Turning to Nelyubov, she said, “Destroy our missiles. That's a direct order.”
He nodded, tapped a button, and replied, “Done.”
The missiles winked off the display, leaving only the incoming salvo from the fleet, moving to smother them with impacts, taking a little more time to avoid the same mistake they made last time. The blows would smash into Alamo's hull in a matter of seconds, leaving nothing but twisted wreckage where a proud ship once sailed through the heavens.
“I'll say this, Captain,” Poltis said. “You've got guts. I'm not sure I could have found it within myself to be so generous.”
“Forty-five seconds to impact,” Spinelli said. “If anyone is interested, that is.”
Sitting back in his chair, Nelyubov replied, “Not really, Spaceman.” Turning to Orlova, he added, “It feels strange, just sitting here and watching them close in.”
Hooke turned, panic on his face, and said, “I can't crack them, Captain. I can't!”
“Don't worry about it, Spaceman. You did your best. You can stop now. No need to die all tensed up.” Orlova took a deep breath, looked around the bridge, and said, “It has been an honor, and a privilege, to serve with each and every one of you.” Stepping over to the helm, she rested her hand on the console, looking at the viewscreen, the image of Arcadia, lost and lovely, dead center in the starfield whether by accident or design.
“Twenty-five seconds,” Spinelli said. “Sorry.”
“Hard habit to break,” Weitzman said. Then he glanced at a monitor, and said. “Communications traffic just went off the scale between the two sets of ships. Lots of contact with the flagship. I can't understand a word, but they're working themselves up over something.”
Hope began to flood into Orlova's mind as she turned to face the tactical display, watching the missiles curve in, slowly ranging towards their target. Alamo continued to gain speed, pulling further away, and if by some miracle they survived the first impact, she knew that the pursuing fleet wouldn't get a second chance to strike.
The seconds continued to count down, one after another, as the warheads continued their approach. Soon their debate would be irrelevant, the cold logic of celestial mechanics ending any chance of appeal. Looking around, a bitter sense of regret filled her as she looked at her crew, still working to the end. They deserved a better fate than this.
“Detonation!” Spinelli said. “Twenty-four missiles just detonated. Most of the Coalition, one ship from the Council.”
Orlova watched as the display flashed, half of the missile tracks disappearing. Then eight more, this time all from the gunboats, and a smile began to creep across her face as she turned to Nelyubov.
“You can fire that third salvo now. Defensive formation only. Weitzman, contact the fleet, and make it clear that we will only fire to defend ourselves from attack. Send them the targeting data.”
“Aye, ma'am,” he replied, as the bridge erupted into life. The formation was changing behind them, only three ships continuing to press their attack home. Four more of the missiles vanished from the screen, quickly replaced by six new warheads launched by Alamo, Nelyubov guiding them towards their targets. The loss of most of the incoming missiles had totally disrupted the attacks, leaving huge gaps and tight clumps. While the enemy gunners hastened to alter the approach trajectories, the Triplanetary missiles were faster, and with a series of brief explosions, the screen was clear once again, a few patches of slowly expanding debris the only remnant of the destruction that had threatened the ship.
“Change in target aspect,” Spinelli said. “One of the gunboats is moving off at full burn. The rest of the fleet is coming about. I think they're trying for a parking orbit around Itix.”
“Signal from Vyram, ma'am,” Weitzman said.
“This I want to hear,” Poltis said, moving to stand next to Orlova.
The squadron commander's face appeared on the screen, and he said, “I guess you really did mean what you said, after all. The Combined Fleet will move into a defensive position over the base, and instructs Alamo to stay clear of the moon until further notice. We will participate in the peace negotiations as an independent body.” Looking at Poltis, he said, “You might find us more willing to cooperate than the politicians were.”
“You are relieved of your command,” Poltis said, coldly, glaring at the veteran soldier. “Place yourself under arrest, and place...”
“Don't you understand, yet?” Vyram said. “We're not going to fight your wars for you any more. We're not going to sit around and watch as the remnants of our civilization tear themselves apart for petty feuds. Captain, do you agree to my terms?”
“What about Yorax?” she asked. “Where does he stand in all of this?”
“I don't know. He's on Gunboat One, heading for the outer system, and isn't answering our communications. Believe me, after we saw those messages from Arcadia, we wanted to talk to him.”
“Very well, I agree.”
“What?” Poltis said.
Turning to him, she replied, “I don't think we have much choice. Right now, we've got bigger problems.”
“Ship launch!” Spinelli said. “The transport is taking off from the surface. Early to tell, but I think they're heading along the same trajectory as the two gunboats.”
“Let me see,” Poltis said, moving over to the holodisplay. “Carion. They're heading for Carion.” Turning to Orlova, he said, “An abandoned base in the outer belt. There are supplies there, mothballed equipment, enough to last for a couple of years. It was meant to be our last refuge in case all else failed.”
Nodding, Vyram said, “If he makes it there, we can't get to him, but he'll be able to raid our ships for as long as he wants. We'll never be done fighting.”
“Options?” Orlova asked.
