“No,” Huber said. “You said it was a mistake moving closer. Instead, this is our opportunity.”

  Petty clutched his head as if he was about to shout with frustration.

  “Sir,” Huber said, perhaps finally noticing the CEO’s agitated state. “This isn’t as bad as it looks.”

  “How can you say that? They’ve taken the Moon. They own it. Now, they own us. What are we doing so close to the Moon?”

  “We’re going to defeat them,” Huber said.

  “I’d like to know how,” Petty said, seeming more rattled than ever.

  “Exactly,” Huber said, nodding sharply. “I suggest we launch fifty to eighty of the Guardian IIIs in a staggered formation.”

  “To do what, exactly?” asked Petty.

  “Take out the mass driver. It’s imperative that we do. Look, sir, the mass driver will hammer the missiles around the clock. Maybe we will stop most of them. Instead of trying, let’s use the missiles to force the Enkidu to engage.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re suggesting,” Petty said.

  “The Enkidu is behind the horizon in relation to us. The mass driver crosses that horizon so it can launch on Earth or objects between the Moon and the Earth. When we launch a massed missile strike at the mass driver, the Enkidu will come across that horizon and protect it.”

  “How does that help us?” Petty asked. “The Enkidu will just knock down our missiles.”

  “Probably,” Huber said. “But what if several get through?”

  “You mean hitting the Enkidu’s hull?”

  Huber nodded.

  Petty stared at the little man. “That would be wonderful.”

  “That likely won’t happen,” Huber said. “But maybe their ship will run too hot, or they’ll use up too many counter-missiles trying to stop the massed Guardian IIIs. We’ll start the exchange that I wrote about in the strategy reviews.”

  “Aren’t we just throwing away good Guardian IIIs by doing this?”

  Huber shrugged. “We might be doing that. But that’s better than losing them to mass driver assaults or having to move them back. We’re this close to the Moon. It’s time we did something to make the enemy react to us.”

  “It seems like a waste just sending them in like that,” Petty said.

  “Respectfully, sir,” Huber said. “It’s time we did something, anything.”

  Petty studied the little man. “By we, you mean me.”

  Huber shrugged.

  Petty shifted abruptly, staring at various displays. He inhaled deeply twice. His hands shook the slightest bit. He felt his gut tighten.

  “If it helps,” Huber said, “Napoleon Bonaparte said he agonized before making a grand decision. He felt weak like a woman in labor before the decision.”

  “Napoleon really said that?” asked Petty.

  “Something like that,” Huber said.

  “Let’s do this,” Petty said, breathlessly.

  “How many missiles should we launch?”

  “Eighty. Launch eighty at them. If we’re going to do it, let’s go for broke.”

  Huber stared at him.

  Petty frowned, then nodded. “Put me through to Admiral Wilson. I need to speak to him.”

  -16-

  The bridge of the Daniel Boone had turned active again. The successful interception of the projectile bought them time, but the looming threat of the mass driver demanded a decisive response.

  Then Petty contacted Admiral Wilson and informed him of the latest decision. That brought relief here.

  “Prepare eighty Guardian III missiles for launch,” Wilson told his chiefs. “Have them pick which ones and tell me when they’re ready.”

  “Do we have a target, sir?”

  Wilson nodded. “The mass driver. We’ll launch in sequence so one nuclear counter-missile can’t take them all out. This is going to be a protracted launch. Make the calculations. We want to begin the assault as soon as possible.”

  That turned out to be eleven mass-driver launches later: nine of those projectiles were intercepted. Two took out another thirteen Guardian III missiles—five permanently.

  At last, operators on the four Orion ships fed the targeting data and flight sequences into the AI of each Guardian III.

  The strike to annihilate the mass driver was about to commence.

  In the black expanse, 128,000 kilometers from the Moon, the selected and primed Guardian III missiles floated serenely. Each missile was the size of an old-style Saturn V rocket. Their frames were covered in matte black to reduce visibility, and each was equipped with advanced sensors and guidance systems. The plan was simple: eighty Guardian III missiles, launched in a staggered formation aimed directly at the mass driver on the lunar surface, would destroy it.

