Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Page 6

   “Fire at will, Spaceman, but this time make absolutely certain that you can keep a laser lock on them, and set an attack pattern to surround the ship.” Turning to Harper, he added, “I've just given you ten chances to hack into the enemy network, Lieutenant. I suggest you make them count.”

   “Already on it, sir,” Harper added, turning to her console with a will, her hands rattling across the controls as she labored to smash through Waldheim's firewall, message lasers sweeping around to find a terminal.

   “How long to firing range, Deadeye?” Marshall asked.

   “Four minutes minus,” she replied. “Rules of engagement?”

   “Weapons, then engines. Go to disable, not to kill. We might need their help to get out of this system, and I'd rather not wipe them out if we don't have to.”

   “With respect, sir,” Francis said, “General Estrada is unlikely to demonstrate the same level of mercy. I recommend we try for their primary oxygen reservoir with a salvo impact, three missiles after each other, followed up with the laser. They'll be too busy trying to retain some sort of control to handle a battle, at least until this pass is over.”

   “He's got a point, Danny,” Caine said, looking up at her readouts. “They're ready to fire, a full range of weapons, and I'm not sanguine that the point-defense systems can deal with them all. It's going to be pretty damned close.” She glanced across at a readout, and said, “Two minutes to contact, and I suspect they're going to throw everything they've got at us.”

   “Fire as soon as we get into range,” Marshall replied. “They'll have plenty of time to shoot ours down, but it should reduce that first salvo. After that, move to full defensive fire with the missiles, offensive with the laser. If we can slow them down, that will give us a lot more options on the second pass.”

   “Second pass?” Midshipman Imoto asked from the helm.

   Nodding, Marshall replied, “This battle isn't going to be concluded here, Midshipman. We're stuck in this system for three days, and I doubt they're just going to let us get away without a fight.”

   “It'll be a while, though, sir,” Ballard said. “Best estimate for a second strike is an hour and a half from now, and we should be able to extend that a little. And if we can damage them...”

   “Just as likely that they'll damage us, Spaceman,” Francis replied. “We'll have to play the hand we've got, and right now the dealer's still shuffling.” Turning to the status monitor, he added, “When do you want the second fighter wing launched?”

   “Thirty seconds before combat range,” Marshall replied. “Let's make them try and guess what we're doing, try and snatch the initiative. Harper, probe status?”

   “Closing on target,” she said, not looking up from her console. “I'm working on it.”

   “Sixty seconds to firing range,” Caine said. “Midshipman, I'll want a good shot in sixty-two, line on. Try for their heat radiator.” Looking to the far side of the bridge, she added, “Fitzroy, I want you to watch the heat levels like a hawk. As soon as you can, retract our wings. We can't have them exposed for any longer than we can help.”

   “Waldheim is building up to an energy spike,” Ballard reported. “I think they're going to try for our oxygen reservoir.”

   “Helm, evasive pattern in fifty-three seconds, and cut engines to one-third,” Marshall ordered. “If they hit us, we've had it.” He watched the display, the two ships rapidly closing on each other. At their current respective speed, they'd only have fifty seconds in the firing line, barely enough for two missile exchanges. More than enough to wreak irreparable damage on Alamo.

   “Fighters launched, sir!”

   Four new dots appeared on the screen, fanning out ahead of Alamo, ready to counter any moves from Waldheim. As he'd expected, an instant later, twelve fighters launched in response to their attack, split into two columns racing towards them. Twenty-four missiles now in the air, potentially, and Alamo's point-defense system would be instantly overwhelmed by a swarm of that scale. Marshall looked around the bridge, watching the crew at their posts, a strange eagerness on their faces.

   Relief.

   They were heading into a life or death situation, pitting their wits and their training against their most ruthless adversary, but it was something they knew. Something they had prepared for, had studied. Something they could cope with, and a momentary distraction from the nightmare they'd fallen into, tossed by an unknown phenomenon further away from home than humanity had ever dreamed it could go.

