Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear Read online

  She tossed her head, looking away, "With who?"

  "Read the news! The Republic's spoiling for a fight, and we just finished a battle down there on Jefferson. You were at the briefing. There's something out there big and nasty calling itself the Cabal, and we're going to be on the front lines for it." He shook his head. "The Captain brought you out here because he needs you watching his back. You aren't going to do that in this state."

  She looked down at the desk, replying, "Don't you think I know that." She looked up, defiance in her eyes, "I also know he needs someone sitting at Tactical who won't hear screams in her head when her finger is over the firing button, who won't hesitate at the critical second that makes the difference between victory or defeat. We both know how important that is. It isn't even as if I'm the only one who could do it – you could sit at that station quite comfortably, John."

  Sighing, he turned again, then looked back at Caine one last time before leaving. "Give it a chance, Deadeye. Go sober for the next four weeks, give that seat a try. You might find it suits you; you owe Danny a chance to see if you have what it takes. And damn it, you owe it to those kids as well. And to yourself."

  She paused for a long second as he walked through the door, "I'll do what I can."

  "That's all I'm asking." The door closed behind him, and she looked at it for what seemed like minutes before collecting herself, and looking around her office. It was still a mess, and didn't seem to be cleaning itself up any time soon. So was she; she quickly changed uniform tops and stepped out of her office, making for the elevator with a datapad clutched in her hand. Tapping for the observation room, she tapped her foot on the deck as the car raced up the shaft.

  As she stepped out of the elevator, she almost stepped back in shock; the room was dominated by the familiar red hues of Mars, looming large to aft, bright lights of ships and stations blazing everywhere. A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she turned to see Lieutenant Orlov, Orlova's father, wearing a brand-new Triplanetary uniform.

  "Forgive me, Lieutenant. They'd turned on the imagers when we entered this spacedock; I thought I'd have a little look at home while I could." He tapped his forehead, "It's all in here, but after a decade, I wanted a refresher."

  Caine crashed down in one of the couches, "It must have been hard for you down there, all that time."

  Smiling, the old man replied, "Jefferson is my home now, Lieutenant, but there were times I was longing to be out in space again, wearing the uniform. Not many people get to live out their dreams; I am blessed." He chuckled, "I'll be back with my daughter again soon; the Captain's taking me down to the surface to act as his adjutant. Seems no-one else can speak Tatar, and computer programs never have managed to pick up the nuances."

  "You think you'll be staying down there?"

  "I want to take the wife back to Mars, visit some of my old friends, maybe pay my respects to some of them. Then, well, that depends on circumstances. I've been thinking about this all week; if I'm needed elsewhere, then I am wearing the uniform of the Triplanetary Fleet, and I will go where I am sent."

  "They'll probably end up assigning you here as a liaison."

  "I never knew logic to influence military decision-making. Has that much changed while I was planet-bound?"

  That made her chuckle, "I don't think that will ever change."

  The two of them looked out at the far-distant planet, and Orlov turned to her, "That was your first time, on the planet, wasn't it."

  "On the ground, yes."

  "It is different in space. All you have to do is push a button." He shook his head, "The screams are still there, we just don't hear them. You've killed men before."

  "Those weren't..."

  He turned to her, a savage look in his eyes that wasn't there before, "Your people? But they were someone's, Lieutenant, and either that officer was crying in his quarters the night after you pushed your button, or the last thought flashing in his mind before he left this world for the next was how much he had failed his men."

  She could feel tears beginning to well up in the corner of her eye, and she turned towards the elevator, "Is that supposed to help?"

  "Yes. It is." He placed a hand on her shoulder, "You aren't the only one going through this. Those boys died to free their planet from a tyranny that had oppressed them for a century. They went in the prime of their life, knowing that what they were doing was right. Would it have been so much better if they had died in bed seventy years from now? Already their names are honored." He smiled, "Lieutenant, those boys will live forever, long after we are forgotten."