  “All systems are green, Admiral.”

  “Execute initial launch sequence,” Wilson said.

  The first four Guardian III missiles ignited, their engines flaring brightly against the darkness. They surged with precision, their powerful engines roaring silently in the vacuum of space. The missiles arced gracefully through space, their guidance systems locked onto the mass driver’s coordinates. Each missile adjusted its path with minute corrections, ensuring it stayed on target. The staggered formation spread out like a deadly fan, designed to maximize coverage and impact.

  It would take time for the missiles to reach the Moon, slightly longer than for the mass driver projectile to reach them.

  On the Daniel Boone’s bridge, officers and technicians watched intently, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screens.

  Admiral Wilson stood tall at the helm, his eyes fixed on trajectory data.

  Now, more Guardian III missiles streaked toward the target. Earth was making its first major move against the enemy.

  ***

  On the dark side of the Moon, the Enkidu’s exterior bristled with weaponry, sensor arrays, and defensive systems, all integrated into its intimidating frame.

  Inside the Enkidu, Marshal Baal stood on the bridge. He had summoned Naram Sin, who now stood beside him, head and shoulders above.

  “Marshal, incoming alert,” an officer said.

  Baal turned his worried gaze toward a tactical display showing the first Guardian III missiles approaching.

  Naram Sin whispered to Baal.

  Baal looked up at him.

  “Now, sir,” Naram Sin said.

  Baal cleared his throat. “Activate particle beams and counter-missile systems,” he said.

  Naram Sin whispered again.

  “Take us over the horizon,” Baal added. “Put us in direct line of sight with the missiles.”

  The Enkidu began to move, the lunar surface sliding beneath it. In moments, the 100,000-ton Enforcer was over the mass driver.

  Particle beam emitters slid into view on the hull. These weapons could discharge concentrated beams of high-energy particles, designed to obliterate targets. Nearby were counter-missile launchers, ready to fire rapid rockets.

  “The first Guardian III is almost in beam range,” a tactical officer said. “Engaging… now.”

  The first Guardian III missile streaked toward the mass driver. The Enkidu responded as a particle beam lashed out, a brilliant shaft of light that cut through space with terrifying speed. The beam found its mark, disintegrating the missile, and turning it into clouds of harmless debris.

  Counter-missiles also flew like angry hornets. They flashed past the first dying Guardian III, heading for the missiles behind it. Soon, their warheads detonated, vaporizing the next Guardian IIIs.

  ***

  Over the next hour, the Enkidu’s particle beams and counter-missiles successfully intercepted the first seventy-three Guardian III missiles.

  It wasn’t over yet, though. Another seven were still inbound.

  Deep within the ship were several critical particle beam chambers. They were filled with the most advanced technology the Valiants possessed, responsible for generating the immense energy needed to power the particle beams. Massive cooling systems worked overtime to manage the immense heat generated by the continuous firing.

  In Particle Beam Chamber 3, First Technician Ankh oversaw the delicate balance of power and cooling. The air was thick with the hum of machinery and the smell of superheated metal. Displays projected data streams showing the status of several particle beam cannons.

  “Chamber three’s temperature is rising,” a specialist reported. “Cooling systems are at maximum capacity.”

  Ankh frowned as he studied the numbers. The temperature was climbing too fast. “Divert additional power to the cooling systems.”

  The specialist did as ordered.

  But the measures were insufficient. The readouts continued to spike.

  Sweat beaded on Ankh’s forehead as he watched the temperature gauge edge into the red zone.

  “Overheating detected in Particle Beam Chamber 3,” the automated warning system announced.

  “Shut it down,” Ankh shouted. “Shut it down now!” Why hadn’t he given the order sooner? Why had the particle beam cannons needed to fire so much?

  Specialists scrambled to comply with the order, but it was too late. With a sudden, violent surge, the chamber’s containment field failed. The energy within, unable to dissipate safely, sought the path of least resistance.

