The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Flatline shook his head. “First thing we do when we get back to the ship? I’m taking you to sickbay.”

  “I can’t,” she insisted. “I can’t have them—”

  “Because,” said Flatline, stressing the words, “you obviously hit your head during some turbulence, and you, being a sane and reasonable pilot with a levelheaded and cautious approach to piloting, will definitely want to have a scan done of your head just to make sure that you’re perfectly fit and healthy and ready to fly.” He paused for emphasis. “Right?”

  “Right,” said Guano, rubbing her eye again. “Makes sense.”

  The console flashed, cutting off any more experimentation. “Okay,” said Guano, “time to go get the Admiral and end this milk run.”

  “First thing,” insisted Flatline. “First thing when we get back, you’re going to go get yourself checked out.”

  “Yeah yeah,” said Guano, flicking off the autopilot and tilting the ship’s nose down toward the surface. “I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Outside the Chinese Embassy

  Sanctuary

  Omid Sector

  Five sets of boots stomped through the lower level of the embassy, flashing past windows. Mattis could see them, rifles raised, storming through the building.

  “Wait!” he bellowed. “Stop! Stop!”

  If they could hear him, they made no sign of it.

  Shit.

  The marines disappeared behind the front door. The defenders would want to secure the staircase up to the second floor. That was the natural choke point that also afforded the defenders high ground. With their height advantage, superiority of numbers, and well-disciplined cohesive force, it would be a hard fight.

  Windows flashed as stun grenades went out, followed immediately by a burst of automatic weapons fire from within. A half-dozen holes appeared in the walls, whistling over their heads.

  Nothing more Mattis could do with words. He ducked behind the lion, crouching, hoping that its majestic raised paws would stop bullets. Or at least obscure him enough that he wouldn’t be seen.

  Lynch slid in beside him like a baseball hitter. “Well,” he said, “that went well. I almost thought you had him until, you know, he started killing people.”

  Mattis glared at him. “Call the shuttle back. We have to get out of here.”

  “Already done.”

  Mattis cupped his hands around his mouth. “Modi! Wherever you are, find somewhere to hide until the shooting dies down!”

  “I’ve obtained cover, sir,” came the muffled reply. “And I’m preparing to secure our escape route.”

  Escape route? What the hell? Mattis risked a peek over the lion’s paw. Modi was unbuttoning his holster. He’d brought a sidearm? Mattis hadn’t even noticed. Then again, he hadn’t even been looking.

  “Put that damn thing away!” Lynch yelled, close enough to Mattis’s head to make his ears hurt. “What are you planning on doing, storming the place by yourself, with that damn pea-shooter? You’ll blow your own foot off!”

  “You misunderstand me.” Modi drew it and inserted a magazine. “And I’ll be fine. I qualified with the standard M11 in basic.”

  “You haven’t fired that thing since basic?” Lynch stared at Mattis. “Brave as the first man who ate an oyster. He’s going to die.”

  For once, Mattis actually agreed. “Modi, you can’t do anything here. We need to get to our shuttle and get back to the ship, this is way out of our hands now. We’ve got ringside seats to a gun battle, and this is not why we’re here.”

  “We’re not meant to be here at all,” hissed Lynch.

  “We have to get out of here.” Mattis risked another glance, right as a bullet snatched off the ground nearby, kicking up broken chunks of asphalt. “Sooner rather than later.”

  Modi returned fire, squeezing off a pair of shots at the building. They flew high, so high they almost missed the structure entirely. The rounds struck some small antenna on the roof, snapping it in half. He looked very pleased with himself.

  “Stop that!” shouted Mattis.

  “I said this was a bad idea,” muttered Lynch. “I said Modi would blow his foot off.”

  “You never said that.”

  “I damn well should have,” said Lynch, grumbling. “Modi! You’re shooting at garbage!”

  “Not garbage,” said Modi, grinning from ear to ear. “The antenna’s down.”

  “What?” shouted Lynch.

