Battlecruiser Alamo_Depth Charge

by Richard Tongue

   “Sir...”

   “That’s an order!” Cooper yelled. He turned to Monroe, and asked, “You called them in?”

   “Eight minutes ago.”

   “Good. I won’t have your deaths on my conscience. You brought this on yourself.” He turned to the horizon, and started to run, saying, “Follow me if you want a chance to live through this. I don’t think we can outrun the blast radius, but I’m damned well going to try!”

   Monroe paused for a second, then sprinted after him, asking, “How big a bomb?”

   “Two and a half megatons.”

   “You suicidal bastard!”

   “Minimum yield required to crack through the ice. Sorry, we couldn’t take the time to do it the slow way.” Gesturing up ahead, he said, “Tall ripples in the ice, three miles distant. If we can get into their shadow, we might just have a chance. I suppose you don’t have anyone around who might be able to pick you up in time?”

   “We were at a safe distance for a kinetic bombardment,” she replied, ruefully. “The Colonel didn’t want to have anything in the air when the debris started flying around.” She paused, then added, “They wouldn’t have fired while you were on site. We were going to give you a warning.”

   “A nice, civilized massacre,” Rhodes said, taking the lead with long, loping strides.

   “Stow it,” Cooper said. “None of that matters a damn right now. We’ve got to move, and quickly!” He sprinted forward, moving to catch Rhodes, the others trailing behind him. Up ahead, he saw his target, the tall, jagged peaks of ice reaching to the sky. In his heart, he knew that it wasn’t going to matter. They’d melt in the first few seconds after the explosion, and if he didn’t find himself floating in a suddenly radioactive sea, they’d be dead from the concussive force of the blast in any case. The others knew it too, but all of them shared his desperation, the determination that just one more step might make the difference, might see them to safety, if they could only make it in time.

   Even if it was just a lie, something to comfort them during the last few moments of their life.

   “Come on,” he yelled, trying to urge them forward, urge them on to one last burst of speed. “We’ve got six minutes until detonation. We can make it!” His feet ate up the ground, long strides pushing them across the landscape, the low gravity helping them to greater and greater speed, but it wasn’t going to be enough. It couldn’t be enough.

   And then, behind him, his sensors detected an object approaching at high speed, racing behind them. The shuttle.

   “Damn it, Sergeant, I told you to get out of here!”

   “You’re dreaming if you think we’re leaving without you, sir!” Gurung replied, as the shuttle soared overhead, airlock open, cables dangling down to the ground as the ship’s thrusters played around, ducking from side to side to swing the cables towards the fleeing people.

   “Get moving!” Cooper said, and Rhodes leapt for the nearest cable, climbing end over end as he scrambled on board. The prisoners were next, Monroe the last of them to take the escape route, allowing her men to get there first. Finally, with one last look around, Cooper took the last of the cables, the mechanism tugging him up into the ship faster than he could climb, hands reaching down to pull him into the cabin.

   “We’re in!” Cooper said. “Punch it! Now!”

   The engines roared, the shuttle racing across the landscape, easily clearing the towering pillars of ice as it desperately attempted to gain speed. Four and a half minutes until detonation. Even now, the race was still on.

  Chapter 14

   For Salazar, the worst part was that he had no control of the ship he was flying. He could monitor the shuttles as they dragged him through space, burning furiously in a bid to reach the planet below before detonation, but he couldn’t do a thing to influence them. He couldn’t even talk to them. Quinn’s team had left long-range communications out, figuring that it was one more complicated system that they were unlikely to get working anyway.

   He looked around the cabin of the submersible, and evidence of the haste of its construction was everywhere, welds left exposed, cables stuck to the ceiling rather than buried beneath conduit, a dozen indicators flashing red with hastily-scribbled text by the side stating that this was normal, that they were reporting malfunctions that didn’t exist from systems that the harried engineering crews hadn’t had a chance to install. None of that made him feel any better.

   To his right, Foster looked over the controls, as nervous and frustrated as he, but perhaps doing a better job of concealing it. He forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then turned back to the viewscreen, watching as the planet closed in on them, the shuttles carefully dragging them towards their destination, pulling them onto the correct trajectory. He rested his hand on the one control he could use, the deployment trigger for the inflatable heat shield. The timing had to be perfect if they were going to reach their target, a one-mile wide patch of melted water that he hoped would be waiting for them.

   If the bomb failed to detonate, if something went wrong, then they would either be embarrassed or dead. Likely the latter. Everything had been based on a water landing. Coming down on the ice would stretch the capabilities of the vehicle beyond the limit. His instinct was that they’d make it if the ice was intact, but if the bomb proved too small, or some other malfunction took place, anything could happen.

   And Kolchak was still ranging on them, coming around the side of the planet at top speed, forcing themselves into the battlespace. He didn’t think they could reach the shuttle in time to launch an attack, but they’d certainly be in a position to cause problems for Bradley’s formation on the return to Alamo.

   “Three minutes to detonation. Atmosphere in five minutes. All on schedule so far,” Foster said, turning to him. “I suppose it’s a little odd to think that diving into a nuclear explosion is something we’re actually planning, but at least we seem to be doing it right.”

