"Kibaki here, sir. We've been monitoring something strange taking place on the surface. A shuttle, by the looks of it an in-system type, launched from one of the dome settlements. It reached about twenty thousand feet, then the passengers all bailed out. Emergency escape."
"Did you get a bearing on where they landed?"
"We got them right down to the ground, sir." There was some noise, shouting in the background. "Wait one, Captain."
Marshall waited for a few seconds, looking at Caine. He was just about to call up when the communicator sounded again, this time with the watch officer shouting, "Sir! A ship just jumped into the system. Reads as a Lunar Republic fast transport."
He looked at Caine, who began typing specifications into the computer. A hologram of a ship, long and sleek with twin rings fore and aft, appeared over the desk.
"Course and speed, Sub-Lieutenant, though I think I can probably take a guess," Marshall replied.
"Directly for Ragnarok. Our estimates have them arriving in orbit in around six hours, but Sub-Lieutenant Franklin has suggested that they might break directly for the surface. This type of vessel has the capability."
"Standby, Sub-Lieutenant." Marshall closed the channel, and turned to Caine. "We can't let them land."
"We can't legally stop them. Not without starting a major incident."
"I need an option better than that."
She leaned forward, "Are you willing to start an incident over this?"
"The real question is whether they are, isn't it? They've got to be sending in supplies, maybe even troops." He pointed at schematics rolling down beside the hologram. "That ship can put fifty tons of cargo down on the ground. It was designed as a blockade runner."
"We can intercept it." Caine sighed. "What if it is carrying weapons? What can we do about it?"
"I'm certainly not just going to let it land." He thumbed the communicator back on again, "Sub-Lieutenant, try and contact that ship. Request that they come into an orbit that matches our own, and indicate that I urgently wish to meet with their captain."
"Aye, sir."
Marshall closed the communicator, then turned to face his tactical officer, "I know damn well what they are up to, Deadeye. They want control of this system one way or the other. Heck, those weapons we found on Mariner Station were probably intended to be shipped here; enough Republic transports use it to supply on their way out to the Belt that they could sneak in a few cargoes."
She smiled. "Smuggling."
"What?"
"That's our justification for the stop-and-search. Suspicion that the Lunar Republic is smuggling cargoes out of Mariner Station. We've already got plenty of evidence sitting in our armory – those grenades."
"I think you'd better make sure that they are officially logged in our manifest under the proper category. Get Tyler in on it, have him break out the regulations immediately, and have Corporal Stiles make his men ready to conduct it."
Caine paused, looking at the hologram, "What if we don't find anything?"
"Then we apologize and let them go on their way." He smiled, "I don't think that will happen, though."
She nodded, reached over, and squeezed his arm, smiling. Marshall started to punch in tactical schematics from their intelligence files, looking over the performance specifications of the ship. No arms or armor to speak of, taking it down in a firefight would be easy if they could slow it sufficiently. He called up to the bridge again.
"Kibaki here."
"Have Sub-Lieutenant Franklin plot a course that will give us a window within firing range of the incoming ship, but I don't want it implemented until it is impossible for the Republic transport to evade us."
"Firing range?"
"Firing range, if you please, Sub-Lieutenant. Then patch me through to the enemy ship; I want this message repeated at them until we get a reply."
He could hear the watch officer gulping, a trace of nerves in his voice. "I'm recording you now, sir."
"This is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, commander of Triplanetary Starship Alamo. I hereby serve notice that you are under suspicion of smuggling illegal cargoes from Mariner Station, and under the terms of the Treaty of Vesta, I am formally instructing you to match orbits with Alamo and prepare for a customs inspection."
"Message dispatched, sir."
Marshall waited for a moment, mentally working out how long it would take to get a response to his message. Caine sat silently, plotting points of vulnerability for the gunnery controls. A few seconds later than he had expected, Kibaki piped the reply down.
