Battlecruiser Alamo: Depth Charge (Lost Adventures of the Battlecruiser Alamo Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   He nodded, and replied, “I wonder...”

   “What?”

   “I wonder if someone will be coming this way ten thousand years from now, and wonder about us?” He shook his head, pushed his chair under the table, and said, “I'd better be getting to work.”

   “I'll be up in a minute,” she replied, looking at the starfield again. Somewhere out there was the homeworld of the most implacable enemy they had yet encountered, and in a matter of days, they might know where.

  Chapter 3

   Salazar looked down at the datapad, punching in numbers onto a keypad and shaking his head at the results, trying to make sense of the figures appearing on the screen. He glanced across at the report he was working on, trying to find inspiration, then looked up at the countdown clock on the wall. Only twenty minutes before hendecaspace emergence, and all of these reports would likely be invalidated. The knock on the door was blessed relief.

   “Come in,” he said, and the door slid open to reveal Sub-Lieutenant Foster, who looked around the office with a frown on her face, taking in the scattered debris of his working practices. She carefully lifted a pile of Thulian printouts from the single chair, placing them on the floor before sitting down.

   “I know, I know,” Salazar said, looking around. “I only moved in last week. Most of this stuff is left over from the last occupant. This is meant to be for the Admin Officer, but Alamo hasn't had one of those for a couple of years. I think a Chief was borrowing it, though none of them will admit it.”

   “I thought the Security Officer had his own department. A quarter of a deck, two officers, work spaces,” she replied.

   “Ah, you're thinking of how things are meant to be, not how they are. Quinn hijacked all of that when he took over the hacker crew, and installed his deputy before I had a chance to move. I've been working out of my quarters for the last month, until I stumbled across this place.” Waving an arm around, he said, “It might be tiny, poky, and with a smell coming from the air circulators that I haven't managed to track down yet, but at least it's home. And far enough away to discourage casual visitors.”

   “If that's a hint…,” she said.

   “No, no, not at all,” he replied. “To be honest, I've been longing for a casual visitor for the last eight hours.” Tapping each datapad in turn, he said, “This one is a report on Marzanna, then the economic data I've been able to find suggesting the continuing existence of Spartacus Station, along with Quinn's guide to the best of the bars, and a report on UN fleet movements that Cantrell asked for.” Shaking his head, he said, “That one is the most fun. And has the least connection to reality. All of our information is months out of date, so I'm having to pretend to be Grand Admiral and move pieces on the chessboard. I don't think it's worth the datapad it's written on, but I guess orders are orders.”

   “Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't most of this the Intelligence Officer's job?”

   “Our command structure is rather unusual, if you hadn't noticed. Harper's great at infiltration and data extraction, but I've got to turn all of that into some sort of cohesive structure.” He smiled, and said, “I'm in a weird position here. Normally, a Security Officer is in charge of system security. Depending on the ship, that either means a gang of hackers or some patrolling guards. Usually just the former, these days.”

   “Don't you have a staff?”

   “Not on a permanent basis. Theoretically, I can borrow people if I need them for special projects. In practice, given how far behind the maintenance curve we always are, I'm a one-man band. I suppose I'm a cross between an Admin Officer, a Liaison Officer, and a troubleshooter of strange situations. Not that I'm complaining.”

   “I hope not,” she said. “I think you've got the best of the deal.”

   “I thought you wanted the helm. Isn't that what every Midshipman aspires to? You're on the command track, heading up to Watch Officer and Tactical School when we get back.”

   “And until then, I'm spending most of my time waiting for something to happen. It isn't quite what I expected, somehow.” Shaking her head, she said, “When I joined the Fleet, I told myself I had high ideals, that I was defending the Confederation.”

