Read Online Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty by Richard Tongue - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Tongue
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inspiration in the stuff lying on the deck. Briefly, the thought of using one of the grenades entered her mind, but it left just as quickly. Those were strictly for battlefield use only; blowing a hundred-meter gash in the station wouldn't improve their situation much.
An other bolt slam med dangerously close to the wall. If one of them hit the wrong place, then none of this would matter in any case – they were close enough to the outer hull that a misplaced blast would do more than enough damage. Her eye glanced on the trolleys, one of them half-loaded, the other still loading its cargo.
"Sergeant, can we run those trolleys remotely?"
The grizzled veteran grimaced, "That we can, ma'am." He peered over, then ducked down again as another pair of bolts blasted overhead. "But we'd have to get over there to set them to remote operation."
"So we've got a plan, all we need now is some sort of distraction."
Back in the shuttle, Orlova looked up at her two pistols again, and then back at the clock. It had been almost half an hour since the troopers left for the storeroom, and logically she should have left twenty minutes ago if she wasn't going to be distracted. Yet she kept thinking about that maze of corridors, kept thinking over her instructions again and again, thinking that they might have been insufficient to get them out again.
She looked back out at the stars again, reached up to an overhead compartment to pull a battered old cap out, and tucked her hair inside. The pistols went in a worn holster attached to a belt at least four sizes too big for her, holes ripped into the synth-leather. Almost imperceptible on the belt was the logo of the Martian Space Service, the faded lettering reading 'S. R. Orlov, 1st Lieutenant.'
Securing the hatch behind her, she ran through the corridors, taking short-cuts that would have been too confusing to explain, focused completely on what she might find ahead. A little voice in her head was telling her to run back to the shuttle and escape, to get out of there before the wrong sort of person saw her, but then she smelled a harsh tang in the air. Ozone. Electrical discharges up ahead, and big ones.
She raced further down the corridor, bringing herself to a skidding halt when she saw six men in the corridor outside the storeroom, all armed with dangerous-looking weapons and well protected from taser fire. While she watched, two of them rose and unleashed a pair of bolts into the room.
"Do what's right, Maggie," she muttered to herself under her breath, then pulled one of the pistols out of its holster, lined up on the shoulder of one of the guards, and pulled the trigger twice, the antique weapon jerking to the side after each shot.
Her target dropped to the ground, screaming, his gun rattling to the deck; without waiting for a reaction she ducked back behind the corridor, taking a quick look to see if anyone was following her. Three green bolts flew past her head, slamming into what was mercifully an interior wall, ripping gaping holes into the next compartment – suddenly alarms began to ring down the corridors, screaming of a security alert.
Hunter and Esposito looked at each other across the cover as they saw the gunman go down, and without even looking back the sergeant jumped over the crate and sprinted towards the trolley, weaving from side to side as another bolt tried to find its mark.
Purely on instinct, he ran his hand over the controls, flicking a pair of switches and tapping a button, before veering off and diving behind another crate, a second bolt right on his tail. There was a loud crash on the far side, a brief burst of whispered swearing, then a thumbs-up from the sergeant.
Grabbing her pad, Esposito tapped in a series of commands and sent the trolley running down the corridor. With another brief flash of insight, she snatched a piece of heavy-looking debris about the size of a fist and lobbed it at the enemy with all her strength, yelling,
An other bolt slam med dangerously close to the wall. If one of them hit the wrong place, then none of this would matter in any case – they were close enough to the outer hull that a misplaced blast would do more than enough damage. Her eye glanced on the trolleys, one of them half-loaded, the other still loading its cargo.
"Sergeant, can we run those trolleys remotely?"
The grizzled veteran grimaced, "That we can, ma'am." He peered over, then ducked down again as another pair of bolts blasted overhead. "But we'd have to get over there to set them to remote operation."
"So we've got a plan, all we need now is some sort of distraction."
Back in the shuttle, Orlova looked up at her two pistols again, and then back at the clock. It had been almost half an hour since the troopers left for the storeroom, and logically she should have left twenty minutes ago if she wasn't going to be distracted. Yet she kept thinking about that maze of corridors, kept thinking over her instructions again and again, thinking that they might have been insufficient to get them out again.
She looked back out at the stars again, reached up to an overhead compartment to pull a battered old cap out, and tucked her hair inside. The pistols went in a worn holster attached to a belt at least four sizes too big for her, holes ripped into the synth-leather. Almost imperceptible on the belt was the logo of the Martian Space Service, the faded lettering reading 'S. R. Orlov, 1st Lieutenant.'
Securing the hatch behind her, she ran through the corridors, taking short-cuts that would have been too confusing to explain, focused completely on what she might find ahead. A little voice in her head was telling her to run back to the shuttle and escape, to get out of there before the wrong sort of person saw her, but then she smelled a harsh tang in the air. Ozone. Electrical discharges up ahead, and big ones.
She raced further down the corridor, bringing herself to a skidding halt when she saw six men in the corridor outside the storeroom, all armed with dangerous-looking weapons and well protected from taser fire. While she watched, two of them rose and unleashed a pair of bolts into the room.
"Do what's right, Maggie," she muttered to herself under her breath, then pulled one of the pistols out of its holster, lined up on the shoulder of one of the guards, and pulled the trigger twice, the antique weapon jerking to the side after each shot.
Her target dropped to the ground, screaming, his gun rattling to the deck; without waiting for a reaction she ducked back behind the corridor, taking a quick look to see if anyone was following her. Three green bolts flew past her head, slamming into what was mercifully an interior wall, ripping gaping holes into the next compartment – suddenly alarms began to ring down the corridors, screaming of a security alert.
Hunter and Esposito looked at each other across the cover as they saw the gunman go down, and without even looking back the sergeant jumped over the crate and sprinted towards the trolley, weaving from side to side as another bolt tried to find its mark.
Purely on instinct, he ran his hand over the controls, flicking a pair of switches and tapping a button, before veering off and diving behind another crate, a second bolt right on his tail. There was a loud crash on the far side, a brief burst of whispered swearing, then a thumbs-up from the sergeant.
Grabbing her pad, Esposito tapped in a series of commands and sent the trolley running down the corridor. With another brief flash of insight, she snatched a piece of heavy-looking debris about the size of a fist and lobbed it at the enemy with all her strength, yelling,
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