  "They were boys. They didn't know what they were doing."

  "Did you, the first time? Yet someone had to order you into battle." He smiled. "You did good, Helena. Everything we can now do is because of the mission you led."

  "Have you been through this?"

  He smiled again, "I was a helmsman. No, I haven't. But I know one who has."

  Awareness dawned in her face. "Maggie."

  "My daughter suggested that you might need a catharsis. She's worried about you; I think she feels somewhat responsible. You could do worse than talk to her."

  "She's on the planet."

  "I don't think that remarkable engineer of yours has dismantled the communication system."

  Caine nodded, "I will."

  "And Alamo needs a Captain right now. As I understand it, that is you. Go take command. Go sit in the chair and see how it feels."

  She looked at him, nodding. "I'll see you later."

  "I will take my daughter your good wishes."

  She stepped into the elevator again, pushing for the bridge. Inside her emotions were swirling around, and when she closed her eyes, those faces were still there. Still, four weeks sitting in spacedock. Four weeks that should simply involve making sure Quinn didn't do too much damage while he was putting Alamo back together again. Danny could handle the rough stuff on the planet's surface. The doors slid open, and Sub-Lieutenant Kibaki stood to attention.

  "Captain on the deck," he said, facing front. This was the first time she'd ever seen him even attempt proper procedure; all of this had the appearance of being choreographed, and she idly wondered whether it was Danny, Cunningham – or both. Thinking further, she didn't really care.

  "I have the deck," she replied, walking towards the vacant command chair, and carefully sitting in it, resting back on the armrests as she looked across the bridge, Kibaki sliding across into the watch officer's chair. Maybe she'd sit here for a while. That paperwork could wait.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pulling rank, Marshall had claimed the pilot's seat for the shuttle ride down to the surface, accompanied by what could technically be called his staff; looking at the controls with an envious and wary eye, Cunningham sat in the co-pilot's seat, periodically reading out instrument reports as the ship flew above the waves, the low mass of the planet's super-continent loomed ahead.

  Behind, in the passenger bay, was the first squad of his temporarily drafted espatiers, most of them attempting to familiarize themselves with the weapons issued a few hours ago; Lieutenant Orlov, looking forward to returning home, was sitting next to the airlock. The nominal pilot was also stuck in the back, probably not enjoying his ride down very much. The poor guy would have plenty of opportunities for flights over the next few weeks, though.

  He smiled as the shuttle flew into a cloud, the exterior view briefly whiting over as they blasted through; this was real flying, the sort that hitherto he had only managed in a simulator. Jefferson was going to be extremely popular once they got it properly opened up; the tourist trade alone from the home system was going to make someone rich. A series of blinking lights started to flicker on his control panel as the beacon signal activated, and he swung the ship a few degrees to port to compensate.

  While he was looking forward to the ride ahead, a big part of his thoughts remained back up on Alamo, though he was far more concerned about Caine than the ship. Quinn would put her together again, he
knew that; the engineer was the best he'd ever worked with. Whether anyone could put Caine back together again was another question entirely. He caught a part of himself contemplating crew reassignments, who to move up to Tactical if it came to it, but dismissed those ideas with a shake of his head. She wasn't going to quit. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  "Yreka coming up, Captain," Cunningham said, glancing down at a navigation plot. The shuttle was passing over the coast, moving over delta regions, swamps through which a hundred forks of water raced. A few spare patches showed areas which had been laboriously cleared for food cultivation – and that itself brought some new possibilities into mind. A lot of people who had invested heavily in experience hydroponic plants for luxury food production were going to hate him when he got home. Which wouldn't stop him enjoying a few nice meals while he was on the surface; and he made a mental note to arrange for some resupply for Alamo if he got half a chance.

  As the shuttle slowed, he followed the river as the swamp turned to jungle, then cleared out again to more cultivated areas. He'd studied the layout on the satellite maps a dozen times, but this felt as if it was close enough to touch, and being on a living world – with the exception of Ragnarok, which was just snow, ice and lichen – was a new experience to him.

