Battlecruiser Alamo: Aces High Page 6

   “First impact in one minute, ten seconds,” Caine said. “I don’t get it. The enemy missiles aren’t trying any evasive action.”

   “No attempt at enemy hacking, either,” Harper added. “They must have the same disadvantage as we do.”

   “Nice to know.”

   “Grant to Marshall,” a voice crackled. “We’re lining up right now. Permission to break and attack enemy ship? Our course will intercept about a minute after your missile impacts, so we’d have a chance to pull back around if needed.”

   “They’ve fired at us,” Marshall said. “I have no problem returning the favor.”

   “Laser charged, sir,” Caine said. “Kelso, give me a firing solution on one of those missiles. Let’s reduce the odds a little.”

   “Ready on target lock in ten seconds, mark,” he replied, frowning as he brought Alamo’s nose around, the acceleration fading away to nothing. “Five seconds.”

   For the briefest microsecond, the two ships were linked by a laser beam. Alamo’s radiators glowed red-hot as they dispersed the surplus energy, and where one of the missiles had been diving towards them, now there was just tumbling wreckage.

   “Good God,” Spinelli said. “Energy spike from the remaining missiles.”

   “Energy spike?” Marshall replied. “Kelso, random walk, now! Be where they aren’t!”

   Five balls of light filled the tactical display, beams of laser energy racing towards Alamo, sending alarms running throughout the ship. Erickson started to run her hands across the controls, her eyes darting from one readout to the next.

   “Radiators are shredded, sir,” she replied. “No impact on the hull, but we aren’t going to be firing any time soon.”

   “Our missile salvo has also been destroyed, sir.”

   “What the hell was that?” Marshall asked, his question directed at no-one in particular.

   “X-Ray laser, I think. Powered by a nuclear bomb, with a yield of forty megatons. Nasty. I’d guess they do double duty as impact missiles and lasers.”

   “Enemy ship is moving off, sir,” Spinelli said. “I think they’re trying for the far side of the planet.”

   “So they want to remain hidden from us,” Marshall replied. “Clever, as far as it goes. Have Grant and Tanner come back at once. They wouldn’t stand a chance in an unsupported attack.”

   “They might have fired their only shots,” Kelso said.

   “Or they might be reloading right now, as fast as we can,” Caine replied. “We were damn lucky.”

   “No we weren’t,” Marshall said. “If they’d wanted us dead, we’d be drifting debris right now. They don’t want to kill us, they want to drive us off.” Looking at Kelso again, he said, “How near are we to the station?”

   “About four hundred kilometers, sir. We’re on the right side of the planet and in the same orbit.”

   “Make sure we stay that way. Put up a couple of probes, high orbital path. Let’s see what they’re doing. And another one behind the moon, just in case.”

   “We’re going to wait?” Caine asked.

   Gesturing at the station’s image on the tactical display, he replied, “Not quite. There’s a mystery here, and I think I know where we can find the answer.” Tapping a control, he said, “Bridge to Auxiliary Control. I want to speak to Senior Lieutenant Orlova.”

   “I’m here, sir.”

   “Put a small boarding party together, no more than four people.”

   “The station, Captain?”

   “Go see what you can find. And be careful, don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

   Caine rose from her station, walking over to Marshall, and said, “If they did attack, then they could have left some of their people behind as a nasty surprise. You know that.”

   “I also know that there are...were thirty-nine of our people over there, and we need to find out what happened to them. We owe them that much.” Looking at the retreating ship, he said, “Start working on a tactical analysis, Deadeye. Get a team together. The next time we cross swords, I want to have the advantage.” Standing up, he said, “You have the bridge.”

   “Where are you going?”

   “I have to see someone.”

   “Salazar? Want me to come along?”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “This battle I’m going to have to fight alone.”

  Chapter 7

   The wall facing Salazar’s bunk had one-hundred and sixty-four rivets. He knew, he’d counted them three times since he’d come down from the bridge. His uniform jacket was tossed in a corner, slumped on the floor having slid down the wall, and a cup of coffee with a single sip taken from it sat on his desk.

   Lying next to him on his bed was a datapad, a simulation of the battle displayed on it. He’d gone over it five times, running the comparative battle strategies, and each time he came up with the same answer. If his course had been adopted, Alamo would not have suffered any damage; the laser would have been dispersed sufficiently that the radiators would have survived intact, and they could have pressed their advantage.

   The door slid open, and Captain Marshall stepped in.

   “Can I take a seat?”

   “Of course, sir,” Salazar replied, making to stand up.

   “Stay where you are,” he said, and he slumped back again as Marshall sat down.

   “About what happened on the bridge, sir,” he began.

   “Don’t,” he said. “Insincere apologies are almost as bad as insubordination.”

   Passing over his datapad, he said, “I was right, sir. Had you followed my advice…”

   “I know,” he replied. “I ran the same simulation myself. That doesn’t make you right. It doesn’t for one single second excuse what you did.”

   “You listened to me the first time, Captain.”

