Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  End Note

  Starfighter Sample Chapter

  FINAL ORBIT

  Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 22

  Richard Tongue

  Battlecruiser Alamo #22: Final Orbit

  Copyright © 2016 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: December 2016

  Cover By Keith Draws

  With thanks to Ellen Clarke

  All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

  Half a league, half a league,

  Half a league onward,

  All in the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  “Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Charge for the guns!” he said.

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Chapter 1

   Lieutenant Pavel Salazar glanced across the crowded hangar deck, looking at the sleek interceptors resting on the elevator airlocks, technicians hastily readying them for battle. Before they'd left Copernicus, the Koltoc had provided them with seven fighters from their hidden reserves on the surface, part of their contribution to the war with the Xandari. Ever since he'd joined the Academy, long years ago, Salazar's dream had been to command his own squadron. Now that he was actually going to do it, the thought filled him with dread.

   Clustering around the status board, watching and waiting for Alamo to emerge from hendecaspace, his pilots fought their nerves with inane chatter, trying to wield arrogance to bolster their confidence. One of them stood apart from the others, trading worried glances with Salazar, the only veteran among them. Lieutenant Ryan, his second-in-command, a veteran of fighting with the Xandari both in a cockpit and on the bridge of a starship.

   As for the rest, the siege and occupation of Copernicus had wreaked a bloody toll among that world's defenders. All that remained were a corporal's guard of cadet pilots, none of whom had ever fought in space. He'd managed to recruit those who had joined in the resistance, so at least he could be certain that combat wouldn't phase them, but there was no substitute for the experience they lacked.

   Without thinking, he reached up to his eye-patch, pausing a second before scratching his non-existent eye. He'd lost it during the capture of Alamo, and the stolen Neander ship he'd commanded afterward lacked the facilities to fit him with an artificial replacement. Alamo's sickbay did, but the recovery time was a fortnight. He simply couldn't spare the time, not with the war kicking into what everyone hoped was its final phase.

   Two veterans, and the only one of those who had more than a single combat mission to their credit was flying with a waiver that had required a written order to extract from Doctor Duquesne. After six months, he was getting used to only having one eye, but he knew the effect it was having on his flying. Technically, he could have requested medical retirement. That he was instead leading a squadron into battle was testament to the desperation of their situation.

   He looked around at the work crews, shaking his head as he saw a technician drop a servospanner into an engine housing, cursing under his breath as he reached in to extract it. This crew was tired, bitterly tired, and they'd earned the right to go home, rather than continue on their quest to finish the war. Only a select handful had been briefed on their mission, the legacy that Lieutenant Cantrell had left them to bring the conflict to an end with one single, glorious battle.

   Deep in his heart, he felt that was a mistake. A mistake to push the crew and the ship further than they already had, and a mistake to keep them in the dark. Security considerations aside, they deserved to know what they were fighting for, what they were dying for. Shaking his head again, he turned back to the status screen, watching data stream down the display. In less than five minutes, they'd be emerging from hendecaspace at their target system, ready to begin their assault.

   Copernicus had proven to be only two jumps from the Xandari homeworld, the intermediate system a dull brown dwarf with a single planet orbiting it, nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other empty systems other than its strategic value. They had sufficient force to wipe out any conceivable defense, but that was only a portion of their mission. Simply smashing their way through wasn't enough. They had to take the base they knew was here. Had to harvest the intelligence stored there.

   “Four minutes to transition,” the voice of Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova announced over the speakers. “All hands to battle stations. Pilots to their ships. That is all.”

   “That's our song, people,” Salazar said, gesturing to the cockpits. “We've flown this mission in the simulators a hundred times, but remember that the enemy doesn't know our script. Ryan and I will take point. The rest of you stick on our tails, and for God's sake keep your eyes open. I want this one to go clean and easy. Good hunting.”

   “And to you, sir!” one of the cadets, a raven-haired woman with the improbable name of Jezebel Murphy replied. She'd done well in the simulators, better even than Ryan, but that arrogance would be a fast way to a hole in the ground if she wasn't careful. Salazar looked at her as she walked to the cockpit, seeing the same cockiness he'd had in his first battle, the same assurance that he could defeat any opposition, no matter how strong. Time had taught him differently, and the price of that lesson had been higher than he had ever feared.

   Ryan walked over to him, a frown on his face, and said, “Kids, Pavel. They're just kids.”

   “I know,” Salazar said with a sigh. “If we end up against serious opposition, we could lose the whole squadron. We shouldn't be sending them up at all.” Clapping his hand on his friend's shoulder, he continued, “Keep ahead of them, don't let them take the lead. With a little luck we can protect them from the worst of it.”

   “I doubt the Xandari will cooperate,” he replied. “This is crazy.”

   “Captain's orders,” Salazar said. “Saddle up, Mike. Let's get this over with.”

