Warrior: Book 2 of The Legacy Fleet Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  They’d moved him at President Avery’s orders. Ever since that day over two months ago when the Swarm attacked Earth, Avery would not permit him to be in the same room—or the same city—as her.

  Not out of any loathing or ill feelings she may have born him, though he supposed she didn’t hold him in any particularly high esteem. But there was security to consider. If a Swarm singularity bomb were to hit the main presidential compound with Avery in it, at least the government would still have continuity of leadership.

  He was the fallback. The contingency plan. The backup. But until that time he was needed, he was utterly useless. Troop inspections and morale parades were about all he was allowed to do.

  “Now?”

  The aide sipped his coffee before responding. “The message says to be there in two hours.”

  “So basically, now. It takes nearly two hours to get there.” He glanced at his watch, then wistfully at the stack of reports and briefings piled high on his desk. He was not born for paperwork. He was born for hookers and tequila. And there was a disturbing lack of both in his new bunker of an office here buried underneath a mountain outside Denver.

  “One hour, forty-five minutes, yes, sir.” The aide tapped the comm patch tattoo on his wrist. “I’ll arrange for your shuttle. By the time you get up there it should be ready for takeoff.”

  “Fine. And get my new body man. That new intern. What’s his name?”

  “Conner?”

  “Yeah. I’ll need someone to arrange my coffee and accommodations while I’m out there—it’s nearly five o’clock, so by the time I get there and meet with the old battle-ax it’ll be well past my bedtime. And one does not keep little presidents-in-waiting up past their bedtimes,” he added with an ironic drawl, mimicking President Avery.

  Twenty minutes later he emerged from the last elevator out into the glaring winter sunlight and pulled his coat tight around him. The intern, a young man who’d been drafted only a month prior, was waiting for him, holding a heavier coat. “Brought this for you, sir. Thought you’d need it.”

  Nice touch. The kid was young, but not stupid. “Thank you, Conner. Shall we?” Isaacson thumbed in the direction of the shuttle waiting on the launch pad, engines whining in the background.

  Conner picked up the overnight bag he carried for Isaacson whenever his duties required him to travel. Usually, he’d rely on whatever establishment was hosting him to see to his every need, even cater to his whims. But times had changed. Almost overnight, the world had changed.

  Earth, and most other populated worlds, were on a war footing. Not just a casual war involving just the half-percent of the population that ever volunteered for the military. This was total war. Entire industries co-opted by the government and re-geared to produce capital ships and fighters instead of cruise liners, missiles and torpedoes instead of personal vehicles, targeting computers instead of personal entertainment devices. Everything was different. The stakes were high, so Earth—and President Avery—had risen to the occasion.

  “Have a seat, son,” he said to Conner, and motioned him toward one of the other passenger chairs. Soon, they were in the air, blazing through the upper atmosphere at three kilometers per second. The noise cancellation system seemed to be down, and an unholy roar pierced the cabin.

  “Sorry, sir, we’re having maintenance issues,” shouted the captain of the shuttle, a squat man with a mustache buckled firmly into his cockpit seat. Isaacson noticed no such restraints on the passenger seats.

  “Delightful,” Isaacson drawled. “Are we going to make it in one piece, or shall I alert the speaker of the house that he’s next in line? I’m sure Mr. LaPierre will be overjoyed.”

  A gruff laugh. “Sit down, sir, and enjoy the ride. Be there in an hour. Less if we can get through D.C. secure airspace faster than a turd through clogged pipes.”

  Blue collar workers. He rolled his eyes and focused on the data pad that Conner had pulled out of his overnight bag for him. “Thank you, son.”

  Conner nodded a brief smile, then closed his eyes, gripping his armrests tightly and apparently making a good play at relaxing.

  “You nervous, son?”

  The boy opened his eyes with a start. “Sir?”

  “Nervous?”

  “Oh, it’s just … I hate flying, sir.”

