"Look at this, Professor," graduate astrophysics student Emily Mulhern said as she eyeballed a real-time photo from the Hubble telescope array. "Wasn't there yesterday. A new asteroid, do you think?"

Dr. Adrienne Phillips nudged wire frame glasses down from their perch on her forehead and squinted through her recently acquired bifocals. "Your eyes are better than mine, Emily. I see nothing."

Mulhern tapped on the photo with a clear-polished fingernail. "Just south of Sagittarius, about forty-three thousand light years out. Very faint."

Phillips pursed her lips, shook her head. "Probably a glitch with Hubble's new tachyon-wired receiver dish antenna. Worth checking out though, Emily. Run some diagnostics and get sequential photos."

"How's it coming?" Commander Steven James, Executive Officer of the U.S. Navy light cruiser USS CHANCELLORSVILLE asked.

"As well as can be expected, sir," Lieutenant Brian Skogmo, Liaison Officer of the Coronado Island Naval Shipyard decommissioning crew replied. "Doesn't seem right. The Chancy's only eight years old."

"True, but she's obsolete now, what with the military reconfiguring for space-age armament. The new O'Reilly-class destroyers are coming out with molybdenum laser and concentrated neutron weaponry."

Skogmo lit up a cigarette, exhaled a lungful of tars and carcinogens, stifled a cough. "I heard the Brits and the Russkies have scrapped their standard armament too."

"Bum a smoke, Lieutenant?"

"Sure thing, Commander." He shook a Marlboro loose from the pack then struck a flame from his lighter.

The X.O. inhaled a pleasurable drag. "Not just the major powers, either. Technology is so cheap now even Sudan and Libya have their own subatomic particle generators. A mutual assured destruction scenario for all involved. Reminds me of the old nuke days. Deja vu all over again."

"For sure, sir." Skogmo fidgeted, exhaled a soft sigh. "I've, ah…"

"Something, Lieutenant?"

"Couple of your Gunnery Department guys were grousing about delays in weapons dismantling. Thought you should know."

"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll have a confab with Mister Masters and Chief Lucas."

"How about another beer, Charlie?" Andrew Masters, a wiry black Chief Warrant Officer asked.

"Comin' up, Andy," Chief Gunners Mate Charles Lucas said. He retrieved two cold Budweisers from the Styrofoam cooler hidden under a stack of life jackets next to the Bofors twin 40mm antiaircraft battery. He dried them against his sun-faded work shirt and handed one to Masters.

They popped off the caps and chugged several long swallows. "So what d'ya think?" Lucas asked.

"We're dinosaurs, Charlie," Masters replied. "Too late to change specialties. Advanced electronics, computers, Star Wars weapons…way too complicated for us. Time to retire and go fishing."

"Gentlemen," an unexpected voice said.

"Oh shit, Andy! The X.O.!" Lucas whispered as he tried in vain to hide his drink behind his back.

"As you were, Chief," Commander James said. "This isn't an official visit."

"We were just bullshitting, sir," Warrant Officer Masters grumbled. "About mothballing the Chancy. Damn shame. She's special."

"Special's right," Chief Lucas agreed in his Georgia drawl. "Chancy's the only U.S. warship named for a Confederate victory. Ole Stonewall Jackson whupped up on that Yankee Gen'ral Joe Hooker there."

Masters muffled a snicker with his hand. "Ole Stonewall got his ass handed to him, too. Friendly fire, I read someplace."

"History lesson. I'm impressed. And you're right, Warrant Officer Masters. Jackson lost an arm due to misdirected Confederate fire. Died of blood loss and infection. May of 1863."

Masters grinned. "We're impressed, sir."

"I'm even more impressed that you folks were able to smuggle beer on board a U.S. Navy vessel." Commander James perched on a hatch cover and removed his cap. "Got any more?"

"Last one, Commander," Charlie Lucas said as he fished it from the cooler. "You're not here just for the air, sir. Got something for us?"

James took a long swig, brushed foam from his lips. "Just checking around. A few morale problems, Lieutenant Skogmo said."

