Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

   “Ryan to Alamo Actual,” the communicator barked.

   “Alamo Actual here,” Salazar replied. “Go ahead.”

   “Pavel?” Ryan asked. “Never mind. Enemy squadrons ahead. Request final instructions.”

   “Break and attack, Mike, and give the bastards hell. Try for the heart of the formation. We've got to disrupt their strike run or we don't have a chance. Good hunting.”

   “Understood, Actual. Fighter Leader out.”

   Shaking her head, Foster said, “They could be facing a hundred missiles in ten seconds, Pavel, and there won't be a damned thing we can do about it.”

   “I know,” he replied with a sigh. “Check with Kowalski. I want to know that the bomber will be ready to make its attack run as soon as we get into launch position.” Glancing across at the monitor, he added, “Which appears to me to be in exactly seven minutes, mark.”

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli said. “First missile launches from leading fighter elements. Ten in the air, and I think they're going for Red Avenger.”

   “Three seconds,” Maqua said, glancing at Scott as he waited to initiate the hastily prepared attack pattern. He depressed a button, and Alamo swung into position, the laser firing for longer than the usual fraction of a millisecond, enough that Salazar could just make it out on the screen as it raced towards the enemy fighters.

   He turned back to the tactical display and smiled, watching as the Xandari formation splintered, taking evasive action against an imagined threat. Fitzroy turned from the engineering station, a triumphant grin on his face, and waved a fist in the air.

   “I'd say we've hurt them, sir. Burned out sensors in the leading fighters at least, probably damage to their communications systems as well. We might not have destroyed them, but we've melted lots of nice critical equipment to slag.”

   Nodding, Weitzman added, “I think I can confirm the good news on the communications systems. Transmissions just fell through the floor. Lots of people trying to get through from the orbital and lunar facilities, but nobody's listening.”

   “Enemy missiles are still in the air,” Spinelli said.

   “Launch counter-strike,” Salazar ordered. “Don't commit, though. Keep our options open for the moment. I doubt the rear echelon of the fighter group was affected, and that could still leave a few dozen bad guys riding our backs.”

   “They're totally disrupted, Pavel,” Foster said, her fingers dancing across the holodesk controls, focusing on the fighter screen. “Running in all directions.”

   “Only the first wave,” he replied, shaking his head. “The second group aren't. Look.” He gestured at the trajectory tracks as they swung back in, diving towards Alamo. “They're coming hard. That's a smart commander, right there. A bluff.” Turning to Scott, he said, “Missile status?”

   “Second salvo in ten seconds. We've got enough in the air to knock out all the Xandari warheads and come through strong.” Glancing across at a display, she added, “Our fighters have launched six missiles, three in reserve, heading for the rear echelon.”

   Nodding, Salazar replied, “Ryan saw it before I did. Maybe we should switch seats. How about the laser?”

   “I'm rushing the charge cycle as much as I dare, but we're still looking at thirty seconds.”

   “The battle could be over in thirty seconds,” Foster said, shaking her head. “Our mutual missile salvos have reached each other. Mutual destruction. Not one got through.” Looking up at Salazar, she added, “Not good.”

   “Switch to full defensive fire,” Salazar ordered, turning to Scott. “We've got to get through this attack wave.” Looking at the trajectory plot, he added, “Never mind destroying them now. They'll never get a second pass anyway, not before the bomb detonates.”

   “Enemy fighter squadrons returning to attack formation,” Spinelli reported. “Fifteen seconds to optimum firing range, but they could launch at any time. Estimate seventy-five missiles heading for the fleet.”

   “Seventy-five,” Foster repeated, shaking her head. “We'd never survive a third of that.”

   “Alamo's a tough old girl,” Salazar said, with more confidence than he felt.

   “Evasive action, sir?” Maqua asked.

   “Not with that much death heading our way, Sub-Lieutenant. Straight and steady.” Tapping a control, he said, “Bridge to Engineering. I need all the acceleration you can give me.”

