“Forty seconds, I think,” Kalb replied, his words only serving to draw his former comrades forward. Orlova could tell what they were thinking, that they were bracing themselves to rush the position, knowing that at least two of them would die, but that the others would make it to the control room. In a bid to preempt their decision, she leaned out of the door, firing a quick shot, bullets slamming into the wall all around her before she dived back into cover.
Kelot leveled his pistol, taking a shot at a careless man who exposed his foot for a second too long, pulling it back in with two toes missing. The rear doors opened, a third wave running forward, and this time they weren't seeking cover, charging towards the control room with their comrades providing fire support, a textbook assault on a fixed defensive position.
Orlova fired, her final bullets slamming into the leading guard, his body toppling into the legs of the next man in line, sending him staggering to the ground, while Kelot held his fire until they drew closer, spending his last shots trying to divert them from their attack. Orlova turned her head at a yell from the rear, the technician slumped over his console with blood spilling down his back, all of the screens now smashed.
The last man of the third wave stumbled back, ducking into an office. Orlova glanced at Kelot, who silently shook his head. Both of them were out of ammunition, and though the guards out in the corridor couldn't know it, their next attack would succeed. The door slid open once again, and she tensed herself for a last, desperate round of hand-to-hand combat.
“Freeze!” a familiar voice said, that of Senior Lieutenant Frank Nelyubov, her second-in-command and fellow inmate, with a group of Alamo crewmen coming after him, all of them armed with rifles. “It's over!”
The guards looked around, caught on all sides, and slowly raised their hands in surrender, as Orlova stepped out into the corridor. A chorus of cheers rose from the men as she walked towards Nelyubov, clasping his hand in triumph. Kalb followed, looking at the carnage, shaking his head as the men he had commanded, trained, looked up at him with contempt.
“How many, Frank?” she asked.
“Sixty-one here,” he said. “I think they took a few away. Someone's handing out guns upstairs.” Outside, the sound of an explosion filled the air, and he added, “I guess the revolution has begun. Let's get into it.”
Chapter 18
Cooper looked down at the datapad, the arrival of Daedalus giving him a brief second of sensor updates before the Xandari jammed their signals. They'd put Orbital Defense in a small spaceport, out on the fringes of the city, surrounded by a fifty-foot wall with barbed wire and guard towers to give complete coverage. The nearest thing they could find to an impenetrable fortress, at least to a ground assault.
Tapping the screen, he called up the positions of his troops, three large platoons each encircling the base, ready to launch their attack. He glanced at his wife, at the head of a column of Neander, then at Cantrell to the left, standing by his side, ready to take the vanguard of the assault. Taking this facility was going to cost them heavily. Given any other choice, he'd have tried another way, but while he waited, a battle was being waged in orbit, and his friends were counting on him to succeed.
Holding his communicator high, he said, “Mortars, fire!”
As one, five missiles rose into the air, slamming down onto the walls, smashing holes in the barbed wire, unleashing a torrent of machine gun fire into the killing ground. He'd kept his force out of range, and the enemy knew it, but he still had once ace up his sleeve. If this wall had been constructed as quickly as the one he'd found at the garrison, there might be a way to break it down.
Turning to the rear, he jumped out of cover, one last glimpse at his wife, and raced to the truck they had captured the day before. He stepped into the cab, starting the engine, then looked back at the mound of explosives packed into the rear. If this didn't bring that wall down, nothing would. Releasing the handbrake, the truck stuttered into life, wheels grinding into the mud as it sped forward, diving towards the garrison, less than a quarter-mile away.
A second wave of mortars fired as he approached, more as a distraction than anything else, two of the guard towers now had corpses kneeling at the machine guns, the guards ripped to pieces by the shrapnel blast. The explosions rippled into the air, the roar of flame and smoke with shards of concrete flying to the ground.
