Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(37)
“Foxtrot Three-Niner,” Colonel Campbell says as he checks the approach plates for Independence on the holotable. “If this station had an ass end, F39 would be the docking port closest to it.”
Above and slightly behind us, the destroyer Murphy creeps along the rows of empty docking berths on this side of Independence with us, less than a kilometer off our starboard side.
“Are they going to follow us all the way into the docking clamps?” Major Renner grumbles.
For the next few minutes, we coast down the Foxtrot extension of Independence, passing berth after berth, our position lights reflecting off the titanium-white outer skin of the station.
“There’s the beam,” the helmsman says. “Engaging autodock sequence. On the beam for Foxtrot Three-Niner.”
The navigation computer takes over Indy’s conning and rotates the ship with the fine-tuned control of a silicon brain. Indy’s bulk turns and slows as the thrusters fire in sequence to get us into the docking berth at the prescribed approach speed. The berth is spacious enough for a destroyer or a cruiser; Indy looks almost lost in the large U-shaped berthing spot.
The arrestor clamps latch onto Indy from the port side and pull the ship into mooring position. Then the service and maintenance hoses attach themselves to our side, and finally the docking collar slides into position over Indy’s external airlock and latches into place.
“Confirm hard seal on the collar,” Major Renner says. “Cut all propulsion and switch the reactor to standby power.”
“Not exactly a warm welcome home,” I say.
Colonel Campbell rubs his chin with the palm of his hand.
“No, it isn’t,” he says. “Let’s not take off our boots and get comfortable just yet. I don’t like this quarantine business one bit.”
I don’t have any pressing business by the ship’s main airlock, but I am curious, so I go down there anyway. Sergeant Philbrick and Corporal DeLuca are shipside security on our side of the docking collar. The collar is a thirty-meter length of flexible lamellar steel that connects the station to our ship.
“This is some bullshit,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says to me when I walk up to the open hatch, Dmitry in tow.
“What’s that, Philbrick?”
“Nobody’s allowed off the ship. They won’t let anyone through the collar.”
On the far side, over on Independence, four armed guards control access to the only way onto or off Indy. They’re not SI troopers, but civilian security police wearing night-blue uniforms and white body armor. Philbrick and Corporal DeLuca are in armor, too, and they look a lot more menacing in their full SI hardshell than those cops in theirs. The SI troopers are carrying M-66 carbines, sidearms, and a full combat load of magazines on their harnesses. Complete battle rattle is usually overkill for guard duty on friendly installations, but the way my stomach has been twisting for the last few hours, I’m kind of glad for the excessive show of force.
“That is bullshit,” I agree. A month on this little tub, and we don’t even get to stretch our legs. And I really don’t care to be treated like a goddamn POW.
“Look at those assholes.” Philbrick nods over at the other side of the docking collar. “Blocking the airlock with that clown show over there. I could crack that fruity eggshell armor of theirs with my dog tags. That’s almost worse than leaving the hatch unguarded.”
“Is not military armor,” Dmitry says. “Too light. Is not for fighting, just for—how do you say? Show?”
“They’re civilian police,” I explain. “Independence isn’t a military station.”
“Civilian police,” Dmitry repeats with a smirk, like he’s somehow insulted that the Commonwealth is trying to keep him on this ship with just a handful of lightly armed noncombatants.
“Anyone come over from their side yet?” I ask Staff Sergeant Philbrick.
“Yeah. Hour and a half ago. Three civvies, a handful of medics, two staff officers. A major and a light colonel.” Staff Sergeant Philbrick shifts the weight of his carbine in his arms. The polymer shell of the weapon makes a soft rasping sound against the laminate of his battle armor.
“What branch?”
“Fleet,” Corporal DeLuca answers. “But no unit patches. Kinda weird. Didn’t say shit to us, either. Barely returned our salutes.”
I look over to the far side of the docking collar again. The civilian SPs are standing in pairs, two on either side of the hatch, PDWs slung across their chests. Beyond them, behind the station airlock, there are rec and medical facilities, mess halls with fresh food, and MilNet terminals for access by military personnel. If we had permission to leave Indy, I could grab some chow and a long shower and then call Halley, to tell her that I kept my promise and made it back to Earth in one piece and in time for our wedding. Being this close to her without a way to contact her is worse than the anxiety I feel before a combat drop. I’ve made it past Lankies and across thirty light-years of space, and now the only thing between me and a way to talk to her is this group of lightly armed SPs. Part of me wants to go below, put on combat armor, get my carbine from the armory, and see if they have the guts to do something about me walking right through them. The combined refugee force waiting for our return at New Svalbard is running lower on supplies every day, and we are playing protocol games with whoever is left in charge here.