The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Read online

  Interesting observation. “Maybe,” said Guano. “In my opinion—”

  “Shut your damn mouth, pilot! If I wanted your opinion, then I’d have asked for it!”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Yousuf.”

  Roadie let out an exhausted sigh. “Time will tell. In the meantime, I also want a full write-up from both of you on your take on the J-84’s capabilities. Especially any kind of weaknesses you observed.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Guano. Right as she said it, her personal comm beeped.

  “Turn that shit off,” said Roadie, eyes practically bulging out of his head. “Before I make it two years.”

  “It is off, sir,” she said, unclipping the device and holding it out to show him. “That’s the emergency signal.”

  Suddenly, Flatline’s started beeping, and Roadie’s right behind it, all of them flashing an angry red.

  Chapter Seven

  Friendship Station

  “Turn on the…news?” Mattis balked at the request coming from the tiny handheld comm. The diplomats gathered outside, especially Shao and Pitt, were watching him. He moved farther into the room, cupping the tiny speaker with his hand. “Are you crazy, son? I’m a little busy out here.”

  “Capella Station’s gone, Dad,” said Chuck. So simply stated. “They found the debris earlier this morning. It’s on every channel. Looks like it went down with all hands.”

  Shao’s eyes told him she had overheard. The mild panic and confusion. Mattis studied her. Was this the panic of someone who didn’t know what was going on…or the panic of someone who did?

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What happened?”

  “No idea,” said Chuck. “They haven’t said.”

  He moved into the corner of the room, cupping the communications device with his hand. “It’s got to be the Chinese. Who else could it be? No other nation state could pull that kind of action, nor would they want to. They’re the only ones who would—”

  “Dad,” said Chuck, a weariness in his voice. “Stop. Just stop.”

  “Who else could it possibly be? You tell me, Chuck. Who?”

  A short silence. “I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t know anything right now. Things are just happening. Don’t leap to conclusions.”

  Despite the immediate dopamine rush of someone who’d had every single one of their suspicions verified, that feeling of being right, all those years of military training gnawed at the back of his mind. Why would the Chinese go to all the effort of setting up this very station, so-called Friendship Station, on the border of the Sino-American lines…and then attack some other distant border station of no strategic or military value whatsoever?

  Why would they tip their hand like that? Follow the money, he always said. Who stands to gain from this?

  Perhaps the Chinese plan hadn’t been properly exposed yet.

  “Where the hell are you anyway, Dad?” asked Chuck.

  “I’m at work,” he said evasively.

  “With Pitt?”

  “Yeah,” said Mattis.

  “You know,” said Chuck, bitterness creeping into his voice, “that I’ve been working for him for a year, right? I’m only not there right now because he’s angry at you. I want to speak to him.”

  Mattis’s eyes met Pitt’s, then he looked away. “He’s not here.”

  The brief eye contact was enough for the rest of the group to jump in. “Admiral,” asked Shao, her tone carrying a slight tremor, “is something wrong?”

  “It’s fine,” he said, raising his voice to be heard and straightening his back. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Dad?” asked Chuck. “Is someone there?”

  The awkwardness of this was getting to him. “Work colleague,” he said, putting his voice back to the comm device. “I’m out here with Pitt, remember?”

  “Wait,” asked Chuck, “you just said he wasn’t there. Now you’re saying he is. Are you with him or not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “She sounded Chinese,” said Chuck. “The person I heard.”

  “Only because she’s Chinese.”

  Chuck was silent for a moment, and Mattis could almost feel his son’s anger rising on the other side of the line. “Seriously,” said Chuck finally, “what the hell are you doing out there, Dad? You need to get over it. The Chinese wouldn’t have done this. The war is over. It’s been over forever.”

  Another quick glance to Shao, who looked even more nervous. “We’ll see,” he whispered.

  “Right,” said Chuck. “I guess I’ll leave you to it. By the way, Javier is good, thanks for asking.”

