Cloak of War Read online

  “Destroyer is changing course,” Raj says. She leans back. “Williams, call the captain.”

  Before word is passed, the hatch opens. The captain comes on and claps me on the shoulders with both hands. He sits back into his chair with a wide smile on his face.

  “By God, the boy is right. They got a hit on the Queen!”

  Raj gives me a nudge with her elbow.

  “Last course, Mr. Jager. Where was the Queen off to?”

  “Apologies, sir. After my ship was hit, I lost her.”

  The captain nods. The shadow of a smile is still on his face.

  “Destroyer coming up, sir,” Raj reports. A moment later, she calls out the vector and updates the plot.

  The destroyer is zigging and zagging. It has shed its velocity and is plotting out in a hexagonal pattern.

  “Did he get a ping?” the captain says to himself. He leans back in his seat and gently taps his fingers on the armrest. The stuffing looks to have long since worn away from that chair; his fingernails click on the bare metal.

  “Mr. Jager, we have a conundrum here,” the captain says in a low voice, his eyes on the display. “We are the thread, moving through the eye of a needle. Except the needle must punch a proper hole. If we, the thread, try to move, the eye of the needle will keep on moving along. Get it, yes?”

  I picture it. That and what I have just learned. If we try to adjust course, then the cloaking gas cloud will just keep sailing along. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, we can nudge it a little, but if you so much as give us a five-degree vector change, the cloud of gas will part, and we’ll glare out like a star. Understand?”

  A bit of sweat forms on my forehead. I pull my elbows off the console. Here I am, the freshest member on the entire ship, and he’s entrusting me with the astrogation console. One wrong digit. One decimal place shifted. One fuckup.

  Knockout.

  Everything comes into focus. I was tired before, almost a lazy feeling. Rescued, I thought, I’ll laze about and relax until we reach port. Now, I don’t think so.

  “My name is Magnus Hallverson. This Orca is the Orca. The original prototype that turned into the Orca class of cloaking bombers. We’re on our eleventh tour, Mr. Jager. And by the grace of my crew, we’ll hammer those bastards for eleven more.”

  I don’t know how to respond. How do you? They are the longest-serving crew I’ve ever heard of. Orcas are known to be brutally effective, scorned by the ships of the line, but they pay a terrible price. Ton for ton, they surpass the battleships, year in and year out, in destroyed ships.

  Hallverson adjusts the course. I carefully key in the change and then acknowledge it. A moment later, the ship spins a few degrees. I most definitely hold my breath. How will we know if they’ve found us?

  “Integrity is holding. Conductance at threshold,” Tupilov, the man at Engineering, calls.

  “If we lose either conductance, which means the super conductors have shorted out, or integrity, meaning the gas cloud is depleted, then we die,” Hallverson explains as his fingers tap.

  The destroyer makes another turn.

  “Now we watch. Does he do like he’s done? It’s like a man in the dark, stumbling, looking. If his toe catches on something, then he changes.”

  I adjust course once more. Then a second time. Raj helps me lay out a gentle curve, and we’re swooping low now. Heading far away from that destroyer.

  “Ping,” Raj says in a whisper. A red light flashes above her console.

  “Roll fifteen degrees, Mr. Jager,” Hallverson calls.

  I focus now. This is different than the slug fest I’ve seen so many times before. The one thing that drew me to flying a missile boat was the fight. Well, that and a bit of a personality clash with my previous captain.

  But I love the fight.

  I love the dance.

  I could get right up close, slug ’em hard, and dart back in. I boxed in University at some back-alley ring. No, I wasn’t good enough for the Uni team, so I went where the poor kids went. I went where a priest called the shots. Where a drunk rang the bell. Where the only thing you learned was to fight.

  Paulo San Rodriguez ran that club with an iron fist. And, in his case, he literally did. Paulo boxed straight, and when they told him to throw a fight in the constellation brawl, he didn’t. They cut off his right hand.

  He was the best fighter I’d ever seen. When he boxed, it was like a ballet in the ring. Every footstep was perfect. Every punch, precise. In his prime, he was so good that you could pick him out of a crowd, like an angel.

