The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Shuttle Zulu-3

  Upper Atmosphere of Sanctuary

  Omid Sector

  Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. A Chinese warship, kissing the uppermost parts of this damn planet’s atmosphere, its huge bulk staring down at them, daring them to try and pass. They were being targeted by various radars. Ranging. Targeting. Surely they wouldn’t open fire on an American shuttle in American space, would they?

  Would they?

  An alarm rang in her ears. Her communications were being jammed.

  Very, very not good. If they wanted them dead, they would be dead—but they weren’t exactly friendly either. Corrick slammed the throttle open, giving maximum power to the engines. For a fighter, this would be heavy G’s and a full burn; for a shuttle, it was … a slight push back in against her chair.

  This thing had no armor worth mentioning except a thick heat shield to protect against reentry. No real maneuverability. No weapons.

  “Corrick,” said Flatline cautiously, “this would be a really good time for the weird-o thing to come out. You feeling stressed?”

  “Plenty,” she said, gritting her teeth and testing the rudder pedals with her feet. The ship continued to climb—painfully, slowly—and she checked what passed for the ship’s radar. It had highlighted everything in green, even the Chinese ship. “But nothing yet. Don’t worry. They won’t shoot at us. We’re Americans in American territory. There’s just no way.”

  “We’ll see,” said Flatline, touching the ship’s console panels, changing the identification of the Chinese ship to red. Hostile. Not that it mattered without any guns. “Corrick, they’re launching fighters.”

  Well that was a big problem. The Chinese were making a liar of her by the second. “Are they coming our way?”

  “You bet your ass.”

  Damn. Guano touched the passenger intercom. “Admiral Mattis, this is Guano. The Chinese ship is launching fighters and they are not looking happy to see us. They might not be aware that this is a VIP shuttle. I’m going to transmit our codes and try to talk them out of destroying us, but honestly, sir, I don’t like our chances.”

  “Do what you need to do,” came the terse reply from the back. He sounded distracted. Probably dealing with their wounded crewman. No sense bothering them anymore.

  Guano flicked channels, broadcasting out in the open. “Attention all, this is the United States Navy Shuttle Zulu-3. Be advised we are clearing planetary atmosphere at this time. We are unarmed.”

  No response. Not that she expected anything less with their comms out. It was worth a shot.

  Flatline tapped on the screens. “I’m going to divert a bit of power to the ship’s engines,” he said, “taking it away from, well, whatever I can get. It won’t be much but it’ll help.”

  “Gimme what you got,” said Guano, gritting her teeth as four Chinese fighters roared past their shuttle and executed sharp hook-turns in the thin atmosphere, pulling in behind them. Perfect gun-run position. “When they shoot, I’m going to hard over and see if we can turn their shots into glancing hits.”

  “Will that help?” asked Flatline, skeptically.

  “It’ll make me feel better.” She drummed her foot on the rudder pedal. She was moments away from death. Why wasn’t the strange hypnosis-thing activating? Where was the trance? The battle calm? Her heart pounded in her chest, racing a million miles a minute. Any second now the Chinese would be firing; they’d blow them to pieces and only extremely precise flying would get them out of it. Flying she could only achieve with the help of her special talent, whatever it was.

  Come on, brain. Save me! Otherwise, you know, we both die. You live in my head too, and if my head is exploded, that’s bad news for you. Any time now. Really. Any time.

  Nothing. Trying to make herself more stressed only achieved, well, making herself more stressed.

  Guess it was just her and the seat of her pants. Her eyes flicked to the rear view camera. The Chinese fighters were closing in on her—they were obviously struggling to fly as slow as their shuttle was, despite her flooring it. The shuttle’s power-to-weight ratio, even at the edges of the world’s atmosphere, was just too poor. The fighters, however—she could see the glimmer of their guns, the shine of the star off their cockpits. Any second, any second, any second—

  A bright light flashed from one. She instantly jerked the control column hard over, jamming it into her leg. The shuttle lurched violently, although not nearly as violently as she wanted—the damn ship was designed to be stable. Comfortable. Not like a fighter that wanted to jerk and twist around.

