Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

   “Forget the battle plan. We've thrown it together far too quickly for it to have any value at all. You've already flown this space, fought this enemy, and you know where you're going. At some point in the next thirty minutes, you'll be sitting in a cockpit, and taking your last look at the ship.” He nodded, and continued, “That's right. In all probability, you aren't coming back from this run.”

   Murphy shook her head, and said, “As a wise man once said, I don't do suicide missions.”

   “Then feel free to back out now.” Tapping the double stars over his wings, he said, “I'm a good pilot. A damned good pilot. And if I was going to be riding fire today, I'd make damned sure I'd updated my will before I left. You're going to be flying through dozens of firing tracks, in a space where your countermeasures won't be effective, and your first goal has to be getting that bomber to its target.”

   Taking a deep breath, he continued, “Which means that you can't think of yourselves. You can't afford to fly defensive, not this time. We're throwing the book out the window. If we had anything like the combat strength we should have, we might be able to play by the rules, but today, we can't. You're going to have to out-think them, and I can't tell you how to do that.”

   Turning to Murphy, he said, “You think you're a hot pilot, Sub-Lieutenant?”

   “Finest kind, sir.”

   “Now you get to prove just how good you are. When you go out there, you'll have to identify threats on the fly and neutralize them. Each of those fighters carries two missiles. We can't afford attritional warfare. They outnumber us. You'll have to work out where the problems might be and deal with them first, and you'll have to make each shot count, or this mission fails.” Looking at Cartwright, he continued, “Which means no screw-ups with the checklist, pilot.”

   “No, sir,” the nervous rookie replied. “I won't make that mistake again.”

   Nodding, Salazar said, “I know you've all had at least some combat experience now. You know the face of the enemy. Let me tell you that the firefight you'll be heading into is an order of magnitude worse than anything you have ever experienced. No matter how strong you think you are right now, you're going to be terrified when you're facing it. Being scared is human. Don't let it take over. Don't let it dominate your thinking. Remember your training, and remember the simulations, and while I can't promise that you'll come home, I can promise that your death will mean something.”

   Shaking his head, Cartwright said, “We never expected to face anything like this, sir.”

   Salazar replied, “How old are you, son?”

   “Twenty, sir.” He forced a smile, and said, “My twenty-first birthday is the day after tomorrow. I guess...”

   “Give up on it, kid,” Salazar said. “That goes for all of you. Consider that you're already dead. Then anything that happens today is a nice bonus, a surprise. You can't afford to let your emotions get in the way, not now. They're a luxury that none of us have time for.” Rising to his feet, he added, “I just wish I was riding out there with you, but I don't think I've chosen the safe option. Everything I've said applies just as much to Alamo as it does for you.” Looking at the three pilots, he continued, “Once you've fired your missiles, follow the escorts out of the battlespace. And if you happen to still be in one piece when that bomb goes off, use up all the fuel you've got to get away. Don't hesitate, and don't hold anything back. Someone will pick you up when the dust settles.”

   Moving to the door, he said, “If you want some advice, write a letter home. If there is any unfinished business you have back there, this might be your last chance to settle it. Good hunting. Dismissed.”

   The pilots rose, snapped to salute, and walked out of the room, still dazed. Ryan looked back at Salazar and threw him a curt nod before following the others into the corridor, walking past another figure on the way in. Salazar slumped down onto a chair, and sighed.

   “Credit for your thoughts?” Harper said, sitting next to him.

   “I'm sending them to their deaths, Kris. The best pilots in the Confederation wouldn't get through that firestorm.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Ryan's good, but not great. The same for Murphy. She's got talent, lots of talent, but needs training, experience, to bring it out. In two, three years, she might make it. As for Cartwright…”

   “I heard that last part. They volunteered, Pavel.”

   “I know,” he replied. “I know.” He looked down at his useless arm, and said, “I should be out there with them. That's the worst part. Not sitting on the bridge watching Frank Nelyubov command the ship. They don't need me up there, but that squadron needs me in command.”

