Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty (12 page)

Chapter 9

The bridge lighting was dimmed, everyone's eyes focused on the viewscreen, waiting for realspace to appear once again. Marshall had ordered the battle station alarms turned off; no-one on the bridge needed any reminder of what was at stake. Caine was the only one speaking as she issued instructions to the gunnery crews below decks; Zakharova was once again sitting at the Watch Officer's station. Gamma Watch had come on shift a little early, half an hour ago – Marshall had wanted to have fresh crews at their stations in the event of a battle.

The watch officer, Sub-Lieutenant Ryder, hovered near the duty sensor technician; he vaguely remembered her as one of his students during his year at the Academy. A former Patrolman, Sub-Lieutenant Volkov, sat at Guidance, hands perched over the controls. He turned to see Quinn sitting at the Flight Engineer's station, the displaced crewman standing over him, pecking at buttons. A stabbing pain kept on shattering through his side; he'd insisted the doctor only provide the minimum level of pain relief. Too many drugs would have dulled his reflexes.

"Emergence in ten seconds," Mulenga's voice echoed from the loudspeaker; the astrogator had chosen to wait in the sensor suite in the lower decks to supervise the technicians. "Three seconds."

The viewscreen flicked on to see a familiar starfield; this close to Sol the stars weren't that far out of alignment, though the constellations looked rather odd. Everyone on the bridge held their breath as the tactical hologram popped up, the planets and moons in the courses already programmed into the computer, an expending red sphere indicating the area covered by their sensor scans. Five seconds, six seconds. When the alert siren sounded, it was almost a relief.

"Threat warning, Captain!" Ryder yelled. "One ship, frigate class, convergent course, energy spikes!"

"Ortega," Marshall addressed the communications technician, "warn that ship off, indicate that we are not here to open hostilities but will return fire. Caine, warm up our weapons systems, defensive systems hot, and get our radiators deployed."

"Already in works, skipper," Caine replied, while Ortega murmured into her microphone. A long black fan began to extend from the crew ring, stretching a quarter-mile into space as the laser began to power up.

Zakharova leaned over to Marshall, "We should attack now."

"We don't know it was them. We don't know who they are. You want to start a war?"

"Christ, energy spike!" Ryder turned to the viewscreen. "Missiles incoming, impact in thirty seconds!"

"Caine, countermeasures NOW! Volkov, execute evasive course."

Caine started jabbing buttons at her station, Volkov sat staring at the screen.

"Volkov, evasive course!" yelled Marshall. "Now, damn it!"

The young sub-lieutenant sat at his station, his eyes widening; Marshall was a heartbeat away from leaping forward to his station when he saw that Quinn had beaten him to it, tossing the frozen officer out of his chair and quickly manipulating controls.

"Executing random walk, Captain."

"Countermeasures deployed. Two missiles arcing away, another still heading for us," Caine reported.

Zakharova turned to face the tactical station. "Fire missile, course reverse parallel to the incoming track, safeties on."

"What?" Caine turned in her chair.

"Do it!" Marshall yelled. The missile leapt from its launch bay, rushing towards the incoming missile. The tracks briefly converged, then the enemy missile shifted direction, curving around for a second, its sensors confused by the proximity of the enemy missile. Caine stabbed down another series of jamming pulses, and the missile arced dead in space.

"Status of laser?" Marshall asked.

"Armed and ready, sir," Caine replied.

"Fire at will, laser and missiles. Mr. Quinn, continue evasive course."

Quinn looked down at his station, his face a mask of intense concentration as Ryder moved over to him. "Tactical, I'm giving you a firing window in one-five seconds. Coming around." The engineer gently ran his finger across a button on his console. "All hands, brace for variable-gravity acceleration."

Marshall looked intently at the viewscreen as the ship rocked, a salvo of missiles fired out of the ship's launch tubes. As Alamo rocked back and forth in space, her nose was pointed at the enemy target for a brief second, long enough for a lance of laser light to dance from the beam emitters to the enemy frigate. He felt slightly queasy and reached into his pocket for a tablet, cursing himself for not taking one earlier.

