Alien Hostiles

Book 2: Solar Warden

by Ian Douglas

Genres: Hard Science Fiction; Space Marines

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Ian Douglas delivers the action-packed second military sci-fi adventure in his Solar Warden series set in a wildly imaginative alternate present where conspiracy theories are terrifying realities and reptilian aliens team up with Nazis in space.

By exposing the sinister Saurians, Navy SEAL Lieutenant Commander Mark Hunter and his team have more than proven themselves. Yet the war between humanity and the intergalactic aliens has only begun—now they must save themselves and all of civilization.

 

The JSST—the Joint Space Strike Team Hunter has put together from all branches of the U.S. military—is again deployed on board the Earth starcraft carrier Hillenkoetter on a mission to probe a possible historical connection between the Saurians and the Nazi Third Reich. At a planet called Paradies orbiting the red giant star Aldebaran, they discover a long-rumored colony of expatriate Nazis... and the beginnings of a plan to enslave Earth under Nazi—and Saurian—rule. 

 

With Earth at stake, governments deeply compromised, and evil at the door, Solar Warden must fight together to end it all…even if it means sacrificing everything.

Release date: November 30, 2021

Publisher: Harper Voyager

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

“We deal now, not with things of this world alone . . . [but] . . . of ultimate conflict between a united human race and the sinister forces of some other planetary galaxy . . .”

General Douglas MacArthur, 1962

May 1951

“On the money, Lieutenant!” PFC Francis P. Wall hugged the muddy ground, peering over the rim of the dugout at the village below. “That one was dead on!”

Lieutenant Evans, crouched in the dugout next to Carloski, Easy Company’s radioman, nodded, then spoke into the radio handset pressed to his ear. “That’s it, Lucky Three,” he said. “You’re on ’em! Fire for effect!”

The rumble in the distance, like approaching thunder, signaled incoming from the artillery battery planted on the other side of the mountain. Something, lots of somethings, whooshed and roared overhead like the rumble of a high-speed freight train . . . and then the village in the valley beneath the watching GIs erupted in pulses of light and geysers of black earth.

Wall watched the barrage through his binoculars with a sharp thrill of excitement. Yeah, that would stop those bastards dead in their tracks!

Muddy and tired, the small detachment of men drawn from “Easy” Company, 2nd Battalion, 27th Regiment, 25th Infantry Division, crouched in the shelter of their dugout on the mountainside as artillery rounds howled overhead. Below, sharply highlighted by the glare of drifting illumination flares, lay the tiny hamlet of Pukp’o-ri, less than three kilometers from Chorwan in a blot on the map called the Iron Triangle. Easy’s mission had been to establish an FOB, a forward observation base, in the ruins of an abandoned hillside bunker and call in artillery fire from a US battery a few miles away. After half a dozen ranging rounds, a shell had come down smack in the middle of the tiny grass airstrip north of the village, and now a full barrage was walking across the airfield, wrecking a pair of Russian-made Yak-9 fighters parked in the shelter of their camouflaged revetments. Chinese or North Korean maintenance personnel scattered for their bomb-proofs.

“Shit, Lieutenant! Just look at those sons of bitches scamper!”

“They won’t get far,” Evans, Easy Company’s CO, replied. “Lucky Three, Lucky Three! Ef-Oh-Be One! Pour it on, boys! You’ve got ’em on the run!”

And the rounds kept coming.

Just what the doctor ordered, Wall thought. A chance to hit back! Ever since the President had removed Lieutenant General MacArthur from command last month, morale in the front lines had been at rock bottom. Hell, morale had been low to begin with after the damned Chinese had swarmed south across the Yalu in October, and yanking his command out from under Mac had just made it worse. UN forces had finally stalled the Chinese advance and were starting to win back some hotly contested ground, but the outcome of this bloody little war—sorry, police action, as Truman had called it—was still very much in doubt.

So getting a chance to hit the gooks where it hurt was good for the soul. . . .

