“Shuttle Two to Shuttle Three,” he said. “Foster, I know it is you. How long?”
“Just loading now,” she replied, the rattle of bullets in the background. “Going to have too many empty seats, Pavel.”
“We'll hold in the upper atmosphere and let you catch up. I want us to head home in some sort of formation.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “Damn. Bandits up above, everyone. Repeat, bandits up above.”
“What do we do, sir?” Midshipman Siegel asked, her voice near-panic.
“Wait for me, kid, and then follow me through. We've got enough fuel to hold altitude for a few minutes, keep them guessing. Stay at sixty thousand until I give the word.”
“But what if they've got atmospheric missiles?”
“Then you die a horrible, painful death, Midshipman, along with everyone on your shuttle. Probably best to hope that they didn't plan that far ahead.” Harper dropped into the couch behind him, and he added, “Get on...”
“Electronic countermeasures. Way ahead of you.” Tapping a button, she added, “Should be able to contact Alamo.” She tossed him a headset, then said, “Shuttle Three has cleared the ground.”
“Thank God for that,” he replied. “Try and get some sort of a casualty report.”
“On it.”
“Shuttle Two to Alamo. Shuttle Two to Alamo. Come in, please.”
“Alamo here,” Marshall replied. “Glad you made it, Pavel. What's the situation?”
Running his eyes over the status feeds, Salazar said, “Some damage to Shuttle Three, hopefully nothing serious. The enemy overran Dante Base just as we took off. We lost a lot of good people down there.” He paused, smiled sadly, then added, “We found what we were looking for.”
“What? Repeat.”
“We got it, sir. Details when we land. Which should be in a little over ten minutes from now, on our current heading. Any chance of fighter cover?”
“Afraid not, Pavel. We're going to have to punch our way clear of the system, and I need the whole wing for that. We can't even give you defensive missile support.”
“That bad, sir?”
“I'm not sure you weren't safer on the ground, Pavel, but that's my problem. You just get home, as fast as you can, and we'll do the rest. Alamo out.”
“Frying pan to fire,” Harper said, rolling her eyes. “We should be settled into one formation in about forty seconds. You planning to punch for orbit?”
Nodding, Salazar said, “Escape trajectory, and we'll tidy it up as soon as we get clear of the planet.” Gesturing at the images of the enemy fighters, he added, “They'll have an easy shot at us, no matter what we do. Our only chance is to try and outrun them.”
“We could split into three...”
“They'd still have enough strength to take us all down. Network all three shuttles to your station. Maybe you can hack our way out of this.”
“Some hope,” she replied, reaching for her controls as Salazar eased higher, taking the lead in the formation as it swooped down over Dante. He looked at the terrain spread out in front of him, just able to make out the site where he had first crashed, only a few days ago. It felt more like years, and he pulled up with relish, throwing the engine to full power, racing for the sky.
“Shuttle Two to Shuttle Flight,” he said. “Follow my lead, I'm on point. Whatever happens, burn like hell for Alamo, and don't stop for anything. Carpenter, which shuttle are you on?”
“I'm on Three,” she replied.
“Figures. Val, that's your bird, what's your damage?”
“Aft thruster, lateral jets, underside sensor pickups. I'll be a little sluggish on the turn, but there's nothing that should slow me down. Not much, anyway.”
“Let's hope it stays that way,” Salazar replied.
“Final count,” Harper said with a sigh. “Nine dead, twenty-one injured in total. Counting the ones we lost down in the Vault. Also three missing, but I don't have much hope for two of them.”
“The third?”
“Corporal Weber.”
“Hell of a mission,” Salazar said, as the stars faded into view, the shuttles soaring clear of the atmosphere, the engines still roaring at full thrust. He glanced across at the fuel gauge and winced, their reserve far lower than he would have liked, barely enough to give them any margin of error.
“Bandits high, bandits high,” he said. “They'll get one pass at us. Keep at full thrust, and Siegel, don't try any fancy flying. Raw speed is our best chance. Let Lieutenant Harper handle your counter-measures, and hopefully I'll see you all on the deck.”
“On intercept,” Harper said. “Combat range in eighty seconds. Want some good news?”
“Please.”
“I don't think they'll be able to take any further part in the battle. They've burned too much fuel, must be on vapors by now. At least we've given Alamo an easier ride.”
“That isn't good news, Kris. That just means they'll throw everything they've got at us.” He looked down at his indicators again, and added, “We can't even dip back down into the atmosphere. We'd never make our rendezvous with Alamo if we did.”
“Fifty seconds,” Harper said. “Got any smart ideas?”
“I'm all out,” he replied, before a smile flashed across his face. “Actually...”
“I'm not going to like this, am I?”
“Probably not.” Reaching across to the communications station, he said, “Shuttle Two to Shuttle Flight. Pick an enemy fighter, and set for collision course. We're playing chicken.”
“Chicken? With fighters?” Harper asked.
“Bet they blink first.”
Salazar locked his shuttle on the nearest fighter, throwing the throttle over the red line, wincing with pain as he reached down to the override controls. The rest of the flight followed his lead, closing the range rapidly, speeding towards combat range. Warning alerts flashed on, the time to contact ticking away.
