Escape 3: Defeat the Aliens (8 page)

Hartman’s face grew thoughtful. “A good idea, I think. We have time for the Pantex plant to fabric new thermonuke warheads fitted with these sensors and maneuvering jets. General Poindexter, what is your opinion on this minefield suggestion?”

Bill felt the back of his neck go wet. While he was used to being under combat pressure, being on stage before the world’s most powerful politician and his nation’s military chiefs did not feel good. He much preferred the shadows, the night, the covert arrival that every SEAL preferred over arriving on a battlefield with bright, attention-getting tanks and crowds. And he knew the antimatter beams projected by any Collector ship could easily clear a vector line during a three-dimensional fight. He’d discovered that during the battle at Kepler 443 and earlier. Still, it was the best idea he could come up with. All too soon the
Blue Sky
would be away for at least three months, counting travel time out to Kepler 62 and travel time back to Sol. Maybe the minefield idea would help.

The black woman who was both the Air Force chief of staff and the NORTHCOM combat commander lifted a curly black eyebrow, then half-smiled. “I like it. I will recommend to our CNO that he embrace this minefield concept and make these mobile mines available to the boomer subs that we outfit with Magfield spacedrive engines. Gives them something to eject from our torpedo tubes.”

“Good,” Hartman said, sitting back and picking up her iPad. Behind her the lawn of the White House was beautifully green. A black-suited Secret Service guard passed across the window view, on the prowl for stupid intruders. The woman he’d come to know better, thanks to the White House award ceremony, looked almost relaxed. “General Poindexter, General McAuley, take care of these matters. Make sure the warhead sensors and mobile minefields get produced in big numbers. I like having 28 combat-armed spaceships able to defend Earth and the inner Solar system. But with 85 Collector ships now roaming through the stars, we could face 30 or more enemy ships. Not one of them can be allowed within striking distance of America. Or Earth.” She leaned forward. “Captain Yamaguchi, you and your reactivated veterans have been our frontline fighters in this war of survival. Go back to those frontlines. Find the enemy fleet. Infiltrate it. Take over ships. Do whatever you can to weaken that fleet. Then come home with it and fight like a banshee out of Hades against it!”

“I will do just that,” Jane said softly. The president’s image disappeared. “General Poindexter, any further orders? Or can I and the other ships set about transferring captains, seeking Alien volunteers, and delivering Captives to Geneva?”

Poindexter looked left to McAuley, who shook his head. Her eyes caught each of the JCS chiefs. Most shook their heads or otherwise declined a chance to speak. However, the Chief of Naval Operations raised his hand.

“Yes, James? You wish to say something?” Poindexter said calmly, though she looked impatient.

“A very minor item,” the new CNO said. “Captain Yamaguchi, your ship and the other seven ships left here, are now formally listed on the DOD rolls as USS ships of the BBG class. That is the never before used classification for Battleship, Guided Missile or Arsenal ship.” The man shrugged. “Navy and the Air Force argued over the matter. The best fit for the amazing range of weaponry on your eight Collector vessels is BBG. Your ships launch thermonuke missiles, but also fire lasers and antimatter beams. In truth your ships could easily qualify as Arsenal ships.” The man licked his lips as Poindexter’s fingers thrummed on the table top. “As a result, for DOD purposes, your ship is now referred to as
USS Blue Sky,
BBG-1. And so forth for the other ships. Thank you.”

Bill had a hard time not laughing. It was sooo like the DOD to fixate on terminology when the survival of all life on the planet was at stake. Clearly, someone thought this was an important matter. Briefly he wished that ‘someone’ could be posted on the prow of the
Blue Sky
to act as a shock absorber for incoming missiles.

The Air Force chief looked at them. “Captain Yamaguchi, do what you need to do here so you can depart for Kepler 62. Standard sub loadout supplies are awaiting pickup at MacDill airfield. Any crewperson aboard your eight ships is free to contact relatives by way of smartphones. No talking to the press!” The woman sipped water, then set her glass down slowly. “The White House will issue a press release about your return, the new threat to Earth and our efforts to fight the enemy. Carry on.”

Bill let out his breath as the JCS holo image vanished. Their future was determined now. His wife’s covert scouting plan was as good an option as any he could imagine.

