BAMF- Broken Arrow Mercenary Force Omnibus

by Drew Avera

  Older pilot, been at this a while, not eager to get himself killed. Have to use that.

  Nate hit the thrusters and flew straight at the Tagan, not trying to get fancy with some elaborate flanking maneuver. The Russian wouldn’t want a head-on confrontation, Nate could feel it in his gut, so it was no surprise when the Tagan jetted off in a wide parabola away from the Hellfire, heading for the old parking lots.

  He’s been up for over three minutes now, closer to four. He’ll be near the redline, have to set that thing down or risk a shutdown. And he doesn’t like risk.

  He went down right on schedule, not into the middle of the parking lot because that would have put him too far into the open. Instead, he touched ground behind a stand of trees and brush, once well-tended and decorative but now gone wild and overgrown.

  Trying to throw off my missile targeting. Not that I have any missiles left, but he doesn’t know that. He’s going to sit back there and wait for me to come around either side of the trees, where he can get a clean shot at me.

  But the Russian didn’t know his trees. These were silver maples. Nate wasn’t sure why the Prime had known this, or why the techs who’d programmed his brain with selected portions of the Prime’s memory had considered it important data to pass on, but he recognized the trees for what they were. It was fast-growing, landscape ready, favored by the sort of businesses who would have planted decorative trees in the park.

  It was also weak and brittle.

  Nate came in low, only a meter off the ground, and plowed his Hellfire right through the trunk of the center tree, blasting it to splinters and sending an explosion of bark and leaves and moss flying out the other side. He came out nearly on top of the enemy mech, much too close for the Russian pilot to react in time.

  He’d already had his 20mm lined up with the Tagan and all it took was a squeeze on the trigger. 20mm tungsten slugs chewed through the Russian mech’s cockpit, impossible to miss at this range. The Tagan had been in the middle of a step and without the guidance of its pilot, it toppled backward, cracking the pavement where it hit.

  Nate pulled in a deep breath, starting to feel the adrenalin shakes now that the deed was done.

  “Roach,” he called. “Do you need help?”

  “What do you think?” The reply was harsh, sarcastic. She wasn’t in a good mood, and he didn’t blame her. “The Gomer is down and I’m fine. What’s our next move?”

  “Meet me back where I left Patty,” he said grimly. “Bring Ramirez.”

  This, he was beginning to realize, would be the hard part.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The melancholy glint of false dawn teased at the eastern horizon by the time they made it back to Patty. He was right where they’d left him.

  Nate had half hoped the man might somehow have gotten free of the cockpit and ran, that he wouldn’t ever see him again, wouldn’t be forced to make the decision he was about to make. But Patty was still slumped in his seat, surrendered to the inevitable. Was he just stupid and lazy, Nate wondered, or did he feel so guilty he hadn’t even tried?

  Nate shut down his Hellfire slowly, methodically, absorbing himself in the routine and trying not to think. He noted every reading, marking it down on his log as if he were on a training run. Winchester on missiles, 6.5mm machine gun and 40mm cannon ammunition. Twenty-three rounds of 20mm remaining. Various minor damage, only pressing matter was a hip actuator close to failing. He’d have to get that looked at.

  Good thing they didn’t bring any more Tagans. We’d have been fucked.

  Then there were no more excuses and no time left to waste. He sighed deeply and yanked loose his seat harness, pulling off his helmet and hanging it from the armrest of his chair. The lower hatch opened with the kick of a lever and he slowly and carefully climbed downward out of the Hellfire, toeing the retractable stepladder down rather than dropping the last two meters. There was no hurry.

  Ramirez and Roach were already out of their mechs, waiting for him with obvious impatience.

  They’re young. Young people are always impatient, even for the bad times. Get them over with and get past them, they figure. They don’t understand how the bad times shape you, change you in ways you don’t want to change. If they knew, they wouldn’t rush into them.

  Nate pulled his Glock from its chest holster and nodded to Ramirez.

  “Get him out.”

