Hell-14
As the final ops conference broke up into the usual noisy disarray, Michael waved Gerri Mangeshkar, his opposite number from 166, clear of the throng.
“Hey, Gerri. One for the road?”
“Damn straight, Michael! I feel like I’ve done nothing else but work since God knows when, so that’s just what I need right now.”
Michael followed Mangeshkar as she turned right out of 166’s combat information center and down the narrow passageway to the wardroom. She waved him into a violently patterned armchair that had pride of place in the cramped compartment.
“This is, without doubt, the ugliest fucking chair in all of humanspace, Gerri,” Michael said as he stretched out a grateful hand to take a small glass of Gabrielli single-malt cut with a dash of Jascarian spring water. It was pure mother’s milk, and Michael treasured every precious drop as it slipped down a throat dry and scratchy from a diet of too much recycled air.
“So you say, Michael. But I’ll have you know it’s a treasured family heirloom belonging to our esteemed navigator.”
“Balls, Gerri! Your previous skipper left it behind. I know. I checked.”
“Bastard” was all Mangeshkar said as the two settled into a companionable silence. Michael and Mangeshkar were happy for the moment to do little more than stare into the depths of their drinks and let the seconds tick by unwatched.
Michael finally broke the silence. “Four hours till the kick off, Gerri. How do you think it’ll go?”
“Well, like you, I’ve been through the sims God knows how many times, and any way I look at it, I think Battle Group Delta is going to kick the Hammer back to join that damned Kraa of theirs.” Mangeshkar paused to take a long drink from her glass. “No, all in all I think that side of it’s fine. Jaruzelska should pulverize them, no problem. It’s us I worry about.”
Michael nodded. “Funny you say that. The skipper was just saying how heavily we’ve drawn on our luck. Christ, I just hope it holds up another-what? — six hours. That’s not too much to ask, surely to God.”
“I feel the same way, Michael. It’s almost like we’ve been tempting fate being here. Who would have thought it two months ago? Two light scouts spending nearly five weeks sitting on a piece of Hammer real estate only a couple of hundred thousand kilometers away from an entire Hammer flotilla. Shit, we’ve done exactly that, and it’s still hard to believe!”
“It is. Still, we live in hope. Anyway, Gerri, much as I love you-and I do-we’ve got work to do, so I’ll say thank you.” Michael climbed out of the armchair, finishing his drink as he went. He took Mangeshkar’s outstretched hand. “It’s been an honor, Gerri. Truly it has, so let’s get through this, and hopefully I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Take care, Michael. Let’s hope that the bastards are so busy fending off Jaruzelska and her overpaid staff that we can slip away without being seen.”
“Let’s hope so. See you.” With that, Michael was gone.
Mangeshkar poured herself another small drink and sat back down. Her department was well and truly under control, and if 166 wasn’t ready to lift off on schedule at 04:15, nobody would be pointing a finger at her. But the strain was killing her. She could see it in Michael, too. They’d both lost a good five kilos since Corona had started, and their faces sported the same dark black smudges under both eyes and the same tense, stretched look. The rest of 387’s officers didn’t look much better. Michael’s skipper in particular looked like a man about to be hanged, his face a drawn gray-tinged caricature. God only knew how he was coping. The final approach to Hell-14 must have been a killer.
Mangeshkar gave herself a metaphorical shake. Fuck this, Mangeshkar, she chided herself. You’re getting far too maudlin. A final check of her department, a couple of hours of sleep, and then up to be ready for liftoff. Decision made, she downed her drink, slapped on an alc-suppressor patch to neutralize the two drinks she’d just enjoyed so much, and was on her feet, heading for the surveillance drone hangar.