Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  The Flotilla

  165 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

  “Captain Paine, radio transmission from the Vandergrift. They’re under fire, and they provided the latest coordinates for the enemy skunk.”

  Paine looked at the sheet, then up at a monitor. It showed a telescopic view of the Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate steaming almost directly away from the Russell. She was leaning hard as she turned to port. There was a flash, then she was engulfed in a blast amidships. He knew from the way she lifted in two parts, she was dead. A secondary explosion blew the forward section apart. “Captain Richards offers us good hunting.”

  “Damnit,” his XO snapped.

  “Fire control, range to target?” Paine asked.

  “Twelve miles, Captain.”

  “Fire mission. Give me a spread of four ASROCs on that bastard.”

  On the Russell’s deck, five more cells opened, the anti-submarine rockets blazed into the sky.

  * * *

  Though she was dead, the Vandergrift’s two Seahawk helicopters had survived. One was miles away, still ferrying crew between the Flotilla’s ships. The second had AQS-13F sonar aboard. She was hovering just 20 feet above the water. A crewman was using a cable to lower a buoy into the dark waters where it could pull a continuous signal. They had a good return and were tracking the submarine when the operator suddenly pulled his headset away.

  “They got the Vandy,” he said. “Motherfuckers!”

  “Stay on mission,” the commander snapped. “You still got the bastard?”

  The sonarman replaced his headset and checked his instruments. He smiled predatorily. “Yes, sir, I sure do.”

  “Continue to relay data.” The pilot had a panoramic view of the area. He’d seen their ship die. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. Almost all their friends were dead or dying, and there was nothing he could do except hope for payback.

  On the horizon opposite the Vandy’s burning hulk, a series of flashes and contrails announced the Russell’s response.

  “ASROCs!” his copilot crowed and pointed. “Four of them!”

  “Yeah,” the pilot agreed. “And Seahawks from the Davis and the Ford are about to drop two more fish.” In addition to the three torpedoes the Vandy had launched before she died, there would be nine torpedoes in the water. Dodge those, you fuck.

  “Enemy sub is accelerating to…135 knots!” the sonarman said in disbelief.

  “It has supercavitating tech,” the pilot said. He’d been briefed when they’d been reset for active ASW. He just wished they’d had time to give him some weapons. The enemy was so fast, they couldn’t dip and fire, so they needed to maintain active lock.

  “They’ve got it bracketed,” the sonarman said, leaning closer to his screens. “It’s running, but no way is it going to get away!”

  “Good,” the pilot said. He saw two of the ASROCs launched by the Russell burn out. The torpedoes parachuted into the water, adding to the drama. No sooner were they in the drink than the sonarman exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”

  “The sub turned, then it split into a dozen returns instead of one.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It isn’t,” the sonarman replied.

  “Drones maybe?” the copilot suggested.

  “They wouldn’t sound identical to the original. I can’t tell them apart!”

  “Then neither can the torpedoes,” the pilot said. The sea in the distance erupted in explosions. In less than a minute, all the torpedoes had detonated, sending white plumes into the air. “Any idea if they got the real submarine?”

  “I still can’t tell them apart,” the sonarman said. He monitored the signals until the surviving decoys went dark. “Okay, I got him again. Shit, he’s heading toward the Flotilla at 95 knots.”

  The pilot called the carrier and advised them of the development. He checked his helicopter’s fuel level and was about to order a pursuit of the submarine when his sonarman called out.

  “I have another sub. It just appeared, one mile northwest. It’s going shallow.”

  The pilot unconsciously searched the horizon. If an enemy sub surfaced, one of the warships could take it out with an anti-ship missile. No matter what weird decoy drones they had, it was a hard to stop a Harpoon. Then he spotted it, a long dark spot breaking the surface. “Got it,” he said and pointed.

  “I see,” the copilot said and raised his binoculars to his eyes. “It doesn’t have much of a sail. I don’t think it looks like any submarine I’ve ever…” He stopped and focused the glasses. “Something just came out of the hull.”