  Ramirez made a face, as if he wanted to complain about still being the Mule, having to do the shit jobs. Nate checked the load on his 9mm and didn’t bother to look at Ramirez.

  “Watch him, Roach,” he said. “Don’t let him try to grab Ramirez.”

  Rachel Mata slid a broad-bladed knife from her belt and snarled an acknowledgement.

  “I hope the fucker resists.”

  Patty might have been a dumb-assed hillbilly, but he was smarter than that. Once Ramirez unlocked his hatch and pulled it open, Patty climbed down slowly and without making any sudden moves.

  “Why the fuck would you do it?” Ramirez demanded.

  “Forget it,” Nate snapped before Patty could even think about replying. “I already know why he did it. That’s not the question. The question is, what are we going to do about him?”

  “We could turn him over to the Department of Defense liaison,” Ramirez suggested, the trusting naiveté in his expression almost enough to make Nate laugh. “They could get him to the CIA, maybe.”

  Patty’s head came up at that, eyes going to Nate almost as if he was curious if the man would shove the decision upstairs, avoid the responsibility.

  “DoD policy,” Nate said, “is that every military contractor handles their own discipline. They don’t have the people or the time to be prosecuting all the shitbags who pass through the training.”

  “But this is treason, Nate,” Roach objected, eyes widening. “He sold us out to the enemy. Surely they’d want to…”

  “It’s my call, Rachel.” His voice was flat, a gavel on a bench. “I’m the one who’s responsible for every one of you and everything you do while you’re under contract with me.”

  “What are you going to do?” Patty asked. He hadn’t spoken till now, just stood watching in stoic silence, as if he’d accepted his fate. Even this question wasn’t plaintive or fearful, just curious.

  Nate stared at him, wondering if he kept staring long enough, whether the truth might leap out at him and save him from what he knew he had to do.

  “Roach, Mule,” he said, eyes still locked on Patty’s, “get back in your mechs and head back to base.”

  “What?” Ramirez blurted. “Why?”

  “Because I fucking said so.”

  “Nate, you don’t have to do this alone,” Roach said, taking a step toward him.

  “Yes, I do,” he interrupted, stopping her advance with an upraised palm. “Get back in your Hellfire and get out of here now. That’s an order.”

  She stood her ground, eyes boring into him. He could feel them, but he refused to meet them. Finally, she cursed and turned away, sliding her knife back into its sheath.

  “Fuck you, man,” she muttered as she pulled herself back up into her mech. Nate wasn’t sure if the words were aimed at him or Patty, or maybe both.

  He didn’t say another word until after he heard the Hellfires’ turbines wailing to life, felt the hot blast of their thrusters as they lifted away. The Glock had been held at low ready, but now he raised it to aim directly at Patty’s chest.

  “You really gonna do it, man?” Patty asked him. It was almost a dare. “You really going to kill me?”

  “It feels like I kill people every day,” Nate said, almost whispering, not even sure if he was talking to Patty. He raised his voice to make sure the other man heard him. “I just killed two men a few minutes ago. Your Russian buddies. Does that make you sad?”

  “Whoever won, I was going to wind up dead. These guys don’t put up with people failing.” Patty squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if it was all finally catching up to hi
m. “Can you try to make sure they don’t hurt my mom?”

  Fuck.

  “Fuck,” he repeated aloud, lowering the gun from Patty’s chest almost involuntarily before raising it back up again. He snarled, left hand balling into a fist, feeling like punching the other man. “Goddammit, Patty, why’d you have to do this? Why’d you put me in this fucking position?”

  “I’m sorry, Nate.” And it seemed as if he really was. There was genuine pain on his long, country face. “They get you a little at a time and by the time you figure out what’s really going on, it’s too late and there’s no way out.”

  “Shit.” Nate closed his eyes and let the gun fall to his side. “Shit, Patty, I can’t do it. Just go, man.”

