by Nick Webb
“But this is my world they’ve been attacking today. Governor Wolfram will want to know about your plans to maintain New Dublin’s security and—”
Zingano interrupted, his voice approaching impatience. “Russell, we’re here to protect humanity. Inasmuch as that means protecting New Dublin, then that’s what we do. But I do not share operational details of strategic plans with officers that don’t have a need to know. Never have, never will. Is that clear? Now get your ass back to New Dublin—”
“I am on New Dublin—”
“—and organize your defenses—the Swarm don’t like losing battles like these—you can bet your asses they’ll be back within the week. It’s their way.” Zingano talked right over him until the other man fell silent. The war was clearly getting on everyone’s nerves.
“But you include him in your plans. The man that came back. The friggin’ brick-layer. The one who’s probably a Russian agent. Don’t deny it, Bill. Even the president has her doubts.”
A long pause. Granger smirked at his bridge crew, and a few of them smiled back.
Zingano sighed. “Admiral Azbill, you’re relieved. Report to IDF CENTCOM on Earth in two days. Your replacement will arrive then. Zingano out.”
The comm crackled, indicating at least one of the lines had terminated.
“Tim, you still there?” came Zingano’s voice.
“Yeah, Bill.”
“We need to talk. You, me, Proctor, everyone on the war council that I trust.”
Interesting. Interesting that he included Proctor in there, and interesting that he distinguished Granger and Proctor from the others with the word trust. Trust was a rare commodity at CENTCOM these days, in spite of the total war footing and President Avery running the country and its associate planets like one giant wartime industrial engine.
“At the waypoint?”
“Yes. See you there in one day. Zingano out.”
The waypoint. The secret coordinates that only a handful of people knew about. Granger, Proctor, Zingano, and only two or three other admirals. President Avery as well.
He addressed Ensign Prince but remained standing, facing the empty XO’s chair. “Get back to New Dublin. We need our fighters and our XO. All hands, stand down from battle stations. Commence repair and recovery operations.”
Chapter 12
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Low Orbit
Two carriers left. They had this in one the bag—against all odds. Volz’s face was sweaty and dripping—one of the hits his fighter had taken had knocked out the environmental controls so the cockpit was overheating. Thankfully, his flight suit was fully contained and had enough oxygen to last at least a day, but damn it was hot.
His squad finished off the last anti-matter turret on the closest carrier, and soon they were angling toward the remaining Swarm vessel. “Last call, boys and girls. Let’s blow this bastard and then go get drunk and make very irresponsible life decisions.”
“Too late,” said Spacechamp. “We’re already space jocks.”
Ballsy smirked. “I’ll have you know I’m an upstandin’, law-abidin’ citizen, ma’am.” He pulled the trigger and picked off a stray Swarm bogey. On his sensor screen he noticed another fighter squad nearby getting raked over the coals by a cloud of enemy craft. “On me, boys. Let’s spring Stryker Squad outta trouble there.”
They veered toward the melee, and Ballsy recognized the voice as soon as it spoke.
“Thank you kindly, Ballsy,” said Dogtown, his old squadmate. The voice brought back searing memories of the former squad. Dogtown, Hotbox, Fishtail, Ballsy—two were dead, and two had death’s number.
“Hang tight, Dogtown, we’re nearly there—”
An explosion cut him off. A Stryker Squad fighter erupted in a fiery cloud as Swarm fighters strafed it in crossfire. Ballsy swore, even as his own squad plunged into the fight, and ten seconds later it was over. He looked around at the field of battle, and at his sensor screen. The last enemy carrier had been neutralized, and was being pummeled by the IDF cruisers bearing down on it. A few dozen Swarm fighters still flew around the cruisers and among their own fighters, but the operation was quickly becoming a mop-up.
He noticed the Warrior had returned from chasing down a Swarm carrier, and soon Commander Pierce’s voice came over his headset.
“Well done, people. All craft, return to fighter bay. Dogtown and Ballsy, your two squads will bring in the rear and watch for strays.”
