Chapter NINETEEN
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."