Battlecruiser Alamo: Not In My Name

by Richard Tongue

   He looked around at the eager faces, smiled, and continued, “Bail-out will be at thirty thousand feet. You’ll have your respirators on, but it’s going to be damned cold for a couple of minutes. Your parachutes will deploy at a thousand feet.” There was a murmuring around the room, and he said, “You all trained for this on Ragnarok. The atmosphere might be thicker here, but the principle is just the same.”

   “Twenty-nine thousand feet of free-fall?” Barnard said.

   “Remember your training, and you will get through this in one piece. Your parachutes know exactly what they are doing, and will guide you down to the landing point once they deploy. If something goes wrong, don’t wait too long to open the reserve.”

   “Don’t worry,” Hunt said. “We won’t.”

   “Once you get down on the deck, get rid of your parachute and proceed to the rendezvous point. Do not engage any enemy forces unless you have to. This is a stealth operation, not a one-week gun battle. You read me?”

   The shuttle lurched into free-fall as the two squads replied, “Yes, sir!”

   He started to check his weapons, running his plasma carbine through its test cycle, marveling at the weight. Another new innovation, lighter than their old weapons for ground deployment, with the compromise that it only fired half as many shots before charging. His old-fashioned projectile pistol was the back-up, complete with silencer, just in case. Fifteen clips of ammunition, half a dozen grenades, medical kit, combat datapad, rations for a week, survival kit, the list was almost endless.

   They’d come a long way in three years, though given that the kit he was carrying was a melange of US, Russian and Australian kit from the brushfire wars of more than a century ago, it wasn’t that impressive. More a question of historical research than actual technological development, though naturally the back-room crews were promising that the wonders of modern science would be deployed to ground infantry combat real soon.

   Then his parachute, strapped tightly to his back, a relic of the orbital skydiving craze that had briefly taken hold a decade ago. Naturally, something designed for the thin Martian atmosphere would melt in a second if exposed to the stresses of a denser world, but he had been assured that the principle was just the same, and that the design would work in thicker atmospheres. They’d tried them on Ragnarok, getting everyone used to the new kit, but that was a test drop onto an open field with a mug of hot cocoa waiting for them when they landed. This was a combat drop, the first real one for a century.

   The shuttle started to rock back and forth as it hit the atmosphere. All of the monitors were in German, the text unreadable without a translator he didn’t have time the use. Not that it mattered anyway. All they needed to know was when to leave the shuttle, and they’d be signaled when they hit their target altitude. Which would only be a matter of minutes from now.

   It was frustrating that there were no viewports. They were missing a great view as the ship slid into the atmosphere, and his imagination started to fill in the gaps, picturing the tongues of flame ripping around the heat shield as the shuttle made its final descent. Simply dropping down to the ground wouldn’t work, not on this mission. The enemy had to think that their shuttle had made an uncontrolled descent, destroyed on landing. Right now, Alamo was sending a faked broadcast explaining all of this. He hoped.

   The inner hatch opened, the signal for them to get ready for their descent. Outside, the launch rod was extending, and he clipped himself to the hastily fitted device. An amber warning light lit up on his respirator, and he briefly panicked before realizing that it was his medical monitor reporting elevated heart rate. No-one could blame him for that.

   “Stand ready!” he said, stepping up to the outer hatch, all that was between him and the hostile planet below. In a few seconds, there wouldn’t even be that. The shuttle was spilling velocity rapidly, but this was still going to set a few records. They couldn’t afford to take the ship too far out of a normal flight profile. The final indicator sounded as the ship went subsonic, a loud boom rattling through the cabin.

   “Any second now,” he said. Behind him, both squads were standing in a long, thin line, ready to follow him out. To make it even more interesting, they’d timed the drop for planetary night. The fun wasn’t going to end quickly. They didn’t even know for sure what the terrain was like down there, what the wildlife was like. He’d only seen animals in a zoo. Now he’d be trying to evade them.