"Hit, sir! Abaft, I think I got one of her missile bays. Her countermeasures are still up, our missiles going wild." Caine looked down at her console, "Incoming salvo, deploying countermeasures."

Looking back at the captain, Quinn calmly asked, "Mind if I crank up the engines? We could use the acceleration."

"By all means, Lieutenant." Marshall looked at Volkov, sitting on the deck, as the officer began to jerk into life. He rose, rubbing his elbows, and headed back to the Guidance station as if to take over, ignored by the intent Quinn. Marshall shook his head, "Mr. Volkov, get below and report to the sickbay."

"Sir," Volkov began, only to be cut off by Marshall as the acceleration started to build, pushing the crew back into their seats.

"Go." He looked over at Ortega, "Any response to our messages?"

As Volkov left the bridge, the technician shook her head, "Negative, Captain. I've rotated frequencies and tried all spacefaring languages to be on the safe side."

"Keep trying." He looked at the incoming missile tracks. "Deadeye, some of those a looking a bit close..."

"Bastards have image lock now, most of our countermeasures are out. Quinn?" Caine asked.

"Haven't got the speed yet, still building," he replied.

"Fire off another salvo," Marshall said, "as soon as we have image lock." He tapped a button on his chair, "All decks, brace for impact." The missile tracks arced closer and closer despite the ship's constantly changing course. A rattling sound indicated that their second salvo had gotten away, beginning its steady progression to the closing target.

"Got an idea. Hold on!" Quinn yelled as he threw the ship into a hard turn with only seconds to go before impact, briefly flaring the drive up beyond safety limits, warnings sounding from the engineering console as indicators shot off the scale. The missile tracks winked out as the ship continued spinning around.

"Main engine system failure. Engineering reports under repair," the engineering technician reported.

"What the hell did you do, Quinn?" asked Zakharova.

"Flared the main drive at the missiles when they were on terminal track. They couldn't take the heat load. Of course I had to wait until they got close. Shouldn't take long to get the engines working again, and I still have thruster control. Tactical, want another laser shot?"

"I do indeed, Mr. Quinn," Caine replied. "You have the call."

Marshall tightly gripped the arms of his chair as he watched the tactical display, saw the enemy frigate still closing. It must have been waiting for them on picket duty; it still wasn't building up any speed advantage, though that would soon change with the main engine out.

No time for tactical plans in this battle – it was a matter of two ships toe to toe, the prize going to the ship with the sharpest crews. An estimated time for engine repair flashed onto his console; ten minutes. By that time the battle would likely have been decided either way.

"A hit, sir! Missile got him, upper hull. Coming up for the laser, now!" A beam of light danced between the ships on the tactical track, and Caine flashed a hunter's smile. "Got him again, sensor section."

"Sensors, does the warbook have an identification on the craft yet?"

The sensor technician shook her head. "Doesn't match any current warship configuration, sir."

"Check historical files, someone could be using an old design," Zakharova said. "Looks like it's turning tail."

The enemy ship had turned over, its drive flaring to full, heading directly for Gatewood. Caine unleashed another salvo of missiles as a parting gift, tracking out as the vessel burned away. Marshall looked down at the repair estimate, shaking his head, then waited for the
enemy
ship to get well out of combat range. Once it passed the million-mile mark, he tapped a button.

"Enemy in retreat; all decks, stand down battle stations." The lights changed again, and the bridge crew visibly relaxed in their seats as they switched from combat mode to damage control. Quinn yielded the Guidance station to Ryder, who moved into the chair with an easy familiarity as she switched the settings to her own personal mode. Marshall looked at the engineer.

"Lieutenant, where the hell did you learn to fly like that?"

"During the war, sir. I served as helmsman on the Gilgamesh for a couple of years."

Marshall looked across at Zakharova, then back at the engineer. "I thought you were twenty-six?"

"That's right, skipper."

"You'd have been about sixteen."

He nodded, "Yes, sir. Bit late by the time they'd found that out. I went back to school after the war. I should get below and try and speed up the repair crews, Captain."

