Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

 “Two down, two to go,” Scott said, shaking her head. “Peace through superior firepower.”

   “Don't get cocky, Sub-Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied. “Sensors coming on now, Captain.” He paused, then continued, “I don't get it. Just a couple of communications satellites.”

   “Spinelli?” Orlova asked.

   “Focusing tight-beam now, Captain, but as far as I can see, they're just sitting there.”

   “Wait one,” Weitzman replied. “I'm not getting any activity from them. And they're in the wrong position to be relay satellites.”

   Orlova looked up at the trajectory plot. They'd be passing a thousand miles clear of the nearest, more than enough distance to rule out a laser strike, even if the satellites were large enough to carry a cannon. She looked over the holoimage again, shaking her head. No missile tubes, and the satellite was hardly big enough to mount one anyway.

   “A bluff?” Scott suggested. “Second salvo in thirty seconds.”

   “Destroy the satellites,” Orlova ordered. “We can spare two missiles for that. Bring them down as soon as we get into range. I want clean shots, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   “Dead communications satellites?” Maqua asked.

   “Closest approach in one minute, five seconds,” Spinelli said. His eyes widened, and he added, “Change to target aspect, Captain! Enemy cruisers are altering course, abandoning pursuit!”

   “Evasive, Maqua!” Orlova said, sprinting to the helm. “Scott, full missile spread, right now!” Turning to Spinelli, she continued, “Full scan...”

   “Satellites are moving!” Spinelli interrupted. “Collision course, twenty-two seconds!”

   “I don't get it,” Scott said, running her hands over her controls. “They aren't large enough to do any serious damage, even at this comparative speed.”

   “Missiles, Sub-Lieutenant, how long?” Nelyubov barked.

   “Fifteen seconds, sir.”

   “And eighteen to contact,” he replied. “This one is going to be close.”

   “Captain, should I continue the fly-by?” Maqua asked.

   “Try and gain distance, Sub-Lieutenant,” Orlova replied, looking down at the helm controls. “Buy us as much speed as you can for the moment. We'll trim our course later.”

   “Ten seconds to launch,” Scott said. “I have a good firing solution. Due Diligence is moving to support us.” She glanced at her scanner, and added, “Satellite Beta is turning towards the escorts.”

   “Which one?”

   “Can't tell. Might in a second.”

   “Evasive, Captain?” Maqua asked.

   “Do it, Sub-Lieutenant,” she replied, and Alamo turned, swinging from side to side in a desperate bid to buy time, to throw off the approach. Orlova looked at the approaching satellite, warning alarms ringing in her head. This was still wrong, even if the satellite had a warhead lodged inside. It wasn't much larger than a missile. Couldn't carry a load large enough to do any major damage. The impact would hurt, but not much more than that.

   “Missile away!” Scott yelled, and the world trembled, a scream of twisted metal from the hull, Orlova thrown to her feet as the deck tipped beneath her, the starfield slewing around as Alamo tumbled out of control. The lights dimmed for a second, flickering back on, and the rear consoles winked out as Spinelli and Weitzman struggled to bring them back online.

   “What hit us?” Nelyubov asked, lurching towards the engineering station. Red lights flashed all across the port side of the ship, alerts of hull breaches and systems failures in dozens of areas. “Come on, Fitzroy!”

   “High-yield blast, close aboard,” he replied. “I'm reading independent impacts all over the ship, sir. Damage reports are still coming in, but we're on auxiliary power and internal communications are gone in several areas.”

   “A shaped shrapnel charge,” Orlova said, shaking her head. “High kiloton yield.”

   “That just about settles the ethics of our attack, doesn't it,” Nelyubov replied, almost falling over as he struggled back to the holotable. “They're working on the same damn type of weapon!”

   “And we ran right into the prototype. Helm, can you correct our course?”

   “Trying, Captain,” Maqua replied, stabbing at the controls. “I've lost eight thrusters, and we've got atmospheric leaks all over the place. She's tumbling, ma'am.”

