Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity

by Richard Tongue

 “I'm not sure that Garland would agree.”

   “I won't tell him if you won't.” Clapping Rhodes on the shoulder, he continued, “Have someone watching the ramp at all times. If anything goes wrong, blow the bomb. Don't take any unnecessary risks.”

   “I'll leave those to you,” he replied.”This is a hell of a gamble, Pavel.”

   “With a big payoff if it works,” Salazar said, pulling a rifle from the locker. “Just give me as much time as you can, and if everything goes to Hell, wish Captain Marshall the best from me.” Walking out into the chill of the night, he looked around for Quiller, waved his hand over, and called, “Corporal, to me!”

   “Sir?” the gruff-voiced man replied.

   “Special mission, for you and your fire team. How do you fancy a little spelunking?”

   A grin leered across the man's face, and he said, “We going hunting, sir?”

   “That we are, Corporal, that we are.” He paused, and said, “High-risk mission, Corporal. If you'd rather go out...”

   “Are you joking, sir? Go out in that wild desert? Who knows what might be lurking out there, ready to jump out at us. Give me a nice safe cavern any day of the week, and if you can give me a few Unies for target practice, so much the better.” Turning to his men, he called, “Savina, get your butt over here on the double! Ditch the plasma rifles and grab all the grenades you can find.”

   “No plasma rifle, sir?” the young soldier asked.

   “Not in a confined space, you idiot! Besides, we're going to need a lot more than half a dozen shots where we're going.” Leading the way to the buried entrance at the trot, Salazar winced from the pain in his side as his team assembled, reaching in his pocket for a painkiller. Behind him, Rhodes was already giving orders, calling his distant patrols back in and preparing the defensive fortifications they were going to need when the attack came at dawn.

   Salazar's communicator bleeped again, and he tugged it open in time to hear, “Webster to surface. Come in, please.”

   “I read you, Corporal, and help's on the way.”

   “Getting closer, sir. Best guess has them at the half-mile level, and converging on our position in two directions. South and Northeast. Our map shows a junction way, way down that they must be using as an access point.” There was a brief pause, static crackling over the speaker, and the trooper continued, “Orders, sir?”

   “Take your fire team and proceed northeast. Don't get separated, but your job is to hunt down the attacking force and stop them by any means necessary.” He stepped onto the ramp, peering down into the blackness, and continued, “Set your watch for nine hours, forty-one minutes. You've got to be back on the surface by then if you want a ride back to Alamo.” Turning to Quiller, he added, “Better set yours as well, Corporal.”

   “Way ahead of you, sir.”

   “Seek-and-destroy, sir?” Webster asked.

   “If possible, Corporal, but at all costs hold them up as long as you can. If you run into trouble, pull back to the Vault for a last stand. I doubt we'll be able to talk again until we both get back up the surface.”

   “Understood, sir. We'll do our part.”

   “Good hunting, Corporal.”

   “And to you, sir.”

   Sliding his communicator back into his pocket, Salazar jogged down the ramp, letting Quiller take the lead, the rest of the fire team following in their wake. He hefted the rifle in his hands, flicking the infra-red display into life and running a belated systems check.

   “We taking the southern path, sir?” Quiller asked.

   “That's the idea.”

   “I took a look at the charts, sir, and that path's a tangle of corridors and passages. It'd be pretty damned easy to get lost down there.”

   “Let's hope we can inspire such confusion in our adversaries, Corporal.”

   “We really getting out of here, sir?” Savina asked. Salazar turned to look at him, momentarily surprised by the youth displayed on his face. He looked as though he had yet to master shaving, and it seemed so damned unfair that he was out here, ready to sacrifice his life for his comrades, when by all rights he appeared as though he should be more concerned with fixing up a date for the Prom. Either the new recruits were getting younger, or he was getting older.

   Stepping into the Vault, the scale was overwhelming, and the sight of the countless tunnels snaking their way into the darkness revealed the scope of the mission they were attempting. Salazar looked at Quiller, resignation on his face, and gestured towards a tunnel that at least vaguely seemed to be heading in the right direction.

