Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit

by Richard Tongue

   “Maybe,” Cooper replied. “Just maybe. If we catch a lucky break.”

   With a brief flash, the cruisers vanished, heading for their unknown destination. Even with a capital ship's sensors, trying to determine where a ship entering hendecaspace was heading was next to impossible, and for the more limited detectors fitted on the shuttle, they never had a chance. Not that Cooper needed the sensors to tell him where the cruiser squadron would be emerging in the next five days.”

   Tapping a control, the sensor operator said, “Here are the projected trajectory plots of Alamo and the fleet. They changed course about an hour ago, heading towards the innermost planet on a best-time course. I can plot a path for us to catch them if you want, sir, but I don't think we've got the fuel to pull it off, not at that range. They're moving...”

   “When was this last updated?” Cooper interrupted.

   “About thirty minutes ago. We should be getting a new reading any second now.” As the technician spoke, the image on the screen abruptly jumped, the four markers indicating the only friendly ships in the system moving position, tens of thousands of miles away from where they were meant to be.

   “I don't understand, sir,” the technician protested. “My plot can't have been that far out.”

   “Unless they've changed course again,” Cooper said, turning to Hunt. “You can go ahead and tell Rhodes he was right, Sergeant. The Captain's come up with something, though I wouldn't pretend to know what.”

   Nodding, Kelot replied, “She's managed to draw the cruisers away. That makes getting back here a more even proposition, but I still don't see what good it does. Look at how fast they're going. It would take a couple of days to return, and they'll have rebuilt the missile network in that time. And you know they'll have every fighter they've got guarding the egress points.”

   “All true,” Cooper said. “Nevertheless, there are a lot of people up on that ship who know a hell of a lot more about space warfare than anyone down here, and this looks to me as though one of them has come up with a plan. We don't need to know what it is, only that they're on their way back to us, and we're going to need to be ready for whatever they plan.”

   “Orders, sir?” Hunt asked.

   “All wounded to the shuttles, no matter what, and pull in all of the deep scouts. If we're going to be leaving in a hurry, I don't want to be in the position of having to leave someone behind. Until further notice, no one is to get further than two minutes from a shuttle.”

   Shaking his head, Kelot replied, “But they can't get back that quickly, Major. No way. I'm not an expert, but the laws of physics...”

   “Margaret Orlova has always been able to find a loophole to dance through in the past, General, and I'm confident she's managed to locate one again. They'll be coming. Trust me.” Before he could continue, a loud rumble echoed from outside, and Cooper stepped out of the shuttle to see a thick column of black smoke rising from the plain, less than thirty miles away.

   “Our shuttle,” Hunt said, shaking his head. “I hope you're right about the Captain, Major. Because the Xandari are definitely on their way.”

  Chapter 15

   Salazar stood by the helm, his arm still aching, the painkillers starting to wear off. Doctor Duquesne had attempted to order him to his cabin, an order he had simply opted to ignore, a decision he was beginning to regret. There would be time enough to rest later, assuming they lived through the next couple of hours.

   The viewscreen displayed the comet, a fiery sword in the heavens, and Alamo's trajectory plot had it heading right for it. Back at the Xandari homeworld, a hundred sensor operators must be watching them, wondering what they were trying. All he could do was hope that the plan was crazy enough that they would never dream they'd attempt it. One look at the hull stress monitors told him that there was considerable truth in that.

   At the rear of the bridge, the door slid open, Quinn walking into the room and over to the Captain, silenced by a look. The engineer had been vehement in his opposition to the plan, warning that the already ruptured hull could easily buckle if they attempted this maneuver. Under normal circumstances, Salazar would have been the first to agree with him. Given the alternative, though, there seemed little choice but to give this plan a try.

   Maqua looked up from the helm, stoically attempting to conceal his nerves. Salazar gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then glanced at the readouts to double-check the course, feeling a faint burst of envy that he wasn't flying the ship through this turn himself. Even though he'd come up with the plan, he still felt a tinge of fear in his stomach when he looked at the projected closest approach. Considerably less than the width of the ship.

