"02 - Battle Cry" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinney Jack)

Claudia Grant, the black Flight Officer on the SDF-1's bridge, was monitoring Lisa Hayes's conversation with the young VT pilot when radar informed her of the enemy's counterattack.
Claudia and Lisa had adjacent stations along the curved forward hull of the bridge, beneath the main wraparound bays which now afforded views of the rocks and ice chunks that made up Saturn's rings. Each woman had two overhead monitors and a console screen at her disposal. Elevated behind Lisa's post was the command chair, and behind the captain along the rear bulkheads on either side of the hatch sat Sammie and Kim, each duty station equipped with nine individual screens that formed a grand square. Vanessa was off to starboard, positioned in front of the ten-foot-high threat board.
Claudia's station was linked to those of the three junior officers by radio, but such was her proximity to Lisa's that scarcely a word the commander uttered escaped her hearing. Not that there would have been anything left unshared between them in any case. They had forged a close friendship; Claudia, four years Lisa's senior, often playing the role of older sister, especially in matters of the heart. But for of all her desirable traits, her natural attractiveness and keen intelligence, Lisa was emotionally inexperienced. She projected an image of cool and capable efficiency, rationalizing her detached stance in the name of "commitment to duty." But buried in her past was an emotional wound that had not yet healed. Claudia knew this much, and she hoped to help Lisa exorcise that demon some day. This new VT pilot, Hunter, had touched something deep inside Lisa by calling her just as he had seen her- `that old sourpuss' and Claudia wanted to press her friend for details. But this was hardly the time or the place.
"Enemy Battlepods now engaging our Veritechs in the Cassini Quadrant, Captain," Claudia relayed.
"Enemy destroyer approaching the target zone," Vanessa added.
Gloval rubbed his hands together and rose from his chair.
"Excellent. If we can get a visual on the destroyer, I want it on the forward screen. Let's see what these ships look like."
Sammie punched it up, and soon the entire bridge crew was staring at the enemy vessel. It was surely as large as if not larger than the SDF-1, perhaps two and a half kilometers in length, but in no other way similar to it. Broad and somewhat flat, the warship had a vaguely organic look, enhanced by the dark green color of its dorsal armored shells and the light gray of its seemingly more vulnerable underbelly. Oddly enough, it also appeared to be quilled; but there was good reason to suspect that many of those spines were weapons.
"Not a pretty sight, is she?" said Gloval.
"Sir," said Vanessa, "the destroyer is within range."
"All right. Bring the ship around to the predesignated coordinates. Make certain there are no fluctuations in the barrier system readings and prepare to fire the main gun on my command."
Claudia tapped in the coordinates. She could feel the huge reflex-powered thrusters kick in to propel the ship away from Saturn's gravitational grasp. The pinpoint barrier system checked out, and the main gun was charging.
Free of the rings now, the SDF-1 was repositioning itself. The twin main gun towers were leveling out from the shoulders of the ship, taking aim at a target hundreds of kilometers away.
"Main gun locked on target, sir."
Gloval's fist slammed into his open hand. "Fire!"
Claudia pushed down a series of crossbar switches, threw open a red safety cover, and pressed home the firing device.
Illumination on the bridge failed momentarily.
The gun did not fire.
Again Claudia tapped in a series of commands; there was no response.
"Quickly!" Gloval shouted. "Get me Lang."
"On the line," Kim said.
Lang's thickly accented voice resounded through the bridge comlink speakers.
"Captain, the pin-point barrier is apparently interfering with the main gun energy transformers. We're doing a vibrational analysis now, but I don't think we'll have use of the gun unless we scrap the shield power."
"Bozhe moy!" said Gloval in his best Russian.
Sammie swiveled from her console to face the captain, "Sir, particle-beam trackers are locked on our ship. The enemy is preparing to fire!"

