Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars

by Richard Tongue

   The enemy commander was no fool. He knew that there was little standing between him and the bridge, and that he had to press forward and take the ship, or die. Either here, at the hands of Alamo's defenses, or back on his own ship, Colonel Cruz liable to demonstrate her usual lack of patience for failure. Not a command style that Salazar would endorse, but at this point, effective.

   And for the present, there was nothing he could do about it. His only hope had been to catch the attacking force by surprise, risk an ambush that might give him the time he needed to press home an attack. He'd thrown everything he had at them, and failed. Though he made a mental note to ensure that heavier weapons were placed near the bridge in the future. One assault rifle would have made a huge difference. Something to recall, if he lived through this.

   Behind him, a loud creaking noise came from the elevator, and he turned with a start, surprised that someone had managed to get the mechanism working this quickly. The guards deployed to cover it, weapons at the ready, two of them holding back to guard against their known enemies. Anyone inside the elevator would be dead in a matter of seconds, slaughtered by a fusillade of bullets raining from all directions. The doors slid open, and the gunfire started.

   Before Salazar could utter a word of warning, there was a blinding flash and the roar of an explosion, white-hot metal raining through the air all around them, slicing through the waiting guards and hammering into the wall, smoke rising where they impacted. The fire suppression system instantly snapped on, jets of carbon dioxide pulsing down at the heat sources, and Salazar stepped out to see the slaughter on the deck, the entire attack force wiped out.

   “Santiago to Salazar,” a voice buzzed from the overhead speakers. “Hope you liked my little present. I've managed to get a few critical communications links working again. We've stopped the other boarding party, down on the hangar deck, and Lombardo managed to grab a couple of prisoners. Two casualties down there, none fatal.”

   “Good work, Chief,” Salazar said. “Great work. Now what about sensors?”

   “Give me a chance!” the engineer replied. “Building a bomb in three minutes wasn't easy.”

   “No, but you enjoyed every moment of it,” Harper said, stepping over the mess.

   “There is that. Santiago out.”

   “What about the shuttle?” Bowman said.

   “Of course!” Salazar said, racing towards the airlock, slipping on the mess covering the floor. Harper and Bowman were hard on his heels as he dived into the shuttle, pistol in hand, a trembling figure sitting inside with his hands raised.

   “Don't shoot!” she said. “Please, don't shoot!”

   “Get out into the corridor,” Salazar said. “Bowman, cover her. Kill her if she makes a wrong move. I wouldn't put Cruz past using suicide troops.”

   “No!” the woman yelled. “I don't want to die!”

   “None of us do,” Harper said. “And if you cooperate, you'll live through today.”

   Sliding into the cockpit, Salazar cursed, looking at the ruined screens, and turned to the prisoner, asking, “Did you do this?”

   “No, sir,” she replied. “Matson did, sir, before he left. Said he wanted to burn his boats.”

   “This bird isn't going into the air any time soon,” Harper said, pulling down an inspection panel. “Give me a few minutes. I think I might be able to link the sensors up to the bridge, give us at least one window on the outside world. Bowman, get me a Toolkit Number Three, will you.”

   “On it, ma'am,” he replied, ducking back into the corridor.

   “Anything I can do?” Salazar asked.

   “Go back to the bridge and take command,” she said. “The last time I let you loose on a control panel...”

   “It was only a small electrical fire,” he replied, waving his hands. “I'm on my way.” He exchanged a weary smile with her, then stepped back out into the corridor, eyes wide as he saw the bloody mess on the floor for the first time. He closed his eyes, rubbing his hand against them, and with all the effort he could muster, walked calmly down the corridor to the bridge. He knew that he'd be back in the corridor again when he next slept, and probably off and on again for the rest of his life. One more nightmare to add to his extensive collection. As long as he and the crew lived through this, it would all be worth it.

   “Report,” he said, stepping into the command center.

