“Fascinating,” said Mattis, trying to shut him up, “but we should do something about it.”
“I concur.”
For once, Mattis completely agreed. “All ships, all ships, target the cap ship. Give them everything. Mister Pitt”—he wasn’t here anymore—“Mister Lynch, rather, patch me into the Chinese fleet.”
Almost immediately, a chattering voice speaking Mandarin filled his ear. “Lynch, autotranslate, please.”
The computer turned Chinese into English and vice versa, but it always did it with a cold, dispassionate air that, at least to him, was a little disconcerting. “This is Admiral Mattis,” he said, keeping his speech slow so as to be easily translated. “Engage the gravity pulse drives. Ensure they are targeting the mass driver’s projectile.”
“That’s the comet, right?” said the computer, translating for one of the Chinese captains a fraction of a second after he spoke.
“That’s right,” said Mattis. “Big ball of ice is the target. We need all eight ships to be firing the gun at maximum power. All eight of them, you understand?”
“Lucky eight,” said the Chinese captain in the computer’s voice. “Ready.”
Mattis watched his screen intently. “Steady,” he said, hoping that such a command would be translated well. “Steady. Watch for the flash.”
Then it came, a white light as bright as a searchlight from the ship’s dorsal rails, and the comet was flung down toward Earth, a visible tail erupting as soon as it emerged into sunlight.
“Now!” Mattis affixed his eyes on the mass. It was traveling slower than expected, even right from the moment it launched, leaving a long icy tail behind it. “Modi, velocity of that mass.”
Right as he issued the command, he noticed the object slowing visibly. An optical illusion? Or maybe the top system was a weaker backup. Or—
He had no time to worry about such things.
“One hundred twenty kilometers a second,” said Modi. “One hundred ten, one five…”
It was slowing. But it was also getting awfully close to Earth. Space was big and the distances involved were huge, but even 37,000 kilometers would get eaten up quickly by something traveling that fast.
“Ninety. Eighty. Another gravity pulse is joining the original eight, sir, to great effect. Fifty. Twenty. Sir, the mass is starting to break up.”
He could see that. All the rapid acceleration and deceleration couldn’t be good for it. But the pieces that were coming off were mostly fragments, small enough to either burn up in the atmosphere or cause minimal damage if they did land. As long as it was one largely contiguous piece, they would be fine.
“Son of a bitch,” said Mattis, pride growing in his voice. “It’s working.”
“The mass is now stationary,” said Modi. “More or less.”
The imprecision was appreciated. “Keep pushing,” said Mattis, seized with a sudden idea. “Throw the damn thing back against them. We had the energy to slow it right to a stop. We should be able to speed it right up, shouldn’t we?”
“Math checks out,” said Modi, nodding his approval. “Package marked return to sender. Object is reversing at twenty kilometers a second. Thirty. Forty…”
A flash out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. One of the Chinese ships burst from within, its gravity pulse signal winking out. The whole stern broke away, careening into another frigate, the second doomed ship cracking in a spiderweb, atmosphere leaking from the cracks.
“Sir,” said Modi, an alarmed edge growing in his voice. “The object is decelerating again. The aliens are pushing it back to Earth.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Bridge
USS Midway
Seven Chinese ships. Seven wasn’t enough. Mattis touched his earpiece. “We need more pushers,” he said, eyes fixed on that huge mass, watching it tumble end over end, slowly coming to a halt once more.
“Translation error,” said the computer in his ear.
Dammit. He tried again, slower. “We need more ships to engage. You hear me? More gravity pulse weapons. Go.”
“Only one more ship with the weapon aboard,” said one of the Chinese captains. “And then that’s it.”
“Okay,” said Mattis, drumming his fingers on his armrest. “So do it.”
A brief pause. “It’s not that simple,” said the Chinese captain. “We haven’t finished linking it to the others yet.”
Slowly, inexorably, the mass began to move back toward Earth, its long tail streaming out to one side, pointing away from the intense, piercing light of the sun. It really did look like a massive comet. “How can I help?”
“The work is being done by damage control teams,” said the Chinese captain. “But if we can have a ship cover us, we can work faster.”
He knew just the man for the job. “Commander—no, Captain Pitt,” he asked, pointedly stressing the Captain part, “are you listening in?”
Senator Pitt’s eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing.
“Just got comms working over here,” said Captain Pitt, sounding almost like a proud Texan, as if Lynch had rubbed off on him. His blood must really be up. “What do y’all need?”
In command for less than ten minutes and already asking what he could do for someone else. “One of our Chinese friends is experiencing distress,” said Mattis. “And if we can’t get that ship back into the fight, we’re going to have a hard time pushing the mass driver projectile back where it belongs. Can you move out there with the Revere and give them some coving fire?”
“Can do,” said Pitt.
“Try to do it without killing yourself,” said Mattis, taking a deep breath. “We need the Chinese to come through for us on this one.”
“I’ll do my best, Admiral.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice gave Mattis confidence. “Godspeed, son. You’re a credit to your uniform.”
