"Roger." Michael checked that the AI had gotten it right before he patched his neuronics through to the lifepod holding the spacers. "Command, 7-Golf."
"7-Golf." Petty Officer Krilic accepted the comm.
"We'll be launching you shortly. You guys all set?"
"Yes, we are, sir," Krilic replied. "Both lifepods are nominal, and we have everyone's mail. We're ready."
"Good. We've confirmed your position and vector; they are so close to what I've advised Nyleth that it makes no difference. It'll take them a while to get to you, but they will make it, so hang in there."
"Will do, sir. Thanks and good luck. 7-Golf, out."
Two minutes later, two faint thuds announced the launch of the lifepods. Phase 2 of Operation Gladiator was over. He commed Sedova.
"Alley Kat, this is command."
"Command, Alley Kat. Go ahead."
"You all set?"
"In two, sir. The marines and their repairbots are loaded. Acharya and his team are just securing the demolition charges."
"Roger that. You are approved to launch when ready. Advise when locked in to Red River."
"Command, Alley Kat, roger. Approved to launch, advise when locked in. Alley Kat, out."
Michael commed Ferreira. "How are things?" he asked.
"Bienefelt and her team have locked out and have started work. She estimates she'll have all excess antennas and equipment cut away and jettisoned inside three hours."
"Roger."
Michael sat back and commed Mother.
Her avatar popped into his neuronics. "Yes, Michael?" she said.
"The missile off-load. How's progress?"
"Just about to get the first batch outboard. I hope Fleet appreciates the effort we're making."
Michael chuckled; the chances of Fleet appreciating anything he did were zero. "How long?"
"At least twelve hours. We have, let me see… yes, we have 4,212 missiles to off-load, and it's a slow process."
"I know. Keep me posted."
"Roger."
Michael hated the idea of cutting his missile load down to only three salvos of Merlins fitted with reentry-hardened warheads, but there would be no time for the dreadnoughts to fire any more. The additional missiles had to go; they only added unnecessary mass. He started to think of what problems not having enough missiles might create when Sedova brought his review to a halt.
"Command, Alley Kat. Locked in to Red River. Off-loading pax and cargo. Will keep you posted on progress."
"Command, roger. Out."
Michael switched the holovid to Red River's hangar deck. Kallewi had wasted no time. Already the cavernous space was a hive of activity. Repairbots had started to cut redundant equipment away from the ship's hull; while their laser cutters worked away, Kallewi's marines dragged what was little more than expensive junk across the hangar deck before piling it into untidy heaps close to the main hangar air lock doors. The sight of what amounted to the wholesale trashing of a perfectly good dreadnought made Michael's heart sink, even if it was all in a good cause.
Michael turned his attention to the second of the teams rigging Red River for the assault on Commitment. He commed Acharya, who was at work deep inside one of the starboard driver mass bunkers.
"How's it going, Dev?"
"Getting there, sir," Acharya said, his helmet-mounted light splashing across the grimy figures of the rest of his team; their space suits were coated with dust from crushed driver pellets. "I never imagined I'd be using what they taught me on my basic demolition course to blow holes in the hull of one of Fleet's finest, but there you are. Needs must."
Michael laughed. "Quite so. Any problems?"
"Only this damn dust," Acharya said, "of which there is an endless supply. We have to make sure we keep it out of the cable connectors; otherwise the firing sequence is screwed."
"And can you?"
"We can, sir, thanks to these." Acharya raised a small cylinder. "Compressed air. Works a treat."
"Good," Michael said. "Let me know how you're doing, but take your time. I want those charges rigged right, not rigged quickly."
"Roger that, sir. They will be."
"Good. Command, out."
Michael allowed himself to relax a fraction. Preparing the three dreadnoughts for Operation Gladiator was scheduled to take the best part of two days, time well spent, Michael knew, because it kept everyone's mind off the coming battle. Happy that there was nothing more to be done, he commed his neuronics to bring up the time line for Gladiator. Not that he needed to-he knew the plan by heart-but given what was at stake, he would not take the chance that something, however small, might have been missed. Friday, September 7, 2401, UD FWSS Redwood, in deepspace
Michael was relieved when Redwood finally jumped into pinchspace. It had been a long, hard two days. Like everyone else onboard, he was exhausted thanks to the combined effects of no sleep and long hours of hard physical work, not to mention the stress of knowing that they would drop into Hammer farspace in little over a week's time. Not that the 411-light-year transit to Commitment offered any respite. Redwood's crew still had two more days of hard labor loading the landers with all the equipment and supplies to go dirtside; once that was done, Michael had scheduled an intensive program in the simulators. Gladiator was not the most complex operation of all time, but no operation in all the history of the Federation had been played for such huge stakes. Gladiator had to succeed, and if that meant spending hours and hours in the sims, so be it.
After a last check that all of Redwood's systems were nominal and that she was established on a stable pinchspace vector, Michael turned to Ferreira.
"Okay, Jayla. You have the ship. I'm off down to the hangar deck to see how the marines are getting on before I turn in. Who's your relief?"
"The coxswain, sir," Ferreira said, her face a gaunt, exhausted mask. "I stood her down to get some shut-eye before she takes over at midnight."
"Let me guess. It needed a direct order?"
Despite her obvious tiredness, Ferreira grinned. "Sure did. You know Chief Bienefelt."
Michael returned the grin. "I know Chief Bienefelt," he said. "I'll see you later."
"Sir."
Michael made his way down to the hangar deck. The process was a painful one; his overused muscles protested every step of the way, his leg, as always, protesting more than all the rest of his body put together. "Goddamn thing," he muttered as he negotiated a ladder steeper than his leg liked. When was it ever going to be right? With one more deck to go, he had to stop, the pain from his leg forcing him to wait. Leaning against the bulkhead, he eased the weight off his bad leg, the relief immediate, the pain abating to a dull, nagging ache, leaving his mind free to roam after the hours of relentless activity prepping Redwood and her sister ships for the jump to Commitment.
What a life, he thought, looking down the empty, echoing passageway, riding the best warship ever built on its last voyage, a one-way trip into flaming oblivion, from which he and the rest of the Redwoods would escape at the last minute to snatch Anna and the rest of the prisoners of war incarcerated in Camp J-5209, whether they liked it or not, before flying off into the arms of a grateful NRA, dodging missiles and vengeful Hammer fliers. He shook his head and smiled wryly. It was comicvid stuff, it really was.