The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

Mattis groggily touched his earpiece. “Attention Midway, we’ve been boarded.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Pilot’s Ready Room

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  “Come on, sir,” said Guano, whining a little. “It’s a windscreen. Windscreens are cheap.”

  Roadie looked like he was about to go thermonuclear. “You promised me,” he said, through gritted teeth. “You promised me you’d bring that shuttle back in one piece—”

  “It is in one piece,” she protested, “I mean, more or less. Basically. Sure, it’s got a few holes in the windscreen—”

  “I don’t care about the windscreen!” roared Roadie. “You lost a whole engine!”

  “Only one,” said Guano, holding up her hands, palms upward. “It still has three left. It’s fine. I flew it back, didn’t I?”

  “What about the heat shield?” hissed Roadie, blinking so rapidly she thought he might be having a stroke. “The whole thing will have to be inspected. If there’s a crack, that’s not easy or cheap to repair.”

  She winced. “That heat shield has to be serviced regularly anyway, and—and it was probably due soon. Or something.”

  “Corrick,” growled Roadie. “Dammit…”

  He was using her real name—shit, this guy was really mad. Guano gave up and threw her hands in the air. “I didn’t ask to get bounced by four fighters in the upper atmosphere of that shithole,” she said, “that’s the worst place for a shuttlecraft to be doing a dogfight. It’s got drag, gravity, and worst of all, no weapons. What was I supposed to do? Surrender the ship and let the Chinese take Mattis and Lynch?”

  To that, seemingly, Roadie had no answer. Slowly, slowly, the anger seemed to fade out of him. “I guess not,” he said, simply.

  “I know you’re under pressure because of this,” said Guano, reassuringly. “But believe me … Mattis is going to be pretty damn happy you saved his hide back there. Modi was shot, and I was the one who got him back to the infirmary as fast as I did, and you were the one who picked me as the pilot. So really, all the credit goes to you.”

  Roadie mulled that over, looking away from her for a moment, his hand on his chin. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

  Guano smiled a half-moon. “So everything’s cool, right?”

  He shot her a furious death-glare. “No, it’s not, you jackass!” But then he calmed again, taking a deep breath. Something came across his face … a genuine sadness. “I can’t keep protecting you for ever, Corrick. These incidents—they look bad.”

  She knew he knew, but didn’t say anything.

  Finally Roadie shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You got a get-out-of-jail-free card with this one, you hear me? One time only. And only because you saved Mattis.”

  “Right,” she said, thumping her fist into her hand triumphantly. “You got it, boss.”

  Roadie groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay, chief.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, glorious master.“

  “That is … a lot worse. Now shut the fuck up.”

  She had more, drawn from her inexhaustible supply of banter, but a bright blue light flashed in all four corners of the room. The intruder alert.

  The two of them exchanged a wide-eyed look. “Did we pick up a stray?” she asked. “Or is this another damn drill?”

  Roadie clipped on an earpiece, listening for a moment. “No drill,” he said, his tone grave. “And it sounds like multiple strays, at least.” He nodded to her, the anger from their argument moments ago evaporating as quickly as it had arrived. “Get to the hangar.”

  “We’re launching?” asked Guano, hopefully.

  “No,” said Roadie, simply. “Our battle isn’t outside. It’s inside. There are intruders in the main hangar bay, and we gotta stop them.”

  Guano grit her teeth. “That’s the marines’ job,” she complained. “I’m a pilot, not a soldier, with or without vitamin supplements!”

  “Do you see any damn marines here?” A distant, dull explosion emphasized his point. “Get ready to defend the fighters. When reinforcements arrive, we can stand down. All we have to do is hold out until then.”

  Guano clipped on her helmet and stepped toward the airlock leading to the hangar bay, pistol in hand.

