Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty

by Tongue, Richard

  The driver looked at the Governor, totally bemused.

  "What the hell?"

  "Simple, Wing Commander." She stressed the rank. "I retired a Group Captain. That trumps you. I'm not the damn fool who put the military in charge, but now that you have – nice and official – I'm back in uniform for the duration of this crisis. And yes, Ensign, I'm happy to meet with your Captain."

  Quick on the uptake, Esposito nodded, replying, "As the representative of the Triplanetary government on Ragnarok, I recognize your authority as acting commander of this colony."

  "Good. Nice and legal."

  The Governor spluttered, "Damn it, Coop, this is stupid!"

  "No. That would be a man who raises when he needs to fold." She turned to the driver, "Harper, for God's sake go and tell everyone what's happened. The whole network. Go on."

  The driver thought for a moment, then ran back to the truck, picking up the communicator. The Governor looked shocked, shaking his head.

  "Relax, Isaac. This way you aren't responsible for anything I do. And when I call an election – which I intend to do, just to shut up Haynes and his mob – you can feel free to run. You'll probably win."

  He turned to the three women, shaking his head again, "I'm going to help with the wounded, if I'm now redundant here. None of you have heard the last of this. Coop, you might be able to make it stick for a little while, heaven alone knows I'm unpopular enough with the Council at the moment, but when the dust settles it'll be a different matter. I assure you of that."

  As he stormed off, Coop turned to Esposito, "Alamo had better get back in one piece, and soon, or he'll be able to follow through. He lost most of his loyalists right here, and the rest of the Guard will just be glad that someone's giving orders that don't involve getting shot, but he is right. By tomorrow we could still all be facing that firing squad." She turned towards the wounded, "Let's see if we can get these people out of here before it gets too dark."

  Orlova looked up as Coop and Esposito made their way back to the core of the battlefield. There was a single moving point of light in the sky, a thick trail behind it – Alamo's fusion trail as it broke orbit, visible even at this distance. There was nothing more they could do on Ragnarok. Everything was riding on the next five hours.

  Chapter 26

  With a loud crack, the datapad dropped down to the desk, bouncing back up towards him, and Marshall rubbed his eyes. Displayed on the pad were the schematics of the Type 19 Frigate, the vessel that they were rapidly approaching. He'd read the specifications so often that he thought he could probably build a Type 19 if needed.

  Picking it up, he pulled himself out of his chair and pushed off towards the bridge, the doors opening as he slid through them. It was surprisingly quiet, the duty shift focusing on their tasks, strapped tightly into their chairs in preparation for the impending acceleration ships. Mulenga had wanted to be up in the astrogation station; it had taken a direct order to keep him below, to make sure that the acting second-in-command could take over if the bridge was knocked out.

  "Any change, Spinelli?" Marshall asked as he strapped himself into the command deck.

  The sensor technician looked slightly green as he replied, "No change in aspect, sir. Looks like they are going to let us come to them."

  "Probably saving reaction mass for the battle. You alright?"

  Gulping slightly, Spinelli replied, "Never was much of a fan of zero-gravity, sir. I've taken a couple of garn pills, should be fine in a moment."

  "You ever been in a spinning ring when it got hit by a missile, Spaceman?"

  "No, sir."

  "I couldn't recommend the experience." He turned the chair to face Caine. "Tactical status?"

  "All decks are at standby status, all crew at their posts or emergency stations. I've got the prisoners locked down with a squad to keep an eye on them, and the rest of the espatiers are at key stations across the ship in case something happens."

  Almost on cue, the doors slid open and a pair of troopers glided in, deftly swinging themselves into the emergency harnesses on the wall. Marshall gave them a thumbs-up, and they grinned in reply; if everything went well they'd have the best seats in the house for the battle ahead. He tapped the communicator.

  "Quinn, everything fine down in Engineering?"

  "All good, sir. I ran all the checks I could given the time we had. She'll do you proud in the battle, skipper."

