Senator Pitt steamed, picking up the communicator again. He dialed another number. It rang out.
Finally, he called Chuck Mattis. It rang twice before the phone was answered.
“Your father,” spat Senator Pitt, “is a stubborn-headed, ox-brained asshole.”
There was a brief, cautious pause on the other end.
“I’m guessing you want to speak to Chuck?” said the guy, who was definitely too…foreign to be Chuck. Accent was hard to pick out. South American? Maybe?
“Yeah. Chuck.”
There was some scuffling and moving.
“Hello?” said Chuck.
“Your father,” spat Senator Pitt, although it lost a little something with the repetition, “is a stubborn headed, ox-brained…” He clicked his fingers. “I forgot what I said before. Oh, wait. Asshole.”
“No disagreement here,” said Chuck, with a tinge of sincerity to it. “What can I do for you, boss?”
What exactly could Chuck do? Why was he even calling? Pitt chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Eh. Honestly, I ran out of people to call. I just wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t going to tell me I’m being paranoid. Someone who knows what he’s really like.”
“You’re not being paranoid,” said Chuck, “but you should know my dad’s a good man. Deep down. I won’t help betray him.”
“I’m honestly not sure I believe in deep down.” Senator Pitt shook his head. “I think we are the results of our actions, and Admiral Mattis is about to face those consequences. As are many others.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Sir, are you asking me to resign?”
“I’m not asking anything,” said Pitt carefully, “but I’m just saying, this unpleasantness with the admiral is going to get worse before it gets better. Maybe you shouldn’t be in the middle of it, forced to choose between your loyalty to me and your father.”
“Okay,” said Chuck. “Then I resign. Thank you, Senator.” And then Chuck hung up.
Well, that was expected. No glowing letter of recommendation for him. Pitt massaged his temples.
He needed another play.
Another idea.
Something.
Maybe it was time to talk to the President again.
Chapter Forty
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis pressed a switch on his command chair that isolated him from the whole bridge, deploying noise-canceling buffers that would effectively silence him from the outside world, and vice versa. With security established, he touched his earpiece with a reverence he didn’t quite expect from himself. “Madam President?”
“Good evening, Admiral Mattis.” It was her. President Edita Schuyler. That smooth, political tone that was, in some way, almost reminiscent of Ramirez, but that was a distraction he could absolutely not afford at this time.
“Good evening, Madam President.”
“I’m calling you directly, Admiral, to speak on matters which you are far more intimately well versed than I.” She paused, considering her next words. “Rumors are afloat, Admiral, and I wanted to consult with a primary source, as it were, so that I can make the right decision for our nation.”
“Thank you for your confidence,” said Mattis. “I hope, Madam President, that I can assist you.”
A brief pause, and then President Schuyler spoke again. “I think we can dispense with some formality. Jack, I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on out there, and don’t bullshit me.”
He took a deep breath and, as though worried that the bridge crew hearing him say it would turn him into a pillar of salt, told the truth as best he could. “There’s an alien fleet out there with tech far beyond whatever we have, and it looks like they’re coming for Earth.”
“When you say alien,” asked President Schuyler, “do you mean to say that they are French? Mexican? Indonesian?” She paused before lowering her voice. “Or are you suggesting they are extraterrestrial?”
“Sure looks like the latter to me.”
That seemed to be enough for her. “I understand. The Earth Defense Fleet was en route toward you, converging on an intercept point, but according to your latest report, the alien fleet has, instead, decided to come to us for the party. Is that correct?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” said Mattis, “it is.”
The president hesitated. “Jack, you know better than I do that changing course in Z-space is difficult. The EDF won’t be able to make it to Earth before the alien fleet arrives.”
He ground his teeth together. “Probably what they were anticipating the whole time. They were baiting us, picking on the border stations, trying to provoke a response. First Capella, then Cor Caroli… They probably selected Friendship Station when they saw how much media attention it was getting. They knew we were watching. So they attacked, then they jumped away, leaving us as witnesses. They wanted us to come investigate, so they could jump in behind our fleet while our pants were down. We didn’t win the battle at Friendship Station. We played right into their hands.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said President Schuyler. “They seem to know us quite well.”
That thought nagged at Mattis, but he put it aside. The nature of their attackers was irrelevant. For now. “Madam President, I want you to understand the gravity of this development. There are three ships in my fleet, the Midway and two frigates. There are two more frigates who are likely to meet us at the rendezvous point, beating the aliens there and coming in with us. There are eleven alien vessels, including one substantially capable ship which possesses a mass-driver weapon, a particularly nasty piece of hardware that took out Friendship Station in a single shot. This is not a battle we can win.”
“I understand,” said President Schuyler. “Whatever happens in that regard, I know you have done honorable work.”
“Don’t say it like you’re saying goodbye,” said Mattis. “Say it like you’re saying, ‘So, I spoke to the other countries, and we’re going to put aside our political bickering and work together, just like you and the Fuqing did, so that we, as a species, can survive. We’re going to have to meet them before they finish their Z-space translation and exit near Earth. Which will leave Earth defenseless, should another country try to take advantage of this crisis. But we have to trust that they won’t.’ That’s what I want to hear from you, Madam President.”