The truck burst through the lines, and his wife looked out at him, urging him to get clear, but he shook his head, dropping down out of sight as machine guns swept around, smashing into the engine and the windscreen, glass scattered onto his back. It would take less than a minute for the truck to complete its journey, but there was no way he could trust the success of the mission to a piece of string. One way or another, he'd have to ride it in himself.
Inside, he counted down the seconds as the rattle of fire grew heavier, knowing that a bullet in the wrong place could smash into the explosives at the rear, detonating the bomb too soon. The truck rocked from side to side, caught in ruts, and he reached up to grip the steering wheel tighter, holding it on course through sheer force of will.
He didn't dare look to see how far he'd come, knew that one glance over the dashboard would be death. If he jumped early, the truck might miss, and he'd be cut to ribbons by the machine guns on the wall. Too late, and he would be engulfed by the explosion. Under his breath, he counted to five, long seconds as the shadow of the wall loomed overhead, then hurled himself through the open door, head-first into the mud, letting himself fall limp to avoid injury.
Rolling to the right, he felt a patter of mud on his back from a burst of machine gun fire smashing into the ground by his side, then looked up to see the truck slam into the wall, one brief second before its deadly payload erupted. He dropped his head down into the mud, trying to protect himself from the shockwave, but the pulse of heat that washed over his back was still enough to cause a stinging burn, followed by chunks of concrete crashing down all around him, one of them catching him in the arm.
After a second, he dared to look up, and saw a huge gap in the wall filled with the twisted remnants of the truck, bodies scattered all around, a huge column of smoke rising into the sky as flames flickered on the nearest building. For a moment, the gunfire stopped, only to resume a moment later as the first wave of his men advanced to take advantage of the breach.
Cooper reached into his pocket, tugging out a grenade, tossing it forward, sending more shards of white-hot death racing through the air as a group of guards moved in a vain attempt to plug the gap in their defenses. Struggling to his feet, he ducked to the left, dodging the machine gun blast before it could catch him, then felt another burst of heat as a third mortar strike slammed home, one of them only meters away.
A loud yell rose from the rear as the platoons raced forward, bursts of fire racing through the air, and he turned to watch half a dozen of his men caught by a single blast, reduced to pulpy, bloody masses falling into the mud. Heedless of the risk, he raced forward, pistol in hand, shooting a startled guard before he could react. Up above, one of the towers turned, trying to home onto him, but he tossed a grenade up first, the explosion ripping into the guard as it drew level, the molten shrapnel raining down all around him.
Inside the compound, all was chaos as the stench of battle filled the air. An officer attempted to order a retreat, but a wash of green flame raced over him, barely time for one last, desperate scream before he died. Faulkner had managed to get his plasma rifle working, just in time. Belatedly, one of the guards spotted him, and he tumbled into cover behind a pile of rubble, taking a shot into the distance that pinned down one of his opponents.
The rattle of machine gun fire still burst down all around him, and the screams and cries of his men tugged at him. He knew that they were dying for a worthy cause, that there was no choice, but was still desperate to stop the slaughter. Another column of smoke filled the air, a second pulse from the plasm
a rifle destroying a machine gun nest, the last gasp of the power pack.
Major Molpa raced toward, rifle in hand, leading a pack of Neander as they charged through the breach in the wall, and Cooper rose to provide support in the form of a trio of cracks from his pistol, the last of the clip as he reached into his pocket for a replacement. Just as Molpa was about to reach him, a burst of gunfire caught the brave warrior in the side, the force hurling him to the ground. He looked up at Cooper, eyes wide, reaching for his rifle, before his eyes closed, his head dropping to the ground.
“No!” Cooper yelled, racing out of cover, snatching the weapon away and slamming the control to full automatic, raining desperate bursts of fire onto the enemy, not knowing or caring whether he was hitting anything. More of this men moved into the breach, many of them nursing wounds, and finally his force began to outnumber the enemy, their superior strength beginning to press home. One by one, the guard towers stopped firing as those firing the machine guns died, one by one, killed by gunshot, grenade or shrapnel.