  One day I’ll get to fly a fighter again … but until then, I guess I gotta shoot bad guys the old-fashioned way.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Hangar Bay

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  Mattis unstrapped and pushed himself up to his feet. The ship had settled evenly on the flat deck, but he swore it had a slight list to it, as though the small vessel had dug into the landing deck—his landing deck—and was now almost imperceptibly tilted.

  “Modi,” he said, “let’s get out of here.”

  “Coming,” said Modi, blood trickling from his lip. “I think I tore my stitches.”

  “That’s your fault, coming down to a place like New London after getting shot so recently.”

  Modi stood up, rubbing his shoulder mournfully. “You ordered me to, Admiral.”

  “You know being an Admiral just means anything I say is a suggestion.” Mattis searched for Lynch. “Hey, Lynch, you okay?”

  Lynch’s head appeared above one of the seats, squinting as though seeing through a harsh light. “Feels like a bronco bull kicked me in the brain-pan.”

  Mattis offered his hand. “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, just whacked my noggin pretty good.” Lynch touched his hairline and his hand came away covered in blood. “At least, I think I’m fine.”

  “Going to have to be,” said Mattis, glancing to Modi. “I have some good news for you, Commander: this time you get to take your pistol out and, God willing, actually try and shoot a living person.”

  Modi seemed somewhat less thrilled than Mattis thought he’d be, but he drew his pistol resolutely. “With you, sir.”

  Lynch stood, somewhat wobbly on his feet, but he too drew his pistol. “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Pilot?” asked Mattis, over his shoulder. “Hey! Pilot, you coming with us?”

  No answer. Mattis moved to the front of the ship, stepping into the front cockpit of the shuttle.

  The ship had impaled itself on the nosecone of one of the fighters, the tip of it spearing through the pilot’s chair. The young man inside had died instantly—there was nothing that he could do, or could have done.

  He made his way back into the passenger compartment. “Pilot’s not coming,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even.

  “Fucking … shit,” said Lynch.

  “That is unfortunate,” said Modi.

  With the hangar bay doors closed and the landing bay re-pressurized it was safe for them to exit. Mattis took the lead, pistol cupped comfortably in both hands, Modi and Lynch behind him. Through the windows of the enemy troop carrier he could see Forgotten soldiers pouring into his ship.

  “Mattis to bridge,” he said, touching his earpiece. “Dispatch marines to the hangar bay. Looks like the intruders are cutting their way into the lavatory near the pilot’s ready room.”

  “What a shitty entrance point,” said Lynch. A stern glance from Mattis took the levity from him. “Sorry, sir.”

  Mattis waited for his answer. Static in his ear and no acknowledgement. He made his way over to the airlock that lead into the rest of the ship and opened it.

  They stepped in, closed the outer door, opened the inner door, and were immediately greeted with a raging gun battle.

  The Midway’s marines had occupied the far end of a long corridor leading to a fork. The Forgotten had filled the pilot’s lavatory and had drilled holes in the door for firing ports. The airlock opened directly into the middle of the corridor, between the two sides who were bathing it in automatic fire. The gunshots echoed in the cramped quarters, bullets ricocheted off the
bulkheads and deck, bouncing around until they finally got stuck somewhere.

  Modi calmly reached out and closed the door. “Not that way,” he said.

  “Yeah, did you figure that one out on your own?” asked Lynch. “I was just going to skip across the battle, have a nice little merry gander—”

  “I would advise against that. Despite your attempts to conceal your obvious head injury, I am aware of your condition and concerned for your well-being.

  “Cut the crap.” Mattis checked the safety on his pistol. “Problem is, out there is the hangar bay. I’m guessing the Midway is going to want to decompress that bay, just because, you know, those assholes are pinned down right next to the wall, so if the Midway can get a fighter in there we can take out the bulkhead with a missile. Flush them out into space. That would neatly take care of all of them.”

  “That’s what I’d do,” said Lynch.

  Mattis glanced to Modi, twisting around to see him in the cramped airlock. “We have to get you to Engineering. Lock it down as best you can and wait for the marines to come flush out the garbage.”

