Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty (31 page)

"Aye, sir. Ten seconds to laser charge. And, Christ, another missile coming in. Impact six seconds. Aft, I think. Third wave incoming."

Again, everything shook, but the shot was more distant that time. With an apologetic sputter, the ship's thrusters began to misfire, sending it lurching around; Ignatov was tapping buttons frantically, Caine swearing at the tactical computers as she tried to plot a laser track.

"Ryder," she yelled, "Get the ship aligned with the enemy in two seconds. You have the call."

Marshall knew exactly what sort of a job she was asking her to do. Half the maneuvering jets were out of action, atmosphere leaking out into space from all over the ship in random places, and the ship had to point exactly where Caine needed it for the microsecond long enough for the laser pulse to be delivered.

"Got it!" Ryder yelled, and the beam danced between the ships for the critical second – just long enough.

"Spot on target, Ryder!" Caine yelled, "Bridge hit! We bored a hole right through three decks. Laser's going to need longer to recharge, now, I'm having to reroute a lot of power feeds. Our second wave of missiles is pounding them now, two out of three that time."

"Impacts?"

"Aft missile silo, habitation deck. We have all three missiles from the third salvo coming in now, I think they're going to get through this time."

Ignatov shook his head, "I don't think we can take three more hits like the last two, sir. Damage reports are flooding in now."

"We got a third salvo ready?"

Caine looked up at her console, calmly. Too calmly, the calm of one who knew that the gallows were beckoning. "Ready in eight seconds."

"Fratricide them. Target them to blow up as close as possible to the enemy missiles."

"Aye!" A gleam began to leap back into her eyes as she frantically worked her console, trying to change the programming in time. The tactical display was looking a lot simpler now – just three dots slowly moving towards Alamo on slightly twisted courses. Marshall had seen this before, during the war; each group of missiles would be a bit smarter than the last, a bit better at getting through the electronic warfare packages. Eventually some of them would get through even the best system. These ones had learned quickly.

The ship rocked again, "Missiles away. Next salvo in twenty seconds, we've got some malfunctions in the loading systems. Hull breaches knocking out data links across the outside areas of the ship."

"Time to impact?"

"If this doesn't work, fifteen seconds. Targets look to be the landing bay, laser array, and us."

"Ignatev, at two seconds before impact, transfer all control systems to engineering."

The engineer nodded grimly, turning to his station. All other eyes were on the approaching missiles, three new tracks racing out from Alamo to meet them. Numbers ran down the screen still, then there was an explosion. Then another. Finally a third, and it felt as if everyone on the bridge was sighing in unison.

"Any more missiles incoming?"

Caine shook her head, "Negative. Based on their past performance, they should have fired seven seconds ago." A light flashed on her panel, "Our fourth salvo is now ready to fire."

"Hold. Weitzman, try them again. Warn them that I will pound them into rubble if they don't..."

The communications technician held up his hand, and Marshall stopped talking. "Sir, the acting commander of the Swagman has surrendered, in exchange for rescue and relief for her people."

Marshall's reply was drowned out by the chorus of cheers from every station; he found himself joining in himself without realizing it. The two troopers were punching each other in the arm like kids whose team had won the big game, and Ryder seemed to have broken down in tears at her station; he couldn't really blame her.

As the noise began to quiet down, he replied, "Tell them we'll have people on their way shortly." Turning to Caine, he continued, "What about the Ned Kelly?"

"The other ship has just stopped changing course. On their current trajectory they'll miss Ragnarok entirely. I'm picking up a lot of communications traffic between the two ships."

"How long before we know all is clear?"

"About a minute before they will be unable to enter firing range of us."

Taking advantage of the pause, he unbuckled and drifted across to the engineering console, looking over the red telltales and shaking his head.

"Anything fundamental, spaceman?"

Ignatev looked up, shaking his head, "I don't think so, sir. We might have problems getting back to battle stations again, though. Too much damage to data relays and the outer hull. Lieutenant Quinn wants to take the main reactor off line as soon as possible so he can start repairing some of the conduits."

"Tell him to hold off for a minute. We might still have another battle to face."

"I hope not, Captain."

Marshall drifted back to his chair, tapping another button, one that no commander ever wanted to use, "Medical, any sort of a report?"

"I'm busy down here. Short version, bad but could have been worse. Right now four dead. Probably more to follow."

"Thanks, Doc."

He gestured at one of the troopers, "While we have the time, get Franklin down to medical. I don't think we're going to get a house call today."

"Aye, sir." The trooper made his way over to the unconscious woman, carefully picking her up and stepping into the elevator.

"How long, Deadeye?"

Caine looked up at her station, then replied, "Twenty seconds. Captain, we've only got ten missiles left. Fabricators will take too long to make more. I don't know if we can even recharge the laser."

"Does that show?"

"Not at that range. I think if it came to it we might be able to break for the egress point, though."

Marshall shook his head, "We've spent too much blood here to do that."

"That's the price of admiralty, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Kipling."

He returned to his chair, strapping himself back in. If there was going to be another battle, he'd know in the next few seconds. The telltales were flashing back onto his console, some of the auto-repair sequencers kicking into life, but they tale they told was not a happy one. The last battle had been far too close, and a fight with an undamaged vessel might be too much. He sighed with relief when he heard a loud whoop from the communications console.

"I take it you have something to report, Mr. Weitzman?"

"They've thrown it in! Someone called Wing Commander Delprat just surrendered on behalf of all Ragnarok spacefaring forces. They're shaping for orbit now, spilling out their missiles."

Marshall tapped a button, "Captain to crew. All hands, stand down battle stations. Return to
standby
alert status until further notice. The enemy has surrendered – I say again, the enemy forces have surrendered." He turned to Caine, "You have the bridge, I'll be back in a moment."

