Across the bar, the crowd caroused. The remaining officers from the three ships’ fighter crews had formed a klatch. Nine or ten of them, by her count. They were the loudest of the louder groups in the bar, though Laz was uncharacteristically one of the more reserved revelers. He’d nod and smile and take the occasional slap on the back in good stride. At least he’d survived.
Thank God, thought Addison. If I’d lost him….
What? What, then? They weren’t anything to one another now. Were they? That’s why he was CAG of Independence and not Invincible.
But the whiskey wouldn’t let her get away with that lie. She knew just the opposite was true. He was on Independence because they’d meant something to each other once. And part of her—several parts of her, in fact—longed for that again. She watched him laughing with Mustang Havers, Invincible’s CAG. She watched Havers swoop and dip his arm, recalling their dogfights with the Swarm. He and Laz were comrades in arms, friends forged in the fire of battle. Addison realized with horrified embarrassment just how hotly jealous of her own CAG she was.
She poured herself another shot.
“Hey, here he is finally,” nodded Avery.
Noah Preble approached the table looking more exhausted than he had after the battle just a couple of hours ago. He had an empty water glass with him. It made a loud clock! on the tabletop as he set it down.
“Pour me a drink.”
Avery gave him a look as she reached for the bottle. “That’s not a shot glass.”
“Oh, I know. Saves time when ordering doubles.” Preble gave her a knowing look. “Like now.”
“Sir, aye, sir!” she teased, pouring a generous amount of whiskey into his water glass. Signaling the civilian waiter, she said, “We’re going to need another bottle.”
He nodded and moved off.
“Pierce was that rough?” she asked.
“You have no idea.” Preble took a long gulp from his glass. “Ugh. What is this cheap shit?”
“It’s free to you, that’s what it is,” Halsey replied.
Preble grunted.
“Can we defer discussing the admiral a moment?” asked Avery. “I want to talk about the Swarm. I mean, they could be back anytime.”
“Yeah, good idea,” said Preble, avoiding Halsey’s gaze.
“Our shields were useless,” noted Avery. “Whatever’s powering those Swarm lasers—it’s like we don’t have shields at all.”
“Maybe we don’t, for the Swarm anyway,” said Halsey. She pulled her eyes from the carousers to stare at Avery. “Maybe they somehow ignore the rotating frequencies we cycle through. Just pass right through, like they’re not even there.”
“That’s not how it was when they attacked at Ganymede or Earth before,” said Avery. “Maybe they’ve adapted to bypass our tech.”
“Maybe they’re using tech we haven’t even thought of yet,” said Preble, taking another swig. He set the empty glass on the table. “I’m a glass is half full kinda guy. So fill it halfway, would you?”
Avery smirked but accommodated him.
“Their hulls are certainly unique,” observed Halsey. She thought back to boarding the Swarm ship with Laz and the rest of the Renegade crew a month earlier. Their sensor readings of the hull’s strange composition. That base metal unlike anything on Earth.
“Apparently so are ours, from their perspective,” said Preble. “The tungsten in the Connie-class ships, I mean. It’s not—pardon the pun—invincible, but we sure last a lot longer against them than our escorts do. Since shields are apparently useless now, the more traditional metal in their hulls … it’s like those cumrat lasers are warm knives cutting through butter.”
The captains yielded to an unspoken need for a moment of silence as each pictured scenes from the battle in their minds. The space around Wellington, thick with enemy fighters heavily outnumbering their own pilots. Hotspur, Gibraltar, Warspite, Surprise—all twelve of Endeavor’s escorts lost, one after the other. Endeavour herself, one capital ship against six with superior technology, bravely standing alone in the darkness of deep space. And Atropos—a suicide run, the ultimate sacrifice made in the hope their comrades might somehow survive. Omega Protocol.
But they’ll become immortal in the hearts and minds of recruits for the rest of time, thought Halsey. If the human race survives, that is.