   “Twenty seconds,” Caine said, and Marshall turned his attention back to the screen. All the decisions had been made, and now the battle would proceed according to the ability of the crew and the strength of Alamo. He glanced across at Harper, the hacker intent on the screen, her hands a blur as she battered her way into the enemy network trying to gain some advantage over her opponent. Somewhere on Waldheim, someone was attempting to do the same to Alamo, a duel of cybernetic thrusts and parries, with the fate of their ships at stake.

   And he was stuck in the center seat, at the heart of the action, and yet unable to directly influence it. The curse of command. Everyone else had something to do, work to concentrate on, but all he could do was sit back, watch, and hope that he'd made the right decisions before the battle began. The countdown clock ticked away the last few seconds, and Imoto slammed his hands on the controls, activating the evasive sequence that sent Alamo ducking from side to side, rolling in a bid to throw off the aim of the enemy gunner as the barrel of Waldheim's laser cannon swung into position, ready to unleash its deadly payload.

   “Fire in the hole!” Caine yelled, as Alamo smoothly slid into position, a beam of laser light connecting the two ships for an instant, pumping multi-megawatts of energy into the enemy warship. Alamo's radiators glowed white-hot as they struggled to disperse the heat, and Waldheim's reflectors buckled and collapsed, the laser smoothly cutting through the thin material, leaving only an angry halo of debris temporarily surrounding the battleship.

   “Missiles away,” Caine said. “Enemy laser out of action.” She looked across at a second screen, and added, “They've launched in response. Ten to our six. Point-defense might be able to take care of the rest.”

   “Enemy fighters closing,” Ballard added. “Looks like they're setting for an attack run. Conventional strike pattern, right according to the manual. Green Flight has been notified and is engaging the enemy.”

   Bowman looked up from his display, and said, “Red Flight requests permission to break from escort duty and engage the enemy. Lieutenant Salazar has endorsed the recommendation.”

   “He would,” Marshall replied. “Request denied, not until that shuttle makes it home. We've got to have the information he's carrying, and we can't risk transmitting it, not in this battlespace.”

   “We could use those fighters, Danny,” Caine said, gesturing at the sensor display. “Right now we're looking at some pretty serious opposition.”

   “I think I can even the odds a little,” Harper replied.

   “You're cracked into Waldheim's system?”

   “Low-level access only, but I think I can throw them a scare or two.” She smiled, then added, “In about ten seconds, they're going to be getting decompression alarms on every deck. That ought to distract them a little.”

   “You have a vicious and devious mind, Lieutenant. I approve,” Marshall said with a smile. “Focus on the fighters, Deadeye. We'll gamble that they miss their window for the second salvo.” He looked up a the tactical display, the two clusters of missiles that had been first into the air slamming into each other, a series of brief flashes announcing their mutual destruction. Sixteen missiles had flown into that inferno, and only two flew out of it, the datastream noting that both had suffered significant impact damage, sufficient to make them easy prey for the point-defense systems.

   “Second salvo ready,” Caine said. “Just waiting for the fighters to make their mov
e.”

   Marshall frowned, watching as the enemy fighters made their approach, dancing close to Alamo's own interceptors. They were well within range, could have dropped their missiles already and turned back to the safety of their baseship. Sweeping a hand over his controls, he dragged the view out to a longer-range strategic projection, wondering for a moment if they were trying for a longer pass, to get in behind Alamo and strike from the rear, but that would give him more time to bring them down. On their current course, they'd be in range of the point-defense batteries at any moment.

   “Course change! Threat warning!” Ballard yelled, and Marshall nodded as he saw the fighters dance around, half of them launching a missile spread towards Alamo, the others veering off, trajectories twisted to a different course. It took him a few seconds to realize where they were doing, and he cursed under his breath.

   “They're heading for Pioneer,” Imoto said, shaking his head. “Why?”