  Still, it was enough. A magnetic grappler flew past her cockpit, so close she could read the damn serial number. It wasn’t deadly ordnance, but she wasn’t exactly keen on getting snagged either. Expecting another shot, she flung the ship in the opposite direction, barely missing another magnetic grappler.

  That was good. Two had fired and two had missed. They would have to wind back in the arms and that would take time. Too much time. They’d be back at the Midway by then; Guano could see the flashing lights of the ship in low orbit, coming around to meet them.

  She just had to get there. Below her, the two fighters who had fired and missed fell away, dragged down by their long dangling cables. The other two—perhaps not expecting both of their companions to miss—overshot, soaring up past their cockpit.

  If she had any guns, this would be a prime attack vector. As it was all she could do was glare at them angrily as their noses tipped and they spun around to face her, drifting backwards through space.

  “Why don’t they just shoot us?” she asked, glaring at the two ships impotently. “They have us dead to rights.”

  “Because,” said Flatline ominously, “they want us alive. They probably think we’re with the terrorists.”

  Explained the grapplers. Guano ground her teeth. “Well, I’m not looking forward to being ‘guests’ of the Chinese, so how about we shoot at them a little bit, huh?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Flatline. “We don’t have any guns.”

  “Not,” Guano reached down and patted her sidearm pointedly. “Strictly true.”

  Flatline stared. “What, you think you can fight off a boarding party with that?”

  “Oh, no,” said Guano, taking a shallow breath. “You have a helmet, right?”

  “Yeah, under my seat. You thinking of doing an EVA?”

  Guano shook her head and pressed the emergency seal button, blocking the passenger compartment off from the cockpit. “No, I just promised Roadie I’d return this ship without a scratch, and you know me.” She drew her pistol, aiming it through the cockpit canopy at the nearest Chinese fighter. “I can’t keep a promise to save my life.”

  Flatline’s eyes became wide as saucers. “Wait, you can’t possibly—”

  “Put our helmets on!” shouted Guano. “This is about to get wild!”

  Flatline pulled on his helmet, then struggled to jam one over her own head, both helmets hissing as they sealed. “You damn idiot!”

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The round blew a hole in the cockpit canopy, streaking out across space and thumping into the nosecone of the Chinese fighter. Immediately, air began to howl as it was sucked out of the crack. She squeezed off two more shots—one missed, the other struck the fighter’s wing—and the cockpit’s air escaped faster.

  She adjusted the helmet, making sure the seal was tight, as the atmosphere in the cockpit dropped. It was a risk, sure, but as she watched, the damaged Chinese fighter broke away, a thin wisp of smoke trailing from its wing. The other one, after a moment’s hesitation, dove in to attack, guns flashing angrily.

  Rounds impacted their ship, and alarms blared. Guano pulled the ship up, rolled over the fighter, exposing the shuttle’s thick heat shield to the incoming fire, and flew toward the Midway as quickly as her slow, lumbering ship could manage.

  The Chinese mothership could have fired on them, could have blown the
m out of space. But they didn’t. Instead, one of the fighters flipped around and put another burst into her rear, striking one of her engines. She swore, kicking the rudder from side to side as the ship lurched, trying to avoid getting hit again.

  “We lost an engine,” said Flatline, his voice pitching up. “Damn!”

  “Is the passenger compartment holed?” she asked.

  A quick glance at his instruments, and Flatline shook his head. “No, but we’re hit pretty good!”

  She swung the dropship around, inertia carrying her toward the Midway, and she lined up her pistol again. She emptied her magazine. At that range, her little pistol had almost no chance of hitting, but apparently the gunfire—shot through their own windscreen—was enough to make the Chinese pilot have second thoughts. The fighter broke away, following their damaged companion back to the warship.

