Hammerhead Resurrection Page 20

  “We need a hand truck or something. They expect us to carry this stuff half a mile out?”

  A deep voice, which sounded exhausted, came from inside the dark medical supply area, “If you take branches, you can build a litter, and drag several boxes at a time.”

  Whitman shaded his eyes but couldn’t see past the bright sunlight reflecting off the silvered hull-plates.

  A tall, gray-haired man with a short-cropped beard, shifted sideways through the hole.

  “That’s a good idea,” Whitman said absently, trying to figure out where the man, who now stumbled down the large berm of soil, had come from.

  The shoulder of the man’s shirt had been ripped open, and a flap of skin hung down several inches from a gash on his shoulder. Below the gash, dried blood blackened the fabric of his shirt and pants down to his calf.

  Whitman, still not quite believing his eyes, asked, “Where did you come from?”

  As the man walked up to him, Whitman saw the side of his face was smeared with grease mixed with metal shavings. One shoulder-board and his name badge had been ripped away. On the other shoulder lay a captain’s four gold bars.

  What captain wears a full beard?

  “Gentlemen,” the man said, “where might I locate command officers?”

  “Last I saw,” Tanner cut in, “Captain Donovan was in the main hold.”

  “What about Cantwell?”

  “He’s dead, sir.”

  The man dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “Who else is in command?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Captain Donovan gave us our orders, and we got to work.”

  The man looked up at the trees, multiple canopies of dark-green, waxy leaves letting only tiny patches of sunlight to the forest floor. “Where are we?”

  “The Amazon basin, sir.”

  The captain pointed to the boxes. “Build a litter. Use the canvas from the medical racks. Work fast.” He walked away toward the main hold.

  Tanner looked at Whitman as though he’d just been told something he couldn’t understand. “That was weird.”

  Whitman could only nod his agreement.

  …

  The ground beneath his feet felt as though it was shifting as he walked down the length of the Lacedaemon. His view of the emergency ramps, which had been lowered from the main holds, was blurring. His head ached, and the heat of the sun made him feel nauseated. Men and women moved supplies into the trees. Some pulled carts, some drove small forklifts, and others carried cases.

  Just outside the ramp to the main cargo bay, several bodies had been lined up, their faces covered by a long tarp. One wore a non-military white shirt and slacks. The thick, densely-haired arms looked familiar. Crouching, Jeffrey lifted the tarp, exposing Gerard Schodt’s face, his glasses missing. His unnaturally widened eyes gave him a shocked look.

  “Well Gerard,” Jeffrey said, “you might not believe it, but I’d rather you could have lived with your ideals to become an old, irritating man.” As he lay the tarp back down, he wondered if the man had any change of heart in his final moments.

  “But he didn’t.”

  Jeffrey turned to find Samantha Delaney standing behind him, her face smeared with soot and the leg of her slacks torn open at the knee. Blood stained the fabric below it, and when she limped forward, she winced.

  Jeffrey stood and took hold of her arm.

  “I’m fine,” she said pushing him away. “You look like more of a mess than I do.” Her eyes searched his a moment before she said, “I thought you were dead.”

  He looked back to Schodt’s body. “Not yet.”

  “He’s been an advisor since I was governor of Pennsylvania. He was a good man…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I doubt that.” The look she gave him was not as much combative as it was searching, as if she were weighing his reaction to her harshness.

  “You might find it difficult to believe,” he said, “but I would have preferred it if you and Schodt were right about the Sthenos, that there was a simple misunderstanding that could be resolved by sitting down to tea with them.”

  “You still maintain that only war can bring a resolution.”

  At this he did become angry. He held his hand out to the hulk of the Lacedaemon. “Look around you ma’am. We’re in a figh—”

  “Walk with me Captain Holt.” She walked off with a slight limp. “We need to find Captain Donovan and get ourselves moving in the right direction.”

  “And what direction might that be?” Jeffrey asked as he followed her, but she said nothing.

  …

  As they made their way up the grip-textured ramp to the hangar, Jeffrey caught several shocked looks from the personnel he passed. Stepping into the shade of the hangar, the only deck which lay horizontally along the Lacedaemon’s length to achieve enough length for flight operations, he felt cool air still venting from the Lacedaemon’s core. The space smelled of kerosene. Near the center of the hangar, beside the tied down Wraiths, he saw a man directing personnel. While he could not focus on the figure, he knew from his body language that it was Donovan. He had his back to them as they approached.

  Delaney said, “Captain.”

  Donovan kept his eyes on his hand-written notes. “What is it vice president?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you want? I’m very busy.”

  Delaney put her hands on her hips. “I would appreciate a little less attitude captain.”

  Donovan looked up from his notes, but his tone remained dismissive. “Of course ma’am.” He glanced at Holt and Jeffrey saw shock settle into malice.

  If he’s angered by my still being alive, he’s more dangerous that I thought.

  “Captain Donovan, is there an issue you’d care to share with me?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “How many senior staff survived the crash?”

  “We have three,” Donovan said, “Myself, Commander Holloway, and Commander Zack.”

  Jeffrey felt a rush of relief at hearing Stacy was all right.