  Finally, Yreka loomed ahead, the nearest this world had to a city. A collection of a few thousand wooden shacks and a few hundred more modern buildings clustered around one side of the river, criss-crossed with roads, columns of smoke rising from a dozen places. Even from a thousand feet up, it was obvious that there had been a huge battle here, and recently.

  "Orlova to Shuttle One," the communicator crackled.

  "Shuttle One to Orlova," Marshall replied, "Requesting landing clearance."

  "Clearance granted, come on down."

  The beacon was behind a huge, smoldering pile of rubble; belatedly, Marshall realized that they were using the landing strip behind the old Governor's Mansion. An attempt had been made to make enough space for a vertical landing, and he played the landing jets around, back and forth, clearing more bits of debris away. A few people were standing around, mostly Alamo espatiers as well as a couple wearing camouflage jackets, presumably local dignitaries.

  "Green light. Contact with surface," Cunningham said.

  Flicking a couple of overhead switches, Marshall replied, "Right, engine stopped. Will you handle post-flight while I go out and pow-wow with the locals?"

  Raising an eyebrow, his co-pilot replied, "Oh, you can have the pleasure, sir. I'll be sure to do an extremely thorough job. Airlock...," he paused, remembering that for once an airlock wasn't needed, "hatch opening."

  Clapping him on the shoulder, Marshall unstrapped, pulling himself out from behind his console and scrambling down from the pilot's cabin to the still warm runway, coughing at the smoke in the air. At least he could breathe it; there was a brief sense of panic before he remembered that the spacesuit he briefly thought he'd forgotten was unnecessary. He jogged over to the cluster of people, returning a hasty salute from the waiting Orlova.

  "Good work down here, Sub-Lieutenant," he said, noting a series of frowns from the civilians.

  One of them grunted back, "Yeah, good work at demolishing Lincoln Street."

  A smile fixed on his face, Marshall replied, "I should introduce myself; I'm Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo."

  "Are you sending more troops?" another asked with a whiny, nasal voice.

  Glancing quickly at Orlova, he said, "Two more platoons are on the way now. First squad's back in the shuttle, the rest to follow." He looked around at them; three of them had evidence of recent battle marks, the others didn't. "You have me at a disadvantage."

  Orlova grimaced slightly, "I'm sorry, sir. These are representatives of the local resistance leaders."

  "The Provisional Government of Jefferson," nasal voice interrupted.

  With a sharp look, Orlova continued, "This is Major Green," indicating nasal voice, "Captains Montgomery and Howe, and Lieutenant Sanderson." Sanderson was the one without a scratch on him, Marshall noted.

  "I'm pleased to meet you all, and look forward to working with you on the reconstruction of your planet."

  Howe pointed up at the Triplanetary flag waving over the landing strip, "So it is still our planet, then."

  Turning to Orlova, Marshall said, "Sub-Lieutenant, would you please take that down and replace it with the local flag."

  "I'll see it's done at once, sir." A brief burst of shooting interrupting her, and the whole group looked around. "Sorry, we're still dealing with a few pockets of resistance."

  The aft airlock door opened, and Orlov bounded out; his daughter's face lit up as he ran up to her, throwing himself into a very non-regulation hug while the rest of the group looked on, the espatiers slowly filing out behind her. Marshall smiled, looking at the four militiamen; their expressions ranged from understanding to disapproval, a frown seemingly permanently set on Green's face.

  "Sub-lieutenant?" he said, still smiling.

  She broke away, looking over at him, her face red, "Sorry, sir."

  "I should think so," Green said. "Is this the sort of discipline you have in your Fleet, Lieutenant-Captain?"

  "Knock it off, Hank," Montgomery said, "Sergei hasn't seen his daughter in ten years. Pull your head out of your ass for once."

  "Do we have a forward command center set up?"

