"Well?" Caine said.
"Started fifty seconds ago, Lieutenant," Yorkina replied. "Same pattern as last time, but closer. At the far Jeffersonian hendecaspace point."
"Right." She drifted over to the command chair, settling down into it. For the first time, it actually felt right.
"Hendecaspace transition in progress," Yorkina said, and alarms began to go off on the bridge. "Threat alert!"
Leaning forward, Caine said, "Show me."
An image flashed onto the screen, transmitted from one of the cameras on the exterior of the spaceport. A small sphere, with a series of small engine nacelles at the rear and a cluster of a hundred long tentacle-like antenna at the front. She'd never seen anything remotely like it before – except for the prospector, which definitely had a family resemblance. It certainly was maneuverable; it rotated quickly as its engines began to fire. Caine didn't need a report from the astrogator to know where they were heading – there was only one course they could be traveling on. Direct for Alamo.
“About a third the size of Alamo, Lieutenant,” Yorkina said, glancing up from her station.
"Hail them, Ortega," Caine said.
After the communications technician threw some switches, she looked up and shook her head, "They aren't accepting any signals, Lieutenant."
"Put me on, all channels, translated as widely as possible."
Nodding, Ortega replied, "You're on, ma'am."
"This is Acting Captain Caine of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo." The time for playing down their strength was long past. "We are present in this system at the invitation of local authorities, and request that you identify yourselves immediately." She counted the seconds required for a message to travel back and forth from the incoming vessel, waiting for a reply. None came. "We will not attack first, but are more than capable of defending ourselves. Please identify yourselves."
She turned to Ortega, "Nothing?"
"Not on any frequency, ma'am. No sign of anything at all."
The elevator doors slid open, and Harper – her elbow bandaged at doctor's orders following her recent injury – slid onto the bridge, standing next to Ortega. Caine looked at the expectant faces on the bridge.
"Mr. Quinn," she said, "You informed me that our laser was ready for action."
"After calibration," he said, frowning.
"You'd better do that on the move. Take the helm, please."
Quinn looked at the vacant flight control station, turned, and nodded with a smile on his face. He'd held that station during numerous battles during the War, and his skills as an engineer would be solely needed after the battle, not during it.
"Aye, aye, ma'am," he said, sliding gracefully into the station.
Caine turned to Dixon, "Go down and get your fighters ready for launch. We'll be wanting them shortly."
The pilot took a last look at the screen, then back at Caine, "Aye, aye. Good hunting."
"And to you." Turning to Quinn, she said, "Clear all moorings, helm."
"Aye, ma'am, clearing moorings."
She tapped a button on her chair, "Sub-Lieutenant Ryder, report to the bridge on the double." Looking over at the frowning Kibaki, she said, "I need her to take Tactical."
"All umbilicals detached," Matsumoto said from the rear station. "We are now on internal power and support."
"Plot an intercept course, Yorkina. Heads-on approach."
"Heads on, ma'am?"
"We haven't got the plating to dance with these devils all day, spaceman. Let's get this over with."
"Aye, ma'am."
Quinn turned on his chair, "Ready on thrusters, ma'am."
Caine shook her head, a smile beginning to grow, "We might need the minutes using the thrusters will take, Lieutenant. Main engines, one-tenth ahead."
Matsumoto looked anxiously across, "That will do considerable damage to the starport, ma'am."
"Either we'll live to fix it or we're scorching the earth for the enemy, Sub-Lieutenant." She turned back to Quinn, "Take us out, if you please, Lieutenant."
Turning back to his station with a smug grin on his face, the engineer replied, "Aye, aye, ma'am." He manipulated controls, and Caine felt serious gravity again, pushed gently back into her seat as Alamo's powerful main drive began to fire, throttling down to its lowest possible acceleration. The ship slowly lunged towards the exit corridor, plasma streams curling behind, sending fragments of rock flying around.
