ACES HIGH
Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 13
Richard Tongue
Battlecruiser Alamo #13: Aces High
Copyright © 2015 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved
First Kindle Edition: July 2015
Cover By Keith Draws
With Thanks To Ellen Clarke
All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight —
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.
Robert Service
Chapter 1
Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall looked through the viewport at the Battlecruiser Alamo, the great ship floating serenely in space at a discrete distance, making the final preparations for departure. A few small pinpricks darted back and forth, shuttles transferring last-minute supplies and personnel. In just a few hours, they’d be on their way to the far frontier.
Turning away, he looked around the concourse at the bustling crowds. Three years ago, Hunter Station hadn’t even existed, with the planet it circled, Ragnarok, out of touch with the rest of humanity in sullen isolation. Now it was turning into a major military base and economic artery, a key ally of the Triplanetary Confederation.
“Captain?” a familiar voice said, and he turned to see Ensign Cooper, the commander of his Espatier contingent, walking towards him.
“Good morning, Cooper,” he replied.
“I wanted to check in with you before Alamo left.”
Raising a hand, Marshall said, “I know what this is about, and don’t worry about it. I wasn’t expecting your troopers to be ready for active duty yet. You only had three months.”
“True, but it seems strange to be left behind while my ship goes off to its duty station.” He shook his head, and continued, “This time I want to get this right, though. Twice I’ve gone out into the dark with a platoon, and twice we suffered because we hadn’t been properly trained. Not again, skipper. Never again.”
“How are the rooks coming along?”
“Pretty well. I’ve got them out on the hull at the moment, simulated insertion drill down in the lower levels. Maintenance took the construction crews out for the day. Hell, I think they were glad to have some time off.”
“Can you give me a figure?”
“Eight weeks, I think. Once we’ve finished up here, it’s back down to Ragnarok for outdoor survival training. I just wish I had a chance to take them to Jefferson, get some jungle experience.”
“Every world is different,” Marshall replied. “You can’t give them field experience of every world in the galaxy.”
Looking down at the cold, ice-swept planet below, Cooper said, “Aside from the four Rockies I managed to recruit, all of my people were born in protected environments. They know what they are doing on space stations and starships, but when it comes to working outdoors they’re just babes in arms.” He snorted, then said, “As are our design engineers. I’ve managed to scavenge some Ragnarok kit, but that’s only suitable to one climate.”
“Improvisation, Ensign. We’re supposed to be good at that.”
Glancing back up at Alamo, Cooper asked, “How’s the ship?”
“Ready to go. Just waiting to transfer everything that came in on the Don Lind.”
“And the rest of the task force?”
“The scouts will be joining us in a few weeks; we’re still repairing the damage they sustained at the Battle of Hades Station. More bits to follow.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?”
Nodding, Marshall said, “By all means.”
“Why are you leaving now, Captain? The orders give you plenty of flexibility. You could wait for the scouts, and for my platoon, for that matter. Spend some more time getting ready. I know Quinn would welcome it.”
“Three months sitting out here has been bad enough already. The crew are going to lose their edge if they don’t get back out there soon, and frankly, so will I. As for Quinn, he’d gladly spend the rest of his career working on getting the ship to absolute perfection, but Alamo is ready, the crew is ready, and I’m ready. We leave in six hours.”
A beep sounded from Cooper’s datapad, and he pulled it out of his pocket, scanning the message.
“Trouble?” Marshall asked.
“Not really. A few of the troops seem to have wandered into the wrong area. Looks like there’s a problem with the relay beacons on the outer hull.” With a sigh, he said, “I’d better go and sort it all out.”
Offering his hand, Marshall said, “I’ll see you in eight weeks, then.”
Taking it with a firm grip, Cooper replied, “Don’t get into too many fights, skipper. Not without my big, scary platoon to back you up.”
With a smile, he said, “I’ll do my best. Good luck, Ensign.”
“And to you, sir.” Cooper turned, walking down the ramp and vanishing into the crowd, pushing his way towards the elevator. Marshall supposed for a second that he should also be on his way, but turned back to look at Alamo again, floating in space a hundred miles away. Soon she’d be out among the stars once again, on a mission of exploration. A chance to see something new, something no human had ever seen before. Just as long as the peace treaty with the Cabal was worth the paper it was printed on.
He glanced down at his watch, cold reality breaking him from his reverie. There were a thousand things he still had to do before Alamo could leave, not least signing off on the recently arrived supplies. Pulling out his datapad, he checked the current location on Saunders, commander of the Lind, and smiled. A small worker’s bar on the lower levels. At a guess, the freighter captain had found a hidden gem; either that, or he was conducting some sort of illicit business.
