“Underway to new waypoint in the target star system, Captain,” announced the Helmsman. “Drive operating efficiently and navigation in automation mode.”
Traxxus nodded, his helmet reflecting light from the overhead illumination onto the panel in front of him. Even with the high-speed device, it would take three days to reach their next stop in the long, circuitous journey around the edge of the human infestation to avoid detection. No, detection would not do…they must arrive at their final destination as a complete surprise. Glory.
“Elxan to Captain!” blared his comm unit. The crewman’s voice was frantic.
He smacked the open-channel button. “What is it, Elxan?”
“Torstar wouldn’t leave the pod—”
Traxxus cut him off. “What, did he find some plant to get high off of again?”
“Sir, someone finally went out to get him. He’s unconscious!”
“And?”
“The medical team is taking him to their section.”
“No diagnosis?”
“You’ll have to ask them, Captain.”
“Hmph.” He closed the channel.
Almost immediately the channel lit up again. “Captain.” His Medical Officer.
The voice—or more, the tone of the voice—instantly chilled the hot blood normally coursing through his Praxxan veins. The Medical Officer was concerned.
Both of them had come up through the ranks in similar fashion; convenient disappearances of their superiors, death-duels and, of course, victories in combat. Brexel was assigned as Medical Officer, yes, but he was every bit as tough as the Captain and Traxxus knew it. Brexel’s one word over the comm channel was spoken in such a tone only reserved for true emergencies.
Traxxus was on his feet, heading for the hoist and glancing around the bridge again. No one else had picked up on the short exchange’s import and were tending to their responsibilities. The ship was operating perfectly…he shook himself to clear the lingering concern that hung around him like dust in the air.
When the doors opened on the correct level he had a sense of momentary disorientation, unsure of which way to turn in the corridor. The ship was new to him, he told himself; they’d barely boarded it as a crew for the first time before they were sent on this mission, which was expected to take at least thirty days of jumps roughly paralleling the human shipping lines between the Sol System and the Ceti System. But Traxxus was never unsure of himself, and even placed a hand on his temple to rub it. Pain.
He found himself at the medical section, his feet having taken him there unconsciously during his disorientation. Exhaling deliberately to slow his suddenly-increased heart rate, Traxxus smacked the entry pad. The door slid open…
…And a gloved arm flopped out onto the corridor floor in front of him, its fingers unnaturally rigid.
Traxxus felt his chest heaving as he turned into the medical section, looking for Brexel to explain what was happening.
The comm panel next to the entrance was speaking next to his ear. “Captain to the bridge!”
He reached out with a flushed, warm-feeling hand to tap the open-channel button. “Report.”
“Sir, the Navigator has collapsed at his station. Are you in the medical section yet?”
Traxxus looked into the eyes of Brexel, who was seated at his station a few meters away. His officer’s lifeless eyes stared back even as his body slowly slumped and slid from his seat. He could only be dead a few minutes…
“Captain!” called the helm again. Panicked. “Reports coming in from around the ship!”
He had to concentrate to form thoughts. Hands on his temples again, pressing. Flushed face. “Close…ventilation.”
“Closing, Captain. Can medical respond?” A cough echoed loudly through the channel, then a long moan. Pain.
Traxxus saw the body of Torstar on the medical table. Every crew member in the room were obviously dead, and lay in contortions on the deck before Traxxus.
Pain radiating outward from his brain. Filling his thoughts, clouding them.
His mind went to his ship. The mission. He was leaning against the bulkhead now, breathing heavily, but he reached out again with a supreme effort and pressed the open-channel button. “Bridge…disengage the jump-drive and send a signal to the Center that we are…in distress…set auto-destruct entry locks…Bridge?”
Traxxus found himself on the deck, looking up at the overhead grating. How had he gotten there?
Brexel’s body finally lost its balance in the seat and slid to the deck next to him with a thump. He could see his comrade’s lifeless eyes staring accusingly at him from inches away.
“Bridge?” Traxxus gasped weakly, hoping the comm channel’s microphone could hear him. With a supreme effort, he called with one more forceful command. “Bridge, report!”
But no answer came back to him. Only the light thrum-thrumming of the deck plates from the still-operating jump-drive registered to his dulling senses.
Eyes fixated on the gratings overhead, Traxxus exhaled one more time, trying to concentrate. One more breath. One more!
And then he felt a peace flow over him, warmth like the seven suns. He could even see the glowing orbs…touch them. He reached out…
Chapter 5
August 2029 - Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
USS Bonhomme Richard SSBN-801
“Permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted, sir. Welcome to Bonhomme Richard.” Petty Officer Wilson stood back and snapped a salute.
“Any idea where I can find the Captain?”
“Sir, my understanding is that he’s giving an officer’s briefing in the wardroom, sir.”
Rear Admiral John Buston returned the salute as he strode up the gangway from the Pearl Harbor dock and turned left towards the bow. Wilson returned to his position blocking the ramp and watched the officer disappear into the main hatch as other crew stopped to salute him.
Below, Buston waited outside the wardroom as the Captain wrapped up his briefing with the officers.