Off to the right, a solitary orange flare drifted down toward the town as if following the slope of the mountain. Probably an illumination round that had gone off short. . . .

Minutes passed as the thunder of the barrage crashed through the valley.

“Damn it, Wall!” PFC Matt Budrys said at Wall’s side. “What the hell is that?”

“What? I don’t see anything.”

“There!” Budrys pointed. “Over the airstrip!”

Wall peered into the darkness. Some of the incoming shells had been set for airbursts in order to spray the ground with shrapnel, and he couldn’t see much of anything beyond the slow-drifting flares and the flash of exploding ordnance.

“I see flares . . .”

“Shit, Wall, are you blind? Look at that bright one! Look how it’s moving!”

One flare, Wall saw, was brighter, the one he’d seen earlier over the mountain, glowing orange, looking a little like the gleam of a Halloween jack-o-lantern. It was still moving down, no longer, he now noticed, with the slow parachute’s drift of an illumination flare, but in sharp, short jerks, first here . . . now there . . . now over there. In moments it had moved directly into the area above the airfield where the arty rounds were going off.

“What the hell?” Wall said. “How come the arty isn’t doing anything to it?” Somehow, it didn’t seem natural that a flare could be smack in the middle of blast after blast, and not go out. The parachute from which it was hanging should be shredded by now.

Obviously, he thought, it wasn’t a flare.

“Maybe it’s too quick,” Budrys suggested.

“Okay, but what is it? It’s not a flare. Some kind of aircraft?”

“Might be Russian,” PFC Allen said, guessing. He sounded doubtful. “Or Chinese . . .”

“Hey, Lieutenant!” Wall called. “You seein’ this?”

“I see it. It’s just a flare. . . .”

But Wall didn’t believe that now, not the way it was moving around inside that kill zone. The men watched it for long minutes as the artillery barrage continued. As the explosions began dying away, the light remained, becoming brighter . . . and still brighter.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Carloski said. “I don’t like this.”

“Yeah . . .” Evans said. “Yeah. What the hell is that thing?”

The light had changed, pulsing now, and shifting to a deep blue-green. Although Wall couldn’t see any shape behind the rapidly increasing glare, he had the distinct impression that the thing was approaching them . . . and fast.

“Lieutenant?” Wall called. He shouldered his M-1 rifle. “Permission to fire, sir!”

“Do it, Wall! All of you! Fire!”

Wall was still working with the idea that he was seeing some sort of Russian aircraft. He’d heard about some new-fangled things that could hover called helicopters, though he’d never seen one, and he wondered if that was what he was seeing.

Damn it was close! He couldn’t hear a sound, but he guessed that the range was down to a hundred yards. Taking aim, he squeezed the M-1’s trigger . . . and again . . . and again. . . .

Some of the other guys were firing now as well, and Wall distinctly heard the sharp whang of bullets striking metal. The object’s reaction was immediate and startling. The light began pulsing faster, once going out completely, and the object was moving erratically from side to side. He heard a sound like diesel locomotives starting up.

He wondered if it was going to crash.

He wondered how it could be affected at all by armor-piercing rifle bullets if it could withstand the fury of an artillery barrage.

He wondered—

The beam hit him full-on, a bright white glare, like a searchlight. He instantly felt hot and tingling all over, felt it inside him, burning. . . .

He held up his hand and stared at it in horror. He could see the bones of his hand and arm right through his skin!

Wall was still screaming when Budrys dragged him inside the small concrete bunker off to their left, but the burning went on and on as Wall’s mind fogged and the nausea rose up, clogging his throat with fire. . . .

The others in the detachment had been hit as well. Wall was convinced they all were going to die. Dragging himself up against the concrete wall of the bunker, he managed to peer through a firing slit, and caught sight of the . . . the thing vanishing upward at a forty-five-degree angle and winking out against the night.

None of the men of Easy Company had ever seen or heard of anything like that glowing object, ever.

And as they huddled in the bunker, vomiting and shaking, they agreed that, if they got out of this, they would never, never report it . . . because they knew if they told a soul, they would end up in jackets with extralong sleeves, locked away in a padded cell.

