Deathangel

by Kevin Ikenberry

  “My name is Mike.”

  “My name is Irene. My friends call me Reenee.”

  “Works for me, Reenee,” Carter said. Adrenaline numbed the pain in his legs. He moved faster, but Mata couldn’t match his speed. They stayed together. As they reached the dropship, he helped her onto the ladder.

  “Wait for me!”

  Carter turned back and saw Doc running toward them wearing an unbuckled pararescue helmet and carrying a large medical supply bag. The young medic closed the distance quickly and climbed aboard. “You sure about this, kid?”

  Doc nodded. “We have a Peacemaker to get off the field, sir. Let’s do this.”

  Inside the dropship, Carter climbed into the forward cockpit section and found Mata in the righthand seat. His seat. He shook it off and dropped into the left one. Pictures of Becky Stalling’s nieces and nephews smiled at him.

  This one’s for you, Becky. You, too, Alphabet.

  “Everybody, strap in,” Carter said. “We’re going low and fast.”

  “Exterior doors closed and combat ready,” Doc called.

  “You a trained PJ, Doc?”

  “Negative, sir,” Doc said. “But Alphabet was one of my friends. I can fake my way through this if you can.”

  Carter laughed and saw Mata smiling at him. “Standby for launch.”

  Mata tugged on her shoulder straps. He watched her studying the instrument panel, and he knew she was trying to be as helpful as she could.

  “Be my eyes, Reenee. Watch the right side of the ship from the nose to as far back as you can see.”

  She nodded, and he grabbed the flight controls. The built-in multifunction displays came online, and he saw Warthog Six moving toward the downtown area.

  “Deathangel Two Five, this is Mako One Three. Have eyes on Warthog Six and am prepared for launch.”

  “Standby fifteen seconds, Mako One Three. You’re going to need what cover we can provide unless you can stay as low as a CASPer until you clear the airfield.”

  Carter nodded. “I’ve got that, Deathangel. Keep their heads down for twenty seconds and we’re clear to the LZ.”

  “Ten seconds, Mako One Three.”

  Carter counted down in his head, wriggling his hands on the controls and adjusting his body to the seat. Outside, he felt the deep, thundering vibrations of distant weapons fire.

  “Mako One Three, launch!”

  Carter applied thrust to the engines, brought the vehicle a meter off the deck, and edged the nose forward. “Mako One Three is on the roll!”

  “Good luck, One Three. Deathangel Two Five is clear.” Mason’s voice dropped off the frequency. It was just as well. Carter couldn’t hear anything as he pushed the throttle further forward and accelerated away from the hangar in a blast of jet wash, nearly tearing the hanger doors off as Mako One Three raced east.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Deathangel Two Five

  Victoria Bravo

  There’s nothing more you can do for Vannix, Tara. Get your head back in the fight.

  She blinked as the thought raced through her head. Watching the icons for Mako One Three and Warthog Six move into the city, she’d forgotten the battle at hand. Using her HOTAS derived controls for the Mk 8, Tara scrolled her display back to the main battle area without having to remove her hands from the CASPer’s main controls. Hands On Throttle And Stick revolutionized combat aircraft a few hundred years before and continued to impact how humans fought complex machines. The three remaining landers, immediately to the north of the main hangar complex, were executing their final landing sequences. Avenger 6 and the two remaining Hammerheads, reduced to stationary artillery pieces but still spewing fire, remained decisively engaged.

  “Lucille, damage assessment on the landers.”

  <>

  “It’s waiting for something.”

  <>

  Tara reeled from the flash of realization. “The Cochkala infantry! Whirr reported they went into the tunnels under the city. The lander is their way out.”

  Lucille didn’t respond immediately. Tara scrolled the screen back to the Cochkala ship at the spaceport and saw the infantry and skiffs withdrawing into the loading bays. Under normal circumstances, Lucille would have noticed and reported the action. The restrictions had to be responsible for her not doing so.

  “Lucille? Analyze the Cochkala defensive position.”

  <>

  “How long have you been monitoring this situation?”

  <>

  Gods!

  “Why haven’t you reported it, Lucille? This is the kind of shit I need to know!”

  <> Lucille replied. <>

  “Throw all that out,” Tara grunted. She’d have to deal with the consequences later and, if Lucille got too far ahead of things, Tara believed she could shut her down again. “Just like the reporting permissions. I want you to do the job you were programmed for, even with the new restrictions in place.”

  <>

  Tara snorted. “Ever heard the expression there is an exception for every rule, Lucille?”

  <>

  “Take it to heart,” Tara said. “Patch me through to Avenger Six and watch that ship. The minute they pull those missile skiffs in, I expect them to prepare for launch. We’ll have a really tiny window.”

  <>

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  <>

  “Avenger Six, Deathangel 25.”

  “Copy, 25. We’re maintaining rate of fire.” Vuong sounded like he was ordering coffee instead of leading the remaining CASPers. “Standing by to attack.”

  Tara paused. With the Cochkala main position preparing to retreat and launch, was there any point in attacking the landers? Was there anything of value inside them or were they a ruse?

