Resolve of Steel (Halloran's War Book 2)

by J. R. Geoghan

  Nunez started off down the passage, ducking underneath a low-hanging bit of equipment. “I don’t know, Chief. At the rate we’re all going we’re going to waste away to nothing in a few more weeks.”

  Parker watched Nunez go, rubbing his temples at the sudden pain. Hunger. “What I wouldn’t give for a cheeseburger.”

  Directly below those two, on “C deck” as named by the human crew, Missile Technician Karen Flagler and Machinist’s Mate Frank DeBartelo were working down opposite sides of a long, menacing barrel that was ringed with coils of wire and innumerable electronic sensors and connectors. It was low to the decking and set in a section that actually slid outward, deploying the barrel through a port in the hull where it could change elevation and deflection by up to thirty degrees. The entire assembly was massive. The two were running their hands along the electronics and calling to each other softly.

  The hatch into the ship’s interior passageways opened and a man with a pockmarked face stepped in. Though he wore the same green camo US Navy coveralls worn by everyone else originally from 2029, his visible undershirt was the traditional black and white-stripe of the Russian Navy. He walked over and knelt down. “Getting a better understanding of how it works?” Though the English was acceptable and rendered the translator device unnecessary, his Slavic accent was noticeable.

  Flagler glanced up and nodded at Executive Officer Pyotr Antonov. “Morning, sir. Not really, to be honest. Everything just looks like it’s supposed to be there and is in working order.”

  DeBartelo grunted in agreement from his side of the barrel.

  Antonov laid a hand on the thick cabling circling its length. “When do you want to test-fire it?”

  Flagler shrugged. “I’m okay with anytime. I’d hoped to find the damaged relay before then.”

  Antonov sighed; they’d taken more damage during their first hectic engagement than they’d initially realized. Systems had been punctured in dozens of places by the projectiles thrown by guns such as the one he had his hand on; in fact, probably exactly the same since they’d come from other Prax warships—ones actually crewed by aliens. The projectiles themselves were more like elongated pencils made of hardened metals rather than bullets. Their ship had a ready supply of them in all sizes in magazines just below each gun mount. The technology was basically that of a massive rail gun, as they would have been known in the twenty-first century. They drew lots of power and there were eight of them, mounted around the lower midsection of the ship, directly at the outer edges where they could have the most room to adjust fire direction.

  This one, mounted on the aft port quarter of C deck, was malfunctioning according to the systems-ready monitors up in the weapons substation. The alien Axxa had interpreted the readouts for them. “I’ll tell the Captain when you’re ready for me to do so.”

  Flagler looked up. “Thanks, sir.”

  Antonov stood and wandered past Flagler to the port at the mouth of the gun; it looked so much like an ancient cannon port to him. Of course, when deployed and port opened this compartment would be in the vacuum of space.

  The ship was well-armed. Aside from the projectile guns, they had found another eight plasma weapons and sixteen beam weapons that Axxa explained were used to super-heat enemy sensor emitters, frying them and rendering the opponent blind. They also acted as a point-defense against missiles, a role in which they are particularly effective at. According to the Prax, the role of missiles in space inter-ship combat had dwindled to almost nothing due to the effect of the beam weapons.

  The plasma guns were the most devastating of the three main armaments, though. Antonov and Halloran had listened as Axxa described the way the emitter fired an amorphous slug of super-heated plasma matter that traveled at an extremely high velocity, its passage marked by a blinding ray of light. The matter would shear off entire sections of ship and tear gaping holes in hulls and possessed a significant range. The power requirements were greatest for these pieces of main armament, however, and at close range a spread of meter-thick projectiles would actually do more damage by passing deep into (or entirely through) an opponent’s hull. But when they fired nearby the plasma guns were fearsome.

  Antonov, like everyone else from 2029 aboard this ship, were ex-submariners. They knew torpedoes and ballistic missiles. And, like the rest, Antonov had always poked fun at his contemporaries in the surface fleet. Now, he was one of them…

  Flagler sat up, wiping a sheen of grease from her hand to her coverall legs. “They working on the cloaking device, sir?”