  He opened his eyes again and saw horror on Patty’s face, the man’s eyes wide and staring at something behind him. Nate spun, bringing the Glock up, but something sharp and burning stabbed into his neck and suddenly he was on the ground, every muscle in his body seizing. Consciousness narrowed to a black-rimmed tunnel and he only noticed the electric current had ceased when he felt a hand prying the gun from his quivering hand.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Geoffrey.”

  The voice was the same one he’d heard on the radio earlier, smooth, husky, very female. She was tall, impossibly tall, or maybe that was just him lying flat on the ground with her towering above him. Her hair was blond and her face…familiar.

  She was the same woman he’d seen with Patty in the Fry.

  “You let them sniff you out,” the woman accused. “Treachery, I would expect. You’re a traitor, after all. Incompetence is unforgivable.”

  There was a gunshot, two, the rattle of brass cartridge casings clattering to the pavement, then the meaty thump of a body following them down. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t force himself to move, to turn over and look.

  Was the girl alone? No, he could hear footsteps, see the pant legs of others, men, large men dressed roughly in combat boots and tactical pants.

  “Get him up.”

  A different voice. Male. Rough, as if the vocal cords had been damaged at some point. And yet…also familiar, somehow.

  “I have been waiting a long time for this moment, Nathan. It has cost me much in lives and treasure, but I know it’s going to be worth it.”

  Hands grasped his arms and yanked him up none too gently, and he could see the man attached to them were not the gentle sort. Scarred, muscular, with the cold, hardened eyes of experienced killers. He didn’t try to fight them, sensing it would cost him unnecessary pain and not accomplish a damned thing. One of them still held the taser they’d used on him and he cursed in sudden pain as he felt someone yank the darts from the back of his neck.

  The man who’d spoken was dressed in surprisingly casual clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt. He was taller than Nate, with the face of someone who’d been chubby but lost weight perforce from illness or deprivation. His hair was long and coarse, pulled into a salt-and-pepper ponytail and the face…

  It was older than he remembered, lined and creased and weathered, but he did remember it.

  “Bob,” Nate hissed, barely able to find the breath to speak. “But…you’re dead.”

  “Indeed, I am,” Robert Franklin, longtime friend of Nate’s Prime, inventor of the mech, confirmed cheerfully. “And so are you, Nate.” He grinned, a familiar grin, good-natured and mischievous and so very like Bob. “But nothing lasts forever.”

  Prisoners of War

  Broken Arrow Mercenary Force: Book 2

  Prologue

  “I’m not comfortable with this,” Robert Franklin declared.

  He wished he could pace. He felt restless, felt cramped sitting in front of the video pickup, felt as if he wanted to pace, to throw his arms in the air and rage, but that wasn’t the way to impress the Washington DC brass, so he sat dutifully and stared into the camera.

  “You’ve made that clear a number of times, Mr. Franklin,” General Claridge said, his tone beyond condescending and well into patronizing. “I’m not sure what else we have to discuss.”

  Who the hell does he think he’s talking to? He wanted to snap at the man, but forced himself to remain polite, if firm.

  “General, this project is my doing. You wouldn’t have a mech program if I hadn’t brought it to you. If I say I have a concern, I’d think you’d be wise to entertain it. If you give me another six months, I can correct the shielding problem. There is no need for this…” He paused, hunting for the words. “…for this Frankenstein monster bullshit!”

  “I’m afraid the decision has been made.” Claridge’s face was a mask of iron graven by some ancient people in the image of their unchanging god. “We’re going forward with the Hellfire as is. The success of Project Artemis has impressed DARPA enough they want to push the schedule up. We plan to start initial testing in a month.”

  “A month!” His mouth had dropped open and he forced it closed. “General, do you realize the sort of ethical nightmare this is going to be? You’re putting these damned clones of yours…”

  “Genetic duplicates,” Claridge corrected him, didactic as a school teacher. “A clone is simply an identical twin of the original, born a baby, no memories. These will be full grown adults, and we have the capability now to insert selected memories into their brains. If we get the correct volunteers, men and women who’ve already gone through familiarization on your Hellfire weapons system, the dupes won’t even have to be trained.”