   “Because they know we've got people down there, and they want to distract us, try and lead us away from the planet. Bowman, any luck with the jamming?”

   “No, sir,” he replied.

   Harper looked up from her console, and added, “Nothing I can do from here either. Looks like an independent sub-system, not on the primary network. Clever bastards.”

   “Launch missiles, time-on-target,” Marshall said. “Recall Red Flight, and order them to take a pass at Waldheim. I doubt they'll get any hits, but they might do some damage.”

   “Aye, sir,” Francis said. A low rumbling came from the hull, the mass driver turrets scattered on the outside of the ship pounding at the incoming missiles, bringing them down with a series of direct hits. More contacts appeared on the display, twelve against twelve, as Green Flight and their counterparts from Waldheim turned away, their role in the battle concluded. Red Flight was burning fuel recklessly in a bid to catch up with the enemy battleship, but they were going to struggle to launch a successful intercept. As he watched, Murphy gave up the fight, firing her missiles in a last-ditch effort to distract their opponent.

   “Out of firing range, Captain,” Imoto said.

   “You sound disappointed, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “Were you expecting everything to be over in one glorious moment of action? Space battles don't work that way. This was just a quick cut-and-thrust, a chance to test ourselves against each other.” Gesturing at the screen, he said, “You'll get your big fight, Midshipman. I suspect General Estrada will see to that.”

   “Are we heading to Pioneer's moon, sir?”

   Caine looked at Marshall, who shook his head, and said, “We don't dare, Midshipman. There's some reason that they want us away from that planet, and I'm guessing that Lieutenant Salazar knows what it is. Proceed for a close flyby, at best speed, and open up some distance from the enemy ship.” Turning to Francis, he added, “I want Salazar up in my office as soon as he lands. Foster as well. We've got to find out what is going on down there.”

   “But Clarke…,” Imoto said.

   “Keep trying to break through the interference,” Marshall ordered. “With a little luck, he'll spot the fighters when they get close.”

   “And if he doesn't?”

   Marshall was silent for a moment, then replied, “If he was able to talk to us, Midshipman, what do you think he'd be recommending right now?”

   Imoto nodded, then said, “I see, sir.”

   “Mind your helm, Midshipman, and keep us away from the enemy.” Turning to Caine, he added, “You have the deck, Deadeye. I'll be in my office.”

   “Aye, sir,” Caine replied. “I have the deck.”

   Rising from his command chair, Marshall walked from the bridge, waiting for the door to close before releasing his breath. He looked at the viewport, the placid starfield slowly moving beyond, and sighed. There was nothing he could do for the sixteen crewmen on the surface. Nothing except hope for the best, and pray for a miracle.

  Chapter 6

   Clarke moved carefully along the wrecked deck, keeping clear of the obstructions that jutted out from the hull. Miraculously, this part of the ship still had life support, and he'd been able to leave his spacesuit behind at the sole remaining airlock, completing his inspection of the inhabitable areas of the ship with ease. Behind him, Blake followed, looking at the ship with a mournful eye.

   “Sad,” she said. “Forty years, and this is where Pioneer meets its end. Tattered fragments of alloy in a crater, lost hundreds of thousands of light-years from home.” She frowned, then added, “That's just beginning to sink in. It feels so damned strange to have no way to get back. I suppose it doesn't make much of a difference from a long expedition, but I feel...”

   “As though the last ties to home have been cut,” Clarke replied. “I think we're all getting a taste of that right now. I think the trick is just to keep busy for as long as we can.” Glancing at her, he added, “You've got it a lot easier than most of the crew.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “No ties back home to leave behind. If we're truly stranded out here forever, then at least you don't have anyone to worry about.” He paused, then added, “I guess I'm close to that. I'd expected to spend most of my life out here anyway, though I hadn't thought I'd ever make it to another galaxy.” Forcing a smile, he added, “This is what the recruiting poster promised. Strange worlds far away, beyond the stars.”

