by J. F. Holmes
“Because it’s pretty, Master barbarian Chief,” said McKnight. “You know, the jarheads aren’t going to need us to give the word for the attack. Soon as those big guns hit, every single one of them is going to shout ‘OH-RAH!’ and run screaming toward the impact area.”
“Well,” he replied, “you better hope the Invy are too busy to notice us calling corrections over the radio.”
In the west, the horizon was lit by a series of flashes. “Here we go!” said the sailor, with glee in his voice. “You ready?”
“Does a whale shit in the woods?” she answered, blowing up the inflatable gun rest and seating the captured Invy sniper rifle. With a buzzing she felt in her bones, the capacitor charged up. The electromagnetic railgun was designed for a Dragon, and she’d had to modify the five-foot-long weapon to fit her arms. The sight was human, since the Dragons were able to link into their helmets, and the CEF had never figured out how to duplicate it. No need for windage or drop, though. The two-millimeter depleted-uranium slug, once free of its steel and ceramic sabot, travelled at over fifteen thousand feet per second. No recoil, which suited her just fine, but the backblast at the muzzle was a bitch, and the sonic boom was ridiculous.
The first volley from the battleships came arching through the air, twenty-seven-hundred-pound high-explosive shells creating a ripping sound as they traveled. The two scout team members waited for the impact with nervous anticipation. “Time to pay, you shitbags!” muttered McKnight.
All eighteen rounds disappeared in brilliant flashes, detonated by outgoing plasma fire. The thunder of their explosions shook the entire bridge. With a curse, Bri fired at the sensor tower. The dart impacted on the structure and punched through it, to no effect. “SHIT!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, as plasma bolts instantly reached out toward their position, one leaving a glowing melted spot on the corroded orange paint. They had hoped for some time to call corrections and maybe destroy some sensitive equipment. No dice.
“GO! GO! GO!” yelled her Chief, and she slung the rifle, snapped a link on her harness to the monofilament line, and leapt off the bridge stanchion.
“AHAB, WARTHOGS GOING OFF AIR, ROUNDS INTERCEPTED!” yelled Szimanski into the radio.
“Roger, Warthog, rounds intercepted, standing by,” came back, but the Chief was already rappelling headfirst down the side of the bridge.
Szimanski fell the last forty feet as a random plasma shot cut the line, passing McKnight on the way. He landed in the water next, went under, and inflated his vest as he sank into the frigid waters of San Francisco Bay. McKnight cut the last twenty feet of her line and plunged in after him.
He let the dolphins come to them, flashing a light, knowing the cold current was too strong for him to fight. With a grin, their allies slowed their powerful strokes and held still in the water while they clipped on. Then, with powerful, perfect flips of their tails, the animals shot through the darkness.
Chapter 99
“Hand me that microphone, Blake!” growled Larken as the transmission from his spotter team ended. “You, commo weenie, I want this broadcast over all speakers, all ships.”
The newly promoted midshipman handed him first one, then another microphone when the admiral threw the first away. The “commo weenie”, actually a lieutenant commander with a host of sophisticated twenty-first-century communications equipment, punched a few keys and gave the admiral a thumbs up.
“Attention. Sailors of the United States Navy,” he started. Captain Beck interrupted him with “CEF NAVY!” but he waved her off.
“Sailors of the United States Navy, this is Admiral Jonas Larken. In a few minutes, we’re going to go commit ourselves to battle with these creatures who have taken our planet from us. With the grace of God, we will prevail, though I don’t know that we’ll survive.”
He paused for a moment, thinking, then continued, “On the western side of the San Francisco Peninsula, over two thousand United States Marines have gathered, the greatest assemblage of combat power we’ve been able to muster in ten years. If we can clear the way for them and take the Presidio, the West Coast will be free. If we don’t, those men and women are going to die, and nothing south of Puget Sound or west of the Rockies will be safe. I want every single acre of American soil cleansed of those scumbags! We’re going to get within visual range and direct fire on those bastards till every fortification is a smoking hole in the ground.”
