Major Mackie, it seemed, had been seriously wounded, his read-out registering as amber. He was still in the game, but for how much longer?

  Under normal circumstances, Faulkner would have given the order for the men to surrender but this was far from a normal situation. The nuke had been set up to the rear of the Marines’ position. If they were to surrender now then their sacrifice would have all been for nothing.

  The screen that Webster was watching events on suddenly went blank and, when he looked over to the lead technician the man could only give an apologetic shrug.

  The name taped to the corner of the screen read ‘Duku’ and when Webster glanced over to the diagnostics chart he saw the man’s icon switch from amber to red.

  He switched his attention to another screen, this one showing an external shot of the enemy ship. It came as a relief to be able to return to the tranquillity of space for a moment after all he’d witnessed in the engine room.

  “Ten seconds to detonation.”

  Webster concentrated on the screen, marvelling at the close-ups of the enemy ship’s hull. In parts, it was like looking at the surface of some vast, spherical desert. The undulations on its exterior clearly visible, the crests of rolling dunes picked out by the dying rays of the sun. He forced himself to concentrate, to try and take in as much detail as he could. How many other people would ever get this opportunity?

  What would he give to be able to capture her in one piece? The things they might learn!

  But, even as he was thinking it, he knew it wasn’t to be. He supposed Faulkner had known that from the out-set - Mackie too, for that matter. And yet they had both felt that it had been a risk worth taking.

  Webster marvelled at the thought of what might have been. How events might have played out differently. With scientists reverse engineering every aspect of the alien ship: its propulsion systems, its navigational capabilities, even its weaponry. Such would have been a future in which Faulkner and every member of his crew would have become instant millionaires based solely on the salvage rights alone. It would have been a future in which Major Mackie returned to Earth the triumphant hero, celebrated and renowned throughout the entire Confederation.

  A future in politics might have beckoned.

  Mackie for president.

  It surely couldn’t have been discounted. But it was a future none of them was ever likely to see.

  Webster had the peculiar thought that - as he studied the ship for perhaps the last time - from this particular angle, the enemy ship looked very much like a walnut.

  The first explosion was huge, a bright blast of pure energy which burst out through the ship’s right-hand side. This was followed by a series of smaller blasts, opening the ship’s innards out to the coldness of space.

  Webster watched in awe. It reminded him of when he was young. When there was a big storm he’d sit with his brothers at the back window scanning the horizon, waiting for that next lightning strike, never quite knowing where to look next.

  The alien ship had started to lose its integrity, the thick outer rim unable to prevent the two hemispheres from tearing apart, the interior starting to unfurl. There was a terrible sadness to it all but Webster forced himself to keep watching.

  The final explosion came from deep within the bowels of the vessel, seeming to consume the very fabric of its construction. It swelled momentarily, as if the ship was holding its breath before the final cataclysmic exhale. The interior blazed with light until it was too bright to look at directly. And then came the nuclear blast, absolutely spherical, it suddenly seemed to double in size.

  The Mantis rode the shock waves for several long seconds with every proximity alarm on board eager to mark the moment. No one reacted to the noise, fixated as they were on watching the spreading mass of debris as it scattered itself across the glassy boundaries of space.

  Webster couldn’t believe how suddenly the whole ship had disintegrated. He sat back in his seat, humbled by what he’d just witnessed.

  “Are all our ships accounted for?” Faulkner asked.

  “The last two dropships are preparing to dock now, sir.”

  The two dropships carrying the Gamma and Delta squads had left it until the last minute to depart in the vain hope that their comrades might still make it out alive. Even then, Faulkner had had to speak to both pilots directly and give them the order to return. As a result of their delay, neither had been able to reach the safety of the Mantis’ cargo bay before the blast struck.

  “I’ll go and speak with the pilots myself,” Webster said angrily. By delaying their return, the men had not only endangered themselves but also the lives of all on-board, not to mention exposing their craft to high levels of radiation which would see them taken out of service for an indefinite period.

  Faulkner made a gesture which kept Webster in his seat.

  “Leave it for the time being, Alex. I’ll speak with them once things have calmed down.”

  Webster didn’t react. It was the first time the captain had used his Christian name and he found something about that unsettling.

  “Sir,” a voice cut in. It was Ensign Williams. “We’re picking up survivors on the short-range scan.”

  “Will it be safe to launch a Search and Rescue detail?” Webster asked. He was still worried about the radiation levels.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, sir,” Williams said.

  “Do you have any visual data?” Faulkner asked. The man nodded. “Okay, let’s see it.”

  “We should be seeing it about now, sir.”

  At the top of the screen a tiny wedge-shaped shuttle was just coming into view.

  “What are the scans telling us?” Faulkner seemed perplexed.

  “Other than its energy signature, we’re getting very little,” the Ensign said. “I’ve tried hailing them but with no luck. No sign of any active weaponry though.”

