Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

   Shaking his head, Cooper reached for the medical kit, pulling out a bandage and ripping away the fabric to expose the wound. He glanced back to the cabin, but the only medic on board was leaning over another soldier, struggling to stabilize him.

   “I'll live, Gabe,” Bradley said. “Stimulant.”

   “In a minute.”

   The shuttle lurched to the side, and Bradley struggled to bring it back on course, the rest of the formation growing distant on the viewscreen, dots on the horizon. Cooper pulled the bandage into position, then fumbled in the medical kit for an anticoagulant, stabbing the hypodermic into what he hoped was an intact vein.

   “How did they get you?”

   “Standing in the hatch. Sniper. Does it matter?”

   “Guess not,” he replied. “Here, I think this should help.” He ripped off her sleeve, injecting the stimulant into her, and after a few seconds, her eyes seemed to clear, and she sat straighter in the couch, her grasp of the controls more certain.

   “Take the copilot's seat,” she said. “See if we've got any company.”

   Climbing into the couch, he looked down at the sensor display, and said, “Our people are about twenty miles ahead. Looks like they're heading for that mountain range to the north.”

   “Smart,” she replied. “Lots of places to hide up there, and some nice caves to conceal the shuttles. Now what about the rear?”

   “Nothing yet,” he said. “I didn't see any shuttles while we were attacking, but to be fair it wasn't exactly my top priority at the time.” Reaching for the communicator, he said, “Cooper to Alamo, come in. Cooper to Alamo, come in.”

   A roar of static burst from the speaker, and Bradley said, “You don't really expect an answer, do you? That's not much more powerful than the hand communicator.”

   “Just hoping, that's all,” he said, shaking his head. “Cooper to Alamo, come in, please.” He threw a switch on the scanner, widening the focus as much as possible. “They're definitely on an escape vector. Something must have gone seriously wrong up there.” He glanced at the viewscreen, then said, “I think Harper's making her run for orbit.”

   “She's taking a hell of a risk,” Bradley replied, her face growing pale as the pain took hold. Looking down at her leg, she said, “Cooper, take over.”

   “What?”

   “Take over,” she said. “That damn stimulant didn't work.” She slumped back in her couch, hands dropping away from the controls, and Cooper turned to her, shaking her, trying to keep her awake. He turned back to the cabin and saw the medic pulling a blanket over the soldier she'd been working on.

   “Get up here, Specialist! On the double!”

   The landscape filled the viewscreen as the shuttle started a slow descent to the surface, Cooper reaching for the controls, struggling to remember his limited exposure to flight training. There hadn't been any time to program a course, so the autopilot was no use. He glanced across at his wife, the medic working on her leg, then forced himself back to the cockpit controls.

   A few quick adjustments brought the nose back up, and he looked around for the other shuttles, barely within range. He had to get down close to them, if he couldn't follow them exactly. Beneath him, the terrain grew rough, the hitherto smooth surface replaced with jagged foothills, dominated by the mountains ahead.

   “Well, Specialist?” he asked, risking another look at his wife.

   “In shock,” she replied. “Don't worry, she'll be fine. Not a serious wound. I can handle the worst of it here.” Glancing at the viewscreen, she asked, “What's that?”

   Cooper peered down at the surface, spotting a cluster of shapes on the ground. The shuttle soared past them before he could get a good look, and when he turned to replay the sensor logs, taking a hand off the controls, the shuttle lurched again, tumbling to the side.

   “It'll have to wait,” he said, focusing on the readouts. He'd sat right-seat often enough to have at least a basic idea of what to do, but under normal circumstances, that would have consisted of calling Alamo for remote guidance. Flying in atmosphere was rare enough for a trained shuttle pilot. It felt as though the world was fighting him, gusts of wind tossing him first one way, then another, frustrating any attempt at keeping a straight course.

   “I need to take her back to the cabin,” the medic said.

   “Fine,” he replied. “Send someone up here to take her seat.”

