Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  VAULT OF ETERNITY

  Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 24

  Richard Tongue

  Battlecruiser Alamo #24: Vault of Eternity

  Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: March 2017

  Cover By Keith Draws

  With thanks to Ellen Clarke

  All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

  Prologue

   Lieutenant Pavel Salazar looked up at the sun-weathered face staring down at him, eyes widening from recognition. Tossed through a wormhole into an unknown star system, the last thing he had expected to see was a familiar face, still less that of an old friend. She stood in the shade of the monolithic distress beacon, a smile on her face.

   “Val?” he said. “Val Foster?”

   “Come on, Pavel, it hasn't been that long,” she replied. Reaching across to the beacon control panel, she tapped in a ten-digit sequence, and all the lights went dark. “Can you walk?”

   “Sure, but why?” he asked, looking around the wasteland. “I don't see anyone else around here. And shouldn't you be leaving the beacon on? There might be friends in the system.”

   A frown crossed her face, and she replied, “You came through the wormhole in a starship?”

   He shook his head, gesturing back across the dunes, and said, “In a fighter. Which I smashed up on landing, maybe a mile away. Even the distress beacon doesn't seem to be working any more. Maybe we should...”

   “Damn,” she said, reaching down with a hand. “My flyer's parked a quarter-mile away. Nearest rocky outcrop I could find, and I didn't know I was going to be picking up anyone. We've got to move, and quickly.” Looking nervously around, she added, “We're not alone down here, and I suspect someone's turned off your beacon. I'm just glad they went there first.”

   Rising immediately to his feet, Salazar drew his pistol, following Foster out of the shadow into the burning sunlight, the white-hot star blazing down on them. Foster was wearing obviously-improvised desert survival gear, flowing robes that had originally been a survival blanket, and a weathered hat on her head. Salazar was still wearing his normal uniform, though he'd long since ditched his flight jacket, and was feeling the full force of the heat.

   “It isn't far,” Foster said. “We can talk on the way. We've got a base about thirty miles from here, and enough defenses that we shouldn't have to worry about our friends for a while.” With a wry smile, she added, “We had a wrecked fighter of our own. Which we turned into an anti-aircraft platform. I just hope it works as designed.”

   “Base?” Salazar asked. “Val, why don't you go ahead and pretend I don't know anything. The last thing I knew, I was flying into some sort of gravitational anomaly, and when I came around, I was on final approach to this planet, with most of my systems knocked out.”

   Turning to him, she replied, “You aren't part of a rescue party?”

   “I don't know,” he said. “Alamo...”

   “They sent Alamo after us?”

   “In a manner of speaking. She was on the far side of the anomaly when I fell through, and I damn well hope that she managed to stay clear.” A smile crossed his face, and he added, “If I did my job right back there, then I've guaranteed that we don't have any help on the way.”

   Foster turned, began to speak, but stopped and pointed at a trio of figures on the horizon, heading their way. “UN troopers. Damn. Those bastards move fast.”

   “From Waldheim?” Salazar asked, panting in the heat as he sped from a walk to a jog. “She fell through three days before we did. I was wondering if they'd show up.”

   “I don't know who they are, but the timing works about right,” Foster said. “Actually, we don't know much more about the situation than you do.” Moving into the lead, she led Salazar around a dune, and added, “I think we might have to wait a little for the full briefing. Unless you can magic up some Espatiers or a way up to a nice cool starship...”

   “Not today, I'm afraid,” he said, speeding once more and instantly regretting it, sweat running down the back of his neck. “Is it always this hot?”

   “No. It gets hotter,” Foster said, shaking her head. She gestured at a sleek, silver shape ahead, a Triplanetary flyer poised on the desert floor, a single figure waving at their approach. “It's fine, he's one of ours. Sub-Lieutenant Quesada, our erstwhile helmsman.”

   A loud crack echoed from the dunes, a thin plume of dust rising to the air by their side, and the two of them dived to the ground on instinct, turning back to see one of their pursuers in firing position, the others continuing to approach. Salazar glanced at Foster, then at the waiting flyer, still at least a hundred meters away, and over flat, smooth terrain. Target practice for even the least adept sniper.

   “We're not going to make it like this,” he said, shaking his head. “I think we're going to have to turn this one around. Tell me that you're armed.”

   “Only half a magazine, though,” she replied, pulling out a pistol. “We don't have a fabricator, and there wasn't time to salvage much from the ship.”

   “Beautiful,” Salazar said. He looked down at the communicator still tucked in his belt, then tugged it free, sweeping the channels in desperate hope. “Lieutenant Salazar to any Triplanetary ship. Lieutenant Salazar to any Triplanetary ship. Come in, please.”

   “I thought...”

   “A man can dream, can't he?” Salazar replied, as the two figures ducked low, rifles slung and ready in their hands. They were moving from dune to dune, keeping out of his line of sight, knowing that their prey was waiting in ambush for them. United Nations Marshals, elite ground forces that were the counterpart of their own Espatiers. With rifles that far surpassed their service revolvers, both in range and accuracy.