"Run along, Mr. Quinn." The engineer sidled into the elevator. Marshall rose from his seat and headed over to Caine, looking down across the tactical station while Zakharova took damage reports.

"Assessment?"

"If they'd been laser-armed, we'd have been sunk. I'll get a team out to grab some missile components – at least those that Mr. Quinn didn't melt down to slag – and try and work out what they're using."

"They were pretty quick off the mark."

Caine looked across at the sensor station, "And there was one at each exit point. The other's shaping towards Gatewood."

"I presume you're thinking what I am?"

"That they have a base on the far side of the gas giant from us, and after some fancy aerobraking we won't have any idea where to look for them?"

Marshall nodded, and made his way back to his chair, pulling out his communicator, "Medical, give me a casualty report."

"Six so far, none serious. All of them zigged when the ship zagged. I'll get you a better report when I can."

"Thanks, Doc."

"Lieutenant Zakharova, ship status?"

She frowned as she continued to scan reports, "Mr. Quinn's enthusiastic maneuvering aside, we experienced no impacts. Some minor damage related to equipment stresses, nothing serious. We'll be back up to full combat readiness in a matter of minutes."

"Excellent," Marshall replied. He walked back over to the tactical hologram and waved his hands over the display of Ragnarok. Clearly visible were half a dozen small objects with orbits traced around the moon, orbits that seemed designed to nicely cover the whole planet.

"Sensors, what are those satellites over Ragnarok?"

The technician looked down a series of panels, "I'd guess combined met/comsats. Database makes them as similar to the ones deployed over Titan."

"Any EM activity from the moon?"

"No transmissions or sensors I can detect."

Caine looked over, "That doesn't mean anything, Spaceman. They could be using tight-beam transmissions and switched to passive sensors when we arrived in-system."

"Anything else in the system, sensors?"

The operator frowned for a moment, "Some evidence of work in the outermost moons of Gatewood. I'm picking up a couple of small ships, prospectors I think, and there are a couple of pin-point heat sources that are likely dome structures for mining installations. Nothing major, though; I've seen bigger operations on single asteroids back home, not set up throughout a system."

"Your assessment?"

"Sir?"

"What do you think, spaceman?"

There was a pause for a second while the operator looked over his instruments again, "I'd say this is a recently-launched operation. No abandoned installations, no warning beacons, nothing like that. Maybe only a few months old."

Marshall nodded, then turned back to the watch officer. "Ms. Ryder, as soon as main engines are on-line, plot a course to Ragnarok that puts us in an orbit that intersects those satellites. Communications, open up a tight-beam to every satellite. Announce our arrival and identity, indicate that I want to speak to someone in the colony's administration at the first opportunity." He raised his hand, "Make sure that it is quite clear that we will not initiate hostilities."

Zakharova looked up from her workstation, "What about the missing freighters?"

"One thing at a time, Lieutenant. If we can get a face-to-face meeting with whoever is down on the surface, that could give us a starting ground for negotiation."

She gestured towards the frigates, "And them? We could launch a probe to track them."

"And have it shot down by a long-range missile?" Marshall shook his head. "We'll have to worry about them later on."

"What if the colony – if that's what it is – won't meet with us?"

"That's what the Espatiers are on board for, Lieutenant." He walked into the elevator, Zakharova holding open the door, following him through before it could close. As the doors slid shut, he saw Caine flashing him a look of sympathy as she settled into the captain's chair. His side had started to ache again; the adrenaline of the battle had provided some temporary relief.

"Sub-Lieutenant Volkov," she began.

"I thought this would come up. He's off the bridge, Lieutenant. He froze in a battle situation."

Her eyes narrowed, "Doesn't he deserve a second chance?"

Marshall sighed, "With a hundred lives resting on his reactions? There are eight other people on board qualified to take that station; for the present, there's no harm in Ryder commanding the watch from the guidance station. Realistically a senior officer is always going to be on the bridge while we are orbiting Ragnarok anyway."

She shook her head, "And, of course, she's a Martian."

"That has nothing to do with it, Lieutenant. If Ryder had frozen, she'd be off the bridge. Or any other officer."

There was a pause. "What do you want me to do with him?"