Resolve of Steel (Halloran's War Book 2)

by J. R. Geoghan

  Renno’s chuckle was cut short as she made a short grunting sound.

  “What?” Heres was out of his seat in a flash, standing behind her. He knew that sound.

  “So, hmm. The sensors picked up something.”

  “What?” Heres leaned over her shoulder to get a look at what the ship’s computer was telling her.

  “The system is designating a target in orbit, but there’s nothing there.”

  “What?”

  She glanced up at him patiently.

  He frowned at her. “Elaborate, please, Lieutenant.”

  Renno pointed at the holographic rendering of Tavar. The ship’s targeting system had designated the three Fleet ships as friendlies. Two were identified as picket ships inbound from across the system but still hours off. But, there was another designate on the opposite side of the planet from the three in orbit. Renno knew what her Captain wanted and enlarged the imagery.

  There was nothing there.

  “Hmm.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “A bug?”

  “It’s possible, but unlikely. We just had the sensors calibrated less than a week ago. Reset them to shipyard defaults.”

  Heres straightened. “I knew that, didn’t I? Seems like all we’ve been doing, calibrating things on a brand-new ship.” He sighed, looking around the bridge. “It is interesting that the anomaly is running directly opposite to the Fleet ships, however.”

  “Sir, Argon is hailing us. It’s Captain Orris.”

  Heres groaned audibly. The idea of being shunted off to Tavar and being placed under such an old-school flotilla leader as Orris bored him to no end. “I’ll take it in my cabin. Let me know when we complete decel prior to orbital entry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grisa nodded at him.

  He was halfway out the bridge entrance when Renno’s call stopped him. “Sir!”

  “Yes, Renno?” He set a hand on the door and looked back.

  She was fully turned in her seat. “The computer has ID’d the orbital designate!”

  “Really…what?”

  “You better come look for yourself, sir. I don’t think you’ll believe me if I tell you.”

  Chapter 23

  Tavar, Struve System

  The first Prax casualty was sprawled across the tunnel floor with chunks of flesh splattered on the surrounding walls. Halloran stooped briefly to examine the body, wincing at the damage inflicted by the plasma bolts at close range. Picking through the gore he fished for pockets or any identifying items. The corpse was clear of anything, and he found himself wishing for Axxa’s presence to advise him on the nuances of Praxxan attire. To his untrained eye, the dead alien was just a large lump of red flesh wrapped in winter clothing.

  Wilson was standing there as he straightened, wiping his gloved hand on a pant leg. “Makes sense, sir. If they’ve been here over a year as I’m hearing from the locals, they’re bound to be good at covering their tracks.”

  “Let’s keep moving, Wilson. I want to stay with the group.”

  The Petty Officer nodded. “Aye, sir. Ain’t leavin’ you back here alone, sir.”

  Halloran gave the man a pat on the shoulder. “Lead the way.”

  The sounds of more shooting erupted down the passage as they jogged on.

  “These rifles sure make an odd sound, sir,” observed Wilson.

  “Not something we’re used to.”

  “They make a nice hole, though.”

  Halloran smiled tightly but didn’t reply. As the two rounded a corner they came up on their unit, which was moving and firing into the darkness ahead.

  A Tavarran named Anders was assigned to Halloran as the guide. He saw them coming. “More contact directly ahead! They are falling back.”

  Halloran nodded at him, then pushed Wilson forward. “Get back to your team.”

  Anders held up a tablet. “We are at this junction,” he tapped the spot in question.

  Halloran scanned the schematic. “And the other prong is coming down this shaft.” He pointed to the corridor across the display.

  “They will be coming into the lower level using a little-known accessway. I think they’ll be able to get the Prax by surprise.”

  Halloran studied the man’s earnest face; he liked the Tavarran. “I hope you’re right. Seems like these guys have been under your noses for a long time.”

  “Moving up!” Called someone over the shooting up ahead.

  Anders looked serious. “Now we know they’re here. They’re in our world.”

