Hammerhead Resurrection

by Jason Andrew Bond

  “He’s a Hammerhead,” Stacy said and left the room.

  Chapter Three

  Jeffrey Holt sat cross-legged on the back of a Mitsubishi asteroid miner eating a sandwich, unwilling to face what his life had become. The ship’s rear thrusters towered to his left and right like massive haunches. Ahead, its sun-shining back stretched away in a broad, titanium plane, buckled halfway down from the force of the crash. A scent similar to burnt copper wires drifted by now and again on a capricious breeze. Beyond the ship’s smashed prow, the salt-crusted dirt of the lakebed ran out to the mountains, which stood in clear relief against the pale-blue sky. It was rare to have no heat waves. In the cool, spring air stark shadows reached deep into the ravines.

  Finishing his sandwich, he smacked the crumbs off his hands, stood, and turned to the gorilla, which sat hunkered down behind him. As he walked to it, his boots clanged on the back of the leviathan ship, which had been retired after thirty years of service.

  Entering the shade under the gorilla, he climbed the ladder into the cab. Leaning into the back pad, he strapped himself in with the five-point harness. When he hit the close-cab switch, the doors swung shut with a thump, enveloping him in darkness. As he pulled on his VR goggles, the exterior cameras went active. As if a few inches from his face, one of the Gorilla’s forearms came into view, a bullet scar across the paint directly in the camera’s line of sight. Jeffrey could hardly believe it had been a decade since he and Stacy had survived the firefight in the gorilla. While the machine showed no signs of slowing down, he did. With his metal spine, modified vascular, muscular, and nervous system, he still felt strong and mentally sharp, but his life had gone still as though a windless lake in the twilight of his life. He’d never remarried. Working alone in the heart of Nevada hamstrung his social life. Now with Leif and Sarah hundreds of millions of miles distant on Europa, his house—even on weekends—was a quiet place he didn’t care to be.

  He went through the start up sequence. The gorilla stood, arms dropping away from the cameras. The broken back of the ship descended. Slipping on his gloves with the metal rings around each finger-joint, he put his hands on his hips. The gorilla mimicked him.

  Where do I start on this beast?

  While the Mitsubishi had come down yesterday, he’d spent the morning coordinating the final shipments of raw materials out of the scrap yard. The last ship had a large sphere at the fore and a brick of thrusters to the aft connected by a long, fragile body. The thing had come down sideways and blown apart into thousands of pieces. It had taken him far longer than expected to clean it up. Not that he complained. It meant he could work until the sun dipped below the western mountains and come out on Saturdays. Now he had this solid beast to rip down. At seventy years old, Jeffrey had Leif bugging him to retire, but from what? Demolition? Never. Aside from hope for Sarah and Leif’s future, this was all he had.

  But he couldn’t spend time feeling sorry for himself. It had never been his way. The demolition of the miner called for removing the thrusters intact for repurposing. Everything else was to be broken down and recycled.

  As he took a step, the foot plates in the cab went active, simulating the surface movement below the gorilla. He walked over to an engine nacelle. “Gorilla, kneel.”

  The gorilla knelt and tore into the skin of the ship at the base of the thruster. The titanium peeled away as if made from brittle lead exposing structural mounts beneath. He threw the strip of metal aside before repeating the motion with the gorilla’s other hand.

  “Gorilla, stand.”

  The gorilla stood, and he walked down several feet.

  “Gorilla, kneel.”

  He tore another line of metal sheathing away, repeated the procedure all the way down both thrusters.

  “Cutter,” he said. The gorilla’s right hand fell backward at the wrist, and a metal bar extended. When he pulled his finger in a trigger motion, blue plasma arced along the cutter’s edge. He touched it to the first structural mount, and metal spattered away. When he shut the cutter off, he heard a rumbling. He looked at the deck of the ship, but the rumbling seemed to come from a distance. He looked to the mountains, but the sound didn’t come from out there, it came from high up. He listened to the deep rumbling. Not Jet turbines. That was nuclear drive plates.

