by Peter David
There were silent, reluctant nods from several of them. As far as the President was concerned, those who didn’t nod simply didn’t want to cop to it. Then the chief of staff said slowly, “Sir … if what you’re saying is true … we need to get you on Marine One and to a secure location. And we need to do it immediately.”
“I don’t see that as a necessary—”
“Sir,” the chief of staff said more forcefully, “if we’re going to operate under the assumption that what you’re saying is true … and considering that whomever or whatever it is we’re dealing with has hostile intent—which we have to believe considering they’ve made no attempt to engage us in any way other than those that have cost human lives …”
“I believe what the chief of staff is saying,” said the vice-president, “is that if we’re sticking with the whole ‘life imitates art’ theory, well … I think we all remember the poster for Independence Day. The big alien saucer blowing the living crap out of—”
“Yes,” said the President. “Yes, I remember it.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t like it. It seems like running away.”
“Think of it more as a strategic retreat,” said one of the Joint Chiefs. Heads around the room nodded in agreement.
“Sir,” said the chief of staff softly, “it’s worth noting that there may well come a point where the Secret Service isn’t going to give you the option. Better to walk out on your own while things are quiet than to be dragged out while the ceiling’s caving in. Don’t you think?”
The President slowly sagged back in his chair and looked bleakly around the room. So this is what it’s like to be the most powerful man in the world: you go to ground when danger threatens.
“Inform Marine One and get my family together,” said the President quietly in the hushed room.
USS JOHN PAUL JONES
The skipper will know what to do. The thought kept going through Hopper’s mind as he cast an apprehensive glance at the repair crew trying to deal with the wreckage from the hit they’d taken. At least the ship wasn’t listing, so obviously nothing fatally catastrophic had happened to it. Yet.
Once having returned to the ship, Beast really should have hastened to the engine room to make sure his beloved Rolls-Royce engines were continuing to function and hadn’t sustained any damage during the assault. Raikes should have returned to weapons, where she doubtless would’ve taken comfort in having all the firepower of the John Paul Jones at her disposal, rather than just a single .50 cal machine gun. Instead, however, they followed Hopper, who was heading straight toward the bridge, to bring his commander up to speed and to find out what the next course of action was going to be.
The skipper will know what to do. The man may be an officious jerk, and he’s never liked me, but he’s forgotten more about strategy than most naval men ever learn. He’s probably already got an entire plan in place. He’s probably already figured out a weakness that went past the rest of us. He’s got this covered; he’ll be totally on top of it.
Hopper walked into the bridge, Beast and Raikes behind him, and glanced around, not finding the person he was most expecting to. “Where’s the skipper?” he asked.
There was dead silence. All Hopper saw was an array of young, terrified faces, looking at him … no, looking to him. Lieutenant J. G. Raj Patel, a young and efficient officer of Indian descent, and Ensign Anthony Rice, still so wet behind the ears he was practically dripping, looked as if they had one frayed nerve between them. Ord was also there, staring at him expectantly. Expectantly? What in the world was he expecting?
Hopper heard explosions in the distance. He turned and saw that the Japanese vessel the Myoko was under attack from the stinger. The stinger was firing singles of the cylinders, rather than barrages, and the weapons were falling short of the destroyer. Warning shots. They don’t have an infinite number of the things. The Myoko was backing off, taking the hint, and that seemed to satisfy the damned stinger, as it ceased fire. Why the hell aren’t we coordinating attacks? Why are we just sitting here? Why isn’t the skipper giving—?
“Orders, sir?” said Ord.
“Why are you asking me?” Deep down, he already knew the answer. Some part of him simply couldn’t acknowledge it, though. Didn’t want to acknowledge it. When he’d first entered the bridge, his voice had been brisk, no-nonsense. Now when he spoke, repeating his previous question, it was low and level and barely above a whisper: “Where’s the skipper?”
