War Without Honor (Halloran's War Series Book 1)

by J. R. Geoghan

  Somewhat nervously, the other straightened and bowed slightly. The Prime caught the small glance from Elexxan to his crewman as he said, “you may engage the device now, Lord.”

  The Prime pointed out over the water body. “What do we expect will occur?”

  “Lord, as we have never attempted this before I can but surmise. The device envelops the target object in a projected field very similar to the field that it would were it a jump-drive. What the device does then is draw the target along the path we choose to a destination. At the terminus of the journey the target should appear just as though it is emerging from jump.”

  “Except that your crew have added time itself as a variable.”

  Elexxan wanted to argue—the Prime had long learned to read his facial expressions—but thought better of it. “That is essentially correct, Lord.”

  The First Advisor spoke up, his voice betraying his excitement. “Your device may lead to great victories, Elexxan.”

  Before the assembled group could rebuke the officer the Prime suppressed a smile and patted the Advisor’s shoulder. “My device.”

  Everyone held their breath, waiting to see of the First Advisor would be murdered on the spot for his insubordination. Elexxan had stiffened by his equipment, suddenly concerned for the success of his experiment. The hot wind blasted suddenly across the group, as if the planet itself was angry at the First Advisor.

  The Prime basked in the moment, relishing the fear and glory pulsing through his underlings.

  Interestingly, it was the Second Advisor who stepped forward. “Lord, your First Advisor…is Loyal and True.”

  The Prime looked hard at Second Advisor Axxa as he stood beside his superior and defended him. Invoking the sacred pledge was only done in situations where a family member was about to be executed or a comrade in arms condemned. It made little sense for the Second Advisor to defend his superior so forcefully here; in fact, he should be seeking promotion through the death of the First. But, not necessarily in this Second Advisor’s case.

  The Prime despised Axxa for who he was. A rising star in battles with the Kroklan race early on, then receiving high honor and much recognition in the Mensa War. Elevated to commander and assigned with glory to the invasion of the human homeworld star system. Fairly young in his career, but knowledgeable and insightful; two traits that in addition to his parentage had earned him the coveted Advisor-to-Prime role. But was he hungry for advancement? To the best of the Prime’s knowledge, Axxa had not eliminated a superior in his rise but had always been elevated through gallantry…or by blood connection. The Prime was very aware of Axxa’s family, as all were, of course. The Prime did not like the sudden trapped sensation he felt. He was…forced…to make the only decision circumstance offered him. He slowly released the First Advisor’s shoulder and sat again. “You defend your First, Second Advisor. May it go well with you for it.” His piercing look made the younger Praxxan glance away to break the gaze. There was something…The Prime could sense trouble there. And his instincts were always true.

  He turned his attention back to the matter at hand, conscious of the palpable relaxation emanating from his officers. He would need to eliminate someone later in retaliation for Axxa’s interference. To maintain the glory. “Elexxan, proceed before I weary of your delays.”

  Hurriedly the scientist spoke to his crew. Alexa’s voice came over a speaker. “The reactor is functioning, sir.”

  Elexxan cast one last look at the Prime, who sat back in his chair, once again in total control. The Praxxan leader nodded back—proceed.

  The scientist reached forward himself to engage the device with a control that the Prime could not see. “The device is powering up, Lord. Needless to say, this test will drain much power from the Center’s core…”

  “How long?” The Prime was dissatisfied with the snap in his voice as he said that; he was angrier about the face-off with Axxa than he had admitted to himself. The anger was seething within him, realized in frustration. It was sucking the glory from his moment of triumph…

  “Not long before the field arrives at these coordinates, Lord.” Elexxan was avoiding his stare.

  The Prime ground his teeth. He would not be usurped, not now. With hard eyes he watched the dark water before him and waited.

  Chapter 9

  Pearl Harbor 2029

  Admiral Buston stepped down from the podium and took his seat in the front row, smoothing his dress uniform as he did so. The Hawaiian congresswoman replaced him and thanked the audience for coming. Buston politely nodded back as he settled in.

