It took him a moment to realize that he had not seen any gold or silver wings on their chests, though they all wore the same unit patch: a fanged skull with elongated canines, sprouting long, sleek black wings from each side and wearing what looked to be a torn and tattered black-and-white jester's hat. Emblazoned underneath the skull along the outside edge of the patch, in archaic gothic lettering, were the words The Dead Jokers.
"Who the FUCK was that?" Alan asked.
"Oh, those were Dead Jokers," Tracy said, once again making it sound as if that should answer everything. He decided to head this one off before it started.
"Tracy, I've never been on-ship, remember? And I don't recall Dead Jokers being brought up as a topic of discussion either in my old unit or Recon school. So, please, just tell me who the hell they are."
"Have you ever heard of Lokis?"
"Yeah, we touched on them briefly at Intel school. Didn't go into too much depth, though. They're some kind of EW ship, right?"
"Sort of, though they are more than a space-based Electronic Warfare platform. Anyway, Loki pilots are always referred to as Dead Jokers." Tracy watched Alan digest this information, waiting for the inevitable follow-up questions.
"All of them are Dead Jokers, every Loki pilot in the fleet?"
"Yes."
"But doesn't that get confusing? How do they tell each other apart when they're all out there?" Alan asked quizzically.
"Well, it all has to do with how the Lokis are deployed," Tracy said after a moment's thought.
"Okay, I can buy that, assuming you tell me how they are deployed—if you know, that is." The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. Tracy smiled at it.
"Lance Corporal Lewis, I know all about Dead Jokers and the Lokis they pilot, more so than most people." Alan watched a slight blush make its way onto her cheeks. "Let me tell you all about it."
Alan stood beside her as she leaned against the bulkhead and crossed her arms as a far-away look settled on her face. He listened intently as she began to speak.
* * *
"Do you know who Loki was? In the classical sense?" Tracy asked.
"Yeah, I think I remember him from school. Norse god of mischief and trickery, right?"
"Yeah, that's him, but what most people don't remember is that he was also very, very cunning. Couple that with his other talents, and, well, you can see why the other gods had him chained up."
"So, he was kind of like you, then, huh?" Alan quipped.
"Do you want to hear this or not?" Tracy said, fixing him with a stare until he lowered his eyes and nodded his assent.
"Now, a Loki—I'm talking about the ship, now—is pretty much the modern-day electronic version of that ancient god. Its one and only mission is to go out there"—she waved her hands expansively—"and fuck with the enemy. First it was the Asian Compact during the Dragon War, now it's the Xan-Sskarns. And the Lokis do a fantastic job at it."
She looked back over at Alan to see if he was with her, and when she saw he'd assimilated everything so far, she continued.
"Now, you may ask, 'What job are they supposed to do?' and that's a good question. Here's the answer. They go out and squash, mangle, and generally tie in knots every single communications and sensor wavelength that tries to get past them. How they do that is simple. The Loki is roughly the size of an assault shuttle, and, excluding a very large power plant, and a heavily shielded cockpit, every single square millimeter of that craft is packed full of electronics. Everything and anything you can possibly think of to trash a signal, and probably stuff you couldn't. They broadcast their interference in what can best be described as a ball of chaos up to ten kilometers in diameter. The field can be varied in strength, as well as size, which is a good thing, as a Loki itself does not necessarily have to be in the center of the disturbance. Can you guess what kind of effect that ball has on the enemy?" Her gaze was focused on the far bulkhead, but not really seeing it; her eyes were looking into the past.
"I'd say it pisses them off something fierce."
"That, my friend, would be an understatement." Voice thick with emotion, she went on. "When Lokis come into play, the Sallys do their God damned best to find them and kill them. And from what I've heard, they're getting as many as they're missing. A fifty-fifty chance of not coming back every time they go out, and a ten-mission tour. I'm not even going to go into the math about the probabilities on that, but I'm sure you can see that the odds of making it through ten missions are not good."
"Jesus!"
"Yeah, and you want to hear something even better?" Tears were forming in her eyes.
"What?" Alan asked out of morbid curiosity, unable to stop himself.
"A Loki pilot, a Dead Joker, is a volunteer. All of them are. Plus, they can quit at any time, except during a mission. Even five seconds prior to launching, they can just up and quit and walk away. No repercussions, no recriminations. Keeping that in mind, how many of them do you think have walked away since this war started? How many do you think have turned in their wings?"
"I don't know," Alan whispered.
"None! Not a single fucking one of them has walked away from a mission. No matter what the incentive, every single one of them has climbed into that God damned cockpit without a backward glance." Tracy's voice, brimming with anger and regret, echoed down the passageway.
Alan stood at her side, silent, watching as she got her emotions under control.