  Delaney looked to Jeffrey, and said, “Captain Holt as well.”

  “The president said that he was to be—”

  “Two things Donovan,” Delaney said with authority. “One—he was to be removed from service if he was wrong about the Sthenos. He wasn’t. Two—the president is dead.”

  She took a scrap of paper from her pocket. It looked to have been torn from a larger sheet. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it and handed it to Donovan.

  She said, “Read this to me.”

  He looked at the scrap and said, “Madam vice president I—”

  She yelled at Donovan, “I’ve had enough of you men treating me as though I’m an irritation to be ignored.” Her voice quieted but still held anger as she said, “Now read that to me, or I’ll have you relieved of duty. Is—that—clear?”

  Donovan glared at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Several personnel had stopped and watched them cautiously. She said to them, “You men and women will serve as witnesses.”

  They looked uncomfortable, as though they’d stepped into a trap.

  When Donovan began to read from the scrap of paper, Delaney held up her right hand. “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,” he paused giving her time to repeat the words, “and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  She repeated the second half.

  The men and women seemed unsure how they were supposed to respond.

  “Get back to work,” Donovan said.

  “My first act as president,” she glanced at Jeffrey, “will be to bestow the rank of Fleet Admiral on Jeffrey Holt.”

  Donovan’s mouth came open as his eyes went wide with shock. “Fleet Admiral? You can’t—”

  “I can, and I did.”

  Jeffrey was as shocked as Donovan seemed to be.

 
“You—” But Donovan’s anger appeared to shut his ability to speak down. He looked back to Delaney. “He can’t— He’s not Navy personnel—” He faltered again, drew a deep breath and continued, fairly spitting out his next words. “You can’t seriously be considering handing the command of our last military resources to a junk recycler.”

  Coming out of his own shock, Jeffrey said, “Captain Donovan, I’ve had about enough of that shit as I’m going to take.”

  Donovan stepped up to Holt, stabbed him in the chest with his finger. “You’re compromised Holt. You’re an old man with post traumatic stress dis—”

  Jeffrey snatched Donovan’s collar and hauled him close, lifting the smaller man’s heels off the ground. “Donovan, to me, you’re a kid who’s never had to face the real world.” He pointed to the hull of the ship. “This is the real world, and you have no experience leading in it. I do.” He let his voice soften. “This is only the second wave captain. There’ll be more.” He let go of Donovan’s collar, who seemed dazed, not fighting mad anymore. “The only way we can make this the low water mark for us is to work together. I swear on my own life that I’ll do everything I can to keep us from ending up here again. Now are you with me, or against me?”

  “Goddamn you Holt,” Donovan said, anger boiling in his tone as he straightened his collar, “of course I’m not against you. Before Cantwell went to Nevada to get you, he told me to follow your lead, no matter what.” He turned sideways as if wanting to walk away. “I don’t trust you, but he told me to follow you to my own grave if need be. I would have followed him there, but you… When I do as you say, know that I’m following Cantwell, not you. I’ll say this once and let it drop. Every time I tell you yes sir, know that there’s a solid ‘fuck you’ imbedded in it.”

  A smile drew across Jeffrey’s face. “Then let’s keep moving supplies. However, I’ll have to redirect a few of your people.”

  “Yes sir, fleet admiral… sir.”

  Jeffrey stared at him for a moment longer.

  “May I be dismissed, sir?”

  Jeffrey nodded.

  He walked away, leaving Jeffrey and Delaney standing alone in the center of the expansive hanger. She watched Jeffrey as though she expected him to yell at her.

  “Is there something else ma’am?”

  She nodded slowly as if buying time to form her thoughts. While her face was an unreadable mask, tears brimmed and fell from her eyes. Her jaw flexed and she said, “I feel as though I’ve been a damn fool my entire life.”

  “No. You wanted something so badly, you let your judgment falter. There isn’t a man or woman alive who hasn’t made that mistake to some degree.”

  She pursed her lips before smiling and wiping the tears from her face. “I suppose presidents don’t cry.”

  Jeffrey let out a small laugh. “Neither do fleet admirals I’ve heard, but I suggest we do this our way, not the way they expect us to.” He held out his arm to her and she took it.

  As they walked he said, “I need two things.”

  Her tone became more businesslike. “Those are?”

  “One, I need water.”

  “Okay, I can help with that.”

  “Two, I need to find Commander Holloway and the pilots. We have to get the drone gear ripped out of the Wraiths and fly them off this ship. We have a war to win and we need hardware to do that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the end of the fifth hour a good deal of supplies had been moved to the waypoint a quarter-mile away. While some climbed the racks and lowered supplies on ropes and pulleys, others moved through the ship rappelling down the vertical decks seeking out items such as bedding and waterproof material for shelter.

  Captain Donovan had organized two chains of five hundred sailors each, which led away from the cargo holds into the forest. The men and women passed containers and bundles one to the next.

  In the hangar Jeffrey, the pilots, and the flight deck personnel had succeeded in pulling the AI gear out of the remaining drone Wraiths and loaded them with as many armaments as would fit under their stubby wings. The VR flight room had been destroyed, but the machine shops had enough remaindered seats, which were modular and bolted directly back in, to return the ships to their original configuration.