  Still red, Orlova replied, "My father's bar, sir. It seemed expedient."

  Marshall assumed that it was probably well-protected by the ground forces at the moment; crews tended to earmark bars for their own exclusive use when they were in port, though it was rather unusual for them to be owned by the father of their commanding officer. His thoughts were interrupted by a series of shots in the distance, and Orlova began to fidget.

  "I take it you think that is something you need to deal with, Sub-Lieutenant."

  Nodding, she replied, "By your leave, sir."

  "Run along. Esposito's coming down with the rest of the company over the next couple of hours, company briefing at 1900 local. Make sure you are there, and bring your platoon sergeant as well."

  "Will do." Snapping a quick salute, she sprinted off towards the sounds of the guns, flanked by a trio of the espatiers. Marshall looked around at the new troops that were still spilling out onto the runway; most of them were shuttle technicians, sensor operators. There wasn't an NCO among them who was any more aware of what was needed. Leaning back into the hatch, Marshall saw Cunningham laboriously working through the post-flight checklist.

  "Lieutenant, get that finished and take charge of the runway, will you? I'll see you at Orlov's in an hour or so."

  Cunningham smiled; evidently the prospect of spending time with the dignitaries had not appealed. "Will do, Captain."

  Turning back to the dignitaries, Marshall asked, "Do you have a headquarters established?"

  "The office of the Bank of Yreka," Howe said. "I'm the manager, in more normal times.”

  "Shall we, then?"

  Nodding, Howe turned, leading the way; a pair of espatiers followed the group at a discrete distance. The street was a mess; there wasn't an unbroken piece of glass anywhere, no doubt due to the after-effects from the explosion, and teams of bucket brigades were hastily trying to dampen the fires. They'd had to pick one of the few dry days to launch the attack, but Marshall hadn't considered what effect that might have to the collateral damage. In space, fire was rarely something he had to concern himself with.

  "You see the damage the battle did," Green said. "We're going to be months cleaning up the mess." His voice was punctuated by the occasional ring of machine gun fire and a following explosion. Evidently Orlova was on the job.

  "I'm sorry about the mess, and any casualties you suffered, but there wasn't any choice, Major. Not if the city was to be taken. We evaluated going in from the river, but the airborne assault had the greatest chance of success wit
h the fewest casualties." He looked around, seeing a pair of corpses being carefully retrieved from underneath a pile of rubble. “There seemed to be time considerations as well.”

  "At least the attack was a success, let us not forget that detail," the hitherto silent Sanderson said. "We would appreciate some assistance with the clean-up, though; I understand you have fabrication technology on your ship."

  Marshall had anticipated that one. "Our fabricators are working overtime trying to get Alamo back in condition. There remains the possibility of a space-based attack, and that has to be our top priority."

  The devastation was ebbing slightly as they moved further away from the battle lines; some of the shops were actually opening up, and several bars seemed to be doing a roaring trade. He couldn't see anyone wearing Alamo uniform, but he'd probably have forgiven anyone who'd opted to stop and enjoy the celebrations for a little while.

  The group drew level to one of the few concrete buildings, an imposing three-story structure with a blue-and-red flag waving above it, presumably the flag they had selected for Jefferson. Green pushed the door open and walked in; a group of men were huddled around desks, scribbling notes on maps and pieces of paper. None of them seemed to pay him any heed, but they saluted Montgomery as he walked in, and Marshall's uniform seemed reasonably popular.

  "Should we come in, sir?" Private Voldinski asked.

  Shaking his head, Marshall said, "Hang around outside. Stay within earshot, just in case."

  Nodding, Voldinski gestured to the other espatier, and the two of them made their way across the street, immediately attracting attention from passers-by. A group of children ran up to them, looking with fascination at their weapons; with a nod, Marshall turned back into the building, where the four officers had taken seats around a table. Marshall pulled up a chair, took a cup of coffee, and sat down.