Cantrell ran into the compound, her eyes wide as she looked at Cooper. He glanced at his side, saw his sleeve torn away, blood streaming down his arm, and shook his head, turning back to the compound. Some of the guards were moving into the central building, the control center, trying to form a defensive perimeter. He waved for his men to follow as he charged towards them, Cantrell shouting something that he couldn't hear over the explosions.
Any thought of commanding this battle was long dead, as dead as the bodies strewn across the compound. This fight had devolved into a series of skirmishes, another platoon racing through the gap, Moretti in the lead with blood trickling from a gash in his forehead, rifle in one hand and a wounded trooper in the other.
“Get the bastards!” Cooper yelled, and the few men who had responded rushed forward with him, mowing down the fleeing troopers with raking rifle fire, bodies dropping into the dirt. The hatch slammed shut, and he crashed into it, mashing his fist against the controls before turning back to the compound.
Almost before he realized it, the fighting had ended, Moretti's platoon holding their rifles on a group of guards as they slowly assembled amid the destruction. Over the wall, the flag of Copernicus fluttered, flame licking at the fabric as it curled in the wind, and he shook his head, struggling to speak as the acrid smoke filled his lungs.
“Walpis, get the explosives up here, on the double.”
The Neander looked around, nodded, then pounded out of the compound, half a dozen others following him. Bradley raced through, a squad of men at her rear, and sprinted towards Cooper, tugging Donegan after her.
“Gabe, your arm,” she said.
“Never mind that now,” he replied, while Donegan pulled out his medical kit.
“Sir, I think you've broken it,” the medic replied. “Give me a minute.”
“We don't have time!” Looking around, he said, “Moretti, what's the story?”
“I've got fifteen effectives, sir. Don't know about the rest.”
“Rojek fell in the first wave,” Bradley said, shaking her head. “I think there's about a dozen in First Platoon. Second took it worst. I left them guarding the perimeter.” Looking up at her husband, she said, “It was bad out there, Gabe.”
Stepping forward, he wiped the muck from his face with a grubby arm while Donegan labored at the other, and yelled, “Corporal, where the hell are you?”
“Gabe...”
“Damn it, Barbara, there are people dying in orbit, and if we don't get control of the missile satellites, all of this will be for nothing!”
“Worse,” Cantrell said, climbing down from the wall. “We've got company coming. Looks like a truck convoy with helicopter support. I'd say they're throwing everything they've got at us.” Waving an arm at the shattered wall, she added, “We're going to need to put together some sort of defensive perimeter.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes minus,” she replied.
Nodding, he said, “Molpa,” before correcting himself with a sigh, “Faulkner, take charge. Try and get something to block that hole, anything you can find.”
“These walls won't do any good if they're going to hit us from the air, sir.”
“I know that, damn it,” he replied. “We've got to slow them down. Long enough for us to win this battle.” Turning back to the breach, he said, “Corporal Walpis, where the hell are those damned explosives!”
“Hold still, sir,” Donegan said, gritting his teeth. “I've got to immobilize this arm, and I can't do that if you keep waving it around.”
“Just get on with it,” Cooper snapped. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then said, “Do the best you can, Specialist.”
Finally, Walpis sprinted in with a backpack, a detonator in his hand. The rest of his squad had swapped out their rifles for pistols, low-velocity weapons used on ships to avoid damage to equipment. He turned to the men, gesturing them forward with his good arm, earning another exasperated stare from Donegan.
“Fire discipline, people. We've got to take that intact, and they'll do what they can to stop us. Watch what you are shooting at, but make sure you get everyone in the room. Probably Xandari at the controls. Corporal, set the charges, and the rest of us advance at plus-five seconds.”
“Gabe, for God's sake,” Bradley said. “You're wounded.”
“Sir…,” Walpis began.