  “Understandable. You’re young, and … what are you, eighteen? Play sports? You look like a football player.”

  Conner shrugged. “Nineteen, and yeah, I played my freshman year of college. No, sir, I’ve never had problems flying. Not until … well, you know.”

  Isaacson knew. The smoking craters were still smoldering from the heat of the blasts. Except for Miami. The Gulf of Mexico had flooded into that particular crater. And most of New Orleans as well. But Houston, Phoenix, San Bernardino, and Riverside … they were desolate, craggy pits.

  “Body like that, you should be in the Marines, son. Or at least the Marine’s football team.” Isaacson settled in to read through the latest casualty reports coming in from the day’s skirmishes. It had been a busy week—over a dozen different Swarm incursions.

  But each one repelled. Half of them by Captain Granger himself. Gods, the man was practically a legend in his own time. Even half the admiralty was eating out of his goddamned hand.

  And for what? It’s not like the man was a god. He was no superhero. He was just particularly skilled at using his people and ships as cannon fodder. The brick-layer. He rolled his eyes at the latest report: thirteen state-of-the-art heavy cruisers used as battering rams. Wasted. Thrown away just so Granger could claim another stunning victory.

  Conner shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess I could have been drafted into the Marines. But they sent me to the administrative corps instead. Don’t know why. Studied political science in college, but only for a year. And bad grades at that—too busy playing football. I figured someone was….”

  He trailed off. Isaacson glanced up. “Was what?”

  “Never mind. Need anything else, sir? I could use a nap. Stayed up half the night.”

  “Gotta get your sleep, son. Can’t stay up watching football games.”

  The young man clenched his jaw. Apparently he’d touched a nerve. “Just waiting for your call last night, sir. They told me to stay by my phone in case you needed me for the base readiness tour you were supposed to—”

  “Ah, yes. Sorry about that. I cancelled at the last minute. There’s too many of those damn things. They do nothing but parade me around like a mascot, supposedly to build troop morale or some shit.”

  Conner scowled, but closed his eyes and gripped the armrests again. “Yes, sir.”

  They travelled in silence the rest of the way, and true to the captain’s word they managed to fly straight through the controlled airspace above D.C. without any problems. The airspace commission bureaucrats had apparently finally coordinated with the bureaucrats down in the executive office, and they’d coordinated with the space force pencil pushers—one big happy administrative circle-jerk. It was a wonder Earth was still standing.

  It is still standing because the Swarm failed. And they almost didn’t fail because of you.

  He shuddered, and pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was supposed to be president by now. Avery was supposed to be dead, and the Swarm pushed back to their own territory. Ambassador Volodin had assured him that was the case.

  But Volodin had been recalled to St. Petersburg. Isaacson hadn’t seen his old friend in two months. Heh—friend. Erstwhile co-conspirator was more accurate. He looked out the window and saw the familiar, sprawling D.C. skyline extending to the horizon in all directions. Now approximately ten times its original boundaries, it was half the size of Maryland. With great galactic republics came great administrative responsibilities.

  The ship lurched. He glanced out the window again and saw their course had changed. “Hey. What’s up, Captain?”

  “Change of plans.”

  Isaacson stood up. C
onner looked to be asleep so he moved past taking care not to brush up against him.

  “What do you mean, change of plans?” he demanded.

  “Sorry, sir, we’ve been given a new destination. There’s been an explosion at the executive mansion.”

  Isaacson’s stomach lurched. Russians again? Were they still at it? He’d explicitly told Volodin right after the invasion that the plans were off. He was out of the assassination game. There was no time for shit like that with Earth’s existence on the line. “President Avery?”

  “No idea, sir. They just tell me where to fly, and I go there. Order came from her chief of staff himself.”

  Why didn’t they tell him directly? Just like the president’s staff to keep Isaacson in the dark. Her chief of staff was prickly, efficient, and had never liked Avery’s veep.

  “Where are we going?”

  The pilot pointed to a spot on the map. Isaacson blinked. “Not possible.”

