Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear Read online

  Orlova grunted as she pushed back another heavy branch, the rain pouring down the neck of her uniform, droplets flicking back at her. Tahir looked at her, shaking his head in contempt; his top had been soaked almost instantly, but it didn't seem to be affecting him at all. When the standard espatier field uniforms were designed, they were contemplated for shirt-sleeve environments. Cold-weather clothing they had, but even that had been improvised from emergency spacesuits. A committee was designing a special Ragnarok uniform, and presumably another would be formed for Jefferson in due course. Under normal circumstances Alamo might have provided something appropriate from historical stock, but Quinn had been guarding the fabricators like a jealous husband.

  Shaking the water from her hair, she pushed forward down the trail, narrowly avoiding putting a foot into a steaming pile of animal droppings. Despite being soaked, she was thirsty; the temperature was rising as they closed upon noon, and the humidity was beginning to get to her. Blake and Grant were openly grumbling, and while Forrest wasn't saying a word, the old veteran's forehead was caked in sweat, and his breaths were coming more and more rapidly. She raised a hand.

  "We'll halt here and take a break. Tahir, how far have we come?"

  He looked around at the dense undergrowth, "About a mile in that last march. I'd say we're getting close to the observation post."

  "Seven hours," Blake said to himself. "And seven hours back again. Sub, couldn't we go along the river? Hell, I could call in for someone to pick us up."

  "I've already gone through that, Private. The whole point is to surprise anyone else out here." She took a deep drink of water. "Besides, we've got to acclimatise to this sooner or later."

  "We need to update the training program," Grant said, looking around at the jungle. "We were trained in spaceship warfare, heavy stuff wearing a spacesuit. Nothing like this."

  Forrest chuckled, "You ought to be grateful, lad. No heavy spacesuit to carry around in all of this gravity. You'd be bent double."

  "Perhaps I should go ahead," Tahir said, looking at the winded espatiers. "I could scout around the perimeter, see if there was anyone lying in wait."

  "We should stick together," Orlova said.

  Shaking his head, the scout replied, "I would have a far better chance of gaining the element of surprise working alone." He gestured towards a pair of trees; it took Orlova three looks to see the small path between them. "I can work my way where you cannot. If you head down this hunting track towards the observation site, I will meet you at the far end."

  Without waiting for Orlova to agree to his plan, he rose, grabbing his gun and silently moving into the undergrowth. She frowned; they really needed the assistance of their guide, but he wasn't under her command. Blake and Grant were too busy recovering to care that much, and Forrest was pulling out a nutrient bar, wolfing it down in half a dozen quick bites. Orlova smiled; they were surrounded by real food out here in the jungle, and her sergeant was preferring to take his chances with processed junk. That wouldn't last. If Jefferson joined the Confederation, it was going to end up one of the most popular garrison postings for the food alone.

  Looking around again, she pulled herself to her feet. "Let's get moving, guys. Blake, you take point, Grant gets the rear."

  Grumbling, the two privates took their assigned positions and the little group continued to hack their way through the jungle, the rain continuing to beat down on them, the ground turning to soft mud that squelched around their boots; more than once Orlova had to grab onto a tree to prevent herself from falling over, and none of the others were faring any better.

  Gradually the path began to open out a little, and she stopped with a start as a glint of metal caught her eye. Holding up her arm to get the column to stop, she leaned down, pulling it out of the mud, rubbing it clean on her sleeve. It was a bullet, still gleaming, unused – presumably dropped from someone's pocket. Grant waved something else in the air, a ration pack with French writing on it.

  "We're getting close. Be ready."

  The group cautiously advanced down the path, their senses all ready to respond to the slightest movement, the slightest vibration. A snatch of bird song sent Grant's head tossing skywards, the crack of a twig against a stone drew their gaze to Forrest's boots. With their guns pointed and at the ready, they made their way into the clearing, and Blake screamed, a cry that echoed around the forest. Looking down on them from three tall trees in the heart of the clearing were the bodies of their comrades, gently swinging by their necks, blood splattered across their tunics.