  “Drop velocity, keep us at two meters per second,” Hallverson calls. He turns to the weapons console and looks back.

  I see in Hallverson the same look that Paulo had. An angel of grace and death with one purpose in life. Perfection.

  “Course change,” Raj says.

  “Seal hatches,” Hallverson responds. “But first, send for lunch.”

  Is he serious? I turn and look and see that he is. A minute later, we have sandwiches on bread that tastes of yeast with cheese that is flavorless. I can’t eat. All I can do is watch that destroyer bearing down on our last position.

  “Eat, Mr. Jager. This one won’t find us. He’s too eager—like you, eh?” Hallverson says in between bites. “And anyway, we only have two torpedoes left.”

  I choke down a dry bite of sandwich, and the hunger hits me. They say you shouldn’t eat before a fight, so I never did. The rest of the sandwich goes quick.

  Above the weapons console is an indicator for torpedoes. It says three. So I inform the captain of his error.

  Hallverson grins at me, but it’s not a pleasant grin—more like an animal baring his teeth. “That one is special, Mr. Jager. It’s reserved.”

  The bridge feels cold again, and I am an outsider once more.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “We do not engage a warship unless necessary or ordered,” Raj adds.

  I nod. “Or it’s the Queen?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Jager,” Hallverson says. “Our role is to destroy commerce and orbital facilities, to seed destruction, hate, anger, and violence. We are good at our job.”

  Hallverson points up at the tactical display. The destroyer is on a vector for our last known position. “Now that one, he’s going to come close and start the arc again. If he gets another ping, then life will get interesting.”

  Raj explains that with two pings they know our course. Then our cone of operations thins up. The Tyroleans must have a fairly good idea of how quickly we can maneuver.

  I watch the approaching ship, just an icon on the screen, and feel a touch of fear. Where can we run? We can’t. Even if we fight, we’ll likely lose. That little ship has enough weaponry to shred this fragile tube of men and atmosphere. Never before have I felt so naked in space.

  Time stretches on. I check the console. Only fifteen minutes. Good God. It’s ponderous, like the plodding of a sledgehammer. Inevitable.

  Captain Hallverson pulls out a tablet. Everyone else is calm at their stations. Idle conversation pops up.

  How can they simply wait?

  Hallverson starts going through the log. He calls out interesting points or questions this and that. Tiny details. But, as I’m reminded, important details. Oxygen filter levels. Carbon dioxide scrubber canisters. Even engineering is sounding off on the remaining level in the human waste system.

  Sweat pours down my face.

  The destroyer is closer than ever. It comes to a stop and starts its prowl once again.

  “Do you trust us, Mr. Jager?” Captain Hallverson says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because it looks like you don’t. I’ve placed a great deal of trust in you, young man, and you need to place that same trust in me.”

  I turn to look at him. Is he condescending? Is he angry? His tone is like a father speaking to a child. But his face is set, serious. There’s no hint of a smile or even anger. He’s simply stating it like it is.

  “Set
course to AW226 please, Mr. Jager. Raj, give him a hand. We’re going to bounce once Engineering has a full charge. This old Orca takes a while to charge up, you know.”

  Raj leans over from her console and helps me plot out the course. We move in a slow, gentle arc to finally put ourselves on track. Only then do I notice that the charge time will take another twelve hours.

  The more time stretches, the farther away the destroyer drifts. Our course continues to change, and the spiral takes them farther and farther away. Each passing second is a meter closer to safety.

  A bell sounds. Captain Hallverson stands and stretches his back. “Well done, everyone. Mr. Jager, get some rest and then report to my quarters before the next watch.”

  I feel like I’m walking out of the ring halfway through a fight. I’m relieved by a silver-haired man named Mbutu. He looks older than my father and doesn’t say much, though he does grin when he sees the name tag.

  “Winkelman! He’s gone the long road, he has. Unlucky that is,” Mbutu says and sits down.

  We stumble off the bridge. The others now look like I feel. Tired. Worn. The tension spreading their nerves thin like too little butter on burnt toast.