   “Try and keep a straight heading!” she said. “Scott, get the rest of your missiles up, all four of them, right now. Set for automatic defensive pattern.” Alamo rocked again, the remains of their salvo racing into space. “Weitzman, try and contact the rest of the fleet, get a status report.”

   “My God,” Maqua said, glancing up at the screen, the ruins of one of their escorts drifting into view. “They never had a chance.”

   “I think it was Rogue Trader, Captain,” Spinelli said. “I've lost a lot of my sensor resolution. Total loss. Picking up debris all over the place, and the enemy cruisers are turning back onto their pursuit course, heading right for us.”

   Nodding, Nelyubov added, “They wanted to make sure they were well clear of the blast area. Didn't know how much damage those bombs would do. We might have got off lightly.” Looking at the status panel, he continued, “Casualty reports coming in from all over the ship, mostly in the outer areas.”

   Maqua shook his head, and said, “I'm bringing the ship back under control, but it's going to take time, Captain. We're still getting new hull breaches.”

   “Losing ground on the pursuit force,” Spinelli said. “Firing range in ten seconds.”

   “Weitzman?”

   “I can't contact any of our escorts,” the communications technician replied. “Fitz, I need more power! I've barely got enough to handle what intraship systems we have left.”

   “There's none to give you,” he replied. “Captain, I think I can manage one good burn with the main engines.” Looking up at the status panel, he continued, “Though under normal circumstances, we'd have to wait for a full inspection. There could be serious damage back there.”

   “Punch it, Maqua, any heading! Get us moving, now!”

   “Aye, ma'am,” he replied, throwing a dozen override switches at once. Orlova felt sick to her stomach as the ship lurched ahead, gradually stabilizing as the helmsman played his remaining thrusters.

   “Enemy missiles launched!” Spinelli said. “Eight against our four. Escorts are scattering, Captain. Out of formation.” Looking up, he continued, “I don't think any of them escaped some damage, ma'am.”

   “Spaceman,” Kilquan barked, “I need to contact my ships at once!”

   “I can't get through, Colonel! Long-range antenna must be damaged, and there's too much debris out there for the message laser.”

   “Captain,” Nelyubov said, “If we abort now, we won't be able to pick up our troops from the surface.” He glanced at the trajectory track, and added, “If they launched now, they might be able to catch us, but that window closes in a few minutes.”

   “Weitzman?” Orlova asked.

   “No hope, ma'am. I can't even get through to a ship a thousand miles away, still less through an atmosphere. I'll keep trying.”

   The strategic display flickered back into life, far changed from the optimistic view of a moment ago. Now she could see two debris fields, a second escort destroyed, and the remaining ships were struggling back into formation as Alamo danced into the darkness. Behind them, the cruisers loomed, their course turning away, heading around the moon on the path that she had hoped to walk.

   Twelve missiles remained in the sky, Alamo's final volley racing in a desperate bid to thwart the eight Xandari warheads. The advantage they had at the start of the battle had been reversed, and as the tracks danced past each other, a series of brief flashes left four missiles in the sky. All of them Xandari, and all of them on a direct course for Alamo.

   “Impact in thirty seconds, Captain,” Spinelli
said. “They're going for our engines.”

   “Sensible,” Kilquan replied. “They'll be able to take us down at their leisure, and with our shuttles disabled, we won't even be able to evacuate any of the crew.”

   “We have lunar escape velocity,” Maqua said. “Currently on a course out of the local sub-system. I have regained attitude control.”

   “I don't know how much longer I can keep the power grid going,” Fitzroy said, his hands a blur on his console. “We're already getting brownouts in some of the lower decks. Captain, we've got to start conserving power.”

   “Scott, any chance of getting another salvo up?”

   With a sigh, she replied, “Damage to the combat fabricator, Captain. I have a thirty minute estimate on the repair time.”

   “And impact in?”

   “Twenty seconds.”

   “Course change!” Spinelli said. “Red Avenger, ma'am! Heading directly between us and the missiles.”

