Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty (28 page)

Reluctantly,
Hunter
turned and fired a shot of his own; a direct hit, but the transport was too heavily armored for it to have any effect. Esposito had the idea, and tried to get a burst inside the ship as the hatches slid shut, but her timing was a few seconds too late, and the bolt was harmlessly absorbed. A bright flash heralded the end of a second flyer, debris scattering to the ground; the rebels appeared to be gaining the upper hand, and a cheer went up.

"It doesn't matter who wins at this point. If either side gets the weapons it'll be a bad day for us," Clarke said.

Orlova fired another shot, knocking out a machine gun a pair of rebels were attempting to set up, then turned to face the angry sergeant, "Got any other ideas, Sergeant? I'm about out."

"That's the problem with rookies. They always have the great ideas but don't have a clue about what it actually takes to carry them out." He looked across and grinned, continuing, "That's what sergeants are for. Watch."

A loud battle cry escaped from the sergeant's mouth as he leapt out of cover, half-running, half-falling down the hill. His gun was still sitting beside Orlova, and for a second she thought that he'd managed to forget it, before spotting that each hand held one of the grenades they'd obtained from the stores at Mariner Station – grenades that were probably meant to be part of the cargo on the transport. In a flash, she realized what he was about to do. Corporal Clarke
silently watched
at his old friend racing down the hill, firing a couple of shots over his head to give some covering fire.

"Everyone get down! Shield your eyes!" she yelled, hugging herself into a ball in the snow. Hunter made it half-way down the slope before a pair of bullets got him, one from each side. He just continued to grin, tossing the grenades underarm in the direction of the transport before collapsing on the ground, the gleam in his eyes slowly beginning to fade. The round bombs rolled quickly, bumping and leaping along, but his last throw had been a good one, and they rolled underneath the transport.

She felt the explosion rather than heard it; even through her clenched eyes she could see the flash, and the roar dulled out her hearing. Rubble fell across the ground, creating another series of craters around the original one. As soon as she dared, Orlova looked up; the sounds of gunfire were replaced by moaning and groaning from the bottom of the crater. The transport and its cargo was a burning wreck, a pillar of smoke rising up into the atmosphere.
Up in the sky, a parachute had opened under a capsule. Evidently the transport's crew had decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

The last flyer had been right over the explosion; it took her a few minutes to see where it had crashed. Esposito waved a slightly scorched hand in the thumbs-up sign, and as far as she could see, none of the other espatiers had been killed or wounded. Emerging from cover, their weapons readied but not pointing at anything, the remains of the squad began to make their way into the crater floor.

Chapter 24

Ryder logged onto the guidance console as Marshall stood up, making his way over to the captain's chair. The troopers had taken out most of the bodies, loading them into the elevator to be taken down to the ship's morgue. Doctor Duquesne ran her hand over Stiles' face, shaking her head, and called for one of his men to take his body away. Blake looked almost in tears as he threw his medikit to the deck, picking up the late corporal's body. The elevator opened again, Weitzman, Spinelli and Caine moving to take stations around the bridge. Weitzman hesitated slightly before taking the communications station.

"Sir, if I had known for a second that they were planning anything like this...", the young crewman began.

Marshall raised his hand to stop him, replying, "I know, spaceman, I know. Thank you."

Nodding, Weitzman settled into the communications station. The bridge was a mess, half a dozen consoles ruined by bullet fire, blood splattered liberally across the deck plating and on the seats, a trickle of smoke from the electrical fire started during the original escape from the bridge. The course projection of the landing site of the freighter seemed to taunt him; he began work on possible courses to intercept the ship when it began its inevitable ascent. Caine looked over from the tactical station.

"Getting reports from all over the ship now, sir. All critical stations have been secured; Corporal Forrest is rounding up the last groups in the life support systems now. Once they found out the bridge had been recaptured, they gave up, though some of them are negotiating for terms of surrender."