And hell maybe, just maybe, that was exactly where they belonged. . . .

1

“We have, indeed, been contacted—perhaps even visited—by extraterrestrial beings, and the US government, in collusion with the other national powers of the Earth, is determined to keep this information from the general public.”

Victor Marchetti, Special Assistant to the Executive Director of the CIA, 1979

25 February 1942

Colonel Frederick Caldwell stared up into the black Los Angeles sky and wondered what the hell was going on. Air-raid sirens wailed in the distance, and he could hear gunfire—both the chatter of machine guns, and the deep-throated boom of heavy antiaircraft cannon. Close by, a 20-mm Oerlikon mount hammered away with a tooth-rattling thud-thud-thud, as the mount commander pointed with a baton at something overhead.

This was insane. The Japanese couldn’t possibly have planes that could reach the West Coast of the United States, could they?

It was just ten weeks since Japan’s sneak attack on Pearl Harbor and the entry of the US into a swiftly-expanding global war. The Japanese had hit Hawaii by slipping in close with a carrier task force consisting of at least six carriers and launching an estimated 360 aircraft in two waves, sinking or grounding eighteen ships, including five battleships.

As head of Army Intelligence—G-2—for the Army’s Western Defense Command, Caldwell had been fully briefed on every aspect of the attack. The West Coast, he knew, was still jittery in the wake of Pearl Harbor, a condition made far worse by an actual attack on US soil just two days before. According to reports, a Japanese submarine had surfaced off the coast of Santa Barbara and lobbed something like a dozen shells from its deck gun at an oil refinery ashore. No damage had been done, thank God, and the military had been downplaying the whole incident, but the US public was expecting a Japanese invasion at any moment.

Naval Intelligence had put out a report just a few hours ago instructing units on the West Coast to prepare for a potential attack. Where, Caldwell wondered, was their intel coming from? Had they tracked another Japanese carrier group all the way across the Pacific, bringing it within range? He doubted that. He doubted that their enemy’s military could have gotten past Hawaii with its thoroughly stirred-up beehive of scout planes, pickets, and that new-fangled radar to creep up to within a couple of hundred miles of Los Angeles itself.

Still . . . something was up there. Shortly after 2:00 a.m. military radar had picked up an incoming target 120 miles west of Los Angeles. Shortly after 3:00 a.m., reports started coming in of an unidentified aircraft in the dark skies over Santa Monica. Antiaircraft guns and .50 caliber machine guns had opened up, as searchlights swept the skies. Whatever it was had moved on inland, coming under fire from the massed coastal defense batteries across the city, which by now was blacked out but thoroughly awake.

The searchlights, he saw, were concentrating on . . . something. He squinted against the glare trying to see. Whatever it was . . . it was big—bigger than a plane. A barrage balloon, maybe? There’d been a report earlier of a blimp-shaped barrage balloon breaking free of its moorings at a defense plant up the coast. Coastal defense units had been releasing weather balloons, too, and nervous gunners might be shooting at those.

But Caldwell raised his binoculars to his eyes and peered at the something pinned against the sky by searchlights. Not a plane . . . not a balloon . . .

What the hell was it?

Something unknown . . . but in wartime LA you had to assume it was hostile.

 

The Present Day

Lieutenant Commander Mark Hunter, US Navy, was feeling distinctly ill-at-ease as he walked up to the familiar apartment door, 2D, and knocked. He’d been here before, when a grumpy old man had opened the door and grumbled something unintelligible at him. Hunter was determined to try again.

After a long pause, he knocked again . . . and finally the door opened just a crack. He could see a Hispanic woman’s face behind the chain.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Hunter said. “I wonder if you could tell me—”

“No hablo inglesa,” the woman said, and started to shut the door.

“Por favor,” Hunter said, blocking the door with his shoe. “Lo siento,” the woman said. “No se nada.”

Hunter removed his foot and the door slammed. Well he’d really not expected them to know the previous tenant’s whereabouts. . . .