Eight weeks of special training had failed to prepare him for the silent insanity of space warfare. Disintegration and silent death, the pinpoints of distant light that were laser beams locked on to his ship, the stormy marriage of antiparticles, the grotesque beauty of short-lived spherical explosions-bolts of launched lightning, blue and white, igniting the proper combination of gases...
Rick Hunter fired the VT's thrusters as two Battlepods closed in on him from above-the relative "above" at any rate, for there was no actual up or down out here, no real way to gauge acceleration except by the constant force that kept him pinned to the back of his seat, or pushed him forward when the retros were kicked in, no way to judge velocity except in relation to other Veritech fighters or the SDF-1 herself. Just that unvarying starfield, those cool and remote fires that were the backdrop of war.
It was said that the best VT pilots were those who simply allowed themselves to forget: about yesterday, today, or tomorrow. "Nothing extraneous, in mind or body." Warfare in deep space was a silent Zen videogame where victory was not the immediate goal; success to any degree depended on a clear mind, free of expectations, and a body conditioned for thoughtless reaction. Stop to think about where to place your shot, how to move or mode your mecha, and you were space debris. Fight the fear and you'd soon be sucking vacuum. Rather, you had to embrace the terror, pull it down into your guts and let it free your spirit. It was like forcing yourself through the climax of a nightmare, confronting there all the worst things that could happen, then piercing through the envelope into undreamed-of worlds. And the dreamstate was the key, because you had to believe you had complete control of each detail, every element. The silence of space was the perfect medium for this manipulated madness. Out here, content was more important than form; wings were superfluous, banking and breaks unnecessary, thoughts dangerous.
Rick knew when he was trying too hard: He would feel the alpha vibe abandon him and the mecha follow suit. You are the mecha, the mecha is you. Left empty, the fear would rush in to fill him up, like air rushing into a vacuum; and the fear would trigger a further retreat from the vibe. It was a vicious circle. But he was beginning to recognize the early stages of it, the waverings and oscillations, and that in itself represented an all-important first step.
He stayed at Fokker's wing, learning from him. The pods were not as maneuverable as the Veritechs and nowhere near as complex. They also had far more vulnerable points. It was just that there were so damned many of them. One Battlepod, one enemy pilot. How strong was their number? How long could they keep this up?
Rick came to Roy's aid whenever he could, using heat-seekers and gatling, saving the undercarriage lasers for close-in fighting.
The assault group had fought its way out of the rings and shadow zone, but not without devastating losses to the Red and Green teams. And the SDF-1 had still not fired the main gun.
It was difficult to tell just what was going on back at the fortress. Rick could see that it was taking heavy fire from the enemy destroyer, a bizarre-looking ship if ever he'd seen one: a cross between a manta ray and a mutant cucumber. But for some reason the enemy was using rather conventional ordnance, easily thwarted by the fortress's movable shields. It would only be a matter of time before the destroyer upped the ante.
Rick guessed Command's new orders for Skull Team long before Roy appeared on the screen with them: The VTs were to attack the destroyer.
Fokker led them in, searching for soft spots in the forest-green hull. Battlepods continued to exit the ship through semicircular topside portals, so the Skull Leader directed the attack along the underside of the destroyer, using everything his fighter was prepared to deliver.
Rick had completed one pass, discharging half his remaining Stilettos. He was preparing for a second run now, coming in across the nose of the destroyer this time, zeroing in on two massive cannons set close to the central ridge. Suddenly a Battlepod streaked in front of him with a VT in close pursuit; the mecha let loose a flock of heat-seekers which caught up with the pod directly over Rick's fighter. He dropped the VT into a nose dive, expecting concussion where there was none, then executed two rollovers but still couldn't manage to pull the mecha out of its collision course with the destroyer. Desperately, he reached out for the mode levers and reconfigured to Guardian. This would at least enable him to extend the "legs" of the mecha and utilize the foot thrusters to brake his speed. But the angle of his approach was too critical. With the nose beginning to dip and the energized foot thrusters threatening to throw him into a roll, Rick again switched modes, this time to Battloid configuration. Regardless, he was committed to completing the front flip, and the Battloid came down with a silent crash, face first on the armored hull.
As on the SDF-1's shell, there was artificial gravity here, but Rick had no time to be impressed: two Battlepods were on him, coming in fast now for strafing runs. He thought the mecha to a kneeling position and brought the gatling cannon out front. Blue bolts from the pods were striking the hull around him, fusing metals and blowing slag into the void. It didn't seem to bother the enemy pilots any that they were firing on their own ship; they were intent on finishing him off, homing in now, bipedal legs dangling and plastron cannons firing like spheroid kamikazes.
Rick was backing away from blue lightning, returning continuous fire. The big gun was dangerously close to overheating in the Battloid's hands.
Then, suddenly, the hull seemed to give way under him. Instantly Rick realized that he had stumbled the Battloid through one of the topside semicircular ports.
The mecha landed on its butt, twenty-five meters below the action on the floor of a loading bay. Rick worked the foot pedals frantically, raising the Battloid to its feet in time to see the overhead hatch close-a shot from one of the pods had probably activated the external control circuitry. There was a second hatch in the bay which undoubtedly led to the innards of the destroyer.
Rick began to approach this second hatch cautiously, studying the air lock entry controls and feeling strangely secure in the sealed chamber. Just then the air lock door slid open. On the other side of the threshold stood an enemy soldier who had apparently heard Rick's fall to the floor. He was easily as tall as the Battloid and massively built; but although he was armored, his head was bare and he was weaponless.
The alien goliath and the small human in the cockpit of the mecha had taken each other by surprise. As dissimilar as these potential combatants were, their frightened reactions were the same. The defenseless soldier's eyes darted left and right, desperately seeking an escape route as Rick's did the same. The alien warrior then stepped back, body language betraying his thoughts.
It was all that was needed to break the stalemate: Rick raised the muzzle of the Battloid's gatling, metalshod fingers poised on the trigger.

The enemy destroyer was bearing down on the SDF-1, peppering her with hundreds of missiles. Radar scanners located throughout the body of the fortress relayed course headings of the incoming projectiles to inboard computers, which in turn translated the data into colored graphics. These displays were flashed to monitors in the barrier control room, where three young female techs worked feverishly to bring photon disc cover to projected impact points, the spherical gyros of the pin-point barrier system spinning wildly under the palms of their hands.
On the bridge Captain Gloval feared the worst. The main gun was still inoperable, and despite the effectiveness of the shields, the ship was sustaining damage on all sides. Skull Team was counterattacking the destroyer, but it was unlikely they'd be able to inflict enough damage to incapacitate it. Was there ever in Earth's history a commander who had more than 50,000 civilian lives at stake in one battle? For all these long months Gloval had never once contemplated surrender. Now, however, he found that possibility edging into his thoughts, draining him of strength and will.
As if reading Gloval's thoughts, Lisa suddenly came up with an inspired plan. But first she needed to know if it was possible to concentrate and direct the pin-point barrier energy to the front of the Daedalus-the supercarrier that formed the right arm of the SDF-1.
Gloval immediately contacted Dr. Lang, and the reply came swiftly: Yes, it could be done.
Gloval ordered him to begin the energy transfer at once and quickly set in motion phase two of the plan. This required that all available Destroids, Spartans, and Gladiators-the "ground" support weapons mecha-be gathered together at the bow of the Daedalus. The final phase would be handled by the Captain himself; he reassumed the command chair, his strength and confidence renewed.