  “Aye aye,” said Modi, his expression flat and unreadable. “Once the rain clears up, I’ll get right to it.”

  Mattis touched the open button again, and found himself face-to-face with a team of his marines.

  “Sir,” said one, her face obscured by a thin slit of a heavily armoured combat space suit. A round bounced off her shoulder plate. “We need to get you out of here.”

  Mattis nodded. “No argument from me.”

  “Excellent.” The marine completely ignored the incoming fire that plinked off her armor, holding up a white-tipped grenade. “We’ll pop smoke, and you three make your way down the corridor. The three of us will provide covering fire and hard cover.”

  “Hard cover?”

  The marine tapped her breastplate. “They don’t call us the Rhinos for nothing, sir. Intruders didn’t bring heavy weapons, so they basically can’t hurt us. Once you’re safe, we’ll engage them.”

  The use of their armored bulk as physical cover was a novel idea to him, but it made sense. This was, after all, why the ship had marines; specialists in murder-time and surviving the same. “Do it.”

  Instantly the three hooked arms, like football players, a wall of flesh and steel that blocked the corridors. Six pins clattered to the deck, and smoke poured from the grenades in their hands. The gunfire intensified, rounds bouncing off their armored suits as the corridor filled with green smoke.

  The marines started a grim march toward their enemies, boots thumping on the deck in sync.

  “Ready?” said Mattis. “On three. One, two—”

  “Don’t get shot again,” said Lynch to Modi, grinning maniacally.

  “Three!”

  The three of them bolted out of the airlock, running down the corridor and toward the fork. Modi went right, toward Engineering, while Lynch and Mattis went left. When they were clear, heavy, stomping boots walked down the corridor toward the pilot’s ready room, punctuated by the sounds of automatic gunfire.

  “Remind me to give the Rhinos a raise,” he said, “but only if they promise to stop singing. None of them can carry a tune worth crap.”

  “I think,” said Lynch, “that’s part of their thing. Singing, being thick skinned, horny—you know. It’s their motto.”

  “What’s the motto?” asked Mattis.

  “Nothing, whats-a-motto with you?” Lynch grinned like an idiot. His head injury may have been more serious than they thought.

  “I should have left you in the airlock.” Mattis pinched the tip of his nose. “Let’s get to the bridge before I kill you. Or myself. I dunno, I was just going to play it by ear, but there was going to be a lot of killing.” The gunfire receded down the corridor as the Rhinos advanced. “Maybe we don’t need those armored goons after all, we’ll just flush out the boarders with your dad-jokes.”

  “Aye aye,” said Lynch, strolling down the corridor toward the bridge. “I’ll make my way to the intercom. I’ll think of a funny joke on the way. Very funny. Promise.”

  Mattis fell into step with Lynch, flanked by a pair of marines who, mercifully, only wore the standard combat armor. How many of those Rhinos did they have on board, anyway? Couldn’t have been more than the three.

  “Sir,” said a voice in his earpiece, barely audible through the static. “We have an issue.”

  “Send it.”

  “The boarders escaped the ready room lavatory,” he said, “they’re headed down corridor G11.”

  G11—the one parallel to their own.

  Straight to the bridge.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bridge

  CNS Luyang III

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  Admiral Yim definitely should have picked up a cup of coffee in New London. They were right there at his favorite coffee shop, why hadn’t he? The kid they had picked up, he was onboard now. Maybe they could get him to brew them up something. Yim’s mouth watered just thinking about that smooth, warm, caramel-y flavor—

  The Luyang III shook slightly as a wave of incoming fire washed over the hull. No time to think about coffee.

  “Status on the American satellites?” he asked.

  “Their weapons are still powered down,” said Xiao. “But they appear to have launched combat drones.” He snorted dismissively. “Don’t know why they bothered. Our J-84’s have much greater acceleration. The maneuvers are a success; we’re able to hit and run before their weapons can get a lock.”

