Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [78]
“And we’re just sitting here?” said Hammax. “Maybe we were stood up.”
“Contact sweep,” said Pakkpekatt.
“Coming up,” Hammax said, turning to the displays at his station. “Something out there.”
“A more detailed analysis would be considerably more useful,” Pakkpekatt said.
“Something big,” said Hammax. “A lot bigger than we are. Look, this isn’t where I work. Pleck, maybe you’d better take the number-two position.”
Pleck slid into the seat as Hammax vacated it. “Contact is capital, type three,” Pleck read off the board.
“Too small,” said Pakkpekatt.
“Range to contact, two thousand meters.”
“Two thousand—stang, we’re right on top of it,” Hammax said, whirling toward the viewport. “We ought to be able to see it bare-eyed. They can sure see us.” He dug into a storage bin for the laser cannon controller.
“Contact is blacked out, cold, and adrift. No transponder,” Pleck said, then frowned. “A scatter of little stuff out there, too, same neighborhood. One floater that might be a body.”
“Nothing that might be the vagabond?”
Pleck shook his head. “If she was here, she’s gone.”
“The same is not necessarily true of General Calrissian,” Pakkpekatt said. “We’ll go in for a look. Agent Taisden, please stand ready with your recorders.”
Lady Luck crept toward the wreck of Gorath as though wary of waking the dead. At five hundred meters, Pakkpekatt called for the bow lights, and a great metal corpse suddenly appeared before them.
“Strike-class,” said Pakkpekatt.
“Or used to be,” said Hammax. “She’s all stove in.”
“This doesn’t match what we saw at Gmar Askilon,” said Pleck, studying the spectral display. “This is not the same weapon the vagabond used against D-Eighty-nine and Kauri. It doesn’t match anything in the database.”
“I know,” said Pakkpekatt. His expression was unreadable, and remained so as he flew Lady Luck around the derelict at a distance of a hundred meters.
Before the survey was complete, Hammax removed the targeting headset. “What would you expect to happen if the transmitter got toasted?” he asked, turning to the commander. “If Calrissian and his team were aboard—”
“We need confirmation, Colonel Hammax, not speculation.”
“That’s my job,” Hammax said, nodding. “I’ll go get suited up.”
Taisden grunted in surprise. “Excuse me—Colonel Pakkpekatt, would you take a look at the comm queue, please?”
Pakkpekatt spun his couch back toward the controls. “When did that show up?”
“Just now,” said Taisden. “Is that your personal comm code, sir?”
“No,” said Pakkpekatt. “How very interesting.”
“What?” asked Hammax, leaning forward between the couches with a hand on the back of each.
Taisden pointed. “A ready-to-transmit notice for a white-star dispatch, personal to the colonel.”
“A notice that can be received only by a military-rated secure hypercomm,” said Pakkpekatt.
“I thought we’d loaded one aboard,” said Hammax.
“We did,” said Taisden. “This didn’t come over our gear. Calrissian apparently has a few more surprises tucked away under the service panels of this ship.”
“There is something else,” said Pakkpekatt. “Look at the message size.”
Hammax squinted. “That’s heavy lifting.”
“It has to be a mistake. We should send back a verify request,” said Taisden. “Confirm the originating station, packet size, router. Or request a redirect to our own hypercomm transceiver.”
“There is a simpler way to satisfy our curiosity,” said Pakkpekatt. “I would like the bridge to myself for a few moments. Colonel Hammax, I believe you were headed aft?”
Hammax nodded. “I’ll be skinned up in five to ten,” he said, turning away and ducking through the hatchway.
“I’ll check in with Pleck,” Taisden said, climbing out of his couch. “Page me on the observation deck.”
Even though he was alone, Pakkpekatt