Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty

by Tongue, Richard

  The shuttle might not be the one she was used to – and one day she really needed to get around to giving it a name – but at least she'd know where the throttle was. Khachaturian was leaning over her shoulder.

  "Something interesting?"

  "That's a really non-standard configuration. Do you find it works?"

  She shot him an exasperated look, then turned back to the controls, strapping herself in, "Why don't you get us launch clearance and we can find out."

  "Don't you want to familiarize yourself with the configuration?"

  She sighed, "Are you wanting to fly this thing? I'm happy to get out and watch. Just make the damn call."

  He looked nervously around the cockpit, then put a headset on, tapping a button, "Launch control, this is Shuttle One, requesting launch clearance."

  A voice echoed over the speaker; evidently Khachaturian hadn't plugged the headset in properly. "Shuttle One, this is launch control. Activating airlock lift now."

  There was a loud grinding noise from all around them as the shuttle dropped into the launch airlock. Orlova casually flicked switches and pushed buttons, a series of lights flashed green, while the top hatch slid shut above them. Another noise, this time the whisper of air being withdrawn from the surrounding space, slowly fading to nothing as the pressure dropped to zero.

  The observer looked at Orlova, "External atmosphere exhausted."

  She looked back, shaking her head, "Our relationship is going to go a lot better if you speak only when spoken to. Open lower lock."

  He pulled a switch, and the shuttle imperceptibly began to drop, the stars beginning to creep up the bottom of the viewscreen. With a gentle touch of the thrusters, the shuttle slowly began to corkscrew out of the launch bay, until it was pointing in the desired direction. She reached over for the throttle to engage the main engine, while Khachaturian tried to conceal his fear; he did gesture to the proximity indicator warning light, still glaring red.

  "Don't worry, we'll have that indicator dark in a few seconds." She kicked the throttle into high gear, sending Alamo receding into the distance as her orbit changed. Tapping out a series of instructions on the navigational systems, a line appeared on the viewscreen ahead along with a series of recommended engine firings for orbital descent, the numbers on which kept changing back and forth as she maintained the engine burn.

  "Shouldn't we stop now? We're going to enter atmosphere a thousand miles from where we need to be."

  Orlova looked again at the observer, who was beginning to turn an amusing shade of white, "I thought we'd agreed you weren't going to speak? Anyway, our job on this mission is to attract attention, right? Burning a thousand mile trail of flame in the sky should do that nicely."

  "A thousand miles of flame?"

  "Kusemek, a figure of speech! Now get onto that sensor station of yours and start observing. And get on the communicators and start asking for landing instructions. If I'm going to smash into some clown on the runway it would be nice to get some advance warning."

  The shuttle began to waver back and forth as it entered the upper atmosphere; Orlova killed the engine, letting Ragnarok's gravity do the rest of the work. Flames licked around the site of the heat shield as the density outside increased, the speed indicator started to drop as she was pushed back into her couch by the deceleration.

  "We're two gravities above safe levels!" Khachaturian yelled.

  "Define safe!" Orlova replied, her hands on the controls, adjusting the angle of descent to gain speed again. Jagged mountains rose up underneath the shuttle, tens of thousands of feet high; the viewscreen winked out, replaced by an image of the terrain generated by the sensor systems. This time she followed the advice of the computer, kicking the engine back on again at low power to speed them over another mountain range.

  "Two hundred miles to go. We're passing over the first settlements."

  "Get a good look with the scanners."

  The observer's eyes widened, "I need to call the ship."

  "Why, want to complain about me?" the pilot smiled.

  "I've found one of the freighters. On the surface, part dismantled."

  She looked over at image he'd taken of the settlement, magnified to the limit, then looked up, nodding. "Make the call. Then start looking out for the rest of them." She reached over, grabbing a handset, "I'll start calling the ground."

  The handset plugged in, Orlova pulled back further on the throttle, twisting the nose to point towards the runway ahead, as she flicked the viewscreen back on. The autopilot was completely useless on this world until they had a proper baseline reading of the atmospheric conditions.

