“But, sir,” asked Lynch, “what if there are people still in the forward docking ring? Tourists, sightseers? They won’t have much time to get to the station before we open it to space.”
The captain’s face displayed no emotion. “Then they will have a very bad day indeed.”
Sometimes being a CO meant making the hard calls. Mattis wouldn’t have done it any differently, except he might not have wasted time with the alarm.
“Aye, sir,” said Commander Pitt. “It will take some time to unhitch the scaffolding.”
Twelve scaffolds, each tethering the ship to the station. Each would have to be unhitched manually. That would take time…too much time. Maybe the engines could pull away, breaking the scaffolds off, or maybe their hull would peel back like a banana.
Bad news.
“Very good, Commander. Start working on that scaffolding.”
A thought wormed its way through his brain. Something he hadn’t considered yet and, in a flash of frustration, realized he should have. “Are there any Chinese ships currently docked with Friendship Station?”
“Aye, sir,” said Commander Pitt, “The Fuqing. They’ve been here for almost a week.”
“What are they doing?”
Commander Pitt consulted his systems. “Emergency disembarking,” he said. “Just like us.”
Mattis ground his teeth together, both liking and not liking that answer. “They wouldn’t do that if they were expecting a fleet’s worth of reinforcements… No way they’d risk it. These new ships aren’t their friends.”
“And they’re not ours,” said Malmsteen, his tone full of guarded curiosity, “so who the hell are they?”
Chapter Thirteen
Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
Midway Fighter Bay
Docked at Friendship Station
“Whoa!” Guano felt a shudder run through the Midway and into her Warbird, the tremor vibrating her seat. “What the hell was that?”
“We blew the docking umbilical,” said Flatline, his voice tight. “Check your external camera.”
She did so, piping the feed through to her main screen, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
Two bodies, spinning in space, surrounded by puffs of gas and the wiggling worm of the docking umbilical, broken.
“That’s cold,” she said, shutting off the feed. “Poor bastards…what a way to go.”
Flatline said nothing. She took a deep breath and refocused herself. No time to think about it. They were still attached by the scaffolding, anyway, so… it was a moot point.
Why was she so jumpy? Flatline, by far the most chicken-shit of the two of them, hadn’t even been rattled—he knew where to look. Like he’d sensed it.
Instinct. That’s what she needed. She needed her pilot’s instinct.
Roadie’s voice crackled into her ear. “Guano, you are clear to launch. I’ll come out with you as Wing Bravo.”
Of course. Dammit—all her instruments were green! She was sitting there with her thumb up her ass with Major Yousuf looking on. “Roger, Roadie.” Why hadn’t she been paying attention? What the hell? “Guano launching.”
With a shaking hand, she opened the throttle and her ship leapt away from the Midway’s hangar bay, leaving a thin stream of expanding silver behind it as it soared through space. They were the second wave. The alert five were already way ahead of them.
“All wings, this is Roadie.” Yousuf sounded stressed. Join the club. “We’re going to be racing to catch up to the alert fighters. Midway says there’s some kind of contact out there, an intermittent one, and we’re tracking it down. Stretch your legs, people, we are moving.”
For the second time today, Guano opened her throttle, pushing it right against the redline. Roadie was just behind her on her port. Her radar painted four fighters up ahead, friendlies.
“Roger,” said Longjohn in her ears. “This is Wing Alpha. Can’t see anything out here. Just empty space.”
Her hand was trembling, holding the throttle. Too much adrenaline in one day. She should focus…keep it under cool and in control. Fighter pilots only had two settings: cool and ice cold.
“Keep looking, numbskull,” said Roadie. “We’re vectoring to your position, ETA six minutes.”
“Don’t know why you’re running so hard,” said Longjohn. “What? Jealous of Guano?”
“Ain’t like that,” said Flatline over the radio. “Believe me, the way she flies…”
The slightest bit of dead air. Everyone was waiting for her. Banter, she thought to herself. Say something. Show you’re not cracking up.