There was silence as the crews absorbed what he’d just said. Even Larken stopped to think about what they were about to do. Hundred-year-old cannons against plasma weapons? Well, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
“In the tradition of the USS Johnston at the Philippines, we’re going to shove our red, white, and blue dicks so far down their scaly throats that they’re going to choke and die on them. Go ahead, report me for saying that. Admiral Larken out.”
There was another dead silence on the bridge, as the younger crewmen stared at him. Then the old master Chief, who was pushing eighty himself, started laughing. It was answered by faintly heard cheers in the corridors, and the Wisconsin sounded her air raid klaxon.
“Captain Beck, all astern, lay us alongside the enemy, and fight your ship. Guns, have your crews load with armor piercing. Systems, ready your countermeasures. Navigation, give me an over-the-horizon time, and time until our guns can bear. We have to get trajectories below their anti-artillery defenses.”
He turned to the young man standing behind him. “Midshipman Blake, in the old days, a captain would have a junior officer keep a log of events in the action. Please do so,” he said, handing the young man a battered old pocket watch. “Be precise, and record everything significant.”
With a pounding that shook the deck, all four screws thrashed the quiet Pacific into foam, and both ships turned toward the east. They showed no lights, and each had all their flat surfaces painted in a spectrum-absorbing coating. It wouldn’t make the massive ships invisible, but even a mile or two of gain was worth it.
The most excruciating time for a soldier or sailor, the time of greatest fear, is the moment before battle. For those on the Bridge and in the Combat Information Center, there were at least screens to look at, or views of the ocean and the night sky. Down deep in the hull of the ships, though, in the engine rooms and ammunition bunkers, you often had no idea what was going on. Just the vibrations of the propeller shafts thrumming through the deck under your feet, and the waiting for orders to spring into action. That was the worst time, for every moment in your life came down to that waiting. The girl you never kissed. The hike you never took. The boy you were too scared to talk to. The marriage you walked away from. They all rushed to the front of your mind, and sat there until the alarm klaxon sounded, the battle lights turned red, and your body took over.
The last two days had been a nightmare of training for the professional gun crews and the volunteers. Dummy rounds and inert powder bags had been endlessly passed through the mechanisms until they were dead tired. On top of that, many had become sick from the heavy October Pacific seas. Stand down twelve hours ago had allowed some blessed sleep, and the firing of the first volley had caused a ripple of excitement to run through them.
Now, though, they felt the engine RPMs and waited, each dealing with their fears as best they could. For the older sailors, who’d been in action during the Spratly War, it was fear of death by drowning, not the fiery explosion of an incoming plasma beam hitting the powder charges. That would be quick and over before you even knew it. The younger ones, though they’d grown up in the ruins and had never been to sea before, understood death well enough, but were foolishly comforted by the steel hull surrounding them.
Admiral Larken was no stranger to the violence of sea battles. He had watched as the back of the USS Princeton was broken by a mine in the Persian Gulf, and during the Spratly War, his flagship, the USS Blue Ridge, had taken a hit from a Chinese missile. Larken should never have been there, far past retirement age, but the building of the Sp
ace Force had stripped the Navy of its senior officers, and he’d been recalled to duty. The oil-covered faces of the few survivors plucked from the Sea of Japan after the Gallagher, a Burke-class destroyer, had exploded from a torpedo…they never left him, but there were comforts to be found, deep in his faith and his mind.
He sat in his chair, staying out of the way of Captain Beck as she ran her ship. Beside him, Midshipman Blake uselessly monitored the communications equipment, with no one to talk to. Gathering up his courage, he asked, “Uh, Admiral, Sir, how do you stand it? We might be going to get killed soon enough.”
“How did your dad stand it? Somehow. The waiting. Eleven years.”
The kid nodded, a bit of pride in his voice. “Yes Sir, and he never told me a thing.”
“Well, son, I think. Think about the big picture. Ever hear of Saint Augustine?”
“Uh, no Sir, I ain’t had much schooling. I was four when the Invy came,” Blake said.