"No terms. Just that they will get a fair trial when we get home," Marshall replied.

Caine nodded, "That's what I thought you'd say. Next piece of news is that we've got two frigates coming towards us from different sides of Gatewood, both on direct intercept courses, but with ranges that mean that either of them could neatly intercept us if we attempted to leave the system. They've got us nicely boxed, I've got to hand it to them."

"As soon as we've got the last of the mutineers secured and Quinn's had a chance to look at the damage they inflicted, I intend to break orbit. Any idea how long?"

"Interception in three and a half hours. Before I left engineering Quinn told me that he expects to declare us fit for space in ten minutes. I'll get Mulenga working on some course plots once he gets out of the sickbay." At Marshall's frown, she continued, "Nothing serious, just a bit of shrapnel."

Looking out at the moon slowly moving beneath them, he shook his head, "Anything else I need to know about?"

"I've got sensor tracks of the transport going right down to the ground. It landed about three minutes ago."

He stood up, making his way forward to guidance. "Ryder, I want you to adjust our orbit again. Keep us in a position where we can grab them, assuming they shape directly for the nearest system egress point. We might not be able to confiscate their cargo, but by damn we can question their crew."

"Holy hell!" Spinelli yelled from his console. "You've got to take a look at this, sir!" He punched a few buttons, and a zoomed-in picture of the moon appeared on the screen, a tall column of smoke rising from the inside of a crater.

Marshall's eyes widened, "What am I looking at, spaceman?"

"I was monitoring the transport when it blew up! There was some activity around it, but I couldn't make out anything much."

"Sir," Weitzman broke in, "I have a signal from the surface now. Ensign Esposito calling for you."

A chorus of cheers went up around the bridge, primarily from the espatiers; all of them seemed to have worked out what must have happened, and it was a welcome tonic after the events of the last hour. Shaking his head, Marshall grabbed a headset from the communications station and clamped it on.

"Ensign, I'm assuming the huge ball of fire was your doing?"

The voice crackled up from the surface, "Yes, sir. We found out than an arms shipment was on its way to the rebels, and decided that we should intercept it. I must report that Sergeant Hunter and Private McBride died during the battle."

Softly, Marshall replied, "I'm afraid we've had some action up here as well, Ensign. Your people fought bravely and were instrumental in our regaining control of the ship, but there have been casualties."

"Regaining control of the ship?"

"Never mind that now. What is your situation down there?"

"We appear to have captured the head of the resistance, General Haynes, wounded but alive, and a lot of the Governor's men. Most of the Governor's mobile forces were taken out in the assault."

Shaking his head, the captain responded, "Are you telling me that you managed to knock out both sides in the conflict on the planet's surface?"

"Something like that, skipper. We should have no problem getting the crewmen back now, but have you got any further orders?"

He looked over at Caine, who frowned before replying, "Regime change. Instead of the Lunar Republic propping up a government down there, we've managed to do the job for them."

"Your thoughts?"

"We broke it, we've got to fix it."

"Hmm." He pondered for a second before replying, "How bad is it there?"

"We've got a lot of wounded, and need medical assistance. Any chance you could get a shuttle down?"

He paused again, "Ensign, I'm afraid we'll be breaking orbit in about ten minutes to engage the enemy frigates in battle. Whatever orders I give you will likely be subject to change following the results of that encounter."

"Sir, you need to know that the frigates are not the property of the planetary government, but are being operated by the rebels. The government getting the crewmen was simply an accident. The Lunar Republic provided the ships, but the rebels own them."

Marshall smiled for the first time that day. If the frigates were
flew the flag of
a rebel group, then the Republic could have no justification for complaint if Alamo was to take them down. The political problems were at last beginning to melt away; he felt a lot more comfortable dealing with the tactical issues. Not that th
ey
were minor, but at least he had the training to cope with them.

