Mavericks (Expeditionary Force Book 6)

by Craig Alanson

  “Not Ok!” Derek couldn’t wait any longer for the balky topside aft maser turret to make up its mind and finish rebooting. The damned thing was stuck somewhere in its cycle, he guessed some physical component had been damaged and the point-defense system was waiting for a reply that would never happen. “Yaw starboard thirty degrees then roll us another ten degrees to port.”

  Without asking why, Irene gently slewed the ship thirty degrees to the right without banking, in a cringe-inducingly un-aerodynamic maneuver. When the ship’s nose was pointed in the designated direction, she rolled it even more to the left and held the course straight. “Doing it! Why?”

  “Topside aft PDS is offline, we need the belly cannon tracking inbounds,” Derek responded without looking up from his console. “Belly PDS has targets!”

  The maser turret on the underside of the ship reacted immediately when the bulk of the craft was no longer masking its line of sight to the four inbound missiles. The maser exciters got photons lined up coherently and pulses of microwave energy lanced out in coordination with the forward topside turret, bracketing the closest missile and getting closer with each shot. With two masers working together quicker than the blink of an eye, the random side-to-side and up-and-down evasive jinking of the missile had to become less random to avoid running into a destructive beam. In less than a quarter second, the dropship’s point defense system identified a pattern in the missile’s attempts to evade being effectively targeted, and the next shot from the topside cannon was aimed slightly to the right and below the missile.

  The lead missile flew directly into the beam and its warhead exploded.

  Having one less missile tracking them was great for the three humans and one Jeraptha inside the dropship. The premature detonation of the warhead meant no shrapnel could catch the accelerating craft, and its PDS automatically switched focus to the second missile.

  And was confused for a crucial four tenths of a second. The downside to the first missile exploding was that the Kristang weapons designers were not stupid, nor were they inexperienced at air combat. When the missile was hit by a maser beam, its tiny brain had a nanosecond to assess whether the hit was fatal, and the answer was yes and then hell yes as the propulsion motor began to break up from the maser energy. The second question was whether the missile was close enough to try for a proximity kill and the answer was, sadly, no. So the missile’s last act of defiance was to detonate its warhead in chaff mode, the explosive charge in a wide disc parallel to its direction of flight. Burning hot particles created a cloud that scorched the air, filled the area with powerful static and temporarily blocked the dropship’s view of the second missile.

  The second missile also was smart, it knew what the first missile had done and why, and even before it decrypted the final burst transmission from the doomed weapon, the second missile fired thrusters to slow itself and linger in the shadow of the cloud another hundredth of a second before turning violently to the left and down. The second missile also had analyzed the target’s defensive capability and tendencies and identified what it hoped was a weakness, so it intended to approach from a direction where only one maser turret could get a line of sight view.

  Derek recognized the danger even before the red light flashed on his console. “We lost target lock! We lost it!” The predictive software was warning the missile would impact in three seconds or less, and the point defense system still was searching the sky for that second missile. The display held three fuzzy pink objects that might be possible threats, with confidence too low for the PD cannons to fire. Even as Derek’s brain formed the thought to hell with that and his fingers reached to override the PDS safeties so the damned maser turrets could fire at something, he knew anything he did would be too late.

  “Is there-” Irene asked to inquire if there was something she should be doing, could be doing, when the Dodo rocked and even more warning lights flared on the consoles. They had been struck from behind, thank God it was a proximity blast and not a direct hit. The aft belly turret was offline and most systems behind the seventeenth structural frame were glitching, dead, or dead and on fire.

  That wasn’t right. Zingers could shape their proximity warheads to direct the shrapnel in a cone toward the target. There should be a lot more damage, the tail should be shredded. “You hit the-”

  “Thank you, Tutula!” Derek interrupted the pilot.

