Chapter 15
Dacci Star System
Harpaign Moon, Almand-CM5
__________________________
Present day …
The noise coming from the shuttle’s rear passenger cabin—a cross between a frat house party and a middle-school gymnasium—came from men with an overabundance of testosterone. Cloistered into tight quarters for far too long, Billy let his team of rowdy Sharks have their fun.
He sat in the copilot’s seat in the Storm’s cockpit, next to one of the Parcical’s fighter pilots. Her name was Julie Polly. Already a lieutenant at age twenty-three, her distinguished battle record was enviable by far more seasoned officers. The young woman definitely could fly … no one questioned that; though unsurpassed inside a cockpit, she was lacking in other areas. Julie Polly had a mouth on her that could peel paint off a space freighter. Billy could think of only one other person who came even close in that department—Bristol. Probably a good reason why they were friends.
Prior to entering the narrow Glist tunnel, on the Harpaign Moon of Almand-CM5, Polly yelled for everyone to shut the fuck up. She goosed the Storm’s thrusters this way and that until she had the nose of the craft lined up with the narrow mouth of the hovering Glist aberration. Everyone became still. Billy watched the firm, focused concentration on her face—even a pin, if dropped, would be heard in the stretched-out silence. Inch by inch, she moved the shuttle’s bow ever forward—with virtually no extra space, either right or left—and Billy found himself holding his breath, more than a little impressed with her piloting prowess.
With the Storm now more than two-thirds into the mouth of the tunnel, she glanced over to Billy. “This is one tight bitch …”
“Un huh. Make that … this is one tight bitch, Commander; okay, Lieutenant Polly?” Billy corrected her.
“Sorry, boss … uh oh, hold on, everybody. I’m no longer in control.”
Billy watched her hands release their grip on the controls. She held her palms up, as if signaling surrender. The shuttle suddenly shot the rest of the way into the tunnel, like it was sucked into a vacuum cleaner hose. As they picked up speed, the surrounding Glist block walls morphed into a blur of glowing greens and blues.
The ruckus inside the crew’s passenger compartment was again elevated to a distracting level.
“I would like to sit in here,” came the deep baritone voice of Traveler, standing in the cockpit hatchway.
“It’s a little cramped, but sure … take my seat … Better yet, hold off on that, I need to talk to you all … I have some things to go over with the team. Lieutenant, let me know when anything changes; when you see an end to … whatever it is.”
“You got it, Commander.”
* * *
Billy’s hand-selected team of Sharks consisted of seven over-the-top maniacs. They were big and bold and definitely much too confident for their own good. But with the exception of Jason, or the rhino-warrior—now standing at his side—he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have cover his six. Well, maybe Boomer, but she was in a class by herself.
“Hey, Co … Co … Comm … Commander, we almost there yet?” Tobi Tops Limon asked with a wide smile. He was six feet five inches tall, with shoulders wider than anyone Billy had ever met, except maybe Traveler. His blond flattop earned him the nickname Tops. Originally an Army Ranger who, until Billy grabbed him up, was serving six months in the brig at Fort Bragg for disobeying direct orders from a commanding officer. An officer Billy personally knew was a complete ass-clown. The direct orders were stupid and, quite possibly, could have cost the young ranger and several others their lives. Tops was known to be the single best shot with a rifle—in any of the U.S. forces’ branches. The former sniper’s weapon of choice was an old Barrett M82 semi-automatic—considered an anti-material rifle. He was capable of hitting a defined target at 2,800 yards. But now his weapon of choice—one especially modified by Ricket—was a multi-gun, and his skill and range in firing it had evolved to legendary status. His one and only apparent flaw was a pronounced stutter, which other Sharks had learned not to mention … ever.
“We’ll get there when we get there, Tops.” Billy patted his spacer’s jumpsuit, looking for a cigar. Feeling several within his chest pocket, he extracted one and placed it between his lips.
