Without a second thought, Salazar pulled a grenade from his pocket and raced towards the machine gun nest, screaming a battle cry to distract the gunners for a critical second as he tapped the control, tossing the grenade ahead of him before rolling away to the right, just in time to avoid a raking blast of flame from the barrel of the gun. A ball of flame erupted in front of him, destroying the weapon and clearing the path for the squad, but before he could celebrate, he felt something slam into the side of his head, and collapsed to the ground, the world fading away as he fell to unconsciousness.
An eternity later, he felt someone shaking him, saw a blurry finger dancing before his eyes, and a vaguely recognizable voice in the far distance, calling him back from oblivion. Pain filled his universe, stabbing into his head, and hands around him reached down, tugging him upright, while someone tipped a canteen into his mouth, water spilling down his face.
“What happened?” he said, seeing the familiar face of Garland, one of the Pioneer survivors. “Why didn't you go up on the shuttle?”
“I thought you might need me down here more than they needed me up there,” Garland said. “He's all yours, Lieutenant. The painkillers should kick in again in a few minutes.” Turning back to Salazar, he continued, “I'd order you to restricted duty, sir, but knowing you as well as I do, it would be a waste of breath. Just take it easy for a few days. You had a bad blow to the head, and some concussion. I've fixed you up, and there's no permanent damage.” He paused, and asked, “How's that new eye of yours?”
“Working fine,” Salazar replied. He struggled to stand, the pain in his head down to a dull throb, and asked, “How long was I out?”
“About an hour. Don't take this the wrong way, but you weren't our top priority. A lot of people were hurt worse than you were, and I figured you could use the rest. Incidentally, you had a cracked rib from that crash of yours this morning, so I patched that up at the same time. Next time, consider seeing a doctor when you get yourself wounded. I'm just a paramedic, remember.”
“How do you feel, Pavel?” Harper asked.
“Like someone just hit me on the side of a head with a rock,” Salazar replied. He looked around at the battlefield, troopers lining up corpses, medics moving back and forth to deal with the wounded. The smell of death and cordite assaulted his nostrils, and Harper tipped the canteen into his mouth again, giving him another cool drink of water. “What happened?”
“I think you went to sleep at about the height of the fighting,” she replied. “From there it was all on our side. Weber managed to lead a charge into their rear, knocked out a couple of people with fancy uniforms, and the enemy lines broke for the desert. There wasn't much we could do to chase them, but Rhodes took a fire team out to shadow them at a distance. He's on his way back.”
“Where did they go?”
“Some buggies picked them up about three, four miles away.” She smiled, and added, “They really wanted to get some distance before taking any risks. I'd say we've knocked out a good third of their ground forces here. The only problem is that I think we killed the idiot who ordered the attack, so I suspect they'll do a better job next time.”
“No next time,” he said, another wave of pain racing through him. “Need to get outposts out, defensive positions prepared. Those hills...”
“Relax,” she said. “Weber's already on it.”
Nodding, he asked, “The butcher's bill?”
“Four dead, twelve wounded, three of them critically. We've got a reasonable medical set-up down here, so we should be able to save everyone, though ideally we'd want to get them back to Alamo. We ended up with about the same number of enemy wounded, as well. A few prisoners. Lombardo and Carpenter are interrogating them now, but none of them seem to know much. Looks as though their superiors were keeping them in the dark.” Looking around the battlefield, she added, “Well, Pavel, you got your foothold in the desert. Now we've just got to hold onto it.” As he lurched to the side, she added, “Though for the present, the only place you are going is your rack.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied with a smile, as he let her escort him back to the dome.
Chapter 12
Clarke pushed the debris off the table, the shattered fragments of ceiling panel slowly tumbling to the floor in the low gravity, and slid his datapad into position, tapping a control to turn it into an improvised holoprojector. Fox, Conner, Blake and Petrova walked into the meeting room, taking positions around the table, walking over the heaped piles of wreckage.
“Conner, tell me you have some good news. Lie if necessary.”
The engineer frowned, nodded, then said, “Some. I've had a proper look at the shuttles, and I think we might be able to turn the two broken pieces into one working vehicle. There's no realistic way we'll be able to make it airtight, though, which means the passengers are going to need to wear rescue balls. The cockpit is still sealed, so the pilot will have an easy time of it.”
“Rescue balls?” Fox asked. “Not suits?”
“No room,” Conner replied. “As it is, we're going to have to pack everyone in three to a ball, and that means that the life support systems will only last for an hour or so. I've run through some course projections, and our next window to hook up with Alamo is in around sixty hours. Assuming that they remain on their current trajectory. Otherwise, we can make it to planetary orbit with a window in forty-nine, but I'm not sanguine about being ready in time.”
“How do we fit seventeen people on a shuttle meant for ten?” Blake asked.
“Light gravity, and a lot of extra fuel tanks. We caught one break. There are a couple of detachable fuel tanks in the hangar workshop. Someone must have been working on them, part of the normal maintenance cycle. I checked them over, and while it's going to be a pretty wild and uncomfortable ride, I don't think we'll have any problems making it back to the ship.”
