Battlecruiser Alamo - 7 - Battlecruiser Alamo: Sacred Honor

by Richard Tongue

   “He’s raring to go.”

   “Good to hear.”

   “What about our surprise packages?”

   “Quinn’s nursing them now, riding shotgun in Weapons Control. Let’s just hope they work.”

   “They will,” Marshall said. “We’re going to win this one.”

   “I damn well hope so.”

   Leaning forward towards the helm, he said, “Tyler, I want this ship to dance out of the egress point. Evasive maneuvers for the first twenty seconds, then punch it at full speed towards our destination. Every ounce of acceleration you’ve got.”

   Nodding, the young officer replied, “I’ve already taken the safeties off the helm controls, sir, and I think we can squeeze a bit of extra performance out of her.” He paused, then said, “Thanks for letting me sit in this time.”

   “Intelligence officer or no, Mr. Tyler, you’re still the best pilot we’ve got.”

   “One minute to the egress point, sir,” Steele reported from her station. “I want to get those bastards. We’ve earned a little payback.”

   “That we have,” Marshall replied, looking around the bridge. Retreating from this fleet had been one of the hardest things he had ever done, especially given the loss of Hercules once they had escaped. This felt like redemption, a chance to make up for what they had been forced to do before, and whilst it perhaps might not be the most tactically astute decision he had ever taken, it still felt like the right one. All his instincts were guiding him to this battle, and he’d learned to trust them.

   He tried to choreograph the battle in his mind, tried to work out the sequence of events. Seventy-two missiles were sitting in the elevator airlocks in the hangar bay, enough to knock out two or three battlecruisers if he could get those shots home. The laser was charged, ready to burn its way through a ship, and Bailey had her spooks on alert, ready with everything they had learned from the stolen Cabal database.

   Alamo was ready to put up a fight the like of which the Cabal would never forget, and perhaps just be able to cope with the enemy fleet. Do enough damage at the start of the battle, and they might get through all of this yet – and even if they didn’t, they should certainly be able to achieve Marshall’s secret objective, to do enough damage to the Cabal forces in this area that a conflict with the Confederation would be postponed indefinitely.

   A hundred years from now, how would this battle be seen? Would this be the first engagement of the Cabal War if this all went wrong, or would that be dated back to Ragnarok, or to Jefferson – or forward to some future battle, with some other commander in the driving seat. Would the names of his crew join those of Hercules on the memorial wall of Mariner Station, another selection of people labeled as ‘missing, presumed dead’, caught in a limbo of uncertainty.

   Glancing at the status board, he quietly checked the escape pods. If it got bad, if it looked as if Alamo was lost, he was ready to give the order for his crew to leave, to seek mercy from the Cabal fleet. While he could send his crew out into captivity if it was a choice between that or death, he would never leave himself. With a faint smile, he realized that the odds were high that his life expectancy could be measured in minutes, a last furious burst of battle to close out both his career and his life.

   As the last few seconds ticked away, he thought about everything that had led him to this moment, and realized that he would not change a thing. Not for himself, anyway. If he’d been told when he signed up that this was going to be his fate, he would have accepted it willingly. Hell, during the last war the life expectancy of a fighter pilot was down to a couple of months at the low point, and he’d already beaten the odds then. Maybe he could do it now.

   “Ten seconds,” Steele said.

   “Spinelli,” Marshall said to the sensor technician, “I want a complete picture of that system the instant we emerge.”

   “You’ll get it, sir.”

   “Deadeye, don’t wait for me to order you to fire. Save the surprise packages for my call, but get the normal missiles into the air, and take whatever shots with the laser you can get. Fire at will.”

   “Don’t usually get that order before a battle even starts.”

   “Five seconds,” reported Steele, working her console.

   “This isn’t a normal battle.” He looked around the bridge at his crew, then said, “Good luck, everyone.”

   “Two seconds. One. Realspace!”

