Out of the Black (Odyssey One, Book 4) (42 page)

As it collapsed, Eric held the weight up off the other soldier, shoving it clear.

“Medic!”

Eric stood over the fallen man, guns primed as he twisted slowly around and looked for any sign of more trouble. The Kilo strikes would have taken out most of the enemy forces, but shock waves were funny things sometimes. You could be standing two feet away from someone who had literally just been popped like an overinflated balloon, yet be perfectly
fine because the blast wave happened to double back on itself and cancel out in your position.

That meant that, statistically anyway, there would likely be a few survivors in the rubble, and they were likely to be pissed as hell and spoiling for a fight.

“Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, stepping back to clear the way for the medic who had run up. “And watch your feet, everyone. These things are likely to be right under us.”

Eric keyed over to the command channel, linking back to the convoy. “I need some seismic gear deployed ASAP. Get those things in the ground and get me an idea of what the hell is moving under us.”

“Yes sir, we’re deploying the first ones now. System online in three minutes.”

“Good.” Eric glanced over. “How is he?”

“The only thing keeping him in one piece is the suit,” the medic told him, not looking up. “We need to get him back to the field hospital.”

“Damn it,” Eric swore. “Alright. Take who you need. Get him back to the convoy.”

If the suit was the only thing holding him together, Eric knew that the man and the suit were basically out of combat permanently. He didn’t have enough troops to be able to afford to lose any, nor did he have suits to waste. Losing both at once was a heavy blow to his force, no matter how small one man seemed to be.

The medic nodded, connected to the armor, and locked it up so the man inside wouldn’t be twisted around in moving, then waved in two others to help carry him out. Eric covered them until they were well back from the front line he and the squad had been pushing forward, then signaled the rest to continue.

“Watch your feet,” he ordered again. “I lose anyone else out here and I’m going to be
testy
at supper. Don’t ruin my meal, got it?”

The men and women with him chuckled, but took the message to heart and proceeded with extra caution as they continued to clear the ruins of Detroit.

From the dirt I began, and to the dirt I have returned,
Eric thought with more than a touch of irony, thoughts straying back to his early training as a rifleman in the U.S. Marine Corps.

Somehow it just didn’t surprise him that things had come full circle for his life and career. Even the very heights of space itself couldn’t keep gravity from pulling a man back to his beginnings. That was as it should be, he supposed, and if nothing else he would relish the chance to teach the Drasin the true meaning of fidelity.

“Semper fi, you glorious bastards,” Eric told his squad. “Let’s wipe this place clean so we can go get smashed before doing it all over again. These things ain’t gonna kill themselves!”

“Manufacturing of the components is complete, Mr. President.”

Conner sighed. “Finally.”

“We’re sorry it took so long, sir, but we just didn’t have all the materials, and with the current situation . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Conner waved his hand. He knew this song and dance, and didn’t even disagree with it. It was just frustrating how long it took to get materials moved around the country, let alone the world, at the moment.

While the Drasin weren’t putting any serious crimp in Confederate control of the skies, they were wreaking all kinds of holy havoc on ground transportation. Most warehouses were deep inside disputed zones, not to mention that somehow many of the key components they needed had been “misplaced” by the warehouse owners and took days to locate due to outdated computer records.

He’d been told that was a ploy used by investment firms to drive prices up. Making product take a little longer to find created an illusion of scarcity in the market and could increase the cost by a few pennies per unit. This often added up to billions of dollars by the end of the year without actually having to do anything productive to add to its value.

When this is over, I’m going to make it treason to pull that kind of shit
.

That was probably wishful thinking on his part, but President Conner could dream. Hell, at the moment dreaming seemed like the most productive thing he could actually do. Everything else was out of his hands for the moment, and in the control of people who, hopefully, actually knew what they were doing.

“How long for assembly?” he asked aloud, masking his thoughts as best he could.

“A few days, sir, but we need the nuclear shells before it can be deployed.”

“Understood,” Conner said tiredly. “Manufacturing facilities and stock are being secured as we speak. I’ll have a team with as many shells as we can scrounge in the air within twenty-four hours, and more coming off the lines as quickly as humanly possible. Just get those guns finished.”

“Yes sir, Mr. President.”

The screen flickered and went black, leaving a very tired man slumped in a very expensive office chair. He sat there in silence for a time before pushing himself up to head out of the conference room. He slowed by the door, glancing at his Secret Service guard.

“What’s next, Phil?”

“Dinner, Mr. President. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“I just authorized the use of WMDs on Detroit and Windsor,” he said. “If I had an appetite, you’d be doing your duty if you shot me dead.”

The agent didn’t flinch, but he didn’t say anything either as they walked out of the room. He did, however, steer his primary toward the dining room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ADMIRAL AMANDA GRACEN supposed that things could have gone better on Ranquil.

That wasn’t to say that they’d gone badly, to be honest, but they’d come away with a great deal less than they’d hoped. While the local government was more than willing to provide supplies, intelligence, and even the ships and crew they’d previously agreed to, they weren’t going to authorize any further support “at this time.”

They were scared.

She recognized that, but she also recognized that there was a time for caution, and this wasn’t it. The Drasin were a force that had to be met, had to be destroyed, and it was better to do it away from your own planet. She hoped that, if the positions were reversed, she’d have made very different decisions.

However, they weren’t, and the decisions weren’t hers to make.

Her planet was the one that the fighting would be centered on, and that was a reality she had to deal with.

Her squadron of seven ships, the Heroics and the
Enterprise,
were heading for the system’s heliopause—the point at which the solar winds were strong enough to completely cancel out the effect of the star’s gravity. It was the location generally considered “safe” to initiate a transition through tachyon space. From there, they’d be in Sol space in just instants, and that was when things were going to get hot.

The main concern at the moment was simply that they weren’t carrying enough munitions.

It seemed utterly silly, but with the long gun capability of the waveguide cannons, they should be able to engage the enemy from well outside the Drasins’ standoff range. So the biggest threat to the mission was simply running out of munitions before the job was done.

Whether that was how things were going to work . . . well, that was another thing, really.

“All stations report go to transition, ma’am.”

“Go/no go from the squadron?” she asked.

“All ships are go.”

Gracen nodded, taking a deep breath. “Do it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Steph said from the helm, and she could hear the grin in his voice as he spoke.

Gracen didn’t know if he was grinning because they were finally going home, or if he was grinning because he knew what was coming and, despite reading every report, she
didn’t
. Transition was something that had to be experienced to be believed. Or, at least, that was what every report she’d read put down into words.

“Transition initiated.”

“Forward instruments have transitioned!”

Gracen shivered, but didn’t say anything more. What could she say? They were committed now.

“Transition effect approaching the bridge.”

She tried to close her eyes, but couldn’t as the bridge disintegrated in front of her and spun away into deep space. The effect moved so slowly, creeping along the bridge, turning machines and men into tiny particles that lanced across space and time at near infinite speed. Then it was on her and everything vanished into the maelstrom.