Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

   Tapping a control, Orlova said, “Bridge to Astrogation. How long before we get our target?”

   “A few minutes, Captain,” Lombardo replied. “We're computing it now.”

   “Sixty seconds to contact,” Spinelli said. “We're out of range of all defensive satellites. They don't have anything stationed near any hendecaspace points.” Glancing across at a second monitor, he continued, “Lots of activity in the rest of the system. Outposts, colonies, stations, but only a minimal defensive presence elsewhere.”

   Nodding, Kilquan said, “They've concentrated everything into the heart of their defenses. We might have them more worried than we thought.” Squinting at the display, he turned to Spinelli, and said, “Spaceman, can you give me a better view of that station in the hundred-mile orbit?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   The image that appeared on the display made Orlova's blood run cold. Suddenly every decision she had made had proved correct, their projections of potential enemy fleet strength far underestimating the reality they were facing. Spread across a long series of frameworks, she could see the hulls of a dozen battlecruisers in various stages of construction, some of them almost ready to fly. She glanced at Nelyubov, who shook his head in response.

   “If we'd waited a month, we'd have been too late.”

   “Thirty seconds to contact, Captain,” Scott said. “I have a firing solution on Cruiser Alpha.”

   “Both of them are on courses to swing them around the moon for a second pass,” Nelyubov said. “We'll only get a single salvo at them this time. Not likely we'll disable them on the first try.”

   “Colonel, I want your forces to concentrate on Cruiser Beta. We'll handle Cruiser Alpha. Have them do as much damage as they can, contingent on their survival of this attack pass. We're going to need those ships at full strength for the second phase.”

   “Firing range, ma'am!” Scott said. “Helm, I need a shot, now!”

   “Coming around,” Maqua replied, gently guiding Alamo into position, nose swinging around into line with the enemy ship. The laser cannon fired at Scott's command, pulsing gigawatts of energy into the Xandari vessel, the winglike heat radiators glowing a dull red from the discharge. An angry black line ran down the nose of the enemy craft, puffs of atmosphere leaking from ruptured compartments, but still the two ships pressed on towards their target.

   “Salvo launched, Captain,” Scott said. “Enemy has responded.”

   “Eight Xandari missiles in the air,” Spinelli added. “Fourteen of our own.”

   “I like those odds,” Nelyubov said.

   Orlova watched as the battle unfolded on the screen before her, intersecting trajectory tracks as the missiles danced into position. None of the defenses orbiting the planet had moved, nor had the two other capital ships hanging close to the other egress point. Some Xandari commander was probably concluding that Alamo's attack was a feint, a ruse designed to draw away the defenses to allow a second, larger fleet to strike by surprise. If he wanted to make such an error, she certainly wasn't going to discourage him.

   “Fratricide, Captain,” Scott said, and the trajectory plot thinned out. All of the incoming Xandari missiles had been destroyed, six of theirs still running towards their target, three for each of the enemy cruisers. She looked across at the engineering station, projections of the enemy capital ships flashing on the monitors, little more than educated guesswork but still encouraging. They might not destroy the ships on this pass, but they were certainly going to hurt them, and for little expenditure, if all went well.

   “They still aren't moving,” Kilquan replied, shaking his head. “I don't buy it. If we can make tactical assessments of fleet strength, so can they. Unless that task force of yours is a lot closer than we thought, they're planning something.”

   “Based on what?” Nelyubov asked.

   “Experience. The Xandari never fight fair, and they always have something up their sleeve other than their wrists.”

   “Impacts,” Scott reported. “Six good hits, three apiece.”

   “Damage assessment?” Orlova asked.

   With a frown, the officer replied, “Uncertain, but they're holding course and acceleration. I can't tell how badly they've been hurt, but I am detecting organic residue among the debris. They're bleeding, skipper, if nothing else.”

   “One minute to shuttle launch,” Maqua said. “Altering course according to battle plan.”