   “Nobody is irreplaceable, and haven't you already done enough. More than enough. We wouldn't have made it through if you hadn't taken down that cruiser.” She looked at him, her face stern, and said, “I thought you gave everyone a lecture on defeatism on the bridge half an hour ago. Don't tell me you're falling victim to it yourself.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “No, of course not. I'm just tired of all of this, that's all.” He looked at the empty chairs, and said, “At least this time we've got a fighting chance of completing the mission. As I said to the others, the rest is just a bonus.”

   “You were a little hard on them, weren't you?”

   “I've got to try and soak four years of training into one quick briefing. I didn't have time to be gentle, and I didn't have time to be nice. The only hope those poor bastards have of actually living through this is to focus on their training, their skills, and the mission. They can't afford to be afraid. If they freeze up, they're dead.” Turning to her, he asked, “How are you holding up?”

   “Too busy to think about anything right now. I just wanted to talk to you before the battle. Strange to think that it will all be over in half an hour, one way or another. The war will be over.” She smiled, and added, “And we'll have won. I've got faith in our people, and in your battle plan.”

   “Captain Orlova's battle plan,” he replied.

   “Which you came up with independently,” she said. “Adding a few nice touches as well.” She paused, then added, “You can't fly every mission, Pavel, and you can't always protect the people under your command. If you weren't wounded, you'd be out there yourself, and it's killing you that you can't take the risks for them.”

   “I'm a fighter pilot, Kris. It's what I trained for, what I'm good at.”

   “You're more than just a rocket jockey, and you know it.” Gesturing at the ceiling, she said, “You're not sitting on that bridge to make up the numbers. You're going to be a key part of the battle. Don't think you're on the sidelines, because you aren't. And those pilots have a lot better chance of surviving because of the training you've given them.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “Let's hope so, anyway. Maybe I'm the one being arrogant, now. Thinking he's irreplaceable.”

   “At least now you won't be stopping the Captain getting into that bomber at the last minute.” He turned to her with a start, and she continued, “Because we both know you had something like that in mind.”

   “The thought occurred to me. Hell, she should be on the bridge, commanding the ship, not committing suicide to salve her conscience. There are a dozen other people just as qualified to fly that mission. I understand why she's doing it, but I can't agree.”

   “And yet you'd do the same thing in her place.”

   “Probably. Which makes me the galaxy's biggest hypocrite, but it doesn't make me wrong.”

   “Maybe not, but she's made his decision. Besides, I'm sure Frank will do a fine job on the bridge, especially with you up there as well.”

   “We're going to have to talk about your unrealistic expectations of my competence at some point in the future.” Glancing at the door, he said, “Where are you going to be for the battle?”

   “Distribution Control. Jack's running around putting out fires, and I only wish I was speaking met
aphorically. He's right about one thing. This ship is being held together by prayer, and don't be surprised if the lights go out halfway through the battle. It's going to take months to get this ship back to fighting condition again. I see another refit in our future, once we get home.”

   “Someone else's problem,” he replied. “I suppose I should be on my way up to the bridge.”

   “Just don't do anything stupid, Pavel. You hear me?”

   He smiled, then said, “How long have you known me?”

   “That's what I was afraid of. Watch yourself up there.”

   “You too,” he said. The two rose for a brief hug, then walked out of the room, each taking opposite directions. Salazar paused, watched her step into the elevator, and shook his head. Something about this battle was worrying him, even more than usual, and it was something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

   He walked down the corridor, passing a swarm of Neander technicians on some urgent errand, survivors from the wrecked ship pressed into service to cover the dead and wounded from Alamo's complement. Bartlett's face flashed into his mind again, the look on his eyes as he took his last breath, and he sighed. He'd been planning on visiting him and his family when they got back to Mars. Now it looked as though he'd be making a trip to the funeral, instead.