  “Welcome,” the Verd-Kris woman replied tersely, having no time to chat as she flipped her relatively nimble fighter-gunship into a tight turn. Normally, bleeding off airspeed in combat is a sure-fire recipe for disaster but she had no choice. With the other dropship missing an engine, trailing fire as random parts broke away and unable to defend itself unless its two forward point-defense turrets got lucky, she had to cover it with her own cannons and that meant flying slow and close. The idea of flying straight at the missiles, and trying to shoot them with her more powerful but slow-reacting maser cannons was an idiotic scheme that would have washed her out of flight training before she could get herself killed. Being smart meant tucking her ship in behind the crippled dropship, trying to anticipate its movements and trusting her Vulture’s point-defense system to do its job. Her fighter had energy shields, but in flight they were useful only against directed-energy weapons like maser and particle beams. Against missiles, unless she got very lucky by spoofing the enemy guidance systems at long range, it was kill or be killed, and even her enhanced reactions were far too slow to track an incoming missile.

  A glance at the point-defense system monitor showed it was fully capable and ready for more action after having destroyed the second missile before it could hit Perkin’s ship. Now it was a matter of one computer system matching against another. The missiles had the advantage of being small, stealthy and ferociously maneuverable, and of tracking a large and slow-moving target. The dropship’s maser cannons had the advantage of a stable platform to shoot from, their beams traveling at the speed of light and being able to cycle a kill shot every three tenths of a second.

  Tutula hated relying on the cold logic of automated systems for her survival.

  The two remaining missiles in flight had no discomfort about relying on logic, as they had not been programmed to experience comfort, discomfort or any other emotions. They had been expertly programmed to kill and to use cold, hard logic to accomplish that. Both missiles analyzed the situation and when one missile made a suggestion that would require the sacrifice of the other, the suicidal missile did not hesitate. Instantly, the two separated with one missile continuing to track the smaller target and jink toward it to evade maser fire, while the other missile dove down and went wide to kill the crippled target. The snap assessment had been that their best chance to make a kill was to hit the crippled ship rather than the nimble fighter-gunship. If the suicidal missile could hit the fighter airspace craft that would be great, but its purpose was to draw defensive fire away from its companion.

  The suicidal missile’s brain recorded a maser beam near-miss that was too close and it calculated a seventy six percent chance a maser would score a direct hit before it got close enough for even a proximity kill, so without any regret it detonated its warhead in a shape-charge directed at the fighter craft ahead of it.

  Tutula had no time for rejoicing and no cause for celebration when the warhead blew by itself. Her fighter was caught in the shockwave and shrapnel pinged off the hull, making the defensive shield flare and fuzzing the view of the point-defense sensors. The system attempted to lock onto the single remaining missile, cycling through several engagement solutions in nanoseconds before concluding it could not be confident of an intercept before the missile struck the crippled Dodo dropship. It signaled that bad news to the pilot by flashing an orange light on a console.

  When Tutula saw the blinking light representing the depressing analysis of her point-defense system, she did not shout a useless warning. The missile was approaching from below and behind the other dropship, the vulnerable Dodo carrying the
mission commander and the Jeraptha who was needed to extract data from the research core. The data that was needed to save the lives of humans on the planet they called Paradise, and more importantly, to safeguard the lives of Ruhar on that planet and beyond. Saving lives was why she dedicated her life toward training hard to qualify for star duty. Saving lives was really only a secondary objective but at the moment, saving the lives aboard the other dropship aligned perfectly with her primary mission.

  Tutula kicked the throttles to maximum and pushed the nose down, straight into the path of the missile.

  If the missile was startled by the good fortune of scoring a direct impact on a fighter-gunship rather than an already damaged target, it made no comment as it altered course slightly. At that angle, it could not have hit the larger dropship anyway, so it pushed through the Vulture’s ineffective energy shield, plunging through the lightly-armored skin above the portside wing and shattering a maser cannon before it struck something solid enough to set off its warhead.

  “Holy, holy shit,” Derek gulped, his throat constricting so he choked on the words. “Get us out of here, on the deck.”

  “Missile status?” Perkins asked as Irene dipped the nose and built up airspeed, confused by what her tactical display was showing her.