“Dead, sir.” Ord sounded as if he were talking from somewhere just south of the Twilight Zone. A dead man walking, emotionlessly reporting on the fate of those who had already preceded him down that road.
“What did you say?” He knew what Ord had said. He just needed time to process it, time that none of them had.
“Skipper’s dead,” said Ord. Anticipating the next question, he continued, “XO’s dead.”
The debris. The debris from where we were hit. They’re under the debris somewhere. Oh my God, they’re not just trying to repair the ship; they’re trying to dig out the bodies …
Focus. Focus.
“Who’s in charge?” said Hopper.
For the first time, actual emotion flickered on the previously numb, expressionless face of Ord. Sounding utterly matter of fact, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had to make it clear, he said, “You are, sir.”
“No.” Hopper shook his head. “I fight the ship.”
“You’re doing that, too. You’re all of it, sir. You’re in charge.”
Hopper stared at him for a moment, not comprehending. He looked to Patel, who nodded.
Apparently Raikes had an easier time grasping it, or at least saying it aloud, than Hopper did. “It’s your ship, sir,” she said firmly. “You’re senior officer. What are the orders?”
He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at any of them, because they were all staring at him, waiting for him to come up with answers that he didn’t have. Instead he looked out the shattered window and saw that the stinger was floating five hundred yards away.
“Orders, sir?” Ord prompted him again.
Slowly he shifted his gaze to Raikes. His eyes hardened and narrowed to slits. Rage began to fill him. Don’t give in to it. Channel it. Use it. “Guns hot?”
“Aye, sir,” said Raikes.
“Engines good?” he said to Beast.
Beast was on the horn to the engine room, getting updates, doubtless in anticipation of the question. He glanced toward Hopper. “Yes, sir.”
He felt hot tears beginning to surge in his eyes: not from grief, but from pure fury. These bastards … they’d killed his brother, upended his life. And they sat there, smug in their anonymity, secure in their invincibility. Sons of bitches will pay. “Do we have ship to ship?”
“We’re holding it together with spit and bailing wire, but yes, sir.”
“Good. Raise Nagata. Tell him we’re going to attack.”
“Attack? Really?” That obviously wasn’t what Ord had expected him to say.
“Those are the orders,” affirmed Hopper. “Raikes, get your ass down to the CIC. Ready all guns.”
For a moment, Raikes looked as if she was going to balk at that. But then she caught herself. This wasn’t the usual give and take that she and Hopper typically enjoyed. This wasn’t her busting on him under her breath. This was combat and he was the one in charge of the whole damned ship. “Roger that, Captain,” said Raikes.
USS REAGAN
In his ready room, Admiral Shane watched in silent horror as he played and replayed the final images that had come in from the F-18.
There was always a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when someone under his command died as a direct result of one of his orders. Today he’d sent Kenny Johnson—one of their best pilots—to see what exactly the Sampson and the vessels near it were dealing with. Shane hadn’t known he was sending Johnson into a combat situation. He’d thought it would be a simple reconnoitering … and it was, until it went
horribly, horribly wrong. Now Johnson was dead and, although rationally Shane knew the unknown enemy had been responsible, in his mind it had in fact been he who’d killed Johnson.
And even worse was the matter of Hopper.
For it most definitely was Hopper who’d been blown backwards by the energy of that … whatever it was. Even from the height the F-18 had been flying, taking photos, Shane had recognized him. If nothing else, the massive officer nicknamed “Beast” being there had more or less assured Hopper’s presence; Beast was big enough to be recognizable from orbit. If he was out there, then surely Hopper was commanding the boat, and that had probably been Raikes at the gun. Man down! Those had been the last words that he’d heard from Johnson before the pilot’s horrified scream and image dissolved into a blast of static.
Sam’s going to kill me …
“Admiral, you were saying …?”
It was thoroughly unprofessional for Shane to let his mind wander during such a high-level briefing, even if the man he was talking with wasn’t in the room. Shane pressed the phone tighter against his ear to focus himself and said, “Sorry, Mr. Secretary. I was just … reviewing the latest intel.”
