Not something that bothered him. Not at this point. The course was feasible, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn't even have hesitated, but the fuel he would use executing it would preclude any chance of making it back to Alamo. Nor would he need to be concerned about the Republic forces capturing him. Glancing up at the countdown clock, he shook his head. In eight minutes, give or take, he'd have first-hand knowledge of his own about the anomaly.
Assuming he lived through his encounter with the SAR shuttle. The pilot was implacably holding course, continuing to his target, and for a second he worried that it might be robotic, automatic, but he dismissed the thought quickly. The pilot might be a robot, but it would take human hands to seize the memory modules from the shuttles, and prevent the crew from stopping their theft. Given the environment, it felt unlikely that anyone would trust themselves to a shuttle being remotely controlled. And by now, Harper would have tried every trick in the book to stop them, throwing obstacles that only a human pilot could overcome.
Thirty seconds to target. Surely his opponent would realize that Salazar had no reason to pull back, that his final fate was already irrevocable. As the clock ticked through the final seconds, he held his hand over the thruster control, waiting to adjust his course should it be needed, but with only five seconds to spare, the Republic pilot blinked.
The two craft flashed past each other, less than a half-mile apart, and Salazar watched with a smile as the SAR craft turned, burning to return to the carrier, knowing they now had no chance of making their rendezvous. The Republic fighters continued on, racing for Alamo, into a battle in which he could now have no part.
“Maybe you'll get that kill after all, McCormack,” he muttered to himself, sitting back in his couch, hands by his side. All he could do now was enjoy the ride.
Chapter 21
As soon as the shuttle reached the level of the hangar deck, Harper sprinted through the hatch, pushing her way through the crowd of technicians to reach the waiting elevator. Someone was yelling something at her, hands trying to pull her back, but she shrugged off the distractions and dived through the doors, slamming the control with her fist to send herself up to the bridge.
A cacophony of instructions and orders barked through the overhead speakers, department heads preparing the ship for battle. Somewhere out ahead of them, the two fighter squadrons were about to cross paths, and unless something had changed within the last thirty seconds, Alamo would be unable to contact the warlike McCormack to hold her back.
She pulled out her datapad, scrolling through the feed to bring up a tactical display, shaking her head at the image displayed on the screen. Forty seconds before the fighters reached optimum combat range, and another four minutes before they could launch an attack on Alamo, assuming enough of them got through. The ambush had been perfect, but with the new combat systems, Alamo could survive this pass, would have to make sure that the enemy vessel didn't receive a second try.
For years, the Republic and the Confederation had been allies-of-convenience, following a joint intelligence operation she'd been involved with while she was serving under Logan Winter. Still, as with any government, there were different factions with influence, and one of them had obviously seen an opportunity to take advantage of. Finally, the doors opened, and she raced onto the bridge.
“Captain, order McCormack to go weapons free if you can,” she said, sprinting for Marshall. “They've got no choice but to push this all the way now, and they can't afford for us to get home to tell the tale. The only option they have is to clear all the evidence out of the system, which means an attack.”
“Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, “I have no intention of starting a war with the Republic.”
“It won't come to that,” Harper protested. “Even if the Supreme Council has backed this move, and I doubt they have, they'll throw the commander of that ship into the firing line to prevent a war. They don't want a fight any more than we do.” Gesturing at the viewscreen, she added, “And they'll be concluding right now that the only way to avoid a war is to destroy this ship and make sure we don't live to tell the tale.”
“She might be right, Danny,” Caine conceded, turning from her station. “We're twenty seconds from target. I think I can get a tight-beam transmission to McCormack, just long enough to pulse a message though.”
“Captain,” Francis pleaded, “What if this is just a bluff? You'd be risking a war over a series of assumptions and guesses that may have no basis in fact.” Shaking his head, he said, “Let the fighters pass through.”
“We might live through a reduced strike,” Caine said. “Not a full one. Not even with all our defense systems ready to go. One hit in the wrong place, and we start tumbling down into the anomaly.” She paused, then said, “I agree with Harper, Danny. But you've only got ten seconds to decide.”
Taking a deep breath, Marshall said, “Order McCormack to go weapons free.”
“Sir,” Bowman said, “I still can't get anyone from Engineering, and I can't make contact with Ensign Rhodes or Midshipman Clarke. I've thrown in every override I can, but communications across the lower decks remain intermittent at best.” Shaking his head, he said, “Last reports had them heading for the propulsion levels, the port-side aft thruster array.”
“Francis, get down to Engineering and find out what the hell is going on down there. Send a runner back if you have to.” Marshall paused, then added, “If you find Dubois, tell him that he is relieved, and that Lombardo is Acting Systems Officer until we return to Mars.”
“Aye, sir,” Francis replied, pushing past Harper as he rushed to the elevator. Looking around the bridge, Harper walked over to the electronic warfare station, relieving the duty technician with a tap on the shoulder, and slid down into the seat, setting up the console for the battle she expected to begin at any second. She looked up at the sensor display, watching as Salazar's fighter continued its endless fall into eternity, knowing that there was nothing she could do to help him, no way she could even talk to him.