  The icon for the westernmost lander flickered. Tara turned and looked. She saw smoke billowing, and the vehicle wobbled. She heard Rains in her earpiece.

  “What are you thinking, boss? We can’t sit here.”

  No, we can’t.

  The Cochkala are thinking the same thing. Their main effort is not what we think it is.

  “You’re right,” she replied. “On me.”

  Using her jumpjets, Tara bounded to the north toward the hangar complex and the descending landers. She landed, then did it again, cutting slightly to her right toward the remaining Hammerheads. The stranded tanks were far enough from the landers that any weapons fire they took was easily defeated by their armor. The tanks continued to fire into the remaining landers. As she approached Hammerhead 4, the gunner fired, raising a cloud of dust and debris around the tank. On the end of the sabot round was a tracer. The tracer, usually a type of phosphorus or some other brightly burning chemical, allowed Tara to see the round as it raced through the sky and tore into the westernmost lander’s engines. The vehicle exploded a millisecond later, strewing debris over a wide area of the spaceport.

  Tara heard Vuong’s voice on the radio. He seemed slightly more emotional than usual. “Victoria elements, coordinate fire on the center lander. L
eave the eastern one until we determine its intentions. We’ll give them enough rope to hang themselves. Avenger Six, out.”

  The CASPers and the Hammerheads fired on the center lander. The enemy pilots tried to outmaneuver the incoming rounds, then brought their weapons to bear. Tara flinched as Hammerhead Three’s external missile system detonated in a small, powerful explosion, shaking the ground and almost causing her to stumble. Jumping by reflex, Tara saw Hammerhead Four, which had been ten meters or so from its wingman, flipped on its roof. There were life signs inside the tank and no sign of a vehicle fire. They could wait.

  “We gotta keep going, Tara. They’ll be okay if we can get that lander down!” Rains yelled.

  He was right. Under the concentrated fire of the remaining CASPers, the landers couldn’t last forever. But without the tanks’ heavy ammunition suppressing the enemy fire, the Cochkala and their friends had the advantage. That had to stop. She had to make a choice. They had to eliminate the landers, or they had to destroy the Cochkala ship before it left the ground.

  As a young mercenary, she’d known the concept of fighting the lesser of two evils. Understanding it, however, took her near death experience with Death On Tracks. She’d raced through their training program at an unbelievable pace. Shooting, moving, and communicating—the actions of the armor leader—came easily to her. Two missions into her career with the unit, she’d become a section leader, operating opposite the track of her platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Petrovich. The crazy Russian bastard sat her down one night during a hyperspace transit with a bottle of vodka and a notepad. He drew a rectangle on the center of the page. Inside the rectangle, he drew an oval, a standard military graphic for an armored force. On top of the rectangle, he drew three dots. A platoon.

  Above the rectangle, he drew two diamonds for the enemy forces. He filled one diamond with two crossed lines and placed the Roman numeral III over the top—an infantry regiment. He placed an oval inside the other and drew II for an armor battalion. He pointed to the rectangle.

  “This you.” Petrovich grinned. “Standard load, fully ready and trained.”

  She nodded and sipped vodka from the dirty shot glass he’d set in front of her. She tapped the rectangle. “This is me.”

  “Da. These,” he tapped the two diamonds, “your enemy. Which one do you attack?”

  “Neither,” Tara had answered. “Either one is suicide.”

  “You have no choice. You have to attack. To die not moving is to die without honor.” Petrovich tossed back his fourth shot. “You must attack. No choice. Which one?”

  Tara remembered squinting at him. “What do you mean? Either way I die. A mercenary is supposed to leave the field to return another day. That’s what you’ve taught me from day one.”

  “Correct.” Petrovich smiled at her. “But there will come day when you must choose. Either way—no win. What to do?”

  Tara had frowned and looked at the options. An infantry regiment or an armored battalion against her armor platoon. Four tanks versus eighteen tanks or four tanks versus a hundred soldiers with light weapons. She’d tapped the infantry regiment. “This one.”

  “Why? There are more of them.” Petrovich grinned savagely at her. She knew the look all too well. He wanted her to reconsider. She shook her head.

  “No. Infantry versus tanks? I have the advantage despite their numbers.”

  Petrovich grunted, retrieved the bottle of vodka from the floor and poured himself another shot. After he did, he carefully filled her glass to the lip and set the bottle quietly on the table. He raised his glass to her and waited until she picked up hers and clinked it against his.

  “You learn valuable lesson, Tara.” Petrovich grinned at her. “When time comes, pick the lesser of two evils. When you can’t win, that may give the only chance you have.”

  Tara nodded at the memory. Sergeant First Class Petrovich had done just as he’d advised and charged into what he thought was the lesser of two evils. He’d paid the price that day, as had the rest of the company, except for her. The orders from her company commander had been explicit.

  Remain as the reserve until I tell you to move. Fail to do that, and the artillery will hammer your ass into oblivion.