   “Minimal contact with sickbay, sir,” Scott said, yielding the center seat and moving back to her station. “Casualties coming in, triage overwhelmed. No numbers yet, though. Chief Santiago...”

   “I've already talked to her,” he replied. “Make a note to add the use of elevators as a tactical delivery system to the rule book at some point.”

   Nodding, she said, “We heard the bang out here, sir.”

   Moving to the screen, a flickering starfield on display, he said, “Can you bring up a tactical projection? Based on the last readings we picked up.”

   “Too many guesses, sir,” Scott replied. She reached over to a control, and brought up an image, adding, “The last shot we got, sir, just before the network crashed. Impact should have been two minutes ago. The fighters ought to be on their way home. Assuming we've got anywhere to receive them.”

   “The hangar deck was intact,” Salazar said, contemplating the screen. He felt helpless, knowing that Alamo would almost certainly play no further part in the battle. They'd taken their best shot, for better or for worse, and there was nothing more they could do, not without extensive repairs.

   “Wait one,” Scott said. “Here we go! I've got a sensor feed from the shuttle!”

   The screen flickered, updating to reveal the universe outside, an image that briefly brought joy to Salazar's face. Waldheim was in the same condition as Alamo, listing to the side, a halo of debris surrounding her. Beyond, escape pods were fleeing in all directions, racing to escape to the safety of the planet, a convoy of shuttles leading the way.

   “Fighters?” he asked.

   “They'd be behind the planet now,” Scott said. “Along with the enemy squadron. I'm reading thirteen impacts on the enemy hull, serious damage.” Her smile fell to a frown, and she replied, “They've still got power, and they've still got attitude control. And I'm reading four intact missile tubes.”

   Sitting down in his command chair, Salazar replied, “Are you sure?”

   “I'm afraid so, Pavel.” Turning to face him, she said, “My best guess has an intercept in twelve minutes, and they'll have five minutes in the firing line. More than enough time to wipe us off the map, even with only four missiles still working.” Gesturing at her panel, she added, “I've got a dead board here. There's nothing I can do.”

   “Fitzroy?” Salazar asked.

   “Nothing, sir,” the engineer replied. “We'll never be ready in time. If you could give us forty minutes, I think we'll have the defensive systems back up.”

   “Not a chance,” Scott replied. “It was a nice try, Pavel. A damned nice try.”

   “That it was,” Salazar said. “It just wasn't good enough.”

  Chapter 23

   Clarke, now wearing protective armor and with a captured plasma rifle in his hands, led the lead team through the forest. Fifty troopers followed him, a mix of rebels led by Webster and Espatiers led by Rhodes, fanning out through the undergrowth. Periodically, a ball of flame would leap forward, one of the stragglers from the enemy force ahead carelessly exposing himself to weapons fire.

   The column was as stealthy as a charging elephant, and about as powerful, driving forward at speed in a bid to catch the enemy before they could organize. Gradually, the forest started to thin out, the river curling away as they approached the repaired laser barrier. The smell of smoke from last night's attack still hung in the air, hours later, and they could hear the sound of troops moving into position up ahead, digging themselves in for the battle.

   “Rhodes to al
l units,” came the familiar voice through his earphone. “We'll have reinforcements coming in from Cosmograd. Still no word from Alamo, so we don't know what the situation is up in orbit. We only know that we've got to hit the bastards fast and hard, or we won't have a chance. Don't let them organize, don't let them regroup. Smash them. Webster, I want your people on the perimeter, giving covering fire to the rest of us. Fox, you move up with Clarke and his team, and go right for the gut, the command post. Maybe if we can take the king we'll win the game.”

   “This ain't chess, sir,” Fox replied.

   “Wouldn't know. Never played it,” Rhodes said. “Poker's more my game. Second and Third Squad, move to the prisoner barracks and make sure nobody decides to take hostages. Keep them inside until all this is over. They're a lot safer under cover and I don't want friendly fire. Got that?”

