“Every… Uh, every nation engages in espionage from time to time—”
“Dammit! You red bastards broke into our computer systems because you couldn’t do your own legwork and—”
“A’right!” said Mattis, holding up his hands. “A’right, a’right. We get it. We get it. We’re going to move on.” He took a long, slow breath. “Captain Shao, do you have any information that wasn’t…uhh, borrowed from us, as it were?”
“Yes,” said Shao, flicking through the pages. “Our scientists noted several incorrectly set parameters on the quantum waveform emitter, which we suspected was because it made no sense to cool it rather than heat it, buuuuut…there’s one thing here. One theoretical application of this was to, instead of cloaking an object for a duration of time, analyze incoming radar pulses and cloak only when a pulse was expected. Since the device could be turned off and on rapidly, this was considered an acceptable compromise, especially when performing reconnaissance against long-range radar, where pulses were regular and infrequent.”
“Sounds like that’s what they were doing,” said Mattis, musing over it. “They were trying to save power, but they messed up. They didn’t know our systems as well as they thought they did.” He turned to Lynch. “Can we exploit this to find a weakness?”
“You bet,” said Lynch, nodding emphatically. “In fact, I can do one better.”
“What’s that?”
Lynch grinned. “I can track these bastards.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bridge
USS Midway
The huddle broke up. Shao closed the connection, presumably to supervise the repairs on her own ship, and Mattis sat in the captain’s chair like a big ole’ grumpy grandpa, chatting to Lynch about this cloaking device or…whatever it was.
Which meant Commander Pitt was left to deal with managing the flaming, smashed wreckage of their own ship.
Just great. Technically it was Modi’s job to organize it, but fixing a vessel of this size wasn’t something one man could do, no matter how robotic and brainy they were. It was tempting to go down to Engineering and crack the whip over Modi personally, but too many things on the Bridge demanded his attention, so that pleasure would have to wait.
Malmsteen’s body wasn’t yet cold, and although the corpsmen had carried it off the bridge on a stretcher, Pitt knew it was too early to be talking about anything like a permanent replacement. The Midway needed a CO, and the chain of command was pretty explicit. Authority was passed down from officer to officer, from the most senior to the most junior, as it always had been going back to times of antiquity.
Didn’t mean he had to like it.
Pitt had served as the Midway’s XO for nearly five years. That was a long time for most positions, and he had expected, in the next year or so, for Malmsteen to be promoted out of the position and assigned to a newer, shinier ship, leaving him in command.
Now, although the circumstances had been remarkably tragic, he couldn’t help but feel a little bitter that the clock had been seemingly reset. Would he spend another five years here? Ten? Would another series of unlikely, galaxy-changing events once again rear their heads, and some other circumstance push him out of the captain’s chair?
He couldn’t help but look at it. He’d often physically sat in it, of course, and had the conn to himself; such were the perks of being the XO. But that was a temporary position. Borrowed. Unreal, in some way, and the key decision making was always in the hands of the captain.
Malmsteen had done a good job. As had Mattis, during his day, or so he’d heard.
But Pitt could do better. Deep down, on some level, he knew he was better for the position. He deserved the Midway. It was difficult to accept any other conclusion. He should be in the big chair, not the old man.
His communicator chimed. His private one. He quickly plucked it out of his pocket and put it to his ear. “What?” he snapped.
“Wow,” said his father defensively. “Rude.”
“Dad,” said Pitt, his teeth grinding together. “I’m a little busy here.”
“Oh, yes,” said his father, “I know. Far too busy to even give your old man a text message to let him know what’s going on. No, you’d rather he sit in this dark, smelly room all by himself, as the ship rocks and shakes all around him, wondering what the hell is happening because nobody is telling him anything.”
Was he always this bad, or was there something in the Midway’s atmospheric processors that was affecting his father’s brain? “Listen, Dad, I understand. I know that information has not been forthcoming from the senior staff, but the truth is: we don’t know a lot either.”
“Fine,” said his dad. “Let me know when I can go back to the station. At least they have the news there.”
No reason to sugar coat it. “Friendship Station is gone. Blown to pieces. There’s some kind of new force at work here that we truly don’t understand a great deal about. All we know is that it’s hostile, it’s aggressive, and we need to focus all our efforts on fixing the ship. I don’t have time to talk you through this.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” The frustration reached a crescendo. At the other end of the bridge, Mattis and Lynch were engaged in some kind of argument. Civil, but firm. Mattis made some kind of decision, and Lynch nodded acceptingly. That was how it was, how it had to be… He had accepted it, and it was time for his father to do the same. “You’re stuck here, so you better get damn used to it.” He hung up.
Lynch broke away from his conversation and came over to him. “You okay, Commander?”
It was tempting to be honest, to say no, to explain how arguing with his father during this stressful time made things a lot worse, but he, instead, forced a smile. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “How can I help?”
Lynch stared. “How can you help me? Ain’t that supposed to be the other way around?”