Strays. It had become a common post-battle Swarm strategy. Inevitably there would be a handful of enemy fighters that would manage to elude them in the mop-up operation, only to reappear as they were returning to the Warrior’s fighter bay, harassing them and occasionally making suicide runs at the bay itself.
“Ballsy,” came Dogtown’s voice, “you and your squad take aft and we’ll take fore. When everyone else is in the bay I’ll escort my two boys, and you follow in with yours.”
“Roger. Taking position now.”
He guided his team toward the fighter bay, patrolling the aft side of the entrance as the surviving squads made their landings. Ballsy was thorough, peering around every nook and corner for hidden Swarm craft while scanning his sensor board for any contact. The Swarm somehow were able to turn off all power and reduce all EM emissions to an undetectable level when in hiding, and the Warrior was a big ship with many places to hide, especially with so much debris floating around.
“That’s it, folks. We’re heading in,” declared Dogtown. Ballsy watched as he and his two surviving squadmates made their landing.
“Spacechamp, head in. Fodder, follow her. Pew Pew, can you even make a controlled landing with only one wing?”
“I guess we’ll find out, man,” said Pew Pew.
Ballsy watched with baited breath as Pew Pew made his final, wobbly approach, lurching and tilting as the pilot tried to maintain a straight course on landing. With a jolt and a shower of sparks, he made it, skidding to a stop one hundred meters into the vast bay, nearly crashing into Fodder’s craft and only stopping at the last second.
He pulled the controls to guide his fighter into the bay.
“Ballsy! Bogey on your tail!” Spacechamp screamed into his ear.
On instinct, he pulled up and looped around in a tight curve, nearly passing out from the extreme g-force pushing him into his seat. But it was worth it—with a flick of his thumb he pelted the trailing bogey with a stream of fire, and it exploded into a satisfying, muted fireball.
Spacechamp yelled in his ear again. “There’s two!”
Twisting his head around, he saw it. It had been hiding behind a large piece of debris from one of the destroyed IDF cruisers, and was now making a full-speed run for the fighter bay. Ballsy was way off course, having been distracted by the first.
“Dammit!” He pulled hard on the controls and wheeled the fighter around, pointing it at the bogey descending full-bore on the fighter bay entrance. His thumb unleashed a storm of fire on the craft.
Mini-explosions ripped through the bogey and it was knocked somewhat off course, but moments later it managed to pull itself aright, and with what Volz supposed must have sounded like a horrific crunch and the shriek of metal on metal, it clipped the side of the fighter bay entrance and spun out of control, passing through the EM shield and tumbling onto the floor, colliding with people and fighters alike before it came to rest, smoldering and steaming.
Chapter 13
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Planetary Command Center
Proctor had no sooner listened to Fleet Admiral Zingano dismiss Admiral Azbill when he’d fixed a cold glare on her and said, “Get. Out.” Several minutes later she was back on her shuttle, climbing up into the atmosphere toward the distant dot that was the ISS Warrior.
From her vantage point it looked like the battle was just a mop-up operation now, as all the Swarm carriers were destroyed and all that remained were a few dozen fighters. By the time the Warrior was large enough to fill h
er window, it seemed all the Swarm fighters had been rounded up and neutralized.
Except one. She watched in horror as a stray bogey fired up its engines from behind a piece of debris and raced toward the fighter bay. One of their own pelted it with fire, but the enemy craft smashed into the fighter bay, leaving fire and destruction in its wake.
“Abort landing in shuttle bay. Get us in there,” she said to the shuttle pilot, pointing at the fighter bay. There was still plenty of room for them to land there, and she knew she’d be needed.
Moments later, before the hatch had completely opened and angled down to the deck she jumped off and ran toward the chaos. Broken bodies lay against a wrecked fighter and blood was everywhere. From their uniforms she saw one was a tech, the other a pilot. Other fighter deck crew techs were running with fire suppressants, as others dragged the injured away from the smoldering Swarm fighter.
