“Right on target,” he said, as his men moved to cover the shocked garrison, their hands drifting into the air as they realized they'd lost the battle. “I wondered if those mortars would work.”
“Mortars?” Mortimer asked. “Where the hell did you get those from?”
“Our second Chairman was a little paranoid. He fabricated a tidy little arsenal and put it in a safe place. We might not have been quite as under-equipped as we suggested.” The garrison tossed their weapons to the dirt, and he said, “Hope we didn't give you too much of a surprise.”
“I'll forgive you when my blood pressure drops to something close to normal,” Clarke replied. “This was a trick?”
“Sorry about that,” Avdonin said. “We didn't know whether or not we could trust you, but we thought that at the very least we might be able to get the distraction we wanted. This installation is a perfect spot to set up our new base.”
“Until they rain missiles down on you.”
“Waldheim is five million miles away, and with the sensor suite we have here, we'll have more than enough warning to disperse. And plenty of time to shoot down anyone who decides to try and pay us a visit. The next group of UN troops to come this way will find out the hard way that it's a lot easier to knock out an undefended scientific station than a strategic military strong-point.”
Suddenly, from inside the building, a loud whine resounded, a tracking signal making a connection. Glancing up at the antenna, still tracking around, Clarke broke and ran inside, Avdonin and Mortimer following. He took the ladder in four bounds, racing to the console and jamming on a headset, his
fingers flicking the controls as he attempted to tighten the beam. To his left, Mortimer coolly adjusted the frequency, eyes looking at the monitor screen.
“We're not going to need the automatic message. I can make voice contact!” Looking down at a display, he added, “Signal locked on. Time delay a little over a minute at this range. Clarke to Alamo. Clarke to Alamo. Salyut Station has fallen to the enemy. Repeat, Salyut Station has fallen. You're flying into a trap. Recommend immediate withdrawal.”
“It might be too late,” Mortimer said. “Alamo's damned close, and it looks as if Waldheim's lighting her engines.” She paused, then added, “That wouldn't be enough by itself. Alamo's beaten them twice, and they'd not risk everything on a third.”
“There,” Avdonin said, pointing at the screen. “Six contacts, closing fast.”
Looking up, Clarke added, “They're in a sensor blind spot. Alamo couldn't see them, not at this range.” Tapping a control, he continued, “Clarke to Alamo. Enemy bandits inbound. Come in, please!”
Chapter 13
“I've got a signal, sir!” Bowman said. “From Sub-Lieutenant Clarke!”
“What?” Salazar said, turning to face the communications station. “How the hell...”
“Recognition codes match, voice-print confirmed. It's him, sir!” the technician replied, eyes wide from shock.
“I'll be damned,” Francis said.
Reading from his screen, Bowman added, “Clarke to Alamo. Clarke to Alamo. Salyut Station has fallen to the enemy. Repeat, Salyut Station has fallen. You're flying into a trap. Recommend immediate withdrawal.” Salazar's face paled, and he turned to Scott.
“Battle Stations. Max, have...”
Before he could finish, the ship tumbled to the side, throwing him from his feet and sending him stumbling to the floor. Sirens wailed on the bridge, a sea of red lights swimming across the status monitor as he struggled to stand.
“Evasive, Quesada! What the hell hit us?”
Ballard looked up at her display, warning alerts flashing on her monitors, and said, “Salyut's mass drivers, sir! Two shots, close range, and they're warming up for a second shot. Waldheim has left station and is heading on intercept course, radiators deployed.”
“Signal from Clarke,” Bowman added. “Enemy bandits inbound!”
“The whole damned thing was a trap,” Salazar said. “Quesada, get us out of here. Any heading, best acceleration, move it! Fitzroy, can you get me a damage report?”
“What about the Captain?” Scott said.
“If Clarke's right, he's a prisoner, and we haven't got time for a glorious rescue,” Salazar replied. “Even if we launched a strike team, they'd never make it to the deck, and I'm not throwing thirty lives away for nothing. Fitzroy, where's my damage report?”