  "Calm down, lad," Forrest said, grabbing Blake by the shoulders. "Calm down. There's nothing we can do to help them now."

  Orlova closed her eyes, then looked down at the jungle floor, cursing under her breath. Forrest and Grant moved forward, pulling knives out of their belt to cut them down, Blake sitting slumped in the mud underneath a tree.

  "Wait," Orlova said. "I want a record of this." She pulled her datapad out of her tunic and took a series of pictures of the three of them. "Go ahead."

  As the two troopers gently lowered the trio to the ground, a figure emerged from the undergrowth – Tahir. He looked over at the bodies and shook his head, then examined them more closely, mumbling under his breath in what Orlova presumed was Tatar. He turned to Orlova, sorrow in his eyes.

  "Typical Legion terror tactics. Intended to inspire fear into their enemies." He turned to Blake, "If you remain sitting in the mud, they win a victory."

  "Where?"

  "There are tracks moving towards the river. I suspect that is how they came in, drifting on the current. Very silent."

  "In and out the same way. That suggests..."

  "That there are likely other parties scouting ahead right now. Sub-lieutenant, I would recommend the most expedient means of returning to base, especially if you wish to recover these bodies. I would recommend burying them here..."

  Grant said, bitterly, "We're taking them home."

  Inclining his head, Tahir replied, "That is your decision; I will not judge it." He walked over to a thin tree, taking out a machete, and started to hack away at it, cutting diagonally into the trunk. As the four of them watched, the tree toppled onto the jungle floor with a loud crack, sending a host of creatures scurrying for new cover in the shadows.

  "What are you doing?" Forrest asked. "Everyone for miles could hear us."

  Wiping his hand across his forehead, the hunter said, "Everyone for miles has heard you already. I'm preparing a stretcher to carry them out of here and down to the river."

  "Can we help?" Orlova asked?

  Shaking his head, "I know this land, you don't. I know what trees to cut, what leaves to take, what vines to pull. You're better off keeping watch."

  "You don't want us here, do you?"

  He looked up, teeth bared through a savage smile, "No, I don't. You know how I spent my childhood? Sitting in a leaky metal can watching oxygen monitors, wondering if I was going to wake up in the morning. People were dying as all of our systems failed, one after another. I'd have spent my life tinkering with broken machinery, trying to squeeze a little more life out of it."

  Orlova looked down at him. "It must have been terrible."

  "I didn't understand. Don't you see, Sub-Lieutenant..."

  "Maggie."

  He nodded. "Maggie. I thought it was normal. I thought that's how childhood was meant to be, I didn't know that there was something more to it. When we came here, it was weeks before I dared to leave the prefab huts in our settlement. I was terrified." He smiled, "I came to revel in it, Maggie. This is my home, and I want no other. I want my daughter to grow up to know what it is to breathe clean air, to walk in the forest, to swim in the river. For all your technological marvels, you cannot offer me that."

  She shook her head, "I've seen it myself. This place," she looked around, "is different from everything else I've ever known."

  Tahir started to hack away at a second tree, chips of wood flying through the air. "I have no hat
red for your people, and I certainly have no love for the Legion. I'll help you fight them, but I have no wish to become part of a star-spanning alliance. I just want my village, and my people, to be safe."

  Kneeling on the muddy ground, Orlova said, "And what if your daughter has other ideas?"

  "To be enticed by the luxuries of the world outside? That's her choice. But my father would have us leave here. You should have heard him talking after you left, talking of going back to Earth, live in cities again." He barked a laugh. "We can have all we need right here."

  "We won't take that away from you."

  "Really?" he said, frowning. "You mean that your corporations won't come to exploit our land, to start intensive farming, to clear the jungle to grow crops, to tear the minerals from the desert, to dam the river to strengthen the harvest, then to build the cities that will be filled with people who don't understand." He looked up at her, mud splattering down his cheeks as he sorrowfully shook his head, "I had time to read plenty of history, Maggie. I know what we did to Earth, and is it really any different now? I might be a century out of date, but our ancestors were fleeing a nuclear war. That cannot be allowed to happen here."

