Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity

by Richard Tongue

   “It could be a trick, sir,” Francis replied.

   “I doubt it,” Caine said. “We haven't seen any sign of activity on the lunar surface since the initial attack. No ships have gone anywhere near it. They'd have had to have someone down there already.” She paused, then added, “And why go to the trouble of building a Frankenstein shuttle?”

   “Shuttle Flight is away, sir,” Francis said, looking across at a panel. “Red Flight on escort pattern. Green Flight is on immediate preparation for scramble, ten-second notice.”

   “Laser cannon charged,” Caine reported. “Missiles loaded and ready to fire. Waldheim is holding course and speed, and our closest approach is currently two thousand meters.” Shaking her head, she said, “One thruster misfire, and we'll smash right into them.”

   “A nice, optimistic thought, Deadeye,” Marshall said with a smile. “Time to contact?”

   “Three minutes, thirty seconds, sir.”

   “Now hear this,” Marshall said, reaching for a microphone. “Captain to Crew, attention. In a little over three minutes, we will be engaging UNSS Kurt Waldheim in a short, running battle. Our goal is to cause maximum damage to the enemy, to rescue our teams on the surface of Dante, and to escape this system and begin our journey home. That's what we're fighting for today, people. Our ticket back to the Confederation. Most of you have been in action before. Those who haven't, just focus on your work, your training, and your judgment, and we will get through the other side. Good hunting. Bridge out.”

   “Getting better at the pre-game warm-up,” Caine said, a smile on her face. “That one almost sounded convincing.”

   “Practice makes perfect, I guess.”

   “I wouldn't go that far, sir.” Flicking a control, she added, “Weapons and engines, Captain?”

   “Make a mess, Deadeye. Preferably smashing something they can't fix. Defensive fire until we get past them, then switch to full offensive. Assuming our plan works. Other than that, fire at will.” Leaning to the helm, he added, “Midshipman, we'll need a random walk pattern as soon as we enter firing range, but keep our closest approach within two miles at the most, and one would be better. We've got to get close to land our punch.”

   “I understand, sir,” Imoto said. “Evasion course is plotted and ready.”

   “Two minutes, ten seconds to contact,” Caine said. “Board is green. All decks are cleared for action, sir.” Glancing up at her sensor display, she added, “Shuttles are on trajectory for the planet, fighters preparing to alter course.”

   “Enemy fighter launch, sir!” Ballard reported. “Six fighters, heading for the shuttles.” She paused, then added, “They're trying for Dante orbit, sir, I think. After a short fly-past. Looks like they're heading to interdict the planet.”

   “That's going to make Salazar's ride home a little more interesting,” Francis replied. “Midshipman, can we intercept the fighters on our swing around the planet?”

   “No, sir, not without reducing our time on station. They're in the wrong orbit.”

   “They could hit us, though,” Caine replied. “Maybe we could try and lure them in.”

   “We've got to get through this pass first,” Marshall said. “Ninety seconds,0.000000 people.”

   Ninety seconds. And less than forty in the firing line. Two missile salvos, two shots with the laser cannon, and the full salvo from their mass drivers, a close range shot that the enemy wouldn't be expecting. Hopefully.

   “Enemy fighter launch!” Ballard said. “The rest of their squadron is in the air, on an intercept course. Standard attack pattern, bearing right down on us.”

   “Launch Green Flight,” Marshall ordered. “Red Flight to swing around. They are not, repeat, not to engage enemy fighters, but will save their missiles for attacks on Waldheim. Murphy is to feint, but nothing more than that.”

   “Aye, sir,” Francis said.

   The tangle of trajectories twisted on the screen, Waldheim still diving for Alamo, ready for its first pass. The onward plot showed her angling for a second flyby, thirty minutes into the future, after the shuttles had been picked up, before Alamo could leave the system. More than enough time for the battleship to rearm and refuel her fighters, ready for another attack to finish Alamo off.

   “Bowman, any signal from Waldheim, anything?”

   “Negative, sir, not a thing. I'm getting some intermittent signals from the lunar shuttle, but nothing I can make out at present. Still far too much interference for that, but they're definitely using Triplanetary signaling.”