   One rocky projection, one error with the thrusters, and they would never know what happened. The ship would crash into the comet, and the explosion would briefly illuminate the heavens. Behind them, the escorts would certainly be caught in the debris field, and any hope of surviving to leave the system, still less winning the war, would be dashed.

   “Two minutes, Captain,” Maqua said. “Course computed and ready.”

   “Not too late to veer off, ma'am,” Quinn said, standing at the engineering console.

   “We're going to give this a try, Jack,” Orlova replied. “I've made my decision, and it stands.”

   Salazar glanced at the engineer, who shook his head sadly before returning to his console. The bridge was crowded, anyone with a possible excuse finding a reason to be here for the turn. This was history, but it would all be over in a second. Maqua still had his hands on the controls, ready for last-second adjustments, but there would be no manual control for the flyby. In the wink of an eye, the comet would be behind them, and if they got this right, the Xandari homeworld would be at the heart of the viewscreen, the enemy scrambling to counter their renewed offensive.

   “Still no signals from the surface, Captain,” Weitzman said. “I'll keep trying.”

   “No change to defensive formation at the planet,” Spinelli added. “They're just watching and waiting, ma'am. And holding their patrol pattern.” He frowned, then said, “All sensors are now focused on the comet. Everything looks good.”

   “Let's hope it stays that way,” Nelyubov said, glancing at the monitors.

   The usual low-level chatter was silent now, all eyes on the comet as it grew larger on the screen, the countdown clock above it clicking through the seconds to closest approach. At the holodesk, the trajectory plot flickered into life, a projected post-encounter course appearing on the display. Theory and guesswork, the best that Powell and his team could provide, but as long as they were at least close to the desired course, they'd have time to trim back to the designated path.

   “One minute,” Maqua added. “Executing fractional course change based on updated mass estimates. Hundredth-second burst on Thruster Nine.”

   An adjustment almost too small to register, but one that potentially could alter their approach by hundreds of meters. If they were too distant, they wouldn't get the swing they needed, could end up almost anywhere in the system, drifting helplessly forever. Too close, and they'd be dead in an instant, and all their dreams with them.

   “Thirty seconds,” Maqua said.

   “Damage control teams have been deployed,” Quinn added. “All outer areas evacuated.”

   “Signal from the rest of the fleet,” Weitzman said. “Ready to follow us in.”

   Alamo soared into the outer corona of the comet, warning lights flashing as microscopic fragments of rock rained on the hull, dancing through the damaged sections. As they grew closer to the core, the effect worsened, the intensity growing stronger by the second. Maqua held to the controls, waiting for a crisis, knowing that as the time trickled away, their options faded to one.

   For an instant, they could see the rock, looming on the screen, close enough to touch, before Alamo swept past, spun around by the close flyby, Maqua working his controls to maximize the ef
fect of the gravity swing, looking only at his readouts and trajectory tracks. Behind them, at ten second intervals, the escorts completed their own dance with the comet, following in the trail they had blazed.

   Sirens droned on the bridge as red lights swept the status board, already damaged hull sections giving way under the strain of the maneuver, atmosphere leaks hurling the ship from side to side as Maqua labored to bring her back under control, his hands dancing across the console, playing the thrusters to keep the ship stable as the trajectory plot swept across the sky.

   Quinn leaned over the engineering console, shaking his head as the damage reports flooded in, glancing back at Orlova with a combination of despair and disgust. As the ship settled onto the desired flight path, Maqua lifted his trembling hands from the helm and looked up at Salazar.

   “Maneuver complete, sir.”

   Clapping him on the back, Salazar said, “Straight and steady, Sub-Lieutenant, all the way back to the Xandari homeworld.”