   “If we put more strain on the power grid, we might not be able to move at all!” Quinn protested. “I'm already giving you everything we've got.”

   “And if we don't get more, there might not be a ship left at the end of it. Bridge out.”

   Shaking her head, Foster said, “You realize that was a senior officer you were berating.”

   “As long as he does what I ask, he can charge me with insubordination tomorrow.”

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli said. “First wave of missiles on the way, twenty-four bearing directly. Leading fighters veering off.”

   “At least they aren't trying to ram us,” Salazar replied. “Launch retaliatory strike, Kat, and do what you can with the cannon. Liaise with the fighters and Red Avenger to mesh our salvo.”

   “Fratricide?”

   “It's all we've got.”

   Salazar turned back to the tactical display, watching as the battle continued to unfold around him. They'd already made it further than he had really expected, and a smile tugged at his face as he saw the Xandari fighters scattered all across local space, more than half of their attack runs ruined. The smile faded as he saw the wall of death sweeping across the battlespace towards them, twenty-four missiles flying in perfect formation, with only twelve arrayed against them. No matter what happened next, they were going to take damage.

   “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Salazar said. “You've done your job. Get the hell out of here. Make for trans-lunar space.”

   “Fighter Leader to Alamo Actual. Not a chance, Pavel. We're heading back to the barn, and...”

   “You'll never rearm in time, Mike. There's no point dragging you down with us. That's an order.”

   “Aye, sir,” he replied, ruefully. “Fighter Leader out.”

   Salazar ran his eyes over the display, watching as two of the fighters curved away, the third stepping up the thrust and diving deeper into the heart of the approaching missiles. His first instinct was that it was Murphy, trying some sort of stunt, but the identifier clearly indicated it as Cartwright's fighter.

   “Alamo Actual to Cartwright,” he began.

   “You said it yourself, sir,” the young pilot replied. “We're already dead. This way I get to die for something. Have a nice fight.”

   “He's closed the channel, Lieutenant,” Weitzman said, shaking his head.

   Nodding, Salazar replied, “It doesn't matter anyway, Spaceman. He's committed.”

   The bridge was silent as they watched the brave pilot race for the heart of the missile formation, taking point at the head of their own retaliatory strike, coordinating the attack with greater speed and precision than the enemy ever could. The end was inevitable, and swift, and a series of explosions left the tactical display clear, half a dozen of the enemy fighters caught in the blast radius and destroyed.

   “Godspeed, Cartwright,” Salazar muttered, shaking his head.

   “Second wave bearing directly,” Spinelli said. “Firing estimated in ten seconds.”

   “And how many in this wave, Spaceman?” Salazar asked.

   “Forty-eight, sir.”

   “I'll have a third wave up in time, Pavel, but Red Avenger won't. Forty-eight against six.”

   “I guess we're about to find out just how tough this ship really is,” Salazar said, settling back to watch the show.

  Chapter 20

   Cooper walked up to the bridge, Hunt by his side, struggling with the variable acceleration. This was his first time on a Koltoc
vessel, and everything about it seemed wrong, alien. The atmosphere was drier than the desert world he had just left behind, and the light pouring from the ceiling was almost blinding, all of the panels and readouts dazzling him with neon glare. A pair of technicians led them down the corridor, signs of battle all around, blackened patches slammed onto the hull, open servicing panels with engineers frantically rushing repairs.

   “This way, Major,” the leading technician said, gesturing to a ladder. “The commander is expecting you.”

   Cooper glanced at Hunt, then climbed up to the cramped bridge, the light if anything worse in the command center. Major Itzac sat at what could only be a tactical station, a trio of crewmen at the front of the bridge manning one long console, a sensor projection displayed above it. At least that was easily recognizable, and he saw Alamo diving towards the planet, Red Avenger sliding into position behind it, with dozens of missiles heading her way.

