Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty

by Tongue, Richard

  Khachaturian climbed the ladder into the crew compartment and sealed the airlock behind him; Orlova raced back to the cluster of troopers by the side of the runway and watched the shuttle take off, Esposito shaking her head and grinning when the pilot rejoined them. Hunter gestured to one of the abandoned plasma rifles; Orlova grabbed it and hefted its weight, returning her pistol to her holster. With a loud bang, the main engines engaged, sending the shuttle speeding down the runway and up, curving over the mountains to put as much distance from the air defense grid as possible.

  "Don't they need you back up there?" Esposito said.

  "I'll take the next one. You might need another daring rescue."

  Forbes shook his head again, muttering something under his breath, then turned to Hunter. "Come on, this way. It's a long walk."

  "Aren't they always?" Riley said.

  Chapter 12

  A pair of stretchers, attended by espatiers, were standing back in the shuttle bay; alarms sounded as the elevator airlock engaged, bringing the shuttle up to deck level. Before it had even finished rising, Doctor Duquesne was rushing to the passenger lock, slamming her fist down on the emergency release; Marshall was right behind her, gagging at the smell of charred flesh and blood that erupted from the inside.

  Private Floyd was holding a fluid bag over Flanagan; a uniform jacket had been gently placed over Wolfe's head during the flight up, and at a look from the captain, Floyd shook his head, looking down at the deck. A pair of espatiers loaded Flanagan onto a stretcher, pushing it down the corridor as Duquesne looked at the gravely wounded trooper.

  "Do your best, Doc," Floyd said, turning to face Marshall as the stretcher slid gently into the elevator.

  "Wolfe?" Marshall said.

  The private hesitated, "He died before we'd got out of the atmosphere. Wounds were just too bad. I'm sorry, sir."

  "You did everything you could, and he died in the line of duty. There are worse ways to go. Where's everyone else?"

  The crew airlock opened, and Khachaturian scrambled out onto the deck, snapping a salute. "That mad woman stayed behind on Ragnarok, Captain. You should have seen her, I've got a list of flight safety violations a mile long!"

  Ignoring the ranting sensor technician, Marshall looked at the medic, who nodded, "Ensign Esposito and the rest of the squad stayed on the surface. We'd made contact with a group that appear to be engaged in a conflict with the Ragnarok government, and she believed that it was the best way of obtaining the information we need."

  "Any instructions for a pick-up?"

  "I did not receive any, sir. Certainly the runway we landed at cannot be risked again, it was obviously a trap."

  "What about Orlova? She needs to have her flight rating stripped immediately," Khachaturian said.

  "Spaceman?" Marshall said, "Shut up. Go file your report, I'll see that receives all the attention it deserves."

  Khachaturian saluted again, then made his way over to a nearby terminal; no doubt he'd be receiving a more politely worded series of complaints by the time he returned to his office.

  "Request permission to return to surface, sir. If Khachaturian won't go, I am prepared to take a risk with the shuttle's autopilot," Floyd said.

  Corporal Stiles, who with Esposito and Hunter on the planet was now the commander of the ship's espatier force, walked over to the medic, clapping him on the back. "Second and Third Squads are ready, willing and able to join First Squad on the surface, sir."

  "Request denied." The captain looked at the two men. "I appreciate the gesture, but at this point I can't take the risk of deploying through a potentially lethal defense grid. Besides, I'm likely going to need you for other duties on Alamo. Stiles?"

  The Corporal stood to attention, "Sir?"

  "Any good field engineers in your squad?"

  He nodded, "Yes, sir. Lance-Corporal Candero is the platoon's best tinkerer."

  "I want the two of you suited up for a trip out to one of those orbiting satellite. If they're going to give us problems, I think it is time for us to give them some. Have Candero take a look at some schematics, and tell him I want him to make the biggest mess he can on my instructions."

  "Aye, aye, sir!" Stiles' face lit up as he made his way down the corridor. Marshall pulled out a communicator, calling the bridge.

