Battlecruiser Alamo: Operation Damocles

by Richard Tongue

   “Deveraux to all fighters,” his communicator barked. “We're go for launch. Let's get this over with.” As one, the squadron's engines fired, hurling them towards their target, Salazar pressed back by the acceleration. With the flick of a switch, he called up the sensor display, watching as Daedalus swung down over the moon, drawing a pair of missiles from the refinery as it reached the low point of its scouting run.

   He cursed inwardly as Harper's ship raced away, enemy warheads racing after it, then sighed with relief as a quartet of missiles dropped back from Daedalus, curving toward their rivals. In a brief flash of destruction, they crashed into their targets, leaving the scoutship to safely reach high orbit, attack data beginning to run across his screens from the close-range sensor sweep.

   “Enjoy the show, Pavel?” Harper asked, breaking into his communicator. “I thought I'd give you a little scare.”

   “Mission accomplished,” he replied. “Anything I need to know?”

   “Everything seems quiet down there, but they've got twelve launch racks now. Odd that they're only using four, though. I think they might just be decoys.” She paused, then said, “I guess it doesn't matter. Your canyon seems clear, no sign of enemy activity at any point. You should have an easy run to the target.”

   “I hope so.”

   “Nine minutes to target,” Deveraux said. “Watch for enemy fire, and watch for surprises. Those Xandari are tricky bastards.”

   “He's right,” Harper replied. “This is risky, Pavel.”

   Glancing up at a display, he said, “We're on a private channel.”

   “For the moment. Don't worry, I've got my finger on the emergency override in case something happens. Not that anything will, not until the last minute.”

   “The curse of space warfare. Can you do me a favor?”

   “Sure.”

   “There's something odd going on down on the surface. No sign of Cooper's team, and his shuttle's apparently stuck with a non-specific maintenance issue. It's probably nothing, but I was wondering...”

   “If I'd hack into the shuttle's systems and see if there's anything we aren't being told? Not a problem, Pavel. Wait one.”

   “Roger,” he said, going over the revised attack data. A list of target projections appeared on the screen, generated by the tactical computers back on Alamo, the most efficient way to wipe out the enemy refinery. As far as he could tell, four missiles would do it, placed in the right locations, but they'd be throwing everything they had at the enemy. Complete overkill, but there was no sense taking unnecessary chances. Simply doing this once was stretching the odds more than he liked, and they'd never get another opportunity.

   “Signal from the surface,” Orlova said, “Your attack has been officially, but quietly, condemned by the government, and all fleet personnel are ordered to return to base. Oddly enough, no official record of this transmission has been logged at our end, but I thought I'd better warn you all. It's not too late to pull out.”

   “Yes it is,” Deveraux replied. “We've got to finish this. Thanks for the warning, Captain.”

   Salazar smiled, glancing across at the squadron leader's fighter, at the vanguard of the formation. He'd settled into the second spot, Bradley just behind him, a jagged arrowhead reaching through space towards the target. Two new trajectory tracks flashed into view on his sensor screen, the Neander raiders beginning their attack, precisely on time. To the Xandari, this would look like a carefully coordinated strike. With the emphasis, he hoped, on the wrong element of the mission.

   Reaching for his targeting computer, he started to program his missile launch sequence. He'd be fourth over the target, and would have only a handful of seconds before racing back out into space. Nowhere near enough time for him to have any manual input on the proceedings. The display pulsed as his three missiles registered the new information, each working out its best path to the target based on the flight plan.

   The moon loomed ever larger in his screen, now only a handful of minutes away. Already the targeting computers were swinging them around towards the canyon, and he could make out the Neander ships as they swept in for their attack, launching a half-dozen missiles at the enemy. Up ahead, Alamo closed in, ready to provide support and defensive fire as the raiders pulled back to orbit.

   “Pavel, something's wrong,” Harper said. “Captain, I'm bringing you in on this as well.”

