are you?” the lieutenant shouted shakily. “You can’t just walk in here and—” He lunged for the console, fingers groping.
Harper’s shot took him squarely in the chest, bursting it wide. Blood and bits of bone shredded the air as the enemy soldier slumped face-first over the console. Sporadic gunfire continued in the corridors outside. Harper prayed Janowitz and Uriah were doing the firing.
He spun when he heard the pounding of feet. Jeremiel raced into Engineering, his black battlesuit spattered with blood. Baruch took in the room and immediately headed for the console beside Harper. His fingers flew, inputting data.
Harper watched words come up on the screen: CANNOT DISCONNECT EMERGENCY BAFFLES WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. PLEASE INPUT.
The emergency baffles, Harper knew, kicked in the instant any section experienced decompression, sealing off the rest of the ship and protecting the crew. To Harper’s amazement, Jeremiel keyed in a lengthy sequence and waited pensively.
UNACCEPTABLE CODE.
Jeremiel input a new sequence. He tried six before the com responded: CODE ACCEPTED. BAFFLES DISCONNECTED.
The Underground must have had spies in all the right places. Baruch struck a different series of patches, wetting his lips nervously.
The doors to Engineering snapped closed and the alert sirens ceased. Harper asked, “What are you doing?”
“Rerouting control of the ship. Sealing off this section, level seven, and the bridge and decompressing every other level.”
In a sudden wash of understanding, Harper sucked in a breath. The emergency baffles? When Jeremiel opened the locks, every unsealed portion of the ship would be swept clean as the oxygen rushed out into the vacuum of space. Anyone standing in those corridors …. “You’re … you’re going to kill thousands of people?”
“You want them in here with us?”
The desperate tone struck Harper like a fist in the stomach. He sank down into a chair. “No.”
Dannon lunged for the nearest transport tube, wondering how long he had? The sirens shredded his composure. Obviously, Jeremiel had made some move. Neil’s guards in the lounge had released him the instant the klaxons wailed. It’s too late now to go anywhere but the bridge. If Baruch had initiated Operation Abba, he’d first create a diversion so his team could get out of the bay and into a transport tube. They’d be at level twenty in exactly fifteen seconds if they’d worked it right. And Engineering would be lost. The very structure of the section left it open to such a devastating attack. The crew couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. They’d be sitting ducks for soldiers with rifles. Already he could picture the slaughter, people hanging from their cages, blood spattering the white walls.
When the tube stopped, Neil ran out onto the bridge into the midst of a half-dozen panicked officers all talking at once. Overhead, a three hundred and sixty degree monitor flashed data from every part of the ship.
Rich Macey, the red-haired communications officer, bent over his terminal, shouting, “Simons? Fritz? Somebody answer me! Transportation? What the hell’s going on down there?”
“Where’s Tahn?” Neil shouted into the melee, but no one paid him the slightest attention. “Goddamn it! Find your captain first. Nobody else matters now! Baruch’s responsible and we’ve got to …”
The door to the bridge snapped open and Halloway, panting from exertion, hauled Tahn into the room—he looked ill, staggering in her arms. His purple uniform clung to his muscular body in wrinkled bloody folds.
“Tahn!” Neil shouted. “What’s happening?”
Halloway eased her captain into his command chair before rushing for her nav console. Tahn struggled to keep himself sitting upright. “Ship’s status, Lieutenant?” he called to Macey.
“We—we don’t know, sir. We can’t—”
Neil stepped forward. “Is it true?” he demanded, bracing his hands on
Harper’s shot took him squarely in the chest, bursting it wide. Blood and bits of bone shredded the air as the enemy soldier slumped face-first over the console. Sporadic gunfire continued in the corridors outside. Harper prayed Janowitz and Uriah were doing the firing.
He spun when he heard the pounding of feet. Jeremiel raced into Engineering, his black battlesuit spattered with blood. Baruch took in the room and immediately headed for the console beside Harper. His fingers flew, inputting data.
Harper watched words come up on the screen: CANNOT DISCONNECT EMERGENCY BAFFLES WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. PLEASE INPUT.
The emergency baffles, Harper knew, kicked in the instant any section experienced decompression, sealing off the rest of the ship and protecting the crew. To Harper’s amazement, Jeremiel keyed in a lengthy sequence and waited pensively.
UNACCEPTABLE CODE.
Jeremiel input a new sequence. He tried six before the com responded: CODE ACCEPTED. BAFFLES DISCONNECTED.
The Underground must have had spies in all the right places. Baruch struck a different series of patches, wetting his lips nervously.
The doors to Engineering snapped closed and the alert sirens ceased. Harper asked, “What are you doing?”
“Rerouting control of the ship. Sealing off this section, level seven, and the bridge and decompressing every other level.”
In a sudden wash of understanding, Harper sucked in a breath. The emergency baffles? When Jeremiel opened the locks, every unsealed portion of the ship would be swept clean as the oxygen rushed out into the vacuum of space. Anyone standing in those corridors …. “You’re … you’re going to kill thousands of people?”
“You want them in here with us?”
The desperate tone struck Harper like a fist in the stomach. He sank down into a chair. “No.”
Dannon lunged for the nearest transport tube, wondering how long he had? The sirens shredded his composure. Obviously, Jeremiel had made some move. Neil’s guards in the lounge had released him the instant the klaxons wailed. It’s too late now to go anywhere but the bridge. If Baruch had initiated Operation Abba, he’d first create a diversion so his team could get out of the bay and into a transport tube. They’d be at level twenty in exactly fifteen seconds if they’d worked it right. And Engineering would be lost. The very structure of the section left it open to such a devastating attack. The crew couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. They’d be sitting ducks for soldiers with rifles. Already he could picture the slaughter, people hanging from their cages, blood spattering the white walls.
When the tube stopped, Neil ran out onto the bridge into the midst of a half-dozen panicked officers all talking at once. Overhead, a three hundred and sixty degree monitor flashed data from every part of the ship.
Rich Macey, the red-haired communications officer, bent over his terminal, shouting, “Simons? Fritz? Somebody answer me! Transportation? What the hell’s going on down there?”
“Where’s Tahn?” Neil shouted into the melee, but no one paid him the slightest attention. “Goddamn it! Find your captain first. Nobody else matters now! Baruch’s responsible and we’ve got to …”
The door to the bridge snapped open and Halloway, panting from exertion, hauled Tahn into the room—he looked ill, staggering in her arms. His purple uniform clung to his muscular body in wrinkled bloody folds.
“Tahn!” Neil shouted. “What’s happening?”
Halloway eased her captain into his command chair before rushing for her nav console. Tahn struggled to keep himself sitting upright. “Ship’s status, Lieutenant?” he called to Macey.
“We—we don’t know, sir. We can’t—”
Neil stepped forward. “Is it true?” he demanded, bracing his hands on
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