   “I know what you mean,” he said. “All of that might be true, but I can't get past the 'strange new worlds' the recruiting officer promised us. What are you worrying about, though? Alamo's seen more action in a year than most ships get in a decade. Though I guess that's life on a battlecruiser. I'd take it over one of the big battle-wagons any day. Who wants to sit in dock having competitions to see who can get the cleanest flight deck when you can be out here with all these.” He looked down at his desk, and said, “Even if it does seem to generate far too much paperwork.”

   She shook her head, and said, “So, tell me about Spartacus Station. It's the nearest I'm likely to get to it.”

   Picking up the datapad, he said, “My guess is that it was established about thirty years ago, and probably is desperately in need of decent maintenance by now. The few bits of information we have suggests that someone dragged an old prospecting station out here and dumped it in orbit. Permanent population in the high double figures, transient population well into triple figures, assuming that there is much in the way of traffic.”

   “Is there?”

   “More than I'd expected, actually. Quite a lot of material has passed through here in the last few months, according to the intelligence reports Harper gave me. One of the Terran mega-corps probably decided to dodge import duties to the colonies. We're not that far from Sol.”

   “Four jumps.”

   “Given how far out we've flown, that doesn't seem like much. We could make it without refueling if we wanted to push through UN territory.”

   “So, what will the station be like?”

   “A regular den of iniquity, at a guess. I doubt there will be much in the way of high culture. At least, not if Quinn's memory is good. Lots of bars, drug pens, the usual distractions for bored freighter crews. I doubt you'll be missing very much.”

   With a shrug, she replied, “I'd like to get the chance.”

   Over the ceiling speaker, Nelyubov's voice said, “Sub-Lieutenants Foster and Salazar, report to the bridge.”

   “Here we go,” Salazar said, rising to his feet, making for the door. She paused for a moment and followed him into the waiting elevator outside, a quiet, resolute hum as they sped towards the bridge. He looked at her, frowned, and said, “You've seen action on this trip. Thule, for example.”

   “That's all, though. Just one hop, and the whole crew was involved then, right down to the life support technicians.” She paused, then said, “I'd rather have your job. Paperwork and all.”

   “Should I be nervous?”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “Come on, Pavel. We both know you're heading for higher things. I wasn't kidding about the fast track. I know you've been recommended for Tactical training when we get back.”

   “That isn't for months.”

   “No, but I can count the number of Sub-lieutenants who take that course on one hand. One of them being our current commanding officer, the youngest in the fleet.”

   “I haven't thought about it that way,” he said, shaking his head. “If you applied...”

   With a smile, she said, “I'm locked to that helm for the next three years. I shouldn't complain. As you said, it's one of the best assignments in the Fleet, especially with the mission we have, but I'd still rather see some real action on occasion.”

   Frowning, he replied, “I'll warn you now, Val. You need to be careful what you wish for.” The door slid open, and he stepped out onto the bridge, Foster heading around him towards the helm, tapping Lindstrom on the shoulder to relieve her. He walked into the middle of a shift change, heading automatically over to the holotable, next to Orlova, Powell and Nelyubov. He paused for a moment, looking around. He was a sub-lieutenant, the lowest commissioned
rank, and standing with the three most senior officers on the ship. He didn't even have a defined bridge station.

   “Credit for your thoughts, Sub-Lieutenant?” Powell asked.

   “I'm not sure I'd value them that highly, sir.”

   He smiled, and said, “Don't be too sure.”

   “Four minutes to emergence,” Foster said, setting the helm controls to her preferences. “All systems appear nominal at the moment.”

   “Fine,” Orlova said. “Go to alert stations, Lieutenant Cantrell.”

   Turning from her station, Cantrell replied, “Aye, ma'am,” before tapping a control on her panel. “Tactical to all hands. Go to alert conditions. All decks report in on the double.”

   “Still nervous, Salazar?” Nelyubov asked, as the indicators flashed from green to red, every station moving to combat readiness.

   “Always, sir.”

   “Smart boy.”

