Battleship

“Got it. Thank you,” she said impatiently. Shouldering her backpack once more, she stalked past Mick, shoving him as she did so. “I’m taking the lead. You got anything to say about it, keep it to yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tossing off a mocking salute and falling into step behind her.

PACIFIC OCEAN, IMPACT POINT

Seaman Ord stood on the observation deck of the John Paul Jones, studying the surrounding area with binoculars. They were flanked on either side by the other two vessels, each of them hanging back about a hundred yards, making sure to keep their distance. The last thing anyone needed was for the vessels to get in one another’s way.

He didn’t see it at first, the object that they were looking for. It was as if his eyes went right over it—as if it wasn’t there one moment and then suddenly it was. A maze of some sort, projecting from the water. It was triangular and industrial—definitely man-made, not some sort of natural phenomenon, like a meteor—encrusted with strange panels and what appeared to be a jagged assembly that looked like an antenna. It was protruding from the water about five hundred yards ahead.

“Is this some kind of surprise part of the exercise…?” Ord said to no one. “Like a big ‘Okay, what do you do when this happens’ kind of deal?” He paused and answered his own question. “Doesn’t really feel like it.” Then he grabbed the phone that immediately put him through to the bridge. “Contact at zero eight zero. Repeat, contact at zero eight zero.”

Word quickly spread to the other two vessels, and immediately all three came to a full stop. Brownley was on the horn with Stone Hopper over on the Sampson, who was saying, “Officer of the watch confirms contact, six hundred yards. But…”

“But what?”

“Tactical has nothing. We’re seeing it, but the computers aren’t. The Slick 32s say there’s no electronic signal.”

That made zero sense to Brownley. “Hang tight,” he said, and called down to the weapons room. “Hopper. We’ve got an unidentified contact dead ahead, six hundred yards.”

There was a pause and then Hopper’s voice came back. “We’ve got nothing on the screens.”

“Bearing 272.”

“I’m not seeing a thing, sir.” Hopper sounded as confused as Brownley felt.

Out of frustration with both Hopper and the situation at hand, Brownley said, “I am looking at it with my own eyes.”

“Instruments are blind down here, sir.”

“Okay. Keep monitoring.” He switched back to Stone. “Yeah, Commander, we got nothing on our scanners either.”

He could hear the voice of one of Stone’s radiomen in the background saying, “This is the USS Sampson on a heading 038, hailing unidentified vessel… or structure. We are a U.S. Navy warship. Identify yourself.” Pause. “No response, sir.”

“Okay,” said Stone, and returned his attention to Brownley. “Let’s get up close and personal. We need a recon.”

“I agree. We’ll handle it, Commander. I have just the man for the job.”

* * *

A twenty-foot rigid-hulled inflatable boat, or RHIB, cut through the water, heading straight toward the unknown structure situated two hundred yards ahead of them. Hopper was perched at the prow, with Beast at the helm. The RHIB was outfitted with a .50 caliber machine gun, and Raikes was crouched behind it, stroking it eagerly. To Hopper, it seemed as if she were just itching for an excuse to cut loose at something. If the opportunity didn’t present itself, he might wind up having to let her shoot down some passing seagulls just to keep her happy.

He loved the spray of the ocean around him as the RHIB hurtled forward. When it was just him and the water and a mission, all the other crap just seemed to fall away. It was like his life made sense once more. The certainty that this was going to be his last endeavor in the Navy continued to root around in the back of his mind, an itch that couldn’t be scratched. But at least fate had arranged it so his final outing wasn’t going to be business as usual. He would be seeing something he’d never seen before. He just wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

They cut speed and Beast slowly nosed the craft near the metal structure. Hopper leaned forward, trying to get a sense of what the hell was in front of them. He kept thinking about icebergs: that the stuff you saw above the water wasn’t what would kill you. “Don’t get too close,” he said when they were about forty yards out. He studied the structure. “What do you make of that?”

“I’m not sure,” said Beast. He looked at the navigation array in front of him and cocked a bushy eyebrow. He tapped the array in order to bring Hopper’s attention to it. “Check out the compass. It says we’re heading due north.”

“We’re heading east,” said Raikes.

“That’s correct,” said Beast.

Hopper looked from the compass back to the metal structure that towered above them. “Whatever it is, it’s creating magnetic flux.” Let’s hope we don’t get fluxed while it’s at it. “Get the PA system online.”

Beast flicked a switch and passed a microphone on a cord to Hopper. Raikes called over to him, “Just be aware, if you’re going to sing ‘My Way’ again, I am armed.”

What Hopper was aware of was that Stone and Brownley were both watching from their respective bridges, so he refrained from sticking out his tongue at her. It was clear that he was never going to live down that Fourth of July party where he’d had way too much to drink and sung an assortment of Sinatra’s greatest hits, encouraged by shipmates who were only marginally more sober than he was.

Thumbing the mike to live, Hopper—all business—said, “This is the U.S. Navy. Identify yourself or prepare to be boarded.”

He hadn’t expected there to be any sort of response. He was right. The structure simply sat there, ignoring him. For all he knew, if there was someone inside, they probably didn’t speak English. He switched to Spanish but likewise got no answer, which also wasn’t much of a surprise, since he didn’t really think the thing had its origins in Madrid. His knowledge of Russian was limited to “Hello, how are you,” which he readily tried. Still no response. Finally he essayed some Japanese, but that likewise elicited no reply.

“What the hell was the last thing you said?” said Raikes.

“I asked if it knew where the restroom was.”

Raikes snorted. “That was useful.”

“It was damned useful in Tokyo six months ago, so shut up. Bring us alongside, Beast.” He tapped Raikes on the shoulder. “It’s your boat. You’ve got the gun.”

“Not afraid to use it, sir.”

“Just try not to shoot me.”

“No promises, sir.”

Beast angled the RHIB against the side of the structure. Mooring was tricky in the ocean swell, and everyone was soaked with spray before he managed to anchor the ship within reach of their target. The RHIB bobbed furiously, and Hopper timed the rise and fall of the ocean. Don’t fall in the drink. They don’t need to spend extra time pulling me out. He waited until he was sure he had the feel for the ship’s bobbing and then he leaped the remaining distance. He landed on a projecting ledge that seemed to run the length of the structure, and almost slid off the slick metal before steadying himself.

A distance away, there seemed to be a path that would allow him to climb higher up, along with a series of smaller projections that he could use as handholds to gain some altitude. Perhaps there was some sort of access there, since the area around him didn’t seem to be presenting anything. He made eye contact with Raikes, pointed upward and then at his buttocks. An onlooker would have interpreted it as some sort of obscene gesture, but Raikes immediately got the shorthand: