Battleship (Movie Tie-in Edition) (24 page)

A deathly silence fell upon them, broken only by the soft
click-clack
of Mick chambering rounds in every gun to make certain he was ready to shoot anything that moved and wasn’t born on Earth.

“Okay, so … what do we do first?” said Sam.

Minutes later they had driven the Jeep as near to the site of the initial attack as they dared. Then Sam pulled it over toward a small cluster of trees. They climbed out and proceeded to cover the Jeep with whatever branches and brush they could locate.

Sam was breathing heavily, scratching at bug bites and scrapes she’d gotten from the branches. The branches also kept snagging her hair, and finally she pulled it back into a tight ponytail and wrapped a rubber band around it that she’d had in her pocket. She stepped back and studied the camouflage. It looked to be a pretty good job.

“I need to call Hopper,” said Sam abruptly.

Cal appeared confused, as if he was being presented information he should have but didn’t. “Who’s Hopper?”

“My fiancé.”

“Semi-fiancé,” Mick volunteered, laying some more branches over the Jeep for good measure.

She fired him an annoyed look. “He’s my fiancé,” she said firmly.

“Oh good. You need to call your semi-fiancé,” said Cal, sounding decidedly snide. “I want to call my
mother
.”

Sam was starting to feel as if Zapata was more in need of a good slap in the face than anyone she’d met in a long time. Mick, however, put a calming hand on her arm as he said to Cal, “He’s also a weapons officer on a guided missile destroyer that has the resources to take a whole installation out.”

“Oh.” Cal suddenly seemed to realize how he had come
across when he’d spoken so disdainfully. Sounding vaguely apologetic, he said, “That makes sense.”

Sam decided it would do little good to berate Cal for the way he’d replied to her. Yes, it was dumb, but she hadn’t exactly covered herself with glory every minute of the last hour or so. Better to just let it go and move on. “You work with all that high-tech gear. Can you get us in touch with the ship?”

Cal gave it some thought. “They’re using an electromagnetic field to block our signals. An alien version of a Faraday shield.”

“A what?” said Mick.

“A Faraday shield. Invented by Michael Faraday back in the early part of the 19th century. You use a conducting material to form an enclosure to block out static and non-static electrical fields. Think of it as a sort of ideal hollow conductor.”

“Okay, I’ll do that.” Mick glanced at Sam. She shrugged.

“But in any electrical field,” Cal went on, oblivious to their confusion, “no matter how powerful, there’s no such thing as a solid or an absolute. And perhaps they’re using some momentarily unencrypted frequency among themselves, unless, of course, they use ESP or some other advanced, non-oral form of communica—”

Sam’s head was starting to spin. “
What
is he
saying
? He’s speaking English, right?”

“Could be,” said Mick. “I’m a little rusty on my science.”

“Sorry,” said Cal, looking embarrassed that he had left them behind. He thought a moment, trying to come up with a simpler way to pose it. “What they’re blocking frequencies with is like … a pulse. Not a brick wall. This means there are gaps. So if I can get to my spectrum analyzer, I can, theoretically, discover a frequency we can broadcast on for—I don’t know—thirty, forty-five seconds, before it rotates and gets jammed again.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” said Sam. “Can you get us in touch with the ship?”

“Your semi-fia—I mean, your fiancé’s ship?” he said, quickly correcting himself when he saw Sam’s expression. “If they flicker …” He nodded and then added, “I need to get to my lab.”

“Then that’s where we’ll get you,” said Sam. “If they’re left unchecked, how long before they can make their call?”

Cal glanced at his watch. “Five hours and fifteen minutes. That’s when our deepest satellite orbits into range. It only does it once a day. They’ll use it to slingshot the transmission to wherever it is they’re from …”

“Then we’ve gotta hurry,” said Mick.

Rifles slung over their shoulders, they set out to save the world.

Doctor Nogrady had fantasized about moments like this. The notion of being face-to-face with high-ranking officials, and their hanging on his every word. Being accorded the importance that he felt a scientist of his status and achievement was due.

Never had he dreamed, even in his wildest imaginings, the circumstances that would lead him to this “achievement.” His mind flew back to the conversation he’d had with Cal Zapata about being wary over what you wish for, since you might well get it.

Zapata. Zapata, with whom they’d lost contact, along with the entire Honolulu base.
Have they taken it over already? Have they destroyed it? And are we next?

He returned his attention to the image of the Secretary of Defense on the viewscreen in front of him. “And what,” the Secretary was saying, “is the update of the fragment that crashed in China?”

“Scientists have been scouring the debris field,” Nogrady said, consulting the latest updates. “And the pieces they’re recovering suggest they were designed for multi-spectrum data transmission across every electromagnetic wavelength from visible to x-ray.”

The Secretary nodded. Apparently he understood. Nogrady was impressed.

“What does that mean?” asked the Secretary.

Nogrady was less impressed.

Normally Chinese scientists weren’t quite so forthcoming with information they gathered, particularly with findings on their own shores. The Chinese government was relentlessly territorial with such things. But the Beacon Project was an international endeavor and all the scientists involved were sharing up everything they learned, whether the governments liked it or not. “It is the strong belief of the Chinese,” Nogrady said, “that what crashed down in Hong Kong was some sort of communications ship.”

“You’re saying a flying telephone cratered and took out two hundred and fifty people?”

“Like most death tolls, I’m sure that number will increase exponentially as they find bodies. My point is, what I’m saying is that our visitors appear extraordinarily concerned with establishing a line of communication home.”

“But if they lost their ship, how can they do that?”

“The same way we did. Our communication station on Hawaii has the ability to send a message to deep space through our LANDSAT 7 satellite. I believe it’s for that asset that they’ve domed the islands.”

“So if we can’t get into Hawaii, why don’t we just take out the satellite?” The question wasn’t being directed to Nogrady. There was doubtless some general or other army officer sitting just out of sight in whatever secured bunker they were communicating from. Maybe the Situation Room, maybe the Pentagon. It wasn’t Nogrady’s business to know; just provide information.

From nearby the Secretary, a gruff voice said, “Well, sir, that’s orbiting seventy-eight thousand miles out. We don’t have a weapon in our arsenal we can launch that distance at a moving target and be assured of hitting it. In fact, I can almost guarantee we won’t. It could take weeks of trial and error for our weapon to reach it.”

“Do we have a … I don’t know … some sort of self-destruct button we can push and just blow up the satellite from here?”

Nogrady didn’t quite trust himself to answer that question. Fortunately enough the unseen general did it for him. “Mr. Secretary,” and he was clearly trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice, “we’re not talking about a spy plane. We don’t build self-destruct mechanisms into everything.”

“Well, assuming we survive, we should look into that.”

“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Secretary.”

The Secretary shifted his attention back to Nogrady. “Speaking of survival … what happens if they establish communications?”

“Based upon the destruction we’ve seen them uncaringly rain down upon us …” He paused and then said, “In scientific terms: we’re looking at an ELE, an extinction level event.”

“Less scientific terms?”

“We’re history,” said Nogrady.

If Calvin is alive
, thought Nogrady as he watched the
Secretary of Defense contemplate the end of mankind’s time on this planet,
then he’s doubtlessly coming to these same conclusions. At least he’s in a position to do something about it
.

Although I wouldn’t hold my breath
.

Hopper looked across the faces of the assembled officers and crewmen as they sat in the CIC. Nagata, Raikes, Ord, Beast, and the rest of the CIC crew. They were waiting for him to say something, to tell them what to do.

He had no blessed clue.

But he had no time to wait until he did.

Hopper drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. What do we know? And what does it mean?”

“We know they’re not here on some goodwill mission to feed the children,” said Ord.

It was his typical lame attempt at humor. Surprisingly, of all people, Nagata picked up on it and went with it. “Not
our
children.”