   With a nod, the medic withdraw, and a few seconds later, Rhodes slid into the pilot's seat, quickly bringing his sensor display online. Cooper's eyes were still locked on the altimeter, trying to maintain altitude, reaching down to the throttle.

   “Burn it out, sir,” Rhodes said.

   “We're going to need the fuel to make orbit,” Cooper replied.

   “Don't take this the wrong way, Major, but I think the best you're going to manage is a crash landing anyway. I doubt we're going to be riding this chariot back to Alamo. We'll have enough seats, anyway.” He shook his head, and added, “Best guess gives us forty-one casualties. One of those mortar shells took out the remnants of Third Platoon, and the snipers were really getting to work near the end.” Squinting at his display, he continued, “Try five degrees starboard.”

   “Easier said than done,” Cooper said with a grunt, cautiously adjusting course. The computer was at least helping him maintain level flight, but not much more than that. The small dots of the rest of the formation were almost out of sight now. “Try the communicator again.”

   “Shuttle, ah, Three to any friendly station. Come in.” Shaking his head, the trooper replied, “Still as bad as ever. Might be easier later. Right now they've got us where they want us, I think.” Turning to Cooper, he continued, “Can't even get the rest of the formation.”

   The shuttle lurched again, sending them spilling down, and Cooper said, “Down to eight hundred feet, and there are peaks a lot bigger than that out there. I don't think I can keep her moving much longer.” Peering down at the ground, he said, “I don't like the look of the terrain, either.”

   “The formation's descending!” Rhodes replied, pointing at the screen. “Looks like they've found their safe haven.” He pulled out a datapad, sliding a cable into the main console. “Getting the location, sir. Just in case.”

   “How bad a landing do you think I'm going to manage, Corporal?”

   “Brick meets dirt, sir.”

   With a smile, Cooper engaged the landing thrusters, sending the shuttle careening forward, looping in the sky, sending his stomach lurching before he cut the main engine. The computer struggled to compensate, thrusters spilling fuel around, rocking back and forth as it slowly settled.

   “Five hundred feet,” Rhodes said. “I feel like Buzz Aldrin.” Throwing a switch, he continued, “Landing legs deployed and locked. I think.” He paused, and added, “And we're getting an amber warning from the forward thrusters. Looks like some damage from the attack.”

   “Compensating,” Cooper said, trying to adjust the descent, reducing the intensity of the thrust in a series of jerks, the ground getting closer and closer as they dropped into position, jagged rocks reaching down all around them. The shuttle drifted to the side, clouds of dust flying through the air, and he struggled with the controls, trying to keep the ship stable, dodging past a huge boulder to a flat space beyond.

   “Hundred feet. Easy, Major, easy.” The roar of the engines faded, and with a final, alarming jolt, the shuttle settled into position. “Engine off.”

   “Done,” Cooper said, taking a deep breath. “Well, we're here. Wherever the hell that is.”

   Frowning at the scanner, Rhodes replied, “About thirty miles short of where we wanted to be. I guess we're in for a walk.”

  Chapter 11

   Harper's eyes were fixed on the sensor controls, watching as the enemy fighters swung in towards them, closing on the shuttle as it ascended into space. She reached across for the c
ommunications console, trying to open a channel with the retreating Alamo, trying and failing. The Xandari had blanketed the whole sub-system with static, overwhelming any attempt to push a signal through. She glanced across at the pilot, a Copernican named Ramirez, whose face was as a white as a sheet, shaking hands working the controls.

   “Hold it together,” she said. “And punch it. We've got to gain speed.”

   “We've got wounded back there,” he replied.

   “And being blown into a million pieces will set their recovery back. Run her as hot as you can. We've got bandits inbound.” Tapping a control, hoping against hope, she said, “Harper to Alamo Actual. Come in, please. Harper to Alamo Actual. Come in.”

   “It won't work,” Ramirez said.

