Master Chief Jenks closed his eyes and pursed his lips, surprised his jerry-rigging was successful. The propulsion officer sitting at his console watched as the power plant was now receiving the required amount of coolant and she slowly came online one system at a time.
“You did it, Master Chief, she’s up!”
Captain Lienanov, who had been hastily assigned to watch the plasma tanks for escalating pressure buildup, turned and echoed the officer’s words.
Jenks opened his eyes after his silent prayer and then looked at the computer showing full power had been restored. He raised the glass visor in his helmet and then stuck the stub of a dead cigar in his mouth, much to the horror of the safety officer, then turned to the men he thought of now as his people.
“Of course it is, what do you think it was gonna do, you bunch of—” The master chief looked at the young female ensign and then thought better of what he was going to call the men in the engine room. “Well, of course it works!” he said instead.
Jenks floated over to the intercom and slammed a beefy fisted glove into the switch. He removed the stub out from his mouth.
“Bridge, engine room. Full power restored. Now you have maneuvering capability, but don’t go slammin’ her into the moon or anything!”
* * *
Commodore Freemantle stood at his station and shook his head at the very unprofessional man he had in charge in the engine spaces. But he was thankful the gruff old engineer was there.
“Starboard maneuvering watch, fire jets one, five, and eight. Stern, reverse thrust of jets twelve and eighteen.”
The commands went without comment as the silent roll of the Garrison Lee started to slow.
“Port jets twenty, twenty-four, and fifty-one, fire now!” he said, overly excited to get the command out.
“She’s stabilizing, sir,” the helmsman called out. “Roll has slowed, slowing … stopped.”
“All jets cease burn. Helm, please give control back to the navigation computer for station keeping. Now torpedo room, launch my drone.”
“Drone away.”
On the one-hundred-foot view screen the commodore saw the small torpedo-shaped drone shoot out just aft of the deflector plow. The probe fired her booster engines and shot around the moon.
“Launch relay drone.”
Soon the first pilotless information-gathering drone shot free of the Lee, only this one stopped at seven hundred miles above the moon and still in visual range of the battleship. There it fired its automated breaking jets and came to a complete stop. She waited there to receive the information the first Black Bird drone sent back. Then it would relay the telemetry to the Garrison Lee.
The bridge personnel waited silently for what the drone would tell them they were facing.
“First images coming in,” the intelligence officer called from her station.
Freemantle and the rest of the bridge leaned forward as far as their safety harnesses would allow and watched the screen closely.
“Oh, Lord,” said one of the younger radar officers.
“Stow that, sailor,” Freemantle said, though he too was stunned at the first image.
There were at least a thousand smaller attack saucers sitting in formation, six rows deep. The computer was rapidly counting and printing their type on the large screen. The message wasn’t good. Sitting on the outer rim of protecting attack craft were at least ten of the processing ships. They were at minimum the same size as the two that struck Mumbai and Beijing. Then in the exact center was the power-producing and transfer ship that would feed the invasion force the resupply of energy they would need to take on the lacking defenses of Earth’s military power.
An attack saucer broke formation and shot toward the probe. The little missile stayed in place and kept broadcasting as long as it could, and that was only a few seconds as the bridge crew saw a bright flash of light and the telemetry being sent to the relay went dark. But before it did they all saw the fleet of enemy warships start their advance.
“Number One, I would like to address the crew at this time, please,” Freemantle said as he straightened up as best he could.
“Aye, sir, one MC is active.”
“All hands, man battle stations,” Freemantle said calmly. “All sixteen-inch gun turrets, charge your particle canisters and energize your Argon systems. Ladies and gentlemen, the battle we trained for these past four years is now upon us. We must destroy as much of this fleet as possible to give the boys time to destroy their only power ship. Assault element, man your attack ships. Good luck, Admiral Everett.”
Throughout the HMS Garrison Lee, men and women tensed for the first outer space battle in history, and as most of them thought, the shortest and possibly the only battle.
The Lee turned to starboard, exposing all of her sixteen-inch laser cannon toward the curvature of the moon, waiting to discharge a full broadside into the first saucers that showed themselves.
Not since the end of World War II was a battleship more prepared for offensive action with naval gunfire.
* * *
Carl Everett looked Jack over as he sat up and winced at his broken ribs. He tried desperately to clear his eyes as the announcement was made about the testing of the power plant. He was finally able to focus on the face in front of him. As he tried to speak he felt sick as he started to float up into the air. Everett reached out and pulled him back down.
“I thought that letting you float away would be faster than explaining to you where you were at.” Carl smirked and then realized the last thing his friend had seen on the surface was more than likely his command being blown to pieces, and the death of Will Mendenhall. “I’m sorry about your command, Jack.” He looked over at Tram, who was sitting next to the now-spacesuited general. “And about Will.”
Jack Collins was still dazed, but not quite enough not to feel the pang of guilt over how he had failed. And now there was no telling what was happening below on the surface.
“Camp…” He swallowed and tried again, “Camp Alamo?” Tram handed him a Mylar bag of Dr. Pepper and he took it as his eyes searched Everett’s face.
