Battlecruiser Alamo: Malware Blues Page 8

   A small dot raced away from Alamo, diving towards the shattered world, and Orlova watched as the track curved, the probe maneuvering to find its established position. She glanced across at Spinelli, and after a few seconds, the technician turned, saying.

   “Energy readings. Vessel in the fragments, heading our way.”

   “That’s nowhere near the probe track,” Grant said, shaking his head.

   “Now they know that we are onto them, though,” Orlova replied. “They’ll want to preserve as many options as they can. Frank, inform all stations that we will likely be engaging an enemy target in the next ten minutes. A stand-down for five minutes if people want it.”

   “You’re standing down now, with an enemy ship incoming?” Grant said, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

   “Give the hands a chance to snatch a drink or a quick trip to the restroom,” Nelyubov said. “Now that we have some sort of a time-frame involved.”

   “Patch me through to Wyvern,” Orlova said, reaching for a headset. “This is Acting Captain Orlova, of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. Surrender and prepare to be boarded.”

   “That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” Powell said.

   “Hopefully,” she replied. “I’m really hoping that this is all some sort of mistake.”

   “No reply, ma’am,” Weitzman said.

   “Course track has an interception in nine minutes, forty seconds, with combat range lasting for another forty seconds.”

   Nodding, Orlova said, “Frank, I want a firing solution on the Wyvern as soon as you can get it. Make sure the laser is at full charge.”

   “Rules of engagement, ma’am?” he asked, formally.

   “Wait for them to fire first, then let them have it.”

   “That’s still a Triplanetary ship out there,” Powell said.

   “We have to assume that the crew has been removed, or suborned,” Orlova replied. “That looks like one of our ships, but I don’t think it is any more.” Tapping a control, she continued, “Jack, are you getting the feeds from the sensor grid?”

   “I’ve been watching Wyvern since she emerged,” Quinn replied. “I can’t see any signs of modifications, no changes in her appearance since she left Yeager Station. No sign of damage, or even repairs. As far as I can see, that’s the same vessel. I’ll keep checking, though.”

   “Thanks.” Stepping over to the viewscreen, she looked at the scoutship as it approached, shaking her head. “Why won’t you answer, damn it. Don’t make me do this.”

   “Wyvern is increasing speed,” Spinelli reported. “Course curving towards the hendecaspace point. They might be trying to flee the system.”

   Nodding, Nelyubov said, “We’ve now only got twenty-five seconds of firing window. Not long enough to disable them, even with a full salvo and laser pulse.”

   “They aren’t running,” Grant said. “Space is too damn big for that. If they were trying to get out of the system, they could take their time about it, evade us properly. This is a trap.” He looked at Orlova, and said, “I never thought I’d say this, but I recommend we fire first.”

   “I will not initiate combat with a potentially friendly ship,” Orlova replied.

   “Do we have a choice?”

   “Signal, ma’am!” Weitzman said. “It’s Lieutenant Steele. Very weak, I think she’s using a hand communicator, and there’s a lot of interference.”

   “You are sure about the identity, Spaceman?” Nelyubov asked.

   “Positive voice-match, sir.”

   “Put her through,” Orlova said.

   “Steele to Alamo, come in, please!”

   “Alamo Actual here,” Orlova replied. “We read you.”

   “Thank God. Wyvern has been taken over by rebel officers. They’re planning to flee the system, and they are holding the bulk of the crew prisoner.”

   Glancing across at Grant, Orlova said, “Have Cooper on stand-by for immediate launch. Get me an intercept vector.”

   “Maggie, six of us are free and making for the shuttle now. We think we can get off the ship, but we’re going to need your help to get to Alamo. Can you provide us with support?”

   “That’s affirmative, Steele. We’ll look after you. Get moving. Alamo out.” Looking across at Spinelli, she said, “Let me know when the shuttle launches.”

   “It’s a trap,” Grant said, bluntly.