   “Time for a good idea, Pavel,” Foster said, as a salvo of bullets slammed into the sand ahead of them, the distant trooper trying to keep them pinned down. “You can bet they've got friends on the way.” Crouching deeper into cover, she continued, “At least we know they want us alive. We'd be dead by now if they didn't.”

   Lining up his revolver, Salazar said, “In about a minute, you're going to get one chance to get them. Make it count.” A smile curled at his lips, and he added, “I just hope you're still a better shot than I am.”

   “I haven't had much time on the range lately,” she replied, matching his smile, “but I think I can take these two bastards down. I'd tell you not to do anything stupid...”

   Salazar jumped to his feet, firing a trio of wild shots before hurling himself to the side, attracting two bursts of automatic fire all around him, the lead Marshal breaking cover to take a better shot, leaving himself open to a precisely-target bullet from Foster, catching him in the shoulder and s
ending him crashing to the desert floor, blood spilling onto the sand.

   The second, momentarily distracted by the death of his comrade, turned back to Salazar with eyes filled with rage, a fury that overrode his common sense as he charged forward, firing a trio of shots, one of them close enough that Salazar felt a brief breath of wind by the side of his face. The fourth bullet would have killed him, but Foster didn't give the gunman a chance to make it, bringing him down with a shot to the side of his neck, sending a crimson shower spraying from a ruptured artery. Salazar looked up, and saw the third figure moving forward, heading for new cover, realizing that they had underestimated their opponent.

   “Come on,” Foster said, running for the flyer. “We've got one chance, and we've got to take it!” Salazar nodded, sprinting after her towards the safety of the vehicle, hearing a series of low, rumbling whines as Quesada started the engine, sliding into the cockpit to prepare for pre-flight. As they approached the sleek ship, Salazar had his first chance for a proper look, and nodded in approval at what he saw. Nothing like this was found on a starship, and someone with skill had torn down a transfer shuttle to build this ship. The pilot in him longed for a chance to take the controls, but Quesada was already sitting in the pilot's seat, and there was no time for him to swap places.

   Foster tumbled into the rear compartment, two seats next to each other with rudimentary control panels on either side, and Salazar moved in after her, strapping himself down as the engine's low whine grew in intensity, the ship shaking from the force of the powerful booster. Quesada, a young man with a neatly-trimmed mustache, wearing the same deep tan as Foster from his time on the surface, flashed him a grin as Salazar sealed the hatch.

   “All systems go, sir,” Quesada said. “Hang on to something. This is going to be fun.”

   “I've got Flight Engineering,” Foster added. “You're on Tactical, Pavel. We've got two missiles, one slung under each wing. Just modified probes, but they've got enough of a warhead to pack a pretty good punch.”

   “Takeoff,” Quesada said, and a pair of lateral thrusters fired, hurling the flyer into the air with enough force to push Salazar back in his couch. He reached up to his control panel, bringing the tactical systems online, and his smile instantly turned into a frown as the sensor display flashed into life.

   “Bandit approaching, south-south-east, estimate thirty-two miles, closing fast,” he said. “Looks like a modified Javelin Two, rigged for atmospheric flight. Quick and nasty.”

   “We'll show them a clean pair of heels,” Quesada said, throwing the throttle to full-open, the flyer roaring over the desert dunes towards their destination. Behind them, the enemy fighter was still gaining speed, closing into attack formation, and Salazar tapped controls to bring the missiles online, setting for defensive fire. He frowned as he struggled with the unfamiliar systems, glancing across at Foster, who shrugged in response.

   “Some of this is Republic tech. Long story,” she said. “It's going to be close, Pavel.”

   “Close, hell,” he replied. “Quesada, turn her about. I want a shot at that bastard.”

   “Wait a minute,” Quesada said.

   “Do it, Sub-Lieutenant. Right now we've got a bead on this guy. We take him out, or we face a missile attack on our base. From here, if we have to, we can walk.”

   “Bring her around,” Quesada replied, doubt laced in his voice, and Salazar brought up the targeting display, smiling as the enemy fighter slowed, their opponent now uncertain of their intentions, trying to play it safe. “Interception in one minute, nine seconds.”

   “Coming into firing range,” Foster said, leaning over Salazar's shoulder.

   “Taking her down low,” Quesada added, dipping the flyer down, the dunes below almost close enough to touch as the skilled pilot hugged the terrain. Salazar frowned as he concentrated on his controls, waiting for the opportunity he was looking for. Finally, he found it, tapping a button to send the two missiles racing for their target, homing in on the enemy fighter.

   “Run for home, Quesada!” Salazar said. “Let's get out of here.”