And somehow, she knew that he was going to live through it. All the evidence showed that the anomaly wasn't a path to destruction, but a portal. If anyone could survive a flight to the far side, it would be Salazar, and he was already setting himself up for the transition, nose pointed directly at the target. He wasn't going to die, not here.
That might not be true for the crew of Alamo, though, and she ran her hands over the controls, setting up the defense systems for the battle to come. Three years of innovation had gone into the refit, and she had far more options at her disposal than she had during Alamo's last cruise. As well as a battery of updated electronic warfare systems, the best intrusion programs that Triplanetary Intelligence could devise, she had an array of kilowatt laser cannons positioned in strategic locations on the outer hull, able to knock down incoming missiles.
“She launched!” Caine yelled, and all eyes turned to the viewscreen, watching as the fighters swept past each other, unleashing volleys of missiles that filled the display with trajectory plots, twenty-four missiles racing to mutual destruction. As one, the fighters turned, burning their engines to return to Alamo, getting themselves clear of the battlespace as quickly as possible.
With a satisfied nod, Marshall said, “Textbook. Perfect preemptive defensive strike.” Turning to Caine, he added, “Note a commendation for Senior Lieutenant McCormack. That was damn nice work.”
Nodding, Caine replied, “Just twelve missiles left to watch out for.” With a frown, she added, “Enemy fighter formation is pressing its attack, though. They're still coming. They can't have enough fuel to get back to the carrier.”
“They don't need to,” Harper said. “We know the Republic have been using drone fighters, I'd guess we're watching their first operational deployment.” Turning back to her console, she continued, “Something which might give us some additional tactical options.”
“Do anyt
hing you can to crack into their systems. At the very least, it would be nice to get a copy of their control systems for analysis when we get back home.” He paused, then turned to Bowman, adding, “Have Doyle start work on the data retrieved from Waldheim's shuttle, and inform her that I want a full initial report within the hour.”
Frowning, the communications technician replied, “I can't page her, sir, and she hasn't gone down to the hangar deck to retrieve the data. I don't understand, Captain. The internal communications network has triple-backups, and we should be making contact easily.”
“Relax, Spaceman,” Marshall said. “You're doing the best you can. Page anyone you can from the Espatier platoon, and have them start to search for Lieutenant Doyle on the double.” Shaking his head, he added, “Our saboteur at work again.”
“You think he might have taken down Doyle?” Caine asked.
“She's the best-equipped to interpret data on the anomaly,” Marshall replied. “Losing her would be a hell of a blow. Spaceman, what areas of the ship are isolated by the communications blackout?”
“Upper propulsion decks, aft sensor array, Elevator Control.”
“Sir!” Ballard said. “All missiles are cleared, Captain. Looks like our squadron managed a clean sweep.” With a triumphant smile, she turned back to her sensor display, and added, “Our forces have disengaged, and are heading back home on a divergent vector. They should be landing two minutes after the Republic fighters have made their attack run.”
“Bowman,” Marshall said, looking across at the frustrated crewman. “Any contact with the enemy carrier?”
“Nothing, sir. I can try and punch a signal through if you want.”
“No,” he replied. “If they were going to talk to us, I think they'd have done it by now. But keep all channels open, just to be sure.” He paused, then added, “Salazar's fighter?”
“No signals, sir. He's almost at the threshold of the anomaly, anyway.”
All eyes turned briefly to the monitor, watching as the lone fighter completed its silent dive into the maw of the gravitational beast, winking off as it passed out of range. Harper felt as though a part of her had gone with it, but she still knew, somewhere inside, that Salazar wasn't dead, and that somehow they would both be together, and soon. She glanced at the elevator, briefly contemplating leaving the bridge, making her way down to the flight deck, stealing a shuttle to follow him on his journey, but a quick glance from Marshall held her in place at her station.
He knew what she was thinking, was probably considering the same thing himself, but at least for the present, she had a job to do. Perhaps, once they had dealt with the Republic carrier, she might have the opportunity she wished, and there and then she decided that she wasn't going to be leaving the system with Alamo.
“Two minutes to enemy attack run,” Ballard said. “They're still running true, standard Republic strike pattern.” Shaking her head, she added, “Those bastards are burning their engines red-hot, sir. And their trajectories suggest that they'll be heading for the anomaly in less than an hour.”
“A Sargasso of Space,” Caine said. “Firing parameters, sir?”
“Go full defensive,” Marshall replied. “Don't target the fighters. Once they've released their missiles, they're harmless, especially if they can't make it home.” He frowned, turned to Caine, then added, “And they'll know that as much as we do.”
Nodding, Caine replied, “If their goal is to make sure we can't leave the system, they're going about it oddly. I'd have expected them to conserve their fighters, not throw them away. You think they might be trying for kamikaze?”
