He’d done the right things in the battle where Pitt’s son had died. He’d taken all the correct steps to assure victory, but it had not come without a price; a price the Pitt family had paid with the life of its eldest, and only, son.
Now there was a chance he could be alive. A slim chance. The word of a deranged father, most certainly, but … he wanted very badly for this slim chance to come true.
“Right. Well, it’s good that you did exactly that.” He turned to Senator Pitt, giving him a look which was as much a glare as anything else. “Any idea where to begin? Where they might be holding your son?”
“Of course,” said Senator Pitt, turning to the monitor. “You think I came here empty handed?”
“Okay,” said Mattis, eyeing the screen warily. “I’m listening. But be quick, Captain Flint wants to debrief—” he wasn’t sure what to tell them. “A guest.”
Ramirez was looking at him, trying to pry the secrets out of his gaze. He steadfastly avoided looking at her.
“Well, you see,” said Senator Pitt, tapping a key and sending a slide up to the monitor. “There’s a supposedly abandoned supply station. I believe the Forgotten are using it as a base.”
“Okay,” said Mattis, cautiously. “What’s the catch?”
Senator Pitt gave a strange smile. “It’s like what they say… location, location, location. It’s in the dead center of the Tiberius Nebula.”
The busiest, and most populous non-Sol colony in the galaxy.
“So if we get there, and they bail, they can escape, blending right into the Tiberius Sector crowd. Dozens of nearby worlds there. Disappear again,” said Mattis.
Pitt nodded. “Exactly. If we don’t surprise them …” he trailed off. “I can’t lose my son again, Mattis.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Interrogation Room
USS Stennis
Debris field
Pinegar System
Mattis folded his hands behind him, standing beside Captain Flint in the interrogation room.
The Stennis’s Marines had cut the mutant creature out of the escape pod and dragged it to this small room, whose only notable feature was a table, two chairs, and a wall of bulletproof, one-way glass. Two hulking marines, their sleeves rolled up, stood by the magnetically sealed door. Next to each of their feet was a black, opaque bucket.
The mutant itself was shackled to the table. It stared impassively at Mattis. Mattis stared back.
“What were you doing on that ship?” asked Captain Flint, an edge of aggression in his voice. “Talk, freak.”
Nothing. The creature just stared ahead blankly.
Flint nodded to one of the Marines. She picked up the bucket, walked over to the mutant, and upended it over its head. Water and blocks of ice splashed over the mutant’s body, soaking it with freezing water.
It didn’t react.
“Maybe we just need to get the mutants to chill out,” said Flint, grinning.
Mattis didn’t laugh. This was Flint’s ship. He could order him to find out information another way, but giving orders on someone else’s ship was a major faux pas. “It doesn’t seem to mind the cold.”
“Point,” said Flint, nodding to the second marine. The second guy picked up his bucket and, just like the first, tipped it over the mutant.
Steam billowed out, and the water must have been scalding, but again the mutant didn’t react.
“What do you think of that, hot stuff?” asked Flint, obviously enjoying himself.
Mattis had no stomach for this stuff. Never had, never would. Moral implications aside, torture rarely revealed information that was useful, as the subject would typically say anything to make the pain stop.
Yet this one wasn’t saying anything at all.
“That’s enough,” said Mattis, shaking his head. “We’re done here.”
That seemed to annoy Flint. “You sure you don’t want Sergeant Page to work the subject over a little first, Admiral?” he asked, idly nodding to the Marine.
“Very sure. We’ll have to wait until it’s ready.”
Flint didn’t seem happy about that, but nodded compliantly. “Aye aye, Admiral.”
With that, the two of them turned and left.
“Where to now?” asked Flint. “My ship is at your disposal, Admiral.”
Might as well tell him. The Captain deserved to know. “Senator Pitt has informed me that there is an abandoned resupply station in the Vellini system. Smack dab in the middle of the Tiberius Nebula. It’s called Jovian Anchor.”