   “The first time you made a suggestion, quickly and succinctly, and I accepted it. If you had limited yourself to a brief suggestion the second time, dropping it when I rejected it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. In fact, I’d have come away from that encounter rather impressed, you were certainly working up to it before I had to put Kelso in your place.” He frowned, then said, “Frankly, that’s why you are still in uniform right now. I haven’t given you a down-check.”

   “Thank you, sir.”

   “Tell me, Midshipman. And be honest, for God’s sake. Would you do it again?”

   After a brief pause, he said, “Honesty will cost me the uniform.”

   “Off the record, then.”

   “Yes, sir, I would do it again.”

   “Why?”

   Closing his eyes, he said, “Two friends of mine died because I made a mistake, Captain. I made the wrong decision, and I didn’t even pay for it with my own life. They paid with theirs. If I see someone making a similar mistake, one that I think will cost lives, I have to speak up. I can’t sit back and let it happen.” He shook his head, and said, “If you want to down-check me for that, I’ll understand. In your place, I probably would have done it already.”

   Shaking his head, Marshall said, “I’m not down-checking you. You’ve been on this ship for just over a week, Midshipman, and you still have more than eleven months to go before I decide whether to put you before the Commissioning Boards or recommend that you be discharged from the fleet. I’ll be honest when I say that your disrespect for authority…”

   “It isn’t disrespect, sir. I’ve looked at your record, and I admire it. I…”

   “Go on,” Marshall said.

   “I didn’t expect you to make a mistake, sir.”

   “I didn’t make a mistake, Midshipman. We’re still here, still alive, and still ready to fight. You can argue that I failed to attain the optimum outcome if you wish, but in battle it is rarely a matter of the right decision and the wrong decision. There are always shades of gray. Tell me, what if those missiles had turned ou
t to have hidden atmospheric capability. Retractable wings, something like that. Then what.”

   “We’d have had more time to shoot them down.”

   “Perhaps,” he said, a faint smile growing. “Answer me another question. Do you want to be discharged?”

   “No, sir.”

   “Are you certain of that, Midshipman? That there isn’t a voice in your head wanting to get out, resentful that the court-martial didn’t end all of this for you?” Standing up, Marshall said, “I will give you an honorable discharge if you wish. Right now that’s probably a better outcome to your career than you’ve earned, but if that’s what it will take to resolve all this, I’m willing to do it.”

   Shaking his head, Salazar said, “I want to stay in the fleet, sir. Lieutenant Grant made me a similar offer six months ago, and I turned him down as well.”

   “I see,” Marshall replied. “You may change your mind later on. I’m taking you off the bridge duty roster, effective immediately. Foster will take your place.”

   “I understand, sir.”

   “I’m appointing you to assist Mr. Quinn, instead, down in the Systems division.”

   Nodding, he replied, “I will report for duty immediately, sir.”

   “No arguments, no complaints?”

   “It is not my place to complain, sir.”

   “At least you understand that much. There is a time and a place for everything, Midshipman. You have a suggestion and there’s a lull in the action, make it. I’ll listen. You want to come to my office afterward and discuss a battle we’ve fought, I’m more than happy to do that as well. But when the commanding officer makes a decision, no matter what you think about it, you follow orders. Is that understood?”

   “Yes, sir. May I ask a question?”

   “Ask.”

   “Does that apply to you as well, sir?”

   Marshall’s face turned red, and he stood up, making for the door. After a second he paused, turned, and said, “After a while, Midshipman, you earn the right, have the experience, to know when you must ask the question, and I won’t pretend that there aren’t times when it doesn’t come up. There are people on this ship who have earned it, one way or another. Caine. Orlova. Harper. A few others. You have earned exactly nothing, and your insignia doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

   “I see, sir.”

   “No, you don’t. One day, perhaps, you might, but I doubt it.” He took a deep breath, then said, “There is still a way back for you from all of this, despite everything, though I have a feeling you won’t take it. Work like a demon in your new role, prove to me that you can be trusted, and I’ll let you back up onto the bridge.”

   “I understand.”

   “Or do something amazing enough to put you back in my good graces. That’s the other option.”

   Nodding, Salazar said, “I don’t suppose that you believe this at the moment, sir, but I won’t let you down.”

   “Words and deeds are very different things, Midshipman. Let’s see if one can match the other. I understand that Mr. Quinn wants you down on the hangar deck. Our fighters are coming back on board, and they’re going to need to go through post-flight. Report down there at once.”

   “Yes, sir.”

   Marshall walked out of the room, leaving him alone for a moment. He stepped down from the bed, reached down to his jacket, then pulled it from the floor, shaking it to try and get rid of the new creases before putting it back on. He glanced at the tiny midshipman’s insignia on the shoulders, and sighed. The Captain was right. Those things didn’t mean a damn thing, still less to him than to the others.

   Stepping out of the door, he was unsurprised to see Foster standing there, a grin on her face, walking slowly towards the elevator, obviously loitering to wait for him to emerge.

   “Didn’t take long, did it,” she said. “Talking back to the Captain during a battle? Good God, Salazar, that’s bad, even for you.”

   “I did what I thought was right.”

   “If that was the case, you’d resign.”

   With a sigh, Salazar asked, “Aren’t you wanted on the bridge?”