  Halloran’s group numbered just over forty men; a nice complement of armed police and security who knew how to handle weapons. He admired their organization as they progressed steadily down the tunnel, clearing alcoves and keeping up a steady fire. When the first man got hit by a plasma shot—not center mass, thankfully—he was attended to by Elias Whitney as the rest moved on. Halloran paused over the duo, waiting until the Corpsman glanced up and nodded; the guy would recover.

  After a protracted push of over an hour, the unit forced the defenders into an open cavern half-filled with covered pallets. Dust filled the air as plasma bolts exchanged between the two forces slashed through the tarps covering the pallets. As Halloran ducked behind one he peeked under the rough material. Crates.

  Anders was there, tapping a crate. “Metals found during the mining. They wanted us to store it rather than incinerating it for some reason!” He yelled over the din of the echoes of plasma weapons around the cavern. “Been here forever!”

  Halloran nodded. At least pallets filled with metal made good cover. He risked a look around the pallet and got a glimpse of tall figures darting between crates far across the cavern. There had to be a thousand stacks—excellent cover for both sides.

  The battle went in their favor again as the Tavarrans showed considerable prowess in moving forward between the pallets, shooting and running as they went. Two were hit and killed by Prax fire, but they gave as good as they received and eventually the cavern was almost clear. Thirty of the Tavarrans took off into the far tunnel and Halloran jumped up to follow their lead.

  “Sir!”

  He turned to see Wilson waving at him and pointing at something. When he got there, he saw what the Petty Officer was gesturing at, and his jaw dropped.

  A pallet had been knocked apart by a concentration of fire, ripping into the wood and splintering it. As a result, the contents were strewn out in a cascade onto the cavern floor.

  Wilson picked up a chunk of the metal. It glowed in the artificial light illuminating the cavern. “Sir, is it?”

  Halloran took the fist-sized piece from the other man and quickly examined it. “Sure looks like gold, Wilson.”

  Anders ran by. “We’re on the move, Mr. Halloran.”

  Wilson pointed his rifle barrel at the piled gold chunks. “This is gold—is that what’s in these crates?”

  Anders frowned at the piece in Halloran’s hand. “This is one of the storage caves for that stuff, yes. Do you know what it is?”

  Halloran tossed the piece into the pile. “Nothing of value in this place, obviously.” He pointed down the passage. “Let’s go, Anders. Wilson, make a note to come back for your retirement fund later.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Despite the narrow tunnels which hampered their advance, the men were able to force the Prax into another defensive position in a multi-leveled cavern deep within the mountain. A Tavarran leader named Lonergan was on the comm with the other force led by Max. “What are you finding?” Max asked him.

  “New passages, widened passages with a lot of them leading here to this set of chambers.”

  “How far have you penetrated? We’re seeing similar signs from our end.”

  “Not far. Mr. Halloran here wants to coordinate our final attack with yours. My people are hard to hold back, Max.”

  “Understood, Lonner. Give us fifteen minutes. Max out.”

  Lonergan shouted some orders to his men while Halloran pulled Wilson aside. “R
emember,” he said quietly, “let them do their thing. Once the area is secure, you are to be looking for information that may help us aboard Serapis.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Anders handed Halloran a tablet. “Comm call for you, Mr. Halloran.”

  He carried it away a short distance to answer. It was Parker. “Sir, we’re ready to go with the patch pieces. As a bonus, we’re going to use one of their lift shuttles and Mr. Jackson has offered me three of his best welders with several bots.”

  “Robot welders, Chief?”

  “Apparently it’s the way to go. They say that based on my estimated specs, the cutting and welding should take less than thirty minutes.”

  Halloran nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds excellent, but what about the visibility of the lift shuttle to the Fleet ships?”

  “Mr. Jackson says it may present a problem. Frankly, sir, he’s still confused about our ship. I gather you kept some information from him?”

  “Sorry, Chief. I suppose I made your job a bit harder.”

