Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

   The force of the acceleration slammed him back into his couch as his formation broke into two, scattering across space from the unplanned maneuver. At least he'd fooled the enemy defenses, the bulk of the fighters moving on the assumption that they were returning to base, not launching a strike on the cruisers pursuing Alamo and the fleet.

   “Duvall, you're going to have to move faster!” he yelled. “They'll catch you if you don't ramp up your acceleration.”

   “On-board systems...” the rookie replied.

   “To hell with your on-board alerts, pilot! Override and throw to automatic. You'll be in firing range any second if you don't.” Glancing to his left, he saw Cartwright flying past him, praying that the pilot was simply fitter than he was, that he hadn't overestimated his tolerance to acceleration and blacked out.

   “Missile launch!” Tarhiki said. “I've got four on my tail, sir! Duvall has three!”

   “Executing random walk,” Duvall said.

   “No!” Ryan yelled. “More thrust and burn. You can't throw them off that way, not at this range! Throw your throttle full on and hope for the best.”

   “Evasive pattern,” Duvall replied. Salazar would never know whether the pilot had chosen to ignore the order, or whether he had simply failed to hear it, as a missile caught his tail, the explosion ripping his fighter into pieces.

   “Andre!” Tarhiki said. At least she was moving faster now.

   “Pilot,” Salazar said, “Get home. Right now. Don't turn back. They won't follow you all the way to the deck. They don't have the fuel load. Just move.” He looked down at the sensors again, and shook his head. “I said move, Tarhiki! Come on!”

   “Trying, sir,” she replied, panting for breath. “Warning alerts...”

   “Let yourself go under. Someone can pick you up later.”

   “Enemy squadron on our tail, sir,” Murphy said. “Ten fighters, bearing directly, and if I'm reading this right, they'll be intercepting us just past the cruisers. And they'll have a place to come down. They don't need to go back to the planet.”

   “We'll worry about that in five minutes, Sub-Lieutenant,” he replied. “Prepare your attack run on Cruiser Gamma. We've got to knock it out if Alamo is going to have any chance of stopping them. We've come this far, damn it, and we're not going to let this mission go wrong now.”

   “Cartwright,” Ryan said. “Cartwright, reply at once!”

   Shaking his head, Salazar flicked a switch, sending a shrill turning signal running through the squadron channel, enough to make him wince as the burst of noise shredded into his ears.

   “Wha…,” Cartwright said.

   “Cut back on the throttle,” Ryan said. “You blacked out.”

   “Pilot,” Salazar said, “You're running way ahead of us now. Report fuel status.”

   “Uh, twenty-five percent.”

   “Then trim back, drop your load and see if you can make it back to Alamo, or one of the other ships in the fleet. Any port in a storm. Worst case, throw yourself onto an escape vector and wait for a shuttle to pick you up.” He paused, then added, “Go for missile tubes and sensor controls. Never mind the engines. They'll make contact with Alamo whatever we do. Pull their sting.”

   “Tarhiki to Leader!” a panicked voice yelled. “They're closing, sir! I can't shake the missiles!”

   “Drop your last bird,” Salazar replied. “Try for fratricide when they get close. If you get it right, you might be able to knock out the whole salvo. If not, bail out. Get clear of the debris field.”

   “Pavel, if she does that, the Xandari…,” Ryan began.

   “While there's life, there's hope, Mike, no matter how slim.”

   “Cruiser Gamma coming up in two minutes. Eighty seconds for you, Cartwright,” Murphy said. “Moving into attack formation. I assume we use all our missiles?”

   “In time-on-target salvo fire,” Salazar replied. “Take my mark, Sub-Lieutenant. We've got to get this right. We'll go in as close as we dare.”

   “And if they launch missiles against us?”

   “We'll worry about that when they do.” He grimaced, knowing that the enemy gunner would have a solid firing solution on the incoming fighters by now. Looking across at the sensor display, he saw a flash that told him that Tarhiki had lost her race with the enemy missiles. The debris field was too dispersed for her to have lived through bailing out.

