Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Read online

   He looked back at the battered Pioneer, new gouges on her hull, fresh patches where Conner’s team had completed emergency repairs. A pair of technicians were walking along the side of the ship with datapads in their hands, scanning for oxygen leaks, while a fire team of Espatiers were heading into the distance, measuring out the positions for their defensive perimeter.

   Hooke gestured to the far side of the ship, down by the wrecked engine nacelles, and he fired his thrusters to guide him towards the hangar deck, running past the shattered hull as he flew. All around him were signs of the recent battle, new craters formed from the impact of the smoldering wreckage, the brief firefight literally reshaping the surface of the planet.

   “Over there,” Blake said, gesturing at the horizon, and Clarke saw a second new crater by the side of a hill, more wreckage scattered around it. The first shuttle, struggling for orbit before being shot down by the enemy fighters. If Petrova had been in command, it would have been loaded with crewmen. At least he had managed to save their lives, even if that salvation was all too temporary.

   The trio walked towards the waiting airlock, and Hooke stabbed at the control panel, frowning as the system failed to respond. Clarke reached across to the manual controls, tugging the protective panel free and pumping the lever to open the lock, struggling to keep his footing in the low gravity, his thrusters firing in brief bursts to keep him stable. Blake pulled out her datapad, running the sensor filament along the seam of the airlock.

   “Some oxygen leakage,” she replied. “We might be able to breathe in there, but I doubt it'll hold for long.” Glancing at the ruptured hull, she continued, “It would be a miracle if the whole bay was intact. All the connecting corridors are sealed.”

   “Captain Casson had the ship locked down before impact,” Hooke said, his eyes distant for a moment. “I've never felt anything like it. Blind luck that I managed to stay in my couch. None of the others made it through.” He took a deep breath, then said, “Not a happy time.”

   “I can't imagine what it must have been like,” Blake replied.

   “Hopefully you never will,” the hacker replied.

   “Almost there,” Clarke said with a grunt, and the seal finally cracked, allowing them access to the inner compartment. The second door was sealed as tightly as the first, and a few backup indicators were working, glowing angry amber and red. Blake stepped inside, reading through the few functioning telltales, then turned to the others.

   “Some oxygen, but it's a hundred below in there. And life support is out, so all that we have is the air that was in there when the ship crashed.” Turning to Hooke, she asked, “You didn't do any repair work?”

   “No time,” he replied. “I went inside on the third day, but everything was such a wreck that I gave up. Didn't seem to matter, anyway. There wasn't anywhere to go, even if I'd found a working shuttle.” Looking at the two of them, he added, “I was about an hour away from just signaling Waldheim and getting it over with. We can't even do that now.”

   The trio stepped inside, and Clarke began the laborious process of sealing the outer door, working the manual controls again, sweat building up on his forehead from the exertion. Finally, at last, the outer door closed, the pressure automatically equalizing as the inner door opened, revealing a tangled, jagged mess within.

   “Pressure a little low, oxygen low, temperature damned low,” Blake said. “But livable, at least for the moment.” She reached for her visor, and at Clarke's shocked look, added, “The human nose is still one of the best sampling devices we've got. Just keep an eye on my face, and if I start turning blue, close it quickly and add extra oxygen.” She swung open her faceplace, and took an experimental breath. For a second, she smiled, but then her eyes widened and she slammed down the visor again, looking at Hooke with disgust.

   “What is it?” Clarke asked.

   “You missed one,” Blake said.

   Hooke closed his eyes, and said, “I thought all the ones I hadn't accounted for had been thrown into space. I found half a dozen bodies scattered outside, one of them a mile away.” Pushing past Blake, he ducked under the wreckage, out into the open part of the deck, and started to search, while the others looked on. “Here he is,” he said, tossing a chunk of ruined motor to the side, exposing a man curled in the fetal position, terrible wounds on his forehead, tears frozen to his face.

