Battlecruiser Alamo: Not In My Name

by Richard Tongue

   “She’s breaking out of orbit,” Spinelli said. “Heading down to the planet. Can she do that? I’m not picking up any sort of a heat shield.”

   “Salvo, sir,” Grant said. “Four more on the way. Targeting their missile bays.”

   “How long until impact, Spaceman?”

   “Eight minutes, sir.” He glanced across at a panel, and said, “Energy spike again, sir. I guess they haven’t give up hopes of taking us with them yet!”

   “Try and disable their engines, Deadeye,” Marshall said. “If there is even a remote chance that we might take that ship intact, we’ve got to take it.”

   Shaking her head, Caine said, “My guess is that they’ve got more than one way to commit suicide, Danny, but I’ll do my best. I’m putting up a salvo now, and we’re thirty seconds from another laser shot.”

   Nodding, Marshall turned back to the battle, watching it unfold in front of him. Now ten missiles were heading towards the enemy ship, driving forward at full speed. He tried to put himself in the mind of her commander, a man who was right now giving orders that would mean the loss of his ship and the death of his crew. He couldn’t do it.

   “Weitzman, offer them a chance to surrender. I will allow them to leave this system without further hindrance. Maybe we can resolve this yet.”

   “Trying, sir,” the technician replied, working from an auxiliary panel. “They just aren’t replying to anything.”

   “They didn’t demonstrate any interest in surrender at Yeager Station,” Grant said.

   Caine moved her missiles into blocking position again, but this time, at the last second, they all swerved out of the flight path, spilling speed to put themselves on a different trajectory. Alamo’s missiles tried to turn around to compensate, thrusters hurling them around, but the numbers looked bad.

   “Might get another up,” she said, frantically working at her controls.

   “Hang on! Brace for impact!”

   Alamo’s hull cried out in pain as the warheads slammed into the hull, sending the ship spinning, the view tumbling as Foster desperate struggled to regain control. Orlova was frantically typing, trying to get a damage report, routing teams to begin repairs.

   “Emergency oxygen reservoir,” she said. “Midshipman, I’m going to dump it as fast as I can. Watch the roll to compensate, there isn’t much I can do. You should have better control in twenty seconds.”

   Her fingers rattling across the keys, Foster said, “I’ll try and hold it, ma’am.”

   “Keep it together, Midshipman.”

   “That was two hits,” Caine said. “I got four up in time, but we’re going to have a hell of a lot of outer hull damage from shrapnel.”

   “They were that close?” Marshall asked.

   “Worse,” she replied.

   “Enemy battlecruiser has now dropped below orbital velocity,” Spinelli reported. “Re-entry in four minutes.”

   “Could there be any chance that we’ve read this wrong?” Caine asked. “Is there any chance that they think they can survive this?”

   “None,” Orlova said. “I don’t see any way.”

   “No more escape pods, shuttles,” Grant said. “The whole crew is going to go down with his ship. Gotterdammerung.”

   “Huh?” Foster asked, glancing across briefly from her station.

   “The Twilight of the Gods, Midshipman.”

   More missile slammed into the enemy ship, tossing it to the side from the force of the impact. The velocity indicator was beginning to slow more quickly now, the planet’s atmosphere beginning to bite, beginning the ruthless tearing away of momentum that would ultimately lead to a fiery death.

   There was no prospect that they could launch a renewed attack, not now. By now the ship would be tumbling hard enough that the crew would be struggling to operate at all, assuming they were even trying. With the viewscreen on maximum magnification, he could see the enemy’s hull begin to glow a dull red, growing hotter and hotter the deeper it went into the atmosphere.

   From the planet, it would be a spectacular sight, like a comet tearing its way across the sky, shedding a rain of molten metal in its wake. Someone on board seemed to be trying to put the ship into a semblance of a re-entry altitude, but aside from assuring that some fragments ended up making it to the surface, it couldn’t do any good.