   “Enemy squadron still pursuing,” Murphy said. “They'll be on us sixty seconds after we make contact with the cruiser.” She paused, then added, “Lieutenant, from where I'm sitting, they're set up for an attack run on Due Diligence as well. They won't need twenty missiles to finish us off.”

   “Don't you worry about that, Sub-Lieutenant. I'm about to give you a quick lesson in advanced small ship tactics. Just press your own attack and get back to the barn. Let me worry about the enemy fighters.” He reached across to his control and killed his acceleration, relaxing forward in his restraints as his fighter started to coast.

   Instantly, he fell behind the rest of the formation as they raced to their destiny, while he quickly recalculated his course to take him as close as possible to the enemy cruiser. After allowing the approaching fighters to close, he fired his engines again, roaring back up to maximum speed as he dived for the cruiser.

   Up ahead, Cartwright was firing his missiles, this time a perfect launch as they raced towards their assigned targets. Salazar had something else in mind, and he frantically scanned the schematic they'd pieced together of the enemy ship, trying to find the oxygen reservoir. With one missile, placed correctly, he ought to be able to get it to rupture. It wouldn't cripple the ship, but he was rather hoping the first three fighters would render it combat-ineffective. What interested him far more was the possibility of using the cruiser itself as a weapon.

   “Missile launch!” Ryan said. “Three missiles in the air, bearing directly!”

   “It won't make any difference,” Salazar replied. “Burn for home. If they're heading for you, with a little luck you'll be inside the fleet's defensive perimeter by the time they become a threat.”

   “They're heading your way, Lieutenant!” Cartwright protested.

   “Then you can just relax, pilot,” he said with cultivated calmness. “And nice shooting, by the way.”

   He watched the first three missiles slam into the enemy ship as Ryan and Murphy took their last shots, a trio of explosions ripping across the hull, sending a cascade of debris flying from the gaps torn in the hull plating. Shaking his head in frustration, his left hand started to dance across the controls of his targeting computer. If his shot was going to be difficult before, it would be downright impossible now.

   “Enemy fighters in firing range!” Ryan said. “Pavel, if you've got some sort of a plan, now might be a good time to put it into action.”

   “Any second now,” he replied, watching as the enemy ship formed into a tiny shape on his viewscreen. A red light flashed into view, his fighter now within range, but he waited to close the distance, knowing that the enemy missiles were heading towards him. A shrill alarm announced that the fighters behind him had taken their first shots, another dozen missiles tracking in his direction. A complement to his skills, perhaps, but he prayed they hadn't guessed what he was planning.

   “Missile away!” he said, as his warhead raced from the hard-point, diving towards the enemy ship. He fired a long burst from his lateral thrusters, hurling his fighter to the side, placing himself on a collision course with the enemy cruiser, forcing it to respond to his move, the missile's guidance controls taking full advantage of the maneuver.

   “Bail out, Pavel!” Ryan yelled. “You've still got a dozen missiles on your tail, and the cruiser's too fast for you to kamikaze.”

   He glanced behind him at the approaching fighters, reducing the speed on his missile almost imperceptibly. The timing on this attack had to be perfect, the warhead exp
loding exactly on time, or he'd be dead. As would at least two of the escorts, with ten missiles left to tear them apart.

   “Five seconds to impact,” he muttered, and he watched as he found his target, the enemy helmsmen choosing to absorb the blow. A mistake, albeit an understandable one. As the sixth warhead found its mark, the cruiser's oxygen reservoir ruptured exactly as he'd hoped, sending the capital ship tumbling from his track. At the last instant, he hurled his fighter to the side, debris flying all around him, rattling on the outer hull.

   “It worked!” Murphy yelled, and Salazar smiled at the sensor display. A dozen explosions flared in the sky, the Xandari missiles detonating rather than risk friendly fire, and the enemy fighters dived in all directions to avoid a collision with the capital ship Salazar had tossed into the path. With grim satisfaction, he watched one of the fighters turn too late, slamming into the rear section, the explosion sweeping through the ship and tearing it in two, a second blast wave of debris surging towards him.