“Hey Bill,” called Chester. “Any chance you or Learned Escape can bring back a few crates of specialty beers when you pick up the food and supply loadouts? Maybe we can get the enemy fleet drunk as a skunk!”

Bill laughed. The more likely result would be drunken gales of laughter shared across the shipwide comlink as their ship entered altered space-time. Spending 48 days in the gray darkness of the Alcubierre space-time modulus was not conducive to normal behavior. He suspected beer busts, wild love-making and plenty of dice gambling would help to while away the long hours.

CHAPTER SIX

Just beyond Pluto in the depths of the Kuiper Belt, Bill listened as his wife began the process for sending the
USS Blue Sky
and all the people on board it into the depths of Alcubierre space-time, a place dark and empty of anything anyone would recognize. Except for loneliness.

“Star Traveler,” Jane said firmly, sounding like an officer in the Combat Information Center of a warship. “Provide our target star data to Navigator Lofty Flyer.”

The true space holo to his right changed from a view of distant Pluto to a scatter of stars. A tiny orange star began blinking.

“Earth refers to the Buyer fleet star as Kepler 62. It is a K2V orange dwarf star smaller than your Sol star. It is orbited by five planets,” the AI said, its tone casual. “Distance from Earth to Kepler 62 is 1,200 light years. Travel time there is estimated at 48 Earth days. Current fusion fuel load is 92 percent of capacity of fuel tanks. Transit to this star will reduce the fuel load to 89 percent of capacity.”

“We understand that stuff,” Jane said, her voice coming over Bill’s helmet comlink, thanks to the tube suits he and everyone wore. While they would not arrive in the enemy system for weeks, Jane had ordered tube suit wearing to get them back into the habit of preparing for pressure loss, or worse. “Give our Navigator the proper orientation so she can set a vector for the place!”

“As you wish,” the AI hummed sulkily. “Kepler 62 is located in the constellation of Lyra. Relative to Earth, the equatorial Right Ascension coordinates are plus 18 hours, 52 minutes and 51.060 seconds. The Declination coordinates are plus 45 degrees, 20 minutes and 59.507 seconds. I am providing the Navigator with a conversion of those numbers based on the Sol ecliptic, which differs from the Earth equatorial numbers just cited.”

“Do it!” Jane growled.

“Done,” the ship mind said briefly.

Bill looked to his right, looking beyond the figures of Bright Sparkle, Time Marker, Long Walker and Wind Swift to the brown-furred shape of Lofty Flyer. The squirrel lady lifted one arm, touched the top of her control pillar, looked ahead at her true space holo, then tapped several times. “Vector orientation entered,” she chittered “Ship is swinging its nose so it points directly at Kepler 62. Ah. Vector line acquired. Ship is ready to enter stardrive.”

In his comlink holo, Jane looked to her left. “Fusion Power Chief, what is the status of our three reactors? Is it safe for us to feed surge power for Alcubierre entry?”

The shiny black hair of Bright Sparkle swirled as the nearly naked woman leaned forward, checked her holos, then her skin colors swirled. “All three fusion reactors are at full operational status. Deuterium and tritium fusion isotope feed is constant. Ready for surge power output to stardrive engine,” she said softly over her shoulder speaker/vidcam unit, looking eager for the journey to begin.

Jane gave a quick nod. “Time Marker? Activate our Alcubierre stardrive.”

The walking snake hissed low. “Activating Alcubierre space-time modulus generator. Modulus created. Modulus boundary expanding to enclose all of this ship.” The snake touched his control pillar with two neck tentacles. “Space-time ahead of us is shrinking. That behind us is expanding. Ship is accelerating within the modulus. Maximum stardrive speed will be reached within six minutes.”

Bill felt relief as grayness filled the true space holo to the upper right of his Weapons station seat. The system graphic holo on his left lost its image of the Solar system. Eventually a graphic of the Kepler 62 system would appear in it, just before they left Alcubierre space-time. That left only his weapons holo and his comlink holo with live or useful information in them. He looked back over his shoulder to Jane. “Captain, can I head back to the Food Chamber and whip up some pasta noodles and spiced jerky? For us and for anyone else who wishes to join us.”

Jane looked pleased. “Please do so! Make enough to feed our nine vets plus enough for you, me and Chester. And haul in a keg of
Dale’s Pale Ale
. You know, the good stuff from Oskar Blues brewery in Longmont. I want to talk over stuff with them, now that we are on our way.”