“They picked an excellent place to hide,” Powell said. “That's a triple-asteroid, and a lot of tumbling debris around it. Their ships are small enough to get through, but taking Alamo inside would be a very different proposition. I'd be reluctant to risk it.”
“Can we catch them sooner?”
Shaking his head, he said, “We can't, but Cooper can.” Pointing at the image of the transport, he said, “They've got most of the velocity and are close to the right trajectory. If they move now, they can go for an intercept.”
“Cut off the head, and the body dies,” Poltis said. “Yorax is the only one they have with the experience to lead that sort of a fight.”
Turning to Orlova, Nelyubov said, “You realize what you'll be asking Cooper to do.”
She nodded, and said, “There isn't any choice. I'll make it volunteer, but I know what he'll say. Weitzman, open a channel.”
Chapter 24
“You want us to do what?” Cantrell said, looking up at the monitor in disbelief.
“Alamo can handle the guidance systems from here,” Orlova said. “You can concentrate on the boarding action.”
Cooper sighed, and said, “Just to get this clear, you are asking me to launch a two-man strike on a combat vessel at battle stations, unarmed and unarmored, with no advance preparation.”
“We've got deck-plans for you,” Orlova replied, “and I understand that there is a weapons locker one deck down.” She paused, and said, “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't ask this, but we've only got one shot to stop the murderers before they get away. If they can get to Carion, it'll be next-to-impossible to stop them. Which will almost certainly mean that they will escape justice.”
Nodding, Poltis said, “I won't agree to a deal, but when I am replaced for allowing them to attack my shipping, I suspect my successor will. Ensign, if you do this, you'll have the gratitude...”
“I'll do it,” Cooper said, turning to Cantrell. “Are you up for this?”
“I think this is the craziest stunt I've ever been involved in. Of course I'm up for it.”
“Initiating course change,” Orlova said. “Better strap down. You're going to be pulling five gravities for a couple of minutes. Hang on.”
The two of them hastily threw on their restraints, snapping the connections into place, lying flat on the crash couches as the engines roared, pushing them onto a new trajectory, sending them hurtling after the gunboat. Dumping their cargo had made their mass ratio far more favorable, and now they could outpace the enemy craft, draw in closer to it.
Cooper fought to steal breaths as the pressure built up, an unbearable weight loading on his chest as he struggled to remain conscious. He heard a soft cry from Cantrell, but didn't even dare turn his neck to see how she was faring. All he could do was try and focus, try and keep breathing, and try and live through the fierce acceleration. He was Mars-born, and this was fifteen times the gravity he grew up in. Training or no, he fought desperately to remain awake, struggling to keep his eyes open, the darkness closing in all around him.
A painful whine filled the air, his head pounding as he looked around. The pressure was gone, and to his left, Cantrell was lying, slowly coming around. He tentatively reached up to the console, tapping the communications control.
“Stop that damned noise!” he yelled. “My head is about to explode.”
“Thank God,” Orlova said. “We've been trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes.”
Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and replied, “What's our status?”
“Your course correction was right on the nose, and you are heading right for a clean docking. You'll be in missile range in two minutes, but only for thirty seconds. Your wife is at the controls here, and she's going to slam you into a hard dock.”
“Two minutes and thirty seconds until boarding?” Turning to Cantrell, he shook her, softly at first, then roughly, a groan escaping her lips. “Wake up! Duty calls.”
“Wha?”
“Boarding in two minutes. I'll go and get the guns.” He suddenly felt awake, alert, and looked over at the atmosphere systems. Someone had fired a pulse of pure oxygen into the room, instantly clearing his head, and Cantrell pulled off her restraints, dragging herself to her feet. Cooper raced down the corridor behind the bridge, sliding down the ladder to the next level, and immediately spotted the weapons locker, the door flapping open as he approached.
“Useful having friends in high places,” he muttered, looking over the weapons, a mix of the familiar and the alien. He ignored the local rifles, not even wanting to guess how the sights worked, or where to load the ammunition, and went right to the familiar United Nations loadout, the M-78 Colonial Carbine. Hefting the familiar weapon, he shook his head. When this was taken out with Wayfarer, it was brand new, just coming into service. Now it was a museum piece, only retained by a few third-line militia forces struggling on low budgets. He slammed a clip into position, jammed as many others as he could find into his pockets, and tossed another M-78 to the approaching Cantrell.
“That's the best they've got?” she asked.
“Bullets kill, no matter what they're fired with,” he replied. “Bear in mind that this is higher-velocity than the guns you are used to, so there's more of a kick, and you need to choose your targets carefully. This couldn't breach a hull, but it could certainly make a mess of anything on the far side.”
“What about the rest of these,” she said, gesturing at the armory. “Most of them look newer.”
“I really don't want to be trying to work out where the trigger is during a firefight. Stick with Old Reliable here. She's still a pretty decent weapon.”
“Cooper?” Orlova said, her voice echoing through the corridors. “You'll be in missile range in thirty seconds. We're going to use the airlock on your deck, down at the far end, so you'd better get down there.” She paused, then added, “There isn't going to be time for any evasive action. If they launch...”
