At Genesis, she had developed her new mathematical system for predicting the actions of macro societal responses to events and situations. She had called it Game Mastering, for lack of a better term. The more she fine tuned it, the more accurate it became. By 2001, she knew the 9/11 attacks would happen, 21 days before the attacks. She had predicted a 99% probability of a space shuttle being destroyed during reentry before 2004. She had also predicted the Arab Spring as well as dozens of other major events. Genesis shared the details on some, but not on others. Her predictions were always based on her further estimates of secondary events.
To point, prior to the virus, the only major event she’d failed to have on her radar was the alien ship arriving and getting shot down by the Russians.
“It’s the aliens,” she realized. “How could I have been so blind?” The one factor that had been stymying her since her first failure was the aliens’ involvement. She stared at the east coast fleet steaming north toward the Flotilla. “They’ve got a live Vulpes,” she said.
She input a flurry of data that caused probabilities to spin across her worldwide model. There was no denying it, every plan Genesis and the Heptagon had made had less than a 15% probability of succeeding now. A number she kept out of sight was her own little piece of the puzzle. Her chance of surviving. Until minutes ago, it had been in the 90% range. She looked and saw that it was now in single digits. To be precise, 6.9%.
She did what she’d never done before, she factored her team into the equation, looking for individual actions that would alter the 6.9%, as well as the global survival probability, the biggest number she tracked. What was the chance humanity would survive? Since the disaster, the number had slowly been climbing. Only minutes ago, it was comfortably above 60%. After adding in the new information and factoring in alien interference, the prognosis reversed. It had been above 60% before they released the information about the global virus shutting down satellite comms. Now it was under 10%.
“A complete inversion of the curve,” she said and laughed. She’d been so sure of herself, she’d missed how well it was going. An early teacher in high school once said; “If all your calculations are perfect, better go back and check again.”
“There has to be a way to salvage this,” she said to the empty room. She looked at the inputs from seven names, hers among them. One at a time she subtracted their inputs, then in pairs, then in every possible combination. Her headset buzzed at an incoming call. She glanced at the time; six minutes since the tremblers went off. She took her headset off and set it on her desk. Chamuel continued to run permutations until, suddenly, one small change caused global survivability to jump to over 80%. She stared at the results and dug into the math. It was not a solid number. She removed a few uncertainties, and it went down to 69%. Still, the results were undeniable.
She pulled up some cameras. The four Osprey sat on a stretch of roadway with their rotors idling. Troops had disembarked and broken up into squads to race up and around the hill. At the base, alarms were sounding. Black-clad Genesis security teams were emerging from the buildings.
Chamuel input some new numbers. The probabilities altered again. Her path was clear now. The number for her own survival hovered around 28%.
* * * * *
Chapter 10
OOE Ship
The Flotilla
165 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA
Wade Watts stared at the recorder after listening for the second time. Stealth submarines? A desperate assault on an island to rescue a kidnapped scientist? Warships being sunk and unable to stop the attacks? “Holy fucking shit!” He looked at the radioman who’d brought him the message. “Is this true?”
“A ship was sunk. We saw it,” the man said. “Another supposedly was too, but we didn’t see it.”
“Fucking hell, let’s get out of here!”
“The boss hasn’t ordered it.” Wade looked at him horrified. “Look, dude, I’d turn and book if I could. Those seals and shit took out most of our remaining crew. The captain says we don’t have enough people left to safely get underway. This ship looks high tech and shit, but it’s really an old clunker. Even with a full crew, we’re lucky to make 12 knots.”
Wade sighed and flopped back in his chair, which moaned in protest. He was surrounded by electronic components in the space he shared with Alison McDill. Jack Coldwell was across the corridor. They were in new workspaces because the old ones were splattered with seal blood and gore. It had been easier to move.
The crewman looked at him for a minute, then set the recorder down and left. Wade didn’t intervene. It was clear the man and his ship were of no use in preserving Wade’s life. “Fuck my life,” he said to the empty room.
Osborne’s instructions were simple. The execution was less simple. There was no way in hell Gilchrist would take Wade’s advice, even if it were covered in gold and dressed like a prostitute. “But,” he said, tapping a finger on the desk, “there’s always mob rule…”
He got to his feet and climbed the three ladders to the deck. Why didn’t they put elevators on these ships? They had elevators on cruise ships. Walking out onto the deck, he examined the ships around them. They were a motley collection of commercial and private pleasure ships. A few hundred yards behind them was the hulking shape of the supercarrier, the Ford.
Wade went to the bridge and found the radioman who’d brought him the message and a balding, overweight, Asian man with decorations on his epaulets suggesting he was the captain. Wade cleared his throat and they both looked at him.
“You heard the message from Osborne?” he asked, looking at the captain.
“Of course,” he said. “Do you want to use the radio?”
“You bet I do.”
* * *
Everything came together incredibly quickly. By the time Wade reached the bridge, five ships were alarmingly close together. The captain was looking unhappy at the proximity of so much gross tonnage.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked Wade.