Maybe, he thought, it was the uniform. He was wearing his dress blues, complete with fruit salad and Budweiser. Neither the colorful board of ribbons and decorations on his left breast nor the clunky-looking emblem of the Navy SEALs pinned above it suggested the immigration service, but Latinos living this close to the border might well be afraid of any uniform. He’d worn his blues in order to impress the old guy who’d opened the door before, but maybe he’d guessed wrong and scared them instead.

Gerri Galanis, his Greek-American girlfriend, had been very much on his mind since his return from space. She was missing—gone without a trace, not even a note, an address, or anything.

And he was very much afraid that he knew what had happened to her.

He intended to find her if he had to knock on every door in the town of El Cajon.

He stepped into the baking air in front of the apartment complex. It was winter, but a Santa Ana was blowing, the hot, dry wind out of the highlands across Southern California to the coast, bringing a sweltering return to August for San Diego and its suburbs. Witherspoon Way was all but deserted, with little traffic. He turned right on the sidewalk and started toward his car.

They were watching him from an impressive-looking Cadillac parked at the curb across the street. The car was black, naturally, with government plates guaranteed to be false. The two men inside wearing identical dark suits, dark fedoras, and sunglasses that rendered them stereotypically anonymous.

The Men in Black. Hunter had been wondering when they would make an appearance.

Instead of continuing to his car, Hunter stepped out into the street and jaywalked across to the Caddy. The windows were up, and he hammered at the driver’s-side window with the bottom of his tightly balled fist.

Reluctantly, the window hummed down. “What?” the driver demanded.

“Where’s Gerri?” Hunter demanded. “What have you done with her?”

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man said. He had a faint accent Hunter couldn’t place.

“Look, I know you’re following me, and I know you had Gerri Galanis abducted! If you harm her, I swear—”

The man pulled a badge folder from an inside jacket pocket and flashed it. US Department of . . . something. He didn’t hold it still long enough for Hunter to read it all. “We are not following you, sir, and we don’t know about your woman. We are here on official business, and you are making a public disturbance.”

Hunter took a step back into the street, jolted. “I thought—”

“I suggest that you go home and sleep it off, Commander. Otherwise we’ll have to take you in . . . and that would notsit well with your superiors.”

The man started the car and pulled out of the parking space, forcing Hunter back another couple of steps. He stared after their taillights as they vanished around the curve of Witherspoon Way, headed toward Chatham Street. Damn!

Had the events of the past few months made him so paranoid that he was seeing aliens and Men in Black everywhere? Maybe it was time for him to see a shrink.

Then he played back what the guy in the car had said. “And we don’t know about your woman.” The phrasing was . . . odd, especially in this society and its political correctness. Hunter hated how the idea of owning a person was so ingrained in the language—my girlfriend, mywoman, my spouse. . . .

Besides, how the hell had that guy known that Gerri was Hunter’s woman in any sense of the phrase?

It was a stretch, but it was enough to confirm that those two had been watching him—or watching Gerri’s apartment building, which was much the same thing. They knew who he was, and they knew of his relationship with Gerri.

He’d been dating Gerri for several months and they were close, very close. She knew nothing of Hunter’s current assignment with America’s secret space force . . . nothing about secret bases on the far side of the Moon, or treaties with aliens, or starships exploring nearby solar systems. But when he’d returned from Zeta Reticuli, she’d been gone, with no word or hint as to where she might be. And he was determined to find her.

He’d already checked with the apartment’s rental office, but they could only tell him that “a well-dressed gentleman in sunglasses” had paid her rent in full and informed them that Gerri was moving. He’d checked at her place of employment—the Highballer Club in San Diego’s Gaslight District—and they didn’t know a thing. She simply hadn’t shown up for work one day, with no word of where she was going. Talking to the people who’d rented her apartment had been his last throw of the dice, and they either knew nothing, or they weren’t talking to guys in a Navy officer’s uniform.

Angry and depressed, he returned to his rental car and drove to the airport.

