The Last Strike: Book 5 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  We have received your application to transfer to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s intergalactic division. We have received a large number of applicants this year, and unfortunately we were unable to accept all of them, despite many strong applications. Your application has not been selected. We thank you for your consideration, and hope—

  Blair scrunched up the letter. Dammit, Dowling. Why was he so frustratingly right?

  “Bummer,” said Dowling, a pleased smile spreading on his face.

  Piece of shit.

  “Look,” he said, letting the smile fall away, replacing it with something almost approaching sincerity. “Maybe you just need a big case to get their attention, you know? Something to make them notice you.”

  She sighed and smoothed out the crumpled letter, sliding it in into a desk drawer. “Maybe.”

  “Next big case that comes along, I promise. You can take point for it. No matter what it is.” Dowling waggled a thick finger. “When something big happens, you’ll get your ticket outta here.”

  “Nothing ever happens here,” grumped Blair. “Just petty crime. Nothing big. Nothing exciting. I’m going to be stuck at this desk forever.”

  “Next big case. Promise.”

  She didn’t believe a word he said. But right at that moment, her communicator chirped. Her news app. Out of a mixture of frustration and boredom, she scanned the message.

  PRESIDENT SCHUYLER ASSASSINATED IN SAN DIEGO WITH CHINESE STEALTH GUN

  This would go straight to the director’s desk. No doubt about it. But if Schuyler was really dead… there was bound to want someone to take point in San Diego until they arrived. Someone to do the initial ground work. Find a lead. A suspect. Something she could grab first, with both hands, and not let go.

  “So,” she said, fighting to keep the excited tremble out of her voice. “The, uh… next big case, huh?”

  Dowling put his hand mockingly on his chest. “Promise,” he said.

  Her grin became a mile wide. “Great,” she said, “because I have just the one…”

  Chapter Two

  Del Mar

  California

  Earth

  Meanwhile

  Captain Jack Mattis squinted in the bright Californian sun as Elroy drove through the endless traffic, cars on his left and the ocean on his right. Ever since the autopilot had broken down, the trip had turned into a nightmare. No worries Captain, Elroy had said. I’ll do it manually.

  Captain… he hadn’t held the rank of Captain in many years. But it wasn’t as bad as he had expected. It was the process of being demoted that hurt. All he had done was tell the truth. All he had done was fight for humanity. All he had done, he had done for his country—his species.

  And now his son was dead. He knew the courts had been somewhat merciful, despite the unfounded allegations, but he simply couldn’t shake the feeling that they had looked at what he had done and simply said, “thanks, but no thanks.”

  Still, there was some relief. He was going to meet the president in person to discuss a plan of action; an honor, surely, but he felt woefully unprepared. They had exchanged words at Commander Pitt’s funeral, but it was different to be asked to brief her. It would have been nice of her to hold the meeting in D.C., but apparently “security was a concern”.

  Empty cans of energy drinks and cold coffee rattled in the back seat, clunking against the sidearm in the footwell. He raised his arm to shield his eyes, the sting of the action causing his fingers to twitch.

  They should have flown, the air-traffic lockdown be damned. His shoulder ached when he moved it, having endured three surgeries now and counting; a dull reminder of the value of following proper medical advice.

  And of his son’s death.

  Chuck, pinned under the debris of a ruined warship’s corridors, hadn’t seemed to have been in pain, despite his injuries. He’d even smiled. Hey, Dad. If I don’t get out of this, tell Elroy I love him, okay?

  Those hadn’t been his final words, though, fitting as they were. Instead, it had been a simple phrase. One he’d said as Mattis extended his hand to pull him out.

  I got you.

  The voice of a son trusting his father. A father who had let him die.

  That thought would be with him until the day he died.

  “You okay?” asked Elroy from the driver’s seat. The car’s wheels clattered as they crossed an old, coastal railway track, its engine humming quietly as it trundled toward their destination. They’d driven from Baltimore, sleeping in the car and taking turns driving after the autopilot had died, but now that they were close, it was impossible to rest any more. His legs were tired. He needed to get out.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’m fine. I just wish we didn’t have to drive.”