“No,” Marshall said, gesturing at the screen. “Look at the trajectory track. They're running too hot even for that. We'll be able to move out of the way easily. That's a trick that's damn near impossible to pull on an undamaged ship anyway.” Turning to Ballard, he said, “Spaceman, put up the egress points on the screen.”
“Aye, sir,” the technician replied, and a pair of blue dots appeared on the display, the two points of gravitational stability where Alamo's hendecaspace drive could rip a hole in reality, opening the window to the alien dimension humanity used for faster-than-light travel. Currently, the ship was in between the two of them, racing away from the carrier, towards the second point.
“Hounds and hunters,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “We've only seen half of their strike force. Right now they're guiding us towards the second egress point, and my guess is that within a matter of minutes, we'll see a second force emerge. If they do any damage to us now, it's a bonus prize.”
“Theoretically, we could be intercepted at any time in the next seventy-two hours,” Caine replied. “A cruiser force, or even another carrier.”
Tapping controls, Harper added, “Intelligence has a Republic cruiser squadron at Procyon. Just within range of a single jump. Supposedly engaged in exercises, with a notation that they're putting pressure on United Nations forces at UV Ceti.” She frowned, and added, “They'd really have to be ready to take a big risk if they're taking away their defensive forces. Right here, in this system, is a significant portion of their Deep Space Fleet.”
“No sign of dimensional instability from the far egress point,” Ballard reported. “I'm having trouble with the long-range sensors, though. There's a lot of interference, bandwidth way down. Wait one.” Abruptly, a series of red lights flashed across the viewscreen, and the technician turned from her panel, eyes wide. “We just lost the whole damned feed!”
“What?” Marshall asked, jumping out of his chair and racing to the console. “Harper...”
“On it,” the hacker replied, fingers dancing across her controls. “Jammed. Aft sensor array. Someone's jamming the internal transmissions. I can bypass, but we won't get full resolution for at least two minutes.” She paused, then added, “Use probes, flying escort. We can get them into the air in seconds, and they'll give us at least some idea of what is going on out there. Recommend they remain within a hundred meters of the ship.”
“That's pretty tight,” Caine warned.
“Any further, and we risk losing the signals when those fighters get close.”
“Do it,” Marshall said, and the sensor display flashed back into life, the resolution far reduced from before. Harper turned back to her console, ready to unleash the point-defense lasers when they drew close. As the seconds trickled away, the ship rocked back, Caine launching a missile salvo, eight tracks racing towards the incoming Republic warheads, leaving only four for Harper to deal with.
“Enemy fighters are pushing on,” Ballard said, shaking her head. “It's almost as if...”
“They're hoping to be recovered by someone else,” Marshall finished. “Refueling drones, maybe, from our theoretical second formation. Even if they couldn't retrieve all of them, if those fighters are unmanned, it wouldn't matter.” Shaking his head, he said, “Sensors, Ballard?”
“Still offline,” she replied. “Probes are helping, but I've got to focus them on the incoming missiles if our tactical computers have a chance, sir.” She paused, then said, “As soon as our fighters get home, I'll be able to dump their sensor logs to give us a better picture, Captain.”
“Good, Spaceman, good,” Marshall said, turning back to the screen. Sixteen tracks winked out in a series of flashes, brief pulses of light as the missiles canceled each other out. Harper looked down, eyes on her controls, waiting for the four remaining enemy warheads to draw closer, ranging in towards the target. She paused for a second, then tapped a control with a single finger, sending a broadside sequence of laser blasts rippling through space, connecting Alamo and the warheads for a bare second.
The small cannon had none of the might of Alamo's primary armament, but for dealing with individual warheads, that would have been overkill. Just a single, quick tap was enough to send the four missiles spiraling through space, out of control, until the destruct systems
could engage, ending that threat once and for all.
“Space clear, Captain,” Harper said with a triumphant smile. “Score one for Commodore Chung and Mariner Station's engineers.”
“Sir,” Ballard reported, “I think we're getting dimensional instability, out at the far hendecaspace point. Still low-level, and with the resolution from the probes I'm having trouble getting confirmation, but I'd say we've got a transition in progress, capital ship scale.”
“That settles it,” Caine said. “Captain, if we stay here, we're going to run right into a world of trouble.” She paused, then added, “We can't leave the system for more than four days, but that doesn't mean we have to hold trajectory.”
Marshall nodded, and said, “How close do you think we could get to the anomaly?”
“Any closer would be dangerous,” Caine replied.
Stepping back to his chair, Marshall said, “What about a full-power slingshot. Throw the engines full open, and use it to swing ourselves into a higher orbit.” Turning to the helm, he said, “Midshipman, set that up. Let's see what the computer will give us for an intercept point at one of the hendecaspace points in, say, six and a quarter days.”
“Sir, I think I can set it up for four and a half,” Imoto said. “Close to the minimum time we need to complete dimensional stabilization.”
“They know that too, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “We need to keep them guessing, and build up enough speed to prevent them from catching or intercepting us without throwing themselves on a doomed trajectory. Set it up.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Sensors?”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom Page 20