  It had been ten years since he’d had unscheduled visitors. He thought of Stacy, now an eleven year veteran of Special Warfare. The last time he’d seen her she’d been confident, powerful, and unquestionably in charge. He felt a great deal of pride in who she’d become, but had to admit that he missed those last vestiges of the unsure little girl that had lived in her. While she hadn’t grown into arrogance, she was now fully aware of her capabilities both mentally and physically. Small doubts can be endearing, and she seemed to have none. But she had become a strong woman, and Jeffrey could want nothing less for her.

  As the rumbling grew louder now punctuated by heavy thuds, a dark point in the clear-blue sky grew into an orbital reentry vehicle, the red glow of descent fading from the black tiles along its belly. Jeffrey’s eyes followed the craft down as its nuclear drive shut down and liquid hydrogen/oxygen stabilization rockets lanced out with a faint blue light, shifting left and right. Landing skids extended from its belly. As it touched down about a three hundred feet away, the craft vanished in a cloud of salt-dust.

  Kicking fresh footholds into the side of the ship, he climbed the gorilla down. As he walked over to the lander, which had set down sideways to Jeffrey, its rear ramp dropped open. A pair of gray and black fatigue-clad legs stepped out on the descending ramp. The hips became visible, the arms and chest, and finally a weathered face and gray hair. Sam Cantwell.

  He’s retired. What’s he doing wearing BDU’s and riding on a Navy reentry vehicle?

  He suspected he didn’t want the question answered.

  “Gorilla, shut down.”

  As the gorilla powered down, he pulled out his earpieces and removed the VR goggles from his head. In the darkness of the cab he smacked the glowing, green cab-close switch. The cab doors opened, flooding the space with shadowed sunlight. Jeffrey climbed down the ladder to the crunching dirt of the lakebed and stepped out from under the gorilla.

  Walking toward him, Cantwell lifted his hand in simple greeting. He didn’t smile, which was usual for the taciturn admiral. Under his arm, he carried a flat bundle. Jeffrey met him on the open lakebed.

  “Sam, how are you?”

  Cantwell nodded as a response to the pleasantry before saying, “You told me if they ever came back, you’d sign up and fight.” He held out the bundle, a dark-gray Navy uniform.

  A horrific rush rose up through Jeffrey’s chest and pressurized the blood in his neck and face. Drawing a breath, he exhaled hard, puffing out his cheeks, and took the uniform from Cantwell, its fabric pressed and smooth.

  Cantwell put his hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Jeffrey smiled against a sudden hopelessness. “I have the distinct impression, thanks to political pressure from conspiracy theorists, we’re drastically unprepared for this.”

  Cantwell nodded.

  Jeffrey said, “That means we die.”

  Cantwell’s expression remained flat. “Then we die fighting.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I’m fine with that, but I’m not shaving my beard.”

  Cantwell let out a slight laugh.

  Jeffrey pointed his thumb to the gorilla. “I need to get this thing parked back at—”

  “No time.” Cantwell turned and walked toward the reentry vehicle.

  As Jeffrey followed, his initial hopelessness cracked. The volcanic pressure of something he hadn’t felt in a long time brought Dylan Thomas to his mind.

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light… I will and more.

  He felt suddenly on fire and glad of the chance to fight for something meaningful one last time.

  Chapter Four

  Stacy stepped through the airlock onto the team’s medium-size
d transport/fighter, which on the outside, looked very much like its squat, snub-nosed namesake—a warthog. The ship was docked to the Rhadamanthus’ gravity drum, its rotation creating a full G at its outer edge. Absorbed in the wonderful sensation of a natural G, Stacy sat in a jump seat next to Jacqueline, who packed bottles and packets into her Kevlar medic’s bag.

  Jacqueline had the sleeves of her dark-gray jumpsuit rolled up to her elbows, exposing the compass rose tattoo on the inside of her forearm. Her true north, as she called it, as an SW Medic, had come after losing her husband and infant son in a transport crash.

  Stacy considered the airlock survivors. Two cocoon-like survival bags floating in the quiet, freezing darkness. She imagined the survivors as gray-haired scientists, perhaps a woman and a man. Today, Jacqueline had the chance to snatch those two from death.

