Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity

by Richard Tongue

   The hatch slid open, and a pair of men stepped out, both of them wearing uniforms that identified them as shuttle technicians. Foster gestured at the pistols at their sides, and they cautiously unstrapped their holster belts, letting them drop around their feet.

   “Move away from the vehicle. At least a hundred meters.” Turning to his comrade, Salazar continued, “Cover them, Val. And if I get any unexpected surprises in there, don't let them take another breath.”

   The two men glanced at each other as Salazar ducked into the buggy, sliding into the front seat and reaching for the controls. As he'd expected, their communications system was overpowered, typical brute force Terran engineering that would work to his advantage today. He reached for the unfamiliar panel, tapping a series of experimental commands with one hand while sliding a headset with the other. He had to be careful. Everything he said would be monitored, but the message he had to give was simple enough.

   “Pavel!” Foster yelled. “Company on the way! Four minutes minus!”

   “Damn,” he replied, fiddling with the controls. “Salazar to Alamo. Salazar to Alamo. Reply at once. I repeat, reply at once.” A roar of static burst through the headphones, and he continued to manipulate the controls, struggling to make contact. “Salazar to Alamo. Come in, please!”

   “Alamo here!” Bowman replied. “Stand by for the Captain!”

   “Make it quick,” Salazar pressed. “We're both running out of time.”

   “Marshall on the line,” a familiar voice said. “Glad you made it, Pavel. What's the story down there? Our sensor systems are damaged, so we're flying blind.”

   “Waldheim is in system, and we've picked her up on an intercept course, using the twin moons as cover. Our best estimate has her reaching you in less than thirty minutes, Captain. I really hope you haven't sustained any damage to your engines and tactical systems.” Sliding a datarod into an access port, he added, “Full tactical data is on its way to you now. It's about twenty minutes out of date, so plan accordingly.”

   “Will do, Pavel. What's your status?”

   “I suspect I'm about three minutes away from death or capture, sir, and I'll do what I can to make sure it is the latter. There are survivors from Pioneer down here, thirty-one counting myself and Foster. We're not on a secure channel, so I can't give you their location, but I can say this, sir. There's something vital down here, something we need to hold. I can't give you details, but under no circumstances can we afford to abandon this planet. You'll have to speak to Lieutenant Carpenter when you can.”

   “Pavel!” Foster yelled. “Ninety seconds to some uninvited guests!”

   “I heard that,” Marshall replied. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

   “I don't think the cavalry has time to saddle up this time, Captain. Just get Alamo out of there, and find a way to make contact with the Pioneer survivors. You need to speak to Lieutenant Carpenter. She's in charge.”

   “Message understood. Good luck, Pavel. Alamo out.”

   Ripping off the headset, Pavel raced from the buggy, ignoring the sullen glares from their two captured crewmen, and made his way to Foster, standing at the hatch to the flyer. He looked down at the sensor controls, and shook his head with a smile at what he saw. Three modified fighters this time, all of them heading their way, all with weapons armed. If it had been a single one, he might have attempted to make a fight of it, but the odds were just too great this time.

   “You there,” he said, turning to the nearest trooper. “Get on your communicator and tell them that we're willing to surrender. And if you have any doubts, remember that they'll almost certainly launch an aerial strike rather than risk a landing, and the two of you are well and truly in the blast radius of the explosion. I suggest you move quickly.”

   The technician rushed for the buggy as Salazar reached inside the flyer, tapping a nine-digit password that wiped the aircraft's memory, permanently purging any record of its flight path. He tossed his rifle to the sand, and walked out into the open, hands raised, Foster by his side, and regretfully glanced back at the flyer.

   “Quesada's going to kill you,” Foster said.

   “Let's just hope that technician is persuasive enough that he'll have a chance.” He shrugged, then added, “I thought this was likely. Sorry to have dragged you down with me.”

