CHAPTER 11
Slow Turtle pulled himself into his gunner's chair and strapped in. Familiar blue neon filled his vision as he shifted the display on his comp set and scanned the sky for Rowan fighters. “Now this is a change,” he thought to himself. Wolf Plume had put the Trighter into a high atmosphere orbit around Naanac cruising at 2,600 K.P.H. The belly of Trighter faced the Free Mantle instead of Naanac's surface, so now Slow Turtle gazed 'down'.
The tower turret was made of a glasteel composite, allowing Slow Turtle a view from any angle. The CZ40 Defender laser cannon, an energy weapon usually mounted on larger ships than the Trighter, had a fixed position in the glasteel sphere.
The sphere, almost two meters in radius, used networked magnets to swivel it almost instantly anywhere Slow Turtle directed through his keying bands. The lack of moving parts gave the gun sphere a fluid precise movement that made targeting easier for a skilled gunner. The turret was attached to the Trighter with the usual chaotic collection of mismatched connectors and hull seals that were standard on AC ships.
Slow Turtle finished prepping his cannon and considered the situation at hand. At thirty-one, Slow Turtle was a battle worn veteran. As a Confederacy mercenary he had seen more skirmishes, police actions, civil insurrections and rebellions than he wished to remember. A smorgasbord of violence and mayhem that other warriors would have relished. To Slow Turtle it was only an endless pool of blood growing larger with every kill he made.
He did not have the bloodlust of his Celtic warrior ancestors, but he had the touch, and that was what mattered. While other gunners could expertly follow and lead targets, Slow Turtle had an uncanny knack for knowing where his target would be and could aim at that point early. His skill at pattern recognition made him an efficient, accurate gunner.
UDA space and aero-fighters were trained to fly in formation. Two-man wings, with several wings comprising an attack. UDA training taught these pilots to fly dozens if not hundreds of different complex patterns, weaving into a multitude of formations. While these diverse patterns, flown at incredible speeds, did an excellent job of confusing most gunners, forcing them to pick a target and chase, they only made Slow Turtle's job easier. The Irishman saw the patterns. He recognized them as they were initiated. He knew the patterns better than most UDA trainers did. On top of this enviable ability Slow Turtle could integrate his firing line with patterns using long, quick sweeps of the turret to lock in on multiple targets. In one dogfight, Slow Turtle had taken out five fighters in one clean sweep. Wolf Plume was his only witness. The other tribals laughed at them when they told the story. But this did not upset Slow Turtle. He knew that somewhere a UDA survivor told his mates of an AC gunner that could scrap half your squadron in less time than it takes most gunners to catch your scent.
Slow Turtle considered the data in the Zuni reports he had read on his comp set to prepare for the Naanac mission. Rowan maintained this isolated planet for the one commercial advantage it provided; complete secrecy for their research. The megacorp had complete control of every piece of information that left the planet. Naanac was galaxies away from the nearest outpost, colony or trade route. Even if a ship were to stumble on the far-removed planet, the Free Mantle was such a significant natural barrier that not only would it stop the ship from entering Naanac’s atmosphere, it also blocked all electronic transmissions as well. Electrical transmissions beamed at the Free Mantle, which surrounded Naanac entirely, were scrambled in the Free Mantle's own chaotic electrical field.
Because Naanac had been kept a secret from the UDA and other corporations, Rowan had to supply their own security. That meant a private security force; fighter jock flunkies and cargo ship pilots wrapped in decades-old fighters; big, slow and obsolete. Easy pickings for Slow Turtle.
Bink… Bink… Bink… One by one the Rowan atmosphere fighters popped out of the cloud canopy, out of range at four hundred kilometers. The comp acquired his targets and displayed them on his comp set. He narrowed his field of view and fired his warning shot. If only that could be enough, he thought.
ZT-34 Rattler Kings, newer than Slow Turtle was expecting. Might be more challenging than he had expected. A lightweight, high-speed fighter that carried a low energy laser cannon, not enough power to even crackle the Trighter's shield. However, the Rattler King also carried two UDA mid-range Stinger torpedoes. With six bogies on his comp set those Stingers could be a problem.
Without hesitation Slow Turtle activated his sand casters then adjusted his CZ40 cannon to an eighty percent power draw, more than enough to take out any of these flyweight fighters. He finger tapped the single send.
