Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  Feeling a wave of gratitude for her decision not to rub it in, he pushed off, floating straight up and into the latticework, watching the pair until they were out of sight. Turning his attention to the upper decks, he reached for the grips and pushed himself off several times to build speed. Arriving at the flight deck, he almost overshot it. Reaching out to snag an overdeck grip, he swung himself ninety-degrees and practically into the commander’s lap.

  “What the hell?” Mansfield was busy with support duties, while Shane piloted the craft. The jarring, washing-machine motion seemed to have settled down, but nobody on deck was relaxing yet. “Why aren’t you at your post, doctor?”

  Dean tried to speak, but he was winded from the effort of getting there. He needed a few moments to catch his breath, but the commander looked in no mood to wait. Shane spared him one withering glance, but then returned his full attention to the controls, blocking out the intrusion along with everything else.

  “Well?” the commander pressed. Dean held up a finger to beg for time, and the commander reluctantly crossed his arms and waited.

  “Fuel tank,” wheezed Dean, “below decks. It’s…”

  It was no use. Dean still hadn’t breath enough to form coherent sentences, and he doubled over from the strain. But now the commander was fully engaged, no longer looking pissed, but seriously concerned.

  Dean took in a long breath. “Sorry!” he stammered, feeling every bit as out of shape as he had in his whole life. Inwardly he vowed to do something about it, for once, assuming he survived long enough to try. “I was down there, checking on a noise,” he began again, “one of the fuel tank near the solution’s leaking. Jo’s got it stopped for now, but she can’t let go.”

  The commander shot one quick glance at Shane, who returned him a ‘go ahead’ nod.

  “Show me,” the commander said, re-positioning for the decent, then motioning for Dean to take the lead.

  Still somewhat short of breath, Dean kicked off—luckily missing Shane’s arm by half an inch—then found a deckhold and launched himself toes down into the long plunge.

  58.

  Janie Simms took a deep breath. Her hand shook over the radio controls. With a nod of encouragement, the president motioned for the staff to stay back as she looked over the equipment. Hastily assembled, the technicians hadn’t known what the purpose was, but being military men, they planned for all eventualities. The setup was impressively large, so much so the president worried that Janie might not know what to do with it all. But after a brief hesitation, she reached out, started fiddling with switches and knobs while listening intently, and within a few minutes she had located the frequency.

  They waited for ten minutes before giving up on an immediate reply. Clearly nobody aboard ship was listening at the moment. The president knew this was a long shot, and he had other matters to attend to. He’d be notified if Janie picked up a response. Until then, it was just sitting around and thumb-twiddling, and the girl could do that just fine alone. Or as alone as she could be with several Marine guards stationed in the room, along with the president’s own detail. He mumbled orders about coming to get him the minute she had anything, and then he left.

  The reply came faster than Webster expected. He’d just launched into a conversation with his eastern bloc liaison, through backchannels that would be difficult to re-establish—but this had to take precedence, even at the expense of dozens, perhaps hundreds of lives lost for every minute of delay. His priority list was a sickening thing to consider. He had difficulty even thinking through it any more. Every time he thought about the death warrants he was signing off on, he felt a fresh, wrenching rip in his soul, not to mention the sharp pains to the gut. He hung up the line with a muttered curse, and ran back to the radio room.

  The girl hadn’t moved, only now she had a headset on and was listening intently, jotting down a letter every few seconds. Webster snatched the earphones from her and barked into the microphone; “SFO, is anyone there? Mansfield! Douglas! Anyone reading me?”

  He couldn’t make out the reply. His ear hurt from the static and distortion. As startled as Janie was by his sudden aggression, she still manipulated the controls dutifully, improving the transmission somewhat. Finally, from somewhere beneath the cacophony, he thought he could make out a thin, distant voice. But it wasn’t enough.

  Looking over at Janie, he let her know in a glance that he needed a miracle, and he needed it now.

  She, in turn, looked anxious. Then crestfallen. “They’re slipping. I was trying to get the last few bits before you came in.”

  “What about a relay,” he asked, trying to remember everything he knew about this stuff, “is that something you could do?”

  She thought about it, pursing her lips with the effort, her expression slowly changing to something positive. For the first time since she’d arrived, she assumed an air of confidence.

  “I’ll need coordinates,” she ordered, if the words of a small girl to a roomful of soldiers could be taken as such.

  Webster made sure it would be, glancing up at the nearest Marine and motioning for assistance. Without a word, the man saluted and spun off in the direction of the control center.