"We're understaffed, Commander. Four weeks behind schedule now, shipyard people bitching, driving us ratshit," Masters answered. "We've got two junior enlisted types who just got off K.P. duty. They haven't a clue about dismantling antiaircraft weapons."

"They can't wait to be reassigned to one of those hi-tech destroyers with the neutron zappers," Lucas added.

James drained his brew, added the empty to the dozen lined up by the gun mount. He shook his head. "Thought I might look into that myself."

"Can't blame you, sir. Charlie and I both got our twenty in, figure on finishing up on this baby next week," Masters said, giving the twin, water-cooled barrels an affectionate caress.

Charlie Lucas leaned back and stretched, hands behind his neck. "Retirement's sneakin' up on us for sure. Maybe we'll buy a boat."

Commander James stood and replaced his cap. "Keep cool, men. You're still our backbone. Thanks for the brew." He disappeared through a nearby hatchway.

"Nice enough guy, for an officer," Masters said.

Charlie Lucas pushed deeper in the stack of life jackets where a second cooler resided. "I s'pose we could have spared him another one."

"Here it is again, Professor Phillips."

She gave a gasp of surprise. "You're right, Emily. Even these old presbyopic eyes can see it now. Let's overlay it on your previous photos."

"Already done. This sucker is coming on like Armageddon. Only ten thousand light-years out now, and headed our way for sure."

"Way too fast for a comet or meteor. I wonder…"

Mulhern pressed keys. An enhanced enlargement popped to the CRT screen. "Funny shape, too. Sort of disjointed. Are you thinking the same thing I am, Professor?"

"And what would that be, Emily?"

"UFO," she whispered. "Faster than light propulsion. Maybe more than one. Should reach our neighborhood in roughly seventy-two hours."

"We'd better call somebody."

"What's up, Captain?"

Commanding Officer Edwin Palmquist handed his X.O. a computer printout. "Came in half an hour ago, Steve. Had to send it ashore to base communications for decoding."

Commander James rubbed his forehead to forestall the impending headache. "Of course, sir. Our crypto geeks were all transferred." He read the printout, eyelids narrowed with skepticism. "You're kidding, right?"

"Pentagon's not. They just raised all U.S. Armed Forces to DefCon two. What's our chances of getting underway, Steve?"

"We're a sitting duck, Captain. Engineering division people all transferred; reactor core's long gone. No backup propulsion."

"Defensive array?"

Commander James launched a kick at the bulkhead in frustration. "Zero, zip, nada, sir. All our Howler surface-to-air nuke-tipped missiles were offloaded couple of months back, and we've dismantled all but one 40 mm AA twin mount. All magazines were emptied, too."

"So, we're naked. Do we have eyes?"

"Two radarmen."

"Put 'em on air search. Wide scan, maximum range."

"Got it, Captain. They can rotate in four-hour shifts."

"Set condition Bravo. This is a major snafu. I think somebody over at Cal Tech forgot to clean the telescope lenses."

"Condition Bravo? What the hell?" Chief Lucas spluttered, his voice incredulous and wondering.

"Can't be a drill," Warrant Officer Masters answered. "We quit those back in January."

"Damn. I just gave our sailors a six-hour pass. We'll never find 'em."

"What the hell could we do in an air raid? One functional twin-forty mount, but no ammo."

"Why don't we jury-rig a giant slingshot?" Lucas suggested.

Masters chuckled. "Load it with last night's meatballs, maybe?"

Chief Lucas cocked a dubious eyebrow. "Andy, let's secure the damn hatches and have us another cold one."

"Good God. There's over fifty of them," Emily Mulhern exclaimed, brushing wayward strands of dark hair from her face with a tremulous hand.

"Spacecraft for certain," Adrienne Phillips affirmed. "What could they want here?"

"Conquest, Professor," General Everett Mason, Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff said as he peered over their shoulders. "Good gravity, oxygen-rich atmosphere, but inhabited. They want Earth for resettlement." He turned to accompanying Armed Forces officers for confirmation. They nodded solemn agreement.

