The Last Hero: Book 2 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  On his various screens, he watched a breaching craft slip into the Midway’s hangar bay.

  Damn thing was so small, it must have evaded notice somehow. How, exactly, he wasn’t sure—possibly a composite material that would absorb radar, possibly some other much more mundane solution—but it didn’t matter. That was a problem for the Americans.

  “Luyang III to Midway,” said Yim, “I’m sure you’re aware you’ve got a parasite craft. Let me know if you want help dislodging it.”

  No response, but that was normal given the circumstances.

  “Sir,” said Xiao, “two—no, make that, three of the American satellites have been activated.”

  Now things were starting to heat up. The defense satellites were similar in style to the Goalkeeper system defending Earth. But they had been powered down—who had flicked the switch? “Were they activated by the Midway?” he asked.

  “No,” said Xiao, “by the Forgotten. They’re preparing to fire on us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Corridor G10

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  “Okay,” said Mattis, holding his pistol in both hands as he, Lynch, and two marines power-walked down the corridor. “The intruders are traveling down corridor G11. That’s parallel left of our position. Both of these corridors lead toward the bridge, but halfway to the bridge they join up and run side by side, divided only by a line of paint on the floor. Then the corridor turns inward to the core of the ship, to the bridge.”

  “Right,” said Lynch. “If they reach that choke point first, they can cut us off.”

  “Actually,” said Mattis, unable to fight back a wide smile. “If we wait there, we can plug them in the back as they move past. They have to. It’ll give us the element of surprise.”

  “It’s a bad plan,” said one of the marines, furrowing his brow. “Trained marines will watch all corners. They probably even know where we are, and they might be getting ready to do the same thing to us.”

  He hadn’t considered that. Once again he was reminded to leave the soldiering to the soldiers. “Good point. Let’s just go faster.”

  The four of them broke into a jog. To the right, they passed store room after store room, each holding various supplies. Food. Medical. A water tank.

  “Wish we had some of those Rhinos,” said Lynch.

  “No you don’t, Commander,” said the marine, jogging down the corridor, his rifle raised. “They can’t move like this. Barely more than a walking pace. Plus, they’re real dumb, sir. It takes a special kind of person to want to crew something that’s designed to get shot at—much less enjoy it.”

  Another good point. They passed a section of hull that was all wall. Up ahead, Mattis could see the intersection of the corridors where G10 and G11 met. “Well,” he said, “the mental stability of our elite counter-boarding units aside, we should be coming up on the fork now, and—” A cramp shot up his left leg and he stopped.

  “Sir?” asked Lynch, moving up to him. The marines ahead stopped.

  “It’s fine,” he said, gritting his teeth and rubbing his leg. “It’s just me being old, is all, one second and—”

  A blast blew out the bulkhead to his right, fragments peppering the left side of the wall and chewing up the metal—right where they would have been standing if they hadn’t suddenly stopped. Old age had its benefits, he supposed. The blast knocked him off his feet, the sound of everything was swallowed by a profound ringing in his ears. Smoke poured out everywhere—purple smoke, as though from smoke grenades.

  “Contact!” roared the marine, barely audible over the ringing. He fired down the corridor at something Mattis couldn’t see. “Dammit, they got here first!”

  The Forgotten had moved fast. Real fast. Mattis had been slowed down by his age and a cramp in his leg that never would have happened when he was younger, but the Forgotten weren’t exactly spring chickens either; most of them were veterans of the same conflict, had the same grey hair he had. The same aches and pains.

  It was the Battle of the Grandpas.

  Mattis shook his head, trying to clear out the ringing. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. Everything felt lighter, as though the blast had damaged the artificial gravity. Or maybe that was just the damage to his ears.

  “—gotta go!” shouted Lynch, right behind him. “The hull’s been breached! Those bastards blew out the emergency valves!”