  "Cellini here, sir," the voice of the beta shift watch officer replied.

  "Change our orbital track, Sub-Lieutenant. I want us within a quarter-mile of one of the satellites, as fast as possible."

  "Aye, Captain. Implementing now."

  "Good. I'll be up in a minute."

  He walked into the now-clear elevator, tapping the button for the bridge, leaning up against the wall. The doors opened two levels down, and Dietz strode in, his hands clasped behind his back, nodding curtly at the captain as he tapped for the bridge.

  "I have been reviewing the reports of the shuttle team, Captain. It seems to present something of a problem."

  "You are a master of understatement, Mr. Dietz."

  The ship began to gently vibrate, the gravity changing slightly. "We are changing course, sir?"

  "I intend to intercept one of those satellites if the planetary government fails to respond. Time to take off the gloves, Lieutenant, when they start launching unprovoked attacks on our people."

  Dietz nodded. "I was on my way to report to you that the missiles are ready for launch. Engineer Quinn and I have given them a final inspection, and they should complete the mission as directed."

  "Excellent."

  The doors slid open onto the bridge; Cellini stood to attention, calling out, "Captain on the bridge."

  "As you were, Sub-Lieutenant. Mr. Dietz, you may launch our modified missiles when ready."

  Marshall walked over to the captain's chair, looking briefly around the bridge before settling down, his gaze fixed on Ragnarok slowly revolving below. Dietz hunched over the Tactical station, then looked up.

  "Ready to fire, sir."

  "Fire."

  One after another, the missiles fired out of the forward launch tube, racing away from the moon on their prearranged course behind Ragnarok. Marshall tracked their departure with satisfaction for a brief second, then frowned as first one, then the second winked out.

  "Sensors, verify missile track."

  The sensor technician hunched over his console, adjusting controls and shaking his head, "The missiles are still there, sir, and they managed to get to escape velocity, but it looks like both their engines died shortly afterward. I can't get any telemetry from the missiles, but visually nothing else seems to be wrong.

  "Mr. Dietz?"

  "Checking, Captain." He looked over the console for a moment. "It seems that a spurious signal was sent from the ship's communications array two-point-one seconds before the missiles went dead. Logged from Lieutenant Caine's quarters."

  Marshall did a double take, then sat back in his chair, tapping a button, "Sub-Lieutenant Tyler, please proceed to Lieutenant Caine's quarters on the double."

  "Sir?"

  "On the double, Tyler. Details to follow." He changed frequencies, "Lieutenant Caine, report."

  His only reply was a cough and a couple of grunts, followed by a sleepy, "What's up, Captain?"

  "Are you asleep?"

  "I was until you woke me up. Is there a problem?"

  He paused for a second, "We just launched our tracking missiles, but they failed shortly after we fired them. According to the computer, the command to deactivate them came from your quarters."

  "Danny, I've been asleep for three hours at least. Nodded off reading a book. I give you my word."

  Dietz walked over to stand beside Marshall, "Sir, Lieutenant Caine must be investigated by security. I will handle the command supervision if you wish."

  He looked up at the operations officer, nodding. He didn't like the idea for a moment, but there could be no hint of partiality. "Very well. I personally rate that the fact the computer trace was so easy is suspicious in i
tself."

  "I agree, sir. I will conduct my investigation bearing that possibility in mind."

  "Make it quick, Dietz."

  "Yes, sir." Dietz nodded, curtly, then turned and made his way off the bridge. Marshall frowned for a second, stood up and headed into his office.

  "Cellini, you have the bridge. Contact me when we get to interception point with the satellite."

  "We're not going after the missiles, sir? Right now it would be straightforward to retrieve them."

  He shook his head, frowning, "No, Sub-Lieutenant. We'd have to break orbit, and we'd be off station for hours. Nor do I want to use our only remaining shuttle. We're going to have to try a different approach."

  Marshall walked into his office, the door sliding shut behind him, as he sat down in his chair. He called up the personnel records of Caine, though he was already familiar with most of them. They'd served together for the majority of the war, a proven flight team moving from one posting to the next. Nothing suspicious.