“You’re not going to light that thing up in here, are you, boss?” Juan Sanchez asked. Sanchez was shorter—about five foot four—but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in sheer meanness when in battle. He was one of the most courageous warriors Billy had ever served with and, more than once, he’d thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t on the enemy side of the Shark.
“Sanchez, instead of worrying about my habits, why don’t you, and all the rest of you, worry about the mission that’s near at hand? There’s another team out there … somewhere … who will need our help. I’m betting Boomer saved a few of your hides in the past. Not to forget, she and Mollie are Captain Reynolds’ daughters.”
The seven Sharks quickly became somber and a few nodded their heads.
“I’m going to repeat what I told you before: We blow this mission, we won’t make it back home. I don’t know about you, but there are certain people there I want to see again. I definitely do not want to remain stuck here, looking at your ugly mugs for the rest of my life.”
“We’ll do what it takes! We’re Sharks … the best of the best,” Rosy said.
Billy looked at the young, perpetually pink-cheeked soldier and nodded assent. “Well … we’ll have to be.”
“I thought this shuttle was modified? That Ricket did something to it so it can return to … you know … our own realm?” Rosy asked.
“This is a small craft. Ricket did what he could, but moving between multiverse realms means applying technology that takes up substantial real estate. Even Ricket doesn’t fully understand the technology—not yet, anyway. He had to scrounge bits and pieces from other Caldurian vessels, including the Parcical. What we have beneath the deck is a miniature Zip Farm. It will give us the capability to jump to another realm once, maybe twice, if we’re lucky. That means we need to find the one thing no one’s ever found before.”
“Wh … wha … what’s that?” Tops asked.
“The key: A reference, which the Caldurians use, to move between realms. The way it stands now, wherever this tunnel ends up we’ll be pretty much stuck there until we find that key.”
“But the girls will be there … right?” Rosy asked.
“I have no idea. That’s my hope. Our mission is to locate the other team and assist them in fulfilling their mission. Making it back home is secondary.”
“To help take down this Rom Dasticon dude. He sounds like a cartoon character; Rom Dasticon … harbinger of evil … purveyor of death …” Sanchez exclaimed, in a deep, movie announcer voice.
The other Sharks chuckled, though it was a strained response. They’d heard stories about Rom Dasticon; how his presence—a doppelganger—could cross over the multiverse and stand before you from another realm. It was said that he was briefly here, thousands of years ago, and ancient Dacci tablets spoke of him as an invincible, horrid, being. One who would eventually—once he returned in his physical form—bring darkness … unimaginable misery … to their realm. He was what Boomer and Mollie and others originally set out to confront. Even the latest war with the Sahhrain was the behind-the-scenes work of Rom Dasticon.
“Dasticon is no laughing matter, boys. If he possesses that kind of influence and he’s not even here, imagine what he can do if he were here. We’re in for the fight of our lives, don’t have any doubts about that.” Billy’s dour expression made it clear he was anything but fooling.
“Commander, I think I see light at the end of the tunnel ahead,” Lieutenant Julie Polly yelled from the cockpit.
Chapter 16
Sol System
Planet Earth, Central Valley Scrapyard, San Bernardino, CA
__________________________
Pres
ent day …
“So Ensign Powell died. Are you saying the ship’s doctor was in on that as well?” Dira asked.
“Maybe … probably. We’ll never know for sure,” the admiral said.
“Sorry, please go on. The Montana has just entered the Taiwan Strait. What’s with the call to battle stations?”
“Yeah, and had the war games even started yet?” Jason asked.
Summer, 1995 …
By the time Perry returned to the bridge, you could cut the tension there with a knife. Scores of warships dotted the far horizon, which was strange, since they were not scheduled to intercept with the USS Independence for another four hours. Grabbing a pair of binoculars, Perry realized he was not viewing carrier groups five and seven, but PRC—a fleet of Mainland China’s warships.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Perry asked.
