Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (21 page)

 “With eight in that escape pod,” Marshall said, nodding. “I presume there are larger models.”
 “We haven’t got full data of some of these in our database. Largest one we’ve spotted would have an unmodified capacity of sixteen.” 

 “Enough for a decent staff. Defenses?”

 Caine arched an eyebrow, “These are basically just floating bags of gas. I’m not sure what you could do to defend them – other than station a few fighters down there in that soup. We know they had at least one wing that was capable of it, I can’t imagine they haven’t got more.” She looked across this schematic. “Don’t assume that this will provide anything other than a rough idea. There are a dozen ways I can see to modify it, and I’m not an engineer.”

 “Like an anti-missile battery, for example.”

 Nodding, Caine replied, “We’re not going to get anywhere with an orbital bombardment, even if we knew which of the aerostats we wanted to take down. Down in that soup, everything slows down, and incoming missiles from this range would just be easy target practice.”

 “And the laser wouldn’t get ten miles before dispersing.” 

 “I’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve picked an excellent spot. I’m preparing a report to send back home; what worries me a little is that someone could pull this trick out at Uranus, or Neptune – or for that matter, at any of the extrasolar gas giants.”

 “Good idea,” Marshall said, musing. “Could we modify the missiles somehow?”
 “I don’t see how. They’d be traveling slowly enough that you could dogfight with them.”
 Nodding, Marshall walked over to his chair. He glanced at the image of Kumar on the viewscreen, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be stuck hanging there for days, weeks or months, tossed around in that tempestuous atmosphere, storms and lightning blasts crackling around.

 “All I can think of is a blockade. If we use the scout, we can get full coverage. It’s going to take time to starve them out, though,” Caine continued, still looking at the schematic.

 Marshall shook his head, “There’s a better way.” He tapped a button on his command chair, “Mr. Quinn, report to the hangar deck on the double.” Without a word, he ran for the elevator, Caine chasing after him. A surprised Zebrova was in the elevator when it arrived, but Marshall just ran in and stabbed a button, slamming the doors shut before she could step out onto the bridge. 

 “What’s going on?” she said. 

 “At a guess, Danny has an idea.”

 “He does,” Marshall said, tapping a button on the wall, “Mr. Cunningham, report to the hangar deck.”

 “Even if we had our fighters, they’d be no use down there anyway,” Zebrova said.

 “We used them on Jefferson,” Caine replied.

 Marshall shook his head, “With a fuel endurance of, what, five minutes? No, that’s not what I’m after.” The doors slid open and he walked out onto the deck, underneath the three landing shuttles hanging from the ceiling. A puzzled Quinn was waiting, standing up on the gantry.

 “What’s the emergency, Captain?” he said, looking down. 

 “Danny, if you’re thinking…”, Caine said, and he smiled.

 “These shuttles will work fine in the upper atmosphere of the gas giant,” he said. 

 “Emphasis on ‘upper’, Captain,” Quinn said. “I’d have to calculate the crush depth.”

 “Enough to reach the aerostats, though.”

 “What are you going to do? Ram them?” Caine asked, shaking her head.

 “Not at all. Quinn,” he said, looking up, “How long to fit a weapons package on these shuttles?”
 The engineer rubbed a greasy hand across his face, “Not long, sir. This model is designed to be used for ground bombardment.”

 “I need air-to-air missiles.”

 “Air-to-air?” Quinn said. “That...will be interesting. Give me eight hours, I’ll have to dig some specifications out of the computer, modify some of our missiles for the job.”

 “But you can do it?”

 “Yes, sir, I can.”

 “Good,” Marshall said, “Get on it right away. Take any help you need from any department, this is top priority.”

 Cunningham walked out through the elevator, buttoning up his jacket, “What’d I miss?”

 “The Captain has a plan to use the landing shuttles as missile bombers,” Caine said, shaking her head.

 “Good idea,” he replied. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

 Zebrova looked at the two of them in disbelief, “We don’t have any fighter pilots on board, sir.” She paused, then continued, “I’ll ask for volunteers from the shuttle pilots.”
 Marshall brushed the wings on his jacket, “Just because we don’t have any fighters on board doesn’t mean that we don’t any pilots. I’m still flight certified…”

 “No,” came a chorus from Cunningham and Zebrova. He looked at her, and she continued, “Sir, you are the commander of this ship, and unquestionably your place is on the bridge.” 