The flight from San Diego to the Las Vegas McCarran International took an hour twenty, but he had another three hours to wait in a private terminal called “the Gold Coast” for the next Janet flight out. He spent the time fretting, wondering just what he might have missed. “Janet” was the call sign for the unmarked red-and-white 737s used by the private airline that ferried employees to and from the notorious secret airfield popularly known as Area 51, and more formally as Groom Lake.

Flying saucers, it turned out, were real. So were extraterrestrial aliens and time travelers from both humanity’s remote future and out of the distant past. Several time ships belonging to the Grays, or “EBEs,” had crashed and been recovered over the years, then reverse engineered to develop antigravity, sources of unlimited energy, and the ability to warp space-time into pretzel shapes. The universe was teeming with life, indescribably alien cultures, and mutually hostile civilizations precariously balanced above the potential holocaust of time war. Humans were proxies for both sides in that conflict, and Hunter wondered if his own species could possibly thread the resultant diplomatic needle and survive.

The 737 touched down at Groom Lake with blacked-out windows, and a gray bus, also with opaque windows, was waiting to transport Hunter and some of his fellow anonymous and uncommunicative passengers to S4. Unlike Area 51, the satellite facility built into the side of a mountain south of the main base had never been acknowledged by the government . . . and for very good reason.

He went through several security screens as he descended through the first three of S4’s underground levels, and finally was escorted to an office he didn’t know. Rear Admiral Benjamin Kelsey was seated behind the mahogany desk, and he did not look happy.

With him was a Man in Black.

“I expected better of you, Commander,” the MiB growled. “Sit down.”

Kelsey was the former Navy SEAL with JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command, who had recruited Hunter into this asylum. Hunter saw Kelsey as a kind of father figure, a mentor . . . but this . . . this suit he didn’t know.

It was also blatantly unfair. “Sir! I intend to find her, no matter what it takes—”

“Find who? Oh . . . yes. Your girlfriend. . . .”

“She doesn’t know anything about this, and I—”

“Sit down!” the Man in Black repeated. “This has nothing to do with your girl, Commander. It’s about your handling of the Hillenkoetter’s mission.”

He glanced at Kelsey, who looked away. He looked back at the MiB. The guy wasn’t wearing the trademark dark glasses, but he clearly was a government agent of some sort. “Who are you? I have no way of knowing if you are in my chain of command, and I will not discuss classified material with someone who—”

“My name is . . . Smith. Mister Smith.”

Hunter actually laughed. “Ha! That’s original! As in The Matrix?”

“I suggest, Commander,” Kelsey put in, “that you pay attention. And, yes, Mr. Smith has full jurisdiction here. You may regard his orders as orders coming from me.”

“Can I have that in writing?”

“No, Commander,” Smith said, without emotion. “I think you know better than that.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure whose side you’re on . . . Smith. You people have been following me, threatening me, and I think you abducted Gerri Galanis.”

“We’ve discussed this before, Commander,” Kelsey said gently. “There are a lot of different factions operating in this . . . this arena, okay? Some of them happen to be on our side.”

“But how are we supposed to know?”

“If I were your enemy,” Smith said with blunt emphasis, “you would be dead. Now . . . are you going to listen up? Or am I going to come to the reasonable conclusion that you are an enemy?”

Hunter opened his mouth to reply . . . then shut it again. He sat in the chair. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“That’s better. Now . . . some in my . . . organization are wondering if you can be trusted. You got us into a nasty situation with the Reps, and you strong-armed Admiral Carruthers to take on board many civilians out at Zeta Retic. In doing so, you sidetracked an important mission . . . Operation Excalibur. Why?”

Reps, the Reptilians. Hunter knew them as the Saurians, though people from Earth’s future called them Malok. They looked like the classic Grays, more or less, except for the scaly skin and the yellow black-slit eyes. And the xeno people thought they actually were evolved intelligent dinosaurs originating in deep time past.