  But that meant nothing. The shuttle could be carrying all kinds of inert explosives which they would be unable to detect right up until the moment the crew chose to detonate them.

  “What do you think?” Webster said. “Is it possible that some of our people made it out?”

  “Hard to tell,” Faulkner said. “More likely some of their crew. We’ve seen no signs of any escape pods.”

  “Then why are they heading in our direction? Surely it would be easier just to slip away. I don’t know – play dead and hope to lose themselves among the debris.”

  Faulkner scowled. “Only that wouldn’t get them very far. It’d take them weeks – months even – to reach the nearest planet. Could be that they’re just trying to surrender.”

  “Then why aren’t they responding to our hails?”

  Faulkner dropped his head for a second. “That, Mr Webster, is a very good question.”

  There were no clear guidelines for a situation such as this but there would be obvious advantages to picking up an intact enemy vessel complete with her crew. At this stage, any intelligence might well prove decisive in the conflict to come. Yet there was also the very real danger that a ship like this could pose.

  “It’s almost too tempting,” Webster said.

  “Perhaps that’s the point,” Faulkner said. “And if we had the luxury of a proper escort I might just consider taking the bait. But we’ve come too far to jeopardise ourselves now.”

  Webster nodded. “Of course. Should I give the order to open fire?”

  Faulkner considered this then gave a dutiful nod. “That would seem like the prudent thing to do.”

  Webster stood up, his neck and shoulders aching from hours staring at the screens.

  “I’d like to try hailing them one last time, if I may?”

  Faulkner grunted his acknowledgement. They were both tired. Ensign Williams didn’t have to be told twice and immediately began sending out hailing signals.

  Yet still Webster didn’t move. He knew that he should be compiling a launch package with Bertran in order to deal with this newfound threat, and yet still he hesitated. It was a miracle that the craft had survived the annihilation of the enemy ship. And now it was going to be destroyed by their potential rescuers.

  Finally, he realised that the time had come. He glanced across to the Ensign who shook his head.

  No response to the hail.

  Shame.

  Bertran was toggling through a number of launch packages on his screen in anticipation. Webster put his hands on his hips, forcing his back to straighten.

  Something blinked on the screen.

  I must be really tired, he thought. I’ve even started seeing things.

  He was about to move off when he saw it again.

  He went across and stood directly in front of the screen. He squinted, trying to get a better look.

  “Can we get this image any bigger?” he asked of no one in particular.

  Somebody must have been listening though, because the image suddenly grew in size.

  And there it was again.

  Unmistakable now.

  He beckoned the Ensign over. The young man approached hesitantly, “How can I help, sir?”

  “Look at that screen, Ensign. Tell me if you see anything unusual.”

  By now, a number of people had become aware of Webster’s odd behaviour.

  The Ensign stood in front of the screen, straining to look.

  “Oh, yes. Now, I see it. That light.”

  He turned to Webster for confirmation like a maths student suddenly grasping a complex equation.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Well,” the Ensign made to reply before turning back to check the screen again. “Back at the Academy we had to learn various signalling codes.”

  “And is that what you think this is?”

  “I can’t remember the name of the code off hand, sir, but I’d recognise that signal anywhere. That’s an SOS, sir. Used all the time in the wet navy days. That’s an international distress signal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Morton had just managed to get herself a cup of coffee when the captain appeared with his entourage.

  Wanting to look professional, she passed the cup to one of the porters for him to dispose of. It was the first drink she’d had all day and she resented having to surrender it. But it was hard to salute while holding a cup.

  Her salute was as precise as ever but there was something different about it. She felt a strong urge to hold the position for just a little longer than was necessary.

  This wasn’t just some time worn protocol. She’d saluted Faulkner on countless occasions in the past but this time was different. This time she really felt it.

  While the medics had had their hands full dealing with casualties over the last few days they all knew that things could have been far worse.

  The greatest loss of life had been amongst the Marines who’d boarded the enemy ship - the Da’al ship as it was now widely known. Thirty-four men had failed to return from that particular mission, with Major Mackie being the most notable casualty.

  “At ease, surgeon captain,” Faulkner said as he approached. He looked drawn and pale but otherwise better than she’d expected. Considering the state of his health going into this, he’d stood up remarkably well.

  “Just thought I’d pop in to see how things are going.”

  Morton took in the sick bay with a sweep of her hand.

  “Everything’s fine now, sir. We were a little over stretched when the drop ships came back but we’ve got a good team here and we’re well practised for just this kind of eventuality.”

  Talking like that made it all sound very calm and professional when, at the time, it had been anything but. Still, they had coped, and coped remarkably well.

  “How many casualties, all told?” Faulkner asked.

  “Not counting the Marines who didn’t return? Thirty-one in total. Eleven people died as a result of structural blow-outs and sixteen due to direct enemy fire. The remaining four were Marines who died from their wounds.”