“So what’s the situation there?” came the Secretary of Defense’s voice over the phone.
“You saw the video we just transmitted?”
“Yes. Incredible. Horrible. That platform is obviously some sort of enemy device. Maybe it’s even—and I can’t believe I’m saying this, because it sounds like something out of a James Bond movie—some manner of weather control machine.”
“I share both your opinion and your incredulity, Mr. Secretary. Furthermore, we’ve lost comm with everyone on the other side of the barrier. We can’t get in or out. I’ve already lost one pilot; I’m not going to lose another, even if we could get someone through. We sent two surveillance sorties up to determine how far it extends.”
“It. You mean this water barrier?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. We also have a submarine, the Stingray, doing soundings to see how deep it goes as well.”
“Well … how large is it?”
“According to the Stingray, it goes all the way to the bottom. No way under it. Or through it. Or over it. Or into it.”
For a long moment the Secretary of Defense was dead silent on the other end of the line, then he said, very softly, “Holy shit.”
“Yes sir,” said Shane, “I think that about sums it up.”
USS JOHN PAUL JONES
On the bridge, Ord personally transmitted the message that Hopper had dictated, earphones pressed tightly to his head in order to hear the reply. After a few moments he said, “Uhm …”
“Don’t give me ‘uhm,’ Ord. Did they respond?”
“Nagata did, yeah. He said there’s not enough battle space, and wanted to know if you were out of your mind.”
Figures. Useless dumbass.
“All ahead flank,” he said as if no one had spoken. He turned to Ord. “Tell Nagata I’m going with him or without him. His call. Tell him …” He paused, smiling grimly. “Tell him with the fate of the world on the line, I’d have thought he’d behave in an honorable manner. And that I’m sorry I overestimated him.”
There were soft murmurs of “Whoa” on the bridge. No one there was Japanese, but likewise none of them had any doubts as to the serious challenge Hopper was throwing down.
I’m taking on an alien fleet; I really don’t give a damn about pissing off a single human officer.
Nevertheless, he was curious as to the response he’d get from Nagata.
“Sir,” said Ord, sounding apprehensive, “you really want to attack this thing?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Sir, they’ve killed everything that has fired on them!”
Hopper rounded on Ord. “If you’re bucking to be relieved of duty, keep going. Just say anything to me other than ‘Aye, sir.’ You understand?”
Ord’s jaw twitched and then he said, “Aye, sir.”
The John Paul Jones slowly turned and prepared to take on the stinger. As it did so, Ord turned to Hopper. “Sir …” Hopper fired him a warning look but Ord simply indicated the communications board. Understanding, Hopper nodded and indicated Ord should speak. “Sir, Nagata says you obviously are out of your mind. But he also says that they’re in, all ahead full on battle line 110. And that he’ll see you in hell.”
“Tell him I have dibs on the top bunk. On second thought,” he said as Ord reached for the transmitter, “don’t tell him that. Tell him to stay on 110 and attack its starboard side.” He toggled the link to CIC. “Raikes, are you good to go?”
“Good to go, sir,” her voice filtered back.
His eyes were locked on the stinger with murderous intent. “Can you see it, Raikes?”
Raikes didn’t even have to ask what “it” he was referring to. “Five-inch gun locked on target. I can see it, sir.”
“Kill it.”
“Killing it, sir.”
The moment they were within range, Raikes unloaded, firing directly at the stinger, giving it all she had with the pounding fury of the 5-inch gun. Coming in from the other direction, Nagata’s vessel followed suit, spitting shells at the stinger that then exploded against the ship’s force field. It flared to life, repulsing as many of the shells as it could.
It wasn’t all of them, however. Hopper couldn’t tell if it was one of his that had managed to punch through to the stinger’s surface or if it was the Myoko that had the singular honor of landing the first major blow against the alien invaders on behalf of the human race. Either way, he was rewarded with the sight of the stinger rocking on its pontoons, and a blackened, scorched dent appeared on the stinger’s hull, on the starboard flank.