“Yup,” Wade replied and helped Alison and Coldwell begin attaching gear to the bridge wall. The captain and the radioman, who might have been the only remaining crew on the ship, watched the work suspiciously. By the time the device was bolted in place, the nearest ship was calling them on a bullhorn.
“Ahoy, we’re ready!”
“I’m on it,” Alex said, trotting onto the bridge. He’d been resting in the ship’s medical bay, and Wade had completely forgotten about him.
“You know what we’re doing?” Alison asked.
Alex winked. “Soon as I listened to the recording Wade left in the shop and looked around, I figured it out. Gloves?” he asked the captain. The man took Alex out onto the walk along the bridge’s superstructure. Wade went out on the bridge wing to watch. The nearest ship, a fishing boat about half their size, tossed over a line. Alex caught it, hooked it to a machine, and pulled the rope over until he reached a metal cable, which he attached to a metal cleat.
“Make sure it’s metal on metal!” Wade yelled at him.
“No shit, kid. I’ve been doing this longer than you.”
Wade frowned and returned to the bridge. The captain and the radioman were talking when a long, skinny military ship off their bow exploded. He gawked instead of ducking. The shockwave hit the boat, blew the windows out, and sent him sprawling.
* * *
Operation Roundhouse
San Nicolas Island
“Around to the other side!” General Rose yelled to the sergeant and gestured with his hand. A bullet came so close to taking his hand off, it nicked his glove. “Fuck!” He pulled back around the corner of the blockhouse which stood among the smoldering remains of the radar installation.
The bastards who ran the island didn’t lack martial prowess. They’d responded to his landing in good order, deploying at least two squads to try and pin Rose’s men down and stop them from advancing. Rose decided to take the two squads nearest to him and pretend to be pin
ned, while his fourth squad swung around the edge of the hill and approached the enemy’s installation. If he was right, once his men attacked the base, at least part of the forces pinning him down would wheel about to avoid getting caught in a flanking maneuver, and Rose could then use his superior numbers to rush them.
“Get that M240 set up by that burning truck,” he ordered a nearby corporal. The man nodded and went to set up the machinegun. They already had one 20 meters in the other direction. He’d suffered two wounded and would bet the enemy hadn’t suffered any. That was fine, as long as they thought he was stuck.
He heard a double click on his radio. The flanking squad was in position. Rose got Master Sergeant Ayres’ attention.
“Sir?” he called over the crackle of gunfire.
“Flankers in position. Have the two M240s provide covering fire. Heavy weapons team in the rear. We’re going to advance.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Rose took a couple of breaths and clicked the radio twice in reply. Normally, he’d have used their secure squad comms. The problem was that his enemy had US equipment, so he couldn’t count on any level of security. In seconds, gunfire echoed up from the flank. Instantly, fire faltered from the enemy, pinning his men down. Rose smiled.
“Advance by squad!”
* * *
“We’ve lost all surveillance on the west side of the hill,” Colonel Baker said.
Michael slammed his radio down on the counter. He’d been trying to reach Chamuel for 15 minutes, ever since the damned Ospreys appeared out of nowhere and dumped a shitload of fucking troops in his lap. At first, he just wanted answers, but now he needed some guidance.
“The savant bitch won’t answer her radio,” Michael snarled. Baker looked at him, waiting for orders.
“Subs have begun attacking the Flotilla,” an operator said. “Captains report they are targeting screening vessels so the Wasps can get past the anti-air screen.”
Michael nodded. They’d tried to get the Wasps in close enough to start sinking ships, only to lose one to a missile. The next generation drone they’d been working on was based on a stealth design and would have been a different story. The Wasp wasn’t stealthy, but it was fast, highly maneuverable, and carried a ton of firepower.
“We have a highflyer over the Flotilla,” one of the Wasp operators said.
“What is it?” Michael demanded.
The pilot checked his radar and scratched his chin. “It’s not a fighter or an E-2. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s either a Greyhound or some sort of civilian turboprop.”
“Ignore it.”
“Roger that, sir.”
He could have ordered a wave of anti-ship missile fire, however, between the carrier, the destroyer, and the remaining frigate they still had six Sea-Wizes as well as other anti-missile defenses. Unlike a short time ago when a wave of Tomahawk cruise missiles arrived, they were expecting an attack. Their defensive fire would be much more accurate. It wouldn’t do any good to force their hand; that damned Arleigh Burke could still have 50 or more missiles in her tubes.
“They have to be here for that damned scientist,” Michael said. Yet another failure to predict a response. Chamuel was less than worthless now. Fine, he’d kill the bitch himself when this was all over. The thought of choking her brought a grin to his face. I wonder if she’ll predict her own death?
“Subs got the last frigate.”
“Excellent, finally some good news,” Colonel Baker said.
Michael barely nodded. He picked up his radio and checked to be sure it was still working. Like most of their technology, it was nearly indestructible. He made a call. “Have Dr. Breda moved to the bunker.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you found Grange yet?”
