He glanced down at the world as the shuttle moved to dock. The dying Neander had passed the fate of his people into his hands, and he had no intention of letting him down. They were going to win. He knew it. But he also knew how high the price of victory was likely to be. Skimming through the file on his datapad, he looked through the ship status monitors, all of the vessels now ready for action. Even Dhonkos' Redemption, now moving to join the rest of the fleet under a new commander.
With a loud clang, the shuttle locked into position, dragged up through the decks to the hangar deck, the hatch opening as the settled in place. Lombardo smiled at him as he stepped out of the cockpit, making his way down to the engineering deck to try and keep the ship together through one more hendecaspace jump. Taking a deep breath, Salazar followed, turning to the bridge, Maqua following with an eager gleam in his eye.
“Don't be so ready to fight, Sub-Lieutenant,” he said.
“I want to get this over with, sir,” the Neander replied.
Nodding, Salazar said, “I suppose I can't argue with that.”
The double doors slid open, and he walked out onto the bridge, Ryan rising from the command chair as he approached. The viewscreen showed the planet, dead-center, a side projection showing the formation of ships hovering in orbit, moving into position for transfer to the hendecaspace point.
“Put me through to the ship,” he said, turning to Weitzman.
“Aye, sir,” the technician said.
“This is the Captain,” Salazar said, words that somehow came more easily now, determination filling his voice. “We're about to begin what will undoubtedly be our last jump. Random Walk won't live through the battle, and we'll be lucky to make it through ourselves. Hundreds of thousands of people are watching, and waiting, and counting on what we do next. They've already paid the price for our victory, paid in blood, and sweat, and tears, and our job is to make sure that they reap the rewards of that sacrifice.” Looking around the bridge, he continued, “I'm proud, very proud, to serve with each and every one of you, and I wouldn't care to go into battle with any other crew under my command. Good hunting.”
“Hooray for us,” Hooke said, shaking his head, drawing a glare from Foster. Salazar shook his head, then turned back to the viewscreen. The hacker had his own way of blowing off steam, just like the rest of them.
“How are we doing, Ryan?” Salazar asked
“All decks cleared for action, sir,” he replied. “All systems clear for hendecaspace transit.”
“All ships in the squadron have reported in,” Foster added. “We're ready to go on your command.”
“Then by all means, Sub-Lieutenant, transmit the 'go' signal.” Sitting back in his chair, he added, “Maqua, set course for the hendecaspace point, maximum acceleration, and initiate hendecaspace transit at your discretion. You have the call.”
“Aye, sir. I have the call.”
In the midst of the squadron, it was an even more impressive sight than it had been from a distance, a mailed fist ready to strike the enemy. All of them knew the battle plan, and all of them were ready for the fight. He tried to settle in his seat, watching his crew at their stations, one after another. They'd volunteered for this battle, to a man, knowing the risks they were running.
And yet the words of Dhonkos came back to him, sitting there on his bridge. A warning of the risks to the people on the planet below should they fail, should they lead the Xandari back here. The demand to make the gamble pay off, to provide the colonists with a future free of fear and tyranny. They were every bit as trapped as the people of Copernicus, even if it was by their own choice.
“Our flag still waves proudly from the walls,” he muttered, “I shall never surrender or retreat.”
“What was that, sir?” Foster asked.
Shaking his head, he replied, “Something another commander said on the eve of battle, more than two centuries ago.” Looking at her, he added, “Nothing.”
“Hendecaspace in ten seconds, sir,” Maqua said.
“You have the call.”
“Aye, sir. I have the call.”
With a blinding blue flash, Random Walk and her squadron rolled the dice. In five days, they'd find out whether the gamble had paid off.
Chapter 13
The truck bounced across the landscape, Cooper struggling with the unfamiliar controls, Cantrell leaning out of the window, rifle in hand. Somewhere up ahead, the shuttle had come to ground, in what had appeared more of a crash than a landing, and he knew that the Xandari with their local allies were also racing towards them. He had the advantage that they were far closer to the landing site, but they had far more bodies to throw at the landscape, and total air superiority.
Down by his feet, rocking from side to side, was the equipment that might mitigate that superiority, a trio of shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missiles that had been stored in the garrison. Given that the resistance had nothing to put in the sky, these seemed like overkill, but he muttered a prayer of silent thanks to the overzealous quartermaster who had provided the extraneous equipment.
“Over to the right,” Cantrell said. She pointed in the sky, and said, “Looks like the drones are back. That's going to make this a lot tougher.” Glancing down at the missiles, she asked, “Want me to let fly with one of those babies?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “We knew we were going to have people looking over our shoulder on this one. Save them when there's something riding the ship you're shooting down.”
Struggling with the steering, he dragged the truck to the right, dropping into a muddy dip that sent the wheels spinning, churning sludge in trails behind them before it shuddered back into life, jerking back onto solid ground with a series of worrying thuds. He could see a plume of smoke rising into the air, something on the ground up ahead, and his worst fears began to rise to the surface. All of this would be for nothing if all they found at the end of the road were the shattered remains of a shuttle, torn apart in an uncontrolled crash landing, and the message they'd traveled so far to deliver would die with them.