   “Sam Watson,” Hooke said. “Shuttle technician.” Turning to them with horror in his eyes, he added, “He lived beyond the impact. My God, he lived beyond the impact. I could have saved him!”

   Shaking her head, Blake looked at the body, and replied, “I doubt it. Both arms broken, probably a fractured skull, likely brain damage. I doubt the kid had a chance, even if you'd got to him at once.” With a deep sigh, she added, “Let's get him out on the surface. I'll contact Fox and arrange a burial detail. He can join the rest of his crewmates.”

   “No,” Hooke said, reaching down and cradling the dead man in his arms. “I'll see to it myself. I don't need any help.” Taking him to the airlock, he sealed the door behind him, leaving Clarke and Blake alone as the airlock started to slow cycling process.

   “Maybe I should call Fox anyway,” Clarke said.

   “I wouldn't,” Blake replied. “I think he needs to do this for himself. What the poor guy must have been through would be more than enough to put anyone on the verge of a breakdown. I'm surprised he's still able to operate at all.” Turning back to the hangar, she added, “Let's make a start on our survey. I've never seen such a pile of wreckage.”

   Lights flickered, and Clarke gestured at the ceiling, adding, “Most of this isn't from the shuttles. The deck above buckled, slammed into this one, and sent everything falling.” Peering to the side, he said, “The rear section might be clear.”

   “Hooke said he'd checked it out,” Blake said. “Still, given how he must have felt, I suppose we can't necessarily trust his judgment.”

   The two of them pushed their way through the wreckage, careful to avoid potential damage to their suits, a host of sharp edges and jagged cuts reaching out to them. Ducking underneath a wrecked support strut, Clarke saw a shape buried underneath a pile of debris, the sleek lines of one of the old transfer shuttles, a design that had been obsolete for decades.

   “Aft section's a write-off,” Blake said, following his gaze.

   Gesturing past it, over to the far side, Clarke replied, “Look over there.” A second shuttle, the cabin caved in and ruined, but with the aft section intact, shining alloy gleaming from the flickering overhead lights. “Don't look now, but I think we might have found our ticket out of here.”

   “Two halves of a ruined shuttle equaling one working vehicle?” Blake said, her frown illustrating her skepticism. “We've got no tools, no space to work, no specialists, and no ability to contact anyone for help. You want to essentially build a shuttle out of a pile of scrap components with a handful of technicians and some ground troops?”

   “You have a better idea?” At her silence, he tapped a control on his arm, and said, “Conner, drop everything and get over here on the double. And have someone check the database for Mark Three Transfer Shuttle schematics.”

   “We opening a museum, sir?”

   “Try a vintage shuttle rally, Spaceman. Though I'll ride a broomstick if it'll get us home.”

  Chapter 9

   “Come on, people!” Salazar said, gesturing to the gathering platoon. “We've got no time at all if we want to get to the fight. They're not going to wait around down there for us forever. Frank, you getting your equipment stowed away?”

   “Locked and loaded, sir!” the young officer replied with a wave and a smile. Salazar waved back, climbing into the shuttle, walking past the anxious troopers to the cockpit. He'd known Frank Rhodes for years, watched him grow from a cocky young Private to a cocky young Ensign, courtesy of a brief sojourn at Officers' Candidate School during Alamo's refit.
Sliding into his seat, he looked across at Harper, already most of the way through the pre-flight checks.

   “You didn't have to come with me, you know,” he said.

   “Come on, you think I'm going to let you head down to an unexplored planet by yourself? Knowing you, you'd find a way to get lost down there.” With a smile, she replied, “Besides, I haven't gone on a dangerous mission for at least six hours. It really has been a hell of a day.”

   Tugging on his restraints, he asked, “How's the crew holding up?”

   “By they skin of their teeth. I'm almost glad that all of this has cropped up. The last thing they need is time to think, at least not until we've got something positive for them to think about. There's a lot more riding on this than just a way home. Morale's going down the waste chute unless we can do something about it, and soon.”

