"What happens if the plan doesn't work and our ships are shot out of the sky?" I asked.
"Well, then I suppose we're fucked, Perry," Keyes said. "But let's not go in with that assumption. We're professionals, we have a job to do. This is what we're trained for. The plan has risks, but they're not stupid risks, and if it works, we'll have the planet back and have done serious damage to the Rraey. Let's all go on the assumption we're going to make a difference, what do you say? It's a nutty idea but it just might work. And if you get behind it, the chances of it working are that much better. All right?"
More shifting in chairs. We weren't entirely convinced, but there was little to be done. We were going in whether we liked it or not.
"Those six ships that might make it to the party," Jensen said, "who are they?"
Keyes took a second to access the information. "The Little Rock, the Mobile, the Waco, the Muncie, the Burlington and the Sparrowhawk," he said.
"The Sparrowhawk?" Jensen said. "No shit."
"What about the Sparrowhawk?" I asked. The name was unusual; battalion-strength spaceships were traditionally named after midsize cities.
"Ghost Brigades, Perry," Jensen said. "CDF Special Forces. Industrial-strength motherfuckers."
"I've never heard of them before," I said. Actually I thought I had, at some point, but the when and where escaped me.
"The CDF saves them for special occasions," Jensen said. "They don't play nice with others. It'd be nice to have them there when we got onto the planet, though. Save us the trouble of dying."
"It'd be nice, but it's probably not going to happen," Keyes said. "This is our show, boys and girls. For better or worse."
The Modesto skipped into Coral orbital space ten hours later and in its first few seconds of arrival was struck by six missiles fired at close range by a Rraey battle cruiser. The Modesto's aft starboard engine array shattered, sending the ship wildly tumbling ass over head. My squad and Alan's were packed into a transport shuttle when the missiles hit; the force of the blast's sudden inertial shift slammed several of our soldiers into the sides of the transport. In the shuttle bay, loose equipment and material were flung across the bay, striking one of the other transports but missing ours. The shuttles, locked down by electromagnets, thankfully stayed put.
I activated Asshole to check the ship's status. The Modesto was severely damaged and active scanning by the Rraey ship indicated it was lining up for another series of missiles.
"It's time to go," I yelled to Fiona Eaton, our pilot.
"I don't have clearance from Control," she said.
"In about ten seconds we're going to get hit by another volley of missiles," I said. "There's your fucking clearance." Fiona growled.
Alan, who was also plugged into the Modesto mainframe, yelled from the back. "Missiles away," he said. "Twenty-six seconds to impact."
"Is that enough time to get out?" I asked Fiona.
"We'll see," she said, and opened a channel to the other shuttles. "This is Fiona Eaton, piloting Transport Six. Be advised I will perform emergency bay door procedure in three seconds. Good luck." She turned to me. "Strap in now," she said, and punched a red button.
The bay doors were outlined with a sharp shock of light; the crack of the doors blasting away was lost in the roar of escaping air as the doors tumbled out. Everything not strapped down launched out the hole; beyond the debris, the star field lurched sickeningly as the Modesto spun. Fiona fed thrust to the engines and waited just long enough for the debris to clear the bay door before cutting the electromagnetic tethers and launching the shuttle out the door. Fiona compensated for the Modesto's spin as she exited, but just barely; we scraped the roof going out.
I accessed the launch bay's video feed. Other shuttles were blasting out of the bay doors by twos and threes. Five made it out before the second volley of missiles crashed into the ship, abruptly changing the trajectory of the Modesto's spin and smashing several shuttles already hovering into the shuttle bay floor. At least one exploded; debris struck the camera and knocked it out.
"Cut your BrainPal feed to the Modesto," Fiona said. "They can use it to track us. Tell your squads. Verbally." I did.
Alan came forward. "We've got a couple of minor wounds back there," he said, motioning to our soldiers, "but nothing too serious. What's the plan?"
"I've got us headed toward Coral and I've cut the engines," Fiona said. "They're probably looking for thrust signatures and BrainPal transmissions to lock missiles on, so as long as we look dead, they might leave us alone long enough for us to get into the atmosphere."
"Might?" Alan said.
"If you've got a better plan, I'm all ears," Fiona said.
"I have no idea what's going on," Alan said, "so I'm happy to go with your plan."
"What the hell happened back there anyway?" Fiona said. "They hit us as we came out of skip drive. There's no way they could have known where we would be."