   “What's the situation?” he asked.

   Turning to him, Itzac replied, “Alamo has about a minute and a half to live, Major. I'm afraid the mission is over. We're going to try for one of the distant hendecaspace points once we retrieve the surviving fighters.” Shaking his head, he continued, “It was a good try, but it just wasn't to be.”

   “Wait a minute,” Hunt said. “You're giving up?”

   “There's nothing left to save,” Itzac said, shaking his head. “Alamo could never survive that amount of firepower.”

   Frowning at the display, Cooper said, “We could head in, try to help them. You're on a distant vector at the moment, but you could be right into the heart of the battle in less than a minute.”

   One of the technicians turned to him, wide-eyed, and said, “And take dozens of missile impacts, Major. That course would take us into the heart of the missile defenses. We wouldn't have a chance.”

   “But Alamo would,” Cooper pressed, “and the whole purpose of the mission is to get the ship into position to take the shot that will end the war. Besides, we might do a little better than you think. The velocity we'll have by the time we pass through the missiles will give us a chance to get past them. It might take some fancy flying, but we can do it. As long as we act now.”

   “No,” Itzac replied. “I'm sorry, Major, and I know you must be desperate to help your people, but I have to think about salvaging what is left of the situation, and that must include my ship and my crew. Helm, initiate course change.”

   “Damn it, we can still win this!” Cooper yelled.

   “Not in my judgment, Major, and on my deck, it is my judgment that prevails.”

   Pulling out his pistol, Cooper said, “Then I relieve you.”

   Raising an eyebrow, Itzac replied, “Dead is dead, Major.”

   “But this way we'll still have a chance to cheat the reaper.” Hunt drew his pistol, turning to the corridor, and reached for his communicator. “Sergeant, have our team take control of critical departments. Helm, proceed on the course I recommended. Take us into a support position to back-up Alamo. Tactical, I want a full salvo programmed for defensive fire, to launch as soon as we're within range.”

   “You realize that this is mutiny, of course,” Itzac said, his voice still implacable. “That you are effectively declaring war on your own allies.”

   “If you aren't willing to stand with us when the situation is at its most desperate, then you aren't allies I want on my side. Helm, follow my order as instructed.”

   The technician looked at his commander, who replied with a reluctant nod, then turned back to his console, tapping an incomprehensible sequence of commands. The tone of the ship's engine changed, rising as the vessel altered course, swinging back down towards the planet. The crewmen at the controls looked at each other, fear in their eyes, as Cooper kept the pistol leveled at the commander, matching his stare.

   “All key sections secure, sir,” Hunt said, still watching the door.

   “That was quick,” Itzel replied.

   “Not a big ship, and quite a few of the Neander troopers seem to know this class of vessel pretty well,” the veteran said, flashing a smile.

   “We saved your lives, Major,” Itzel said, shaking his head. “And risked our own to do it.”

   “You have my eternal gratitude,” Cooper replied, “but if we don't complete this mission, more than half my strike force died for nothing.” Turning to the sensor display, he said, “Hold your course, Spaceman. We're going to complete this parabola or die in the attempt.”

   The helmsman looked back at him, and said, “Is that absolutely necessary?”

   “Let's hope not,” Cooper replied. “Can you patch me through to Alamo? They probably should know that the cavalry is on the way?” While one of the technicians handed him a headset, he studied the unfamiliar sensor display, trying to make sense of the readings. The missiles seemed to be moving into position awfully slowly, Alamo racing through the defensive screen, accelerating far above her usual safe norms.

   “Cooper to Alamo Actual. Come in, please.”

   “Salazar here. Go ahead.”

   Panic swept Cooper's face, and he replied, “I didn't know you'd suffered damage. What's the situation over there?”

   “No damage, Gabe, not yet, though I wouldn't assume that happy state of affairs will last.”