“Vellini System?” Flint nodded. “The Stennis was constructed there at the Vellini shipyards. Hell of a place to look for a missing man—Vellini itself is huge. A billion people at least.”
The mention of Stennis’s construction at the Vellini Shipyards reminded him of his old love. “The Midway too. Was the first ship constructed there. But lucky for us, Jovian Anchor is not anywhere near the shipyards. It’s orbiting a tiny planetoid way out on the fringe of the system. Like, Pluto-way-out. Called … Slingshot, I think. The station was abandoned years ago because Slingshot has an unstable orbit around its sun—in a few hundred years it’s going to be ejected from the solar system, and with it, Jovian Anchor.”
Flint snorted gruffly. “Heh. Slingshot indeed. Well that’s an Army Corp of Engineers cosmic blunder if I ever heard one. How the hell did they not realize the rock was going to be slingshotted out of the system when they built the damn thing?”
“What else? The contractor in charge of the feasibility study turned out to be a one-man operation in his parent’s basement in Baltimore. He was seventeen, and he did it as his senior thesis project on cybersecurity. Go figure. His mom was a congresswoman so he got away with it. Anyway, long story short—”
“Too late,” quipped Flint, to Mattis’s annoyance.
“Senator Pitt thinks a faction of the Forgotten has holed up there on Jovian Anchor, kidnapped his son, and is holding him for ransom.”
“And you want to go in there and kick some ass, I presume.”
Mattis shrugged. “More or less.”
Flint nodded, then did a double take. “Wait, did you just say Senator Pitt’s son is there? His dead son?”
“Turns out he’s not quite as dead as everyone thought. Just a flesh wound, as they say.”
Flint blew out a low whistle. “No wonder the Senator was eager to talk to you.”
No wonder indeed.
“So,” said Flint, turning to fully face him now. “Last time you showed up on a US warship unannounced you took command almost immediately. You’re not here to do that to me, are you, Admiral?”
The Midway had been a special case. “Don’t worry, Captain. I won’t interfere with the operation of your ship.”
That seemed to mollify him somewhat. “It’s a mighty big relief to hear you say that, sir.” Flint tilted his head to the side. “So begging your pardon, but what do you want? You can return to the Caernarvon, but I’m guessing it’s not it.”
Very true. It wasn’t. “I want to see Jeremy—I mean, Commander Pitt—again, if such a thing is even possible. Honestly, something feels … off about that whole thing. I swear he was dead. There’s no way anyone could have survived the explosion of that ship. I want to see him for myself. In the flesh.”
Flint clicked his tongue. “That might be a problem,” he said, cautiously. “Admiral Fischer is asking about you. I got off the phone with her just before you arrived—she’s … well, she’s a bit pissed, Jack. Seem’s she’s had enough of your gallivanting, as she called it.”
Mattis snorted. He was enjoying having his feet on the ground too much after years of command, and the top brass would only get in the way if they had any involvement at all. “Did you tell her you’d bring me back?”
“Of course,” said Flint. “And I will, no matter how many ranks you pull on me, Admiral.” Mattis rolled his eyes—the other man’s asshole reputation was starting to shine through.
“Well, don’t. Not y
et. In fact, pass along the bare minimum of information you possibly can. What I’m doing here is very important. Fate-of-the-human-race level stuff, Flint. Jeremy Pitt should be dead. And he’s not. Given the recent context of all the shit we dealt with when Spectre and his Maxgainz mutant garbage were running rampant, it sounds a hair too suspicious to me. This is the kind of operation that doesn’t need to involve the brass for now, okay?”
“For now,” said Flint, not seeming convinced.
He wasn’t sure he believed him, but had to accept it. “All I want for now is to see Pitt with my own eyes.” Mattis had to offer Flint something to make sure he would cooperate. “And I know protocol dictates that I take command, but that’s not why I’m here. To prove it, I’ll be going over with the strike team. Totally out of your way.”
