The Mothership (30 page)

While the XO retrieved the launch codes,
two officers translated the EAM into plain English. When they’d finished, they
presented themselves to the captain. Lieutenant Biddle, the communications
officer, and Ensign Caldwell both fell into the rigid formal speak of the
decoding procedure.

“Message seven, sir,” Lieutenant Biddle
reported in a clipped Bostonian accent.

“Report message seven,” the XO said from
the captain’s side.

The lieutenant drew breath, and replied
crisply, “Report message seven, aye sir. Captain, message seven is valid and
requires authentication using code ID golf, lima, delta, oscar, tango.”

Captain Bourke leaned forward to study the
EAM verification code a moment, then nodded. In practiced unison, all four
officers read aloud the nine word verification code, checking each word with
the greatest of care as they did so.

When they finished, Lieutenant Biddle said,
“Captain, the message authenticates.”

Ensign Caldwell added, “I concur, sir, the
message authenticates.”

Commander Thompson nodded, “Captain, I
concur, the message authenticates.”

A cold chill ran down the skipper’s back as
he declared, “The message is authentic. Action directed?”

“Captain,” Lieutenant Biddle began.
“Message seven directs Michigan to launch a Tomahawk nuclear missile at the
site specified in the message. The launch window opens at zero five hundred
local time, and closes at zero five fifteen.” The lieutenant then read off the latitude
and longitude of the target site.

Captain Bourke said, “Very well, obtain the
captain’s key from the captain’s key safe.”

“Obtain the captain’s key from the
captain’s key safe, aye sir,” Lieutenant Biddle replied.

The skipper picked up the intercom
microphone, and announced to the ship, “Now hear this, this is the captain
speaking. Authorized entry into the captain’s key safe has been granted.
Disregard all captain’s key safe alarms.” The entire procedure had taken only
minutes to perform, as carefully choreographed as the finest ballet, now
properly completed, it had unlocked the use of tactical nuclear weapons.

While the two junior officers went to
retrieve the captain’s key, the skipper and the XO pored over a map of the
region, carefully plotting the coordinates with a grease pencil.

“It’s just jungle,” the XO whispered,
confused.

Captain Bourke furrowed his brow. “The
Australian Government must have agreed to this.” But why would they? There was
absolutely no reason to fire a nuclear weapon at empty wilderness. It made no
sense. Surely the message couldn’t be wrong?

“Should we seek confirmation?” The XO
whispered.

There was a nagging doubt in the captain’s
mind, yet all his years in the service told him he had to proceed. He shook his
head slowly, “No, the message is authentic. We launch as ordered.” He
swallowed, aware he was sweating. He knew there was only one thing he could do
with such an order, execute it immediately and without hesitation.

The click of footsteps on the metal deck
roused him from his reverie. He and the XO stood erect as the two junior
officers, each holding the chord attached to the captain’s key, approached.

Once again, Lieutenant Biddle recited his
part of the procedure, exactly as he’d been trained to do. “Captain sir, entry
into the captain’s key safe is complete. We have obtained the captain’s key.”

In accordance with procedure, Ensign
Caldwell added, “I concur, sir.”

The skipper held out his hand, into which
the two junior officers placed his key. “Very well, I accept custody of the
captain’s key.”

Once the captain had possession of his key,
Commander Thompson said, “Captain, I recommend battle stations missile.”

“Very well. Officer of the Deck, man battle
stations missile.”

The Officer of the Deck repeated over the intercom,
“Man battle stations missile.”

Throughout the boat a series of commands
rang out as the
USS Michigan
shifted to a war footing. While some
crewmen studied computer consoles, occasionally marking them with grease
pencils, others checked equipment readings, power levels, seals and pressure.

Chief Paxton announced, “Con, Chief of the
Watch, prepare to hover at normal launch depth.”

The captain checked the coordinates one
last time. “The target is verified as correct,” he said as he wondered,
But
how can it be?
He pushed the thought out of his mind, forcing himself to
focus on the chain of command, on his duty and to trust the code authentication
process.

The weapons officer replied, “The target is
verified as correct, aye sir.” The officer then retrieved the missile control
key from a nearby safe, and handed it to the officer seated at the missile
launch console.

The
Michigan
carried the high yield,
one hundred and fifty kiloton version of the sub launched Tomahawk land attack
missile. She’d fired conventionally armed Tomahawks against littoral targets
before, but never a nuke. In the midst of his anxiety, Captain Bourke was
struck by the thought that this was the first time in history a submarine would
launch a nuclear weapon in anger.

Finally, the weapons officer confirmed the
missile was ready for launch, then read out the firing solution. “Bearing one
seven four degrees, range to target, seven hundred twelve nautical miles.”

The captain swallowed, then took the
intercom. “Weapons con, the firing window is open, you have permission to
fire.” He said a silent prayer, then turned his key.

“The firing window is open, you have
permission to fire, aye sir,” came the precise response as the weapons officer
turned his missile key. A moment later, the missile was expelled from the sub
in a bubble of highly compressed air that carried it to the surface. The
Tomahawk burst up out of the sea, then as onboard sensors detected the missile
start to fall back towards the water, the rocket motors burned to life. In seconds,
it was streaking over the calm blue waters of the Timor Sea.

“One away,” The weapons officer announced,
watching the telemetry, satisfied it had been a perfect launch.

Over the intercom, the captain announced,
“Weapons con, permission to fire is removed.”

“Aye sir,” the weapon’s officer replied.
“Permission to fire is removed.”

“Secure from battle stations missile,”
Captain Bourke said. His hands were sweating, his heart beating, although the
crew would never have guessed. In his mind, one question burned.

What the hell am I attacking?