  He turned and came back toward her. “Yes, Lieutenant Carruthers is in charge of that device’s operation. I believe that she has interpreted the schematics with the Captain’s help.”

  “We should test it, sir.” She turned to DeBartelo, who was also rising from his side of the barrel. “That reminds me, Frank; I need to stop up and congratulate her on her promotion.”

  “Yeah, she jumped rank nicely. From PO to full LT.”

  Flagler got to her feet with an assist from Antonov. “She earned it.”

  “We all did. What do you think, sir?” DeBartelo addressed the Russian. “How ‘bout combat pay increases and battlefield promotions all around? When I get back, I have a family to feed.”

  Antonov smiled at the man. “If you were in the Russian Navy, we’d be sure to at least give you double rations of Borscht for combat service.”

  “Seriously?”

  Flagler shook her head at her partner. “No, you idiot. He’s kidding.”

  Antonov headed for the interior hatch. “Perhaps not. But I suspect we shall have a hard time making this dish in our current time. I do have an excellent recipe in my head somewhere.”

  The Missile Tech stared wistfully after him. “That sounds so good.” Her upbringing had been in suburban Denver, Colorado. To her knowledge, she’d never had nor seen Borscht.

  “Someday, perhaps?” Then he was gone through the hatch.

  DeBartelo looked up at her. “He’s not bad for a Russky.”

  Nunez had just left the bridge after reporting the restoration of hot water when Elias Whitney entered, looking soberly around him at the watch crew, all busy at their stations. He walked forward to the Captain’s command seat. “Sir, got a moment?”

  Captain Thomas Halloran half-turned in the large, imposing seat and recognized the ship’s Corpsman. With a grunt, he got to his feet and stepped around the chair, stretching mightily. “Elias.” He tapped the chair. “I think this chair is meant to be a torture device, not a plush Captain’s chair.”

  “Sir. Can I talk to you, out in the hall?”

  Halloran waved. “Lead on.”

  “Captain leaving the bridge!” Called Lieutenant Carruthers from her station.

  Halloran caught her eye. “You have the conn, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Outside the bridge, Whitney turned and walked a few paces down from the hatch. When Halloran caught up to him he lowered his voice. “Sir, the food situation is getting worse. Morale is going, too.”

  “What’ve you got?” Halloran placed a hand on the red-painted piping near his head, leaning in.

  “Well, Yeoman Butler and Bert James have been all over the galley systems, trying to find out what the issue is. Nothing seems to work.”

  Halloran sighed. “I’ve heard that several times…in the last hour, as a matter of fact. What does Axxa think?” He knew that the Prax officer had been down on B deck with the human crew members, translating what he could from the equipment labels from his own language and generally trying to be helpful.

  Whitney shrugged. “He means well. And since this is one of their ships…thing is, he wasn’t an engineer.”

  “What about Kendra and her sidekick? Traver something.”

  “I haven’t met the other guy. He’s hiding out in Engineering with Wyatt. The lady officer, she won’t even acknowledge the alien.”

  Halloran frowned. “Have you seen this in person?”

  Whit
ney straightened. “Sure, sir. Whenever he comes into a compartment, she leaves. Like, right away.” His eyebrows went up to accent his point.

  “We’ve got to get the food processors online ASAP, Whitney.”

  “Sir, I’m a medical tech, not an Electrician’s Mate. And even those guys can’t figure out how this Prax stuff is supposed to work.”

  Halloran laid a hand on the younger man’s arm. “I need you down there to test the food immediately, in case some eager hand goes after it before we can test its safety.”

  “I know, sir. I’m hanging around them.”

  Halloran nodded with a smile. “Try to make yourself useful in the meantime. How are the injuries?”

  “That’s one area where we got lucky; two broken arms and half-dozen lacerations. The med tech on this ship made short work of that. Frankly, it’s amazing stuff, sir.”