“The personnel were pulled from the search when the attack began.”
He suppressed the urge to yell, instead acknowledging it as the correct move. With both subs holding two squads of his elite soldiers, only two platoons remained on the island. A quarter of them were in stationary defensive positions to guard against the unexpected. “Very well,” he said and cut the call.
“Dockside facilities under attack!”
Michael ran to the waterside window and looked. He could see figures clad in US Army camo moving and shooting. The few security stationed there were going down, fast. The goddamned soldiers had either landed more people or flanked his defenders on the hill. Son of a bitch, this General Rose was good. He wished he’d had a chance to serve with him.
“Pull back a squad from the hill to deal with these leakers,” Michael ordered. “I’m going to get my battle rattle. You should do the same.”
Baker opened a locker and revealed a battle harness, armor, a helmet, and a nice little combat MP5 submachinegun. Michael nodded, exited, and climbed down the stairs. He wasn’t in a hurry, he was just being certain. Had he waited a few seconds, he might have noticed that one of the dockside soldiers wasn’t fighting. The man had set up an observation scope and was observing the control tower.
* * *
The Flotilla
165 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA
“Wake up!”
Someone slapped his face. Wade spluttered and waved the hand away. “I’m here,” he moaned. The back of his head felt like white hot fire. He opened his eyes and saw carnage. The big bridge windshields had been blown out, and the radioman he’d been talking to only moments earlier was lying a few feet away, his face turned into bloody hamburger. The man wasn’t moving. A pair of hands grabbed Wade and hauled him to his feet.
“Wade, snap out of it.”
“My head hurts.” Wade focused on the person holding him. It was Alex West. He was bleeding from several cuts but looked a lot better than the radioman.
“Yeah, so does mine. The damned alien drive doesn’t want to work. Alison is down. You know the most about this shit.”
“I…can’t,” he said, slipping back toward the dark. Alex slapped him again. It wasn’t a brutal slap, but it was a painful one, carefully calculated to focus his attention. “Ow, damn it!” The hand was coming again, but Wade blocked it with his own.
“There, that’s better.” Alex pointed out one of the shattered windows. Another ship, a tanker, was in flames and sinking. “We don’t have much fucking time, Kid! If you sleep, you die.”
“Dead?”
“Very.”
He turned and found the alien drive where he and Alison had installed it. The device was simple; so simple, he’d laughed when he saw it. Playstation comes alive, flies to space! He felt a little giddy through the pain. Must have a concussion.
Doing his best to concentrate, he examined the alien drive and control unit. It only took a second. “Got it,” he said. “The connection to the power module was destroyed.”
“So, it won’t work?” Alex asked, agog.
“Not with the power module.” Wade looked around, almost falling from a dizzy spell, then spotted what he was looking for. He carefully bent and took a radio from the dead radioman. “He won’t be needing this.” Flipping it over, he took the back off, removed the battery, and dropped the radio. He moved back to the alien drive and improvised the same power connection he’d seen in the initial diagrams on the key drive. “There,” he said, “it’ll work now.”
Alex blinked, looking from Wade to the control.
Wade walked over to a chair and sat down. He went to hold his head with his hands and found it was soaked in blood. What a fuckin’ day.
Alex turned the controller on. With reflexes developed through hard practice, he gently moved the X axis up. The OOE ship slowly rose out of the ocean.
Wade turned his head and stared out the window. The ship next to them was also rising out of the water, courtesy of the metal cable they’d sent over and Alex had locked down on a cleat. Despite his pain, he grinned. “This is cool.”
“They’ve connected other ships,” Alex said, pointing.
Wade could see that at
least four other ships were connected. They were all rising as well, though they appeared to be lagging behind the OOE ship and the first one connected. “I wonder how far we can extend it?”
“I’m afraid we’re going to find out.” Alex found another radio and spun the frequency dial. “OOE to the Gerald R. Ford. I need to talk to Captain Gilchrist, immediately.”
The submarines circled the remainder of the Flotilla. This time, Michael’s orders were more specific. Target the warships in the fleet first. Unfortunately, it was difficult because of the repeated explosions of ultra-high frequency sound coming from one side of the Flotilla. The sound pulses didn’t follow any pattern, and they were playing hell with the sonar gear. Without the sonar, they couldn’t target.
The Hunter subs were marvels of technology, not the least of which was their supercavitating system which allowed amazing speeds. They were also coated in a material that made them all but invisible to active sonar, as long as they weren’t using the supercavitating system. At just over 100 feet long, their crew was 11, and they could carry 20 additional passengers. In this case, they both carried Project Genesis commandoes.
Their biggest Achilles heel was weaponry. Each sub had two torpedo tubes, one forward and one aft. They only carried eight weapons each, loadable in either tube via a central magazine system. The torpedoes were supercavitating as well, though they only had a range of 10 nautical miles. The modified RAM missiles were useful, but not against warships. Plus, the subs had to surface to use them. They skulked together ten miles from the Flotilla, waiting for the strange bursts of sound to end.
Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live Page 37