Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(50)

“The sooner, the better,” Randall says. “I just cleared up the worst of the mess and fused you up a bit. That hand needs a lot more attention than I am qualified to give. You need to see a fleet physician, and soon.”

“That may be a problem.” I sit up and wince. “I don’t think we’re on speaking terms with the fleet right now.”

She turns to her medicine cabinets again and takes out a medication cylinder. She pops it open, verifies the contents, and closes it again. Then she hands it to me. I take it with my good hand.

“I’m not going to put a DNA lock on those. Take for pain as needed. No more than two every four hours, though, or you’ll be shitting bricks for a month straight. And don’t operate a starship or heavy ordnance-loading gear. There’s a fair chance these won’t do the job completely for the sort of pain you’ll have soon. If it gets too much, come to me and I’ll shoot you up with something stronger.”

“Thanks.” I put the cylinder into the chest pocket of my CDU blouse, which is still stained with the blood from my nose. “What if I can’t get this hand seen by a navy doc for a month or two?”

“Then you may have to retrain how to tie your boots with a hand and a half,” Corpsman Randall says.



The combat information center is back to its usual level of focused activity when I walk through the hatch again. Indy’s supply sergeant issued me a new set of fatigues, and the blood is gone from my face, but the thick adhesive bandage pack on my hand keeps me from feeling restored.

“Mr. Grayson,” the colonel says when he sees me. “How’s the hand?”

“What’s left of it seems fine,” I say. “Two fingers still gone, though.”

Colonel Campbell grimaces when he sees my wrapped hand. “Those stupid, trigger-happy SP morons.”

“He didn’t mean to shoot me. He meant to put one into Dmitry.”

“Yeah, I saw that. If it’s any consolation at all, your fingers bought us our return trip to Fomalhaut. XO?”

“Yes, sir,” Major Renner says.

“Get Sergeant Chistyakov down to CIC.”

“Aye, sir.” Major Renner picks up the handset on the console in front of her.

Colonel Campbell walks over to the holotable in the middle of the CIC pit. I follow him down and look at the plot. We are making a racetrack pattern between Earth and Luna. There are small clusters of pale blue and red icons dotting the plot, NAC and SRA ships in small task groups or by themselves, docking at their respective coalitions’ space stations or patrolling in orbit.

“We’re in stealth mode,” the colonel says. “Nobody’s actively looking for us right now, but we’re staying low-profile because we don’t have the time to sort out just what exactly is going on around here.” He nods to the date and time display on the CIC bulkhead. “We’ve burned up two weeks just getting here, and the return trip is going to take longer.”

“Fuel tanks are full at least. Good thing we ran out of fuel when we did,” Major Renner says.

“How are we on chow and drinking water?”

“We have enough rations in storage to make the return trip. Water’s more iffy. I started replenishment with the station on a hunch when we docked, but we had to cut short due to our, uh, rushed departure. We’re half-full on the potable.”

“Should be okay if we don’t all take long showers every day.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll manage.”

I look at the plot and exhale slowly. We are so close to Luna, closer than I’ve been since I visited Halley at Drop Ship U. I’ve made it back, just like I promised, but I have no way to tell her that I’m here, no way to let her know that I made it close enough to see the above-surface structures of Fleet School through the optical feed without any magnification. I’m here, and now I have to leave again, and I may not come back. This ship is tired, her crew is worn-out, and we’ve dodged almost-certain death too many times now for the odds to stay on our side. I’ve used up all my luck and a bunch of other grunts’ besides: Stratton’s, Paterson’s, that of the SI troopers who bought it on the Sirius Ad drop, that of the HD mudlegs who burned up or got ripped to shreds by Shrike cannon fire in New Longyearbyen, and God knows how many others who have fought and died near me when I had the luck to make it back onto the drop ship and back to the carrier every time. Feeling a crushing sense of disappointment and despair because I won’t get to see my fiancée again after all seems petty and selfish, but it’s what I feel nonetheless, and I can’t help it.

Behind me, the main CIC hatch opens, and Dmitry walks in, escorted by Corporal Nez. I nod at him, and he returns the nod.

Colonel Campbell picks up the receiver on the console in front of him.

“1MC, all-ship announcement,” he says to the comms officer.

“1MC, all hands,” the comms officer confirms.

The colonel takes a long, slow breath. Then he puts the receiver against his ear and presses the transmit bar on the side.

“All hands, this is the CO. Listen up. We are in stealth, about fifty thousand kilometers from Luna, and the XO is preparing the ship for our return trip to Fomalhaut. I know you’ve all been manning your duty stations for far longer than any of us had anticipated when we set out for this cruise. Our little ship wasn’t made for deep-space combat ops, but that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two months straight. I know you’re all tired, and if it were up to me, I’d give you all a few weeks of leave right now and hand this boat over to a relief crew. But that is not what we’re about to do.