“We have to get back to the Midway,” said Flatline, gasping from the g-forces. “Their guns can protect us.”
“No!” She knew it wouldn’t work. They were too close. Shrapnel from their own guns would shred them. “That’s stupid!”
“If stupidity got us into this mess, how come it can’t get us out, huh?”
She went to answer, but the g-forces stole her words. Guano pulled the ship upward, and she saw a flash of red.
Her Warbird convulsed, throwing itself to one side as a deadly stream of fire caught the rear of the ship, blasting through her hull. Alarms screamed in her ears. She kicked her left foot out at the rudder. Nothing. Kicked the right. Nothing. She shook the stick wildly. Nothing.
Slowly, her ship began to turn over and over, leaving a long trail of smoke behind it, the rear glowing with flame, the starboard engine alight.
“Guano,” said Flatline, his voice panicked. “They’re coming around again. Fix the ship. Fix it!”
It couldn’t be fixed. Not like this. Her ship was a smoking ruin. Her readouts flickered ominously, full of static. She could feel the heat of the fire behind her, radiating through the ship’s hull…
Above her, she saw the enemy fighters twist around, bearing down on her disabled craft, their guns glinting in the light of the sun, lit up by flashes from the surrounding space battle, silent predators coming down to finish her. Nothing she could do to save the ship.
Nothing to do but reach down between her legs and yank the ejection handle.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis watched in mute fascination as the comet reversed course, pushed away from Earth by a combination of Chinese ingenuity and American courage, Captain Pitt’s ship’s engines flaring as hard as they could, creating a second tail for the comet, this one pointed away from Earth.
It got closer and closer, and then smashed into the alien cap ship, traveling at hundreds of kilometers a second. The ship’s blue shields tried their best to stop the impact, protesting it feebly, contesting its own demise—but such forces couldn’t be resisted. The cap ship burst in a fiery flare, turning the night of space into daytime and casting long shadows over everything, a second sun right in the heart of the battle.
The alien command ship burned and, by God, it was satisfying.
“Got ‘em,” said Lynch.
“We certainly did.” Mattis couldn’t fight the massive grin that spread across his face. “That was some mighty fine work, Modi. You did good.”
“More correctly,” said Modi, his tone completely serious, “I did well. Although in this case, given the adversarial nature of the unknown ships, it’s likely that we also did good.”
Mattis let him have that one. He’d earned it. He settled back in his chair, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He closed his eyes a moment, just a moment, a little bit—
“Wait,” said Senator Pitt, pointing at one of the screens accusingly. “Is that my son’s ship?”
Eyes open. Job’s not done yet. Mattis forced himself to look, despite a sudden wave of fatigue.
The Paul Revere, smoke belching from one of its engines, drifted in space. She’d obviously worn herself out. The ship wouldn’t get far on half power, but fortunately, Earth had a comprehensive shipyard. They’d be able to get it fixed.
But, as he watched, the readings in the other engine increased, growing in power.
“Captain Pitt, you okay over there?” asked Mattis.
No reply. Their comm system must be out. A swift glance at the radar showed help would be nearby. The Chinese battleship Jianghu. The same one who had suffered the malfunction with their gravity device. They were right there.
“USS Midway to Jianghu,” said Mattis. “Our ship, the Paul Revere, is in severe distress. We’d appreciate it if you could dock with her and take aboard survivors.”
“This is Jianghu,” came the voice, speaking English, accented but clear. “Stand by.”
Chapter Seventy
Bridge
Chinese Flagship Jianghu
High Earth Orbit
Captain Yeung rubbed the stubble on his face, watching the American ship, the USS Paul Revere, burn with a significant measure of concern. The Americans had come through for them today. The alien cap ship was floating debris and they largely had the Midway and the Revere to thank for it.
Time to repay the favor.
“Patch me through to high command,” he said to his communications officer. “And get ready to move in and provide aid to our allies.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and in a moment, he could hear a faint hissing in his ears.
“This is Captain Yeung of the Jianghu,” he said. “Request permission to break formation, move in and render—”
“Denied.” The woman’s voice that came back was flat and emotionless. “Remain on station.”
It took Yeung a second to process that. The request hadn’t even been finished, and it was being denied. Surely High Command could see what he could see; they could see the burning ship, listing to one side like a sick beast. The fire on its engines was dangerous. If it reached the reactor core, the ship would become a firework.
“Ma’am,” he said, trying again. “I understand—”
“Captain Yeung,” said High Command, her tone suddenly venomous. “Is Commander Xiu Yu present?”
He and his XO, Commander Yu, exchanged a brief, incredulous glance. “Yes. She’s…uh, right here.”
“Captain Yeung, allow me to be perfectly clear: You are hereby ordered by High Command of the People’s Republic of China Army Navy to hold your position, to not shift your position for any reason, and specifically, to not assist the floundering American ship in any capacity. You are also ordered to, immediately upon acknowledgement of your orders, commence radio silence until directly relieved by a superior officer. If you violate any part of this request, Commander Yu is ordered to draw her sidearm and immediately relieve you of your command.” There was a brief pause. “Acknowledge your orders.”