By everything Hunter had seen so far, the Reptilians were bad news. When the USSS Hillenkoetter had voyaged out to a double star called Zeta Reticuli to investigate rumors that it was a Gray base, they’d found an underground complex staffed by both Grays and Reptilians . . . with over three hundred human captives floating inside transparent tubes of green liquid. Hunter’s team had freed them and gotten them back to the Hillenkoetter in orbit, but it had been a near thing. The Reps had almost taken the ship, and Admiral Carruthers, the man in charge of the mission, had been killed. Hunter’s men had stormed the ship from the space carrier’s landing bay, and taken it back.

“And what were we supposed to do, sir?” Hunter demanded. “Leave those people we found stuffed in those bottles?”

“You could have dispatched one of your escorts back to Earth to report what you’d found, and continued to your primary objective, the star Aldebaran.”

“Uh-uh. No, sir. We didn’t find the prisoners until after we’d come under attack, and encountered the Saurians inside the base. By then it was too late to avoid an engagement.”

“All of that was laid out in the after-action report, sir,” Kelsey added.

“I know. I’ve read it. Commander, if you are going to work with us, you’ll have to recognize that there is no place here for sentiment. You had a mission. Phase one was to find out if there were Grays at Zeta Reticuli. Phase two was to investigate reports of Nazis, refugees from the end of World War II, alive on a world orbiting Aldebaran. By liberating those humans in Zeta Retic, you have single-handedly caused a major exodiplomatic incident as well as jeopardized your primary mission.”

“‘Exo’—what?”

Smith paused, as though deciding how much to say.

“Commander,” he said after several seconds, “in 1954, Gray aliens met with President Eisenhower in secret at Edwards Air Force Base and offered us a treaty. He refused it.”

“I was briefed,” Hunter said. “They offered us advanced technology in exchange for the right to abduct some of our citizens for medical tests and so on.”

“Indeed. In 1955, they met him again at Holloman Air Force Base and offered him the same deal, but this time they suggested that if he refused it, they would go talk to the Soviets. That was deep in the Cold War, and Eisenhower felt that he could not say no again. The idea of Soviet Russia in possession of advanced technology back then—antigravity, unlimited free energy—it was too awful even to think about.”

“I was told that people who knew about that agreement decided it was a bad idea.”

“Yes. Some did, at least. But we did have an agreement with what we thought at the time were aliens, and it was an agreement that we didn’t dare go back on. Even when the Reptilians began abducting way, way more civilians than we’d agreed to originally, we didn’t dare, because a war with those . . . those people would have been unthinkable.”

Hunter knew this story. If the Saurians had evolved from dinosaurs, the so-called alien Grays were evolved from humans. They were human descendants from over a million years in the future. With a million years of space-faring civilization behind them, they possessed unimaginable technologies, and in an all-out war with them twenty-first-century humans would be utterly crushed.

“Fortunately,” Smith continued, “most of the Grays are on our side. . . . or, at least, they’re not hostiles.”

“The Grays got some sort of genetic crisis in the far future,” Hunter said, nodding. “They’re abducting people from the present to use our genetic material to somehow repair their DNA. The idea that they’re aliens trying to create human-alien hybrids is hokum.”

“A cover story, Commander. They cannot allow the general human public to know they are time travelers; that information could compromise their own future.”

“And destroying us when we piss them off won’t compromise them, sir?”

“Keep in mind, Commander, that there is not simply one kind of Gray. The Grays come from a long timeline in the future, which includes many different cultures and attitudes. Some work with the Reptilians, possibly as slaves. Some are biological robots, programmed to obey orders that aren’t necessarily in our best interests. Some are beneficent, and genuinely have our best interests at heart. Some are . . . detached. Their only interest in us is that we don’t somehow wreck their timelines, and they will do anything to preserve themselves and their culture.”

Hunter was familiar with the concept. Throughout the history of alien contact with humans, contradictory reports were the norm. Some Grays were small and childlike, or tall. Some looked almost like insects, while others seemed to be hybridizations with the Saurians. The range of Gray appearance and behavior was bewilderingly large and complex.