   Alamo staggered into normal space like a drunkard, lurching on its thrusters and spiraling around as Tyler struggled to bring up thrust, ramping the acceleration up. Spinelli started frantically working at his console as the viewscreen cleared, the sensors focusing on their targets.

   “Threat warning! Five vessels, close aboard, four on intercept courses!” Spinelli yelled as alarms began to sound.

   “Details, Spaceman,” Marshall said.

   “Four battlecruisers, one carrier, the latter at range. Launching small craft of unfamiliar design, no fighters yet. We’ve got energy spikes from the battlecruisers.”

   Alamo rocked as Caine fired her first wave of missiles, six racing out of the tubes towards the nearest battlecruiser, and then the lights dimmed as the laser cannon fired, a beam of light briefly connecting the two ships as it burned an angry gash down the side of her hull, ripping away deck plating and equipment, sending blasts of out-gassing atmosphere racing out into space.

   “Good shot, Deadeye!” Marshall said.

   “I think I got his sensors and some of his missile tubes. Thirty seconds to another shot. Our missiles are running true.”

   “We’ve got twelve missiles incoming now, sir, from two enemy battlecruisers,” Spinelli said. “Nothing from the others.”

   “Nothing at all?” Steele said.

   Marshall nodded, “Probing our electronic defenses. Get Bailey on the case. And I need to know what those small craft are, and I need to know now!”

   “Wow,” Caine said. “Bailey’s already taken down two of the missiles. Five of ours are still running. Ready on the first surprise package.”

   Nodding, Marshall said, “Fire first salvo, Deadeye. Hold on, everyone!”

   Alamo seemed to tumble back on itself as thirty-six missiles raced into the air, following in the wake of the five remaining missiles of the first wave, grouping into a series of clumps as they ranged into towards their target, the luckless nearest battlecruiser. Caine worked her controls, guiding them in and providing cover against counter-hacking, but the enemy ship had no chance at all, only a couple falling away as their hastily-prepared engines failed.

   “The incoming missiles are turning away, trying for the salvo!” Spinelli said.

   “That’s a bit desperate, isn’t it?” Weitzman said, looking over from his communications station.

   “Another salvo is in the air, six from the remaining battlecruiser, heading right for us,” Spinelli said. “Our missiles will impact in eight seconds, sir.”

   “Let’s see it,” Marshall said, and the viewscreen seemed to race forward as it zoomed into the targeted capital ship, gleaming white amid the blackness, twisting and spinning as its pilot attempted every trick in the book to mitigate the damage. He thought he could see lights racing away from the ship, escape pods making a bid for salvation.

   Then the first group of missiles, four of them now, hit home, slamming into the side of the ship and ripping away at the hull. That was nothing compared with the next impact, with thirty-four missiles hitting the ship in a simultaneous strike. There was a brief flash that the filters struggled to dim, and then all that remained was a twisted hulk of tangled wreckage, debris flying in all directions as the she broke into fragments.

   “The escape pods?” Marshall said, quietly.

   “Nothing could have lived through that,” Caine said, looking up at her status board. “Second salvo ready to fire.”

   “Sir, I think I know what the incoming ships
are. Cabal shuttles, modified.” Spinelli said.

   “Shuttles?”

   “I believe they are planning to board us.”

   “Steele, get our missile shuttles into the air, and have them target the incoming ships. Caine, get that second salvo up, let’s knock another battlecruiser out of the fight while that gimmick works. And what about the incoming missiles?”

   “Just one left, sir, but I think it’s going to hit,” Spinelli said. “Somewhere aft.”

   “Brace yourselves,” Marshall said as the missile slammed into Alamo’s hull, a brief taste of the devastation they had just unleashed. “Where did they get us, Prentis?”

   The flight engineer looked up at his status report, frowned, then said, “Aft sensors, sir. Bandwidth in that area’s almost gone.”

   “Aft? Why hit that area?” Caine said. “Salvo ready, firing!”

