“Understood, sir,” Fox replied. “We're on the way.”
“Sensors coming up now, sir,” Fischer replied. His eyes widened, and he added, “Bandits! Bandits in the sky! Six coming, time to combat range, two minutes minus!” Turning to Clarke, he added, “How did you know, sir?”
“I'm getting psychic in my old age, Spaceman. See if you can work the bulkheads. We've got to isolate the ship if we can.” Petrova was moving to the door, and he added, “You late for something?”
“We've got to get out of here at once. This ship is in pieces, and...”
“If my guess is right, Pioneer isn't the target. Our shuttles are.”
“We still have time...”
“Damn it, Petrova, you'd never even make it to the airlock! And even if we somehow managed to get everyone onto the shuttles, we'd be shot down before we got anywhere near orbit. Six bandits. Closing fast. Track their trajectories on the screen, and let me know when they drop their birds!” Looking around the room, he turned on the communications technician, and said, “Boyd, tell me we've got some countermeasures working.”
“Sorry, sir, but I was told never to lie to an officer.”
“He isn't an officer,” a fuming Petrova said, glaring at Clarke. Blake turned to her, disdain dripping from her face, and guided her back to her station.
“That man is ten times the officer you are ever going to be, rook! Mind your console!” Moving to the engineering panel, she said, “The outer hull is in pieces right now, John. We're not going to be able to take any impacts. Recommend we shut down all external power feeds. Play dead.”
Eyes wide, Boyd said, “The ship is spread over half a mile of terrain. I'm not sure how much deader we can make her look.”
Frowning, Petrova added, “The shuttles. We could launch them remotely. Make it look as though we've managed to get clear of the ship.”
“They'll have us under full observation,” Blake replied.
“Maybe,” Clarke said, “but there are only eight out on the surface right now. They don't know where the rest are. Launch one of the shuttles, Petrova, and see if you can put it on a plausible trajectory. Try for the planet, not for Alamo. We don't want to be too obvious.”
“Why not head back for the ship?”
“Because if I'd had time to get us out of here, then I'd have tried for somewhere with an atmosphere to hide in. One where I could safely bail out if I had a chance. And I don't have time to explain my orders, damn it, so just get it done!” As a frowning Petrova moved over to the remnants of the helm, Clarke took her place at the sensors, adrenaline surging through his system. Blake looked across at him, as though seeing him for the first time.
His fingers moved across the controls, and he looked up at the trajectory plot, watching the six targets move into position. There was nothing he could do to stop them, nothing any of them could do. The blast doors slammed shut, sealing each compartment from the rest of the ship, but that was only of limited value. Petrova's assessment had been right. Pioneer could not withstand an impact, even a glancing one. The superstructure was in pieces, and the hull was being held together by hope and prayer.
“Eighty seconds to projected missile launch,” he said. “Boyd, can you raise Alamo?”
“Sorry, sir. All channels are being jammed. We can't get a signal through, and I still can't get a bead with a message laser.” Looking up from the useless controls, she continued, “Too much damage. We haven't even had a chance to begin repairs.”
“And if you want more good news,” Blake added, “there are no spacesuits in the locker, and the rescue balls have already been deployed.” Glaring at Boyd, the hacker simply looked at her and shrugged.
“All of them popped when we crashed, and I stayed in one for twelve hours in case there was another hull breach. I haven't had time to fix them. Didn't seem like a high priority.” Turning to Boyd, he added, “Let me take a look at your console, Spaceman. There might be something we can do.”
“Shuttle One launching now,” Petrova said. “Course is computed and programmed. Will be entering orbit in four minutes. Assuming those fighters give it a chance.”
Clarke watched as the shuttle soared into the sky, knowing that they were committed to remaining on the moon. Sixteen of them had left Alamo, and they'd found one survivor. Seventeen people, and their single remaining shuttle could only carry twelve. Fourteen, perhaps. Which meant three of them had to stay behind.