“I can't get full power, sir,” Quesada said. “Best I can do is one-third. They'll be on us in minutes.” Tapping a control, he added, “Should I continue evasive action?”
“No. Go for speed and distance,” Salazar said. “Fitzroy...”
“Coming up now, sir. Two impacts, aft section. We've lost the primary connections to the main engines, power systems failure in nine decks, aft sensors gone, Elevator Control out, combat fabricator out. They really made a mess of us, sir.”
Reaching for the command chair, he stabbed a control, and said, “Chief, I need full power to the engines in two minutes or we're dead. Run everything to overload if you have to, but give me maximum acceleration!” Turning back to the helm, he continued, “Quesada, we might not have much time. What's our heading?”
“Parallel to the asteroids.”
“Good. In one minute, turn and take us inside the asteroid field.”
“Sir,” Francis said, “That's the densest belt I've ever seen. In this region the average density is less than a mile apart, and at the speed we're traveling...”
“Then Sub-Lieutenant Quesada will have an excellent chance to demonstrate his skill at the helm, but more importantly, Waldheim is a lumbering beast compared to Alamo. We've got a chance of getting through that swarm, but they don't. Prepare course change.”
“Aye, sir,” Quesada said, a smile on his face as he contemplated the challenge ahead. “Course change computed and ready, but I'm going to need more speed to get through it.”
“All decks have reported to battle stations, sir,” Scott said. “I'm holding back the radiators. Too much micro-meteorite activity where we're going. Waldheim's already losing structural integrity on their wings.” She glanced up at a panel, and added, “Not that it will matter overmuch if we don't gain ground soon. Firing range in four minutes minus.”
“Bridge to McCormack,” Salazar said. “Lieutenant, I want you in your fighter and ready to launch in two minutes. Scramble on my order. Mission will be defensive, to block incoming interceptors. Get moving.”
“What the hell's going on up there?” the squadron leader asked.
“When I find out, you'll be the first to know.”
“Intercept in three minutes minus,” Scott said. “Pavel, I've only got half the point-defense cannons operational. If they launch a salvo, they'll get through our screen.”
“Engineering to Bridge,” Santiago said. “I can't give you more power. We've lost half-a-dozen...”
“Chief, I don't care how you do it, but I've got to have at least three minutes of maximum acceleration, or Waldheim will smash us to pieces.” He paused, then said, “It's down to you. Either give me that power, or I have no choice but to unconditionally surrender.”
Silence reigned on the bridge, and after the longest second of his life, Santiago replied, “You'll get it. If we burn out every system doing it. We'll find a way to make it work.”
“Thank you, Chief,” Salazar said, settling down in the command chair. He looked up at the tactical display, watching as Waldheim slid in behind them racing towards them. If his plan worked, they'd barely have time for a single shot, ten missiles racing in their direction. That they could handle. Otherwise, there would be a nightmarish nine minutes in the firing line. Over to the side, the enemy fighters were swarming towards them, burning at full acceleration to catch Alamo, setting themselves up for an attack run.
“I guess that answers the big question, doesn
't it,” Francis said, moving over to Salazar. “They've been waiting out here, hiding in a sensor blind spot.”
Nodding, Salazar replied, “My guess is they've got a tanker shuttle parked on one of the rocks, where we can't see. Most of them are so small that they'd be docking, not landing. They could wait out there for days, and not a damned thing we could do about it.” Turning to Francis, he continued, “The whole thing was a trap. Right from the first. They must have guessed that we'd end up coming here eventually. If it hadn't been for Clarke, we'd be dead.” Gesturing at the display, he added, “If we hadn't started the blast doors closing, half the ship would have lost atmosphere when those rocks hit.”
“One minute to maneuver,” Quesada said.
“Launch fighters,” Salazar added.
“Aye, sir,” Scott replied. “Red Flight launched. Missiles in the tubes, ready for defensive salvo when we get close enough.” She paused, then added, “I hope you weren't counting on the laser cannon, sir. The Chief's draining all the power for the engines.”