“Based on that,” Petrova said, “we don't need to worry about repairs to Pioneer. We can just set the explosives and go.”
“I'm going to guess that communications still aren't an option,” Clarke said.
“Both shuttles lost their antenna, and fixing them would take long enough that we'll be faster hand-delivering our message to Alamo. Of course, once we get within ten thousand miles, our hand units will work, so I've fitted the components into the cockpit to allow the pilot to talk to the ship. That's easy enough.” Connor sighed, and said, “If we work around the clock, and we're not worrying about anything else, then I think we can put the pieces together in time. No fancy flying, certainly no chance of atmospheric flight, but if we're just on a low-acceleration burn to Alamo, I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work.”
“Sergeant,” Clarke said, “tell me about the defense perimeter.”
“Does it matter?” Petrova asked. “You heard Conner. We've got our way off this rock, and we don't have anything here to defend.”
“Sergeant,” Clarke repeated. “If you please?”
Nodding, Fox said, “I've held back four plasma carbines for us, and set the rest on an automatic firing sequence across the perimeter of the ship, isolating everything for about a quarter-mile. If anyone tries to land in that area, they'll be in for a world of pain, and the same can be said about a ground assault. Each one has about four shots each, though. Power packs aren't very good on these models, and we've got no realistic way of recharging them.”
“Still, at least we have something up our sleeves in case Waldheim launches another strike,” Blake said. “Though I suppose there's nothing we can do about another aerial assault. Conner, can you complete work on the shuttle inside the hangar, without anything appearing on the surface?”
“I think so, but naturally they'll see us going back and forth. I can't think of any way to camouflage that, and they might suspect something.”
Frowning, Clarke said, “Can you spare an engineer for half an hour or so? Have him do s
ome work on the roof, make it look as though he is sealing leaks? With a little luck, they'll think that we're putting together some sort of emergency shelter, trying to maximize or stay time.”
Nodding, Conner replied, “I think so. We can rig up some waste gas leaks as well, put on a bit of a show. Not a problem, sir. I'll get that arranged as soon as possible.”
“Good,” Clarke said, looking around the room. “It looks as though we've managed to find a way to escape this ship, so now we have to return to our primary objective.” Reaching for his datapad, he swiped across the screen, his finger momentarily casting a strange shadow on the ceiling, and an image of local space appeared, showing Waldheim on an intercept course with Alamo, two days in the future.
“Real objective?” Conner asked. “I thought we came down here to salvage components. Sir, we're going to struggle as it is. I don't think that we're going to be able to take anything with us.” She paused, then added, “Though we can do a full upload of all data in the ship's network, of course. That shouldn't be a problem. We need to run...”
“No,” Clarke asked. “Go ahead and do that, Spaceman, but it isn't what I was talking about.”
“Then what is our objective?” Petrova asked, a scowl on her face.
“Our ship is under attack by a superior adversary, Midshipman, and unless the situation changes, there's a chance that there won't be anywhere for us to return to. You heard Conner’s report on the shuttle. Even if the planet represented long-term survival prospects for us, we'd never make it down to the surface. That means we've got to get back to the ship, and that we have to give Alamo it's best possible chance of winning the fight.”
“What can we do about that from down here?” Petrova asked, shaking her head. “I've already gone over what's left of the weapons systems, and it doesn't amount to a damn thing. Just a pile of worthless scrap metal. No missiles, no probes, no combat fabricator, nothing that we can use. The combat capability of this ship is less than zero.”
All eyes locked on Clarke, and he replied, “Not what I meant. No, we're not going to be fighting a space battle any time soon, but there are still some options left open to us. Think about it. What was the reason for their attack on us, during the firefight?”
Fox smiled, nodded, and said, “A distraction move. They were trying to draw Alamo away from the planet, to force them to move to our support and rescue rather than pursuing their own objectives. They wanted to steal the initiative, but Captain Marshall didn't fall for the bait.”
“Exactly, Sergeant,” Clarke said. “So all we have to do is find a way to make them attack us again, and to convince them that we represent a significant threat to their survival. There's no need to actually develop that capability, just convince them that we have.” A smile spread across his face, and he added, “In short, I mean to play poker with General Estrada, and try and force him to concede the game. If Waldheim or its fighters are here, fighting us, then they won't be attacking Alamo, and right now...”
“Damn it, Clarke,” Petrova said, “You have got to be out of your mind! You actually want them to launch a strike on us? The last one almost finished us off, and this ship is damn near porous from all the micro-fractures. One significant hit, even a near miss, and we're all dead.”
“There are seventeen of us here, Midshipman,” Clarke said, his voice mournful. “As far as we can work out, there are at least thirty of our comrades down on the planet, and more than a hundred more on Alamo. We're no longer engaged on a mission-critical objective, and that means that anything we accomplish is of limited importance, unless we can contribute to the survival of the ship, and the success of whatever they are attempting to accomplish on the surface.”
“We don't even know what that is,” Conner said.
