“They’ve got us on the defensive.”
“We don’t have the manpower to-”
“Vince Lombardi said the best defense is a good offense.”
She knew Dave was a Green Bay Packers fan. “I don’t think he was the first to say-”
“Em, we need to hit them, hit them hard. If this becomes a battle of attrition, we lose. You know that.”
She sighed and brushed away the hair that had fallen in front of her face. “I would love to go on the offensive against the Kristang, but we don’t have the manpower to hit them in any way that is worth the risk. Commodore Sequent is keeping the Kristang from massing firepower against us, but his ships are wearing out, and-”
“Em,” he cut her off, having missed part of what she said because of a burst of jamming. “We can hit them, and make a difference. The Verds here have a plan. All they need is a ‘Go’ order.”
She hesitated. “Burtal Zaring isn’t here, I can send a request to her second-in-”
“Forget the Verds. This base is in the UNEF zone, under UNEF authority. Em, all the Verds here need is a ‘Go’ from someone, anyone. Can you talk with Ross?”
“I,” she hesitated. “Can. Send the operation plan to me here?”
“On the way now. We need to go now, like, now.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“You can promise to do your best,” he suggested. “That’s all I can ask.”
She pressed the zPhone to her forehead and breathed deeply, calming her nerves. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. “You come back to me, you hear? That is an order.”
“I’m a civilian contractor now, remember? I don’t take orders,” he tried to joke, but his voice cracked. “Hell, Em, I don’t want to do this. Somebody has to, and I’m here.”
“I love you,” the words were out of her mouth before she realized she’d spoken
“I love you too,” Dave felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Neither of them had said those three little words before. “This is a hell of a time to be having this conversation.”
That made her laugh. “I’ve got the file. You’ll have an answer in a couple hours, one way or another.”
“Well?” Jates asked anxiously, looming over Dave.
“The Colonel is bringing it to General Ross for approval.”
Jates scowled, looking back over his shoulder at the Verd commando leader, who was waiting for a response. “How long will that take?”
“Too long,” Dave admitted. “That’s why we’re not waiting.”
Jates’s eyes narrowed. “These commandos will not proceed without a ‘Go’ order.”
“No, they won’t launch the attack without a ‘Go’ order. We don’t have to,” Dave bit his lower lip to control his frustration. Working with allies, especially alien allies, was a pain in the ass. “Listen, technically, we need a ‘Go’ order to cross the Line of Departure, right? Ok, so, we move that imaginary line up, to, uh,” he pulled up a map on his tablet and jabbed a spot with a finger. “Here. That’s our assembly area, behind the LOD, Ok?” He used terminology that had been standardized across the various nationalities of UNEF.
“We are inserting by air,” Jates was skeptical. “There is no ‘assembly area’.”
“There is, if we say there is. Look, as long as we don’t cross the Final Coordination Line, we are technically not committed to conducting an attack, see?”
Jates studied the map. A ghost of a smile creased his lips. “What are you defining as the FCL?”
“Uh, well, uh,” Dave let the wheels in his head grind out an answer. “Here. That is the line where we can’t turn our ships around without being detected and intercepted, right?”
The Surgun continued to study the map silently.
“Well?” Dave demanded.
“Czajka, you humans, especially the Mavericks, have a tendency to act on your own in an unauthorized fashion. It exhibits a lack of discipline, that would not be tolerated in a Verd-kris soldier.”
“Oh, for-”
“It also exhibits an admirable capacity for self-direction and initiative, that we Verd-kris need to learn from. I like it.”
Dave lifted an eyebrow still not sure what the Surgun meant. “So, we go?”
Jates took in a deep breath and held up a fist to the commando leader. “Fuck yes we do.”
“Urp,” Dave swallowed hard and breathed through his nose, fighting the urge to hurl up the energy bar he had wolfed down before takeoff.
“You Ok in there, Czajka?” Jates asked, leaning over so their skinsuit helmets touched and they could talk without using the comm system.
