The Sandbox's receiving officer observed Brad and
his party's approach through a clear pane in the
air lock's pressurized section. The four husky
deckhands and the officer-in-charge hefted
snub-nosed rifles.
A pressure-suited deckhand responded to Brad's
hand signal that his crew was aboard by conducting
a visual safety check of the ship-to-utility
connections. He turned away, and Brad felt the deck
vibrate as the clamshells slammed shut. Kumiko and
Scarf moved up to stand behind Brad as pressure
equalizers hissed. Moments later, the air lock's
inner door slid aside and they passed through.
Opening their helmet faceplates, they returned
the glares of the receiving party.
"Rimov, and gunnery is my business," said the
officer, "what in hell are you gonna do to my guns?"
Brad wished he were beside the grizzled spacefarer
facing their common adversary, rather than
confronting him.
"Curtin, and my business is to make sure your
guns don't get you all killed. I want to check your
weapons control center, and every gun emplacement.
First, central control."
"Hey," chimed in Scarf. "How about a drink with the
ship's commander? Courtesies of the space-ways,
and all that? I'd sure like to sample some Inner Region
booze."
"You guys ain't invited guests, no way," Rimov
flashed back. "The Commander is fussy about
the people he drinks with."
"Well, you tell him..." Scarf raised a fist to add
gesture to his words, but Brad waved him off,
his eyes holding on Rimov.
"To hell with that," he snapped. "We're here to
do a job and get back to our ship. I repeat: first,
the fire control center, then each gun emplacement.
Now."
"Our fire control center has been deactivated. Why
do you have to see each gun?"
"You know damn well, Rimov," Brad said, putting as
much harshness into his tone as he could muster.
"Your pieces can be fired independent of central
control; I'm going to make sure they won't be.
Let's get on with it."
Brad noted that Rimov was staring at the intensity
slide visible on the breechblock of his sheathed
weapon. Rimov then tilted his head to scrutinize
the settings on Kumiko and Scarf's weapons. His
brows tightened, puzzled. It passed.
"OK, follow me," he said, pivoting and taking the
lead.
The passageways were narrow, confining them to two
abreast. Rimov and one of his men walked ahead, the
other three escorts followed close behind Brad and
his party. The corridors they traversed had been
cleared; no encounters.
Brad, familiar with transports of the line,
memorized their route. They had boarded
amidships, lower starboard, and were headed for
an armor-enclosed section near the stern. The
surveillance and tracking gear and the laser-quads'
fire control computers should be there. That
part should be relatively simple. They reached
a closed, heavy door. Rimov turned to Brad, his
face reflecting rage.
"You didn't answer my question," he growled.
"What're you gonna do to my guns?"
"Nothing you couldn't fix in a couple of work
shifts," Brad replied, motioning to the door.
"Let's move."
Grudgingly, Rimov placed his palm on the disk
lock. A click and the heavy door retracted into
the adjacent bulkhead.
As Brad expected, the fire control center consisted
of dozens of consoles, scopes, directional and power
control devices, and clusters of computer terminals.
Kumiko and Brad circled the small room as Scarf
watched from his position inside the entryway.
Rimov stood beside Scarf, his guards along the
bulkhead, tense, weapons directed at the deck.
Kumiko pointed to a console.
"I've got to see behind that panel, Brad," she
said, pointing. "The master firing system controls
should be concentrated there."
Brad turned and waved Rimov closer. Scarf didn't
move; he got it all on his helmet intercom.
"Remove the panel," Brad said, pointing.
"Won't take my word, will you," Rimov growled.
Reaching over, he snapped several quick
disconnects, slid the panel forward, reached into
the recess behind, fiddled a couple of seconds,
and pulled the panel forward again. It came loose,
and he stepped back with it in his hands.
"Cut the power to this console," Kumiko ordered.
Rimov shrugged, moved to another console and
snapped several switches. Kumiko watched closely.
Rimov turned back and observed her check several
lights and dials above the space from where the
panel had been removed.
Satisfied, Kumiko drew off her outer glove. Her
hand remained encased in translucent, skin-tight
insulation. Reaching into the cavity, she withdrew
a tiny black chip. Setting it down on a nearby
shelf, she repeated the operation. Shortly,
a dozen chips lay on the shelf.
Rimov flushed with fury as he watched Kumiko
work, but remained silent.
Finally, Kumiko stepped back, pulled a plastic
bag from a pocket in her suit, and dropped in
the assorted parts. Looking around the room,
she went to a wall cabinet, opened the door,
rummaged about and withdrew still more chips.
"Back up supplies," she said, adding them to
the others in the plastic bag.
Kumiko looked at Brad.
"The fire control center is out of action," she
said. "Even if they do have more spares stashed
away, it'll take them at least twenty hours to
install the parts and calibrate the system."
Brad turned to Rimov. "Let's start with the aft gun
turrets, and take them, in order, moving forward."