There was a faint chuckle, shared by people who didn’t actually think anything about the situation was remotely funny. The laughter of people sitting on death row, trading morbid jokes while hoping that a pardon from the governor would be forthcoming.

Hopper ran his fingers through his hair. “Those throat tubes were full of salt water. Maybe … maybe that’s what they’re here for. Maybe salt water is something
they need for survival, just like we need desalinated water to survive. And maybe their supply on their home-world is running low, or there was climate change, or it was polluted. So they sent—”

“Three ships,” Ord interrupted him. “They sent three freaking ships. How much could they possibly transport?” Then he added quickly, when he saw the annoyed look from Hopper,
“Sir.”

“Not just three,” Raikes reminded them. “Those three mobile combat ships, plus that transport thing, plus who knows what else.”

Nagata leaned forward, his eyes thoughtful. “Three, four ships, only the beginning. Water is only the beginning.”

“You think this is an advance party that they’re setting up for a land invasion?” said Hopper. He could scarcely conceive of it, the magnitude of the undertaking. “But there are seven billion people on this world. Millions of miles of territory, hundreds of different governments. And you’re trying to tell me—?”

“They want the whole damned place,” said Beast.

“More coming for certain,” said Nagata, nodding.

They exchanged looks. Hopper realized the enormity of what they were discussing. More than that, he considered the distinct possibility that they might be alone in this realization. They had no idea what was happening elsewhere or what others might have figured out. If the aliens were raining down destruction worldwide, launching ships and attack vehicles, then the secret was pretty much out.

But that didn’t seem to match with their method of operation. They were coming across to Hopper as being extremely methodical. Testing, probing, seeing what the humans were capable of doing, while preserving their own resources. It seemed far more likely that they would be concentrating minimal forces here, trying to determine
what it was that humans were capable of mounting offensively, so they would know how much of their ships and personnel they’d need to commit. Only then would they send for reinforcements, enough to take whatever they needed and lay waste to whatever they didn’t.

“Not if we can help it,” said Hopper, as much to his inner concerns as to anyone there. He turned to Beast and said briskly, “Damage report.”

“Starboard engine is down. Whatever that thing was, it tore through the drive shaft.”

“Fixable?” said Hopper.

Beast shook his head. “Negative.”

“Port engine?” Hopper was nervous to hear the response. “We’re sitting ducks without it.”

“It tore into the turbines pretty good, but we can fix it.”

Hopper sighed in relief upon hearing that. At least he had some small fragment of good news to which he could cling.

Abruptly Nagata called out something in Japanese. It certainly sounded like an order. In response to it, a short Japanese man with a round face and glasses entered and looked to his commanding officer expectantly. Nagata gestured toward the new arrival and told Hopper, “Lieutenant Commander Hiroki is my chief engineer. He is quite excellent and can help you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need any help,” said Beast. Clearly as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. He stood up, stooping in order to keep his head clear of the low ceiling, and started for the door, barely giving Hiroki a glance.

He was brought up short, however, when Hopper said sharply, “Beast.” He turned questioningly toward Hopper, who continued in a tone that was gentle but also firm, with a hint of warning that there were bigger things than Beast’s ego at stake. “We are under attack from what appears to be a force from another world.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have lost two destroyers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We are effectively dead in the water. Sitting ducks, until you get our engines back online.”

“Yes, sir,” said Beast. He obviously knew where the conversation was going, but was content to let Hopper take it all the way there.

“We’d be appreciative of Captain Nagata’s offer to assist us and would welcome Lieutenant Commander Hiroki’s assistance in our engine room.”

Beast and Hiroki exchanged looks, this towering American and a diminutive Japanese officer. They looked like a comedy duo.

“Sir,” Beast rumbled, “if the lieutenant commander would follow me, I’m sure we have plenty of work for him.”

Nagata nodded to Hiroki, who saluted his captain. Then he stared up at Beast, looking as if he didn’t care in the least that the American had been resistant to working with him. A silent understanding seemed to occur between the two of them and they actually nodded in unison. Beast walked out first and Hiroki followed him from the CIC.