   “Of course,” Orlova replied, pulling off the headset. “The only question I have is whether Steele knows that, or whether she has switched sides. That shuttle is not to be permitted to land on Alamo.” She paused, then said, “Once the situation with Wyvern is over, we can investigate it at our leisure.”

   “And if they are on our side, and this turns out to be real?” Powell asked.

   “Hooke,” Orlova said, “Keep them inside our counter-measure defenses. We’ll play along far enough to get them clear of the combat area, and after that they can wait a while. That shuttle has life support for weeks. They can hold on for a few hours.” She paused, then added, “Nevertheless, Frank, I want a firing solution on that shuttle. In case they’ve turned it into a missile.”

   Nodding, Nelyubov said, “Working. All missiles are ready, locked onto Wyvern, and so is the laser. If they so much as twitch, they’ll regret it.”

   “Shuttle launching,” Spinelli said. “Clear away.” He tapped a control, and the new course track appeared on the strategic view. “They’re on a divergent course. Estimated time to docking is eleven minutes and ten seconds.”

   “Well after the battle encounter,” Grant said. “Good flying, whoever they are working for.”

   “No sign of hostile measures from Wyvern,” Nelyubov said. “They’re just sitting there.”

   Frowning, Orlova said, "They don’t care that we’ll be suspicious.”

   “Or they don’t want to make the first move.”

   Spinelli said, “Small energy spike, non-hostile. Looks like an explosion in their hangar deck.” Glancing across at a monitor, he said, “Very small, but it might have done some damage. The elevator airlock doors are still open.”

   “Meaning that they can’t use their orbital shuttle,” Nelyubov said. “All of this seems pretty damn convenient.” Looking to his side, he said, “We have a firing solution on the shuttle.”

   Frowning, Orlova watched as the shuttle and the scoutship closed in, reducing the range, the time when she would have to make the decision shrinking rapidly. Twenty-four seconds now left in combat range, hardly enough time to get off a single missile salvo, never mind a second. Each shot would have to be perfect, or they wouldn’t stand a chance of stopping them.

   And yet, Grant was quite right. If they were planning to flee the system, they were doing it the hard way. There were a thousand paths to the hendecaspace point, and only one of them took them within firing range of Alamo. All of this was being set up to look perfect. Too perfect. Right down to the shuttle commanded by a former crew-member, racing in a desperate attempt to seek safety, having prevented anyone chasing after them.

   “That explosion,” she asked. “Could it have been a decoy?”

   Frowning, the duty engineering technician, Grogan, said, “A shaped charge. All the force blasted out into space. It would cause only superficial damage, nothing that would interfere with systems operation.”

   “No way to tell if that shuttle is manned,” Grant said, looking up at the readouts. “It might just have a big missile strapped to it.”

   “Life support systems are on,” Spinelli said. “Though I guess that just means they’re making it an effective decoy. Forty seconds to firing range.”

   “Do I fire, Maggie?” Nelyubov asked.

   Shaking her head, she said, “My orders stand. Wait for them to fire first.”

   “And if they don’t, you’ll let them flee the system,” he replied.

   “They’ll do someth
ing,” Grant said.

   “Two missiles won’t hurt us, not badly,” Nelyubov retorted. “That’s assuming we can’t knock them down. It’s a feint.”

   “Firing range in ten seconds.”

   “They’re just sitting there,” Powell said, shaking his head. “Drifting out of the system.”

   “Still no change to target aspect,” Spinelli said. “Now entering firing range. Twenty-three seconds to go.”

   A countdown started to tick, everyone holding their breath. Nelyubov was poised to fire, the tactical computers constantly updating their trajectory, Alamo’s nose, and its laser cannon, pointed at Wyvern. Five seconds, ten. All eyes on the sensor plot, all breath held.

   “No sign of change to… evasive, now!” Spinelli yelled.

   “What?” Foster asked, looking to Orlova for instructions, but before she could say a word a blast shook Alamo from stem to stern, the ship tossing violently to its side, the hull growling as though in agony as the armor plating ruptured, air spilling out into space.

