by Richard Fox
“Do all the paperwork you like,” Calhoon said. “Can you use this rubbish to find the Damocles or can’t you? I can evacuate Brisbane at a safe pace or in a blind panic. Which will it be?”
“Well, that depends on Jerry,” Ibarra said. “Can you break the code or can’t you, Jerry?”
“At current, to find resonance and reconfigure satellite sensors will take three thousand, two hundred and nineteen hours,” came from the drone.
The Australian officers shook their heads and began muttering to each other.
“And if we hold to that model,” Ibarra said evenly, as if speaking to a child, “then the talks in Canberra will fail when the Damocles starts obliterating cities and our forces in the field. Do better.”
“Breaking my operational routine may provide an indicator to the adversary,” Jerry said.
“We need a miracle, Jerry. And that’s what everyone in this room will call it,” Ibarra said, raising the tip of his cane and wagging it at all assembled.
“There was an error in my initial calculations.” A flash of light blinked out of the bottom of the drone, and the entire camouflage screen appeared, the surface an ugly brown. “A miracle.”
“Hallelujah,” Ibarra deadpanned.
“What does this mean?” Calhoon asked.
“With a little tinkering to the Atlantic Union’s surveillance satellite,” Ibarra said, “we can find the Damocles easy enough. Destroying it…that’s a bit trickier.”
“Can…” Roy raised a hand and felt the gaze of everyone in the room. “Can this screen be reused? We managed to hide from a Chi-com drone underneath it. Maybe we can use it to—”
“The Trojans could see the horse left at their gates,” Carius said. “But I think I know where you’re going with this.”
“Yes, sir.” Roy frowned. “Absolutely that.”
“Jerry, you can iterate and improve on this tech, can’t you?” Ibarra asked.
There was another flash and the screen seemed to vanish.
“Don’t insult me,” came from the drone.
Ibarra leaned back and swayed from side to side. “Not a lot to work with,” he said to Carius.
“It won’t take much,” the colonel said.
“Then let’s get down to brass tacks.” Ibarra waggled fingers to Shannon then motioned to Bailey and Roy.
“Would you two come with me?” she said, smiling like a viper. Roy tugged on Bailey’s arm, but she didn’t budge.
“There a bounty, Mr. Ibarra?” the girl asked. “Seems like there’s a bit of compensation in order.”
“I’m using what you brought to save millions of Australian lives,” Ibarra said quickly. “But…fine. What do you want?”
She pointed at the gauss rifle a Strike Marine carried.
“Oh, hell no,” the Strike Marine said. “I’m signed for this.”
“No way,” Ibarra said. “You don’t have the tech to recharge the batteries or manufacture the right bullets. College? I can pay for your college.”
“Then let me be a Strike Marine,” she said.
“We don’t have our own Corps, Private,” Calhoon said. “You did a good job out there and I’ll see to it that—”
“Done.” Ibarra snapped his fingers. “When you’re older. And Australia’s a part of the Union. And we get through this conflict without a nuclear exchange. I’ll see what I can do…but you’ve got to meet Strike Marine standards. Happy? Happy. Shannon, see she gets a swag bag from my plane.”
Roy pulled on Bailey again, and she came away willingly.
“Ha, sucker,” Bailey said. “I would’ve got by with just a pack of smokes. Wonder what else I could’ve got from him.”
“You are killing me,” Roy hissed through clenched teeth.
“You didn’t look that bad in front of the tall poppies,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll give you a new tin can.”
When they stepped back into the humid night, they saw Sigmund near the hangar in his walker configuration, helm turned to the wall. Roy could tell he was keyed in to whatever discussion was happening inside.
“Roy,” the lance commander said, “get back to the cemetery. Mount up.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked around and found no ground transport.
“Here,” Shannon said, pushing a canvas bag bearing the Ibarra Corporation logo into Bailey’s chest and then slipping an envelope into the opening. “Get moving. Both of you. And you didn’t see anything.”
“Ooo…a new Ubi.” With a smile across her face, Bailey held up a Ubiquitous brand data slate.