   Salazar reached to the console, turned a key, and said, “Preparing for deployment. This would have been a hell of a lot easier if we’d had a chance to rig a proper computer control. Keep an eye on the hull sensors. I need to know as soon as we start to bite atmosphere.”

   “On it,” she replied, calling up the relevant display. “Three hundred miles to go.”

   Salazar peered at the limited sensors, shaking his head at the microscopic monitor. They just didn’t have the definition for him to get a clear look at anything. Only the viewscreen was clear, and even then, the magnification settings were restricted. Quinn had assured him that everything would work far better as soon as they hit the water, but at this stage, he’d believe that only when he saw it for himself.

   “Two hundred fifty miles,” Foster said. “Descending. All readings match the simulation runs so far.” She looked up at the countdown clock, and said, “We ought to see a hell of a flash in sixty seconds. If it doesn’t go off, we’ll just have time to abort.”

   “With a little luck,” Salazar said. “Pyro charges on parachutes green. Ready for deployment. At least we’ve got enough air down there to give us something to soften our descent.” He paused, smiled, and said, “How does it feel being one of the first people to enter atmosphere in a submarine.”

   “A submersible,” she corrected. “That’s an important distinction. We’re going deep, Pavel.”

   “As long as we manage to come back up again. Run a final systems check before we get too deep.” He rested his hand on the heat shield control, trying to get a feel of the ship through the controls, trying to prepare himself for the descent. As they soared through the hundred mile mark, the planet ahead now dominating the screen, he felt a lurch as the shuttles slipped their cables, frantically accelerating away from the world, trying to get back to Alamo before Kolchak could bring their fighters into the battle.

   “All systems green,” Foster said. “Which is just as well.”

   “
We’ve still got a theoretical abort,” Salazar reminded.

   “An atmospheric skip with no thruster controls?”

   “It’s all in the timing. If we need to do it, we’ll do it. How long until detonation?”

   “Any second now,” she said.

   Salazar watched the final seconds trickle away on the countdown clock, and finally, a brief pin-point of light erupted on the world below, a blinding flash that ripped a hole in the fabric of the ice sheet, the shaped nuclear charge exploding exactly where it would do the most good. A smile crept across Salazar’s face as the data began to stream in, even the limited sensor package at their disposal giving him all the information they needed. They had a hole, they had a target, and the ocean was waiting for their arrival.

   “Just as advertised,” Foster said. “Ready for impact in three minutes.”

   “Please don’t use words like impact,” Salazar said, his fingers tensing on the heat shield controls. “Landing or splashdown, perhaps. Something that sounds a little less abrupt.” He paused, then asked, “Altitude?”

   “Fifty-one miles.”

   “Count it down in ones,” he said.

   “Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven. Pavel, it takes time to deploy.”

   “Not yet,” he said, his eyes closing, warning alerts sounding as the submersible bit into the upper limits of the atmosphere.

   “Forty-five. Forty-four. Outer hull temperature rising. Pavel...”

   “Now!” he said, throwing the control. Air hissed into the inflatable shield as it formed a wide, quarter-kilometer wedge that instantly grew hot, slowing the ship and guiding them onto at least roughly the right trajectory. They’d cleared the first hurdle, but the worst was still to come. All they had managed up to this point was to guide themselves into a path ten miles square on the surface. The hole – the rapidly closing hole – was barely two miles across, and they still had more than a minute to go.

   “Hull temperature falling,” Foster reported. “Heat shield now fully deployed, ablating at calculated rate. Everything’s still going just as it did in the simulations. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

   “No argument here,” Salazar replied. “Preparing parachute deployment.” The submersible was burning a hole through the atmosphere now, charred portions of the heat shield ripping away, doing its job of protecting them through the dive. The stars faded away as the atmosphere grew ever denser, and for the first time, Salazar could see the true effect of the nuclear blast on the surface, a shotgun cracking the protective ice sheet, leaving strange patterns as the world healed the wound, the endless cold freezing over the water once more, the hole ever reducing as they approached.

   “Ten miles, five hundred miles an hour, slowing fast,” Foster said. “Coming through clouds now. Getting some crosswind. That’s going to make things tougher.” Reaching across for a control, she added, “Navigational computer locked on to parachute guidance. We’re clear for deployment at your discretion.

   Here was a compromise, the toughest of them all. If he was playing it safe, he’d trigger them at maximum altitude, letting the submersible gently drift down to the surface. He didn’t have that luxury. Even if the ice sheet remained open for long enough for a soft, smooth descent, Kolchak was coming overhead, and one missile hurled their way would end their journey before it could really began, and given that Alamo’s crew had just done to the surface, he had all the justification he needed for an attack. Salazar looked at the beacon of the UN ground station, all lights still green. At least it was still there, thirty miles distant, doubtless watching and waiting for him to make his move.

   “Eight miles,” Foster said. “Three hundred fifty miles an hour.”

   “Just a little longer,” Salazar replied. “Just a little longer.” He watched the monitor, the sensor data flooding in now, the heads-up display finally flickering into life. He only had one remaining way of influencing their landing, and as soon as he used it, he’d be powerless to alter course. Finally, he hit the control, and the bolts fired on time, the chutes billowing forth, slowing their descent.