  Captain Halloran leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “Not a bad speech, sir. When did you get so good at that?”

  “You’ll find out when you get your own star, Tom.”

  Halloran glanced over at Captain Antonov, who was seated on the opposite side of Buston with an implacable expression on his face.

  As if sensing his look, and without breaking his studious gaze towards the podium, Antonov commented softly. “In Russia, officers are very good at giving speeches. Submarine men, on the other hand, are more interested in actions—not words.”

  “Well said,” replied Buston with a small grin at Halloran.

  Halloran watched the Russian for another few seconds, taking his measure. The man’s face was pocked with marks and lined heavily, most likely from a career spent in the regular navy. Halloran had read up on Pyotr Antonov from the files provided him by Naval Intelligence—fifty-two, married with one grown son, also in the Navy. Like Halloran himself, the Russian had come up through the ranks in boats, except that he had done a stint in the surface navy before transferring to submarines. Unlike the American, though, Antonov had not started out of college but by enlisting at an early age. Likely the man would point to his degree from “the school of hard knocks.” He obviously had a sense of humor—however dry—and his overall bearing was that of a seasoned veteran who wouldn’t abide disrespect but would be a good combat skipper. He was currently serving in a desk job overseeing one of the Russian sub groups, something Halloran would bet he’d rather not be doing.

  Beyond Antonov sat Chinese Admiral Zhou Fang with one of his officers. Halloran had seen his file as well. Sixty-one and impressively immaculate, the Admiral was not a submariner but had instead spent his career with the People’s Liberation Army Navy surface fleet. His most recent billet oversaw the submarine fleet, including the country’s fast-growing ballistic missile sub group. The man was known as a Communist Party operator and his file was full of interesting leaps through the ranks at the expense of other officers, many of whom resigned in disgrace or were simply removed from their positions. The US Naval Intelligence estimation of the Admiral was not particularly glowing. Married twice, no children. The officer accompanying him had not been in the file, so Halloran would have to get to know him the old-fashioned way. While on a hot exercise with a full complement of weaponry. He found himself sighing as he refocused on the speaker.

  Ten long minutes later, the officers stood to one side as the crowd of reporters and island dignitaries filed out of the tent, set up in a grassy section across the way from the Pacific submarine headquarters building and alongside a sand volleyball court.

  The congresswoman passed by and shook their hands briefly, barely noticing them as her staff pointed her in the direction of the waiting press outside.

  Buston motioned to the group. “Shall we?”

  As the men walked across the grass, Antonov and Zhou formally introduced themselves to the US officers. The second Chinese officer introduced himself as Vice-Captain Chen. Halloran thought it odd that both Chinese men had not worn their uniforms in favor of light jackets and slacks. Even in those outfits, though, they had the obvious bearing of military types.

  “Well, gentlemen, we push off in thirty minutes, so let’s get ourselves situated,” Buston said.

  “So you are indeed joining us on this exercise, Admiral?” Zhou asked.

  Buston glanced at Hallor
an. “The Captain and I felt that my presence would be helpful as a liaison for the three of you, since he would be busy with his crew and the boat.”

  “I will confess, I am eager to see your vessel, Captain,” Antonov said.

  Halloran smiled. “You’ll love her, Captain. She’s a dream to pilot.”

  “Hopefully I will get the opportunity.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  A black SUV was waiting for the group on Cromwell Court, and Buston opened the doors for them to climb in. Five minutes later they pulled up at Merry Point alongside the Bonhomme Richard, which was moored behind the USS Virginia, a class-leading but much older attack submarine. The Bonhomme Richard dwarfed the smaller vessel, almost two hundred feet longer than its neighbor. They were the closest sub to the main channel, having been moved there the day prior in readiness for departure.

  Chen stopped by the gangplank, appraising the missile boat. “An impressive vessel, Captain.”