“By freeing those humans at Zeta Retic, Commander,” Smith went on, “you put our original treaty with them in jeopardy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“By engaging in hostilities with the Saurians, you raised the specter of all-out war with them . . . and please remember, the Saurians don’t care if the Grays go extinct or not. If they wipe us out, the Gray timelines are obliterated, and the dinosaurs inherit the Earth. Again.”

“With respect, sir, that doesn’t make sense. If they can destroy us, why don’t they go ahead and do it?”

“Because they don’t want to inherit a radioactive wasteland, Commander. The Grays don’t want us using nukes because that would threaten their timeline, right? The Reps don’t want to have an open war because it might ruin the planet. The two sides, Grays and Reps, have been maintaining a balance of power across . . . I don’t know. Thousands of years, maybe. And then you come along and threaten to shitcan the whole thing.”

If the Saurians were that concerned about it, then they could refrain from nuking humanity, Hunter thought . . . but he nodded and simply said, “Yes, sir.”

The situation, Hunter thought, was much like the balance of power that had kept the Cold War from going hot. MAD, they’d called it, Mutual Assured Destruction. The politics of the Galaxy at large were far more complicated, delicate, and dangerous than human East versus West politics had ever been.

“And so, Commander,” Smith continued, “if you again uncover a basement full of human abductees, you will notrelease them without specific orders from a higher command authority. That is a direct order. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very clear, sir.”

“The mission comes first. Humanitarian concerns are a very distant second, and then only when they don’t conflict with standing orders to support the Holloman Treaty. I will not have all that we have accomplished since 1947 wrecked by some loose cannon playing hero. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Smith glared at Hunter for a long moment, and Hunter gave him his best expression of unassuming innocence. He’d carefully not told the guy that he would obey that order. If he found even one human consigned to the living-death hell of one of those bottles . . . well, he wasn’t going to leave anyone behind, and mission be damned.

Smith looked at Kelsey. “You still think this man is right for the job?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Commander Hunter created the JSST. He put fifty men and women together from scratch, drawing highly trained and motivated personnel from a dozen different JSOC units and getting them all to work together. His men would follow him anywhere. I would strongly recommend that he be kept in his current billet.”

Smith appeared to be considering this. “Very well, Kelsey. Your neck is riding on this. And his. There’d better not be any more screwups.”

“No, sir.” Kelsey’s jaw tensed up, unsure how much he believed himself, too.

Smith rose from his chair, gave Hunter a long, cold stare, then walked out.

“God, Admiral,” Hunter said. “He was pissed!”

“You don’t know the half of it, Commander. Some of the people behind him wanted you in Supermax . . . with orders to throw away the key.”

Hunter blinked. He’d considered the possibility of a court-martial, of course, but never imagined that they would throw him into the same federal prison reserved for terrorists and drug lords.

“What about Portsmouth?” he said. “That’s where they promised to send me last time.”

“Portsmouth Naval Prison closed decades ago, Commander.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard.”

“Yes, well, this is a progressive Navy. Welcome to the future.”

“Why not just kill me?”

“Believe me, I think that they were considering it.”

Hunter had been threatened more than once, with imprisonment, and with being made to disappear, and he didn’t like it one bit. This was not the Navy, not the countryhe knew and loved.

“So what’s the drill, Admiral?”

Kelsey reached into his desk and produced a sheaf of papers, which he slid across the desk. “Your orders. You’re on your way back to LOC Farside, Commander. There you will rejoin the Hillenkoetter and 1-JSST. The ship will then proceed to the Aldebaran system, where she will carry out the rest of her mission.”

“Searching for space Nazis. Yes, sir.”

Kelsey cocked an eyebrow at that. “I suggest, Commander, that you refrain from sarcasm and treat your orders with the seriousness they deserve. Right now, you are on very thin ice.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Dismissed.” Kelsey sighed, and turned his attention to his paperwork.

Hunter walked out of the room wondering if he’d just been run over by a Mack truck.

 

Captain Frederick Groton moved with the easy, gliding strid