19

Colonel Henri Farbeaux fought to get the ice and the remains of the command bunker off his body. It felt as though the very life was being squeezed from his lungs as the weight of sandbags and snow covered him from head to foot.

He had lain there for what seemed hours and it wasn’t until the heat from the engines of the rising Lee had struck him that he realized he was still alive. He felt the earth shake and the weight of the debris press down even harder as the remains of the bunker pressed harder into his hurt body. He remembered he and the young captain had just broken free of the entrance when the lights, the air, and the world vanished around them as the attacking carrier aircraft laid waste to the command post.

Henri felt strong hands reach into the rubble and pull him ruthlessly out of the situation he was in. He wanted to curse at his rescuers for the indelicate way they were going about it when he heard the familiar hissing and cursed language of the Grays. He knew then that it wasn’t friendly hands freeing him.

He was finally pulled out and thrown onto the ground, and just as he opened his eyes a long sharpened staff came down and stabbed him in the right shoulder. Farbeaux screamed as he felt the alien weapon drive deep, and then among his own scream of pain he heard a satisfying hiss of a Gray as he stood over him. Henri cursed in his native tongue and then tried to roll over and away from the assault, but the Gray grabbed him by the white, blood-soaked parka and threw him again onto his back. Before he could curse again he saw three more Grays in their purplish-colored and strangely styled clothing. The Grays were showing their faces to him as they picked him off the ground and made him stand before them. The Frenchman kept his eyes on the taller Gray that had ruthlessly tested him for life with the sharpened edge of his laser staff. Henri angrily spit out at his tormentor, wanting the animal to finish the job and quit stabbing at him like a trapped and injured fly by a mean-spirited child.

He heard a loud grunt as another captive was thrown down at his feet. It was Will Mendenhall; the boy was out cold. Henri watched as the Gray that had captured his prize also sent the spearlike tip of his strange weapon deeply into Will’s leg. It produced not so much as a cry of pain.

“Bastard!” Farbeaux took a step forward and was mercilessly kicked and beaten to the ground. The assault continued for what seemed like minutes and he thought he was going to get the final coup de grâce, but the killing blow never came. Instead Henri heard a single gunshot and when he managed to look up he saw the three remaining Grays kicking and punching at the young captain, who had curled up in a tight ball to protect himself for the brutal blows. The smoking nine millimeter was lying a few feet away and Farbeaux had to admire the kid for getting at least one of the brutal bastards before they fell on him. Will’s victim was on its knees, still breathing and looking dumbfounded with a nice clean bullet hole in the center of his chest. Mendenhall must have hit at least one of the Gray’s two hearts because as the Frenchman watched the alien just simply rolled over and then fell face-first dead into the snow. Its sickly greenish-purple blood stained the burnt and crusty snow around it. The beating of Will came to a stop as the three Grays hissed and spat. One raised the laser staff and took aim at the now unconscious kid. Henri rolled over and placed his body over Will’s. He was also pummeled but not shot. When the beating was done he was again lifted to his feet.

Henri realized that his right leg was broken and at least four ribs felt as if they had been snapped in two. He had never felt such pain in his life and thought the same as the captain that it was better to go his way than being slowly beaten to death. But as he looked around he saw other survivors of the battle, boys no older than Will being revived and pushed toward two saucers that hovered only feet off the snow and ice. Like Mumbai and Beijing they were being herded together and marched to a waiting butchering at the leisure of their ruthless and barbaric foe. He had decided that wasn’t the way his story would end, it would end the way Mendenhall’s had—on his own terms, not these bastards’.

Farbeaux closed his eyes and thought for the briefest of moments of his long-dead wife, Danielle, the woman whose death had been blamed on Jack Collins for years, and he smiled, knowing that soon enough he would join her in a far better place. He also thought quickly of Sarah McIntire, the complete opposite of his wife but just as loved for no better reason than he saw a kindness to the woman he had never seen in anyone else. With those faces in front of him he charged and the first Gray raised his weapon.

The field of battle once more erupted in gunfire and explosions. Henri felt bullets whiz by his exposed head and the Gray who had just had the intention of ending his life went down in a spray of sickening blood. Once again Farbeaux hit the cold earth and rolled as more fire caught the next two captors and sent them reeling backward. Still the rounds came in a ruthless but satisfying abundance that hit everything near and far. He realized that whoever was firing had very little discipline as to who they were shooting at. He covered his head and waited for the bullets to end what the Grays had started.

He heard Will’s name called in the din of battle and he managed to look up and see many hands pulling at the unconscious captain, then other hands were on him and he knew that the Grays had probably beaten whatever attackers had momentarily saved him and were back in control. He heard the missile strikes and the sound of helicopters buzz past, shouts and screams of men and women as they surrounded him. The hands that picked him up were strong and not very delicate, but he realized that the blessed hands were at least human.

“There, a little worse for wear, but still breathing,” said a Cockney-laced accent as he came face-to-face with a large brutish man with a thick dark beard.

“Who in the hell are you?” Henri managed to ask of the same yard worker who had earlier echoed the commands of Sarah and Anya. The brute of a welder stared in wonder at the injured soldier before him.

“A bleedin’ Frog, will wonders never cease!” the man said and then ran off.

Henri wobbled on his feet and then slowly looked around and saw the attackers were a motley mix of men and women in varying states of dress. The one thing they had in common was the arms they held and the way they used them. His eyes widened when a lab technician—a woman no older than a twenty-something punk rocker with pink and blue hair streaming from her parka’s hood—kneeled only feet away and cut loose with a Heckler & Koch German assault rifle on full automatic. The weapon was spitting bullets as she lost control and sent the rounds into the snow-covered ground and then stitched a pattern that ended up going straight into the air. The woman was nonplused at her inaccuracy as she immediately sent the spent magazine flying and quickly inserted another and then recklessly charged forward.

