Battlecruiser Alamo: Take and Hold

by Richard Tongue

   “What’s that?” Rashid asked, “I can see something, a shadow moving.”

   “You must have eyes like a cat. I can’t…”, but then, Cooper saw what the trooper had seen, a round, metal shield that almost perfectly fitted the walls of the corridor, a whine of air jets moving it under its own volition. Instantly, gunfire rattled from it, small holes from which rifles protruded, manned by crewmen who he couldn’t reach. Instinctively, Cooper fired three shots from his rifle, but there was no way he could penetrate the armor.

   “Hold the fort,” he told Rashid, pushing off back to the communications console. More gunfire followed, and a yelp that meant that one of his men had been hit – the chances of a lucky shot seemed too remote to take seriously. Three more of his troops began to move past him, eagerly heading for the firing, and he looked after them for a moment before swinging back into their temporary headquarters.

   “Masterson, get together, we’re moving out. Go tell Fuller that she’s in charge here, and that she needs to move back to the inner barricades as soon as we get on the move.”

   “Right, sir,” he said, racing to obey his orders. Krueger, his second-in-command, laconically took a last scoop of his meal before pushing the can away into a corner.

   “We’re not supposed to start for eighteen minutes plus, Gabe.”

   Cooper pulled an ominous looking rectangular black box from behind the stores and opened it with a thumb-print, replying, “I’m not supposed to be using one of these either. I’m just disobeying one order after another today.”

   Krueger placed his hand on Cooper’s wrist and said, “What the hell are you doing?”

   Shrugging him off, he strapped the power pack to his back and hefted the weight of the plasma rifle, quickly running through the familiar charging sequence. It had been far too long since he’d had a chance to use one of these toys, but long sessions of drill instruction came racing back to him.

   “These are meant to be used outdoors. In space, preferably,” Krueger said.

   A pair of cracks from outside forced Cooper to raise his voice, saying, “That thing out there is impenetrable to our small-arms fire. We’ve got to use the heavy artillery if we’re going to have any sort of a chance.”

   “Damn it, if you miss, you’ll take out the wall! We’ll all die!”

   “If I don’t fire, we’ve had it. We’ve got two chances to die and one to live. Right now I’m willing to take those odds.” Tightening the straps on the power pack, he said, “Stick with me, and remember that we’ve got to get this attack home. Whatever it takes.”

   “Just another old-fashioned suicide mission,” he replied. “Great.”

   The two of them pushed out into the corridor, diving past troops ducking into cover, gunfire all around them. A couple of troopers were retreating, pulling back as the enemy’s shield advanced; Cooper felt something brush past his arm, and looked down to see a gouge in his tough armored jacket, a thin line of blood where the bullet had glanced off him.

   Up ahead, he saw the shield moving closer, almost at the first barricade, a trio of bodies sprawled in the air before it; inside, he prayed that they were only wounded, not dead, but they lay terribly still as he watched. Another fusillade of shots rang out from behind him, a few of his men giving him some covering fire, and he pressed down behind what little cover remained, lining his shot onto the target as best he could.

   The aim had to be perfect. No overspill, no flashback, just a shot of exactly the right amount of power and range to get the target. Sweat pooled up on his forehead, droplets floating away as he raised the rifle, adjusting the settings, trying to blot everything else out of his mind while he focused on the task at hand.

   He peered through the scope, steadying his breathing, switching back in his mind to the firing ranges back on Phobos, picturing it as just another static target to destroy before he could go back to the barracks. Almost without realizing it, he pulled the trigger, and a burst of green fire leapt from the barrel of the weapon, flashing towards the heart of the shield and enveloping it. While the weapon was noiseless, the screams from the dying men behind it echoed through the corridor, and the air filters began to whir as smoke began to pour forth.

   The gunfire stopped as everyone paused, waiting to see what would happen. On the far side of the ruined shield, flaming shrapnel had completed the job that the plasma burst had begun, and the smell of roasted meat filled the air. Nothing had survived for a hundred meters behind, all the way to the junction. Fortunately.

   Looking back, he yelled, “Come on Second Platoon! Let’s get them while we can!” He unclipped the power pack, tossing the whole kit back to a waiting trooper, then turned to lead off with the first section, Mason flashing him a cheeky grin as they drifted above the dead. A burst of shots waited for them at the far end of the corridor, but they dismissed them with a few wild bursts from their rifles; at least here, the enemy didn’t seem to have the stomach for any fighting.

   Cooper’s communicator chirped, and he heard Brownworth yelling through the static. No way to boost the signal, so he turned the volume up as high as it could go, no matter that it would likely draw all sorts of death down on him.

   “Repeat, Major, I can’t hear you,” he shouted into the pickup, presuming that she was having the same difficulty as he.

   “Under heavy attack,” she crackled. “Two waves coming in, multiple directions. Yours?”

   “Repulsed attack and pushing for the objective,” he said.

   “Roger,” she replied, then a burst of static drowned her out. “Hold until relieved. Understand? Hold until relieved.”

   “Will do. Out.”