   “Two teams, sir,” Quiller said. “I don't think we have a choice.”

   “Agreed, Corporal,” Salazar replied. “Savina, you're with me. We'll take the tunnel on the left. There's a junction maybe a quarter-mile away, so we'll aim for that and try and link up back there. Take your time, and remember that communication will be problematic.” He paused, then said, “If you need help, fire three shots, a half-second apart, and we'll do our best to make contact. And for God's sake, remember the time-line.”

   “With you, sir,” Savina said, and the two of them made their way into the tunnel, the Vault rapidly disappearing behind them. Salazar set a quick pace, glancing down every side tunnel, shining his flashlight around. At the worried look from the young trooper, he smiled, and shook his head.

   “We want them to find us, kid. If we leave it to blind chance, we could be wandering around down here for years. Our best chance is if they come to us. Watch for cover, and watch for junctions.”

   “We're the bait?”

   “Something like that.”

   They moved on down the corridor, picking up faint noises all around, knowing that somewhere close by, the enemy were moving into position. Salazar already knew their battle-plan, knew what he would have done in their place. Scatter units all through the tunnels, each ready to move at the appointed time. A little over nine hours from now.

   “Sir,” Savina hissed. “Something down that way. I thought I saw a light.”

   “Where?” Salazar asked.

   “Down there,” the trooper said, easing down a side passage. Salazar glanced at their intended direction, then back at Savina, finally following him along the tunnel, crouching low as the ceiling dropped. Turning around a corner, he felt the floor giving way under him, his feet and hands flailing as he reached for a handhold, a way to stop himself from falling, but he couldn't react fast enough, dropping down into the gloom.

   On instinct, he rolled on the landing, wincing as he crashed into wall, knocking the air from his body. Trying to get his breath back, he looked around with his searchlight, and saw Savina crouched in a corner, clutching his leg, bone visible through his uniform.

   “Damn, damn, damn!” the trooper said, and Salazar knelt by his side, reaching for the medical kit at his belt. “How bad is it, sir?”

   “Going to be a while before you can hit the dance floor again, son,” he replied, trying to keep the worry from his face.

   “Should we call for help, sir?”

   “No,” he replied, with a confidence he didn't feel. “We don't know who'd get there first. Besides, I should be able to patch you up well enough to walk. After a fashion, at any rate.”

   “You think we can get out of here, sir?” the young trooper said, gasping with the pain.

   “Sure,” he lied. “Sure, son. I've seen much worse than this.”

   Nine hours. Nine hours to get out of here. He reached for his datapad, cursing as his fingers ran over the cracked screen. He glanced back up at the shaft, twenty impossible feet to climb.

   “Leave me, sir,” Savina said. “Go get help.”

   “Not a chance, kid,” he said, opening the medical kit. “We get out of here together, or not at all. Now just relax for a minute. This is going to hurt.”

  Chapter 19

   Clarke walked around the perimeter of the
shattered Pioneer, silently on patrol, periodically glancing up at the dull brown world hovering in the distance. Somewhere out there was Alamo, lost among the stars, and beyond, Waldheim, ready to strike at any moment. He glanced across at the countdown clock, stifling a yawn. Only fifty minutes now before they could escape this world for good, could return to the safety of their home ship.

   Off to the side, the Espatiers were still working on their fake excavation, though so far, the enemy had yet to take the bait. For hours, he'd been waiting for flashing shapes to swoop down from the sky, ready to wipe them out, perhaps buying Alamo the chance it needed to get clear of the system in safety, but there was nothing, no sign of any activity at all.

   In the distance, a solitary figure stood, looking out over a crater filled with crosses, dozens of them, buried deep in the regolith as monuments for all time. Hooke, watching his crew, never moving, never averting his gaze. He'd spent more and more time out there as the moment of their departure grew nearer, and Clarke couldn't bring himself to pull him away, no matter how badly they needed the help. A part of him would always be here, stranded on this moon with his dead comrades.