What the hell? mouthed Yu, her eyes wide as moons.
Yeung clenched his fists tightly, his monitors full of the burning American ship. What the hell was this? This was an unnecessary cruelty. Letting their allies die just as he had promised to help… It was not just a slight on him, it was a loss of face on the whole People’s Republic to let their allies suffer like this. And no other could help. No other ship was close enough. It was the Jianghu or nothing.
There should be honor among those who wear the uniform, regardless of country. A nation was just a flag. Letting men die for a piece of cloth struck him as the height of stupidity.
But he had his orders.
“Acknowledged,” said Yeung, his voice half bitterness, half regret. “Establishing radio silence.”
Chapter Seventy-One
Bridge
USS Midway
As the fire spread along both engines of the Paul Revere, Mattis found his patience running out.
“They should be moving by now,” he said, for the tenth time. “What are they waiting for?”
“Not sure, sir,” said Lynch, staring in confusion at his monitor. “They did say they would help.”
Mattis avoided looking at Senator Pitt, who was doing his best to catch the eye of anyone foolish enough to glance his way. “Open the channel again,” he said. “In fact, broadcast on all channels, all frequencies. I want everyone to hear this.” He touched his earpiece. “I say again, mayday mayday mayday, relaying for the USS Paul Revere. All craft who can respond, do so immediately.”
Yet the Chinese ships, all of them, remained in their formation, their lead vessel so close to the Revere that it seemed like she could reach out and touch her. It would be so easy to send over a shuttle or two. That was all that was needed. Just a little bit of help.
Escape pods blasted out of the Revere, a sight that filled him with considerable relief. He hadn’t seen any launch un
til then, but the event was proof positive that at least some of the crew would be okay. There was a good chance that Captain Pitt and the Midway’s junior staff were aboard one. It was going to be okay.
“Lynch, Modi, scan those escape pods. I want to know if our people are on board any of them.”
“I already have been,” said Modi. “They have not escaped yet.”
The ship continued to burn, the flames trickling down the ship’s spine. The minutes ticked away. Another set of pods launched, thin little slivers of metal flying out from the bottom of the Paul Revere, a cluster of six.
“Is that them?” asked Mattis.
Right as he did, a bright light grew within the Paul Revere, and the whole ship blew itself into atoms, scattering itself over space like a thousand little stars.
Modi looked up from Captain Pitt’s old console, right into Mattis’s eyes. His answer was blunt.
“No.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis stared at the expanding debris cloud, a hardness crossing his heart. There was no evidence to suggest it—just scans which, Modi was quick to remind him, were inconclusive—but somehow he knew. It wasn’t in Captain Pitt’s character to leave before all of his crew were off, even if they had only been his crew for half an hour.
There was no way he got out.
The ships of the Earth fleet were battered, bruised, and fatigued, but the alien cap ship had been blasted to nothingness, scattered across its high Earth orbit like garbage. The smaller ships, leaderless, seemed to lose much of their initiative; they shot randomly at Earth ships, or at nothing, their effectiveness significantly reduced. One jumped away in a flash of light, an action that seemingly inspired the others. They began to turn listlessly, exposing their weak engines, getting ready to leap away to the stars and safety.
It was time for the smaller ships to join their big brother.
“Modi,” said Mattis, his tone dark. “I want to check something. The gravity pulse weapon. It emits a continuous beam of energy, yes? A beam strong enough to push huge rocks around?”
“That’s right,” said Modi.
“Strong enough,” asked Mattis, “to turn on the alien ship’s shields, keeping them on, draining them, overheating them, so we can put a pair of torpedoes into each ship?”
“That,” said Modi, considering for just a second, “seems plausible.”
He touched his earpiece. “All ships, this is Admiral Mattis. Focus your gravity pulse generators on the alien craft. Half power, but continuous output. Push them, drive them together, all together, so we can finish them once and for all. Coordinates to follow.”
The voices of the fleet, mostly speaking English, some Chinese, echoed in his ears. The notable exception: the Jianghu. It hung there in space like a wart, unmoving, worthless. It didn’t react to his transmission. Every other ship did. Not them.
Mattis had half a mind to turn his guns on that ship and claim it was an accident, but he didn’t.
Gravity pulses leapt out from the seven remaining Chinese ships, latching onto the light cruisers that remained. Blue disks of light sprung up to protect them, shielding their hulls from the invisible waves of force, but the constant barrages hit again and again. The force was enough to move the ships, slowly corralling them, buffeting them off course and out of formation.
The first two collided with a shower of sparks and metal. Their shields trembled like a leaf in the wind, shaking and wobbling, and then winked out. A third ship joined the pile, slamming its bow into them, the metal crumpling with the impact.
Four. Five. Six. Slowly, the surviving alien fleet, minus the one that had escaped, were rounded up like a child playing marbles. Clumped together. Held in place by ghostly, invisible hands, taking out the garbage. The gravity waves pummeled them as they sat there, scrunched up like used newspaper, their guns firing futilely. The distortions blew their red streaks off course, sending them toward the stars.