  Parker chuckled on the line. “No harder than it’s been to work with these welders. Pig-headed lot all of them—they’d do any dockyard in the States proud. Sir.”

  Halloran thought a moment. “Thanks, Chief. Our plan will be to get back as a group and take the shuttle up. Kendra is guarding it and gathering intel from the Tavarrans right now. Our team takes the shuttle, you go in the Tavarran lift vessel with the steel. If we cause a commotion with the Fleet people, the Governor and I will attempt to stall them. Take anyone and anything you need to get that job done in record time, Chief. Clear?”

  “On it, sir. Just get back safe first.”

  When he cut the transmission Wilson was walking over, cradling his rifle in his arms. “Do you need me, sir?”

  Halloran relayed the rough plan.

  “Makes sense, but what about Patredes? The doc says he’s in no condition to be moved.”

  Halloran nodded grimly. “We will have to take him with us, or let the Tavarrans hide him until we can return.”

  Wilson looked serious. “You’re thinkin’ about Commander Chandler and the others, aren’t you, sir?”

  “I’m tired of leaving our people behind, Gerry.”

  “Me too, sir. Me too.”

  Rat City, Earth

  The heat was oppressive. The people filling the streets were used to it and made their way to whatever subsistence they found in their daily struggle for life. For Lieutenant Commander Terry Singletary, the day only brought the dreary awareness that they were outsiders who’d be turned in for a pittance if the right local with Prax connections found them out.

  Their ragged party stayed out of sight and moved only in the dark of night through the streets. The city was immense, and they seemed to wander for days in a single direction with painstaking care. The wreckage of humanity passed them by; people huddled in the streets, moments from starvation, or stumbling by without so much as a glance. There was the constant sense of eyes watching them, however, from every dark shattered window or dank alleyway.

  The Navy men had long ago buried their uniforms and any identifying items in some rubble at Chandler’s request. Their hosts were a band—one of several they’d crossed paths with—of “rebels.” The twenty-odd people were unlikely to force their way into a Seven-Eleven, let alone that monstrosity of an alien headquarters that dominated the city’s skyline. Armed with only a few small hand weapons they’d stolen from inattentive Prax and an assortment of knives, the humans were ill-equipped even to defend themselves.

  Seeing this quickly after their rescue from the forcefield area along the water, Skip Chandler had found something for the Bonhomme Richard survivors to do; they’d started teaching the group about military routines of watch-keeping and reconnaissance. The leader was a thin, intelligent man named Granno. Granno’s woman was called Jialar, and they seemed to have “adopted” the kid Boro who’d been part of their rescue—twice. Boro looked to be around thirteen but age seemed very relative in this desperate place. There weren’t many kids on the streets; Singletary suspected that the Prax had done something to either irradiate or otherwise attempt to sterilize the population at some point.

  In fact, Singletary spent almost every night wondering what the Earth was like beyond this slum of a city. Were there places where he could get to where the change wasn’t so profound? Was his own town still there? From what little Granno could tell of the history, before even the Prax invasion which had occurred decades before he was born, Singletary doubted it; the northern hemisphere was said to be a wasteland of burnt geography and wild creatures. The people only referred to the time as “the dark years.” Somehow, he figured the US would be gone and along with it Dayton, Ohio. Still, he wanted to make a try for it. But Skip wanted them all together for as long as possible should the Captain try to make it back to them. Skip argued that if it were possible, the group would much rather return to 2029 than disperse in this timeline to an uncertain fate, assured that their loved ones were long dead.

  The idea of it created a tightness in Singletary’s chest that wouldn’t go away.

  He thought a lot about Myra; they had been set to be married that coming Spring of 2030. Her parents had been thick in the planning already on August 21st, the date the Bonhomme Richard had left that world behind, courtesy of these horrible aliens. It had only been a month or so since their last kiss, but he was already forgetting her in the immediacy of survival in Rat City. He wished he’d kept a photo of her, but everything had been on his phone which of course was still aboard ship in the desert out there, battery long-dead anyway.

