Terra Nova- the Wars of Liberation

by Tom Kratman

  Jack pressed his lips together firmly and stared at her. She stared right back until he exhaled noisily and nodded.

  Lele let her shoulders sag, and exhaustion hit her full force. She reached out and touched Jack’s arm lightly.

  “Look, Jack. I know how you feel. And I appreciate your concern. But you have to be careful. You can’t apply your religious morals to other people, especially not your superior officers, all right? That kind of thing can get you in all kinds of trouble. So just keep your head down and do your job. Feed your family. All seven of them.”

  “Eight,” he said quietly, looking down at the floor. Lele gaped, and then saw the corners of his mouth turn up.

  Something ugly and mean twisted deep inside her, cramping in her chest, driving out the air. She gasped, and a few people at a table nearby turned to look. By sheer force of will, she managed to make her mouth stretch in a smile.

  “Truly?” she asked, her voice trembling only a little. “Another? Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said, lifting his gaze from the floor and smiling at her. The joy-filled expression and softness in his eyes made her own eyes want to fill. She took one hand off her tray and shoved it into her pocket, where she could dig her fingernails into her palm.

  “When?” she asked. Better to get it all out now.

  “Almost exactly nine months after we left. Remember, I was almost late for the shuttle?” He said with a grin and a blush. “Anyway . . . Another boy. He’s about five now. She named him Samuel. I just got word the other day.”

  “That’s really terrific,” Lele said, forcing the words out. “You know, I . . . I’m actually not feeling very well. Probably shouldn’t have had the gumbo for lunch. I think I’m going to head back to my room.”

  “Oh!” Jack said, the beatific smile disappearing in lieu of a look of deep concern. “Sure. Um . . . do you need help? Want me to take you to the clinic?”

  “No, I’m fine, I just need to go. I’ll get something later.”

  “Uh, okay, ma’am. I’ll . . . see you tomorrow . . . I guess?”

  Lele nodded and turned away, shoving her tray onto a nearby table and nearly bolting for the door. She had to get out of the DFAC before she threw up from the effort it took not to lose control of her emotions.

  Outside, it had fallen fully dark with not even the smallest of the planet’s three moons showing. Some native beastie sang out either a mating or a hunting cry; she thought in sounded like a trixie on the trail of an antania.

  Lele broke into a run, gravel rolling and slipping under her boots. She had to get back to her room, she had to get out of sight. She was going to lose control, and she couldn’t let anyone see her do it.

  The tears started to blur her vision as she fumbled with the key. She blinked furiously and shoved the key home, then turned the knob and flung herself inside. Luckily for her, she kept her shower bucket on her desk next to the door. This wasn’t going to be a quick cry. This one was going to take a while and leave telltale scarlet marks on her face. She was going to have to take it to the showers.

  Bucket in hand, she ducked her head down so that her tears were less obvious and turned back for the communal shower trailer at the center of the mass of containers that constituted their camp’s billets. As she walked, she whispered pleas that she didn’t encounter anyone on the way to, or in the shower trailer. Not that she believed anyone was listening, but it was a habit.

  Divine intervention or not, Lele was in luck. The shower trailer stood empty and close with the steam of a recently departed bather. She took herself to the stall at the very back and started to undress. The first sob broke past her lips as she untied her boots. Keep it together, almost there . . .

  A crank on the lever and hot water, scalded by the alien sun, poured down through the showerhead. Lele ducked under the spray and opened her mouth in a silent scream of agonizing grief.

  Water flooded over her, blotching her tan skin red where it hit. She could feel the heat running down over her stomach, flowing between her thighs like the blood had done that last time, and all three of the times before. Red, hot, sticky hell boiling out of her, burning away her dreams, her love, her faith.

  Arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed as the tears ran, Lele sank to her knees under the spray, letting the anger and grief for her four lost babies flow like the water down the shower drain.

  “Feeling better?” Jack asked the next morning. He plunked his tray down next to hers and slid onto the trestle bench. The DFAC was emptier than usual, and Lele had been enjoying the quiet as she sipped her mediocre coffee.

  “Yeah, I am,” she said. “Thanks. Sorry about that. I just suddenly . . . ”

  “It happens,” Jack said. “Strange planet, strange food. I’m just glad you’re okay. Rumor has it that we’re going to be briefed on something big at the O-nine-hundred. I heard it could be the big mish.”

  “I heard that, too,” Lele said. “I’m interested to see what Alcasar’s got up his sleeve.”

  Despite his ongoing offer of “quid pro quo,” Major Alcasar wasn’t a terrible tactical air commander. He wasn’t a particularly gifted pilot, but he at least had a grasp of how one should employ rotary wing assets in a given environment for a particular mission. Lele’s major beef with him was that he knew he was on the fast track for promotion, and he had every intention of staying there. In other words, he was a consummate “yes” man, regardless of whether or not those yesses were actually sound decisions for his mission and his people.

  This, of course, was complicated by the questions of just what their mission was and just who were his people.