   “This isn't,” Orlova began, but Harper cut her off.

   “Cooper's been captured. Spaceman Lane's dead, the shuttle taken by government officials. There's a jamming field over the whole area, projected from the station.”

   “How...”

   “I hacked into the shuttle's telemetry. Lane must have been wearing his flight suit when he died. All life readings ended about forty minutes ago, just after landing. Captain, this has got to be some sort of trap, and the Copernicans are in on it.”

   Salazar looked at the rest of the squadron, and said, “Everything seems clear out here for the moment.” He paused, then flipped a switch, saying, “Bradley, stand by to abort attack run on my signal, and consider this a direct order. Explanations later.”

   “Two minutes to target,” Deveraux said, unable to hear the conversation taking place between the Triplanetary officers.

   Tapping in an escape sequence, Salazar switched channels, and said, “Jules, this is Pavel. We've just found out that government forces have captured Cooper and the rest of our people on the surface, and killed the shuttle pilot who went down to get them.”

   “Mon dieu,” he gasped. “Those bastards.”

   “You didn't know?”

   “I can't imagine why they would do something like that. Pavel, you've got to believe me, I had no idea this was happening.” In the background, he heard a ripping sound, and Deveraux added, “I just resigned. If that helps.”

   “Salazar to Orlova...”

   “I heard that.” She paused, and said, “You have permission to abort, Pavel. Recommend you return to base.”

   Deveraux replied, “We're only going to get one chance at this, Captain. I'd like to make the attempt.”

   “Agreed,” Salazar said.

   “Pavel, it's a trap,” Harper warned. “They wouldn't have moved on the surface if something wasn't about to happen. Those bastards have joined forces with the Xandari, and they're holding our people captive. That has to be our first priority.”

   “Pavel,” Orlova said. “Are you sure about this?”

   “We're ninety seconds to our attack run,” he replied. “If all goes according to be plan, we'll be landing on Alamo in ten minutes. They've launched a spread to counter the Neander missiles, so we've got our window. Everything out here is going to plan.”

   “Then good luck, Lieutenant,” Orlova said. “Alamo out.”

   “Watch your back, Pavel,” Harper added. “I'm bringing Daedalus around for another pass. Maybe we can draw some heat away from you.”

   “Thanks, Kris. I'll see you in a few minutes. Salazar out.”

   The squadron swooped down over the horizon, moving into their final attack formation. On the surface, everything seemed the same, but Salazar couldn't quite stop himself from looking at the other pilots, wondering if any of them were in on the plan. He trusted Deveraux and Ryan, despite the latter's father, but the rest were less-known quantities.

   On the display, the countdown clock started, and the fighters settled down towards the canyon, a gaping crack in the moon, running for fifty miles, almost the whole way to their target. The Xandari would have realized what they were planning, and they were about to find out whether they'd found some way to counter it.

   “Energy spikes ahead!” Ryan yelled. “I'm getting some major heat signatures from the refinery! Must be some sort of missile launch.”

   “Confirmed,” Orlova added. “Now spotting forty-nine, correction, sixty-one heat signatures. The whole damn plain is me
lting.” She paused, then said, “I'm going to have to pull Alamo back to orbit. We're going to need the defense network to deal with them.”

   “Understood,” Salazar replied. As the fighter ducked into the canyon, he added, “Here we go. Hold on, everyone.”

   His fighter danced from side to side, swerving to avoid obstacles he could barely perceive, never mind react to. Never was he more of a passenger than at this moment, reliant on the charts that had been programmed into the navigation computer and the reaction time of the autopilot. All around, the walls were melting, the heat from the engines burning away layers of million-year old ice, sending chucks tumbling from the sides of the canyon, more problems for them to deal with.

   As they took the single hard turn, changing their trajectory to keep a close center-line down the middle of the canyon, his panel lit up with contacts again. Fifty-plus tracks, all heading for orbit. The truth of the ambush was finally apparent as the trajectories stabilized. These weren't missiles, but fighters. Dozens of them, a dagger aimed at the fleet.