  Jacqueline zipped the bag closed. When Stacy had first met the taller woman, her ice-blue eyes had struck her as heartless. However, the woman who rarely smiled had proven to have a deep reverence for life, and a welling of sincerity that Stacy had come to rely on.

  Stacy wondered if risking someone like Jacqueline was worth those two survivors. Seven lives for two… two drawing what they most likely considered their final breaths in a metal coffin.

  She knew full well that worth it didn’t factor in.

  Their Vehicle Operator, Lieutenant Marco Fields, who once claimed he could fly a horse over short distances, came into the crew area from the cockpit. Stacy had only known one pilot better. Of course, in her mind, no one could outfly Jeffrey Holt. Marco and his generation had none of his modifications, which had facilitated the Hammerheads’ victory fifty years ago. She wondered if these visitors to Europa marked the eventual death of Marco and most of his generation of pilots as it had for Jeffrey’s.

  “Marco,” she asked, “Are you ready to keep two people alive?”

  His constant smile faded. “I’m there O.C.”

  As Stacy looked over Jacqueline and Marco, doubt hounded her. Jeffrey had told her many times that no one could fully prepare for the real thing, but Stacy knew this team had trained hard, pushing itself as far as possible without killing someone. Each member had permanent scars from training. They’d get it done.

  “Let’s wait until the rest of the team is here,” she said. “I only want to go over it once.”

  Lieutenant Xavier Riley, or X as everyone called him, bent his tall, thin frame to come through the hatch. His wide eyes, which held Stacy’s for a moment as he sat, regarded the world with a hawklike depth and clarity, looking in all ways the perfect fit for his sniper specialty.

  As was his way, he sat in silence, nodding once to her. When Marco punched him in the shoulder, X put the tip of his index finger to Marco’s temple and curled his middle finger in a trigger pulling motion.

  Only Spacewalk Specialist Adanna Hammersmith and Demolitions and Breech Master Horace Sixtro remained absent.

  Stacy looked to each member. When each avoided her gaze, she asked, “Where are they?”

  X kept his eyes on the floor as Marco looked to Jacqueline. Jacqueline found something to adjust on her medical kit.

  In a seething tone, Stacy asked, “Are you serious?” In her heart though, she wasn’t surprised. She’d noticed the looks between the two over the last several months, looks which she’d dismissed as they suggested an impossibility. The player Horace and the frigid Adanna were as unlikely a match as fire and water. When they first began working together, they gave every indication of mutual hatred.

  Running footfalls came clanging down the corridor. Horace, of average build and average size, jumped through the airlock out of breath. Adanna came in right behind him. She ran her fingers through her regulation-short hair, smoothing it.

  Stacy stood and glared at them. “Really?”

  They squared their shoulders at attention and locked their eyes on the far wall.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Stacy said as she walked over to the hatch, swung it shut, and sealed it. She’d rip them down later. Right now, the team needed to go live.

  “Sit down,” she said, letting her lack of approval show in her tone. Looking over the six members of her team, she said, “The Europa base has been destroyed by unknown ships.” She gave that a moment to sink in. Their quick looks to each other and slight widening of eyes let her know the news hadn’t reached general population. “Three ships, approximately the size of Lacedaemon-class destroyers, are cutting canyons in the surface of the moon with high-energy beams. They appear to be mining ice. The base destruction may or may not have been intentional.”

  “Are they hostile?” Adanna asked.

  “Definitely.” She told them about the survival pod’s destruction and the airlock.

  Horace asked, “Are these… them?”

  “That’s… undetermined. There aren’t a lot of people left alive who can visually identify the invaders and almost all images are highly classified. Our higher-ups haven’t released them yet.”

  “Jeffrey Holt would know,” Marco said. “He was in dog fights right next to their destroyers.”

  Stacy stared at him for a moment, letting him know this wasn’t a game to get excited about. When she saw his shoulders drop slightly she said, “I agree, we need Holt, and I’ve told the higher-ups as much, but he’s on Earth. We need to act now.”

