Peter David - Battleship

But then the warrior managed to free a hand and thrust it forward. A vicious curved blade extended from it and drove through the windshield. She yanked her head to one side and the blade sliced into the headrest.

“Sam!” Hopper was still working on getting her attention.

“I’m safe,” she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. “No problems here.”

“Sam, you sound terrified!”

So much for trying to keep her cool. “Yeah, I am. Terrified you’re going to miss your chance. Listen to me, Hopper. The satellite will be in range in minutes. You can’t let them get their message out. Hit it with everything you’ve got. I love you.”

She clicked off the phone just as the alien—having retracted the blade—lifted the Jeep with its powerful arms. It raised it high and then dropped it, breaking the axle. That killed all forward thrust on the Jeep, and it was enough for the warrior to shove it clear and start heading around toward the driver’s side.

Sam banged on the door. It didn’t give way, compressed as it was by the initial impact and the further damage it had sustained from the creature just now. The warrior came at her with the blade on its arm and Sam threw herself back, prone on the seat. The girder that had kept her pinned was now her only salvation as it prevented the alien from getting a clear angle at her. The closest it managed to get was the upper part of the seat, which it shredded. Sam screamed and dodged as best she could.

She heard Mick straining, grunting in his battle against the other alien, and wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold his own. Then again, it wasn’t going to matter, because her luck was about to run out.

And suddenly there was an explosive roar of gunfire and Sam was covered with blood—except it wasn’t hers. The creature’s head had been blown clear off and she heard a defiant Calvin Zapata bellow, “Smoke that!”

The headless alien slumped over and Cal shoved it to get it the hell out of the way. He was clutching a smoking shotgun in his hand, the one that Mick had dropped when the alien had attacked him. Cal then whirled in response to a shout of “A little help here!” and fired again. There was a heavy thud and Sam didn’t have to see it to know what had happened: the fearsome fury of Calvin Zapata had struck again, decapitating the warrior that Mick had been fighting.

Cal turned back to Sam and looked chagrined. “I don’t have a clever quip for killing the second one,” he said. “I know I should say something…”

“Don’t worry about it! Just get me out of here!”

Calvin started working the door frantically and Mick joined him. As they did so, Mick said to Cal, “Actually, I had the thing on the ropes. Just wanted to make you feel good about yourself.”

“Well, it worked.” Cal grunted as he pulled. “How about you?”

“Better than I have in a long time. And if Sam’s fiancé doesn’t get un-semied, I’m so hitting on her once all this is done.”

Sam didn’t bother to tell them that there was a very good chance they were going to be blown to bits by said fiancé. She didn’t see where additional pressure was going to be of much use.

I’m going to hell for this. This is it. This is my moment of damnation. And it’s not the kind of hell that you wind up in after you’re dead. It’s the kind of hell where you’re living it and you wish you were dead .

As Hopper stood there on the bridge he was sure—absolutely sure—that Sam had been lying to him. It wasn’t just the tension in her voice; it was the deliberate attempts at lightness, at making it seem as if everything was going to be just ducky. That, more than anything, told him that the love of his life wasn’t in the clear. Yet he knew what she wanted him to do… what he had to do.

Assuming Admiral Shane had made it through all this, and assuming they themselves survived—neither of which was a sure thing—he hoped that when he told Shane what he’d done, the admiral would simply pull out a gun and shoot him in the head. With Hopper’s luck, however, Shane would never do that. It would be too merciful.

Maybe she’s telling the truth… maybe she’s telling the truth…

With that infinitesimal shred of hope to cling to, Hopper said hollowly, “Fire forward guns. Whatever we’ve got left.” And God, if you’re listening—which I doubt, but if you are—if she’s still too close, find a way to make sure she has time to get clear .

The front battery of the Missouri revolved, elevated. Hopper braced himself, aware that the next sound he would hear might be the one that announced the impending death of his girlfriend.

The gun shook, coughed, sputtered… but did not fire.

“Uhm… where’s the kaboom?” asked Ord. “There’s supposed to be an Earth-shattering kaboom.”

The alarmed voice of the gunnery mate crackled over the 1MC. “She misfired, sir. Damned twenty-year-old hydraulic hose… can’t close the breach. That was our last round. We are fully Winchester, sir.”

It was at that moment that Hopper remembered an old quote his brother had mentioned by some French writer. Something about God being a comedian playing to an audience that was too afraid to laugh. He’d been praying that something would occur that would provide Sam sufficient time to get clear. He was thinking more along the lines of someone getting in touch with him and telling him to delay fire. Not a situation that rendered them unable to do anything.

He exchanged worried looks with Ord, Nagata and Driscoll. As he did, he said into the mike, “Mounts two and three, any ordnance left?”

“Second mount tap city, sir,” said the second gunner.

“Third mount, one round high explosive remaining,” the third gunner reported in.

Hopper breathed a sigh of relief. “Right. Let her go,” he said.

“Negative, sir. We took damage, all barrels are down.”

“Okay. Tell ’em: have it ready and waiting for us. Engineering? Beast, you still with us?”

“Right here, Captain.”

“Get your ass to battery three. We’ll meet you there.”

“On my way.” Beast sounded faintly confused, but he didn’t question it.

“Are you—?” Nagata began to ask.

“No time! Everyone except Driscoll, come on! Driscoll, if someone calls, tell ’em what’s going on!”

“Okay. Uh, what would that be?” said Driscoll, but Hopper had already exited, Ord and Nagata with him.

Hopper, Ord and Nagata raced down steep ladders into the belly of the ship. As they passed any able-bodied-looking crewman, Hopper would shout, “You! You and you! Come on!” He gathered as many as he could, and as they ran down a series of passageways, he heard the ones in the back asking the ones just in front of them what was going on. None of them knew. That was fine with Hopper. There was no time to explain—only time to get it done.

They clambered down the final ladders to battery three, where the gunnery crew was waiting with the massive 16-inch shell.

Hopper remembered the first time he’d heard his father talking about big guns with their 16-inch shells. Hopper, not more than eight or nine at the time, said that although sixteen inches was kind of big for a bullet, it didn’t seem that scary as far as a missile shell was concerned. His father, laughing, had explained that a 16-inch shell was sixteen inches in diameter, stood three feet tall and weighed several hundred pounds. Unless you’ve got a few bodybuilders on hand, you’re not going to be taking one of those babies anywhere , his father had told him.

Well, they now had to move one of those shells up to where it could do some good, and aside from Beast—who met them there, as instructed—they didn’t have any bodybuilders on hand.