   “Alamo, this is Salazar...”

   “We see it!” Orlova said. “Get out of there!”

   “We're not done yet,” he replied, locking his guidance computer onto the target. There was no safety in flight in any case, the enemy fighters ready to shoot him down at a second's notice. All he could do was press the attack, and the rest of the squadron seemed to have made the same decision.

   Instantly, targets flashed onto the screen, heading in their direction, half a dozen of the Xandari fighters chasing along the canyon towards them. They'd never be able to build up sufficient speed, but they didn't have to, launching a wave of missiles ahead of them before pulling out. Overriding the computer, Salazar slammed on his landing jets, rising above the incoming warheads, but not all of the squadron responded as rapidly, and as the missiles crashed into the sides of the ravine, bringing a tumbling mass of water and ice rushing down, three of the pilots were still there, buried by the landslide.

   There was no time for regret, no time for sympathy. The base was just ahead, a second wave of fighters beginning their ascent, and Salazar could at least take revenge for what they had done. Precisely to the second, his missiles raced for their targets, those of the rest of the squadron following, fifteen tracks rushing at dispersed objectives.

   The fighters began their race for the heavens, engines firing at bone-crushing acceleration. Beneath them, the Xandari attempted to react, missiles flying in all directions in a bid to protect the base and destroy those who had dared to attack it, but it would be impossible for anyone to react in time. Twelve of the missiles found their targets, and the refinery erupted in a sea of flame, the heat melting the plain around them, pin-point explosions as domes and fighters died, those still attempting to gain altitude engulfed in the fire. One of the Copernican fighters had also been caught in that hell, the body count continuing to grow.

   “Salazar to Alamo,” he said. “What do you think of the fireworks?”

   “Hell of a display, Pavel,” Orlova replied. “If you push it, you should be able to get home before those fighters reach us. We'll see you in six minutes. Alamo out.”

   “You heard the Captain,” Deveraux added. “Form on me. Let's go.” As one, the four fighters burned for Alamo, using the last of their fuel to place them on trajectory. If the course computations were correct, they'd soar past the Xandari fighters, emerging on Alamo's flight deck with less than a minute to go. Just in time for the battle.

  Chapter 22

   “Lieutenant,” Orlova said, turning to the tactical station. “I want the satellite defense network shut down immediately. Purge all the software. Let's render it useless.”

   “Captain?” Cantrell asked, aghast. “We've got forty-one fighters in-bound, and we're going to need support from the orbital grid if we're going to have a chance of beating them.”

   Nelyubov shook his head, and replied, “No. If the Copernicans, or at least their government, are in league with the Xandari, then that's a pretty good guess at their ace in the hole.” Turning to Orlova, he added, “I presume that's why you left it intact.”

   Nodding, she said, “If we'd knocked out the network earlier, then they'd have only thought of something else. Though I admit I'd only expected to be fighting the Xandari today. Do as I ordered, Lieutenant.”

   “Aye, sir,” Cantrell replied, shaking her head. “System purge underway.” With a sigh, she added, “Four days work down the drain.”

   Turning to the tactical holoview, Orlova scanned local space, looking at the disposition of her ships. Alamo was moving slowly towards the planet, pulling towards what the local government would likely assume was a trap, the Koltoc ships following in a defensive formation. That gave them twelve missiles against forty-one fighters, odds that didn't seem appealing. Harper was bringing Daedalus around the moon, three Neander raiders in tow, in a bid to catch them from the rear, but that was only another ten missiles, and two of the Neander ships were damaged enough to render their use in battle problematic at best.

   Glancing at the trajectory tracks, she looked at the approaching fighters, Salazar and the others just ahead of the enemy ships, and began to calculate a course change. She glanced at Nelyubov, knowing he was sharing the same thought, then turned to the helm.