“Left foot, right foot,” Roy said and started walking to the lights at the center of the base.
“Hat…no VR glasses, that cheap bastard.” Bailey pawed through the pack as they went, then ripped open the corner of the envelope. She slapped the bag shut and quickened her pace.
“What was in there?”
“Nothing you need in your pod,” she said. “You know…for a seppo, you’re all right.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Roy’s feet ached and he longed to be back in the amniosis, floating without the sensation—the uncomfortable sensations of being a crunchy, at any rate.
“You keep your head down out there,” she said. “You get in a bit of trouble, I don’t know if I can find you again.”
“Same to you. Stay safe.”
“Safe.” She huffed slightly. “Did you not spend enough time in the outback to realize there’s no place safe in Australia? God help you if you go swimming around the jellyfish.”
Chapter 10
Roy was almost to the cemetery door. Union personnel shook their heads at him as he passed, his rough civilian attire at odds with the otherwise uniform appearance around him. The sight of his plugs only increased the confusion. The Armor Corps was the most integrated of all the member states’ militaries, with each soldier bound to the grooming and restrictions of their home country with a fair degree of latitude for off-duty dress.
Roy didn’t want to know what the others thought. His attitude was still stuck in the training environment of Fort Knox and the strict discipline that came with it. Being out in the field in an actual combat zone had skewed his expectations for “real” service.
A set of double doors opened and a young woman in a wheelchair swung out. She had fair skin and a long, single braid of red hair, a shawl over her shoulders, and blankets tucked over her legs, her hands folded over her lap.
Pushing her chair was a pale man in Union Armor coveralls. He slowed the chair to a stop and swept a hand through long, dark, almost greasy hair.
“Good lord,” the man said. “He’s gone native.”
“Nice to see you too, Bodel,” Roy said. “Kallen…I thought there were three Iron Hearts.”
“Behind,” a gruff voice said and a fist tapped against Roy’s back.
“We all hate you,” Kallen said, her tone light as a short, well-built soldier came around from behind Roy to take Bodel’s place at the chair. The new arrival had a ruddy complexion, honey-colored eyes, and faint scars on his face.
“We would’ve been first in country if we hadn’t been out at White Sands doing gunnery,” Bodel said. “But no. You were bebopping around the barracks and got ‘hey you’d’ onto a scram jet.”
“Heard you lost your mount,” the third Iron Heart said. “You good?”
“Thanks, Elias,” Roy said. “At least someone from our Knox class gives a damn.”
“And you got an Armor kill…” Kallen’s eyes twinkled as she tilted her head slightly to one side. She was a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down from a childhood accident, and had picked up a few tricks to compensate for her muted body-language abilities.
Despite being confined to a wheelchair, Roy knew to never underestimate her when she suited up.
“It wasn’t a clean hit,” Roy said, looking to one side. “Have to share it with a Home Guard.”
“Wait…” Bodel’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Roy recounted the fight wi
th the Dragon and the use of anti-armor grenades.
“Not bad,” Elias said.
“I don’t know if it…counts,” Roy said.
“You are Armor.” Elias beat a fist gently against his chest. “You took one of them out.”
“Yeah…I suppose I did.” Roy swallowed hard. “Who’s your lance commander? Don’t tell me they’re going to let three bean heads like you operate by themselves. You need adult supervision.”
Bodel gave a fake laugh then snapped, “Carius. Carius is riding herd on us.”
“We’re not sure if it’s a vote of confidence from him or not,” Kallen said. “But at least we know we’ll be in the thick of it with him.”
“Techs are purging the commo stacks in our suits,” Bodel said. “Got any recommendations for how we should pass a couple hours out here until we can mount up again?”
“Don’t go outside,” Roy said. “Snakes. Spiders…and bears. The bears are the worst.”
“Bears?” Kallen popped up an eyebrow.
“Drop bears. Super deadly. Maybe go to the church and pray for protection from the wildlife.” Roy stepped aside and let the Iron Hearts pass.
