Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear

by Richard Tongue

  "There's always a solution, Lieutenant," Quinn said.

  "I'll write the recommendation for your Star Cross myself if you can think of one. I'll certainly write one if you can find a way to get the ship up and running again. You'd better get on with it."

  Quinn looked at Dixon, then back at Caine, "I suppose I could supervise the fitting of the dorsal hull plating. They should be starting that now."

  "Find a way to make it faster."

  Sighing, he nodded, "I don't know how, but there must be a way to get the job done. I'll think of something."

  As he left the room, Dixon looked after him, then back at Caine, "Simply hoping that Jack will come up with a miracle isn't a plan."

  "As I said, if you want my job, you are welcome."

  "Don't you get it yet? This isn't about me being ambitious – hell, I don't want your job, I don't want to command a ship. I'm on the fast track up to Wing Commander, and do you know what would happen if I was stupid enough to take a bridge position? I'd get stuck there. Being your Exec, temporarily, that looks good, but an acting command might give someone the idea that I want to do this permanently."

  "Then what do you want?"

  Dixon turned to the door, "May I speak freely?"

  "You haven't been?" Caine raised an eyebrow. "Go right ahead."

  "Snap out of your damned funk. You've been stuck down there on the surface ever since you had to fight that battle, and we need you up here. The Caine I knew on the trip out would have pulled something off."

  "I'm not her."

  "Then, dammit, find her! Because right now we need someone to take command of this situation, not sit in her cabin writing letters of resignation to make her feel better. If we're going to have to spend months on Jefferson waiting for pickup, then we have things to prepare."

  "You haven't realized yet, have you?"

  "What?"

  Taking a deep breath, Caine said, "Alamo cannot under any circumstances be allowed to fall into enemy hands."

  "Naturally."

  "I can't ask Quinn to do this. I think it would break his heart; I need you to pull half a dozen warheads from the missile racks and place them strategically throughout the ship. There can be no usable wreckage."

  Dixon slumped, "I hadn't...certainly, I'll get right on it."

  "I know, it doesn't seem right. For Alamo to end up like that, after everything she's been through."

  The pilot patted the hull, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I really don't want to go what you are going through."

  "I hate to see us go down without a fight, either." She paused, then looked up at Dixon, "A fight."

  "What?"

  She slammed a button down on her desk, "All senior officers report to my office on the double. Harper, Washington, you all get down here as well." Frantically, she began to type into her keyboard, calling up file after file on system operations and performance.

  "What?" Dixon repeated, but Caine ignored her as she continued to type.

  Quinn drifted into the room, "Something happened?"

  Looking up, Caine said, "Stop all work on the hull repairs."

  "Stop work?"

  "We've still got six days," Dixon said, "Surely it must be worth a try."

  Matsumoto, Kibaki, Harper and Washington spilled out of the elevator, drifting in the corridor outside her office; in retrospect, Caine realized, she probably should have held this meeting in the briefing room. A sea of puzzled faces bobbed up and down, looking at her and at each other.

  "A moment ago, I gave Lieutenant Dixon an order to rig Alamo to be destroyed by remote, so that she would not fall into enemy hands." Quinn's eyes opened wide; she raised a hand to forestall his protest. "To hell with that. We've – I've – started to fall into the trap of thinking we haven't got a chance. This is a Thermopylae-class Battlecruiser, and we've got a chance against anything anyone can throw at us."

  "That's more like it," Dixon said, grinning.

  "Harper, just as a precaution, I want you to rig a dead man's switch into the computer systems. Everything destroyed in the event we lose this battle." She turned to the officers, "We're going to stop rigging Alamo for a hasty retreat from the system. We've spent enough blood already on it."

  "The ship's in no condition for a fight," Quinn said, shaking his head. "The laser's still non-functional, and the outer hull..."

  "Forget the outer hull. Get the laser functioning, missile bays ready, sensor systems to full function. Concentrate solely on the combat functions."

