Battleship Read online

  At the base of Lion Rock, a small group of worshippers had gathered at the temple to engage in daily prayers. A statue of Buddha sat on a wide pedestal at the far end, looking both protective and benevolent. People were just beginning to gather when the sky above Lion Rock lit up as if sheet lightning had erupted from behind the clouds. It caught everyone flat-footed, since there had been no sign of any sort of inclement weather.

  Then something hit on the far side of the hill, and the concussion ripped through the temple. The Buddha was toppled from its perch, knocked off as if it weighed nothing, and shattered. The temple itself was blown apart, the very air ripping it asunder. The people themselves were blown backwards, the ferocity of the impact shattering their bones, causing cerebral hemorrhages, or just stopping their hearts outright. Men, women and children lay entangled with one another, nothing more than meat sacks where there had once been humble worshippers coming to express devotion to their god.

  The concussive force didn’t stop there. Seconds later, Kowloon City was feeling its impact. Shock waves rippled down over the city, blowing out windows from its skyscrapers, shaking buildings that weren’t designed to withstand that degree of force. Most managed to hold on; some did not. Their foundations crumbled and people both within and without screamed as the buildings toppled over, brick, mortar and glass falling everywhere. People on the ground ran, stampeding one another to get clear. Many of them, looking over their shoulders and seeing the falling buildings bearing down on them, had just enough time to spot people inside the buildings, tumbling out of the now glassless windows or hanging on in desperation, praying for some last-second miracle that might spare their lives.

  The miracles were not forthcoming.

  In the Scots highlands, four youths slowly approached the smoking remains of something that had come spiraling down from the skies and had annihilated an entire swath of trees. They exchanged confused looks as they drew closer, not sure what it was they were seeing.

  It looked like some sort of large, metal container. Or perhaps even some sort of coffin. But they had no idea what it could possibly contain.

  “Should we get some help?” one of them, an older boy named Tom, asked.

  “We dinna need help,” said another boy, Sean.

  Tom didn’t respond, save to turn his back and run.

  This drew disdainful sneers and shouts from the others. They then descended into the crater that the container had created and proceeded to smash away at it with sticks, trying to pound it open. All they managed to do was shatter every progressively larger branch that they brought, leaving the container unscathed.

  “Try this.”

  Tom had returned and he was wielding a car jack proudly. “Muh dad’ll kill me if he knows, so let’s put it t’good use.”

  The others grinned as Sean, the largest of them, put his hand out. Tom tossed it to him and Sean, catching it effortlessly, wedged it into the lip of the large container and started working on levering it open.

  Since they were more or less in the middle of nowhere, and the only thing that had been damaged was a grove of trees, there were no TV cameras around to record the landing.

  There were, however, plenty of cameras elsewhere.

  In the Beacon research center in Oahu, Calvin Zapata and his assistant, Royce, watched the chaos unfolding and being reported on via CNN. The destruction in Kowloon City in Hong Kong was being played and replayed from dozens of angles; apparently enough survivors had been recording the horror on their cell phones and were posting it on the Internet. The view wasn’t getting any better no matter which way it was being watched.

  A reporter from the Hong Kong bureau was on-site. Zapata could see bodies lying everywhere, some covered with blankets, most not. Arms and legs were visible from beneath piles of rubble that had, shortly before, been buildings. There was a child wandering around aimlessly in the background, screaming something that Zapata very much suspected was Chinese for “mother” and “father.” The reporter—whose name, Bernard Chen, was superimposed on the screen—looked like it was taking all he had to keep himself together. The devastation had been too massive and unexpected for him to treat with journalistic detachment.

  “…as casualty reports come in, it’s still unclear exactly what it was that hit,” he was saying. “Some say earthquake. Others report seeing something come from the sky. A meteor? Skylab? At this point we still don’t know. Whatever it was, the death toll is in the millions and a massive worldwide relief effort will be needed to…”

  Zapata killed the volume as he shifted his attention back to Nogrady, who was still on the communications screen. Nogrady looked ashen. There was a dead silence between them, neither able to form words that summarized the horror of what they had witnessed.

  Finally Zapata managed to speak. His thoughts were racing so fast that he couldn’t even finish one sentence before another would overtake him. His voice hoarse, he said, “This could get even worse. Those little splinters that split off… by my calculations, a point zero-zero-two course variation over that distance… these things could end up all over the hemisphere…”

  Images were now hurtling across the television flat screen fast and furious. It was as if CNN didn’t know where to look first. An entire section of a Kansas cornfield had been flattened, and a vast plume of smoke was rising from the impact point. In Paris, the Arc de Triomphe was lying in shattered ruins. There appeared to be some unit of… something protruding from it. Zapata leaned forward, studying it. The words “Fallen Space Satellite?” were emblazoned on the TV screen, but Zapata was staring at what he could make out of the debris from outer space (Debris from outer space? Had he just thought that?) and it wasn’t looking like anything to him that NASA would have produced.

  “You seeing that wreckage, Cal?” said Nogrady over the viewscreen. “The one that annihilated the Arc?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Zapata was studying it carefully. “I think it resembles a solar panel or satellite face. How about you?”