"How can you know that?" Professor Phillips asked.

"Alien transmission we intercepted. Took our crypto folks six hours to translate and decode it." He handed her a computer printout. "Just an approximation, you understand."

She read aloud in a hushed, horrified voice. "Prepare to land field units? Terminate all sentient life? Disembark colonists? Good God!"

"Not to worry, ladies. Every nation on this planet has state-of-the art laser and neutron weaponry. We'll blast 'em out of the sky."

"Steve? We have a problem," Captain Palmquist said. "Looks like the eggheads had it right. We just received and confirmed the war message. DefCon One. The press's got hold of it too. Check this out."

BREAKING NEWS flashed across the TV screen in fiery block letters. "They appeared suddenly over major cities of the world ten minutes ago," the harassed Fox News Channel anchorwoman announced as the crew in CHANCELLORSVILLE's Combat Information Center stared in disbelief. She mopped perspiration from her nose with a tissue, ignoring the camera's intrusive eye.

"Not our aircraft; repeat, not our aircraft. This is a live feed from London." The shaky image of a huge, copper-colored cylinder looming overhead popped to the screen, then a quick shift to the houses of Parliament, which had been reduced to smoldering debris.

"The Brits have second-generation proton cannons. Why aren't they returning fire?" Captain Palmquist asked.

"They are, sir," Computer Technician Second Class Elizabeth Simmons said. She handed the Captain a sheet of hardcopy. "This just printed out."

"From Joint Chiefs to all Commands," Captain Palmquist read. "All neutron and laser fire being repelled. Aliens have impenetrable alternating frequency subatomic particle shields. We have nothing—"

"That was it, Simmons?"

"All communication with the Pentagon was just lost, sir."

"Wait one. This just in," the Fox News anchor gasped as an assistant thrust a sheet of copy into her fist. "The Pentagon under attack. U.S. Air Force squadrons destroyed on the ground. The Russian aircraft carrier VLADIMIR PUTIN in flames, sinking. Pretoria, Shanghai, Sydney reduced to rubble—" were the Fox News anchorperson's last words before the screen went black.

"I'll be with our antiaircraft crew," Commander James said.

Chief Gunners Mate Lucas balled his fists in frustration. "Sonofabitch, Commander. No ammo! We could have gotten a few rounds off. I don't want to die cowering in a bunker."

"Goes for me too, sir," Warrant Officer Masters affirmed.

"Might as well enjoy the show. Couple of beers, gents?" Lucas muttered in resignation as he rummaged beneath the stack of life jackets. "Got another cooler here somewhere…"

"Watch it," Andy Masters warned as the pile disassembled, burying Lucas up to the hips.

Charlie dusted himself off, kicking loose life jackets across the deck. "I'm okay, Andy. Friggin' cooler was here five minutes ago."

"That's no beer cooler," Commander James said.

Masters's disbelieving voice rose half an octave. "Well I'll be… 40- mm ammo can! I thought we'd offloaded 'em all."

"Inventory was one short," Charlie Lucas admitted with a shrug. "Didn't think it would matter, so I fudged some numbers."

"Six five-round clips," Masters said, grinning with satisfaction. "All right! Armor-piercing shells. We can be part of the show."

"Wait a sec, Andy. Look here." Lucas hefted one of the ammunition clips and pried out a round. He scraped a thumbnail across a discolored patch on the shell casing. "Rust. It could jam the barrels, maybe cause an explosion."

"Oh, shit," was Masters's dismayed response. "All of them?"

"Every one," Commander James noted after a quick inspection of the remaining rounds.

Charlie pulled a couple of metal rasps and some emery cloth from a toolbox and handed them around. "Let's fix it."

"Let's hope the old powder hasn't become unstable," James said with a disingenuous grin as he attacked the rusty casing with a coarse file. "Could be dangerous."

"An officer with a sense of humor," Masters said with a chuckle. "Ready to give it a go, gents?"

"Well, we have no electronic targeting gear, but if you two can man the pointer and trainer stations, I can load."

