“Negative, sir. We took damage, all barrels are down.”
“Okay. Tell ’em: have it ready and waiting for us. Engineering? Beast, you still with us?”
“Right here, Captain.”
“Get your ass to battery three. We’ll meet you there.”
“On my way.” Beast sounded faintly confused, but he didn’t question it.
“Are you—?” Nagata began to ask.
“No time! Everyone except Driscoll, come on! Driscoll, if someone calls, tell ’em what’s going on!”
“Okay. Uh, what would that be?” said Driscoll, but Hopper had already exited, Ord and Nagata with him.
Hopper, Ord and Nagata raced down steep ladders into the belly of the ship. As they passed any able-bodied-looking crewman, Hopper would shout, “You! You and you! Come on!” He gathered as many as he could, and as they ran down a series of passageways, he heard the ones in the back asking the ones just in front of them what was going on. None of them knew. That was fine with Hopper. There was no time to explain—only time to get it done.
They clambered down the final ladders to battery three, where the gunnery crew was waiting with the massive 16-inch shell.
Hopper remembered the first time he’d heard his father talking about big guns with their 16-inch shells. Hopper, not more than eight or nine at the time, said that although sixteen inches was kind of big for a bullet, it didn’t seem that scary as far as a missile shell was concerned. His father, laughing, had explained that a 16-inch shell was sixteen inches in diameter, stood three feet tall and weighed several hundred pounds. Unless you’ve got a few bodybuilders on hand, you’re not going to be taking one of those babies anywhere, his father had told him.
Well, they now had to move one of those shells up to where it could do some good, and aside from Beast—who met them there, as instructed—they didn’t have any bodybuilders on hand.
“Four minutes, sir,” said Ord, reminding him of their rapidly closing window of opportunity.
“Got it, Ord,” said Hopper.
Beast slapped his hands together, squatting like a sumo, getting a grip on the shell. He hoisted, grunted, and the others got in there with him. It took a few moments to sort it out so that they weren’t in one another’s way. Soon they all had their hands on the shell, grabbing and straining to lift it, wrestling it out of the hold.
They struggled with it through a series of passageways and ladder-like stairs, at one point losing their grip on it completely. It slid down the ladder and nearly crushed Beast, knocking the wind out of him. But he recovered quickly and got his hands back on it, aiding the others as Hopper, through clenched teeth, kept a steady stream of directions going: “Turn here, hold on, slow, together, watch your angle there.” He felt like one of those guys who directed a rowing team.
They finally made it to the immediate destination: a single, long passageway that ran the length of the ship. There was a sort of monorail there, like a zip line for moving cargo, with a series of webbing straps hanging down. “Three minutes,” said Ord.
“Not helpful, Ord,” said Hopper as they slid the shell into the webbing straps and then looped a chain through it. They made damned certain the shell was secure in it—the last thing they needed was for the weapon to slip loose. Then came the trickiest part, the men grunting and screaming with effort as they lifted the shell onto the trolley hoist hook.
“Put your shoulders into it, boys! Let’s take it down Broadway!” They proceeded to do exactly that, running like linebackers as they sprinted the length of the ship to get the shell where they needed it to go, so they could fire it where it needed to go.
Two minutes later, Hopper, Nagata and the others—drenched in sweat and exhausted—made it to the gun turret and shoved the shell into the loading elevator. As it hauled the missile upward, Hopper and the others scrambled to reach topside.
Meanwhile, the grizzled gunner who was waiting for the shell grinned in relief, smiling, and patted it lovingly as it rose into view. “Come to Papa,” he growled as he used a lever to slam it home.
Hopper reached the flying bridge just as Ord said, “Thirty seconds.”
Nagata said, “Shut up, Ord.” Ord looked as startled as if he’d been smacked across the face. Despite the dire nature of the situation, Hopper allowed himself a brief smile.
“She’s hot and ready,” said the gunner over the radio.
Hopper summoned an image of Sam to his mind, and thought, You better be out of there. Because if you die, I’m going with you. Even if I live, I’ll be dead. So save both of us, baby.
His mouth was just in the process of forming the word “fire” when abruptly Ord shouted, “Shit! Look!”
Despite his predilection for pronouncements of doom, this time Ord’s reaction was fully understandable.
There was movement from the ruins of the flagship. Something was rising from it, some manner of launcher. And poised atop, clearly prepping to be deployed, were two familiar silver metal spheres.
Shredders.
Hopper knew that as bad as the last time had been, this was going to be way worse. The shredders were unstoppable, and this time they very likely wouldn’t settle for gutting the ship. This time, with nothing to lose, they’d annihilate everyone in sight. No one and nothing was going to get out alive.
But they hadn’t launched yet. If the Missouri fired on them before they were airborne, chances were excellent that they would blast the lethal devices to pieces before they could pose a threat.
Except then they’d have nothing to fire at Saddle Ridge.
“We’ve only got one round left, haven’t we,” Hopper said, already knowing the answer all too well.
“Yeah,” said Nagata.
“Save ourselves… or save the world?”
“Not much of a choice, is it.”
“Sometimes there’s only one choice you can make.”
And that’s what it comes down to, Sam. Good news. If this missile kills you… I’ll be along to join you way more quickly than I thought.
“Fire on Saddle Ridge,” he said.
Instantly the 16-inch shell leaped out of the launcher. It took off straight to Saddle Ridge, hurtling away at top speed, flying straight and true for the communications beacon.
At that exact moment, the shredders launched…
…and, turning at a sharp angle, went in pursuit of the shell.
“No!” screamed Hopper. Because now it was a race. The shell had a head start, but there was no way of knowing how fast the shredders were. If they overtook the shell, they could cut it to pieces effortlessly, then turn around and come after the Missouri. Hopper and his crew would die on the eve of his planet’s destruction being assured.
SADDLE RIDGE
The Land Commander dies inside, even as he finishes putting the last touches on getting the power up and running on the communications grid.
He feels the death of his hatchling mate, the Sea Commander. He senses that, with his last breath, his hatchling mate launched a final retaliation against these… these insignificant creatures that have dared to challenge them.
But that retaliation will not be enough. Not in the slightest.
Mere seconds remain for full power to be reached so that the signal can be sent and a full fleet dispatched. Once that has been accomplished, however, the Land Commander will have no more immediate duties. He will have no vessel—the troop transport had returned to the flagship during the night and by now was doubtlessly nothing more than scrap. He will have no warriors at his disposal—they are all dead.