  Halloran sensed the sincerity in the man’s voice. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “How has the first year proceeded for you?”

  Of course they had read up on Halloran as well. “I’m sure you know…” he began.

  “Of course, Captain. You have our condolences.”

  Halloran felt a flash of anger. “What I was going to say was that I’m sure you know that we had the collision with the tender last year, which set us back several months as the boat was rehabbed.” He could sense the heat that had flushed his cheeks.

  “Of course, please accept—.”

  Buston stepped between the two. “Shall we board, gentlemen?” But he flashed Halloran a serious look as Chen followed his Admiral up the gangway. Antonov was up first, hands on hips and head swiveling first one way and then the other, taking the sub in with his eyes.

  Halloran looked away, noticing the gathering crowd of spouses and other significants as they awaited the sub’s departure. He caught sight of Loraine Chandler in the knot of people and her eyes met his. She hesitated too long before waving. He raised a hand in reply as he went up to the casing. Cindy’s absence is on everyone’s mind at a moment like this. He was alone.

  Weapons Officer Lieutenant Commander Singletary and Chief Reyes met them at the main hatch. “Sir, the ship is ready in all respects to proceed to sea,” announced Master Chief Reyes, his eyes roaming over the foreigners as he said it. “If the dignitaries would follow me, I’d be honored to direct them to their cabins and then the wardroom for coffee and to watch the departure on the closed circuit.”

  Buston nodded. “Please proceed, Chief. After I change, I’ll be joining the Captain up top until we clear the harbor.”

  When the Chief and officers had departed, Singletary stepped up to Halloran. “Sir, weapons are locked down per your instructions. Access is set to safe mode.”

  Halloran nodded. “Thanks, Weps. And I want to keep it that way for the duration of the voyage.” Safe mode was code for the weapons status—specifically the missiles—that only allowed for access by the Captain himself via a complex series of unlock passwords requiring matching codes from Naval Command. If the world needed the advanced-tech warheads tucked away in Bonhomme Richard’s tubes during the next four days, they wouldn’t get them. Halloran was determined to ensure that nothing of consequence occurred during the visit of the foreign nationals aboard. He hadn’t even told Buston about his decision…yet. It was his boat.

  They descended into the submarine and the hatch was closed behind them. Once he’d changed in his cabin into his camo work uniform, Halloran made for the base of the ship’s sail. Buston was waiting in the passageway and followed them forward and up the ladder to the sail.

  “Captain, we’re ten minutes from scheduled departure time,” announced Executive Officer Commander Charles “Skip” Chandler as soon as he saw Halloran’s head pop into sight.

  “Thanks Skip. Wave to your wife.”

  “Welcome aboard, Admiral.” Skip shook Buston’s hand warmly as Halloran accepted a pair of binoculars from Yeoman Price and leaned out over the side of the sail, his eyes following the line of the dock and the Bonhomme Richard, appraising the deck crew’s readiness to cast off lines.

  He was feeling particularly pensive about this cruise, and didn’t want to see any foul-ups with all the extra press and attention from the shore crowd present. Normally in recent years, the Navy had the boomers leave and arrive harbor in the dead of night, their schedules scrambled to throw off attempts to track them. Today Halloran felt far too “on display” for his liking.

  He was in the process of telling himself to stop frowning when he caught sight of a photographer aiming his camera up at the sail. That’ll make a nice photo for the papers, he thought grimly as the man lowered his camera to check the picture on his small screen.

  Halloran turned away from the shore and exhaled slowly, taking in the tight group of men gathered in the small space and the harbor that stretched out behind them. Time to focus on the sea, Halloran, he told himself. Time to get back into the action. The past several months needed to be behind him right now. He needed to be one hundred percent present for his ship and crew.

  Chandler had his elbows on the forepart of the sail. “Seven minutes, sir.” He was using his binoculars to study something on the dock—probably Loraine.

  “Very well. Single up the lines and prepare for departure.”