Approaching at 5,400 K.P.H. the ZT-34's were closing thirty kilometers of distance every minute, Slow Turtle read off his comp set. They were following, not pursuing, otherwise they would have the engines wound up to their full 22,000 K.P.H. capability. Probably don’t know what to make of us, Slow Turtle concluded. He finger tapped the last single send on the same shotgun band, and hoped they would respond.
Slow Turtle watched in irritation as the six bogeys punched their thrusters and accelerated to 8,800 K.P.H. in a few seconds. Slow Turtle knew the Trighter’s top speed of 14,000 K.P.H. was not going to outrun these flyweights. They would have to be discouraged.
“You are not authorized to be within Rowan air space. Break current trajectory and proceed to surface or you will be shot down. You have thirty seconds to comply.” The words shined across Slow Turtle's comp set.
“Frag it!” Slow Turtle cursed. One minute, ten seconds until they reached Wovoka's one hundred kilometer warning shot perimeter. In twenty three seconds Slow Turtle would have any where from two to twelve stingers whizzing toward the Trighter. He had five sand casters and three stinger hits could crack the Trighter's shields. The math was simple. Slow Turtle could not let these fighters fire first.
WAMP. Ignoring Wovoka's perimeter, Slow Turtle fired one cannon blast, not a warning shot, but a lure. The bright blue beam sizzled past the lead fighters bow just ten meters to the left. The lead pilot took the bait, hook, line and sinker, commanding his fighters to break pursuit formation.
“Parson's Star,” Slow Turtle said quietly, naming the maneuver. And as if following his orders the six fighters banked away at steep angles, placing their fighters into a large, revolving circle designed to regroup them in their original formation a few seconds later.
Slow Turtle switched to personal automatic; all sensory information from anything but the lenses of his comp set removed as he reacted from experience. He mentally saw the pattern, as the fighters broke apart like shards from an explosion.
Aiming the CZ40 at a target that was not there, Slow Turtle swiveled his glasteel cage and began his firing arc. He flicked the trigger with blinding speed a millisecond before each unsecured target chirped into white locked X's on his comp set.
Three searing bolts sundered the three Rattler Kings. It had taken less than a second, and Slow Turtle could hardly believe how easy it had been. He had heard once that the best pilots and gunners were those who could act without thinking. He knew better. The best gunners and pilots could match the actions of their body with sub-conscience thought. Knowing he had stunned this unfortunate fighter pack, Slow Turtle cautiously swiveled back to the lead fighter and braced himself for his reaction.
Having seen three pilots, three friends and companions blasted effortlessly into so much scrap, two of the remaining pilots did not finish their part of the Parson Star, electing instead to break and run. Slow Turtle thanked Wambli and began trying to lock onto the lead pilot.
“You have a job to do! Get your scurvy, cowardly asses back in pursuit formation now,” retired UDA Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Carpe screamed into his headset. He punched angrily at the cockpit glass above him. Three blasts and his fighter pack of six had become a lone fighter. No less than he expected. Those fat fraggers sat for weeks and weeks munching glonuts and sipping coffee, reading adventure files on sensor screens. Probably prayed every da
y they’d never have to strap into their ZT-34’s and fly against anything that shot back, telling their wives how well they flew in the drills each week. Frag them to hell and back.
But Daniel Carpe wasn't about to let the first bogey he’d seen in six years escape him, wingman or none. Carpe knew this gunner was a vet who had seen plenty of combat. Daniel Carpe had looked in the face of death a few times himself. Now the blood lust from his younger days surged back filling his brain with the pounding rage of a killer too long denied. For the next fifty seconds Daniel Carpe was no longer a retired Lieutenant Colonel Security Specialist flying a rented flyweight fighter for a megacorp, he was the UDA First Regiment headhunter he had once been.
“One more bogey,” Slow Turtle thought. The last ZT-34 broke from completing the Parson Star, but instead of retreating it barrel rolled into a course approaching the Trighter from behind. Slow Turtle began to track the fighter cautiously. The lone fighter presented no pattern for Slow Turtle to recognize and trap the enemy pilot. Slow Turtle quick-booted his guns and watched with respect as the ZT-34 wove a jagged, unpredictable path toward the Trighter.