   “Commence phase two,” Orlova said, picking up her microphone again. “Captain to Shuttle Flight. Prepare for departure in forty-five seconds. Make it fast, and good hunting.”

   “Koltoc squadron moving into reinforcement position,” Spinelli reported. “Getting a little close to the missile screen, ma'am.”

   “No choice, Spaceman,” she replied. “They've got to push this attack home.”

   Alamo arced in towards the moon, the cruisers soaring past on their loop around the far side, into a sensor blind spot. Spinelli had launched the recon probes as soon as they arrived, but it would be minutes before they had all of local space covered, assuming the Xandari didn't shoot them down as fast as they launched them.

   “What about the surface installation?” Kilquan asked.

   “As advertised, Colonel,” Scott said, looking at her readouts. “Size of a small town, estimate two thousand inhabitants, with defensive fortifications on the perimeter.” She frowned, then added, “It's almost as though they were expecting someone to attack them on the ground, actually. If I'm reading this data right, there are surface-mounted plasma turrets in operation. Trenches around the perimeter.”

   “Mars Defense Headquarters is well guarded too, Sub-Lieutenant,” Nelyubov noted.

   “Yes, sir, but this looks more like they're worried about a bayonet charge than an orbital bombardment. We'll get some better images when we make our closest approach. I'll feed them through to the assault team.”

   “Signal from all ships, Captain,” Weitzman said. “Strike team are ready for deployment.”

   “Five seconds,” Nelyubov said. “This is it, Maggie. We're committed.”

   “We were committed five days ago,” a dour Kilquan replied.

   “Shuttle flight launched,” Scott said, and nine more tracks popped onto the screen, the assault craft beginning their swift descent to the surface. Orlova watched as they weaved their way into the atmosphere, burning their engines as hot as they dared with their human cargo on board, descending into range of the missile satellites guarding the moon.

   “Launches,” Spinelli said. “Eight of them. Due Diligence and Profitable Venture have responded.”

   Orlova nodded, stepping over to the sensor display, watching as the dots of the screen followed the carefully-calculated trajectories down to the surface. It seemed so soulless, cold green lines on a black display, no clue of the hundred souls riding those shuttles to their fate. On the surface, they'd be facing odds of ten to one at best, attacking a prepared enemy in the heart of their defenses, only surprise to help them on their way.

   Nelyubov glanced at her, and she forced a reassuring smile as the two waves of missiles intersected, the screen clearing after a series of flashes heralding their mutual demise. Only the shuttles remained, easing their way into the atmosphere, maintaining the formation they would hold until they reached the surface.

   There was no attempt to deceive the enemy as to their intent, no other targets worth attacking on the surface. Frowning, she scanned the data coming in from the close pass over the moon. She'd have expected more activity down there, even if no major economic exploitation was underway. Back home, every Jovian moon outside the radiation belt had some settlers, no matter how insignificant, if only a garrison to prevent unwanted intrusion.

   And yet the moon was habitable, if barely. A living could be scrubbed from the surface, terraforming a realistic possibility in a comparatively short time frame, decades rather than cent
uries. There was something else down there, something they were missing, and the anxiety she had forced away earlier returned with a vengeance.

   “We're passed periapsis, Captain,” Maqua said. “Heading away from the planet.”

   “Another missile launch,” Spinelli said.

   “I'm on it,” Scott replied, and the ship lurched as six more missiles raced into space, aimed at the incoming enemy salvo. “Should have them all knocked out in a minute.”

   “Status of enemy cruisers?” Nelyubov asked.

   “Still around the far side, sir,” Spinelli said. “We won't get any...damn. They just took out two of our probes. No signal for three minutes plus, sir.”

   “I don't like this,” Kilquan said, as the shuttles decelerated for atmospheric entry. “All of this is going too damned easy. This is an attack on the enemy homeworld, and so far they're just sitting back and taking it.”

