“Steve! Stop talking, now.”
He paused, confused. “Sorry?”
Jeannie’s tone shifted, like she was talking to a child. “You’re telling me this over an unsecured line?”
“You wanted to know….”
“I … yes, this is important, but anyone could be listening!”
“I doubt they are. It’s been four weeks.”
“Steve,” Jeannie groaned. “Look, remember that date we went on, where you” her voice turned mocking, “lasted half a second?”
Why was she making fun of him? Was … was she talking about sex? Bratta stammered. “Jeannie it wasn’t what you’re making it sound like!” There had been a mechanical bull shaped like a giant wild haggis, a blasted over-sized rat—“Those things are very tricky to ride, I just anticipated it would go forward rather than back first, and—”
“I know, I know. I’m just never going to let you forget it.” A low chuckle crackled across the line. “Meet me there on the anniversary of your, ah, performance.”
All of this was completely uncalled for. What if someone was listening? Bratta’s face burned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Steve. You need to meet me there. On the anniversary.”
Was she trying to tell him something? He racked his brains, and glanced back at the calendar.
“But that’s—”
“Yes.”
He was still confused. “But it’s not the … date—you mean, the date of the date, or the date-date?”
“Steve.” Jeannie sounded like she might lose her temper. “Just … never mind. Ignore that, I forgot that subtlety isn’t your thing. Listen. Pack your bags. You need to get off-planet. Now.”
She hung up. He glanced at the calendar again, and finally realized why he’d been staring at it all morning.
Their anniversary.
And it was only a few days away.
He slowly packed his bag, unsure whether he’d made the right decision. She was a cop, and cops had guns, and ex-wives with guns on anniversaries was not a winning combination.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
Chapter Five
Bridge
USS Midway
High orbit above Sanctuary
Omid Sector
Mattis watched as Z-space disappeared on the various monitors scattered all around the bridge, a thousand vibrant hues settling back into a vision of the real world.
“Z-space translation complete,” said Lynch. “We are in orbit above Sanctuary.”
Sanctuary was a bright blue world, similar to Earth but almost entirely comprised of water. Its days were short and hot, and what little land existed was rain-soaked and sun-scorched. Not exactly a pleasant place to live, but it had an abundance of fish and aquatic life, and accordingly, a thriving fishing industry. Where there was industry there were jobs, and where there were jobs, there were settlers.
“Very good,” said Mattis. “And the jammer is still in effect?”
“Yes, Captain,” said Modi. “All Z-space transmissions out of this world are being squelched; approximately forty-four seconds of recording have, unfortunately, been successfully broadcast.”
“Forty-four seconds?” Lynch scrunched up his face. “Why can’t you just say, approximately forty, or even better, approximately fifty, you damn robot? Does it really matter?”
“It matters to me,” said Modi, his tone even.
Mattis raised his hand in a calming gesture, something he had seen his old XO, Commander Pitt, do. It seemed to work. “Let’s focus on the mission at hand, gentlemen,” said Mattis. The adoption of his former XO’s mannerisms threw a cold blanket over an otherwise fairly lighthearted moment.
How often had Commander Pitt broken up these two from their bickering? Now that he was gone, did that responsibility fall entirely on him?
“Excellent,” said Modi. “I concur.”
“I concur,” said Lynch, his tone bathed in sarcasm.
For senior Navy officers, wrangling them was sometimes like herding children. “Put a hole in the Z-space jammer,” said Mattis, leaning forward in his seat. “And open a channel to the surface. This … Marine Captain Mitch Ryan. I want to speak to him in person.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Modi. “We’re patching you in right now.”
It took several minutes to establish the connection. When it did come through, the video was patchy and full of static. Seemed to be routed through the exact same camera the guy had used to film his so-called manifesto.
Through the digital dust he saw a man. Aged, with tanned skin and a strong jaw, grey streaks running through his thinning, dark hair. He carried an assault rifle slung in front of him, one of a style Mattis hadn’t seen in decades.
Is this how people see me? A crazy old man, a relic from a battle long past, comically out of time?
No time to think about that. “Good evening,” said Mattis. “Marine Captain Ryan, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, Admiral,” said Ryan, clicking his heels together and coming to a swift attention. “It’s good to see you again.”
Mattis tilted his head. “We’ve met before?”
“A lifetime ago,” said Ryan. “I was stationed on the Midway during the war. US Marine Corps.”
So many servicemen had served upon a ship as old and storied as the Midway that claim was believable, but Mattis wanted the truth. Too many people pretended to be veterans—for benefits, for social prestige, to gain the edge in hostage negotiations. “That so. When’s the Marine Corps birthday?”
“November 10th. 1775.” The answer came instantly.
Something he could have looked up on the net, certainly, but there were other questions that those outside of the military would be hard pressed to answer. “What was your MOS?”
“2305,” said Ryan, again instantly. “Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Because Total Badass isn’t a proper job title.”