Her silence gave her answer before her words did. “It’s not that simple, Jack.”
“Make it that simple.” Mattis leaned forward in his chair, knowing full well she couldn’t see the gesture. “Tell the Chinese President, tell the EU, tell the Indian navy, the Russians, the Brazilians, tell every damn person on the planet: this is it. This is the moment we come together and push our problems into the deal with it later basket, or this is the moment we don’t have any more problems, because we’re all dead.”
He clenched his fist so hard it hurt. “Madam President, Z-space translations are imprecise. The aliens aren’t going to want to risk some of their limited fleet; they’re going to drop out of Z-space some distance away from Earth. Outside the moon’s orbit, in all likelihood. We need whatever the Chinese can muster there, waiting for them, and we need it urgently. We need every damn ship we can get—everything from tugboats to garbage scows. If it has guns on it, we need it. Even only to ram them.”
“I’m working on it,” said President Schuyler. “But this is a difficult negotiation. I can’t convince everyone to move their ships out of defensive range of Earth on a whim.”
“With respect,” said Mattis, “work harder.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ll do what I can. But you realize what will happen if this turns out to be a hoax, or some kind of diversion. If we move those ships, the planet will be left to Goalkeeper and that’s it.”
“We need those ships,” said Mattis, with all the strength and steel he could muster. “This isn’t a joke.”
President Schuyler hesitated and then, with palpable reluctance, seemed to giv
e in. “I’ll plead your case one more time. Don’t let me down, Jack. I’m staking my political career on you.”
“Believe me,” said Mattis, “you’re staking a lot more than that.”
Chapter Forty-One
Bridge
USS Midway
Mattis’s eyes hurt.
Fatigue was a natural consequence of war. Of pushing the human body to its limits. He’d been tired before, the kind of tired where everything gets distant and fuzzy, where you function on autopilot, using the basest, most animalistic part of the human brain. He gave orders, barely listened to reports, and did his best to keep his eyes open. The ol’ synapses weren’t firing like they should have been.
The twin battles, followed by a long Z-space translation, were the most action he’d had in years. Back in the day, twenty years ago, he would go days without sleep. He would fill his gut with coffee and his lungs with a high oxygen mix, he would distract himself with work and danger, and push his body to the limit. It felt like the old days. For better or worse.
He was two decades further along now. Lynch, Commander Pitt, and the rest of the bridge crew looked so young, even though many of them were almost old enough to have their own commands, especially Commander Pitt.
He rubbed his eyes for the third time, trying to massage the burn out of them. He’d almost forgotten how awful this part of war was. The waiting. He just wanted to get it over with.
“Admiral?” asked Commander Pitt. “We’re stowing the supplies brought on board from the Somerset. We’re running low on space to put some of these unassembled strike craft. The Revere and the Hamilton are both embarrassingly overstocked, as they were just beginning a long-range patrol to the colonies, so they don’t have any room.”
What was Commander Pitt expecting him to do? Conjure up more deck space with magic? “What’s your point, Mister Pitt?” he asked, more snappish than he intended.
“Well, sir,” said Commander Pitt, obviously trying to keep his own frustrations in check, “I was simply checking. Are we rendezvousing with any further reinforcements before we re-engage the alien fleet, or should I have the extra strike craft jettisoned into space?”
An annoying question, but one that was legitimate. Still, Mattis struggled to come up with a good answer. “Can we stow them in the hangar bay?”
“Well, that’s where they are now,” said Commander Pitt, “but if we have another crash, as we did in the battle of Friendship Station, then we’re going to have a massive fire risk, and a lot more debris. We’ve got more junk than we can shake a stick at right now.”
He almost had them jettisoned, but his rational, sane, calm commander’s mind took over at the last second. “Keep them in the hangar bay,” he said.
Suddenly, Lynch’s eyes lit up. “Sir, I have an idea. What if we jettison them when we get to wherever we’re going? We’ll use them as decoys. If nothing else, hostile strike craft will shoot them instead of our actual ships.”
The idea of wasting perfectly good strike craft for a minor tactical advantage didn’t sit well with him, but in this significantly outmatched fight, he was happy for whatever he could get. It was clever. “Do it.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Lynch. He stifled a yawn and then shook his head to clear it. “But I mean, this would be a lot easier if we could potentially transfer those perfectly functional strike craft to another warship before the combat, sir, or at least get some pilots for them so we can use them as something more than target practice. I mean, they’re ready and rarin’ to go.”
Tell him something he didn’t know. Mattis, despite his best efforts, lost his temper. “I’m sure that would be a lot better, Mister Lynch, but we don’t have that luxury, so I’d appreciate it if you kept such speculation to yourself. I asked for help, and I didn’t get shit, so we have to make do with what we have.” He snarled and looked away. “Worthless politicians.”
Commander Pitt stiffened at that comment and, for a split second, Mattis thought he might say something, but the man—to his absolute credit—maintained his composure.