  “No birds in the air.” Derek reported with an anguished look shared between the pilots.

  “We got it?” Perkins asked with a shudder of relief, unaware she had been holding her breath.

  “No, Ma’am,” Irene responded for Derek, who was badly shaken and focusing his attention on keeping their one engine running. “Tutula flew right into the path of that last missile. She saved us, Ma’am.”

  “I didn’t,” Perkins blinked away tears that suddenly formed, angry at herself for weakness in combat and for not understanding what the Verd-Kris pilot had done. “Can we-”

  She was interrupted by a call over the taclink. “Colonel Perkins, that truck is out of action, you copy? Colonel? Colonel? Anyone?”

  The interruption brought her back to focus. She could mourn later. “Sergeant Colter, what is your status?”

  “We busted that truck up good,” Jesse’s thick accent had toned down a bit as his heart rate slowed. “Shauna and Dave are guarding the sensor transmitter. We’re Ok down here, uh, Surgun Jates took a pounding-”

  “I am fully effective.” Jates’ protested. “Colonel Perkins, I suggest my team search the base for opposition before you land, can you provide air support?”

  “Negative on the air support,” Perkins did not elaborate. “Jates, secure the transmitter ASAP and clear the area around the research compound, we can land between buildings there.”

  If Jates had a bad feeling about why no air support was available, he did not say anything.

  The ground team first sprayed a fast-setting foam around the transmitter then partly filled in the crater to bury it, placing the ceramic block on top. The four then rushed over to the research base and cleared the compound building by building as quickly as they could, a task simplified by the fact the research section only contained three buildings. When Jates gave the all-clear, the big dropship came in low from the north, tucking itself between two buildings and awkwardly set down in a choking cloud of dust. The back ramp was already open, Arlon Dahl stepping nimbly out on his four legs as the craft settled on its landing skids. Perkins was right behind the Jeraptha. “Surgun Jates-”

  “I already know,” he replied stiffly.

  “I’m sorry. She sacrificed herself to save us, to save the lives on Paradise.”

  “Excuse me, Colonel Perkins, but that is not why Tutula acted, not why I am here. We serve the Ruhar to save our own people from slavery, to rescue our culture from extinction. I think in that way, my people and yours have something very important in common.”

  To the surprise of Emily Perkins, the hulking alien in the dirty and scratched skinsuit offered her a fist bump. While that was not proper military protocol, it was a heartfelt gesture and she graciously accepted. “Surgun Jates, can you escort Arlon Dahl to the research core? Jarrett, go with them,” she added without waiting for Jates to reply. “Czajka, Colter, go see what those asshole Keepers are doing, I don’t want any interference from them.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dave jogged warily over to where the ‘control group’ of humans was being kept. With Jates and Dahl down in the bunker to access the research lab’s computers and Shauna providing cover for the Jeraptha, Perkins had ordered Dave and Jesse to check out the ruined and smoking dropship hangar to assure there weren’t any more surprises waiting for the assault team, then to make contact with the Keepers. Secretly, he had been hoping that entire group of assholes had been killed during the attack so they wouldn’t be his problem, but no such luck. The control group was being held in a fenced area separated from the rest of the base by a wide, flat open stretch of ground and as he ran across it, Dave saw the open ground had been bulldozed flat. The Kristang had created a killing ground between their base and where the Keepers were kept, that told him just how much the Keepers were valued and trusted. “Jesse, man, check it out,” Dave pointed with his rifle as he approached the fence. “That’s some serious security.”

  The Keepers were surrounded not only by a fence with clouds of razor wire in top, the fence was a double layer, with a spike-filled trench separating the fences by four meters. Jesse halted, bent down to pick up a stone, and tossed it at the outer fence. There was a shower of sparks and the stone was thrown back. “That fence must have an independent power source. Hell, we need to turn that off.”