   All eyes turned to the sensor display as the Neander ship, already bearing the scars of battle, dived back, dragging itself into the path of the oncoming missiles. The Xandari gunner attempted to pull the warheads away, but the escort pilot was too quick, and the four impacts smashed into his ship, a series of quick explosions leaving a shattered hulk drifting through space, clouds of atmosphere spilling from ruined compartments.

   “They took the hit for us,” Scott said, dazed. “I don't believe it.” Looking up at her display, she added, “We're clear, Captain.”

   Nodding, Orlova replied, “Now we've just got to make sure their sacrifice wasn't for nothing.”

  Chapter 10

   Cooper raced across the sand, the survivors of the assault ahead of him, sprinting to the shuttles that were waiting to take them back to the comparative safety of Alamo. The Xandari were holding back, still recovering from the attack, periodic bursts of plasma flame encouraging them to keep their distance from the retreating force.

   He looked around, trying to count heads. As far as he could tell, he'd lost almost a third of his people. Slightly better than they'd hoped, though there were wounded scattered throughout the force, soldiers trying to keep pace with hastily bandaged arms, others being carried by their comrades. Peering back through the gloom at the base, he saw columns of smoke racing to the sky, figures running around in a bid to save the vital structures from the flames that threatened to engulf them.

   Fumbling with his communicator, he frowned as static roared from the speaker, the Xandari jamming back in full effect. Harper was at the head of the column, and she turned to him, shaking her head. It wasn't just his equipment. Something was going badly wrong.

   At least the shuttles were waiting for them, just over the crest of the hill. Bradley waved as he raced towards them, gesturing left and right for squads to take up a defensive position, Hunt taking command of the rear guard. He glanced down at his watch, and smiled. They'd shaved a couple of minutes off their schedule. Any second now, they'd be heading away from this planet.

   “Gabe,” his wife yelled, running towards him. “We've got problems.”

   “What happened? Something wrong with the shuttles?”

   “Mission abort,” she replied. The surrounding troops looked around, eyes widening as the shock set in. “Something happened on the swing around. I saw some of it on the shuttle sensors. All I know is that Alamo came back smashed to pieces, three escorts gone, and running for the outer system. I couldn't get through on the communicators.”

   “Sir!” Hunt yelled. “They're coming. Strength three hundred plus, and they're taking their time about it. I think they're trying to trap us in a pincer.”

   “Textbook,” Cooper replied. “And they must know more about what's happening up there than we do, or they'd be rushing it. They know they've got all the time in the world to get the attack right.” Shaking his head, he added, “I thought this was going a little too well.”

   “Major,” Donegan said, blood streaming down the side of his face unheeded. “We've got to get some of the wounded to a medical facility right away, or they don't have a chance.”

   “Where?” Harper asked. “The only hospital on this planet is Xandari.”

   “Alamo,” Cooper said. “Are they still in range?”

   “You've got to be out of your mind,” Bradley replied. “There are two cruisers in orbit and a fighter squadron, and every second we wait, Alamo gets further away. Not to mention the missile screen. It'll be back to full function by now.” With a bitter frown, she continued, “We only had one chance at this, Gabe, and we've lost.”

   “We're not dead yet,” he replied, looking at the fighters. “Donegan, how many people do you have to get back to Alamo? Give me a number.”

   “Six, sir.”

   “One shuttle can take them.” Turning to Bradley, he continued, “The whole force might not get through, but a single shuttle might, especially if we set another one for remote function and use it as a decoy. That will still leave us with five shuttles to carry the rest of the attack force.”

   “Where are we going?” Harper asked.

   “You're going to ride with the wounded to Alamo,” Cooper replied. “No protest on this, Kris. You've done your job down here on the surface, and we'll need you to ride shotgun on the escape shuttle.”

   “That's fine,” Bradley said. “What about the rest of us?”

   “How are we for fuel?”

   “That's not a problem,” she replied. “We've got enough to get back to the ship, assuming there's a ship up there to go back to, and a comfortable reserve as well.”

   “How comfortable?” he asked.