   The hatch slid open, and he yelled, “Now, now, now!” and took a single step through the door, enough to send him sliding down the hundred-foot pole, long enough to toss him well clear of the shuttle, spinning around and around. He managed to stabilize himself, and looked back up, watching the rest of his squad follow him. Just like the last time they’d done something like this, back at Houston Station, with the difference that this time, there was no safe haven to return too if someone missed the drop.

   He looked down at the ground, his altimeter rapidly running through ever-decreasing numbers as he dived for the surface. The target was a river delta at the end of a hundred-mile canyon, an open space that had enough cover for them to easily hide if necessary. Their target was thick jungle, and all around them were high, dry uplands, scrubland and desert, where they would be spotted in moments.

   Assuming that they weren’t already being tracked down to the surface. This jump had been designed to minimize their sensor profile, but for all they knew, the not-men had some special tricks to play with, something they didn’t know about. There could be people waiting for them on the surface right now.

   Soaring past fifteen thousand feet, he tried to relax, tried to enjoy this. The odds of him ever doing anything like this again were remote, he hoped, and he certainly couldn’t complain about missing the view now. He soaked in the terrain, his eyes trying to absorb every detail, from the blood-red sea to the azure vegetation, the thin trails cutting through the jungle and the dull yellow light from the twin domes beyond, their eventual goal.

   Ten thousand feet. Not long to go know. He settled into position for his parachute to open, running one last systems check on his chest monitor. Everything seemed to be in order, but he still worried. That was as good a definition of a platoon leader’s job as he had ever heard, a professional worrier. He glanced up, trying to count his men, but the gloom was too dark, and he had to give up at twelve. There should be nineteen others above him, the two squads and his platoon sergeant.

   Turning towards the sea, he saw a brief flash as the shuttle smashed into the water, traveling at a speed high enough that there should be nothing left to investigate. The ocean floor was a thousand feet deep where they had selected, so unless the local base had a submarine on hand, there was no chance of them launching an investigation. No way for them to know who was on board, or to conduct any sort of a forensic study. Certainly not before it became a moot point, seven days from now.

   Five thousand feet, and he started taking deep breaths, his respirator giving him extra oxygen to calm him down, relax him. There was nothing he could do at this point. Either his parachute would work, or it wouldn’t. And the same applied to his men. If all went well, he’d be seeing them all on the ground in a few minutes.

   He dropped through a cloud, blind for a few seconds, and when he emerged, he’d lost sight of more of his men. The winds were tossing them around worse than he had expected, and were picking up quickly. Weather was an annoyance he had little experience of, except in books, and Ragnarok’s weather was predicted well enough to remove any surprises. All he knew was that the barometric pressure was rising, as was the humidity, but that didn’t do him any good unless he knew what it meant.

   Two thousand feet. Any second now, the parachute would open, and he could start to concentrate on the descent. He ran his hands over the straps on his backpack, on his carbine strapped to his leg, his pistol in his holster. No point getting down to the surface if he was unarmed when he got there, and the chances of
a supply drop were vanishingly small.

   The jolt of the chute release came as a surprise, twenty feet sooner than he had thought. Some minor failure with the monitors, but he breathed a sigh of relief as the black canopy opened up above him, slowing his fall to a slow, gentle descent. Reaching his arms up to hold the straps, he relaxed and let the automatic systems guide his trip to the surface, making tiny adjustments to try and bring him in close to the landing site, though the winds were getting stronger, making this a losing battle. As long as they were within a few miles of each other, they ought to be able to make contact again. Just getting onto solid ground seemed like an achievement at this point.

   Everything was still flashing by, the ground racing towards him as he dropped the final few feet to the ground. He braced himself for the impact, and landed smoothly on the ground, dropping and rolling, detaching the canopy and letting it billow off. Pulling out his pistol, he switched the eyepieces on his respirator to infra-red, looking around. Nothing in sight but some small animals. At least, he presumed that was what they were. Everything was still, the night punctuated by strange grunts and growls from the undergrowth.