   He walked over to his fighter, past the Espatier team loading their equipment onto the assault shuttle, sharing a curt nod with Lieutenant Cooper, ground forces commander, before climbing into the cockpit, sliding into position on the pilot's couch, the pre-flight systems booting up as the canopy locked into position. All around, the rest of the squadron were mounting their steeds, readying themselves for battle. The odds were good that some of them wouldn't be coming home.

   Salazar glanced down at the fighter wings on his chest, the two small golden stars pinned above them, each of them registering five kills. The first double-ace since the war, but there was a brutal reality behind those numbers. The life of a fighter pilot had a tendency to be short and glorious, part of the appeal to the young. As he watched the rest of the squadron making their preparations, he felt far older than his twenty-four years.

   “Fighter Leader to Alamo Actual,” he
said, pulling on his headset and clipping it into position. “Squadron is on one-minute readiness for launch. We're good to go on your order.”

   “Understood,” Orlova replied. “We'll be emerging in ninety seconds. Be aware that we might go for immediate launch if necessary. Good hunting.”

   “And to you, ma'am,” he said. He looked around the cockpit layout, setting the control panels to his preferred settings. He'd flown this type of fighter in battle before, but it was still strange to be sitting in a ship designed by what was effectively another race, even if it had been built with humans in mind. Everything was just a little bit off, the light levels a little bright, the atmosphere a little dry. Nothing serious, nothing that would hurt combat effectiveness, but it still contributed to the unreality of the situation.

   “Harper to Salazar,” a familiar voice barked into his ear.

   “I'm here, honey, go ahead.”

   “We're on a secure channel,” she replied. “I'm ready to go in the shuttle. Need you do to something for me.”

   “Sure.”

   “Don't get killed. I mean it. We've got three months' leave at the end of this ride, and I'm not going on it alone. Watch yourself.”

   “Right back at you,” he replied. “No stupid risks.” He paused, then added, “Well, no more than usual, anyway.”

   “Thirty seconds,” she said. “Good luck. Harper out.”

   Salazar shook his head as he ran his eye down the squadron status panel, checking that his pilots were prepared for the fight. They all seemed to know their duties on paper, at least, most of them faster on the checklist than he was. He peered around, trying to spot Harper, and finally caught her sitting in the copilot's couch of the shuttle ahead. He still wasn't quite sure how the two of them had become an item. Sometime near the start of her spell commanding Daedalus, it had just happened. Not that he had an objection.

   Those pleasant thoughts filled the last seconds before egress, the familiar lurch that heralded Alamo's return to normal space. Mankind had been traversing hendecaspace for more than a century, but there still seemed something innately wrong about the idea of traveling through a dimension they knew so little about. Only that direct exposure had a disturbing tendency to result in incurable insanity, and that any ship that stayed too long never returned.

   Information began to flood into his tactical computers from Alamo's sensor pickups, and he scanned the readouts as a picture of the local system built up. Professor Powell and the remnants of his science team had done a good job with their projections, but they were still wildly divergent from the reality. Two moons, not one, though one of them was so small it wasn't surprising he hadn't picked it up, and the largest comet he had ever seen, high over the ecliptic plane.

   And two enemy capital ships, directly ahead, moving into position to block Alamo and the accompanying fleet. When the Captain had decided to press towards the Xandari homeworld, she'd brought every ship she could gather with her, four Koltoc and two Neander, all of them still fighting to repair the damage they had sustained at the Second Battle of Copernicus. He and Harper had led that fleet together, and he was still surprised that they had managed to pull off a victory. At a price far higher than anything he would have willingly paid.

   “Fighters, Pavel,” Ryan said. “Orbiting the planet.”

   “Yeah,” he replied. “I see them.” Three enemy fighters, the usual Xandari design, all of them holding in a defensive formation close to an orbital refinery. A cluster of shuttles were scattering in all directions, trying for the safety of the far side of the planet, away from the battlespace. That maneuver made Salazar frown. Normally, the last thing their enemy considered was their own personal safety.

   “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Orlova said. “We're going for the capital ships, and we'll be launching your squadron and the shuttle in forty seconds. Full speed to the refinery, and make sure the assault team gets there in one piece. We've got to capture that installation before the enemy have a chance to destroy it.”

   “I can spare three fighters to help with the capital ships, Captain.”

   “We can handle them, Lieutenant. You worry about the fighters. I'll worry about the cruisers. Alamo out.”

   He took a deep breath, tapped a control, and said, “Leader to Squadron. This is it. We're launching in thirty seconds, mark. Remember your training, remember how we practiced in the simulators, and you'll get through this in one piece. Leader out.”