“He was a hellraiser who became a saint, and he had a lot to say about war. I spend my time thinking about that. And not having an education isn’t something to be ashamed of, if you make an effort to improve yourself. I grew up poor in a ghetto,” said the admiral.
“What’s a ghetto?” asked the younger man.
Larken scowled and said, “Like the ruins you grew up in. But never mind. Saint Augustine said, and I’m not quoting verbatim here…”
“Ver-what?” said the kid.
“Verbatim means exactly. He says, ‘A just war is wont to be described as one that avenges wrongs, when a nation or state has to be punished, for refusing to make amends for the wrongs inflicted by its subjects, or to restore what it has seized unjustly.’”
Seeing the confused look, he explained, “Basically, we’re right in what we’re doing because the Invy came and took our land and our lives by force, and we’re justified in opening up a can of whoop-ass on them.”
“That I can understa—” Alex Blake’s response was cut short as the first shore-based railgun round impacted the forward turret with an enormous CLANG that shook the ship, cut a groove in the armor casing, and ricocheted off into the darkness.
“All batteries, weapons free,” came Captain Beck’s solid voice and three seconds later, the center gun on turret two erupted in a gout of flame.
Chapter 100
The dolphins passed slowly in front of the San Francisco waterfront, trusting in the darkness, and their regular passage through the strait to the bay, to remain ignored by the Invy. While they were being towed, Szimanski asked his ride, “Why do you hate the Invy so much? They gave you intelligence, after all.” More to pass the time than anything, and to take his mind off the cold that was starting to seep through his wetsuit.
“Sky people make us smarter through torture,” was the short reply. “Sea peoples already smart in our way; to become your way is much pain.” All translated through the gear, of course.
“Yeah, but,” he said, “we killed plenty of your people.”
“Many humans are cruel, yes, but many humans are not. You learn, they do not. Our future is with you, in the ocean of stars.” Clicks and squeaks, of course, but understood well enough.
“Makes sense. I hate those bastards for what they did to us,” said the Chief.
At that moment, the first Invy battery opened up, a hypervelocity railgun letting loose with a CRACK from the round breaking the sound barrier. The answer was forthcoming less than a minute later, a ripping sound, and then an enormous explosion they felt through the water, though they were several miles away. The round had gone high, crashing into the midpoint of the TransAmerica Building and blowing it in half. As they watched in the plasma light, the building collapsed in on itself.
“Bri, you go on ahead and meet the Marines,” said Szimanski. “Someone has to call corrections to the big guys.”
Bri McKnight stopped her dolphin and swore at him. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you going back to the bridge?”
“Nope, Alcatraz. I can see well enough from there and hide in the rocks. You get your ass over there, meet the team, and give the Marines the word, and let’s take this place. I’ll see you when this is all over.”
In the darkness, neither could really see each other’s face, so she leaned over, spit her snorkel out of her mouth, and kissed his bearded face. It was a goodbye kiss, and they both knew it. “Take care, Bill. It’s been a hell of a ride these last eleven years.”
“You too, Bri. Tell Ryan…tell him his bother loves him, OK? And I’m taking you out to dinner when this is all over.”
“Can do, Will. Are you asking me out on a date?” The crash of the big guns drowned out his answer, and the salt of the bay hid her tears as their rides went in different directions, him northeast to the prison island, her to the east, each as fast as they could go.
By the time she got within a kilometer of the east side shoreline, slipping in among the docks, Bri McKnight had a hold of herself. She flipped down her night vision and flashed an IR light three times. An answering two flashes showed a hundred meters to the left. Then she felt foolish, realizing that the dolphins had all been talking to each other the entire time, as her companion guided her in to meet the rest of Team Five.
“Where’s Bill?” asked Jimmy Warren, the man closest to her.
“Stayed back to do adjustments.” They all flinched as a sixteen-inch round went flying off over their heads, to detonate two miles away in the bay. The base and the ships were going at it full blast now, and the docks seemed to be deserted. No one said anything in answer to her comment. If Chief Szimanski thought it was necessary to get himself killed, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.