Cautiously, Flint nodded. “Gallivanting indeed. Well, I can’t stop you, Admiral. For now. Right. I’ll make sure there’s a place for you. We have a spot open in the team that’ll secure extraction, if you want?”
“I,” said Mattis, smiling a little, “had a slightly different idea. I heard you brought over what was left of the Midway’s Rhino teams.”
Flint’s face changed in an instant. “Sir, you cannot be serious,” he said. “You do know what the Rhino teams are like, don’t you? Their IQ is a shoe size.”
“I understand,” said Mattis. “I know these particular folks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Flint hesitated and then, slowly, nodded. “Okay. It’s your choice, Admiral. I’ll inform the team.”
“Very well.” Mattis grinned a little. “Hey, what can go wrong?”
“Famous last words.”
Mattis turned to leave. “That’s what I thought about Jeremy Pitt’s last words. And look where we are now.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cargo Bay
The Aerostar
Upper Atmosphere of Planet Vellini
Vellini System
Tiberius Sector
Chuck checked his pistol for what felt like the ten-thousandth time. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a Marine. He was just a guy who had been shooting with his Dad as a kid. He mentally ran through what to do. When shooting distance, align the rear sights to the front sights. Keep it steady. Squeeze, don’t pull, the trigger.
When shooting up close, ignore all that and just pump as much lead into them as possible. Pistols were notoriously inaccurate, but when the target was yards away the only thing that mattered was firing as quickly as possible.
When shooting distance, align the rear sights…
The Aerostar shook as it descended through the strange planet’s atmosphere. Down it went, shaking slightly as it passed through a pocket of turbulence. They had no idea where they were going; they had executed the Z-Space translation into that area, then followed the planetary coordinates straight down.
Could be a trap.
Could be a dead end.
Could be a lot of things.
He’d never felt this before. The rush of adrenaline into his body, knowing that right at this moment he was dropping into what might well be a firefight. He could get shot. He could die. Elroy would be left with Jack—
No, Jack was on the ship, too. What would they do with him? He’d be okay, right? Right?
Regret began to crawl back into his mind. Fear. What was he thinking, bringing a baby on this crazy adventure? What if the ship’s hull punctured? There was only a thin wall of metal between him and…nothing. Nothing that would kill him in seconds. And that was a fit adult human. How would a baby handle explosive decompression? What was he thinking?
“Hey,” said Reardon next to him. “You’re breathing like you’re about to pass out.”
He shook his head and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. “Yeah. This is—this just isn’t what I’m experienced at. I’m a political campaigner. I’m not a warrior.”
Reardon seemed to digest that as the Aerostar continued to descend. “Wanna know a secret?” he asked, casually pulling the toothpick out of his mouth and slipping into his breast pocket. “Back before I was an ‘entrepreneur,’ I was a janitor. By night. By day I stacked cans in a factory. Working sixteen-hour days just to put food on the table. Eventually I figured out a better way… I learned to be a warrior, and it was easy, because every human is a warrior. We didn’t evolve from apes to be weak. Only the strongest survived. No matter who they were. We’re all strong. We’re all heroes. You just gotta reach inside you and summon that energy too.”
That made sense. A warrior was just a man. “Easier said than done,” said Chuck. His hand was shaking.
“I know,” said Reardon. His voice was smooth and calm. For all his silliness and bluster, Chuck realized in that moment that, despite it all, Reardon actually knew what he was talking about, or was good enough at faking it that it didn’t matter.
Reardon’s confidence gave him confidence. The confidence to put his fears and worries away. He was going to be fine. Jack was going to be fine.
“How do you do it?” asked Chuck, reaching up and wiping his brow. “Do … this? As a life?”
“Pretty simple,” said Reardon, adjusting something on his belt. A brace of grenades. “Just don’t die. Ever.”
That simple, huh. “Okay,” said Chuck, checking his pistol one last time. “Let’s do this, then.”
With a soft clank, the Aerostar came to rest on the surface of the planet they had picked out. Through a small porthole, a large structure made of prefabricated panels stood on a mountain of garbage. It was papers and plastics and even larger things; the skeletons of starships and partially completed constructions, all mired in garbage and puke-brown water that resembled stuff that came out of Jack.