Greco was seated in the captain’s chair. It was a rare display of insubordination by a bridge officer since the actual captain was on board. The mealy-mouthed man momentarily glanced at Perry, expressing little or no regard, and continued to bark off orders to the bridge crew.
“I want range coordinates on that leading destroyer …”
“Eighteen point six clicks, Commander,” came a quick response.
“Get out of that chair, Greco. We have no orders to fire on the Chinese.”
“Oh, but we do. If you’d been up here—where the ship’s captain ought to be, instead of gallivanting around on the lower decks—then you’d know we were fired upon.”
Perry stared at Greco then at the other officers. “What’s he talking about?”
Lieutenant Madison said, “A submarine, sir. One of China’s Kilo-class attack subs fired two long-range torpedoes … both were a miss, Captain.”
“Come on … the fucking Chinese aren’t going to fire at us! No way, they’re not that stupid.”
“Turret crews … what’s the hold up there?” Greco asked, leaning over and speaking directly to CIC.
A static response came over, “Powder bag elevator … it’s acting a bit temperamental. Okay … we got it going. Just another fifteen seconds.”
“Let me know the second you are ready to fire the forward turret.” Before a response could come, he continued, looking over to Lieutenant Madison. “And give me a fresh update on that destroyer’s position.”
“Seventeen clicks even, sir. Turret crew says forward guns are now in a lock and load status.”
Lieutenant Madison said, “The Chinese fleet have gone to battle stations!”
Astonished, Perry asked, “Wait! You’re telling me they fired two torpedoes at us … and we’re only going to battle stations now? It doesn’t work that way … we all know that.” Perry looked down at Greco with indignation. “This is crazy … we need to stand down here! That’s a direct order, Commander.”
Though several bridge officers glanced in Perry’s direction, none gave him any indication they would comply. Perry had had enough. He stepped in closer to Greco and clasped a beefy hand around the back of his neck. Using his own body-weight, he hurled Greco forward out of the chair—sending him momentarily airborne before he slammed headfirst into the forward bulkhead just below the observation window. Greco fell to the deck in a heap. About to turn away, he saw the smaller man stir. Greco jumped to his feet with amazing agility—especially considering the blow he’d just taken to the head. There was a crazed—almost wild—expression on his face. Perry wasn’t sure if it was a grimace or a deranged smile. When Greco spoke, his teeth were wet with his own blood.
“You’re finished … Reynolds … you’re already dead.”
Perry was aware that news personnel were streaming into the bridge from the port and starboard hatchways. Perry wasn’t sure if they’d caught what had just transpired. He honestly didn’t care.
The correspondents, microphones in clutched, outstretched hands, jockeyed for a good spot inside the overly cramped compartment. Cameramen too wedged themselves into a close position.
Commander Greco retook his seat in the captain’s chair. He yelled, “Fire all guns … forward turrets one and two!” He then rose up and left the chair. “And there you go! That’s how it’s done. The bridge now is all yours, Captain. Best of luck,” he added, smirking. He left the bridge without looking back. Four other officers followed soon after.
The reverberating blasts from the forward two 16-inch gun turrets, six ginormous cannons in all, shook the Montana like nothing Perry had ever experienced before. Still stunned by Greco’s actions, he slapped away the two microphones thrust toward his chin and yelled, “Someone remove these people from the bridge!”
The ship’s speed suddenly altered. In unison, everyone pitched forward—several of the news crew people lost their balance and stumbled onto the deck. Perry hauled himself into the captain’s chair. “Out … all of you out! Madison … give me a status!”
“Two engines offline, Captain,” the helmsman said.
As the news crews were hastily ushered from the bridge—under mild protest—Perry looked at the helmsman, recalling what Terry relayed to him earlier. Chief Engineer Longines was under strict orders to bring two of the Montana’s engines offline when the ship reached certain pre-determined coordinates.
Binoculars back up to his eyes, Perry watched as the Chinese leading destroyer exploded in a tremendous ball of flames—thunderous shockwaves resounded across the open sea a few seconds later. Stunned, he stared in disbelief. He was certain he’d just witnessed substantial loss of life. What have you done … you son of a bitch!