  "This is Margaret Orlova, of the Triplanetary Fleet. We're coming down on your runway; if you don't want us to crash into something it would be polite to give us instructions."

  A tap to set the message to repeat until they got a reply. She pulled up a little, spilling speed to come in for a proper landing approach, then veered slightly to the left to line up properly.

  "Shuttle, this is Demon's Port. You're cleared to land," a thin voice with a pronounced drawl spoke over the speaker, causing her to grin. "Landing authorities will be standing by when you come down. Do not leave your shuttle until authorized. Is that understood?"

  "Loud and clear, Demon's Port. Will comply and be on the ground in a couple of minutes."

  A swipe of her palm brought the landing gear down and locked it home, another couple of taps dropped the flaps and slowed the shuttle still further. Finally she was over hardened plasticrete rather than loose rock, and with a careful nudge, the shuttle smoothly slid onto the runway, brakes carefully engaging as Orlova killed the engines and guided it gently to a stop with the maneuvering thrusters. She looked over to Khachaturian.

  "Tell Alamo we're down safely." She popped open her seat restraints and stood up, pushing a series of buttons to lock the controls.

  Khachaturian glared up at her, "What password are you using?"

  She continued with her post-flight, replying, "How good are you at resisting torture?"

  "Torture?"

  "Probably better I don't give you the password." She opened a commlink to the passenger deck, "Everyone fine back there?"

  "Better than your co-pilot, I think," Esposito replied with a grin. "We heard you talking with ground control."

  "How do you want to handle it? Now we're on the deck it's your show."

  There was a brief pause while she considered, "Let's keep my gang in the can for the moment. Pop the crew hatch and see what they've got; if it looks fine then proceed from there."

  "Here they come now."

  A trio of men wearing red jumpsuits were walking towards the shuttle; two of them were armed, pistols hanging on belts, the other seemed to be holding an older-model chemical sniffer, checking to make sure there were no damaging residues from the landing. After he gave a thumbs up, one of them pulled out a communicator.

  "You can open up now."

  Orlova pulled on a cold-weather jacket and a pair of gloves, stuffing a hat onto her head. Her instruments were warning her that it was a fairly pleasant summer day on Ragnarok; the temperature was a positively balmy fourteen below. She cracked the outer hatch, gasping a little at the cold air rushing into the cabin, swung herself down and started to descend the ladder, dropping the last couple of feet onto the ground.

  "Margaret Orlova, at your service," she said to the trio.

  The three of them looked at each other; the one with the sniffer decided to speak, "Welcome to Ragnarok. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me to security processing. Our orders are that any uninvited arrivals are to be interned."

  She shook her head, "So simply topping up the fuel tanks and blasting off isn't an option?"

  "I'm afraid not. Miss Orlova, if you and your co-pilot would disembark?"

  "You are aware that I have a battlecruiser in orbit?"

  "No doubt the Governor will be pleased to have a hostage to their good intentions."

  Eviden
tly Esposito had decided that enough was enough; besides, she owed Orlova for the rescue on Mariner. The passenger hatch cracked open to reveal four plasma rifles pointing out at the trio. At a gesture, the two with sidearms threw them to the ground; Orlova ducked down and retrieved them.

  "I should probably have mentioned that I had a squad of espatiers on board," the pilot said. "You never did introduce yourselves?"

  With a downcast expression on his face, the leader nodded, "Fine, you have the drop on us. I'm Garrold. The others are Rogers and McGee. I'm one of the landing supervisors, and we have our own security force on hand who will be here in a few minutes. If you want to take off, I suppose I can't stop you, but our planetary defense grid will have something to say about whether or not you get back into orbit."

  "What the hell is with this crap?" Esposito asked, "What have we done to you?"

  Garrold replied, "I don't make the orders, just carry them out." He gestured over to the far side of the runway; a cloud of dust was beginning to emerge. "Here come my reinforcements."

  Orlova looked at Esposito, who gestured over to the side of the runway, where there were a series of large rocks. "Perfect cover."

