by Peter David
The commanders of the Regents fleet look upon the work that their machinations have accomplished, and find it to be good.
Now … on to the game. A game to test the resilience and cleverness of the natives of this world. These are their best warriors, and the game will see what they have to offer in terms of resistance. Not that the outcome is in the slightest doubt. It is simply required in order to see the level of resources the Regents will need to devote to this world.
If the Regents are nothing else, they are efficient.
An order is issued. It is not spoken; Regents need not waste efforts on something as primitive as simple speech. Communications off-world require technology, but every member of the Regents who dwells on this sphere, within range of the jamming array, knows what needs to be done as soon as a commander desires it be carried out.
And the desire in this instance is quite simple:
“Bring attack ships online.”
PACIFIC OCEAN, IMPACT POINT
Hopper was trying to pull himself together, keeping conscious being his top priority. You won’t do anyone any good if you pass out. That was what kept going through his mind, right until he passed out and lost his grip, sliding backwards into the water. But he was jolted to wakefulness as Raikes caught him before he could hit it and submerge. “Hopps!” she shouted in his ear, snapping him back to full awareness. It was the only way she could make herself heard as the water churned around her as if someone had turned on a vast, unseen stove top and the ocean was being brought to a boil.
Raikes was as scared as she’d ever been; Hopper could see that in her eyes. But, being the professional that she was—not to mention priding herself on being a total badass—she was shoving that fear down and away so it didn’t interfere with what she needed to do.
She hauled Hopper bodily onto the ship and shouted at Beast, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
Beast nodded and fired up the engine. It, however, didn’t cooperate. All he got was a series of loud clicks; the ignition wouldn’t fire. The RHIB simply floated there, having no more control over its fate than any piece of flotsam.
Suddenly the water churned even more violently and there was a distant roar from far below. Raikes and Beast exchanged looks and she mouthed a question: Submarine?
Beast shrugged helplessly. “Bigger,” he said aloud. “Way bigger …”
The roar drew closer and closer, the water displacement causing the RHIB to bob so violently that it was nearly capsized. Hopper tried to get to his feet and fell over, still woozy. “Stay down!” Raikes called to him.
“Not a problem!” he said, and lay flat on his back as the RHIB was flung around helplessly in the water.
The roaring continued, like a vast behemoth was rising from below. His mind flashed to old stories by H. P. Lovecraft. Tales of a monstrous creature that had resided on the ocean floor, waiting to be summoned by its modern-day acolytes so it could surface and bring annihilation to the puny humans running around like insects. He wondered bleakly if there was any chance those stories were somehow based on ancient myths that were, in turn, based on truth. This would be a sucky time to find out.
The roar was deafening now, as if gigantic lions were about to rise up and swallow them. And then, a short distance from the three hapless officers, something began to emerge. They couldn’t make it out at first, and when they could, they still didn’t fully understand. Or at least they didn’t want to, because no one knew better the man-made, oceangoing vessels of this world. Whatever the hell it was they were seeing, it wasn’t remotely man-made.
As the water fell away in vast sheets, it quickly became clear it wasn’t just one thing surfacing—it was three. Three monstrous ships, like nothing that any of the John Paul Jones crewmen had ever seen. Like nothing that any human had ever seen. They weren’t identical; there were variations, with fins or other accoutrements projecting from them in different places. But they were all long and flat and lethal-looking—like scorpions—jagged, with industrial sheathing that was a combination of dark green and gunmetal gray. There were projections beneath them that were similar to pontoons one saw on planes designed for water landings. In this case, though, they were far more stylized and added to the overall look of these vessels—each of which was the length of two football fields—as being like gigantic insects poised to pounce.
They reminded Hopper of some prototype designs he’d seen some friends of his in R&D messing around with. They’d been designated STNGR-14s; the R&D boys called them “stingers.” Seemed as good a name as any to use as reference.
The water displacement resulting from their emergence caused a massive maelstrom to circle beneath them. The sailors in the RHIB hung on desperately, hoping that the whirlpool would subside before they were drawn into it and sucked down to certain death.
There was stunned silence on the bridge of the Sampson.
Oh my God, oh my God, what the living hell, oh my God, went through Stone’s mind. None of the men on the bridge, however, were at all aware of his inner turmoil. His face impassive, his voice calm, he said, “Query them.” When Sinclair at communications just sat there, frozen, staring uncomprehendingly at the sight before them, Stone added a sharp, no-nonsense prod of, “Now!”
But Sinclair was still having trouble wrapping his mind around what was being presented to him. “But … what the hell—?”
“I know, sailor,” said Stone, allowing for his comm officer’s obvious shock. It was the only indication Stone gave that he was as stunned by this unknown technology as anyone else on the bridge. “But we don’t have the luxury. Do it how you’ve been trained to.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sinclair, nodding. He operated the controls before him, trying to boost the signal as he said, “Uh … craft … please identify. Repeat, craft, please identify. This is the USS Sampson, of the U.S. Navy, please identify your origin.”