  He sat against the stone wall and pondered his tattered sandals; they’d given up the boots too. His feet were raw and in constant pain. No Tylenol in the med bag, he thought grimly. And no med bag. He looked across the dimly lit hovel they were lying low in today at Commander Chandler, who was flat on his back with eyes open staring at the ceiling of burnt plaster-like material. Beyond Skip and the clump of other Navy men sleeping sat Seaman David Witmer and Missile Tech Karl Lamb, idly rolling a smooth stone someone had picked up between them. One of the rebels, an old man whose name Singletary thought was Deiter—sounded German somehow—watched the two seamen with narrowed eyes. He expected the native to tell them to stop the noise momentarily. This was their existence.

  Chandler was sure that the Skipper had gotten away; he pointed to the fact that the Prax had all zoomed off and left them alone as proof. Singletary could agree to that, but whether Halloran or anyone else on that shuttle was still alive was an open question. He rested his head on his knees, the position he spent most daylight hours recently.

  “Terry.”

  He looked up again to see that Skip was no longer in the same position. The sun had moved as well; the light in the room was different, lower. He’d slept. Chandler was standing in the crushed doorframe, motioning to him.

  With a glance to see that everyone else was still in their places—Witmer and Lamb were sleeping now—he grunted to his feet and padded over to follow Chandler through into the next room of the dilapidated house.

  Most of the rebels were here, cradling their weapons between their legs in a way as to prevent it from being stripped from them in their sleep. Eyes followed the two Navy officers as they approached Granno and Jailar where they crouched in the center of the rough floorboards. Not that they looked much like parade-ground spec anymore; long beards and unkempt, dirty hair hid their features. Lack of consistent and proper food had taken a toll on their bodies as well. How long had they been creeping through this terrible place?

  Singletary noted the huge hole blasted in the far wall; this house had been the center of a battle at some point in the past. These rebels knew all the abandoned squatter locations to hide. They had to.

  Granno nodded to the floor next to him. When the two were seated he smoothed out the dust where he’d been doodling and drew an oblong circle with his finger. He tapped the edge near his line. “We are here.”

/>   Chandler edged in. “Close to the outskirts of the city.”

  “This word outskirts does not translate in my device.”

  “The edge. Of the city.”

  “Yes, yes, edge. One night’s crossing. There is protection field here too.”

  Chandler nodded. “Makes sense.” He looked at Singletary. “Must be a massive power generator somewhere.”

  “It is the Center which holds energy generator,” answered Granno. “We know this is where the Prax concentrate their…resources.”

  Singletary was hopeful. “Can we get out?” He asked Granno, feeling Chandler’s eyes still on him.

  Granno shrugged. “There are tunnels. Prax know this too. They patrol heavily here.” He drew a line away from the circle, tapping one side. “Water here. And land here.”

  Chandler was thinking. “So if Tom wanted to find us, what’s the best place to effect a pickup? Inside or outside the city?”

  Singletary felt the urge to shout, but kept his voice soft at great effort. “Anywhere but this hellhole, Commander.” He deliberately used Skip’s rank to make the point.

  Chandler exhaled slowly, then looked at Granno. “What do you want to do?”

  Granno shrugged again; he did that a lot. “Your people, they are strong and healthy. But no weapons. Some day you tell me where you come from, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Another shrug. “For now, we can be team together. But you need weapons.”

  “Are there weapons out here?” Chandler tapped the land area noted in the dust.

  “There is a station Prax keep, many kilometers up the coast. But it is an outpost and not so well-defended I hear.” He looked carefully around the room. “Before I don’t think I have the men to plan attack.” He pointed at Chandler and then Singletary. “With you, I say we try.” The brown-skinned man’s disgusting teeth showed as he attempted a grin.

  Jailar spoke up for the first time. “We all go. Not separate.” There were three women in the group; Singletary could understand her desire to stay together rather than be left behind in this city.