough.”
    â€œBut the computer requires power.”
    â€œIt can run on its internal batteries.”
    â€œBut for how long?”
    â€œLong enough,” said Hazard grimly.
    Varshni refused to be placated. “I am not risking lives unnecessarily, sir.”

    â€œI didn’t say you were.”
    â€œI am operating on sound principles,” the Indian insisted, “exactly as required in the book of regulations.”
    â€œI’m not faulting you, man. You and your crew have done a fine job.”
    The others had stopped their work. They were watching the exchange between their superior and the station commander.
    â€œI have operated on the principle that lightning does not strike twice in the same place. In oldfashioned naval parlance this is referred to, I believe, as ‘chasing salvos.’”
    Hazard stared at the diminutive Indian. Even inside the visored space suit, Varshni appeared stiff with anger. Chasing salvos—that’s what a little ship does when it’s under attack by a bigger ship: run to where the last shells splashed, because it’s pretty certain that the next salvo won’t hit there. I’ve insulted his abilities, Hazard realized. And in front of his team. Damned fool!
    â€œMr. Varshni,” Hazard explained slowly, “this battle will be decided, one way or the other, in the next twenty minutes or so. You and your team have done an excellent job of keeping damage to a minimum. Without you, we would have been forced to surrender.”
    Varshni seemed to relax a little. Hazard could sense his chin rising a notch inside his helmet.
    â€œBut the battle is entering a new phase,” Hazard went on. “Level three is now vulnerable to direct laser damage. I can’t afford to lose you and your team at this critical stage. Moreover, the computer and the rest of the most sensitive equipment are on level four and in the Combat Information Center. Those are the areas that need our protection and those are the areas where I want you to operate. Is that understood?”

    A heartbeat’s hesitation. Then Varshni said, “Yes, of course, sir. I understand. Thank you for explaining it to me.”
    â€œOkay. Now finish your work here and then get down to level four.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Shaking his head inside