   He glanced at Krueger, then waved on, “First Squad, with me. Third, hang with Krueger. Form up in pairs to grab key positions. The Ensign picks ‘em. Get moving!”

   Swimming through the air, he took a shot at a retreating Cabal soldier then ducked up to the shaft, diving up it without any ceremony or warning, firing the last three shots of his clip blind to buy him time to switch cartridges. Behind him, eight troopers followed, all racing up to the top; he was going to have to push out at speed or face being pushed out by his over-eager comrades.

   Surprise was the best weapon he had anyway, and he leapt from the shaft into the corridor, his memory directing him towards the nearest cover, which he found he was sharing with a surprised Cabal soldier. A quick chop to the neck dealt with him, and he took a shot into the darkness to pin down anyone who might be on the other side of the shaft, while the squad came boiling out in various stages of readiness.

   Leaving Krueger to post a guard behind him, he waved at the squad and pushed off down the long corridor to the airlocks, leading with his rifle extended, his eyes hunting for targets up ahead. From what he could see, they’d stripped their defenses up here clear to make their attacks, but as he pushed past empty barricades, his face fell.

   “Take cover! Right now!” he yelled, pushing down; up ahead, a series of charges detonated, sending shrapnel flying through the air, delayed revenge for the death of their comrades behind the shield. One of the troopers had been too slow to move, and the burst caught him in the chest, his armor gouged and pitted as he cried for his mother, a hand reaching up and dragging him down too late to save his life. Cooper looked back, then turned up the corridor, peering to see what might be at the far end.

   “Ambush,” he said to the nearby Mason. “I should have guessed they’d have trapped the corridors.”

   “Could there be more?”

   “Anything is possible,” he replied, “but at the end of the day, there’s only one way to find out.” Taking a deep breath, he pushed off down the passage, the rest of his men pausing, waiting to see what would happen to him. Cold shrapnel, now robbed of the speed that made it lethal, brushed against his armor as he drifted down towards the airlock, before turning back.

   “Come on!” he yelled. “Do you want to live fore
ver?”

   Belatedly, they started to move after him, leaving their dead friend behind as they cautiously moved through the passageway in a silent floating crocodile, their faces tensed. There was something different about them, as if all of them were a lot older than they had been the day before. Now they were veterans, had seen combat and known what it was truly like, and none of them would ever be the same again.

   “Let’s move,” Cooper said. “We’re almost there.”

   As he pushed down the corridor, allowing Mason to take the point, he started to shake his head. Krueger drifted up alongside him as they reached the first airlock passage, dormant and unguarded, and shook his head.

   “What is it? We’ve done it.”

   “It’s too easy.”

   “Five dead and three injured?”

   Looking sharply across at his deputy, Cooper said, “Trust me, it was too damn easy. We could easily have lost the entire platoon.”

   “Can’t we relax?”

   The two of them heard a loud whine, and Cooper raced down towards the airlock, peering through the small window at its heart; outside, he could see points of light racing away, dancing in the darkness, far too fast to he shuttles. With a heavy heart, he contacted Wyvern.

   “Cooper here. You’ve got fighters inbound.”

   “Now what?” Krueger asked.

   “You heard the Major. We hold as long as we can.” Glancing down at his watch, he said, “I expect a renewed assault any moment now. If our reinforcements get shot down, it’s all over anyway.”

  Chapter 21

   Marshall stood on Hadfield’s flight deck, watching the last of the shuttles detach and begin its trip to the asteroid, shaking his head. He knew all too well what a gamble he was taking, and the memory of the last time he sent troops over there was fresh in his mind. It was all too possible that this was the prelude to a massacre, but the attempt had to be made. If only to provide some meaning to the lives that had already been lost.

   Standing next to him, Caine looked across, frowning, and said, “You didn’t have to come over here, you know. Your place is in a command center, not here on a flight deck.”

   “They need to know that I give a damn,” he replied. “Or perhaps I only need to know that myself. I can’t just sit back and wave them to their deaths.” With a sigh, he continued, “You and I both know that not all of them are coming back.”

   “If you feel that strongly about this, then you shouldn’t have sent them out there in the first fleet. It isn’t too late to abort the mission.”

   With a thin smile, he said, “Yes it is. Ensign Cooper has taken the decision out of my hands, and I either have to support him or let the casualties mount up for nothing.”

   Their conversation was interrupted by sirens echoing through the room, and Caine pulled out her datapad as updated tactical information began to stream onto it, her face darkening as the data poured in.

   “Fighters launched from the asteroid, twelve of them. On a direct course for the shuttles.” She looked up at him, and said, “You’ve got to get those shuttles back in, now.”

   “We can’t do that, not without losing everything we’ve gained on the asteroid.” He pulled out his communicator, and said, “Marshall to all ships. Scout squadron to intercept incoming fighters at earliest opportunity, all fighters immediate launch. Fleet to battle stations.”

   “Damn it, Danny, we weren’t expecting a fight for days. Our pilots are scattered all over the place.”

   Before she had finished talking, Marshall was running across the room to one of the improvized airlocks, a grin on his face as he said, “I know, and I know that the Hadfield is three short. Or to put it another way, two short.”