  "What about the shuttle?" asked the pilot.

  "Hopefully they won't shoot at it if we're over there." The officer banged on the side of the hull, "Out we get, troopers! Take up defensive cover and stand by to repel attack." She stuffed a headset on, "Alamo, this is Esposito. We're about to come under attack from ground troopers. Informed that a planetary defense network will give us problems taking off again. If you have any orders, now would be nice."

  Marshall's voice came through loud and clear, "Give 'em hell, Ensign."

  Hunter smiled, and gestured his men towards the rocks, "That's the sort of order a sergeant likes to hear. First team, over there. Second team, move into support. Riley, pass around the grenades."

  "Negative," Esposito said, "We're going to need this runway."

  "Do we have a plan?" said Orlova.

  "Captain said to give them hell. That sounds about right."

  "Can we win?"

  "Not a question we've ever asked," Hunter said, "because we always do."

  The troopers formed up quickly into two packs of four, Hunter, Esposito and Orlova with the forward group, Khachaturian still in the shuttle. In the distance, they could now make up a pair of improvised armored transports, plating obviously bolted on wherever possible, rumbling their way down the runway towards the shuttle. Riley pointed up, shouting something incoherent; a pair of contrails overhead suggested that they might have airborne based company shortly.

  "When do we fire, Ensign?" Hunter asked.

  She paused for a second that seemed to last for several lifetimes. This wasn't like the ambush on Mariner. That was her reacting to an attack. This time she was going to be ordering murder. For one last time she looked at the approaching vehicles, then turned to face her men.

  "Fire when you get a good shot!"

  Pointless suggesting to shoot to disable with a plasma weapon. Wolfe fired the first shot, a green bolt that wildly few off-target, landing in a snowdrift by the side of the runway with a loud crack.

  Voldinski managed to get a burst that caught one of the ATVs in the forward tread, sending it briefly jerking out of control before it lurched to a stop, a dozen men jumping out of the three hatches and throwing themselves face down in the snow, rifles at the ready. The second vehicle slowly moved forward, crunching underfoot; Flanagan jumped to her feet to unleash a shot, only to fall to the ground herself before she could fire, her body jerking as crimson blood spilled out of a hole in her temple.

  "Medic!" Hunter unnecessarily yelled; Floyd was already down by her side, medikit open on his lap, trying vainly to stop the bleeding. Wolfe, screaming in rage, ran forward, only to be gunned down by a series of shots, leaving his body lying in the open.

  Esposito yelled, "Volley fire! Take those bastards down!" and a succession of plasma bolts flew forward, scattering around their targets but leaving two of the guards bloody wrecks on the ground. She heard a noise behind and turned, to see behind her the source of the contrails, a hover-fighter about to unleash a fusillade of shots on her squad. "Take cover! Air attack!"

  A hail of bullets ran down between the running troopers. With an angry tell, Riley fired a quick shot at the fighter, rolling nimbly in and out of cover, but the aircraft managed to evade the shot. The squad was pinned down, each trapped in their own individual scrap of cover, as the enemy forces began to crawl forward under suppressing fire from the surviving APV. Hunter looked around, trying to find a way out of the trap they had found themselves in.

  "Do you guys always do last stands?" Orlova asked, firing a wild shot from her antique sidearm.

  "You're catching us on a bad week. Usually the odds are far worse," replied Hunter. He raised his hand slightly, the rest of his fire team looking, then gave a sharp chopping motion. Four shots fired as one, lancing towards the rearmost APV, all of them catching on the armor.

  Critically, one of them managed to score a hit directly on the power pack, and the explosion tore through the enemy troopers huddled close by, leaving them a collection of screaming remains, one on the outskirts desperately weeping in the snow, his skin charred black as he gasped in agony. The remainder looked around, obviously outnumbered, and all came to the same conclusion, huddling deep into the ground, waiting to see who won the battle.

  "Just the fighter now, Serge!" Riley yelled. Suddenly, they felt a blast of searing heat on their backs; they turned to watch an assortment of metal shards falling to the ground, smoke rising from a newly formed crater on the far side of the runway. Esposito nodded towards Hunter, who signaled Riley to take her team forward; the remainder of the enemies raised their hands in surrender.