   “I know what you mean,” he said, as the last of the troopers tramped on board. “I'm having trouble getting used to the idea myself, and I've hardly spent any time on Mars for years anyway. Hundreds of thousands of light years?” Shaking his head, he continued, “It seems impossible. And just about typical that the first thing we do is go out here to war.”

   “Blame Waldheim.”

   “Don't worry, I do,” he said, sliding on a headset. “Shuttle Leader to all Shuttles. Report.”

   “Shuttle Two here,” Midshipman Siegel said. “Ready to go, sir.”

   “Shuttle Three,” Foster added. “All systems go. I still say that I should stay down there with you after the landing.”

   “Someone's got to get this collection of hardware back up to the ship, and you're the nearest thing the survivors have to a senior officer. Besides, someone's got to keep my seat warm until I can get back.” Tapping a control, he continued, “Shuttle Leader to Red Leader. Ready?”

   “We're all set,” Murphy replied. “Just make sure those boosters are intact. I don't want to spend any more time playing in the sand than I have to.”

   “Shuttle Leader to Alamo Actual,” Salazar said. “Mission team ready for launch, sir. Request departure clearance on request.”

   “Confirmed,” Marshall said. “Bring them back alive, Pavel. Good luck.”

   Tapping a control, Salazar worked the elevator airlock, the mechanism bursting into life, dropping through through the decks. All around him, the shuttles descended, fighters waiting above them in their cradles, ready to follow them as soon as the first cluster of launches had taken place. He looked around, knowing just how much they were risking on this mission. Twenty-three troopers, three shuttles, three fighters. Hardware that Alamo was going to need if it was to survive in this new environment.

   And yet, there didn't seem to be any choice. They couldn't simply leave the Pioneer survivors to rot on the surface, especially not with Colonel Cruz and her comrades desperate to capture them, to find the secret of the alien city. A long-forgotten installation that seemed their only chance to find a way home. It didn't matter that the odds were long. The crew had to have some sort of hope if they were going to keep going, and this far from home, hope was in increasingly short supply. Most of the crew had volunteered for the mission without a second thought, and he'd had some short but violent arguments with the senior enlisted, all of whom had excellent, yet implausible reasons for going down to the planet.

   The shuttle dropped away, flung clear of the ship, and Salazar fired the main engine to send it soaring down towards the planet, keeping a wary eye on the sensor display, watching the distant Waldheim as it swung around the nearest moon, using the gravitational boost to hurl it back towards Alamo, ready for another encounter in the near future. That wouldn't be his problem. By then, he'd almost certainly be engaged with the forces on the surface, stranded until and unless Alamo could make another pass to pick them up.

   “Fighters launched, Pavel,” Harper said. “Moving into escort formation.” Looking up at the planet ahead, she added, “Nice place you've found down there.”

   “Hot as hell,” he replied. “There's a reason the Pioneer crew called it Dante.” Tapping a control, he said, “Shuttle Leader to Mission Team. Watch your formation, and make sure you keep up. We've got to get down to the deck and back again in twenty minutes at most, or we'll be flying back into the middle of a battle. I'm reading seven minutes to the surface.”

   “Shuttle Three to Shuttle Leader,” Foster said. “I'm picking up fighter launch from Waldheim. Six birds, moving to high guard position.”

   “Damn,” Harper replied. “Confirmed, Pavel, I'm reading that here too. They're burning at full acceleration. I can't see how they expect to make it back.”

   “Arrogant bastards,” Salazar said. “They're expecting to have control of orbital space by the time they run out of fuel. Waldheim's probably got tanker shuttles on board.” Tapping a sequence of controls, he said, “They're going to be coming into our flight path when the shuttles come back up.”

   “Alamo to Shuttle Leader,” Marshall's voice began.

   “We see it, Alamo. Wait one.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Thoughts?”

   “Three fighters against six. Not good odds. Could we delay takeoff?”

   “Not without risking running into the rest of their fighters. Or Waldheim itself, if it comes to that. Estrada's a clever bastard. He's going to whittle down Alamo's strength a piece at a time before engaging her directly. Try and win the war with attrition rather than brute force.”

