“You'd fight for them, die for them?” Estrada asked. “People you didn't know, two days ago?”
Nodding, Marshall said, “That's the difference between our two nations, General. The Confederation cannot sit idly by while tyrants prosper. We never will.” Folding his arms, he said, “As a starting point, I'd like all of your personnel pulled from the planet, and for your ship to leave first, before Alamo. My intention is to offer them a Triplanetary orbital defense network, and this time it will not consist of decoys.”
“And if they want us?”
“What about a plebiscite?” Carpenter suggested. “The local population could have a vote, and decide whether they wish to tie themselves to one of the stellar nations, or remain independent. We could agree to jointly monitor the results.” She looked at Marshall, and added, “If it will break the deadlock, it might be worth trying, even if we all know what they're going to decide.”
“You've already determined the results,” Cruz said, as the shuttle dodged past a pair of tightly-spinning asteroids. “Probably already have them prepared for this. If there is to be any vote, then we'll have to run it ourselves. And we will pledge to abide by the results.”
Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “All of this is academic without the input of Colonel Volkova. Unless you can agree to withdraw, I cannot and will not commit the local population to any course of action without at least consulting them first.”
“Captain,” Siegel said. “Landing in two minutes.”
With a sigh, Estrada replied, “This is going to be harder than even I believed.”
“It doesn't have to be,” Cruz said. “The idea of our two ships working together is a good one, and as a combined force, we'd be able to face off against anything we might conceivably find out here. There may be dangers waiting beyond that we haven't seen yet.”
As the landing thrusters fired, Marshall looked out of the viewport at the lonely station beyond, the last outpost remaining to the people on the surface. A hundred thousand people were waiting on his next action, counting on him to find a way to secure their freedom. No matter what, he couldn't let them down. Dust flew in all directions as Siegel eased them down to the surface, dropping into position for the waiting docking collar to connect with the ship.
Careful to move slowly in the low gravity, Marshall walked over to the hatch as it slid open, Foster and Carpenter behind him, Cruz and Estrada loitering behind. Colonel Volkova waited at the door, a smile on her face, then drew a pistol from a hidden pouch in her jumpsuit, leveling it at the three of them.
“Captain!” Siegel said, leaping from her controls, but the pistol barked once, a bullet slamming into her chest, dropping her to the floor. Carpenter raced over to her, tearing a medical kit from the wall, but it was obviously too late, the light fading from the young woman's eyes as she took her last breath.
“Don't move, any of you,” Cruz said, as Volkova tossed her another pistol. “You are prisoners of the United Nations, and have no rights or privileges whatsoever. Colonel, is everything prepared down here?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Volkova replied. “The three fighters have been secured, the pilots placed in close confinement for transfer to Waldheim. The base is secure.”
“It won't work,” Marshall said, looking down at the dead woman on the deck. “As soon as Pavel realizes what has happened, he'll move, and I just hope I live long enough to watch you all burn.” Turning to Volkova, he added, “And do you really think that they'll live up to their end of whatever unholy deal you've struck with them? You're just a tool, nothing more than that.”
“As of last week,” she replied, “I am an officer in the United Nations Space Fleet, and commander of the local garrison. Sometimes we just have to deal in reality, Captain, not fantasy.”
Estrada nodded, turned to Marshall, and added, “If it is any consolation, I am truly sorry that this had to be, Captain. Under other circumstances, I think we could have worked together.”
“Weak,” Cruz said, turning her pistol on her commander. She fired once, and a sneer spread across her face as the flag officer dropped to the deck, eyes looking up in shock and disbelief as his life's blood spilled away. “And foolish.” Looking up at Marshall, she added, “My thanks, Captain, for dealing with one of my enemies in this way. You really shouldn't have tried to resist capture.”
“This isn't over,” Marshall said.
“I agree with you on that,” Cruz replied. “It's hardly begun. Colonel Volkova, you will proceed with the second stage of the operation at once.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “Alamo should be coming into range any minute.”
“Aye, General,” Volkova replied.
“Promoting yourself as well?” Carpenter said. “Pavel will blow you and your ship into a million pieces.”
“I think not,” Cruz said. “Now, will you go peacefully, or do I have to shoot another one of you to make this point clear. You've lost, Captain, and we have won. Accept it.”
“Never,” Marshall said. “Never.”
Chapter 12
The sun slowly rose over the Luna Mountains, casting strange shadows over the terrain, waking the wildlife of the forest from its long slumber. Clarke followed the limping Webster, embarrassed that he was struggling to catch up. For a cripple, he was making excellent time, though Clarke clung to the excuse that he'd spent the bulk of his life in one-third gravity, and despite the conditioning he'd had, there was no substitute for the environment in which one was born.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his canteen, draining the last of it in a single gulp, then wiped the sweat from his forehead before pushing on down the path. He spared a second to glance at his watch, and instantly redoubled his pace. If his reading of the trajectory plots had been correct, Alamo would be minutes away from disaster, and unless he could warn them, his ship and his crewmates were doomed.
“We're here, Sub-Lieutenant,” Webster said, turning to face him. “Just through those trees. The station's built by the side of a fast-flowing river, on top of a rocky outcrop, maybe fifty feet high. The platoon is dug in all around.”