  "I know."

  Sliding the datapad into a pouch by the side of his chair, he paused to compose his thoughts for a second. He'd been in a lot of battles during the war, but never commanding anything bigger than a fighter squadron. This was a completely different experience, and he ached to have something to do, a console he could work. Anything to distract him from the waiting. He glanced around the bridge again, looking at his crew working, and jabbed a button on the side of his chair. Eight minutes and counting, so time for the last step.

  "All decks, attention. Captain to crew, attention. We'll be in action in about eight minutes from now. I know these aren't ideal circumstances, but tens of thousands of people are depending on us to do our best, and I expect no less from each and every crewman on board. This is Alamo's first battle as a Triplanetary vessel. Let's make it the first of many victories. Good hunting. Captain out."

  He sat back on his chair as sirens began to sound; the lights dimmed on the bridge slowly as the tactical displays flashed over the starfield, lines and numbers dancing across the viewscreen almost faster than he could read them, maneuvering options changing as the ship's options reduced to one. To engage the enemy. His status board slowly winked from amber to red, deck by deck, system by system, as the crew reported their readiness for action.

  Caine looked up from her console, "All decks report clear for action. Missile tubes ready for launch, laser charged for firing. Electronic defense packages are deployed and ready."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant." He looked up at the clock. "Let's have one last try at ending this. By now they should have notification that the rebels on the planet have surrendered."

  "You think the ships will go along with it?" Ryder asked from the watch officer's station.

  Marshall sighed, "Enough people have died already, Sub-Lieutenant. I'm not particularly anxious to increase that number. Mr. Weitzman, if you would open up a channel for me?"

  The communications technician looked up at his board, and nodded, "I don't know whether they'll listen or not, sir, but I'm ready to send."

  Summoning up his most commanding voice, Marshall began, "Alamo to Jolly Swagman." For about the tenth time, he shook his head at the name. Seemed so trivial for the first major Triplanetary Fleet engagement. "You will by now have received notification that your commander has surrendered to us. I call upon you to follow his example and disarm, proceeding into parking orbit around Ragnarok. You have two minutes to confirm."

  Tapping a button, Ryder started a countdown on the viewscreen, tapping her fingers annoying on her console while she waited. Caine was constantly updating targeting solutions on the approaching frigate, all the time keeping an eye on the second ship. Their differing approach vectors had allowed Alamo to attack one ship at a time, but the other vessel would still be upon them soon. Possibly even soon enough to make a difference in the battle.

  "Ninety seconds, Captain," Caine said. "Do I fire on the deadline?"

  That one took some contemplation to consider. Five seconds for Marshall to decide that the safety of the ship came higher than winning a dubious moral high ground that the victory would probably automatically provide in any case.

  "Affirmative, Lieutenant. Fire immediately the deadline expires if they have not signaled surrender." He turned to his left, "Ryder, note that officially in the log."

  "Aye, sir." Ryder seemed awed by the situation; it seemed only a few weeks ago that she'd been a cadet listening to Marshall's lectures on fighter tactics back at the Academy. Now she was sitting at the console of a battlecruiser about to go to war. He briefl
y contemplated saying a few words to her, but realized that he'd have hated such a thing when he was a junior officer – which was recent enough that he could still remember how it felt.

  "Thirty seconds, sir," Caine said, her eyes down on her station, fingers poised over the overrides. There had been more than enough time for the computers to plan their attack this time, not like their entry to the system, when it had all been done by the seat of their pants. There was still no substitute for a human, though, able to make last-minute corrections and changes.

  "Weitzman, still nothing?" As he spoke, Marshall realized he was asking a redundant question; the communications technician was unlikely to keep such news to himself.

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Fifteen seconds," Caine said.

  At the guidance control station, Franklin tapped a button. "Guidance to crew." Her voice was surprisingly steady. "All hands prepare for variable acceleration. That is all."