  “I know. But, well, money’s tight, and since Goalkeeper locked down orbital and atmospheric traffic except for military use, it’s cheaper to rent a car for a week than it was to fly two people both ways.”

  This was true. Still. Two and a half days sleeping in a moving car with his dead son’s husband had not been kind on his old bones. “Well, when I finally get up there, after we talk to the president and the space-travel lockdown’s lifted, I’ll make sure to make an exception for you.”

  “Well,” said Elroy, stifling a pronounced yawn. “That’d be super keen, dad.”

  Dad. He still wasn’t used to that. Elroy had said it before, but even so, it was something that took a lot of getting used to. They hadn’t discussed it, or planned it, instead it was one of those things that had just happened. The way he said it was obviously sincere. Elroy was really trying to get closer.

  “I haven’t really slept much this whole trip,” said Mattis, fighting the urge to yawn. “How about you?”

  “Oh, a bit,” said Elroy, with a little smile. “Chuck and I used to do road trips whenever we could. And when the money was there. Just for the fun of it, you know?”

  “Ah,” said Mattis, his heart sinking. How many times had Chuck sat in this seat? Looked right across at Elroy like this?

  Suddenly he felt vaguely stupid. Chuck had never sat here. It was a rental. He’d even been present when it was rented. Mattis was imagining things… letting his mind play tricks on him. A stupid, old, tired man.

  “Anyway. It’s been good to share this with you.” Elroy smiled again, in a way that seemed slightly forced. Unnatural. “I know things have been busy since the funeral. Sorry about that.”

  The car’s HUD chirped as it pointed out that they were getting close to Miramar Air Force Base. Mattis scowled slightly as Elroy pulled past a white, flat structure set back from the road. Miramar’s Naval Consolidated Brig. Where he was almost imprisoned.

  “Not as sorry as I am.” Mattis kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, ignoring the military prison as best he could. He had come so close to being locked up in there. Best not to think about how that might have gone. “Let’s keep going. Too bad we won’t be able to catch a shower before we get there, because… boy, you stink.”

  “And you stink too.” He smiled. “So I guess we’re even. We’re definitely going to need a shower before we meet President Schuyler.”

  Elroy smiled. “Who can tell at this point?”

  He considered. “Demotions aside, I’m still an officer. I might be able to get hold of a shower when we arrive.”

  “That sounds good,” said Elroy, smiling again.

  Ahh, that smile. A smile Mattis had been seeing a lot of. The kind of… hey, I know your life sucks right now, but I’m trying to be nice smile.

  “Okay,” said Mattis. “Just pull in at the gate. Maybe try the autopilot again.”

  Elroy tapped on the screen and the car chirped its acknowledgement, then emitted a dull bloop. Still broken.

  “I feel,” said Mattis, cautiously, “that I should be trying to make you feel better.”

  Elroy sighed and looked out the window. “Maybe. But I didn’t just go through what you went through, you know? War and… that. I’ve ha
d more time to work through this—through what happened to Chuck.”

  “We’ve had the same amount of time,” said Mattis, still hesitant.

  “Well it’s more than that. At the funeral, I promised Chuck that I would be there for you.” For him? That was… unexpected, given their history. “I know we haven’t exactly had a perfect relationship. I know you didn’t exactly approve of Chuck and me. Probably still don’t, on some level. But that’s okay. Right now I’m here for you.”

  Mattis smiled. “Thanks, Elroy.”

  “No worries. Honestly, I just love helping people. That—that helps me in a way.”

  Mattis settled back into his uncomfortably familiar seat. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s like I’ve always said… you just gotta always do what you can, with what you have, today. It’s a good piece of advice I feel, to do with all things. Just… do what works for you, and if helping me is going to help you, then by all means.”

  “That makes sense,” said Elroy, nodding. “Kinda what I’ve been doing already, just… with less fortune-cookie wisdom to back it up.”