  “Dupes,” Franklin repeated, mouth twisting into a sneer. “How appropriate. You’re putting these dupes into a machine that will kill them eventually, inevitably. Cancer, kidney failure, liver failure, immune system disorders…it will happen. There’s no way someone can work constantly around that kind of radiation exposure and not die from it. It may take fifteen or twenty years, but it’s inevitable.”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Mr. Franklin,” Claridge told him, smiling broadly. He reminded Franklin of a sadistic little kid pulling the wings off of flies. “Due to genetic degradation, the dupes only have a twelve-year lifespan. The dupes will serve their purpose and, if we choose the right people with the right attitudes, they’ll do it willingly, eagerly.”

  “Just give me the time to fix the shielding, for God’s sake!” Franklin pled with the man, abandoning his pride, slamming a fist down on the desk. The display shook, and Claridge’s image with it. “I know we can figure this out!”

  There was no give in the man. He could see it, and he finally let his anger get the best of him, let his mouth run faster than his brain.

  “I’ll expose it, Claridge,” he snapped. “If you do this without at least giving me another few months to perfect the shielding, I will put this out on the nets for all the media outlets in every country to see. This is not fucking right and you know it.”

  He’d made a mistake. He knew it immediately, saw it in the shift in Claridge’s demeanor from condescending to frosty, cold death.

  “Mr. Franklin, I am going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that. You should get down on your fucking knees and thank God I am going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that, because if you weren’t such a valuable asset to the war effort, I’d have you arrested immediately for threatening espionage against this country. You’d spend the rest of your life in a hole, being fed through a slot in the door.”

  “I’m…sorry,” Franklin dragged the words out of his mouth kicking and screaming. “I was just a bit upset.”

  That seemed to placate Claridge. Or at least, he was willing to let Franklin think it had.

  “Totally understandable. You’re an engineer, getting things done right is your business. But there’s a saying in my business: the perfect is the enemy of the good enough. We’re at war and there’s simply no time for perfection. We’ll take what we can use now, because if I am being brutally frank with you, we may not have a few months to wait.”

  “How can we be sure anyone already trained in the Hellfires will volunteer for this Project Artemi
s?” Suspicion tickled at the back of his mind. “Or will they not be given the choice?”

  “On the contrary,” Claridge assured him, “it’s vital they do this willingly. We can select which memories we pass down from the Primes to the dupes, but they need to have a memory of volunteering, of being eager and ready to do whatever it takes to defeat the invaders. Otherwise, we’d be putting a weapon as powerful as a fighter jet or an attack helicopter in the hands of a soldier who hated our guts and wanted us all dead.”

  “Very well. I’ll get the team working on the next phase of production. We should be up to quota by the time you’re ready to begin trials.”

  “Excellent.” Claridge’s smile was about as genuine as his anger had been. Franklin was sure the only authentic emotion he’d seen from the man was condescension. “Pretty soon, I hope we’re ready to expand production to the other sites as well. Then the Hellfire project will be complete and you can focus your talents elsewhere.”

  The screen went dark. Claridge had ended the connection, a passive-aggressive reminder he was in charge.

  Franklin sat alone in his office, wondering whether he’d gone too far. It wouldn’t be the first time his mouth had gotten him in trouble, but losing a contract or pissing off a military liaison didn’t quite measure up to threatening to expose a top-secret DARPA project in wartime. That was the sort of fuck-up that could land you in a ditch with a bullet through the back of your head.

  He pulled out his personal phone, encrypted, anonymized, untraceable, and scrolled through a list of names until he found the one he wanted.

  “Dr. Ganesh,” he said when a woman’s voice answered. “This is Robert Franklin.” She began to meander through the usual pleasantries, but he’d never been particularly good at those, so he cut her off. “I understand you’re working on a certain genetics project we probably shouldn’t be discussing on the phone…”