As the fighters moved into position for their final attack run, twelve missiles locked on and ready to fire, it occurred to him that he might be worrying over nothing. The chances of there being a single working shuttle left to them at the end of this battle seemed remote, and even a near-miss could wreck Pioneer, exposing them to the cold vacuum of space. Living through the next five minutes would be enough of a challenge for the present.
Three of the fighters broke away, heading for the shuttle, reducing the number of missiles that would shortly be raining down upon them by half. It rankled to admit it, but Petrova might have just saved their lives.
“Fox to Clarke,” his communicator barked. “We're all in cover, though I don't think we're going to have to face anything worse than shrapnel. I'll have my team move in as soon as the dust settles. I managed to snatch some rescue gear from Shuttle Two.”
“Just stay clear until you are certain there is no danger. The power packs could do a lot of damage if they blow, and we're sitting on four warheads that your team placed to destroy the ship. I'm really hoping that your demolitions team is as good as they think they are.”
“They're the best. Good luck, sir. Fox out.”
“How the hell do you do that?” Petrova said, turning from the helm. “How can you be so damned calm? We're looking at six missiles slamming into us in less than two minutes!”
“No point in dying all tensed up.”
A part of Clarke agreed with Petrova, longed to rant and rave about the unfairness of it all, to make a vocal protest to the universe that they should have been alerted, that Alamo should have found a way to defy the laws of physics and warn them of the danger they were facing, but it would be a waste of time.
“Sit down, everyone, and strap yourselves in,” he said, sliding into the command chair out of instinct, pulling on the restraints. Blake dived for the helm, snatching the depleted medical kit from the wall, and waited with the rest for the final seconds before missile launch.
“Here they come!” Fischer said. “Looks like they're going for the shuttle. Glad we parked it so far away, sir.”
“A quarter-mile isn't much, Spaceman,” Clarke replied with a smile. “I never thought I'd be hoping for an enemy gunner to get a direct hit.”
The viewscreen flickered into life, showing a view of the lunar surface, the shuttle focused at the center of the screen. To one side, a tactical display appeared, showing the missiles diving towards them, the fighters pulling back, racing for Waldheim, as though fearing that Pioneer might lash out at them, find some way to attack.
“If we had one working missile tube,” Boyd muttered. “One shot would give us a chance.”
“And rain flaming shrapnel across the plain,” Hooke replied, still poking at the controls. “I can't crack in, sir. We just don't have the bandwidth for me to do anything, and we lost most of the database in the crash. Backup systems only.” Slamming a fist on the console, he added, “I had two weeks to patch this up, damn it!”
“You weren't to know what was coming,” Clarke replied. “Twenty seconds to impact. Hang on, everyone. This is going to be rough.”
He could see them now, six dots on the screen, converging on the same point on the surface. A brief flare lit the sky above, winking out of existence as Shuttle One died, ripped apart by multiple missile impacts. Petrova had worked the controls until the last second, but it never had a chance, not caught in a swarm of that size. She raised her han
ds to the console, her eyes fixed on the viewscreen.
“Five seconds,” Fischer said. “Four. Three. Two. One. Impact.”
Dust fell from the ceiling as the ship shook, the force of six ten-kiloton warheads erupting less than a mile away setting the earth shaking. A plume of dust soared into the sky, driven by the explosions and the force of escaping atmosphere, white-hot metal cooling in an instant as the remnants of the shuttle's hull were tossed in all directions. An eerie rattle came from the hull, the sound of the shrapnel landing all around, and a siren wailed from the engineering console.
“Hull breach,” Hooke said. “Lateral communications array. I don't think anyone was in that part of the ship.”
“If they were, they aren't any more,” Blake replied. She pulled out her communicator, and said, “All personnel, report status at once, and keep it short.”
“Fox reporting. All personnel on the surface came through, but there's nothing left of Shuttle Two except a pile of glowing wreckage. I can't see any serious damage to Pioneer, but there are a couple of atmospheric leaks I can spot even from here. We're heading in to handle damage control.”
