The left wing came off, spilling fuel everywhere in a white mist. The grav-net almost lost its grip, the craft crashing heavily onto the deck, fuel and debris spreading out in a wide arc. The cockpit glass shattered, sucking the air out and stealing all sound.
Silently scraping across the deck, her Warbird came to a stop right at the end of the hangar bay, meters away from the unyielding steel blast wall.
Her head hurt. Her left arm hurt. Everything hurt, more or less. With the cockpit glass out, the only thing keeping her from vacuum was her suit.
Spacesuit-clad medics ran toward her ship, and a pair of medical drones drifted away from their moorings toward the wreckage, their four claws pulling away the metal hull to save the flesh within.
She was okay, but her life was the least of her concerns. She pulled up the medical readouts just in time to watch the beating line that was Flatline’s heart go dead.
Flatline flatlined.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
VIP Quarters
USS Midway
Senator Pitt stalked the floor of his quarters like a caged animal, a thousand angry thoughts flying through his head at once.
That fucking washed-up has-been had bullied, forced, and shouted his way onto the bridge and into command. How dare that man talk to him, him, that way. The ancient, withered bastard was supposed to be a tool, something to ingratiate the Americans to the Chinese and nothing more. Now it seemed Mattis was calling all the shots.
Pitt had gone to great lengths to remind Mattis that this was his operation from the beginning. It seemed the man had forgotten that.
And what was that smell? Did all the rooms reek like this? It smelled like shit. Had since the moment he stepped through the door. The stench pervaded everything, clung to the furniture, forced its way into his nose, and even drifted out into the corridor. Where did it come from? Did they know?
Of course. They must have known. Even his own son didn’t want to talk to him, much less give him the explanation he was owed.
Angrily, Senator Pitt picked up his communicator. He had a number of contacts on his recently used list, various other politicians, lawyers, his doctor. There was one, though, that wasn’t labelled. It would be too risky, for them both, if anyone knew who it was. It was for emergencies. Critical matters. Important things.
He pressed it.
The phone dialed, connecting to the subspace relay, routing his call through various Z-space stations and toward Earth.
It connected with a soft click.
“You must be very desperate indeed to call me,” said the voice on the other end, obscured by a distortion, as usual. To protect her identity.
“It’s not that bad, Spectre,” said Pitt, respectfully using the woman’s codename. Intelligence spooks were all weird about things like that. “But I do need your help.”
“Go ahead,” said Spectre. “You know I’m here to help you.”
Of course he knew. Senator Pitt knew when someone owed him a debt. That was how politics worked. The currency of government was back-scratching, and he was very wealthy indeed.
But even the richest man had to cash in eventually.
“I have a problem,” said Pitt, taking the time to phrase his request carefully. “Admiral Mattis was supposed to accompany me to Friendship Station for a diplomatic mission. Things have gone sideways in a big way—I’m honestly not sure what to tell you, because it’s, well, bloody and dangerous. The point is, this was my operation. And he disrespected me.”
“Can’t have that,” said Spectre.
Damn right. “I want him sorted out.”
“Sorted out?” Spectre paused, considering. “Do you mean—”
“I mean removed from command.” The other thing…that wasn’t necessary. “Have someone order him back to the rear. Put him back in whatever museum he crawled out of. Falsify a medical report, issue some order, whatever you have to do. I just want him out of my hair.”
“So you don’t want him removed, just the problem he poses removed.”
Dealing with Intelligence spooks was always like this. “That’s right. Don’t do anything…rash.”
“Regrettably, there’s not a lot I can do about this,” said Spectre. “He’s the ranking commander in a theater of war. Even with all the tools at my disposal, there are some things even I can’t arrange.”
“Then what fucking use are you?” snapped Pitt.
Spectre was silent, and he realized he’d made a terrible mistake.
“Does working with me displease you, Senator Pitt?” she asked, her tone perfectly innocent, the threat dangling in the air. “If you want to end our mutual arrangement, all you have to do is let me know.”
He knew that would be a bad idea. “That won’t be necessary.”
“A wise decision.”
Pitt tapped his foot on the ground, trying to keep the inertia going. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for our species,” he said, working a different angle. “We got attacked, and by something quite dangerous. I don’t know if they’re aliens, or what, but I know that they are hunting us. Hunting for blood. Mattis served well in the Sino-American War, no question. I’m not doubting that. But his time is over. It’s time for younger blood—”
“It’s time for your son to take command of the USS Midway?” asked Spectre.
“I’m not saying that it has to be him.”
“But,” said Spectre, “he’s the next in command, apart from Mattis. There’s nobody else it could conceivably go to.”
Pitt frowned, slowly easing himself down into a chair. “You sure know a lot about the situation here out at the ass end of nowhere.”
“It’s my business to know things,” said Spectre simply.
He couldn’t contest that. “Maybe I’m asking the wrong person,” he said, as much to himself as her. “As you said, your skills are”—he deliberately selected a specific word—“specialized.”
“Indeed,” said Spectre. “Your problem seems to be political. My solutions are practical.”