She held out her shot glass and Avery refilled it, then her own. Halsey raised her hand. “Remember the Atropos,” she said quietly.
Preble nodded solemnly. “Remember the Atropos. And all the fine men and women who died today.”
The three starship captains clinked their glasses together and drank.
“Ship. Shipmates. Self,” mumbled Halsey. The whiskey was showing.
“What?” asked Avery.
“Old Navy saying.” Halsey waved her hand with its empty glass. “It’s about priorities.”
Avery nodded, understanding, and poured them both another drink.
Preble sighed. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”
Halsey eyed him blearily. “Pierce.”
Preble nodded.
“Pierce? What about him?”
Halsey snickered at her old roommate. “That’s what you get for showing up late to the party.” She’d said it more harsh than playful. Okay, Sam was definitely right. It was time to throttle back on the booze. Wouldn’t do for her officers, or any officer, to see her drunk in public. Unbecoming. “You enjoy the bliss of ignorance,” she finished, waving her empty shot glass again.
Avery looked from one to the other. “What the hell are you two talking about?”
“He, uh…” began Preble.
“Go on, Noah, say it,” said Halsey, straightening up. She tried to clear her head by force of will. The official notification deserved some respect, even if the admiral issuing the order didn’t.
“Say what?” asked Avery.
“He’s insisting on a court-martial,” Preble stated, staring into his glass. “For refusing the orders of a superior officer.”
“Refusing the orders of a … what’s he talking about?” demanded Avery.
Preble briefed her on Pierce’s pre-battle orders and their initial, split-force deployment. His explanation took longer than it should have with Halsey’s personal commentary added in. The interruptions were mostly composed of the four-letter word variety.
“That plan was idiotic,” said Avery. “And for the love of God, you saved the system with that jump to Calais! Any first-year plebe could see that. If you both hadn’t gone to the aid of Endeavour….” Avery just shook her head.
“I don’t think Kilgore will let it stand,” said Preble, gesturing for calm. “But for now, it is what it is.”
“How is John?” asked Halsey.
“Stable,” said Preble. “He lost an arm. Too much burn damage.”
“What about his ship? The crew?” Avery asked.
A momentary pause as Preble took a slug of whiskey. “Endeavour can likely be refitted in time. Most of the hull—that goddamned tungsten hull—survived intact. Full of holes and mostly slag, of course, but reparable. She’ll be in drydock for the foreseeable future, though.” He reached for the whiskey again.
“And her crew?”
His next words were heavy as stone. “What crew?”
Halsey’s jaw tensed. “That stupid sonofabitch—”
“The whole crew?”
Preble poured drinks for each of them before making his own glass optimistic again. “Not the whole crew but the majority. So many holes … most of the bulkheads closed like they should’ve. Many didn’t. There’s a theory there were Swarm agents among Endeavour’s crew. Sabotaged the damage-control systems.” He shrugged like they’d never know for sure. “Most of the bridge crew survived.” Preble said it like it was a consolation prize.
“Fucking cumrat bastards,” Halsey breathed.
“Anyway, there’s more,” said Preble, turning to Avery. “As soon as our ships are rearmed
and spaceworthy, you and I are to proceed to Outpost Heroic One in the Veracruz Sector. Because CENTCOM thinks our intelligence network’s been compromised, they want a reconnaissance in force there to meet the Swarm.”
“We’re splitting our forces again?” asked Avery.
“This is different,” said Preble. “I actually agree with CENTCOM. We need eyes in the outlands, eyes we can trust. And the only ships able to survive contact with the enemy, it seems, are Connie-class vessels. And that means you and me. The Admiralty wants to keep most of the fleet, including Constitution and the others, closer to Earth.”
“That strategy would be fine if this were nineteenth-century Europe,” said Avery. “But the Swarm can hop right over Veracruz into whatever sector they want.”