   The elevator was waiting for him, and he stepped inside, pulling out his datapad and scanning the list of messages. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer volume that was flooding in, before realizing that most of them were listed as for the urgent attention of the Executive Officer. Captain Orlova had gone ahead, then, writing herself off as lost.

   Two years ago, he'd been standing in front of a court-martial board, expecting to be thrown out of the Fleet, believing that he deserved it for what he had done. The man he now was could forgive the boy he had been then, though he still hadn't broken himself out of the habit of taking responsibility for all the wrongs the universe could throw at him. As his lecture to the squadron had demonstrated. Harper had been right, as usual. He'd have given anything to be out there with them, not for personal glory, but because there were a thousand tricks he knew that might save their lives, save the mission. They were his responsibility, and he somehow felt that he was failing them by not being with them.

   Instead, he was skimming through oxygen reclamation reports, water purity checks, and complaints from some of the junior Petty Officers about misuse of replacement components, engineers neglecting to fill out forms in triplicate before conducting the vital repairs that might keep them in the fight. It all seemed so petty, so insignificant, and given that most of these messages were days old, he had a feeling that his new commanding officer felt the same way.

   And that was a strange thought, as well. He'd known two commanders, Marshall and Orlova, during his career. Now he'd be serving under a third, and his first battle as Captain of Alamo would be the biggest it had ever fought. Even if it would all be over in a few minutes, the ship either flashing through the gap in the defenses and out the other side again, or destroyed by a combination of enemy action or the destructive force of their own weapon.

   No matter what past experience Acting Captain Nelyubov could bring to the table, it was going to be a steep learning curve. He smiled, remembering his brief stint in command of Random Walk. His ship had been battered, under-armed, underpowered, undermanned, totally outmatched by her enemies, and yet there was something deep in his soul that yearned for her. At least she'd survived her last battle, the Copernican Government already planning to turn her into an orbital museum, testament to the Xandari War.

   Now they were going to find out the nature of the final exhibit, whether it would be a representation of their victory over their ruthless, remorseless enemy, or their defeat in the skies of the enemy homeworld. Doubtless someone would find a way to put a positive spin on the outcome, whatever it was. Assuming anyone ever learned Alamo's fate.

   The door opened, and he stepped out onto the bridge, Nelyubov gesturing him to his position at the holotable, in front of the tactical display. With a nod, he took his place, still sweeping down the reports streaming into his datapad, this time focusing on the status indicators.

   “How are we looking, Pavel?” Nelyubov asked.

   “All systems go, sir. We're at standby alert, and are clear to go to battle stations in twenty minutes.” Glancing at the board, he added, “Bomber is loaded, pre-flight checks completed. I'd say we're ready for action.”

   Nodding, he replied, “Now all we have to do is wait, and hope the Xandari haven't thrown any more obstacles in our way.” With a frown, he added, “Why don't you run a few more tactical simulations. See if you can come up with anything we've missed.”

   For a second, Salazar was about to protest, noting that such combat preparedness was the Captain's job, but he caught a look in Nelyubov's eye, and took the order for the gift that it was. Nothing would be happening for at least a quarter of an hour. At least this way, he'd have something to do.

   “Aye, sir. I'll get started. Scott, set up for a theoretical attack run. Let's assume that they're using their fighters in a toad-hole maneuver, to catch us as we swing past the moon. The atmosphere's dense enough.” As he started to dream up contingency plans, trying to distract himself, he caught a look at the countdown clock, and the spell was instantly broken.

   Nineteen minutes to battle stations.

  Chapter 18

   Cooper watched the sensor display, the fleet drawing closer and closer to its destination, splitting into two separate formations for the approach. Alamo and Red Avenger, the sole surviving Neander escort, were diving right for the Xandari homeworld, heading towards the gap that Salazar's squadron had gouged in their defenses, while the two Koltoc vessels, Due Diligence and Profitable Venture, had curved off towards the moon, now bare minutes away from closest approach.