 “Under normal circumstances, Lieutenant, I would reluctantly be forced to agree with you, but this time is different – I’ve done this before.”

 “Saturn,” Caine muttered.

 “Exactly. Right near the end of the war, the UN tried to launch a sneak attack on the Saturnian fuel scoops. I had to lead a training squadron out to defend them, and we did do some fighting in the top of the atmosphere.”

 “Top being the word. This is deep down, sir. Not really comparable.”

 “We can’t send shuttle pilots to do this by themselves. We need a squadron leader to command the flight. These shuttles aren’t much worse than the Starslammers, and I’m sure that Mr. Quinn will provide an excellent weapons and countermeasures package – but still, the shuttle pilots just aren’t trained for this sort of an operation. I am.”

 Zebrova shook her head, “Sir, this is so far outside normal practice…”

 “Lieutenant,” he replied, “Our job is to defend the lives and property of Confederation citizens. We have no more important mission to complete. Anything else is a bonus. There’s no other way of getting at them with the equipment we have.” He looked around at the officers, noting that everyone in the room was looking at him. “Don’t get the idea that this is some sort of a debate. This mission is happening, and I’m flying lead.”

 Cunningham turned to him, and quietly said, “I need to speak to you in private about this one, Danny.”

 Marshall nodded, curtly, and walked over to the deck office, Cunningham in his wake. The rest of the officers were waiting around outside, most of them obviously hoping that he would be argued out of it. Quinn had already left the room, beginning to work.

 “Well?” Marshall said, hands leaning down on the desk.

 “We’re both going.”

 The captain looked up, eyes narrowing, “What?”

 “All of the arguments that you presented are good ones, but they work just as well for me as they do for you.”

 “You’re ten years older…”

 “But thanks to a certain Lieutenant-Captain Marshall – you may have heard of him – I have a waiver that gives me flight status. And I’ve flown in gas giants, which gives me an advantage. I don’t mean atmosphere skimming, back before the war I flew servicing runs on those big bags.”

 “You didn’t say that outside…”

 He smiled, replying, “It isn’t really on my service record. For servicing, read skimming; you know I had a slightly shady past before I joined up. Nevertheless, I know what to expect.”

 “John…”

 Cunningham raised his hand, “This is happening, Danny, so make peace with it. Opting to head this mission yourself robs you of any right to complain or protest – by rights, I should be leading this mission and you should be sitting on the bridge.”

 “Why aren’t you arguing that, then?”

 “Because common sense is our watchword out here, and there are two people best qualified to fly this mission – and both of them are in this room.”

 Laughing, Marshall replied, “Am I the only one feeling deja vu here? How many times did we argue about this back in the War?”

 “A lot. Back then I won because I had the seniority; I’m going to win this time because I’m right.”

 Looking out through the one-way viewport, Marshall said, “That leaves Zebrova in command.”

 “Gagh. I knew this plan had a flaw.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I trust her with the job. The whole job, if the worst happens. She’ll do what’s necessary – she won’t do it the way I would, or the way you would, but she will do it.” He looked over at Cunningham again. “I’ve briefed you on the mission, you know everything I do.”

 “Nerves, Danny?”

 “Maybe it’s that sense of responsibility beginning to kick in.”

 “Just in case, are you giving me any orders?”

 “Only to go find the Cabal. I’ll say the same to Zebrova before we leave; I’m not going to tie you down. I’ll say that at the moment I’m leaning towards Sagdeev, simply because we have the greatest chance of finding the Cabal out there, but you need to feel free to proceed as you think best.”

 “I will.” He clasped Marshall’s arm, “I’ll get the job done if you can’t.”  The two of them glanced around the room. “We really need to get a deck officer, don’t we?”
 “The last one we had tried to sell the shuttlecraft. It rather soured me on the idea. I suppose we could give it to one of the midshipmen.” He paused. “Can I talk you out of this?”