Bill felt brief surprise at Jane’s wish to do something they could have done during the 53 hours spent traveling from Earth out to the edge of the Sun’s magnetosphere. That edge lay beyond Pluto. Well, she was the captain. He knew her well enough to know she had a reason for every official action she ever took. And her taste in craft beers was outstanding. “Will do. Can we all get out of these damn tube suits? There is no chance of enemy action against us, or a wayward piece of debris hitting the ship.”

His wife smiled, then reached to the front of her helmet, tapped the release and pushed the clear globe backward. “Yes! I hate them too. No need to wear them now that we are in Alcubierre space-time.”

Bill stood, stripped off his suit, tossed it onto his Weapons station seat, waved at brown-haired Chester, then headed for the entry door at the back of the circular Command Bridge. As he passed his wife’s seat atop the command pedestal, a whir sounded and the seat lowered a few feet. “Bill.”

He stopped and looked up to her. The pale oval face, warm brown eyes, black bangs, strong shoulders and trim figure that had met him when he first opened her cell, back when they’d been captives, all of that and more now faced him. Jane’s beauty was of the casual kind, not the Paris Hilton runway look. Her face moved from an easy smile to thoughtfulness. “We need to talk about what we do once we arrive at Kepler 62. Every step, every possible option, we gotta look at it all. Then do simulations. I’m relying on you.”

He smiled, then gave her a quick salute. “Aye, captain. I’ve still got some sneakiness left in my brain cells. Didn’t lose it all during the fight at the Buyer compound.”

Her expression went still, almost distant. He realized he should not have reminded her of how he’d been killed. Then brought back to life in the Med Hall Chamber. “I’m sure you are still the SEAL you always were. Go ahead, make lunch for a dozen.” She then saluted back, as if it were an afterthought.

Bill nodded, thought to touch her hand in reassurance, then realized here, on the Command Bridge, he had to set the example for treating Jane as the captain of the ship, and the commander of every person onboard. Come their arrival at Kepler 62, she would make the final decisions on everything. On her rested the future safety of Earth. Thanking his stars he did not sit where she now sat, he nodded and walked past her to the bridge entry door. He pointed his red cube opener at it, then passed out into the cool, wide hallway that connected with the right and left-side main hallways. He turned left, heading for the Food Chamber that lay just beyond their private habitat rooms. He licked his lips and wished the hallway intercom was broadcasting an old episode of Garrison Keillor’s
A Prairie Home Companion
. He felt the need for a reminder of Earth, of his sister Joan, of the people who mattered. Maybe, eventually, he could wrap his brain around the reality that what they now sought to do would affect the lives of seven billion humans.

♦   ♦   ♦

Bill set the wide platter of pasta noodles and beef jerky down on the biggest table in the Food Chamber. Then he reached back, grabbed a keg of
Dale’s Pale Ale
, and put it on a Lazy Susan spin plate in the middle of the table. Mugs, plates and eating ware were already set for everyone now seated at the table. He gave a nod to his saloon vet buddies, then took the only empty seat. He sat down and faced his captain, lover and wife, who again sat on the opposite side of the table.

“Lunch is ready!”

“So I see,” she said with a smile. “Everyone, dig in! And fill your mug. No need for anyone to serve as the safe driver.”

Chuckles sounded from around the table as everyone fell to passing the platter around, or tugging on the keg’s tap to fill their glass mug with golden booze that immediately formed a white head. He did the same. However, he could not keep his eyes off his wife. She had changed from her usual Air Force Blue jumpsuit into a slinky green formal dress with a single shoulder strap, leaving her other shoulder bare and her lovely cleavage nicely apparent. Alicia Hoffman and Cassandra Welsh, the other two women at the table, were dressed just as sharply. Alicia wore a shiny black leather outfit of sleeveless vest, tight pants and bare midriff. Cassandra, their gal with the orange Mohawk rooster-tail haircut, wore a bright Paisley top and green pants. Clearly his wife had warned the two women of her plans for dress-up. Which plans had not included him or any of the other guys at the table. So they had each worn casual clothes. Before hitting the Food Hall, Bill had gone by his habitat room, changed into the red-checkered flannel shirt and blue jeans he’d worn when first captured, then gone to work on the lunch meal. Now, judging by the women’s outfits and the guys’ mix of clothing, this was going to be the most casual discussion of tactics that he’d ever attended. Which made sense, in a strange way. With the ship AI monitoring all ship systems 24/7, there was no need for all of them, including their absent spouses, to be on constant combat alert.