   A green light caught his eye, one of the plasma carbines forming the outer defensive perimeter, hastily installed to provide at least a modicum of defense against the attack he had been waiting for. Fox and her squad had done an excellent job, but he knew that it the best they could manage would be a glorious last stand, a final moment of valor to mark their death or capture. Death, likely, as the warheads still waited in the wings, ready for detonation.

   “Sir,” a voice said, echoing through his helmet. “We're about ready for the final testing sequence. I need to open the hangar doors, and we'll have to get everyone on board for it.”

   “Roger, Conner, I'm on my way.” He paused, then added, “And regardless of the outcome, Spaceman, my complements and congratulations to both you and your team. Putting the pieces back together in the time allotted and with such limited tools is a real triumph, and I will make sure that it is duly noted in the official report.”

   “All part of the service, sir,” the engineer smiled. Clarke didn't need to look at her to see the smile on her face, and she added, “I've computed a course to take us back to Alamo at closest approach. Which should be sometime in the next ninety minutes. We're looking at a ten-minute flight, and hopefully, a nice smooth docking.”

   “Excellent, Spaceman.” Turning over to Hooke, he switched frequencies, and said, “Time to go, friend.”

   “Huh?” Hooke replied, still looking out over the terrain. “Already?”

   “I thought you wanted to get away from here?” Walking over to him with a long, loping bound, Clarke said, “Hooke, nobody blames you for what happened, and I'm certain that your comrades wouldn't have wanted you to throw your life away for them. I can't imagine what you've gone through, but it's over. Time to go home.”

   “Sure,” Hooke replied, with a nod. “Home. I'm coming, sir.”

   Clarke turned, leading the way to the hangar, a stream of suited figures drifting over from the abandoned excavation. He smiled at the thought that someone, maybe in a year or a century, would stumble across these remains, perhaps spend weeks picking through their relics in a bid to discover what secrets they had uncovered here. All for a ruse that had failed, doing nothing other than digging deeper into the rock, carving a cavern into the side of a mountain. One permanent monument of their stay.

   He took the lead, pumping the handle to cycle the airlock, knowing that it would be the last time he had to complete that particular chore, waiting impatiently to get into the wrecked module, and into the shuttle beyond. As he stepped inside, tugging off his helmet, he looked over the battered lines of the hastily rebuilt ship, and shook his head in disbelief.

   In the time, Conner and her team had worked a miracle, slamming two shuttles into one, bolting reserve fuel tanks haphazardly around the sides of the hull, but somehow it didn't seem possible that this ship could actually fly. He swore that there was a bend in the middle, that the connections were out of alignment. Gaps were clearly visible in the sides of the hull, and any structural engineer would have got down to his knees and begun to cry at the misuse of machinery this shuttle demonstrated.

   “It'll fly,” Blake said, clapping her hand on her shoulder. “I'm sure you'll have no problem taking us home.” He looked at her, scanning for traces of sarcasm, and she continued, “It's a short hop and an easy burn. Nothing to worry about.”

   “I think I've found something, sir,” Fox said, standing by a side panel. “Company's coming.”

   Bounding over to the display, Clarke asked, “Details, Sergeant.”

   “Waldheim has altered course, moving to swing around the moon. In less than seventy minutes, we're going to have some friends, and they'll be in a perfect position for target practice.”

   “Our launch time…,” Petrova said.

   “Our launch time just got changed. How hot can we burn this bird, Conner?”

   “One-tenth gravity, sir. No more than that, and I wouldn't even push her that far unless we don't have a choice.” She paused, then said, “I guess we don't, sir. I'll recompute the course for an earlier launch, but we're going to be pushing the ship to the limit.” Looking across at the panel, she added, “There's a window in four minutes, sir. Long run, though, and a slow one. We won't get home for more than half an hour, and I can see a potential for interception by the enemy fighter squadron before we can make it back.”