  The room fell silent as the participants, with no common ground to work from, stared uncomfortably at the equipment, the walls, and occasionally each other. Thankfully the Marine had double-timed it through the corridors, and flew back into the room with the equipment, along with a slip of paper which he handed over. She looked at it with a practiced eye, then smiled and nodded. In spite of his training, the Marine gave a cursory smile while setting up her transceiver into an amplify-and-forward configuration. The president looked on, making no outward effort to hurry the man.

  When the new equipment was slaved to the existing device, Janie was able to get back to work. The room settled down, leaving a quiet buzz of anticipation as everybody settled in to watch her go.

  * * *

  Dean could see straight away that the situation had deteriorated. Jo and the commander both wore the same grave expressions, and Dean realized with sick certainty what his shipmates already knew—the situation was beyond repair. Not in the minutes they had before the ship tore itself apart. Minutes if we’re lucky. Might be down to seconds now.

  Dean fought to keep cool. He owed his shipmates the courtesy of not giving up. At least the ship had settled. Thanks to Shane wrenching things under control upstairs, the buffeting was less frequent and less violent. Thank heaven for small favors. Having a relatively calm environment to work in meant one less thing to worry about. Dean quickly poked through the exposed wires and guts to see if any quick connections could be made. He was no technician, but he knew his way around internal systems such as these. If he had an hour to spare, he could probably rewire the entire panel. If wishes were horses. He groaned inwardly and forced his mind to the task, reminding himself that pithy quotes would only continue to distract.

  The internal com crackled a half-second before Shane’s voice sprang out of the wall. ‘Everything okay down there?’ His voice was smoothly casual, signifying that the situation above must be anything but. ‘Just askin’ because I’m giving you as much time as I can. Think it’ll be enough?’

  The meaning was clear. The ship wasn’t going to hold out much longer. Shane would keep it just so until they tore apart, and he was steely-confident enough to do just that, but he wanted to make sure they knew he was ready to pull them out the second they succeeded.

  Dean looked over at his commander, giving him a read on their lack of progress with a quick glance. Mansfield immediately understood.

  “We’re going to need you to hang in there a little longer, Colonel Douglas,” the commander said, putting his official endorsement on what might soon become a suicide run, “we’ll be as quick as we can.”

  ‘Roger that,’ Shane replied, ‘I’ll give you all the time you need.’

  He would be as good as his word. The ship, on the other hand, had nothing left to giv
e. The eddies were ripping her apart, skillful piloting be damned.

  As Dean turned back to his work, he heard another crackle of an opening channel a few seconds later, but gave it little attention. Probably Shane again. But it wasn’t the colonel’s voice on the line, and it wasn’t coming from the panel. The noise seemed to be coming from somewhere around Dean’s pocket.

  Mansfield looked Dean over, reaching into the pocket and fishing around. Dean was as mystified as to what was causing it as everybody else. Finding nothing in the pocket, Mansfield felt along the lining of the suit, then pressed harder, down to the underclothes. That when when he found it.

  “Sorry about this, doctor,” he said, pulling out a small knife and cutting into the material, “you’ll have to switch to the spare once we get through here.”

  Dean merely nodded, not particularly concerned with a fresh uniform. He watched Mansfield with increasing interest, along with a sense of utter confusion.

  Mansfield felt around some more, tracing the seams of the pantleg near Dean’s thigh, which was fairly invasive but couldn’t be helped. He used the knife again, this time cutting with surgical precision, and with a careful tug he pulled out a tiny device. There was a light on top, flashing red. They could hear a tinny sound, some kind of transmission. Mansfield held it to his face and barked into the thing. “Who’s on this channel? This is a military mission, cut the chatter—”

  There was a few seconds of continued static out of the machine, followed by a thin, childlike voice; “Commander Mansfield?” It was difficult to make out, and the voice was shaky, like someone with an extreme case of nerves.

  “Who is this?” Mansfield demanded, bouncing neatly off the wall and grabbing the hold nearest the console. “Identify yourself!”

  “Pl…please hold for President Webster,” said the small voice, followed by an even weaker, “sir.”

  Mansfield looked as if he thought it a practical joke. Dean felt like he were falling all the further down the rabbit hole. Jo had no expression at all, her focus entirely on the device.

  “Commander, this is the CinC,” came the tinny but powerful, easily recognizable voice of the president. “Is Doctor Eckert with you?”

  Mansfield hesitated for a second before realizing that protocol was out the window. “Yes sir.”

  “Put him on,” the president said, in the tone of a clear command.

  Mansfield nodded. He motioned for Jo to switch up and handle the mechanical issues, while Dean pushed off and away, reaching for the device. Mansfield slid aside and allowed the doctor to grab hold of it.

  Sidling up to the wall, Dean spoke into the device. “Mr. President, what can I do for you?”