   “Fire, Frank, fire!” Orlova yelled, and he jabbed a control, the ship rocking again as the missiles leapt from the tubes. Before he could report, another pulse of energy ripped from Wyvern, tearing into the heart of the battlecruiser, tossing it in another direction, the escaping atmosphere from hundreds of hull breaches hurling it around the cosmos, the viewscreen a chaotic dance of swaying stars, Foster desperately trying to bring the ship under control. Lights began to flicker, consoles rebooting as the power network struggled to compensate.

   “What was that?” Grant asked.

   “Particle beam, sir,” Spinelli said. “A panel dropped free, from beside the elevator airlock. The mechanism was hidden in there until the last second.” He looked across, his face stricken, adding, “I didn’t see it until it was too late.”

   “Out of firing range,” Nelyubov said. “That blast took out all but one of my missiles, but that’s running true.”

   “Not for long,” Hooke said, his hands furiously tapping controls on the countermeasures station. “They’ve got someone good over there. It’ll never reach.”

   “Damage report,” Orlova said, looking across at the monitor station, a sea of red bathing the room.

   Grogan looked at her, and said, “Auxiliary control is gone.”

   “Gone?”

   “That blast ripped through four decks. There’s nothing left of the old bridge. The second shot took out the power distribution node, and the aft sensor station.” Shaking her head, she said,  “Damage control teams are on their way, but there isn’t much they can do.”

   “Laser status?”

   “Main engine isn’t responding,” Foster said. “I’m losing attitude control. Hull ruptures and pressure leaks all over the place.” The nose kept swimming around. “I can’t line us up for a shot, ma'am!”

   “We’re wide open,” Grant said.

   “They’re turning,” Spinelli added. “Coming around for a second pass, in about ten minutes. The shuttle is still on a direct course, heading right for us.”

   “Foster…”

   “I don’t have maneuvering control,” she snapped, throwing her hands in the air as the panel rebooted. “Damn it, what happened to redundant power systems!”

   Grogan replied, “Fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes we’ll get everything working again. Teams are on the way.”

   “We don’t have fifteen minutes,” Orlova said, pointing at Wyvern’s course, arcing around, the display flickering on and off. “We don’t even have ten.”

   Shaking her head, the technician said, “It’ll take that long to get to some of the damaged areas. Four whole sections are impassible.”

   “Casualty reports coming in,” Weitzman said.

   “Log them for the moment,” Orlova replied. Glancing at the shuttle, she said, “Signal all hands, stand by to repel boarders.”

  Chapter 10

   “Come on, people, move it!” Cooper said, racing down the corridor. “We don’t know exactly where they are coming in, but assume multiple hostiles, and remember, they know the ship as well as we do. Watch your targets.”

   His datapad squawked, and he said, “Here it comes, Airlock One!”

   The squad followed him to the hatch, a loud clang as the docking mechanism engaged, the airlocks opening. Covering the space with his rifle, he waited for the expected grenade, for someone to emerge. When nothing happened, he peered in, then turned to Sergeant Gurung.

   “Cover me.”

   “This might be a trap. Let me, sir.”

   Ignoring him, Cooper ducked through the hatch, rifle in hand, ready to shoot at anything that moved and work out the consequences later, only to emerge into an empty passenger cabin. At the edge of his position, he saw a dancing shadow, and he fired a round on instant, blasting a hole into a swinging storage cupboard door.

   “Damn,” he said. “Alvarado, Dean, take position here. The rest of you with me.”

   He sprinted away from the shuttle, Gurung replying, “Decoy?”

   “They bailed out in their suits. We could have them hitting us from a dozen directions.” Raising his communicator, Cooper said, “All hands, brace for multiple intrusions.”

   “Why not lock down the airlocks?” Ghaisom, one of the new Neander recruits, asked. Cooper looked enviously at the easy way he kept up the furious pace, and shook his head.