  Mattis snorted. Fortune cookies…

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s an inside joke.” He smiled to himself. “During the Sino-American war. We captured a Chinese transport ship full of supplies for the war effort. They came out of Z-space right on top of us, must have had some kind of malfunction or something. Pretty nice haul… ammo, medical supplies, you name it, all taken without firing a shot. Biggest thing they had was these huge shipping crates full of fortune cookies. Literally hundreds of thousands of the things, all with the little…” he snickered. “The stupid little sayings in them, you know? Like, oh, hey, your day will be full of joy, or your wife is cheating on you, or whatever. The funny thing is, fortune cookies were actually invented in California ages ago, they were just really popular in China at the time, because they saw them as American capitulation to Chinese culture, and—”

  The car took a turn, swerving as it suddenly crossed two lanes of traffic to pull into an exit lane away from the base.

  “Whoa,” said Mattis, glaring down at the console. “What the hell was that?” He looked at Elroy. “Did you turn the autopilot back on?”

  “No,” said Elroy, wide-eyed. “Did you?”

  “From the passenger’s seat?” Mattis frowned. “No.”

  And yet it was on. The car tore away form Miramar, accelerating along with all the other auto-driving traffic. 90km/h. 100km/h. 120km/h.

  “Holy shit,” said Elroy, gripping the Jesus handle. “What’s going on?”

  Their car split off from the other traffic, peeling into a side street. Ahead, flashing lights and wailing sirens marked a police blockade.

  “This isn’t good,” said Mattis, as the car slowed down, trundling to a stop just in front of a dozen police officers with guns drawn.

  “Get out of the car!” shouted one of the officers, pointedly clicking the safety off her rifle. “Now! Show me your hands!”

  What the hell was all this? Obediently, Mattis raised his hands. “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

  Two police officers moved forward, cautiously, pistols out. They grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back, igniting a burning pain in his shoulder.

  “Captain Jack Mattis,” said the officer, forcing him down onto his knees, “you’re coming with us.”

  Chapter Three

  Naval Consolidated Brig, Miramar

  California

  Earth

  To Patricia “Guano” Corrick, the days in the brig were beginning to blur together.

  Regular strip searches. Showers with lice-killing agents. Guards performing suicide checks and contraband checks and cell integrity checks and checks for things she didn’t understand—didn’t even care to understand.

  The only thing that changed with each day was the order and frequency of the events. Each existed in a static environment; everything else was the same, and with the random events excluded, each day was functionally identical to the last.

  Bright orange prison garments, way too big and baggy, made her look like a penguin with stubby little legs. She lived in a tiny cell with a steel door and a metal slit. She used her three possessions: cup, toothbrush, and toothpaste. She examined her face in a metal mirror, washed said face in the sink, used the attached toilet. The food was, somehow, even worse than military food. Random aromas wafted from the toilet.

  Day by day, week by week, month by month. Inspections came, inspections went. Meals went into her mouth and went out into the toilet. She felt like some kind of food-poop conversion machine, serving no other purpose.

  It was bleak. It was terribly boring. Yet she didn’t complain. She had been dragged out of the Stennis before it exploded. Bratta and Modi had, apparently, taken her down with some kind of dart device. She didn’t remember it at all. She barely remembered anything after… after she had taken the baby. That was something she could not forget.

  So she knew she deserved to be here. She’d told them everything. Now her home was the brig.

  Probably forever.

  However, before forever had a chance to arrive, something finally did happen that broke the monotony of it all. Guano didn’t know what day it was or what month it was. But her cell door opened well before it was supposed to, and suddenly a man in a suit stood on the threshold of her cell. He was tall, broad, and had a military bearing. He wore a Navy uniform, but he was also carrying a black briefcase. Odd.

  “Lieutenant Corrick?”

  Guano stared at him in bewilderment, unable to process the idea of someone coming to her cell. “Yes?”