“Yeah,” said Guano. “I’m just a regular grade-A lunatic, but really, I’m shaking in my panties over here.” The joke fell flat. Nobody laughed. Perhaps there was something in her tone that suggested sincerity. She tried again. “See, the thing is, if Flatline’s ticker gives up again, I can probably claim a month’s stress leave, so you know…the more I push him, the better.”
That got a titter. From Longjohn in particular. “Yeah, well, I wish my gunner was known for dying on the job. Would really make my leave situation a little easier. Francine, you disappoint me.” Playful laughter. “Whatcha reckon, Caboose? How’s your gunner?”
“That ain’t my callsign,” said the woman, which was probably the worst thing anyone could say. Howls struck up over the radio.
“Rules of callsigns,” said Roadie, talking over the laughter. “Number one: If you don’t already have one, you will be assigned one by us, your bestest buddies. Number two: You probably won’t like it. Number three: If you complain, well, you’ll be assigned an even—”
A huge white flash turned the communication into static, searing her eyes. The computer snapped up various filters and tried to block it out, but the skin on her face and neck tingled.
Instantly, Roadie’s voice was all work, no play. “All craft, check in by the numbers! Bravo-1, check!”
Check in! Check in or people will think you’re hit! Panic reared up within her, but she fought it down, squinting to see. The black afterimage began to fade and she, burned and half-blind, fumbled for the radio key. “Bravo-2, check.”
“Wing Alpha,” said Roadie, “report.”
Her vision came back. That flash…a Z-jump aftermath. There were ships around. She looked at her radar.
A dozen capital ships saturated her radar. They were right in front of her, each one of them a towering wall of metal, huge, pushing past even the Midway. They were black and featureless, with glowing red navigation lights, ominous, blocky, dark beasts.
Nothing was left of Wing Alpha. Two silver trails ran dead into one of the ships, two blackened scorch marks marring the front of its hull. Shit. So much for Longjohn and Caboose. Gone.
“They’re gone,” said Guano simply, entranced. They were just so big…
“Corrick!” said Flatline behind her. “Pull up!”
Oh shit! She was blindly following the others to their fate. Guano yanked the throttle to one side, steering her craft away from the strange, alien vessels and back toward open space.
Roadie swung around above her, inverted, looking down at her. “USS Midway, priority alert, this is the CAG: We have a dozen skunks out here. I say again: twelve contacts, all capital ships. Alert fighters have been destroyed. Commence SAR procedures and route distress beacons to our computers.”
Search-And-Rescue was a procedure, at this point, barely worth considering. The ships had gone straight in. Nobody had ejected.
“Look,” said Flatline, “the capital ships are launching strike craft!”
They were, too. The center mouths of the flat, boxy ships had opened like a maw, and from them, three craft had emerged, their engines leaving a dark red trail behind them, a bloody mirror of their own silver exhaust. Then another three came behind those fighters. From all the ships… Scores of them, a dark swarm bearing down on them at impossible speed.
“I count forty bogeys,” said Guano, trying to keep the tremor ou
t of her voice. “More.”
“They’re coming in fast,” said Roadie. “We can’t outrun them. Designating those craft as bandits. Tally, Bravo-2, get ready to turn and engage.”
Fight them. Two US fighters versus almost fifty craft of unknown alien origin.
“This is Wing Charlie,” said a voice in her ear. “We are ETA your position, tally in six minutes.”
Six minutes. There was no way they were going to last that long.
Chapter Fourteen
Bridge
USS Midway
The whole bridge leapt to life, instantly turning the small, cramped room into a hubbub. Fingers clicking on keyboards. Beeping systems and alarms. Voices calling out reports.
“Contacts designed Skunk Alpha through Lima, painting with targeting lasers.”
“All weapons coming online. Guns are loading and coming around. Prepared to lay down fire.”
“Still no response from Wing Alpha. Craft aren’t squawking transponders.”
“Damage control teams report the umbilical has detached, and they’ve been able to remove scaffold one. Scaffolds two through twelve are still attached.”