   “All escorts are still with us,” Spinelli reported, looking up at his monitor. “We're going to be at least half an hour getting back into formation, but we've got plenty of time to get it right. Time to target is one hour, fifteen minutes, mark.”

   “Right on the line,” Salazar said, a smile on his face. “Damn it all, we pulled it off.”

   “Barely,” Quinn replied, as the lights flickered. “That was the main power network going offline again. We only had it held together with spit and tape before.” Shaking his head, he said, “I'd better get down to distribution and see what sort of a miracle I can come up with this time.”

   “Hull damage?”

   “Ruptures in thirty-nine areas, and there might be some damage to the superstructure, but it doesn't really matter. I haven't got time to check it out if there is. We're just going to have to dive into battle and hope we don't get any serious hits.” Looking back up at the board, he added, “We're as weak as a kitten, Captain, and I think we've got about that much combat potential.”

   “I've seen some pretty vicious cats in my time, Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied.

   “I hope so,” Quinn said, making for the door. “I'll try and get you a better report in ten minutes, Captain. Don't get your hopes up, though.”

   As the door closed behind him, Orlova said, “Now that we've pulled it off, we need to start thinking about what happens next in a little more detail. Sub-Lieutenant, throw our flight path onto the screen, please.” The trajectory plot snapped into position on the viewscreen, rushing to the planet at the end of the line. “We're a little off. I want us right down their throats. Straight into the gap we carved in the missile satellites.”

   “Won't that make our intentions obvious?” Nelyubov asked.

   Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Where else would we be going, sir? The Koltoc are already heading for the moon to pick up the assault team. That leaves three fighters and the bomber.” Frowning, he added, “We'll be moving fast enough that the defense network won't get many shots at us, but I still don't like the odds.”

   “Once the bomb goes off, those odds get a lot better, Lieutenant,” Orlova said. She stepped forward to the screen, and said, “We'll launch the bomber as soon as we pass the moon. About four minutes before contact with the enemy. It will proceed at half-acceleration...”

   “Half?” Maqua asked.

   “Meaning that Alamo and the fighter escort will be pioneering the way for them. As it is, getting out of the blast radius in time won't be a certainty.” Looking around, she added, “And no, I don't see the bomber having any realistic chance of clearing the blast zone in time.”

   “Captain,” Salazar began, as the door slid open, Powell walking out, a grim look on his face.

   “Would it be possible to speak to you for a moment, Captain,” the scientist said.

   Glancing at Nelyubov, Orlova said, “My office, Lieutenant. Frank, go and check on the damage control teams on the outer hull. We've got to get the ship into the best condition possible for the attack.” Looking at Salazar, she added, “Pavel, you're with me. Sub-Lieutenant Scott, you have the conn. Call me if anything changes.”

   “Yes, ma'am,” Scott replied, still focused on her controls, as the trio walked into the office, Orlova taking her seat behind the desk, Powell and Salazar on the other side.

   “We don't have much time, so…,” Orlova began.

   “I'll get right to the point,” Powell said, pulling out a datapad. “I know we're committed to pulling our troops from the moon, but I'd like to propose an alternate mission profile. Instead of deploying the bomb, we could still do serious damage to the orbital infrastructure with a coordinated strike, the fighters, the escorts and Alamo. I think...”

   “I've made my decision,” Orlova said.

   Slamming his fist on the desk, Powell replied, “And I've got a little over an hour to change your mind. This is an atrocity, Captain, however you care to cloak it in strategic necessity. The Xandari have an advanced satellite network, communications and meteorological constellations, as well as zero-gravity manufacturing. We're picking up signs of asteroid mining. You know what that means. All the hopes were false. They are dependent on space-based resources. Deploying that bomb will be a death sentence for millions of innocent people.”

   “Professor,” Salazar said, “This isn't the sort of decision that is taken lightly. I had a look at alternate attack plans myself, a few hours ago, and they just don't provide us with the advantage we need if we're going to win the war.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I've made no secret that I find the deployment of this bomb personally abhorrent, but I suspect I would have felt the same way if I'd been at the controls of the Enola Gay. That does not mean that I deny the strategic necessity.”

