Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [42]
Jerking the hatch shut behind him, Jackson spun the wheel to secure the air lock, then pressed the repressurize button. He was woozy, almost unconscious from imminent suffocation, but before he passed out, he breathed a large, lifesaving lungful of air.
“Seal the air locks!” Carstairs barked. “All engines full speed. Mark a course for two four zero, with forty-five degrees inclination.” He drew a breath. “Damage control parties, make your reports.”
Lieutenant (j.g.) Dennis Sanders could only try to stay out of the way as the officers and crew of the Pegasus fought to save their ship. The jolt of the impact had been a pounding explosion, and it seemed amazing that the frigate hadn’t simply disintegrated from the force of the blast. He wondered about the Team, hoping that none of the explosion had ripped through SEALS country on H Deck.
Immediately the pulse of the engines thrummed through the decks. The ship maneuvered wildly, although the IDS kept the crew from being wrenched around too violently. Sanders merely held on to the handrail at the wall as he watched the images on the CIC computer display.
“Engines operating at full capacity, sir,” came the first report. ”No sign of external or internal damage on A, B, or C Deck. We seemed to take the hit in the stern.”
“We have a breach in the glass on L Deck,” crackled another report from one of the ship’s female petty officers. “We’ve lost the integrity of the dome, but the air lock is secure between L and K. One dead, lost to the vacuum. Two more wounded, now secure in the transport compartment.”
“Damn,” Carstairs cursed, and Sanders knew the personal pain that the captain felt upon hearing news of the death. With a chill, he remembered that his own CO had gone to L Deck to observe the approach to the planet. Was the LT the dead man or one of the wounded in the transport compartment?
“Who the hell is shooting at us?” Carstairs demanded. Despite the IDS, the interior of the ship seemed to lurch violently from side to side as the frigate maneuvered frantically.
“Looks like a real brouhaha out there, sir,” reported one of the sailors who was studying his screen in the CIC. “We’ve got a couple of big ships shooting at something like a dozen smaller vessels. It was one of the big boys that snapped off the shot at us. Seemed to be some kind of projectile, sir, apparently nonexplosive but capable of punching right through the hull.”
“Permission to check on the wounded, sir?” Sanders asked, already heading for the hatch as Carstairs waved him on.
The small car of the transport compartment slid smoothly to a halt in the passageway just outside the CIC. Sanders was relieved to see Jackson there, sitting up and cursing, although the junior officer was shocked by the blood smeared across his CO’s face. The other wounded man, a sailor, was even bloodier than the LT. He seemed to be unconscious.
Sanders reached for the intercom button. “Corpsman! We need medical attention at the transport hatch on C Deck!”
Almost immediately two sailors were there. Jackson shrugged off their attentions, though he consented to take an insta-ice compress to hold against his nose. The LT rose shakily to his feet and gestured to the bloody sailor.
“This man needs your help. I need to see the captain,” he barked in a tone that would allow no argument.
Sanders stepped so close that Jackson had no choice but to lean on his shoulder; together the two SEALS officers passed through the hatch into the CIC.
“Tom!” Carstairs declared, shocked by the lieutenant’s appearance.
“Just a scratch, sir. I came to report on the damage to L Deck.” Quickly and tersely he described the puncture of the Plexiglas, the jammed shield, the missing sailor, and the damage to the gun crew position.
“The particle cannon itself—did it get hit?” the captain asked.
“I don’t think so, sir. It might be operable if you