  Nogrady didn’t answer immediately. He was stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I think it looks like a massive communications tower.”

  “Who? To communicate? Who to communicate what to whom?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, Cal.” Nogrady had been looking inward, as if scrutinizing his soul, and then he stared bleakly at Zapata. “I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life, Cal. Since before you were born. And all I can think of is the old saying—”

  “Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it?”

  Slowly Nogrady nodded. “You read my mind, Cal.”

  No. Actually it’s what I was worried about when we first started this project. My mind was way ahead of you. I just couldn’t get anyone to listen to me.

  Cal Zapata typically took great pride in being right about everything. There had never been an occasion such as this, where he desperately wished he’d been wrong.

  Hopper walked briskly onto the bridge of the John Paul Jones, summoned there by Commander Brownley. Minutes earlier, he would have assumed that Brownley wanted to talk to him about the court-martial. Perhaps lecture him on how badly he’d screwed up. Maybe ask him how the get-together with his brother had gone… and then ream him out.

  But he’d heard, as had the rest of the ship, about the space debris that was falling all over the damned globe. In the grand scheme of things, the court-martial of a single officer was meaningless. There was no way that Brownley—whatever the differences he might have had with Hopper during the time the younger man had served under him—was going to be harping about it when the whole world was in a state of emergency.

  Brownley took one look at him and it was clear from his grim expression that Hopper didn’t even have to ask about the subject of the impromptu meeting. “Hong Kong got hit hard,” said Brownley, getting right to it. “Total devastation, massive civilian casualties.”

  “What was it?”

  Brownley shook his head. “No one knows for sure.
Best guess: meteor shower or fallen satellites. And they’ve hit more than just Hong Kong. At least a dozen locations known, with reports of more strikes coming in every minute.”

  “Let me guess. One near us?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got new orders. Hawkeyes report there’s debris near our position. We’ve been commanded to check it out with Sampson and Myoko. Coordinates being fed into the navigation computers right now. I want your department on full alert.”

  This confused Hopper somewhat. “Are we expecting that some busted space debris is going to open fire on us?”

  “I am expecting nothing, lieutenant commander. I am, however, anticipating everything. I expect you to do no less.”

  “Aye, sir.” Hopper saluted stiffly and headed out of the bridge. As he did so, he heard Brownley call out, “Set material condition zebra. Right full rudder. Flank speed.”

  Moments later, the three vessels dispatched to inspect the crash area had peeled off from the rest of the fleet, the war games forgotten, wholly unaware of just what exactly was lurking under the water, waiting for them.

  OAHU NAVAL REHAB CENTER

  Samantha Shane—outfitted in exercise gear, a file folder tucked under her arm—nodded and waved to her coworkers as she moved through the large clinic gym that was filled with all manner of exercise equipment. Weights to work both the upper and lower body, rowing machines, treadmills… anything that could be utilized to help hammer a human body into shape. There were several naval officers and a midshipman engaged in various types of physical therapy, each of them working with an endlessly patient trainer who would smile and nod encouragement. Sam had actually practiced the type of smile she used while working with a client. When she’d been training for her current job, she had stared into the mirror for minutes at a time. She was trying to make sure that her smile radiated confidence; a certainty that whomever she was working with was going to overcome whatever problems that the hazards of war, or just pure rotten luck, had saddled them with.

  Unfortunately she knew she had a serious challenge in front of her this time. It didn’t take her long to find him. He was seated in a chair, staring despondently off into space. He was wearing a U.S. Army T-shirt and a pair of sweat shorts, which revealed the prosthetics he had instead of the legs he’d been born with. They were high tech, even state of the art: C-legs, with microprocessor-controlled knees. The popular term among the soldiers was “bionic legs,” after the appliances worn by the Six Million Dollar Man. Those bionic legs, of course, were fictional; indistinguishable from human legs and capable of enabling him to sprint at sixty miles per hour (mysteriously without ever causing his hair to ruffle). The C-legs had a ways to go before they reached that level of perfection.

  Her patient had a thick coat of dark beard stubble and his hair, which had grown out somewhat from the standard crew cut, was disheveled. His expression seemed set into a permanent glower and his eyes were bloodshot. He hasn’t been sleeping well. Who can blame him? Probably wakes up constantly trying to scratch the itch of his lower legs, which aren’t there anymore.

  He was glancing around at that moment and his eyes fell on her. “Looking for my physical therapist,” he said.

  She spread her arms in a ta-daaa manner. “You found her.”

  “Nooo,” said the soldier with the air of someone who felt he was talking to an idiot. “Dean’s a stocky guy with a mustache who benches four-fifty.”

  “I’m your new physical therapist. Dean quit. Said you burned him out, so you get me.”

  He looked at her askance. “They punishing you for something?”

  “I volunteered.”

  “Why?” He appeared intrigued by her, which was certainly better than thinking she was an idiot or brushing her off. His face hadn’t lost its general air of sourness, however. “You like abuse?”