  “The antenna! I recognized it; it’s a Type 103 surface-to-air missile guidance antenna. They brought something to blow up our shuttle—they may have let us down here before all this, but they were definitely going to shoot us on the way back up to orbit—but not now! They can’t target us!”

  Modi’s brain might get them all killed one day, but today it may have damn well saved their lives. The gunfire inside the embassy reached a crescendo. Right on cue, the shuttle returned, breaking through a low cloud, hissing faintly as it settled down on the street. It was time.

  “My go-to policy right now,” complained Lynch, loudly. “Is that if we’re going anywhere, Modi’s not allowed to come. He’s a damn deer in the wilderness. Look at him, waving that thing around.” He raised his voice. “Modi! Put that thing away!”

  “Deer or no deer, we have to move.” Mattis grit his teeth. “Modi! We are leaving—on three. One, two, three!”

  The three of them broke cover, running toward the shuttle. Mattis wished he was a younger man, boots pounding on the street as bullets whizzed past them, pinging off the hull of the shuttle. The ramp lowered.

  From the sides of the shuttle, dozens of black-helmeted Chinese marines, their weapons raised, came running toward them. One of them snarled as he ran by. “You nearly squashed us, Wáng bā!” Son of a dog. How rude. Just like old times.

  Mattis pushed past, struggling toward the open shuttle door, helping Lynch up the ramp.

  “Come on, Modi!” he said, holding onto the ramp’s hydraulic strut as another burst of gunfire splattered off the shuttle’s hull. Blast that guy…

  Modi fumbled with his pistol, ejecting the magazine and replacing it with a new one. He moved forward, through the last of the Chinese soldiers, putting a foot on the ramp.

  Then he slumped forward, pitching face first onto the metal deck, a blood-red flower blossoming on his back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Inside the Chinese Embassy

  Sanctuary

  Omid Sector

  Ryan ejected his magazine. “Loading!”

  Hadn’t hit any of them yet. None of his men had. But that was to be expected; the nature of close quarters combat was turning a lot of ammo into a lot of noise.

  “Got you covered,” said Fitzgerald, spraying a burst from his weapon over the lip of the stairway to the upper level, the bullets ricocheting off the tiles, smashing them to pieces.

  Ryan reloaded, pulling the charging handle. He peeked over the edge.

  Five marines fired. Their bullets screamed past his ears, hitting the ledge and embedding in the roof and floor beneath him. Fortunately the structure was strong enough to block whatever they were firing.

  They were in position. Ryan pulled out a grenade, yanking out the pin. The lever flew up. One, two, three—he tossed it over the edge. “Zhuā zhù!” he shouted, mockingly. Catch! He’d picked up enough of their language during the war.

  Their panicked cries below were music to his ears. “Shǒuliúdàn!” he heard. Grenade! Grenade! Ahh, music.

  Boom. The shrapnel whizzed all around the stairway.

  Maybe, just maybe, they could actually win this. Force the Chinese back into a stalemate. Pressure them until he could figure out a way around this … maybe they could slip out through the sewers. They were open and exposed now.

  Ryan glanced over the edge. One marine lay sprawled out, his helmet blown off, face shredded. The other four were in a defensive prone. One had a riot shield, hiding behind it. The others cowered behind him, their han
ds over their heads, exposed body parts peppered with shrapnel. But the shield, and their armor, would have absorbed most of it. They were fine.

  “Fitzgerald,” said Ryan, turning to him, “get ready to—”

  The man’s shoulder exploded, arm flying off. Fitzgerald slumped forward, his shoulder a gaping wound. Then came the crack of a sniper’s round.

  No way to get to the sewers now. They were pinned down.

  “Report,” he said. “Sound off, marines!”

  Six English-speaking voices came back to him. Everyone else was either dead or unable to answer.

  Another explosion. The main door shook and bowed. Fortunately it was reinforced. Out through the ground floor windows, a veritable sea of black helmets clustered. Twenty at least. Maybe more. He gave them a sweep with his muzzle, catching one or two with a round, sending showers of sparks into the air as the bullets were deflected.