“OK, let’s do this,” said Gunnery Sergeant Strum, the lone former Marine on the team. They dipped down so they were just above the waterline, and the dolphins moved powerfully toward the docks.
Pier 33 was dark, but they took no chances. Two of the five left on the team carried suppressed M-6 carbines, and one had a suppressed M-24 sniper rifle. McKnight carried her Dragon EMRG on her back, and was itching to use it, but she also had a 10mm pistol for close work, and she was dead accurate with it. Behind her came their machine gunner, CPL Fitzhume, carrying an M-249 with a suppressor the size of a coffee can.
At the top of the ladder, there was a whispered exchange of code words, and a shabby figure stood up to greet them. “Captain Jason Carson, CEF Special Ops Det 147.”
“Gunnery Sergeant Strum, IST-5. Are we clear?” asked the Scout, as the team fanned out around, each taking up security as they cleared the ladder.
“There’s a doggie squad pissing themselves to get into the action and rush to the base, but their Hashut is keeping them in check two docks down. They’re responsible for patrolling this area. Take them, and we’re in the clear.”
Carson coughed, straining to keep it down, and he wiped at his mouth. “You Ok, Sir?” asked McKnight. “Where’s the rest of your team?”
“I’m fine,” he answered, obviously not. “The Dragons started hunting down every human straggler living in the city when Red Dawn started. We couldn’t fight back, it would blow our cover. Took a sniper round in the gut this morning.” And with that, he collapsed on the pier pavement.
Doc Curnow bent over to check him out, but McKnight stopped him. “We’ve got work to do; leave him for the Marines.” Reluctantly, the medic stood, and they carefully made their way down the pier and turned south. Passing one dock, they went to ground at the entrance to the next, covered by a large warehouse. There were a half dozen Wolverines a hundred meters away, engaged in a barking, yammering argument.
“On three, left to right, one, two, three!” whispered Gunny, and the team opened up. A long, stuttering series of muted pops and bangs, and the Wolverines all went down in a hail of fire that made sparks fly on the walls and pavement, then stopped after five seconds. In the deafening quiet that followed, one of the Invy soldiers dragged itself to its feet, howled, and started rushing at them
with their incredible speed. All thought of radio, of warning its superiors, had been lost in the rush of combat. A single 7.62 round from the sniper punched through the Wolverine’s face, though the creature ran forward ten steps before its body realized it was dead.
The team ran back to Pier 33 at the double, weapons raised. No one needed to ask what to do; both the military and civilians were a synchronized unit, after a decade of surviving in the wreckage of the world. They rapidly set up the MG to cover the approaches to the pier and uncrated a Javelin anti-tank launcher.
“Would have been nice to have those ODA guys here to back us up, Gunny,” said McKnight.
The Marine looked over to where Doc Curnow was checking the still body with the pool of blood showing black on the dock. The medic looked up and then stood, shaking his head.
“Yeah, it’s just us until the Marines show up here. Twenty minutes, max. You scared, Bri?” In the darkness, his hard face angular and scarred, grinned at her.
“Bet your ass I’m scared, old man,” she answered, putting a precious piece of bubble gum in her mouth. “You are, too.”
“Well, yeah. Just don’t tell anyone.”
Behind them, Jimmy Warren raised his laser designator on his rifle and triggered it three times. An answering laser flashed three times, showing green in his NVGs. “They’re on their way!” he said to no one in particular.
“Punch it, Bug!” said McKnight, and former US Air Force Tech Sergeant Jeff “Bug” Grubbs hefted their last piece of equipment onto his shoulder. He swept the sky, searching for an infrared or electronic signature. The weapon he carried was long and tubular, similar to a surface-to-air missile, and searched for targets the same way. Instead of a rocket, though, coils within the tube created a directed EMP burst, lethal to unshielded electronics out to seven kilometers. Wouldn’t touch a tank or an APC, or even an aircraft, but delicate, light drones…