  "What the hell?" said Esposito; Orlova gestured over to a figure on the distance waving his arm about, the long tube of a shoulder mounted missile launcher on his back. The figure began to run over towards them, Hunter cautiously keeping him covered. Riley made her way over to the trio.

  "We took out all the officers, ma'am," he reported. "The rest just know that their orders were to capture us and put us in a transport for Janszoon. That's the capital."

  "Anyone else out there we need to worry about?" Hunter asked, looking out at the approaching figure.

  "No-one here, Sarge. A few support staff down in the control tower, but they're unarmed."

  The figure turned out to be an old man with straggly gray hair, who smiled through a gap in his teeth as he looked across the surrendered soldiers, then held out his hand to Hunter.

  "John William Forbes, at your service."

  Hunter looked across at Esposito, slightly embarrassed, but firmly shook the old man's hand, "Lance-Sergeant Hunter, Triplanetary Espatier Corps." He gestured across, "This is my commanding officer, Ensign Esposito."

  The man frowned, as if uncertain what to make of the information, but shrugged and offered her his hand, "Guess things are different out there than they are down here. We're pressed for time, Ensign."

  Floyd looked over from his patient, "Ensign, Flanagan's in a bad way, Wolfe's much worse. I can't do much for them here, they need proper medical attention."

  "Anything from Alamo?"

  Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "Not a thing. They must have thrown up some sort of jamming field."

  Esposito turned urgently to Forbes, "Can you get these men to a hospital?"

  "I can't. My gang saw your ship coming down, reckon half the continent did, and I thought you might need some help." There was a second explosion from the other side of the runway; he jerked his head in its direction. "That means that my buddies have taken out the air defense in the area. You can take off."

  Hunter looked at Esposito, who shook her head. "We're not going anywhere without information."

  "Governor'll have more troops out here before you can say suicide run. Unless you've got a lot of reinforcements, I can't hang around for long."r />
  "Give us the short version," Orlova said.

  Forbes looked at her sharply, then nodded, "We're rebels, lads. Fighting the dark tyranny of the Governor who is selling us off as chattel work slaves to the highest bidder. Now if your Triplanetary people will provide us with help, we'll be only too glad to accept. We need all the help we can get."

  "What'd you think, ma'am?" Hunter said.

  "I think we'd better get our wounded onto the shuttle and get it back to Alamo ASAP. Floyd should go with them to keep them alive for the trip and report to the Captain." She turned to Forbes, "You have your first help, Mr. Forbes. A squad of Espatiers are at your disposal."

  "Es-what-iers?"

  "Space marines, to you," Hunter said.

  Forbes looked around at the horizon, as if expecting it to be dark with enemy aircraft within an instant. "We've got a camp not that far from here I can take you to. Going to be hard to get you back if this goes wrong."

  Esposito turned to Orlova, "Get them back, Maggie."

  The pilot nodded, and gestured to Khachaturian to bring out a stretcher. First Flanagan, carefully placed across three couches as comfortably as possible, then Wolfe, who jerked spasmodically as they gently loaded him into the shuttle's medical berth. Floyd shook his head at the Private's condition, injecting him with a shot from the medikit with a doubtful look.

  "Khachaturian?"

  The observer ran over, "Yes?"

  "You've had basic pilot training, right?"

  He looked doubtful. "I have."

  "Good. You're taking these casualties back to Alamo. Esposito's going to need every hand she can get down here, and I'll do more good than I will up on Alamo."

  "I don't think you should do that."

  She waved her pistol around, dangerously, "The alternative is that we see if the shuttle can make its way back to Alamo entirely on autopilot. What do you think?"

  He looked at the pistol, shaking his head, "That I should fly the shuttle back to Alamo. Let me tell you something – you are crazy, and I intend to report as much when I get back."

  "Fine. They can send the military police down here for me, we'll probably need the reinforcements. Go."