   He looked around the bridge, going from station to station. Spinelli and Weitzman in their customary positions at Sensors and Communications, Mackenzie moving back and forth across the holodisplay of Alamo, dominating the rear of the room, every system and compartment monitored, lights moving about as he positioned damage control teams for any potential action. Then Cantrell, furiously preparing the ship for a battle none of them wanted, and Harper, lounging around at her station, the electronic warfare suite fired up long since. She flashed him a cheeky grin, and he replied with a smile and a nod. Then, at the head of the room, Foster, sitting at the helm, perfectly focused on her work.

   At one point, that would have been the height of his ambitions. To fly, first a fighter and then a capital ship. Now, he felt differently. By accident, he'd stumbled into a job he seemed to be good at, even if he couldn't quite define what it was.

   “One minute,” he said.

   “Bring up the system, Pavel,” Orlova said. “Let's see what we've got.”

   He tapped a control, and an image of the solar system ahead flashed up, briefly showing the star with a single planet orbiting, a field of debris beyond, billions of miles away, months of flight even for Alamo. With a flick of a switch, he magnified the field, showing the icy planet Marzanna, a pair of moons orbiting that were just large enough to provide a pair of convenient hendecaspace points, and Spartacus Station orbiting.

   “If you were an enemy ship, where would you be?” Nelyubov asked.

   He looked at the map, and said, “The station.”

   “Not the hendecaspace point?”

   “If I had two ships, I'd cover them both, sir. With just one, I'd focus on the only important bit of real estate.”

   “Good answer,” Orlova replied, and Foster turned back with a look of brief annoyance.

   “Thirty seconds, ma'am.”

   “Fine, Sub-Lieutenant,” Orlova said, stepping towards the viewscreen. “You have the call.”

   “Aye, ma'am. I have the call.”

   “All decks report ready for action,” Cantrell said. “Missile tubes loaded and ready to go.”

   “Ten seconds,” Foster said.

   With a blinding flash of blue, Alamo soared back into its home dimension, effortlessly gliding through the dimensional tear, a starfield returning to the viewscreen after a five-day absence. He looked at the holodisplay, smiling as he saw the image only jump a fraction, the station appearing just where he had predicted. The smile dropped as he saw that it was not alone in its orbit.

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “United Nations Monitor in orbit. The Admiral Kolchak, I think. She's lighting her engines and extending her radiators.” Turning from his station, he added, “Moving onto an intercept course. Firing range in four minutes.”

   “Go to battle stations, Cantrell,” Orlova said. “Get me a firing solution as fast as you can. Weitzman, hail them.” Turning to Salazar, she replied, “I guess you were right, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   Quickly flashing through the files, he said, “This can't be right. That ship is meant to be on her shakedown cruise. Launched about when we left Yeager Station, assuming they kept to their listed schedule.” He looked up, and said, “Colonel Caleb Clarke commanding. Combat experience, but not in a command role. Twenty-year veteran.”

   “At least that gives us something to go on.”

   “I have them, ma'am,” Weitzman said. “He wants to speak to Captain Marshall.”

   “I see United Nations Intelligence is just as good as it always ways,” Nelyubov replied.

   “Put him on, Spaceman,” Orlova said. “Let's see what he has to say.”

   The starfield winked out, replaced with a tall, aristocratic figure with close-cropped gray hair and a thin mustache, wearing a uniform that looked as though it had only just been pressed. Behind him, a tall, dark-haired woman stood, focusing her piercing green eyes on Salazar.

   “Where is Captain Marshall?” he asked.

   “Commodore Marshall is at Yeager Station, I believe,” Orlova said. “You'll have to deal with me instead.”

   The woman whispered something in his ear, glancing across out of the camera, and he replied, “I see. Congratulations on your promotion, Captain Orlova.”

   “Thank you, Colonel Clarke.”

   “Triplanetary Intelligence is evidently better than ours. I'm only going to ask this once. Get the hell out of here.”

   “This is neutral space, Colonel, and under the terms of the Treaty of Ceres...”

