Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(46)

“Go, go, go,” Sergeant Philbrick urges. “Ship’s waiting.”



We clear the next four compartments one blown airlock at a time.

“How many HEAT grenades did you bring?” I ask Philbrick after I follow him through the third hole the SI troopers have shot into inch-thick composite hatches.

“Enough to go through every airlock in this fucking place twice,” he says. “Figured they may not let us leave quietly.”

“Thinking like an NCO,” I say, and he flashes a grin.

The last airlock on Foxtrot concourse falls to four more HEAT grenades. Despite the hands I’ve cupped over my ears for every salvo, I hear a sharp ringing now that feels like it will never go away again.

The SI troopers usher the skipper and Dmitry through the new provisional access hatch in the middle of the airlock. When I climb through, the edges of the hole are still hot and glowing. I help Private Watson through, and then Corporal Nez brings up the rear.

When the corporal is halfway through the hole, there’s a sudden fusillade of gunfire on the other side of the damaged airlock. I can hear projectiles smacking into the high-strength laminate from the other side, and I reflexively drop to the ground and scramble away from the airlock. Corporal Nez yells and stumbles, then lets himself drop through the hole made by the grenades. He falls to the floor in an ungraceful heap.

“Contact rear!” he shouts, quite unnecessarily. Then he crawls to the other side of the hallway, away from me. More gunfire clatters against the airlock. Private Watson steps up to the side of the hole, sticks his rifle around the corner, and fires a long burst through the opening.

“Tac team’s here,” he shouts. “Seven, eight guys. Maybe more. We have got to go.”

The airlock connecting the station with Indy is just twenty meters away. Several armored SI troopers come running out of the docking collar and into the concourse, weapons at the ready.

“Second Squad, lend a hand,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick shouts. “Seven-plus bad guys on the other side of that hatch.”

Corporal Nez takes a grenade out of his harness and pops the safety cap. He smacks the fuse end against his armor to activate the charge and chucks the grenade through the opening.

Then the airlock starts to open with a slight mechanical whine.

“Uh-oh,” Corporal Nez says.

The lower edge of the airlock is maybe ten centimeters off the ground when the grenade detonates in the corridor beyond. The shock wave makes the laminate ring like a muffled gong. The airlock crawls up another ten centimeters, then twenty, then thirty. When the ragged top of the hole we made reaches the bulkhead above, the upward motion stops with a shrill and tortured metallic shriek.

“Get them into the ship,” Sergeant Philbrick shouts, and points at Dmitry and me. The skipper is already halfway to the docking collar, shielded by Private Bennett, who is directly behind him to keep the bulk of his armor between the colonel and the gunfire. Two members of Second Squad dart over to where we are to provide the same service to Dmitry and me. Together, we make a rapid and highly awkward procession to the docking collar as the other SI troopers start pouring fire through the crack at the bottom of the airlock to cover our retreat. One of the tactical cops on the other side of the airlock takes a chapter out of Corporal Nez’s playbook and rolls a grenade through the opening, but Staff Sergeant Philbrick stops it with his armored boot and kicks it back through. It explodes just barely on the other side of the airlock, which shudders violently with the explosion and then slams back down rapidly without any restraints. All over the corridor, multiple alarms are blaring, blending with the gunfire in a discordant crescendo.

The SI troopers usher us into the docking collar. Behind us, First Squad holds the line, falling back in turn while keeping up a covering fire aimed at the hole in the airlock. I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen if one of the tactical cops decides to fire a grenade launcher down the concourse and into the docking collar while we’re between the station and the ship.

Then I’m back on Indy, past the main airlock and inside the ship’s main port-to-starboard passageway. A few moments later, the rest of First Squad come running up the docking collar and through the airlock.

“Secure the airlock,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick shouts. Corporal Nez runs over to the side of the passageway and hits the emergency-lock button with the butt of his rifle. A warning klaxon blares sharply, and the airlock slides down and out into its recess in the ship’s armor belt. The noise from the outside of the ship instantly cuts off.

“Seal your suits and guard this airlock,” Colonel Campbell shouts over to Sergeant Philbrick. “Nothing in or out. Tell CIC I am on my way. Mr. Grayson, with me.”



The combat information center is already abuzz with activity when Colonel Campbell and I step through the hatch. The colonel strides into the middle of the CIC pit. I step up to my accustomed spot on the pit rail and grasp it with both hands to steady myself.

“Sitrep,” the colonel barks.

“Reactor is at full output. Propulsion online,” Major Renner replies. “All personnel accounted for.”

“Get us loose from the station now.”

“They’re not releasing the clamps, sir. We’ve initiated undock sequence, but they’ve locked us down.”

“Blow the emergency locks on the docking clamps. Blow ’em off,” Colonel Campbell orders.