Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom
Page 23
Beneath him, the ground seemed to rush towards him, and the smooth surface he had seen from altitude seemed all to unwelcoming when he saw it close up, rocks scattered all round, ripples of dunes rising and falling like the waves of a silent sea. Ten seconds of fuel remained, and he tugged a control to switch what was left to the landing thrusters, spilling altitude carelessly in his bid to reach the surface. Even if the ship hadn't been a ruin, it would never have survived such a landing, and he knew it.
Dust kicked up all around him as he reached the final stages of the landing, a chorus of alarms ringing in his ears as he desperately sought the ground. His fuel ran out, thirty feet too soon, and he felt a terrible lurch as the fighter slammed into position, crashing into the sand, the struts snapping under the unaccustomed load. The force of the impact threw him forward into the restraints, and he grimaced from the jolt, knowing that he would have a pattern of bruises on his chest.
Still, he was down, and alive, and that had been more than he'd expected ten minutes ago. With a final, depressing tone, the fighter's systems died, one last indicator telling him that he'd landed only a mile short of the beacon. Tugging a control to fire the explosive bolts, he sent the canopy flying into the air, tumbling down the slope behind him, and the fierce, burning heat of the white-hot sun started to bear down upon him.
Reaching for the survival kit underneath his couch, he took quick inventory of this possessions, and his brief happiness at living through the landing was instantly dispelled by the paucity of the supplies on offer. Food and water for two days, a first-aid kit that at least provided some painkillers to offset the effects of the landing, and a thin poncho he slung over his head, giving him at least the impression of shade. The designers had never imagined a situation such as he now faced, alone on an alien world, and most of the equipment was useless, designed either to contact a ship in orbit or defend himself against theoretical aggressors.
Strapping on pistol and combat knife, helpfully on the same belt, he tugged the ripcord to activate the emergency beacon, on the off-chance that someone friendly would be listening. Even someone unfriendly would be welcome in the current circumstances, and the prospect of an air-conditioned interrogation cell on Waldheim was almost inviting.
Climbing out of the cockpit, he took one last look at his last link from home, then set off across the desert, trying to make a line for what he hoped was the beacon. There was still no sign of life, no footprints in the drifting sand, no trace of water. He struggled to remember his limited survival training, but when he'd attended the Academy, the idea that the Triplanetary Fleet would have significant involvement with habitable planets had been out of the question. If he had the chance, he'd like to have words with his instructors on that subject, and provide them with education on the error of their ways. One more reason to live through this.
He trudged across the sand, grit running into his boots, crunching underfoot, sweat running down his head. He did remember that walking in the desert during the day was meant to be a bad idea, but with no knowledge of how long the daylight would last, and the potential of safety only a few meters away, he couldn't wait for the uncertain prospect of nightfall.
Finally, on the far side of a slope, he saw it, a cylinder of metal placed on the landscape, antenna reaching plaintively up to the sky. His pace quickened as he rushed for the beacon, the Triplanetary flag emblazoned on its side, writing battered away by the elements. It had obviously been here for a long time, perhaps months, and showed no sign that anyone had paid it any attention since then.
With a sigh, he sat down in the shade of the beacon, and took a single drink of water from his canteen, sloshing the remnants inside the container. There didn't seem to be any point in rationing it out, and he took a second, deep swig, before slamming the stopper home and replacing it at his belt.
Then he heard movement, something coming towards him, and he reached down for his pistol, tugging it free of his holster, wiping his hand on his jacket to remove the sweat as he hid behind the beacon, knowing instantly that his stance was ludicrous. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and his life was measured in hours in any case. Tossing his pistol away with a smile, he stepped out into the open, and was rewarded with a familiar face, swathed in improvised survival gear, looking back at him.
“Good God, Pavel. I should have known you'd show up eventually.”
TO BE CONTINUED……
Thank you for reading 'Into the Maelstrom'. For information on future releases, please join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.
The writer's blog is available at http://tinyurl.com/pjl96dj
The saga returns in Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity, available soon…
Table of Contents
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue