NOT IN MY NAME
Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 14
Richard Tongue
Battlecruiser Alamo #14: Not In My Name
Copyright © 2015 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved
First Kindle Edition: September 2015
Cover By Keith Draws
With Thanks To Ellen Clarke
All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX
Since first the White Horse Banner blew free,
By Hengist's horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe! "
No charm can bridle the hard-mouthed wind
Or smooth the fretting swell.
No gift can alter the grey Sea's mind,
But she serves the strong man well.
(As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred
So it is where the quicksands show,)
All the waters have but one word--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe! "
The feast is ended, the tales are told,
The dawn is overdue,
And we meet on the quay in the whistling cold
Where the galley waits her crew.
Out with the torches, they have flared too long,
And bid the harpers go.
Wind and warfare have but one song--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe!"
Hail to the great oars gathering way,
As the beach begins to slide!
Hail to the war-shields' click and play
As they lift along our side!
Hail to the first wave over the bow--
Slow for the sea-stroke! Slow!--
All the benches are grunting now:--
"Woe to the weaker – woe!"
A Departure, Rudyard Kipling
Chapter 1
Sub-Lieutenant Pavel Salazar glanced up from his station at the chaos unfolding all around him. He’d only been a watch commander for two weeks, could still count on his hands the number of times he’d had the bridge, and was currently monitoring no less than a hundred ships, shuttles and transports swarming between Alamo and the station it was orbiting. Captain Marshall had ordered that the ship be resupplied as rapidly as possible, had pushed to get his task force together in as much of a hurry as he could.
He knew why, of course. There was some sort of an unknown threat out there, a race that had attacked Yeager Station and almost wiped out its crew, then come close to taking out the battlecruiser as well. If ever there was a real and present threat to the Confederation, this was it. Not that it was the only thing they were concerned with. The United Nations to one side, the Cabal to the other, and continuing political chaos and confusion back home as a governing coalition attempted to get onto speaking terms with each other.
Glancing across at a control, he looked at one of the freighters on the edge of the formation, and frowned. It hadn’t moved in a week, not since it had arrived, and he started to call up its details on his console, text flashing up on the viewscreen as the image zoomed onto it. Nothing out of the ordinary as far as he could see, a Rhodan-class freighter, one of the workhorses of space. It wasn’t even the only ship of its class in the system.
Cargo was nothing strange, mostly luxury goods for shipment to the UN outpost on Luyten’s Star from the hydroponic gardens on Ragnarok. Though that seemed both mundane and peculiar at the same time. He tapped in a series of commands, bringing up the latest price indices for the Confederation and the UN, grimacing as he tried to comprehend the data.
“Getting into the shipping business?” Midshipman Foster said from the helm. She looked at him with a sneer, and said, “I know your days here are probably numbered.”
“Mind your station, Midshipman,” he snapped. He was right. This shipment didn’t make any economic sense at all, and it made even less sense that they’d just be floating out there. Alamo would have bought at least some of their cargo at the drop of a hat, and so would the station, especially with a growing science team down on the surface. Why bother passing through the tariff barrier if they didn’t need to. Something else about the data was nagging at him, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Rising from his chair, he walked over to the sensor station, leaning over the shoulder of the veteran operator.
“I want a full sensor check on the freighter Caledonia, Spaceman,” he said. “Everything you can get on it.”
“Something wrong, sir?”
“I’m not sure. Get all the data you can. Weitzman?” He turned to the communications station, and added, “Pull the communications logs for the last week. Anything you’ve got on the activities of the Caledonia.”
“On it, sir.”
“What is all this about?” Foster said. “We aren’t short on freighters out there.”
Ignoring her, he looked up at the monitor as the ship flashed on, and tapped a command to overlay with a typical outline of a freighter of that class. Immediately, he noticed several variances. Spinelli looked up, frowning.
“Interesting. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, sir, though. Lots of these companies make modifications to the design.”
“Erickson?” Salazar said, walking over to the duty engineering technician. “In your opinion, what effect would those changes have?”
“Better sensor resolution,” she said, pointing at the detector cluster at the top of the ship. “Faster refueling, as well, I think, and a much better communications capability.”
“How much would that cost, do you think?”
She looked up, puzzled, and said, “I couldn’t really give you an estimate, sir, but a lot.”
Foster stepped over beside them, looking at the screen, and said, “Refueling, sensors, comms, none of these are exactly critical systems. Nothing that a civilian ship might not have. Perhaps they’re planning to do a little trade pioneering.”
“Maybe,” he said. “That’s a small company, though. Just two ships. Strange that they’d be willing to risk one, and that they’d have the money to throw away on unnecessary modifications.”
“They’re civilians, Pavel,” she said, pointedly ignoring his rank. “Who knows what they might do? It’s their money to throw away.”
“I’ve got the communications data,” Weitzman said. “No activity since they arrived five days ago. No shuttle launches, crew transfers, personal messages. Just the regular status updates sent to Station Operations, and one quick message to Alamo when they arrived in-system along similar lines.”
“Not even shore leave?” Spinelli said.
“With the station in its current state, that’s not surprising,” Weitzman said.
Erickson frowned, then added, “There is something odd. Most of the freighter engineers are over on the station helping with the repairs, earning a few extra credits.”
“Maybe Caledonia’s doing some maintenance of its own?” Foster said, but Salazar raced over to Weitzman’s station.
“Did you say five days, Spaceman?”
Looking down at his readout, he replied, “Four days, twenty-two hours, nine minutes and a few seconds to be exact, sir.”
“And what is the dimensional reorientation time of a Rhodan-class transport?”
He looked across, frowned, and replied
, “About the same.”
Walking over to the tactical display, he started to play with trajectories as Foster watched, her arms crossed. From where that freighter was, it could intercept a couple of dozen of the shuttles in flight, most of which were carrying materials vital for Alamo’s upcoming mission.
“Weitzman, contact the Caledonia, and inform them that they should stand by for an inspection.”
“You don’t have authority for that,” Foster said.
“Send it, Spaceman. My order, my responsibility.”
Weitzman nodded, replying. “Yes, sir,” as he moved to comply.
“Pavel, this is a mistake. We’re going to have to follow up, and that’s going to waste a hell of a lot of time.”
Walking past her, Salazar tapped a control on his console, and said, “Bridge to Deck Officer.”
After a second, the reply came. “Bradley here. Go ahead.”
“Is your husband with you?”
“As a matter of fact…”
“I want a shuttle prepped and ready for launch right away, with a squad of his Espatiers on standby.”
“Sub-Lieutenant, you haven’t got the authority to order that,” Ensign Cooper’s voice interrupted.
“And I wouldn’t dream of asking you to actually launch until you get that permission, but when it comes, I want you to be ready.”
“This a surprise inspection?”
“I don’t know,” Salazar replied. “I’d prep for anything.”
“Always wise, Sub-Lieutenant,” Cooper said. “I’ll get things moving down here, but I can’t launch until I get senior command authority. The second we do, we’re out the door.”
“Thanks, Ensign.” He turned off the channel, walking back to the tactical display, looking at the Caledonia as it hung in space. Foster shook her head, making her way back to the helm and crashing down into her couch.
“You’re just making a fool of yourself,” she said.
“Let’s double up on that,” he replied. “Make preparations to take the spin off the ship at my command.”
“What?”
“That’s an order. Don’t do anything until I tell you, but set it up. Erickson, start coordinating damage control teams.” He looked up at a display, and said, “Ninety seconds before they can leave the system. I wonder if they will. Anything, Weitzman?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Spinelli, set up a safe haven program for the shuttles in flight. Fastest time out of the combat area when I give the word. Get it prepared.”
He turned, asking, “Is something about to happen, sir?”
“I hope not. But get it ready.”
Nodding, he replied, “Aye, sir.”
“If you really think there is something wrong, shouldn’t you alert the Captain?” Erickson said.
“All I’ve got is a hunch,” he replied. “Nothing I can put my finger on, at least, not yet. We’ll know in a few seconds. You set up yet, Midshipman?”
“Just about.”
“Plot an intercept course to Caledonia. Best speed.”
“Why not?” she replied. “Maybe we should go to battle stations as well.”
“Anything yet, Weitzman?” he asked, turning to face the communications station.
“Still nothing, sir. I don’t understand it. They must be receiving me.”
“Twenty seconds,” Salazar said. His hand hovered over the controls on his console, indecision creeping into his soul. He looked up at the freighter, longing for it to make the decision for him.
“Sir, Caledonia is on the move,” Spinelli said. Salazar looked up at the course plot, the ship’s course matching the worst-case trajectory he had calculated, heading right into the swarm of shuttles.
Stabbing a control, he said, “Bridge to all stations. Battle stations. Battle stations. This is no drill. Captain and senior officers to combat stations, all hands stand by for variable gravity.”
“What are you doing?” Foster said, her face locked in a snarl.
“Take the spin off the ship, Midshipman, and implement the course for the Caledonia. Best speed.
“I will do…”
“You will obey orders, Midshipman,” he snapped, “or by God I will find someone who will!” Turning to Weitzman, he said, “Spaceman, get all shuttles to safe havens at once.”
“Aye, sir,” the technician replied, locking glances with Spinelli as he rushed to obey the order, reading a series of instructions into his microphone.
“Captain to Bridge,” a voice backed. “Salazar, what the hell is going on up there?”
“Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “Multiple heat signatures from the Caledonia, sir, heading right for us. Fighters, I think.”
“Numbers, Spaceman?”
“Seven, correction, nine inbound. Read as United Nations design, Falcon Mark II Interceptors.”
“Bridge, what the hell is happening?” Captain Marshall’s tone was growing more urgent.
“We’re under attack, sir!” Salazar said. “Request permission to launch Espatier force.”
“Do what you need to do,” he replied. “I’ll be on the bridge in one minute.”
Alamo’s engines began to rumble as Foster turned the ship towards the freighter, a sick feeling deep within Salazar’s stomach, though whether it was from the variable gravity or the weight of responsibility, he couldn’t say.
“Espatier Shuttle, you are clear for launch,” he said. “Make sure you stay well clear of the incoming fighters. Alamo will take the heat for you. Your objective is the Caledonia.”
“Roger, Alamo,” Bradley said. “I’ll keep well out of their way. Shuttle out.”
The ship surged towards the enemy as shuttles scrambled all around, anxious to get out of the way as fast as possible, heading for the station or the surface in their eagerness to avoid the fighters. As he expected, the fighter trajectories shifted, all but one of of them heading right for the battlecruiser, the lone rebel choosing to aim for the shuttle.
He threw a series of switches, watching as missiles slid into their launch positions and the laser began to charge, the kilometer-long radiators fanning out like huge wings, ready to disperse the intense heat out into cold space. The elevator door slid open, and Captain Marshall stepped out onto the deck, Senior Lieutenant Caine, Tactical Officer, hard on his heels.
“Report, Sub-Lieutenant,” he barked.
“The freighter Caledonia launched nine UN fighters, targeting Alamo,” he began. “All shuttles have been ordered to disperse, and the ship will be at alert stations any time now. We have three minutes to contact, and I have an assault shuttle in the air with an Espatier squad on board.”
“Risky, don’t you think?”
“The enemy ship is very close to the hendecaspace point, sir, and if we are to have any chance of capturing it, we’re going to need to take a few risks. They have one fighter in-bound on the shuttle, and I recommend a course change to take a shot with the laser.”
Caine looked across at the console, and said, “Laser will be charged in ninety seconds. I agree with the kid’s assessment, but we’ll have to be careful not to drag the fighters across with us.”
“I concur,” Marshall said. “Midshipman, implement course change to get us within laser range of that lone fighter. Deadeye, I want a missile salvo in the air towards the others as fast as you can.”
“On the way,” she replied, settling down at her station. Salazar stepped over to his console, glancing across at the helm and nodding, then focused on his own neglected duties. Most of the ship was reporting nicely, each department reporting that they were cleared for action.
“We’re on the move pretty quickly, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall asked, settling into his command chair.
He turned, his face reddening, and said, “I had a feeling that the ship might be up to so
mething, sir. Nothing that I could put my finger on, but I took precautionary measures.”
“I see,” he said. “And you didn’t tell me because?”
“I didn’t really have anything other than my instincts to go on, sir.”
“Sub-Lieutenant, we go to a lot of trouble to make sure that your instincts are correct. You needn’t worry about being embarrassed to come to me. If one of my officers has something to say, I’ll always listen. Having said that, good work. I think you shaved a good sixty seconds off our reaction time.”
“I’ll bear that in mind in future, sir.”
“Relax,” he said. “You did fine. Just that next time you can tell me first.”
“Be careful, Danny,” Caine said. “You might be opening yourself to all sorts of wild ideas.”
“Better that than face a surprise attack,” he replied. “How are we doing?”
“Laser ready in ten seconds. Foster, get me a shot any time after that. I’ve got the first salvo ready to fire right after.
“Good.” Marshall sat back in his chair, his face a model of calmness.
“Coming around,” Foster said, her hands running across her controls. Salazar watched her work with admiration; no matter what he thought of her personality, she was good at her job.
“Firing!” Caine said, and a beam of light briefly it up on the tactical display, the fighter at the other end disappearing as the laser burst tore it to pieces. A second later, the ship rocked back as the first wave of missiles raced from the launch tubes, the next salvo immediately dropping into position to follow it.
“Energy spikes,” Spinelli said. “First salvo from the remaining fighters, eight missiles in the air.”
“Countermeasures working,” Caine said, looking up at a control. “Our missiles are running true. I’ll take out theirs with my first salvo.”
“They’ve got two missiles each?” he replied.
Nodding, she said, “Normal configuration.”
Salazar watched the screen, fascinated, a front-row view of the battle unfolding before him. Alamo’s missiles raced towards those of the enemy, and after another minute, there were a series of brief, bright flashes, and the screen was clear once again. Until Alamo rocked back, launching another wave into the void.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Not In My Name Page 1