   “Thirty seconds to combat range,” Caine said.

   “Hold on, everyone,” Marshall said, watching as the two ships closed, racing towards each other, eager to take the kill. The last seconds slipped away, and almost before he realized it, the warning lights snapped on, announcing that they had reached their target.

   “Energy spike!” Ballard yelled, and Imoto jammed his hand on the controls, sending Alamo skimming out of the way with a second to spare, Waldheim's laser pulse flashing harmlessly into space. Ten lights flashed onto the screen, missiles heading for Alamo, and Caine fired a salvo in response, the two waves of destruction heading towards each other.

   “Fighters are launching!” Caine said, glancing across at her screen. “We have responded.”

   Now the once-clear tactical display was a spaghetti-like mess of tangled trajectory tracks, dozens of missiles flashing towards each other, the fighters desperately diving out of the way. Caine tapped a control, burning a path through the confusion with Alamo's laser cannon, and a wave of explosions rippled across the screen, wreaking havoc on the missiles.

   When the screen cleared, there were four tracks still on the display, all of them racing for Alamo. Caine looked up at him, hands over the controls for the point-defense system, but he shook his head. Alamo could ride out the hits, had to take the chance if they were going to press home their attack. Imoto's hands danced across the controls as he rolled the ship around, trying to force the missiles into non-critical systems, fighting with the enemy tactical systems.

   “Point-defense weapons are ready,” Caine said. “Locked on Waldheim. If this works, we're going to make one hell of a mess, Danny.”

   “And if it doesn't,” Francis added, “We're dead.”

   “Impact in five seconds,” Ballard said. “Four. Three. Two.”

   “Hang on!” Marshall yelled, and the missiles slammed into the hull, the deck plates screaming as they warped and buckled, the shaped charges ripping open compartments, the ship spiraling out of control as atmosphere erupted into space. Somehow, Imoto managed to wrestle the ship back onto trajectory, playing the thrusters to guide it to closest approach, and with a load roar the echoed through the decks, the mass-drivers fired in sequence, hurling kinetic projections at the enemy.

   Waldheim's helmsman had seen the danger, had attempted to alter course at the final second, but he'd just run out of time. Eight out of the ten bolts slammed into the side of the ship, punching a row of neat holes in the hull armor. An instant later, fountains of escaping atmosphere burst through the breaches, sending spirals of debris into space and hurling the battleship to the side, catching an unfortunate fighter as it attempted to dock, a second explosion briefly visible on the far side of the ship.

   Caine threw a switch, hurling six missiles at the enemy, their flight paths flickering for brief seconds as they closed the range to the enemy ship, adding to the devastation, ribbing new scars into the side of the ship. Battered and beaten, Waldheim managed only a pair of missiles in response, both of them slamming into Alamo's aft section, sending her briefly spiraling out of control as Imoto struggled to hold her on course.

   “Easy, Midshipman,” Marshall said. “Ride it through.”

   “Trying, sir,” a white-faced Imoto said, his hands gripping the controls, sheer force of will finally putting her back on trajectory. Finally, the warning lights winked out
, and space ahead was clear, Alamo's path to Dante open.

   “Damage report,” Marshall said, turning to a wide-eyed Fitzroy.

   “Couple of dozen hull breaches, sir, most of them stress fractures. We've lost the aft sensors again, the auxiliary reactor has failed, as has the combat fabricator. Power grid systems failures on the sensor decks and aft habitation levels, and Sickbay is operating on auxiliary backups, but is ready to accept casualties.”

   “Good,” Francis said. “We've got a lot of them coming in. Best reports give us three dead, nineteen injured, most of them on the sensor decks. We took a hell of a pounding back there.”

   “How long to effect repairs on the combat fabricator?”

   Fitzroy looked up at him, and replied, “Hours, sir. Smashed all to hell.”

   “Which means all we've got is the missiles in the tubes right now. One salvo.”

   “Laser's out as well,” Caine added. “Too much damage to the radiators. We couldn't retract them in time. Easy fix, but we can't even attempt it in combat conditions.”

   “Bottom line, Spaceman,” Marshall said. “Can we jump out of here?”