  Halloran had heard about the future-tech that Whitney was referring to. They’d been schooled in its use by their resident alien, Axxa, who actually knew how to work most gear in the infirmary. Bone-healers, using a beam that instantly knitted the broken sections together without cutting through skin. Flexible tissue-wraps that somehow bonded with the skin below and caused it to heal at an amazing rate. If he had any one of the gadgets back in 2029, he would be able to leave the Navy and retire early.

  But, of course, 2029 was a long, long time ago and neither him nor Whitney were going back anytime soon.

  Halloran nodded again, stretching. The passage was tall for humans; it would have normally had to accommodate the Prax crew who stood half a meter taller. “Good to hear. Keep me in the loop the moment you see any light at the end of the tunnel. I’m getting sick of that liquid nutrient solution, too.”

  Whitney smiled. “It’s keeping you alive, sir. I’m just glad we figured that device out. Imagine if—.”

  Halloran held up a hand. “One miracle at a time, Elias. Speaking of which…apparently we now may have hot water showers in the crew quarters.”

  “That’ll help morale, sir.”

  “Let’s hope so. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the Corpsman had gone, Halloran turned and wearily trudged up the length of the passage, passing the bridge door and turning left into his cabin. Closing the hatch behind him, he leaned against it, exhaling. It was taking everything he had to keep the crew together and any semblance of forward progress. If something didn’t get better soon, he might have a mutiny on his hands.

  Someone interrupted his self-pity by tapping with a heavy hand on the cabin door. With a sigh, Halloran turned and unlatched it.

  Seaman Jeff Kaufmann was there. “Sir, you need to come to Operations Center. Now.”

  Chapter 3

  Halloran barged into the Ops Center—so named by the crew after its function as a central node of control for many onboard computer systems—looking for trouble. And he found it.

  Several crew stood to one side and watched without interfering as Axxa the alien soldier and Kendra the human officer punched at each other. He was big, much bigger than his female opponent, and fast. But she was apparently proving faster still and was in the process of landing a solid punch to the red-skinned creature’s gut as Halloran stepped through the hatch.

  In between them, a civilian man darted and waved in a vain attempt to separate the two combatants. His name was Deacon, and Axxa was technically his charge; Deacon was the one who’d convinced the Prax to defect to the human side of the war. But here, the disheveled young man was not having much luck as he was shoved aside by the much larger alien in his anger at the woman.

  Axxa’s long arms were just encircling Kendra’s body when Halloran sucked in a breath. “As you were, people.” His tone was slightly louder than normal and firm.

  Every eye swiveled to the Captain in the entrance. Axxa’s turned shifty and avoided the man’s. Kendra’s eyes slitted and her hands went to her hips, her shoulders heaving with exertion and defiance.

  After several moments of nothing, Halloran looked around the room calmly. “US personnel out of the room.”

  As the half-dozen spectators filed out, eyes down on the deck, Halloran kept his own eyes on the two combatants. Deacon had slipped and got to his feet to step back, apparently not wanting to be in the middle of what was to come.

  Kendra was breathing hard; obviously she wouldn’t have been able to hold off her huge opponent much longer. As Halloran looked on, trying to radiate calm, she backed slowly away from Axxa, looking around her. Her eyes avoided his until he caught them in a glance; then she locked on his with a subdued fury that smoldered. Finally, her voice caught up with her as she swiped a lock of jet-black hair aside. “What?”

  Halloran was furious. With a quick glance to ensure that the door was securely shut behind him, he moved forward into their personal space. First, Kendra. She was backed up several more steps, attempting to avoid a bodily collision.

  At the last second he pulled up short, staring down at her. “What are you doing, Captain?” His emphasis on that last word stung her; her eyes averted again. “You’re getting into physical altercations now? In front of my crew? Who do you think you are?”

  Kendra’s mouth opened as if to shoot back a barb, then it shut just as quickly.

  “Hmm. You told me you rose through the ranks as an officer. Was this—,” he waved to point out Axxa, “—How you demonstrated your cool under pressure?!”

  She waved her own arms, low. “That’s not how it is. You don’t understand these things, what they’ve done to our people for decades. Your people!” He saw the intense fire behind those dark eyes, marveling at her power of will. To go up against a being such as a Prax in hand-to-hand…he was impressed but kept that underneath his anger.