Frowning, Francis said, “I didn't know those two systems were linked.”
“I've lost internal communications on the lower decks,” Bowman added. “Those cables aren't anywhere near strong enough to handle that sort of load, sir. We'll burn out the whole system.”
“Doesn't matter,” Salazar replied. “If we pull this off, then we'll have plenty of time to make repairs. Once we're on the far side of the rocks, it'll take hours for Waldheim to work its way around for a second strike. Plenty of time to patch up the power grid. I hope.”
“Thirty seconds, sir,” Quesada said, his knuckles white from gripping his controls.
“Nice and easy, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar said. His eyes never left the screen, watching as Alamo eased its way through the rocks on a tangled, twisted course. Behind them, their fighters dived at the enemy interceptors, McCormack shepherding her ships towards the enemy, releasing a full twelve-missiles salvo at precisely the right moment.
She'd made the right choice. Defensive, not offensive, was the order of the day. The enemy squadron was forced to release their missiles in response, the two salvos slicing through space towards each other, doomed to imminent mutual destruction. Their job done, Red Flight turned to return to Alamo, struggling to catch up.
“Full power!” Quesada said, and Alamo surged forward with greater speed, finally gaining ground on the relentless Waldheim behind them, easing on a careful trajectory through the shattered remnants of a long-dead world. For an instant, Salazar saw a flash on the viewscreen, a proximity alarm as they dived between a double asteroid, but almost before it had begun, they were through the rocks, and safe.
“Waldheim is turning away,” Ballard said. “Heading back to Salyut Station.”
“Signal, sir,” Bowman said. “Colonel Cruz wants to speak to you. By name. Audio only.”
“Not General Estrada?” Salazar replied, looking at Francis. “Interesting. Put her on.”
“Lieutenant,” Cruz said, “I am holding Captain Marshall, as well as Lieutenants Foster, Murphy and Carpenter. All of them are safe and well for the moment, though I thought it only fair to tell you that Captain Marshall is facing charges of murder.”
“Whose murder? And what about Midshipman Siegel and the other fighter pilots?”
“They were killed while resisting arrest.” A gasp echoed around the bridge, and she continued, “Captain Marshall killed General Estrada in cold blood, in the middle of our negotiations. Which means that your options have now reduced to one. I demand your immediate unconditional surrender. If you agree, I will transfer you and your crew, including all my prisoners aside from Captain Marshall, to the surface, where you may live out your lives as best you can. This offer will not be repeated.”
“Good,” Salazar replied, “That means I don't have to waste any more time listening to it than I already have. I don't believe for one moment that Captain Marshall killed General Estrada. Save that for your crew, though I suspect a lot of them won't buy the story either. I'm going to turn this around, Colonel. I give you one hour to surrender, or I will be forced to use every means at my disposal to destroy Waldheim.”
“I think not,” she said. “Currently, I am holding two hundred and fifty civilians from the surface in Waldheim's detention deck. All of them will be dispersed to primary targets should Alamo launch an attack. I don't believe that you have the stomach to attack civilians, Lieutenant, a weakness that is going to cost you dear.”
“My God,” Scott said, softly. “Pavel, do you believe that she would actually do it?”
“Estrada wouldn't, but I'm sure she would,” he replied. “Not that it changes anything. Colonel, I'm going to bring you down, one way or another. You can count on that. For the sake of your crew, I'll give you one last chance.”
“Arrogance and weakness combined. Not a good mix. A pity, Lieutenant. I was rather hoping that you would be reasonable. As it is, nobody on your ship will live to leave this system, and you will be the architect of their death. Waldheim out.”
Salazar watched the screen for a moment, then asked, “Bowman, status of Waldheim?”
“On station-keeping, sir. Looks as though they're holding close to Salyut Station.”
Nodding, he asked, “And the fighters?”
“Returning to base. Ours will be home in two minutes. Already on final approach.”