Slow Turtle gritted his teeth as the approaching pilot escaped his target lock for the fifth time, and closed within fifty kilometers of the Trighter. The ZT-34 Rattler King's thrusters kicked in again and Slow Turtle knew he wasn't going to lock this target. The velocity reading on Slow Turtle's comp set jumped fast and the Irishman's hands flashed across his instruments as he switched from targeting to shield control. The Rattler King was going to pass the Trighter and unload one or both of its stingers at a range too close for the Trighter to evade. Slow Turtle's eyes widened as the ZT-34 rocketed past the Trighter and kicked off both its Stingers. The gunner yelled wildly, his comp set carrying his words to his pack mates’ comp sets, “Incoming.” He fired the sand casters.
There was no doubt that Slow Turtle's reflexes were faster than Carpe's, yet the veteran pilot had pushed his fighter to the edge, flown too well for the gunner to catch. Now it was Slow Turtle's turn to be on the receiving end. The Stingers came one after another, the first striking the Trighter's sand screen squarely. White fire blew away from the thin barrier, a brilliant flash kept Slow Turtle from seeing that the second Stinger exploded due to the concussion of the first Stinger. Even from meters away the second explosion rocked the Trighter like a bull ramming a matador. As his chair straps dug deep into his chest, Slow Turtle hoped his pack mates had heeded his warning.
The ZT-34 shot ahead of the Trighter; cutting a line across the thin mix of vacuum and atmosphere at over 11,000 K.P.H. Slow Turtle recovered quickly from the close range missile strike and assumed from the continued course of the Trighter that his pack mates were alright. Slow Turtle swiveled his turret and struggled to lock on the Rowan fighter as it swept and drove through a complex evasion maneuver. Slow Turtle saw no need to worry as the ZT-34 swung around and raced back head-on at the Trighter. This enemy pilot, admittedly skilled, could jab the Trighter with his light cannon until they overheated and never pierce her shields.
Carpe whooped and hollered like a UDA cadet after his first kill. One of his Stingers had grazed the Trighter and tested its shields. He knew someone in that ship was checking to see if they still had all their teeth. The elation held a moment before Carpe realized the Trighter still had not averted course. “Fragger’s on auto-pilot?” he growled.
It dawned on the retired UDA soldier. Of course, the bogey was on autopilot. You didn't need a real pilot to avoid a fighter that could do nothing more than bounce lasers off your ship. He'd be as effective spitting at the Trighter as he would be firing his light cannon. His heart burned as he realized the game was over. He had lost five to nothing. In that instant Carpe decided he was not going to pass up his last chance to die a soldier, not like those cowards running back to base. He was going out now and he was taking that gunner with him.
No need to swat this fly, Slow Turtle told himself, as he watched the lead pilot continue his charge. The pilot was swirling his fighter in, like a feather caught in a wind tunnel. While he would definitely have the last laugh on this ace, Slow Turtle could not help thinking that if the pilot had better equipment and training this encounter might have had a less pleasant outcome. The Irish gunner always had trouble with single targets, but there was no doubt this pilot would have had a good shot at slipping him even in a multi-target pattern.
In the short time it took the Trighter and the ZT-34 to close Slow Turtle wondered why the pilot wasn't sending out tracers. It concerned him as the next fifty kilometers between them disappeared. As the Rowan fighter closed to 130 kilometers Slow Turtle nervously pondered why the pilot hadn't fired. Lasers couldn't be dodged or sand-screened, so why would the enemy pilot hold his fire?
“By Wambli,” Slow Turtle cursed.
With seconds to contact, Slow Turtle realized his enemy’s intention - to ram the Trighter. Not enough time to take him out.
The fighter closed. Slow Turtle watched as the last few kilometers disappeared between the two vessels. He realized the ZT-34 was coming in high. The pilot would just miss the Trighter or he would scrape across the top. There would be no direct hit. Slow Turtle realized suddenly that the enemy pilot wasn't aiming to hit the Trighter head on. He was going to take out the tower turret directly.
Slow Turtle voice commanded the gun chair up side down and simultaneously unclipped his harness. “Sealing deck two, impact coming!” Slow Turtle yelled into live comp set. He fell four meters from the ceiling of Deck Two to its floor. Bones in his shoulder snapped like dry twigs as he slammed into the floor.
Ignoring his broken shoulder blade Slow Turtle pushed himself up. He dropped immediately back to the floor as the pain from his shoulder shot through him, refusing to be overridden. He howled in pain and cursed the time he was losing. He had seconds to traverse the six meters between himself and the nearest access port before it slammed shut, sealing him and the deck into cold thin oxygen spare atmosphere once the fighter hit.