Following the directions, he stepped down the ramp into the tumble of the crowd, pushing his way through. Even after two years, this station was still a work in progress. The Triplanetary Senate had opened up the purse strings of late, enough that another habitation ring could be built, more spacedocks constructed, more personnel recruited. Enough to turn this into a key facility. Whilst this was a good thing, it did mean that the place was barely organized chaos at the moment, and would be for months to come.
He stumbled into the elevator, t
ripping over a wayward foot, bracing himself with his arms at the last minute, then selected for his level. He felt a brief surge of queasiness as the elevator shot across to the central tunnel, briefly dancing into zero-gravity as it transferred to the lower ring. Most of it was airtight now, though barely occupied.
The doors opened onto an empty corridor. Marshall glanced down at his datapad, but before he could check that he was on the right level, the elevator doors closed behind him. Strange. He was three levels up from where he should be been. With a sigh, he tapped a control to log the problem for the local maintenance crews, only to receive an error message. Loss of signal. Glancing up at the wall, he saw a pair of dangling fibreoptic cables, an empty space where the repeater should have been.
Something about this didn’t add up. He tapped for the elevator, but wasn’t surprised when nothing happened. Either the maintenance crews were guilty of willful negligence, or this was some sort of trap. Looking at his datapad again, he quickly mapped out a route down to the bar, at least giving him a reference point to aim for, somewhere he knew he would find people.
He set off down the corridor, and as he walked, the lights went out, leaving him in total darkness. Swearing under his breath, he quickened his pace, running his hand against the wall to keep him in a straight line, and pulled out his datapad again, turning the searchlight up to full. It’d drain the power in less than an hour, but that should be all he’d need, though all it did was give off a glow that left shadows dancing in the gloom around him.
Turning a corner, he heard footsteps up ahead, coming towards him. He glanced around, trying to find cover, a weapon, something he could use, but there was nothing around that would serve.
“Who’s out there?” he yelled. “Identify yourself.”
In a soft, sibilant tone, a voice replied, “I could ask you the same question.”
“Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall. Your turn.”
“No, I think not.”
Marshall dived to the ground as a bullet tore through the space he had been standing in, instinct taking over just in time. He looked up to see a figure racing towards him, a gun in his hand, the barrel lowering to take another shot. Jamming the intensity to the brightest setting, he flashed his datapad at him, blinding him in the glare for a critical second, enough for the next shot to go wide and for him to charge into his assailant’s legs, sending him toppling and the gun rattling away across the deck.
“Talk,” Marshall said, trying to pin him. “Who are you? Why do you want me dead?”
The figure pushed back hard, sending Marshall tumbling into the wall; his lithe figure belied his strength. Looking up, he dived for the gun, reaching up with his fingers to grab the barrel, but his assailant was first, stepping on both the weapon and on his hand, crushing him underfoot.
“We can’t have that,” the figure said. “You aren’t getting away, Captain. If you cease resistance, I will make this less painful.”
“No, thanks,” Marshall said, sweeping across with his other hand. He could just get his fingers to the trigger, and he managed to pull it hard enough to fire, a shot slamming into the deck. His fingers burned, but his attacker leapt up in surprise, before striking down at Marshall’s wrist, breaking it with a loud snap.
Grunting in pain, he tried to roll out of the way, pushing off with his other hand and snatching back the shattered wrist, trying to protected it. The figure reached down, picked up the gun, and pointed it at Marshall’s chest.
“Any last words?”
“Why?”
Before the figure could answer – or simply pull the trigger, which seemed more likely, another crack echoed down the corridor, and he toppled back to the deck, blood pouring out of a wound in his shoulder.
“Drop your weapon!” Cooper’s voice called out, as the Espatier raced up the corridor. “Get onto the floor, do it now!”
“Not a chance,” the figure replied. Sweat was beading on his forehead, but his face was a stoic mask as he raised the gun again, firing down the corridor, sending Cooper diving for cover, returning fire to try and pin him down.
“You’ve nowhere to run,” Marshall gasped. “Give it up.”
Wordlessly, the figure turned, sprinting with superhuman speed down the corridor away from the action. Cooper rose, glanced down at Marshall, who nodded back at him, then pursued. Reaching into his pocket, he managed to fish out his communicator, opening it to the emergency frequency.
“Marshall to any station. Medical emergency. Lower ring, fourth level. Security alert.” He stopped, gasping for breath. “Urgent reply. Over.”