   “Smart,” Harper said. “Not very good for us, either.”

   “Shuttle Leader to all Shuttles,” Salazar said. “We're going to have bad guys heading our way before we can make it back on our current flight path. We'll have to cut down our surface time to the absolute minimum.”

   “Wait a minute, Pavel,” Lombardo said. “It'll take at least six minutes for me to fit the booster rockets. I can't cut that any further.”

   Nodding, Salazar replied, “Which means for at least the first leg of the journey, the shuttles are going to have to make it without escort. Murphy, you following this?”

   “At full burn, we'd run out of fuel long before we got back to Alamo,” the pilot replied. “We could act as a decoy, though. Give them more than one target to worry about, maybe throw the bastards off a little.” She paused, smiled, then added, “Or set up for an attack run on Waldheim out of the upper atmosphere while they swung past. That's something they'd have to react to.”

   “I like the way you think, Jessie,” Salazar said. “Shuttle Leader to Alamo Actual.”

   “I've been listening in, Pavel,” Marshall replied. “We talked about acceptable risks, and right now I think you're pushing them a lot further than I like. You have my permission to abort and return to Alamo. We'll think of something else.”

   “Be a pity to miss a chance to breathe real air again,” Harper said, looking at Salazar. “If we move like hell, we can cut our time on the surface to four minutes. That will get the shuttles back home sixty seconds before Waldheim enters combat range. There might be some risk from the fighters, but Alamo can mitigate that by launching the rest of the formation.”

   “Captain,” Salazar said, “We think we can still pull this off. I'm not sure we'll get another chance to try this, sir, and I'd like to continue the mission.”

   There was a long pause, and finally Marshall replied, “Permission reluctantly approved. I don't like this, Pavel. Not flying without escort. We'll just have to hope that Red Flight provides the ace in the hole we need. Don't worry about our end of the battle. Just get those people home. Alamo out.” The channel flicked closed, and Salazar turned back to the rear section.

   “Corporal, you'll have to get clear of the shuttle in sixty seconds. I'll try and give you the smoothest ride I can. Unstrap as soon as we get through atmospheric entry interface, and get yourselves kitted up. As long as we're not actually under fire on landing, you should be able to just dump the equipment in the sand.”

   “W
ill do, sir,” a frowning Weber replied. “Check equipment, everyone. We won't have time when we get onto the deck, and I don't want to risk being exposed if there's a United Nations Welcome Party waiting for us.”

   “Kris, hit the sensors,” Salazar said. “We should be getting into range to get some good shots of the surface any time now. If there's any activity near the base, we need to know about it.” Glancing across at his controls, he added, “Even if they aren't heading that way now, they will be as soon as they realize we're coming. They'll throw everything they've got at our landing area.” Gently guiding the shuttle, he continued, “I'm putting her in re-entry attitude. We're going to be pushing the envelope for speed a bit. Hang on.”

   “Getting first close shots now,” she said. “I've got the dome, Pavel. Looks clear for the moment. No pinpoint heat sources.” Turning to him, she added, “They've done a damn good job of hiding it. I wouldn't have seen if if I didn't already know it was there.”

   “I have a horrible feeling we can say the same about Waldheim's team,” Salazar replied. “Track our launching site from the last landing, and have a look around that part of the desert. That buggy was heading somewhere, and I don't believe it was just a routine patrol.”

   “I can't see anything,” she replied. “Throwing over to close...wait one.”

   “What?”

   “Got something.” Tapping a control, she added, “Harper to Murphy. Jess, I've got what looks like a troop concentration, grid reference nine-alpha-nine. Sending through targeting coordinates now. Best guess that we're looking at four armored vehicles and thirty-plus troopers.”

   Peering over her shoulder, Salazar whistled, and said, “Not bad, not bad at all. Only thirty miles from our base. Knocking them out could solve a lot of problems for us, maybe even the odds a little down there.”