  Matsumoto's eyes were widening, "Only four decks are habitable..."

  "Then either install relays to places that are, or we can crew in spacesuits if we have to." She looked around. "We have a very simple choice; either we give up, evacuate, and blow Alamo up as we maroon ourselves on Jefferson, possibly for the rest of our lives, or we make a fight of it. If we lose, then Alamo is just as destroyed as if we had done it ourselves. If we win, then we win big."

  "I'm in. Less talk, more work," Harper said. "I'll get pushing on those system upgrades."

  "Hell, I'll be riding fire whatever else is happening," Dixon said, smiling.

  Looking around, Caine said, "There is naturally a high risk factor here. Evacuation guarantees us all a safe ride to the surface; this way if we have to bail out, it will be right in the middle of a firefight. The odds of escape would be low. I want you to go to each department and stress that this is volunteer only, and that neither I or the Captain would have any objections to someone taking the sensible option. We'll be going into battle with a skeleton crew, anyway – only those we actually need for the fight. The rest can wait it out on the spaceport."

  "We're so low on people now I don't see who we can spare, but I'll go through the lists again."

  "That includes all of you, by the way," Caine said.

  Her officers looked around at each other, all wondering if any of the others would take a step forward, announce that they were going to choose the certainty of survival over the desperate bid for victory. None of them did, and Caine nodded.

  "Then we've got a lot of work to do and very little time to do it in. Oh, Harper, any luck on that investigation?"

  "The probe should reach Harper's World...", she looked around, her face a mask of innocence, "Hell, no-one gave me a name for it. The probe should reach the planet in about three days. Might give us some sort of a lead."

  "Good, keep me informed. Dixon, you stay, the rest, go get to work." She tapped a button on her desk. "Ryder, this is Caine again. Get me Orlova, top priority, then start running battle simulations."

  "Battle simulations?"

  "You heard. Just use the watch crews, no-one else, have the computer automate the rest. I want us sharp for the battle."

  "Yes, ma'am," Ryder replied, a satisfied tone in her voice. "Switching you over now."

  "Orlova, this is Alamo Actual."

  The reply crackled through the speakers, "About time I heard from you, Deadeye. Make it quick, I'll be heading for landing in a few minutes."

  "You're flying yourself?"

  "Still the best pilot around. That includes the Squadron Leader I'm guessing is standing behind you."

  Caine looked at Dixon, seeing amused fury on the pilot's face. "I've abandoned the attempts to get Alamo out of the system; we're going to make our stand here. That means I need you to start unleashing your usual brand of hell."

  "Who, me?"

  "Yes, you!" Caine replied. "You pulled off a miracle on Ragnarok, and this time the Captain's laid the groundwork for you. Find some way to get him back, and try and keep the politicians on side. If this goes wrong Jefferson could be our home for a while, and a civil war is not going to help."

  "I'll do what I can."

  "One more thing. If there is anything you need down there on the ground from Alamo you'd best let me know as soon as possible. There might not be an opportunity later."

  When Alamo was a collection of drifting particles in a high orbit around Jefferson, she thought.
/>   "Will do. I need to concentrate, now, Deadeye, so I'll report in later."

  "Good luck."

  "You too. Good to have you back. Orlova out."

  Dixon floated behind her, nodding, "It is good."

  Caine looked at the pilot, "You're assuming again. Everything's in pieces on the ground, and we're still venturing into last stand territory here. It finally occurred to me that I seem to be in a position where I don't have anything to lose."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hands were shaking Marshall, forcing him out of his long sleep; his head ached with a chemical hangover, and the dripping of water onto the cold stone floor by his feet did nothing to help his headache. He looked up and saw the concerned face of Cunningham, sweat beaded on his forehead, shaking his head. Over in the corner, another figure squatted by the door on watch – to his shock, it was Mulenga, his astrogator, who he thought was hundreds of miles away in the desert.