He pushed himself up with his good arm only and lunged at the door.
Carpe blazed his small fighter at the larger ship. He spun and swirled the ZT-34 in a wild approach that stressed the fighter to its limits. Carpe's vision blurred as he spun in toward the Trighter. The life of a young man trained and eager to kill, scenes of war and glory, days Carpe had not wanted to end, filled his mind. He died without fear.
The ZT-34 tore the gun tower off the Trighter with the ease of a butcher beheading a chicken. The light, protruding structure wrenched violently from its jury-rigged moorings. The shield had done little to stop the force of the fighter-turned-missile. The Trighter's system comp automatically, instantly doubled the energy being channeled to protect the turret. The impact turned Carpe's fighter into a flattened slagheap. After decimating the turret the ZT-34's remains continued down the top of the Trighter, impacting explosively with the Trighter's rear stabilizer.
Slow Turtle was thrown at the door where his good shoulder slammed against its frame. He dropped to the floor on his broken collarbone. Intense pain overwhelmed the injured Infiltrator and even his desperation to get through the deck door before it sealed him into near vacuum was not enough to keep him moving. He lay on the floor half way through the door, teeth and fist clenched as he fought to stay conscious.
Wovoka froze when he heard Slow Turtle's message over his comp set. He was thrown from a ladder by the impact. He picked himself off the deck floor. Wovoka cursed as he felt the air around him begin to swirl quickly up through the Deck Two access port. On his feet, up the ladder. Wovoka did not hesitate. Through the access port, Wovoka looked across the room. He finger tapped the command opening the door nearest him. Air exploded around him toward the gaping hole in the Trighter's hull above him. Slow Turtle lay on the floor motionless.
Air screamed past Wovoka. He ran to the still form of his pack mate and in one strong motion yanked his wounded friend across the threshold of the door. Safety sensors imm
ediately closed the door as soon as the two passed through.
Wovoka brushed hair from his face as he checked Slow Turtle. He was unconscious, blood flowed steadily from a deep cut on his cheek. Wovoka was relieved his Infiltrator had made it out of the tower turret. Cavaho poked his head up through the access port and slid a med kit toward Wovoka.
“Thanks. Check if there are any fighters still around and set a target scan with autoalarm.”
Cavaho was gone, Wovoka slowly stood after laying Slow Turtle gently on his back. The air was thin and Wovoka breathed as though he were on top a high mountain. Wovoka finger tapped up the ship's life support system on his comp set. The breach released eighty percent of the ship's life support. They had three to five minutes, Wovoka estimated.
Wolf Plume popped up through the port. “There isn't a bogey within a thousand kilometers of the ship,” he reported as Wovoka applied an antibiotic coagulator patch to Slow Turtle's face.
Wovoka began to gently tend Slow Turtle's cut, “He did his job, as always. How are the body tanks coming?”
“Checks are almost done. Still haven't got those extra tanks attached.”
“We have to get out of the Trighter fast. Put those extra tanks in gunnysacks and tie them onto the body tanks. Hurry!” Wovoka instructed. Wolf Plume left him with the unconscious Slow Turtle. “Come on, brother,” Wovoka said to his patient as he slapped an autostim onto his neck.
Slow Turtle's nose tweaked as the autostim kicked in. Opening his eyes, he looked at Wovoka, and closed his eyes again. Wovoka smiled and laughed, “You'll use any excuse to get off your feet won't you!”
Slow Turtle smiled through the pain and whimpered softly.
Wovoka grinned back at him. “Your collar bone is broken. Bad break.” He reached into the med kit, pulling out a hypo-gun and some Negacain. “I'm going to numb it. We’ve got to move. I need you strong, brother warrior.” Wovoka fired the hypo-gun deep into Slow Turtle’s shoulder. “Wolf Plume told me we don't have a single bogey in the sky,” Wovoka took Slow Turtle's hand and squeezed hard. “You got us this far, we'll take you the rest of the way.” He nodded at Slow Turtle reassuringly and stood to help him up.
Wovoka helped Slow Turtle through the Trighter to where the body tanks were being prepped by Wolf Plume. The Pack Alpha was pleased to see the Negacain dose had masked Slow Turtle's pain enough that he could function on his own. Wisely Slow Turtle was not utilizing his left arm in order to avoid further damage to his shoulder.