  “There’s more out the back,” said one of his men, his tone suggesting the situation was dire.

  The door shook again, bowing further. Soon it would buckle and surrender.

  But they would not. Time for a blaze of glory. Ryan grinned so hard it hurt his face. Just like old times.

  “Okay, time to wrap this dance up. Ladies, gentlemen; we’re going to push through the marines downstairs and make for the breach into the sewers. Fresh mags in, dump your grenades before you go. Let’s move!”

  “Sir, yes sir!” came the chorus.

  The sound of a half-dozen pins being withdrawn rang out. The snap of the levers. A flurry of grenades flew over the lip, raining down below.

  No cries of alarm this time. They knew they were dead. Six blasts, and then the group moved down as one, with Ryan at its head.

  A sniper’s round darted past him, catching one of his fellows behind. He kept moving, past the main door, spraying fire out the windows. He saw the gap—the massive hole in the ground from which reeking sewer could be smelled over the gunpowder.

  The main door gave way. Two Chinese marines rushed in, weapons cracking. Ryan shot back, hosing down the invaders at full-auto. The marines slumped forward.

  He needed to reload. Ryan ejected his magazine and, before he could insert a new one, two more marines took the place of their fallen allies. Then two more behind them.

  His five men became three in just a few bullets. He crouched behind a table, emptying his new magazine in short, controlled bursts. The Chinese shot back, firing through the walls, gunfire kicking papers into the air, bullets screaming off every surface, blasting into the fine wood and tearing up the carpets.

  “Man down,” shouted one of his marines, right before she caught a round in the gut, then two more through the chest.

  He jammed in a new magazine, lining up on the Chinese.

  A round thumped into his leg and he fell, weapon falling out of his hands. Pain blossomed on his thigh, his patriot’s blood soaking into the fine carpet.

  And then, briefly, there was only silence. It was over.

  Almost.

  He pulled out the last of his grenades. Just one left. This one wasn’t kept in his grenade pouch like the others. No, this one was for just such an occasion as this.

  In case he failed. He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life in a Chinese prison.

  Blaze of glory, indeed. He hooked his finger around the pin and pulled it out.

  Five, four, three—

  A gloved hand slapped the device out of his hand. The thing bounced and rolled across the floor, then it fell into the open hole, disappearing with a faint splash.

  Boom. All of them were covered in rancid brown sewer water, ruining what was left of the room.

  Then a black bag was shoved over his head, his hands were forced into handcuffs, and he was dragged away kicking and shouting.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Shuttle loading ramp

  Outside the Chinese Embassy

  Sanctuary

  Omid Sector

  Mattis grabbed Modi by the collar and dragged him up the loading ramp and onto the ship. The ramp raised, sealing off the ship from the outside world. All he could hear was the occasional muted thump of a round hitting the hull.

  “Pilot,” he roared, thumping his blood-soaked fist on the intercom. “Get us out of here right now.”

  “Can’t,” came the reply.

  Mattis stared at the intercom panel. “Did you just say, can it to an Admiral?”

  “Uhh, no, sir,” said the pilot, her voice surprised. “I meant I simply cannot lift off at this time. It’s not possible. The—”

  “What’s your name?” he asked, talking over her.

  A slight pause. “Lieutenant Patricia Corrick,” she said, “but uh, pilots call me Guano.”

  Corrick. That name rang a bell to him. “But you’re a fighter pilot,” he said. “I know you. You’re the one who crashed your ship. Twice. The one who damaged the engines of that alien ship.”

  “That’s right, sir,” she said, an obvious tremor in her voice. “I’m flying the shuttle because, well, it’s complicated sir, but—”

  “Guano,” he said, his voice pure ice. “Right now I don’t care. Lieutenant Corrick, I am Admiral Mattis, the CO of the USS Midway. I’m ordering you to lift off right now, before I have you flying shuttles for the rest of your life.”