Then he would need a political tool to solve this problem. Someone who owed him a favor from way back. Someone who could use words to accomplish what Spectre’s talents could not.
“And I’ll be sure to call on you if I need that. Goodbye, Spectre.” He closed the link, finger tapping on his communicator idly. Time to cash in one of his largest chips.
He opened a call to the President of the United States.
Chapter Thirty
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis watched the green arrows on their radar screen disappear into their hangar bay until they were all swallowed up.
“All fighters have docked, Admiral,” said Lynch. “One Warbird crashed on landing. The craft is lost, but it looks like at least the pilot survived. Deck crew are extracting them and removing the debris as we speak.”
Mattis nodded approvingly. “And all remaining hostile strike craft have been eliminated?”
“Yes, Admiral. Scopes are clear, but there is a lot of debris around. It’s possible some may have survived in a powered-down state.”
If so, there was no time to go looking for them. With all their strike craft recovered, more or less, it was time to turn their eyes to the future. “Link our navigation computers with the Fuqing’s,” he said. “We want to Z-jump with them.”
Lynch’s confusion was clear. “Wait, they’re jumping? We’re jumping?”
“That’s right.” Mattis leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “We can break their cloak. They don’t have ammo for their mass driver, and best of all, they won’t be expecting us to attack. They broke the engagement, Mister Lynch. They were scared of something. Scared of us. I intend to capitalize on and exploit this fear.”
“Sir, with respect, we don’t know why they bugged out. We should wait for more ships.”
“Any ship big enough and ugly enough to help us is also going to be slow enough that they’re not going to arrive in time to make a dif
ference.”
Lynch’s skepticism was clear. “We still have repairs to effect,” he said. “I can’t guarantee that we’ll be one hundred percent combat effective when we emerge, or even much more than we are right now.”
“We’ll have to hammer out the dents on the way.” There was no more time for arguing. “Establish the uplink, Mister Lynch, and let’s get right after them.”
With a polite nod, Lynch went to it, tapping away at his keyboard. His console flashed red. “The Fuqing didn’t accept our uplink,” he said.
Right on cue, his earpiece chirped. “This is Shao. We’re experiencing a strange malfunction, Admiral. It seems that our computers believe you’re crazy enough to jump away in pursuit of these strange ships, and even stranger, they think you want my ship to come with you.”
Typical Chinese cowardice. “That’s why you lost the war, you know? Unwillingness to take risks,” said Mattis, a tense edge to his tone. “Are you afraid?”
“Never,” said Shao defiantly. “What are you saying? This is merely prudence.”
“Is that so crazy?” asked Mattis. “We have the advantage. Let’s use it.”
“No.” Shao’s refusal was flat.
Mattis considered that, muting the channel for a second. “Mister Pitt,” he asked, “do we have the current course the enemy fleet is taking?”
Pitt nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Are there any Chinese colonies in their path? Or nearby?”
He consulted his instruments for a moment. “They will pass within half a light year of New Guangzhou, assuming they keep up their current trajectory. It’s a small research colony at the edge of space. Nothing at all fancy there.”
Mattis reopened the line. “Shao, acknowledged. No worries. We’ll proceed to New Guangzhou by ourselves and wait for you to catch up.”
The faint hiss on the line showed she had taken the bait. “On second thought…” She clicked her tongue over the line, obviously trying to act casual as she changed her mind. “Well, I’m not dead yet, so why the hell not? We can be ready to jump momentarily.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He motioned to Lynch. “Try again.”
Lynch tapped some keys. “Uplink complete, sir.”
“Great,” said Mattis, settling back into the captain’s chair. “As soon as the Fuqing signals that they’re ready to go, punch it.”
He waited, and then the computer chirped.
“Engaging Z-space translation,” said Lynch.
From the outside monitors, a field of energy built up. Seeing a Z-space translation from the inside was always a treat. Human eyes perceived the jump as a bright white flash of light, but viewed from within the bubble using a warship’s multi-spectral cameras, the sight was something else.
Light in every spectrum of the rainbow flashed in pulses, multicolored sparkles dancing all around them like tiny stars. Each spark grew to be a dot, shimmering and full of energy, then it burst, emitting a flash before fading away to nothing. The color stained the ship’s hull like a demented child had gone to town on it with a paintball gun loaded with pellets of every hue.
When the ship was fully painted, it flashed—and reality disappeared.
“We’re in pursuit of the attacking fleet,” said Lynch. “The Z-drive is holding steady, and the Fuqing is just off our starboard bow, in a travel formation. We should be several hours behind our target in Z-space. If they drop out of Z-space, we should have plenty of opportunities to decide our course of action, either to press the attack or sail silently onward.”
“Very good, Mister Lynch,” he said. “Now, I need a cup of coffee.”
“Sir,” asked Lynch, obviously uncomfortable. “What happens if the Chinese discover our deception? They’re not going to take it kindly. They might even start shooting at us.”
He bit his lower lip. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. If they get mad, well, I guess we’re a little overdue for a rematch.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Lynch.