   “Understood,” Clarke said, glancing to the side as Sergeant Fox moved up, adding her fire team to his. Blake and Mortimer were each on the flanks, slightly ahead of the rest of the formation, watching for the ambush they all feared.

   “Just like old times, sir,” Fox said, clapping Clarke on the shoulder. “Should have known it would take something pretty special to bring you down.”

   “Let's just hope they don't have any surprises today. You got the layout?”

   Nodding, she said, “Right down the middle.” Turning to her Lance-Corporal, she said, “Duffy, you follow up with your team, twenty meters behind. We can leapfrog if we have to, but otherwise, concentrate on the flanks. Shoot everything that moves. We'll be right in the heart of the enemy out there, and we can't afford any risks.”

   “Got you, Sarge,” he replied. “We're ready.”

   “Perimeter coming up,” Blake said. Clarke glanced ahead, the goggles giving him a clear view of the defenses. They'd done a good, if unimaginative job, digging in a series of trenches and throwing barricades up to funnel them into a killing zone. Against local troops, it would have been more than enough, but with the liberal distribution of plasma weapons, every man in the attack force was his own portable artillery.

   “On three,” Fox said. “Go!”

   Three balls of plasma fire raced towards the perimeter fence, erupting in columns of flame and smoke as the attack began, the troopers charging for the enemy defenses. All around, explosions rippled as the enemy mortars pounded the ground, struggling to get the range as the soldiers attacked. Under artillery fire, the safest place to be was close-in to the enemy, and they all knew it.

   Almost before he realized it, Clarke was over the perimeter, a raking burst of machine gun fire sweeping over his head. He turned to respond, but someone had already dealt with the emplacement for him, a green bolt rushing over the troops within. Mortimer waved her gun into the air with a smile, then charged forward, taking the lead, two soldiers following.

   The defensive line had held for less than a minute. Bodies littered the trenches, the stink of cordite and ozone reeking in the air as Clarke sped forward, gesturing for one of the troops following him to deal with the mortar crews, still steadfastly maintaining their bombardment even to the last.

   “This way!” he yelled, charging towards the burned-out ruins of the drone complex. He could see the tangled, twisted pylons of the alien city looming overhead, dominating the sky, dozens of meters tall. Strange sentinels watching the battle raging all around them, one final piece of history for this ancient site.

   Up ahead, he could see the command bunker, a squat structure made of heavy plasticrete, designed to withstand even the heaviest bombardment. A hopeful plasma bolt smashed into it, sending chunks of rubble flying through the air, but it hardly made a dent, only a black burn evidence of the attack.

   “Explosives!” Fox yelled, gesturing at Duffy. He nodded, racing forward, then tripped on a hidden wire, sprawling to the ground, his body engulfed in flame from a hidden mine. Blake sprinted towards him, Clarke a heartbeat behind, while Fox and her team quickly formed a defensive perimeter. All around, enemy troops were converging on them, hoping to cut them off from the rest of the attacking forces, now far behind.

   “He's bad,” Blake said. “But he's alive. If we can get him to a hospital quickly we can save him.” Looking up at Fox, she added, “We've got to get him out of here.”

   “Sumner, take him back to the forest,” Fox said. “Anyone want to play with explosives?”

   “Give them to me,” Clarke said.

   “You've had demolitions training?” she asked.

   “As long as you have no follow-up questions, yes.” Another explosion smashed into the ground beside them, and he said, “Come on, that's an order!”

   Nodding, she gently tugged the wounded man's backpack free, swinging it across to him by the strap, and Clarke charged towards the bunker, eyes down on the ground, watching for any other hidden menaces. Mortimer chased after him, Fox and the others fanning all around, hurling bolts of plasma fire in all directions to pin down the enemy forces.

   “Clarke, where are you?” Rhodes asked.

   “Command bunker,” he replied, slamming into the wall.

   “We're pinned by the second barracks. Going to take time to punch our way through. You've got at least a company inbound.” He paused, then said, “Pull back. We'll have to try again.”