   Alamo rocked again as the second batch of missiles sped away into the night, closing rapidly on their target, another hitherto undamaged ship that turned to try and outpace them, knowing that it would only buy them a few seconds more of life. This time the escape pods spilled out into space as soon as the salvo was launched.

   “They’re not even trying this time,” Steele said.

   “Sensible commander, trying to save his men.”

   “Two against one,” Caine said, “I like those odds a lot better than four to one.”

   “This battle isn’t over yet,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “Get Cooper on the horn, I want him ready in case those troopers touch down. We can’t afford for them to hit any critical areas of the ship.”

   “On it, sir,” Steele said.

   “Picking up speed nicely, Captain,” Tyler reported. “Four thousand miles from the hendecaspace point, and distance increasing fast. Remaining active battlecruisers are closing on our position, trying for an intercept.”

   “A close intercept?” Marshall said, frowning. “Lousy tactics, I’d have gone for a chase. Not that I mind.”

   Spinelli turned to Marshall, his eyes widening, his hand shaking. He gulped a couple of times, as if he had temporarily lost the ability to speak.

   “What’s wrong, Spaceman?” Marshall said.

   “Dimensional instability, sir. Right behind us, and it’s big.”

   “Behind us?” Caine said.

   Turning back to his station, Spinelli said, “Emergence now, Captain. Two more battlecruisers, and eight smaller craft, scoutships, I think.”

   “Trapped,” Steele said, her eyes widening.

   “We aren’t dead yet,” Marshall said. “More speed, Tyler, and let’s knock out the ships in front of us. We’ve got the speed advantage and we need to use it.”

   “Energy spike aft, sir. Twenty-eight missiles, bearing directly.”

   Marshall looked at the sensor station to his left, and with a grin, said, “At least we’ve got a target-rich environment.”

  Chapter 24

   The force of the shuttle’s engines kicked Barbara back in her couch as the acceleration built, throwing her onto an intercept course with the incoming fighters. A part of her was back on Alamo, worrying about Cooper; after four days of drugged catatonia, he ought to be in the medical bay being checked out by Duquesne, not preparing to lead men into battle. If she did her job, though, that wouldn’t be necessary.

   Running a hand over the newly-installed controls to her left, she checked the status of the missiles nesting in her cargo bay. Furious work had gone into preparing them, and now it was about to pay off; she thought with a smile of the instructor who had failed her for advanced flight training, dooming her chances to become a fighter pilot. She was going to get a dogfight after all, even if it was in an old orbital shuttle.

   Glancing across at her co-pilot, she saw Spaceman Hooke crouched over his controls, flashing a nervous look up at the viewscreen, as if he was looking for waves of incoming fighters to swarm in and destroy them. She tapped him on the shoulder, and he jerked up with a start.

   “What?” he hissed.

   “Relax, Con. You’ll do what you need to do when the time comes.”

   “Tell me that when the missiles are flying. All we’ve got is this countermeasure package.”

   Frowning, she said, “The last time I got shot at, I had a man next to me who didn’t even know how the systems worked, and we got through. I thought you were supposed to be an expert.”

   With a snort, he replied, “I was just the last one to step back when the Chief asked for volunteers.”

   A chime alerted her to an incoming call, “Caine to Bradley. We’re vectoring you in on the assault shuttles now. I’m afraid you won’t get much help from Alamo, we’ve got troubles over here. Good hunting.”

   “Troubles?”

   “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Hooke started to murmur.

   “You seeing the Second Coming on your sensors, Spaceman?”

   He looked across at her, his face pale, “Eleven more ships just jumped into the system. Eleven! What the hell are we going to do about it! What are we going to do?”

   “Calm down, damn it! We’ve got a job of our own to do. Let the Captain work out what to do with his new playmates. He’s counting on us to knock down those shuttles.” She tapped another control, then said, “Shuttle One to all Shuttles. No backup from Alamo now, so we’re on our own. Mesh your tactical systems with ours, and we’ll punch in towards those fighters.”

   “Then what?” a voice asked.

