General McIver looked down, pausing in thought for a moment, and sighed, “I just hope we haven’t left it too late.”
Chapter Fifteen
October 14, 2061 Alliance Citadel Assembly Module
“This is Motor in Viper Lead, synchronise watches to 1700 hours mission time,” said Captain Buick, a.k.a. Motor, strapped into the two man pod next to the dark-bearded, young soldier and medic Corporal Ben Hunt, otherwise known as ‘Fuzzy’ on account of his fuzzy beard. Fuzzy was a short, squat man from Bradford, England and had made selection only the previous year. He’d previously had a career as a civilian paramedic before joining up and being singled out as a candidate for SSS selection in need of trained medics.
He was, just like the rest of his patrol, a trained Special Forces soldier capable of taking the life of enemies as well as preserving the life of compatriots. He’d had a British-Indian girlfriend from back home and been on and off with her for years. Never willing or able to settle into the conformity of marriage that she and her family desired, they’d grown increasingly distant. Now he didn’t know where they stood and had a whole lot of mixed up feelings on the situation. His commitment to the triple-S, his troop and his brothers-in-arms had now eclipsed his hopes of a settled family future—for the time being at least. He still loved Amala but just didn't feel it could work and wasn't willing to give up the triple-S life.
“1700 hours, check,” said Fuzzy, looking at the strange 36-hour display on his smartwatch. Mission time was the current local time at the alien base on Gaia using Earth hours, of which there were thirty-six in a day on the alien planet. Sunset was at 1807 hours and they were due to parachute into the landing zone at 1930 hours after the last vestiges of dusk had faded.
“This is Viper-one, Chip here, 1700 hours, check,” reported Sergeant Matt Hart, a.k.a. Chip—short for Chipmunk, because of his prominent front teeth and slightly rounded cheeks. He’d felt it was a bit harsh at first, but soon stopped thinking about it as the nickname stuck. Chip had shown off the invisibility suit to the visiting VIPs three days earlier. Now the demolition specialist and Taekwondo champion sat thinking of his wife and two boys back in New Zealand visiting his side of the family. His wife, Zara, was English and they’d met while she was on assignment for an oil company in New Zealand. At the time they’d met, Chip had been a New Zealand Defence Force private. By time they’d left for Zara’s home country he’d been part of the New Zealand SAS for two years. As both the UK and New Zealand were part of the WGA it had been a relatively easy transfer to first the British SAS then the SSS. Zara commuted daily by high-speed train to her geoscience job in London, when not working remotely from Hereford. Their little boys - Quin and Callum - were five and seven and went to school by driverless car. The little blond boys watched cartoons on the way and were perfectly happy at having no driver; it’s all they’d ever known. Parents like Zara and Chip could not fathom how people accepted all-too-fallible humans driving cars in the past.
Chip had his own method of pushing thoughts of his family to the back of his mind. He had to or he’d tear up and be no use to anyone. He had a responsibility to his brothers now and they needed him on top form. His family and the rest of humanity needed people like him to protect them from the alien threat that they were so-far oblivious to. He’d never shared operational secrets – even with his wife – and Zara was happy not to know. It was not just about jeopardizing the mission, but also establishing a clear protocol so that the Alliance’s many enemies did not see wives and families as targets for information extraction.
“This is Crier, in Viper-One reading 1700 hours,” called the loud-mouthed Corporal Simon Whitman, known appropriately as Crier. It had been early in his military career – during basic training – that someone had coined the nickname ‘Town Crier’, later shortened to Crier. Like a medieval officer of an English court making public pronouncements, bell in hand, Whitman-the-Crier had a booming voice that he had to consciously modulate down lest he irritate all in earshot. The sandy-haired father of two had separated from his wife several years ago and didn't miss her even a bit. But his two boys were on his mind whenever unoccupied. He’d not had the time or the inclination to find a new woman. He just wanted to see his boys grow up to be as good as they could be. He still took them to soccer practice when he had time off and on little holidays in Britain whenever he could and they were off school. His boys drove his will to survive more than fear or self-preservation, but Crier knew this was the most dangerous mission of his life and getting back was reliant on one strange metal hoop using one strange technology that, to him at least, seemed like magic.
“Vipers Lead, One and Two: all systems are ready for launch,” reported Captain Smit from the Citadel’s Comms Centre.
“Copy that, ready for launch,” confirmed Motor, taking a deep breath after he did so, twisting his gold wedding band with Ayu, his wife, on his mind. They’d met two decades ago through a mutual friend in Essex where Ayu had migrated to from her native Bali, Indonesia five years previously with her parents. Their only child – their eighteen-year-old daughter Katherine – had just started university at Reading, just far enough away to get her own student flat, but still close enough to see her parents some weekends. He was a proud father. His little girl Katherine had turned into a wonderful, warm, smart woman now. He and Ayu had struggled the first few weeks she was away from home; she was still their little girl and the time had gone so fast. It seemed like yesterday when he’d taken her home from the hospital and marvelled at the tiny human he’d begun to love more than he had previously believed possible. Motor had promised his wife and daughter he’d be back and he was a man of his word.