I know we’re going to be in close quarters,” he heard the man in question saying, “but we are to give our international guests the first and best of our attentions. I know you’ll all do your utmost to show the best possible side of the US Navy. That is all…departure is in three hours, so do one more walk around your team and be ready for shove off.”
Buston suppressed a grin as the first fresh-faced officer—a Second Lieutenant—burst out of the doorway and spotted an Admiral lurking in the corridor. “Sir, sorry!” he apologized as he went around the senior officer with a salute.
“Hmm, am I smelling a snap inspection, sir?” Captain Thomas Halloran was leaning in the doorway as the last officer came out.
Buston reached out a burly hand, which Halloran took and shook enthusiastically. “Hardly. I know our guests will be in great hands aboard the Bonny Richard.”
Halloran winced for effect at the tightly-gripped handshake and indicated the interior of the wardroom, shutting the door behind them once Buston passed in. “Stan, give us a few minutes, will you?” he asked the wardroom attendant. The apron-clad sailor who’d been scooping up used coffee mugs threw a short salute and disappeared out another door.
“Seriously, though, Tom. Are you okay?” Buston sat and poured some coffee from an urn on the table into a fresh mug he’d grabbed off the plate in the center.
Halloran sat himself and pushed the blue-backed metal chair away a few inches, stretching his thin, six-foot-two frame. “It is what it is, John. There’s never a good time to go back to sea.”
The Admiral spun the mug in his hands, watching the dark liquid inside as if for a reaction. “It’s only been a month. This isn’t necessary. Skip could’ve handled it.”
“Of course he could. But I needed to get back to my Navy family.”
“What about Tom Junior and young Laura?”
Halloran shrugged and tapped a pen that had appeared in his hand on the table. “They are…adjusting.
At least they won’t need to be home, with the fall semester only a week away. Laura’s at Penn State.”
“How’s TJ doing at the Academy?”
Halloran perked up a bit, nodding. “Very well. I think he’s going to land in the top ten.”
“Outstanding.” Buston took a sip of coffee. “So, as far as your fitness report…”
Halloran dropped the pen on the table. It bounced a bit, making a short clatter. “I’m cleared by the base psych and the Navy Medical Board.”
“So, technically, you’re competent to skipper a ballistic missile submarine.” Buston pushed the coffee away after another lingering sip.
“No, I’m completely competent.” Halloran leaned in. “John, I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. We go back way too far to keep stuff between us. But you and I both know that this boat is my life…especially now.” A slight edge of frustration—or was it desperation?—had crept into the Captain’s voice.
Buston considered the man before him. Tom Halloran had been second in his class at the Naval Academy. Right behind himself. Both had gone into subs immediately and served together on several boats. Halloran had been Buston’s XO on his first command, an Ohio-class missile sub. After fifteen years as a team, Buston had been kicked upstairs as an Admiral and Halloran given his own “boomer”—ballistic nuclear submarine—to command. Now, with many more years under the keel, Tom was skipper of the newest sub in the fleet, the Columbia-class USS Bonhomme Richard. Next in line for a star of his own. But his old friend was hurting, and badly, but refused to face it.
“Tom, what would you say to having an Admiral aboard for this cruise?” He had been waiting patiently to bring this up.
Halloran froze for moment, then slowly pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked around it and pushed it in, leaning on the back. “I would say you’re more worried than I am.”
“I’m not worried.”
Halloran threw up his hands and took a few steps away. “I obviously can’t stop you.”
“You already have another admiral joining your complement.”
“Admiral Zhou is not going to be in uniform.”
“Like it makes a difference, especially to the crew.”
Halloran spun around. “The crew report to me. They—we— are a family…”
Buston let the other man’s impatience hang in the air, letting him see it for what it was. Concerning.
Halloran walked to the head of the table and pulled that chair out, dropping into it with an air of resignation. “Alright, alright.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’ve got me. Guilty as charged. I’m fiercely loyal to my crew and want to be with them wherever they go.”
Buston got up. “I have my gear at the gangway. Figured you’d see it my way.”
Halloran ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. “And you didn’t have to order me to let you aboard.”
“Who am I to break up the team? I’m looking forward to being at sea with you again, Tom.”
“Yes, sir.” Halloran’s tone of voice didn’t exactly radiate happiness.
Buston left him in the wardroom, in the chair, contemplating the table in front of him. Back at the gangway he waved to PO Wilson.
“Sir?”
“Send someone down to get my bag from my car.” He handed the man his keys. “I’m going to take a walk around.”
“Yes, sir. Where would you like your bags delivered?”
Buston shrugged. “Son, you figure out where an admiral can stay on this tub. I’m sure you’ll get some help if you ask for it.”
Startled, Wilson saluted. “Sir, yes sir. We’ll get you set up.”
“Excellent.” Buston wandered off down the deck, reveling in the early-morning calm over Pearl Harbor and the still, black water moving sluggishly past as the tide came in. He had looked at the orders of the day; Admiral Zhou and his staff officer would be shipping aboard at 0730. Captain Antonov would be close behind. Shove off at 0830 after a brief press conference on the dock. That was what Buston had originally arrived for before deciding to have his friend’s back all the way through the cruise…a speech commemorating the historic first tri-country exercise between China, Russia and the US. Conveniently arranged aboard the American sub, of course.