  She looked down at the ground, "The UN is trying to clean up Earth."

  "Why let Jefferson be destroyed in the first place?" He shook his head. "No. You spacefarers can have your technological civilization. Out there you need it, and I acknowledge that there is meaning out in the stars. But we have no need of it here."

  The second tree crashed to the ground, and this time none of the guards so much as flinched. With well-practiced ease, Tahir pulled down a cluster of vines from the undergrowth, cutting them to length with his knife with a few smooth actions, then started to lay them out to form a lattice between the tree trunks, wide enough to carry all three bodies."

  "You want to leave a marker here, something like that?" Forrest asked.

  "How long would it last in the rain and the mud? We'll paint their names on Alamo's Memorial Wall. That's were they belong." She turned to Blake, "While we're here, get the perimeter sensor set up."

  While Forrest, Grant and Tahir strapped the three bodies to the makeshift stretcher, Blake pulled a cord from his pocket, looping it around a tree, and then strapped a small metal box to it, tapping a pair of controls to activate it. Tapping his foot on a nearby root, he waited for the test cycle to complete, and then pulled his datapad out of a pocket, wiping the screen clear of water before connecting it to the datalink.

  "Hurry up, Private," Orlova said. "I want to get out of here. Forrest, call base and get a boat out here. Tell them we expect to link up with them shortly."

  "Just a minute, Sub," Blake replied. As the cycle completed, his eyes widened.

  "Incoming targets! Five of them, closing on our position."

  Orlova's eyes darted around the undergrowth, "Take cover, prepare for contact!"

  "They're close, ma'am!" Blake yelled. "Two hundred meters!"

  Tahir almost seemed to melt into the undergrowth as the rest of the squad dived for cover behind logs, trees, anything that might give them a little protection. Orlova slammed her plasma gun into its charge cycle as she went face down into the mud, lining the sight up to her left eye, her finger resting gently on the trigger, ready to attack. A pair of bullets rang out, smashing the sensor, setting Blake cursing, but only for a second; another bullet caught him in an exposed elbow, sending him spinning down to the ground.

  Instinctively, Orlova pulled the trigger, sending a pair of balls of green flame into the undergrowth, fire and smoke leaping into the sky where it touched. She thought for a brief second that she had heard a scream, but could not be certain; the smoke quickly grew into a thick, viscous cloud surrounding the clearing.

  "We'd better get out of here. Can you walk, Blake?" Hugging his wounded arm, Blake nodded. "Then take point. Let's get moving to the river. Shoot at anything that moves."

  Tahir reappeared, picking up one end of the stretcher. "That's the problem with your plasma guns, Maggie. They help the enemy more than you." He turned, "They're still out there, watching."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Marshall's first night at sea had gone reasonably well. The hammock had been very comfortable, and something about the calm of the sea, the slow rocking back and forth with the waves, had managed to give him the best night's sleep he'd had in months. Cunningham had fared less well, learning that all the zero-g adaptation he had accumulated did not help him at all with his seasickness; Captain Pryce had offered a variety of local remedies, most of which were nauseating enough to make him worse. As he staggered into Marshall's cabin, his face white, Marshall could not help but laugh.

  "After what you said about Sanderson."

  Bleary-eyed, Cunningham looked up, replying, "With all due respect, sir, shut up." He hugged his stomach, "I feel terrible. I think some of that crap they gave me is finally beginning to work, though."

  Marshall peered out of his porthole, "Looks like we're approaching another ship." He gestured through the battered glass at another ship, similar to the Lucky Lady but a little larger, drifting close towards them. As he watched, he saw ropes thrown across the gap, and felt them pulling away, drawing the two ships together. He looked up at a knock on the door, and a crewman poked his head through without waiting to be invited.

  "Captain's complements, you're wanted on the deck. The Council will be meeting in a few minutes."

  Cunningham shook his head, "God, Danny, this one's going to be rough."

  "Relax," he said, as his datapad chirped. "Everything's going to be fine." As he read the report feeding onto his datapad, his face suddenly dropped. "Damn."