“We get hit, and don't have anywhere to retreat to,” Cooper said. “This is just getting better by the moment, Captain. Remind me to let you plan my next vacation.”
Grabbing a suit of body armor that looked at least close to the right size, he quickly raced over to the airlock, stumbling in the variable gravity as the ship launched into its deceleration cycle, and tugged the old, musty vest over his head, sliding it into place. Cantrell shook her head, already wearing hers, slapping the shoulder in disgust.
“I already feel like I need a shower. And I can hardly move in this thing.” She raised a hand, then added, “I know, I know, I need it, but I wish we had something better.”
A light flashed on, the trajectory display showing on the nearest monitor. Cooper hung onto the nearest handhold, watching as they approached, the ship desperately slowing down to match velocity with the gunship. Belatedly, it occurred to him that another approach would simply have been to ram them.
A trio of dots appeared on the screen, heading right for them. Desperation or fear, but they'd managed to get a salvo away. Cantrell shook her head, swearing under her breath. At this range, the shrapnel was bound to rip into their target as well.
“Brace for impact,” he muttered, knowing there was nothing they could do. The missiles were going to hit, would almost certainly irreparably damage the ship, and if one of them hit the section they were currently in, they would die. He hefted his rifle, a grim smile on his face. Even if they made it through, they'd be in combat in a matter of seconds.
The ship shook, angry grinding noises running through the hull as the missiles slammed into the side of the vessel, ripping and tearing as they went, the atmosphere leak tossing them wildly around. He could feel air escaping, and blast doors slammed down all around him, sealing off this section.
“There's still a leak,” Cantrell said, glancing at the telltales. “We're dead in three minutes.”
“We won't be here in three minutes,” Cooper replied.
With a loud crash, the two ships locked, airlocks connecting as the docking clamps slammed into position with a series of rhythmic thumps. Raising his gun as the two hatches open, Cooper sprinted into the corridor, a pair of guards charging in the opposite direction. Four shots cracked through the air, one of the guards dropping to the ground, blood draining from his leg, while the other raced for it. Looking down, Cooper saw Cantrell on the floor, struggling to move.
“Damn armor,” she said, thumping it. She winced as Cooper helped her up, adding, “I think I cracked a rib.”
“Can you move?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Cooper took the lead as he moved down the corridor, the hatches slamming shut behind them, sealing off their only way out with grim finality. Either they took control of this ship, or they were dead. No other options existed. Alamo was racing towards them at top speed, but unless they could arrest the gunboat's acceleration, it wouldn't be able to catch them in time to do any good, if at all.
He turned a corner, firing at the retreating guard, catching him in the shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor. If his memory of the deck-plan was right, this should take him right to the bridge. Glancing back, he saw Cantrell struggling after him, walking with a limp, grim determination on her face.
“Don't get any ideas,” she said. “I'm still mobile.”
The two of them continued down the corridor, waiting for signs that someone was coming after them, but reached the blast doors that accessed the bridge without further interference. For form's sake, Cooper tapped the control, but the panel didn't even light up. Someone had cut the wires, then pulled out some of the components to make sure it couldn't be repaired.
“They've holed up,” he said. “Locked themselves into the key rooms, then sealed them off.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Good strategy. They've got all the time in the world to get rid of us when they get to their destination, assuming they haven't already started to turn down the air pressure.”
“What now?” she asked. “We
can't just sit here and let them take us prisoner.”
Looking at the door, he said, “Only one way in. There has to be an answer.” His face lit up, and he moved over to the nearest panel, dragging Cantrell with him. “This is United Nations technology. Can you hack it?”
“I think so,” she said. “I can't access their navigation systems, though. Even if I could, I wouldn't be able to change course.” She looked at the coding, and said, “This is just housekeeping stuff.”
“Set off the decompression alarm on the bridge.”
She turned to him, nodded, and said, “I should be able to do that. What if they realize it's a trick?”
“Then we'll just have to try something else. Set it up.”
He looked around, stepping into the nearest door, someone's quarters. No bed, but there was a desk, and an experimental tug revealed that it was only attached to the floor by a pair of bolts. Sliding into position, he started to twist them loose, straining at the rusty metal as it slowly spun around.
“What are you doing in there?” Cantrell asked.
“Furniture removal,” he said. The first bolt came free, and he started on the second, the old material finally snapping, the desk moving out across the floor. He dragged it into the corridor, toppling it on its side, sending bits and pieces of accumulated junk rolling down the deck, then crouched behind it, lining up his rifle.
With a sigh, she said, “I'm ready.”
“Hit it,” he replied, and she tapped a button, a loud squeal sounding through the air, a whining, familiar alarm. Years of training told him to run for the nearest shelter, find a rescue ball, some means to survive, but he stayed in position, Cantrell moving by his side, leveling her gun.
The hatch slid open, and he immediately opened fire, dropping the first technician at the threshold, his body jamming the doors in position. Half a dozen people dived back behind stations, returning fire with pistols and rifles, the bullets smashing at the plastoform desk, sending splinters and fragments flying through the air.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword Page 22