“Have Senior Lieutenant McCormack report to the Captain's office immediately upon landing. And you'd better page Ensign Rhodes as well.” Looking up at Francis, he said, “I think we'd better have a little talk. Kris, you too. Scott, you have the deck. Alert me at once if the situation changes, and start working with Chief Santiago to patch us up.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, turning to him. “Are we going to fight on?”
“Count on it.”
Salazar walked into the office, and looked at the vacant chair sitting behind the desk. Marshall's chair, vacant while its occupant languished in a cell. Francis walked after him, gesturing at the seat.
“Not going to take it?”
“Not yet,” he replied, perching on the edge of the desk. “Not yet.”
Harper walked in, the door closing behind her, and said, “What the hell do we do now?”
“That's a damned good question,” Salazar replied. “I'd guess we'll take at least a day to get back into some sort of fighting trim. Weeks to get back to full operational strength, which means that we're going to have to go back into battle at a disadvantage.”
“Do we?” Harper asked. She looked at Francis, then said, “You're not going to want to hear this, but..”
“We're not leaving the system.”
“If it helps,” Francis added, “We could probably recover Clarke. If we timed it right, we'd have a shot at getting a shuttle down to the surface and back again. Pull him off the planet. After what he did for us, it's the least we can do.” He paused, then added, “I just don't see any realistic way of rescuing the Captain and the others.”
“So we pull out?” Salazar said. “We flee the system, and leave everyone behind to their fate?”
“I would point out that so far,” Francis replied, “we've been betrayed by the very people we're trying to help. Colonel Volkova tried to lure us into a trap, and she damned near succeeded. I don't think we owe them a damn thing.” Raising a hand, he added, “Yes, I know about the people still on the surface, and I very much doubt that they had anything to do with this, but I just don't see that we've got any realistic options here. Alamo is badly damaged, and we've just lost half our fighter strength. The one area of superiority we had is lost.”
The door slid open, and Rhodes walked in, saying, “It's a madhouse out there, sir. I've got most of my people helping out with the damage control. Chief Santiago asked me to call you something that would probably get both of us court-martialed on the spot, and that she expects
to have full engine power back in three to six hours.”
“That's something,” Francis replied. “Pavel, we could make for any hendecaspace point in the system. Repairs to the drive shouldn't take too long, and we can easily give them the slip. Maybe lick our wounds, then come back as soon as we're repaired.”
“We're running?” Rhodes said.
“No, we're not,” Salazar replied. He reached for a control, and said, “Bowman, what's the status of our long-range communications?”
“Not good, sir.”
“Then Clarke must have been using a pretty powerful transmitter. Based on that, do you think that you can reestablish contact?”
“I'll do my best, sir.”
“Sir, I'd like to discuss a hit and run raid on Waldheim…,” Rhodes began.
“Not an option,” Salazar said, looking around the room. “People, the strategic situation hasn't changed. Waldheim must be destroyed. Under Colonel Cruz, it's even more dangerous than ever. We cannot risk leaving the system with that ship intact, no matter what the cost.” He paused, then added, “And that must include the prisoners they hold on board.”
“Captain Marshall? Susan? Val?” Harper replied.
“Under the circumstances, I would expect any of them to treat me in exactly the same way if I was the one captured.” His voice softened, and he added, “We don't even know for certain that they're still alive. Cruz didn't offer any proof.”
“And the hostages?”
Closing his eyes, Salazar replied, “The same.”
“Two hundred and fifty people?” Rhodes asked.
Nodding, Salazar said, “A hundred thousand on the surface, Frank. Sometimes you've got to play the numbers game, as hateful and as distasteful as that might be. Realistically, we don't have a choice. Cruz hasn't left us with one.”
“But…,” Rhodes began.
Slamming his fist on the table, Salazar said, “Damn it all, do any of you think I want to be sitting here giving these orders? How safe do you think the people on the planet will be if we let Waldheim win? Either Cruz will set up her own little slave state, or she'll toss a couple of nukes down there and Cosmograd will glow in the dark for the next hundred years. Nor do I believe for a moment that she would simply release us if we surrendered. That isn't an option.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars Page 12