“Threat warning!” Harper said. “Missile launch. Six warheads heading our way.”
“Evade at the last second, everyone,” Salazar said. “Make this good.”
“They'll swing around and catch us!” Siegel replied, on the brink of hysteria.
“Hold it together, Midshipman,” Salazar said, watching as the missiles drew ever closer, warning klaxons all around him as the computer urged him to change course, to pull away. He rested his hand on the thruster controls, implacably watching as the seconds drained down, and at the last instant, fired a quick burst to send the shuttle rocking to port.
“Scrambling enemy sensor inputs!” Harper yelled, fingers dancing across the controls in a bid to buy them their escape. The missiles swept past, swinging around as the three shuttles continued to race towards the fighters, using the enemy ships as human shields to gain time, gain speed, run down the depleted fuel stocks of the missiles.
With meters to spare, all three shuttles cruised past the fighters, their trajectories now clear all the way to Alamo.
“Good work, everyone,” Salazar said. “Siegel, you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don't try that trick again. Nine times out of ten, you'll end up in pieces.”
“But what if...”
“Probably a good idea not to get this desperate, Midshipman.”
“Good advice, Pavel,” Foster replied with a chuckle. “You ever intend to take it yourself?”
“Can't let life get too boring, can I? Alamo, this is Shuttle Two. We'll be down in four minutes. Prepare to receive casualties.”
“Pavel?” Harper asked, leaning over the sensor screen. “Take a look at your long-range scanner.”
“What now?”
“The eighth moon. Something's launching from the surface. Something big.”
Chapter 23
Clarke's hands rested on the controls, preparing
the thrusters to hurl Pioneer into orbit, Hooke watching from the rear at the flight engineering station. He looked down at the course calculations, gritting his teeth in frustration.
“I could have told you it wouldn't work,” Hooke said. “We're too damn heavy.” Gesturing at the flickering sensor display, he added, “They'll be overhead in five minutes. Got any bright ideas?”
Looking out of a viewport, Clarke saw one of the plasma carbines, still slowly rotating on its tripod, sweeping the horizon for enemies that would never come. He frowned at the view, then started to smile as an idea began to seep into his mind, pulling up a status report.
“I said…,” Hooke began.
“Hack into the plasma carbines,” Clarke replied. “We're going to need very fine control if we're going to pull this off, and precise targeting. Slave the control systems to my station.”
“Not a problem, but it won't do any good,” the morose hacker replied. “They haven't got anything like the range to reach Waldheim, and even if they did, it's a million to one against them actually doing any damage.”
“I'm not trying to hit the battleship,” Clarke said. “Just set it up.” He scanned the structural status reports, his fingers tapping the screen to identify the weak spots, then threw a series of controls to route the power distribution network to the forward batteries. A low whine sounded from the hull as he topped up the thruster tanks from the central reservoir, one of the few parts of the ship that hadn't suffered damage.
“You've got your finger on the trigger,” Hooke said. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Eight plasma bursts on the hull.”
“What? You've got to be out of your tiny damned mind! You want to fire on Pioneer? She's barely holding together as it is.”
“That's the point. How much of the ship do we actually need? Only the forward thrusters are working anyway, and most of her is nothing but dead weight. Burn away the aft section, and we reduce the weight by three-quarters. Getting up won't be a problem.” With a thin smile, he added, “And if this plan works, we're not going to have to worry about a soft landing anyway.”
“Out of your mind,” Hooke muttered. “Firing pattern locked into the computer. When do you want to try this?”
“One minute to contact,” Clarke said. “No point giving Waldheim any advance warning. Ideally, we hit the button and everything goes boom. We can be in position in forty seconds.” Turning to the hacker, he added, “You bail out at twenty. Your suit jets should give you a chance.”
“Hell no,” Hooke said. “I'm not going anywhere. This is my ship, not yours, and I'm going to fight in her last battle. You got that?”
“As long as you know you had a choice.”
“That's just it. I don't.” He glanced down at a panel, eyes widening in surprise, and said, “Signal from Alamo! Tight-beam. They must be getting close.”
“Alamo Actual to Pioneer,” Marshall's voice said, fighting through waves of static. “Clarke, do you read me?”
“I read you, sir. Did our shuttle get over in one piece? We don't have good enough sensor resolution to tell down here.”
“It did. Midshipman, Lieutenant Foster just landed, and has volunteered to come down to pick up you and Hooke. It'll be marginal, but she thinks she can get you both off the surface if we go for launch in forty seconds. I want you to be ready…
“No, sir, I'm afraid we won't be there. Don't take the risk for us.” Looking up at the trajectory plot, he added, “I make Waldheim engaging you in seven minutes, sir. Three and a half minutes before you can clear the system. You don't have time to pick up strays.”
“Let me be the judge of that, Midshipman.”
Taking a deep breath, Clarke said, “Sir, Pioneer has not yet fought its last battle. I'm sitting on four warheads, armed on proximity fuse, and a vehicle that should serve as a perfect delivery system. They might try and knock us down, but they'll never do enough damage to finish us off, sir. Those warheads will go exactly where they are most needed.”