   “Which is no reason not to try,” she replied. “Besides, we might get through.” Six fighters were closing on them, sliding into position. As far as she could tell from the sensor logs, these were from the same formation that had attempted an attack run on Alamo, distracted as the final instant by some precision flying from one of the fighter pilots. Somehow, she could guess who had been in that cockpit. That the records showed that ship being struck by debris was a detail she tried to force to the back of her mind.

   “Leaving atmosphere,” the pilot said. “Running for full acceleration, initiating override.”

   “I'm still reading an intercept in a hundred seconds,” Harper replied. “And we can't catch Alamo for two hundred and ten.” With a frown, she asked, “Can we dip back into the atmosphere, work our way around the moon with a skip?”

   “We'll barely have enough fuel to make it back to the ship, running the engines this hot. Can't you do something with the electronic warfare systems?”

   “We're outgunned,” she replied. “They must have ten thousand hackers working. I've had to isolate the ship.” Reaching across for a control, she continued, “I might be able to flash a message laser. Keep us steady.”

   “Firing range in ninety seconds,” he said. “We need to be thinking about evasive action. Besides, is there anything Alamo can do to help us? If they drop back to pick us up, those fighters will just throw a full salvo at them. Twelve missiles against six, assuming she hasn't been damaged. No one will take that sort of a risk.” Shaking his head, he added, “I knew this was a bad idea.”

   “Then why the hell did you volunteer for it?”

   “I didn't!” he replied. “I just ran for the nearest damned shuttle. I thought Lieutenant Bradley was taking the wounded back to the ship.”

   “You really think she was going to leave her husband behind on the planet, two weeks before their mutual retirement?” Harper replied, shaking her head.

   “Seventy seconds to firing range,” Ramirez said, as though announcing his death sentence. “Twelve missiles, heading right for us.”

   “I doubt they'll use all of them,” she said. “Probably just three or four.”

   “One is too many.” Gesturing at the monitor, he continued, “More contacts, coming from the other direction. We're going to be caught on both sides.” Shaking his head, he added, “Maybe we should break for the surface. We wouldn't be able to get back up again, but...”

   A grin broke out on Harper's face, and she said, “They're ours! Two Koltoc fighters, bearing directly! The cavalry's on the way, Ramirez. Set your course to go right through them.” Tapping a control, Harper swung the comm laser, trying to lock onto one of the incoming craft, but the range was too extreme, the ships moving too rapidly.

   “Alamo in three minutes minus,” Ramirez said. “Those enemy fighters are getting awfully close, Lieutenant. Firing range in fifty seconds.”

   “Just keep us moving, Spaceman,” she said, still playing the comm laser around, trying to get a signal from one of the three ships. They were quickly gaining ground on Alamo, and the friendly fighters were now close enough to give her a realistic chance. Just as she managed to link up a signal, they broke away, moving into an evasive pattern, and she abandoned the attempt with a frown, moving back to the sensor display.

   “Preparing evasive course,” Ramirez said.

   “Don't,” she replied. “We need speed. Six missiles against whatever they throw at us is a pretty happy ending.” Looking over the sensor feed, she said, “Six against six, to be specific. Those bastards have already used half their ordnance.”

   “I just hope those pilots know what they're doing.”

   “They're probably your people, Spaceman.”

   Reaching down to the throttle, the pilot found a trace more acceleration in the shuttle's engines, his knuckles white as he gripped the controls, beads of sweat building up on his forehead.

   “First battle?” Harper asked.

   “Yeah,” he replied. “I'm not even really in the military. Drafted for the duration. They didn't tell me I'd end up dodging missiles.”

   “Goes with the territory. You never know, after a while you might start to enjoy it. I did.”

   Ramirez looked at her as though she had lost her mind, then turned back to his controls, nursing the power distribution network to gain all the boost he could, watching as the fighters drew closer. Harper threw a control to focus on the pursing force, waiting for them to release their deadly payload.

   “Change to target aspect,” she said. “Six missiles, bearing directly. Enemy fighters are breaking off, heading back to the moon.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I guess that's still friendly territory for them, damn it all.”