Inside the cemetery, techs loaded bullets into the magazines beneath Armor back plates and recharged capacitors from wheel-mounted battery stacks. He recognized the Iron Hearts’ suits in coffin-shaped maintenance bays, but the spot where his Armor should have been was empty.
“Seppo,” Digger called down from a catwalk in front of the old suit that had been stripped almost clean. While the Armor bore a fresh helm and weapons, the open, beat-up-looking torso, shoulder servos, and legs were original. “Get up here.”
Roy took the stairs two at a time.
Digger had her coveralls half off, the sleeves tied around her waist. Her skinsuit was armless and her shoulders were lean, her skin the fish-belly pale so many Caucasian Armor developed from lack of sunlight.
In one hand, she held an almost-empty beer. Payne sat beside an open cooler, clinking empty bottles against each other.
“Thanks for the save back at the farm,” Roy said, noticing that Digger seemed to be avoiding looking at him as she leaned against the handrail, elbows propped up on the bar.
“Don’t mention it,” Payne said as he lifted a bottle out of the ice and offered it up to Roy. “Sink some piss.”
“Uh…” Roy said, raising a finger. “Where to start? Aren’t we about to mount up? Alcohol will—”
“I’ve got So-bie pills.” Digger tapped a pocket. “Clears your BAC down to nothing in minutes.”
“I…don’t drink, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “Spoke to the Home Guard sergeant. He said you held your own out there. We saw you scrag that Dragon with the grenade. Not bad. Can you keep your shit together in Armor? That’s what I’m wondering.”
“They got lucky last time,” Roy said. “That’s all.”
“Huh,” Payne huffed. “God had to send a flood to save you. You think it was luck?”
“Not another Calvinist,” Roy muttered.
“There are two key systems in any suit,” Digger said, taking the final swig from her beer and dropping the bottle into the cooler. “The neural interface built into the pods is the hardest to manufacture. Proprietary tech of the Ibarra Corporation. No patents, as Ibarra didn’t want governments to know just how he does make them…though it didn’t stop the Chi-com from reverse engineering their own. Ibarra says he can make only so many new pods a year, throttles how many suits the Union can field. Production keeps pace with casualties…barely.”
“We went over this during selection at Knox,” Roy said.
“Shame the Levies didn’t bring your pod back too,” Digger said. “That bit of kit doesn’t have any questions to it. So, ‘bean head,’” she almost sneered the Union Armor nickname for fresh recruits, “what’s the other key system?”
Roy looked up at the refit Armor, then tapped his own chest.
“Told you he gets it,” Payne said.
“The last man to take that tin can to battle was Maygar,” Digger said as she stepped across the catwalk and pointed up at a silver patch the length of her forearm against the matte-black of the pod. “Main tank round hit him. His Armor mitigated most of the round, but a bit got through. Maygar was hit. Bad. But we were in the shit and he kept fighting, even though he was bleeding to death in his womb.”
“I’m…I’m sorry.”
Digger’s face twitched just below the brand.
“He was our mate and he died hard, you understand that?” She turned away and put two knuckles to her lips, then reached out and rapped the Armor. “We’re going to let you take his tin can into the fight. Not because we’re so pleased with your performance, but because we don’t have much other choice. Even the Union doesn’t have pods to spare.”
“No spazzing out, you Rupert,” Payne said. “Maygar’s watching you from our Lord’s side. Watching us.”
“Time for you to measure up,” Digger said. “Light Horse. Telemark. You make Maygar proud we gave you his can. You don’t, we’ll rip you right out and leave you to the dingoes.”
“I didn’t come all this way just to fail,” Roy said. “Let me mount up and I’ll show you what I can do.”
“How’s your celestial navigation skills?” Digger asked.
“I…have that merit badge? Made it across Bryce Canyon easy enough with—why do you ask?”
“He doesn’t know.” Payne shook his head.
“Brisbane needs an ankle tap to save it,” Digger said. “That’s a rugby term…what do you Yanks call it when you barely stop the other team from scoring in your football that ain’t football?”
“You mean a shoestring tackle?” Roy asked and Digger nodded. “Yeah, I get it.” He pursed his lips and began to connect some mental dots.