  "What is it?"

  Rubbing his face, he replied, "I think we just ran out of time. About fifteen minutes ago, Alamo detected another ship in-system."

  "What?" All trace of weariness disappeared from Cunningham's face, extinguished by growing worry lines.

  "Jumped out again a few minutes later. Deadeye thinks – and I agree – that we can expect company in a very short time, eight days or so."

  Sitting down on the hammock hard enough to set it swinging, Cunningham replied, "Caine's dodgy goods to be leaving in command for that."

  "Despite that damn cave-in, Dietz will be back in a few days. If it comes to it, you can go up there yourself." He sighed, "Much as I want to do something about it, the reality is that there isn't that much we can do. It all comes down to Quinn, to whether he can put the ship back together in time."

  "What does Quinn say?"

  "That it can't be done, but that he'll try his best. If he can just get her into position to limp out of the system, I'll settle for that at the moment. We're going to have to pull everyone back in for an evacuation."

  Shaking his head, Cunningham replied, "That could be easier said than done. Never mind that we've got teams scattered across the planet, most of them are all that is keeping the wolf from the door."

  "Then we will have to resolve the local situation first." He raised a hand, "At least sufficient to last until we can get some more strength out here."

  "And if they don't want us?"

  Marshall looked out of the porthole again, "Then we will just have to leave. I'd be inclined to see if anyone wanted to come with us; we could probably squeeze a few more into Alamo if it came to it. Especially if we can replenish our stores."

  "One thing Quinn has been doing is stocking up on supplies. We'll eat well on our flight home." Cunningham looked at Marshall's face, frowning, "What's up?"

  Punching his fist into his knee, Marshall replied, "Damn it, John, this feels like running away. This world is a paradise, the jewel of known space, and damn it all, I like enough of the people I've met here that it doesn't feel right leaving them to the Cabal. You realize that they will probably launch reprisals for what we did."

  "Maybe. We could leave the espatiers behind to hold the line until we came back."

  "We both know that could be months, or years. Or never.
I won't leave a single crewman behind. Orlova, maybe, if she wants to stay with her father and he decides not to leave. I'd argue against it, though."

  Frowning, Cunningham replied, "Under such circumstances, you realize that desertion might be a problem." At Marshall's shocked face, he continued, "You said it yourself, Danny. This planet is a paradise. I can imagine quite a few of our crew would rather stay here and defend it. Or enjoy it, for that matter." He gestured at the porthole, "Tell me you wouldn't be tempted."

  "I can't. I would be; hell, I am." Sighing, he continued, "If anyone really wants to stay, I'd be inclined to let them. They wouldn't do any good in a cell back at Mariner awaiting court-martial."

  "I wouldn't say that too loudly. You might end up being the one in the cell." The datapad flashed again. "What now?" asked Cunningham.

  "Another report, this one from Orlova. Damn. She found Kenner's team, hung from a tree. Skirmish with the enemy, one minor injury, bodies retrieved for evacuation." He threw the datapad to the floor, burying his head in his hands. "It's racking up, John."

  "We're doing the best we can. All of them knew the risks they were running."

  Looking up, Marshall replied, "Maybe I'm seeing Caine's ghosts." He sighed, "We can't just run out on this planet, John. We've spent too damn much on it already to just walk away."

  There was another knock on the door, and the crewman's head poked in again, "You coming?"

  Marshall looked up, nodding, "We're on our way."

  The two of them rose from the hammock, leaving it swinging in their wake, and walked out onto the deck. Three ships were now lashed together, their main decks turned into one long platform; a table had been set up in the middle of the platform while the three crews mingled on the outskirts. Pryce was sitting in the middle chair, flanked by two others wearing similar uniforms. One of them was as dark-skinned as he, a proud smile on his face as he took a drink of some sort of purple concoction on the table, the other lighter tanned, sporting a thin mustache, a long, peaked nose and a wicked-looking scar across his face.

  Pemberton walked over to them, "You're to speak to the Council; they'll decide what to do. The Captain's neutral in this, but he's a fair man."