Out of the Black (Odyssey One, Book 4) (10 page)

“I’ve got five more coming in from the east, but I see the Guard coming up Eighth!” Lyssa called out from the southeast corner of the building.

When she got no answer, she turned around and saw that Weston hadn’t moved from where he was crouched on the northeast corner.

“Hey, you listening?”

Weston shifted, glancing back. “I hear you, Lieutenant.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, walking over.

“Pinging everything on my ship, seeing what answers.”

“So? Is anything answering?”

Eric looked over the list of equipment his armor was reporting. “Oh yeah.”

“Well great. Let’s go get it.”

“Slight problem with that,” Eric said. “Some of it is back in the habitation module, right over there.”

She followed his hand to see at least a dozen of the damned things crawling over the module he was pointing at.

“Where the hell did they come from?” She breathed, appalled by the very
look
of the things.

“I’d guess they would willingly crawl out of hell for a chance to eat my ship,” he said sourly, cradling his Priminae assault weapon in the crook of his arm. “We’re not getting through those, and by the time the Guard gets here it’ll be too late.”

“You’re going to let them eat your ship?”

“That’s not my ship anymore,” Eric said stonily, “but no. They don’t get to chow down on the
Odyssey,
not while I breathe. Control, Weston.”

“Go for Control.”

Lyssa hissed, surprised that she could hear the conversation. Normally you didn’t put that sort of thing over a PA.

“New targets for Strykers,” he said. “Tell them to come heavy. Targets are grouped in close. Will laze.”

“Roger, Weston. Strykers inbound.”

Eric sent the laze command to the micro drones flitting about the park and rose fully to his knees. He looked down at the crumpled and battered cylinder that had been his home for almost three years.

The sound of the Mach Fighters breaking the sound barrier echoed in the distance as a pair of the high-speed craft flashed by overhead. Weston watched the bombs tumble from the rails of the fighters, straightening out in midair before slamming into the habitat module and everything around it.

The explosive conflagration engulfed the street, the habitat, all the Drasin soldier drones, and two buildings. Eric flinched but didn’t turn away as the buildings shifted, their supports blown out by the blast, and then slowly began to topple into the street. They slammed into what was left of the
Odyssey
command module, a cloud of dust and debris sweeping out and rolling into the park. Eric finally turned
away as everything was obscured. He had too many other things to do.

“Come on,” he said to Lyssa, walking back across the rooftop.

“Where are we going?”

“To get some gear for you and whoever else we can recruit.”

“I thought you just blew the gear to hell?” she demanded, chasing after him.

“No, that was the command habitat,” he said as he walked. “There was only a small security office there, nothing major.”

“Then where is the rest?”

He looked down at the park and then well out past it to the city beyond. “Out there. Past the Drasin.”

“Oh, just fucking perfect,” she muttered disgustedly. “Can it get any worse?”

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Eric asked mildly, “do you swim?”

She just groaned.

Eric smiled in his armor, though the situation didn’t hold much real humor. He knew that it wasn’t going to be remotely as easy as he’d just implied, which wasn’t very. No, they had to cross the park first, and he didn’t dare use the chute to fly over it. They’d be very slow-moving skeet for enemy fire if they tried that.

They had to cross the park on foot, and from the looks of it the action had drawn the attention of every single one of the alien bastards. Worse, they were all converging on where the
Odyssey
module had rested.

Bastards must really want a piece of her,
Eric thought grimly.
Well, too late, you pricks
.

He’d burn every last piece of his ship to cinders before he let her be eaten and turned into more of the enemy.

UNDER 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

“SIR, YOU NEED to check this.”

General Caern scowled, an expression that was becoming increasingly familiar on his visage, but headed over to the call without comment.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“Report out of NYC, sir. We have an asset on the ground calling in Stryker teams, putting paint on target for them.”

“I thought the Guard was having trouble getting to the hot zone?”

“They are, sir. Look at the call sign attached to the orders.”

Caern looked closer, his eyes widening in surprising. “Is that confirmed?”

“Voice print and bio-implant countersigned, sir.”

“Well damn, that son of a bitch is like a cockroach.” Caern chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, give him whatever he needs, son. Weston knows more about these bastards than any man on the planet and maybe off it.”

“He has a kit request in the system, but we’ve got nothing available,” the sergeant said. “Most of our advanced tech is overseas and we’re light here.”

“How light?”

“Cupboard’s bare, sir,” the sergeant admitted grudgingly. “We’ve got plenty of armor, the old school kind, but modern kit is in demand and we’re stretched thin.”

“We’ve got nothing then?”

The sergeant hesitated, his expression twisted almost painfully. Caern recognized the beginning of an evasive answer and just shook his head.

“Belt it out, son.”

“Weston’s is Double A qualified, sir.”

“Right, I know that.”

Hell, the entire
planet
knew that. Eric Weston was the one name that was forever more associated with the Archangel squadron. You’d have to find a soul who’d not watched a media device in the last two decades to find someone who didn’t know Eric Weston was Double A.

“Yes sir. What I mean to say, sir, is that we have a few advanced combat units sitting this one out sir,” the sergeant said. “No trained NICS qualified people.”

“Right. Those.” The General nodded. “Are they field ready?”

He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to those. They seemed like advanced tinker toys, but then he was an old-school soldier at heart. Wars were won door to door, not by knocking over buildings and blowing great massive holes in things.

Of course, these things could do with some great massive holes
.

“Yes sir, cleared last quarter.”

“Check one out and offer it up,” Caern said, turning away. “If he wants it, hand deliver it if need be.”

“Yes sir.”

Caern made his way back over to the central war table, a conference table surrounding a tri-D holo imager.

“What was it, General?” the President asked, looking over. “More bad news?”

“Some good news, I would say.” The Marine general grinned. “Weston survived.”

“Impossible,” an admiral growled. “Nothing walks away from a hit like that.”

“Not necessarily,” McCullen responded thoughtfully. “If her counter-mass was still up when the
Odyssey
dug in, it could have been survivable. The bridge has a backup unit, so if anyone would have lived, they’d have been there.”

“Whatever. The man is breathing and calling down the fire in New York,” Caern said. “If it’s his ghost, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Gentlemen,” the President stepped in, “this is hardly getting us anywhere and, while I am pleased that Captain Weston survived and, yes, it is good news, it’s a very minor silver lining in a very dark cloud. Let us stay on task here.”

“Yes Mr. President.”

“Alright, now you’ve all had an hour to review our weapons development divisions. Does anyone have a solution to our problem in
orbit
?”