The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [89]
Brooks sat cross-legged on the futonlike bed, activated her padd, and began to write, despite the fact that she could find only a handful of words that might describe every human face she had encountered out here on the war’s ragged edges, at least so far.
Fear. Grief. Horror. Anger. Even hatred.
But fear still predominated by far, and no doubt would continue to do so at least until the Coalition figured out how to plug the hole the Romulans had apparently found in the defense grid around Deneva.
TWENTY-TWO
Tellarite Defense Frigate Miracht
Near Deneva
“NOW ENTERING STANDARD ORBIT, CAPTAIN,“ said Ensign Agram, the helm officer.
Captain Prev nodded brusquely, clutching the arms of his chair with three-fingered death-grips. “Any sign of the attackers?”
“They’re all down on the surface, mostly clustered in and around the main city on the northern continent,” said Lieutenant Ragaav, the tactical officer, who was working the main sensor console.
“Survivors?”
Ragaav shrugged. “I’m only picking up debris in orbit. If anyone remains in need of rescue, they are also down on the surface.”
And the next nearest Tellarite military vessel can’t get here for nearly another quarter-turning, Prev thought, his apprehension mounting. But as master of the Miracht, a Phinda-class vessel that sported one of the most advanced suites of offensive and defensive weaponry in Tellar’s star navy, he knew he could be confident of the outcome of any battle, so long as they attacked hard and fast, before the Romulans got the chance to get any of their craft back up into orbit.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t withdraw from the Romulan front the way the Vulcans suggested,” Prev said. So much for their “alternative strategic plan.”
Ensign Runkaar, the gunner, let out an impatient squeal, her six fingers twitching just above the fire control board. “Your orders, Captain?”
“Standard strafing pattern, Ensign,” Prev said. “Execute.”
Functioning like a single well-oiled machine, Prev’s bridge crew worked in unison, entering commands into their consoles at a furious pace.
Nothing.
“I said execute!” Prev said, rising from his chair.
Agram cursed and banged one cloven fist into the center of his helm console. “Helm has failed, Captain!”
“Negative control over the weapons fire control systems,” Runkaar said, her squeals now taking on an edge of frustration. “Defensive systems are failing as well.”
The overhead lights suddenly failed, plunging the entire control complex into utter darkness during the few heartbeats it took for the battery-powered backups to kick in.
“Life support is down,” Ragaav reported. “Along with communications.”
A terrible sense of dread began to settle deep inside both of Prev’s stomachs. “Agram, get us out of here— now!”
“No propulsion, either, Captain,” Agram said.
Dread ossified into a fatalistic certainty. The Miracht had flown right into a trap. Clearly the Romulans had hidden one of their vessels nearby, perhaps using the flux created by the planet’s magnetic field as a means of concealment, and from there they had attacked.
“The Romulans have struck us with their new weapon,” Prev said. “The one that can seize control of other vessels.”
“We must resist!” Ragaav shouted as he rushed to the spot where Prev stood.
“It’s too late for that, Ragaav,” Prev said, shaking his great shaggy head. “But it’s not too late to launch the log buoy. Just in case.”
Ragaav looked scandalized. “You’re planning to destroy the ship?”
“We can’t let the Romulans capture it, now, can we?” Prev said, angered because he didn’t like the idea of dying any better than Ragaav did. “Whatever their other capabilities, they don’t have anything quite like our Phinda-class frigates.”
“We can’t initiate the self-destruct system, either, Captain,” Agram reported, sounding relieved. “That system has failed, along with all the others.