An American Apache Longbow attack helicopter streaked low overhead and sent a pair of wire-guided Hellfire missiles straight into the open hatchway of the far left, hovering saucer. The interior of the alien vehicle exploded outward in a hail of strange material and flying bodies, then it fell to the ground, where a loud Bushmaster twenty-millimeter cannon mounted on a surviving Bradley Fighting Vehicle slammed its large exploding rounds into the remains of the saucer.

Henri was shoved in the back and as he turned he saw none other than Sarah McIntire, wearing the white camouflage BDUs of a soldier. She was screaming at him to get down as she fired at something rushing their way. Her bullets riddled one of the shocked Grays as it charged them maniacally. The Gray hit the ground and its large body dug a path as it finally slid to a stop.

“Come on, Colonel, help us gather these men together and get them the hell back to Alamo!”

Henri was still in shock at not having his life ended, and further stunned to find out just who his rescuers were.

*   *   *

For a five-mile radius around the crater left by the departing Lee, three and half thousand civilian and military personnel were fighting for their lives as they attempted the rescue of the remains of General Collins’s defensive force.

As they fought and died to save their own, a roar filled the sky high above. But before the force of civilians and military could spy the new threat their attention was forced back to the ground. Amid the explosions of Hellfire missiles and mortars they saw the attacking Grays streaming from another saucer that had landed. The rescuers were now slowly being surrounded.

And still the roar overhead continued of what could only be assumed were even more saucers coming to assist the Grays’ landing force.

TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY NAUTICAL MILES

ABOVE ANTARCTICA

The mistakes in their reverse engineering and even the technical instruction given to the engineering teams by Matchstick in the mating of the Gray power plant with the Martian-designed ion drive were readily apparent as the Lee gained high orbit. Fires broke out in the engine spaces as the reverse-flow generators cooling the power plant went into the red and coolant leaks sparked a blazing inferno as engineers, both civilian and naval, fought to extinguish the hell that had erupted in the tight spaces. The only way they could see to put the fires out was the use of emergency venting into open space; the vacuum would suck the inferno out of the large hatches designed just for the scenario.

The bridge was loud as technical men and women were taking emergency calls from almost every deck on the battleship. Commodore Freemantle felt the powerful ion-drive engines shut down as the Garrison Lee became the largest object in the history of the planet to be an out of control, floating, and spinning object in space.

Captain Lienanov unfastened his safety harness when he saw the red blinking lights coming from the engine room, six decks high and as many deep at the stern of the ship. He saw the temperature in those spaces rising rapidly as the fire alarms were tripped. He heard the frantic calls coming from those spaces and he roughly shook the commodore by the shoulder to get his attention.

Freemantle immediately placed his headphones back on, and then said into the mic, “Permission granted. Open all vents and hatches to space. Get the fires out and shut off the coolant flow to the mixing chambers, for God’s sake, before they explode and take the bloody engines with it!”

“Commodore, we are also venting oxygen into space from numbers three, six, and fourteen tanks,” the atmospheric officer two tiers below the main deck of the bridge called into his communications mic.

“We can’t do anything about that right now—we can’t spare the damage control parties to fix them. Shut down and transfer as much O2 to the remaining tanks as you can.”

“Aye, sir,” the man said and then relayed the order.

Suddenly sparks flew from the maneuvering panel and the four men and two women monitoring the now shutdown maneuvering jets fell back onto the steel deck and rear consoles, their feet losing grip on the Velcro-accented station. They floated free.

“Keep your harnesses on, people, how many times did we drill for that?” Freemantle said as calmly as he could. The Lee shook and rumbled and was pushed thirty kilometers from her position as more alarms announced a fracture somewhere in the superstructure.

“We have hull breach!” came the voice of the damage control officer below them. As more technical support personnel floated free of their stations, Commodore Freemantle held his temper in check.

“Calmly, people, calmly, now. Shut down the hull breach alarms, Lieutenant Stevens, that is not a hull breach, it’s the bloody venting ports open to space. Now please shut off that damnable noise.”

The young man felt foolish as he did what he had been ordered.

The Lee, to the casual observer from the vantage of the Earth, was upside down, but the crew never realized it. The alarms were slowly being shut down as fires and other small emergencies were brought under control after the men and women in all departments slowly became use to zero-gravity maneuvering in the spaces throughout the ship.

“Gentlemen, I need engine status or we’re going to have Grays sitting in our lap with no engines or weaponry. Radar, enemy fleet status, please?” Freemantle tried his best to be a calming influence to his crew as no men or women in the history of the world had ever faced something as traumatic as this—technology that had gone out of control with no prior testing in the ship’s natural element of outer space.

“Thus far they have not rounded the moon.” The radar officer and his seventeen operators adjusted set and bandwidths. “We are receiving telemetry from Sydney Station; they’re bouncing a signal off of the Mars relay station. The enemy is still being screened by the moon. We are not, I repeat, not being tracked by enemy sensors at this time.”

“That will change as soon as they get in direct line of sight with us.” Freemantle looked over at Lienanov and winked. The captain could not believe he was on this mission in the first place, and was nervously watching men and women who really didn’t know what they were doing. He released his handhold and then went to a standing chair and strapped himself in. “People,” the commodore said, “I need the status on my engines. Without them we have no generators, and without the generators we have no gunnery at all. We will only have the kinetic weapons and the rail guns, and I’m afraid that will fall far short of what we need.”