   Scott turned from her console, and replied, “They're waiting on us, Colonel. Let's face it, this attack makes no sense from a conventional point of view. Meaning they know we've got some sort of a plan, and they want to see what it is before committing to a course of action. While we're flying around the outer fringes of their sub-system, we don't present a threat.”

   “Lombardo to Orlova,” the loudspeaker crackled. “We've got the coordinates for the bombing run. Feeding them through now. Pretty close to our original estimates.”

   “Pass them to Lieutenant Salazar,” Orlova replied, turning to Nelyubov. “We should be launching fighters in thirty seconds.”

   “We've got to,” Nelyubov pressed. “If we don't, we'll miss our window. The next launch time is fifty-one minutes away, and if all goes well...”

   “I'm not so sure all is going well, Lieutenant,” Kilquan said.

   “The Rubicon is crossed, Colonel,” Orlova replied, tapping a control. “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader. Scramble. Immediate launch. We're feeding the coordinates through to you now.”

   “Fighter Leader to Alamo Actual. Roger, launching now.”

   “Ten minutes to target,” Scott said, as the fighters raced away, thrown clear of the ship on the first stage of their journey to the Xandari homeworld. “Let's hope the ground force can do the job in time.” Looking across at the sensor display, she added, “They should be on the deck any second now.”

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli said, turning to Orlova, his face growing pale. “Cruiser squadron coming around the far side, ma'am. Ahead of schedule.”

   “How the hell did they manage that?” she replied.

   “Wait one,” the technician replied, shaking his head. “My God.”

   “Report, Spaceman!” Nelyubov barked.

   “No sign of damage to the cruisers coming around the far side, sir. That means...”

   “That means we're facing four cruisers, not two,” Orlova said, shaking her head. “Time to intercept?”

   “Twelve minutes, Captain,” Spinelli reported.

   “The Koltoc escorts are moving to support the fighters,” Scott said. “Unless we recall them...”

   “Do that, and we lose the whole squadron,” Nelyubov replied.

   “I'm afraid I agree with you, Frank,” Orlova said. “We're just going to have to try and weather the storm.”

  Chapter 7

   Cooper, plasma pistol in hand, stood at the hatch as the shuttle settled into position, looking around at the squad gathered with him. When they'd attacked the refinery, he'd taken a hand-picked strike team, the best troopers he had, knowing that he could afford to select a crack team. This time, everyone was going to the party, every soldier in his improvised company, many of which had only had the briefest basic training. All of them had one thing in common, though. They'd all suffered at the hands of the Xandari. Either former slaves, members of the Copernican Underground, or troopers who had been with him since the start of the mission.

   “Landing in twenty seconds!” Bradley said, yelling from the cockpit. “Get ready!”

   “Listen up,” Cooper said. “Once we hit the ground, get out of the shuttle and run like hell. You'll have thirty seconds before takeoff. We can't afford to leave the shuttles exposed. Find cover, then assess the situation. If in doubt, your best bet is to keep moving forward. Remember that we've got only a few minutes to seize the communications station.”

   The landing jets roared as the shuttle completed its descent, landing legs digging into the sand, dust kicking into the air all around them. The hatch slid open, and Cooper charged through the airlock, sprinting towards the towering buildings ahead. There would be time for him to get his bearings later, but as bullets rattled around him, he needed to find cover, any cover, immediately.

   Ironically, the Xandari themselves provided the sanctuary he was seeking, a trench cut into the ground a few meters from the shuttle. A pair of troopers were standing guard, but the landing had caught them by surprise, and they struggled to turn their rifles to face the approaching enemy. A wave of bullets slammed into them, leaving twisted corpses in their wake, and Cooper dived into the ditch, the rest of his squad moving in by his side.

   “Set up the plasma cannon,” he replied. “We're going to need all the covering fire we can get.” Behind him, the shuttle engines roared again, the vehicles seeking the safety of a valley a couple of miles to the west. They'd be ready when they needed them, but he couldn't risk their landing craft to enemy fire.