That surprised him. “You were a minesweeper?”
“Yes sir,” said Ryan. “We would pray every day to Bob Ross, the Patron Saint of EOD.” He grinned like a jackal. “Minesweeper’s motto: there are no mistakes, just happy little accidents.”
Mattis nodded slowly. The guy was who he said he was. “Very well, marine. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes sir, Admiral. Knew it the moment I heard your voice. Admiral Jack Mattis. The only guy who stood up to the Chinese and won. The only one who in this whole fucked-up galaxy actually believes us. Who understands what we’re doing.”
Mattis glowered. “Don’t presume to know what I believe.”
Slowly, whatever relief, joy, that was on Captain Ryan’s face slowly faded away. “Sir,” he said, “you are here to help us, aren’t you?”
“Son,” said Mattis, “I was at Freedom Station when it was attacked. I fought alongside the Fuqing and Captain Shao, and I was there when she died. I caught the first half of your little … manifesto. Regardless of whatever you suspect about the nature of that attack, the people you’re holding are not in any way responsible. I’m here to secure their release.”
Ryan’s tone shifted. “That will prove difficult,” he said. “I want the galaxy to see us end these rats on live TV.” There was a long pause. “Seems like we’re at opposite goals, Admiral.”
“Seems so.” Mattis squeezed his fist so tightly the knuckles cracked. “But it doesn’t have to be this way, Ryan. Talk to me. We have a shared history. We can work this out.”
“Sir, with respect, go piss up a rope.” The connection ended.
Mattis slumped back in his chair.
“What an a-hole,” said Lynch. “I think the good marine is two sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“Aren’t they all?” asked Modi.
Anger surged within him, but he smothered it under a professional mask. “Damn that idiot.” Mattis stood out of his chair. “Get a shuttle ready, I’m going down there. Lynch, Modi, you’re with me.”
“Sir?” asked both of
them, together.
“Modi, I need you because you’re a genius. Maybe there’s a way your skills can help resolve this peacefully.”
“Okay,” said Lynch, “but shouldn’t I stay with the ship?”
“I need you for your tactical expertise,” said Mattis. “In case this whole thing goes sideways.”
Lynch grimaced. “You don’t want marines for that?”
“Might be a needless provocation,” said Mattis. “Besides. What could go wrong?”
Lynch didn’t miss a beat. “Everything.”
But Mattis was already out the door.
Chapter Six
Pilot’s Ready Room
USS Midway
High orbit above Sanctuary
Omid Sector
Lieutenant Patricia “Guano” Corrick scratched the small piece of chalk across the large blackboard which had been set up to cover one whole wall of the pilot’s ready room. A wall of shame where she wrote the same message over and over and over and over again.
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
It wasn’t her fault, she mused, starting another line. The first time she had taken down multiple alien attack ships and the damage she had suffered was entirely legitimate. She had saved her gunner’s life, Flatline, and that was good. Sure, that ship cost something like $120,000,000 but it wasn’t like their CAG, Roadie, paid for it out of his own pocket. It was just … one of those things.
The second time was a little less justified. She’d been bounced by fighters from above and they’d taken out Joker. Her gunner had tried to eject, but no joy. Oops?
On reflection, she would definitely rather be here writing lines than the alternative.
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
I MUST NOT CRASH MY SHIP
This was literally the most boring thing she’d ever done. Which is probably why Roadie had assigned her to it with such relish. Boredom was the ultimate foe of the military serviceman. Groaning internally, she began to write again, fighting down a surge of anger. I MUST NO—
“Guano?”
The voice almost made her jump out of her skin. She dragged the chalk across the blackboard, leaving a large white streak. The noise made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“What?!” she shouted, spinning around, chalk held out in front of her like a knife.
Roadie held up his hands. “Woah, easy,” he said, frowning slightly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Guano, lowering her chalk and taking a deep breath. “You just … startled me.”
“You been taking your meds?”
Up yours, she thought. “Yes. And the supplements. Gotta stay in tip-top shape, remember? Nothing like vitamin and essential amino acid supplements to satisfy a hungry fighter jock stomach.”
“Oh stop complaining. We all take them. Orders from way up. They say it helps our reaction times.”
Guano turned back to the board and wrote one more line. “I’ll show you reaction times,” she grumbled under her breath.
“Well,” said Roadie, raising an eyebrow, “as enthralling as writing lines must be, I got a mission for you.”
Her heart actually skipped in her chest. “You’re shitting me, aren’t you, sir?” Corrick leaned forward, unable to stop her mouth falling open eagerly. “Sir, Roadie, I swear, if you tell me you have a CAP for me, a new ship, I swear to you I might kiss you. I might.”
Roadie scrunched up his face in disgust. “As much as I would hate that—” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Get down to the hangar bay. The old man and the XO are going down to the surface. Gotta have someone fly the shuttle. Guess who.”