“Power plant is still offline, Commodore. Engineering is getting assistance from shuttle management, and he is—”

The commodore and everybody else heard the cursing over the intercom as someone below was haranguing the engineering crew to shut the magnetometers down, that they were electrically interfering with the power plant’s flow of energy to the main mixing chambers. Freemantle recognized Professor Jenks immediately—who else would call his engineering officers a bunch of pussies that couldn’t turn a monkey wrench?

“Commodore, we have extraneous personnel interfering with operations down here. We need to—”

Freemantle hit his transmit switch and cut off the engineering commander down below. “What you need to do at the moment is listen to the master chief. He seems to be the only one that has an idea of what to do.”

“Yeah, did you hear that, you limey, snot-nosed little shit? Quit being a tattletale and get your ass over to the mainframe coupling and turn it on. I don’t relish the thought of floating here and being used as fucking target practice. Now move.”

In the background everyone heard the master chief as he took control. They also heard a voice remind Jenks that they were still transmitting to the bridge.

“I don’t give a good goddamn who—”

The command bridge intercom was shut down when Freemantle gave a slice-across-the-throat gesture.

“I particularly do not like that man, but I must say he is one colorful … whatever he is,” the commodore said.

“Permission to join the master chief below?” Lienanov asked.

Freemantle just nodded his head as he studied the motion control board before him. He saw that they had at least 60 percent of their monitors out as the Lee spun crazily out of control.

“Now gentlemen and ladies, I need my eyes back online. Can we do something about that, please?”

*   *   *

Carl Everett checked Jack’s status as the Delta medic looked him over.

“As far as I can see, Admiral, he’s got one bad concussion and maybe some glass in his side, but other than that, I think he’s just out.” The medic turned to Tram, who was finally sitting up and being held in place by three men as his body wanted to float away. A sergeant walked toward Tram and offered him a pair of Velcro booties to slip over his white combat boots. Everett turned his attention to the small Vietnamese sniper. Another SEAL passed him an environ suit that should fit the small officer. The suit floated in front of Tram, which caused him to get dizzy and almost vomit.

“Pretty bad down there?” He kneeled as best he could next to Tram inside the zero-gravity environment.

Tram held the Velcro boots close to his chest, pulled the clothing down into his lap, and lowered his head.

“Captain Mendenhall? The Frenchman?” Carl hesitated but asked anyway.

Tram shook his head as he finally looked into Everett’s face. The admiral just patted the famed Vietnamese sniper on the shoulder and then gestured for the medic to get that head wound tended to and for others to get him and the knocked-out Collins into spacesuits.

Everett stood with his feet secured by the antigravity boots and looked out into space from the large porthole. The remains of the Black Hawk were now gone as he spied the roll of the battleship.

“Well, things don’t look like they went according to plan in phase one of this operation.” He looked down at Jack as he lay on the plastic deck. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

*   *   *

Commodore Freemantle floated to the elongated damage control station and watched his people working the boards. Thus far the fires had all been extinguished without the use of mass venting, thus saving precious O2 that they couldn’t spare or replace. They had lost three of the nitrogen coolant tanks used for the enormous turret guns, and thus far they were lucky as far as deaths and injuries. Twenty-two dead and one hundred and fifty injured. For a launch that had gone off without a hitch the Garrison Lee soon reminded the crew how dangerous this mission was from start to finish. He realized the training they had the past four and a half years told all personnel in no uncertain terms that this was nothing more than a one-way trip to begin with. They all wanted to get at least a chance to prove to the world, and to themselves, that the Lee could make a difference.

“How are the repairs to the power plant? We need at least maneuvering as soon as possible. Right now we wouldn’t even give the bloody Grays a fright, not spinning like this.”

“Professor Jenks said it was nothing more than the arrogant bastards—sorry, sir, his words. The engineers at the Royal Institute of Technology and the techs at General Electric misinterpreting the American asset’s design drawings and installing the twin plasma pumps backward. They said they didn’t look right and changed the specs. It tested well, but when full power to the ion engines was engaged they backed up and shot pure plasma into the cooling system, causing the overload. They are in the process of changing out the lines now. The two plasma pumps have been taken out and reversed.”

Freemantle shook his head. “Awful brave of those engineers who aren’t on this little ride to change the specifications of a being with the intelligence quotient of four hundred of those bloody sots.”

“Yes, sir,” the female American navy motorman said. The twenty-two-year-old had been one of the first volunteers when the assignment was offered to members of the American navy.

Freemantle took hold of the handrail and pulled himself to the radar officer. “Any sign of the bastards?”

“No sign of the large power ship yet, sir. One of the small attack ships nosed over for a look-see and then vanished from the scope in a flash three minutes ago. Gave me a start, I can tell you.”

“Any indication the scout saw us?”

“I don’t see how he could have missed us with the spectacle we’re putting on.”

Freemantle had to smile at his radar officer’s observation. Down the line radar personnel from the Russian, American, and British navies watched their scopes closely. Some of the sets were calibrated at differing wave bands to cover the full spectrum in order to defeat the stealthy design and materials of the alien vessels.

“Well, we have to assume they know we’re here and just don’t know what to make of us as of yet. That time could cost them if we get the damned power plant online,” he said angrily.

“Or maybe they’re just laughing too hard to come at us,” the officer interjected. “I mean, they haven’t had to deal with this class of ship for seven hundred million years.”

Freemantle had to laugh and that broke his momentary spell of anger. He had been too long absent from the real navy and real seamen and knew they joked at the harshest of times. He nodded his head, feeling better about his crew.

His damage control officer joined him as he floated up and took a hold on the same railing, letting his feet secure themselves to the Velcro adherent on the deck.