  The explosion hadn’t been directed toward them. It had been directed away out to the outer hull where a shaped charge had blasted a fist-sized gap in the metal. As his hearing came back, he could hear the howling of air as the corridor decompressed, the wailing of alarms, and the hissing of the emergency doors sliding down to seal off that section to keep the ship’s precious air in.

  Adrenaline kicked him back onto his feet, along with some manhandling from Lynch. With the marines firing wildly the four of them sprinted down the corridor toward the rapidly descending airlock door. His cramp was forgotten.

  Down, down, down came the door, dropping rapidly. Too rapidly. Gunfire was hissing all around him, bullets screaming off the walls, and the rushing air threatened to pull him off his feet.

  Both marines darted through the door. Lynch ducked the descending wall of metal, but Mattis was taller. He slid forward like a batter sliding onto home base, barely missing having his head sliced off as the emergency bulkhead sealed itself ten centimeters away from his head.

  “Jaysus H.,” said Lynch, his face white. “You love cutting things close, don’t you Jack?”

  “Just enough is good enough,” said Mattis, panting softly, his bones aching. He hadn’t run like that in years. Pushing himself back up to his feet, Mattis looked through the thin window. On the other side, people wearing a mixture of civilian and military spacesuits from various services—Space Navy, Terrestrial Navy, Marines, Atmospheric Force, and even one from the Coast Guard—hurried toward the heavy steel decompression door with glowing oxy-torches that burned like angry little stars. Behind them, a team of five people carried heavy bits of some kind of machinery in both hands.

  “Time to go,” said Mattis. “We gotta get to the bridge. They won’t be able to cut through the armored casemate there with anything people can carry by hand.”

  “Right,” said Lynch, and the four of them started toward the bridge, jogging once more.

  “Sir?” asked one of the marines, his helmet projecting a small image in front of his head. A view from one of the security cameras in the corridor they had just left. “The intruders. It looks like they’re constructing something.”

  “What kind of something?” asked Mattis as the troupe rounded the last bend to the bridge. The huge steel wall that was the armored casemate of the bridge was half open, ready to be sealed at a moment’s notice. They were obviously expected.

  “A laser drill,” said the marine. “I think.”

  “Maybe they just want to give us a light show,” said Lynch.

  Unlikely. But how the hell did veterans get their hands on this kind of equipment? It nagged at him, just like the SAM from the Chinese embassy. That kind of hardware you couldn’t just buy. It had to be supplied by a government. Yim’s people, maybe?

  Or his own?

  “Can that thing crack the casemate?” asked Mattis. Now was not the time for idle speculation.

  “Probably,” said Lynch. “We’d have to ask Modi.”

  The four of them slipped past the armored door and, with the groan of stressed metal, it slowly began to seal closed. Then, beyond, a simple door, just for neatness sake. They stepped through and onto the bridge.

  “Officer on deck,” said someone. The two marines standing by the door came to attention.

  “At ease,” said Mattis. “Close the casemate. Get the Rhinos in here to clean out the trash. Lynch?”

  “Aye aye,” said Lynch, moving over to his station, clipping on an earpiece. “On it.”

  Mattis let h
im do the work, settling into the captain’s chair. “Report.”

  “Looks like the intruders are cutting through the first door,” said Lynch, who then touched his ear. “Modi! You awkward bastard, I need to ask you a favor. Can you look up the specs for mining lasers?” A brief pause. “No, I don’t know what damn type of laser! Hang on, I’ll send you a picture.”

  Mattis couldn’t help but smile, despite the faint vibration in the deckplate that signaled some kind of powerful energy displacement. If they got through the armored shield, there would be a firefight on the bridge, something he definitely wanted to avoid.

  “Suits on,” he said, reaching below the chair for the helmet and fragile emergency suit stowed there. “We might have company real soon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Bridge

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  The decompression door between corridor G11 and the bridge didn’t hold long. Mattis didn’t expect it to. It was tough and reinforced, yes, but it only designed to keep air in. In fact, to facilitate rescues, it was specifically engineered to be easily cut through.