   Glancing down at her navigation screen, she said, “Then for us the battle’s pretty much over. We’re going to be crowding on the acceleration enough to throw us on a course to take us out of the combat zone for a later link-up with Alamo.”

   “Assuming Alamo’s still in existence then,” Hooke muttered.

   “One pass, guys, then all of this is over. Let’s make it count.”

   Throwing a series of switches, she armed the missiles then settled back into her couch for the burn, trying to ignore the stream of quiet complaints from the man next to her. Of all the co-pilots she could have been stuck with, she had to end up with this one. Warning lights began to flash from the engine, alerts that she was burning too long, using too much fuel, but she just ignored them. The shuttle had one destination, and it was to intercept the four arrowheads up ahead.

   Her warbook began to flash up information as fast as the sensors could gather it; these had been significantly modified from anything she had seen before. Bigger engines, toughened nose – were these actually intended to ram a ship? - more passenger space, and worst of all, a small cluster of missiles. This wasn’t going to be a bombing run, it was going to be a duel.

   “Focus on giving our warheads some cover, Hooke,” she said. “They’ll try and scramble them on the way in.” She glanced up at a readout, “Thirty-one seconds to contact.”

   “They’ll be trying to shoot at us as well,” he said. “I’m going to try and cover our butts and call it a win.”

   “Hooke, you will do what I say or you can find another ride home!”

   Sullenly, the technician returned to his work, while Barbara tried to concentrate on her own flying while keeping an eye on the other two. The rest of her flight had fallen into a ragged formation that any instructor would have condemned as hopeless, but it had the virtue of being a surprise to the enemy. It certainly was to her.

   “Fourteen seconds to range,” she said. “I’ll fire in twenty.”

   “Not right away?” Hooke replied. “We could turn off, then, head out of the battle area…”

   “Our job is to get those missiles to their targets, not to save our own skin.”

   Pressing home, she looked up as she saw a red light flash on, the enemy forces ahead drifting into missile lock. Working the controls, she sent the shuttle dancing across the sky, trying to frustrate the enemy systems, and Hooke finally began to work, furiously entering commands.
>
   “In firing range,” she said, and then to the other shuttles, “Go for time-on-target, people.”

   “They’re launching! Three missiles! At us!”

   “Where did you think they would fire them, Hooke?”

   Her hand reached down to the controls, and with a casual flick she threw the launch levers, not knowing quite what to expect. The force of the launching missiles spun the shuttle off its course, sending it into a brief corkscrew before she regained control. With a glance across at the sensors, she saw six trails racing towards their target.

   The other shuttles had tarried longer than she had hoped, but their missiles were running now, fanning out in a wave to match hers, racing towards the boarding shuttles. She could concentrate on evasive action now, tossing the shuttle into a series of spins, knowing that it was unlikely to do any good but unable to just sit back and wait.

   Hooke was typing furiously now, sweat running down his forehead as he worked to protect their missiles while deflecting those of the enemy, his eyes leaping from one readout to the next, while he kept up a constant string of muttered curses. He might be annoying, but he seemed to know his stuff; two of the incoming missiles crashed into each other, while all six of theirs ranged towards their target.

   Then the modifications made to the enemy shuttles became obvious; their acceleration abruptly increased enormously to a level that must have made their crews borderline unconscious, but which forced the missiles to hastily change track to compensate. Somehow, the Cabal had managed to install afterburners; this was no quickly-improvised trick, the burn was lasting too long for that. This was planned.

   Barbara allowed herself a quick, satisfied smile as she saw one of her missiles swing around in a long arc, racing towards its target while the rest fell short, and a brief blossoming flame in the sky as it exploded just about the engine, sending the remains of the shuttle into a spiraling trajectory away from the battle.

   Most of the missiles had been scattered all over the field of battle; the area was swarming with interference from the electronic warfare officers, and the missile guidance systems were struggling to cope. As the boarding shuttles curved away, she saw three more flashes in brief succession, and thought for a moment that they had accomplished their goal, only to be met by a doleful expression from Hooke.