   Almost stumbling over a cable, Hooke drifted towards them, and said, “I think your people about have auxiliary power working again. We've only got battery power for a hundred hours or so, but I think that's going to be more than long enough for what we need.” Looking at the battered hull, he added, “It'll be nice to get back onto a real ship again.”

   “How did you get picked for this mission?”

   With a shrug, Hooke replied, “Wanted to bump my security clearance up a notch. Meant I needed to get my promotion confirmed, and Captain Casson made me an offer I couldn't refuse. With a promise that I'd be transferred back to Alamo as soon as the mission was over. I guess he finally managed to keep it, even if it was postmortem.” He paused, then added, “Before we leave, I'd like to take a last look at them. Say goodbye.”

   “Must have been tough. Burying your whole crew,” Blake said.

   “Just used a few subsurface charges. Took less than an hour to dig out each hole. They ought to do that back on Mars. Faster.” He paused, then added, “I know what you mean. Still, I figured someone would show up sooner or later. Didn't really want to give in to those bastards from Waldheim.” He grimaced, then said, “A shuttle turned up day before yesterday, but the plasma carbine gave them a good reason to leave in a hurry.”

   “Didn't they come back?” Clarke asked.

   “They sent a few messages, offered me a chance to surrender, but I think they had the idea that I'd have been forced to give up sooner or later, so why risk anyone they didn't have to?” Gesturing down the corridor, he added, “There are a dozen more carbines back there in working condition, and power packs for them all. Unless they've got a battalion stashed away somewhere that I don't know about, I'd say we don't have much to worry about here.”

   Stepping onto the bridge, Clarke looked around, eyes going from station to station. One of the technicians was busy dismantling the helm, cannibalizing the components for other stations, trying to get the sensor and communications stations online. He pulled his datapad out of his pocket, scrolling through the projected path of Alamo, frowning as he realized it had been more than twenty minutes since their last contact.

   “How long for the communications station?” he asked.

   “About an hour, sir,” Boyd replied. “Slow work, and I can't get any calibration from the ship, so we're having to use the shuttles.”

   “Could we receive a laser transmission?”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “We're in shadow at the moment. It'll be at least five minutes before we can get a com
m laser lined up.” Her eyes widened, and she added, “You think something's gone wrong up there?”

   “Let's just say that my sense of paranoia is working overtime, Spaceman.” He walked across to the sensor station, reaching down for the controls, and added, “What's the story here?”

   “Almost ready,” the technician, a balding man named Fischer, replied. “We still have all the topside feeds. Bandwidth won't be great, but it should be enough for our purposes.” Glancing across at him, he added, “We're abandoning the ship eventually, anyway.”

   “Maybe,” Clarke replied. “Get this station working, right now.” He looked down at the last sequence of tactical updates, abruptly cut off thirty minutes ago. Someone was jamming their transmissions, blocking them from view, and he turned to Blake, eyes widening.

   “We're under attack,” he said.

   “What?” she replied.

   “Thirty minutes ago, Waldheim started jamming us. Blocked all signals from Alamo. The only reason I can think that they'd have done that is if they were planning a strike.”

   Peering out from under the helm, Petrova said, “Paranoia is right. There's nothing here to attack. Just a wrecked starship that we're planning to scrap anyway. Why would they attack us?”

   Looking back at her, Clarke replied, “We're here. Sixteen people from Alamo. Either they're planning on capturing us to take bargaining chips...”

   “Wouldn't work,” Hooke said, “and they know it. After the reception I gave them last time on my own, they wouldn't dare make the attempt. Hell, we'd be able to shoot down their shuttles before they could land.”

   “Then they're planning something else,” Clarke said. “Fischer, where the hell are my sensors!” Reaching for his communicator, he flicked a control for the frequency, and said, “Clarke to Fox. Get everyone outside the ship into cover on the double. I'm expecting imminent aerial attack. Stay clear of the shuttles.”