  “Deck crews, single up the lines,” Price said into his walkie-talkie. Halloran glanced back at the knots of seamen in red and yellow vests gathered around their stations along the hull, passing the lines across to the shoreside hands. Two men stood by in dive shorts holding their fins, ready in case someone slipped into the harbor.

  The tug alongside called Price on his walkie. “Sounding horn now.”

  As was the ritual, everyone reached up and plugged their ears just moments before the loud, low whistle blew for several seconds. And as usual, you could easily spot the landlubbers ashore as they freaked out at the sudden, intense blast. Family members took it all in stride and continued waving and calling out.

  Halloran scanned the harbor one more time before lowering his glasses and nodding at Chandler. “Signal the tug, Skip.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.” He turned to Price. “Inform the Tiger that we are ready for departure. Cast off all lines.”

  Price repeated the orders into his microphone.

  “I miss these moments, Captain,” said Buston from Halloran’s side.

  “I bet you do, sir.”

  “All lines cast off, sir. Maneuvering away from the dock now.”

  Halloran nodded. “Very well.”

  “Captain, conn!”

  Halloran keyed his own mic at his chest. “Conn, Captain here.”

  “Sir, we’ve got something unusual happening. Significant electromagnetic activity, off the scales.”

  “Explain.”

  “Instrumentation is going haywire. GPS, Nav, Everything turned on is getting hit.”

  Buston looked at Halloran. “An EMP strike?”

  Halloran keyed his mic. “Any evidence of hostile activity?”

  Singletary came on the line. “Negative, sir. But we’re reading an air burst of some sort, close aboard. Do you see anything up there?”

  Price was looking forward. “Sir, something is happening!”

  All eyes turned up to look. To Halloran’s amazement, the air was growing thicker even as he saw what looked like haze developing just in front of the bow. The Virginia, moored about two hundred feet behind of their vessel, was becoming hard to make out through the buzzing air. A sound similar to the crack of lightning smacked the Bonhomme Richard’s sail.

  Halloran found himself yelling, somewhat deafened by the intense sounds filling the air. “Tell the tug to put us back along the dock now!” He saw that the gap had widened to about forty feet. People along the dock were scattering, running away from the sizzling air. He felt his hair standing on end. “Everyone below!”

  It took only
a few seconds for the crew, led by Buston, to fall through the hatch into the sub’s interior. Price was the last down and pulled the lanyard to close the hatch. Halloran trusted him to do his job and slid down the ladder and raced across the passage to the Control Room. Chandler was right behind him as they piled in, looking for answers.

  Singletary was waiting for him. “All hands report aboard and the boat is buttoned up.”

  “Very well, but what are we buttoning up for, Weps?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, sir. If we didn’t know better we’d say that either Pearl is getting hit with some sort of unknown EMP blast, or the world’s first blue-sky electromagnetic storm is hitting Hawaii.”

  Petty Officer Carruthers shouted from her station. “Sir, communication is cut!”

  “Cut, how?”

  “I can’t raise any channels.”

  Halloran was exasperated. “Carruthers, we’re moored in the middle of Pearl Harbor.”

  “Yes, sir. Can’t hear anything but static.”

  Chandler was bending over his station. “Sir, I can confirm that the boat is surrounded by some sort of intense power field.”

  Halloran spun to him. “Did you say ‘surrounded?’ How is that?”

  “By all appearances, we are encased in an energy field, which is blocking every signal from getting in or out.”

  Buston had been staying out of the way to one side of the Control Room, but now he spoke up. “Tom, does this have something to do with our guests?”

  Halloran threw his hands up. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

  Then the submarine lurched suddenly to starboard, throwing everyone off balance. Halloran’s head struck the decking hard and he found himself groping for the nearest solid object, calling out in anger. “What just hit us!” He felt the hot stickiness of blood running down his face.

  Chandler’s voice, somewhere near yet sounding far-off. “Gyros offline. All systems powering down. What the…”