  I don’t feel as bad now.

  Raj leads me to my bunk. It’s a tight affair, a dead man’s bunk I’m told. But I can’t sleep. Not now. I have to check on Henna. Regardless of what the captain of this ship says, she’s still part of my crew.

  They have her resting in what goes for the sick bay. It’s a double-wide berth with a single bunk against the wall. The bunk itself is on slides so they can pull it clear and half into the hallway to operate. The floor is polished clean.

  Henna lies with a bandage draped over most of her face. A sticky-looking gray cream pokes out from the edges. She’s still in her original uniform; it looks so fresh and new compared to the one I’m wearing.

  A thin man rests with his eyes closed near the bed. He opens them as I step into the room. Piercing blue eyes look back at me. “She’s sleeping.”

  “Will she see?”

  “Yes,” he says. He leans over and rests his bony elbows on his knees. “It’s a low-grade arc flash. Second-degree burns on her face. Her eyes are gonna feel like sandpaper for a few days. But she’ll get by.”

  I’m not entirely sure what to say. She’s obviously out. The medic, or doctor, seems about as interested in conversation as a punching bag is.

  The medic looks away and stretches back. His hands are shaking. Tiny trembles—his knuckles are almost clicking together.

  I look away. I caught a private moment.

  He frowns and shoves one hand into a pocket and runs the other through his thinning hair. “You never know till the action’s done. We got lucky last time, just a few dead. How often does that happen, right? Partial breach. Contained the fires. Gas didn’t get in. We’ve gone so long without getting caught, you almost feel invincible.”

  I listen. How can I tell him that I don’t know what he means? Not really.

  Those blue eyes look up at me and drift to my name tag. “Winkelman. Second officer. He lost his brothers, three of them, on Shangri-La Four.” His eyes drift away. “My kids were on Shangri-La Three.”

  All of them, volunteers for a suicide mission, and all of them survived. God, what that must do to you?

  Henna stirs. Her hand drops down and grasps out.

  I reach down and give it a squeeze. “We’re ok, Henna. It’s ok.”

  The medic engages another dose of sedative into her IV line. Drip drip. She’s out again.

  “Get some rest,” he says. “These things can go on for days sometimes. We can’t bounce until we suck up the cloaking gas. So you know, we’re kind of naked till the drive spools up. Not something you want to do while a destroyer is hunting you.”

  I turn and take a few steps. “What’s your name?”

  “Mohammad, Ernest Mohammad. Surgeon.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. She means a great deal to me.”

  He looks back down and closes those blue eyes.

  I set off to sleep in a dead man’s bunk.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It’s like sleeping in a coffin. My nose rubs against the bunk above me. The blankets have that freshly washed feel to them, scratchy but inviting. Finally, I sleep, but I wake anytime someone walks past.

  I wake with a start. Above me is a picture of three children with a hab farm just behind them. It makes an odd thing to sleep next to, but I feel wrong taking it down. They obviously meant a lot to Winkelman.

  A sliver of light pokes through the curtain. The crew move by in hushed tones. Someone is sleeping at all times. Who had my bunk when I wasn’t in it?

  I play the day over in my mind. When it all started, I had my own little missile boat with a crew who thoroughly disliked me. Did I fail them? Maybe. Not much more I could have done.

  How about that rescue, Karl? Yeah, well, it was a damned good idea. This is a place without mistakes. If you make a mistake, you die.

  This ship isn’t a boxer. It’s a heavyweight with a glass jaw.

  As I lie in that bed, Winkelman’s bed, I decide that now is my time. I fucked off in the university. Gave it a half-ass effort in the fraternity. Hell, even in the navy I’d gone at it with half a mind to getting out.

  That mind-set will get me killed.

  Focus.

  I’d like to say I feel guilty about my past, but it’s behind me. Even if I could talk to my four-years-younger self, I’d probably just tell my older self to borrow me some beer money and kindly fuck off.

  Another set of crew walk past. Shift change is close. I can feel it as people start mumbling, tossing in their bunks, getting ready.