“Captain, Wing Beta reports capital ships are launching strike craft.”
That last report caught both his and Malmsteen’s attention, both heads swiveling.
“Play their report,” said Malmsteen.
The voice of an Arabic-sounding pilot was difficult to hear over the noise. Mattis strained to make out his exact words. Twelve contacts, all capital ships… Alert fighters…destroyed… SAR procedures…
“We should dispatch the SAR bird,” said Lynch. “It’s possible they ejected.”
Mattis had been in enough fights to know that when people said things like possibly ejected, that was more of a prayer than a legitimate tactical assessment. “Do it, but keep the SAR bird close,” he said. “Don’t let it stray into weapons fire. Wait until we clear space first.”
Lynch hesitated. His eyes flicked to Malmsteen, struggling to catch his attention, looking for approval. Delay, delay…
“Yes, Lynch?” asked Malmsteen. Great. Now Lynch had to repeat the whole order.
“Captain, the Admiral suggested that we keep our SAR bird at standoff distance.”
Malmsteen considered. “If our pilots are out there, they’ll need extraction. Belay that, Commander. Order the rescue craft in close.”
“Aye sir, SAR bird away.”
Mattis took a breath, letting it out slowly. It wasn’t that Malmsteen overrode him, it was…the delay. The inefficiency.
Once again, Mattis had to tell himself, a little more forcefully than he had before, that the Midway wasn’t his ship. Not anymore. And it couldn’t be, not if his every order was to be cross checked. That kind of overhead would destroy their combat effectiveness.
“Captain,” said Commander Pitt, “I have Admiral Yim on the line. He reports that the station is coming to combat effectiveness, and they’re forming a defensible posture with the Fuqing. Heavy torpedo launchers are being loaded now. There’s some delay priming their warheads, but they report they’ll have that fixed, uh, soon.”
In combat, immediately was just in time, momentarily was too long, and soon was an eternity.
“Tell him to step on it,” said Malmsteen. “We’re going to need the station’s firepower if we want to take on a dozen contacts with just us and the Fuqing.”
“Aye, sir.” Commander Pitt repeated his request into the line.
“Also Commander,” said Malmsteen, “if Yim can’t get his precious torpedoes loaded fast enough, spin up the Z-drive.”
“We’re rabbiting?” asked Mattis incredulously. The intruders had just killed two Warbirds. Two people in each of those… American blood had been shed. To retreat without firing a shot seemed an unconscionable insult.
“I’m keeping my options open,” said Malmsteen.
But it was more than that. To power the Z-drive would take critical power away from defenses and weapons. It was fighting with one hand tied behind their back. Wasn’t twelve to one already enough for the bastard?
Commander Pitt touched his earpiece. “Sir, I also have the Fuqing actual on the line. They’ve detected our Z-drive spinup. She wants to know our…” His tone grew confused and bitter. “Intentions.”
Malmsteen ignored the request, instead choosing to deal with something Mattis didn’t much care to deconstruct. It was the Midway, the Fuqing and Friendship Station against an unknown, powerful enemy. This was no time for politics.
Mattis walked over to Commander Pitt, picked the earpiece off his ear, and put it on. “Captain Chao. This is Admiral Mattis.”
“It’s Shao,” came the frosty voice on the other line. “You’re not abandoning us, are you, Americans?”
Shao. Not Chao. Dammit. Mattis silently glowered at his own error. “Listen. Captain. Those ships aren’t American. But they aren’t Chinese either. And they aren’t looking friendly to either of us.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
“I know you’re a good captain.” The words kind of tumbled out. “We… When we spoke, your only concern was for the loss of your crew. Well, those bastards—whoever the hell they are—just killed four of my pilots, and they’re closing in on all of us pretty damn quickly. Whatever disagreements we have, Captain Shao, I’m sure you’ll agree: the Midway cannot stand against twelve ships, but neither can you and your station.”
“So you’re just going to run?” She practically spat the words, but there was something else there, too. “I expected you to be made of sterner stuff, Admiral!”