Wolf Plume was carefully attaching the extra air canisters to the body tanks. As he worked he marveled at these unique and impressive pieces of armor. Yet more stolen, haggled, pilfered UDA equipment the Confederacy was now putting to good use against their Earth based enemy. These Heavy Jaguar body tank units were among the UDA's most sought after pieces of military gear. A huge, virtually indestructible suit of concussive and energy resistant armor, the suit gave UDA soldiers excellent protection against everything from hand-held firearms to light laser cannons. But the real effectiveness of the Heavy Jaguar came from its incredible mobility and agility.
The entire suit was powered so that every move of the soldier wearing it was amplified in speed and power. A soldier's punch was turned into power-packed blow that could smash through the swell of a light infantry hover craft. The soldier could run in an enhanced mode, which turned every step into a long, fast three-meter stride. One strong jump from the soldier sprang the four hundred kilogram Jaguar three meters into the air. UDA Special Forces were trained for weeks to utilize these mobile war machines.
Wovoka, realizing the considerable potential of these suits, had taken months to train his pack in the use of the body tanks so they could be used to their maximum destructive capability.
Flowing Rivers, a Zuni intelligence agent, acquired the Heavy Jaguars two years ago. Flowing Rivers had traded thirty kilos of Zeta Clear, a highly illegal designer drug that had been confiscated from a tribe member (who was subsequently banished), to a corrupt UDA requisition officer for the four Jaguar units.
This would be the first time Wovoka's pack used these suits for something other than combat. While the body tanks were fully capable of operating in vacuum their primary design was for use on land. The Infiltrators would have to leverage their training, Wovoka thought.
Wolf Plume turned his attention away from the suit he was currently prepping and addressed Wovoka.
The old Russian spoke, taking his focus off his own tasks. “We're approaching the point you designated earlier,” Wolf Plume reported. “I'm decelerating the Trighter to 50 K.P.H. where we want to disembark. The comp has had a rough time compensating for the loss of the stabilizing fin. I have programmed the autopilot to accelerate the Trighter away from the location where we disembark.”
“ETA on the disembark location?”
“One minute, twenty seconds,” Wolf Plume answered Wovoka.
Wovoka barked an order over the comp set. “Cavaho, grab the hack sack and get up here to Locker Two.” Wovoka pulled the opening lever on the second body tank. The body tank hummed obediently to life. The hydraulics in the Heavy Jaguar opened it up to accept its controller. The body tank split down the middle, hinging the two parts of the front half on the outside edge of the arms and legs. Wovoka motioned for Slow Turtle to come forward. He helped him step into the wide-open mobile armor. Slow Turtle was standing in the recess of the body tank, encased in the soft neoprene rubber that held the intricate micro fibers that read and executed the movements of the controller.
“Hey, where's the body tank’s missle launchers?” Slow Turtle asked Wovoka as the Pack Alpha buckled Slow Turtle in to the suit.
“I had Wolf Plume take them off for extra air capacity. We won't need missles in the Free Mantle. We still have the wrist cannons if we need them,” Wovoka answered.
Wovoka stepped back and hit the lever to the closed position. The body tank closed on Slow Turtle, an audible sequence of clicks emitted from the inside of the suit as it locked. The body tank hissed as it sealed and switched to its internal air supply.
Cavaho ran into the room and grabbed the hack sack and began attaching it to his body tank. Wovoka was strapping himself into his suit when Cavaho arrived.
“Thirty seconds to disembark. Move it, move it,” Wolf Plume warned Cavaho.
The Infiltrators could feel the hard deceleration of the Trighter as it approached the location to disembark. Cavaho snapped the last latch hook on the hack sack to the armored handles on the back of his body tank and got in. Wolf Plume was in his body tank but had not yet closed it. His right hand flash tapped commands to the ship's server, including an adjustment on when to seal the ship. The Russian hit the open lever to the closed position. His suit sealed last, three seconds from disembarkation.
The blast hatch over each of the suits blew off like pressure cooker lids and the Free Mantle filled the vision of each Infiltrator. As Wovoka, surrounded by warriors under his charge, floated freely toward the stone chaos and away from the Trighter he knew if ever he needed Wambli to carry him on his wings, it was now.
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