“Stay clear of it! All non-essential personnel out!” She reached down to check the pulse of a tech, but there was no hope for this one. Her forehead was caved in from where the crashing fighter had struck it.
Colonel Hanrahan and his rapid response force arrived, along with a hazmat team, all of them helping to clear the space around the Swarm craft. The characteristic green sludge was dripping out of holes and fissures. The colonel and two pilots assisted a third pilot—Dogtown, one of the few original space jocks they brought over from the Constitution. He’d been knocked over, but was at least standing with assistance.
“Came out of nowhere,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Lieutenant Volz. Ballsy, if she remembered right. “Damn cumrat just came out of nowhere. I—I tried to stop it … but….”
She grabbed his shoulders. He looked shellshocked—this war was getting to him. It was getting to them all. “Lieutenant. You did everything you could. I was out there—I saw. If it weren’t for you, more would be dead.”
He was vaguely shaking his head—the young man was clearly still in shock. “If I had have stayed a little closer to the bay. Or if I’d targeted its thrusters instead of its power plant. Or if I’d—”
“Ballsy,” she began, looking him in the eye, “listen to me. This is not your fault. Nobody here is at fault. When a killer pulls the trigger, we don’t blame the victim for getting in the way. You did your duty, and you did it brilliantly. Look at you! You’re still here, two months later. I think that shows that you’re one of the best. The best we have.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough to save her.” Before she could ask what he was talking about, he continued: “They’re not killers, Commander. They’re a force of nature. They’re a hurricane. A tornado. An infestation. Calling them killers only grants them humanity, and they are anything but human.”
He was rambling of course, but she conceded—internally—that it was a good point. She had to get to the bottom of this. IDF and United Earth were losing. Sure, they were racking up victories, but they were ultimately pyrrhic victories. Hundreds of millions were dead already, and millions joined them every week.
And the Swarm were endless. They were a hurricane. A force of nature. Volz nailed it.
“Go get some sleep, Ballsy.” She let go of his shoulders and turned him toward the exit.
But before she could guide him toward the doors, the shuttle bay exploded again.
She was knocked down by the force of a blast from behind. When she opened her eyes and looked around, several things stood out to her. The explosion wasn’t nearly as destructive as she feared. It was only some minor blast coming from the Swarm fighter—probably an overloaded power cap going critical.
But the other thing she noticed was far more disturbing. Colonel Hanrahan, Dogtown, and the two pilots helping him had been much closer to the fighter, and were laying motionless nearby. And worse—green sludge was smeared all around them. Swarm matter had blasted out from the fighter and had sprayed out onto them.
“Hazmat! Get them isolated and cleaned! Now!” She beckoned to the suited hazmat crew, who rushed to the fallen crew members. Thankfully, she saw all of the men move, so at least they weren’t dead.
But they might be far worse than dead.
Chapter 14
Boulder, Colorado, Earth
Office of the Vice President, Tertiary Presidential Bunker
Vice President Isaacson knew many things, but the thing he was most sure about was that the office of Vice President was the most useless office in the world.
“Sir, President Avery would like to talk to you privately in her chambers.” The aide called the news in lazily from his office, which was literally just a closet next to Isaacson’s own office, which itself barely qualified as a room.
He’d been moved out of his old sprawling office building, and god he missed that place. Lavish, finely decorated, right next to the fountains in the courtyard at the old North American presidential mansion just outside the border of D.C., and far more private than his current setup.
They’d moved him at President Avery’s orders. Ever since that day over two months ago when the Swarm attacked Earth, Avery would not permit him to be in the same room—or the same city—as her.
Not out of any loathing or ill feelings she may have born him, though he supposed she didn’t hold him in any particularly high esteem. But there was security to consider. If a Swarm singularity bomb were to hit the main presidential compound with Avery in it, at least the government would still have continuity of leadership.
He was the fallback. The contingency plan. The backup. But until that time he was needed, he was utterly useless. Troop inspections and morale parades were about all he was allowed to do.