   “Lots of nasty stuff in orbit, sir,” the technician said. “Two fighter squadrons and the missile satellites. We're going to have a hard time fighting our way through that lot.”

   “If we end up doing much fighting, Spaceman, then we're as good as dead anyway.” Turning to the cockpit, his wife propped up in the pilot's couch, he asked, “Have you finished the course plot? How long before we have to take off?”

   “Three minutes, then one long burn, and it's all over.” She winced as she moved her leg, and continued, “I'm really looking forward to getting some decent painkillers. And no, I'm not getting out of this seat. I fly with my hands and my brain. Not my legs. Got that?”

   “Whatever you say,” he replied, stepping out of the shuttle. “Get to your ships, everyone! Time to go! On the double!” The forces on the perimeter broke as one surging for their assigned transports, abandoning the carefully hoarded equipment in place. The Xandari were welcome to anything they could salvage. It would be a very long time before any Triplanetary citizen set foot here again, if the bomb detonated as they hoped.

   Cooper looked at the display again, shaking his head. Somehow, Alamo was back on the original plan, but as she drew closer, he got a better look at the damage the ship had suffered during the first attack. He found it hard to believe that she was still flying, ruptures all down her hull. The Koltoc ships that were their destination seemed in little better condition.

   His train of thought was broken by a blast from outside, a cascade of dust flying into the air from a mortar strike. Not waiting for orders, Bradley activated the lateral thrusters, the engine roaring as it started to build power, the last troopers charging through the hatch, Cooper pushing them in with his hand to speed their way. Behind him, a pair of wounded men lay still, a medic watching over them, precious cargo to rush to safety.

   Crawling forward as the shuttle rose, he slid into the copilot's couch, bringing the now-familiar systems online, and looked out over their temporary haven, another explosion in front of them as the mortar bombardment began in earnest. The shelling was wildly inaccurate, the spotters
wiped out by his force, a last-ditch attempt to prevent their departure.

   “I brought ninety-five men into this nightmare. I'm bringing back less than fifty.”

   “You did everything you could, Gabe,” Bradley said, carefully playing the thrusters to guide them to their approach path, staying low to avoid the plasma buggies that had surrendered their enclave. “That as many people survived as they did was a miracle. And we completed our mission.”

   “Cooper to Alamo,” he said, speaking into a microphone. “Shuttle Two to any friendly station. Shuttle Two to any friendly station. Come in, please.”

   “We might have more luck when we break out of the atmosphere,” Bradley said. “Far too much jamming at the moment. Get on the sensors and check the trajectory plot. Just in case the Xandari have any more surprises waiting for us out there.”

   Nodding, Cooper punched up the display, and said, “All clear at the moment as soon as we get to altitude.” Glancing across at Bradley, he added, “Until we get to three thousand feet, we're vulnerable.”

   As the last of the shuttles lifted from the surface, her thrusters conjuring clouds of dust that twisted around the landscape, she replied, “That's why we're going to do it all at once. I hope you didn't have too much to eat this morning.”

   Tugging his seat restraints into place, he said, “I'm not going to enjoy this, am I.”

   “I think you'd hate the alternative even more.” She threw a switch, and the shuttle soared into the sky, the others around it in tight formation, thrusters roaring far beyond their normal levels in a bid to hurl them clear of the anti-aircraft fire on the ground. Balls of green flame erupted into the air all around, the blasts rocking the shuttle from side to side as Bradley struggled to maintain control, fighting the thrusters to keep the craft stable.

   “And for my next trick,” she said, throwing the throttle to maximum, the main engine roaring as the shuttle soared towards the mountains, nose rising as she made for a narrow gap between two peaks, the clearance barely enough to allow the wings to safely pass through the middle. The other shuttles found their own paths, five shapes on the sensor screen, all of them racing for heaven.