  The only way in was a road that spanned the trench, with gates in the fence. Inside the fence, Keepers were peeking out from the side of the three buildings in the center, presumably where the control group lived. One of the buildings was nothing more than a prefab metal hut for storing something, the other two had windows with people’s faces visible. With them wearing Ruhar skinsuits and their helmets on, there was no way for the Keepers to know the base had not been assaulted by Ruhar. Even Surgun Jates wore Ruhar flexible armor, so there was no way to see he was Kristang. And clearly, their dropship was a Ruhar craft. “I don’t know how to turn off the electricity, but I do know how to open these gates,” Dave flicked off his rifle’s safety, took aim, and fired a maser beam at the top hinge of the outer gate. Jesse joined him, working on the lower hinge, and soon the gate sagged and crashed to the ground. Dave sliced away power cables and kicked a stone at the gate with his boot, the stone clattered and bounced off the gate but there were no sparks. Being careful not to touch the live fence on either side, they dragged the gate out of the way, and repeated the procedure with the inner gate, kicking it inside the compound with their power-assisted legs.

  “Come on out, y’all!” Jesse called out, irritated with the Keepers for hanging back. Didn’t those dumbasses know that if the attackers wanted them dead, the dropship could have strafed the compound and killed every one of them? “Come out, ya bunch of cowards!”

  At one side of a barracks there was an animated conversation, with raised voices and a scuffle. One of the people broke free and ran toward the two suited figures, then stopped, looked behind himself, and continued walking forward slowly. Six other people hurried forward and caught up to him, one put a hand on the lead guy’s shoulder but he shook it off.

  Most of the Keepers were wearing baseball caps and bush hats against the bright morning sunlight, with others protecting their heads with rags wrapped around their skulls. All of them were dressed in relatively new if dirty clothing, the hats still had visible ‘UNEF’ logos although most of the logos had been defaced in some way. Dave and Jesse looked at each other. Where had the Keepers gotten new gear? The last time either of them saw a UNEF baseball cap, the blue material had faded to a light gray. And boots! All the Keepers were wearing nice boots that hadn’t been patched and mended half a dozen times.

  “Hello,” the lead guy spoke, holding up one hand and taking his cap off with the o
ther.

  “What the f- Eric?” Jesse exclaimed.

  “Jesus,” Dave gasped, astonished. “Eric Koblenz?”

  The guy shaded his eyes, but could not see the faces inside the opaque helmets. Dave and Jesse ordered their faceplates to go clear, and Eric’s eyes bulged. “Ski? Cornpone? What the hell, what, how are you here?” He sputtered.

  “That’s Dave and Jesse to you, asshole,” Dave growled. Even at tiny Fort Rakovsky, they had not liked that jerk referring to them by nicknames.

  “Hell, you call us Sergeants Colter and Czajka,” Jesse corrected his friend, and tapped the US Army chevron-and-rocker symbol on his shoulders.

  “Sergeants?” Eric looked closer and saw the familiar rank symbols. He should have noticed that right away, those were not Ruhar insignia! “What are you doing here? In hamster armor?”

  “We’ll ask the questions here,” Dave snapped. “We’re part of a Ruhar task force now,” he fibbed. Before he could brag like he greatly wanted to, Eric interrupted.

  “Guys, please, you have to get me out of here! Please!” His eyes were pleading, his hands held out in supplication. “The lizards lied to us, I think they used us for medical experiments, we were-”

  “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Jesse cut him off. “Y’all were brought here as guinea pigs, the lizards made a bioweapon to use against our people on Paradise. And you all were part of it.”

  “We didn’t know!” Eric protested. “They only told us-”

  “Don’t listen to their lies,” a man behind Eric growled as he reached out to pull the now-reluctant Keeper backwards, but Eric was not going for that shit, not anymore. His elbow shot back and cracked the man in the face, breaking his nose and sending a spray of blood to splatter Eric. Two others stepped in, though hesitantly and without enthusiasm. Eric punched one of them and they backed off, holding up their hands to signal they were not participating in this fight.