“Yeah, I,” he swallowed bile, and took a sip of water from the nipple inside the helmet. “I’m fine. This ride is a bit rough.”
“This is a normal flight through a safe-fly corridor,” Jates pretended surprise.
The last thing Dave Czajka wanted to do was show weakness in front of the Verd-kris who packed the cabin of the bouncing and lurching aircraft. “Oh, hell, it is-”
“Relax, Czajka,” Jates held up a thumb where Dave could see the gesture in the dim cabin lighting. “My stomach is also doing an unhappy dance right now. Normally, your skinsuit could administer an anti-nausea medication into your bloodstream, but-”
“Yeah, I know. This suit wasn’t fully modified for use by a human,” he gritted his teeth. Other than shrinking the suit to fit his shorter height, and loading special software to adjust for his human biomechanics and limitations, the skinsuit was standard-issue for Verd-kris. That meant if he was injured, the suit’s reservoir of medical nanomachines would only be able to provide limited care, as they were not fully compatible with human biochemistry.
Dave told himself he needed to not get shot. Or stabbed. Or blown up. Simple.
“Twelve minutes,” the warning from the pilot blared in Dave’s ears, making him wince.
“Twelve minutes, and we must turn around, if we do not get approval for this operation,” Jates reminded quietly.
“Yeah, I know,” Dave found that having something to think about, worry about, helped him ignore his roiling stomach. “I would call Em again, but-”
“Yes,” Jates made a curt nod. “We can’t risk a transmission without compromising our stealth. We wait, then.”
“We’ve come this far. These guys would really turn around, at this point?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Jates acknowledged. “As I told you, we are not here only to win this one, unimportant battle. Czajka, you humans must prove to the Ruhar that humans are tough enough, disciplined enough, determined enough, to be relied on in combat. We Verd-kris have no need to demonstrate our fighting ability. We must prove that we can be trusted, that we will act only under authorized orders. Winning this battle does us no good if the Ruhar see that we went rogue and acted on our own. That is what the Ruhar fear most.”
“Gotcha,” Dave said bitterly, knowing they would not get another chance to hit the target. The authentication codes the Verd-kris had stolen could only be used once, and would expire within seven hours. “Damn it, for once, I’d like a simple, stand-up fight, without a lot of political bullshit layered on it.”
“Czajka, in preparation for service with humans, I studied your military history.”
“Ok, so?”
“I think complaints about political bullshit go back before the Roman Army.”
Dave snorted in his helmet. “I think you’re right. Ok, ten minutes now.”
In ten minutes, they would have to turn around and fly back to base, if they had not received the ‘Go’ order from UNEF. The corridor through which they were flying, a twisting, turning, gut-wrenchingly convoluted course through Kristang-controlled airspace, was too restricted for the commando’s pair of aircraft to do anything but fly inbound or outbound. The only position where the aircraft could have stealthily orbited while awaiting orders, was now twenty minutes behind them. At that point, the commando leader decided they could not loiter, because dawn
was approaching and traffic in the safe-fly corridor was increasing. So, if the ‘Go’ order was not received, the commandos would have no choice but to divert to another safe-fly corridor and exit the combat area. They would then be flying the last leg back to base in daylight, not an optimal situation.
Dave sat in silence, his gloved hands on his thighs, waiting and worrying. And wondering what the hell UNEF was doing. A simple answer of yes, or no was all they needed. General Ross no doubt had his already-overworked staff reviewing the commando’s plan, and-
“Go,” the voice of the commando leader spoke calmly in Dave’s ears. “We have a ‘go’.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Getting approval to launch the final phase of the operation allowed Dave’s nerves to go from What-the-hell-is-taking-so-long to I-don’t-want-to-die-without-shooting-back. He hated the flight inbound to action, always had hated it. When his boots hit the ground, he had at least the illusion of control, no matter how slight that was. Sitting in a crowded, lurching aircraft as it bounced through the darkness was nerve-wracking. A single missile, or even a hit from a maser cannon in an unlucky part of the aircraft, could kill half the commando team before they ever made contact with the enemy. Dave had no control over anything except his rebellious stomach, and that control was tenuous.