  He spoke without thinking. “Is that your”—the word got stuck in his throat before he forced it out—“boyfriend?”

  Chuck sighed bitterly. “No, Dad,” he said, and then the line clicked off.

  Decorum be damned, Mattis nearly hurled the communicator across the room, when it started beeping. Another incoming communication, but this one on the emergency line.

  And on Pitt’s belt, too.

  And on Shao’s. And Ramirez’s.

  “What the hell?” asked Ramirez, and the room exchanged a series of confused glances.

  Chapter Eight

  Friendship Station

  Everyone answered their communicators at once. Mattis put his to his ear. In the background, he could hear the Chinese delegation receiving a similar message.

  “Attention all personnel,” it began, a synthetic, robotic text-to-speech playback. “All leave passes for all personnel are cancelled. All personnel on shore leave are to report to their vessels. This is not a drill.”

  Well, given that he arrived in a shuttle, that was going to pose a problem. The delegation looked at each other in silence, and then, as though some spell had broken, the Chinese delegation started yammering to each other in their own language.

  “We should get to the Midway,” said Mattis, to Pitt and Ramirez. “I know that girl like the back of my hand.”

  Pitt scrunched up his face, as though physically straining to find the right argument to use.

  “You should remain on the station,” said Yim. When did he get here? Was he always here? Mattis berated himself silently. “This station is well defended.”

  And in the command of a Chinese officer. This was hostile ground. “No,” said Mattis, “I saw fighters launching from the Midway as I came in. If we need to get out, we can. If whatever”—he stole a quick glare at Yim—“or whoever took out Capella Station attacks here, we’ll want to be mobile.”

  Yim’s visage darkened. “Capella is a long way from Friendship Station,” he said, an edge of caution creeping into his voice. “Whatever attacked that outpost is unlikely to strike here next…if, indeed, there is an outside force at all.”

  All eyes fell on Yim.

  “What are you implying?” asked Mattis, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “You think we sank our own station?”

  “The PLAN have not received any information as to the identity of the attackers,” said Yim, “nor seen firsthand confirmation that the station, indeed, has been destroyed at all. It could have been moved out of its orbit, or deliberately scuttled.”

  Mattis felt his voice creep up in volume. “Why the hell would we do that? Blow our own station to bits?”

  “The enemies of China will stop at nothing to harm her,” said Yim.

  “Oh,” spat Mattis, “so now we’re enemies.”

  Yim said nothing.

  “None of this is productive.” Pitt held his hands up, as though calling for peace. “All we know, at this time, is that active duty personnel have been recalled to their ships. As none of the American diplomatic mission,” he said, casting a deliberate glare Mattis’s way, “are active duty personnel, it stands to reason that we should remain aboard Friendship Station, as a gesture of solidarity with our Chinese friends, in the face of this obvious shared threat.”

  Obvious shared threat. What utter garbage. Mattis’s voice snapped as he spoke. “If
you think for one second I’m staying on a station administrated by the PRC, you’re joking.”

  Shao, surprisingly, nodded along. “I feel it’s best,” she said, “given the potential risk that the Americans pose to this station and its People’s Republic administrators, that they tactfully retire to their own ship until the situation is resolved.”

  That was diplomatic speak for piss off, which he was more than happy to do. “C’mon, Pitt, let’s go.”

  Pitt’s upper lip curled back. “This is my operation,” he said. “And I’m telling you we are remaining where we’re put.”

  Mattis drew himself up to his full height and summoned forth the best glare he could. “You ever been in a war, Senator?”

  Pitt glowered. “No, but—”

  “A battle in space is like a thunderstorm. It’s distant rumbling, and cool pleasant breezes, and dark clouds on the horizon. Before it’s all over you at once, and then it’s over with. Sometimes you end up where you started. Sometimes you’re swept out into the ocean, and if that happens, you want to be with someone who can swim.