  * * *

  Everyone held their breath as the president spoke with the astronaut. Janie Simms kept the line open with intermittent twists and adjustments, but other than that nobody moved.

  “Doctor Eckert,” Webster said, “I wish we had time for confirmation on this, but I need you to re-evaluate the procedure. We have new information that you need to consider. Some serious shit has gone down here, and—”

  “I understand, sir,” came the reply, “and I’ve already started trying to integrate this scenario. I made a number of extrapolations based on what I saw from the window. We got a good read on it before we broke orbit, and I was able to start the process based on a visual evaluation.”

  “That’s good to hear, doctor. We’ve got some people on the line here, ready to feed you the new data as soon as you’re ready for it.”

  There was a long silence from the other end. The only sound outside of static was that of canned air being taken in, either by Eckert or one of his shipmates. “I’m ready now, Mr. President.”

  Webster turned the mike over to his scientific advisor, who’d been standing behind him with notes at the ready. It took a good twenty minutes to relay and verify the numbers, but they managed to do so before the connection was lost. Once they signed off, a pall replaced the feeling of hope, settling over the room like a shroud. Despite whatever help they could give from the ground, it was up to Eckert and his shipmates to make the adjustments, and there would be no second chances.

  59.

  The final surge came as a lethal thrust into the very heart of China. Warriors spilled over the borders at Bhutan, Burma, Laos and Vietnam. They overwhelmed the thinly stretched Chinese military and cut a swath through the countryside. What little resistance the locals could mount was quickly smothered, and the militants executed authority figures and anyone wearing a uniform without a moment’s hesitation. Once they got a foothold into the mainland, the armies split, one swarm headed for Beijing and Shanghai, the other breaking for Mother Russia.

  Zhang made the easy choice of shoring up his own cities, allowing the enemy easy passage into Russia. He ordered all troops to regroup in the east, massing along the thirtieth and forty-fourth parallels, with instructions to box out the enemy and protect vital ports and urban centers. In the short term, his Red Army was in good condition, boasting fresh troops and a strong numerical advantage. But moving them all to a small area, then supplying that area, would be costly. And with the decision to ignore the Russian front, troops to the far south and west were effectively cut off. Eventually both Shanghai and Beijing might fall, their mighty military defeated under the strain of limited mobility. But they would hold for now.

  The Russians would never give in. Zhang was certain of that. This war would slog on for years, sucking China right into it if they didn’t extricate themselves. The peasants to the west could deal with transient armies without losing much, but the seat of power could never stand in that way.

  It was the Russians who’d done the most damage, Zhang thought, so let them suffer for it. Let them all starve to death up there, with the hordes choking off their supply lines until there was nothing left.

  Zhang sat for several minutes, allowing for the space the moment deserved, before placing his call to President Webster. By formally requesting asylum in exchange for international intervention, he was leaving his nation behind. Even if they prevailed, he would never again hold the reigns. Even if they vanquished the enemy, his administration would be taken to task for the failure. It was unavoidable.

  * * *

  It wasn’t an easy decision, opting for exile rather than stay and fight. Not for the job, really. Not the position. Those never really appealed to a civic minded man like Zhang. Leaving his people, though. That was almost too painful to bear.

  Zhang had never been a quitter. Never in his entire long, storied career. The fact that this defeat was upon him and he had no recourse other than to escape to the west…

  And he almost made it. Detained less than twenty kilometers from the extrication site, Zhang cursed his bad fortune. He would’ve gotten there if not for the Russians. Those damnable Russians. Their duplicity, and their ability to enrage the world, had burned him yet again. More specifically, a skirmish with Russian troops had attracted more enemies to their position, leaving Jian Zhang so exposed, he might as well have been gift-wrapped. If those Russians should die as one, the world would be better for it, Zhang thought, cursing them as viciously as he knew how.

  He flinched as a hood was shoved roughly over his face.

  * * *

  When the terrorists revealed their prize via video uplink, Zhang looked disheveled and confused. Even so, he had the wherewithal to refuse to read their prepared statement, so one of the kidnappers did it for him.

  Not one to give the enemy even the slightest sense of satisfaction, Zhang called out to his countrymen to take courage and fight on. He cursed the enemies of the homeland to eternal darkness, and other such grandiose, sweeping statements that might’ve meant something if he’d not been so utterly compromised.

  In the time it took for Zhang’s abduction to be revealed, new coalitions formed to fill in the vacuum. The token rescue squad they sent after him were summarily executed. Rather than risk further escalation, back channels were established, thei
r only priority being to protect the homeland. In exchange for publicly denouncing Zhang, and allowing his captors free reign in determining his fate, China would be left alone. Ending the stalemate meant Zhang could no longer be used as a bargaining chip. His usefulness had come to an end.