  Hartford pulls back the curtain. I shield my eyes. “Get to the bridge! Can’t you hear?”

  “Moving!” I swing out and onto the floor. I must’ve fallen asleep again. But God, it doesn’t feel like it.

  The hatches are still closed, and I have to ask for approval at each one. Closed hatches mean that the destroyer is still on the prowl.

  As I wait at each hatch, crew come out and ask me about the White Queen. What did she look like up close? Was she worse for wear? Did I get in a good hit? It’s an odd conversation at all counts. They pay me little mind but are thoroughly engrossed in the wounds to the Queen.

  Master Machinist Colby stands watch at Captain Hallverson’s door. She wears a thermal suit and has one leg kicked up against the door behind her. Her head nods forward and back. Music, I assume. Implanted headphones.

  “Master Colby,” I say with a nod. I reach my hand out to knock on the door.

  She snaps up her hand and grabs on to my wrist. “The captain is sick. Go see the first officer.”

  I look past her at the sealed door and then back at her. She has the same look: indifference. That’s right, Hartford said bridge, not captain.

  “Right, thank you, Master Colby.” I turn to head to the bridge.

  “You can weld, right?”

  I nod. I’ve been welding for a while. It paid the bills damn well better than being a starving university student did. Something always needs patching on an orbital. “That’s right.”

  “Certified?”

  “Nine ways to Sunday. TIG, MIG, argon, even some stick.”

  Colby sniffs and rubs her nose. “We’ll see, eh?”

  I leave her and make my way to the bridge.

  The first officer is named Yao; he stands in front of the captain’s chair. He looks to be a wreck of a man. Thin, almost to the point of being emaciated. His hair is slicked back and has that oily look that says he hasn’t showered in some time. But through all of that he scowls and stares up at the tactical display.

  I start to report my name and stop myself. I’m not a captain; hell, looking back, the title was laughable. I didn’t have command of anything, least of all that little missile boat. Here I am, like a wet cat, drug upon a safe shore.

  “Jager reporting, sir.”

  The tactical display tells it
all. The destroyer is close. The path of the Orca shows she swung down and then to the port side before zigging and zagging. Erratic, random, and yet the destroyer is still on us.

  “We’ve got a few holes in our cloak. Need to rebalance the gas, but…well, starboard tank is ruptured. Our welders are worn plum out. Been patching for three days now.” His voice is hollow, his accent straight out of Salem.

  The ping alarm sounds again. A second later, two new contacts emerge from the destroyer.

  “Contact!” the sensor station calls.

  My stomach tightens.

  “Starboard roll, bring us up plane, max arc.”

  “Starboard roll, max arc,” the woman at the astrogation station replies. Her voice is too fast, nervous as hell.

  The new contacts fly straight out from the destroyer.

  “Those are sensor pods, Jager,” Yao says without taking his eyes off the display. He almost sneers as he says it. “They launch them when they’re close to find us, or think they are. Now we’ll have active signals coming from two more sectors.”

  He doesn’t have to explain any more. With the holes in our cloak, as soon as those sensor pods ping, they’ll have us with multiple vectors. At that point it will be over; they’ll have a two-dimensional plot. We can’t run. Not yet.

  “I can weld, sir.” I owe them that.

  Yao turns from the display and looks at me. “I heard. We lost a batch of good welders in our last heavy action.” He takes a moment to size me up. “You look close to Winkelman, eh? Get into his suit. But here’s the issue, Mr. Jager. If your weld fails, when we rebalance the tanks, it’ll blow. If it blows, we’ll lose cloak on a nice big chunk. Then, young man, we die.”

  I swallow hard. Nothing like a little pressure to keep you on your toes. Which I wonder as I walk off the bridge: Are you really on your toes welding in low gravity?

  “We’ve got an hour until those pods can send out a burst and catch us on a flank. An hour. Now go.”

  Colby is gone when I sprint past the captain’s quarters. A bright red light glows over his door.

  Amidships I meet her, and she helps me into Winkelman’s suit.