  “We don’t know what’s happening, because in war, nobody knows what’s happening. Our best bet of getting the facts is by talking directly to Fleet Command on the Midway. Maybe our friends over yonder blew up Capella, maybe they didn’t. Either way, you won’t find the truth here, only what they’re willing to tell you.”

  Shao started to talk, but Mattis cut her off. “Senator Pitt, I’m sure you can agree that maybe, just maybe, this is a situation where your”—the very implication almost made him scowl harder—“particular talent with words and diplomacy might be needed very shortly. If that is the case, fortunately for us all, they can be conjured forth from wherever we happen to be…including a mobile battleship getting the hell out of here. You can’t help our allies defend this station, Senator, but you can get out of their way.”

  Mattis could see the gears grinding away inside Pitt’s empty, stupid head.

  “Clock’s ticking, Senator.”

  “Fine,” said Pitt, the bitterness in the admission dripping from the air. “In this case, you’re…right. This is an unusual situation not covered by the general orders. Let’s head to the Midway, speak to Fleet Command, and await further instructions.”

  Mattis nodded his approval. “Good choice, Senator.”

  Pitt turned around to talk to the Chinese. Mattis stepped over to Ramirez.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. In her hand was an audio recorder, but she hadn’t switched it on.

  He glanced to the device. “Not now, Martha. This could be serious.”

  “Could be.” She considered that. “So it could not be, too.”

  “More likely the former than the latter. Stations don’t just vanish. The debris from the last war with the Chinese left a ring in that system that’s still there. Maybe they got a signal out, maybe not, but I’m guessing a resupply ship came along and saw that there was a bunch of new debris and no station, and called it in. If the station managed to get out word they were under attack, it might have been another warship, but the Chinese—” He caught himself. “Whoever did this, they did it fast and they did it clean. No time for a general rally of the fleet. This isn’t good news for us.”

  She nodded firmly. “Where to, then?”

  “Come with us. To the Midway.”

  “Right.” A smile, ghostly and small, formed on her lips. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Neither have you.”

  The same feeling came over him, the same hesitance as when he’d first stepped into this room, been close to her. Alone. Just the two of them.

  Then Pitt coughed loudly. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Right.” Mattis moved out of the room and fell into step with the rest of the diplomatic team, directly ahead of Pitt, who took up the rear.

  After a moment, Pitt turned and gestured for him to wait. Obligingly, he did so, letting the others walk ten paces or so ahead.

  Pitt leaned close to him, his face an entirely unamused mask.

  “I warned you,” said Pitt, his tone ice cold. “This is my operation. My decisions. The moment we get back to the Midway, you’re going to request quarters, go to those quarters, and wait there until you have a shuttle back to Earth. You’re finished, Admiral. Your career is officially done. Dead. Gone.”

  Mattis said nothing, but slowly reached for his breast pocket, withdrew a cigar, lit it, and puffed on it. He glared at Pitt until the other man was forced to look away.

  And then, holding the cigar between his teeth, Mattis jogged slightly to catch up with the others.

  Chapter Nine

  Docking Umbilical

  USS Midway

  Mattis puffed on his cigar the whole way to the forward docking ring, until the group found itself outside the thin steel tube that lead to the Midway.

  The marines manning the station stiffened as the three of them approached. “This ship is closed to civilians,” said the closest.

  Mattis stepped up. “Admiral Mattis, US Navy. You’re Petty Officer Bird, yes?”

  “Sir?” Bird tilted his head. “I haven’t seen you in years, sir. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Here on a diplomatic mission,” he said, casually puffing on his cigar. “Orders came through to report to our duty posts. Figured I’d be more use here than on this blasted station.”

  “Of course, Admiral,” said Bird. “You’ll want to report to the captain.”

  “Right,” said Mattis, and he gestured for everyone to follow him. As Pitt passed, he gave a cheeky smile. “See, Senator, I’m still useful for something.”