Stone braced himself, wondering what sort of language was going to come through the board. He was destined to be disappointed, as after long moments Sinclair looked toward Stone and shook his head. “I’m trying all channels, sir. Translating into all known codes and languages. But the transmitter is still down. They could be trying to talk our ears off right now and we wouldn’t be hearing a thing.”
Considering they were the source of the electromagnetic pulse, the EMP, that had crashed the communications network, Stone suspected that he was already reading their intentions loud and clear. “Sound general quarters.” In response to his order, a klaxon immediately started to echo throughout the ship. At least that’s working, he thought grimly, and then continued, “Have we got intraship?”
“I’m hoping to have it in a few min—”
“We don’t have time. Grab a walkie-talkie so I can stay in touch with you and haul ass down to weapons. Tell them we’re going hot.”
Sinclair wanted to make sure that Stone had just said what he thought he said. “Sir? Did I hear you right—?”
“Yes, you did, Ensign. Heat up the guns.”
“Which guns, sir?”
Stone considered it and then said grimly, “All of them.”
The RHIB had not capsized. Hopper believed that alone to be something of a miracle considering the amount of chop they’d had to deal with. Once they managed to stay afloat, he braced himself for the huge ships to open fire the moment they surfaced. Nothing of the sort happened. Instead they simply floated there as if their presence was the most normal thing in the world. Hopper was grateful for that, since it gave him the few minutes he needed to pull himself together after the massive jolt he’d received.
Beast was elbow deep in the engines, trying to figure out how the hell to get them up and running. He was obviously having zero success on that score. He looked at Hopper, grease staining his face. “Whatever fried you must have got the electrical system too,” said Beast.
Suddenly five long, sharp blasts sounded across the water. They looked toward the destroyers floating a distance away, and Raikes said
grimly, “That was the Sampson, wasn’t it?” It was hard to be sure since the echo effect across the open water made determining the source uncertain. But Hopper nodded, making no attempt to keep the concern off his face. “Yeah.”
“They’re warning these guys,” she said, nodding toward the vessels positioned about a hundred yards away, “that they’re going to open fire if they don’t retreat or respond.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They do know we’re not exactly at a safe distance if the missiles start flying, right?”
“I’m sure hoping so …”
That was when the alien ships responded.
As if they were dinosaurs bellowing a defiant challenge to an oncoming threat, the stingers shrieked back at the Sampson, unleashing an unholy noise that sounded primal and terrifying. Hopper and his crew grabbed their ears, collapsing to the deck of the RHIB and writhing in pain. Hopper was sure that if the noise kept up, his brains were going to liquefy and spill out his ears.
Then the sound abruptly stopped, as the foremost of the stingers leaped forward. It didn’t glide across the water; it actually leaped, like an insect. It vaulted through the air and wound up landing between the Sampson and the vast, incomprehensible structure that Hopper and his crew had been sent to investigate.
It’s protecting it. Whatever this thing is, the stinger’s protecting it. And it’ll do whatever it takes.
A sense of overwhelming dread was bearing down on Hopper like a freight train. Wild-eyed, desperate, he brought all his resources, all his analytical power to the forefront. He mentally dissected the stinger, breaking it down into what he perceived as its component parts. Weapons system, propulsion … it had to have a control center. A bridge of some sort. Even aliens had to—
They’re not aliens. They’re not freaking aliens. This structure did not come from outer space. It’s some kind of spy thing that crashed and now these ships are here to run interference while they do their … their spy thing.
“Chinese or North Korean prototype? What is it, Beast?” said Hopper.
“No idea.”
“Agreed,” said Hopper.
Raikes tracked it with her machine gun. She would not open fire unless Hopper ordered her to, but there was no reason she couldn’t be ready when the moment came. “It looks very angry,” she said, working to keep her voice even.
Then, through the sea spray, Hopper saw something moving in the upper section of the stinger. At first he couldn’t quite make out what it was … and then he saw it. A single figure.
It was wearing armor of some sort. It was blue and segmented but it wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Its face was round and squat, almost triangular. The skin was a sickly combination of blue and black, like a sky filled with pollution. It didn’t look vaguely human.
It wasn’t vaguely human.
Then there was another blast of ocean foam and the creature was gone.
“Did …” Hopper tried to find his voice. “Did you just …?”
He managed to tear his gaze away from where he’d been staring and looked to his crewmates, certain he’d been the only one who spotted it. Certain he was now going to have to try and convince them of what his own mind was telling him couldn’t possibly be.
He was incredibly relieved when he saw that their faces had gone ashen.
“What the …?” said Beast. He could scarcely form those words, much less any others.
“I know my eyes were lying,” said Raikes. Yet it was clear she didn’t know any such thing, but rather knew perfectly what it was that she had just seen.
Beast finally recovered his voice. He turned to Hopper and said, in an awe-filled whisper, “First contact.”
Raikes turned and punched him in the upper arm with such power that Beast yelped. “What the hell—?”
“We have three unknown vessels guarding some equally unknown structure,” said Raikes with barely contained anger. “We have two fleets about to square off, our boat is dead in the water, and you’re giving me Star Trek crap. Fix the damned engine!”