“Someone's waving!” Cantrell said, firing off a round from her rifle in response. Cooper smiled, coaxing additional speed from the tired engine, peering up through the windshield again. There were more dots in the sky now, growing closer, and they were a long way from cover, even with the truck.
Now he could see the figure, wearing a battered Triplanetary uniform. Others were scattered around him, pulling equipment out of the smoldering shuttle. He was amazed that anyone had survived the landing, the nose deep into the mud, engines raised high into the air, streaks of dirt running down the side of the ship. Any thought he had of using the shuttle for an escape was dead. Stamping on the recalcitrant brakes, he brought the truck to a stop and jumped out, running the final meters towards the survivors of the crash.
“Major Molpa!” he said, shaking his head.
“Lieutenant Cooper,” Molpa replied, reaching out with his hand. As the two shook, he added, “I'm very glad to see you.”
“That's the understatement of the century,” Private Faulkner added, plasma rifle slung over his shoulder. He tapped the power plant, and said, “Busted in the landing, but I might be able to fix it with the right tools and a little time.”
“The tools we've got,” Cantrell added, racing forward. “Time we don't.” She pointed up at the sky, and added, “We're going to have some extra guests for dinner, any moment now.”
“Damn,” Molpa said, shaking his head.
Gesturing towards the rising sun, Cooper replied, “We've got friends about five miles that-away, enough to fight off any attack. Any wounded?”
“No,” Faulkner said. “Don't ask me how, but all of us came through that in one piece.”
Frowning, Molpa added, “I think I should take a few more flying lessons at some point.”
“It wasn't your fault,” Faulkner re
plied. “The ground was too damn muddy, and we didn't have any way of knowing that from the air.” Gesturing at the rear section, he said, “We brought some equipment, but only what we could carry. I figured we'd be on the move.”
Cooper nodded, then said, “Let's move. We can talk when we get out of this.” Waving at the horizon, he said, “We'll go on foot. The truck's too conspicuous.”
“Wait a minute,” Cantrell replied, snatching a case of rations out of Faulkner's surprised hands, then turning back to the truck. Cooper shook his head, then gestured for the rest of the group to gather round. Most of them were Neander, wearing the modified Triplanetary uniform adopted by the Free Peoples, with a couple of Espatiers who had escaped on Daedalus, eager to return to the fight.
A loud roar came from the truck, and Cantrell tumbled out of the cab, missiles in her hands, as the vehicle burst into life, moving away from the shuttle, rocking over the landscape. She jogged to catch up, a smile on her face.
“I thought I'd give the Xandari something to follow. Ration pack on the accelerator, and I tied off the wheel. It'll be a short life and a merry one, but it should draw at least some of them away.”
“Come on,” Cooper said, leading the way, rifle in hand. Everyone in the party had at least some ground combat experience, enough that they knew to spread out, fanning across the landscape while keeping visual contact, heading roughly in the direction of the settlement ahead. If his orders had been followed, his wife would be waiting out there, along with at least a platoon of local militia, dug in and ready to defend. The city was an uncomfortable fifteen miles away, close enough to be a real temptation for the Xandari, and all he was doing was attracting more attention to them. Still, by now Walpis and the others should have arrived with the equipment they'd obtained at the garrison, and that should provide a nice surprise for any would-be attacker.
He could hear the whirring of helicopters in the distance, churning through the air towards them. At any moment, they'd be in range with machine guns, able to gun them down with impunity, and he stopped, dropped to his knee and pulled his missile launcher from his back, resting it on his shoulder and setting up the gun-sights. These were of local design, not the lightweight Espatier issue they'd used before. Bulkier, and far less likely to hit their target.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he lined up the cross-hairs on the nearest helicopter, then pulled a little to the left, compensating for the forward motion of the target, before squeezing the trigger. The recoil from the launch almost pushed him to the ground, and he tossed away the now-useless launcher, racing into the distance, the missile streaking through the air behind him. It was primitive, with only rudimentary seeking abilities, but his aim had been good enough for that not to matter. A ball of flame ripped through the sky, shattered fragments of the helicopter tumbling to the ground, blades flying off in all directions, narrowly missing a nearby drone.
The other helicopters fell back, dropping out of range, and he smiled. They still had some sense of self-preservation, but it wouldn't take them long to think of something else. A few seconds later, doubtless after some frantic messages, the remaining helicopters raced to the side, forming a huge arc around them, careful to keep their distance but moving ahead of the column. They might not know for certain where they were going, but they could work out at least the general direction.
Another missile raced through the air, from someone over on the right, and Cooper cursed the man who fired it, knowing that it was out of range. The missile streaked through the air, and his frown turned into a smile as the helicopters soared up into the sky again, reluctant to risk the missiles, uncertain of the distance between themselves and the launcher. Fear might buy them some time.