   “Impact in twenty-eight seconds,” Ramirez said. “Collision course.”

   “Activating physical countermeasures,” Harper replied, reaching across for the controls. She knew how remote the chances were of them being effective in this theater, but she'd ridden longer odds in the past. “Chaff and flares, ready to go. Decoy, ready to go.”

   “Release them, then!”

   “Not yet, Spaceman. Not until they get close. Besides, our fighters are coming.”

   It was a race, the Triplanetary fighter escort against the laws of physics, their engines working over their design limits to get them into the battle as rapidly as they could. Abruptly, six more tracks appeared on the screen, friendly missiles in the air, and the two fighters turned back for the battlecruiser, killing their speed as rapidly as they had accrued it.

   “Mutual destruction in eight seconds,” Harper said.

   “Right around impact time,” Ramirez replied.

   “Five seconds,” she said. “Any last words?”

   “None worth recording.”

   There was nothing they could do except wait as the seconds, and the miles, trickled away, twelve missiles converging on the same point of space, one that also happened to contain the shuttle, speeding to its hoped-for destiny. When the end came, it was almost anti-climatic, the warheads smashing into each other, the tracks vanishing from the sensor display, replaced with a rapidly converging cloud of debris.

   Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Ramirez said, “That was far too close!” Shaking his head, he asked, “Is it always like this?”

   “Quiet day at the office, Spaceman,” she replied. “Rear screens are clear, and there's nothing at the planet that can catch us now. Not to jinx this daring escape, but I think we've made it.” Turning back to the rear cabin, she asked, “Garland, what's the score back there?”

   “One down, five still breathing,” the paramedic replied. “Carstairs couldn't take the acceleration, I'm afraid. We're going to need to get the rest into surgery right away, Lieutenant. Have you got any contact with Alamo?”

   “Nothing,” she replied, “and we probably won't until we dock. Hopefully they'll guess what we're doing. Just try and keep them with us for a few more minutes. That should be enough.”

   “I hope so,” Garland replied, turning back to his work.

   Alamo had never looked better as the shuttle approached, but only as they drew close could Ha
rper see the beating that the ship had taken in the battle, could understand why there had been no choice other than to abort the mission, even when they had been heartrendingly close to launching the bomber. The whole side of the battlecruiser was burned and pitted, exposed compartments in a dozen places, atmosphere still leaking out with periodic puffs.

   She looked across at the escorts, the three surviving ships, two Koltoc and one Neander, nursing in tight formation. All of them seemed in similar condition to Alamo, as far as she could imagine from being ready for battle. They might be approaching temporary safety, but there didn't seem to be any way they were going to get out of the system in one piece. Not with Xandari forces scattered at every hendecaspace point.

   Finally, the shuttle drifted into position, settling into the docking cradle and rising up to the hangar deck. Here too were the scars of battle, technicians racing to service damaged fighters, a line of wounded crewmen being triaged by harried medics. As soon as the hatch settled into position underneath them, the passenger airlock opened.

   “We need medical help over here, on the double!” Garland yelled, and gurneys raced from the elevator, Doctor Duquesne running by their side, her uniform stained with blood from one of her patients, a dead look in her eyes.

   Shaking her head, Harper turned to Ramirez and said, “You'd better handle post-flight, and find someone to give the shuttle the once-over. From the looks of it, it's the only one we've got.” Looking at his ashen face, she continued, “Then try and get some sleep. You've earned it.”

   “Sleep?”

   “Take a pill, Spaceman. You might be the only shuttle pilot on board. We're going to need you soon enough. I'd suggesting going to sickbay, but it looks like they've got a lot of business.” Sliding out of the hatch, she dropped down to the deck, walking over to Chief Kowalski, standing in front of the status board.

   “How bad, Chief?”

   “Bad,” he replied. “Damned bad. They caught us cold, Lieutenant.” Shaking his head, he said, “Now we've got to try and put all the pieces back together again.” Gesturing at the elevator, he continued, “Pavel's in sickbay, last I heard.”