 “No more than I could talk you out of going. Someone needs to have your back, Danny, and that isn’t a job I’m going to leave to a shuttle pilot.”

 “Third spot?”

 “There are a few people on board who are eligible; I’d suggest throwing it open to volunteers. Knowing this crew, you’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”

 Chuckling, Marshall nodded, “It’s a hell of a ship. And a hell of a crew.” He looked out, “Let’s go and break the good news to Zebrova.”

 He walked out of the office, Cunningham behind him with a smirk on his face. Zebrova and Caine had been talking, but their conversation was broken by their approach.

 “We’re going to revise the mission plan a bit,” Marshall said; he was going to enjoy this. Zebrova was nodding, a smile appearing. “I’m flying lead, Mr. Cunningham has convinced me that he is the obvious choice as my primary wingman.”

 “What?” Zebrova said, her eyes widening. “Sir, all command protocols…”
 “I have the authority to override them. The flight will launch as soon as we have determined the location of the aerostat; I just hope Mr. Winter comes through with the goods. You will assume command for the duration of the operation.”

 “Sir…,” she said.

 “I have every confidence in you, Lieutenant.” He looked over at Cunningham, “We’d better head over to the briefing room and start some sort of a mission plan.”

 “Right.”
 “Wait a moment,” Caine said, “who’s flying third?”

 “Captain’s going to put out a call for volunteers,” Cunningham said.

 “Well, you’ve got at least one,” she said, leading to another incredulous stare from Zebrova.

Chapter 20

 With a loud crack, Orlova’s cast came off in Duquesne’s hand, and she tossed the pieces into a waste receptacle before beginning her examination of her shoulder. It had been a complete mess a couple of days ago, but now the only evidence of the injury was an angry red line and the compression marks of the cast. She tried a few experimental movements, and felt arcing pain down her side; with a great effort, she kept her expression neutral.

 “How do you feel?” the doctor said.

 “Fine,” she replied.

 “Liar. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

 “But I’m fit for duty?”

 The doctor snorted, replying, “Hell no. Light, restricted duty only. I suppose that I can certify you for the bridge now, though I’d suggest taking some painkillers first, but that’s as far as you are going.”

 “What about…”

 The doctor poked her on the shoulder in a carefully calculated spot, sending another wave of pain through her.

 “I know you want to join the Captain’s kamikaze mission, but I have objections to seeing all of my hard work wasted. So no, I will not certify you for flight. You couldn’t take the g-forces at the moment; frankly, you should be grateful that I haven’t restricted you to quarters.”

 “The Captain needs me.” 

 Sighing, the doctor replied, “Captain Marshall has the services of more than a hundred crewmen at his disposal, and I’m sure he can cope without one junior officer for a few more days. I mean it, Orlova; if you push yourself too hard you’re going to crack. There’s no point sending someone on the mission who isn’t physically up to it.”

 “The Captain and Lieutenant Cunningham are both flying on waivers,” she said, frowning. “What’s the difference?”

 “The difference is that they only need the waivers because some keyboard jockey back home has decided to set an age restriction on fighter pilots. Both of them have had full physicals within the last week, and I was happy to sign off on those waivers. Neither would be flying unless I approved it – whatever the Captain might think.” She looked at Orlova’s shoulder, “You, on the other hand, are walking wounded. Act like it.”

 She jumped off the bed, again feeling the pain from her shoulder, and looked over at the doctor, “There must be something you can do.” 

 “Even I can’t work miracles, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Thanks, Doc,” Orlova said as she walked out of sickbay, making her way for the elevator. If she couldn’t convince the doctor, maybe she could convince the Captain; as she pushed for the bridge, she made sure to use her bad arm to do it – it hurt a little, but it felt fine. The grip was a little weak, but she could work with that. She’d flown in worse condition when she was an independent pilot.

 As she walked across the bridge, she rehearsed her arguments in her head, running over his objections. She wasn’t even sure that the Captain could override a medical objection, but she did know him well enough to know that if she could convince him, he’d turn a blind-eye to the regulations. Taking a deep breath, she pushed for entry.

 “Come in,” Marshall’s voice echoed over the speaker. She walked into the room, he looked up, and said, “No.”