Her face was all smiles as she replied, "Aye, sir."

He drifted into his office, looking up at the picture of his father on the wall staring down at him, then started to cry at his desk, a combination of relief and guilt overwhelming him. It would be
nearer
ten minutes before he returned to the bridge.

Chapter 27

Alamo's medical section was a lot less crowded than it had been two days ago. Most of the casualties were either back on light duty, confined to their quarters with instructions to rest, or set to become long-term residents of a medical facility when they returned to Sol. Marshall hovered over Dietz's bed, watching the monitors, as Duquesne approached, startling him with her hand on his shoulder.

"How is he, Doctor?"

"About as well as could be expected. He had the good fortune to get shot before business got brisk around here. I'd just finished surgery when the battle began."

"And?"

She looked up at the monitors again, "Touch and go for a little while, but I think he's going to be fine. I've got him in induced unconsciousness for a while, help him relax a little. Keeps the patients a lot quieter, less likely to discharge themselves."

"Long-term?"

"A pair of scars that will no doubt be excellent conversation pieces at parties, but aside from that? I think he'll be up and about by the time we get back to Mariner Station, on light duty at least."

He looked down at the man lying on the bed, slowly breathing in and out, tubes connected to him in half a dozen places, and then back up at the doctor, asking, "Has he regained consciousness?"

"I have to take him out a couple of times a day to take readings."

"Lucid?"

"Just about. Why?"

"Next time you do it, tell him that I've given him a battlefield promotion to Senior Lieutenant, and that I've officially put in for him to be my new Exec."

Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing, "Why? Because he saved your life?"

"No. Tell him that as well." He looked back at Dietz for a second. "Keep me informed, Doc."

"Will do, skipper."

"Thanks."

He walked out of the medical bay, grateful that they had finally managed to get the habitation ring spinning again, past a couple of crewmen who were trying to clean some of the stains out of the walls. That was certainly a good sign – if Quinn had some people on clean-up duties, it meant that they were probably about ready to shape out of orbit. There was too much damage for them to repair it all out here, with no space-based support; Quinn's best guess had them stuck at Mariner for six weeks at least. An opportunity for a bit of leave, certainly much needed by the crew.

The elevator closed behind him as it whisked its way up to the bridge. The stain where Dietz's blood had spilled onto the floor was just a memory, but enough of a one that he still made sure to stand by the doors. It was going to be a long time before he got over that particular jinx. Twenty-one bodies in the ship's morgue never would; judging by the losses they had experienced, it almost felt as if they had lost the battle.

Striding out onto the bridge, Sub-Lieutenant Ryder nodded at him from the guidance control station, reaching the end of a twelve-hour shift; Franklin was still not fit for duty. Weitzman seemed to be having an argument with someone on the surface and had missed him completely, and Spinelli smiled as he approached, snapping a quick salute from his station
with his good arm
. Standing by the door of his office was a puzzled-looking Orlova.

"Captain, what's this about?"

"In my office, I think, Spaceman," he said, making his voice as formal as possible. He stepped into his office, sitting behind his desk, assuming that she was following him. Turning back, he saw her staring at the picture on the wall, almost transfixed, as the doors slid shut.

"What's that picture doing on your wall?" she asked.

Surprised, he looked up at it, and down to her, "It's the last holoimage I have of my father. Taken just before he went off on his last mission."

"On the MSS Hercules," she replied, almost whispering.

Frowning, he replied, "You've been looking up my personnel file."

"No. My own. My father was on the Hercules, a First Lieutenant. Alpha Watch Guidance Officer." She sat down in the chair, still looking up at the picture.

"Sergei Orlov. Missing in action. Good god, I must have looked at that name a dozen times on the memorial wall at Mariner."

She looked across at Marshall and shook her head, "I should have guessed the first time I saw you. You look a lot like him." She paused. "My father served with yours for two years. He'd just been promoted, went off for one last mission before being transferred down to Mars. I remember how much we'd been looking forward to having him home again."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. But thank you."

Marshall smiled, "Remind me to introduce you to Commodore Tramiel sometime. He knows the stories of those days a lot better than I do; he'd have commanded your father for a while."

"I'll take you up on that, sir." She glanced up at the picture, then back at Marshall. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

He slid a datapad across the desk to her, "These are the reports from your little
escapade
on Ragnarok. Filed by Ensign Esposito, Corporal Clarke, and myself, incidentally. There's even one from Group Captain, sorry, Acting Governor Cooper in there."

Glancing down for a second without reading, she looked up and replied, "I can guess what's in there."

"We could start with you disobeying orders and staying behind in the first place, but I personally loved the moment where you blew the airlock on a shuttle that had just gone transonic. The rest of the squad didn't know the risk they were running, but I've done that myself. There's the matter of you – an enlisted spaceman – negotiating a deal with a rebel leader on behalf of the Triplanetary Confederation without getting prior approval from a senior officer."

She arched an eyebrow, "You did
the same thing
. I read the briefing notes, and I'm not sure you were authorized to negotiate Ragnarok's incorporation into the Confederation as an Associated State."

"I'm the Captain. I get to make calls like that, and the
Senate
can either back me or fire me."

"They'd be bloody stupid to fire you."

He laughed, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, spaceman. The point I'm trying to make is that you are a terrible crewman. You disobey orders, you wildly exceed your authority, heck – at one point you assumed command of the squad during the assault on the shuttle."

Rising, she slammed her hands on the desk, "I did what was necessary."

"Sit down, spaceman. Consider that an order."

Reluctantly, she acceded, shaking her head with disbelief, "I'm sitting. Sir."

Smiling, he slid a second pad across the desk, and gestured towards it. She looked down at it, then up at him in surprise.