It seemed to be taking an awfully long time for them to maneuver to the tunnel, and for a few seconds Caine was certain that they were going to crash right into the side wall, but finally Quinn managed to get them lined up, and with a deft flick of the throttle turned the engines up to maximum to barrel them back out into space, seemingly rushing towards the stars. It was amazingly liberating to be surrounded by space again, Jefferson hanging like a jewel in the darkness over to one side. She realized suddenly how confined they'd been in there.
"We are free and clear to navigate," Quinn said.
Turning to Yorkina, she asked, "How's that course coming?"
Without looking up from her work, the sensor technician replied, "I'm feeding it through to Flight Control now, ma'am. Estimated time of intercept is in fifty-two minutes, assuming the enemy maintains its current rate of acceleration."
"They'd be going faster if they could, I suspect, Spaceman. Implement the course, Mr. Quinn."
Ryder drifted onto the bridge, and Kibaki waved her towards Tactical; she shook her head as she looked at the state the console was currently in, red lights on almost all the system reports; Quinn turned to her with an apologetic shrug before returning to the helm.
"Think you can get it together in the time, Ryder?" Caine asked.
"I'll find a way, Lieutenant. I know what's at stake."
Nodding, Caine tapped another button on the side of her chair. "Now hear this. Acting Captain to Crew. We'll be going to battle stations in about forty minutes from now. I know that we're short-handed, and I know that the ship's still hanging together in pieces, but I have every confidence in all of you. This is a battle that we must win; there can be no retreat, no surrender. That is all."
She looked at Ortega again, closing the channel with the flick of a switch, "Any reply to our transmissions, anything at all?"
"Still nothing. I've got them pulsing constantly."
Sighing, she said, "You'd better contact Orlova."
A few seconds later, "I've got her, ma'am. On scrambler."
"Right." She picked up a headset. "Maggie, do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear. Going to wish us luck?"
She shook her head, "The vessel we've been waiting for just jumped into system, Maggie. We'll be going to battle stations in about forty minutes; I'm giving you control of Quinn's little surprise package."
"That's about ten minutes after we're scheduled to hit the beach."
"Everything ready for that?"
"As ready as we'll ever be." She paused, then continued, "It's been a pleasure, Deadeye. Just in case."
"Same to you. Good luck."
"Yeah. You too. Orlova out."
The channel closed, Caine replaced the headset on the armrest of her chair. She looked around the bridge as everyone focused on their appointed tasks, busily preparing the ship for battle. Everyone but her; all she could do now was wait for the fighting to start. A brief temptation to take Ryder's place at Tactical crept into her mind, but she dismissed it; the best people were at their stations right now. No point replacing them.
"I'm going into my office for a moment," she said. "Mr. Kibaki, you have the conn. Inform me immediately if there is any change in target aspect."
"Aye, ma'am."
Caine pulled herself up out of her chair – getting used to gravity again after a week spent floating was proving tough – and walked carefully towards the Captain's office. She'd occasionally wondered what Marshall, and other commanders before him, had found to do in there before the battle. Now she knew; nothing. In
a little over forty minutes, they would be fighting a battle. Nothing could change that now. All the other options were exhausted, and she didn't really think for a moment that the enemy would simply stop and let them take Jefferson.
She looked out at the stars, slowly curving as Alamo altered its trajectory to speed closer and closer towards its target, Quinn fine-tuning the course to scrape an extra second of advantage one way or another, to try and put them in the best position to fire. The lights flickered briefly as Ryder started charging the laser, and there was a brief flapping movement outside as the mile-long radiator began to deploy, black against black, though that would quickly change when they started to fire. She tried to picture the battle in her mind; she'd fought enough of them in her career to be able to do it, but this time she couldn't.
An unknown enemy in a barely-explored system. They didn't know what their adversary was armed with, they didn't know its vulnerable spots, or even if it had any. She shook her head, driving that from her mind – they'd have weak spots, and she just had to find them. Simple as that.