He paused and looked back up the length of the menacing hull, thinking of the sheer amount of destruction that waited patiently beneath that immense row of launch tubes. The Bonhomme Richard was truly the most fearsome weapon on the face of the Earth.
No wonder the Russians and Chinese were game for a sneak peek.
A crewman was stowing gear at the stern hatch. He snapped up at Buston’s approach.
“Keep at it, son. Far be it from me to get in your way.”
The man smiled. “Thanks, sir.”
With a nod, Buston passed him and walked aft to the terminus of the decking. On all his commands, he’d had the habit of taking this walk up and down the hull before shoving off on a cruise. As he stood at the extreme stern of the sub and looked out over the harbor, Buston couldn’t help but wonder if his best friend Tom Halloran was ready for this trip.
“Well,” he said to the dark waters in front of him, “Sink or swim, we’ll see the mettle of Mr. Halloran under pressure. If anyone can come back from such a bad break, Tom can.”
The sun was climbing in the low sky. As if in an answer to Buston’s statement, it kicked up a notch and splashed its first bright rays across Pearl’s waters.
A new day. August 21st, 2029.
Part Two - Stranded
Chapter 6
Mars - Human Fleet Command Base
“Captain. The Admiral is waiting for you.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time, Ensign.”
Kendra found herself pacing up and down the corridor, unsure of how to proceed. She imagined the Admiral becoming increasingly annoyed at her lack of appearance as the minutes passed. On the other hand, she didn’t really know how to present herself to him. Distraught? Morose? Enraged? She was, in reality, experiencing all of those emotions at the moment, but as was usual perplexed as to how best put on a face in front of the ranking officer. Like a schoolgirl.
The ensign at the elevator waited patiently as she paced. She glanced at him but his face was unreadable. He had no stake in her obvious apprehension. Must look weird to see a ship’s commander so clearly out of sorts right in front of you, she thought.
“Captain,” he at last announced as he listened to his comm earpiece. “The Admiral is wondering where you are.”
With a last brusque motion of her arm she indicated the elevator. “Let me pass.”
Kendra thought she caught a momentary grin at the corner of the junior officer’s lips as she stormed past. He looked so young… Enjoy that moment, son. Your turn in the meat grinder will come.
As the lift doors closed and the car began to accelerate, Kendra found her thoughts turning to her home, so far away. Yes, she was human and Earth was her ancestral home; her true home, however, lay on Coloran almost twelve light-years away from the Sol system. She missed it terribly. She missed her mother, alone at their house tucked into the side of a massive mountain that had been her playground in her early years. So far that it felt she would never see her again at times. The thoughts fueled Kendra’s anger. She had lost her ship—her first command. Of course the bill would come due…the bill always came due.
The doors slid open and the bustling sounds of Fleet Command rushed to fill her ears. Kendra stalked out and turned left, ignoring the guard as she went. The guard refrained from halting her.
Fifty paces down, then right and into the Admiral’s outer office. Again, the guard at the door studiously contemplated his elbow as she stomped past. Kendra was in a proper huff now.
“Miss Kendra,” welcomed Satra. As the Admiral’s personal secretary, Satra was the gatekeeper of the much-in-demand Sol System Fleet commander. Now, however, she merely looked up from her desk and nodded deferentially. Security really lags here, Kendra dec
ided as she pushed on the door to the inner office and marched in, head up and eyes blazing.
The Admiral stood with his back to her, gazing out of the generous clearsteel viewport. The red-tinged atmosphere of Mars filled the office with an eerie crimson glow; it was sunset outside.
As the man made no move to speak, Kendra walked to the corner of the desk and leaned against it, crossing her arms. “Go ahead.”
A full ten seconds later, the senior officer turned to face her, hands still behind his back. Kendra looked up in his eyes and felt her will draining away. She wanted to run full into his arms…but that wouldn’t do, now would it?
He didn’t approach. “The Carillion is destroyed.”
Kendra wanted to hold his eyes but to look away. “Yes. Forty-seven known lost, six badly wounded. The rest got off.”
“With you.” It was a flat statement, laced with finality.
“I was in Engineering.”
“When your place was on the bridge—”
“Father, don’t you think I know that? I keep replaying the last few minutes in my head. If I hadn’t gone to Engineering, if I had returned a few minutes sooner…”
Admiral Kendall stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “…and you would of course be dead as well. It would be a lie to say I’m sorry to see you, but…”
She pushed the hand away. How she hated herself for doing it. “You would rather I perished with my ship,” she completed his thought with obvious bitterness.
“Do you wish that…Captain?”
Yes. No. I don’t know, sir.” She felt the conflict welling up inside her and crossed her arms tighter around herself.
Kendall recrossed his hands behind his back and walked around to his desk chair. “I’ve read your preliminary report. It seems as though you felt you could triage the artificial gravity issue with more clarity than your engineering officers.”
She turned and placed her hands on his desk as he pushed back his chair and sat. “Carillion had this odd issue that I always had to deal with. The artigrav system has a coupler…”
War Without Honor Page 4
