Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [5]
Captain Ruszkowski didn’t wait for the stirring announcement to stop, because that would take several minutes. Throughout the ship, thousands of trained men and women were streaking toward their posts, all blood running hot with a thrill that inevitably comes from hearing those words over the intercom. No matter how awful or how dangerous, there was always the thrill. It was part and parcel of the voodoo that made things work on a military vessel.
Ruszkowski kept quiet just a few more seconds until he heard the distinct kksshhhhhhhoooooo of F-14s peeling off the flight deck in succession so quick it was scary. That was a good sound, and he started breathing again. “Scan for any vessels in a thousand-mile radius. I want to know if this is a fake.”
Compton turned in his chair. “Sir?”
“Go, Compton.”
“Russian wing commander says three bags full, sir. They’ll comply with dumping their arms and anything else you want.”
“Ask the squadron leader what kind of arresting gear he has, then tell him what we’ve got and see if they’re compatible. We’ll have to know if their tailhookers are up to speed or if we have to rig a barricade.”
Galanter straightened. “Should we tell them that? I mean, isn’t that classified?”
“Yeah, but I don’t really care. And signal our picket destroyer that they might have to go in after the MiGs if we can’t hook them and they have to ditch.”
“Soviet CAP leader says he’s willing to comply unconditionally on all counts, sir. He sounds pretty shook up.”
“Signal they have permission to land, Mr. Compton. Dave, let’s bring those pilots in.”
It had never in all the history of the universe been so hot. An eerie yellow light flashed on and off, picking up the roundness of tiny beads of perspiration on the woman’s ivory skin. Some of the beads caught on the ends of her long black eyelashes as she lay there with her eyes tightly shut. The glow was spasmodic, on, off, on, off.
Her eyes shot open. Her hands gnawed the edges of the mattress. Her back was suddenly stiff from sitting up so quickly, yet she had absolutely no memory of having sat up. Beneath her uniform, perspiration rolled down between her breasts, as though someone had dumped a beaker of glycerin over her shoulders.
“Don’t fire … shut down all systems … Vasska … Vasska!”
She was gasping. Several seconds thundered by under the terrible flash of the yellow light before her eyes focused on the delicate floral arrangement on her dresser.
“Yellow alert … yellow alert … “
She turned her head, blinking tears from her eyes, and undone black hair moved on her shoulders, reminding her of who she was. She tried to catch at her identity as it slipped in and out of her mind, to draw it n, cling to it-
“Yellow alert…Coundelor Troi, please report to the bridge immediately. Counselor Deanna Troi, report to the bridge please. Yellow alert…yellow alert…”
Chapter Two
“FIRE PHASERS.”
Captain Picard’s precise enunciation gave the order a theatrical tenor. It was followed almost immediately by the thunder of weapons powering through the big ship. A slim, magisterial man of thrifty movement, Picard stood the deck without pacing as most would, watching the latest of a series of rather tedious scientific exercises.
In the corner of his eye he saw the yellow alert light flashing, and it reminded him that stations had been manned and any quick shifts in orbital integrity could be handled without surprise now. “Orbital status, Mr. LaForge?”
As he spoke, Picard crossed the topaz carpet to bridge center and glanced over the shoulder of Geordi LaForge, ignoring-through practice-the fact that the dark young man had a metal band over his eyes that made him appear blindfolded. There was something ironic and disconcerting-to humans-about trusting the steering of a gigantic ship to a blind man.
LaForge’s head moved, downward slightly and left-it was their only signal that visual tie-in to his brain was working at all. “An orbit this tight is tricky since gas giants have no true surface, sir, but we’re stable and holding. I guess the Federation