   The fighter started to slide through the deck as the elevator airlock engaged, the force of Alamo's acceleration already pushing him back into his couch. It was going to get a lot worse yet. If they had any chance of getting to the refinery in time, they'd be pushing themselves to the limit. A series of warning lights flashed on, and he was unceremoniously tossed clear of the ship into space, the centrifugal force that provided the artificial gravity giving him an additional boost.

   Ahead of him, the rest of the squadron scattered out into space, thrusters firing to stabilize them as they slid into arrowhead formation for the attack. Reaching down to an override control, he threw his engine to full, slamming him into his chair as his fighter moved to its pre-programmed trajectory, smoothly diving towards the planet ahead.

   Belatedly, the rest of the squadron followed, just as he had planned. He had three missiles slung on his hard-points, and there were three fighters ahead. With a little luck, he could at the very least deprive the enemy of their own ordnance, make them easy targets for the rookies behind them. Glancing at his sensor display, he frowned as he saw two other fighters moving into position, one either side. He'd expected Ryan to make the same move, but it looked as though one of the rookies had decided to jump the gun as well.

   “Fighter Leader to...”

   “Murphy here, boss. I didn't want to be left out of the fun.”

   “Not much fun where we're going, pilot, and damn little glory.” Shaking his head, he said, “Form in behind me. And keep an eye on the rookies, just in case the Xandari have come up with any surprises. Ryan, stay alongside.”

   Behind him, the rest of the squadron moved into formation, twenty seconds behind the advance guard. A cheap trick, but deploying them as ready reserves made tactical sense, and this way they might get some combat experience without risking them in battle. Nothing from the enemy capital ships could close on them in time, and the lumbering vessels seemed far more concerned with Alamo and her escorts than with the fighters racing for the station.

   “Two minutes to combat,” Salazar said. “Weapons free, but hold formation until I give the word.” Scanning the list of pilots in the rear formation, he picked the one with the most experience, and said, “Cox, take charge of the reserves. Hold with the shuttle and defend it at all costs.”

   “Roger, Leader,” the pilot replied, a faint tremble in his voice. “Will comply.”

   Gently, Salazar eased his fighter onto a smooth trajectory towards the target, bringing his attack computer online with a quick flick of a switch, firing solutions flashing across the screen. They had nine missiles to six. All being well, they could take them down in one salvo. He looked across at the tactical display, and frowned again. Those shuttles had taken off far too quickly, and were now completely out of range. Alamo's probe network was still being deployed, minutes away from removing local sensor blind spots.

   “One minute to combat,” Ryan said. “Missiles locked and loaded, skipper.”

   “All ready here, Leader,” Murphy added.

   “Steady as you go,” Salazar replied. “Wait for the command.”

   Alamo was moving in on the cruisers, her first missiles in the air, one of the enemy ships already drifting from damage to her flank. To the side, the escorts were swooping down into position, a textbook maneuver. Everything seemed to be going too perfectly as he moved into firing range, waiting for the warning light to flash.

   “That's it, lead section! Break and attack,
full salvo, go!”

   Eight lights appeared on the sensor display as the formation launched their missiles. Murphy had held one back, but the remainder raced towards the enemy fighters, their opponents launching six warheads to counter them, trying to block the attack.

   “Leader to Murphy...”

   “Something stinks, Leader, and I thought we could do with a second salvo.”

   Salazar frowned, then replied, “Hold formation. Just in case.”

   Seconds later, a ripple of explosions smeared the sensor screen, three missiles remaining as the debris field expanded, all of them racing towards the enemy fighters. A smile crept across Salazar's face as he watched the Xandari formation scatter, desperately attempting to evade the incoming warheads. At least there was a chance this one would go right, that the rear formation would be kept out of combat. He glanced at the long-range sensor, and his smile evaporated.

   “Reserve Formation, I told you to keep up with the shuttle. You're pulling too far ahead.”

   “Sorry, sir, I guess...”

   “Tell it to the enemy!” Salazar yelled. “Cut thrust and let them catch up.” Playing on his thrusters, he swung around, immediately dropping back from the battle. Murphy, her instincts quick, followed his lead, holding her place in the formation, while Ryan followed the missiles, keeping course towards the refinery. “Salazar to Shuttle...”

   “We're moving at full thrust,” Harper replied.

   “Go to override.”

   “Incoming!” Ryan yelled. “Looks like a shuttle, moving as fast as a fighter, heading for our assault team. Estimated time to impact, eighty seconds!”

   “Evasive, Kris!” Salazar said, “Incoming kamikaze run! I'll try and block him.”

   He looked at the trajectory plot, his right hand dancing across the navigation computers as he locked his fighter on a collision course with the enemy shuttle. Reaching up to a little-used control, he disabled the safety controls on the throttle, ramping his acceleration as high as he dared, enough that his vision started to blur at the edges, a heavy weight pounding on his chest. Every breath was a struggle, but he'd make his intercept with three seconds to spare.