  “Are they evacuating?” the pilot asked. He set the helicopter for auto-hover and picked up his own pair of binoculars. The vessel was boxy and seemed familiar. It flashed, and a line of white smoke shot upward from it, angled, and came right at him. “It’s a RAM launcher,” he said. He grabbed the controls and added power, the autopilot instantly disengaging in response to the control input. As soon as the engine responded he turned away as quickly as his craft could. “Russell, be advised, another sub inbound!”

  The RIM-116, rolling airframe missile, accelerated to Mach 2 in a second and crossed the distance between the sub and the hovering Seahawk in a flash. The pilot tried to bank away, but they were stationary and only feet above the water. The missile struck the helicopter square in the belly, turning it into a fireball.

  * * *

  Classified Genesis Facility

  San Nicolas Island

  “How many missiles?” Michael demanded. The six battle stations in the control room were each manned by a different person. To one side were six consoles in a row, the controls for the Wasp operators. The defenses were largely automated—all they required was an operator to engage them and specify a priority. The cruise missiles, which were coming in a wave, had only been recognized as a threat when they were seconds out.

  “Initially, six to ten,” Colonel Baker said. A central monitor showed the airspace around San Nicolas. The missiles were in two groups. One was coming straight in off the sea and was targeted at the complex he was standing in. Radar showed three missiles total still in the air.

  On an adjacent building, the roof-mounted Phalanx CIWS, or Sea-Wiz, came alive and spun around. Brrrrrr! The gun’s six barrels fired seventy-five 20mm rounds per second. The system was designed to fire a maximum of 500 rounds per burst, with a cooldown period to keep the barrels from overheating. The magazine held 1,550 rounds, giving it a total firing time of about 21 seconds.

  “Kill,” an operator said.

  Michael saw an almost comical burst of smoke over the water. The gun moved back and forth, as if it were shaking its head disapprovingly. Its tall, conical dome had earned the weapon system the nickname R2-D2. Inside the top of the dome was its radar, which was completely independent from the installation’s. Each of San Nicolas’s two Sea-Wiz had their own generators. Michael appreciated redundancy when his ass was on the line.

  “Acquiring another.”

  Brrrrrr!

  “Kill,” the operator said again. He sounded businesslike and unstressed. Michael nodded. The team was well trained, as he’d come to expect from Colonel Baker. It was a good thing, or Michael would have had to take this oversite out on Chamuel’s ass.

  “West radar alarm.”

  “Far side of the island,” Baker said.

  Michael moved next to the radar operator and looked over his shoulder. A group of 10 signals flickered in and out. “Why can’t it resolve them?” he asked.

  “The system wasn’t designed to shoot down US-made Tomahawks,” Baker replied. “We have to let them get in closer.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Engaging,” the operator said.

  The second Sea-Wiz was more than a mile away, on the other side of the island’s low range of hills. A monitor showed the weapons system jerking and spinning, then spewing bullets. A few seconds later, the sound of its firing echoed
over the base as a distant, but subdued, Brrrrrrr.

  “They must have some intel on us,” Baker said. “A live image or something.”

  “Gabriel is certain nobody has satellite recon,” Michael assured him.

  “Radar,” Baker said, “report any high-flyers in range.”

  “I have a bird at Angels-30, just over the horizon.”

  “Emissions?”

  “Stand by,” the man said. A second later, he replied. “Confirmed. Looks like early warning radar.”

  “AWACs,” Michael growled. “Damned E-2, probably from the Ford. How the fuck did they find us?”

  Baker looked at the radar data. “He’s well outside our RIM-162 missile range.”

  “Order the Wasps to take it out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Baker said and nodded to the drone operators.

  A few seconds later the Sea-Wiz tech yelped in surprise.

  “What do you have?” Baker asked. The man didn’t respond; he was too busy working his console. He’d gone from calm to concerned in seconds. Colonel Baker moved closer and cursed. “Damn it.”