“No word. Hell, we just got this big bitch back under control, thanks to the master chief.” Carl had heard the coolant pumps engage just a moment before.
Collins took a drink of the sharp-tasting liquid, coughed, and then drank again. He handed the empty bag back to Tram. He reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “The rest of the staff?”
Tram lowered his head and then started to clean the old M-14 rifle once again. The gift he had received from Jack in South America had never been out of his sight. Luckily when the Black Hawk went down he had it strapped to his back.
“Sebastian and the others are dead, Jack.”
Collins leaned back as he held firm to one of the many canvas straps that hung from the bulkhead.
Suddenly the feel of movement was pushed throughout the ship as the Lee started to control her roll.
“We’re headed for one hell of a gunfight in just a few minutes, buddy. I have to go. You and Tram take the number two lift to deck six, and then take the tram to the forward spaces nearest the escape pods. That’s the safest place on board, right by the plow. Thicker steel.”
Jack started to say something in protest, but Carl shook his head. “Not this time, pal, it’s my turn. You and your men have done enough.” He looked at the Vietnamese lieutenant. “Tram, you take command of the staff of General Collins, and if things go bad get him off the ship. That’s an order, you understand?”
Even Tram hesitated, making Everett shake his head. He then turned to an SAS military security man.
“Sergeant, you take these two men to the escape pod. You’ll know real fast if this attack goes south, so get them the hell out. The general’s flag is being transferred.”
The SAS sergeant came to attention and nodded.
“Sorry, Jack, but the fights in the navy’s corner now.” He peeled his feet off the floor, pushed off, and floate
d through the open hatch to the shuttle bay without the slightest hesitation. Collins knew he couldn’t say good-bye like he wanted to in front of the men around him.
The two assault teams of Delta and SEALs moved off with a nod of thanks to Jack for giving them a shot at their jobs. The last man by was the young SEAL who had recently shaved his beard. He smiled. “Thank you, General.”
Jack watched the young SEAL sail through the hatch, knowing every man on that detail knew they wouldn’t have the time to get back to the shuttles before the detonations of the warheads turned them to nothing more than light particles.
Throughout the Garrison Lee every person onboard felt the ion-drive engines come to life just as the announcement from the commodore sounded through the loud speakers.
And General Jack Collins never felt so helpless in his life.
CHATO’S CRAWL, ARIZONA
The two men in black Windbreakers waited inside the Cactus Bar and Grill. One was shooting pool on the filthy and beer-stained table that had seen far better days; the other walked up to the old Rockolla jukebox and not too gently shoved the long-haired old man away. The old man walked to a crooked and slanting table and slowly sat, placing his head on the tabletop. He looked like he had fallen asleep, which is the way the alternating watchers, the men in black, had seen him do most of the long and boring days in the time they had spent here.
The bartender was his usual self as he stood behind the bar and just watched the men. He had been kept busy in the kitchen serving these men sandwiches and cheeseburgers at least five or six times a day. He knew the bulk of the eight men kept low in the Texaco station across the way but never enquired personally. He wiped his bar and tried to ignore the two men until they ordered something, usually just water to his great dissatisfaction.
The small bell above the double doors chimed and the leader of these men came in and walked straight to the bar. He was soon followed by the redhaired man in the now dirty blue suit. The skinny one sat at the bar as the leader called the other two black-clad men over to where he pulled out a barstool, looked it over, and then decided to forego the seating as it looked like it would collapse under his weight. The two men came forward. The one playing pool placed the old, crooked pool cue on the bar and gave the heavyset bartender a dirty look until he moved down to what used to be a waitress station that hadn’t seen a waitress in six years.
“This little safari is at an end. We’ve been ordered to pull out and head our separate ways,” the larger of the three said. “Our target seems to be a lot smarter than our man Vickers here thought he was.” He glanced at Hiram, who just stared at the stained bar top with his hands hidden out of sight. “For all we know the asset is holed up at the Motel 6 in Apache Junction, drinking Coronas and lying by the pool.”
“He will be here, eventually,” Vickers said, not bothering to look up.
“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t; that’s no longer a concern of ours, or of Mr. Peachtree’s.” The man glanced at his two partners and slightly nodded his head. “We’ve been ordered to clean up our mess here and leave.” The man suddenly pulled out a silenced nine-millimeter Glock and started to clean up.
He never saw the maniacal smile of the redhead’s face as he just sat there. The other two slowly went for their hidden weapons, not feeling any need to hurry on this occasion—after all, there had been nothing more threatening to them since they arrived than a small, yellow scorpion walking slowly across the cracked and slat-missing hardwood floor. That was their mistake.
The other major mistake was for them and their new employer Daniel Peachtree to have not enquired as to what Vickers had been doing in the hours leading up to him being found in Las Vegas. They would never know he had found the Cactus Bar and Grill, along with the entire town of Chato’s Crawl, deserted and abandon. Life could never have returned to the small place after the events of 2006. The town had been gutted of life and no one who lived there before could ever get the images of the slaughter out of their minds, so every one of the surviving townies had packed up and headed to where there were people—a lot of people where they would feel somewhat safe. Vickers had taken precautions against this eventual turn in fortune. He had stocked the bar in preparation for him to go it alone in securing the asset. He would have waited forever if that’s what it took because he knew his life depended on a deal to trade the asset for his freedom. He never trusted Peachtree or Camden—Hiram knew how this particular game was played because he had written the rules long ago.
