“Sure,” Rhodes replied, tugging out a communicator, gabbling orders into the speaker.
Clarke stepped forward to the explosion, and Mortimer lumbered out of the smoke towards him, limping on her right leg, a bandage hastily wrapped around a wound. Clarke wiped the back his hand across his forehead, frowning as he saw blood smeared across it.
“It isn't bad,” Mortimer said, moving over to him. “I've seen a lot worse. You'd better have someone take a look at it, though. Head wounds can be nasty.”
“A lot of people need help more urgently,” he replied. “Look at that, Ronnie.”
“Not a bad day's work,” she said. “Bastards should have been out on the field with their men, not hiding from the battle in a bunker. They've bought and paid for everything they got.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “I can't see it that way, somehow.” His hands were shaking, and he continued, “I didn't even think about it. I just charged forward, slammed the explosives into place. Just on instinct, I killed dozens of people.” Horror on his face, he added, “What does that say about me?”
“That you paid attention to your training, and that you did the right thing.” Gesturing at the barracks, she added, “You just liberated about a thousand people, Sub-Lieutenant. You think they have any objections to what happened here this morning?” She paused, then said, “Anything from Alamo yet?”
With a faint smile, he replied, “I haven't even tried since the shuttles came down. Reaching for a communicator, he tapped the control, and said, “Rhodes to Alamo. Rhodes to Alamo. Come in, please. Rhodes to Alamo. Reply at once.”
“Nothing,” Mortimer said, as static roared through the speakers. “All of this could be for nothing if they can't finish the job up there.”
Shrugging, Clarke replied, “All we can do is wait. Come on, let's help clear up the mess.”
Chapter 24
“Final impact,” Pastell reported, looking up at the engineering station. “Late hit. Might have been a misfire. Up near the command deck.” He paused, then said, “Wait one.”
“What?” Marshall asked, turning away from the helm.
“We need to talk to Alamo. Right now. Patch me in.”
Nodding, Marshall snapped a control, and said, “Alamo, do you read?”
“Faint, but I read you,” Salazar replied. “We've got big problems over here.”
“I'm putting Major Pastell on,” Marshall said.
“What?”
“Pastell here. We need to keep this quick. That last shot knocked out the primary command feed to the bridge. I think we can crack into the network and take over control of the ship from here, but I'm going to need intrusion software. Can you send me some of yours?”
“Wait a minute,” Harper said. “Captain, that information is highly classified, and...”
“Lieutenant, this is a direct order, and I'll put it in writing for you when we get home. Send over the software. Right now, we need all the help we can get, and unless anything changes, my watch says that Alamo dies in about eleven minutes. Unless you've got something else planned, get those programs over here on the double.”
“Pastell,” Harper said, “If this is a trick, I will end you myself. Understand?”
“Take a number,” he replied. “I'm setting up a secure access link right now.”
“Pavel,” Marshall asked, “What's the situation over there?”
“Power grid down, main reactor out, communications and sensors fried. I'm talking through a relay fed in from an enemy boarding shuttle. We fought them off before they could get a hold. Heavy casualties, sir, but I don't have any numbers for you yet. Looks like most of the escape pods and shuttles are going to make it, though I don't have any contact with them. We're having enough trouble keeping this line open.”
“Can you be up and running in time for the second combat window?”
“Not a chance, sir.”
“Understood. Do what you can over there, Pavel.”
“Sir,” Salazar said, “You've got time to get to an escape pod. I'll be ordering all hands to evacuate in about seven minutes, unless anything changes. I held back enough craft for the crew to get out.”
“Let's hope it won't be necessary,” Marshall replied. “I'll call you again in a few minutes. Marshall out.” Turning to Pastell, he asked, “What's the story, Major?”
“I'm working on a happy ending for you, but Cruz is trying to force some writer's block. She's got some good people on the bridge, but this intrusion software is pretty damned good.” Fingers rattling on the keys, he added, “I think I'm going to have control in about ninety seconds.”
From the door, the low whine of a laser cutter sounded, and Marshall said, “Not that we'll hold it for long. How much control are we going to get?”
“We can't kill life support, if that's what you're after. When we went into battle, every compartment switched over to its own independent systems. I can't do much more sabotage, either. Anything I can do to the weapons systems, they should be able to undo pretty damn quickly.” Glancing up at the trajectory track, he added, “Best I can do is stop them from doing anything while we have control. If we can hold them off until we're out of the second firing window...”
Marshall looked at the door, a corner already beginning to glow red from the heat, and replied, “Not much chance of that, Major. I doubt that hatch will hold for five minutes, never mind fifteen.” He looked at the pistol in his hand, and said, “Time for a glorious last stand.”
“If that's the best we can do...”
“Keep working.” He turned to the trajectory plot, and said, “I've got an idea.” He brought up the navigation computer, not able to implement any course changes yet, but more than able to plot them. The ship was traveling close to the planet, moving in to take full advantage of the gravity swing. Barely thirty miles clear of the atmosphere. It wouldn't take much to alter her course, bring her down further, take her deep enough that she'd never escape the gravity well.