“Doesn't matter,” Clarke replied. “I don't know Captain Marshall that well, but I think I know him well enough to know that he wouldn't launch a major planetary assault without a damned good reason, and I can't help but think that it has something to do with the wormhole. It dumped us less than a million miles from an inhabitable world. There has to be a connection, and my guess is that they're down there looking for it.”
Nodding, Blake said, “That battleship is a pretty impressive vessel, but it only has limited resources, and can only be in one place at a time. If we can draw them our way, we can take off a lot of the pressure facing Alamo...”
“And doom ourselves in the process,” Petrova replied.
“There are ways that we can mitigate the risk,” Fox said. “We've already prepared some trenches, and the caches of emergency equipment would help.” She looked at Petrova, and added, “Odds are the rest of my platoon are down on that planet fighting for their lives. If there is anything we can do to help them, we're damn well going to do it.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?” Blake asked. “Make it look as if we've got some sort of weapons system? The amount of work required would be extraordinary, and we haven't got the engineers available.”
Nodding, Conner said, “I'm worrying enough about sparing the time for the work on the hangar roof, sir. We don't have the raw materials or the personnel to even begin a project like that.”
“What's down on the planet?” Clarke asked. “What could Alamo and Waldheim be looking for down there? Something connected with the wormhole, which likely means some sort of artifact.” Looking around the room, he continued, “They don't have any concrete idea why this ship came down where it did, do they? Meaning that for all we know, this was intentional.”
Petrova's eyes widened, and she replied, “You want to trick them into thinking that Pioneer planned to crash down on this wasteland?”
“No, but we might be able to make it look like an accident. The gravity field of this moon is extremely low. Landing a starship isn't exactly normal routine, but it ought to have been possible, had that been what this ship's commander had in mind.” Leaning forward, he continued, “So, let's say that the crew spotted something during a close flyby, something interesting enough that they decided to launch a full investigation. If we found out about it, what would we do?”
“Move to secure the area from attack, and start excavation,” Fox said, nodding. “I get it, sir. You want to fake an archaeological dig.” A smile crossed her face, and she said, “Plenty of caverns in the hills to the north, not quite a mile away. We can move some crates out there, wander around in that region, maybe organize as though we're conducting a survey.”
“This is insane,” Petrova replied. “I'm sorry, but can you hear yourselves? Even if this crazy plan was actually to work, you're reliant on someone spotting these crazy excavations of yours and putting all of the pieces together. And making it look so perfect that they abandon their pursuit of Alamo and instead come after us.”
Nodding, Fox said, “And when they do, Midshipman, I can promise you that we will give them a fight that they don't forget in a hurry. We've got enough armament to send them running home to mamma.”
Looking at Petrova with a wry smile on his face, Clarke said, “You have hit upon the weak part of the plan, but there's a way we can let them know what we're doing.”
“Maybe we should send them a signal, a data packet telling them all about our top-secret excavations,” Petrova said with a mocking sneer.
“Actually, that's basically what I had in mind,” Clarke said.
“This I have to hear,” Blake replied.
“How many deep-cover operatives does United Nations Intelligence have in the Triplanetary Fleet? Hundreds, at least. Most of which will only be known to a select few. All we have to do is pretend that there is a traitor among us, and arrange for a signal to be sent to Waldheim. They're jamming all frequencies to Alamo, but you can bet they've got someone monitoring, and given a little time, we can improvise something.”
Fox looked at Clarke, smiled, and said, “You said you were nineteen?”
“Yeah.”
“And I'm the High Empress of Saturn. One day, sir, you're going to have sit down with me and some of the troops and tell me all about your life story. My bet is we'll drink the bar dry before you run out of tall tales.”
“Don't get any ideas about me, Sergeant. I'm just a Midshipman.” Turning to Petrova, he said, “If I remember your service record, you got top marks in communications and combat hacking. And don't you have a grandfather on Earth?”
“Neuva San Diego,” she replied, eyes narrowing. “You don't mean that you want me...”
“I do,” Clarke said. “Consider it an order. Sergeant, you can lend your squad's hacker to Midshipman Petrova to assist her in establishing communications. You'll want to contact a Major Pastell, Waldheim's Security Officer. I'll arrange that you have the necessary ident codes.”
“You want to tell me where you got those from?” a sullen Petrova asked.
“Not especially.”
Looking squarely at him across the briefing table, she said, “You are giving me an order to commit treason, and...”
“Midshipman,” Clarke snapped, “I don't know about you, but I'm having a pretty bad day so far, and if you want to volunteer as the person I take my frustrations out on, then I'd be only too happy to indulge you. Some other time. For the present, I will provide you with written orders. Now, are you quite finished questioning my instructions, or can we call this meeting to an end and get back to work?” Silence returned his words, and he said, “Very good. Sergeant, I'll be out to the caverns in a few minutes, and we can discuss how we're going to proceed with our fake dig. Conner, I'll want a full status report on an hourly basis, and remember that the shuttle doesn't have to be perfect. Just good enough for one brief flight. Cut corners.” Looking around the room, he concluded, “Dismissed, everyone.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Page 12