  Then it was Pitt’s turn to say nothing and scowl.

  Being aboard the Midway was like coming back to his hometown. Everything was exactly as he remembered it, as though he’d never left; the docking umbilical led to the superstructure, and the tunnels—narrow and claustrophobic—led deeper into the ship in every direction, a narrow stairwell leading up and down. Even the scuffing on the deck was familiar, where boots had worn down the deck plating.

  The ship was eternal, an unchanging creature, the crew merely guests upon it.

  “You’re staring,” said Ramirez, good-naturedly. “Should I be worried? You and me and the other woman, all in one place? What if we fight?”

  Mattis couldn’t help but smile. A thousand comebacks drifted into his head—how could someone have another woman if there wasn’t a first woman?—but they all felt secondary to the sense that, for a brief moment, he could enjoy the idea. The idea that, had their careers not gotten in the way, there could very well have been something there.

  The Admiral and the Reporter. It sounded like a terrible romance novel found on the floor of a space station bathroom.

  But it was a nice thought.

  “C’mon,” he said, “I’ll show you to the old girl’s heart.”

  The way to the bridge was clearly marked, but Mattis didn’t need to follow the signs. He made his way down the stairwell, toward the ship’s middle decks, leading all the others toward the ship’s armored core. The farther they got, the busier the corridors became, but Mattis flowed through them like water. The others attracted stares, odd looks, but he passed through almost unnoticed.

  The bridge. Technically the CIC, the thickly armored core of the ship, surrounded by steel and the ship itself. His office, workplace, and home for so many years.

  Mattis stepped onto the bridge and, as though it were a muscle reflex, addressed the room. “Someone give me a sitrep and coffee.”

  A young man wearing captain’s epaulettes, leaning over a monitor, straightened up and looked at him. He had a neatly trimmed dark beard, with a thick head of hair, barely a hint of gray in it at all. Right away, Mattis realized he had made a serious mistake.

  “Admiral,” said the man, deferentially but firmly, “welcome aboard the Midway. I’m Captain Malmsteen, sir.” He put the slightest stress on Captain, just to articulate his point. “Given your experienc
e with this ship, and the extraordinary circumstances of your arrival, I instructed our marines to give you access, including bridge access. But, with respect Admiral, you’re an observer here. The Midway is my command.”

  Firm but polite. Pitt could take notes. Mattis took the cigar out of his mouth. “Of course. I’m just…making sure you’re taking care of the old girl.”

  “She’s in good hands,” said Malmsteen. He went back to his work.

  Dammit man, he thought, pull it together. Back in the day, you would have hated some old fossil dragging himself onto your bridge, barking orders like he owns the place. Pretty sure there’d be a cell in the brig with his name on it in seconds.

  “Mister Pitt,” said Malmsteen, “status report on that number two reactor coupling issue.”

  What the hell would Pitt know about reactor couplings? Mattis twisted around to glare curiously at him, but Pitt was talking with Shao over a communicator.

  Instead, it was another officer, a somehow even younger man—was Mattis ever that young?—who spoke up. “All fixed, Captain. The reactor is at full power.”

  “Thank you, Mister Pitt,” said Malmsteen.

  The resemblance between the officer and the senator was uncanny. They had the same angled face, the same receding hairline. Far too similar to be a coincidence. “Wait,” said Mattis to Senator Pitt, “is that your son?”

  “Yes,” said Senator Pitt, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  And now…now it all made sense. That’s why he had been promoted away from the Midway. To make room for Pitt Junior. Like spring cleaning, out with the old, in with the new.

  Well. If that wasn’t piss in his cornflakes, nothing was. So much for I did you a favor…

  Mattis wasn’t angry, and he non-angrily ground his teeth together, his fists non-angrily balling at his sides as he glared at Pitt Junior, Lieutenant Commander and XO of his ship, strutting around on his bridge that he stole. That his father stole.