A strong female voice came through the speaker. "This is Lieutenant Commander Xun Chu, of Transport Zhulong. We do not recognize the Treaty of Vesta as having any validity outside Sol System, and therefore decline your request for an inspection. Our intention is to land on Ragnarok, and I strongly suggest that you do not interfere with the business of our government."
Stabbing down a button, Marshall replied, "This is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall. The treaty violations took place in Sol System, therefore under the terms of the Treaty of Vesta, I have a right to inspect your ship. I am happy for third-party arbitration, but I must deny you permission to land until it is resolved."
Another wait, counting down the seconds until the reply, "We have no intention of yielding to your sophistry. If you wish, I will transmit our manifest for your inspection, but I refuse permission for your personnel to come on board. I warn you; any attempt to board us will be resisted."
"I think that's all that I'm going to get," Marshall said to Caine, shutting down the communicator.
"She's not going to volunteer for inspection; too much to hide. What about the frigates?"
He shook his head, "They couldn't get here before the freighter. My guess is that they will turn up when it tries to leave, unless we threaten it."
"Are you trying to force the issue?"
"One way or another." He looked down at the panel, sighing.
"What?"
"Couldn't the ship have arrived before the staff meeting?" He paged the senior staff to return to the briefing room, shaking his head.
Chapter 20
Forbes and Orlova had trudged through the snow for what felt like hours, before at last a small, battered old support dome, the red paint long since blasted off by the wind, came into view at the top of a mountain. There was a truck parked next to it, one that had obviously seen better days, linked by cables to a charging station. As they moved from snow to rock their feet found a path, and they followed it up to the door, where Forbes bashed for admittance.
"You lazy bastard, open up!" he yelled.
The door opened to reveal an old woman wearing a faded leather coat, four rings around each sleeve. She looked at the two of them and shook her head, before opening the door wider to let them in. Inside was a cozy little room, a few chairs scattered about with an electric fire in the middle of the room, an old-fashioned terminal in the middle of a desk piled high with reproduced books, a well-used fabricator sitting in the corner by a worn bed.
"Storm's bringing in some odd critters tonight, Forbes." She squinted at Orlova. "Who's this one? Bit young for you, isn't she?"
Forbes looked back out into the storm, "I need to borrow your truck, Granny. I've got some friends out there who need a pick-up."
The old woman sighed, "I expect you'll be wanting them to stay here, as well. Can't an old woman be left here in peace to enjoy her retirement?" She pulled some keys out of a pocket and tossed them to the prospector. "Go on, but watch yourself, and don't get picked up by the Governor's men. I want that truck back."
"You'll get it. Have the coffee on for when I get back." He ran out the door, banging it closed behind him, leaving the two of them facing each other inside.
"Now, who do I have here? Don't worry, I won't bite. Not with these teeth."
Orlova smiled, then replied, "Call me Maggie. I'm a shuttle pilot."
The old woman smiled, gestured her to a chair, and headed over to a cupb
oard in the corner, pulling out mugs and boxes. "Would you believe I was one back in the day? I'm Coop. Sandra was my name, but my wing-mates always called me Coop. Or Granny, but if you call me that I'll do nasty things to your soul."
"You were a flier? Back when this place was first settled?"
Coop poured hot water into the mugs from a dispenser, dashing in powder to make an unidentifiable but welcoming aroma. "Young woman, I flew in the Australasian Air Force before I left Earth." For a second her eyes were somewhere else. "That was a long time ago, of course. More than a century, I understand. I suppose the fighters I used to fly are all in museums now. They should probably put me in there with them."
She passed a steam-smothered mug to Orlova, who took it carefully by the handle before taking a sip of the warm contents. "Are you aware of what is happening out there?"
"I know that you aren't from this planet. You're from the starship, aren't you? The Alamo?" Surprise dashed across Orlova's face, followed by concern; Coop raised her hand, "Relax, kid. You can't make any bigger a mess of things than anyone else is. What with the Governor on one side and the General on the other. I just hope that Forbes has finally worked out that he can't trust anyone."
"How did you know about Alamo?"