There were only three reasons why the commando team had any chance at all of approaching the target without being blasted out of the sky. First, they were flying a pair of captured Kristang executive transport aircraft, sleek aircraft that had been declared total airframe losses in the earlier fighting. The Verd-kris had recovered five aircraft of the same or similar type, and used them to slap together two hulls that were considered flyable although the pilots might argue that point. Second, the aircraft were equipped with genuine Kristang identification devices, which had authentication codes. Or, authentication codes that were supposed to be legitimate. They would not know if the codes worked, until it was too late to abort the operation. And finally, the third reason the commando aircraft were flying rather than in pieces, was that the poor information security of the Kristang had allowed the Legion to map out the safe-fly corridors that lead to the target.
No guts, no glory, Dave had thought when he heard the risky infiltration plan. He just hoped his guts didn’t get splattered all over the landscape below.
Actually, there might have been a fourth reason why the commando team’s plan had at least some chance of success. The fourth factor was the never-ending and supreme arrogance of the Kristang. Their minds simply refused to believe that two aircraft, of a type they knew the Legion did not possess on Feznako, could be accurately flying a narrow corridor, unless they had received permission for the flight. The aircraft were making all the correct turns, maintaining the appropriate altitude and airspeed for each section of the corridor, and transmitting the correct authentication codes.
Clearly, the aircraft had to be friendly.
Besides, the Kristang could not imagine their cowardly, dishonorable enemies having the imagination and courage to attack the Swift Arrow clan leadership in their secure base.
Three minutes out from the target, the duty officer charged with defense of the base wandered over to the bored technician at the sensor console. “Two executive transports inbound? Who is aboard?” The duty officer’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with suspicion. What kind of idiot was flying civilian aircraft during a shooting war?
The sensor tech, busy multitasking because the base had seen fit to assign one person to do the job of two, had to toggle back to pull up that information. “The manifest doesn’t list the occupants,” he knew the answer was weak.
To the technician’s surprise, the officer only grunted. “Must be someone important, then. Damn it, I’ll need to have an honor guard at the landing pad to greet whoever it is.” The VIP coming in did not want to reveal his identity, but would expect to be treated with the respect due his station regardless. “Show me their code clearance.”
The technician pulled up the relevant information. “It’s an older code, sir, but it checks out. I was about to clear them,” he added in a nervous tone. “Shall I hold them?”
“Hmm?” The officer turned away, losing interest. “No, I was hoping the type of code would help us identify the occupants. Let them through the perimeter.” He hurried away to alert the guard force to greet the transports at the landing pad, properly clad in ceremonial dress. He did not know the identity of the VIP, but he did know it was someone with the authority, confidence and utter arrogance to fly through a warzone. The executive aircraft were not strictly civilian ships, being as well-protected and armed as the troop transports they were based on, but the modifications for VIP comfort rendered them much less capable of surviving air combat. The duty officer needed to see to the arrival ceremony, then alert the clan leaders who were enjoying various amusements inside their secure compound. His crappy day was getting better by the minute.
“What in the-” the pilot of the lead aircraft sucked in a breath. “What is that?” She gaped at the image on her cockpit display. She almost immediately pushed the question out of her mind, for she had more important things to focus on. The near portion of the enemy compound was surrounded by a stone wall that was fifty feet high and had towers that projected upward another thirty feet. The wall was an impressive display of power by the clan leadership, being high enough that a soldier wearing powered armor could not simply leap over it, or even jump to land on top of the wall. Other than that one protective feature, the wall had no military usefulness, because the stone blocks it was made of would not stand up to rocket fire. It was also, to the irritation of the commando pilots, a pain-in-the-ass navigation hazard that complicated their final approach. Most importantly, the wall masked their view of the landing pads until they had cleared the outer edge.
