Contents
Title
Dedication
Front Matter
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Epilogue
Backmatter
The Last Strike
Book 5
Of
The Last War Series
For my three favorite admirals: Kirk, Adama, and Ackbar
To be notified of future books in The Last War series, sign up here: smarturl.it/peterbostrom
Peter Bostrom is the pen name of Nick Webb co-writing with other authors. The Last Strike is by Nick Webb and David Adams.
Copyright 2018 by Hyperspace Media
Other books by Peter Bostrom:
The Last War Series:
Book 1: The Last War
Book 2: The Last Hero
Book 3: The Last Dawn
Book 4: The Last Champion
Other books by Nick Webb:
Constitution, Book 1 of the Legacy Fleet Series
Mercury’s Bane, Book 1 of the Earth Dawning Series
The Terran Gambit, Book 1 of the Pax Humana Saga
Other Books by David Adams:
Lacuna, Book 1 of the Lacuna Series
The Polema Campaign, Book 1 of The Symphony of War
Air Force One
Miramar Air Force Base
California
Earth
Three months after Jack Mattis’s court-martial
President Edita Schuyler wasn’t looking forward to the burning heat outside Air Force One. Ever since The Big One—an earthquake about a bazillion on the Richter scale—had torn up the state’s land and oceans, the climate of San Diego was hot. Was always hot.
And yet the real heat was political. The city was an important battleground for her. She had to go out and go out strong.
Soldiers had their battlefields, and politicians had theirs too. Right now, this month, the good state of California was her Alamo.
And yet, her mind was somewhere else entirely: the upcoming meeting with Captain Jack Mattis. The infamous former Admiral Jack Mattis. They had debriefed and discussed Spectre and the Avenir, and now it was time to decide what to do about them.
The plan so far was to reach out to the Avenir and join forces with them. To give them Spectre—if they could ever find him. But what would that look like? Could they even—
“We need to make a comment on the transportation bill,” said Vice President Jameson over the phone for the ten-thousandth time. “I know you don’t want to do it. But the people need answers. You’ve got to talk to them, Edita.”
She hadn’t prepared a response. For weeks, all her attention had been devoted to the long-awaited meeting with Mattis. Above all, she needed a defensive strategy against Spectre and the unique threat that man represented to their world. She put another pin in her hair. “I know, Chris. My official comment is: we’re still deliberating the minutia of the road funding.” That wasn’t true, of course, but it would do.
“Okay. And unofficially?” An edge of… something crept into Jameson’s voice. Annoyance? Frustration? “We can’t keep stalling them. We must regain the initiative—take control of the narrative with this one. So what’s the unofficial position?”
“Unofficially, a bill with this kind of funding cuts isn’t just political suicide, it’s a political suicide bombing. If this thing passes, the blowback could take down the whole party—assuming the people don’t vote us out of office first.” She checked her hair again. It was fine. It had been fine before she started fiddling with it. Her stylist had done good work, but she always liked to do the last finishing touches herself. Be herself.
“But if we reject the bill,” said Jameson, “they’ll say we don’t care about the Avenir and this Spectre and the threat they pose, and that we would rather squabble about domestic matters. Lose-lose.”
Damn right. Lose-lose. “I know. So we’ve got to stall them as long as possible—until the midterms—and then we can hopefully flip a few seats and kill this thing for good. There’s no point having well-funded roads if an army of Spectres wipes us all out when he finally makes his move.” She sighed. “We’ll make up the funding shortfall in some other way.”
“Some other way,” echoed Jameson, skeptically. “Edita, you know we can’t just print all the money we like. We can’t inflate our way out of this one.”
Yeah, yeah. “There’s a way forward. I just need to convince the good people of California not to throw us out of office before I find it.”
Jameson snorted. “Yeah, a little speech is going to convince your average Californian to vote the way you want them to. Good luck.”
His lack of confidence was disheartening. She didn’t reply immediately, just glared at the phone.
“Sorry,” said Jameson, softening. “You know I have utter confidence in you. If anyone can sell sand to Arabs, it’s you.”
“That’s why I’m the president,” she said.
“That’s why you’re the president,” said Jameson, laughing. “Okay. A’right. No more doubting. Go. Knock ‘em dead out there.”
“Will do,” she said, and hung up.
As though waiting for the call to end, a knock promptly rattled the door, and she heard the voice of her chief of security: “One minute, Madam President.”