You’re being shown up by your XO, who’s doing a much better job of maintaining the discipline required of an officer than you are, old man.
His own thought made him even more angry.
“But sir,” said Lynch, “it’s just—”
“Mister Lynch,” shouted Mattis, turning back to him, “stop worrying about things we can’t change! I know the odds are long, okay? We’re all keenly aware of the troubles this ship is facing, and we don’t require a constant reminder of them. Acknowledge.”
Lynch sat up straight in his chair. “Acknowledged, sir.”
For some reason, all Mattis could think of was Ramirez admonishing him. Yelling at your own people is not productive, said his imaginary Ramirez. Find some other way to motivate them rather than just shouting. You’re better than this. You can do better.
He could, too, and knowing that made it worse. Mattis took a slow, steadying breath. “My apologies, Mister Lynch.”
“None required, sir.” Well, now, that was mighty polite of him. “I should have thought before I spoke.”
Mattis curled his toes inside his boots. “Well, honestly, if you want to make it up to me, find some way to get us the edge in this upcoming battle. The aliens won’t be trying to bait us into running this time. They’ll be playing for keeps. And we’ve gotta find some way of winning that game.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Lynch. “The biggest threat is their mass driver. If we can find some way to disable that weapon, we can fight them without having to worry that we’re going to have comets lobbed at us. I’ll talk it over with Mister Modi in engineering. If anyone can solve this problem, he can. Pretty sure he’s more alert than I am at the moment. Robots don’t sleep, after all.”
Mattis tiredly smiled. “Very good, Mister Lynch.”
He let Lynch work, tuning out the conversation in the background, covering his mouth with his hand to prevent a yawn. Losing his temper at his bridge crew was a first for him. He had never done that back in the day. Probably. He couldn’t remember.
For the first time since arriving, Mattis felt old. He felt stretched too thin, as though this was something best left to younger men. Had he just been fooling himself more than anyone else? The last, desperate grasp of an old man trying to cling to the glories of the past?
But what glories were there? The younger generation didn’t fear the Chinese. His own son knew Mandarin and would probably teach it to his grandson. His grandson… Now he had a grandson… His kid had a kid… He closed his eyes for a brief moment, thinking about that. About meeting Javier, playing with him on a beach, taking him out to the holopictures…
“Admiral,” said Modi beside him.
Mattis jerked awake. He’d nodded off and, obliviously, in the intervening time, Modi had come to the bridge. The man stood with his hands folded behind his back, looking perfectly rested. Maybe he really was a robot. “Uh, report.”
“Admiral,” said Modi, “we’ve figured out a way to stop the mass-driver projectiles.”
Lynch grimaced. “But you aren’t going to like it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Bridge
USS Midway
“The answer,” said Lynch, “is that we ram the lead alien ship with our cap ship before it can fire on the frigates, and use the four frigates to take out the remaining ten smaller ships, also by ramming them. That leaves five alien ships, smaller ones, which should be an even fight for the Earth Defense Fleet and Goalkeeper.”
Mattis had spoken to the Joint Chiefs about using ships as battering rams before, but when the prospect was in front of his face, suddenly it was a lot less appealing. “No way in Hell,” he snapped. “The Midway is one of the few battle-tested, combat-capable ships to have faced these bastards and lived to tell the tale. We’re not sacrificing it.”
“Admiral,” said Modi, “I concur with your assessment. However, you should realize that the probability of us surviving
a direct engagement with the enemy in a pitched battle, based on a frank assessment of their previously displayed capabilities, is low. An unorthodox tactic like this may tip the scales into a favorable range.”
“I understand,” said Mattis, mentally reminding himself that he was tired, grumpy, and perhaps, just maybe, a little defensive about this ship and its fate. “Now hear this. I understand the Midway may be lost in the upcoming battle. I’ve played my share of poker. I understand the odds are long. If we fail, we’ll fail safe and secure in the knowledge that we tried our damnedest, and that every single member of this crew performed heroically. But deliberately sacrificing this vessel while she can still fight is off the table. Am I clear?”
“Aye, sir,” said Lynch.
“Yes, sir,” said Commander Pitt.
Mattis rested his hands on each of his chair’s armrests. “Very good. Keep working on a solution.”
Lynch’s face was as resolute as it was skeptical. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, turning around and going back to work.
It was a difficult task. There was no question about that. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and in a poor tactical situation to boot. Everything about this engagement screamed failure.
Maybe it was the right call. Deep down, Mattis knew that luck could only carry them so far.
Was he letting his personal feelings get in the way of doing what he knew was the right thing?
“Admiral,” said Commander Pitt, his voice charged, energy cutting through the lethargy. “Sensors show that the alien fleet is exiting Z-space.”
They were stopping? Z-space was nonlinear. That they had spent only a few days of travel didn’t necessarily mean their reinforcements were coming faster, or that the alien fleet was going to be where they were expected to be. Everything was a guess. “Best estimate on their exit location?” he asked.
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 16