   “If we did that, they’d still get in, but more explosively. This way we keep collateral damage to a minimum.” He heard the sound of a bullet cracking against the deck, and dived into cover just in time to avoid the second shot hitting him in the forehead. Behind him, Martinez was a second too slow, blood trickling from a wound in the arm, the veteran collapsing to the deck. Mitchell dived to his side, medical kit out, while Cooper looked ahead for the target.

   “One man, in cover behind that crate. Anyone know what’s in it?” he asked.

   “Nothing explosive,” Gurung said, scanning his datapad. “Damn. Cold weather gear. Nice and dense.” Peering over the pipe he was hiding behind, he said, “He’s got the whole corridor covered.”

   Cooper’s communicator chirped again, and he replied, “Go ahead.”

   “Firing in the hangar deck,” Corporal Pavlov said. “I’m pinned down, three wounded. Need reinforcements.”

   “Hold on, we’re coming,” Cooper said. “Covering fire, Sergeant.”

   “On the count of five, sir,” he replied, raising his rifle. “Five, four, three.”

   Without waiting, the Sergeant leapt out of cover, sprinting towards his target, a shot scraping over his shoulder and slamming into the wall. Diving to the deck, he fired a desperate shot that caught the gunman in the forehead, sending him collapsing to the deck.

   “Sergeant….” Cooper began.

   “Just following your good example, sir,” he replied, wiping sweat from his forehead.

   “Two teams,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “You take Third Squad and work around the rear, up through the elevator airlocks, and I’ll take the other and charge right in. We’ll distract them, and you can take them. Clear?”

   “What about the Fourth Squad?” Corporal Hunt asked.

   “They need to guard the Bridge and Engineering, just in case. We’ve got to keep a reserve. Come on, Corporal, you’re with me.”

   “I need to stay with Martinez, sir,” Mitchell said. “I’ve got a medical team on the way. That bullet hit an artery.”

   “Follow when you can, Specialist,” Cooper said, racing towards the nearest emergency ladder. Hunt, Goodwin and Ghaisom followed him, all that was left of the squad after one brief action, and they scrambled up to the hangar deck, climbing up to the hatch that ought to put them just inside the entrance.

   “Go when I do,” Cooper said. “If you see anyone you don’t know, take them. Otherwise, run for cover and stay there. Clear?”

   “Aye,
sir,” Hunt said, and Cooper threw open the hatch, pulling himself up as a bullet smashed into the deck beside him, racing for the nearest shuttle. Hunt was next, sprinting in the opposite direction, momentarily confusing the sniper, but Goodwin was less fortunate, tripping on a cable that left her easy prey for the bullet that hit her leg, her cry of agony echoing through the deck.

   Ghaisom raced after her, trying to pull her into cover, but his gallantry only earned him a bullet of his own, and he collapsed by her side, crimson blood spilling from a wound in his shoulder, his rifle clattering to the deck. Cooper looked at Hunt, then around for the rest of Second Squad. Pavlov was over in a corner with a fire team, crouched behind a stack of crates, a Neander lying just in front of one of them, his breathing growing irregular as shock set in. A second later, Gurung jumped through the hatch, evidently having decided that he couldn’t stay clear of the action, and he immediately sprinted for cover beside Cooper, throwing him a flash of a smile as he slid into position.

   Technicians were scattered across the room, most of them in cover, a few others wounded on the deck. He tried to look for the gunmen, tracking the suppressing fire to an elevator airlock.

   “Damn,” he said, pulling out his communicator. “They’ve picked the lock that Vaughan will be coming through. It’ll be a bloodbath if we don’t stop them.”

   “It’s a bloodbath now, sir,” Pavlov said. “I’ve got five wounded now. About as many of the deck technicians.”

   Glancing at his watch, Cooper said, “On the count of five, we charge. All at once.”

   “That’s not going to reduce the body count, sir,” Hunt said.

   “They might get some us, but they won’t get all of us. Keep low, zig-zag, and take shots as you move. Anyone with smoke grenades, throw them. Don’t stop for any wounded, and that definitely includes me. We mop up once the job is done.” Looking around at the devastation, he said, “And your first priority is to stop them. Regardless of damage to the deck.”