Battleship

Instead he thrust all of those feelings—all those emotions, all the grief and agony that threatened to crush him—down where they could be of no impediment to what he had to do now.

“Beast,” he said, stepping away from the throttle, “get us to the John Paul Jones.”

Without a word, Beast took over the throttle and gunned it. The small craft moved away from the scene, heading toward the illusion of security that the John Paul Jones seemed to provide. But Hopper knew there would never be anyplace safe in the world, ever again.

THE WHITE HOUSE

The President could scarcely credit what he was seeing. If he’d been informed about it secondhand, he would have questioned the reliability—if not the sanity—of the source. Looking at it now, though, he almost started to wonder about his own sanity.

What he was staring at, being played back to him on a screen in the Situation Room, was nothing less than a barrier constructed of the very Pacific Ocean itself. He certainly had experience with what nature was capable of accomplishing in Hawaii. Storms, typhoons, the best and worst that God, in His acts, had to offer. But what he was witnessing now was beyond anything he had ever seen. It seemed instead like something out of a fantasy movie, cooked up by a wizard as a weapon against another wizard.

Arthur C. Clarke’s oft-quoted statement ran through his head. “Any sufficiently advanced form of technology will seem like magic.” Still, it was so beyond anything he’d ever experienced that he had to remind himself that no, this wasn’t magic; just technology. Extremely advanced. Science against which no Earth technology had any counter. We are so screwed…

The film had been taken from a distance by a naval vessel and forwarded through channels—not only to him, but to heads of state from every country being represented in the war games, which were—at the moment— suspended. Apparently a real war had overtaken the games, fought against an enemy that was outside the experience of everyone involved.

Mountains of water, impassable, impenetrable, were arrayed around Oahu. From the latest intel on the President’s desk, there were three ships—two Americans, one Japanese—within the perimeter. Everyone else was stuck outside, cut off as a localized storm kept them at bay. Sheets of lightning rippled up and down the water barrier.

The Joint Chiefs sat around the table, waiting for the President to absorb what he was seeing. Meanwhile on another screen, CNN was on, muted, but the closed captioning was activated:

“Little is known beyond the fact that all communication with the island state went down at 12:20 Eastern Standard Time. Extreme weather is now cutting off Hawaii from the outside world. A probable connection to events in Hong Kong is being investigated.”

The President leaned back in his chair, studying the other screens, each depicting a site around the world that had also been damaged.

“Best guess?” said the President finally.

One of the Joint Chiefs sat forward, resting his forearms on the large table around which they were all grouped. “We don’t have a best guess, Mr. President. Every single country that could possibly be behind this got hit themselves. No one was spared.”

“Which only means,” said another general, “it was no single country. Terrorists. It has to be terrorists…”

The chief of staff looked skeptical. “You’re telling me that the people who couldn’t even blow up a pair of sneakers coordinated something like this?”

“I’m saying the people who knocked down the Twin Towers coordinated something like this…”

The President shook his head. “No. No, I’m not buying it. Even on 9/11, they used standard Earth technology, Earth airplanes…”

“Mr. President,” the vice-president put up a hand as if he were in second grade. “You keep saying ‘Earth.’ Are you implying…?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it outright. I’m saying what Sherlock Holmes always said. That whenever you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—is the truth. Someone here want to try to sell me on the notion that that,” he pointed at the wall of water, “is within the realm of possibility, based on what we know current science can produce? Because I’m looking at that giant water wall, with lightning flashing all around it, and I’m telling you this is either the result of extraterrestrial science, or somewhere right now Zeus is instructing that the Kraken be released.”

“Sir,” the vice-president started again, “you’re talking about alien invasion. That’s… that’s the kind of thing you see in disaster movies. Not in real life.”

“Perhaps. Except how many New York landmarks have we seen blown up in those same disaster movies? Plus there was an episode of a television series, The Lone Gunmen, that centered around a plot to fly airplanes into the World Trade Center. Life imitates art, gentlemen. How many of you,” and he took in the entire table in a glance, “didn’t watch the Twin Towers collapsing a decade ago and feel as if, just for a moment at least, the world had turned into a Michael Bay movie?”

There were silent, reluctant nods from several of them. As far as the President was concerned, those who didn’t nod simply didn’t want to cop to it. Then the chief of staff said slowly, “Sir… if what you’re saying is true… we need to get you on Marine One and to a secure location. And we need to do it immediately.”

“I don’t see that as a necessary—”

“Sir,” the chief of staff said more forcefully, “if we’re going to operate under the assumption that what you’re saying is true… and considering that whomever or whatever it is we’re dealing with has hostile intent—which we have to believe considering they’ve made no attempt to engage us in any way other than those that have cost human lives…”

“I believe what the chief of staff is saying,” said the vice-president, “is that if we’re sticking with the whole ‘life imitates art’ theory, well… I think we all remember the poster for Independence Day. The big alien saucer blowing the living crap out of—”

“Yes,” said the President. “Yes, I remember it.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t like it. It seems like running away.”

“Think of it more as a strategic retreat,” said one of the Joint Chiefs. Heads around the room nodded in agreement.

“Sir,” said the chief of staff softly, “it’s worth noting that there may well come a point where the Secret Service isn’t going to give you the option. Better to walk out on your own while things are quiet than to be dragged out while the ceiling’s caving in. Don’t you think?”

The President slowly sagged back in his chair and looked bleakly around the room. So this is what it’s like to be the most powerful man in the world: you go to ground when danger threatens.

“Inform Marine One and get my family together,” said the President quietly in the hushed room.

USS JOHN PAUL JONES

The skipper will know what to do. The thought kept going through Hopper’s mind as he cast an apprehensive glance at the repair crew trying to deal with the wreckage from the hit they’d taken. At least the ship wasn’t listing, so obviously nothing fatally catastrophic had happened to it. Yet.

Once having returned to the ship, Beast really should have hastened to the engine room to make sure his beloved Rolls-Royce engines were continuing to function and hadn’t sustained any damage during the assault. Raikes should have returned to weapons, where she doubtless would’ve taken comfort in having all the firepower of the John Paul Jones at her disposal, rather than just a single .50 cal machine gun.