  In an instant, the particle beam cannon connected to the chamber overheated and exploded. The blast was deafening, a concussive force that shook the entire section of the Enkidu. Metal warped and tore as the explosion ripped through the chamber, sending shrapnel and debris flying.

  Fire suppression systems activated, dousing the flames with chemical retardants, but the damage was already done. Smoke filled the chamber, mingling with the acrid smell of burnt circuitry and molten metal.

  Ankh was thrown to the deck by the blast. Dazed, he struggled to his feet, coughing as he inhaled the smoky, electrical-smelling air. Around him, specialists were doing the same, some tending to minor injuries, others frantically working to stabilize the remaining systems.

  “Status report,” Ankh shouted.

  “Chamber three is gone,” the lead specialist said, his face pale. “We’ve lost one of the particle beam cannons as well.”

  On the bridge, alarms blared, and data from the affected chamber streamed onto the main displays. Marshal Baal turned wordlessly to Naram Sin.

  The chess master stood at a display, reading, soon turning. “We lost a cannon, but we are still operational. Reroute power from the failed system and compensate with the remaining cannons.”

  Baal stared at him helplessly.

  “Targeting,” Naram Sin shouted. “Use counter-missiles on the last Guardian IIIs. Don’t let any of them destroy the mass driver.”

  Seeing the Marshal’s confusion, Naram Sin sidled up beside Baal.

  “What does this mean?” Baal hissed.

  “We took an internal hit, sir,” Naram Sin said quietly. “But we’ll stop the missile assault. That’s the critical thing. The Enkidu took a scratch, nothing more. We can carry on. If the humans fail to destroy our mass driver, we must win. It is inevitable.”

  Deep within the Enkidu were the scarred remains of the particle beam chamber. Even the most advanced weaponry was vulnerable to prolonged use.

  Outside and below, the mass driver readied to launch again. The Guardian IIIs had failed to take it out. Now, the crew wanted to show the humans what they thought of that.

  -17-

  Huber was getting older. He did not feel as fit as he used to, though he was careful about his diet. People would probably have been shocked to know that he followed a strict exercise regimen. He was deformed and too small with a big head, yet he had provided some of the key ideas to Petty. That had been true even back in the days of Director Anwar Gray.

  Lately, Huber had begun to feel as if these were the last years where his brain would operate at full capacity. He was in his upper fifties and hadn’t gone to pot yet or drunk himself into a stupor the way Petty did. Huber didn’t want Petty’s pressures or responsibilities. But he would help his friend.

  Huber sat in his small office, near Petty’s larger one. It was one-quarter the size, filled with papers, books, folios, and electronic devices. He had been wrestling with an idea and felt he had finally found the answer. The answer wasn’t everything, but how to sell it. There was an old historian of the 20th century named Basil Liddell Hart who had suggested one use the indirect approach. This was in warfare and in selling a new idea.

  An example was the hidebound British military’s attitude toward tanks. This was during the interwar period between World War I and World War II. To convince old-school trench-warfare officers, Hart suggested that tanks were a form of cavalry. Some of the old-timers had partially bought the argument, finding the idea of tanks more palatable that way. That was until the panzer-savvy Germans had showed everyone what tanks could do. Then everyone wanted in.

  “Sir,” his secretary said over the intercom. Huber’s big head jerked up. “Yes?”

  “Colonel Garvey and First Lieutenant Steele are here to see you.”

  “Send them in,” Huber said.

  He picked up a hand mirror, making sure he was presentable. When the door opened, he quietly put the mirror in a drawer. In walked Colonel Demetrius Garvey, a lean black man who ran the most elite space marine unit in existence. Following him was First Lieutenant John Steele, his prize pupil. They both wore the silver and black space marine uniforms, the colors of the old Oakland Raiders.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Huber said. “Please, sit down.” He moved from his desk to the side, and sat in a special chair. He pressed a button, and the chair rose higher. Garvey settled into a different chair, and Steele settled into the other.