“Oh…oh boy,” he said and looked up at the Armor.
“Yeah.” Digger removed a pill from a foil blister and popped it into her mouth. “Yeah. Let’s get you suited up.”
Chapter 11
Two suited Telemark Armor stood opposite the pair of Light Horse in a hangar—the cargo gondola of an airship, the massive balloon envelope missing. Quad rings jutted out from the fore and aft of the cargo container.
Marc Ibarra walked between the pairs, his cane taps echoing through the cavernous space.
“You’ve all been selected for a secret and dangerous mission,” he said with a raspy laugh, then he coughed and straightened up slightly. “I’ve always wanted to say that, but in all seriousness, what I’ve done here is something of a miracle, even for me.”
“The Damocles is getting closer by the minute,” Digger said, the volume on her speakers loud enough for Ibarra to wince. “Not everyone has a private jet waiting to take them away to their own tropical island.”
“I got a great deal on Tahiti. Don’t judge—” Ibarra stopped and whacked his cane against the ground. “Yes, the Chi-com weapons platform is airborne and invisible…but only mostly invisible thanks to two strokes of luck. One: Australian soldiers with the presence of mind to recognize valuable intelligence when they find it. Two: Chi-com demands for efficiency.”
“If he doesn’t get to the point, I’m going to throw him back to America,” Digger said.
“Direct, I like it,” Ibarra said. “Just so happens I came with the Union’s expeditionary force to make sure the Armor was being taken care of, and I got hands-on with the new Chi-com stealth screens. Excellent at masking electromagnetic signatures through DuBoff counter waves. But once you know the wave signature, you can pick it up with another DuBoff field.”
Digger reached for Ibarra. The old man whacked her hand with his cane and she paused.
“You can detect it if you’re close enough,” Ibarra said, backing toward Sigmund. “About twenty miles. Atmosphere effects can fiddle with that range. ‘But how do we get our own DuBoff field that close?’ you don’t ask but are thinking, ‘And doesn’t that giant floating weapons platform hav
e the ability to shoot down anything that gets too close?’ you’re also thinking because you’re four bright people. Behold!”
He took out a small data slate and mashed his thumb to the screen.
The cargo gondola went plaid.
“Whoops, wrong setting.” Ibarra tapped on the screen and the gondola vanished. Only a few hazy lines along the outer edge hinted at its location.
“Our own stealth airship,” Sigmund said. “It is the sensor to find the Damocles and our way in.”
“Knowing is half the battle.” Ibarra swiped a finger across the slate and the gondola returned. “The other half is math. Jerry, send them the satellite data.”
An image—a map of the northeast Australian coast—flashed over Roy’s vision. A red box appeared over a small section, then the image zoomed in to a smoking field of blackened, collapsed buildings.
“That was a sugar refinery in Mackay,” Ibarra said. “City about a thousand kilometers from where we are now. If you look closely at the craters caused by a pair of rail cannon strikes, apply a number of algorithms developed through the centuries of military artillery use, and knowing the time these strikes happened—about one hundred and nine minutes ago for the first hit, fifty-three for the second—you can plot where the Damocles is.”
Two dashed lines traced north from Mackay and formed a slight angle out over the South Pacific. A shaded area appeared between the lines over Eastern Indonesia.
“On course to hit Brisbane,” Ibarra said. “We have about six hours left.”
“Then what…” Digger took a step forward. “What are we waiting for? Send your Union void bombers to attack. Sub-launched cruise missiles…anything!”
“Only thing that would work would be to saturate the area with nukes,” Ibarra said. “The Chi-com are many things, but they’ve held to the same ‘no first use’ doctrine since they fried half the planet with their EMP attack at the beginning of World War III. If we set off those bright white flashes of light over Indonesia—their protectorate—the world has a serious problem. But don’t worry…other Armor lances are moving north to intercept the Damocles. Line of sight works both ways, don’t you know. There’s an attack mounting on the Chi-com lines at Sunshine Coast. If the Damocles opens fire on Brisbane, we could get effective counter-fire up from the Armor’s rail guns.”