Her ego deflated somewhat. She wanted to be back in a fighter. But at least it was something. “Because,” she asked, “they need the best pilot for the job, right?”
“The worst,” corrected Roadie, a slight grin showing he was kidding. “At least the one with the worst history. I just figure that if we get them all killed in one fell swoop, I get to pick the next Captain. And I’ll make sure they show more love to the air wing. Plus, you know, I’d get Lynch’s room, and his quarters are to die for.”
Corrick poked out her tongue. “Nah, you want me because I’m the best,” she said, waggling her finger.
“The best at crashing.”
Corrick snorted. If it were some other kind of mission, he might have just been ribbing her, but the Admiral… there was no way he genuinely thought this kind of stuff. You don’t risk an Admiral’s life by entrusting it to a flunkie. “What about Flatline?”
“Oh,” said Roadie, almost as though it were an afterthought. “Well, our new fighters are being disassembled, and I thought some of the gunners could take a go at flying them. Just to break them in, you know?”
Corrick spluttered. “B-but my new ship—!”
“Relax,” said Roadie, “he’s going with you. I don’t trust you with a shuttle on your own. Now go—the away party’s waiting for you.”
Grateful to be done with writing lines, Corrick tore out of the room, grabbing her flight suit off the rack as she went.
Roadie called after her. “Hey, Corrick?”
“Yeah?”
His face was serious. “Make sure that ship comes back in one piece. You’re a great stick, I mean that, but there’s only so many times I can explain to Admiral Mattis that the perpetual fuckup should keep being allowed back in the cockpit of multi-billion dollar spacecraft. Not. A. Scratch.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Not a scratch,” she said, crossing her heart. “I promise.”
Chapter Seven
Courtyard
Chinese Embassy
Sanctuary
Omid Sector
The shuttle touched down in an empty street opposite the Chinese embassy. Mattis stepped out, immediately greeted by a soft breeze tinged with ocean salt. The building had been freshly painted, a light brown with darker peaked roofs in the traditional Chinese style. A beautiful garden sat out the front, with two dozen flowering trees, a well kept layer of grass, and the bright red flag of the PRC flying above.
They always had an eye for style. The only thing out of place was the front gate; a fence flanked by ceramic dragons, its white metal bars twisted, forced open. Strange, because it wouldn’t have been that hard to climb it. Not for a young man, anyway. But nobody who had fought in the war was young anymore.
Especially not him.
The streets surrounding the building had been evacuated, giving the whole area a desolate, abandoned look. The only hint it was artificial was the yellow and black striped barricades, beyond which were Chinese soldiers and American police.
Mattis beckoned one of the cops over.
“I’m Admiral Jack Mattis,” he said. “Gimme a sitrep.”
The cop, a tall, pale-skinned man stepped over the line, gun cradled in his hands. “Well,” he said, eyes occasionally flicking to the building, “we got hostages on the top floor, with hostage-takers scattered around. We cut the power, but it looks like they have some kind of portable generator. They’re heavily armed and they seem to know what they’re doing. They move like military.”
Great. Just great. Mattis waved the guy away and focused on the tall Chinese building. What to do…
“Okay,” said Lynch, shaking his head as he stepped out of the shuttle behind Mattis, “you know you’re out of your depth with this one, right? This is a hostage negotiation. This isn’t like Friendship Station; some dang diplomatic party where everyone will be good to you. If we mess this up, those guys in there will probably shoot us.”
“Probably,” admitted Mattis, hands on his hips. “But I can’t send some nineteen year old with a certificate into this. The war was hard, Lynch. It did hard things to these people. And I can help them because I understand them. These people fought with
me.”
“Yeah,” said Lynch, his voice tinged in hesitation. “And now they’re fighting with you, if you know what I mean.”
He certainly did but there was no time to think about that now. “They’re sick,” he said. “And I want to help them.”
“Sir?” said Modi, cautiously. “A vehicle is approaching.”
Mattis turned to look. Coming down the abandoned, cordoned-off street was an armored personnel carrier, black and emblazoned with the star of the People’s Republic of China.
The shuttle lifted off behind him, whining softly as it took to the air, and the APC pulled up in front of the embassy, blocking him with its body. The rear door opened.
“What the hell are you doing?” hissed a Chinese marine, poking her head out the back, her face partially obscured by a bulletproof visor on a black helmet. “This is a People’s Republic matter—you need to come with me right now.”
“Nope, said Mattis. “Not until I sort this out.”
“An embassy is sovereign Chinese territory,” said the marine, adjusting her helmet. “You can’t go in there.”
“But the street is US soil. You can’t stop me while I’m here and not there.” He stepped around the APC and moved up to the bent gate, straightening his back and putting on his best commander’s voice. “Ryan! It’s Admiral Mattis!” he shouted.
“Go away,” came Ryan’s voice from within. He was on the upper level.
The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series Page 3