This was as much a first for the experienced special force Captain as for the other three men in his patrol—or anyone else for that matter. No one had faced anything like this sort of mission before and there were still so many unknowns. Usually they’d have real-time satellite and drone feeds, weather forecasts, details of the locality and so forth. They didn't know the enemy’s capabilities, didn’t know the flora and fauna, didn’t know the terrain, didn’t know the weather or even have a very accurate fix on atmospheric composition. They’d never trained for one-hundred-and-twenty percent gravity either. For the first time in a long while, Motor felt a temporary sense of foreboding before quickly pushing it to the back of his mind. The psychological training they’d all had had made one thing clear: concentrate on what you can control, acknowledge what you can influence and don’t obsess about things you can do nothing about. The prefrontal cortex is too small to fill with junk-worries. It’s your game-intelligence centre, for mission-critical thinking only. Be confident of your abilities. You’re here because you’re the best of the best.
He also knew that the tech they had with them was enough to make enemy tank crews tremble. A single Mark Seven battledroid had destroyed an entire squadron of former-British Challenger III tanks in the Egypt-Libya war. And just as they didn’t have anything like full intel on the aliens, the aliens didn’t know what they had coming to them either. That, combined with the element of surprise, would see them win the day, concluded Motor privately. The battledroids in particular were fearsome AI machines. The two Mark Eight droids carried on Viper-Two were the size and shape of armoured, oversized gorillas. Their round-topped, bucket-shaped heads sat directly on their grey alloy shoulders, looking small in comparison to their enormous torsos. Their stereoscopic, multi-spectrum cameras sat well protected in deep, sinister looking eye sockets. They could detect almost any form of electromagnetic waves; they could sense sound – the pressure waves in air – associated with speech, movement or machinery from many kilometres more distant than the best human ears. Their built-in active radar and sonar made their capabilities for detecting enemy assets and scanning the dark complete.
The Mark Eight could carry four times the weight of an unassisted soldier and travel at twice the speed. The classified alloy that made up their armour could soak up an incredible am
ount of fire; although no one had any illusions about the particle beam weapons the aliens seemed to be sporting on their ships at least. They’d just have to hope the battledroids didn't get taken out by them. The droids could operate most human weapons, but tended to use their built-in laser on their right arm or multi-purpose rocket launcher built into their left. The rockets could be set for armour piercing or fragmentation. Same rockets, different setting. They were unguided, but the droids’ aim was so good it didn’t seem to matter at the ranges they were typically used at. They had the same invisibility covering as the soldiers’ battlesuits, making them almost undetectable. The quiet whir of their servos had been something the WGA researchers had worked hard to eliminate, but it was still perceptible in the quiet or if particularly close, negating the droids’ stealth applications somewhat.
The key advantage humans still had over the droids’ AI was their ability to improvise and integrate a far wider and more subtle set of considerations appropriate for the context of a given scenario. Operational flexibility needs meant that the droids could be controlled by any of the patrol members via their augmented reality contact lens displays; Motor and his men could see through the eyes of the Mark Eights in first person as if they were there. Motor felt some degree of comfort having the battledroids on his side. He only hoped that the aliens didn't have something similarly daunting in store for him and his men.
“All Vipers, we’re starting up the FTL gate and automated launch sequence in ten, nine, eight…” announced the controller over into their battlesuit headsets. Motor made a last minute check that he had a working feed through his five soldiers’ headcams—three humans and two droids. The inset views displayed themselves in turn on his augmented reality contact lenses. All in order and HUD showing full pressure and air to his battlesuit with internal temperature set to a comfortable twenty-one degrees Celsius. The suit would be able to maintain this throughout the mission as a building would a thermostat setting.
“Three, two, one and we have go for launch of Vipers Leads, One and Two,” said the controller excitedly. There were no TV viewers, no cheers and no family to send them off. This was a classified mission and only the people who inhabited their life would honour any sacrifice: triple-S, family and a few faceless government officials they’d never met.
The Vipers eased forwards at slow speed towards the watery-skinned, black sphere that had grown from the centre of the FTL gate hoop. The enormous doors of the Assembly Module were open to the star field beyond in case the unlikely should happen and the Viper went off course, knocking the FTL gate out of its retaining cables or missing it completely. Given the distance that was an unlikely, although high consequence, hazard.
Fuzzy closed his eyes, thinking of his old mum and her endless cups of tea in her terraced house in gritty Bradford. He thought of Amala too and the last time they’d made love, more than two months ago now.
Motor sat next to Fuzzy and looked him in the eye through his visor, put his hand on his shoulder and said to the younger man, “Don't worry, we’ll see them again soon. Let’s do what we do best, Fuzz.” He smiled and thought of Katherine as a baby and his wedding day in beautiful Bali. He saw that what Earth cradled in her arms was worth fighting for more than his life as an individual and as a husband and as a father. The Viper edged into the sphere. He closed his eyes for several seconds and felt a dream state descend instantly upon him. As quickly as it had come, it was gone and he awoke to see Gaia laid out in front of him. He breathed a sigh of relief that he was still alive and intact, his HUD normal.