“Move it, Corporal!” A dull ache began to run down his arm as Donegan wrapped bandages around the wound, and his head began to throb. He tossed his rifle to the dirt, taking a pistol from one of the men. At least his good hand was still intact. As the rest of the troops moved to the perimeter, his squad closed in on the wall, moving to the side to provide cover from the explosion, while Walpis carefully placed the charges in position.
Cooper looked at his watch, shaking his head. This was taking too long. Up in orbit, their fleet would already be in the heart of the battle. Finally, Walpis stepped clear, waving his hands, then pulled out the detonator, unceremoniously tapping the button. The door erupted in a pillar of flame, the force of the explosion hurling it inside, a series of screams from within.
A technician staggered out of the room, dropping to the ground with bullets from three soldiers lodged in him. Stepping over him, Walpis led the way into the bunker, pistol in hand, and with a trio of gunshots dropped back with a gaping wound in his arm, a grimace on his face as Donegan raced forward. Cooper was next, pushing another trooper out of they way, stepping into the smoke-filled room. Inside, a Xandari sat, a pair of men dying on either side of him, gleaming a smile as he advanced.
“Die, you bastard,” Cooper said, coldly squeezing the trigger, and the Xandari dropped to the ground. As though someone had flicked a switch, he felt the ground rushing up to meet him, and collapsed onto the floor, dull cries as shadows rushed towards him, his eyes flickering shut as the darkness reached out to claim him.
Chapter 19
“Report,” Salazar said, as Random Walk tumbled out of hendecaspace, the viewscreen showing Copernicus dead center, a precious jewel surrounded by a sea of stars. A prize to win. He turned to Spinelli, frowning over his primitive console, as a sensor display staggered onto the screen, the display struggling to update with a rapidly changing tactical situation.
“It's not good, sir. The satellite network still seems to be under enemy control. I think they've just launched a salvo against Due Diligence. Lieutenant Harper's squadron will be closing on Alamo in less than three minutes, and the enemy battlecruisers are staying under cover.”
“No signals from the surface, but I have Daedalus, Captain,” Weitzman said.
“Put her on,” Salazar replied, and a view of Harper flashed onto the screen, her hair tumbled down over her eyes, the lights flickering on the bridge. “Kris...”
“We're just hanging on,” she said. “Tell me you aren't alone.”<
br />
“Six ships right on my tail,” he replied. “Where do you want us?”
“Enemy battlecruiser just lit their engines!” Spinelli yelled. “Heading for the Koltoc formation. Alamo's heading back in.”
“I guess that answers my question,” Salazar replied. All around Random Walk, a series of blue flashes brought the Neander reinforcements into the system. “Any contact with the surface?”
“Nothing,” Harper replied, “Not a damn thing. I don't even know if Major Molpa made it down.” Shaking her head, she said, “Unless we get control of those satellites, we've had it.”
Fumbling with the communication controls, Salazar said, “Random Walk to Vendetta. Colonel, I need your squadron to move to support the Koltoc. We might have to try a fighting withdrawal to the moon.”
“We didn't come all this way to help the pink hairs retreat, Lieutenant,” the Neander protested.
“Missile launch, eight running, directed at Profitable Venture!” Spinelli said.
“That about uses up our missiles, Pavel,” Harper said with a sad sigh. “I'm going for a hard burn around Copernicus, try and gain some speed. Maybe with a little time, they'll be able to get it together on the surface.”
“There's got to be another way,” Salazar said. Turning to Maqua, he added, “Take us into the fight, Sub-Lieutenant. Maximum acceleration.”
Frowning, Lombardo said, “We don't have much to fight with, sir.”
“Then we'll throw rocks at the bastards, damn it!”
The sensor screen flashed up the changes, a tactical view swelling to show local space. It was a confused mess of trajectories, missiles flying in all directions, the large Xandari battlecruiser pivoting towards the fleet, now finally coming into some sort of formation. He looked at the planet, shaking his head. Without the satellites, this battle was minutes away from a rout, a repeat of the last time they visited this world.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Pyrrhic Victory Page 16