“Again,” said Mattis, a surge of adrenaline blasting away his resurgent lethargy. “Repeat that last barrage. Keep shooting.”
The Midway rumbled, loudly complaining as they became a target for the enemy ships, those red lines of hostile fire slamming into their hull, carving out bits of it.
This time, Lynch’s voice carried a certain urgency. “Admiral, we have a major hull breach on the forward section. We are losing atmosphere.”
It was the third battle the Midway had been involved in, in short succession. Most of the damage they had suffered had been patched haphazardly, or not at all. There was only so much their damage control teams could do. “Seal those sections,” he ordered. “And dispatch evacuation crews. Make sure the crew get out.” That was protocol, but as Mattis looked over the readouts, he knew the truth.
Nobody had survived.
A third barrage of fire roared toward the alien cap ship, more than half the shells skipping past the shield and striking the vulnerable underside. Yet the ship held. Tougher than its brethren.
A half-dozen white flashes burst all around them, and the bridge was illuminated by the glare.
“Report!” said Mattis, shielding his eyes.
The white light faded.
“Sir,” said Lynch. “There are six vessels joining the battle.”
“Reinforcements for the aliens?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“No, sir,” said Lynch, his voice charged. “They’re squawking Chinese signals.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
Hangar Bay
USS Midway
Guano hadn’t saved Ganymede. She’d failed.
Her combat landing was perfect, as though whatever trance she was in had allowed her to touch down without error. She’d been the first to get her ship in. With the destruction of Ganymede Colony replaying over and over in her mind, she sat in her fighter for agonizing minutes, until they were finally ordered to launch again.
In reverse order. So she was now last. Right next to Joker.
“What a bummer,” said Flatline, as another wave of their strike craft flew out into space, joining the fight. “Just having to sit here. We really won the lottery.”
“Actually,” said Guano, “winning the lottery is far less likely. Like, okay, trying to win the lottery to get rich, right? It’s like trying to kill yourself, flying commercial exosphere shuttlecraft.”
“Yeah.” Flatline tapped on the back of her seat with his foot. “I’m just trying to pass the time.”
She appreciated it, but there was no point. The view through the open hangar doors was enough. Even that tiny window offered a beautiful, and terrifying, view of the battle outside. White streaks of cannon fire like falling stars, red streaks crisscrossing the black of space, and sparkling fields of debris flying in every direction.
Minutes passed. Wings of craft went out. Finally, it was her turn.
“Let’s do this,” said Joker. “C’mon, let’s get out there!”
Guano couldn’t agree more. “Hotel-1 requests permission to launch,” she said. Hotel. So far down the list it was almost an insult.
“Not so fast,” said Roadie, his voice carrying a strange, mysterious air to it. “Guano, I got a special mission for you.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Bridge
USS Midway
No matter what they threw at the alien cap ship, it kept coming. Their shield had burned out completely—the barrages of fire the fleet sent its way all speared in, finding the hole in the hull and puncturing through into the inner workings of the vessel. And yet, as mighty as their attacks seemed to be, the ship absorbed as much of that punishment as they were willing to deal out.
So it was time for the coup de grace. “Ready torpedoes,” said Mattis. “Aim for their underbelly. Get ready to sink that bastard once and for all.”
“Torpedoes loading,” said Commander Pitt. “Stand by.”
“Fire when ready,” said Mattis, chewing on the end of his cigar, teeth digging in, the taste of tobacco on his lips.
Mattis’s command console flashed an angry red. The Paul Revere had been hit, and hit bad, by the looks of it. Its superstructure was burning, a white cloud of leaking atmosphere drifting into space.
“Report,” he asked Lynch, anticipating the man’s question, his heart in his throat. “The Paul Revere?”
Lynch spent a moment reading, and then looked up, ashen faced. “One of the light cruisers nailed them with a mass-driver shot. It went straight through their superstructure, sir. Right to their core.”