Coop waved at the terminal, "Got myself a tap on the fiber-optic network. This dome's right about one of the primary links, they set it up as a maintenance and supply point. I moved in when they moved out, and a couple of them were friends of mine who 'forgot' to take out the check relay."
Orlova's eyes darted towards the terminal. "Coop, I've got to have access to it. Got to. We're on a mission."
"Everyone always is, my young friend." She sighed, resting her hands on her lap. "What is yours?"
"Rescue a group of Triplanetary citizens that the Governor's holding. He's trying to sell them back to us. What's your mission?"
"Good question. I want all the bullshit to stop. Two stubborn old men are tearing at each other over the future of this planet, and neither of them can see that all they are doing is tearing it apart. That old fool Isaac can't get past stuff about self-sufficiency and planetary sovereignty, and that pip-squeak Haynes – who seems to have promoted himself from Major to General when no-one else was looking – is nutso on the democratic process. With the Loonies happily playing both sides against each other."
Gesturing at the rings on Coop's jacket, Orlova asked, "What rank were you? Back in the Air Force?"
The old woman smiled, "I was – hell, I still am, we're all still in the reserve, a Group Captain. Though we've only got two shuttles and neither of them work right, so we haven't actually got any air for me to command. Just a few low-level jobs, VTOL crates. Back in the day I'd have made jokes about flying truck drivers in the bar, now I guess they are all that's left of the RAAF."
"What about the two frigates?"
"Lunar Republic dragged them in. Theoretically they are under command of 'General' Haynes, but in practice I don't think they'd go far without the Republic's men saying so. Those bastards have a ship coming in soon. Few hours."
"What sort of ship?"
"Fast blockade runner. More arms for the General's rebels, most likely. Arrogant blow-hard. I don't think he realizes that he's just dancing to their tune."
"Can you show me where and when? A schematic of the landing field?"
"Sure." She looked at the pilot. "What rank did you say you were again?"
"Coop," Orlova replied, "I can safely say that I am the highest-ranking member of the Triplanetary Fleet in this room." She looked at the information running across the screen, and frowned, "That certainly doesn't mean I'm not going to need help to work out how we're going to pull off this operation."
"I think I can remember enough from War College to give you a hand. Move over."
For the next hour, the two of them poured over diagrams on the monitor, talking tactics and strategy, their drinks hastily swigged in between words. They became so wrapped up in their scheming that they hardly noticed when the door burst open again, Forbes and Hunter carrying Jennings in a fireman's lift between them, Esposito following behind. Coop quickly snatched a medikit out of one of her cupboards and tossed it to Forbes, who began to work on the injured man's leg. Once she was certain that he was being taken care of, Esposito walked over to Orlova, still engrossed in her work.
"What's that?"
The young pilot looked up, "I think I've found us some leverage. A transport's coming in to land from the Republic, carrying weapons. If we could grab it and hold it, then we could likely at least barter them for the return of our people."
"This sounds pretty desperate, Maggie."
"We're down to you, me and the Sergeant sitting in a dome. I don't know what else we can do. Any communications relay capable of transmitting up to orbit is going to be even harder to get at. This way we're hitting the rebels, not the professionals."
Esposito raised an eyebrow, "Just the three of us?"
"Nine. There are six troopers still in that shuttle, and we could just about get there, rescue the squad, and reach the landing strip in time. I've worked out the route here." She held up a data crystal. "It'll work, Gabi."
The ensign sighed, looking around the room. "We don't even have any weapons."
Coop looked up from the leg as she finished applying the bandages, "Sure we do. Draw under the terminal, Maggie."
Orlova pulled at the draw, and her eyes widened as she looked inside. A dozen assorted handguns of various degrees of lethality, clips of ammunition, even a couple of low-light scopes. Esposito carefully took one of the heavier guns out and checked it over, quickly dismantling it and sliding it back together with a satisfying crack. Hunter picked up a pair of them, looking them over with a practiced eye, and put one in his holster, another tucked into his belt.
"So, we're armed. How long have we got?"