   “Is that one kill, or two?” Ryan asked.

   Before Salazar could muster a reply, he felt an agonizing pain in his arm, and a decompression alarm began to sound, sparks flying from the console ahead of him. He looked down at his side, his vision already blurring, and saw blood running down his sleeve, a neat hole just above his wrist.

   “I'm hit,” he gasped. Sirens sounded as the atmosphere began to leak out, the ship struggling to keep up with the rate of loss.

   “Hold on, I'm coming,” Ryan said, cutting his thrust to pull in alongside Salazar. “Switch to control circuit three. I'll guide you in.”

   “Three,” Salazar muttered, looking over the controls, red lights flashing all around him. “Got it.”

   “Ryan to Alamo Actual. Prepare to accept casualty. Salazar's been hit.”

   “Flesh wound,” Salazar gasped, as his fighter gently slid into position under Alamo, the cradle snapping into place beneath him, drawing him up into the elevator airlock. His vision began to fade as the pressure dropped, but the loud hiss all around him rapidly filled his cockpit with air once again, the hatch opening to bring him up to the deck.

   As he settled into position, he reached down with his left arm, using the last of his strength, to open the lower hatch, slapping his chest buckle to free the restraints. He slid down to the hangar deck, collapsing onto the floor, blood trickling down his arm as figures ran towards his fighter.

   “Phase Three,” he said, at the blurred man standing before him. “Complete.”

  Chapter 9

   “Way to go, Pavel!” Scott yelled, raising a fist into the air. “Cruiser Gamma's destroyed, and he's ruined the enemy squadron's attack run.”

   “That cuts the odds back a bit,” Nelyubov said with a satisfied smile. “Three cruisers against Alamo and six escorts. I like that a lot more than what we were facing a few minutes ago.”

   Nodding, Orlova turned to Spinelli, and asked, “Time to contact, Spaceman?”

   “Two minutes minus, Captain,” the technician replied.

   “All surviving fighters home, ma'am,” Weitzman said. “Lieutenant Salazar is on his way to surgery right now.”

   “What happened?” Scott asked.

   “Impact wound from shrapnel. Doctor Duquesne says he'll be fine.”

   “Keep me informed,” Orlova said, stepping over to the helm. “Go for Phase Four, Sub-Lieutenant. Take us around the moon, and we'll prepare to launch the bomber. With a little luck, this will all be over in a quarter of an hour. Any word from the surface, Weitzman?”

   “Jamming field has been reestablished, Captain. I can't get through.”

   Spinelli looked up, and added, “I got a few shots of the surface, ma'am. Looks like a lot of hell has been unleashed down there, but seven of the shuttles made it to the pickup point.”

   “That's going to be a tight squeeze for the return,” Scott said.

   “Based on the casualty projections,” a dour Nelyubov replied, “I suspect they'll have quite a few empty seats.” Frowning, he asked, “Spinelli, have we managed to get any shots of the far-side of the moon yet?”

   “No, sir. Our third set of probes were shot down before they could reach their station.”

   “What the hell are they hiding?” he asked. “When the cruisers were waiting to spring their ambush, I could understand, but what's the point now?” Looking at Orlova, he said, “There's something wrong, Captain.”

   “I was thinking the same thing,” she replied. “Weitzman, contact Chief Kowalski, and ask him how long it would take to get a fighter ready for launch.”

   “Recon run?” Nelyubov asked.

   “Unless you can think of a better idea.”

   Shaking his head, Weitzman said, “Sorry, Captain. Seven minutes plus before any of the fighters can be cleared for launch. They landed with dry tanks. Ryan and Murphy are on standby to escort the bomber to position. The Chief says that he'll have them ready in time.”

   “Captain, maybe we should consider an abort.”

   “Now?” Scott said. “We're eight minutes from launching the bombing run, sir, and as far as we can see, we're winning this fight!” Turning back to her console, she continued, “We've got a two-to-one edge on missiles for the first four salvos. More than enough time to get us clear.”

   Maqua glanced back from the helm, and said, “Captain, I need a decision in the next thirty seconds.”