“Mr. Jenks reports two minutes more will be needed to flush the coolant and plasma lines. He cursed me for not having the foresight to add lengths of ceramic lining to our ship’s stores before takeoff.” The officer looked behind him. “I think he ate all of my behind on that one, sir.”

“Well, he has a point, but it wasn’t your fault, lad. I’m afraid I cut what I thought were all nonessentials from the stores list. Just don’t let on to the master chief, eh? So what did Jenks use for the ceramic lines?”

The officer grimaced. “He bloody well tore out the officer’s zero-gravity toilets. He used the small sections of ceramic tubing, nonconductive duct tape, and aluminum foil.”

Freemantle was stunned.

“He said the officers can shit themselves for getting them into this mess.”

“Very well, I’ll give up my toilet privileges if the damn thing will just work.”

Freemantle let go of the handrail, peeled his boots from the deck, and launched himself up and over the two tiers of battle bridge technicians to grab a firm hold on the captain’s station, where he came to a twirling stop. He would never admit this to his men, or even his wife—if he ever returned home that is—but he had become totally infatuated with the zero-gravity travel from one spot to the other. He settled to the deck and then strapped in. He placed his mic cord into its station and then cleared his throat.

“All hands, this is Commodore Freemantle. I have been informed that we will be testing the power plant repairs in just a few moments. Please take your stations and secure all material.”

The Garrison Lee was still spinning crazily in a wide circle.

*   *   *

“What do you mean, they’re just gone?” Admiral Everett said to the attack craft commander of the first shuttle.

Five men were floating free in the bay next to the two ships. The locking gear firmly held them to station but they also did not escape damage from the engine meltdown. Everett counted at least ten serious-sized holes that had to be patched on the outer docked attack ship. When three of the large booster rockets attached only a hundred feet from the shuttle bay were jettisoned, the explosive bolts holding them in place blew them off. But there had been an inordinate amount of dry chemical still left in the booster from the countdown misfire that delayed its activation, thus when the bolts exploded the rest of the fuel was redirected from the containment housing into the girder system of the superstructure. That, in turn, was vented directly to the exposed fuel lines attached to the outboard shuttle. The explosion not only knocked holes in the DuPont-designed heat tiles, but also killed the pilot and copilot of shuttle number two who were strapped into their stations nearby—another safety flaw of the hurried design.

“Commander Roberts and Lieutenant Rodriguez were blown out through the deck and into space,” said the Marine pilot of the number one shuttle, Commander Emily Coghagen. The two men had been her friends and she had trained with them on Master Chief Jenks’s design for the past two years.

Everett angrily kicked out at nothing, forgetting he was floating and momentarily throwing himself into a slight spin. Jason Ryan reached out and steadied his friend.

“Can you make two trips?” he asked Coghagen with little hope of a positive answer.

“Not in the time frame we’ll need to get two teams inside. The first will already have found their way deep into the energy ship before we returned with the second assault element.”

“So, you’re short one pilot and copilot and have a damaged ship?” Ryan asked with a brightening smile.

“Forget it, Commander, you’re not qualified,” Everett said angrily, knowing the young aviator would pull something like that.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t qualified to land the LEM on the moon either, but guess what?”

“What in the hell is he talking about? What is a LEM, and what fucking moon?” the Marine pilot asked astounded at the claim by the cocky naval aviator. “Sir.”

“Landing Excursion Module. Mr. Ryan accidentally landed one on the moon four years ago.” Everett shook his head at the astonished men floating next to the grinning Ryan.

“You see, Commander, the navy doesn’t tell the corps everything it’s up to—we keep some secrets to ourselves,” Ryan said as he returned his attention to Carl. “Now, either you think you can blow that thing up with one assault element, or you allow me to at least try to get your second team over to the opposite side. I’ll even take that asshole friend of yours along to show me the way of things. I’m sure those engine room boys would love for Jenks to get the hell off their ship anyway.”

Everett looked at his watch for no other reason than to see the time, because in reality he didn’t even know if they could get the Lee back into action long enough to find the power ship.

Ryan was watching, no longer concerned with his request as he noticed the thick blood clinging to the admiral’s watch. Without even asking he knew it was the blood of Jack Collins and everything he had learned about the British find came flooding back. He swallowed but refused to point that out to Everett.

“Okay.” Carl turned to the Marine commander and her copilot. “You have until launch time to get this asshole up to speed on the flyby wire control system of that bird, and you make him understand it and understand it good.” He turned to face Ryan. “Pay attention and no smart-ass comments or observations, is that clear, mister?”

Ryan nodded, smiling at last, letting the vision of the blood-covered watch go for the moment.

“Great.” Coghagen looked from the admiral to a cocky Ryan. “No matter if he understands something or not, he’ll say he does. I know these carrier jocks.”

“She’s got you pegged already, flyboy.”

“I love you too, Admiral.” Jason blew the retreating form of Everett good-bye. Ryan soon lost his smile as he turned to face the commander. “Let’s get to it.”

The Marine Corps pilot saw the sudden change in Ryan’s demeanor as soon as the admiral was out of sight. Gone was the man she had seen moments before; now Jason Ryan was all business.

She had no way of knowing that Ryan had just sworn to himself to try and change the destiny the Event Group, Matchstick, and the planners for Overlord had in store for him. Even if it cost him his life, Admiral Everett, his friend, would not die in the Earth’s ancient past if he could help it.

Ryan entered the damaged shuttle without another word.