   “Yes, sir, we can. No damage to the hendecaspace drive, and we can patch up the breaches in a matter of minutes. Damage control teams are already on the job.”

   “What about the enemy?” Caine asked, turning to Ballard.

   “Hurt, sir, and hurt badly, but I don't think it's going to be enough. We took out their secondary oxygen reservoir, and they've lost their primary hangar deck, but they still have eight out of ten missile tubes operational, and their main engine is still firing.” Grimacing, she added, “Tough bastard, sir. Those ships are built to take a lot of punishment. One bright spot, though, sir. I'm pretty sure that we've knocked out their hendecaspace drive, and if I'm reading these blueprints right, their long-range communications system should be fried.”

   “Bowman,” Marshall began.

   “Already on it, sir,” the communications technician said. “I'm getting signals, sir! Message from Lieutenant Foster, reports that she is on final approach and expects to be on the deck in less than two minutes. Signs of heavy fighting on the surface, but the landing site is clear. At least for the present.”

   “What about the lunar shuttle?” Francis asked.

   “Wait one, sir.” He paused, then said, “Got them. Very faint.” He frowned, then added, “Midshipman Petrova's in command. Something about a surprise that Midshipman Clarke has planned for Waldheim.”

   “We're going to need it,” Caine said, with a sigh. “Waldheim's still on trajectory, and unless something happens to change the picture in a hurry, she's bearing down on us with eight tubes ready, and her fighters back in the battle. Thirty minutes minus to contact.”

   “Evasive options?”

   Fitzroy looked across, and said, “If we try for full acceleration, sir, then we'll suffer dozens more stress fractures. They're in a better condition to accept serious damage than we are, sir, if we still want to jump after recovering our people.”

   “That's the intention,” Marshall replied.

   “Then they have the maneuvering edge,” Caine said. “Anything we can try, they can counter. As things stand, Captain, they're going to catch us three minutes from the egress point, with a window of opportunity that will give them all the time they need to wipe us from the map.”

  Chapter 22

   The rattle of automatic weapons fire echoed through the Vault. Salazar and Harper were crouched behind a hastily constructed barricade, attempting at all costs to hold off their adversaries. The United Nations Marshals continued to storm forward, gaining ground at a terrible price, bodies littered on the floor. Over to the side, the lifeless figure of Lance-Corporal Webster lay, still clutching his rifle in a death grip, dull eyes gazing forth.

   Out from the tunnels, shadowy figures scurried, moving from cover to cover under the flickering suppressing fire of their comrades, clouds of thick smoke filling the air. Flashing spotlights still danced around, occasionally providing brief illumination of one or another of their attackers before the beams moved on, still obeying their final commands.

   “Sir!” Quiller said, yelling from the rear. “Shuttles coming down, sir! Three minutes minus!”

   “Covering fire!” Salazar replied, not waiting for his command to be obeyed before turning from the barricade, emptying his clip with a firm squeeze of the trigger before sprinting to the ramp. For a moment, the half-squad at the far side of the Vault waited, firing blind into the darkness to pin down the enemy for a few seconds more, before they too broke and ran, sprinting for their lives to the temporary safety of the surface.

   Salazar's ribs ached, every step an effort, the painkillers he had overdosed on starting to wear off as he made for the surface, racing for the ever-growing pinpoint of light in the distant gloom, bullets tearing into the ground by his side. Harper kept pace, the rest of the squad by their side, and at the same instant, four hands rolled grenades behind them, dull thuds filling the air as the shrapnel lanced into the pursuing soldiers, blinding smoke buying them brief respite from the attack.

   Pounding feet ate up the remaining distance as they raced for the surface, the roar of the shuttles already audible as they grew closer, flashes of green light bursting overhead, testament to the battle being waged on the surface. Salazar glanced to the right, spotting the charges that had been positioned on the ramp when first they had learned of the potential threat from the alien city, and he redoubled his pace, desperate to see the surface once again.