  With the ships prepped, the pilots gathered under one of the nose cones. A humid breeze carried the scent of rich soil and sap through the yawning side doors, which only two days before had lain open to the vacuum of space.

  Jeffrey said, “We have functional Wraiths, but we need true aircraft. Wraiths are only effective in a vacuum. They don’t have broad enough control surfaces for atmospheric dog fighting. We need something like Kiowa for air-to-air combat…” He faded off in thought.

  “Sir?” Whitetip asked.

  “I have an idea, but let me think on it awhile. You,” he indicated the flight deck crew who’d helped them remove AI gear, “collect as much maintenance gear as you can carry and get out of here. Pilots we’ll need to fly out the far hangar doors and come around well away from the supply lines.”

  They nodded. All understood the radiation risks of the nuclear drives.

  “All right folks, get to a cockpit.”

  The pilots saluted and jogged to their ships. Jeffrey went up the ladder behind Whitetip and climbed into the empty space behind her where the navigation officer’s seat would have been. He sat on a metal rise at the rear of the cockpit.

  “I don’t have a seat, so take it easy; I don’t want to die before we even begin.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir,” she said with an easy laugh.

  Jeffrey laughed as well, finding himself sincerely liking the young woman.

  The cockpit glass lowered, and she fired the nuclear thrusters, horrendously loud in the atmosphere. The Wraiths ahead lifted off their landing skids, hovered down the flight deck, and moved out into the bright sunlight. When Whitetip’s Wraith had a clear path, she lifted it off and hovered forward. Jeffrey hadn’t flown in a nuclear drive fighter in a long time. It felt different than a turbine driven aircraft, which moved in smooth, analogue lines. The Wraith felt twitchy, as if it were a half-broken horse, still unsure if it was willing to take a rider. When Whitetip came out into the sunlight she accelerated out over the trees. The power curve felt unlimited, hydroelectric. Jeffrey squinted into the sunlight as she flew a few feet above the forest canopy, turning in a wide arc. The Lacedaemon looked like a great, titanium whale, its back flexed and creased as if swimming.

  Reaching the landing zone, she hovered the Wraith between the crowns of two large trees and descended. Leaves shoved against the sides of the ship and branches cracked beneath. The light fell into jade-green dimness. The Wraith tilted slightly sideways as she set down on uneven ground.

  The engines shut down, leaving them in deep silence.

  Jeffrey said, “Now all we can do is hope these things cool down enough to avoid thermal detection when the Sthenos come through.”

  A switch clacked and heavy fans came on outside, blowing potentially radioactive materials away.

  When the fans shut off, Whitetip said, “The radiation levels outside aren’t great but they won’t kill us. I wouldn’t want to use Wraiths this way every day though.”

  The cockpit lifted as Whitetip asked, “You really think they’ll hit the Lacedaemon?”

  “Yes… at least I would.”

  She pulled a ladder from the side of the ship, and climbed down. Jeffrey followed. As he stepped onto the dark-red soil, he looked up at the rainforest canopy high above. In the distance, the last few Wraiths still searched for gaps large enough to land in, filling the air with a thunderous roar highlighted by popping shrieks.

  Jeffrey and Whitetip made their way to the rendezvous point as the distant Wraiths fell silent. Jeffrey enjoyed the sensation of his natural weight on his feet again, but the heat and humidity felt even more oppressive due to the transition from the perfect environment of ship-borne life. The humidity made him
feel as though his mouth and nose were packed with damp, oven-hot cotton. He wished Cantwell hadn’t decided to land here, but understood why. The rainforest was largely unpopulated and easy to disappear into.

  When they arrived at the rendezvous point, he felt a rush of relief when he saw Stacy talking with a sailor standing over a backpack.

  “…singularity is a remarkably effective weapon,” the sailor said to her. “We found no portal effect as some had suspected. Once the reaction is done, all the matter drawn in is left as a super-dense mass, almost a perfect sphere. Very strange looking.”

  “Everything?” Stacy asked. Her eyes, with dark circles under them, had lost their usual illumination. As Jeffrey came to stand beside her, she glanced at him. Looked again. Her eyes went wide as she said with disbelief, “You’re alive.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re alive,” she shouted with anger. Tears welled in her eyes, but her feet seemed pinned to the ground, as if she didn’t know how to deal with her feelings and still be a military commander.

  Jeffrey wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. Without hesitation, he felt her arms lock around him. One sob escaped her.

  After a moment, she said into his chest. “I’ve already had to live through my father’s death. I don’t think I could face yours.” She leaned away from him, and touched the side of his face. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

  He nodded as he let her go, and said to the man she’d been talking with, “I apologize for the interruption sailor. Please continue.”

  “This is Ensign Roth,” Stacy said.

  “I…” Roth said in an unsure tone, “I was describing their function.”

  Leif had detailed the function of the singularities to Jeffrey more than a year earlier, but he wasn’t supposed to know them. He motioned for the man to continue.

  “These singularity warheads, are actually small light-speed drives and, as a result, time machines.”