Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [78]
Turning his helmet in Chang’s direction, Mayweather breathed a silent prayer of thanks that at least the suits’ radios still seemed to be working, however marginally. Then he said, “Maybe we ought to concentrate on whatever we have that’s still working properly—and put it to good use. After all, that’s really the only hope we have of finding a way out of this mess.” Chang remained silent for a lengthy moment, and in the absence of both suits’ helmet lamps Mayweather was beginning to be able to see the MACO squad leader’s face as he carefully schooled his expression back into its customary mask of inspection-tour stoicism.
“All right,” Chang said finally, speaking around yet another bacon-frying crackle of static. “Why don’t you giv—me an—nventory?”
“Well, we have our radios.” Another sudden oceanic swell of electromagnetic noise prompted Mayweather to think, For now, at least. “And we have a fully operational shuttlepod, with one member of the strike team already back on board her.”
“But that shuttlep—is still connected to these storage tanks by our tether lines,” Chang said. “And McCammon isn’t rated as a pilot. I never should have let you suit up and leave the boat.”
But you did, didn’t you? Mayweather thought. Despite his irritation, and his own regrets, he understood that pointing this out would have been just about as useless as Chang’s own comment had been.
“Chang, we have to stay focused on getting ourselves out of this situation,” he said finally, willfully inflecting his voice with patience. “I mean, the explosives aren’t armed yet, the camouflage layer on our suits still seems to be intact, we still have air, and there’s been no sign of other Xindi vessels since we began the EVA. So we can probably afford to devote a few hours to solving this problem if we have to.”
A moment later, an alarm flashed through the strike team’s open com channel, interspersed with a steadily rising tide of static. Mayweather tensed, looking toward the fuel tank’s dark horizon, where he expected to see the running lights of a swooping Xindi vessel appear at any moment.
But no such apparition met his searching eyes. Instead, he heard the voice of Corporal Guitierrez coming over the strike team’s com loop, and her words sounded flash-frozen with fear. “—think we must have tripped another Xindi countermeasur—
“Repeat, Guitierrez,” Chang said. “We—idn’t copy that.”
“—said that the explosives all just started their final—ountdown to detonation.” Another quick, uncomfortably loud blast of electromagnetic hash reverberated painfully through Mayweather’s helmet. “—all by themselves. We have—ust under thirty seconds.”
Though he knew it was pure superstition, Mayweather wished he could move his feet just for a moment—not to escape, but to kick Chang for violating the boomer’s taboo against tempting the fates that ruled the great uncaring universe.
Fourteen
Courier Ship Helkez Torvo
CLANG.
The second set of grappling arms engaged, holding fast to the hull of Trahve’s ship. Meanwhile, the cockpit console readouts, the noisily flashing alarms, and the persistent rumbling from the bowels of the vessel confirmed that the ship’s engines were still progressing inexorably toward containment failure. Internal stresses continued to build energies and pressures that would shortly seek their level via a catastrophic engine overload.
This sudden “reequilibrium” of the warp core’s vast energies would, of course, be followed by a tremendous, annihilative matter-antimatter explosion that would momentarily burn as hot and bright as the photosphere of a G-type star.
Reed hadn’t been