   “Then don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell…”

   “It's a long story and we don't have the time.” Salazar paused for a second, and said, “I'm not going to ask why you are speaking for a Koltoc ship that's on a suicide course, but I'll take all the help I can get. As far as I can see you'll have a window to throw everything you've got at the missile swarm. Tie in your warheads to our tactical net, and we should be able to do the rest.”

   “Will do, Pavel. Good luck.”

   “On that heading, you're going to need it more than I will. Alamo out.”

   “You heard the man,” Cooper said, turning to Itzac. “Given that we're committed to this course anyway...”

   Shaking his head again, Itzac replied, “And perhaps you are planning to shoot me if I decide to reject your kind offer?”

   With a sigh, Cooper said, “Let's not find out, shall we?”

   Itzac glanced down to his station, his slender fingers sliding across the touchscreen, working the controls faster than he could follow. Cooper's knowledge of the Koltoc language was limited to the handful of profanities he'd picked up in past battles, and was certainly insufficient to the task of determining whether the commander was obeying his orders.

   The ship curved onto its trajectory, seconds away from battle, and he heard some shouting at the far end of the corridor, Itzel stiffening in his seat as the noise drew closer. Hunt looked at Cooper, keeping his pistol pointed at the door, then pulled out his communicator.

   “Hunt to Rhodes. Report.”

   “Little trouble down in engineering, sir, but the deck gang decided to choose the right side in the end. Didn't have to persuade them, either. Took down the bastard themselves.”

   The helmsman glanced at the sensor operator, and said, “I think I can trim a few seconds from our course if we drag in a little closer. It'll give us a clear second shot at the missile swarm.”

   “Then by all means,” Cooper said, a smile curling across his face. “Nice try, commander.”

   “I still think you're killing us all, Major, but I'm forced to accept a risk against a certainty. Be aware that there will be words afterward.”

   “Really?” Hunt said. “If we're dead, nobody will ever know, and if we live, we're all heroes, and the history books will omit any mention of the incident. Unless you want to be remembered as the man who almost snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.”

   With a scowl, Itzel replied, “Missile salvo ready to fire. Helm, as soon as we launch, I want a full burn to get us clear of the planet. Try and get underneath the defense satellites if you can. It might conf
use their targeting computers, if only for a few seconds.” Looking at Cooper, he continued, “You can put that stupid pistol away. We're committed to the maneuver now, and your Sergeant has a point. The next time someone turns up in a shuttle, they can find another ride.”

   “Fair enough,” Cooper said, holstering his gun.

   The ship dived past Alamo, rocking back as the first wave of missiles launched, new tracks flashing onto the screen as the salvo raced into the battle, sliding into position beside those already in the air. Cooper watched, rapt with attention, as Itzel's hands danced across the controls, loading and arming the third salvo that was essential to their plan's success.

   Up ahead, the Xandari missiles were dividing into three streams, five for each of the escorts with the balance for the capital ships. Red Avenger was accelerating again, moving into a new trajectory, bereft of ammunition and attempting instead to act as a decoy, drawing some of the fire onto itself. A brave act of a brave commander, and it rapidly proved to be his last, the ship dying in a flash of light as the enemy warheads slammed into place.

   There were no escape pods. Even if the Neander had managed to reach them in time, launching them would be pointless if the attack plan worked. Minutes from now, orbital space would be inhabitable, instant death for anyone venturing through it, and the survival craft would simply have added to the destruction.

   “Second salvo,” Itzel said. “Helm, get us moving. Full burn, now!”

   The force of acceleration caught Cooper by surprise, sending him slamming into the wall, momentarily losing his breath as Itzel glanced at him with a smirk, shaking his head.

   “Some hijacker,” the Koltoc said. “One little burst of acceleration and you fall over.”

   “Gaining speed, sir,” the helmsman reported, looking up at his readouts. “We're making ground ahead of the missiles. They must have already used a lot of their fuel before settling onto trajectory.”