Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(51)
“What we have done—what we are doing right now—is flat-out mutiny. We have resisted arrest, fought military police officers, engaged in a gun battle with civilian police, and we have stolen this ship out of the dock against orders. We have engaged another fleet unit in self-defense and damaged them, probably killed a few of their crew. If another fleet ship catches us here in the solar system, we will probably end up directly in the high-risk ward at Leavenworth if they don’t blow us out of space instantly. This is not a legal gray area like our refusal to follow orders above New Svalbard. They ordered this ship’s command staff relieved, and Indy to join the defense of Earth. We not only disobeyed those orders; we resisted with force of arms.
“But I chose this course of action because we have a task force and thirty thousand people waiting for our return in Fomalhaut. We need to let them know how to get home because they will not transition back blindly. This is our mission, and we will fulfill it. I am not about to sacrifice that many lives to add what is ultimately an insignificant amount of firepower to Earth’s defensive picket. You’ve all seen what the Lankies can do; if they show up here, our presence isn’t going to make a bit of a difference.
“Anyone who is having second thoughts: I cannot in good conscience disobey my orders and expect you all to follow the ones I am giving. If you want off this ship, report to the NCO mess within the next fifteen minutes. We will fly you out with the drop ship and deliver you to the nearest fleet facility on this side of Luna. I repeat: fifteen minutes. CO out.”
Colonel Campbell puts the handset back into its receptacle and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he looks over to the holotable display and straightens out his uniform tunic, which wasn’t at all rumpled.
“XO,” he says.
“Sir.” Major Renner steps up next to him.
“Have the drop-ship pilot prep his bird and put it on standby. Then go down to the NCO mess and collect whoever wants off this boat. Execute.”
“Aye, sir.” Major Renner picks up the comms handset and turns away.
“I can’t make you the same offer, Sergeant Chistyakov,” Colonel Campbell says to Dmitry. “We need you to open the door for us again, or your comrades over New Svalbard will have a bad month. Unless you want to give us the code and leave your suit with us. In that case, I’d have the drop ship take you to Luna with the others and deliver you to the nearest SRA military post.”
“Cannot give code.” Dmitry smiles and shakes his head slightly.
“Then I guess you’re staying with us for the ride back. Sorry.”
“I have orders to come back to Minsk with little imperialist spy ship of yours.” Dmitry shrugs. “I follow orders. Friends in 144th Spaceborne Assault Regiment will be very mad if they die because I do not come back.”
Colonel Campbell smiles the tiniest of smiles. “Glad to hear it, Sergeant.” Then he looks at me. “What about you, Mr. Grayson?”
“What about me, sir?” I ask.
“You’re badly wounded. That hand of yours needs to be seen by a surgeon, in a proper medical facility. You want to take the ship to Luna, I will not think any less of you.” He nods at my bandaged hand. “There’s no glory in losing that when you don’t have to. I don’t think we need to worry about Sergeant Chistyakov on the ride back. Take that seat on the drop ship.”
The sudden wild hope I feel is almost like a living animal trying to work its way out of my rib cage. I look from Colonel Campbell to Dmitry and back to the colonel.
“They’ll arrest me the second I set foot onto Luna, sir.”
“They probably will. Maybe not, if word hasn’t gotten to them yet. In either case, they’ll send you to a medical center to get fixed. We’ll all end up in the brig anyway if we make it back. Either way, you’ll be ahead of the game.”
“May I consult with the corpsman, sir?”
“Of course you may,” Colonel Campbell says. “You have”—he checks the clock on the bulkhead—“eleven minutes to decide before I have the drop ship warmed up. Go ahead and make your choice.”
“Yes, sir.”
I leave the pit and walk over to the CIC’s hatch. When I reach the threshold, I glance back. Colonel Campbell is over by the holotable sketching on the plot with a light pen. Dmitry is over on the edge of the CIC pit, hands folded in front of his chest, watching the activity around him with the usual relaxed amusement on his face, like someone who is listening to a friend telling a familiar joke to someone else. He sees me looking over at him and inclines his head in my direction. I return his nod and walk out.
Corpsman Randall is in the passageway in front of the sick-bay berth when I get down to her deck. She’s securing the hatch when she sees me coming down the passageway, and she pauses with her hand on the locking lever.
“Back so soon? Meds not doing the job?”
“Meds are fine,” I say. Then I notice that she has a small pack slung across her shoulder. “Are you going over to Luna?”
She frowns and shakes her head curtly. “That’s a negative. I’m the only medical specialist on this ship. If I leave, nobody’s going to get any care that doesn’t come out of a bottle.”
“Don’t you have family on Earth? You don’t sound like a colony brat.”