  However, the armored casemate was another story. It was designed to be utterly impregnable; under normal circumstances if there was a hole in the casemate then the ship had probably sustained so much damage that the whole thing was lost. It would hold for a time. Minutes, definitely. Hours, maybe.

  Enough.

  “Lynch,” said Mattis, shuffling and getting comfortable on his captain’s chair. “What does Modi say?”

  “A bunch of jibber jabber. I swear the robot’s off his meds.” said Lynch, grumbling softly. “But mostly that the casemate is tougher than a bull’s hide. The Forgotten will not get through it for at least half an hour, assuming they’re using standard drilling lasers.”

  “Something tells me we don’t have that kind of luck.” It was always foolish to assume one’s enemies would be operating at a disadvantage. Hope, yes. Expect, no. “Assuming the absolute best equipment and ideal conditions, how soon could they get through it if they really wanted to?”

  Lynch relayed the question. “Five minutes,” he said. “Although it could be closer to eleven.”

  That was a fairly large variance in potential capabilities. Mattis began clipping his suit on. Either way, no sense in not being prepared. “How far away are those Rhinos?”

  “They’re coming,” said Lynch, “but they’re moving slow. They should be here in twelve to thirteen minutes, assuming nothing slows them down.”

  Twelve minutes. So a potential two or three minute battle. That would be difficult. They had two marines assigned to guard duty, plus the two they had dragged along with them. The marines had rifles, combat armor, and the works. However, he and the rest of the bridge crew only had their sidearms.

  It would have to do. Mattis clipped on his helmet and ensured the seal was tight. “All hands, prepare to repel boarders.”

  Everyone checked in. The marines and the bridge crew including Lynch all had their suits on and sealed. Only the marines had armor, so for everyone else a single puncture would probably be their death, but such was the nature of combat.

  “Sir,” said Lynch, his voice crackling slightly over the radio, even though he was standing right next to him. “Commander Modi reports that there is a firefight outside engineering. They’ve sealed the doors.”

  The doors to engineering were strong, designed to contain minor breaches from the ship’s reactors, but they were nowhere near as strong as the bridge casemate. Did the attackers down at engineering also have a huge laser? Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t.

  Mattis touched his helmet. “Mattis to Modi.”

  “Modi here,” came his perfectly calm, Indian-accented voice. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”

  “Heard you got a bunch of rowdy gatecrashers trying to force their way into your party, Commander.”

  “I don’t know what kind of parties you attend, Admiral, but engineering work is serious business. Diagnostics, reports—endless reports—and a lot of fixing broken things.”

  Lynch cut in on the line. “So you finally admit you’re a space janitor? After all these years?”

  “Space janitor?” Modi’s voice hardened. “Mister Lynch, I assure you—”

  Mattis cut them both off. “Intruders, now. Bickering, later.”

  “Yes sir.” Modi’s composure returned. “Six armed people are attempting to break down the door to engineering. We are suited and ready to resist any attempt to secure this ship’s engines.”

  Having seen Modi shoot he was reluctant to consider his assertion to be anything other than bluster. No doubt his fellow engineers couldn’t shoot much better. Things were looking grim.

  Through the small window in the door, he could see the armored casemate start to glow faintly in the center, a little yellow tinge as the Forgotten’s laser began to burrow into the metal, heating it. Soon it would break through, creating a tiny pinhole in the shield, then begin to cut—slowly, inexorably, until a breach was formed.

  Until then, a stalemate. Neither side could engage each other. Nothing to do but sit there, casually bouncing his gun in his hand.

  The radio crackled in his ears. “This is Admiral Yim.”

  Mattis grimaced slightly, checking the safety on his pistol. “Talk to me, Admiral. Give me good news.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Yim. “The Forgotten have occupied three of the orbital defense platforms.”