  “What?” Michael demanded.

  “They overwhelmed the far side defenses.”

  On the screen, the distant Sea-Wiz let off a burst, then turned and fired a much shorter burst before stopping. It jerked back and forth as if confused or distressed.

  “Can’t you reload it?”

  “Takes an hour,” Baker said. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the screen flashed and dissolved into static.

  “Far side Sea-Wiz and radar destroyed,” the technician reported.

  Outside, the nearby defensive gun let out another burst, and Michael glanced nervously from the weapon to Colonel Baker. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it was time to run for the bunker.

  “We’re not showing any more inbound,” the radar technician reported.

  Michael let his breath out slowly. The fucking Flotilla had just gone from a nuisance to a serious threat. He guessed having the sub commander sink a ship was a bigger mistake than he thought.

  “Switch defenses to the RIMs,” Baker ordered. “Get a team to reload the Sea-Wiz, fast! Also, dispatch a recon drone to the radar station and give me a report on possible salvage.” He turned to Michael. “We have three more in storage, but they’d take a week to install. They were earmarked for future expansion.”

  “How long to intercept that Hawkeye?”

  “Ten minutes.” Michael made a face. “If we go supersonic, it’ll significantly reduce their operational time. What do you want more, the Flotilla or the E-2?”

  “Both,” Michael said. Baker looked at him in exasperation. “Fine, detail one to take care of the Hawkeye and have the other five proceed to the Flotilla.” Baker nodded and gave the orders to his drone pilots. Michael’s jaw muscles bunched as he waited. This needs to be done, damnit.

  * * *

  Grange watched from her hiding place on the huge, heavy crawler as her tormentor, Michael, walked past, mumbling to himself. Her pain was temporarily forgotten in the terror of what he would do to her should she fall into his hands. Death was certain, though she now knew death could come in many ways and at many speeds. Michael probably wouldn’t be merciful if he found her skulking around, especially if he figured out what she had done.

  I’m at the ship, she thought and waited for First Scout to reply. Just then there was a loud Brrrrr! as a Phalanx Sea-Wiz came alive. She jerked and put her hands over her ears. The drugs they’d given her seemed to have heightened her senses, among other things. Come on, all hell’s breaking loose!

  Under either side, just behind…and touch it.

  I lost you for a second, she thought. The Sea-Wiz fired again, a longer burst. Jesus Christ, it was a war zone. Men and women, some in black combat armor and others in blue coveralls, were running everywhere.

  You are at the edge of my psy-lock’s reach…instructions.

  Damn it, how am I supposed to do this without you? Grange sat on her haunches and breathed. The pain was slowly, but steadily, getting worse. She knew it would eventually consume her.

  Wait where you are, First Scout said.

  What are you going to do? Suddenly she jerked as a jolt of thought entered her mind. In a second, he’d sent her the floorplan of his ship. It took a few seconds for the information to settle into her brain. It felt like Legos falling into place. The whole process was the most disconcerting thing she’d experienced in her already bizarre life.

  When Grange could finally concentrate again, she thought about the ship and found it was as if she’d been aboard it a hundred times before. It wasn’t an overly complicated ship, and it reminded her, superficially, of her own ship. Unfortunately, thinking about the Boutwell brought back painful memories.

  It is important not to dwell…you need to proceed before…

  I know, she thought back and returned to thinking about the plans. A room near the bridge was highlighted in her mind. She looked back from it to the exits. There were two. One under each of the forward flares of the stubby wings. Got it.

  Do well.

  No shit, she thought and forced her tortured body back into motion.

  Unfortunately, the toolbox she’d been hiding behind hadn’t provided much cover, so as soon as she got up and slouched toward the ship, she was spotted.

  A black uniformed man who was running by came to a sudden stop. “What are you doing up there?”

  She ignored the shouted question and forced herself to move faster. She didn’t want to look back, afraid she was about to be jumped. But by the sound of the man’s voice, he was more confused than upset. Probably can’t understand why someone dressed in medical isolation gear is up on a hauler.