Pitt gave a little half-smile. “My job as the XO is fire extinguisher. I solve the problems so that the captain doesn’t have to. But, paradoxically, I’m also a fire starter; I’m here to encourage people, get the sparks flying on dry wood, and build up the senior staff so they can do their jobs.”
“Modi’s brain is dry wood,” said Lynch, but the smile on his face told him he’d done his job. His eyes drifted to the captain’s chair. “That ain’t a…problem for you, Commander?”
“I’m just fine,” said Pitt firmly. “I would have liked to sit there, but we have a crisis. Admiral Mattis is handling it as well as I could.”
“No better?”
“Time will tell,” said Pitt.
Indeed it would.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis dismissed Lynch and sat back in his chair. There would be plenty of time for reflection in the coming days and weeks, time to analyze how the battle could have been played better, but for now, he was happy. They’d come through alive, more or less, and the enemy fleet had pulled back.
That was worth something at least. Snatching a stalemate from the jaws of defeat was as close to winning as anyone could ask. Not an ideal situation, obviously, but for now, it would have to do.
Would Malmsteen have done it better? That little worm of doubt began to creep into his mind, squirming its way through his thoughts. Mattis had been away from the Midway for so long. The old girl seemed like an old friend, not a stranger, but time always changed things. Small and large. Staff rotated in and out. Upgrades replaced old hardware and software. Wear and tear wore down the superstructure and mandated repairs. The ship was largely the same as she had been in his day—but not exactly the same.
It was also true that no one had asked him to command the ship. In fact, they had kept command from him, but that was no excuse. In battle, the only thing that mattered was results: had he been good enough?
They didn’t have a body count yet. How many of his crew had paid the ultimate price today because he hadn’t done his homewor
k?
Always time to think about that later. For now, they weren’t out of the woods yet. Right on cue, his earpiece chirped.
“Admiral, this is Modi. Status update on the engines.”
“Send it,” said Mattis.
“An issue was discovered with the primary fuel coupling. This blockage was causing widespread malfunctions on all engines. We’ve subsequently repaired the blockage. It’s not perfect, but you’ll get most, if not all, of your power back for most engines.”
Good. Being able to move at something approximating their full speed was a welcome change. “So that’s all it was? A blocked fuel line?”
“Damage caused by the battle obscured our efforts to diagnose it properly earlier. Although there is damage to the engines’ exhausts, it’s mostly cosmetic, and if we accept a reduction in thermal dispersion capacity and maneuvering ability, we should be able to make good use of them all.”
“Excellent work, Mister Modi. This is good news.”
“I concur.”
Mattis smiled to himself. “With the former or the latter?”
“With both, of course.”
He went to give further commands, but his earpiece chirped again, signaling an incoming short-range call. “Standby, I’m adding another person to this call.”
He touched the side of his earpiece. “This is Midway actual.”
“Shao here. We’re sitting here with our asses in the wind, Admiral. Any word on when we can get underway?”
“Soon,” he said. “Things are going well over here. Our engines are back online. The technical details of the enemy capabilities are still being asserted. Any word on search and rescue from the station?”
“You know as well as I do, Admiral, nobody got out of there alive.”
He knew, but it was worth asking. It was difficult to feel sorry for Admiral Yim, especially given the circumstances of their meeting, but he did. Just a little. “Sorry.”
“And I too, Admiral. I pity those who finally find revenge.”
“Why’s that?”
She held the silence for a moment, then said, “Do you feel good? Knowing the man who killed your brother is dead?”
There hadn’t really been enough time to process this fact, and Shao’s question came suddenly. The only word that found its way to his lips was the pure, unvarnished truth. “No. ”
His brother was still dead. It hadn’t solved anything.
“And thus,” said Shao, “you’ve lost even the idea that you can get back at Admiral Yim for what happened. The notion of revenge. Accordingly, I pity you, Admiral, for your loss today is more than most.”
The growing pain in his gut signaled that it was time to talk about something else. “How go the repairs on your end?”
“Doing well,” said Shao, obviously happy to switch topics now that things had gotten awkward. “We’re ready to leave when you are.”
“Hold on,” he said, and turned to Lynch. “Are you sure we can track these bastards?”
“Damn straight,” said Lynch. “They all turned the same way before they jumped.”
“And we can defeat their cloak?”
“Easy as a coon dog tracking a possum.” Lynch must have been confident if such pure, unadulterated Texan was slipping out.
“Hmm. That one’s a stretch, even for you, cowboy.” Mattis considered. “But if you’re confident, I’m confident.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Lynch. “I’d stake my life on it.”
The exact phrasing of his words put a damp rag over everything. “Hate to break it to you, Commander, but you already have.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
22 km from the wreckage of Friendship Station
Guano floored it, racing toward the Midway, her ship shaking with the effort. She swung her Warbird left and right, flinging it around debris. Some of the smaller stuff pinged off her hull, screaming as it scraped across the metal, dragging unsightly scars down the small ship’s length.
She didn’t worry about that. A ship could be fixed. Would be fixed, by some grumbling, annoyed petty officer who would hold a grudge for months. That was usually the way of it.
