by Doug Farren
Shaking Lee’s hand, Tom replied, “Tom Wilks. I'm glad you had an open berth.”
“No problem at all Sir. We’re a little short-handed right now with Christmas and all but we’ll get you fixed up in no time." Referring to the tablet he cradled in his left arm he continued, “Your ship sent us a rather extensive list of repairs: Stardrive realignment; External armor replacement; Refurnish your stateroom; And a whole list of other minor items. You’ve been through quite a lot recently.”
“That I have,” Tom admitted, trying to figure out where Lee might have gotten his strange accent. Jerking his thumb over his shoulder to point to the ship behind him, Tom asked, “How long before he’s back in top condition?”
Lee scratched behind his right earlobe, checked his tablet again, then replied, “Five, maybe six days. We don’t do many military ships so we’ll need to have your parts delivered. Might have another problem too; we’re not cleared to receive weapons, especially missiles with nuke warheads. I might not be able to restock your—”
Lee stopped talking as Tom turned and suddenly sprinted back up the ramp. He knew cyborgs were fast, but he had never known just how fast they could move until then.
“Get Sorbith on the line!” Tom fired the order through his biolink before he had taken a single step up the ramp.
Sorbith’s face was just appearing on one of the monitors as Tom ran into the command center. “The missiles!” Tom yelled. “We can’t fire any of them until we check their programming.”
“What the hell are you talking a—”
“The Purists sabotaged the defense stations by using a software bomb triggered by our tactical data network.” Tom’s words spilled out as fast as he could mouth them. “The missiles are linked to that same network so they can receive targeting instructions as well as talk to each other. They can also be remotely detonated!”
Sorbith’s face clearly showed his surprise. “And the Purists had access to a large number of missiles! Why didn’t we think of this?”
“Because we thought they were only stealing them.”
“If you’re right,” Sorbith said. “Then the entire Alliance fleet is at risk of being utterly destroyed with a single command. Alliance missiles are standardized, meaning a Tholtaran vessel might be carrying missiles delivered from Earth.”
Tom shook his head violently. “The missiles don’t become active until armed and that doesn’t occur until just before they’re fired.”
Sorbith paused a moment to absorb this new information. “So as long as the missiles aren’t launched, they’re safe,” he said. “But if the AOH is transmitting a destruct code and we fire one of the modified missiles…”
“It will detonate before it clears the shield, if not sooner,” Tom completed the sentence.
“I’m sending an emergency Alliance-wide broadcast warning all ships of this,” Sorbith said. “I wonder how many missiles the AOH has managed to alter?”
“They’ve been at it for decades—it could be hundreds of thousands,” Tom replied, grimacing with the thought.
Sorbith shook his head in disbelief. “Each ship should be able to check its own inventory,” he said. “But what about the defense stations?”
“Provided they have any missiles left, they'll have to be checked as well. That’s going to be a problem,” Tom admitted. “We’ll have to send crews out to each station. That’s not going to be an easy job either.”
“Where are you now?” Sorbith asked.
“Just checking in at Death Valley.”
“Good. Have a weapons specialist check out your missiles. Let me know if you find anything. Sorbith out.”
Tom found Lee sitting in the cart. He was reclining in the seat with his feet resting on the cart’s dash. He was busily making entries in the tablet resting on his lap. Tom’s cybernetic hearing identified the faint whirring sound of a drone as it flew around the damaged area of his ship. Looking up, Lee said, “Figured you wouldn’t be long. Forget to turn something off?”
Under normal circumstances, Lee’s casual attitude would have annoyed him, but there was something about the man that caused Tom to smile instead. “I need to talk to a weapons specialist right away,” Tom said.
Lee grabbed the tablet and in a single smooth motion, as if he had been practicing it all his life, slid his legs to the ground and stood up. Flipping the tablet in front of him, he quickly tapped its surface, talking as he did so, “Don’t have any employed here. This is a civilian shipyard. Boris is ex-military, though and he likes to brag about being an expert in weapon systems, although I doubt it.”