  Guano’s voice came through the tiny speaker louder than expected. “I understand that, Admiral, but I’m telling you that I physically cannot. The Chinese marines attached a clamp to the landing skid. If I try and force us off, it’ll tear off the lower half of the ship. That’s the part you’re standing on, in case you didn’t realize.” A slight pause. “There’s a woman in an officer’s uniform standing right in front of the cockpit. Guessing she wants to talk.”

  The Chinese did now? “Lower the ramp, Lieutenant,” he said his tone stern. “I’m going out there.”

  Slowly, with a hiss, the ramp lowered. Mattis strode out into the raging gun battle, stray rounds flying all around him.

  Just as their pilot had said, a yellow and black striped device was attached to their landing skid, chained to the APC. Beside it, a tall, officious looking woman wearing an officer’s uniform with the trappings of the Chinese secret service stood, her arms folded, in front of their ship.

  “Excuse me,” said Mattis, grinding his teeth openly. “I’m hoping you have a very good reason for denying our ship liftoff after we—” a round pinged off the outside of the hull. “Assisted you.”

  She raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Yes,” she said, her accent thick. “You definitely helped. Everything is much better now. You were warned to stay away.”

  “Honestly, I don’t give a shit. This street is US soil, US jurisdiction. I could have the Midway nuke this city from orbit as long as I somehow missed your embassy. Furthermore, my chief engineer is wounded and possibly dying inside that vessel, and he needs medical attention.” Mattis straightened his back, drawing himself up to his full height. “Understand this: if you do not release this shuttle right now, I swear to almighty God I will shoot you myself.”

  The woman turned to face him properly, a mocking smile on her lips. “You will, will you?”

  Mattis yanked his communicator off his belt, turning a dial until it was on a military frequency. “Corrick, bring the ship’s weapons around and aim them at this woman.”

  Silence, and then behind him, the faint groaning of moving metal. The woman took a step backward, holding up her hands, her face a mask of fear.

  “Release my ship,” he said, his tone even. “Or you will die.”

  The woman slowly, carefully reached down into her pocket and withdrew a magnetic card. She walked over to the clamp, swiped it, and the device fell away.

  Mattis, without a word, turned and stormed back into the ship.

  “Sir,” said Guano, once he was aboard and the ramp closed once more, “you know this shuttle has no guns on it, right? I pointed the long range communications dish at her.”

  Brilliant. Ma
ttis couldn’t help but give a small little grin as the ship lifted off, gravity lurching slightly as the ship tilted upward, artificial gravity fighting with the real stuff.

  “That’ll do,” he said, making his way over to Modi. He lay on the metal deck, bleeding heavily, his head resting in Lynch’s lap. His tanned, olive skin was a whole shade lighter than it should have been, and his lips were white. Ghostly.

  “Stay with us,” said Lynch, his voice shaky, rummaging through a medkit, half its contents spilt on the floor. “You stupid dumb robot. What were you thinking, playing cowboy like that? I’m the Texan here, I’m the one who’s supposed to, you know, have six shooters or whatever, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be impulsive, stupid—”

  “Keep pressure on that wound,” said Mattis, taking a deep breath. The cramped shuttle interior smelled of blood. “Focus on saving him before you get all sentimental on us.”

  “Aye-aye,” said Lynch, pressing tightly, both hands holding a compression bandage. He turned back to Modi. “I mean it, though, if you die, I will goddamn kill you. You hear me, Modi? I’ll kick your ass. I swear it.”

  Mattis closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch Modi like that, bleeding, without feeling helpless. Powerless to do anything about it. It was a distraction; a big one, and one he fought to shut out. He needed to focus. Clear his head.

  But something didn’t feel right about this. About everything that had happened. He didn’t know who to trust; the SAM that the hostage-takers had acquired was some high grade equipment. Not the kind of thing one could just acquire, and not surplus from the last war, either. This was something new. Something dangerous. He couldn’t take this to his CO; it had to go higher.

  He needed to talk to the President.

  “Sir,” said Guano through the intercom, bumping him out of his thoughts. “We got a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Chinese warship completed its Z-space translation right above us,” she said, “between Sanctuary and the Midway. They’re blocking our way home, sir.”