“They can,” nodded Preble, “and they might. But having us in their backyard while they execute another major attack like at Wellington.… We don’t know much about them, but they make war like linear thinkers. CENTCOM doesn’t think they’ll leave us in their backyard, so they figure the Swarm will stop to deal with us before hitting Britannia or any of the other, more populous inner sectors. So command is willing to take the risk. And if they do bypass us and attack closer to home? We’ll be able to jump them from behind.” He turned to Halsey and grinned half-heartedly. “I think your backdoor maneuver at Calais inspired them.”
“Bully for me,” blustered Halsey. She looked at the near-empty bottle of whiskey but didn’t reach for it. She didn’t want to sober up, but she needed to. “So when will Pierce’s marines come to arrest me?”
“Oh, Addie—” began Avery, reaching forward.
But Halsey pulled away. “When?”
Preble sighed. “They won’t be coming. But you should consider yourself under station arrest. Pierce knows Invincible isn’t going anywhere, and even he doesn’t think you’ll go AWOL and run.” Reluctantly, he added, “You can expect formal charges within the next twenty-four hours, though.”
A half-drunken look of relief came over Halsey’s face. “Oh, good!” She began to stand, swayed a bit, and steadied herself against the table. “A day of freedom left.”
“Addie, what are you doing?”
“Well,” said Halsey, ticking off her answers on her fingers, “tomorrow morning when I’m sober, I’m going to visit my wounded in Sickbay.” Her eyes traveled across the bar to where the pilots were still drinking and somehow managing to inflate the actual number of Swarm fighters they’d faced. “Tonight? I’m going to get laid.”
Avery looked around till her eyes lit on the object of Halsey’s desire. “Do you think that’s wise?” she asked.
“Nope!”
With the furniture as guides, Halsey made her way across the bar to where Laz was standing and laughing with his comrades.
Chapter 10
Earth, Sol System
Washington, D.C.
The Situation Room, the White House
President Chamberlain listened as Admiral Kilgore rattled off the statistics from Britannia. Twelve ships destroyed. One of their biggest, most powerful warships, the flagship of the British fleet, damaged almost beyond repair. Thousands of IDF personnel dead. He closed his eyes as the admiral moved on to their plans to better prepare in the coming days. When she finished, there was silence as his National Security Council absorbed the information.
“How the hell could this have happened?” asked Kathy Wakefield, secretary of state. “How could we have been caught so flatfooted?”
Winston Huxley leaned forward. “We, uh … we might’ve had moles inside the intelligence community.”
“Might’ve?”
“Madam Secretary, the situation is fluid.”
“Fluid? Is that the best you can do? You’re the director of the goddamned Central Intelligence Agency, Win. Your spies spy on other spies. Do you have reliable intelligence that security was compromised or not?”
“We have several suspects in custody now.”
“And?” pressed Kyla Torres, national security advisor.
“And they’re remarkably forthcoming,” offered Huxley. “Almost too forthcoming. It’s like….” The others waited. “It’s like they don’t want to hide anything.”
“What do you mean?” asked Torres. “They’re proud of being traitors?”
Huxley shook his head. “It’s not like that. It’s not like they have a political agenda. Near as we can tell, their bank accounts haven’t mushroomed in recent weeks, either. All the normal things we look for, the reasons for betraying one’s country … aren’t there.”
“Then how do you know—” began Wakefield.
“We asked.”
Again, the other council members took a moment to process. A few appeared to consciously close their mouths.
“What?” asked Torres.
“We asked. And they told,” said Huxley. “They confessed.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” scoffed Wakefield.
Huxley nodded. “Exactly. Hence—a fluid situation.”
“I thought we’d vetted all personnel in security-sensitive positions over the age of forty,” said Chamberlain, opening his eyes. “How did these people slip through?”
“For starters, we’re not sure how the Swarm is controlling them. Mind control? Some kind of biological agent? As for the age factor—two of the three persons of interest are in their mid-thirties.”
“I thought you told us any Swarm spies would be former orphans in their forties,” stated Wakefield. Her tone was accusatory. As if Huxley himself might be suspect for feeding them misinformation.