“You okay, Fuzzy?” asked Motor, looking at the battlesuit-clad soldier up close next to him. Fuzzy turned and looked a little shaken, but quickly put a brave face on. “Sure. All good, but weird, weird feeling that,” he said, with a slightly distant look still in his eyes.
A short time later, one then two icons, representing Vipers One and Two, popped into existence on Motor’s HUD.
“Viper One checking in, all systems normal,” came Chip’s voice over the headset.
“Viper Two checking in, all systems normal,” reported the humanlike battledroid’s voice, which still sounded slightly flat and synthesized to Motor’s ears.
Suddenly Crier – Corporal Whitman, the signals specialist – called out, “Jesus, check out the number of radar sweeps around here, it’s like bloody Baghdad before Shock n’ Awe!”
“Sit tight, guys, if we learnt anything from the probes it’s that these guys can’t see us with the cloaking fields on,” Motor – Captain Buick – reassured.
“Moving sources most of them,” continued Crier, “Combat Space Patrols.”
“Probably still on a heightened state of alert after the Pinta encounter,” remarked Chip, a.k.a. Sergeant Hart.
“Confirm that the Vipers are flying towards waypoint one. All looking good. Trajectory as planned,” reported Motor.
“You see that thing accelerate? Whoa, that’s on an intercept vector with our jump-in coordinates! Arriving in thirty seconds!” exclaimed Crier.
“What is it, Crier? CSP?” asked Motor.
“Yep, looks that way… Two fighters and too much of a coincidence for my liking,” he replied with a worried tone.
“Vipers: follow to new waypoint Alpha; it’ll take us forty-five degrees off the shortest route to Gaia. It looks like the CSP is zeroing in on our jump-in point. They must have detected the gravimetric spike and I don't want them second-guessing the most logical route to the planet, so we’ll take the scenic route, picking up the first waypoint a few minutes later than planned,” explained Motor.
“Won’t make any difference to our planetary entry, will it?” asked Fuzzy, the least well-versed in space navigation of the four Special Forces men.
“Nothing to worry about, Fuzz. We’ll compensate with our entry trajectory. Just be a few minutes late but at the same LZ,” said Motor via his battlesuit, sitting next to Fuzzy.
A series of white flashes followed by orange afterglow lit up space behind the three advancing Vipers. Seconds later, what would have sounded like hailstones on a tin roof, had there been air to transmit the sound, peppered into the rear armour of the Vipers. In the airless vacuum of space the impacts could only be felt by the men on board as the shrapnel imparted its slight but discernible momentum to the human spacecraft. The shrill of the solid impact warning sounded in their ears; the red status message flashed on their HUDs.
“What the f—” started Crier.
“I’m looking at the rear view cam now, boys. Those fighters are lighting up the sky with what looks like flak rounds. They’re trying to smoke us out. All Viper statuses look good. Take more than a bit of shrapnel to take these babies down,” said Motor.
“They’re circling the jump-in zone. Stopped firing now,” reported Crier, “but they’re still sweeping with radar!”
“Okay, boys. Stay calm: they can't see us, otherwise they’d be on top of us now. Did you see the speed of those things?” said Motor.
“Wonder if they’re piloted?” pondered Chip aloud.
“Well, the aliens would have evolved in higher gravity than us, but at those kind of g’s I shouldn’t think so,” answered Motor.
The alien fighters broke off the search and seemed to return to a pre-set patrol pattern over a thousand kilometres away, not a long way in the realms of space, but far enough to reveal their intentions. The Vipers made their way to waypoint one and changed course for the final waypoint, lining them up for a counter-rotational entry of Gaia’s atmosphere. Alien radar waves continued to wash over the invisible Vipers’ bodies, the British Special Forces patrol hidden inside. They were in low Gaia orbit now, passing over multiple tagged points-of-interest on the sunlit side of the planet: suspected settlements, bases, transit routes, ports and many more simply labelled ‘unknown’. The AI on either Santa Maria or Pinta must have detected something alien-made either visually or via another method, perhaps by radar mapping or infrared.
Motor was fascinated to see t
hat most of the places of interest were under the forest canopy with only smaller settlements on what had been interpreted as non-forest. Even more curious was that many of those non-forest settlements or facilities appeared to be in ruins with previous close-up pictures taken by the probes showing scorch marks and rubble.
“Curious…” started Chip, noticing the same thing as Motor, “What’s the deal with the ruined towns, Cap? It’s almost as if they’ve been having a world war down there looking at the wide distribution of the ruins.”
“Yes, Chip, my thoughts exactly. There were no reports of shots fired from the probe missions though and I can't detect anything like that now either. So whatever it was is history now. Hopefully, we can locate Santa Maria or else there’ll be somewhere else in ruins if we need to resort to the nuke,” replied Motor.
“Well, if we do I’ll be a long way away when it goes off, that’s for sure,” said Chip.
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