“Boris Kazapov?” Tom asked.
Lee’s eyes scrunched up as he looked up from the pad. “You know him?”
Tom tapped the side of his head with a finger. “No, but my ship pulled up your personnel roster and cross-referenced the names with the military database. He’ll do just fine.”
Lee tapped some more. “I told him to get his butt over here on the double.”
“Thank you.”
“Now,” Lee said, lowering the arm holding the tablet. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I get the crews working on your ship? A place to sleep perhaps?”
“I don’t think so,” Tom replied after a moment. “I’ll be staying with my ship.”
“Then I’ll be going. Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”
“One question,” Tom said, causing Lee to pause with one foot inside the cart. “Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”
“Louisiana,” Lee smiled. “Down south. Ma and Pa were full-blooded Cajun—so am I. Proud of it too. Have a good day Peacekeeper Wilks.”
Boris Kazapov turned out to be a wiry little man who seemed to have had far too many cups of coffee. Tom was standing outside his ship looking around the interior of the berth when a cart, apparently traveling as fast as the tiny electric motor could drive it, shot out of the entrance. It skidded to a halt, the tires screaming in protest against the tough, ceramic floor. Tom watched in fascination as Boris practically bounced out of the car and rapidly walked toward him.
“Master Weapons Tech Boris Kazapov at your service Sir,” he said in a rapid voice. “Lee told me to rush over here. How can I help you?”
Tom opened his mouth to reply but stopped before saying anything. Could he trust this man? How did he know Boris wasn’t a Purist? Before such thoughts could degenerate into paranoia, common-sense kicked in. “We’ve recently discovered there is a possibility that a large number of missiles have been tampered with. Specifically, the computer code could be compromised. Can you compare the code loaded into my missiles with a master copy to make sure my arsenal is okay?”
Boris rapidly rubbed his forehead then replied, “Yes. That can easily be done. But I’m no longer in the military and—”
“Don’t worry about that,” Tom said. “Just tell me what you need.”
“Standard hand tools. A pad with a fiber port loaded with a copy of the A9-M interface program. A master copy of the code. Preferably from Idaho Falls. Better have them send over several previous versions as well. Just in case yours hasn’t been upgraded. And, I’ll need access to your weapons bay.”
“Certainly, how soon can you begin?”
“Right now. If that’s okay with you. I can start opening the guidance section while we wait for the other stuff.”
Tom had the distinct impression he was talking to someone who had spent far too much time around nuclear weapons. Boris spoke in short, clipped sentences as if assembling a longer one required too much concentration. He was twitchy and nervous; like he was expecting something to explode at any moment.
“As long as it’s done right,” Tom replied, worried.
“Oh! No problem there. I’m good at what I do. Haven’t forgotten a thing. No worries." Boris turned and headed for the Orion.
A few minutes later, Tom watched in utter amazement as Boris pulled the control module from one of his missiles. The weapons tech had undergo
ne a miraculous transformation the moment he entered the weapons bay. His twitchiness vanished and he became so calm that Tom wondered if he was watching the same person. After removing the first module and setting it aside, Boris started on the next. A repair robot arrived with a pad in one of its grippers as Boris was pulling the second control module out of the missile casing.
“Thank you,” Boris said, taking the pad and connecting it to the module. A few minutes later, he announced that the missile had not been altered. It took six hours to check each of the remaining 11 weapons in the Orion’s arsenal—all of them checked out fine.
It had taken over seven hours to check Tom’s small arsenal. But his ship was a Seeker-class scout, not a warship and his weapons bay was not only pressurized, but was easily accessible as well. A ship like the Komodo Dragon could easily hold several hundred in an unpressurized, difficult to access area of the ship.