   The missiles raced towards the fighter, and the enemy pilot quickly dropped his own warheads in an attempt to knock them out of the sky. In space, that would have worked, but in atmosphere, Salazar had a host of other tricks to play with, learned with long experience, and he carefully guided his missiles towards their goal, swinging them around the enemy salvo at the last second, leaving them to harmlessly explode. The enemy fighter was racing for safety, recklessly spending his fuel, but it couldn't be enough, and the end result was inevitable and swift, a flash of light briefly filling the sky.

   “Not bad,” Salazar said with a smile. “Not bad at all.”

   “Running a little low on fuel,” Quesada replied, “but we should be fine. Nice shooting.”

   “Nice flying,” Salazar replied. Leaning to the viewport, he saw a low dome slung ahead, a pair of missile emplacements positioned on either side. “That where we going?”

   “Dante Base,” Foster said, as Quesada gently guided the fighter into position. “Our little home away from home. And as far as we can work out, the furthest outpost of the Triplanetary Confederation.” Tapping a switch, she added, “Clear for landing, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   “Coming in now,” Quesada said, settling the flyer down on a patch of exposed rock. A trio of figures raced from the dome towards them as the dust settled, a tall, stout woman wearing a battered jumpsuit leading the way. Quesada's face fell as the hatch slammed open, the woman looking inside with a scowl.

   “If you've damaged my flyer, kid, I'll take it out of your hide!”

   Trying to suppress a smile, Foster said, “Allow me to introduce our commander, Senior Lieutenant Mariana Santiago. Chief, this is Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, latterly of the Battlecruiser Alamo.”

   “Great. Another crazy flyboy. We've got too many of them around here as it is,” Santiago said.

   Looking around, Salazar said, “Now that we're here, could someone tell me exactly where here is?”

   Santiago and Foster looked at each other, and the latter replied, “I'm afraid we don't have a clue.”

  Chapter 1

   Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall leaned over the sensor display, looking down at the technician as he worked the controls, struggling to make sense of the readings that were beginning to come in. A low rumble of conversation hummed in the background as Senior Lieutenant Francis, Alamo's Operations Officer, struggled to piece together a damage report from the lower decks, the frustration showing in his increasingly impatient demands.

   Turning to the viewscreen, Marshall looked at the star centered in the display, a huge blue-white orb unlike anything he had ever seen before. Unlike anything in known space. Wherever the wormhole had taken them, it had certainly thrown them into unexplored territory, and the computers were struggling to put together a position report. The rough passage had knocked out most of the long-range sensors and the communications pickups, making an already difficult task nearly impossible. The elevator doors slid open, and Lieutenant Kristen Harper, nominally Alamo's Intelligence Officer, walked onto the bridge, clutching a datapad in her hands.

   “Well?” Francis barked.

   “I finally found Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo down by the rear thruster tanks,” she said. “Once I broke it to him that he was Acting Systems Officer, he headed over to Astrogation to try and get the primary sensors online.” Shaking her head, she said, “They're shorthanded down there, Captain. The top two officers dead.”

   “I'll head down there,” Lieutenant-Captain Caine, Alamo's Executive Officer, said, rising from the tactical station.

   “No,” Marshall said. “Unless we're missing something critical, this ship is fit to fight, and there's a good chance that we've got an enemy ship flying around out there. I need you at the weapons.” Turning to the communications console, he asked, “Page Sub-Lieutenant Scott, and have h
er head down to help Lombardo. All the off-duty midshipmen, as well. Time they got some real on-the-job training.”

   “Aye, sir,” the technician replied. “I still can't pick up anything from outside, sir, and I'm listening on all channels. Though until we get the primary antenna complex back online, that doesn't mean very much, I'm afraid.” Looking down at his controls with a grimace, he added, “Definitely no background noise, though. Which means no civilized system for a long, long way.”

   “Define that, Spaceman,” Francis asked.

   “Twenty, thirty light-years, sir. Wherever we are, we're on our own.”

   “And where is that, Ballard?” Marshall asked, turning back to the sensor display.

   The technician looked up, eyes on the verge of hysteria, and replied, “I don't know, sir. I can't find any of our usual celestial landmarks, and the computer's not giving me any sensible projections.” Tapping a sequence of controls, she added, “This system doesn't match anything in our database, either.”

   “No landmarks at all?”

   “Nothing, sir. No Polaris, Canopus, nothing. None of our usual triangulation stars.” She paused, then added, “I'm trying a fix with quasars, but that's not going to be very accurate.”

   “That's putting it mildly!” Caine said. “You'll be lucky to narrow it down to within a hundred light-years, Spaceman. That could put us anywhere in explored space.”

   “We're not in explored space, ma'am,” Ballard said. She looked up at Marshall again, and said, “I'll have some calculations ready in a few minutes, sir. I want to make absolutely certain of my readings before I make a report. You'll understand why then, Captain.”

   “As soon as possible, Spaceman,” Marshall pressed. “And I want a full report of everything in the system as soon as our sensor pickups are operational.” Turning to the engineering panel, he asked, “Any estimates on that, Fitzroy?”