*   *   *

“I want the drone launched immediately; I have to know the disposition of the enemy ships. How many are they, what does their fleet consist of, where are the processing vessels? And most importantly, the number of attack ships protecting the power distribution craft. As soon as the computers are up and propulsion systems restored I want that probe on the way. We’re not getting telemetry from the Earth stations since their jamming started.”

“Probe is ready and in the launch tube, Commodore.”

The lieutenant in charge of torpedo tubes 1–18 answered the commodore from his computer station. Jenks walked behind the kid and slapped him hard on the back. “Son, you take that system off-line while we try to crank this ion pump up; if she blows again it’ll take your torpedo tubes up with it. So safe all your weapons, is that clear?”

“Clear, Master Chief,” the young Royal Navy officer said, just grateful the master chief didn’t yell at him the way he had the commodore earlier when asked for the status of the ion drive.

“Good boy, now all hands strap in.” Jenks paused. “Ah, hell, hide behind something and take those damn Velcro boots off or you’ll break your ankles if we start venting again. Just hang onto your ass or the guy’s next to you. Everyone, helmets on.” The master chief and once proud professor looked at the Royal Navy female ensign standing next to him and raised his brows. “You stay by me, doll face. Okay, let’s start the music, sound the warning alarm, and tell the bridge we’re tryin’ her now.”

The alarm echoed through all eighteen decks of the Garrison Lee. Silent prayers were said and men and women closed their eyes as they waited for the loud sound of rushing coolant, and prayed that the new lines didn’t leak into the plasma containment tanks.

“Tell the computer to start, son, she ain’t going to do it without you.”

The propulsion officer swallowed and turned the switch, thus allowing the computer system to take over.

A loud whoosh sounded in the engine spaces as the coolant flow shot into the lines. Everyone cringed and then waited for the lines to back up into the plasma generator again, but this time the lights all turned green. One by one the plasma containment indicators switched on in the slowest manner possible. All twenty indicator lights were now in the green, or safe mode. Coolant was heard pumping through the lines at a rapid rate.

Master Chief Jenks closed his eyes and pursed his lips, surprised his jerry-rigging was successful. The propulsion officer sitting at his console watched as the power plant was now receiving the required amount of coolant and she slowly came online one system at a time.

“You did it, Master Chief, she’s up!”

Captain Lienanov, who had been hastily assigned to watch the plasma tanks for escalating pressure buildup, turned and echoed the officer’s words.

Jenks opened his eyes after his silent prayer and then looked at the computer showing full power had been restored. He raised the glass visor in his helmet and then stuck the stub of a dead cigar in his mouth, much to the horror of the safety officer, then turned to the men he thought of now as his people.

“Of course it is, what do you think it was gonna do, you bunch of—” The master chief looked at the young female ensign and then thought better of what he was going to call the men in the engine room. “Well, of course it works!” he said instead.

Jenks floated over to the intercom and slammed a beefy fisted glove into the switch. He removed the stub out from his mouth.

“Bridge, engine room. Full power restored. Now you have maneuvering capability, but don’t go slammin’ her into the moon or anything!”

*   *   *

Commodore Freemantle stood at his station and shook his head at the very unprofessional man he had in charge in the engine spaces. But he was thankful the gruff old engineer was there.

“Starboard maneuvering watch, fire jets one, five, and eight. Stern, reverse thrust of jets twelve and eighteen.”

The commands went without comment as the silent roll of the Garrison Lee started to slow.

“Port jets twenty, twenty-four, and fifty-one, fire now!” he said, overly excited to get the command out.

“She’s stabilizing, sir,” the helmsman called out. “Roll has slowed, slowing … stopped.”

“All jets cease burn. Helm, please give control back to the navigation computer for station keeping. Now torpedo room, launch my drone.”

“Drone away.”

On the one-hundred-foot view screen the commodore saw the small torpedo-shaped drone shoot out just aft of the deflector plow. The probe fired her booster engines and shot around the moon.

“Launch relay drone.”

Soon the first pilotless information-gathering drone shot free of the Lee, only this one stopped at seven hundred miles above the moon and still in visual range of the battleship. There it fired its automated breaking jets and came to a complete stop. She waited there to receive the information the first Black Bird drone sent back. Then it would relay the telemetry to the Garrison Lee.

The bridge personnel waited silently for what the drone would tell them they were facing.

“First images coming in,” the intelligence officer called from her station.

Freemantle and the rest of the bridge leaned forward as far as their safety harnesses would allow and watched the screen closely.

“Oh, Lord,” said one of the younger radar officers.

“Stow that, sailor,” Freemantle said, though he too was stunned at the first image.

There were at least a thousand smaller attack saucers sitting in formation, six rows deep. The computer was rapidly counting and printing their type on the large screen. The message wasn’t good. Sitting on the outer rim of protecting attack craft were at least ten of the processing ships. They were at minimum the same size as the two that struck Mumbai and Beijing. Then in the exact center was the power-producing and transfer ship that would feed the invasion force the resupply of energy they would need to take on the lacking defenses of Earth’s military power.

An attack saucer broke formation and shot toward the probe. The little missile stayed in place and kept broadcasting as long as it could, and that was only a few seconds as the bridge crew saw a bright flash of light and the telemetry being sent to the relay went dark. But before it did they all saw the fleet of enemy warships start their advance.

“Number One, I would like to address the crew at this time, please,” Freemantle said as he straightened up as best he could.

“Aye, sir, one MC is active.”

“All hands, man battle stations,” Freemantle said calmly. “All sixteen-inch gun turrets, charge your particle canisters and energize your Argon systems. Ladies and gentlemen, the battle we trained for these past four years is now upon us. We must destroy as much of this fleet as possible to give the boys time to destroy their only power ship. Assault element, man your attack ships. Good luck, Admiral Everett.”

