"You heard him," Clark said, grabbing her arm. "Let's get out of here. They'll all be after us now!"
The pair of them sprinted down back streets and alleys, weaving in and out of buildings. They hadn't made it fifty meters before a loud siren started to sound, its wail echoing off the walls, and Clark redoubled his pace, ducking behind a large stack of chopped wood in a yard. Caine slid on the muddy ground behind him, panting.
"How far?"
"Look." He pointed at a group of uniformed men running down the road towards the warehouse, all of them with rifles at the ready. A man emerged from the front, then tried to turn back in; a series of bullets caught him in the back, sending him collapsing to the ground, and the legionnaires charged forward. Clark waited until they were past them, then rose, running further down the road, Caine following him. Gunfire and explosions drowned out the whine of the siren, the minutemen giving their lives well at the last.
The guide gestured towards a ladder on the side of a tower and began to scale it, taking it two rungs at a time, hugging low to the side. At the top was a huge tank, surrounded by a latticework fence; he was up and relaxed on crossed legs long before Caine staggered to the top, collapsing in a pool of sweat to the ground.
"Will they follow us?"
"Too busy. Look." Clark pointed to a column of smoke rising from the warehouse; a couple of bucket brigades were forming in a probably futile attempt to douse the blaze. A survivor of the battle was dragged out of the burning building and thrown to the ground, where a trio of legionnaires shot him in the street.
"Damn."
"They're the ones who decided to be stupid, Lieutenant, not you. At least Uncle Ray died well, a gun in his hand. That's what he would have wanted."
"He was your uncle?"
"Uh-huh." Clark paused. "You still going ahead with it?"
"After this? There's already been too much blood spilled to go back now, kid."
"To hell with the Minutemen. I can get you ten armed fighters, if you want them."
"Armed?"
"I know where they keep their guns. We'll be armed, and know how to use them. Not all of us are willing to sit around and talk. Some of us are still ready to fight."
"Good." She clapped him on the shoulder.
He frowned, "They were right about one thing, though; it's going to be a hell of a journey."
"I'm sure the Tatars will lend us a boat and a crew," she replied, panting. "After that it's just the desert and the mountains."
Clark looked down at the street below. "Once things calm down a little more, we'll sneak down and I'll get you to Orlov's. I'll be back with my gang just before dawn."
"Fine, Sergeant."
"What?"
"Nothing."
She looked out over the devastation her arrival on Jefferson had already caused, shaking her head. That tower of smoke was probably visible from Alamo's sensors. Looking up at the stars, for once visible, she saw the twinkling of the orbital defense platforms hanging in the sky, and shook her head. She had the distinct impression that she had the easy job.
Chapter 18
Leaning forward in his command chair, Marshall eagerly watched the small shuttle dive towards the planet. Quinn was sitting at the guidance control station; he'd insisted on piloting the shuttle in himself. It had actually taken a direct order to stop him trying to ride the shuttle down; he and his crew had worked around the clock to make every modification they could think of, and he and Mulenga had spent hours trying to work out a course to take it past the fewest number of satellites. Dixon was on the bridge, looking over his shoulder.
Everyone was on tenterhooks, waiting for a response from the satellites. He knew that Dietz was hoping that they might improvise some sort of a rescue, instead of having to send the espatiers down to the planet; Marshall was still set on the idea of knocking out the satellites once and for all. It wasn't that he didn't trust the engineering crews, they'd worked miracles in the past, but somehow, he didn't think it could be this easy.
"Shuttle engines off, Captain. Now on free-descent trajectory," Quinn said, quickly turning his head.
"No activity from the satellites yet, sir," Yorkina reported from the sensor station.
"No communications from the planet, Captain," Ortega said from communications.
Marshall said nothing, his eyes – like those of everyone on the bridge – locked on the blip of the shuttle heading towards the satellites. A red line marked the distance at which the previous shuttle was hit, and a countdown ticked down the seconds. He held his breath as the countdown headed towards zero; four seconds. Two seconds. One. Zero. Plus One. Marshall stood up, making his way over to the guidance control station.