Come on, come on, come on… She pitched upward to avoid a massive, blackened structural beam, and then had to immediately pitch downward to avoid a blasted hunk of hull armor.
Immediately, she realized her error. Ahead, a thousand tiny shards of glass—one of the station’s observation windows, possibly—floated in front of her. She was moving to fast to dodge. Nothing to do but fly through.
Ting ting ting ting ting ting ting. She flew through a hail of shattering fragments.
“Hey, Flatline,” she said once they’d cleared it, as much to herself as to him. “Buddy, hey. We are doing a really dangerous thing, so I hope you appreciate this. I really do. You owe me big for this one.”
Spinning flat panels, four of them, drifted out to meet her, almost mocking her with their presence. She twisted the ship, flying between them, the corners of each missing her Warbird by meters.
The voice of the Midway’s comm officer came through to her again. “Bravo-2, be advised, autodocking offline. It looks like your ILS antenna just took a good hit. We’re clearing you for a visual approach.”
Landing without machines was fine with her. Even preferable. ILS was too slow, too cautious. She needed to get down onto the deck fast. Precision required computers. Speed required humans.
She risked a glance at her onboard auto-doc. Flatline’s vitals were fading. “Computer, on my authority, inject my gunner with twenty ccs of adrenaline. Keep his heart rate up.”
“Confirmed,” said the synthetic male voice. “Injecting.”
With a gasp and a disorientated shout, Flatline woke up.
“Welcome back, buddy,” she said, risking a quick glance over her shoulder. “Keep it steady. Everything’s going to be fine.”
She looked back to the front of the ship, and through the cracked cockpit canopy, she saw a body hurtling toward them. American? Chinese? No way to know.
And no way to dodge it in time. She and the corpse collided with a sickening, wet crunch, the cracking of breaking bones transmitted through the fighter’s hull into her ears. As damaged and frail as her ship was, it was significantly stronger than a body.
“W-What was that?” stammered Flatline. “Where are we? What am I doing here?”
“Nothing important,” she said. Disorientation like this wasn’t unexpected. “We’re still good. We’re still in space, buddy. Still in space. We’re going to be skids-down on the Midway in a few minutes, so I’m going to need you to not die before then.”
She tapped her rudder, swinging the craft out wide, and then, from behind a massive, jagged chunk of debris appeared the Midway, with a clear run to the open mouth of the hangar bay.
“How… How far away are we?” Flatline asked. “I’m feeling really shitty.”
A side effect of the adrenaline. It wasn’t exactly safe. “We’re on final approach.” She wished they would call it something else. Final approach was a little too morbid for her.
“I won’t make it,” said Flatline.
“Stop complaining,” said Guano, adjusting her course, the white landing lights guiding her in. “I’m doing all I can to save you, so shut up.”
“I’m just the gunner,” said Flatline, the slurring returning to his voice. The chemical was either wearing off, or his injuries were just too serious. “Couldn’t make it as a pilot. So I shoot things. Anyone… Anyone can shoot things. Replaceable. You’ll get another one.”
“Nope. Not going to happen. You hear me? I’m in command of this ship, and I am giving you a direct order: Junior Lieutenant Deshawn Wiley, you are not permitted to die on my ship.”
“Name’s Flatline,” he said. “B-Because of the heart attack.”
“I know it is.”
She had to keep him talking. Had to keep his brain working. “Flatline, buddy, liste
n. Listen good. When we get outta here, we’re going to take some leave, okay? I know where, too. I just gotta take you to this great lesbian bar in Hong Kong. I mean, it’s not my thing, but you’d love it. It’s perfect for you! You like chicks, they like chicks, you have so much in common. And after that, hookers. So many hookers. We are going to get you laid, buddy. Even if it kills me. But if you die out here, I ain’t dragging your corpse around. So you better…” A little bit of the facade broke. Just a little. Keep talking, just keep talking. She said whatever came to mind. “So you better not. Or at your funeral, I’m going to tell them all about—all about that time we had seventy-six hours of rec-leave in Vladivostok. You know the time! You remember that, you piece of shit. I still have that footage of you dancing to that singer. Um, what was her name? Aviaane. Ayalle? You love that girly crap, you love it! Aw, it’s not your fault. When you’re drunk, you know, you’re dancing to the song in your heart, not the one you hear, am I right. Right? Hah. Believe me, your folks won’t like that. I won’t spare the details either. None. You hear me? Flatline?”
Nothing. The hangar roared up, terrifyingly close, but she didn’t slow down.
“Flatline?”
“Lieutenant Corrick, this is Midway, you must reduce your speed.”
Oh shit. The landing. The hangar bay was right there, and she was going way too fast.
Guano slammed on the brakes, the tiny ship screaming through the hangar bay doors, shaking as it passed through the artificial gravity field and into the ship. Grav-nets reached out to grab her bird, mighty hands that snatched at her wings and fuselage, pulling and slowing her down. Metal stressed and groaned.
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 11