Throughout the HMS Garrison Lee, men and women tensed for the first outer space battle in history, and as most of them thought, the shortest and possibly the only battle.

The Lee turned to starboard, exposing all of her sixteen-inch laser cannon toward the curvature of the moon, waiting to discharge a full broadside into the first saucers that showed themselves.

Not since the end of World War II was a battleship more prepared for offensive action with naval gunfire.

*   *   *

Carl Everett looked Jack over as he sat up and winced at his broken ribs. He tried desperately to clear his eyes as the announcement was made about the testing of the power plant. He was finally able to focus on the face in front of him. As he tried to speak he felt sick as he started to float up into the air. Everett reached out and pulled him back down.

“I thought that letting you float away would be faster than explaining to you where you were at.” Carl smirked and then realized the last thing his friend had seen on the surface was more than likely his command being blown to pieces, and the death of Will Mendenhall. “I’m sorry about your command, Jack.” He looked over at Tram, who was sitting next to the now-spacesuited general. “And about Will.”

Jack Collins was still dazed, but not quite enough not to feel the pang of guilt over how he had failed. And now there was no telling what was happening below on the surface.

“Camp…” He swallowed and tried again, “Camp Alamo?” Tram handed him a Mylar bag of Dr. Pepper and he took it as his eyes searched Everett’s face.

“No word. Hell, we just got this big bitch back under control, thanks to the master chief.” Carl had heard the coolant pumps engage just a moment before.

Collins took a drink of the sharp-tasting liquid, coughed, and then drank again. He handed the empty bag back to Tram. He reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “The rest of the staff?”

Tram lowered his head and then started to clean the old M-14 rifle once again. The gift he had received from Jack in South America had never been out of his sight. Luckily when the Black Hawk went down he had it strapped to his back.

“Sebastian and the others are dead, Jack.”

Collins leaned back as he held firm to one of the many canvas straps that hung from the bulkhead.

Suddenly the feel of movement was pushed throughout the ship as the Lee started to control her roll.

“We’re headed for one hell of a gunfight in just a few minutes, buddy. I have to go. You and Tram take the number two lift to deck six, and then take the tram to the forward spaces nearest the escape pods. That’s the safest place on board, right by the plow. Thicker steel.”

Jack started to say something in protest, but Carl shook his head. “Not this time, pal, it’s my turn. You and your men have done enough.” He looked at the Vietnamese lieutenant. “Tram, you take command of the staff of General Collins, and if things go bad get him off the ship. That’s an order, you understand?”

Even Tram hesitated, making Everett shake his head. He then turned to an SAS military security man.

“Sergeant, you take these two men to the escape pod. You’ll know real fast if this attack goes south, so get them the hell out. The general’s flag is being transferred.”

The SAS sergeant came to attention and nodded.

“Sorry, Jack, but the fights in the navy’s corner now.” He peeled his feet off the floor, pushed off, and floated through the open hatch to the shuttle bay without the slightest hesitation. Collins knew he couldn’t say good-bye like he wanted to in front of the men around him.

The two assault teams of Delta and SEALs moved off with a nod of thanks to Jack for giving them a shot at their jobs. The last man by was the young SEAL who had recently shaved his beard. He smiled. “Thank you, General.”

Jack watched the young SEAL sail through the hatch, knowing every man on that detail knew they wouldn’t have the time to get back to the shuttles before the detonations of the warheads turned them to nothing more than light particles.

Throughout the Garrison Lee every person onboard felt the ion-drive engines come to life just as the announcement from the commodore sounded through the loud speakers.

And General Jack Collins never felt so helpless in his life.

CHATO’S CRAWL, ARIZONA

The two men in black Windbreakers waited inside the Cactus Bar and Grill. One was shooting pool on the filthy and beer-stained table that had seen far better days; the other walked up to the old Rockolla jukebox and not too gently shoved the long-haired old man away. The old man walked to a crooked and slanting table and slowly sat, placing his head on the tabletop. He looked like he had fallen asleep, which is the way the alternating watchers, the men in black, had seen him do most of the long and boring days in the time they had spent here.

The bartender was his usual self as he stood behind the bar and just watched the men. He had been kept busy in the kitchen serving these men sandwiches and cheeseburgers at least five or six times a day. He knew the bulk of the eight men kept low in the Texaco station across the way but never enquired personally. He wiped his bar and tried to ignore the two men until they ordered something, usually just water to his great dissatisfaction.

The small bell above the double doors chimed and the leader of these men came in and walked straight to the bar. He was soon followed by the redhaired man in the now dirty blue suit. The skinny one sat at the bar as the leader called the other two black-clad men over to where he pulled out a barstool, looked it over, and then decided to forego the seating as it looked like it would collapse under his weight. The two men came forward. The one playing pool placed the old, crooked pool cue on the bar and gave the heavyset bartender a dirty look until he moved down to what used to be a waitress station that hadn’t seen a waitress in six years.

“This little safari is at an end. We’ve been ordered to pull out and head our separate ways,” the larger of the three said. “Our target seems to be a lot smarter than our man Vickers here thought he was.” He glanced at Hiram, who just stared at the stained bar top with his hands hidden out of sight. “For all we know the asset is holed up at the Motel 6 in Apache Junction, drinking Coronas and lying by the pool.”

“He will be here, eventually,” Vickers said, not bothering to look up.

“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t; that’s no longer a concern of ours, or of Mr. Peachtree’s.” The man glanced at his two partners and slightly nodded his head. “We’ve been ordered to clean up our mess here and leave.” The man suddenly pulled out a silenced nine-millimeter Glock and started to clean up.