“Killing you and Hooke in the process.”
“So we die here instead of dying there, sir. Doesn't make that much difference, except that this way you've got a chance of getting home.” He paused, then added, “Captain, I'm going to be doing this regardless of what you order. I ask that you send me into my last battle with your blessing, rather than forcing me to disobey your orders.”
There was a long pause from Marshall, who finally said, “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Very well. I can't see you, but would you please stand to attention?” With a frown, Clarke obeyed the command. “John Clarke, for outstanding service in the finest and noblest traditions of the Triplanetary Fleet, it is my honor and my privilege to grant you a battlefield commission. Congratulations, Sub-Lieutenant.”
“Sir, I...”
“I know, son. I know. For whatever it is worth, I will personally see that both of you receive the highest possible commendation, and if you're going to your deaths, then you can die knowing that I and all of your shipmates owe you their lives. Good hunting, Pioneer. Alamo out.”
“Pity,” Hooke said.
“What?”
“You aren't going to have a chance to pin on your new pips.” Tapping a control, he added, “Two minutes, thirty seconds to contact, Sub-Lieutenant. Waldheim is holding course, continuing in pursuit of Alamo.” He paused, then added, “Going to be pretty damned close. You realize they'll throw everything they've got at us.”
“And it won't make any difference,” Clarke said. “Better suit up. Just in case we get a hull breach.” He reached down to his helmet, sliding it over his head and locking it into position. A series of lights flickered across his heads-up display, his suit computer networking with the consoles around him.
“Two minutes,” Hooke said, and Clarke worked the controls to pivot the plasma carbines towards the ship, carefully aiming each one for the location where it would do the most good, would smash into the hull and sever the few remaining connections with the aft section. He ran the charging sequence high, setting the firing controls to release a single spasm of power in one brief moment, enough to rip Pioneer in half.
Just that thought seemed strange, counter-intuitive. He looked around the bridge, wondering how many battles had been fought from it in the past, how many people had sat in this command chair, ready to order their ship to its doom. Somehow, it seemed a far more fitting end that it should die in battle, rather than just abandoned in place on the surface of a desolate moon, or destroyed by its own people to prevent salvage by the enemy.
“Eighty seconds,” Hooke said. “Waldheim still holding trajectory.”
Grabbing onto the console, Clarke tapped the button, and eight bolts of fire smashed into the side of the ship, the hull growling as the aft connections smashed, freeing the rear section and throwing both of them forward, Hooke tumbling from his console. A cloud of dust rose all around them, and Clarke worked the thruster controls, watching with satisfaction as Pioneer burst free of the surface, racing to orbit, the half-dozen functioning boosters fighting off the low gravity.
It could only end one way. Should they miss their goal, Pioneer would crash back into the surface once more in a matter of minutes, this time with no possibility of survival. He carefully worked the controls as the ship struggled clear, watching as Waldheim approached, making quick adjustments as the enemy helmsman altered course, trying to evade.
General Estrada had a choice to make, and little time to do it. He could dodge Pioneer, but that would mean missing Alamo entirely, his ship tossed into a trajectory that would take it just far enough distant to buy the battlecruiser some safety. The alternative was to risk an impact that could destroy his ship. A part of him hoped that the enemy commander would chose the safe option, was already working on ways that he and Hooke might yet cheat death, but either E
strada was bolder than he had thought, or Colonel Cruz had taken command, for Waldheim continued on course, heedless of the risk.
“Energy spike!” Hooke said, and eight missiles raced towards them, trajectories showing them impacting all across the hull. There was nothing they could do to protect themselves, no last-minute course changes, no defensive fire, nothing. It felt strange to simply be sitting on the bridge, waiting for the impact, knowing that they were likely to die in a matter of seconds.
And it didn't matter. Not if their attack pressed home. The warheads were buried, deep in what remained of the ship, and even if all of the missiles caused maximum destruction, nothing would stop Pioneer hitting its target. He reached down to the controls, locking his ship into a collision course.
Captain Clarke. So ended his first, and only command. The missiles swarmed towards them, moving into their final attack pattern, and he took a deep breath, believing it to be his last, as the warheads completed their run. The first impact sent him flying, and he looked up to see a huge rent appear in the hull above, sirens screaming and wailing, the sound fading as the air fled, dragging him with it as it hurled him through the hull breach, sending him clear of the ship.
On instinct, he pulsed his suit thrusters, trying to dive clear of Pioneer, struggling to grow accustomed to the idea that he might actually survive the battle, spinning around to watch as the ship dived towards Waldheim. The enemy battleship was still moving away, trying to gain distance, trying to dodge the cumbersome scoutship, but it couldn't open the range in time, had left the maneuver too late.
For an instant, Clarke still thought Pioneer might miss, that all of it would have been for nothing, but at the last second a lone thruster fired, sending the scoutship spinning back into Waldheim's aft section, the four warheads detonating as one in a flash that for an instant filled the sky, leaving a huge crater in the battleship's hull, stress lines rippling across the ship as bursts of oxygen tossed it around.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Page 21