  Grange reached her destination. The hull looked like stainless steel, polished to a mirror finish. There were no signs of seams or locking mechanisms. Reaching up without thinking, she touched first one spot, then another, then ran her hand between the two. Despite never having touched the spaceship before, the movements felt familiar, as if she’d done them every day of her life. A pinging sound echoed, and a hexagonal outline appeared. In quick, mechanical movements, the ‘hatch’ retracted an inch and quickly slid to the side and disappeared.

  “Hey!” the person who’d questioned her yelled. “Supervisor!”

  “Time to go,” she croaked, dismayed at how horrid her voice was. She reached inside and found the handle she knew would be there and pulled herself up. Her arms screamed in protest, and she had to drag herself belly first over the lip of the hatchway. She felt her partly healed skin separate and warmth spread. More blood, she thought. A hand brushed her foot as she was pulling it in, and she squealed in alarm.

  “What are you doing?” A head poked in after her. A man in his thirties, wearing a black uniform hat, looked pissed. Grange touched the side of the interior, next to the hatch, and it closed a lot faster than either she or the surprised man expected. “Hey sto—” The sounds of running and Sea-Wiz fire were cut off, along with the man’s surprised exclamation and his head.

  “Oh fuck!” Grange screamed and pushed herself away from the bloody, severed head. Interior lighting came on, and she was face-to-face with the dead man’s wide, staring eyes. “Oh, oh God,” she gasped and wretched. “I didn’t mean to kill you,” she said. The head had no reply.

  I can’t do this, she thought as tears rolled down her cheeks. The salty tears stung as they touched the burned flesh on her face. First Scout’s thoughts didn’t reach her anymore. Apparently, closing the ship’s door had cut her off completely from the alien. I’m on my own.

  She examined the interior. The hallways were round and about three feet tall. She was going to have to crawl. Her pain was getting worse, and she didn’t want to look at the dead man’s head anymore, so she set out toward her destination. The sooner she got there, the sooner it would all be over.

  * * *

  USS Gerald R. Ford

  Medical Center

  The Floti
lla

  165 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

  “What’s going on?” Jeremiah asked.

  “There’s an emergency, Mr. Osborne,” Dr. Peterson replied. He was in scrubs and his hands were bare, but he held them up in front of him to avoid contamination. An assistant was removing his blood-stained smock and replacing it with a fresh one, careful to avoid his hands.

  “What kind of emergency?” Jeremiah demanded. The drugs were wearing off, causing his pain to grow, along with his impatience. His forearms were covered with pen marks and painted red with betadine in preparation for the coming mutilation. The doctor ignored him, and his temper flared. “Goddamn it, I’m still alive and want to know what’s happening!”

  Peterson glared at him. Jeremiah refused to break eye contact. The doctor sighed. “As I understand it, some unknown faction has high-tech, miniature submarines. They’ve already sunk a private ship and a frigate and shot down a helicopter. Now, they’re coming after the rest of the Flotilla. So, if you are lucky, you’ll be under general anesthesia when we sink, and you’ll be spared the “fun” part of drowning. Is that better?”

  “Holy shit,” Jeremiah said. Peterson grunted and called for an anesthesiologist.

  Jeremiah lay on the gurney and thought. Who would want to attack the Flotilla? Aliens? Naw, they’d just blow us up with ray guns or drop rocks on us. Wasn’t the virus bad enough? Alien tech would change the way war was fought. “What?!” he suddenly blurted.

  A woman in medical scrubs was checking the IV he’d had in his arm since arriving. After checking it, she picked up his chart and asked him to verify his name and ID number.

  “Is any of my staff here?”

  “I’m sorry? Please pay attention.”

  “I said, is any of my staff here?!”

  She looked at his chart. “Civilian, ah. Look, Mr. Osborne, you’ve been injured. We need to go over these details before your surgery.”

  “Screw that. I need to talk to someone from my staff.”