He never saw the maniacal smile of the redhead’s face as he just sat there. The other two slowly went for their hidden weapons, not feeling any need to hurry on this occasion—after all, there had been nothing more threatening to them since they arrived than a small, yellow scorpion walking slowly across the cracked and slat-missing hardwood floor. That was their mistake.

The other major mistake was for them and their new employer Daniel Peachtree to have not enquired as to what Vickers had been doing in the hours leading up to him being found in Las Vegas. They would never know he had found the Cactus Bar and Grill, along with the entire town of Chato’s Crawl, deserted and abandon. Life could never have returned to the small place after the events of 2006. The town had been gutted of life and no one who lived there before could ever get the images of the slaughter out of their minds, so every one of the surviving townies had packed up and headed to where there were people—a lot of people where they would feel somewhat safe. Vickers had taken precautions against this eventual turn in fortune. He had stocked the bar in preparation for him to go it alone in securing the asset. He would have waited forever if that’s what it took because he knew his life depended on a deal to trade the asset for his freedom. He never trusted Peachtree or Camden—Hiram knew how this particular game was played because he had written the rules long ago.

The shotgun blast caught the largest of the three men in the chest, taking his gun hand off before the double-ought buckshot tore into his body, flinging him back into the second and third man. Hiram easily raised his hand and fired three more very loud shots into his face and head as the old man sprang from his chair where the men in black had thought him drunk and passed out. The bartender with the sawed-off shotgun still smoking ejected the spent casing and easily walked up and fired again, this time catching the last man in line as he attempted to rise off the floor. The shot caught the man in the head, turning the air into a bloody mist of brain and bone.

The old man jumped on the second man’s chest as he too tried to rise. With his legs pinning the man to the ground the codger, who wasn’t so old and never drank a day in his life, pulled out his weapon of choice, an eight-inch switchblade. He smiled and slowly cut the man in black’s throat from ear to ear. Then he stood with the dripping knife as the frightened man grabbed at his torn neck. The gun was kicked away from his grasping fingers and it slid away.

The bartender ejected the second shell from his sawed-off shotgun and then fired a round into the struggling man’s upturned face. It was all over in five short seconds. Vickers placed his own nine millimeter on the bar top and then turned to face his number one team of assassins: a man and his quiet older brother who had set up the brownstone in Georgetown the night he had to eliminate the sister of Jack Collins. They were also the murderous siblings who had placed the two bodies on the turnpike later that night.

“So transparent and predictable,” Vickers said.

The bartender and his brother stood next to Hiram. The older, silent one wiped the blood from his switchblade on the bar rag that was tossed to him by his brother.

“This thing is nearly over one way or the other. Either the president’s plan will work, or it won’t. Either way we take the asset.”

“We wait?” The old man bent over and started removing money and identification from the slain agents.

“Yes, we wait. The asset will be coming home very soon.” Vickers took some stale peanuts from the wooden bowl in front of him. He tossed away a few that had drops of blood on them and then lazily threw the remainder into his mouth and chewed. “You’ll find the rest packing their bags over at the station.” He looked at his personal employees. “I assume you won’t have any trouble taking care of them?”

The burly man behind the bar took up his shotgun and started replacing the spent shells and smiled.

“Good, now go show them how real bad guys operate.”

WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

The president, as tired as he was, waited with General Caulfield inside his room as he spoke by phone to the prime ministers of two allied countries. The conversations were short and to the point. Caulfield knew he wouldn’t last that much longer as he took in the beaten and worried countenance of the chief executive.

“Where is Dr. Compton?” the president asked quickly, fearing something had happened to his friend. The first lady looked up from the paperwork she had been trying to keep busy with since the attorney general and the chief justice had left the previous hour after the launch of the Lee.

“Calm down, he’s right out in the hallway. He’s about as bad off as you; you both have to stop for a while. Everything else is out of your control for the time being. You’ve hamstrung Camden, so he can’t order lunch without congressional approval. Your military knows who is in charge and what’s happening up there”—she looked toward the ceiling—“is out of your hands at the moment.” The first lady stood, felt the president’s forehead, and became worried as his fever had risen in the past hour by seven degrees. “You and Niles are both going to fall over and then you are back to square one with that son of a bitch.”

The president looked at General Caulfield. “I think the wrong person has been in charge the whole time.” He smirked as his wife kissed him on the forehead.

*   *   *

Niles closed his good eye and sighed. He was well aware of what the ground element at Camp Alamo was facing. He didn’t know which of his people were alive and who were lying dead on the snow and ice. His leg was propped up in his wheelchair as he spoke to Virginia Pollock and Lee Preston. The attorney had never seen a battered man who refused to rest like this Dr. Compton had. The man frightened him as he realized that if all government employees were as tenacious as this man was he would run as fast as he could to the nearest border and get out, because the pencil pushers and the slide-rule boys would inherit the Earth and men like him would soon be out of work.

“I’m authorizing you to pass Mr. Preston through security at the complex and retrieve Matchstick. He’s done as much as he can do, and Gus wants to be at home.” Niles looked up and slowly blinked his left eye underneath the glasses that were propped as best they could be on his bandaged head. “We owe the old man that dignity. Mr. Preston, thank you for your assistance thus far, but with Camden, you never know what kind of legal maneuvering he’ll pull and I don’t trust anyone when it comes to Matchstick and Gus. Get them out of the complex and secure them the best you can away from Nevada. Chato’s Crawl should be the safest place. We should be getting our military contingent back soon, one way or the other, to secure him better. Virginia, see to it.”