Chester’s gray eyes watched everyone as Bill’s buddies dug into the platter. The lightly tanned, broad-chested man wore a checkered cowboy shirt and turquoise bolo about his neck. He was, however, the first to fill his mug with the pale ale. He took a sip, then smacked his lips loudly. “Damn, that tastes good!”

Jane, who sat between Chester and Stefano, speared her fork into some jerky, then looked aside, a half-smile on her face. “Chester, later on this voyage we’ll have fun nights hosted by your wife Sharon. Here, today, is just for those humans who will be doing the direct combat work. Plus our ever-present ship mind,” she said calmly, no hint of her earlier irritation showing. Jane looked left at Stefano, who had a pile of food on his plate and a full mug of ale in front of him. Bill’s fellow SEAL was not eating. Instead, he seemed distracted, his gaze fixed on one of the few bare spots on the metal table. “Stefano, you okay? Did your talk with your parents go well?”

Bill tensed. His buddy rarely talked about his two Latino parents who lived in a poor section of East Los Angeles. But on fishing trips, Bill had learned the parents were proud of their son making it into the SEALs.

“It went well enough,” Stefano said softly, his gaze lifting as he made a quick scan of everyone at the table, before he looked right to meet the sympathetic gaze of Jane. “They wanted me to come home, to seek a release from active duty. So I could find a good Latina girl and start a family. For grandkids to spoil. They are of the old culture, where family and extended family were the only folks you could rely on.” Stefano gave a quick smile, then sobered. “These folks here, my buddies from Jack’s Deep Six Saloon,
they
are my extended family. I choose to be here.”

Bill felt touched at his buddy’s sharing. Stefano was the consummate SEAL who’d never really adjusted to his demobilization from the Joint Special Operations Task Force that operated out of Fort Bragg. He’d left the Navy a year after Bill had left his desk job at the Naval Special Warfare Center at Coronado. He gestured to Stefano, a SEAL hand signal meaning “
Landed Okay
”. “Hey guy, you did outstanding work in taking over the
Seafloat
. She’s in good hands now. Your pick of the Air Force Special Tactics woman who signed onto your crew was a good choice for captain.”

Stefano’s pale brown eyes fixed on Bill, sending a message of reassurance without words being spoken. He’d spent enough time with the man, out fishing and later during the collector pod infiltration training, to read him. Just as the man was a master at reading Bill. In fact, the man had always been a quick read of any person who came within sight. It was likely one reason he’d been such a fine active operator. And was still a fine, hair-trigger trained SEAL.

“Wow. Two guys being sensitive!” muttered Alicia from beyond Chester, her face filled with humor. The scar on her right cheek had come during the battle to liberate Mosul. She pulled a hip flask from her jumpsuit. “Bob, here’s some tequila for your beer chaser!”

Bill eyed the tough Ranger gal who’d been a fine captain of the
Pointe Du Hoc
ship. He’d met her lesbian partner Lorilee several times in Denver, then later after the lady had come aboard the
Blue Sky
. Like Alicia, Lorilee worked in intelligence, but at the Air Force’s NORAD command at Peterson. The two had talked about birthing a kid, a joy now put off with both of them on active duty. “Alicia, every special operations vet is sensitive. Including us guys. Some show it, some keep it quiet. Right Frank?”

The former Marine Raider swallowed a mouthful of food, then shrugged wide shoulders. Thick black eyebrows lifted a bit. “Fuck sensitive. Captain, how the hell are we going to infiltrate the enemy fleet?”

Bill kept his expression neutral. He’d seen Gunny take in an injured stray cat, feed it and then take it to a local vet for needed shots. The cat now owned the man’s condo apartment. Much to the delight of Frank’s wife Helen, who’d also come onboard the ship before they’d left for the raid on the Market world. Helen was also a vet, having served in the Army at Central Command. Now, she and Sharon made a great pair of knitters, making shawls for everyone on the five ships. Or so it seemed. But everyone had stopped eating, their attention shifting to his wife. He sat back, laid hands in his lap and watched.