Their bridge. “Get Fisher on the line,” said Mattis. “I want to talk to them. Make sure they’re okay.”
Sadly, Lynch shook his head. “The connection won’t even authenticate. Scanning.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry, sir. The shot went straight into the bridge, and beyond. They’re gone.”
Mattis closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the Revere was, amazingly, still firing. “Hail anyone on that ship. Who’s ordering those guns to fire?”
Lynch tapped at his console for a second, and then a panicked, youthful voice filled his earpiece. “Hello? Hello?”
“Calm down, son,” he said, putting on his best CO’s voice. “This is Admiral Mattis. Who do I have?”
“Uh, Petty Officer Clevon Price, Admiral.”
“Price. Who’s in command over there?”
“I don’t know, sir!” The man’s voice became shrill. “Nobody’s answering their comms, nobody’s talking to us, we can’t raise the bridge—”
“Calm down.” Mattis had seen this kind of thing before in the heat of battle. Everyone lost their damn minds. That was, after all, why ships had officers. To keep order, to give the orders, and to project a calming presence that allowed everyone else to function.
The Paul Revere needed a new captain. Mattis’s eyes flicked, almost subconsciously, to Commander Pitt. Some unspoken communication occurred between them, a signal of their mutual understanding.
“Sir,” said Commander Pitt slowly, “request permission to go aboard the Paul Revere and assume command.”
Mattis smiled. Commander Pitt had performed admirably this whole mission, despite extremely adverse conditions…and Mattis had practically stolen the ship from him. It was time he had his own command. “Nobody more deserving,” he said. “Get a shuttle and go. I’ll have one of the remaining fighters escort you across.”
“Wait,” said Senator Pitt. Mattis had almost forgotten he was there. The man gestured to the screens scattered around the bridge. “Look at that! In case you have forgotten, Admiral, there’s a battle raging out there!”
Mattis ground his teeth and ignored Pitt Senior. “Get to the shuttle,” he said. “Maintain discipline. Establish order. Assume command. Take a small cadre of junior officers with you to help. That is all.”
“Over my dead body!” shouted Senator Pitt. “He’ll be killed out there!”
Commander Pitt’s lips drew themselves into a thin line, his face tightening as he tried to conceal his excitement, excitement that was married to fear, but also pride. He straightened his shoulders and gave a crisp salute. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
With that, and with barely a glance at his father, Commander Pitt practically sprinted out of the bridge.
Mattis touched his earpiece. “Petty Officer Price, stand by. A new CO has been dispatched from the Midway, my own XO as a matter of fact.”
Relief flooded his ear. “Yes, sir!”
Senator Pitt gave him a withering glare, but Mattis was happy for his XO. Yet whatever brief time he had to celebrate ended with a call from Lynch.
“Sir, the alien flagship is moving into a firing position on Earth.”
A worrying call, but one he wasn’t too concerned about. “Good luck without their mass driver.”
Lynch shook his head. “Sir, it’s charging up anyw
ay. It’s still gaining energy, just like as if it was going to fire…”
As they watched, the whole top of the alien ship blew off, detaching itself and floating off into the void, tumbling as it drifted away.
Revealing a whole mass-driver gun, loaded and charging.
The fucking ship had two mass drivers.
Lord help them all.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
Hangar Bay
USS Midway
“Special mission?” Guano fiddled with her throttle, yearning to open it and join the battle raging just out the window. “What’s that?”
“Stand by for instructions,” said Roadie. In the background, she could hear gunfire and the warble of the missile lock alarm. Damn guy was getting all the kills.
“Roger that,” said Guano. “Cooling my heels in the hangar bay.”
Time ticked away, seconds turning into almost a full minute. Roadie accumulated another victory, a guns kill. His fifth. Now he was an ace too. A thought crossed her mind. That wasn’t it, was it? He wasn’t trying to keep her in the Midway so he could get the most victories, and claim the title of the Midway’s chief ace?