“Now?”
The aide sipped his coffee before responding. “The message says to be there in two hours.”
“So basically, now. It takes nearly two hours to get there.” He glanced at his watch, then wistfully at the stack of reports and briefings piled high on his desk. He was not born for paperwork. He was born for hookers and tequila. And there was a disturbing lack of both in his new bunker of an office here buried underneath a mountain outside Denver.
“One hour, forty-five minutes, yes, sir.” The aide tapped the comm patch tattoo on his wrist. “I’ll arrange for your shuttle. By the time you get up there it should be ready for takeoff.”
“Fine. And get my new body man. That new intern. What’s his name?”
“Conner?”
“Yeah. I’ll need someone to arrange my coffee and accommodations while I’m out there—it’s nearly five o’clock, so by the time I get there and meet with the old battle-ax it’ll be well past my bedtime. And one does not keep little presidents-in-waiting up past their bedtimes,” he added with an ironic drawl, mimicking President Avery.
Twenty minutes later he emerged from the last elevator out into the glaring winter sunlight and pulled his coat tight around him. The intern, a young man who’d been drafted only a month prior, was waiting for him, holding a heavier coat. “Brought this for you, sir. Thought you’d need it.”
Nice touch. The kid was young, but not stupid. “Thank you, Conner. Shall we?” Isaacson thumbed in the direction of the shuttle waiting on the launch pad, engines whining in the background.
Conner picked up the overnight bag he carried for Isaacson whenever his duties required him to travel. Usually, he’d rely on whatever establishment was hosting him to see to his every need, even cater to his whims. But times had changed. Almost overnight, the world had changed.
Earth, and most other populated worlds, were on a war footing. Not just a casual war involving just the half-percent of the population that ever volunteered for the military. This was total war. Entire industries co-opted by the government and re-geared to produce capital ships and fighters instead of cruise liners, missiles and torpedoes instead of personal vehicles, targeting computers instead of personal entertainment devices. Everything was different. The stakes were high, so Earth—and President Avery—had risen to the occasio
n.
“Have a seat, son,” he said to Conner, and motioned him toward one of the other passenger chairs. Soon, they were in the air, blazing through the upper atmosphere at three kilometers per second. The noise cancellation system seemed to be down, and an unholy roar pierced the cabin.
“Sorry, sir, we’re having maintenance issues,” shouted the captain of the shuttle, a squat man with a mustache buckled firmly into his cockpit seat. Isaacson noticed no such restraints on the passenger seats.
“Delightful,” Isaacson drawled. “Are we going to make it in one piece, or shall I alert the speaker of the house that he’s next in line? I’m sure Mr. LaPierre will be overjoyed.”
A gruff laugh. “Sit down, sir, and enjoy the ride. Be there in an hour. Less if we can get through D.C. secure airspace faster than a turd through clogged pipes.”
Blue collar workers. He rolled his eyes and focused on the data pad that Conner had pulled out of his overnight bag for him. “Thank you, son.”
Conner nodded a brief smile, then closed his eyes, gripping his armrests tightly and apparently making a good play at relaxing.
“You nervous, son?”
The boy opened his eyes with a start. “Sir?”
“Nervous?”
“Oh, it’s just … I hate flying, sir.”
“Understandable. You’re young, and … what are you, eighteen? Play sports? You look like a football player.”
Conner shrugged. “Nineteen, and yeah, I played my freshman year of college. No, sir, I’ve never had problems flying. Not until … well, you know.”
Isaacson knew. The smoking craters were still smoldering from the heat of the blasts. Except for Miami. The Gulf of Mexico had flooded into that particular crater. And most of New Orleans as well. But Houston, Phoenix, San Bernardino, and Riverside … they were desolate, craggy pits.
“Body like that, you should be in the Marines, son. Or at least the Marine’s football team.” Isaacson settled in to read through the latest casualty reports coming in from the day’s skirmishes. It had been a busy week—over a dozen different Swarm incursions.