   Training took over. He pulled the canopy in, balling it up, then started to hack into the ground with his shovel, digging a hole to bury it. The soft ground piled up around him as he worked, sparing only a quick glance up. The last few members of his platoon were landing, scattered all over the place by the wind, but the first priority had to be covering his tracks. Stuffing the canopy into the hole, he spread the soil on top of it, making sure none of it showed. An air search wouldn’t find his footprints, but a large piece of synthosilk was another story.

   He left his rifle strapped to his leg. When powered up, it would be a heat source visible for miles, and with limited charge, he needed to save it for the final assault in any case. The wind was blowing to the north, towards the valley, and that seemed as good a place as any to begin the search for the rest of his men

   Pausing for a moment, he looked back at the blood-red sea, the product of some strange algae, according to the reports. There was a shape, something on the beach, washing up on the shore, and he raced towards it, reaching for his medical kit. It was obvious as soon as he arrived that he was too late.

   Rolling the body over, he saw the face of Private Tucker, locked in panic, the algae caked on her cheeks. Her respirator was hanging half-off her face, leaving her unprotected from the air. Likely she hadn’t even made it to the surface. Shaking his head, he reached down to sweep his hand across her face, closing her eyes.

   “Sir?” a voice said, a figure moving towards him. He raised his pistol, only to drop it down to the ground as he recognized Corporal Vaughan, racing in his direction. There was another figure behind him, standing on top of a low rise, a rifle pointed towards him.

   “It’s me,” Cooper said. “I found Tucker.”

   With a sigh, Vaughan said, “That’s two, then.” Gesturing back the way he had come, he added, “Phil Burns as well. Caught in a tree and something engaged his release. Fell a good two hundred feet.”

   “Damn it,” he replied. “We’ve only been down on the ground for a few minutes, and already we’re two men down?”

   “At least, sir. Six of us came down just over that rise, all close together. I think a lot of Fourth Squad got scattered to hell and gone.”

   “Who have you got?”

   “Jackson, Barnard, Watkins, Nash, Rhodes. All unwounded. I left the others burying Private Burns while I came down to find you.”

   “No sign of the enemy?”

   “Not a trace. I don’t think we’ve been spotted.” Glancing around, the grizzled Corporal added, “Going to be tough with just seven of us, sir. I didn’t see any more chutes coming down in this spot.”

   “Everyone knows where the target is and the general route we’re taking. Hopefully the rest of the unit will meet up with us en route. Until then we’ll just have to proceed as though this is all we’ve got.” Shaking his head, he said, “And remind me to say some harsh words to whoever designed those parachutes.”

   “Don’t worry, sir, I think we’ll all contribute to that report.”

   “Give me a hand with Tucker.” Cooper knelt down to pull her clear of the sand. “We might as well bury her next to Burns. We can’t leave her here.”

   Looking out across the water, Vaughan asked, “Do you think there might be more of them out there?”

   “There’s nothing we can do about it,” he replied. “If they came down in one piece, they should be able to make it to shore. Now come on. We’ve got to move.”

  Chapter 16

   “Secure from standby alert,” Marshall said, rising from the command chair. “Reports to the Acting Operations Officer. Spinelli, I want full reports on everything in this system. If there’s a molecule out of place, I need to know about it yesterday. Weitzman, keep listening out from any activity on the planet.” Turning to Grant, he said, “I want two shuttles on permanent standby for pickup at a moment’s notice. Around the clock. Preflights completed, pilots ready for scramble. Understood?”

   “Aye, sir,” Grant said.

   “Very well. You have the conn. Deadeye, shall we go and take a look at the face of the enemy?”

   “Sounds like fun,” she replied, following Marshall into the elevator. As the doors closed, she turned to him, and said, “You can relax a bit. Everything’s going as planned.”