Beast looked speechlessly at Hopper. Hopper shrugged. “You heard her.”
Beast got back to work.
It had been a slow and frustrating process, but the Sampson had managed to reroute some of its main systems. She now had communications back online, as well as some basic systems, including tracking. Now it was just a matter of getting the weapons systems up and running. That had proven to be a slower and more frustrating process. Having established contact with the two destroyers flanking them, Stone said, “Status on WEPS?” asking for the latest report from the weapons officer.
“CIWS up, sir,” said Sinclair. “John Paul Jones five-inch is hot.”
Stone weighed the options and then said briskly, “All right. Let’s put a warning shot across their bow. Radio Brownley.”
Sinclair sent the message through to the John Paul Jones. He paused a moment and then said, “Brownley says they’ll have to use manual targeting.”
“If it was good enough for the original John Paul Jones, it’s good enough for them. Besides, we don’t want them to actually hit anything.”
“Roger that.” Sinclair reaffirmed the orders. Then he smiled grimly. “Now we’re gonna see something.”
It was obvious that Beast was laboring with the engine; the amount of profanity coming from him was increasing in volume and floridness.
At that moment, a puff of smoke emerged from the five-inch gun on the John Paul Jones. Seconds later, they heard the sound of the gun actually being fired, noise following visual much like a baseball player being watched from the grandstands, with the sound of the hit ball following an instant after contact has already been made.
“They’re attacking?” said Beast.
Raikes shook her head. “Warning shot. That’s SOP for …”
Beast looked skeptical. “For what? Alien invasion?”
The shell landed in an explosion of water and spray within range of the lead stinger. A clear message had been sent.
Hopper said grimly, “That’s gonna piss ’em off.”
Nothing happened for several seconds. During that time, Hopper briefly prayed that the aliens/creatures/beings would emerge from the ships, hands in the air, eagerly trying to explain that they were simply there by mishap and meant no harm to anyone on Earth.
Instead there was a quiet sound, like a whisper of a breeze, and a single cylindrical object was fired from the lead stinger, blasted out of what appeared to be some sort of launch array. It hurtled lazily through the air, heading straight toward the John Paul Jones.
Hopper watched with a sinking heart. That can’t be good.
USS JOHN PAUL JONES
In the destroyer’s CIC, radar officer Benjamin Rush was watching his radar screen carefully. They’d only just managed to bring it back online, and it kept flickering in and out while the system’s big brains continued to make corrections and adjustments. Around him a row of other young officers, wearing headphones, were monitoring large, complex screens and struggling to operate the elaborate consoles of the AEGIS weapons system that was, at that moment, extremely hit or miss.
Abruptly an incoming blip lit up his screen, cutting across the monitor with a trajectory that was taking it directly toward the ship. “Incoming track, zero-seven-three-six,” he called out.
Over the intraship radio, Mullenaro’s voice came back: “Acquire incoming. Kill with guns. Light ’em up, son.”
The order was instantly relayed, and two seconds later the Phalanx CIWS, consisting of two anti-missile Gatling guns on the foredeck, sprang to life. The CIWS functioned exactly as it was supposed to, as the guns sprayed so many bullets that it created a virtual wall of metal. Before anyone even could get a clear look at it, the cylinder disintegrated against the ship’s firepower.
In the John Paul Jones CIC, a moment of relief and triumph rippled through the officers, pleased that good, old-fashioned American technology had triumphed over whatever the hell it had
been that this interloper was attempting to throw at them.
That sense of good feeling lasted right up until radar officer Rush suddenly called out, “Incoming tracks! Coordinating zero-niner-seven-three.” He stopped for a moment, overwhelmed by what he was seeing, a harsh reality crashing down on him. “There’s too many of them.”
He was right. There were at least ten of the cylinders, maybe more, hurtling through the air, zeroing in on the destroyer with lethal accuracy.
The CIWS was employed yet again as the Gatling guns cut loose in a wide spread. One by one the cylinders were blown out of the sky as the big guns continued to cut a swath through the assault that was coming straight at them.
They almost managed to take out all of the cylinders. But they fell short of their goal by one.
A single cylinder landed on the deck not ten feet in front of the starboard observation deck. Brownley and Mullenaro were both there, and they stared down at it in utter bewilderment.
The narrow white cylinder, which had landed surprisingly noiselessly on the deck, was still quivering slightly from the impact. Rather than at an angle, as one would have expected from the trajectory, it was upright. It looked to Brownley to be about four feet tall and less than a foot in diameter. Other than presenting a threat that someone might trip over it, the cylinder appeared utterly harmless. It might well have been made of plastic.
Mullenaro was no less confused, but he was also more outwardly irritated. “What kind of jack wagon crap—is this somebody’s idea of a game?”
Suddenly the cylinder transformed, within an eye-blink, from white to red.
Then it detonated. In an explosive flash, Brownley, Mullenaro and the entire starboard observation deck vaporized.
USS SAMPSON
The stinger turned its attentions to the Sampson. This time, though, they were firing the cylinders much faster, but one at a time instead of a barrage, as if whoever was shooting them at the destroyer was testing his marksmanship.