"Take care of the wounded as best you can. Inform the Governor that on our return to orbit I will be meeting with him on the planet's surface – find a suitable point that you can secure, just in case he has any further tricks up his sleeve. Make sure that the General doesn't have any nasty accidents either. If we're going to make any sort of a ceasefire hold, then both sides are going to have to participate, one way or another."

"Yes, sir."

"I presume there's nothing left of the transport?"

"Just
an escape capsule
, sir.
I have it under guard, but no-one has left it yet.
"

"Fine. Make sure the site is secured. How many troopers have you got left?"

"Four, as well as a few people helping us from non-aligned forces."

He frowned before replying, "Sorry I can't get you any reinforcements. Do the best you can with what you have. With any luck Alamo will be returning to orbit in about five hours or so, with the rebels dealt with once and for all. Just make sure the Governor is at the meeting, and we might be able to finish
this little war
for good."

"Aye, sir."

"One more thing, Ensign. You and your people performed splendidly today. That will be prominently noted in my log entries. I want to make that clear."

"Thank you, sir. That's appreciated."

"See you shortly. Alamo out."

Marshall replaced the headset on the console, clapping Weitzman on the back before heading over to the elevator. Caine rose, blocking his passage, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Where are you going, skipper?"

"I need to speak with Tyler. Call down to Corporal Forrest's men and have them make him ready for me. There are some things I would like to know about what we're facing."

"Type 19 Frigates. I was just about to tell you – amazingly, when someone
other than
a mutineer is at the stations, the warbooks work fine."

"Old missile runners."

She smiled, "And ones we have good technical breakdowns on. They tried to sell Mars a few of them back in '62."

"Good. Get a tactical breakdown ready for the senior staff, or what's left of it, to review."

"On it. Now that you know that, do you really need to see Tyler?"

He stepped into the elevator, carefully over Dietz's bloodstain. "I need to know how far this one runs. You have the bridge; feel free to shape orbit when ready. Course to the nearest of the two frigates; I want to engage them one at a time if we can."

The doors closed behind him, leaving him with his thoughts. It had occurred to him that some of the mutineers might have decided to stay
hidden
in case it failed, to cause a few final acts of sabotage, but he dismissed that one. The fighting had been close enough that anyone Zakharova could have called upon would have been deployed. Stopping at the cargo deck, the elevator opened, and Marshall strode out into the corridor, signs of battle all around. A pair of espatiers saluted him as he approached.

"At ease. Tyler in there?"

"On his own, sir. He's been very quiet," one of them replied. "Do you want us in there with you?"

The captain placed his hand on the butt of a pistol jammed into a pocket, shaking his head, "That won't be necessary, Private. First sound of trouble, you'll come in and nail him. I suspect he knows that."

A loud clunk echoed across the wall as the door opened. Tyler was sitting in a corner of the room, in front of a few boxes; a bottle of water had been tossed in with him, unopened on the floor, and his hands were still bound by magnetic restraints. An angry bruise was forming on the side of his face; he looked up as the captain walked in, sneering at him.

"Come to gloat?"

Marshall shook his head, sitting on a box. "No."

He gestured at the gun, "Going to finish me off yourself? Those troopers of yours thought about it, I could see it in their eyes."

"I couldn't blame them if they had. Though I ordered them not to. You're going to face a trial, Tyler. The dead deserve it."

"We had you fooled, didn't we. You were so caught up with Zak that you didn't suspect anyone else might be involved."

"And yet here you are, sitting here in restraints." Marshall caught himself for a second, rubbing his hand across his chin before continuing, "I didn't come down here to bandy words with you."

"Then what did bring you down here?" Tyler replied, spitting on the deck.

"All of the records from the bridge, as well as testimony from a least half a dozen people, will be entered into the official records. Mutiny remains the only death sentence on the books. You are going to spend an awfully long time in prison, either way, and I hope you never have an inch of freedom again, but if you help me now, I might be willing to recommend clemency."