Behind the pilot, commando leader Vinchla chuckled softly. “It means someone down there is paying attention, although not to the correct problem.”
“Sir?” The pilot did not break her concentration.
“That is a clan insignia on a tapestry,” he pointed to the huge, billowing fabric stretched on the far side of the landing pad area. “They are expecting VIPs. That answers my last question.”
“What question?”
“Whether we achieved surprise, or if they were luring us in to a slaughter. Look, those troops are wearing ceremonial helmets, and they are carrying spears,” he noted with a satisfied smile. “Oh, and look who just showed up fashionably late for the party,” he said as a group filed out of a wide doorway. The group was centered on two Kristang who were clad in gaudy robes with exaggerated shoulders, and were surrounded by more than two dozen guards and retainers. “Perfect,” the commando leader snorted with amusement. “The targets are coming to us. The only thing they are lacking is fireworks.”
Now the pilot smiled. The aircraft’s sensors had a complete map of the compound, and targeting priorities had been passed to the weapon systems. “No fireworks? We can fix that oversight.”
The commando leader leaned back in his jumpseat and tugged the shoulder straps tighter. “Weapons free. Light ‘em up.”
Kurz-ard-den Jastrolah bobbed his head to prevent his ceremonial helmet from slipping down over his eyes. There had not been enough time to dress the guard force in proper ceremonial armor, so he had compromised by having them switch their hardshell-armor combat helmets for the uselessly gaudy headgear. Now he had the worst of two worlds. His men were not properly attired, and he knew he would catch hell about it from whoever was the arriving VIP. Plus, the men arranged around the landing pads were supposed to be wearing useful helmets and acting as the compound’s security force. For the stupid greeting ceremony, they were forced to don the foolishly impractical helmets that provided no protection and did not link to the sensors of their armored suits. His men could run fast, jump high, fight fiercely and shoot only at targets they could detect and track with their naked eyes.
With his
naked eye, he saw a pair of executive transports appear over the wall that ringed off that part of the compound. For a split-second he tensed, anticipating trouble. Soon as his muscles clenched, they relaxed. Both aircraft were flying a normal approach vector, and were extending their landing skids. Their defensive maser turrets had cannons extended, but pointed properly upward for the safety of those on the ground, and none of the doors to the internal weapons bays were open. There was nothing threatening or unusual about the situation, other than some rich, powerful and arrogant idiot insisting on flying in a war zone.
And, just then, Jastrolah’s crappy day got a notch more crappy, as two senior clan leaders strode quickly out a set of wide doors into the courtyard. The senior leaders were not rushing, for persons in such illustrious positions did not rush, they made other people wait for them. Thus, although it looked like both senior leaders were moving at a very fast walk in their gaudy robes, they were clearly not experiencing any level of anxiety. As he watched, the two leaders came to the edge of a landing pad and halted, jostling each other for the best position, while their retainers straightened the capes and shoulder pads of their robes.
Jastrolah knew better than to believe the leaders were nonchalant about who might be aboard the incoming aircraft. When he had alerted the senior leadership about the mystery aircraft, none of them had any idea who might be visiting the compound. The leaders did not say they didn’t know who the VIP might be, because of course senior leaders knew everything, and admitting a lack of knowledge was a weakness, and weaknesses were dangerous to the health and life expectancy of any clan leader. So, the senior leaders had ordered Jastrolah to assemble a ceremonial greeting party, while they hurried to don their formal outfits. That only two senior leaders managed to reach the courtyard area before the aircraft landed, told Jastrolah that the others must have been engaged in, interesting and pleasurable activities, when he called to alert them. The thought of senior leaders hopping out of bed and scrambling to pull clothes on, brought a brief smile to Jastrolah’s lips, before he barked an order for the ceremonial guard to stop their damned cavorting and tomfoolery, and come to attention.
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