Now, all Mattis had to do was keep the rest of the fleet alive until he got there.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
CIC
USS Paul Revere
Captain Pitt adjusted his space suit and increased the oxygen. He was breathing heavily. Time to focus. Time to get it done. “We got a mission,” he said to his bridge crew—and although they were recent transplants from the Midway, that was truly how he saw them—putting all other considerations out of his head. “Let’s make it happen.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” said Burnett, folding her hands behind her back in a way that perfectly reminded him of himself. “Ensign Ward, bring us forward and up, positioning the Revere between the cap ship and the damaged Chinese ship. Ensign Sexton, Lieutenant Haney, we’re going to need fire laid down on the closest alien light cruiser—make them look at us. We’re pretty.” She did so well, but right at the very end, her eyes flicked to him for approval.
“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” said Captain Pitt genuinely. He felt the ship move beneath them—there must have been some kind of problem with the artificial gravity generators, normally used to dull inertia—and then rise, his weight intensifying, the suit suddenly like it were made of lead. He held out as long as he could, and the sensation faded quickly. “Well done.”
Lieutenant Haney tapped at keys on her keyboard. “Dammit,” she hissed. “Sorry, sir, I disabled inertial compensation by accident. Stand by. This console is different from what I’m used to.”
It was understandable. “Here,” said Sexton, pointing. “Right here. The red one.” Then he pointed somewhere else. “Wait, I think it’s this one, Lieutenant.”
Haney pressed it, and fire retardant foam sprayed down from the ceiling, splattering over everything. Including the visor of his suit. Captain Pitt wiped the stuff away from his visor with as much dignity as he could muster.
“I think,” said Sexton, “it was the first one.”
Haney pressed the first button. “Sorry, sir. The disruptions should stop from now on.”
“Very good,” said Captain Pitt. “Status on the maneuv
er?”
“Going well,” said Sexton. “We’re almost in position.”
His comm chirped. “This is Mattis,” came his former CO’s voice, a grave edge to it. “We got a problem.”
“Send it,” he said.
“The Chinese ship reports they won’t be able to get their gravity pulse weapon fixed any time soon, so they’re scuttling the boat.” The bitterness in his voice was palpable. “I think that’s game.”
Captain Pitt considered. “How much force does the sucker need to push it?” he asked.
“More than we can give with the gravity pulses,” said Mattis. “It’s eight, pushed to the max. Seven just won’t cut it. They’re overstretched as it is.”
It was simpler to just go straight to the source. “Put Modi on the line, please. I got a plan.”
A little bit of futzing around on the other end—probably difficult to get that damn robot to talk to someone on the other end of the line, or something—and then finally he heard him.
“This is—”
“I know who it is,” snapped Captain Pitt. “Listen, you chowder head, I need to know: how much velocity are we missing?”
“Five kilometers a second per second,” he said, as easily as though he were reciting the weather. “We’re missing acceleration, not velocity. Acceleration depends on—”
“No physics lecture is necessary,” said Captain Pitt. “These frigates are fast, right?” He paused. “I don’t suppose you know the speed of one of these ships off the top of your head, do you?”
“Of course,” said Modi, sounding vaguely offended. “Six kilometers a second per second, at full sublight and thrusters.” Captain Pitt could almost hear the gears turning over in the guy’s head. “You aren’t seriously considering—”
“I am,” said Captain Pitt, flicking foam off his fingers. “Is it possible?”
Modi hesitated. “Such an act will heavily damage the front of the ship.”
Captain Pitt had become quite attached to the Paul Revere in the short time he had come aboard, but knew, ultimately, the ship was disposable. “Eh, it’s a rental.”
“But yes…in theory.”
He’d heard enough. Captain Pitt closed the connection and gestured to Sexton. “You heard all that, right?”
Sexton nodded. “Already maneuvering, sir. The mass is stationary, so it’s an easy target.”
“All hands,” he said, “brace for impact.” Another glance at Sexton. “A gentle impact, please.”
Captain Pitt watched as the ship shifted, this time with no distortions, coming up behind the mass. It was broken, fractured, but still one contiguous lump, which would serve them fine. It grew on his screens, larger and larger, until it swallowed the black at the edges and all they could see was the rock.
“Captain Pitt,” said Mattis in his ear, “I’m moving all my strike craft to your location, giving you extra cover.”
He appreciated it. “Thank you, sir. Be advised, we’re about to make contact. In three, two, one…” The ship and the rock collided with a roar that rang throughout the ship like a bell, the very deck below their feet rippling with the impact.
“Sir,” said Ward, “we’re attached.”
“All engines full ahead,” said Pitt. “Thrusters, sublight, give me everything you got.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, pushing several buttons all at once.
The Revere shuddered, shook, and the mass began to move back toward the alien cap ship.
As Captain Pitt watched, the alien ship lit up with a fiery explosion from its dorsal mass driver, and the force—the invisible hand—the aliens had on the rock disappeared. He felt the ship jerk forward, the comet moving away from them, toward the enemy ship, gaining speed as it moved farther from them.
“We did it,” said Saxton, his eyes lighting up. “We did it!”