   Abruptly, the ship flared, and it broke into two, then three pieces, the stresses growing too strong for her to overcome. All was silence on the bridge, everyone watching the death of the enemy vessel. It ought to be a cause for celebration, glorious victory, but those emotions were nowhere to be found. They had survived, and their foes had not. That would have to do. The idea of cheering seemed abhorrent. Rising from his chair, Marshall looked around the bridge.

   “Good work, everyone. Secure from general quarters, but maintain alert status. Maggie, take damage reports and start coordinating repairs. Caine, you have the conn. I’m going down to medical.” He shook his head, smiled, and said, “And Harper, I think you can give the commander of Zheng He his ship back. Give him my thanks for a timely intervention.”

  Chapter 29

   “It’s over,” Erickson said, watching the death throes of the enemy battlecruiser, slowly burning up in the atmosphere, the only possible aftermath of an uncontrolled reentry.

   “Yeah,” Salazar replied. Words didn’t seem to cover the spectacle unfolding below. He glanced up at the sensor display again, saw a contact moving in at high speed, bigger than the SAR shuttle. “What the hell? Incoming ship on intercept course. Get me a reading.”

   “Tanker,” Erickson said. She looked down at the headset, her face reddening, and said, “I think they might have been trying to call.”

   Picking it up, Salazar said, “Tanker, this is Shuttle. We have corrected our communications glitch.”

   “Ah, roger, Shuttle One,” a thin, reedy voice replied. “We’re just going to give you enough fuel to get you back to Alamo. Two minutes will do it. Any problems we need to know about?”

   “Nothing at this end. What about…”

   “All intact, nothing we can’t fix. Lots of overtime for a while, though. Tanker out.”

   With a loud clang, the two ships docked, and the tanker began to pump fuel into the shuttle, the indicators instantly climbing up out of the red. He drifted forward to the helm, Erickson taking the rear station, and set up a minimum-fuel course back to Alamo.

   “That should do it,” the tanker pilot said. “We’re heading back to the barn. See you later.”

   “Thanks, Tanker. Shuttle One out.” He tapped a control, gently kicking the shuttle onto trajectory, the thrusters firing to bring it home. As they approached, he looked at the outer hull, shaking his head at the damage. There were already work crews on the hull starting repairs, placing temporary plates until something more permanent could be fixed, patching together connections to the communications array.

   “Hangar Deck to Shuttle One,” the communicator barked, Bradley’s voice this time.

   “Shuttle One here.”

   “You have clearance to land. Be careful. It's a bit cluttered up here.”

   He slowly, carefully, guided the shuttle into the docking cradle, and lifted his hands from the controls as the shuttle rose into the elevator airlock, indicators switching from red to green as atmosphere spilled in around them. Rising level to the deck, he stepped out of the couch, squeezed Erickson on the shoulder, and stepped through the hatches as the opened.

   The deck was in chaos, unfamiliar shuttles scattered around, a trio of paramedics running triage in a corner on a dozen wounded troopers, a pair of body bags stacked beside them. Only a pair of technicians were trying to organize things, one of them flashing him a dirty look as he stepped onto the ship. Over in the corner, an elevator opened, and Grant stepped out, walking over to Salazar.

   “Erickson,” he began, “You’re needed with Dama
ge Control Three, down in the sensor decks. Take five and head down there.”

   “Will do, sir,” she replied, ambling towards the toilet.

   “Sub-Lieutenant, we’re overdone with work, but I need to speak to you.” He gestured towards Bradley’s office, and he resignedly stepped in, tugging off his flight jacket.

   “What did I do wrong this time, sir?” he asked.

   “Nothing,” he replied. “I watched what you did out there. That was some damn good flying. As good as anything I could have done.”

   “Better,” Salazar said.

   “Perhaps.” He frowned, then said, “We’ve had a lot of history, you and I. I don’t think there is anything we can do about that. Maybe I can start to think about separating the cadet you were from the officer you are.”

   “Generous,” he replied. “Are we speaking freely? I can’t tell, it’s been a long day.”

   “Go ahead,” Grant said, frowning.