  He turned on his heel, stalking over to the alien in question. “And you.” He cast a glance at Deacon, as if to say and you too for not nipping this in the bud. “You and I are already on less-than-ideal terms.”

  He heard the Praxxan language translated in his linguistic implant. The voice was calm. The alien wasn’t winded in the slightest. “Captain, you know I understand this. Captain Kendra—.”

  Halloran’s voice was low and menacing. “Axxa, how many Captains are there on this vessel.”

  The Prax was tall, but Halloran was nearly his equal. The alien’s eyes narrowed in defense, then wavered. They never left his, though.

  “One.”

  “Correct.”

  “We’re just not going to see eye-to-eye, Captain,” Kendra said from behind Halloran.

  He stepped back to address the two of them. “You don’t need to; what you need to see is that this crew is on the edge…it won’t take much to completely deflate their will to live. And I won’t stand for it.”

  Kendra pointed at Axxa. “This race brutally conquered Earth and murdered millions upon millions to secure control and create a staging base to subjugate the entire solar system. There’s not a human alive in the galaxy today—let alone in the Fleet—who would stand to even be in the same proximity of a Prax without trying to kill it. In self-defense, yes. But also in revenge for what they’ve done to humanity!” She looked down, spent by her tirade. “I for one won’t be a part of it.”

  Halloran was calmer. “Understood, Kendra.” When she looked up into his eyes he himself wavered from her intensity. Gathering himself, he continued with a huge exhalation of breath. “This is the situation. Our ship is wounded, and my crew—though willing—desperately need help. From both of you.” He looked pointedly from one to the other. “I need Axxa’s interpretive help with every label, readout and control on this vessel. And I need Kendra’s knowledge of engineering and how things work in the human world of whatever year this is.”

  Axxa nodded solemnly, watching Kendra. “I will be pleased to be of assistance, Captain. I owe you,” he glanced at Deacon, “both of you, for rescuing me from my forces on Earth.”

  Halloran allowed a small grin. “I seem to remember you saving our bacon.”<
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  “Bacon?” Apparently the translator wasn’t picking up on the arcane reference.

  “They don’t have bacon in this time? Just great.” Halloran looked at Kendra. “Thoughts?”

  After a long moment, the woman nodded slowly. “I’m not going to like it, but I see your point here.”

  “That’s all I want from you.” He turned to the door, then paused with his hand on the frame in the act of unlatching it. “I’m glad this is behind us, because I want to call an officer’s meeting in the conference room. As soon as you both can get there.” Then he was gone, nodding to the crew gathered outside the hatch.

  One of the green-uniformed crew leaned in, looking around as if checking for blood. “All right for us to get back to work?”

  As the three headed for the exit the same human asked Axxa, “Can you stay to translate?”

  The Prax looked down at him as he passed. “I cannot; your Captain has summoned me.”

  The man nodded. “Afterward then, sir.”

  When they were gone the other crew members came in.

  “All clear, PO?” asked Seaman Don King.

  “I don’t know, you tell me. They sure looked like they would fight it out,” answered Petty Officer David Chapan.

  “Sure did. That lady officer is a tough one. You see her eyes?”

  Chapan was already studying the nearest computer panel, motioning to Electronics Tech Jack Stacey. He spared a meaningful look in King’s direction. “You keep your eyes low and focused on the task, Seaman.”

  “Aye.”

  “Now, let’s figure out how these red nutjobs wired their panels, shall we?”

  The conference room was just down the passage from the Captain’s quarters, and clearly that was its function; a cylindrical projection in the center of the triangular table was a holographic image generator, according to Axxa, designed to show three-dimensional images of speakers or a rendering of a star system. Three seats were set along each face of the triangle, and several more were arrayed along the one wall of the room. Halloran walked to one point of the triangle and waited patiently as the officers filed in. He knew that PO Gerry Wilson had gone through the ship, in the absence of a working loudspeaker, to find and summon them.