Pilots could be awfully petty about these kinds of things, but Roadie was a great CO. He was stern but fair, and always tried to encourage his pilots to do their very best. He wouldn’t jack all the glory for himself. It wasn’t his style.
Was it?
Finally, Roadie spoke to her again. “Apologies for the delay, Guano. A shuttle is leaving the Midway, designation Zulu-1. Aboard it is Commander Pitt. The USS Paul Revere has suffered significant damage and requires a new Commanding Officer. Your mission is as follows: launch with Joker and that shuttle and protect it as it makes its way toward the Paul Revere, and then again on its return journey. When its mission is complete, join the engagement.”
Joker practically vomited into the microphone. “Are you serious? Are you serious? Escort duty? No way.”
Roadie’s tone turned sour. “Don’t fuck with me right now, Joker. I’m serious. Escort that shuttle.”
“This is bullshit,” said Flatline right behind her. “C’mon. We’re all reloaded, refueled, rearmed. Let’s get back out there. We have a full compliment of guns and missiles. Let’s do this!”
Guano clenched her teeth, ready to shout and scream and protest, agreeing with Flatline and Joker—but then, just as it had before, the battle-calm came over her, and her anger evaporated. “This is Hotel-1, we are ready for launch and escort duty.”
“What?” shouted Flatline.
“No way!” said Joker, her tone incredulous. “Unreal.”
But she was ready. The shuttle lifted off. Guano fell into formation with it, sliding onto its wing. The three ships drifted out of the hangar bay. Shuttles were so much slower than fighters. The three of them turned toward the Paul Revere, the burning ship growing gradually closer in her cockpit.
Their charge flew at almost a snail’s pace, drifting among the debris, past the occasional red streak and stray cannon shell. She took the opportunity to get a good look around. It was beautiful, in a strange way. Like watching a fireplace on a warm winter’s eve.
“Zulu-1,” said Guano, “be careful of that debris field.”
“No worries,” said their pilot, an excited-sounding man with a thick Asian accent. She didn’t know him. Utility drivers and fighter pilots didn’t mix. “We’re going around it. Thanks for the cover.”
They weren’t doing anything at all but flying straight and level. It felt wrong to accept the guy’s thanks, but she should reply to his transmission. “Acknowledged. Don’t worry, buddy, we got you.”
The shuttle docked. Guano and Joker fell into a protective formation, turning slow circles around the USS Paul Revere, but none of the alien craft came close to them—they had probably discounted the Revere as a burning wreck.
Zulu-1 undocked, and then the three of them began the slow trundle back to the Midway.
“Holy shit,” said Flatline, his voice stressed. “I can’t believe they pulled us out to escort this guy.”
“He’s a VIP,” said Guano, still basking in the unnatural calm. “They want their best guarding him. Same reason you want your best pilots to be your instructors, not combat personnel. Because you want your strength to grow, not decline. Roadie picking us is a compliment.”
“Man,” said Joker, “fuck compliments. I’d rather get into this fight, not babysit a shuttle.”
“I can hear you, you know,” said Zulu-1.
Guano studied her radar instead of engaging with the chatter. The Chinese had sent reinforcements, a bunch of ships now flagged as allied on her screen. They seemed to be tipping the odds.
The rest of the trip back to the Midway, a trip taken through the writhing maelstrom of battle, was almost soothing to her. She stifled a yawn.
Zulu-1 disappeared back into the Midway’s hull, and she was free to engage.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Hangar Bay
USS Paul Revere
Looking at the dismal state of the tiny hangar bay, bereft of strike craft, Commander Jeremy Pitt had never felt such presence in himself. He adjusted his heavy space suit and beckoned the four officers behind him to follow. Two Ensigns, and two Junior Lieutenants. Just kids, really, but better than nothing.
He strode over to the airlock, cycled through it, and stepped into the ship proper. His air safety indicator told him he could remove his helmet, and he did so.