"Good work, Mr. Quinn."
The engineer looked up, a smile spread all over his face. Marshall turned to Dietz, "I think..."
"Energy spike from the satellites!" Yorkina said. "Aspect change on satellites two and three."
His face dropping into a frown, Marshall quietly made his way back to his chair, watching with horrible inevitability the particle beams on the satellites lock into place. Quinn desperately punched buttons and worked controls, trying every evasive maneuver he could think of and a few that seemed to defy rational thought, but it was to no avail. With two quick flashes, the shuttle's telemetry went dead, and the scanner blinked to reveal a clump of debris heading towards the planet.
Quinn smashed his hand against the console, "Dammit!" He turned to Marshall, "Sir, with your permission, I'll go below and start modifying Transit Three. If we..."
"No. We're down to one orbital shuttle, and I'm not going to throw them away. At best it would simply give us a lead, anyway; we'd need to modify one of the landing shuttles."
"Sir, Raven Flight will launch and try and take out one of the shuttles. If we could blow a hole in the pattern, the landing shuttles could fly through," Dixon said.
Cunningham shook his head from the tactical station, "You'd lose every fighter in your flight before you even got close, Lieutenant. And you'd have to take down three of those satellites to give us a clear path. Not an option."
"Captain," Dixon appealed, but Marshall shook his head.
"Mr. Cunningham is quite right. We're going to need another way through, people. Three and a half days remain for you to find it."
Nodding, Quinn rose from the guidance station, Varlamov sliding in to take his place, and made his way off the bridge, already poking at a datapad. Marshall looked around at the demoralized bridge crew, debated whether or not he should say anything, but realized that he had no idea what he could tell them.
"Kibaki, you have the conn," he told the watch officer, standing at the back of the room.
"Aye, sir." The gray-haired officer walked over, taking the command chair.
Marshall walked into his office, shaking his head as the doors slid shut behind him. His usual method of relaxing, looking out at the stars, was denied to him while they were floating inside the spacedock. Bare rock punctuated by the occasional glint of metal simply didn't have the same effect. At least they'd soon have finished refueling, and could return to space again. One slight comfort for him. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled out the draft plans for the assault mission; at least those were in reasonably good order, even if the first part of the mission plan currently amounted to 'we'll think of something'.
The whole platoon of espatiers would be thrown down at the planet, taking the landing strip and assaulting from there, linking up with whatever forces Caine had managed to scavenge from the local population. There was a distinct lack of abort options if that assault had failed; hopefully there would be a large explosion indicating that it would be safe to send the troops in, and he smiled at the thought.
Without warning, his reverie was interrupted by the door sliding open, and Cunningham walked in, hesitantly. "Mind if I have a word, Captain?"
He shook his head, "Pull up a chair. Did you ever have anything like this when you were my boss, John?"
"Gods, yes." He leaned forward. "Danny, we've all been through this. Remember that flight from 4th Squadron that time, those three hot-heads who managed to run themselves out of fuel? When the UN grabbed them, it was two months before we knew whether or not they were alive or dead. I seem to remember a Third Lieutenant advocating a rescue mission."
Chuckling, Marshall replied, "It wasn't just me; those marines were bored to death on the Wright. I think they just wanted an excuse to put their armor on and shoot something."
"I refused to sanction it. Made that clear to Tramiel."
"Quite right; it was a stupid plan and would have got people killed."
Cunningham paused for a few seconds before replying, "Danny, this is the same situation. Think about what you're doing – and never mind Dietz, I think he's got to a point where he realizes it's impossible to talk you out of something when you've set your mind to it."
"You're still optimistic enough to have a go, though?"
"I'm hoping you're smart enough to see sense. There's one dead on the planet's surface, and three trapped down there. Danny, they are not dead, and though one of them is wounded, she will recover."
"We won't leave anyone behind."