  "Come on, wake up," Cunningham said.

  Grunting, Marshall replied, "What's Mulenga doing here?"

  The astrogator turned to him, "I got snatched right out of the dig site I was working at. Some sort of knock-out gas; we'd lost communications just before. No chance of early warning."

  "Damn." He looked around, "I guess that low technology was a bit of a smokescreen."

  "They've got some good kit, just not much of it. It gets worse; Esposito, Orlov and Steele are in the cell across the corridor."

  Pulling himself to his feet, Marshall rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to clear the fog from his brain. He looked around the cell again; the only light source came from a small window, just above head level. Cunningham walked over to it, looking up at the sunlight ruefully.

  "I can give you a hand if you want. I had a look through before you woke up; there's nothing much to see. We're high up, on a cliff overlooking a beach."

  Wrinkling his nose, Marshall replied, "I can smell that much. What else is out there?"

  "I see a few prefabricated buildings on our side, some defenses, and what looks like an anti-aircraft system – like the one at the spaceport."

  "Why the hell didn't we see it?"

  "Well-camouflaged, from the air. Less so on the ground."

  Stumbling across the cell to the door, Marshall looked through the narrow, barred window, up and down the corridor where electric lights flickered on and off, and across to another door. He saw Esposito looking back at him, who curtly nodded when she saw him.

  "How are you three?"

  "Orlov's still sleeping off whatever it was hit us, Steele and I are fine."

  "What about Captain Miller?"

  "He isn't here."

  Marshall swore under his breath, then said, "Can you see anything we can't?"

  "We're in a tower of some kind; we've got the other side of it. Looks like it's made of concrete and stone. There are a few buildings on our side and a silo, nicely sealed, and what looks like a control shack next to it. Shadow from some sort of antenna on our side, as well. Just the jungle beyond."

  "Keep someone watching the corridor and someone watching outside at all times. If you see anything, let me know." He looked over at Cunningham, who was glancing up towards the window. "Have you seen anyone?"

  "I just woke up here about an hour ago, Mulenga a little after me. I haven't seen anyone yet."

  "We're too valuable as hostages to treat badly," Mulenga said. "I expect we will be called upon to make some sort of ransom demand in the near future."

  Marshall started looking at the ceiling and the walls, looking at the cracks in the stone. Cunningham smiled and nodded.

  "Almost certainly bugged, but I can't find anything."

  "Which just suggests to me that they know how to plant a bug. They could even be under the floor, heck, there could be something just outside the window."

  Grinning, Mulenga replied, "Not that we have the tools to do anything about it if we found one."

  "True." Marshall paused. "So assuming that someone is listening to us, let's talk about what we might be able to offer in exchange for our freedom."

  "Would we offer anything?"

  "I'd be willing to let the Legion forces evacuate the planet without resistance, if it was tied into a cease-fire. That's about as far as I could go."

  Frowning, Cunningham shook his head, replying, "I don't know if the planetary governments would go along with that. Too much blood split."

  "We've all suffered casualties, the important thing is for the fighting to end. To hell with the planetary governments; I reckon the Council of Captains and the Tatars would go along with it. Two out of three will do for this. If they want to continue the fighting afterward, that would be their problem, but without spaceflight they might find that difficult."

  "That will not be sufficient," Mulenga said. "As matters stand, they effectively have what they want in any case. If they were to evacuate the planet to the approaching starship, they could do that without interference. Not to mention that there are likely too many legionnaires for them to evacuate in one trip. Could we guarantee the co-operation of the planetary government, assuming one is created, for months on end?"

  "Probably not," Marshall replied, shaking his head. "That doesn't leave us with many options."

  "Captain," Esposito said, quietly, "Someone's coming."

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside; the three of them moved back out of sight of the door window. A rattle came from the door, the sound of a bolt being thrown back, and the door burst open, a tall, brutish looking man wearing an olive uniform standing in front of it, carrying a rough wooden tray with three bowls and a jug on it. He looked around at them

  "Your lunch," he said with a thick accent. "I hope you enjoy it."