   “Hell, you're brightened up a boring afternoon,” she replied. “Besides, this game isn't over yet.” She gestured at the three shuttles on the horizon, formed into an arrowhead formation, setting themselves up for an attack run on the flyer. Shouted anguish came from the open hatch of the buggy, and Salazar briefly contemplated running for cover, before deciding that it would be a futile gesture, and one likely to do more harm than good. Finally, one shuttle broke away from the others, racing to the ground, landing jets firing.

   “Nice work, buddy,” Salazar yelled. “I guess we get to keep breathing for a while.”

   The shuttle dropped to the desert, hatch popping open to reveal a trio of Marshals, weapons raised and at the ready, followed by a tall woman with a sneer fixed on her face, the all-too-familiar Colonel Letitia Cruz. She'd earned a well-deserved reputation for brutality, and Salazar fought hard to mask the fear that was rising within him. His intelligence training had, if nothing else, taught him that there were worse fates than death, and Cruz was their mistress.

   “Lieutenant Salazar,” she said, crossing her arms. “A pleasure to meet you here. I've been looking forward to a chance to have an in-depth conversation with you. I presume this is Lieutenant Foster, one of the leaders of the survivors from Pioneer.” Stepping forward, she continued, “Are we going to have an easy time, or are you going to make it difficult?”

   “That depends on you,” Salazar replied. “I have no intention of passing on any classified information, but I am more than willing to serve as a liaison between my commander and yours.” The implied mention of General Estrada briefly darkened his expression, and he pressed, “Nor will I give you the location of the Pioneer survivors. Even if I knew it, and this is a big, featureless desert, Colonel. Very difficult to find anyone who doesn't want to be found. As I suspect you have discovered over the course of the last three days.”

   “Who is Lieutenant Carpenter?” Cruz asked.

   “One of Pioneer's officers. Once Alamo's Science Officer, but I presume you have her record on file somewhere. She's running the settlement down here.” Salazar fought to hold his placid gaze, making it sound as though he was tossing off useless information. Carpenter's service history was a matter of record, but the nature of her training had been deliberately made unclear. Given that as a rule, Science Officers specialized in fields such as astronomy or cosmology, he rated his chance of getting away with the deception as excellent. Though Cruz was masking her own thoughts well, the brief flash of annoyance he detected suggested that he had been successful.

   “Maybe I could make you an offer,” Cruz said. “I'll agree to allow you, Lieutenant Foster, and all of the Pioneer survivors to return to Alamo, in exchange for the location of your installation on the surface. And it has occurred to me that all of this could be a bluff, but I'm willing to take the chance.” A smile crossed her face, and she said, “If this is some sort of trick, Lieutenant, then it has worked.”

   “You've found something,” Salazar said, nodding. “Out in the desert, probably along the course this buggy was taking. That's why you've got shuttle techs down here. A lot of your people must be down here already, working on the excavation.” Red rage crossed the face of Cruz, and he added, “Don't worry, Colonel, I didn't trust you to keep your word in any case. Nice try, though.”

   “I can kill you right here, right now,” she replied.

   “Theoretically, I suppose you could, but we both know that your threats are empty. Waldheim is about to go into action with Alamo, and you are uncertain enough about the outcome that you might want some bargaining chips. Captain
Marshall would never surrender to save our lives, but it might improve the terms of your surrender. Slightly. As I have already said, I will happily serve as an intermediary if you wish to come to some sort of arrangement.”

   “We're both stranded far from home,” Foster said, moving alongside Salazar. “What possible purpose could be served by some sort of fight to the death?”

   “Then surrender,” Cruz said. “We'd be willing to come to some sort of accommodation.” She paused, then added, “Or accept my offer, and leave the system. It's a big galaxy out there. Plenty of places for you to get lost in.”

   Shaking his head, Salazar walked towards the shuttle, and said, “Maybe it would be faster for you to simply take us into custody right now. It's getting warm out here.”

   “We're not finished yet.”