   “Commit,” Orlova replied. “We're going for the attack.” She glanced at the trajectory plot, and continued, “Give us all the speed you can, Sub-Lieutenant. Let's get this over with.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” the Neander said. “Moving to maximum acceleration.”

   “Retract radiators,” Nelyubov ordered. At Orlova's glance, he continued, “We don't need the laser for this battle, and they're too damn fragile. If we need them, we can always deploy them again once we've completed the flyby.”

   “Firing range in thirty-five seconds, Captain,” Scott said. “And in fifty, we'll know what's on the far side of the moon for ourselves.” Rattling controls, she continued, “Request firing instructions.”

   “Prioritize defensive, but take any advantages you can.” Orlova paused, then said, “Let's concentrate on Cruiser Alpha first, knock it out of the fight. Then we'll work our way down the line of battle.” Frowning, she asked, “Spinelli, any activity at the planet?”

   “Enemy fighter squadrons are moving into position to fill the gap we made, Captain, but we've got at least fifteen minutes before they have full coverage. I'd say we're clear to proceed with Phase Four. Missile defenses are online, but we should be able to stay well out of range.”

   “Twenty-five seconds,” Scott said. “I have a good firing solution on Cruiser Alpha. We should get at least three good shots at them, maybe four if we push it. By the time we're done, there won't be anything left but scrap metal.”

   Frowning, Spinelli replied, “Captain, there's something wrong. The enemy squadrons...”

   “What?”

   “They're not moving to intercept. Just to plug the gap.” He gestured at the screen, and said, “At least eighteen fighters have potential windows for intercept on our swing-round, but they aren't taking advantage of that. And those cruisers at the far hendecaspace point are just sitting there. If they'd started moving, they could have caught us easily.”

   “Maybe they still think this is a decoy?” Maqua suggested.

   “Not likely,” Nelyubov replied. “We've done too much for that, and telegraphed our intentions a little too much. By now they must realize that this is the main assault.” Turning to Orlova, he continued, “We're being corralled, Captain. They want us to head for the far-side.”

   “I can still change course,” Maqua said, “for another fifteen seconds.”

   “Captain, we're so damned close,” Scott said. “And we're moving fast enough that any ships on the other side won't get much of a ch
ance to attack us. A firing window measured in seconds. One salvo at most.” Glancing at her readout, she added, “Ten seconds to missile launch.”

   “We're committed,” Orlova said. “Let's see what's waiting for us. I'm going to take the gamble that we can fight our way through it. Weitzman, inform all ships in the fleet to move to line astern formation. Alamo can take more hits than they can. Maqua, I want you to shave as much time as you can off the attack course.” Turning to Nelyubov, she added, “Once we've cleared the moon, I'll leave you the conn and head down to the bomber.”

   “For the record, I must formally protest your intention to fly that mission yourself, Captain.”

   “Everyone's taking excessive risks today, Lieutenant, and this time I have to lead from the front.” A light winked on, and Alamo rocked back as six missiles raced from her launch tubes, followed within seconds by launches from the other ships in the fleet, a cascade of death racing towards the pursuing cruisers. The Xandari ships responded, none of them attempting even the pretense of defensive fire, willing to sacrifice one of their own in a bid to damage the fleet.

   Neither Scott or her Koltoc and Neander counterparts were willing to go along with them on that. With practiced ease, she slid a dozen missiles across to cover the incoming salvo, lining up the trajectories for mutual annihilation. Orlova watched the screen with a satisfied smile, the plan working so far. Technically, destroying the enemy cruisers was a bonus, not a requirement. They'd be following Alamo anyway, and would stand an excellent chance of being caught in the debris field as they swung around the Xandari homeworld.

   Still, it would feel better not to have them on their backs, give them more options on their escape trajectory. Nelyubov leaned over the holodesk, adjusting the display to provide the closest possible view of the far-side as they approached, while a cascade of explosions rippled across Cruiser Alpha from the first series of hits, tearing the enemy ship into pieces, the superstructure twisted and ruined from the precision strike.