  The clock ran down the final seconds, microseconds flying past as the time remaining dropped to single figures. The final part of the countdown seemed to take years, as the frigate moved closer and closer to them on an unalterable track. The firing window would last for less than two minutes; in that time it would all be over. Probably in half that time it would be over.

  Almost with relief, Caine looked up, saying, "Energy spike, enemy missile section."

  They'd fired with half a second left on the clock. "Return fire, all weapons, let 'em go! Countermeasures out!"

  Franklin's hands gently played across the guidance station as the ship subtly tilted, giving the laser cannon a shot at the target that Caine had selected hours ago. The ship shook as a trio of missiles raced from the forward missile racks, more tracks appearing on the display ahead. A beam of light shot between the ships, visible for only a second.

  "Damn it!" Caine yelled. "Missed primary target, impact was forward. I think the auxiliary maneuvering jets." She looked across at another panel. "Another energy spike from the ship, they've now got six missiles heading our way. Countermeasures deployed on both sides."

  The tactical display, a few seconds ago a precise arrangement of courses and trajectories, now became an incomprehensible mess with weapon tracks arcing across each other, missiles from both sides gaining and losing their target tracks as a series of electronic assaults moved between the ships. Most of a space battle was invisible; to an outside observer it simply looked like two ships that were getting a little too close to each other for comfort. Alamo shook again.

  "Trying some spin to throw off the missiles, sir," Franklin said.

  "One of the first wave got through our inner screens! Terminal velocity!" Caine yelled.

  Gripping his armrests in a futile gesture, Marshall calmly replied, "Hang on, everyone."

  His whole world shook as the impact threw him forward. The sound of jagged metal leapt through the ship, and the screen began to spin as Alamo drifted off its course, tumbling end over end. The lights flickered for a second, emergency power flickering on, and a nasty tang began to filter into the room from the air ventilators. Franklin was slumped in her chair; one of her straps had burst, and blood was gushing from her forehead, dripping down onto her console. With a swift move, Ryder lunged forward to the station, carefully placing Franklin onto the deck.

  "Ignatov! Damage report!" Marshall already knew something was wrong; his telltale screen had winked out.

  Hurriedly, the flight engineer began to tap commands into his console, looking up a few seconds later. "That shot knocked out a lot of the primary data links between Bridge and Engineering. Six hull breaches, five of them stress fractures. Long-range sensors are out."

  "Impact! Enemy ship impact! One missile astern, near their engine section," Caine called out. "I'm firing our next salvo now. Laser still charging for another shot. Next enemy wave is hitting our e-war screens now."

  "Ship coming back under control now, sir," Ryder said.

  "Negative. Keep her tumbling, make it look like we're worse off than we are. I want their damage assessments to be out."

  The puzzled sub-lieutenant replied, "Aye, sir," and started to throw switches.

  "Caine, I want you to position a shot for maximum lethality."

  With a barking laugh, she replied, "We're not exactly throwing stage slaps now!"

  "Get their bridge. One laser pulse. Throw the works at them. And make sure not to knock out their communications."

  "Aye, sir. Ten seconds to laser charge. And, Christ, another missile coming in. Impact six seconds. Aft, I think. Third wave incoming."

  Again, everything shook, but the shot was more distant that time. With an apologetic sputter, the ship's thrusters began to misfire, sending it lurching around; Ignatov was tapping buttons frantically, Caine swearing at the tactical computers as she tried to plot a laser track.

  "Ryder," she yelled, "Get the ship aligned with the enemy in two seconds. You have the call."

  Marshall knew exactly what sort of a job she was asking her to do. Half the maneuvering jets were out of action, atmosphere leaking out into space from all over the ship in random places, and the ship had to point exactly where Caine needed it for the microsecond long enough for the laser pulse to be delivered.

  "Got it!" Ryder yelled, and the beam danced between the ships for the critical second – just long enough.