   Turning to face Cruz, Salazar replied, “Then shoot us, and get it over with, but if you are going to interrogate us, I'd rather it was in a nice air-conditioned cell, if you have no objection.” He glanced into the cabin, a pair of bored guards waiting inside, weapons in their arms but not pointed in their direction. There would be someone in the cockpit, likely an unarmed pilot. They could find a way to work with that. He looked at the other two shuttles, hovering close by, burning fuel at a ferocious rate in their bid to cover the area.

   “Poor Quesada,” Salazar said, abruptly sprinting for the shuttle. Behind him, there was a loud roar, and the flyer exploded, the hidden warhead detonating after registering the pre-selected codeword, matched to Salazar's voice-print. The force of the blast almost threw him from his feet, and Cruz tumbled to the ground, eyes wide, pistol in her hand barking shots all around.

   With one bound, Salazar jumped into the cabin, his fist connecting with the chin of the nearest guard before he could react, sending the man's rifle dropping to the deck. Foster was a heartbeat behind him, charging towards the other guard, a distraction that gave Salazar the time he needed to drop the hidden obsidian blade into his hand, throwing it with an easy pass of his hand into the guard's neck. Racing for the controls, Foster slammed the outer door closed while Salazar snatched up a rifle, making for the cockpit.

   The pilot had been quick to move, working the controls to seal himself into the cockpit. He'd almost been quick enough, but Salazar was faster, diving through the hatch onto the deck, firing a carefully aimed shot into the crewman's shoulder. The man slumped in his couch as blood streamed from the wound, and Salazar gently eased him from the helm, placing him on the floor.

   “Take care of him,” Salazar said, gesturing at the medical kit attached to the wall. He slid into the pilot's couch, slamming his hand on the thruster controls to fire the lateral boosters, hurling them from the sand and into the air. There was no time for fine course correction, and he simply threw the throttle full open, pulling the nose up with an effort as he struggled to gain speed, diving for the nearby mountains.

   “Not good, Pavel,” Foster said, looking up from the casualty, “but I think he'll make it to Alamo. One dead, one wounded back there.” Looking around the cabin, she added, “I'll be honest, I didn't think this would work.”

   “It hasn't worked until we break atmosphere,” he replied. “Two bandits now on our tail, but we've got a slight advantage. I just hope it's enough.” Reaching across for the missile controls, he tapped a button to launch a full salvo, sending them diving back towards the pursuing craft. “Get me a course to Alamo, as fast as you can.”

   “On it,” Foster said, taking the co-pilot's seat. “They've already got a lock. Computing course change now. Autopilot engaging.” She looked across at the sensor display, and added, “We really caught them off guard. I'd love to see Cruz's face right now. It'll be a long time before she lives this one down.”

   Picking up a headset as the shuttle soared over the horizon, Salazar said, “United Nations Shuttle to Alamo. Come in, please. Sorry I had to be so vague before, but it looks like I'll get a chance to hand-deliver my message.” Glancing at a readout, he said, “We'll be in orbit in three minutes, and expect to make landing in twenty. Put the coffee on. Out.”

  Chapter 5

   “Battle stations!” Marshall said, watching the tactical display update, showing the enemy battleship moving out of the shadow of the twin moons on its approach towards Alamo. Salazar's shuttle was racing ahead of it, now ten minutes from landing, his trajectory worryingly close to Waldheim. Marshall glanced across at Caine, who returned his worried look.

   “We've got to protect that shuttle,” Francis said. “If we lose the link-up, most of our sensor data goes with it.” Turning to his station, he added, “All work crews are back inside the ship. We're clear for acceleration on your order.”

   “Fire up the engines, Midshipman,” Marshall ordered. “Intercept course. Let's get this over with. I want to minimize the time in combat range as much as possible.” Turning to Francis, he added, “Status of our fighter squadron?”

   “One-minute standby for launch.”

   “Get a flight into the air right now, orders to link up with the shuttle and escort it back to Alamo. There's nowhere else for them to hide in this system, so we've got to get them back on board.” He paused, then added, “Bowman, contact Midshipman Clarke and his team, and tell them to remain where they are for the moment, but stand-by for launch when I give the word. Or if it looks like bad guys are heading their way.”