She turned to head back from the bridge, then stopped, reaching behind to desk. She knew where Marshall kept a bottle of something, in case the occasion demanded; this qualified. Pulling out a zero-gravity container, she poured out a single measure of vodka from the bottle, stowed it back in the desk, and sealed the container shut. She wasn't going to drink it now – but after the battle, she intended to have reasons to celebrate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Marshall sat in the cell, fuming. Days of watching guard rotations, observing troop movements, and none of it amounted to anything useful for an escape plan. The captives had managed to get a good picture of the compound's defenses, but as it stood there was nothing much they could do with it. Adding to his sense of frustration was Alamo; he had no idea whether Caine had left the system, opted to stand and fight, or was already coming down to the surface. His ship could be torn wreckage in orbit already, and there was nothing he could do about it.
"Danny," Cunningham said from the window. "We've got something."
Dashing over to the window, Marshall jumped up next to Cunningham. Out on the horizon he could see seven ships bearing down on the fortress, sails furled. He gave a loud whoop and dropped down to the floor, shaking Mulenga on the shoulders to wake the astrogator.
"The marines are here!" he said. "Orlova's made it."
"Which means she's about to launch an assault on a heavily fortified shore installation," Cunningham said, breathing deeply. "I'm not quite as confident as you are, Danny."
"She wouldn't have launched the operation unless she had something up her sleeve."
Hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, and the door slammed open to reveal a trio of guards, all of them nestling submachine guns in their arms, led by the brute who had brought them their food on the first day of their imprisonment. The guns swung towards Marshall and Cunningham.
"Outside. You are being taken elsewhere."
"No," Marshall replied.
The bolts clicked home, "You will come or you will be shot."
Marshall looked at Cunningham, shrugged, and stepped forward. He still had no intention of being taken anywhere, he just wanted to see how close he could get to the trio before they stopped him. It turned out to be just close enough; he swung a savage chop to the thug's neck, sending him diving to the side as he squeezed the trigger, a series of bullet holes thudding into the stone. Cunningham and Mulenga were on the other two before they could react, leaping underneath their guns to tackle them to the deck as Marshall kicked his foe in the stomach, yanking the gun from his fingers.
Sirens began to echo down the corridor; evidently someone had managed to raise the alarm, and they were going to have company in a matter of minutes. While Cunningham quickly made sure that the trio of guards would remain unconscious for a while and rifled their pockets for ammunition, Marshall raced out of the room.
"Stand back," he yelled, as he squeezed the trigger at the door, almost blasting it from its hinges. Orlov, Esposito and Steele raced out of the room, Esposito leaning down to snatch a pistol from the holster of the thug.
"Where to, sir?" Esposito asked.
"Up. There must be a communications set-up. Down takes us right to the guards; I want somewhere we can hold for a while." Before he had finished speaking he was racing down the corridor, the rest of his people hot on his heels. Pointing his borrowed gun in front of him, he angled it down the stairs and fired the rest of the clip; he was rewarded with a series of screams and cries that told him he had bought at least a little time as he raced upstairs, fumbling another clip into the gun.
With a kick, he knocked the door to the corridor down, and he and Cunningham both fired blind through the doorhole, though this time they'd only damaged the stonework at the far end. There were three doors, the largest marked 'Radio'. Without a second thought, he kicked that door down as well, his leg beginning to throb as splinters flew past him. A surprised looking guard, sitting at the radio, rose his gun to point at Marshall, but he reacted first with a pair of precise shots sending him crashing to the ground.
"Cunningham, Esposito, take the other rooms and clear them. No finesse needed." He dashed into the room and looked at the radio, then began to swear fluently in three languages.
"What?" Mulenga said; his eyes widened as he walked into the room. The technician had been in the middle of overhauling the equipment, and there were components strewn everywhere, an open toolkit on the floor. Marshall took a step forward, being careful not to stand on anything, but he couldn't even work out where to begin.