Chapter 45
Tom was comfortable even though the air was a chilly six degrees Celsius. He was standing a few meters outside the berth where the Orion was being repaired watching a gorgeous sunrise. The smooth round weather dome was a barely discernible bulge sticking out of the otherwise flat ground. In order to preserve the historic landscape as much as possible, the entire Death Valley shipyard was underground.
A light breeze was blowing, making his face tingle in the chilly, dry air. The muffled sounds of machinery could be heard coming from every direction—the new voice of Death Valley. The sun was about half exposed when the Orion said, “Sorbith would like to talk to you.”
The ship had modulated the signal to make it sound as if it had come from a person standing directly in front of Tom. It was a creepy sensation he still had a hard time accepting. It was like talking to an invisible man.
“Put him through,” Tom said aloud.
The Orion took over control of Tom’s cybernetic eyes, creating an image in his mind of Sorbith’s face as it was being transmitted to the ship. The Peacekeeper appeared to float in front of him, a ghostly face talking from within the bright globe of the sun.
“The fleet owes you a huge debt of gratitude,” Sorbith began.
Tom turned so Sorbith’s floating head was now superimposed against the distant mountains. “I take I was right?”
“I’m starting to get reports from all over the fleet. We’re finding hundreds of missiles with altered computer code. If you hadn’t figured out—”
“Just doing my job,” Tom interrupted. He knew Sorbith hated being interrupted, but he really didn’t want to be showered with praise.
Sorbith looked at Tom for a moment, then said, “Well, don’t be too surprised if a lot of high-ranking officials want to talk to you after this is all over. So how are the repairs coming along?”
“My stardrive is in pieces and there’s a huge hole in my stateroom bulkhead,” Tom replied. “The Orion should be back together in a few days though.”
“Good. You should take a couple days and visit…hold on!”
Sorbith’s image shrank and the face of Fleet Admiral Sarah Cunningham suddenly appeared. The red border surrounding the Admiral’s face indicated she had initiated a priority message.
“This is an emergency alert to all ships in the sol system,” she began. Her voice was silky smooth and very feminine even though she had once been a man. “A few minutes ago, a large fleet of warships was detected approaching Earth. We have confirmed this to be the expected AOH attack fleet. Our outer defenses are expecting to engage them in about eight hours. All warships, prepare for battle. Civilian vessels, follow the instructions given to you by the military.”
The Admiral’s face vanished and Sorbith’s returned to its former size. “Crap,” Tom exclaimed.
Knowing Tom’s preference for being in the thick of things, Sorbith said, “Your ship wouldn’t be much use in a major firefight anyway. I’m heading for Sydney. The Grand Council’s non-interference order still stands and both of our ships will ensure we don't get involved. Guess we’ll be sitting this one out.”
Sorbith’s image faded away, allowing Tom an unrestricted view of the brightening sky. He had come outside to enjoy the quiet solitude of the desert but the moment had been lost. Spinning around on his heel, he quickly headed back to his ship. Minutes later, he was seated in the Orion’s command chair. His hands danced across the various controls activating the main viewscreen as well as all the auxiliary monitors. If he couldn’t actually take part in the battle, he could at least sit back and watch it unfold.
* * * * *
The AOH fleet began broadcasting their propaganda as soon as they passed the orbit of Mars. They called upon all Earth citizens to rise up and defend the purity of humanity by demanding that Earth sever all relations with the Galactic Alliance.
Deep inside Cheyenne Mountain, General Shen watched as the AOH fleet approached. They had formed themselves into a tightly organized cubicle formation with the ships positioned 175 kilometers apart like atoms in a gigantic crystal lattice. This allowed the ships of the massive fleet to concentrate a significant portion of their available firepower on any given target.
“Admiral Cunningham,” the General spoke softly. “Position your fleet between Earth and the AOH formation at a distance of 500,000 kilometers. You are free to engage if they come within weapons range.”
“Aye Sir,” the Admiral’s smiling face replied. She was stationed aboard the Wellington, the latest command and control vessel. It had been pressed into service far sooner than anticipated.