  She hadn’t moved. She’d done exactly what they’d ordered, even when she knew she should have attacked behind Petrovich. It would have been suicide, but it should have happened, because it might have changed the outcome. Now, looking at her tactical displays, Tara knew what had to be done. If today was the day she found herself in that clearing, halfway down the road to hell, so be it. She’d buy Petrovich a round or two for eternity.

  “On me, Rains,” Tara called and jumped. “Avenger Six, Deathangel 25. Knock the central lander down. Force 25 is going for the eastern lander before he can get his prize. Do whatever you need to. But knock that fucker out of the sky.”

  “Avenger Six acknowledges. Out.”

  Tara glanced over her shoulder at Rains who followed behind in perfect flanking position. “Jackson? You’re not going to like this, but it’s the best plan I’ve got.”

  She heard the young Peacemaker laugh. “Then I’m all in, boss. Let’s take it to these fuckers once and for all.”

  * * *

  Victory Twelve

  Approaching Victoria Gate

  “Will you remind me of the purpose of this exercise?” Bukk tugged absently at the yellow scarf slung over his shoulder. They’d found it in the bottom of Tara’s personal footlocker, and as much as Bukk regretted going through her things, he regretted going along with Xander’s plan more. “You can’t possibly expect the gate master to fall for this.”

  Xander slapped a magazine into a standard carbine. In the microgravity, with his feet tucked into hand holds, he knew he appeared inverted to the Altar. He grinned, but Bukk’s expression didn’t change, and his antennae didn’t waver. He sighed. “It’s a chance we have to take. If Watson’s government really has reached out to the Cartography Guild to establish a commercial zone, it’s our best chance to close the gate to these assholes.”

  “And if they have shunts?”

  Xander frowned. “Lucille? Any evidence the frigate or the two capital ships have hyperspace shunts?”

  <>

  “Then we have to take the chance the gate master will believe you’re a messenger from the guild.”

  “The gate master has the transponder of this ship. He knows who it is registered to and, presumably, what we are doing in his space,” Bukk replied.

  “Even so, he doesn’t know who is onboard,” Xander replied. “All you have to do is get the gate master to stall.”

  “I maintain it would be simpler to ask than attempt a ruse like this. This is an unnecessary risk to diplomatic relations.”

  Xander snorted. “Deception is one of the core tenets of warfare. Remember, those bastards brought war here. We have to stop them.”

  Bukk’s antennae finally bobbed. “Even a few minutes can make a difference. Am I correct in that assumption?”

  “Yes,” Xander replied. “I’m not saying our deception is something honorable. I know that’s important to you, Bukk. But right now, what matters is stopping those bastards from leaving the system. The gate master is the only person capable of doing that.”

  “I understand,” Bukk replied. “But what happens if the ruse fails, and the frigate opens fire on the gate, trying to coerce the gate master into opening it?”

  “It could happen, but we have to try.” There really wasn’t more he could say. In the history of stupid ideas, Xander knew his plan was high on the list. Tara would never allow it, but for whatever reason, Bukk believed in it enough to follow along.

  <>

  “Thanks, Lucille.” Xander grinned over his shoulder at Bukk. “You look great. This is going to work. I’ll introduce you formally
and let you take over.”

  Bulk nodded, one foreclaw over his chestplate in respect. “I will do my best.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  The Altar’s antennae waved in surprise. “I am honored to be considered your friend, Xander Alison. You share many qualities with your little brother whom I respected greatly. I believe he would be proud of you if he were here.”

  For a moment, Xander felt a surge of unfamiliar emotion. He’d gone to Araf to find his little brother’s remains, and he’d accomplished his mission without grieving for his loss. Like their mother, Xander hadn’t wanted Hex or his other siblings to join a mercenary outfit. But he knew why Hex did, and it wasn’t for the credits as everyone outside the mercenary cohort believed. He’d supposedly done it for excitement, for challenge, and to see the galaxy. Xander knew better now. Having seen the camaraderie between the soldiers, regardless of their race or species, Xander knew that soldiers fought for and with each other. They loved each other on a level no one else understood. Xander hadn’t until he met Tara and Force 25. That they considered him a friend and a part of the team gave him a feeling of pride he hadn’t had since seeing his little brother almost ace his VOWS many years earlier.

  “Thank you, Bukk,” Xander replied and quickly flipped out of the footholds and aligned himself with the airlock. A few seconds later, Victory Twelve’s docking mechanism locked on the gate, and the airlock pressurized. Gravity, at least some, returned in a flash. The adjustment of bodily fluids made him dizzy for a moment, but Xander blinked it away and lowered his rifle to a ready position, hoping he looked like an armed guard.

  The inner airlock opened, followed three seconds later by the outer hatch. A Sumatozou, its trunk waving slowly from right to left, stood there with its massive hands clasped in front of it. It spoked in a voice which sounded like a trumpet. The translator picked up its words and relayed them with minimal delay. “I am Gate Master Ella’Chi. How may I be of service to you?”

  Xander took a deep breath. “May I introduce—”