“Damn it!” Boyd said, stabbing her console. “That impact took out the only long-range communications array we had left. I've got no way of contact Alamo. We don't even have a pickup for a laser signal now, sir. We're deaf and dumb.”
“All personnel inside the ship are accounted for,” Blake said. “No injuries, no casualties at all, and Conner is already working on damage control to seal the leaks.”
“What now?” Petrova asked, speaking the words on everyone's mind. “We can't contact Alamo, we can't get off this rock, and Waldheim can take us out whenever they want!”
“True,” Clarke said. “But as a greater man than I once said, we have just begun to fight.”
“Fight? With what?”
A smile crept on Clarke's face, and he replied, “We've got eight Espatiers and eight engineers, and a ship full of spare parts. I'm sure we can come up with some nice surprises for Waldheim when she flies past us again.” Looking around, he added, “We work the problem, and we improvise a way off this rock. So let's get going.”
Chapter 7
Salazar threw his restraints free, rising to his feet as the shuttle settled on Alamo's hangar deck. Not waiting to begin post-flight, he stabbed the emergency release on the cockpit airlock, climbing up into the docking bay, Foster hard on his heels. Pandemonium reigned in the hangar, Alamo's fighter squadron returning form its mission, technicians and pilots racing to the beat of the klaxon, still pounding into the air. Lombardo raced towards him, a smile on his face that quickly transformed into disbelief as he saw Foster.
“Welcome back, Pavel,” he said. “Captain wants the two of you in his office, right away.”
“Good,” Salazar replied, gesturing at the elevator. “We got emergency priority?”
“All the way to the bridge.” Turning to Foster, he added, “What's going on?”
Pausing for a second, Salazar said, “You'd better come with us, Art. If I was reading Alamo's trajectory right, then we're going to need to move quickly on this one, before Waldheim can swing around for another strike.” Looking amidst the confusion, he yelled, “Chief?”
“Right here, boss,” Kowalski, Alamo's ubiquitous quartermaster, replied.
“Get all the atmospheric shuttles ready for launch on the double. Full passenger load, fast turnaround on the surface. Then page Frank Rhodes and have him report to the bridge, and tell him that we're going to need the whole platoon for a planetary assault operation. Get his kit on board.” Gesturing at the fighters, he added, “And get our birds refueled and rearmed.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Senior Lieutenant McCormack, the commander of Alamo's flight wing, replied. “Who the hell are you to be giving orders?”
Glancing at his watch, Salazar said, “We've got a little under thirty minutes for the Captain to make his decision to approve the mission I'm about to recommend. If we don't start our preparations right now, then thirty people are going to die and we'll never get home. Now, do you want to continue this argument, or do you and Lieutenant Murphy want to come with us?”
“I'm coming, Pavel,” Murphy said, pushing past her superior. “I think I know what you've got in mind, and it sounds like fun.”
“Fun?” Foster said, shaking her head. “Prepare yourself for a disappointment, Lieutenant.”
Salazar slammed the control to open the elevator door, jumping inside as the servicing crews began their work under the barking commands of Kowalski. For a second, he thought that McCormack was going to stay behind, but she squeezed in with the others at the last minute, a withering stare directed at Salazar.
“Who is this, anyway?” she asked, turning to Foster.
“Lieutenant Valerie Foster,” Salazar replied. “Latterly Tactical Officer of the Scoutship Pioneer.” Turning to Lombardo, he added, “I'm actually sorry to see you, Art. I'd hoped that Alamo had avoided getting caught up in the wormhole.”
“You and me both,” he said. “Sabotage at the last minute. Republic, if you can believe it. Nothing we could do about it. No damage from our engagement with Waldheim, but we didn't get any good hits on her, either.” He paused, then added, “They did manage to launch a strike on Pioneer. We haven't had any contact with the salvage team since the battle.”
“Who was commanding?”
“Midshipman Clarke.”