   “I don't think Waldheim could make that moon,” Caine said. “And it hardly seems like a priority target. They should be safe enough on the surface.” Tapping a control, she added, “All decks are cleared for action, laser charged, missiles ready for launch, point-defense batteries on standby.” The elevator door opened, and Harper raced for the countermeasures station, the technician previously manning the console barely getting out of the way in time.

   “Bringing up firewall,” Harper said. “They're already probing.”

   “Captain,” Bowman said, “I can't contact our team on Pioneer. They've just gone onto the far side of the moon, and we're in the middle of some sort of jamming field. We won't be able to alert them for at least twenty minutes.” He paused, then added, “They would have been getting the tactical updates, Captain, but there's no guarantee they'll have been following the situation.”

   “I'd bet that Clarke's on the case,” Harper replied. “Firewall firmed.”

   “Red Flight launching, Captain,” Francis said. “Murphy's on the way right now.” He glanced at Marshall, and added, “We lost the reserve fighter when Salazar took it up, Captain. Meaning that any losses now, regardless of whether or not the pilot survives, are permanent. We don't have any way of replacing them.”

   Marshall nodded, then turned to the screen, watching as Alamo's trajectory track locked on with the approaching battleship, two titans of space closing for battle. There were options to evade, but not long-term, not without leaving Salazar and Foster stranded. More was at stake than just their lives, the survivors of Pioneer on the surface, waiting for rescue.

   Frowning, he turned to Bowman, and said, “Spaceman, open a channel with Waldheim, and tell them that I will be happy to discuss the conditions for a ceasefire agreement.”

   Shaking his head, the technician replied, “All systems are jammed, sir, and I can't open any channel. We're only keeping in touch with the fighters through lasers, and Waldheim's twisting too hard for me to lock on. There's no way to get a signal across to them.”

   “Cruz,” Harper said, shaking her head in disgust. “Left to himself, I suspect Estrada would be willing to make a deal. It isn't as if our political rivalries mean a damn thing out here. Cruz is making sure that he doesn't get a chance. God alone knows what he's being told.” Tapping a series of controls, she added, “Given a little time, I might be able to punch a way through.”

   “Do the best you can, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “I guess we're going to find out just how good those systems upgrades are. What have we got on Wald
heim, Deadeye?”

   “Traditional United Nations Dreadnought, not recently upgraded. She was scheduled for spacedock time next year. Ten missile tubes, a laser a little more powerful than ours, but nowhere near as maneuverable. More fighters, a three-to-one advantage, but not as good as our Hurricanes. On paper, they've got the edge, but it isn't going to be a close fight.” A smile on her face, she added, “And I have a feeling you're going to make sure it isn't a fair one.”

   “Damn right,” Marshall replied. He looked over the strategic view, frowning at the simplicity. Nothing to hide behind, only the planet below them, the atmosphere reaching up towards them, too distant to be of any value. Space combat, far too often, was a matter of statistics, and in every possible measurement, Waldheim had Alamo outmatched. He turned to Francis, and asked, “How many probes do we have at the moment?”

   “Fifteen ready to go,” he replied. “We were about to start launching a sensor network.”

   “Fire the first five, on a collision course with Waldheim. I want it to look as though we're pretending to launch a missile salvo. Make it look convincing, but not convincing enough to actually work. And prepare the remainder to fire on my mark.”

   With a confused nod, Francis walked over to the sensor station, tapping a sequence of controls, and the first wave of probes raced towards the enemy battleship. This was an old trick, almost as old as space warfare, made easier due to the common equipment shared by the probes and missiles. There were only so many ways to design a compact, efficient propulsion system.

   Under normal circumstances, this trick was so old, that only an inexperienced commander would ever fall for it. There'd been numerous attempts to devise dummy missiles in the past that were more realistic, but it turned out to be easier to simply launch real missiles instead, the required complexity far outweighing any potential benefits.

   “They're ignoring them, sir,” Ballard said. “Looks like they're happy just to take the impacts. I have the second group ready to launch on your command.”