"They'll be fine and free. Unless they get themselves shot up on a fool's errand. You're asking two officers – neither of which has formal ground forces training..."
"Orlova's seen more action on the ground than she has in space," Marshall interrupted.
Pressing his point, Cunningham continued, "...to launch an attack on a heavily defended anti-aircraft installation. Then hold it for long enough for you to throw a platoon of unsupported espatiers into a situation where they will be outnumbered four or five to one by people who know the ground a lot better than they do."
"They've faced worse odds and won."
"Danny, the risk is too great. We don't need to fight this battle. You could be throwing away thirty lives in an attempt to save three."
"Skipping over the tactical and strategic goals, I'm not leaving them behind." Before Cunningham could protest, he continued, "The Combined Chiefs will see this the same way you do. The three crewmen are fine, so they can wait. A study group might come out here in a few months – or years – to look at the satellites, but we're so far beyond explored space now that it would require a major operation to pull off. They won't spend the money or the time." He shook his head, his eyes cold, "I'm not abandoning them."
"Danny..."," Cunningham's reply was interrupted by a chime from the door. Marshall tapped to open it, and Midshipman Zabek – who looked somewhat more disheveled than usual – walked in, saluting the two officers.
"What is it, Midshipman?" Marshall asked.
She looked nervously at the two of them, "The rescue mission that's being planned, sir."
"Yes?"
"I'd like to volunteer as a shuttle pilot." She held out a datapad, her personnel record displayed on it, "I'm fully qualified on that model of craft."
Marshall looked at Cunningham, who replied, "Midshipman, that's a matter for Technical Officer Salgada, who will undoubtedly prefer to use her own pilots. Your place is at the guidance control station."
"Sir, I..."
"Speak up, Midshipman," Marshall said.
"I've got to go, Captain. I just have to do this. I can't explain why."
"Can't, or won't?" Cunningham said. "We're professionals, Zabek." Looking up at Marshall, he continued, "Personal feelings can have no input in what we do here."
Taking a deep breath, Zabek said, "I'm fully qualified to fly the mission, sir, and I want to go. It'll be a volunteer-only mission anyway, and I thought I'd get in first." Her words were coming out in a rush. "I can do this, I want to do this, and I need to do this. And the fact that I have a personal stake in this only makes me more determined to succeed, sir," she said to Cunningham.
Marshall smiled, shaking his head. He looked down at Cunningham, who imperceptibly nodded, then up at Zabek, "You'll fly Shuttle Three on the rescue mission. I'll inform Salgada of the change."
She threw a perfect salute, a smile beaming across her face, "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"I know." He paused, "Go and see if you can help Mr. Quinn. Dismissed, Midshipman."
"Sir." As she left the room, Cunningham looked up at Marshall.
"I'd have probably done the same thing."
"You did. More than once. Nothing better than a willing volunteer."
"I'll give you this, Danny. There won't be a soul on Alamo who won't volunteer for the assault." Half-laughing, he continued, "Including me, as it happens."
"I need you at Tactical. I'll make a deal – I'll stay on board if you do."
"I half-expected you to want to lead the attack yourself." His face grew more serious, "Assuming we have one at all, that is."
Marshall smiled, replying, "Quinn's the best engineer in the fleet. If anyone can dream up a way of getting through the defense grid, he will."
"There we agree." He stood up, turning to leave the room. "If I was out of line..."
"John, talks like this are the whole reason why I wanted you on board after Desdemona." He paused, "If it truly looks hopeless, then I'll find a way to tell them on the ground. Even if we have to spell out 'abort' with missile explosions. Then I'll turn back to Hunter."
"I'll remind you of that in four days." He looked at the door, "I'd better go and see if I can help Quinn make his miracle."
As the door closed behind him, Marshall pulled open the bottom draw of his desk, taking out a bottle and a glass. The first one he took out was part-full; Caine had been drinking with him a week ago, called away on some emergency or another. He briefly contemplated finishing it, but instead put it on top of the desk, clamping the lid shut. He poured himself a fresh glass, stood up, and looked at his father's picture on the wall, raising it in toast.