   “Like Hell!” Clarke said, moving around the perimeter. “Ensign, in about three minutes, you'll see the biggest damn explosion you ever saw.”

   With a faint chuckle, Rhodes replied, “Watch yourself, kid. Don't get too cocky.”

   “Cocky?” Clarke said as a bullet slammed into the wall, missing his head by inches. “I just want to get out of this nightmare. Blowing this bastard is the fastest way. Try and draw some of the bad guys your way.” He reached the reinforced door, five layers of tough alloy, and tore open the backpack to get at the explosives within.

   When he'd told Fox he'd been trained, he was technically correct. A three hour lecture back at the Intelligence School at Syrtis Major, followed by an afternoon on the range watching a gnarled old Corporal with far too many bionic parts making bigger and bigger explosions. The intention had been more to familiarize him with the capabilities of Triplanetary field charges, not their use. Finesse was going to be out of the question today.

   Slamming the entire contents of the backpack onto the hatch, guessing where the optimum positions were, he jammed the detonator into position, feeding the wires into the position charges, while bullets crashed into the wall around him. He could feel the heat of a plasma bolt flying overhead, washing over the armor, sweat building up on his neck as he worked.

   Finally, he looked at the detonator controls, his mind a momentary blank. He'd watched this being done, had read the manuals, but all of that training seemed to evaporate under the heat of battle. After a wasted minute, he stabbed the controls, and a countdown clock snapped into life, working down from thirty seconds. Not wasting any time, he raced into the battlefield, sprinting for the nearest cover.

   “Hey, what about the rest of the explosives?” Fox yelled.

   “Rest?” Clarke asked. “I used them all!”

   “Good God!” she replied. “Pull back! Right now!”

   The squad raced into the distance, heedless of the bullets still flying through the air all around them. He glanced to the right, saw two of his men lying on the ground, one of them still twitching, and raced over to the wounded figure, quickly throwing him over his shoulder. The casualty groaned, his face a mass of pain, but the man was still alive. Only seconds remained, and he tumbled into a foxhole, already occupied by a stunned enemy trooper, who turned his pistol towards the helpless Clarke, tangled up with the man he had hoped to save.

   Before the trooper could fire, the detonator ticked away the final second.

   The explosion echoed like a thunderclap, overwhelming the noise of battle, and the blinding flash of light sent tears to his eyes, the afterimage lingering as he
blinked. Debris rained down all around them, a chunk of plasticrete slamming into the man with the pistol, knocking him cold. Flame and smoke raced into the sky, a column of choking fumes that washed across the camp, carrying burning shrapnel with it.

   Only the sound of flickering flames continued, and Clarke stepped out of the foxhole, looking at the nightmarish inferno he had created, silence dominating the field. All around, troops moved out of their defenses, hands raised, their stomach for the fight destroyed by that one titanic explosion. A medic ran forward, taking care of the wounded pair in the foxhole, and Fox moved over to the young officer's side.

   “I thought you'd had demolitions training?” she said.

   “Five hours in total.”

   Turning to him, eyes wide, she said, “That's meant to be a three month course.”

   With a shrug, still looking at the inferno, he replied, “I'll get round to it eventually.”

   “Remind me not be on the same planet when you do.”

   Blake looked up from the foxhole, and said, “They'll live, both of them. We've got to get some medical support down here as fast as we can. There are a couple of dozen people who won't make it through the next couple of hours unless we can get them to a hospital.”

   Rhodes raced over, clapped Clarke on the back, and said, “It's all over, you beautiful bastard! That blast of yours knocked out most of their command network in one shot. Most of the troops on the perimeter were just ordinary crewmen, and they can't surrender fast enough.”

   “Is the base medical facility intact?” Blake asked.

   “Over that way,” Rhodes replied.

   “Then I need all of your men at once to help me move the wounded, and someone needs to find anyone with medical training and get them over there right away.” The officer paused for a moment, and she barked, “Now!”