   “I don't care about that. Words on a screen. We are currently engaged in critical operations in this system, and I am ordering you to remain well clear of the station, and of Marzanna. If you require fuel, I will permit tanker shuttles to collect it under escort.”

   Stepping forward, Orlova said, “Let me be as blunt, Colonel. You have no special authority here, and Alamo has every right to enjoy the facilities of this installation. We've had a long cruise, and my crew deserve a chance at some rest and relaxation before we head home.” Nelyubov glanced at her, as though she had just revealed some secret, and Salazar attempted a quick glance at him, helping the deception along.

   “My ship...”

   “Is tactically the equal of yours, except that my crew is battle-hardened and knows exactly what they are doing, whereas yours still has the fresh paint smell. If you decide to start a battle here, Colonel, I promise that your ship will fare worse than mine.”

   Clarke paused for a moment, turned off screen, then looked back at the pickup, “Don't push me, Captain. You have no special rights here either. I say again that we are engaged in vital operations here, and refuse you permission to dock.”

   “That isn't your call, Colonel, and you know it.” Orlova turned to Foster, and said, “Sub-Lieutenant, take us to a parking position orbiting the station, best speed.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” Foster replied. “Course already plotted, initiating now.”

   As Alamo's engines fired, Clarke replied, “I will be watching every move you make, Captain. I assure you of that. You will be monitored at all times, and your crew will be shadowed. I suggest you refuel and move on. Neither of us want to start anything here. Kolchak out.”

   After a second, Spinelli said, “He's retracting radiators, ma'am, and returning to his original course, back to the station. As far as I can tell, though, they're remaining on alert status.”

   “That was interesting,” Nelyubov said.

   “I agree,” Orlova replied. “I think he was telling the truth. He doesn't want to start anything, either. That was a show.” She glanced down at the panel, looking across his record, “I read him as a conservative, cautious commander. He's out on a limb here and he knows it. The only question is, what audience was he playing to. It doesn't take much imagination to guess why they are out here.”

   “That's a hell of a coincidence, though,” Nelyubov said.

   “The word exists for a reason, but on balance, I agree with you.” Shaking her h
ead, she said, “One thing is certain. We're not going to find anything out by conventional means, and anyone we send across to the station is going to find themselves shadowed. If United Nations Intelligence is involved...”

   “Their brass might not be up to much, but they've got some very sharp field operatives,” Cantrell said. “Trust me, I know. We're going to have to find another way.”

   Harper stood up, stepped over to the holodesk, and started to enter commands, blanking out portions of the map until all that remained were a collection of dots, slowly drifting around the system. With a triumphant smile, she turned to Orlova.

   “I can get a couple of people onto the station. We'll need to launch shuttles to both the egress points and lay drones, as well as get reinforcements on board under cover of shore leave. They'll be monitored, but we can put enough troopers into the team to provide help should it be needed.”

   “How?”

   “A little trick an old friend of mine taught me. Salazar and I will be on one of those shuttles with a reserve pilot.”

   “Trojan Horse,” Cantrell said, nodding. “That's a very old trick, Harper, and if they've managed to put people on the transports...”

   “I count fifteen of them out there working the rocks at the Trojan points,” she replied. “Too many for one ship to handle, not if they've got parties on the surface and the station as well.”

   “Slow down,” Nelyubov said. “Why don't you pretend that my tired old mind doesn't know what you are talking about?”

   “We get a team onto one of the prospectors, and travel back to the station in that. Pick one that's been out since before Kolchak arrived, and we'll just look like part of the crew. I can handle the selection.” Harper turned to Orlova, and added, “It'll work.”

   “Very well,” she said. “Pavel, you'd better go and draw some civilian clothes.”

   He nodded, then said, “Does it have to be a two-man team?”

   “You want to bring some extra muscle?” Harper asked. “Cooper's done some undercover work in the past.”