  “Regardless, sir, that’s where we’re going. I triple confirmed—thought my earwax had built up too much.”

  The pilot’s finger returned to the navigational controls, but Isaacson was still fixed upon the location on the map the man had pointed to. He sighed—Avery had apparently kept a lot of things from him.

  Including secret bases in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Chapter Fifteen

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  It only took them another forty-five minutes to re-enter the upper atmosphere and shuttle out to the coordinates in the middle of the Atlantic. By then it was dark, and all Isaacson could see out his window was the top of a sea of clouds illuminated by the nearly full moon.

  The captain’s voice called from the cockpit. “We’re here, sir. Descending now. Hold tight—I’ve been told to make the descent quick-like. Leaf on the wind and all that.”

  Isaacson had no idea what the captain was talking about, but without waiting for a reply he sent the shuttle into a steep dive. The craft only had light-duty momentum cancelers, and so both Isaacson and Conner were forcefully thrown forward and nearly ended up on the floor as the front of the shuttle pointed down sharply; just as abruptly they were then thrust back into their seats as the craft accelerated.

  Isaacson noticed Conner’s white knuckles gripping the armrests and his wide eyes darting from the window to the cockpit and back again.

  Poor kid. “Nearly there, son.”

  Conner nodded quickly.

  Dammit, the kid was probably going to pass out from the g-forces pressing them back into their seats. Isaacson was a little unnerved himself, but at least he wasn’t about to vomit—Conner’s face, meanwhile, had turned an unmistakable hue of green.

  “Tell me about yourself, son. Where are you from? Where’s your family?”

  The green face turned red. “Miami, sir.”

  Isaacson’s stomach clenched. Aw, shit. “I see. I’m so sorry.”

  Conner nodded his acknowledgment of the sympathy. “I was at college up in Massachusetts at the time. Kingsford college. They sent us to a bunker that morning, and since it was after finals we decided to throw a little party. We had no idea it was a real invasion—thought it was a drill. Got pretty plastered. I … I felt the shaking, but I thought it was just the beer messing with my balance. Shit, sir—I felt Miami explode from over a thousand miles away.”

  Isaacson glanced out the window—they’d descended below the clouds and all was pitch black. He hoped the captain knew what he was doing.

  “I’m sorry, son. Yeah, I remember that night. I was in the Omaha command center—wasn’t dark yet there, but—”

  Conner interrupted, the memories apparently making him forget his manners. “It was night up there, and I came out of the bunker at one point and looked up. South, toward the horizon. Saw flashing lights way, way up there. Saw something explode with a flash so bright I had to shut my eyes. Then something like a real slow meteor flying away from the flash. I … I think I saw the Congress go down. It was heading out toward the east, at least, so I think it was the Congress. Crashed out in the ocean, didn’t it?”

  Isaacson nodded. Dammit, if they were going to give him a neurotic basket case for an intern, couldn’t they have at least made it some hot young thing in a miniskirt?

  “And … and, your family? They were in Miami at the time?” said Isaacson almost absentmindedly as he stared out the window toward what he assumed was the surface of the ocean just a kilometer or two below. Where the hell was this secret base of hers?

  He immediately wished he hadn’t asked. Conner’s face screwed up. Contorted with a valiant effort to stave off tears. But within a few seconds, to the boy’s credit, he’d pulled it together. Good kid.

  “Yeah. My brother was away at school out in L.A., but my mom, dad, two little sisters … yeah. Gone.”

  Isaacson had nothing to say, so he kept quiet. Soon, the captain called back, “Here we go. Hold on—”

  They both held firmly to their armrests as the craft decelerated at a stomach-lurching rate. Isaacson glanced out the window again, just in time to see a giant tube extend upward out of the water. Since the running lights of the shuttle were not powered—he supposed as a stealth measure—the only illumination came from several tiny red lights circling the rim of the tube.