The General turned his attention to one of the control consoles. “Defense control, single-target coordinated attack mode.”
“Single-target mode,” the operator repeated back. His fingers tapped out a command sequence which was transmitted to the remaining automated defense stations. They had been moved closer to Earth to account for the greatly reduced number now available.
Unlike most other military commanders, General Shen preferred not to use the full-immersion virtual battle simulator. Instead, he preferred to work directly with the small group of people who controlled the vast military machine guarding Earth against all aggressors. He stood on a slightly raised platform in the center of the war-room. Fifteen display screens positioned at waist-level gave him all the information he needed to direct the defense effort.
Surrounding the central dais were seven parabolic consoles each with an experienced operator positioned at the focal point facing the General. Each station had a specific purpose, allowing the General to provide direction to any segment of Earth’s defense force.
The Purists opened fire first. Two defense stations suddenly found themselves under attack by hundreds of beams of pure energy. Even at this extreme range, the amount of raw power blasting against the shields was more than enough to overload them. Armor glowed, melted, and then exploded as it absorbed gigajoules of energy. Tough as they were, the stations eventually succumbed and died. As soon as a station ceased to be a threat, the AOH turned their attention to the next.
The defense stations responded in kind, coordinating their attack and targeting a single AOH warship. Unlike the closely packed fleet, the stations were spread out across hundreds of thousands of kilometers. Because of this wide spacing, it took more stations to destroy a single warship than it took warships to destroy a single station. The Purist fleet took its time moving into the system, destroying several stations before continuing ahead. On the bridge of the Wellington, Fleet Admiral Cunningham watched and waited as the enemy fleet slowly approached.
“Methodical bastards aren’t they,” she remarked.
“It’s a good strategy,” Captain John Anderson remarked. He had served with the Admiral before and had established a good working relationship with her. “They’re keeping as much distance as possible between themselves and the stations while still making forward progress. I wonder why General Shen hasn’t repositioned them to bring more into range?”
“That would create a hole in our defenses somewhere else,” the Ad
miral pointed out. “The Purist fleet would notice and swing around—they’re a lot nimbler than the stations.”
“Good point. They don’t seem to be too afraid of us.”
“They’ve got us outnumbered and they’re counting on being able to wipe most of us out with our own missiles,” the Admiral replied. A wry smile appeared on her face as she said, “They’re in for a bitter surprise.”
The Captain scanned the tactical display and shook his head. “That is an impressive fleet,” he said, “but they’re all destroyers. Don’t they know how to build anything bigger?”
“Who knows?” the Admiral shrugged her shoulders. “Nobody seems to know how they managed to build so many.”
“That’s an easy one,” the Captain remarked. Waving his hand at the tactical display, he said, “Look at em! Every single ship is identical. They must have a destroyer assembly line somewhere.”
Both officers chuckled at the little joke not realizing just how close the Captain had come to the truth. It took the AOH fleet 18 hours to make their way to the patiently waiting Earth defense force. Unlike the battle for Almaranus, the invaders did not have to contend with hundreds of warships sent out to meet them. By the time they reached the Admiral’s fleet, their numbers had been reduced by 142. An additional 372 defense stations had been lost, the rest were positioned too far away to be a threat to the enemy fleet.
“All ships, open fire,” Admiral Cunningham calmly said. It was the last command she would ever give.
Space was suddenly filled with invisible beams of coherent energy. Shields on both sides blazed with incandescence as they fought to deflect the energy back into space. The battle lasted for three seconds before coming to a sudden, catastrophic end. Four-hundred and thirty-seven ships, all of them attempting to defend Earth, were gutted from within by nuclear fire. Throughout the system, hundreds of supposedly inactive missiles detonated. Even though they were no longer taking part in the fight, 1,035 defense stations were consumed as the thermonuclear warheads they carried exploded.