   “Sir,” Hunt yelled, “We've got minutes before they hit us. We need to establish a defensive perimeter.” Turning back to the ridge line, he added, “They're setting up mortars.”

   “Gabe…,” Bradley said.

   “We've got to get out of here. If we can't get into orbit, we can at least go somewhere else on the planet. How far?”

   “Three, four hundred miles,” she replied, nodding. “It might work. But surely they'll have some airlift of their own down here, or...”

   “All we need to to is buy some time,” Cooper pressed. “Captain Orlova will think of something. We just have to give her the chance to pull off a miracle.” Looking around, he continued, “Get the wounded to Shuttle One! The rest of you, load up according to schedule. Sergeant Hunt, you're with me in the rear guard with Second Platoon. Move out!”

   “Come on,” Bradley said, racing to the shuttles. “Cut all normal checks, people. Clearance on request!” An explosion ripped into the ground, just over the ridge line, raining sand and stone down all around.

   Cooper raced to the ridge, rifle in hand, and dived down into cover as a bullet flew overhead. Behind him, his men streamed into the shuttles, hurling their equipment through the hatch as quickly as they could. To his right, Hunt flashed a smile as he fired a bolt from his plasma pistol, sweeping down the slope towards the advancing Xandari column.

   Another explosion roared behind them, far too close to the shuttles for comfort. The artillerymen below were beginning to get the range, and as soon as they did, all that would remain would be piles of useless scrap metal. Cooper peered down, trying to spot the mortar crews, but the enemy was advancing ahead of them, raining down a hail of bullets to keep them pinned down.

   “Suppressing fire!” he said. “Sergeant...”

   Shaking his head, Hunt waved his plasma pistol and replied, “That was my last shot.”

   “Anyone who has any plasma energy left, I want volley fire now!” Cooper yelled.

   A trio of plasma bolts smashed into the advancing column, sending new plumes of smoke into the air where one Xandari soldiers stood, but there was nothing to stop their advance now. With a low whine, a pair of mortar shells crashed into the ground behind him, shrapnel stabbing into his back. Cooper turned to the rear, the bulk
of his forces now safe in the shuttles, the first of them preparing to launch.

   “That's all, folks!” he yelled, gesturing to the rear. “Time to go! Move it!”

   Pausing for a moment to allow the rest of the troops to get a head start, he felt a hand on his back, Hunt dragging him away. Bullets flew through the air all around them, two of his soldiers dropping to the ground with wounds in their backs, their comrades attempting to carry them to safety, another falling victim himself in the attempt.

   “Come on, Cooper!” Bradley yelled, standing in the hatch of the nearest shuttle, now pockmarked from impacts on its hull. “Move it, now!”

   A loud roar raged as the first shuttles launched, flame licking from their lateral thrusters as they kicked into an escape path, flying away from the enemy attack, green plasma bolts flying through the sky all around them. Cooper almost tripped over a dead man on the ground, Private McBride, a grin locked on his face for eternity.

   Hunt pulled at him again, pushing him through the hatch into the shuttle, then leaping through himself, slamming the airlock closed with the emergency release. The cabin echoed with the whine of engines roaring to full power, and he felt the ship take off, sliding from side to side to avoid the fire still leaping towards them from the surface.

   He lurched over to the nearest viewport, looking at the devastation below. Bodies were scattered all around, some of them still moving as the Xandari swept over the ridge line, firing futile volleys at the escaping shuttles in bitter revenge.

   “Cooper!” Bradley said, and he turned to the cockpit, glancing at the shattered troops in the cabin, their faces telling a woeful tale. All of them had expected to be on their way home by now. He glanced at his watch, and shook his head. Deployment of the K-Bomb had been scheduled thirty seconds ago.

   “Cooper, get up here!” Bradley yelled.

   “I'll see to the men, Major,” Hunt said, and Cooper turned to the cockpit with a nod, dropping into the copilot's couch. He looked across at his wife, blood streaming down her right leg, a hand clamped over the wound as she struggled with the controls.