  “Good,” said Yim. “Remember, those are drones: no pilots. No diplomatic incidents. Shoot them all down—no hesitation.”

  Xiao smiled. “You got it, sir. Gun batteries are also engaging, and we’re spinning up the point defense cannons. Our pilots report that they’re enjoying their target practice very much.”

  Drones were excellent at certain things, but they were predictable. The Chinese intelligence nerds had figured out through some arcane wizardry that the American space-combat drones had a fatal flaw in their target acquisition software. It was complicated and, not being a pilot, he couldn’t describe the exact natures of the maneuvers needed to confuse them, but his understanding was that by approaching the drones at high speed, engaging with guns, then retreating at a similarly high speed made them switch targets. Perform this maneuver with too many craft too quickly and the system became overwhelmed, constantly shifting between targets and never committing to any of them.

  Risky, but apparently successful.

  Their communications officer spoke up. “Sir,” said Ting. “We are receiving an incoming transmission, top priority.”

  It was tempting to just ignore it—nobody would question the commander of a navy vessel not picking up the phone during a heated battle no matter who it was—but Yim knew better. “Put it through,” he said.

  “Admiral Yim,” said a voice in his head. The sound came through a vibration in the side of his skull, an implant inside his skin that his ears translated into speech; a nifty piece of Chinese technology the Americans probably didn’t even realize he had. He recognized the voice instantly—General Lok Tsai. The Chief of Joint Staff for the entire military of the People’s Republic of China. The big wig. “How are you doing?”

  Such a strange question. Yim smiled slightly, despite the complete impossibility that Tsai could see the gesture, and whispered his response as quietly as he could. “Blowing up billions of dollars of American property with absolutely no repercussions or political fallout? It’s just like old times, and I love it.” He leaned forward, putting his chin on top of his folded hands. “Just don’t ruin the moment and tell me I have to stop.”

  “Well,” said General Tsai, “you know how these things are. Target the drones, the automated platforms, and the rebel ships, but don’t fire on the Americans whatever you do.”

  The use of the word rebel—Pànnì in Chinese—was interesting. Yim knew they were some kind of disgrunt
led veterans or something, but of course Chinese intelligence would probably assume the worst and tell themselves that the Forgotten were full-blown rebels. They had always been paranoid about that kind of thing for themselves and their own colonies—probably because most of the Intelligence spent their time looking inward instead of outward. Projection was a real thing.

  “Don’t worry, General,” whispered Yim. “I’ll try to keep collateral damage to the Americans to a minimum.” He glanced at his various monitors. The boarding ships were swarming Mattis’s ship. Little leeches attaching themselves but, instead of draining blood, injecting dark poison.

  There wasn’t much he could do. Firing on them directly would be difficult—especially in light of his just-made promise—and inserting Chinese marines would just make things worse. A lot worse.

  He and Mattis had gotten along well on the surface of New London, but the truth was, Yim had killed Mattis’s brother. It might have been decades past in a war long fought, but there was no way he was forgetting that fact any time soon.

  “Okay,” said General Tsai. “Play nice with the Americans for now. but know that you may be called upon to defend the Motherland.”

  Would he? They had almost—almost!—made some kind of breakthrough with the Americans. Almost had one whole incident where the two nations didn’t end up shooting at each other … and now it had come to this.

  They would understand, of course. Yim had the American government’s full permission to break as much stuff as the Forgotten had taken, but, it seemed, his government would stymie any attempt at a lasting peace between the two.

  “Of course,” whispered Yim, somewhat more angrily than he could reasonably conceal. “General, I must return to the battle.”

  “Swift hunting, Admiral Yim,” said General Tsai, and closed the link.

  What a bastard. Was he trying to cause war between the two nations?

  Yim tried, unsuccessfully, to put the conversation with Tsai out of his head and focus on the battle. He couldn’t. It stuck in there like glue, taunting him with how close they had come to a bit of peace, a little bit of teamwork which, he hoped, they hadn’t almost immediately squandered.