   Rubbing his hand across his forehead, Salazar said, “None of this is me, Grant. All of it is on you.” Pointing out at the hangar deck, he said, “Those fighters, the drone ships, you aren’t ever going to get to fly them. You aren’t going to sit in a cockpit again. All of this concern about the dead is a damn smokescreen.”

   “I was trying to apologize,” he said, gritting his teeth.

   “No, you weren’t. Or if you were, you need a hell of a lot more practice.” He paused, then said, “This is going to be short and blunt, sir, because I just came out of a battle where I probably should have died, and I’m not in a particularly patient mood. Whatever the hell is wrong with you, you’re going to have to get over.”

   “I don’t have to take advice from you,” Grant said, heading for the door. “Obviously you’re just a lost cause, and I was right all along.”

   “Maybe,” Salazar said. “There isn’t a day, an hour that goes by when I don’t think about what happened at Phobos, and I don’t think there ever will be. When I’m asleep I go back there, playing it over, but I can’t change that. Neither can you.”

   “I can stop it ever happening again.”

   “Then go to the Academy and make the instructors do their damned jobs properly!” he said, shouting. “That isn’t even it, though. I could be anyone, I’m just a symbol.” He paused, took a breath to calm himself, and said, “You aren’t going to sit in a cockpit again. No matter what you do, what strings you try to pull.”

   “The last thing you are qualified to give is career advice.”

   “I don’t give a damn about your career, I don’t give a damn about mine.” He stepped to the door, looking out at the chaos outside, at the medics frantically trying to save lives, and said, “We’re at war. No-one’s made it official, but we are. One glance at the deck should tell you that. That means we’ve got a job to do, the job that we put the uniform on for. To protect the Confederation.”

   Turning to Grant, he said, “You’re a combat officer with eighteen years’ experience. Either start acting like it or get out of the service.” Shaking his head, he said, “Before you get someone killed.” Without a word, Grant turned and walked out of the office, out into the devastation beyond, heading for the elevator. As he left, Salazar added, “Apology accepted.”

   He crashed down into the nearest chair, tossing his flight jacket to the floor. He looked up at the ceiling, everything numb, trying to work out why he was still alive. The stunt he had pulled, dancing in front of a missile salvo, couldn’t have been further away from his training, but somehow he was still here. It doesn’t seem real.

   There was a knock on the door, and it slid open to admit Captain Marshall, who motioned him to remain in his seat before perching on the desk.

   “I’ve been there, Sub-Lieutenant,” he said. “Sometimes you go back through your flight, trying to work out how you pulled it off. And sometimes, you never do work it out. That was great flying, and quick thinking.”

   “Blind luck,” Salazar said. “Nothing more or less than that. If someone in my squadron pulled that stunt, I’d have had his wings.”

   “You should talk to Captain Cunningham sometime. Back when I was a rookie, I...but that’s another story. I saw Grant on my way here.”

   “I’m sure he was throwing demands that I be thrown out of the nearest airlock.” He shook his head, and said, “I tried to help him. I don’t think he listened.”

   “He’s a senior officer.”

   “That doesn’t make him right, sir. You know that.”

   Raising an eyebrow, Marshall said, “I don’t know exactly, but I think I might have just been insulted.”

   “Not what I meant, sir,” he said, his cheeks flushing red.

   “Relax. After the day I’ve had, any trace of humor is more than welcome, I assure you.”

   “How bad are things, sir?”

   “We’re heading back to Yeager Station. Limping back might be a better way to put it. Quinn and his team think they can patch the ship together after a fashion, but he warned me in no uncertain terms what would happen if I tried to take her into a battle.” He paused, then said, “We need to get replacement crew, as well.”

   Closing his eyes, Salazar asked, “How many?”

   “Thirteen, counting the Espatiers. Sixteen wounded, but they’re all expected to recover.” Shaking his head, he said, “We lost Sub-Lieutenant McGuire when Astrogation was hit.”

   “I’m sorry,” he said. He looked up, and said, “It should have been me. Why didn’t they fire? I expected them to.”