The shotgun blast caught the largest of the three men in the chest, taking his gun hand off before the double-ought buckshot tore into his body, flinging him back into the second and third man. Hiram easily raised his hand and fired three more very loud shots into his face and head as the old man sprang from his chair where the men in black had thought him drunk and passed out. The bartender with the sawed-off shotgun still smoking ejected the spent casing and easily walked up and fired again, this time catching the last man in line as he attempted to rise off the floor. The shot caught the man in the head, turning the air into a bloody mist of brain and bone.
The old man jumped on the second man’s chest as he too tried to rise. With his legs pinning the man to the ground the codger, who wasn’t so old and never drank a day in his life, pulled out his weapon of choice, an eight-inch switchblade. He smiled and slowly cut the man in black’s throat from ear to ear. Then he stood with the dripping knife as the frightened man grabbed at his torn neck. The gun was kicked away from his grasping fingers and it slid away.
The bartender ejected the second shell from his sawed-off shotgun and then fired a round into the struggling man’s upturned face. It was all over in five short seconds. Vickers placed his own nine millimeter on the bar top and then turned to face his number one team of assassins: a man and his quiet older brother who had set up the brownstone in Georgetown the night he had to eliminate the sister of Jack Collins. They were also the murderous siblings who had placed the two bodies on the turnpike later that night.
“So transparent and predictable,” Vickers said.
The bartender and his brother stood next to Hiram. The older, silent one wiped the blood from his switchblade on the bar rag that was tossed to him by his brother.
“This thing is nearly over one way or the other. Either the president’s plan will work, or it won’t. Either way we take the asset.”
“We wait?” The old man bent over and started removing money and identification from the slain agents.
“Yes, we wait. The asset will be coming home very soon.” Vickers took some stale peanuts from the wooden bowl in front of him. He tossed away a few that had drops of blood on them and then lazily threw the remainder into his mouth and chewed. “You’ll find the rest packing their bags over at the station.” He looked at his personal employees. “I assume you won’t have any trouble taking care of them?”
The burly man behind the bar took up his shotgun and started replacing the spent shells and smiled.
“Good, now go show them how real bad guys operate.”
WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
The president, as tired as he was, waited with General Caulfield inside his room as he spoke by phone to the prime ministers of two allied countries. The conversations were short and to the point. Caulfield knew he wouldn’t last that much longer as he took in the beaten and worried countenance of the chief executive.
“Where is Dr. Compton?” the president asked quickly, fearing something had happened to his friend. The first lady looked up from the paperwork she had been trying to keep busy with since the attorney general and the chief justice had left the previous hour after the launch of the Lee.
“Calm down, he’s right out in the hallway. He’s about as bad off as you; you both have to stop for a while. Everything else is out of your control for the time being. You’ve hamstrung Camden, so he can’t order lunch without congressional approval. Your military knows who is
in charge and what’s happening up there”—she looked toward the ceiling—“is out of your hands at the moment.” The first lady stood, felt the president’s forehead, and became worried as his fever had risen in the past hour by seven degrees. “You and Niles are both going to fall over and then you are back to square one with that son of a bitch.”
The president looked at General Caulfield. “I think the wrong person has been in charge the whole time.” He smirked as his wife kissed him on the forehead.
* * *
Niles closed his good eye and sighed. He was well aware of what the ground element at Camp Alamo was facing. He didn’t know which of his people were alive and who were lying dead on the snow and ice. His leg was propped up in his wheelchair as he spoke to Virginia Pollock and Lee Preston. The attorney had never seen a battered man who refused to rest like this Dr. Compton had. The man frightened him as he realized that if all government employees were as tenacious as this man was he would run as fast as he could to the nearest border and get out, because the pencil pushers and the slide-rule boys would inherit the Earth and men like him would soon be out of work.
“I’m authorizing you to pass Mr. Preston through security at the complex and retrieve Matchstick. He’s done as much as he can do, and Gus wants to be at home.” Niles looked up and slowly blinked his left eye underneath the glasses that were propped as best they could be on his bandaged head. “We owe the old man that dignity. Mr. Preston, thank you for your assistance thus far, but with Camden, you never know what kind of legal maneuvering he’ll pull and I don’t trust anyone when it comes to Matchstick and Gus. Get them out of the complex and secure them the best you can away from Nevada. Chato’s Crawl should be the safest place. We should be getting our military contingent back soon, one way or the other, to secure him better. Virginia, see to it.”
“Niles, you have to rest. I’ll personally take the little guy and Gus home. I’ve already notified Denise Gilliam, Charlie, and Pete, that they will accompany us, because Matchstick will need friends around him as Gus … well, he’s too tired to keep his eyes on Matchstick all the time. We should have enough old-timers providing security at the two houses; I don’t anticipate any trouble from now on.”
Overlord Page 52