   “Midshipman, set a course for the hendecaspace point, and pass it to all ships in the fleet.” Turning to the communications station, she added, “Weitzman, warn our incoming fighter support to change course accordingly. They should still be able to link up with us.”

   “Captain,” Cantrell said, “what about Cooper?”

   “Do you think he'd want us to risk the whole fleet and everyone on board for him? He'd be the first one urging us to leave,” Nelyubov said. “You should know that better than anyone, Lieutenant.”

   “Four minutes to the first wave,” Spinelli said.

   “Main engines to full power, Captain,” Maqua said, a resigned frown on his face. “Course computed for the hendecaspace point.”

   “This system is still of vital strategic importance,” Cantrell pressed. “We can't just give it up without a fight.”

   “And if we stay, Lieutenant, we lose. Time to cut and run.”

   Spinelli turned in his chair, and said, “One of the fighters has changed course, heading for the planet. I think it's on a straight run for Kepler City.”

   “Bradley,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “I suppose that was a foregone conclusion.”

   “Weitzman...” Orlova began.

   “It's no good, Captain,” the communications technician replied. “She's shut down all telemetry. We can't talk to her or influence her course.” Shaking his head, he added, “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

   “The rest of the fighters will be on board in a hundred and ten seconds,” Spinelli added. “On this course, the Xandari force will only have the opportunity to launch nineteen missiles in a seven-second firing window.”

   “Only,” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. He smiled, then said, “Acting Ensign Gurung requests permission to launch a full Espatier strike in support of Sub-Lieutenant Bradley, Captain. He's standing by in the hangar deck now.”

   “Request denied,” she said. “Have all ships in the fleet prepare missiles for full defensive fire. Lieutenant, you may fire at will, but defensively only. Let's exercise the better part of valor.”

   “Captain,” Spinelli reported. “I'm getting something coming up from the surface.” He turned with a triumphant grin on his face, and said, “It's the shuttle, ma'am! On direct approach vector, docking in ten minutes.”

   Orlova shook her head, and said, “That's ten minutes too long. Can it catch us before we leave the system?”

   “Not a chance,” Spinelli said. “Not unless we slow down.”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “If we did that, we'd give those fighters an easy shot at us. Nineteen missiles are going to be toug
h enough to push back. If the whole formation fires we could lose the ship.”

   “There must be another way,” Cantrell protested.

   With a deep sigh, Orlova said, “Not this time, Lieutenant.”

   “But...”

   “If it was just my neck on the line I'd be turning this ship right now, damn it,” she snapped. “The fate of the Triplanetary Confederation, the Koltoc Commonwealth and the Free Peoples are resting on what we do, and I cannot jeopardize that just for a few men.”

   “Captain…,” Cantrell began.

   “You're relieved,” Orlova said. “Frank, take Tactical.”

   Cantrell looked at her, nodded, and walked over to the elevator, Nelyubov sliding into her position without a pause. As the insubordinate officer left the bridge, Orlova turned back to the communications station, stepping over to the panel.

   “Weitzman, contact the shuttle.”

   “I'm trying, ma'am, but I'm not getting any response. Telemetry shows that she's sustained some damage, though. That might be the problem.”

   “More likely it's a trick,” Nelyubov said. “Cooper's no fool. He wouldn't expect us to wait for him, and by now he'll have a good sensor image of everything taking place up here.” Shaking his head, he added, “If he is on that shuttle, he's got a gun to his head.”

   “Besides,” Maqua added, “we know that the pilot is dead, and I don't think anyone down on the surface has flight training.”

   Nodding, Orlova said, “Well reasoned, Midshipman, though I think Cooper could probably get the ship off the ground if he had to. Weitzman, anything?”

   “No contact, Captain.”

   “Proceed on course, then,” Orlova said, remorse filling her heart. She didn't believe that Cooper, or any of the other lost members of her crew, were on that shuttle, but she was still leaving them behind as the prisoners of a traitor government on a hostile world.