“It’s—it’s not my decision,” he said, far weaker than he meant to. “The Midway is Malmsteen’s command.”
“Don’t give me that. He’s a captain. You’re an admiral. Perhaps my knowledge of American ranks is somewhat out of date, but you should outrank him.”
It was more complicated than that… Excuses flowed through his head like a gushing torrent over a waterfall, all grinding together into a word-salad that just ultimately sounded like a string of excuses.
Mattis ground his teeth together. He needed to do something.
He needed to do something very stupid. “Standby,” said Mattis, and muted the line.
With that dark, churning feeling deep in his gut, Mattis turned to Malmsteen. “Captain,” he said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard over the din, “The Fuqing reports that they will fire on us if we do not power down our Z-drive and divert that energy to our weapons systems.”
Malmsteen, then, did the absolute worst thing he could do: hesitate.
He sat there, in his fancy chair, doing nothing.
“To be blunt, Captain,” said Mattis, trying to jolt the guy into action. “They have a good point. We can either die separately or we can fight together and stand a chance. Best decide now. These skunks are looking a mite ornery.”
Silence. Nothing.
So Mattis reached over Lynch’s console and casually hit the emergency shutdown on the Z-drive.
The system whined, and with a pathetic whimper, shut down. The energy flooded their weapons systems, and the tactical console lit up.
“Sir!” shouted Lynch.
“Admiral,” said Commander Pitt, “are you out of your fucking mind?”
Malmsteen remained frozen, staring wide eyed at Lynch’s console, at the blinking red display that counted down the time until they could jump again. 19 minutes, 59 seconds. Essentially forever.
All the noise died. In the stunned silence, Mattis, with a careful, deliberate action, touched his stolen earpiece.
“I fixed it,” he said. “Z-drive powering down.”
The line lost its distinctive hiss. Shao had muted the line, presumably to talk to someone else on her end. At least she hadn’t hung up… That was a small mercy, but he’d take whatever he could at the moment.
Nobody said anything. Mattis matched their stares, eyes narrowed, daring anyone to say anything or do anythin
g.
The hiss came back. “You don’t get a cookie for doing the right thing,” said Shao. “We’re not friends.”
“We don’t have to be,” said Mattis. “Just keep your guns pointed at those skunks, and we’ll do the same.”
“That’s enough for now,” said Shao, to his significant relief. “Stand by for shared firing solutions and engagement plans.”
Malmsteen suddenly seemed to realize what Mattis had done. “Open a communication,” he said, his voice stunned and small. “All channels, all frequencies. Tell them we surrender. Mister Pitt, tell the Chinese to stand down. Lay down arms. We can’t fight—”
“We’re already fighting!” roared Mattis, any semblance of pretending Malmsteen was in command now gone. “We just don’t know it yet!”
“Sir,” said Lynch. Mattis wheeled on him, about ready to have another argument, but Lynch’s finger was pointed at the radar screen. “Look, sensors have detected some kind of…mass. The lead skunk is towing something. Something big.”
“A mass?” asked Mattis. “How big?”
“Approximately four hundred meters across,” said Lynch. “Spectrometric analysis suggests it’s…it’s rock and ice, Admiral. Just mass.”
No way the hostile ship would be just, coincidentally, towing that thing. They wouldn’t need the water. They wouldn’t need the raw materials. It was something else. Not a shield, it was too brittle… Not anything. What value was in a huge chunk of frozen rock?
Then it came to him. “That ship,” he asked, dreading the question. “Does it have a very large power signature?”
“Yes,” said Lynch. “More than the others.”
“It’s a mass driver,” said Mattis. He’d seen them before. During the war, Chinese stations had them—they were the only things big enough to use them. They could use almost anything as ammunition. A purpose-built hunk of iron, or just any old massive object…an asteroid, a comet, or even a ship hulk. They required tremendous amounts of energy and were generally considered impractical and unwieldy when compared to smaller, more precise railguns. “Their lead ship…that whole ship is a gun.”
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 6