   Lombardo peered down the ramp, a distant figure, his hand on a control panel and anxiety on his face. Salazar didn't dare to turn his head, but he knew what his friend could see behind him, enemy troopers closing, gaining ground, soon to spring their trap and launch their sneak attack. With a mournful frown, Lombardo tapped a button, and the world shook all around them, the charges exploding in sequences, tumbling rock and billowing smoke filling the air.

   Salazar was thrown from his feet, holding his hands over his head as lumps of the roof came down all around him, the screams of their pursuers briefly echoing through the air before being drowned out by the rocks. He pushed himself up, looking around to check on his men, then looked at the jumble of debris behind him. It could take weeks to tunnel a way through that, maybe longer. The shaft was buried, and the danger of an attack from the rear buried with them.

   “Come on, Pavel!” Lombardo yelled. “We've got no time at all! Foster will be landing any second now.”

   “On our way,” Salazar replied, pushing Quiller ahead of him to the top of the ramp, blinking at the sunlight he hadn't seen in hours as he stumbled out onto the desert sand. A battle more ferocious than the one he had escaped awaited him, and he dropped and rolled to the floor as machine gun fire flooded the air above him, trying to take advantage of his momentary carelessness.

   “What's the situation, Art?” he asked.

   “Under attack from all sides, sir. Four dead, last I saw, and more wounded. We're getting the casualties together to get them off first, and Ensign Rhodes is planning a running retreat with everyone else.”

   “We're going to be slaughtered while we board!” Harper said.

   Looking out across the field, Salazar said, “Quiller, we're going to buy them the time we need. Grab some plasma rifles. We'll hold to the end, down here at this part of the field.”

   “Yes, sir!” Quiller replied, racing to a pile of discarded equipment with the remains of his squad, gathering the weapons they would need to secure the perimeter. A ball of flame smashed into the ground close by, burning a new crater into the sand, and a cloud of acrid smoke rose into the air. Salazar turned and saw the dome on fire, flickering in the gathering light. In a few moments, they'd either be off this planet, or they'd be dead. No other options remained.

   He tried to pick out Rhodes in the distance, somewhere at the far side of the perimeter,
but the heavy smoke-laden air worked against him. This battle had fallen into chaos right at the start, the concerted attacks of their enemies pounding into the perimeter on every front. Raking machine gun blasts shuddered overhead, and a dull thud echoed from the rear, mortar fire coming in.

   “There they are!” Lombardo yelled, gesturing as a trio of shapes soared over the horizon, landing jets bursting flame all around, canisters dropping from improvised hard-points to rain flaming death on the enemy, burning a path through the destruction to reach their target.

   “Wounded to the ships,” Rhodes shouted from somewhere in the distance. “First Squad cover. Second and Third hold position until the last minute.”

   “Fourth Squad!” Salazar said, “Suppressing fire!”

   Quiller and his team had armed themselves, firing a salvo of plasma bolts into the approaching enemy forces. Already stretcher bearers were clambering onto the first shuttle, the engines still idling, waiting for a chance to launch. Spotting the weakness in their lines, the enemy troops advanced again, mustering for another charge, and Salazar ran forward, pistol in hand, charging toward the approaching mass of troops.

   The rattle of bullets slamming into metal echoed from a nearby shuttle, and he saw a figure wearing a flight suit drop in the airlock, clutching at his chest, one of the pilots collapsing to the ground with blood spilling forth. Garland was there in a second, dragging him inside, the grim look on his face testament to the poor chances of the injured man.

   “Wounded aboard!” Rhodes said, gesturing at Salazar. “Get to Shuttle Two, sir! They're going to need a pilot.” Turning back to the fight, he added, “Glorious last stands are our job!”

   “Come on, Pavel,” Harper said, dragging him to the waiting shuttles as bullets flew through the air all around them. “We've got to move!”

   The first shuttle was already launching, engines roaring as a near-miss by a plasma bolt sent it swerving to the side, struggling to hold its course. With one last look at the chaos on the battlefield, Salazar stepped over the wounded man in the hatch, took a quick glance at the troopers hastily strapping themselves in, then raced for the cockpit, sliding into the couch and throwing the engines to full. With a load roar, the ship lifted, and he quickly threw her to the side, dodging the fire that he knew was heading their way.