  “My father is an admiral,” she said with easy confidence, “and my semi-fiancé is a weapons officer on a destroyer. I understand and can handle ‘difficult men.’”

  “What’s a ‘semi-fiancé’?”

  She ignored the question, not feeling like explaining it. Besides, it was none of his damned business anyway. “I’m detecting a lot of anger.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you,” he said sarcastically.

  “Is there anything in there besides anger…” She glanced at the name on the file. “Mick?”

  “Not much.” He stared at her defiantly.

  He’s challenging you to meet his stare. He’s trying to turn this into a pissing match. Don’t do it. Instead she read from his file in a no-nonsense, businesslike way. “Mick Canales. Thirty-five years old. Army Special Forces. Lost both legs last July. IED Korengal Valley in Afghanistan. Depression. Unwilling to go home.”

  He stared at her as he scratched the underside of his chin, saying nothing. To her that meant that he wasn’t hearing anything worth contradicting.

  She continued to read. “Football coach, Colorado Springs. ‘Pikes Peak issues.’”

  Upon hearing that, his face immediately went from annoyance to full-blown irritation. He was acting as if some deep secret had been brought out into the open, a secret she had no business knowing. “Where’d you hear that?”

  For response, Sam pointed at the obvious source: the file in her hand. “Says you’re pissed off because you can’t climb Pikes Peak anymore. Is that accurate?” He didn’t seem inclined to answer immediately, and so she simply gazed at him with a single raised, questioning eyebrow, acting as if she knew it was only a matter of time before he responded to her question.

  He glared at her for a full minute, not saying a word. She did nothing to fill in the silence. Instead she just remained there, unmoving. A brick wall would have had more to say on the subject. Finally, though, he said, “Every season I would lead the team on a hike up to the top of Pikes Peak. The fact of that hike not happening is contributing to my,” and he mockingly made air quotations, “ ‘anger problem.’”

  “It’s a little more than anger, though. Your last therapist said you’ve lost your will to fight. Is that right?”

  “I lost my fight when I lost my legs.”

  “You know you’re the same man inside. Same brain, same heart, same soul that made you,” and she glanced down once more. “A Golden Gloves champ at twenty-two, Bronze Star recipient in Afghanistan. All that’s still in there.”

  “Nah. I’m half a man, and half a man ain’t enough to be a soldier.” He looked away from her then as he said under his breath, “Or to see anything.”

  She considered that for a moment and then said, “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

  She walked away from him as he called after her in a mocking tone, “Where the hell am I gonna go?”

  Less than a minute later, she returned from the equipment room with a backpack that had the rehab center logo on it. She took it to the small kitchen area nearby and started loading it with bottled water, protein bars, bananas, and the like. He watched her in confused silence, apparently having no desire to give her the satisfaction of asking what she thought she was doing. Once she was done, she slung the backpack over her shoulder.

  “Let’s go.”

  He stared at her blankly. “Go where?”

  For answer, she gripped him by the arm. He had no particular inclination to stand up, and was visibly startled when Sam hauled him to his artificial feet with no problem. She knew that she was stronger than she looked and liked to surprise people with her physical capabilities every so often.

  “We’re going to take a little walk.”

  “Walk where?” He was clearly suspicious.

  “We’re climbing a mountain. Up to Saddle Ridge.”

  Mick looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just sit back down and dare her to get him on his feet again. “No, we are not.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “No.” He shook his head firmly as if that was the last word on the subject.

  Sam completely ignored his reluctance. “Got sunscreen? Do
n’t worry about it if you don’t; I grabbed some. Come on, let’s see if we’ve got any hiking shoes around here that’ll do you better than what you’ve got now.”

  She headed down the hallway. Please let him follow me, please, she thought desperately while making sure none of that desperation showed in her body language. The only way he was going to have confidence in himself was to have it first in her. If he stayed right where he was, asserting that he wouldn’t be climbing a mountain, a hill—or anything, for that matter—there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

  To her utter relief, she heard a thump thump behind her. He was following her. She glanced over her shoulder as if his obeying her had never been in doubt and said, “Step lively, soldier. We haven’t got all day.”

  Sam trudged up the mountain, glad that she made a point of keeping in shape. They were surrounded by lush, green vegetation, and the air smelled thick and sweet.

  She was in the lead, if for no other reason than she wanted to make sure the path in front of them was clear. Taking spills was part of the learning curve when it came to prosthetic legs, but it was one thing to stumble while working in the gym and quite another taking a header over a projecting tree root or a gaping hole in the path. That could be catastrophic. She was trying to build up Mick’s confidence, not cause him to get banged up from sprawling in the dirt.

  Mick pushed forward. He was concentrating, his brow wrinkled and covered with sweat.

  She didn’t want to get too far in front of him, but she also didn’t want him to feel as if she was taking it easy on him. The man was five foot nine inches’ worth of pride. So she stopped, pretending to catch her breath. “You’re doing pretty good for a guy who doesn’t want to be climbing.”

  “This isn’t no Pike’s Peak,” he said disdainfully.

  “It’s a start.”