He ran through a series of quick simulations. Any other course would be too easy to correct. He might buy Alamo a few minutes more, but from what he'd seen on Waldheim's sensors and Salazar's report, it didn't seem as though it was going to be enough. He had to take the battleship out of the picture, and as far as he could see, there was only one way that he could guarantee that.
“How long?” he asked.
“Nearly there. You got a plan?”
“I do.”
Turning to him, Pastell said, “That sounds nice and ominous.”
“Let's just say that we're not going to have to worry about our pension plans.”
Nodding, he replied, “I knew hanging around with you was going to get me killed.”
“It isn't too late for you to change sides.”
With a thin smile, Pastell replied, “I've done a lot of bad things in my life, Captain. A lot of things that I'm not proud of. Maybe it's good that I get a chance to even the score a little.” Looking Marshall in the eyes, he asked, “Will it work?”
“It'll work.”
“Then you have control.”
Marshall's panel winked on, and he moved to implement the course change he'd programmed up, looking up at the trajectory track on the sensors as the ship's engines roared into life, damaged systems forced into one final, glorious act. Pastell worked the engineering console, struggling to keep the power levels balanced, fighting his counterpart on the bridge as he attempted to thwart their work.
It would do no good. For Cruz and her people, they'd run out of luck, and run out of time. Red lights flashed on, warning that the ship was on a dangerous course, that it was in danger of imminent destruction as the ship's trajectory dived deeper and deeper into the atmosphere, Marshall frantically decelerating as fast as the damaged engines could manage, carefully firing the thrusters to keep the course steady.
; “Damn,” Pastell said. “They're trying something. Looks like they've got people working the primary engine feed.” He paused, then added, “Desperation. That area's irradiated. Anyone they send in there is as good as dead.”
“Aren't we all,” Marshall replied. The board died again, engine control broken, but he raised his hands into the air with a smile, “Too late. Even if they managed full thrust, they'll never pull out now.” The engines fired again, one last attempt to raise Waldheim, to increase speed enough to rise back to orbital velocity, but a series of alerts from the outer hull were already warning that the temperature was rising, heading beyond safe limits.
From the door, the whining noise seemed more urgent, the troopers outside determined to break in, to find some way of saving their lives. On their current course, even the toughest escape pod would never survive re-entry, and there were no shuttles left. The first wave of evacuees had taken them all on their bid to reach the surface.
“Alamo to Marshall!” the communicator barked, urgently.
“Marshall here,” he replied, flicking a switch. “Pavel, is our course plot reading as I expected?”
“Heading for catastrophic re-entry in four minutes, sir. You've got to get out now!”
“Not a chance,” he said, surprisingly calm. “We've got a lot of angry people outside who are going to stop us getting to an escape pod, and it wouldn't do us any good if we did.”
“Sir, I can be on a shuttle with a team of volunteers in...”
“You'd never make it, and you know it. I'm not coming back from this one, Pavel.”
“You're still recoverable, sir!”
“No, we're not. Keep Alamo well clear as Waldheim goes in. Make sure that the survivors of this ship are treated according to the rules of war. A lot of them were forced into service. They shouldn't pay for the crimes of their superiors. Will you see to that, Lieutenant?”
“Aye, sir. Perhaps...”
“I don't even have attitude control any more,” he replied. “There's nothing I can do, and there's nothing you can do.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “Take care of Deadeye. Make sure Doctor Strickland does everything he can for her, and see that she gets anything she needs.”
“Aye.”
“Something for me, Lieutenant,” Pastell said. “Tell Sub-Lieutenant Mortimer that I knew all along, that it never mattered, and that there was a ring in my quarters I'd planned on giving her.”
“Sub-Lieutenant...”
“She'll understand.”
“I see. I'll pass on the message. Captain, you've got about three minutes left.”
Looking up at the trajectory track, he added, “That's about what I can read here, as well. Pavel, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't formally name you as my Executive Officer when I had the chance. I guess I've just about got time to fix that, at least.”
“Sir, there's no need...”
“By my personal authority, I'm hereby granting you a field promotion to Lieutenant-Captain. Alamo is your ship now. Make me a promise, Pavel. Get my crew home.”
“Sir...”
“Promise me, Pavel!”
There was a deep sigh, and Salazar replied, “I will, sir. I swear.”
“Thank you, Pavel. Happy hunting.” He reached over, flicked a switch, and sat back in his chair. “Good officer. Good man.”
Glancing at the door, Pastell said, “I don't think we're even going to have three minutes.”
“Probably not. Any regrets, Major?”
“Far too many. But as I said, I needed to even the score, and I think I'm doing that today.” Patting his console, he added, “I've been on this ship for six years. I always figured I'd end up commanding her, one of these days, politics be damned. At least she's going out doing something good.”