“Ok, Enrico.” Schuyler opened the door. “How do I look?”
He looked her over cautiously, then nodded. “Great. I still think you should be wearing a full-torso vest, though. Just in case.”
They’d been over this. Her protective vest only covered the middle of her chest; vest
s were available that covered almost the whole body, everything but the head and hands, but they were bulky. “I can’t,” she explained, patiently. “After that gun control debacle last month, I just can’t. It would send the wrong message. Like I’m expecting them to shoot me.”
Enrico conceded, raising his hands. “You’re the boss.”
She was. Schuyler clicked her tongue. “And Mattis… he’ll be there to meet me?”
“According to the satellite info, he’s on his way,” said Enrico. “Don’t worry.”
She briefly considered calling ahead to make sure, but she knew the security profile… and the call with Jameson had taken her whole flight anyway—as if pedestrian political bickering was more important than the fate of their entire species. “So. We have, oh, maybe forty seconds of free time left.” Such a luxury. “How are you doing, anyway? Has your wife had that kid yet? Feels like she’s been pregnant for two years.”
His smile grew. “Last week,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “Another boy. Enrico number five.”
“Future voters,” said Schuyler, grinning a bit. “Make sure they register.”
“Soon as they can. Unfortunately...” he shrugged playfully. “Term limits still exist.”
“Laws are so bothersome, aren’t they?”
The intercom chirped, and there was instantly no more time for banter. “Popping the hatch, Madam President,” said her pilot, his voice straining through the tiny speaker. “Stand by to disembark.”
With Enrico, she moved to the front of the ship. The outer door hissed faintly as it de-sealed, letting in the scorching hot air. Like opening an oven. Dammit. It was so hot.
Enrico opened the door for her and she stepped out. The hot air hit her like a wall. But she ignored it, waving and smiling to the crowd who’d turned out to meet her. Thousands of people… how long they had been standing on the tarmac, melting in the scorching heat, was anyone’s guess.
Cheers went up. The crowd was smaller than she expected, naturally, but it was hostile territory after all. Schuyler smiled wider, stepping down the metal steps. The railing was too hot to touch, but she forced herself to. Down the stairs, across the tarmac, then toward the crowd, a mass of people held behind concrete barricades.
“Looks good,” said Enrico in her earpiece-radio. “Chang, Peterson, check left. O’Reilly, Lu, check right. Rest of you, five point formation. Standard deployment, ladies and gentlemen, you know the drill.”
Of course the protestors were there. Of course they were. She observed them out of the corner of her eye. Three or four times the number of people here to greet her, angrily waving signs.
Feed The Needy Not The Greedy
Cut War Not Welfare
Austerity Kills Children
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bunch of whining hippies, thinking Spectre would give up just because someone made a sign. Schuyler looked straight ahead and stepped confidently up to the nearest clump of supporters. Crowds were always in clumps. People were like that. Or maybe the Secret Service had arranged them that way after vetting. She could still see their barricades and their metal detectors at the edge of the tarmac.
“Welcome to Cali, Madam President!” shouted someone, hand outstretched. She took it and shook firmly. “I voted for you!”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling her best smile. “Vote early, vote often. Thank you.” Then she moved onto the next outstretched hand and shook it as well. “Thank you, thank you. Thank you for your vote.”
A dance she’d done a thousand times. She walked from clump to clump, hands reaching out for her. Each time she picked one at random.
Another hand. “Thank you,” she said, shaking it. “Thank you.”
“Good luck in the midterms!” someone shouted. “You can do it!”
She could. Another hand. Another shake. Security jostled her. “Thank you, remember: vote early, vote often.”
Another hand. Shaken. Another. Shaken. Another. Shaken.
Another, holding a handgun pointed right at her.
She stared down the barrel mutely. It looked like another hand, but it was not. Disguised. Flat. Made out of some kind of synthetic polymer. Before she could do anything, say anything, it discharged.
Time slowed. The slide slowly jumped back, expelling a shiny brass shell casing. Fire leapt from the muzzle, a tongue of flame and smoke. Someone punched her in the side.
Another shot, seemingly to no effect.
Another.
Time sped up again.
Screaming.
“Get down, Madam President!” Enrico grabbed her, dragging her down to the ground, shielding her. He drew his own pistol, eyes scanning for the shooter. “Code red! Active shooter!”