“Relax, Captain,” the drawl of a local security officer replied. “Help’s already on the way in force. Is Ensign Cooper with you?”
“In pursuit of my assailant.” A siren began to echo across the corridor, a decompression alarm, and the communicator went dead again. Over on the far wall, a seal popped and a plastic bubble bounced out into the corridor, slowly beginning to expand, a rescue ball released by the automatic systems. Already he was beginning to pant, having trouble breathing, and his wrist burned like fire as he dragged himself across the floor, trying to save himself.
He rolled through the seal, and managed to secure it behind him, taking deep breaths as the bubble reached full pressure, looking back at the trail of blood where he had been, still spilling from his hand. A siren sounded, the emergency beacon ringing to alert everyone for a million miles to the emergency, overkill in this case, but welcome nonetheless.
Cooper was still out there, out in the now-decompressed corridor beyond. He’d have had a much easier time finding safety, assuming his assailant hadn’t stopped him. A thousand scenarios raced through his mind, none of them good. At least there was a medical kit, and he snatched out a painkiller, swallowing the pills dry and hoping that they would take effect, anything to dull the agony racing through his body.
Time dragged. Outside pressure had dropped to nothing, but that was all he knew; the only viewport was facing the floor, and he didn’t dare roll the ball to try and get a look outside. After a few moments more, he felt himself moving, something dragging the ball along the ground. Rescuers. Or his assailant, back to finish him off.
The question was answered a moment later as he was dragged into the elevator, the door closed behind him, and he saw the outside pressure quickly rise again. The seal popped open, and a spacesuited hand waved through, looking down at him.
“They really made a mess of you, mate,” the suited figure said, reaching for his helmet; the voice was the one he had heard over the communicator. “Medical team’s up at the top with a stretcher and some nice strong painkillers. Have you fixed up real quick.”
“Cooper?” Marshall asked.
“Fine, mate,” he replied. “Got into an airlock and suited up in plenty of time.”
“What happened?”
“Look, you’re in shock. You’ve got to try and relax.”
“Someone tried to kill me. I’ll relax when I know why.”
“Might be a while then, mate. The bastard blew a hole in the side of the station and got sucked out into space. I don’t think he’s going to be telling anyone anything.”
“Get someone out to retrieve the body.”
Shaking his head, the man said, “We’ve got a hell of a mess…”
“Do it! That’s the only piece of evidence we’ve got. Do it right now.”
The door opened, and Doctor Duquesne, over from Alamo, looked down at him with a disapproving scowl, saying, “We haven’t even left yet, and already you’re getting yourself into fights.”
“I’ve given…”
“It can wait, Captain,” Duquesne said.
Cooper was standing behind her, a smile on his face, and he nodded, saying, “Better do as she says, skipper. I haven’t got any close infantry support to back you up.”
He felt a prick into his shoulder
, looked down to see a hypodermic being withdrawn, and said, “I need to...need to…”
Duquesne reached down and closed his eyes with her palm, saying, “You need to rest. Don’t worry, we won’t leave without you.”
With a last gasp, he admitted defeat, and let the darkness take him.
Chapter 2
“What the hell is going on over there?” Senior Lieutenant Margaret Orlova said, racing over to the communications station where the duty technician, the long-suffering Senior Spaceman Weitzman, sat working the controls.
“The Captain’s on his way to the station medical facility, ma’am. That’s all I can get out of them. There’s a lot of comm traffic at the moment, a full-scale alert.”
Lieutenant Nelyubov, over at the Tactical station, said, “Maggie, they’ve probably got a lot to worry about right now. As long as the Captain and Cooper are safe, we can settle for that, can’t we.”
“Not by a long shot. Take us to battle stations.”
“In spacedock?” Nelyubov replied.
“Good practice if nothing else.”
“Fine,” he said with a resigned sigh, hitting a control. “Tactical Officer to Crew. All hands report to your battle stations. I repeat, all hands to battle stations.”
The elevator door opened, and Senior Lieutenant Caine, Acting Executive Officer, stepped out with a look of fury on her face, racing over to the communications station.
“Report, Weitzman,” she snapped.
A helpless look on his face, he said, “Nothing new, ma’am. The Captain’s stable, and Doctor Duquesne is attending to him right now. Ensign Cooper has not sustained any injuries, and the assassin has committed suicide.”
“Battle stations, Maggie?” Caine asked, looking over.
“It seemed like a reasonable precaution,” she replied. “This could be the start of a full-scale attack. All hell seems to be breaking loose on the station.”
“I’m going over there,” Caine said.
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