  “Sixty-five in all,” Faulkner concluded. They silently pondered that grim statistic for a moment. “What about the relief team working on that rail gun? You including them in your calculations?”

  “Four of them, yes. I’d like to talk to you about the other two later, if I may.”

  She found the talk of numbers infuriating and, while she could understand Faulkner’s need for clarity, she still felt that there should be some time for the crew to reflect on the loss of their crewmates before they started to quantify everything. She didn’t like it when efficiency triumphed over humanity.

  And, she would like to think that, privately, Faulkner agreed with her. But then she thought back to those tales about him being the Butcher of Tsvengir and suddenly she wasn’t quite so sure.

  She led the way to the ward where the surviving rail gunners were being treated. When Faulkner’s secretary had contacted her the previous day, he’d stressed how keen the captain was to visit with them. There were several rumours circulating about their contribution to the victory. Some were calling them the unsung heroes of the piece while others dismissed their contribution as being insignificant.

  Morton wondered whether that story might change when it became clear that only two of the six ‘gunners’ had survived.

  Certainly, Faulkner seemed in no doubt as to their achievement, speaking with both Rodgers and Johansson at length, congratulating them on their work. They were both still confined within their auto-docs but they could converse easily enough.

  They would have to spend at least another week in there and that would only be the start of their treatment. The two men would have to return for numerous procedures over the coming months. Only then would they be able to determine whether they had suffered any permanent damage. She was particularly pleased that Rodgers had pulled through. She’d liked him ever since she’d first met him. She was fairly certain that Faulkner shared her feelings although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Wouldn’t do for a captain to have favourites.

  On their way to meet the other casualties, they paused so that Morton could introduce him to the rest of her medical team. They weren’t all there of course, a lot of them were in their bunks but those on duty seemed to enjoy the opportunity of meeting him. It was, after all, quite possible to serve on a starship your entire career and never once encounter the captain.

  Once the introductions had been made and the others had gone about their business, Faulkner kept Morton back.

  “I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done here, Elsbeth. Must have been tough.”

  His candid appraisal prompted her into a more honest response than she’d initially intended.

  “To be truthful, after the war, I never expected to be dealing with casualties on this scale ever again. It was sobering going right back into it. Sobering but necessary. Though I imagine there’s going to be a lot more days like this to come if this Da’al threat continues.”

  Faulkner didn’t respond so she led him along to the ward where they were keeping the Marines.

  “So, you don’t regret taking up my offer?” he indicated the injured troopers up ahead. “All this, I mean?”

  “Ask me again in a few months’ time. But, no. I don’t regret it. In fact, I’m rather proud of what we’ve achieved in such a short time.”

  Faulkner nodded, giving the impression that her approval was the most important thing he’d take back from this visit. That she, for one, could understand what it was he’d been trying to do. Morton felt closer to him then than she had been in all the time she’d known him. He seemed to sense it too but this only heightened his sense of awkwardness.

  He stretched out his arms and briefly flexed his fingers.

  Morton wanted to say more but before she could, Faulkner had been beckoned over by the sergeant who was waiting to make the introductions.

  “Well, Sergeant, are you going to do the honors?”

  The sergeant was a short black woman whose salute came complete with its own scowl. In the first bed was a long lean trooper who wouldn’t have looked out of place on a basketball court. Next to him was a young woman who, though only half the size of her squad mates, certainly looked tough enough.

  It took a second for him to realise where they’d met before.

  “May I introduce Corporal Jackson and Lance Corporal Grimes,” the sergeant said. “They were both members of Team Zeta.”

  The only surviving members, although she didn’t say as much.

  “Corporal Jackson,” Faulkner seemed genuinely taken aback. “I had no idea you were even on board.”

  “I just go where the corps sends me, sir,” Jackson said tersely.

  Faulkner turned to her squad mate in the next bed. Grimes’ left shoulder was heavily strapped but he chatted easily enough, as though recovering from some minor sports injury.

  “Am I right in thinking that you two were the ones responsible for capturing this translator character?”

  Jackson’s face contorted with obvious discomfort. “No, sir, we didn’t ‘capture’ him.”

  Faulkner turned to Morton for clarification. She’d come across this type of Marine before, on more than one occasion. Generally conditioned never to disagree with a superior officer, they were also homicidally intent on only ever telling the absolute truth – no matter how incriminating that might be. LaCruz just couldn’t help herself.

  Faulkner studied her calmly. “So you didn’t capture him, then?”

  “Not exactly, sir, no.”

  “So what was it? Did he surrender?”

  “Not as such, sir, no. If truth be told, he was the one who sort of rescued us.”

  She turned to Grimes for support but he was already looking away, no longer part of the conversation.

  LaCruz gave the captain a desperate grin and stopped talking.

  “Anyway, excellent work, corporal. Seems that you have a habit of putting yourself in harm’s way. I’m sure things will all seem a lot clearer after your de-brief.”