“Incoming! Looks like eight … now ten … ship-to-ship missiles,” Lieutenant Madison reported. “We have thirty … maybe forty seconds!”
“I should be down in the CIC,” Perry said, getting to his feet, referring to the Combat Information Center—a specialized compartment, protected within the ship’s lower decks. It was there that the latest added advanced weaponry technology, including Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles, were deployed and controlled.
Lieutenant Madison said, “Everything’s offline. Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles systems were pre-scheduled to receive maintenance.” He looked at Perry, then over at the remaining bridge crew. “It was the XO’s orders, sir.”
Perry shook his head. “Of course it was. He intended for us to be sitting fucking ducks out here. What about Phalanx?” Perry yelled over the now increasingly noisy bridge. Also relatively new tech for the battleship, the Phalanx Close-In Weapons System (CIWS) consisted of a radar-guided 20 mm Gatling gun, mounted on a swivel base. Its use was highly effective against anti-ship missiles.
“CIWS can be brought online … was never completely operational. Hasn’t been tested, sir.”
“Well, what can you give me, Lieutenant? We’ve got multiple inbound ordnances.”
Madison was back at the squawk box and talking fast. The archaic method of communications on board, with its series of pushbuttons and static-y acoustics, reminded Perry that the ship, although appearing showroom new, was definitely not ready for service—ready for battle.
A squabble of distorted voices came across. Madison, answering it, said, “It’ll have to be the CIWS. It’s a backup … but, like I said, it’s never been tested. Inbound at twenty seconds.”
Realizing there was no time now to get down to the bowels of the ship, where the CIC was located, Perry ordered, “Go to battle stations … and activate CIWS. Fire at will!”
A loud whooping alarm blared all over the ship. Immediately following, he heard the winding-up, high-pitched sound of the Phalanx Close-In Weapons System coming alive. It gave Perry fleeting hope that was short-lived. As the Gatling gun-type weapon began firing tracer rounds, it could be seen that they weren’t aligned to hit the quickly approaching black specs dotting the horizon.
“On it! We’re compensating, sir,” Madison said, anticipating Perry’s next command.
The CIWS rotated several degrees on its turret platform—its stubby barrel suddenly angled up a fraction of
a degree or two. Thousands of bright tracer rounds, seeming to be more accurately aimed, spewed forth ammo toward the ship-to-ship missiles that were nearly upon them.
One by one, the approaching missiles exploded in midair, all except two. The first strike hit approximately mid-ship, just above the waterline. The second hit higher up, just behind the bow.
In the history of warship construction, there had never been a more fortified, more impact resistant vessel than an Iowa-class warship, nor has there been one since. When a two-thousand-pound explosive projectile collides with a stationary solid object, more often than not it is a catastrophic situation. But the Montana was equipped with steel armor plating, which ranged from seventeen inches thick, for the big 16-inch gun turrets, and a hull having both external and internal angled belts of thick steel armor plating of varying weight. Depending on the location—above or below the water line—the ship was tremendously resilient to attacks by both torpedo and ship-to-ship missiles.
The two impacts were sufficient to knock everyone on the bridge right off their feet. Perry landed hard on his back—his head slamming down on the metal deck with enough force for him to see shimmering stars floating before his eyes. He managed to regain his footing by holding on to the back of the captain’s chair and pulling himself up. Peering around the bridge he noted that five of the seven crewmen still remaining, since Greco and his accomplices fled, were moving about—attempting to rise to their feet—while two lay still; one was Lieutenant Madison.
“Shit! Somebody get me a damage report. And we need a medic!”
Warrant Officer Gilroy said, “Two direct strikes … one mid-ship, the other high and close to the bow. That one did pierce the outer hull plating but was stopped by internal, secondary plates.”
“And the mid-ship strike?” Perry asked, touching the back of his head, then checking his fingers for signs of blood.
Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4) Page 9