The moment the air hit his nostrils, he regretted that. The ship stank of burning wire, melted plastic, and roast pork, and Pitt was confident they were not organizing a cookout.
“Let’s go,” he said, clipping the helmet back on.
“Sir?” asked Junior Lieutenant Cloe Burnett. “Shouldn’t we change into our uniforms?”
He didn’t have an easy way of telling them about the stink of the ship, and it was best that he didn’t upset the junior crewmen. “Best we stay suited. We don’t know many of these rooms have pressure, and if they’re going to stay that way.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Burnett, eyes darting around in the smoke-filled corridors. She looked for all the world like a scared little mouse.
“This way,” said Pitt boldly. He wasn’t entirely sure of the direction—the layout of most ships was similar, with the bridge at their heart and the auxiliary CIC toward the rear—but officer school had taught him well: confidence was contagious.
The five of them strode into the rear of the ship, Pitt leading the way. They passed several areas that had obvious battle damage, and several shaken crewmen, but curiously absent was weapons fire. The aliens, possibly believing them to be destroyed, were ignoring them.
Time to change that perception.
Soon, they reached the CIC. It had been abandoned. The crew within sealed themselves into the escape pods but, bizarrely, they hadn’t launched yet. A response to panic. Nobody wanted to be the first one to abandon ship, but they’d probably forgotten that, once sealed, the pods couldn’t be opened again from the inside.
No worries.
“There,” said Pitt. “Ensign Ward, take the helm. Ensign Sexton and Lieutenant Haney, you’re on weapons. Haney, if you need to navigate, move between them. And Burnett”—he gave a cheeky smile—“hope you’re ready to help me work this ship, XO.”
Everyone was being thrust way, way above their experience level—most of these kids had only been at their “duty posts” when the Midway was in dock, and Burnett hadn’t been in command of anything more complicated than a coffee machine—but they all took to their assigned roles with courage and gusto, sitting in seats that still had the original owners looking on. Pitt shrugged over his shoulder. They didn’t have the keys necessary to open the pods and couldn’t spare the time to cut them all open.
The Paul Revere was so similar to the Midway in every way that sliding into the command role was as natural as breathing.
“Weapons
online,” said Haney, at weapons. “I think.”
Sexton coughed. “They’re definitely online. I’m bringing up a targeting view now.” He typed on the keyboard. “Sorry, sir, this kind of thing is usually done on the bridge…”
“I know. Don’t apologize. Just get results.”
“Yes, sir.” Sexton tapped at keys frantically.
There was one thing to do. One important thing. Pitt touched the side of his spacesuit helmet, bringing up a menu, and tapped into the ship’s intercom system. “Attention all hands,” he said, projecting his best captain’s voice. “This is Commander Pitt. I am your new CO. Be advised: we will be rejoining the battle imminently. Be prepared. Remain at your stations, do your duty, and I look forward to meeting you all soon.”
The silence felt good.
“Sir,” said Ward, “communications are up.”
“Good, Ensign Ward. Signal the Midway. Tell them we’ve arrived and link fire control computers. Then put me on the line to them. I want to talk to Mattis myself.”
“Aye, sir.”
Sexton tapped a final key and all the screens around them lit up.
The battle was still raging. The Paul Revere floated in the void, ignored by all, surrounded by debris. Goalkeeper flashed wildly, automated turrets firing at capital ships and strike craft alike, its guns slaved to the Midway’s systems.
“Lieutenant Burnett,” he said. “Prepare to re-engage the enemy.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Bridge
USS Midway
“Shit,” said Mattis, staring in confusion and anger at the top of the alien cap ship. “They have a second gun.”
“The lower part of the ship probably had a similar cover,” said Modi, whom Mattis had utterly forgotten was still there. “It would have been jettisoned during the attack on Capella, most likely. Look at the way it’s shaped, and try to imagine that it was clipped on the underside too—”
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 22