   “For the moment,” he said, “and we don’t know what happened down on the surface.”

   “Good,” she said. “If we’d been able to track them, so could that Q-Carrier. Cooper’s an expert, a veteran. He knows his business better than you do.” Frowning, she replied, “This is a hell of a time to start to second-guess this operation.”

   “I know,” he replied. “I just can’t get past the feeling that this is all a little convenient. We’ve followed a trail of breadcrumbs leading all the way here.”

   “Not much of a trap if we’re already suspicious.”

   “The trap works if you get caught. It doesn’t matter how nervous you are.” He paused, then said, “I want battle drills scheduled at least once a day for the next week. Don’t tell me when, either. I want to be surprised as well.”

   “Sure. I always thought that sleep was overrated.”

   The doors slid open, and they stepped through onto the cargo deck, cavernous compartments that held the near-infinite number of objects that Alamo simply couldn’t do without. The fabricator could make almost anything given time and the right materials, but there was always a long backlog on the maintenance list. It was still a lot easier just to get a new component out of a box. A fire team stood in front of Storage Seven, standing to attention as the two of them approached, snapping sharp salutes.

   “As you were,” Marshall said. “How are the prisoners, Sergeant?”

   Lance-Sergeant Francis, smiled, gesturing with her thumb at the door, and said, “Most of them are quiet as mice, sir. We had a little trouble at the hangar deck, but once we got them into the ship, they settled down nicely. Frankly, it’s a little too quiet for my liking. They might be up to something.”

   “Medical taken a look at them?” Caine asked.

   “Doctor Duquesne is in there now, checking them over. We haven’t interrogated them yet.”

   “Any ready for me to look at?”

   “I’m sure I can find one, sir.”

   “Bring one into the Supply Chief’s office. We’ll question him there.”

   There was a frown, and Francis asked, “How are we treating the prisoners, sir? Prisoners-of-war or just plain prisoners?”

   “Prisoners-of-war, Sergeant. I know that it limits our options for interrogation.”

   “Understood, sir. I’ll pass the word to the men.”

   “Danny,” Caine quietly said as they walked across the corridor, “That’s a bit of a reach. Treating them as POWs im
plies that there is a war going on here.”

   “We’re fighting them, missiles flying around, troops on the planet, crewmen being captured. What sort of definition of a war do you want?”

   “One that the Senate has approved.”

   He paused for a second, then said, “Fine. Log them as prisoners in the books, but I want them treated in every respect under the Fifth Geneva Convention.”

   “I agree with you, Danny, but we’ve got to be careful.”

   The Supply Chief’s office was a typical cubbyhole, stuffed between two of the cargo bays, filled to overflowing with print-outs, datapads, half-empty crates. There was a chart on the wall, a manifest dated two years ago, and a tatty jacket tossed over the back of the chair, a cot in the corner that hadn’t been made in a while.

   “Remind me to have a word with Kowalski about cleaning this place up,” Marshall said, wrinkling his nose. “What died in here?”

   “I don’t think I want to know,” Caine replied. The door opened, and Francis stood at the threshold, holding a sullen technician by the arm. She was wearing a UN Fleet uniform from a couple of changes ago, the stripes of a Technical Sergeant on her sleeve.

   “Name’s Brigit Pryce,” she said. “Maintenance Systems Technician.”

   “Thank you, Sergeant. Stand guard outside, just in case.”

   “Say one word, sir, and I’ll holler.”

   The door closed, and Marshall perched on a corner of the desk, saying, “Well, Pryce, we have a bit of a situation here.”

   “I have nothing to say,” she replied in a cold, emotionless voice.

   Looking up at Caine, he replied, “We know that your station has been taken over by an inhuman race. We know that you are no longer operating under United Nations control, and that you have undergone duress to make you work against your own people, as well as us. Strange as it may seem, we’re here to help.”