  "Spot on target, Ryder!" Caine yelled, "Bridge hit! We bored a hole right through three decks. Laser's going to need longer to recharge, now, I'm having to reroute a lot of power feeds. Our second wave of missiles is pounding them now, two out of three that time."

  "Impacts?"

  "Aft missile silo, habitation deck. We have all three missiles from the third salvo coming in now, I think they're going to get through this time."

  Ignatov shook his head, "I don't think we can take three more hits like the last two, sir. Damage reports are flooding in now."

  "We got a third salvo ready?"

  Caine looked up at her console, calmly. Too calmly, the calm of one who knew that the gallows were beckoning. "Ready in eight seconds."

  "Fratricide them. Target them to blow up as close as possible to the enemy missiles."

  "Aye!" A gleam began to leap back into her eyes as she frantically worked her console, trying to change the programming in time. The tactical display was looking a lot simpler now – just three dots slowly moving towards Alamo on slightly twisted courses. Marshall had seen this before, during the war; each group of missiles would be a bit smarter than the last, a bit better at getting through the electronic warfare packages. Eventually some of them would get through even the best system. These ones had learned quickly.

  The ship rocked again, "Missiles away. Next salvo in twenty seconds, we've got some malfunctions in the loading systems. Hull breaches knocking out data links across the outside areas of the ship."

  "Time to impact?"

  "If this doesn't work, fifteen seconds. Targets look to be the landing bay, laser array, and us."

  "Ignatev, at two seconds before impact, transfer all control systems to engineering."

  The engineer nodded grimly, turning to his station. All other eyes were on the approaching missiles, three new tracks racing out from Alamo to meet them. Numbers ran down the screen still, then there was an explosion. Then another. Finally a third, and it felt as if everyone on the bridge was sighing in unison.

  "Any more missiles incoming?"

  Caine shook her head, "Negative. Based on their past performance, they should have fired seven seconds ago." A light flashed on her panel, "Our fourth salvo is now ready to fire."

  "Hold. Weitzman, try them again. Warn them that I will pound them into rubble if they don't..."

  The communications technician held up his hand, and Marshall stopped talking. "Sir, the acting commander of the Swagman has surrendered, in exchange for rescue and relief for her people."

  Marshall's reply was drowned out by the chorus of cheers from every station; he found himself joining in himself
without realizing it. The two troopers were punching each other in the arm like kids whose team had won the big game, and Ryder seemed to have broken down in tears at her station; he couldn't really blame her.

  As the noise began to quiet down, he replied, "Tell them we'll have people on their way shortly." Turning to Caine, he continued, "What about the Ned Kelly?"

  "The other ship has just stopped changing course. On their current trajectory they'll miss Ragnarok entirely. I'm picking up a lot of communications traffic between the two ships."

  "How long before we know all is clear?"

  "About a minute before they will be unable to enter firing range of us."

  Taking advantage of the pause, he unbuckled and drifted across to the engineering console, looking over the red telltales and shaking his head.

  "Anything fundamental, spaceman?"

  Ignatev looked up, shaking his head, "I don't think so, sir. We might have problems getting back to battle stations again, though. Too much damage to data relays and the outer hull. Lieutenant Quinn wants to take the main reactor off line as soon as possible so he can start repairing some of the conduits."

  "Tell him to hold off for a minute. We might still have another battle to face."

  "I hope not, Captain."

  Marshall drifted back to his chair, tapping another button, one that no commander ever wanted to use, "Medical, any sort of a report?"

  "I'm busy down here. Short version, bad but could have been worse. Right now four dead. Probably more to follow."

  "Thanks, Doc."

  He gestured at one of the troopers, "While we have the time, get Franklin down to medical. I don't think we're going to get a house call today."

  "Aye, sir." The trooper made his way over to the unconscious woman, carefully picking her up and stepping into the elevator.

  "How long, Deadeye?"

  Caine looked up at her station, then replied, "Twenty seconds. Captain, we've only got ten missiles left. Fabricators will take too long to make more. I don't know if we can even recharge the laser."