The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

end was near.

He smiled as he took control of the firing solution. This was just like hunting ducks as a child, back in Ukraine, when he learned to lead the target. He centered the crosshairs on the center of the ship. No matter which way the Nogero turned, it would suffer catastrophic damage.

“Fire at will,” he ordered.

“Firing,” came the reply.

But nothing happened. The hypersonic railgun remained silent. The weapons operator stabbed futilely at his console several times, then turned to Golov with a puzzled look.

“The railgun is off-line, Captain!”

Golov jumped from his seat. “What?”

The officer frantically worked the controls. “I . . . I don’t know. According to all of the readouts, the weapon status is nominal. It should be firing.”

“Is there a jam in the gun?”

“No, sir. The round loaded correctly.”

“Did the barrel overheat?”

“Temperature gauge shows normal heat dissipation. The barrel is cool and true.”

If it wasn’t a mechanical issue, then it had to be a problem with the software. Without Ivana here, diagnosing the error could take hours.

“How long to reboot the system?” Golov demanded.

The weapons officer shook his head. “At least thirty minutes. Captain, I thought I saw . . .” He hesitated.

“You saw what?”

“For a moment, just as I was about to fire, there seemed to be a signal interrupt as if the system were receiving new commands. Then it went back to normal.”

“A signal? From where?”

“I don’t know.”

Golov blanched. Could it be sabotage? Did he have another traitor on board? It would be the most opportune moment for someone to disable his offensive weapons . . .

Then he had an even worse thought. If someone had deactivated the railgun, then they could have shut down all of the weapons simultaneously, including the defensive systems.

“What’s the status of the laser?”

“Nominal, Captain.”

“Fire it.”

“What’s the target?”

“I think we’re the target. Fire it at the water, starboard side. Make it boil.”

The officer shrugged. “Aye, sir. Firing.”

Again, nothing happened.

Golov’s stomach went cold. Now he was the duck. And he was firmly on his seat.

“Get us out of here!” he yelled. “Turn one hundred and eighty degrees!”