   “One,” she replied, chasing after him.

   The hatch seemed to take forever to open, and Marshall pulled himself in, settling down in the cockpit. The fighter designs had changed little over the decade since he’d joined the service as a fighter pilot, and his fingers remembered the launch sequences, running over the check programs. With a lurch, the small spaceship disconnected, floating free by the side of the monolithic tender.

   “This is Marshall to Cunningham, do you read?” he asked into the communicator.

   “Cunningham here. Are you being as dumb as I think you are?”

   “Probably. I want best-speed intercept courses for the fighters yesterday. Take command of the fleet in my absence.”

   “Fine. Get back on board and turn that fighter over to someone else.”

   “There isn’t anyone else!” he yelled. “We’ve been caught on the hop.”

   “Deadeye here,” Caine’s voice said. “I’m floating free and waiting for course plot.”

   “Both of you,” Cunningham said with a sigh. “Course computation is ready to go.” There was a brief pause, and he continued, “Looks like we’re going to have fifteen up.”

   “Good,” Marshall replied, feeding the incoming course into the fighter’s navigation computer. “Get the scouts in to support us as fast as you can. No point using the battlecruisers at the moment; they wouldn’t get there in time anyway, and it would overplay our hand for the big battle. Marshall out.”

   The acceleration pushed him back in his chair as the computer implemented the course, sending him racing towards the incoming targets. The shuttles were up ahead, and still heading for the asteroid despite the threats that awaited them.

   “Marshall…,” he started, then said, “Fighter Leader to all fighters. We haven’t got time for any finesse today. Get in there and take down those big bad enemy birds as fast as you can. I want a nice clear sky for the shuttles to fly through.”

   “Roger,” the voice of Lieutenant Dragomirov replied. “Forming up into pairs for the assault.”

   “Negative,” Marshall replied. “We’re not going to have time for two passes on this one. Proceed singly and tag a target; last three fighters up will hold back and cover any gaps.” He looked up at the squadron inventory telltales and shook his head, before continuing, “Most of you aren’t fully loaded, so you can’t waste your shots at long-range. Go for a single, close-in kill, and make it count.”

   “What if they get us first?” another, younger voice asked.

   “That’s why we gave you countermeasures to play with. Remember your training, and it’ll all work out fine. Don’t forget we’ve got the scoutships as backup, but let’s try not to need them. If something happens to me, Caine takes over the squadron, then Dragomirov.”

   “Roger,” Caine said.

   “Stay loose and get yourselves ready,” Marshall continued. “First intercept won’t be for another twelve minutes. Marshall out.” He looked ahead at the shuttles, and flicked across the frequencies. “Marshall to Esposito.”

   “Esposito here. We’re all looking out of the window, sir, and it’s getting a little crowded out here for my liking.”

   “We’ll try and clear the traffic jam for you, Lieutenant. Maintain your course, move in behind us, and watch out for any fighters that get through. I’ve got a small reserve to cover any gaps. Get your countermeasures working, as well; we might need the backup.”

   “Already in the works, sir. Good hunting.”

   “And to you,” he replied. “Marshall out.”

   He took a deep breath, and settled back in the comfortable flight couch, smiling at the abruptness of the situation. Less than ninety seconds ago, he was standing on a flight deck, beginning to think about heading to the mess for dinner, and now he was heading out on his first dogfight for more than a year. Not since Kumar, he pondered, and that was very different.

   His mind raced back to the War as he looked around at the surrounding squadron, a group of ships that he was leading into battle. He’d done this a hundred times, flying escort for an assault wing, moving out to intercept approaching craft before they could take a crack at his carrier. Even the enemy fighters didn’t
look that different to the United Nations craft, a bit of technology transfer that he might look into later.

   The countdown clock on the heads-up display ticked over to eight minutes, and he tried to relax, flicking a control to set the walls to transparent, making it look as if he was floating in space, the asteroid slowly growing as he raced towards it, surrounded by a constellation of lights, the rest of the flight wing.

   Tapping a button, he called up the sensor display, projected in front of him, and he looked at the formation, smiling. Any instructor back at the Academy would have screamed blue murder at the sight of the loose, shambling clump, individuals already beginning to peel off in different directions as they homed in on their target of choice. They were drawing level with the shuttles now, passing through the attack wave in a flash, leaving them in their wake.

   Eight minutes to go. The computer had already locked on to the best target, Wyvern’s tactical systems selecting the optimum attack pattern for the group, compromising between maximum coverage and the ability of the fighters. He rested his hands on the controls, checking his firing window. Just thirty-one seconds in range, and he’d be waiting for almost half of that to elapse before sending his two missiles flying towards their target.

   The blink of an eye, and the worst part of fighter combat. Seconds of activity preceded by moments – or sometimes hours – of tedium, forcing yourself to remain sharp and aware so that you would be ready for the critical moment of decision. Not everyone could do it. Even those who lived through the combat wouldn’t necessarily live through what followed, could hold it together during that long wait before battle. It was different on a larger ship, where there were other people around. In a fighter battle, it was simply one man fighting another, ship against ship; the realities of space combat allowed for nothing else.