“Ha! Got you, you—” Hopper’s crowing died in his throat as the stinger, elevating on its “legs,” let fly with those white, cylindrical missiles. Half a dozen of them hurtled toward the John Paul Jones.
“Countermeasures!” he shouted as the cylinders streaked toward the destroyer. Seconds later there were explosions all around. Most of the cylinders were intercepted and blew up prematurely, but one managed to get through and slammed into the side of the ship, detonating a moment later. The John Paul Jones rocked violently and Hopper shouted, “Damage report!”
“Weapons systems down!” Raikes’s voice came over the radio.
Hopper muttered a curse and then watched in horror.
He had braced for another round, but as if his ship were old news, the stinger swiveled around to face the Myoko. The action seemed to catch Nagata’s vessel flat-footed. “Move! Move your boat, you son of a bitch!” Hopper in futility shouted.
The stinger moved deftly out of range of the John Paul Jones’s guns as it angled straight toward the Myoko. The launch array atop the stinger swiveled to aim directly at the Japanese destroyer. Seconds later, the stinger had launched a brace of its cylinder weapons, streaking across the space between themselves and the Japanese ship in no time flat. The Myoko tried to counter, and was as successful in the endeavor as the American vessels had been. Many of the alien missiles were intercepted, but a few were not. And those few were enough to have devastating results. The white cylinders thudded into the ship, and even from this distance, Hopper could see them transform from white to red and then detonate. He realized they must have hit the weapon magazines or fuel reserves, as the ship went ablaze in a massive explosion.
“Get the guns online!” said Hopper. “We’re going in full attack!”
“Sir,” said Ord, getting the report from Raikes, “guns are three minutes away! We don’t have any weapons, sir!”
“Then set course for 33 degrees at 30 knots.”
Ord clearly had no desire to be relieved of duty, but nevertheless felt compelled to point out, “Sir, just so we’re clear, that’s a collision course.”
Hopper nodded. His next words weren’t an order—they were a threat. “Get the guns online, or I’m going to ram this thing.”
W
itnessing the destruction from her vantage point behind the guns, Raikes watched in horror as the Myoko fought for her life. Raikes also realized that the John Paul Jones was continuing on a collision course with the alien vessel, showing no sign of slowing down or attempting to provide aid to a crippled vessel that had just been attacked. Immediately she got on the horn with Beast, down in the engine room. “You’ve got to pull him back. He’s going to kill us all.”
“You do it,” came back Beast’s voice.
“I can’t afford to leave my post! You can! And he’ll listen to you before he’ll listen to me!”
Hopper was listening to nothing, save the pounding of his pulse in his head and the way his heart was driving him to avenge himself on the stinger. Everyone on the bridge looked terrified, keeping themselves together purely because training had drilled into them a directive that superseded even the instinct for self-preservation: respect for the chain of command.
Even if the person in command was the weak link in the chain.
“Goddammit!” Hopper shouted down to Raikes, who had inexplicably stopped talking to him. “Target that thing before it jumps clear! Get me in there so I can hit it!”
Suddenly Beast was standing next to him, as if he had just appeared out of thin air. But Hopper didn’t even acknowledge Beast’s presence, so focused was he on the enemy before him. When Beast said, slow and serious, “There are sailors in the water,” it didn’t register on Hopper at any level.
“This thing can go faster!” Hopper bellowed. “What are you dragging your heels for, for the love of Christ! They killed my brother and every sailor on his ship! Are you on their side or—?”
A hand clamped on his shoulder like a vise of iron, sending pain jolting through him, commanding Hopper’s attention by its presence. He turned and looked up at Beast, confused, having to remind himself that the huge engineer was standing there, focusing on the sentence that Beast slowly repeated, stopping every few words to drive home the emphasis. “There are sailors. In the water. Sir.”