  “What’s with all the secrecy, sir?” Garvey asked. “You brought us in a sealed picket shuttle all the way from the Daniel Boone. Is everything okay? Is there a coup in progress?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Huber said. “This is a momentous occasion, and I believe you two are going to help sell my big idea. The idea could go a long way toward winning the battle for the Moon, and that might mean the greater war.”

  Garvey glanced at Steele. “You were right about this being war-related.”

  Huber perked up. “You knew about this, Lieutenant?”

  “I didn’t know, sir,” Steele said. “But something along these lines seemed like the only logical reason you would call us. I doubt it’s anything I did, but I think the magic of my dad’s name still holds value for you.”

  “You are correct,” Huber said, surprised by the young man. “That is one of the reasons you’re here. You are a talisman. Your name and your own personal exploits have brought a shine to you so that Mr. Petty holds it with value.”

  Huber turned to Garvey. “You’re one of the few people who can speak frankly to Mr. Petty. I have a feeling I’m going to need that today.”

  “I’m listening,” Garvey said.

  Huber hunkered lower, glancing about as if someone could hear them. Earlier, he had gone over the office for bugs, but he didn’t want to search again in their presence. He would have liked to scoot his chair closer, but he dismissed the thought.

  “Here’s the point,” Huber said. “The pressures on CEO Petty are tremendous. He has to juggle events on Earth to maintain his position, and he holds the Orion ships and still maintains a good number of the Guardian IIIs. We tried to take out the mass driver, but failed. Even so, I have reason to hope.”

  Huber looked intently at young Steele. “You, my friend, are the key to this. Have you ever heard of the SAS, or the Long Range Desert Group?”

  Steele sat back, thoughtful, soon nodding. “Believe it or not, I looked them up recently.”

  “Tell me about them,” Huber said.

  Steele did. The Long Range Desert Group was formed of Commonwealth troops during World War II. The unit scoured the North African desert where Rommel fought the British. The unit drove SAS (Special Air Service) commandos against Italian and German planes, supply depots, and other targets. The LRDG and SAS did this in some of the most inhospitable wastelands on Earth.

  As Huber listened to Steele, he believed this confirmed his idea. After Steele stopped explaining, Huber told them their part with Petty. They were going to sell him on an idea, but first, Huber had to know if they were willing to put their bodies in the breech and face almost certain death in order for Earth to win.

  “Does it mean a military assault against the enemy?” Steele didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes,” Huber said.

  “Then count me in,” Steele said.

  “Colonel?” Huber asked.

  Without answering Huber, Garvey looked at Steele. “You know, we don’t have to fight the way your dad did.”

  Steele stiffened. “Maybe we do. Maybe that is our part. Maybe that’s what champions do. We’re fighting men, Colonel. Fighting men sometimes have to die to do what they need to do. That’s part of the code. I’ve always known that, and I’ve expected that would be my end. You know what else, sir? I always wanted to die with a gun in my hand, facing my enemy, firing at them, making them pay.”

  “Not me,” Garvey said. “I always wanted to die peacefully in my bed, but no matter.” He faced Huber. “We’ll do it if it has a chance of success, but first, I have to hear your idea.”

  Huber told them.

  Garvey and Steele looked at each other, astounded.

  “Can you agree to this?” Huber asked quietly.

  “I can and do,” Steele said.

  “Colonel?” Huber asked.

  “If you think that’s the only way to do it,” Garvey said.

  “I do,” Huber said. “Your unit is also the most elite. This is the moment to use it.”

  “All right then,” Garvey said. “Who wants to live forever, right?”

  Huber slid out of the chair to his feet. He wasn’t sure why he felt so guilty. “Gentlemen, it’s time to sell the idea to CEO Petty.”

  -18-

  John Steele followed Huber and Colonel Garvey into CEO Petty’s office. The first thing Steele noticed was how much older Petty looked. The CEO still had size, but it didn’t seem quite as solid as before. There was sagging skin, but it was the hollowed-out eyes and the haunted look that Petty had as he ushered them in. There was also a whiskey glass on his desk, and from the smell as they sat around the desk, it was clear Petty had been drinking.