  She could see questions forming in their eyes, but they kept their mouths shut and ears open.

  “The survivors should be frozen or asphyxiated by now,” Jacqueline said.

  “I agree, but they’re not. Two heartbeats are still detected by orbital sensors.”

  “Interesting,” X said, leaning forward. “They must be in survival bags with a portable oxygen source, but what about radiation?”

  “The airlock was built for use on the surface of Europa,” Stacy said. “It has as much radiation exposure in orbit as it had on the surface. Its design should offer adequate shielding, but we still don’t have much time to get to them. If we hadn’t been here in IO’s orbit, they’d have no chance. The next closest cruiser is orbiting Saturn, four days away.”

  “What advantages do we have?” Adanna asked.

  “The aliens appear unconcerned with life forms or are unable to detect them. We assume they’d have sought out the airlock otherwise. The power source or the transmitter from the life-pod seems to be what triggered them.” She summarized the plan to fly by without power.

  Horace asked, “How much time do we have?”

  “Unknown. They could run out of whatever resources are sustaining them at any moment. If the heart signals stop, we abort.”

  “That’s going to be quite a fly by,” Marco said.

  “You think it’s doable?” Stacy asked.

  For the first time since she’d met him, she saw doubt in his eyes even as he said, “No problem O.C. I’ve got this.”

  “I don’t need B.S. Marco. I need reality. If you think you can’t do it, we abort.”

  “You want the truth?” Marco leaned his head back against the wall, sounding irritated by his own self-doubt. “I won’t be able to tell you until we’ve come through it, so let’s get out there and find out. But we can’t go fully dark. X’s gunnery systems must be powered.”

  “I only need power for the gunnery chair and trigger mechanism,” X said.

  “What about VR?” Marco asked.

  “Don’t want it.”

  Marco looked at X as though he were stupid. “You mean to tell me you’re going to hit an object at a velocity delta of 1000 miles an hour manually?”

  “Yes,” X said flatly, as if it were nothing more than brushing his teeth.

  “Okay then,” Marco said as though he had no idea how to cope with the claim.

  “We’re running out of time,” Stacy said. “Marco, get us separated and target-bound.”

  “Yes, O.C.” He moved to a mini Nav-Con and tapped its dark base. A three-dimensional hologram of the Jovian system appeared, the banded sphere the
size of a pea floating above the dark glass. The moons lay in a long chain of diamond-sparks around the planet. Even at that small size the moons extended beyond the range of the Nav-Con’s viewer. On the dark side of the planet lay Io, it’s sulfur-yellowed light contrasting with the brilliant white of icy Europa on the far side of the system.

  Marco slid his finger along the glass causing a red line to leap away from Io, curve around behind Jupiter, and run away into open space.

  Marco slid his finger along the line, turning the red to blue until it moved inward and curled around Europa. He pointed to the place where the flight path changed from red to blue. “If we begin deceleration here and go dark here…” the line went white and shifted to fall short of Europa. He adjusted the acceleration and deceleration times until the arc intersected with Europa again. It now pinned straight into the center of the moon.

  “That’s not gonna work, Fields,” Horace said.

  “I damn well know that,” Marco said without looking up from the console. He increased the burn time until the line shifted back into a circular orbit.

  “Our relative airlock flyby velocity will be…” he leaned over the readouts, “1,000 miles an hour.” He shook his head. “That’s too fast. If we snatch it at that speed, we’ll grease the people inside.”

  “We’ll have to use a net pack,” X said. “Hooks could pierce the sides, and a single line could collapse it. I don’t trust the strength of that structure.”

  “Can you go slower?” Stacy asked.

  Marco entered more information into the Nav-Con. The path shifted, again, pinning into the center of the moon. He made another adjustment. It missed the moon and dropped into Jupiter’s broad bands. He returned it to wrap into an orbit again and shook his head. “No, we’ve got no hope of a slower flyby if we have to do it dark.”

  “We’ll use a decelerating trailing-link then.” X said.

  Marco turned to look at the sniper with disbelief. “At a thousand miles an hour delta, X? No one can hit that with a net pack.”