  The three of them looked at each other – yes, he was alone, and though there was a pistol at his belt, both his hands were full. Obviously this was some sort of trap, but Marshall thought it might just be possible that they could still find a way out of there. The first step to avoiding a trap was simply to know it was there.

  He leapt first, seconds ahead of Cunningham and Mulenga; the three of them piling in from all sides quickly sent the guard to the floor, and with a quick blow to the forehead he was down on the ground, the tray flying against the wall leaving a trail of foul-smelling gruel. Mulenga snatched the keys from the guard's belt and raced across the corridor to unlock the other door while Marshall took the pistol. As he had assumed, it was empty.

  "We split," he shouted across the corridor, racing out into it. Cunningham and Mulenga were hard on his tail as they sprinted down the corridor to a circular staircase at the end, and he leapt down them three at a time, only stop abruptly as he heard the click of rifle bolts being pulled back. A loud Russian oath from up above said that Esposito's group had fallen into the same trap.

  A smiling man with a thin mustache, slightly stout in a well-fitting white uniform, walked up the stairs with a pistol covering the three of them, followed by a trio of guards wearing the same olive fatigues as the guard. He placed out his hand, and with a wry grin Marshall placed the empty pistol into his hand.

  "I hope that served as a suitable catharsis, Captain Marshall."

  Looking at the white-clad figure, he replied, "You have me at a disadvantage."

  "I know, and I intend it to stay that way for as long as I can. It will suffice to call me Commandant; such is my rank." Marshall turned to head back up the stairs, but the Commandant shook his head, "I have matters to discuss with you, Captain. Your friends will return to their cells, and will enjoy a rather better cuisine than otherwise, but you and I will go elsewhere."

  "Can't I take my staff with me?" Marshall said, raising an eyebrow.

  "I think not." He turned to one of the guards, saying something in a language that Marshall didn't recognize; it certainly wasn't French. "Come with me."

  The Commandant led Marshall down the staircase to the next floor into another corridor, and without waiting to see if he followed, pushed
a door open and took a seat behind a desk. The room was filled with documents and paperwork, books strewn on shelves around the walls, and despite everything, Marshall smiled. This was a man with the same sort of ability to manage a desk that he had; he could certainly sympathize with that.

  Gesturing Marshall to another seat, the Commandant pulled a carafe filled with red liquid out of a draw, and placed a couple of glasses on the desk. Pouring two equal measures, he pushed one towards Marshall; nodding, Marshall reached across the desk and took the one the Commandant had reserved for himself.

  "Very sensible, Captain, but if I wanted to give you some sort of serum, I would simply do so." He took a sip of his glass. "I certainly would not sully such excellent wine."

  Marshall took a bigger gulp, earning a frown from the Commandant, "Spirits are more my usual forte."

  "I presume that Mars is still having the same trouble with decent wines as it always has."

  That earned a frown from Marshall, "You are well informed, then?"

  "Oh, we get some news from Sol on occasion. Even the occasional ship. There is so much traffic in and out of the system that who would notice an extra ship here or there, especially if we go out of our way to keep ourselves hidden." He pulled a file out of another draw, placing it on the desk, and started to glance down at it. "Your photograph really does not do you justice, Captain."

  "Even I didn't know we were coming here until we arrived," Marshall replied, shaking his head, "You've had numerous opportunities to take photographs of me."

  Angling his head, the Commandant said, "That is perfectly true, we did not know that Alamo would arrive here. Nevertheless it was a foregone conclusion that the Triplanetary Fleet would find its way out here sooner or later. I have dossiers on all of your ships." He pulled another folder out, tossing it towards him, "Lieutenant-Captain Frank Rogers, of the tender Mullane. An old friend of yours, I understand."

  "You really are well informed." He crossed his arms, "I suppose asking where you got this information from would be too much."