"We need to leave in ten minutes if we're going to make this work."
Grunting with pain, Jennings pushed himself up, saying, "Ensign, this needs to work. My shipmates need rescuing, and this looks like the only way to make it happen."
Esposito looked at the crewman, gasping in pain on the floor, then across at the eager Orlova, already with a gun in her hand, and Hunter, looking out of the window with a crooked smile. Forbes was grinning with glee at the prospect, and walked over to the draw.
"I know the boys they've got guarding them. Most of them, anyway. I reckon I can make them listen to me, and we might even get some reinforcements out of the deal." He pulled out a pistol and a clip, sliding it home with practiced ease. "Most of the outland types aren't that happy about working with the Loonies anyway. Haynes has 'em all fired up with stuff he can't deliver."
"Hallelujah, Flight Lieutenant Forbes sees the light at last," Coop said.
"I didn't know you were an officer," Orlova said, frowning. "One private surrounded by officers and sergeants? It isn't fair."
Esposito smiled, clapping her on the shoulder, "You aren't like any private I've ever met, if that's any consolation." She looked around the room. "Here's how it's going to work, then. We're going to go with Orlova's plan. Coop, someone needs to stay with Jennings, and..."
Before she could finish her sentence, there was a loud crack by her ear; she turned to see a neat hole in the wall.
"You were saying, Ensign?" Coop said.
Jennings laughed on the ground, shaking his head, "Leave me a flask of whatever passes for coffee on this rock and I'll be fine for the day."
Coop patted him on the shoulder, then turned back to the young officer, saying, "I know how to obey orders on the firing line, kid. I've been doing it since before you were born. Maggie's got a good plan, let's get on with it."
She passed around thermal flasks, one to each of them, and left two next to Jennings on the ground, putting a cushion behind his neck. The quintet went back out into the snow, and clambered aboard the old truck; it was a tight enough fit for the five of them, quite how ten of them would manage to r
ide it to the hangar was another question entirely. Forbes tried to get into the driver's seat, but Coop snatched the keys from him and sat down herself.
"My truck, I drive." She turned to face Esposito. "I'm a terrible back-seat driver. You ready?"
"Let's go."
The engine turned on with a loud purr, punctuated by the occasional alarming rattle, and the caterpillar tracks dug into the snow as they sped away from the dome, crunching snow and rock underfoot. Orlova looked at Esposito, giving her a thumbs up, then settled back to enjoy the ride. The truck lurched back and forth over the bleak landscape, punctuated by the occasional spell of comfort as they moved over flat ice.
It seemed that Coop was determined to give them as a rough a ride as possible, but the route was designed for both speed and secrecy; none of them wanted to engage in any sort of firefight. Even if they won, they'd lose precious minutes. At all costs, they needed to get to that landing field before the transport could arrive.
It then struck Orlova that there was a chance that everything they were doing was pointless; she looked over at Esposito, and her doubts obviously flashed across her face when the ensign responded.
"Relax, Maggie. I figured the same as you, that there's an excellent chance that Alamo will intercept them before they get down on the deck. If they don't, though, then they're going to be damn glad that we were on the ball here. What's the worst case? We've grabbed ourselves an airhead in the middle of nowhere and can get ourselves pulled out, or get the rest of the platoon down here to have a real try at rescuing those prisoners."
Coop tipped her head back towards Esposito, "What sort of a name is Alamo, anyway?"
"All the ships in her class were named after famous last stands. Thermopylae, Alamo, Camerone..."
"Doesn't that worry the hell out of anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck on one of those ships? Not exactly a good omen."
The espatier smiled, "All of them survived the war. Some of them in better shape than others, but they made it home in one piece."
Shaking her head, Coop returned her attention to the road, watching the HUD throw up the occasional warning when the gradients were getting too steep, or they were drifting off the planned route. Forbes was watching the horizon, his eyes glued to the windows, looking for signs of any pursuers, anything at all, and Esposito was watching the sky for contrails.
Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty Page 18