Space had no air resistance. No friction. Those hyper-accelerated particles would travel onward until they eventually struck something. Regardless of how many decades, centuries, or tens of millions of years it took. Mattis was watching the whole galaxy, in some minor way, potentially change, just because of a few stray rounds.
“Ready torpedoes,” he said, glaring at the pile of twisted metal and broken ships that the Chinese had gathered for them.
A blue light on his command console indicated the weapons were loaded, aimed and ready. Normally, the call would be made across the bridge and his XO would fire them—that way, everyone was clear about what actions were being taken by who, so that the relevant parties could be notified—but his XO was dead, now, wasn’t he?
Mattis pressed the button himself, watching with savage satisfaction as the twin missiles leapt off toward their target. Similar streaks flew from the ships in the rest of the fleet, massive nuclear-tipped missiles that struck in waves, flashes of white light obliterating the ships, pounding them into dust, leaving absolutely nothing to show they were ever there.
He pumped his fist in the air as the monitors cleared, showing only empty space filled with occasional spinning debris.
“Sir,” said Lynch, the man’s fatigue suddenly clear, slurring his words. “We’re detecting dozens of active escape pods, along with one of our ejected pilots with her gunner. Their vitals are strong, sir, but there’s a lot of radiation and debris floating about. We should prioritize their retrieval.”
He nodded, sinking back into his chair. “Dispatch the SAR bird,” he said. “Pick up our pilots, then secure the other escape pods.” Bitterness found its way to his tongue. “Don’t let the Chinese pick them up. American forces only. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lynch.
For the first time since the Revere’s fiery end, Mattis looked over to Senator Pitt. The man stood there like a tree, rooted in place, unmoving, unblinking, staring at the monitor.
Perhaps, as though sensing Mattis’s eyes upon him, the man slowly turned and faced him, his body weird and rigid, almost unnatural.
“You’ll pay for this,” said Senator Pitt, his tone the flat, empty, hollow voice of a man making a…not even a threat, or a promise. Merely an observation. “You killed my son. Directly, or indirectly, you killed him. And you’ll pay.”
“Get him out of here,” said Lynch.
Marines once again took the singular Pitt off the bridge, but this time, there was no struggle. No resistance. He went willingly, calmly, without fighting.
Silent and exhausted, victorious but left with a vague empty feeling in his chest, Mattis watched the debris field slowly expand on his monitors, a billion tiny sparkles spreading farther out, the force of the terrific explosions scattering the debris across the whole solar system.
Victory.
Chapter Seventy-Three
High Earth Orbit
Space
Guano woke up spinning gently in space, her head throbbing like it had a spike through it. She was surrounded by debris, the blown-up remnants of her ship, and below her, Earth.
The blue marble. A beautiful, fragile ball floating in space. The sun was high over Africa and Europe, with the dawn line just past Morocco. The golden white of the Sahara was so bright, so daunting.
It was peaceful. Quiet. No sound except the beeping of her emergency locater beacon and her own soft breathing.
Slowly, groggily, she remembered how she’d gotten here.
Oh shit. Flatline! She fumbled for the transmit key on her wrist.
“Hey, anyone out there?”
“Corrick!” shouted Flatline, his breathing heavy. “Holy shit, I thought you were dead. You weren’t answering your comms. Jesus, don’t scare me like that.”
She was groggy but okay. Being knocked unconscious was a typical risk of ejection. And a fairly substantial number of ejections resulted in death. But it was better than the alternative: becoming part of the debris field that floated all a
round her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In space,” said Flatline. “What do you want me to say? There’s no landmarks out here.”
She tried to locate him, but all she could see was debris. Guano squinted through the fog of her aching head, trying to spot him.
And then she saw a faint glint, and a white-suited guy outlined against the black. He wouldn’t have been able to see her, since she was silhouetted by the Earth, but she could see him.
That was enough to make her smile.
Then, behind her, a spotlight turned on. A shuttle that had been retasked for SAR.
“This is Zulu-1,” said a transmission in her ear, a familiar accented voice making her chuckle. “Time to repay the favor, Guano.”
“Make it fast,” she said as the shuttle turned around, opening its rear doors, backing up to swallow her.
“Don’t forget me,” protested Flatline.
She slipped into the ship’s interior, grabbing a hold bar to keep her in place. “Onboard,” she said. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’re coming to get you.”
“Great,” said Flatline. “Um. I guess that means we won?”
“Yup,” said Zulu-1. “We won.”
Awesome.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Arlington National Cemetery
Virginia
United States of America
Five weeks later
“And so,” said President Schuyler, reading from a small crumpled piece of paper Mattis could barely see at this distance, “we discovered we were not alone in this universe.”
President Schuyler. A short, blond woman with a slight frame and skin seemingly too pale to be outside. Yet here she was, on an overcast Virginia day, a US Marine holding an umbrella for her as she spoke.
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 24