  Of course, anyone decent would take that into account, and make sure that there was nothing in the records that could cause attention. He shook his head, then turned the record off. The road he was on led to nothing but paranoia; obviously someone was out to isolate him.

  He called up the tactical display again. Dietz's plan had been a good one, possibly too good. There were a lot of ways that missiles could be tampered with, and the inventory was low enough that it wasn't a trick he wanted to repeat. Two ships could evade one using Gatewood to hide behind for as long as they wanted, potentially, even if he broke orbit.

  He started to scan through the records of the rest of the senior staff again, going over them to see if there was anything that might be revealing, but knew even as he was doing it that it was a waste of time. Records could be altered and manipulated too easily; short of returning to Sol he couldn't check any of the information anyway.

  "Cellini here, Captain. We've reached the satellite."

  "Good. Tell Corporal Stiles to go out and have some fun pulling out circuits."

  "Yes, sir."

  Figure that they'd be watching Alamo from the surface, and would already be thinking that they were planning to do something to one of the satellites. A minute or so for them to work out where the two spacesuited espatiers were going, a little longer for them to notify higher authority, and he'd find out exactly what their threshold of non-communication was. If it meant taking out the entire satellite constellation, that sounded fine at this point. About the least that Wolfe deserved. He kept his eye on the clock, and almost on cue, the communicator chirped again.

  "Cellini again. We're getting a tight-beam message from the ground, addressed to this ship."

  "Are we now? Call Stiles and tell him to hold off for a moment, but he is to remain on station, then patch the call through to my office."

  "Yes, sir. Patching you through now."

  A face resolved itself on the screen opposite his desk, one that screamed military. The close-cropped haircut, a suit that was worn as if it might have been a uniform. Cold blue eyes obviously prying for a weakness.

  Marshall began, "I am Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, commanding Triplanetary Spaceship Alamo. To whom am I speaking, please?"

  "Isaac Hall, Governor-General of Ragnarok Colony. I formally protest your sabotage of our satellite, and the landing of your combat team on my planet."

  Interesting that he regarded the planet as his, Marshall thought. "No sabotage has been conducted, Governor. My team is simply conducting a safety inspection. As for the landing, that was a single shuttlecraft bearing my representative to meet with your government, and they were met by a group of people who set out to arrest them."

  "A misunderstanding, Lieutenant-Captain, nothing more."

  "Indeed. One of my men is dead as a result of your misunderstanding, Governor, and I believe you experienced casualties as well. For which I express my sympathy."

  The Governor's face hardened. "I must ask you to retrieve your people and leave orbit. I am willing to guarantee safe passage for one of your shuttles to land."

  "I am not a diplomat, Governor, but a soldier. So you will forgive me for being blunt – but I have no intention of turning over another group of potential hostages to you. My mission is to investigate the disappearance of three freighters in this system, as well as an unprovoked attack by forces based in this system on a vessel that was previously sent to investigate. We ourselves have come under attack since our arrival."

  "Are you denying us our rights to defend ourselves? This is a sovereign system, Lieutenant-Captain, and although my orbital defenses do not permit me to shoot you down, I will use all force necessary."

  Folding his hands on the table, Marshall attempted to soften his tone, "And if you try that, I will destroy all of your communications satellites before leaving the system. Governor, if you were truly threatened by these vessels, then the Triplanetary Confederation will simply wish to repatriate the crews. If you wish to bring them up on criminal charges, then it is your planet, and your jurisdiction, but I would require a representative to attend the trials."

  The governor frowned, as if thinking it over, "It is I suppose possible that we got off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant-Captain. Perhaps if we were to meet to discuss our mutual problems, some sort of arrangement could be made."

  Knowing precisely what was coming, Marshall moved to preempt him, "I would be only too happy to accommodate you on board, Governor. As well as a limited number of advisers, two, say?"

  "Agreed." The frown suggested that this was a man who was used to getting his own way. "I will arrive in eight hours from now, and provide full details to your staff of the required protocols for my arrival."