“Madam Secretary, our profile is evolving. Preliminarily, that seemed to be the case. Now—”
“So what you’re telling us is anyone can be a Swarm agent,” she said, staring daggers. “Maybe even you? I mean, what better way to open the postern gate to Earth than to infiltrate the top level of the CIA?”
Huxley took on a thoughtful, if defensive, expression. “Or the State Department.” He added rather belatedly the courtesy, “Madam Secretary.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Ladies and gentlemen….” But the room had heated up. No one was listening to the president.
The CIA director held Wakefield in an iron gaze. “Is it?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please!”
Wakefield took a long drink of water.
“Can we please play nice? In theory, company is coming.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” said Huxley.
With a final look of defiance at the CIA director, Wakefield nodded curtly.
“Rob, any luck?”
“Chinese Premier Wei has not gotten back to us. But Russian President Ivanov should be dialing in shortly. I think he was finishing up his lunch.”
Really, thought Chamberlain. Not the other way around? If anything, he’d expected a callback from Wei before Ivanov, given the Russian president’s aloof attitude lately. But leave it to Oleksiy to finish a meal before attending a summit on the defense of the human race. “While we’re waiting,” he said, “Admiral Kilgore, what is the latest on GILD? Have we figured out a way to bring it online without handing the Swarm the keys?”
“Possibly, Mr. President,” said Kilgore.
Her voice sounded tired, and Chamberlain couldn’t blame her. She’d assimilated a lot of data in the past few hours—not the least important of which was that everything she and the Admiralty thought about the Swarm and its proximal threat was likely flawed at best and dead wrong at worst. And then there were the combat losses. But now she was focused, and he admired her for it.
“When Captain Halsey was aboard the Swarm vessel, before it self-destructed, she discovered something unusual about the aliens’ hull,” began Kilgore.
“Halsey?” questioned Wakefield. “Is this the same Captain Halsey now up on charges for disobeying her superior?”
Kilgore shifted in her seat. “Henry Pierce might outrank Halsey, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him her—”
“Isn’t she being court-martialed?” pressed Torres.
“Court-martialed?” Chamberlain wasn’t sure he’d heard right. The Hero of Earth and, as he understood it, Britannia too—court-martialed? “Look, that’s a topic for later. Ivanov might call any minute, and I want to hear this first. Continue, Admiral. Briefly, if you can.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” she said. “On board the Swarm ship, Captain Halsey noticed their hull was composed of various metals and alloys, most of them familiar. But one of those metals … well, sir, it’s not on the periodic table.”
Chamberlain waved his hand. “I went into politics for a reason, Admiral. Chemistry isn’t my strong suit. Your point?”
“It doesn’t exist on Earth, sir. Or any other planet we inhabit.”
“What does this have to do with GILD?”
Kilgore turned to the secretary of state. “Admiral Shasta thinks he can reprogram the platform’s sensors to target only structures built with that metal.” She looked around the room. Not seeing the understanding she’d hoped for, she continued, “Our ships would be safe. Only Swarm vessels would be targeted by the drones. By default.”
“But only Swarm vessels with this alien metal in their hull.”
“That’s right, Mr. Huxley.”
“Is that every Swarm vessel?” asked Torres.
“We have no way of knowing that, ma’am,” answered Kilgore. “But the carriers, certainly.”
“Wait, isn’t Shasta the brainiac who created the AI commanding this weapons platform of tomorrow—which was instantly hacked by the enemy, I might note—in the first place?”
Kilgore took a breath. “Actually, the codes that protected the Swarm ships against the platform were handed over by a Swarm agent.”
“Yes, indeed they were,” said Wakefield. “One of your sterling-silver captains, in fact. Baltasar was it?”
The president waved Wakefield to silence. Everyone seemed to be on her shit list today. Of all of them, Kilgore deserved it the least. Today of all days.
“The Admiralty thinks they can reprogram GILD, then?” he asked.
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