"Let's do it, Commander," Warrant Officer Masters affirmed, giving the X.O. an enthusiastic high-five. "We're ready."

"Just in time," James said. "Look over there." Exploding ammunition depots, ships and fuel reserves lit up the horizon in a cascade of earsplitting sound and light. "San Diego just got hit."

"Here they come," Masters warned. The huge, bat-like shape blotted out half the sky. "Big sonofabitch, different from the ones on the TV news. Moving slow—out for a walk in the park. Arrogant bastards."

"Less than eleven hundred yards, Andy," Lucas noted with his keen gunners eye.

"Perfect, Charlie. They're in range. We can't miss. Neither can they. Ready to die for your country, gents?" Masters tossed steel battle helmets to his crew. "Let's kick ET's ass."

"Exercise in futility, but maybe we can piss 'em off some," Commander James said as he snapped the first clip in place. "Shoot!"

Nothing happened.

"Dud round!" Chief Lucas yelled in dismay. "Ejecting now."

"Fresh ammo clip in place," Commander James shouted over the cacophony of explosions. "Try it now."

"Misfire! Hit the deck, people," Lucas screamed as he scrambled over the side of the steel gun tub. The others were close behind as a deafening blast showered them with metal debris.

"They missed us," James said in a wondering voice as he sat up and inspected the shards of steel embedded in his helmet.

"Not them, X.O.," Andy Masters said. "Defective round. Old, unstable powder charge. Like you said, sir."

One of the 40 mm guns had exploded, the flash suppressor gone and the muzzle curled back on itself in twisted, smoking metal shards. "Breech mechanism blown out, too. We were lucky," Masters said. "The steel wall of the gun emplacement absorbed most of the blast."

"We got bigger trouble, folks," Charlie Lucas said. "We're on their radar scope now." The off-world craft had made a lazy 180-degree turn. "Comin' back to finish us off."

"We've got one cannon left. Another clip, Commander. If we gotta go, let it be in flames," Andrews screamed, shaking his fist at the sky.

"Another dud. Ejecting now. Last clip, X.O."

"Please be good," Commander James prayed. He jammed it into place and Lucas hit the firing switch.

Three bright muzzle flashes split the night. The AA cannon shuddered in recoil as the armor-piercing rounds rose through a haze of mist and smoke.

"Hang fire!" Chief Lucas screamed. His makeshift crew hugged the steel deck of the obsolete light cruiser CHANCELLORSVILLE once again. Then the single remaining barrel exploded as the last 40-mm round lit off prematurely.

"Too bad," Warrant Officer Masters opined as he rose and dusted himself off. "They got us pinpointed now, for sure."

"You got that right. Incoming!" Steve James yelled as a cacophony of light, sound and metallic projectiles enveloped them…

"Captain Palmquist, perhaps you could explain to me exactly what the hell happened before I appear before the Joint Chiefs?"

"I'll try, Admiral. Three sub-light speed 40 millimeter armor piercing rounds from a Bofors Mark I antiaircraft cannon, circa 1936, impacted the alien craft. Its sensors ignored them. So did the alternating frequency subatomic particle shields; they must not have been programmed for anything as primitive as a slow missile."

"Sonofabitch. Hundred year-old 40-mm rounds? Nice work."

"We did have casualties, Admiral. The spaceship exploded directly over the CHANCELLORSVILLE. Killed damn near everybody topside, then splashed down just off her starboard bow. My 40-mm AA crew got partial cover behind the steel gun mount. They're recovering from shrapnel wounds at the Naval Hospital. They asked how we're doing."

"Last report from Professor Phillips at Cal Tech says the alien fleet hauled ass from our solar system at faster-than-light speed, headed for the galactic rim."

"And based on your recommendations, Captain, Warrant Officer Masters, Chief Gunners Mate Lucas and your Executive Officer Commander James will be considered for Medals of Honor."

"Thank you, Admiral. They did have one additional request, sir."

"Name it."

"A couple of six-packs of Budweiser. Chief Gunners Mate Lucas says it's awfully dry over there, and the nurses are strictly regulation."