“Down there, on the surface,” Marshall said, “They'll see this as a blazing star in the heavens across most of a hemisphere. I just wish I could be there to see it.”
“You and me both,” Pastell replied. He looked down at his console, and said, “They've managed to retake control. Fast work, better than I expected. I trained those boys well.”
“Think any of them might make it out?”
“Probably not.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “Don't worry. I'm pretty sure we got out everyone worth saving. I just hope the people on the surface pay attention to Salazar.”
“They will,” Marshall said, rising from the helm. “They will.” Smoke curled from the door, and he walked over to it, the heat searing into him. He pulled out his pistol, leveling it at the entrance, and added, “We've got visitors coming. I think we'd better prepare to give them the reception they deserve.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Pastell said, moving over to stand by his side, pistol in hand. “How many bullets in your clip?”
“Three. You?”
“Two. I suppose we could always use them on each other.”
“Feel free, if you want.”
With a smile, he replied, “While there's life, there's hope.”
“I think we're a little beyond that this time.”
“Maybe.” Turning to Marshall, he said, “Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“One last chance at redemption. Somehow I never thought I'd get one.”
“My pleasure,” Marshall said. “Any second now. Are you ready?”
“Sure.”
The door burst open, the hardened alloy twisted and mangled by the intense heat, and a group of guards stormed into the room, rifles at the ready. Marshall fired first, a heartbeat before Pastell, his weapon barking three times in rapid succession as he expended the remnants of his ammunition in a desperate spasm of gunfire. Pastell only got his first shot off before catching a bullet in the chest, his hands desperately clutching at the wound as he fell.
That was the last thing Marshall saw, as a trio of bullets lanced into him, the dead men charging into the room getting a final measure of vengeance. He collapsed to his knees, sirens blaring all around, the roar of repeated gunfire echoing across the control center. As the darkness engulfed him, he managed to smile. He'd died for his ship, and he died knowing that he'd won. There were worse ways to go.
“Deadeye,” he muttered, and then spoke no more, the last breath fleeing his body as the light in his eyes faded out.
Chapter 25
Salazar looked at the screen, his eyes locked on the image of Waldheim sliding deeper into the atmosphere. A few escape pods spilled out as she descended, but they simply added to the fireball as the ship fell to its death, a trail of flame burning its way across the face of the planet while he watched. Nobody on the bridge said a word, all of them transfixed by the final death of their commander, their friend.
The lights flickered on, someone down in Engineering working a miracle to get at least some of the emergency power working. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a matter for celebration. Instead, it simply illuminated the gloom. Waldheim dropped lower and lower, finally cracking into fragments, a thousand meteors falling to earth, the last remains of a fierce adversary sliding onto the far side of the planet, harmlessly impacting into the ocean.
“He thought of that,” Salazar whispered. “He even thought of that.”
“Loss of signal, sir,” Bowman said, unnecessarily. “We're getting some of our long-range communications back. Lots of distress signals out there, from both sides.”
“Our fighters are coming around the planet,” Ballard added. “They'll have seen it, sir.” She paused, then said, “They're flying in escort formation with the enemy craft.”
“They must have surrendered,” Francis said, walking over to Salazar. “Orders, sir?”
“Orders?” he replied, dazed.
“Sir, I can't imagine what you are going through right now, but we need to know how to proceed next. The situation on the su
rface will still be extremely volatile, and...”
Nodding, Salazar interrupted, “Try to raise our team on the planet, Bowman. Harper, you and Fitzroy work on a comprehensive damage report.” Turning to Scott, he added, “Kat, you'd better head down to Engineering and find out how things look from down there. Stress to Chief Santiago that I'm going to need all defensive systems back on like as soon as possible.”
“I've got some thrusters back, sir,” Quesada said. “Enough to stabilize us.”
“Do it,” Salazar ordered. “Try to ease us into a parking orbit if you can. Make sure that we're not in any immediate danger of following Waldheim down. We're a little low for my liking.” Looking around the bridge, he said, “We'll mourn later, people. Right now we've still got a potential fight on our hands, and until the enemy forces in this system have surrendered, we are still at battle readiness.”
“Aye, sir,” a relieved Francis said, moving over to the communications station. “Looks confused as hell down there, sir. Lots of communications traffic coming from Cosmograd. None of it directed at us, not yet.”
“Sir,” Ballard said, “I'm detecting point heat sources from the city. Lots of them. I'd say there is a battle in progress down there.” Looking back at him, she added, “Everyone on the planet must have seen Waldheim come in. They'll know that the game has changed, and be ready to take advantage of it.”
“Max, take Tactical,” Salazar said. “See if you can get anything working. Just in case we need to make some sort of demonstration.” With a thin smile on his face, he added, “And not to repeat an old mistake, you can hereby consider yourself Executive Officer.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “I think.” Working the controls, he added, “Nothing's functioning. It's still a dead board. Even the targeting systems are out. There isn't much I can do here.”
“Keep at it,” Salazar said. “Bowman, any progress?”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars Page 21