  Slowly, aware her shuttle had been badly damaged, she turned back toward the Midway. They had a clear run home.

  “You really are crazy, you know that?” said Flatline, but then he just laughed. Laughed like a jackal as the shuttle lazily soared toward the Midway, closing in on their mothership with frustrating slowness.

  “Hey, they don’t call me Guano for nothing,” she said, as the last of the cockpit air drained out. The only air they had was in their flight suits. An emergency reserve, but more than enough to make it home. She holstered her pistol. “Shame about the windscreen though.”

  “They’re cheap,” said Flatline, with something almost approximating relief. “Don’t worry about it. Believe me—I’ll talk to Roadie and get everything fixed up.”

  She grinned and tapped in the autolander, coming up on the Midway’s hangar bay. She thumbed the intercom. “Attention passengers, we’re arriving at the Midway momentarily. We understand you have a choice in crazy-arse pilots who will fly through fire to get you to and from your destination, and we’re glad you’ve chosen us.”

  “Jackarse,” muttered Flatline. “You’re going to get us both fired at this rate.”

  Guano only grinned, but deep down, she was worried.

  What had just happened?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hains Point Picnic Area

  South of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial

  Washington, DC

  Earth

  Chuck sipped his still-warm coffee, cupping his drink with both hands and letting the warmth drive away the slight chill of the morning air as he leaned forward on the bench at the edge of Hains Point. The view was always amazing. The sun rose over the Potomac river, its light shining between the trees and casting long shadows across the park, like a giant’s fingers reaching out to touch him.

  Or strangle him.

  A slight disturbance shifted the bench. Someone had sat down on the other side, directly behind him. Chuck sipped his coffee. “You’re late.”

  “No, you’re early,” said Kyle O’Conner, long time friend of his. His voice sounded tense. Stressed. “We shouldn’t be seen speaking like this. The shorter time we spend together, the better.”

  “We’re just two gentlemen enjoying public space,” said Chuck. “And don’t panic. Hains Point is the only place in this area without security cameras.”

  “Sure. That only leaves satellites, I guess. And security. And the secret service. Nothing to be concerned about at all.”

  Paranoia. Not good. Chuck decided to cut to the chase. “What have you got for me, Kyle?”

  “Pitt still isn't happy with you. And he loathes your dad. I’ve never seen a man so angry—and so driven. It’s not a hot rage, it’s a cold simmer. And it’s not going away.”

  He sipped his coffee again. “Who cares if he doesn’t like me? He hates himself, why would he like anyone else?”

  Kyle snorted. “Well, that may be so, but he really hates your Dad.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Chuck considered. “Like about that video that’s been doing the rounds. The one on the news.”

  “I can’t talk about that,” said Kyle, stiffly. “I still work for Pitt. That stuff—” He paused meaningfully. “Woah. That’s big news.”

  “I didn’t ask you here to chat about stuff I already know,” said Chuck. “What about …” he searched his memory, for fragments of sentences picked up while he was working for Pitt. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “What about the Ark Project?”

  Kyle hissed faintly. “I really shouldn’t be talking about that. Besides, I don’t know anything about it, no more than you, I bet.”

  That part was likely true, but there was a tremor in his voice that betrayed him. Kyle knew something about it. “C’mon.”

  “I’m serious,” said Kyle. “Don’t ask me about it. I can’t answer.”

  “Well,” said Chuck, “what can you tell me?”

  Kyle hesitated, and then, as though choosing his words carefully, spoke. “You know, Chuck, from here you can see the Jefferson Memorial just through those trees.”

  Chuck didn’t have to look to know. “No you can’t. That’s the golf course’s clubhouse.”

  “And you know this because you’ve looked and seen it for yourself. But they’re both white, tall, and if it wasn’t for the trees, you couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “You trying to tell me something?”

  “I’m telling you that you’re not seeing the whole picture here, and if you don’t get in and look for yourself, you’re going to be misled.”

  “Funny in the context of you giving me information.”