Mattis stared at the colorful display of Z-space, worry creeping in. “Me too.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Forward Infirmary
USS Midway
Guano ran alongside Flatline’s gurney all the way to the infirmary.
As the medics quickly pushed the gurney through the infirmary doors, one of them said, “Mid-twenties male, crash survivor, found down, unresponsive. Physical trauma to the head, lacerations on the right arm, and a weird-looking gunshot wound to the right leg just above the ankle. Cardiac arrest, restarted with the autodoc. Pulse is forty and thready. Respiration is eight. BP is eighty over sixty. GSC is three.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. That was a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo and not a lot of calm, he’s going to be totally fine, don’t worry reassurances.
One of the ship’s doctors put down his clipboard and made her way over. “We’ll need a transfusion,” she said, the words flying out of her mouth. “Intubate. Prep him for surgery. We have to stop that bleed.” She jabbed a finger at Guano. “You. Out.”
“But—”
“Out.”
One of the nurses grabbed her arm and tugged her away from Flatline’s gurney. Guano yanked her arm back, but that only resulted in three big burly nurses grabbing her and giving her the old-fashioned Navy heave, dragging her out of the infirmary without a word, and tossing her into the corridor.
“Bastards!” she spat.
“Ma’am,” said the nurse, “we’ll let you know when he’s out of surgery. You can’t do anything for him now.”
Typical rehearsed speech bullshit. She balled her fist to take a swing, but one of the nurses was talking on an earpiece. She swore she heard a request for marines.
“Fine,” said Guano, turning and storming off in a random direction, her feet pounding on the deck.
Stupid nurses and doctors. What the hell did they know about literally anything, ever? Didn’t they understand that a flight crew were basically brothers and sisters? She deserved to be in there. She deserved to be watching him, like family, like—
“Lieutenant Corrick,” said Roadie, stepping in front of her. She hadn’t even seen him there until he was physically blocking her path. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Get out of the way, sir,” she said, fists balled at her sides. “Or I might have to punch you.”
“You wanna add striking a superior officer to your sheet, Lieutenant?” he asked, but something about the way he said it—firm but understanding, questioning and not demanding—gave her pause.
Silence.
“Not really,” said Guano. “But Flatline—”
“I know.” Roadie affixed a stern stare on her. “I’ve been flying fighters for fifteen years. You think Frost’s always been my gunner?”
The implication seemed to calm her down a bit. “I guess not.”
“Walk with me, Lieutenant.” He said it in a way that indicated it was not a suggestion.
Guano fell in step. Still wearing her ejection suit, she trudged along as Roadie led her down corridor after corridor, before stopping outside a small, cramped room labeled starboard exercise centre.
“You want me to…lift weights at the gym, sir?” she asked incredulously. “At a time like this?”
“At a time when your partner’s in surgery and you can’t do anything about it except worry if, maybe, you could have done something differently that would have made this whole mess play out with a better end?” Roadie smiled thinly. “I think that’s the perfect time to blow off a little steam. C’mon. Bench is free. Load a pair of twenties and I’ll spot you.”
“Forty kilos?” Guano rolled her eyes, despite it all. “Lightweight. Literally.” She pushed open the door, making a line for the bench press. A steel bar suspended between black-painted stocks. A bench press with no weight on it always looked so sad. She picked up a round twenty-kilo disc, slid it onto one end, and then put another on the opposite end.
�
�I’ll spot the warm up,” said Roadie. “Work you up in twenty-kilo increments, see how high you can get.” He glanced across the gym at somebody, then grinned. “Hey, Frost.”
“Roadie!” The Kenyan woman bounced over to them both, her wide smile almost infectious. Almost. “Hey, Guano!”
Nothing in the world seemed to get Frost down. As Guano slid down onto the bench and wiggled up underneath the bar, she began to suspect the woman’s presence was far from an accident.
“A’right,” said Roadie, moving above her, hands on the bar. “You ready?”
“To lift forty kilos? Pfft.”
“Sixty,” said Roadie. “Remember the bar. That’s twenty.”
“Whatever.” Guano lifted it up, lowering the weight down to her chest, then back up. Up. Down. Up. Down. Ten times. The tenseness in her body eased, replaced with the light burn of her arm muscles.
“Easy,” said Guano, sitting up.
Roadie nodded understandingly, and then put an extra two disks on each side of the bar. Roadie took his turn, sliding under the bar. Guano bit her lip. If he dropped that, there was no way she could help him.
Still, Roadie hoisted it easily. Ten reps, lifting one hundred forty kilos like it was nothing. Jesus.
Guano kept her face even as Roadie slid out and went to remove the bars.
“Wait,” she said. “I want to try it.”
No reaction from Roadie, except to silently gesture for her to continue.
“No way,” said Frost, her eyes wide. “That’s way too heavy. Even for me. C’mon, Guano.”
She wouldn’t be shown up like this. Guano slid under the bar. Roadie moved above her, ready to spot.
The weight was intense, the bar bending slightly, her arms shaking. She could barely lift it out of the stirrups, but she clenched her teeth, flexed every muscle in her body, and got it over the lip.
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 12