   “Better a risk than a certainty,” Blake said. “I'd say we should take the chance.”

   “Should I detonate the missiles on takeoff, sir, or do you want to set them for motion detect?” Fox asked. “If they send a team down here, we might catch a few of them in the blast radius.” Clarke looked at the screen, silent, and the trooper repeated, “Sir, how...”

   “Sergeant,” he asked, “I assume those missiles can be rigged to detonate on impact?”

   “Of course, sir, but we don't have anything other than the warheads.”

   Reaching up to the display, he tapped controls, and said, “Waldheim's passing right over us. Less than forty miles up. They're having to push it that close in order to keep their rendezvous with Alamo.” Frowning, he added, “Likely they'll launch their fighters here, to take advantage of the boost for an intercept. No point keeping their birds in the firing line any longer than they need.”

   “Sir, we should be getting to the shuttle. Our revised takeoff time...”

   Turning to Petrova, he said, “Midshipman, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you get advanced pilot rating at the Academy?”

   “Top of the class,” she replied with a sneer. “Don't you think you can handle it?”

   “I'm staying,” he said, moving to the airlock.

   “What?” Blake asked.

   Gesturing at the sensor image, he said, “We've got a chance to really hurt that ship. Look, as things stand, Alamo's going to get smashed to pieces by Waldheim during the battle. There isn't a damned thing they can do about it, and our attempt to lure them in might have worked a little too well. I can give you cover as well, a chance to get back home in one piece. Otherwise the fighters will catch you, and all of this will have been for nothing!”

   “Attack?” Petrova replied. “What with?”

   “Pioneer.”

   “She's in pieces, scattered across half the planet, and you want to launch an attack?”

   “The forward section is just about intact, and she still has her lateral thrusters intact. If I time it right, then...”

   “You'd use the ship as a missile!” Fox said, looking at him in shock. “Ram Pioneer right down its gut, with all four warheads detonating at the instant of impact.” Shaking her head, she added, “They'd throw everything they had at you, sir. You'd be riding a fireball right the way in.”

   “John,” Blake said, “this is crazy, even by your s
tandards.”

   “I know,” he replied, “I just don't think there's any other choice. Not if the rest of you are going to get away. You're the one who called me Captain Clarke. Well, I seem to remember an old saying about the Captain going down with his ship.”

   “You'll be killed.”

   “Possibly.”

   “Probably. Almost certainly, damn it.”

   “And if I can bring down Waldheim, then I'd say that it would be worth it.” He paused, then added, “Four warheads, slamming into the right part of the ship, could cripple them. Certainly they'd lose enough ground that Alamo could get safely out of the system.” Gesturing at the trajectory plot, he added, “We know where our people are going. A hendecaspace point. In thirty minutes, you'll be on your way to a new system.” He paused, smiled, then added, “I'll just be staying behind.”

   “There has to be a better option.”

   “There isn't.” He looked around at the assembled crew, and said, “Get to the shuttle. And I wish you all good luck, and a safe passage back to Alamo.”

   “Are you sure about this?” Blake asked.

   “More than I have been about anything in my life. I'm the one who got us stranded here. Maybe this way I can atone for that.”

   “There's nothing to atone for, John.”

   “Maybe not, but this is just the way that it is going to have to be. Now get out of here.” Turning to Petrova, still waiting by the shuttle, he added, “Midshipman, I'm trusting you to get everyone back to the ship. Don't push too hard, and don't take any stupid risks. That's my job. Safe landing.”

   She looked at him, eyes narrowed, then turned and climbed into the cockpit, but hatch sliding shut behind her. Only Fox remained, waiting at the passenger airlock, her helmet clutched in her hand. Pausing, she turned to face him, then took a step back onto the deck.

   “I'm staying, sir. You're going to need all the help you can get to keep that ship in the air.”

   “Sergeant, board the shuttle.”

   “Sir, I really think…”