   “Four miles,” Foster said, her face pale. “Damn, Pavel, you cut it close.”

   “Time to splashdown?” he asked.

   “Best guess, eighty-five seconds,” she replied.

   He looked at the viewscreen, at the hole burned into the ice sheet, almost visibly closing as the water began to freeze once more, even the might of the explosion not enough to create a permanent effect on the ice sheet below. There was no longer anything he could do, and every breath of wind tossed them back and forth, the automatic servomechanisms on the parachute adjusting course to a limited degree, trying to hold them on their predicted track.

   They were failing. The wind was too strong, dragging them to one side, and there was only so much the automatic systems could do. With no other option, Salazar reached for the aquatic controls, ready to engage them as soon as they reached the water, hoping that they made it to a clear patch of ground, not the frozen surface below. Local radioactivity was high, would be for days after the blast, and they needed to get out of the area as fast as they good. Even a few hundred feet of water would be enough, but it was beginning to look as though they would find themselves stranded helplessly on the surface.

   Then, at last, another breath of wind hurled them back the way they came, back over open water, and with less than a hundred feet to go. A smile on his face, Salazar engaged the propellers, reaching for the trim controls, ready to send them down into the depths. Foster breathed a sigh of relief as she tapped a button, sending a green flare flying into the darkness, their only way of assuring Alamo that they were on course as expected.

   “Ten seconds,” she said. “Thirty feet.”

   “Releasing parachutes,” Salazar said, cutting them free and sending them falling the last few feet, the parachute rippling across the ice sheet, tangled and twisted in the wind, now free of the encumbrance of the submersible. “Now I guess we find out just how good those plans were.”

   With a loud smash, they hit the water, and Salazar immediately set the controls for a fast dive, not wanting to take any risk of being trapped in the rapidly encroaching ice. Water replaced air in the tanks as the negative buoyancy took hold, sending them diving into the gloom, sliding beneath the waves as the ice crackled back into existence above, sealing them rapidly off from the surface.

   “All systems working,” Foster said. “My God, we made it.”

   “Don’t sound so shocked,” Salazar replied with a smile. “Engaging engines.” He tapped a control, and his smile turned to a frown as they failed to start. The frown instantly dissipated as he saw a red light on the status board, quickly engaging the override to bring the motors to life, sending them spiraling into the gloom.

   “What was the problem?” Foster asked. “I’m not reading anything here.”

   “The computers thought that we’d landed. I had to convince them otherwise.”

   “In a way, they’re not wrong,” she replied.

   “The surface is still forty-five thousand feet away.” He leaned back on his chair, and said, “Better settle down. It’s going to be a long ride to the bottom. You want to break out the coffee?”

  Chapter 15

   “All hands, brace for shockwave!” the pilot yelled, as Cooper frantically strapped himself in, the rest of his squad struggling to their couches. Behind them, the deadly mushroom cloud soared into the sky, a brief flare in the atmosphere as the icy oceans bubbled beneath them. Up above, Salazar and Foster were beginning their dive into that turmoil, but they’d been prepared for it. Cooper and his team were not, and the pilot frantically urged his ship to greater and greater acceleration, ignoring the warning alarms blaring through the cabin in a desperate attempt to gain ground.

   “Here it comes!” Gurung said, and the force of the explosion slammed into them, sending the shuttle diving towards the surface, th
e pilot using every ounce of thrust at his disposal to bring them to a safe landing, continued flight no longer an option. The landscape loomed up at them as the shuttle lurched to the side, diving to avoid a jagged pillar of ice, catching it on the wing to send a shower of shards into the sky. The emergency lights flickered on as the shuttle crashed into the ground, landing gear failing in the first seconds of impact, sending them skidding across the surface before mercifully coming to a stop.

   “Good work, Spaceman,” Cooper said. No response came from the cockpit, and he turned to the rear, saying, “Sergeant, go check him out.”

   “Aye, sir,” Gurung said, wearily unstrapping his restraints.

   “I can fly us out of here if necessary,” Moreau offered.

   “Not going to happen,” Rhodes said, looking at the rear status board. “We’ve lost our fuel, and there’s serious damage to our engine manifold. The only way this bird is moving anywhere is if we all get out and push.” He paused, and added, “No damage to the pressure envelope, though, and emergency power should be good for days if we’re not taxing it too hard.”

   “Days?” Moreau said, a smile on her face. “I can assure you that we will be rescued in minutes, not days. We’re well outside of the radiation zone, and our people at the base will be on their way by no. Or from Kolchak, in orbit.”

   “Or Alamo,” Rhodes said.

   “Our ship is an awful lot closer than yours, Private, and I would remind you that you are addressing an officer,” Moreau snapped.

   “Private,” Cooper said, “You will show Lieutenant Moreau all the courtesy she deserves.”

   Cracking a smile, Rhodes replied, “Certainly, sir.”

   “The pilot’s dead, Ensign,” a mournful Gurung said. “His restraints must have given way just before impact. He went head-first into the control panel. I think he broke his neck.”