The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Thirteen

Still fully cloaked, Shelley arrows toward the planet from north of the ecliptic. They are minutes from the edge of the atmosphere. So far, no defsat has taken notice.

"Weak sensor contact from Defsat 3," Shelley reports. "Defsat 4 still showing no activity."

"Think they saw us?" asks Flynn.

"Negative. Chance fluctuation in their sensor beams, probability point eight seven. No significant return signal from us."

Flynn is strapped into the pilot's chair, though Shelley is doing most of the flying. Montenegro sits beside him, the others are in back waiting and watching helplessly, their faces tense.

"Sensor contact!" Shelley says, and immediately the ship jolts severely to port. "Phaser hit, aft starboard shields. Holding, 70%. Must think we're debris—our sensor cross-section is only a tenth of a meter. That phaser wasn't at full strength."

"It's only a matter of time till they figure it out," Flynn replies, "and then we are debris. Flood the ship, power dive into the atmosphere, as much impulse power as you can control, evasive maneuvers. Return fire if they hit us again. You four hang on back there, and get ready to breathe jelly.

"Welcome home, Monty!"

Whatever she might have said is lost in the intensifying rumble as they begin atmospheric entry. Almost immediately, the ship is shoved to the side by a phaser hit on its shields, and, aft the shield generators begin to whine ominously.

Viscous green jelly oozes rapidly from small doors that slide back into the walls. The main cabin, stateroom, and cockpit fill quickly. Within seconds, the jelly is up to their necks.

"What is this stuff?" cries O'Connor. Chekhov looks panicked.

"Crash jelly," LaRue says disgustedly. "Hardens on sudden jolts; keeps you alive. It won't hurt you—you'll think you're drowning, but you can breathe it, at least when it's not hard. It's heavily oxygenated, just not very pleasant.

It tastes like merde, he feels like adding, but he figures they'll find that out soon enough.

Flynn meanwhile has taken a lead from the control panel and slipped it into a tiny socket at the base of his skull. Time he helped Shelley drive.

'Link established,' Shelley's ghostlike voice says in his mind. 'Welcome to my nightmare, as the man said. I'm returning fire now, but no effect.'

'Hey,' he thinks, 'big surprise there. Jeez, I'd forgotten how nasty this crash jelly tastes.'

'Sounds like a personal problem to me,' Shelley replies. 'Shields still holding, but they'll buckle soon enough. Even before we fired back, they increased power to their phasers. The only thing saving us now is the atmospheric heat screwing up their targeting sensors. My major concern is stopping at the bottom of the gravity well—before we hit ground, that is.'

'Make the cloak look like we're breaking up. We've got to gain some time once we've landed to sneak away.'

The ship lurches, then bucks wildly for a moment, causing the crash jelly to encase the occupants helplessly, like bugs in amber.

'Another couple of shots like that,' the computer says, 'and I won't have to fake a breakup.'

Through the forward port, Flynn watches the planet rush up to meet them sickeningly fast. In a matter of seconds, the ground goes from mottled green and brown to all brown to a landscape with myriad glacier-carved lakes to a vast looming close-up of one boulder-strewn section of earth.

Through the link, Flynn is helping Shelley as much as he can. He is triggered, his enhanced reflexes almost as fast as Shelley's.

The ship suddenly begins a nauseating spin. Flynn vaguely hears moans from aft as the jelly hardens again.