   With a thin smile, Marshall said, “Sorry, Sub-Lieutenant. Looks like you don’t get off the hook quite so easy. We’ve got a job to do.” He paused, then said, “I’m going to be heading home when this is over. The Admiralty has to be briefed, and for that matter so does the President. Not to mention that there are quite a few people to repatriate.”

   “I guess you heard some of what I said to Lieutenant Grant.”

   “I agree with you. I think we’re at war, and that’s what I intend to advise.”

   “War,” he said, shaking his head. “It isn’t what I expected.”

   “Everyone learns that the first time. And I’m sorry to tell you that it doesn’t get any easier.”

   There was a knock on the door, and Sergeant Gurung stepped in, looking down at Salazar. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone else in here.”

   “I’ll go,” Salazar said, but Marshall waved him down.

   “No, stay. This won’t take long. Sub-Lieutenant Salazar, meet Sergeant Gurung, late of the United Nations Rangers.”

   “A pleasure,” Gurung said. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

   “I did. First of all, to thank you for what you did, first on the planet and then on the battlecruiser. Ensign Cooper told me that he doesn’t think he could have pulled off the mission without you.”

   “I’m not so sure about that, sir. For an officer, he’s quite bright.”

   “For an officer?” Salazar said, cracking a smile.

   “Second, to make you an offer. By my reckoning…”

   Raising a hand, Gurung said, “I’m about to face charges of high treason when I get home, and will be lucky if I don’t get shot out of hand. I’ll face those when I come to them, sir, and I knew full well going into this that I’d have to answer for what I did.”

   “It doesn’t seem fair, Sergeant.”

   “Life often isn’t, sir.”

   “I can offer you amnesty, in the Confederation. I’ve got the power to grant that right now.”

   “And what would I do then, sir? Work as a rent-a-cop, or a night watchman? I’m a soldier, sir, and that’s the job I do best.”

   “You’d be alive,” Salazar said. “That’s important enough, isn’t it?”

   “Forgive the Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall said. “He just had a brush with death.”

   Frowning, Gurung asked, “Are you
the one that rode the rockets?”

   “That’s me,” he replied. “I can juggle as well.”

   “Not smart for an officer,” Gurung said. “Though I won’t question your guts. Is that all, sir?”

   “No, it isn’t. I’m not just offering you citizenship, but, well, Cooper’s vouched for you. To join the Espatiers. He’s sending Morton back to a training command, doesn’t think he’s up to front-line work.”

   “I agree,” Gurung said.

   “You’d join as a Sergeant, specifically in Second Platoon, right here.” Smiling, Marshall said, “He thinks very highly of you.”

   “He’s a good kid,” Gurung said. “It’s an honor, sir, and I do recognize it as such, but I don’t think I can accept. I swore an oath…”

   “Sergeant,” Salazar said, rising with an effort to his feet. “Take the damn offer. Unless I’m missing something, we’re going to be fighting those bastards out there again in the not-too-distant future, and you’ll be needed out on the front lines with our troops, not rotting in some cell to cover up some General’s ego trip gone wrong. Where the hell do you think you’ll do the most good.”

   “It’s a matter of…”

   “Damn it, Sergeant, haven’t enough people died today? Do you really need to add to the total?” Salazar was shouting now, the words flowing free. "Honor is defending your people. You don’t think the UN is going to do a damn thing? This was the only place their territory is adjacent to the not-men. They’ll sit back and let us take the fight for them. You want to defend the people of the United Nations of Earth, Sergeant? Then pick up a weapon, put on a real uniform, and fight for them. You sure as hell can’t do that if you are dead.”

   Gurung looked at him, shaking his head, a smile spreading across his face, “Is he in charge of recruitment, Captain?”

   “He just flies things.”

   “Pity, I think he’s missed his calling. On the provision that I get an automatic discharge if a state of war ever exists between the UN and the Confederation, I agree. I wouldn’t mind another crack at the bastards.”

   “Cooper will be glad to hear it,” Marshall said. “I’ll get the paperwork to you by the end of the day.” There was a knock at the door, and a breathless Harper raced in, glancing at Sergeant Gurung with a frown on her face.