"To leaving no man behind, Dad. Once I get his out of the way, I'm going to keep looking for you as well."
He drained the harsh liquid in a swig, gagging slightly at the taste; for about the tenth time he regretted not having time to lay in anything decent at Ragnarok before they'd shipped out in a hurry. He sat down at his desk again, pulling up the topographical map Mulenga's team had completed, showing the layout of the area. The cloud cover was thick enough that any attempt to track Caine's party visually was out of the question, but he could work out roughly where they had to go. Jungles, deserts and mountains; it was asking a lot. He looked up at the half-empty glass on the table, and shook his head; somehow Caine and Orlova would find a way to pull it off. All he had to do was come up with something to match it.
Chapter 19
Water lapped around the boat as it purred its way up the river, the two Tatars – Orlova now knew them as Marat and Rustem – carefully navigating around rocks and obstacles in the river. Most of Clark's boys – an accurate way of putting it, as they were mostly younger than he was – were resting down in the hold, but he was sitting at the rear of the boat, silently sharpening his knife. Caine was likewise below, getting some rest; they had agreed between themselves that one of them should be awake at all times while they were heading up-river. The rain still splashed down; she was lying underneath a bench to get some shelter, pulling her newly-acquired coat around her to keep warm, looking up at the dull overcast day, and across at the deep jungle on the shore.
She looked over at Elvira, lying on the other side of the deck; she wasn't sure how to take her. While see seemed nice enough – not that they spoke the same language – and she was obviously making her father happy, it was strange to imagine him with a woman other than her mother. Eleven years was a long time, though; she tried to imagine how she would act if she was stuck on a single planet for that long. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
Switching to the immediate future, she began to ponder a plan. Twelve of them to take that base; an installation that none of them had ever seen, not even from orbit. At best they had a rough idea of what they were looking for, but hopefully it w
ouldn't be too difficult to find. In the back of her mind, she became aware that the noise of the engine had subtly changed. Sitting up, she moved around to the front of the boat, listening to a new noise coming from upstream – another engine. Her father had taught her a few words of Tatar, a rather combat-limited vocabulary, but enough for her to at least find out how they were doing.
Rustem looked over at her, his face fixed in a frown, "Enemy ahead. We hide."
Nodding, Orlova quickly gestured at Clark to take cover. He looked around for a second, as if contemplating staying to fight it out, but ducked down behind the side of the boat. She pulled a stinking hide on top of her, gagging at the smell, her view of the outside world now limited to a small patch of sunlight. As for those sleeping in the hold, she decided it was best to leave them there, hidden well enough; that engine was getting louder and louder, enough that she didn't want to risk emerging. Her fist tightened on her pistol, nestled in her hand, almost the only bit of Alamo equipment they still had.
The noise grew louder and louder, and the boat almost seemed to be shaking. Mentally, she pictured the Legion patrol drifting past, maybe with a few thrown insults as they went upon their way, but then her greater fears came true. The engines stopped, just as the noise was building to its loudest crescendo yet. Shouts in two different languages were passed back and forth; she recognized them now as French and Tatar, but infuriatingly had no idea what they were saying. Judging by the increasingly harsh tone, it didn't seem to be going well, and when a gunshot cracked overhead, it was almost a relief.
Acting on instinct, she tossed the hide away, pulled out her gun, and took a shot at the first target she could see – a guard holding a rifle, who had obviously fired a warning shot. She didn't believe in them; the guard dropped down to the deck, clutching a red wound in his chest. She took a second to look at the situation; the Legion boat was twice as big as theirs, and armed with a pair of machine guns, fore and aft, both of them turning on the Tatar boat. Clark didn't wait to look at the situation, firing a couple of bursts at the enemy's bridge, sending shards of glass shattering onto the deck, punctuated by screams.
Victory or Death Page 15