   “I’m heading that way. Where are you going, waste reclamation? Elevator control?”

   “And to think, you didn’t even have to write Mummy a letter to get what you wanted,” he snapped.

   Grabbing him by the shoulders, she said, “You don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”

   “Neither do you, Foster. Now let me go, or I’ll report you for assault.”

   Barking a laugh, she replied, “I’d love to see you try.”

   “Then carry on.”

   Shaking her head, she said, “You aren’t worth it.” Spitting on the floor by his feet, she walked towards the elevator, her head held high. He waited for her to leave before tapping the control himself, happier to wait for a moment than to share the trip. Finally the doors opened, and another eternity passed as he traveled down to the hangar deck.

   Quinn was waiting for him as the doors opened, a toolkit in hand, a frown on his face.

   “At last,” he said. “Start with Demon One. Full post-flight and diagnostic assessment. Bartlett and Grogan are assigned as your work team. Once you’ve finished, report to Weapons Control and check over the targeting systems.”

   “Aye, sir.”

   Quinn looked him up and down, then asked, “Do I need to check your work?”

   “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

   “I damn well hope not. I assure you that the first mistake you make will be your last. Do I make myself clear?”

   “You do, sir.”

   “I hope so. Carry on.” Quinn stepped past him into the elevator, leaving Salazar on the hangar deck, looking at the two fighters rising through the airlocks as he watched. He shook his head, sighed, and stepped forward, looking for his team. It should have been him flying one of those fighters, just back from a mission. Technological dead-end they might be, but becoming a fighter pilot was what he dreamed of when he was a boy, a dream that he’d managed to destroy with one last mistake.

   “Over here, sir,” Bartlett said, waving a testing kit in the air.

   “Thanks,” he said, walking over to him. A disapproving woman stood by him, brown hair loose on her shoulders. “I guess you must be Grogan.”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “I’ll handle the cockpit settings. You two start the exterior visual inspection.”

   The fighters settled on the floor, and the pilots stepped out, two people he knew very well, Grant and Tanner. Old war buddies who’d taken their friendship into the Academy as lecturers, and now back out into space again on Alamo. He caught Tanner flashing a look at Grant as he walked off towards the elevator, helmet in hand.

   “I guess you screwed up again, huh,” Grant said.

   “Are your settings in landing mode, sir?” Salazar asked, ignoring the statement.

   “I did my job, Midshipman. You just see you do yours.”

   “Yes, sir,” he said, as Grant walked off after Tanner, hurrying to catch up. He looked back at them, shaking his head, and climbed up into the cockpit, settling down in the pilot’s seat as he started to run the post-flight diagnostics, trying to engross himself in his work, in the mindless tedium of the checklists.

   Bartlett’s head poked up over the cockpit, and he asked, “Are you all right, sir?”

   “The last shreds of my career just got thrown out the airlock, Spaceman. Other than that, I’m fine.”

   “There are worse jobs, sir,” he replied. “You could actually have to fly one of these deathtraps.”

   “The Mark Sixteen Interceptor was the finest fighter they ever made,” Salazar said.

   “Give me a good half-meter of hull armor every time, sir. My mother didn’t raise me to take crazy risks like getting in one of these.”

   “Yet you joined the Fleet?” he asked, ru
nning a test on the missile systems.

   “Well, a job’s a job, isn’t it? Bit of glut on space crews at the moment, too many people and too few berths, but at least the fleet is hiring. Besides, I like to move about a bit, see new worlds and that sort of thing. As long as no-one’s shooting at me.”

   “Is something wrong, Spaceman?”

   “No, sir, nothing at all.”

   “Have you finished your check then?”

   “Well, no, sir…”

   “Then hadn’t you better?”

   “Well, you see, sir, I thought I’d better check up on you.”

   “Why?”

   “Because that’s the third time you’ve run a test on the weapons systems, sir.”

   Salazar recoiled, looked down at his checklist, and shook his head, replying, “I guess I’ve got too much on my mind at the moment to focus on this properly.” Tossing the datapad to the side, he said, “Just one more thing I’ve managed to botch today.”

   “People get distracted, sir, and no-one’s perfect, are they? I mean, I’m not.”

   “No kidding,” Grogan said from the rear. “We’ve got to do two of these, and I’m supposed to be going off duty in an hour.”

   “Me too,” Bartlett said. “Look, sir, what I’m trying to tell you is that things could always be worse. You’ve got to do the best you can with the hand you’ve been dealt.”

   “Trouble is, Spaceman, that I threw away all my high cards.”

   “Game’s not over while you’ve still got something in your hand, sir.”

   Salazar smiled, nodded, then said, “I don’t know when my shift ends, but would you both like to catch something to eat afterward? I could do with some company, I think.”

   “In the officer’s mess, sir?” Bartlett said, shaking his head. “Not going to fly.”

   Shrugging, he said, “I’ll go to yours. I’m not really that much of an officer, anyway.”

   “Bartlett can go if he wants,” Grogan said. “I’m a little more particular about the company I keep. Sir. Can we just get on with this.”

   Tapping his shoulder, Bartlett said with a smile, “I’m not particular, sir. I’ll hold you a chair at the mess.”