  It opened. Like a giant maw that grew frighteningly large as they approached, it swallowed them up as they passed below the level of the water, but he soon realized that the tube was water-free, and extended deep into the ocean. They plunged straight down for several minutes, the walls of the tube now illuminated by the shuttle’s internal cabin light.

  They stopped. Below them another iris-shaped door opened, admitting them to a large bay. Several other ships were parked on pads, but no one waited to greet them.

  “Follow me,” said the captain after the ship had come to rest. He opened the door and led them into the giant bay, passing a ship Isaacson recognized as Interstellar One, the president’s personal star-liner. The lights were off, but the underside of the craft still radiated a substantial amount of heat, so he assumed she had only just arrived, too.

  “This way, Mr. Vice President.” The captain waved a hand slowly past an ID scanner and the bay door heaved open with a mechanical sigh. Odd—he assumed the man was just a simple taxi pilot—a self-styled captain of his own personal shuttle. But, clearly, his security credentials were of the highest caliber.

  They walked down a long, stark, poorly-lit hallway, wet with condensation, and soon entered what would have looked like a highly sophisticated command center were it not for all the cots and cooler chests littering the room. It had apparently been lived in by a small army of presidential staffers.

  And there she was, right in the middle of her usual entourage: Chief of Staff Miller, a few ever-present aides, Congresswoman Sparks (her direct contact and hand in Congress), General Norton, (the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff), and of course, her poodle, held by what he assumed was a bodyguard, judging by the sidearms strapped to the well-built man’s waist.

  “Eamon. Good—you’re here.” President Avery strode over, abruptly cutting off General Norton and extending a firm hand for Isaacson to shake. A large turquoise ring bulged out from one of her fingers—the one piece of jewelry she ever wore. “How’s your bunker? Ha! Look at us. Hiding like little girls while our enemies make plans behind our backs. You heard, didn’t you?”

  “What’s that, Madam President?” he asked, falling into step with her as she pulled him by the arm toward a small office off of the main floor. When they’d all filed in and General Norton pulled the door shut behind him, she put her hands on her hips and regarded them all.

  “All right, all of you out. Just Eamon. Give us a moment.”

  Her entourage dutifully stood up and left. Isaacson glanced at Conner, who looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, and motioned with his head toward the door. When it was closed she grabbed his arm again and pulled h
im in close.

  “Someone is trying to kill me, Eamon. Someone on the inside. And they very nearly succeeded today.”

  He tried to look shocked, but before he could say anything, she pulled him in closer and whispered. “And I think they’re trying to kill you, too.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  Avery looked him up and down, apparently watching for his reaction. After a moment she repeated herself. “Did you hear me? Someone is trying to kill me. And you.”

  You don’t say? Isaacson though with a slight inward smile. If Volodin was behind it, he supposed the other man would try to make it look like he was trying to take out both of them. Less suspicious that way.

  He tried to look serious. And concerned—she’d want to see him concerned.

  “But why bring me here? I thought it was wisest to keep us apart. You know … for the sake of leadership continuity in case….” He trailed off.

  “In case the bastards shove a stick of dynamite up my ass? Ha!” She turned and grabbed a chair, spun it around and sat on it backward. She was full of swagger—just like during her campaign, but the recent months seemed to have given her a rougher edge.

  “Somehow I doubt—” he began, circling the room.

  “That someone is trying to kill me?”

  That someone would use dynamite, he thought. He knew perfectly well there were plenty of people that wanted her dead. Himself included. At least, he did two months ago. He had to admit that with the national emergency she’d risen to the occasion rather dramatically.

  She’d been smirking, but her face turned serious and she pulled out a flask from her jacket. “Look, Eamon, I’ve made a lot of enemies. You should know. I only chose you as veep to get the Federalist Party out of my hair and appease half the people calling for my head—oh, don’t give me that look, we both knew that. Let’s cut the shit.”

  Avery offered the flask to him, and after hesitating a split second, he accepted it and drank. Bourbon.