"You three get this damn thing working," he said to Mulenga, Orlov and Steele, who dashed for the components; Marshall took the submachine gun from Mulenga and stepped back into the corridor; Esposito was stepping out of another room and giving him the thumbs up sign, and a burst of fire from the other indicated that Cunningham had completed his task.
“I've found Captain Miller, Danny! Drugged, I think, out cold anyway.”
“Make sure he's safe and get back out to the corridor,” Marshall replied. Tossing the spare gun to Esposito, he said, "The communicator's out of order. We need to hold this ground for a while."
Nodding, Cunningham started tossing spare magazines to the others; they'd used their ammunition like water, and there were only four clips each. It didn't seem like much to hold off an entire garrison.
"We've got company coming," Esposito yelled as she took a position facing the opposite staircase. Cunningham dived back into his room, peering around the corner towards Marshall's staircase; he was the only one not in the communications room. The sound of swearing and electrical crackle came from the radio, followed by a deafening high-pitched whine.
"John, you got a forward-facing window where you are?"
Frowning, he replied, "Yes."
"Good. You're going to be spotter. We know where all the defensive emplacements are, and I bet Orlova's got all the plasma guns she can find with her. As soon as we get a signal through, we start providing firing instructions for her gunners."
Nodding, Cunningham said, "I wondered what you wanted the communicator for."
"Alamo might be able to provide some orbital support as well, with a little luck.”
"Here they come!" Esposito yelled, as she unleashed a torrent of fire on the corridor, sending a body tumbling back down the stairs. Marshall fired at the same time, operating on pure instinct, carving a series of bullet holes in the far wall; he swore that he could see a shadow trembling at the top of the stairs, waiting to charge; he couldn't blame the man for hesitating. They were in an excellent defensive position – for as long as their ammunition held out, anyway.
Another loud whine resounded from the radio as the shadow made his charge, a young man with desperate fear in his eyes; he was put down by an expert shot from Cunningham in the leg, tumbling to the ground moaning as blood spurted out. An officer behind him crept forward, a pistol in his hand, and Marshall s
ent him flying back down the stairs with a pair of quick bursts. He clicked again and nothing happened; already he was running short of ammunition. He tossed the empty clip into the corridor as he slammed in another.
More gunshots echoed behind him, Esposito using up a clip in a series of quick shots. He couldn't spare the time to see what was going on behind him – all that could concern him right now was the small patch of corridor ahead of him. This time a pair of legionnaires ran forward, pistols in hand, unleashing a short succession of wild shots that cracked all around Marshall as he opened fire, sending one of them falling to the ground and another throwing himself downstairs, by the sounds of it tumbling into another advancing group.
"Radio, how's it going?" he yelled in between bursts.
"Getting there, sir," Orlov replied, "Still got a few pieces left to put back!" A loud crackle came from the room, followed by some Russian swearing; perhaps it wasn't going quite as well as he'd hoped. He fired a few shots as a precaution into the wall, then saw a small sphere flying down the corridor from the staircase.
"Grenade!" he yelled, swinging the butt of his gun like a club towards it, battering it back away from him then diving for the ground. The explosion deafened him as rubble flew through the air; dust swept out from the walls as he staggered back to the door, the rattling of covering fire from Cunningham over him. He ran his hand across his forehead and it came back smeared in blood; his uniform top was gashed in a dozen places with fragments of rock, and as he looked back out into the corridor he realized just how lucky he had been.
Half the ceiling had come down, and rubble was still tumbling down the staircase. There was a hole in the wall he could see the sky through, and the floor was covered in debris. His head swam for a second, and without a word he tossed his gun over to Steele, who took his place at the door, firing a couple of shots into the gloom. When he saw him, Mulenga broke away from the radio and snatched a box marked with a red cross from the wall.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear Page 18