And then the Revere’s port engine exploded.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
Hangar Bay
USS Midway
Guano turned her ship toward the dogfight and switched on her targeting radar, the familiar whine filling her ears. The battle was silhouetted against Earth, the whole quadrant of space filled up with the planet, lights and flashing cannon fire of battle framing the world for a brief moment.
Then Roadie called her again, ruining it. “Hey, Guano, you’re just in time. Come on, we’re forming up around the Paul Revere, they need our help.”
She was ages away from the Revere, being only a hundred meters or so away from the Midway’s hangar bay. “Maybe you should reconsider that. By the time we get there, the action will be over. There are enough fighters out here for her to be perfectly safe. What’s two more?”
“Oh, thank God,” said Flatline behind her. “Escort this, escort that… What the hell is wrong with Roadie today?”
“And me, too,” said Joker, chiming in. “I’m with Guano right now. Similar situation.”
“If you think you can handle it,” said Roadie, a little caution creeping in. “Be advised, you two will be acting alone and without support. All other strike craft have been repositioned.”
She could take on the whole galaxy right now. “Confirmed. We are both full on missiles and guns, and if I don’t give him something to shoot at, Flatline is going to murder me.”
“Roger,” said Roadie. “Good hunting.”
She’d finally, finally, been cut loose. Yet she didn’t feel the rush of joy, didn’t shout or yell—she just opened her throttle and sped away from the Midway, Joker tightly on her wing.
“Let’s do this,” howled Joker. “I got radar contacts for days, my friend!”
Flatline laughed over the line, singing. “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with…bat poo.”
Guano normally would join in such levity, but she just…didn’t feel it. Cool and even, she lined up four targets for her long-range missiles, firing them all one after the other. She didn’t bother to track if they hit or not, but instead, powered up her engines, switching to guns. “Let’s get in there,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Flatline, although he hesitated slightly as he spoke. “Hey, Guano, are you okay? You’ve been really weird since Ganymede.”
“It’s fine,” she said, speeding toward the alien strike craft. Way too far out for guns, or heat-seeker missiles. She had get closer. No other way.
“Okay,” said Flatline unconvincingly. “Just make sure you get checked out when get back, okay? Combat Stress Reaction is a real thing.”
“This isn’t…” She let the sentence trail off. “I’m fine. Let’s just kill these guys, yeah?”
Flatline said nothing, which was actually more concerning than anything.
“I’m fine,” said Guano again, and then she frowned at her instruments. “Hey, check out the cap ship.”
“Mmm?” Flatline tapped on some keys behind her. “What am I looking for?”
She pointed at her screen, even though he couldn’t possibly see that. “Their mass driver. It looks like it’s emitting a lot of heat…straining to push the comet thingie at Earth.”
“So?”
“So,” she said, clicking her tongue. “We’re carrying a full load of heat-seeking missiles, and that thing is one giant target, even at this range. And the ship’s not moving, so we can hit it…”
“I don’t follow,” said Flatline.
Idiot. She casually dialed up the range on the missiles, locking in that massive heat signature. It glowed like a beacon in the dark, flashing and pulsing as it tried to cool itself. Must have been nearly a thousand degrees.
“Cover me, Joker,” she said, and loosed four missiles, all she had. She fired them all at once, quad streaks leaping away from her ship toward the target.
“You got it,” said Joker, pulling up above her, protecting her top.
The missiles traveled toward the cap ship, four little streams getting smaller and smaller in her cockpi
t canopy. Guano focused on them, watching them fly straight and true, almost too small to see—and then all four missiles blew, blasting into the side the mass driver.
It wouldn’t be enough to destroy it, probably, but it might disable the thing long enough—
“Contact!” shouted Joker, almost making her jump. “Two bogeys, coming in fast, two o’clock high! They’re firing!”
Shit. She’d been so fixated on watching the missiles, she hadn’t been paying attention. Guano kicked at the rudder, swinging her craft to the left. A dozen red streaks streamed past her cockpit, missing her ship by only a few meters.
“Wait, dammit!” Joker said, hissing as she spoke. “My port gun’s jammed! Hang on, coming around!”
“Shit!” shouted Flatline. “I don’t see them. I don’t see them!”
She didn’t see them either. Guano rolled inverted, flipping her ship, pulling the stick back. This was bad. She couldn’t dodge what she couldn’t see. Cracks began to appear in her calm exterior. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t…
The flaming wreckage of Joker’s ship drifted past her, her ship riddled with holes and missing a wing, fire pouring from the shattered cockpit canopy. She was close enough to see the blood on the glass.
The Dead Man’s Hand flashed back into her mind with terrifying clarity.
Guano twisted in her seat, neck on a swivel, trying to find the enemies. She floored it, trying to put some distance between her and the wreckage, and whatever just killed her wingman.
A faint glint above caught her eyes. The enemy fighters, they were right above her, practically in spitting distance. How had they gotten so close? Flatline’s gun chattered, firing wildly.
“Hang on,” she shouted to Flatline, pitching the nose down, and then up again, rolling her ship, dodging another alarmingly close wave of fire. “We’re too far out, dammit! So stupid!”
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 23