“What the hell was he doing commanding a salvage operation in hostile territory?”
With a wry smile, Lombardo said, “I'm Acting Systems Officer, Pavel. And currently the only commissioned officer in that department. We're a little short-handed in some key positions. Besides, you were already having fun on the surface.” He paused, sighed, and said, “We didn't get a good look at the battle, but we did see one of the shuttles trying to escape. Bastards shot it down without even a warning.”
Frowning, Foster said, “He tried to escape with fighters heading his way?”
“Knowing Clarke, he probably had something else in mind,” Salazar said. “We'll have to deal with that later. Right now we've got a date with Dante.”
The door opened, and Salazar led the group onto the bridge, a confused Rhodes waiting for him, standing outside Marshall's office. Caine looked up at his arrival, then frowned as she saw the collection of officers tumbling out of the elevator.
“I think the Captain wanted a personal briefing...”
“We don't have time for that,” Salazar said. “Sorry for opening up the guest list, but he's got a big decision to make, and damn near no time in which to make it. I wanted to get all the critical staff present.” With a grin, he added, “Think we can all squeeze into the office?”
“Hell, let's hold it on the bridge,” Marshall said, stepping into the room. “Glad to see you, Foster. Congratulations on the promotion. What's the situation down on the surface?”
“Desperate, sir, and that's what we want to talk about.” She stepped over to the helm, reaching over Imoto's shoulder to enter a sequence of commands, bringing an image of local space into view. A line reached out from Alamo's location, a suggested course change that would take them closer to the planet, taking them dangerously close to the enemy battleship.
“We need to alter course in the next five minutes if this is going to work, sir.”
“Into a firefight?” McCormack replied.
Glaring at Salazar, Marshall asked, “Damn it, Pavel, what's the story?”
“We've got thirty stranded people on the surface, sir, and they're almost certainly under attack by a substantial United Nations force as we speak. They did everything they could to keep their settlement concealed, but there's only so much they can do. Any time now, our people on the surface will be wiped out.”
“Then we send in the shuttles, with a fighter escort, to pick them up,” McCorm
ack replied. “I'd be happy to command such an operation, but for once I'm forced to agree with Lieutenant Salazar. If we're going to do this, we need to start work immediately.” Turning to Rhodes, she added, “And we'll have to keep the shuttles as light as possible. Just one pilot, and...”
“I'm afraid there's more to it than that,” Foster replied. “We found an alien base on the surface, a large one. Lieutenant Carpenter believes that there is a connection between the site and the wormhole. Certainly there is ample evidence that it was built by a culture more technologically advanced than our own.” Stepping towards Marshall, she continued, “As of now, the UN forces don't know of its location, though we have some evidence that they've found a site of their own.”
With a sigh, Marshall replied, “I think I know what's coming, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. You don't just want to rescue our people on the surface. You want to fight a land war with the UN troops down on the planet.”
“We named it Dante,” Foster said.
“That's out of the question,” McCormack said. “Supporting a force that large on the surface would be impossible, not while Waldheim is in the picture. And I don't like our odds of surviving a full-scale engagement. We were lucky, this time, but if they'd managed to catch us by surprise, we'd have been destroyed. Captain, I think we can get our people out, but we're going to have to concede this planet to the UN. I don't believe this mission profile is realistic.”
Caine sighed, nodded, then said, “She's right, Pavel. They'll outnumber our forces considerably, and they'll be able to send reinforcements down with more rapidity than we can. All we can do is pull our people off the surface, and gather as much data as we can.”
Francis looked at Salazar, then turned to Marshall, and asked, “What would be the point?”
“Excuse me?” Marshall asked.
“We're four hundred thousand light years from home, and at the moment, we've got no way of getting back. The wormhole that brought us here has closed, and while we can hope that another one exists somewhere in this part of space, we don't have any good idea as to where it might be.” Turning to Ballard, he asked, “Spaceman, could you tell me how many stars are within twenty light-years of our current location?”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Page 7