“Why so many?” he asked.
“The dig site,” Mortimer replied. “It's only about ten miles from here. You can see the whole countryside, and it makes for a good spot to coordinate communications traffic.” She shrugged, and added, “That, and it's too useful to ignore. Either it had to be captured or destroyed, and it's too useful to simply write off.”
A dark figure raced towards them, out of the undergrowth, and said, “I got to within a hundred meters, sir, then had to pull back. There are eight on guard, manning two machine gun nests and four of them at the stream. Fishing.”
“Fishing?” Webster asked. “Good to know that we're not dealing with crack troops. I guess they're hoping to catch breakfast. Any way in?”
“They haven't got anyone around the back,” the man replied. “You should be able to sneak around that way, but then you've got the climb to the top, and they'll spot you as soon as you reach the base. The worst we could do is embarrass them a little.”
Frowning, Clarke replied, “Then we need to launch two attacks, not one. An assault on the guards at the base to pin them down, and buy me long enough to reach the communications console and send my message.” Pulling out a borrowed datapad, he added, “I can set this up in five seconds, and everything will work automatically. Not a problem.”
“And how do you get out again?” Mortimer asked.
“Realistically, I probably don't. I'll cause as much mayhem up there as I can, distract them long enough for my message to be sent and the rest of you to get away. I'm gambling that they'll want me alive rather than dead, but if they don't, I guess those are the breaks.”
“You're that willing to throw your life away?” Webster asked.
“No, sir, but I'm more than happy to trade one life for hundreds. Thousands, if we
can free your people. That's the deal I signed up for when I put on the uniform, and I knew that sooner or later someone was going to collect. Given some of the stunts I've pulled in the last year, I'm only surprised that it's taken this long.” He started to empty his pockets, putting his equipment carefully on the ground. “Feel free to take what you want. I'm only going to need rifle, ammunition and my datapad. The lighter I travel the better.”
Frowning, Mortimer asked, “How much rock climbing have you done?”
“There were some pretty good cliff faces back home.”
“In one-third gravity,” she replied.
“Yes, but I had to wear a spacesuit. Far more cumbersome. I'm guessing that it will even out.” Sliding his rifle strap over his shoulder, he said, “Which way?”
“I'll lead you through,” the scout said. “Though when it comes to the climb, you're going to be on your own. As soon as I see you heading up, I'll go back around, get the attack started.”
“Give me a hundred and eighty seconds before you launch your attack,” Clarke replied. “If I haven't made it to the top by then, I never will.”
“We, damn it,” Mortimer said, throwing off her jacket. “I grew up in Alaska. Spent most of my teenage years on the mountains.”
“This...”
“You won't make it without me. Now can we get on with this? We're wasting time.”
The scout turned, walking into the undergrowth, Mortimer following. After a brief pause, Clarke went after them, pushing aside the branches and leaves of the forest. His mind was filled with suspicion and doubt. The intelligence report he'd read confirmed Mortimer's relationship with Pastell, even suggested that the two of them were planning on marrying, but that still didn't quite explain her willingness to change sides.
It could be a trap. It was almost likely. But she'd had ample opportunities to kill him on the trail, or to slip away to alert the guards. At this point, any betrayal would only come at the cost of her life, and she had to know that. Not that he had much choice. Her assessment of his climbing ability was distressingly accurate, and as he got a close look at the tongue of rock reaching to the sky, his previous enthusiasm melted away. None of the Martian ranges he'd climbed had anything quite like this, and if he fell, there were no thrusters to save him. He wouldn't die, but he'd be captured, and given the current situation, that would almost certainly amount to the same thing.
He paused for a moment, glancing to the side, the shining river curling off lazily to the left. Under other circumstances, this would be beautiful place to walk, but the knowledge that eight United Nations guards were within a few meters took the edge off the view. Taking care to keep low, he walked on through the undergrowth, careful to keep within sight of his guide. Finally, they were there, just a short sprint from the rock face.
“Go quickly,” the scout said. “Once you're on the rock, they won't see you until you're almost at the top. Three minutes, starting now. Good luck.”
Without waiting for Mortimer, Clarke sprinted across the open ground, waiting at every breath to hear the call of the guards, the sound of gunshots through the air. That he made it without incident seemed like a miracle, but as his hands searched for handholds to begin his climb, he made the mistake of looking up. Fifty meters, the scout had said, but it could easily be a mile. As he started his ascent, he quickly realized why they hadn't bothered posting guards in this part of the perimeter. The rock was smooth, and crumbled away in his hands. He had to test every handhold twice, and the gravity weighed down upon him like never before as he forced himself up.
To his right, Mortimer was making better time, her hands and feet finding a path as though she was born to the rock, easily sliding past him. His attention was taken away for a critical second as the handhold he'd found crumbled away, his arm swinging free, and she reached down to grab him, pushing him back against the rock before he could fall.
“Sooner or later, you're going to have to decide to trust me,” she said.
“All this for Pastell?” he replied, panting for breath as he resumed his ascent.