“Niles, you have to rest. I’ll personally take the little guy and Gus home. I’ve already notified Denise Gilliam, Charlie, and Pete, that they will accompany us, because Matchstick will need friends around him as Gus … well, he’s too tired to keep his eyes on Matchstick all the time. We should have enough old-timers providing security at the two houses; I don’t anticipate any trouble from now on.”

Niles looked up and bobbed his head. “Tell Matchstick … tell him…”

Virginia thought Niles had fallen asleep and became worried as she looked at his battered and bruised body.

“Thank you.” Niles’s head dropped to his chest once more as Virginia leaned over and kissed Compton’s forehead. She wiped another tear away like she had been doing most of the day as a nurse took Niles away.

Virginia had come to the conclusion earlier in the day that she could no longer fulfill her duties at the Group. She had become far too attached to the people she worked with, especially far too close to Niles.

Virginia halfheartedly smiled at Lee Preston as he waited patiently for them to leave for Nevada. He smiled his charming smile and then said what was on his mind.

“If you plan on quitting, I would at least leave Dr. Compton a note telling him why you are going to do what it is you’re doing. He deserves to know that you love the little bald guy. Lord knows he’s about the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen that wears a suit and tie for a living.”

Virginia looked shocked as she blew her nose on a handkerchief. She made a distasteful face.

“Here,” Preston said as he held out a pen and notepad. “No charge, but I want the pen back.”

Virginia accepted the pen and paper, smiled a sad smile, and patted the attorney on the shoulder. She went into Compton’s room to explain the whys of her leaving.

“What a fucking day,” Preston said as he watched the door close behind Virginia.

CAMP ALAMO

ANTARCTICA

Sarah held Mendenhall as upright as she could. The vision of another two thousand Grays and their automatons broke the spirit of many of the men, women, and soldiers. And the sound from above was mind-shattering as even more of the saucers were making their way down from high altitude.

Henri took hold of Will’s other side and Anya scooped up both Sarah’s and Farbeaux’s weapons. They struggled in the snow to get the seriously injured captain to safety.

“Over there,” Henri said with a nod of his head. Fifty feet away was the burned-out remains of a German armored personnel carrier. It had been blasted by one of the robotic automatons and the steel monstrosity was just starting to rip the hatches from the carrier. “Set him down,” Henri said to Sarah.

Will was laid not too gently into the soot-covered snow and Farbeaux looked at both women.

“I’m going to get that metal bastard to chase me. It won’t last too long, but see that Bushmaster cannon lying on the upper deck? Get to that and blast that thing to hell.”

Sarah shook her head. She yelled as she tried to be heard above the din of battle and the constant whoosh of laser weaponry flying past as the Grays came on in force, heading straight for Camp Alamo and the hidden entranceway.

“You’ll never make it,” she finally managed to say.

“You know me, any chance to get away, I’ll take.” Henri grabbed the Heckler & Koch automatic weapon and sprinted a few steps, then started firing at the robotic monster. It had succeeded in ripping open the top of the personnel carrier and had one of the dead armor soldiers in its clawlike hands. Sarah had to turn away from the horrid sight.

Suddenly the metal beast felt the heavy blows of the 7.65-millimeter rounds as they slammed into its chassis. The large red eye imbedded in the front of its head slowly turned toward the man who caused it not pain, but irritation as it had been programmed to kill and collect. The metal monstrosity let go of the dead soldier and then nimbly hopped from the armored vehicle. Henri added more fire, and then Sarah and Anya added their own. Hundreds of bullets met the strange alien steel. A survivor of either the 101st or 82nd added a light 40-millimeter mortar to the assault but the automaton shook off the blows and started forward. It raised both hands to waist level and curled the long sharp fingers inward as it started to take aim with its heavy caliber belt-fed kinetic weapon.

“Get down!” Henri shouted, but knew it would be too late as the evil red eye had the two women and Mendenhall locked in. Farbeaux raised the Heckler & Koch to his shoulder and that was when he noticed the slide was locked open. The weapon was empty.

Before they knew what was happening they were all knocked off their feet as two Tornado fighter-bombers bearing the insignia of a blue circle with a red Kangaroo inside of the Royal Australian Air Force, and twenty Gazelle Attack helicopters with the blue circle and red kiwi of the New Zealand army screamed by. The earth erupted as four laser-guided smart bombs struck the metal giant, blowing it into a thousand pieces. That was followed up by fifty-caliber machine-gun fire from the Gazelles as they strafed what remained.

Sarah, Anya, and Farbeaux raised their heads long enough to feel the blast of jet engines and rotor wash as the sky quickly filled with aircraft of every sort. Henri wanted to shout but was quickly inundated with debris from the robot that lay shattered on the ground only a hundred feet from the two women and the unconscious Mendenhall.

The roar from the high clear sky above continued and they all chanced to look up just as a thousand parachutes broke into the clear through the low clouds that covered the battlefield. It was the white canopies of the 12th Australian and 3rd New Zealand Parachute Brigades. This time Henri did cheer and shout as he stood and shook his fist at the stunned Grays. Ground fire and Gazelle attack choppers were knocking them down as fast as they could charge down the ramps of the hovering saucers. And they too were being hit by a multitude of weaponry such as Sidewinder, Phoenix, and AMRAAM missiles. At that moment, the powerful assault from the sea was timed perfectly as forty Tomahawk Cruise missiles were directed at them from the faraway coast. Sixteen missile cruisers of both Australian and New Zealand navies had joined a force of cruisers from the U.S. Navy and five Royal Navy and Los Angeles–class subs. Explosions tore the battlefield apart as all three surviving saucers were soon a smoking ruin on the melting ice field.

The Anzacs and the U.S. and Royal navies had arrived in force.