   Pointing a finger at Orlova, Powell continued, “We can still do damage. Take out their shipyards, with kamikaze attacks if we must, and stand an excellent chance of rescuing our people from the surface. We don't have to do this, Captain! We don't! Right now, today, we can walk away and still achieve the bulk of our goals.”

   “That's fine, Professor, but who's going to tell them?”

   “Tell who?”

   “The people of Copernicus,” Orlova continued, “that we had a chance to protect their world, and we decided that our conscience was more important than their lives. Or the Free Peoples in their scattered outposts, Testament Station, Thule. Every world for light-years around.” Shaking her head, she said, “You might be willing to write them off, but I'm not.”

   “Besides,” Salazar said with a sigh, “we now have direct evidence that the Xandari are working on similar weapons systems. It was a prototype K-Bomb that hit us on the far-side of the moon. All the tactical data points to that.”

   “So we're back to the same dead argument again,” Powell replied, shaking his head. “The enemy are willing to debase themselves, so we must, as well.”

   “No, Professor,” Salazar replied. “We've got to weigh the lives of billions against millions.”

   “Ethics is not a numbers game.”

   “I swore an oath,” Orlova said, “to protect the people of the Triplanetary Confederation from all threats, internal and external. This is the greatest threat I have ever seen, the greatest threat we have ever encountered, and we have an opportunity to bring the fighting to an end, today. And we're damn well going to take it.”

   “You'll never sleep at night, ever again,” Powell said. “Oppenheimer used to claim that the ghosts of the dead of Hiroshima came back to visit him.”

   “Maybe, but that's part of the price I agreed to pay when I put on the uniform. Our people back home will get to sleep safely in their beds, because of what we do today, rather than be subjected to the brutal rule of a tyrant dictator in a couple of years. Was that all?”

   Shaking his head, Powell replied, “Captain, please, for the love of God...”

   “Dismissed, Lieutenant,
” Orlova said, looking at him. Powell looked into her eyes for a long moment, then across at Salazar, silently urging the young officer to take his side, support his argument. Salazar couldn't meet his gaze, looking down at the floor.

   “I see,” Powell said, rising to his feet. Without another word, he turned to the door, walking back out onto the bridge. Salazar and Orlova sat in silence for a moment, alone in the office, Powell's words still hanging in the air between them.

   “I'd better go and brief the pilots,” Salazar said, breaking the mood. He looked across at Orlova, and added, “It'll work, Captain. We've taken back the initiative.”

   She nodded, then said, “About what you said earlier...”

   “I'll gladly accept any decision you take on that, Captain. My behavior was inappropriate, especially from a member of the command staff, and...”

   Raising a hand, she replied, “No censure, Pavel. Not after all this time. Under different circumstances, I might have acted the same way. You'd been through a lot out there.” Gesturing at the arm, she added, “You fit for duty?”

   “There isn't any space in sickbay.”

   Nodding, she replied, “I guess it resolves the question of who flies the bomber.”

   “Captain, I could still...”

   “With one arm and one eye?” she said, a smile crossing her face.

   “I guess not,” he said.

   “I'll be heading down to the simulators in a minute. Maybe I can come up with a way of shaving a few seconds, get ahead of the blast wave.” Rising to her feet, she saluted, and said, “In any case, Pavel, I just wanted to say that it has been an honor and a privilege to serve with you.”

   “The honor has been all mine, Captain,” he replied, returning the salute. “Goodbye, ma'am. And good hunting.”

   “And to you,” she said, as he walked out of the office. He paused at the door for a moment, then looked around the bridge, Scott staring at him. He made his way over to the holotable, looking at the tactical display, Alamo now curving down towards the planet. The Xandari were already moving to counter them, making their way into defensive positions.