“Maybe I'll tell you at some point,” she said. “Once we've finished this part of the mission.”
Half the time had already been spent, and they still seemed to have a long way to go. Gradually, Clarke settled into a careful rhythm, hand over hand continuing the ascent, the path growing easier as he climbed. Carelessly, his feet scattered rocks behind him, a shower of pebbles tumbling to the ground, and he nestled in tight to the rock, waiting for the guards to turn and open fire. Up here, he'd be nothing more than target practice.
Somehow, the bullet never came, and he continued to the summit, heartened as he saw the dull-gray metal structure rising above him, a wide antenna slowly rotating, the means by which he could save his ship. Less than twenty seconds remained. He'd judged the climb to perfection, even if he felt that his arms were about to fall out of their sockets. One last push, and they'd be at the top.
Below, the crack of gunfire echoed, Captain Webster beginning his diversionary attack. Sirens sang their desperate song across the forest as troops raced to reinforce their comrades on the ground, exactly as he had hoped. Pulling himself over the edge, he came face-to-face with a wide-eyed technician, a pistol in hand, staring him in the face.
The figure collapsed to the ground, clutching at his shoulder, and Mortimer raced past him, gun in hand, yelling, “Come on! We've got to move!”
He didn't need any further prompting, and he raced for the building. A side door opened, a startled guard running through it, and he felled him with a single shot to the leg, the man collapsing to the side with blood running into the dirt. Almost before he realized what was happening, he was inside, footsteps ringing on the metal floor.
Outside, a battle was raging, but the lower level was empty, the garrison already turned out, not expecting an attack from the rear. That would be changing in a seconds, and he knew that enemy troops would already be closing on their position.
“Corporal, take cover down here. Hold them as long as you can, then get out of here.”
“Right,” she replied, kicking over a table, taking cover behind it as cards and mugs scattered across the floor. Clarke made for a ladder built into the wall, scaling the bars two at a time and pushing the overhead hatch open with the butt of his rifle. A bullet slammed into the ground by his side, the technician manning the sensor station prepared for his assault, but he fired a burst of semi-automatic fire through the hole. With a loud scream, the technician fell into the hail of bullets, his corpse dropping to the ground below.
The upper level was as he'd expected, full of archaic equipment he barely recognized, but some recently installed United Nations kit had been stacked in a corner, crudely wired into the system. Ignoring the native console, he raced to the advanced software, fingers dancing across the controls as he furiously entered a series of access codes, fighting his way through the firewall. A green light winked on, and he jabbed the datapad into position, waiting impatiently for it to complete its connection.
Overhead, the sound of grinding gears burst into life as the antenna complex turned, moving to focus on distant Alamo, power surging into the system as it struggled to acquire the target. For a second, he considered staying at the console, talking personally to his comrades, but the sound of gunfire outside, bullets ringing from the walls, convinced him that Mortimer needed the help more urgently than he needed reassurance. The automated message would have to do the job, and he had to hope that it got through before he died.
Sliding back down the ladder, he narrowly escaped being shot by an advancing guard, Mortimer dealt with the situation before he could respond. He dropped and rolled behind her cover, raising his rifle to rest alongside hers, firing a burst of automatic fire that wiped out most of the clip in a bid to drive the enemy troops back.
“Did it work?” she asked.
“I hope so,” he re
plied.
“Sounds like our friends on the surface decided to go home,” she said. “I've taken out four already, and I think they're getting ready for a concerted attack. If they pull that off, we're dead. Unless they get smart and use gas grenades first.”
“Depends how much they care about this place,” he replied, taking a shot at a careless figure, moving across the threshold of the open door. Pulling out the old clip, he slammed a replacement into position, locking it in place. “Last of the ammunition.”
“I've already switched. Maybe fifteen rounds left. Looking forward to a glorious last stand?”
“Not especially. Make for the side exit. I'll cover you. That way one of us might get out of here.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “Fleet doesn't give up its own.”
“Fleet?”
There was a brief pause in the battle, and she replied, “You can confirm this if and when we make it back to Alamo, but I'm a Sub-Lieutenant assigned to Triplanetary Intelligence, just like you. And no, Sam doesn't know anything about it.”
“You're full of surprises, aren't you,” he said.
“Right back at you, kid,” she said. A trio of guards rushed the door, a feint that cost them ten precious bullets for no gain. “Not much point one of us getting out of here. We're better off thinning them out a little. Might help someone else.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “I guess that's pretty much where we are at this point, isn't it. I won't say it's been a pleasure, but it's never been boring.” Glancing at the ammunition counter on his rifle, he said, “Let's not die in the dirt.”
“Agreed.”
As one, the two of them jumped out of cover, charging at the door, catching the assembling guards by surprise with carefully aimed bursts of fire. The advantage was theirs for only a matter of seconds, but they made full use of them to advance into the open. As twenty rifles turned their way, a pair of explosions erupted into the air on either side, slamming into the waiting troops. This time, it was Clarke who dragged a dazed Mortimer out of the brawl, racing towards the path, where a grinning Lieutenant Avdonin was advancing, leading a squad of rebels into the fight.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars Page 11