  Mattis swore loudly, forgetting to mute the connection.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Yim. “The danger to your ship, and to my ship, is now both internal and external.”

  This was true. But no crew could effectively fight an external foe while also battling an internal insurgency. The danger had escalated dramatically.

  “We’ll do our best,” said Mattis. “Gotta clear the inside of the ship before we can focus on the outside.”

  “Be quick,” said Yim, and closed the connection.

  Mattis pulled back the slide on his pistol and chambered a round. “Let’s do this quickly, so we can actually get to the real fighting.”

  Chapter Forty

  Hangar Bay

  USS Midway

  High Orbit Above New London

  Omid Sector

  Guano crouched behind a Warbird, using the magnetic skid clamp as cover. She swept the hangar bay, taking in the oxygen from her mask. She couldn’t see anyone. The hangar bay was still decompressed—outside was a vacuum. Everything was as it should be. Planes lined up, munitions neatly stacked. Everything save the crashed shuttle. It lay to one side, ramp extended, passenger compartment empty.

  “See that?” she said into her radio. “That was one ship I didn’t crash.”

  “That’s four for Guano, one for not-Guano,” said Roadie.

  “What?!” Guano glared at him, his face invisible behind his reflective visor. “I only crashed three. And one of those ships is fine. Probably.”

  “Only three,” echoed Roadie, his pistol up high. “You say it like it’s a good thing.”

  “Three’s less than four,” said Guano. A spark drifted in front of her helmet and she pulled back, confused. Another spark drifted down, and another. With a start she realized what was happening.

  Someone was shooting at her. Vacuum made the gunshots silent.

  “Shit!” she ducked down behind the magnetic clamp. It was thick and metal, basically bulletproof. “Someone’s firing!”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t know!”

  She risked a peak above the rim of the clamp but had to duck back down almost immediately. No sign of anyone.

  “I see the prick,” said Roadie. “I see him. Behind the crashed shuttle.”

  Guano popped her head up again, and then she saw them. Two figures, crouched behind the wreck, only a thin sliver of their bodies visible. Their weapons flashed silently. She ducked again.

  Hey, so, battle-
crazy-calm-thing? Second time. Now would be good. I kind of need you—this is not what I’m good at!

  Nothing. She just felt her own heart beating in her chest, accompanied by the hissing of her suit as it filtered the CO2 out of her own personal tiny atmosphere and replaced it with oxygen.

  “Loading,” said Roadie. “Cover me, Guano.”

  Of course he’d been shooting. In the silence she’d forgotten. Guano gripped her pistol tight and popped up again, aligning her sights to the thin sliver of man she could see. Her gun flashed twice, then twice again, rounds bouncing off the hull of the shuttle or impacting on the far side of the hangar bay.

  Her enemy shot back with a spray of automatic fire. She was forced back into cover. They were outgunned, outmanned—where the hell was Flatline? It didn’t matter. She only had the ammo left in her pistol and one spare mag. Roadie had used his spare. They needed another option.

  “Roadie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We gotta get to the shuttle.”

  Roadie said nothing for a second. “Say again, Guano? it sounds like you said we needed to get to the shuttle. You know, that place where the bad guys are.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “That hull armor is strong enough to stop small arms. We can move it to block the exit from the hangar bay, stop any reinforcements from getting aboard—worst case scenario, we can hide there, or even maneuver the thing around to squash anyone we don’t like.”

  Roadie growled in her ear. “The hull is strong enough, but as you so aptly demonstrated, the cockpit canopy isn’t. And you guessed it, we’ll need to be in the cockpit in order to pilot that thing. Plus, it’s twenty-five meters away over a completely open landing strip! This is a bad call, Guano.”

  “No, no, it’s a good call. I can make it.” She peaked above the magnetic clamp, then ducked back down. “Look, I have—” she checked the side of her pistol, to the display readout there. “Eight rounds left, and one spare mag. If I toss you my spare mag, and I shoot while I move, I can make it. I can make it.”