"As for where the unit name, Dead Jokers, comes from, well, that's the sickest part of the whole damn story." Tracy gave a short bark of mirthless laughter, the tears still in her eyes but refusing to fall. "No one knows where the term came from originally. All they know is it started sometime in the Dragon War. But if you ask anyone wearing those fucking black wings, every single one of them will tell you what their name means, and why all of them are called the same thing."
Rubbing the heels of her hands into her eyes, and drawing her forearm across her nose, she continued.
"They all have the same name, because, well, what's the point of having different names when you can't talk to anyone anyway? They get their orders, get a set of coordinates to fly out to, and just turn into a big hole in space. The name itself, they all wear it so proudly, comes from the simple fact that, hey, with that much interference, there is no possible way for anyone to get a missile lock, or even a target lock for guns. The ship itself is space black, and unless it's silhouetted against a planet, it's damn near invisible. So the Sallys need to be right on top of it before they even have a chance of hitting it with guns. Missiles are totally out of the question—they just go spinning off into space. The Sallys open up with their guns at point-blank range, and poof, no more Loki. But that little plane is packing so much power and equipment on board that when it goes, it goes with a vengeance. Over ninety-five percent of ships that kill a Loki are killed themselves in the subsequent explosion. The Loki and its pilot have the last laugh, even in death. Hence the name, the Dead Jokers."
"Sounds like you have to pretty insane to be a Loki pilot," Alan observed.
"You would think so, wouldn't you? But actually it's just the opposite. You have to be very sane to be one." Tracy turned her face toward Alan as she spoke, and, seeing the confusion there, she continued.
"Every single candidate—and believe me, there is no shortage of volunteers—has to undergo some serious psychiatric examinations. If they don't meet an exact standard, they aren't accepted. And, from what I was told, it's a pretty high standard." Tracy's eyes took on a far-away look again.
"Roughly, you need to be dedicated, highly motivated, patriotic to the point of fanaticism, but not suicidal. They don't want any heroes in those cockpits. The planes are just too damn expensive, and too damn important to allow that. So it's a delicate balance. And after each mission, they all undergo a full battery of both psychological and physiological exams. Basically, they want to see if anything has shaken loose."
"After each mission?"
"Yeah
, you see, these folks go out there painting themselves as one huge fucking target, trying to do a very dangerous job. The brass wants to make sure that they don't start wigging out on them after basically attempting suicide. And, too, they want to make sure that those pilots don't fall prey to their own reputation and go seeking for a way to go out in a blaze of glory."
"I guess that makes sense—the psych evals, anyway. But why a physical, too?"
"You were Intel, you tell me. How does a signal jammer work?" Tracy watched as Alan thought for a very short moment before answering.
"Radiation."
"That's right, radiation. Those babies pump out all kinds of radiation, and, well, you know what that can do to a person." She grimaced at the thought.
"I thought you said the cockpit was shielded."
"It is, heavily. Plus, did you see their flight suits? Same thing for them. Yet, despite all the shielding, there can still be problems. One in twelve of the male pilots becomes sterile before the end of his tour, and one in fifty, men and women alike, develop some kind of tumor."
"God damn, is there any upside to that job?" Alan asked incredulously.
"Well, both men and women make a genetic donation before beginning flight training, and they get free medical for insemination purposes for the rest of their lives, regardless of military status. Plus, any Dead Joker who finishes their ten missions earns a spot in the academy for any of their kids who want it." Smiling, she added, "Oh, and they get triple hazardous-duty pay."
"Still sounds like a rough job, even with the perks."
Tracy watched him shake his head in denial, not quite accepting what he had heard.
"You're right, it is a rough job, and it takes a special kind of man to do it." The sad, wistful look returning to her face.
"I'm beginning to see that." Alan spoke softly, the source of her knowledge obvious. "He must have been one hell of a man."
"He was."
* * *
Alan kept up a stream of light conversation as he and Tracy continued their exploration of the ship. He was glad to see that Tracy was returning to the cheerful, exuberant woman that he had first met.
"So, do you want to get some chow?" he asked as he checked his watch, stomach rumbling.
"Sounds like a plan. I'm getting kind of hungry myself."
They began to retrace their route, heading back toward Marine Country, Tracy once again regaling him with explanations of the ship's different systems. After a short while, Alan felt safe asking the question that had been nagging at him since hearing her story.
"Hey, Tracy, can I ask you a personal question?" His voice was hesitant; he did not want to bring back unpleasant memories.
"Sure, what's on your mind?"
"Your friend, the Loki pilot, wasn't he an officer?"
"Yes, he was." Her smile was genuine now, not bittersweet. "And you want to know how a navy officer ended up in a relationship with an enlisted marine."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Just forget I asked." Alan blushed furiously as he realized just how personal his question was.