* * * *

Laura woke to the
sound of rustling backpacks, hushed whispers and sleepy yawns. It was still
dark except for a glimmer of dawn on the eastern horizon. She sat up to
discover the aborigines had returned, having slept a safe distance from the
camp in case the soldiers were attacked during the night. Old Mulmulpa sat
cross legged, waiting patiently for the soldiers to rouse, while Bandaka and
Liyakindirr leaned on their spears. Mapuruma and her mother squatted on their
heels chatting, paying no attention to the soldiers, who were checking their
weapons and sealing their packs. Xeno stopped pushing her sleeping bag into her
pack long enough to toss Laura a RLW-30 ration pack.

Laura caught it with a grateful smile.
“Thanks.”

“Dehydrated, calorie dense boot leather,”
Xeno said with distaste.

“Yum, I’ve never had calorie dense boot
leather before.”

Laura tore open the ration pack just as the
western horizon flashed from darkness to brilliant white. Trees became starkly
silhouetted by the harshness of the light blazing low in the sky. Overhead, the
dome became instantly visible as vibrating waveforms rippled out across its
surface near the horizon and the air filled with the crackle of static. The
ripples reached two thirds of the way up the dome before petering out, while a
glowing mushroom cloud rose into the sky beyond the dome. Soon, the sky
darkened again and the dome melted back into the sky concealing the nuclear
cloud on the horizon.

Tucker’s jaw tightened. “That’s torn it.”

“Arma-fucking-geddon,” Cougar declared.

“Shit!” Nuke exclaimed as a thought struck
him. He snatched up the headphones with a concerned look on his face, and
listened to the hybrid communications device.

Beckman stared at the sky with a strangely
impassive expression. “I’d say that was a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty
kilotons. Outside the dome.”

“They nuked us?” Laura asked incredulously,
thinking the attack came from the mothership.

“No, they didn’t,” Beckman replied soberly.
“We did.”

Markus wiped sleep from his eyes. “Had to
be a Tomahawk, judging by the low detonation point.”

“We must be in serious trouble to go
nuclear so fast.” Beckman said.

“Why’d they let it detonate?” Markus
wondered. “Even flying nape-of-the-earth, they should have been able to take it
out before it hit the shield.”

“The dome’s still up,” Beckman said.
“They’re showing us how tough they are.”

Tucker grunted in disgust. “So much for
dropping the big one.”

“I can still hear their chatter!” Nuke said
relieved, looking up. “I don’t know how, but the EMP didn’t fry our gear!” He
put the comms gear down and opened his backpack, being careful to use his body
to shield its contents from Laura.

Xeno checked her notebook computer, and
video camera. “Same here. Electronics are good.”

Markus whistled, impressed. “So the shield
lets in light, but can stop an EMP in its tracks! Impressive.”

“What’s an EMP?” Laura asked.

“An electromagnetic pulse, from the
explosion,” Nuke replied without looking up. “It’s death to anything electrical.”

Beckman watched Nuke anxiously. “What’s the
payload status?”

Nuke looked up from his open pack. “I don’t
know how, but it’s still working.”

Relief showed on Beckman’s face. “Then it’s
up to us.”

Laura sensed a change in attitude of those
around her, from despair to grim resolution. She leaned sideways to catch a
glimpse of a metal object in Nuke’s pack, a keypad and digital display sitting
on a silver metal housing containing a glistening black ovoid. The device was
snugly wrapped in black foam, which filled much of Nuke’s backpack. Glowing in
green lettering on the display panel were the words “Diagnostic Mode”, and
below it a list of tests, all marked with “100%”.

When Nuke saw her staring at the device, he
calmly pulled the pack’s flap over the device, hiding it.

“What is that?” she demanded.

“A weapon,” Beckman said as Nuke secured
his pack’s straps.

Her eyes widened suspiciously. “What kind
of weapon?”

Several of the soldiers exchanged knowing
looks, avoiding Laura’s gaze.

“A bad ass butt kicker,” Tucker muttered
menacingly.

Laura looked puzzled, then shocked. “It’s a
nuke?”

“No,” Beckman said in a way that didn’t
reassure her.

She glanced at the recovered communicator
visible inside Virus’ pack, noting how it was cradled inside a housing built
for it by the Groom technicians. It resembled on a smaller scale the housing in
Nuke’s pack. She turned back to Beckman, wide eyed. “Oh my God, it’s one of
their weapons! Isn’t it?”

“They could be a million years ahead of us.
This evens the odds.”

“What is it?”

“An antimatter torpedo.” Beckman replied.
“We pulled six out of a wreck in 1947.”

Nuke stood, shouldering his pack. “The anti
matter inflates spherically at the speed of light, annihilating everything it
touches.”

“Everything?” She repeated uncertainly.

“Dirt, rock, air,” Beckman said. “Alien
motherships. Phht! Everything out to three clicks, gone in the blink of an
eye.”

“Adios muchachos!” Nuke said grimly.

“How can you be sure it’ll work?”

“There’s a crater on the dark side of the
moon,” Beckman said. “It’s a perfect circle six kilometers across. It’ll work.”

“The moon!” Laura exploded incredulously.

“We couldn’t risk detonating it on Earth,”
Beckman said. “Not until we knew what it was.”

“You launched a mission to blow up the
Moon, and no one knows about it?”

“Not exactly. There was a NASA probe called
Mars Polar Lander,” Beckman explained. “It supposedly crashed on Mars because a
bunch of egg heads couldn’t get the math right. Truth is, it didn’t go to Mars.
It made a perfect landing on the dark side of the moon, then we blew it up.”

“This is not the dark side of the Moon!”

“Might as well be,” Tucker muttered.

“The outside world tried to nuke them, and
failed,” Beckman said. “That means that warhead is our only hope.”

Laura swallowed anxiously. “How much will
be destroyed?”