He dropped into a gully, a trickling stream bubbling along the ground, and Cantrell moved in after him, her launcher abandoned, confirming his suspicions of who had fired the decoy shot. She turned, flashed him a cheeky smile, then pressed on ahead of him, leading the way through cover. They'd be rising up into a small thicket of trees in a moment, a good place for the soldiers to congregate to resist an assault. The land was flat in this region, only a few scattered woods and valleys to break the monotony. Excellent grazing land, but lousy for evading capture.
Fortunately, the others seemed to have shared his thoughts on the thicket, and as he jogged into cover, he saw Molpa and Faulkner already in position, digging makeshift cover with their hands, scooping the dirt ahead of them to form a barrier. Faulkner still had his launcher, lying next to him, close enough to reach in a second, but was fully occupied preparing his position, waiting for the coming attack.
The helicopters dropped down, safely out of range, and silence reigned as the engines spluttered to a halt. As Cooper frantically shoveled dirt, the Xandari moved in. He didn't have to see them to know what they were doing. His group were a well-armed, dug-in, experienced force, and most of the Xandari troops were ill-trained locals. They'd spread out, covering as wide an area as possible, slowly enveloping the troops inside. Once all retreat was blocked, they could close the net at leisure.
He looked up at the tree cover, then glanced around at his squad. Nine in total, all of whom had fought beside him at least twice. He knew these people, and knew what they were capable of. The Xandari were taking a big risk just fighting them at all. Cantrell moved forward, dropping in behind a tree, and reached for the missile launcher.
“Not in the trees,” Cooper said.
She pointed up, to a gap in the cover, and threw a switch, at a stroke disabling all of the complicated equipment designed to allow the missile to home into its target, converting it to little more than an overly complicated mortar. Carefully resting the launcher in position, she squeezed the trigger, a burst of flame shooting from the barrel as the projectile raced through the trees, forming an arc as it dropped down onto the open fields, right into the middle of the approaching force.
The explosion drowned out the screams, and Cantrell dropped, rolling in beside Cooper, crashing into him hard enough to almost knock him out of the cover he was carefully constructing. He could smell the smoke from here, and the cries of the wounded echoed through the trees, silenced by a trio of cracks from a pistol.
“Good God,” Cooper said, shaking his head. “They're executing the wounded.”
“Only the strong survive, remember,” Cantrell said. “Someone probably decided they'd give away the attack. Bastards.” Gesturing ahead, she added, “At least they know where we are, now?”
“The Xandari?”
“Our reinforcements,” she said, flashing a smile. “Your darling wife and the forty troops under her command, now lavishly equipped thanks to the Xandari's generous donation.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “Her orders were to hold, not launch an attack.”
Raising an eyebrow, she said, “Please, Cooper, you can't be that naive. Do you honestly think that she'll sit by and wait when a full-scale battle is taking place, what, two miles away? One that she knows involves her husband being ambushed by a superior force? The only question is how long they'll take to get here, not whether or not they're coming, and you know it.”
“Sir,” Molpa hissed, ceding any claim to command based his superior rank with a word. “Movement in the trees, coming forward.”
Cooper knelt down, raising his rifle, and fired an experimental shot. Their raid meant they now had ammunition to spare, and he heard a shout from one of the advancing troops, enough warning to expose his position to a second shot from Faulkner, a body falling out of cover, rolling on the ground, reaching for a wound on his leg.
Three more troops advanced, obviously moving towards them, but Cooper ignored them, letting Molpa and his men handle them. They were a decoy, sent in either with orders to make themselves as visible as possible, or in the knowledge that their skills weren't up to the task of concealing them from observation. Three shots dealt with them, while Cooper looked to their
rear, straining for any sign of movement.
A crack. A twig snapping underfoot, somewhere behind him. He tapped Cantrell on the shoulder, and the two of them turned, weapons readied. Nothing seemed to be moving out there, whoever had made the noise deciding that discretion was the better part of valor. With the flick of a control, he switched his rifle to full-automatic, then gestured at Cantrell, who nodded in response.
Flames licked from the barrel of his rifle as a hundred bullets ripped through the air in one short burst, spread out across a dozen degrees of arc, all in the general direction of the approaching target. He knew there was little chance of actually hitting him, hadn't expected to, but the movement the burst of fire yielded gave Cantrell the chance to put a well-placed shot into the infiltrator, sending him collapsing to the ground, clutching his chest.
Suddenly, all was silent once more, the enemy commander pulling back his forces. Cooper glanced around. A soft weeping cut through the air, the wounded soldier up ahead clutching at the wound in his leg, and he peered forward, trying to get a look at him. If he survived the battle, he'd live, though he might walk with a limp. Assuming the Xandari didn't decide to execute him.
He slid a fresh clip into his rifle, tossing the old one away, then turned as a brief movement caught his eye, over by a fallen tree at the edge of the wood. Molpa had seen it too, reacting first as he fired a snap shot at the position, the bullet slamming into a tree, splinters flying to the floor. Cooper shook his head, then glanced at his watch. The next step was all too obvious. An attack from all directions at once.
“We can't wait,” he whispered. “We're sitting ducks here.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Pyrrhic Victory Page 12