  The man pulled out a small business card. “Willis Turvey. Judge Advocate. I’m your lawyer.”

  A lawyer? No. She hadn’t needed a JAG in the trial, and she didn’t need one now. “Okay,” she said, a palpable tiredness suddenly coming over her. “But I deserve to be here. Thank you for your time. Sorry I wasted it.”

  “Actually,” said Turvey, his tone suggesting that he was expecting exactly that response, “it’s not a problem at all.” He paused, looking over his shoulder at the guard, then back to her. “Sorry, can I come in? It’s a bit awkward to just, you know, stand here. I’ve got something very important to show you.”

  The idea of someone coming into her cell was actually a welcome one. The only other people who’d been in there during her imprisonment were guards. And suddenly, she desperately didn’t want this guy to leave.

  Quick self-check. Do you really want this guy to stay or leave? Is it really… you?

  It was. “Sure,” she said, shuffling over on her cot. “Come in. The accommodations are incredibly spartan, but you can enjoy the ambiance of the toilet, or even get some mostly-fresh water from the sink, if you want.” She gave a tired, forced smile. “Prison’s great.”

  Turvey, to his credit, laughed and sat down beside her, pulling his briefcase into his lap and opening it with a soft click. “Okay. Well, I might pass on the sewer gas, and also on the mystery water. But I do have this for you.” He produced a thin manila folder, labelled CTSCAN-CORRICK, PATRICIA.

  She craned her head. “What’s this?”

  He opened the folder, revealing a greyscale scan of her head. “The crew of the Caernarvon took this while you were unconscious. They were worried that Mr. Bratta’s invention might have deprived your brain of oxygen. So they scanned your head to make sure.”

  She hadn’t realized they’d tested her, as she had simply woken up in the brig. It made sense, though. Of course they had. “Did they find the crazy bit?” she asked, blithely.

  “Actually,” said Turvey, pointing to a grey splotch, circled in red. “They did.”

  Guano squinted. The cloudy area was tiny—or rather, several tiny smudges so close together that they seemed like one big smudge. “It looks like just a… thing.”

  “It is a thing,” said Turvey. “You see, people were asking questions. Before the—the incident where—”
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  “Where I shot Flatline and Roadie,” said Guano, the words bitter on her mouth. “Where I killed my CO and best friend. Yeah?”

  “Y-Yeah.” Turvey stammered slightly, before regaining his composure. “Yes, that. Before that your service history wasn’t perfect, but you were a good pilot. You followed orders. You’d been in and out of combat, with no signs of Combat Stress Reaction. In fact…” He pulled out another document. Typed up. The name at the top said Mohammad Yousuf.

  Roadie.

  Turvey began to read. “Lieutenant Corrick’s resilience is unparalleled. Although she has been in the thick of some of our most violent engagements and even lost friends, her tolerance for the rigors of combat is among some of the best I’ve ever seen. She is obviously affected by it—how could she not be?—but courage is not the absence of fear. Instead, Corrick understands the pain of losing her friends, understands the danger she’s in, and in this high-pressure environment, thrives. Therefore, despite the occasional reprimand which I stand by, it is my sincere pleasure to recommend her for promotion to O-4, and assigned to the role of DCAG, effective six months from the date of entry.”

  Roadie had wanted to make her Lieutenant Commander, his second in command? Her chest ached. The last thing he had ever seen was her pulling the trigger to end his life… so a promotion was probably off the table, then.

  “So?” said Guano bitterly, unable to look at the report. “So what? He’s fucking dead. I killed him. Pretty sure I won’t be making O-4 when the investigation concludes. Pretty sure I’m going to rot in here forever, and that’s exactly what I deserve.”

  “Is it?” asked Turvey softly, his face blank. Cryptic.

  “Yes!” spat Guano, shuffling on the hard cot to face him properly. “I shot my CO, a Marine Corps Major in good standing, on a distant world and left him to die. I then went and stole a freaking baby and gave it to an enemy of the United States of America. Pretty sure they used to shoot people for that.”