Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [9]
Instantly the fighters began humming with power buildup. Perraton disappeared back inside, and Stiles was two steps behind him, scrambling up the ramp on two feet and a hand, his weapon clutched in his other hand. Perraton was there to yank him inside, and backhanded the ramp control. The ramp whined upward and clacked shut, then the hatch bolts slammed into place.
Inside, Bill Foster was collecting the phaser rifles and slamming them back into their wall rack while the other men dumped their helmets into the reception locker.
“We’re secure,” Perraton reported. “Dan’s powering up for you:’ He hit the hatch lock for takeoff, turned to Stiles and shrugged. “Wasn’t so hard.”
“It wasn’t?” Stiles gasped, scanning the crowd of frightened evacuees. “Is anybody hurt?”
They all looked at each other, but no one spoke up. They were braised, dirty, coughing, no longer the prim bunch he’d seen in the embassy, and one woman was sobbing, but most of them were in their seats and belted in. Now he saw that Ambassador Spock was buckling up two of the family members. So Spock was responsible for the organization. No surprise there.
Stiles dumped his helmet on the carpet and peeled out of his flak vest. “Where’s Jeremy?” ‘T m over here.”
Jeremy White’s lanky form, smeared with dirt now, was sprawled in one of the crew seats, pressing a hand to his neck. His helmet was off too, and his uniform was still smoldering. Stiles stuffed his vest into Perraton’s hands and hurried forward to Jeremy White. “You all right?” he asked. White blinked up at him. “Affirmative, more or less.” “Why’d you break formation?”
White’s glare roughened. “Gosh, Eric, I got this irresistible crush on a girl way over there and figured to ask her out if I could just get through those terrorists with the hot irons and broken bottles-what the hell kind of a question is that?” “You follow orders from now on, have you got that?”
Slumping back a little more, White grimaced. “Put a leash on it, will you? We’re doing everything you say!”
Stiles almost snapped a reprimand, but what good would that do? And all the dignitaries were looking at him. Should he throw a tantrum?
Instead he surveyed White’s dirt-flecked face and sandy hair, and decided on a better choice. “You’re all right, though?” he asked. “Not burned?”
The anger flowed out of White’s heat-blotched cheeks. “Except that now I have to tell my mother I scratched the little body she cooked for nine months.”
“Then take the portside defense guns. Let’s get off this planet.”
“Aye aye.” White pushed out of his seat and made sure his neck wasn’t bleeding. “Girvan, starboard gun.” “Starboard, aye.”
“Travis, navigate. We got a mountain range in our liftoff path.” “Right.”
The three men went in three different directions, two to the defense pods and Perraton to the cockpit. A second later, Dan Moose came out of the cockpit and said, “We’re powered up. I can’t pilot this thing, though. You’re the only one who can fly it in an atmosphere.”
“I ‘know, I’m coming. Sir, are you comfortable?” He paused before the ambassador on his way to the cockpit and asked a silly question. What difference did comfort make?
“I’m sorry about the trouble out there, sir;’ Stiles babbled. “If it were up to me, we’d sweep the whole courtyard with wide stun. Why do people have to behave that way?”
Spock straightened from helping Edwin buckle up. “Those people are frightened, Ensign, and disheartened. The political situation here is volatile. This was our last chance to evacuate Federation personnel. Prudence dictated that we get out while we can. The Pojjana have abandoned any overtures toward Federation membership, despite our efforts to help them protect themselves. This is an interplanetary squabble between them and the Bal Quonnot now, lacking clear rights and wrongs.