  A brief pause. Then Kyle spoke again. “Thomas Jefferson is pretty popular of late. That guy in the embassy siege quoted him. Funny you should choose to meet me here.”

  “It’s a nice view,” said Chuck.

  Kyle stood up. “Whatever it is you're looking for, Chuck, let it go. Enjoy your family and your new job. There's nothing here.”

  Chuck drank the last of his coffee as Kyle walked away. The sun crested the tree-line and the dark fingers across the park retreated. He glanced over his shoulder. The white clubhouse was there, barely visible through the trees, just like Kyle had said.

  I guess I’ll have to look into this one myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hangar Bay

  USS Midway

  High orbit above Sanctuary

  Omid Sector

  The shuttle skidded to a stop, the ramp dropping before the pressure had even finished equalizing. Space-suited medics ran toward the ship, grabbed Modi, placed him on a stretcher, and took him away.

  He’d be fine. Mattis was sure of it.

  Pretty sure.

  He had no time to think about it now. Mattis stomped his way from the hangar bay to the bridge, hands clenched by his sides. All those months of boredom and frustration that he could do nothing finally boiled over.

  The damn reds had tried to kidnap him.

  They’d been attacked. The Chinese had tried to take him alive. Kidnap him—for what purpose?

  It didn’t matter. For now, Mattis needed answers. Had to speak with the President. He marched all the way into the ready-room, Lynch in tow, and went to close the door.

  “Captain?” asked Lynch, his Texan accent coming out, hands still covered in Modi’s blood. “You sure you’re going to be okay in there?”

  “Yes,” said Mattis. “I’ll be fine. Hey, I want you to listen in on this call just—give me a minute.” He closed the door.

  When he was alone, finally on his ship again, Mattis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Dammit. Everything had gone sideways.

  When he was ready, he opened the door and let Lynch inside. Then he sat down at his fine oaken desk, pulled out his communicator, and patched in the special number to President Schuyler.

  Having the President on speed dial had its perks.

  Two rings. Three rings. Four. Then it connected. “This is President Schuyler’s secretary.”

  “This is Admiral Jack Mattis of the USS Midway.”

  “Hold please.” Although politely p
hrased, there was no way of interpreting her statement as a request. He could hear noise in the background. Murmured voices. Had he interrupted a meeting? What time was it on Earth? He hadn’t even checked.

  Tick, tock. Mattis waited. Finally he heard footsteps down the line, and then the ambient noises faded away.

  “Admiral,” said President Schuyler. She audibly sighed down the line. “Every time I take a call from you, Mattis, it’s something awful. I’m starting to expect nothing but bad news from you. Disappoint me, please.”

  He almost made a snappy quip about being known for disappointing women, but he found he couldn’t so soon after seeing Ramirez again. It was too true. Too real. Too raw. “I’m afraid I can’t disappoint you this time, Madam President. We have a problem.”

  “You’re telling me,” said President Schuyler. “Have you seen the numbers on the latest poll? The blowback from the broadcast is eating me alive. Half the country is calling me a tyrannical warmonger, and the other half is calling me a lame-duck chickenhawk. Trying to re-frame this narrative is like pulling teeth. Gotta be tough on the aliens, but not too tough. Gotta move for war while calling for peace. Great. If I hear one more thing about—”

  “Madam President,” said Mattis, “I’m sure these are big problems for you, but they’re more problems for your campaign managers, rather than you. What I have is a little more important.”

  “What’s that, Jack?”

  “The Chinese shot at me again.”

  Her sigh was long and loud. “Jack, I’m running on about four hours sleep a night for the last month. Just give it to me straight: what did you do?”

  “Nothing,” he said, and then corrected himself. “Well, okay. Not quite nothing. The embassy siege—I’m sure you saw it on the news—I stepped in the middle of it.”

  “I noticed. Why would you go and do a damn fool thing like that?” demanded Schuyler. In that moment she sounded just like a female version of Lynch. “That incident was a matter for local law enforcement.”