Her team swarmed around her, forming a protective barrier of suits, weapons drawn. They were shouting things. Looking for someone to shoot. She couldn’t see from the ground.
The crowd of supporters scattered, shrieking and yelling, but the press remained, snapping photos. Damn. How would this look, her laying down on the ground, cowering behind her security staff?
“Is it a protester?” barked one of her staff. “Who’s got eyes?”
It wasn’t. She craned her head, trying to find the shooter, but Enrico pushed her back down.
“No, Ma’am! Don’t. Stay low.”
“I wanna see,” she protested, feeling his knee on her back. “Dammit, you’re hurting me.”
“Stay down!” Enrico shouted. He never, ever shouted. His eyes looked her over, just like he had before, but this time his widened in alarm. Panic. “Shit. Shit! Medic!”
Medic? She wasn’t hit. “I’m fine,” said Schuyler. The hot tarmac, baked by the sun, was stinging her. “Let me up.”
Enrico ignored her order. “Medic! Need a medic over here!”
One of her other staff stood on her foot, breaking her shoe-heel. Men were all around, crowding in. This wouldn’t do. She’d had enough.
“I’m fine!” Schuyler growled, roughly shoving Enrico off. She clambered back up to her feet, unbuttoning and pulling open her suit jacket. “See? I’m—”
Blood.
The first bullet had pierced her hip, just to the left of the edge of her protective vest. Enrico had been right, of course. The second one—she hadn’t even felt it—had poked a hole in her chest, missing the armored plate by less than an inch. The third... there was too much blood to tell.
“Oh shit,” she said, and then, as though on cue, the pain came. Searing. Burning. Her knees suddenly felt weak and, gracelessly, she slumped back down to the ground.
“Medic!” shouted Enrico, and distant sirens grew louder all around her. “The president has been shot!”
“I’m fine,” she said, a tremble in her voice. There was a lot of blood. “I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s going to be okay.”
She fought to keep her eyes open. Enrico injected her with something. Everything went… fuzzy. They were trying to save her.
“I’m fine,” she kept saying, and every time she said it, it was a little bit less sincere. “I’m fine.”
Things went even blurrier. Distant. She was loaded into a helicopter. A medical helicopter. More injections. Consciousness came and went.
Enrico held her hand the whole way to Sharp Memorial Hospital.
“How could a breach like this happen?” Enrico kept asking. “I want to know. We checked the protesters, we checked everyone. How could this happen?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, as they wheeled her into emergency surgery. “I’m going to be okay. Enrico? Where’s Enrico?”
“Yes, Madam President?” He had been beside her the whole time. Of course he had. Damn…
Her lips felt so dry. “Call Emma. Wake her up. I wanna give a speech... when I’m out of here. Make her write me a good one. We’ve got to get the transportation bill… killed.”
“You got it,” said Enrico. Now, suddenly, he had surgical scrubs on. “I’ll make sure it’s a good speech. Don’t worry.”
“Great,
” she murmured, as they pumped the sedatives into her body, preparing her for whatever operation they were about to do. “Don’t forget. Good speech. It’s gotta be good.”
“The best,” said Enrico.
Emma was the best. It would be a good speech. She felt the sedative flow through her, listened to the beeping of the machines and the nervous, concerned chatter of the doctors around her.
She was fine. She was going to be okay.
And then there was nothing.
Chapter One
San Diego Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
San Diego
California
Earth
Special Agent Denelle Blair sat at her desk holding a small, white envelope in her hands. It contained a letter from her superior, Special Agent Peter Miller of the FBI, director of the San Diego field office. The letter that would determine her future. It was marked TO BLAIR, DENELLE (APPLICANT).
Had she finally been transferred off-world? Was it happening? Who even sent a physical letter in this day and age?
“Oooh, is that the letter?” asked her colleague, Bert Dowling, a big, annoying, dopey look on his face. “Doesn’t look good, Blair. When you’re accepted, they send you a big Manila envelope. When they reject you, you get the little white ones. That’s what happened to me. Big Manilla one for transfer, little white one for rejection.”
Why did Dowling insist on being a total bastard at any and all places, times, and opportunities? She scowled at him. “How do you know they didn’t just run out of the big Manila ones?”
“Yeah.” He snorted like the big fat pig he was. “The FBI ran out of approval envelopes.”
Angrily, Blair tore open the envelope and yanked the letter out.
Dear Special Agent Denelle Blair,
The Last Strike: Book 5 of The Last War Series Page 1