"No, it's okay. It all comes down to the old saying about working hard and playing hard. The brass allows a wider interpretation of some of the regulations, mostly regarding personal conduct, for personnel assigned to extremely hazardous duty. And both Dead Jokers and Marine Recon fall under that heading."
Alan made a sound expressing his understanding. Tracy resumed her dialogue, and Alan turned his mind inward while they continued down the passageway. An uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach as his thoughts turned toward Tracy and what she had just revealed to him.
Chapter Twenty-five
USS Valhalla
October 13, 2197
1200 z
Sol
The traitor paced up and down the length of her quarters. The other three ratings who shared the room with her were on duty, allowing her to vent her frustrations.
"God damn that woman. What in the hell was she thinking? She could have gotten us killed, or, more importantly, gotten me killed."
Jennifer Pratt, who was twenty-seven years old, of average height, and had mid-length red hair that was obviously not natural, pale algae-green eyes, and teeth that were overly large for her mouth, stopped her pacing to slam her fist against the bulkhead.
"It was a perfect plan. The Sallys surprise the fleet, we're obviously going to lose, and the only logical course of action is to retreat, but what does that crazy bitch do? She decides to attack." Jennifer resumed her pacing, continuing her ranting.
"I mean, what the hell was she thinking? And of course, once she does finally decide to leave, what happens? We get attacked, and I end up in sickbay. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, we get home, barely, and I think I'm safe, but no—I get assigned to her ship again."
Sitting down on her bunk, she held her head in her hands, breathing hard, trying to gain control of her emotions.
"And what a ship. Guaranteed to draw every single enemy ship within a light-year like bees to honey. I can't even get dirtside what with the rush to get us ready to launch. Out of the frying pan and racing toward the fire."
Bolting to her feet, she began to pace again.
"All I wanted was to get home, get out of this lost cause. So what if me getting out means that other people have to die? What have they ever done for me? Then, when the Xan-Sskarns finally take over the damn planet, I would get my reward for handing them their victory. Seriously, if they are going to turn us all into chattel, why shouldn't I make sure that I am at the top? Now what the hell am I going to do? How am I going to turn this situation to my advantage? Or, at the very least, get the hell off this ship?"
Leaning against the bulkhead and rubbing her eyes, she sighed.
"I can't even get any kind of message to the Sallys to tell them what I've done, or that I'm still willing to help them, for the right price. And even if I do, how do I make sure I am not on this ship when the crazy bitch gets it destroyed?" Jennifer's eyes snapped open as she continued to rant. "On top of everything else, the rumor mill says that an investigation is underway to find me. The only thing that I have going for me is the fact that looking for one person in the whole fleet will take time. I need to use that time to figure out my next move."
Jennifer halted her diatribe as the hatch opened and one of her roommates came into the compartment.
Where are they? What are they planning? And, more importantly, how can I turn their next move to my advantage?
Pushing those thoughts from her mind, lest anything show on her face, she smiled at the newcomer.
"Hey, Monica, how go things down on the hangar deck?"
"Busy as hell, but we'll be ready for whatever the Sallys throw at us," Monica said, flopping down on her bunk, obviously exhausted. "What about you? How's engineering shaping up?"
"Oh, I think it's safe to say that the next time we run into the Sallys, I'll be ready for them," Jennifer said, not looking at Monica.
Her mind began running through different scenarios, trying to find a way to turn her statement into a reality.
* * *
"What is the status of the Swarm?" the high commander asked the figure kneeling before him.
"The Swarm is recovering quickly, High Commander. Repairs and replacements have us at seventy-seven percent combat capable," Vice Commander Si'Lasa said with head bowed.
"And the items I requested from the Swarm Masters, have they arrived?"
"Yes, they have."
The high commander did not miss the tone of uncertainty in his subordinate's voice.
"You have concerns about my plan, Si'Lasa?" he queried while indicating that his old friend should rise.
Staring intently at his subordinate, the high commander felt his own apprehension return. While he had held overall command of the last battle with the Dry-Skins, and it had been a great victory, his vice commander had held tactical command of the Swarm's flagship. And Si'Lasa had performed admirably, destroying or crippli
ng more Dry-Skin ships than any other ship commander. Si'Lasa's popularity with the Swarm and with the Swarm Masters was rising rapidly.
The scent of confidence and self-assurance did not completely mask the doubts and misgivings emanating from his vice. He would need to be even more vigilant when around his old friend, but he could not forget his duty to the Swarm and to his people, even in the face of possible assassination. With that in mind, he began to lay out the plan he had devised, and the reasoning behind it.
After divulging the complexities, even the portions he had kept secret from all but the Swarm Masters, he both saw and felt his vice commander begin to relax with understanding.
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