  "I will see that they are followed." An honor guard would protect the ship as much as it would protect the Governor. "In eight hours, then, Alamo out." He closed the channel before the Governor could reply.

  Chapter 13

  The squad trudged through the deepening snow, the wind steadily increasing, tearing down from the mountains and ripping at the hoods on their jackets. Forbes was maintaining a brisk pace, periodically pulling a navipad out of his pocket, poking at it, and adjusting their path accordingly.

  There had been no sign of pursuit, no sign that anyone was chasing them, and with the wind rising to an impending storm, it seemed unlikely that anyone would come after them now. Potentially, they wouldn't have to – the temperature was dropping fast, and everyone was beginning to feel the bitter cold. The rest of Forbes' men had gone a different way; he'd not volunteered what they were doing.

  Forbes waved an arm in the air, then pointed to the north-east; Esposito squinted, but could see nothing but a bare patch of rock, but their guide had increased his pace to a jog, so the squad followed suit, Orlova swearing in four languages under her breath. A bright flash of light shone out of the rock when they grew closer, a hatch thrown back to reveal a hole carved into the ground, the light so bright that none of them could see what was at the bottom.

  "Down you go! Hot tucker waiting for you when you get into the hutch," Forbes said, and the beginnings of a blizzard compelled them all to obey, one by one scrambling down the old, rusty ladder for at least fifty feet to emerge in the cabin of an old shuttle, the fixtures and equipment ripped out to turn it into a metal cave, seat material thrown out on the floor to serve as makeshift bedding, a few computer consoles displaying flickering maps of the area, a rack on the wall holding a dozen of the old rifles they'd been using, ammunition clips carelessly tossed onto a shelf.

  A couple of people sat at the back, a bald man as black as night itself, and a boy with a faint straggly beard, their eyes narrowed as they held pistols in their hands, looking at the newcomers; both were wearing what looked like home-made winter camouflage painted onto storm jackets.

  "Home sweet home, cobbers," Forbes said. He turned to the pair, making a thumbs-up gesture, "They're on our side. Put on some coffee and a few ration packs."

&nbs
p; "We've got our own; don't want to deplete your stocks," Riley said, pulling a couple of foil packs out of a pocket.

  Esposito looked at him, then back at Forbes, "I think we'd all take the coffee, though."

  The squad sat on the cold floor, bundling up their coats as makeshift cushions, Orlova poking around at one of the computer consoles while Forbes started passing around tin mugs filled with a hot brown liquid that was at least a passable imitation of coffee. The other two rebels ducked through a hatch, taking some of the food with them.

  "This is one of the old transit shuttles," she said. "I saw one of these in the Aerospace Museum."

  Forbes nodded, "She crashed during the establishment of the colony. Big smash-up, engines torn out. We found her and thought she'd make a good little base."

  "Must have been a big job to bury her," Hunter said, a tone of respect in his voice.

  "Used a crevasse, filled it up and put in the shaft. Hardest part was making sure the Governor's goons didn't find out about it."

  Folding her legs under her, Esposito took a sip of coffee then rested her mug on the floor. "We've got a hell of a lot of questions, Mr. Forbes."

  He looked at her, slightly irritated, "I suppose I'd better start thinking up some answers. I'll want some questions answered as well, though."

  "To begin with – there is no record of any colony established here. The UN survey twenty-three years ago reported this world was uninhabited."

  He snorted, "The UN's still around? That who you are with?"

  She looked at Hunter, then turned back to Forbes. "I am the commander of the Espatier forces of Alamo, a spaceship in the Triplanetary Fleet."

  "I still don't buy that first part. You've got to be twenty-two. What about your husband?"

  Hunter sighed, looked around, then stood up, "I'm getting tired of you carrying on with this bullshit about our commander. My lads are getting tired of it as well."

  "Sergeant," Esposito said, "sit down." Hunter sat down, and Esposito caught the subtle wink that he threw her; nicely played.