The loading ramp pressurized to the airlock. Chuck drew his pistol, looking down the sights with hands that barely trembled at all. When shooting distance, align the rear sights to the front sights. Keep it steady…
With a faint hiss, the door slid open. A man stood on the other side, rifle in hands, a silhouette with all detail washed out by a powerful backlight.
Sammy powered up a small drone armed with a pair of submachine guns. Reardon raised up his gun. Chuck lined up his sights.
“Put the guns down, gentlemen,” said Smith, stepping forward onto the loading ramp, orange prison garb glaring. There was blood splattered on his knuckles. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Quarters
USS Stennis
Planetoid Slingshot
Vellini System
Tiberius Sector
Guano woke up feeling more rested and relaxed than she had in years.
She brushed her teeth. She fixed her hair. She got into her brand new uniform with her brand new Stennis shoulder patch: an anchor draped around the neck of a furious-looking turtle, encircled in the words Unyielding and Unbroken.
Neat.
The Z-Space journey from Pinegar to their currently classified location had taken some time—far too much time for her liking—but she was, at least, getting settled in nicely. With a surprising spring in her step, Guano stepped out of her quarters and wandered down toward the pilot’s ready room, pushing open the door with her shoulder.
She was greeted with cheering and raucous shouts. Grinning like an idiot, Guano held up her hands to quiet the din.
“Well, well,” said Roadie, casually waving a printout like a fan. “Look who it is. I submitted your sim score to the academy. Only one percent of tested pilots at the Top Gun naval academy were able to reach the second round. Literally nobody before you had ever reached the third round. So, Lieutenant Corrick, your name is officially in the history books… until some other chump breaks it.”
“Oh,” said Guano, unable to resist the urge to preen a little bit. Just a little. “I’m actually thinking I can get past wave three with a gunner. If nothing else, more ammunition.”
Flatline, having seemingly recovered a chunk of his confiden
ce, piped up. “You line ‘em up for me, and I’ll knock ‘em down. Just keep it steady enough that I can shoot.”
One of the other pilots, Frost, smiled a giant half moon at the both of them. “You guys are going to do great,” she said.
She could definitely get used to being fawned over like this. Guano opened her mouth to say something wise and humble and funny, most of all humble, but then the red alert siren sounded.
“Damn,” she said, There was no way the Stennis could have had a fighter ready in time. Everyone else ran to get suited up. Guano just stood around like a dumbass.
“Come on,” said Roadie, obviously catching her dejected expression. “I got a surprise for you.”
Curious, Guano followed him, jogging toward the changing rooms. The pilots and crew pulled on their flight suits; Guano jammed herself into a loaner about a size too small and too narrow around the shoulders. But it was airtight, which was all that mattered.
Then the pile of fighter jocks poured out into the hangar bay and, weighed down by heavy suits, awkwardly ran to their fighters. Guano, with no better idea, followed Roadie, Flatline in hot pursuit.
“This way,” said Roadie over his radio. “Check it out.”
Then she saw it. The fighter she was being led to. A Chinese-made J-88, long and thin like a cigar, with stubby wings bristling with weapons, painted in the standard US Navy grey and emblazoned with the US military insignia.
“A gift from our friends at the People’s Liberation Army Naval Airforce,” said Roadie, waving his hand with a flourish, a faint air of sarcasm painting his words. “A sign of our continued mutual trust and understanding in the face of a common enemy.”
Guano’s eyes nearly fell out. “You’re shitting me,” she said, stammering slightly. “I get to fly a J-88?”
“Correctamundo.” Roadie rapped on the side of her helmet with his gloved knuckles. “I’ve had my best pilots and crew practicing in them for the last two weeks. They’ve been configured to use the same control scheme as the Warbirds, more or less, so you should feel right at home.”
The Last Champion: Book 4 of The Last War Series Page 12