   The roar of an explosion to his left provided an example to the others, a precise shot ripping one of the Koltoc shuttles to pieces, a tower of flame leaping to the sky, dragging a plume of smoke with it. Cooper looked around, trying to get a sense of the battlefield. Seven of the shuttles seemed to have disgorged their passengers with relative safety, but one of them had moved too slowly, half a dozen bodies clumped together.

   “Cooper to Platoon Leaders,” he said, pulling out his communicator. “First Platoon, you're going to take point. Second and Third to cover.” Peering into the smoke, he said, “There's a second trench system just ahead. We've got to take it. Third, once First and Second advance, I want you to establish a rear perimeter. If we don't hold this beachhead we've had it.”

   “Sir,” Hunt replied, “My force is scattered to hell and gone.”

   “As long as they all move at once, that won't matter.” Glancing around, he continued, “Best as I can see, I'm on your right. We move in fifteen seconds, mark. Wolmar, you come forward as soon as the second trench system falls. You'll be running for the communications complex. Harper, you with us?”

   “With Corporal Faulkner.”

   “Stick with Second Platoon, and for God's sake keep your head down. Move!”

   As one, the twenty-eight surviving members of the platoon surged forward, bursts of green flame racing over their heads, slamming into forward defensive positions. As yet, the Xandari had yet to launch a counter-attack, a mercy that bought them a chance to press their attack home. His feet dug into the sand as he struggled to gain ground, his rifle all but forgotten in his hands. Second Platoon would have to do the killing until they reached the trenches. All his force could do was try to gain speed, to seize the defensive ground they needed.

   So far, they'd been on the surface for less than a minute, and he'd already lost a tenth of his attack force. He had to press on, make the sacrifices they had already made worthwhile. To his left, he heard a scream, saw one of the Neander troopers fall, blood running down his leg. Racing to the wounded man's side, he dragged him through the sand, another burst of plasma energy flying over his head, leaving a trail as they went.

   One of the other troopers, the caduceus armband denoting his status as a field medic, charged across the battlefield to help Cooper, and between them they managed to reach their goal. Already a firefight had erupted as the platoon stormed the trench, the air filled with the stink of cordite and the slick odor of blood, periodic surges of ozone from the plasma bolts passin
g over their heads.

   Cooper turned just in time to see a Xandari warrior charging towards him, knife in hand, and swung his rifle as though it was a club, unable to line up a shot in time, acting on instinct rather than logic. The blow struck his opponent on the hand, his blade dropping to the dirt, but his full weight still fell upon him, leaving the two struggling on the ground.

   A blast rang around the trench, and the warrior slumped on Cooper's chest, blood running down his side. The wounded Neander, pistol in hand, flashed a smile at him as the medic began to work on his leg, and with an effort, Cooper pushed the dying Xandari clear and rose to his feet. As far as he could see, his force was winning the battle of the second trench, and the communications center was just ahead, the doors invitingly open.

   From all around, he could see figures moving in their direction, the rattle of gunfire filling the air as his troops struggled to dig in. They'd caught the Xandari defenses by surprise, giving them too little time to react to their attack, but their brief advantage would soon fade. He glanced at his watch, shaking his head. Three minutes since they'd landed, and they'd only been in the system for twenty.

   “Sergeant Wolmar!” he said, yelling into his communicator in a desperate bid to be heard, his lungs filling with choking dust. “Second Platoon needs to move forward, right away!”

   “We're pinned down, sir!” the Neander replied. “Heavy attack from the rear. If I pull anyone away we're going to lose the landing ground. We'll never get out of here.” An explosion rumbled in the distance, and the trooper continued, “Damn it, they're coming again!”

   “We've got to take that building, Sergeant!” Cooper said. “Our fighters will be closing on target in seven minutes. They'll be wiped out if we don't.” He peered back at the battle unfolding before him, taking a quick swig from his canteen to clear his throat. “Send two men with Harper. We'll try and do this the hard way.”