  Officially, they were the 2629th Expeditionary Helicopter Squadron, though they barely had the numbers to make up a “real world” flight, if that. Part of that fast track for Major Alcasar was that he was given command of a “squadron,” even if it only held about fifty people. Though they were USAF personnel, they’d been chopped to the UN for the Counterinsurgency Peacekeeping mission here on Terra Nova. Typically, they supported ground units drawn from all over Earth here to do the same. Despite the advances in interstellar travel, nothing beat an old-fashioned helicopter for putting people with guns into remote locations. The USAF had an aging fleet of cheap, reliable UH-1Z2 Iroquois II “Duey” helicopters left over from their strategic missile support mission. While the missiles were now under the direct control of the UN, and therefore no longer required rotary-wing security assets, the machines and crews still functioned as well as they ever had, so they got farmed out to meet the U.S.’ commitment to the UN.

  So far, they’d hauled a lot of guys and gear from point A to point B in their old school Dueys, but that was about it. It reminded Lele of old vids she’d seen about a war in southeastern Asia. That war had featured the Duey’s ancestor bird, the storied Huey. As an on-again, off-again student of aviation history, Lele appreciated that symmetry. Her ex-husband would have loved it, she thought with a twinge.

  “What’d you eat this morning?” Jack was asking. “You’re not going to get sick on me again are you?”

  “Toast and eggs,” Lele answered, grateful for the excuse to think about something else. She definitely didn’t need to be thinking about her ex when a possible mission was in the offing. “And coffee. I think I’m good.”

  “Hmph. I suppose. You’d be better off if those were real eggs, though,” Jack said, muttering as he dug into his own bowl of cereal.

  Lele laughed. Jack’s dietary prejudices were a running joke between the two of them.

  “C’mon, Jack, you know they can’t do that. They’d offend the vegans.”

  “I don’t protest that they serve coffee, do I? I just don’t drink it. Maybe the vegans could do the same.”

  “You Mormons are too polite. You should protest. Make a little more noise.”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Last time that got us persecuted, our prophet killed and our church exiled across a continent. Being polite is a much better option compared
to that . . . hey! Maybe we should start persecuting vegans!”

  Lele fought to keep from snorting hot coffee through her nose and just shook her head, grateful that no one was sitting near enough to hear her copilot’s anti-social sense of humor.

  They continued to banter while Jack ate his breakfast. He finished with just enough time for the two of them to make it to the 0900 mass briefing without rushing, so they went straight there after dumping their trays in the appropriate receptacles for trash, recyclables, and compost.

  The 0900 mass briefing was held in another prefab building not far from the DFAC, in the operations section. This structure served as a combination auditorium and conference room. Like the DFAC, it was ugly, beige, and smelled faintly of mildew and cleaner. Lele and Jack arrived with a few minutes to spare, and found seats together near the front of the room.

  “Room, tench-HUTT!” the squadron’s first sergeant called out, causing the predictable rumble as the gathered crews came to their feet. Lele could hear Major Alcasar walking in from the back of the room. He did enjoy his pomp and circumstance.

  “Please be seated,” the major said as he reached the plywood podium at the front of the room. He nodded regally (or what Lele thought he must imagine “regally” looked like) at the two-striper in the corner, and a glowing rectangle appeared on the wall behind him.

  “Yesss!” Jack breathed. “Death by PowerPoint! My favorite!”

  “Shut. Up.” Lele whispered, using the toe of her boot to kick her copilot in the ankle.

  “Yes ma’am,” Jack responded. “Anything you say, ma’am.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Major Alcasar said, throwing his voice a bit deeper than usual as he tried to project across the room. He seems to be feeling full of gravitas, Lele thought. This must be a doozy of a mission.

  “Welcome to the daily stand up brief. As of right now, all day flights are canceled due to a higher priority mission. At the conclusion of this briefing, all crews will leave this briefing room and enter crew rest as of ten hundred hours local. Showtime is twenty-two hundred local for an air assault mission here.”

  Alcasar gestured grandly to the slideshow projected behind him. The slide changed from a blank white to a satellite image of a narrow valley between two mountain ridges, with a lake at one end. The major gestured to his slide-flipper, and the image zoomed in on the southern shore of the lake. “This, here, is the village of Lawa Bundok, population about three hundred. Recent intelligence reports have highlighted this location as a critical node in the insurgents’ communication network. In addition, we have a credible report that at least one High Value Target may be located within the confines of the village. And don’t ask me which one, none of you have the need to know,” the major said with a smirk. Meaning, of course, that he knew. Naturally.

  “Our portion of the mission is simple. The smallest moon rises at twenty-three hundred hours, giving us optimal light approximately an hour later. We will take off from the base at midnight, loaded with assault teams of approximately four to six individuals per aircraft. Flights will then proceed in elements of two aircraft apiece to the target location and insert where directed by the assault teams. These men are trained to operate on helicopters, so they should be familiar with your capabilities. You can trust them to choose workable landing zones.”

  I’ll just bet we can, Lele thought cynically. He wasn’t telling them where these “operators” originated, which meant that they probably weren’t U.S. Best case was that they were from another member nation that worked well with U.S. aircrews. Worst case: they were highly incompetent and would do their best to get her killed. It was anyone’s guess what they’d get on that spectrum.

  “Once the insert is complete, you are to remain in location for rapid exfil of our forces. Indications are that there is no credible ground to air threat other than small arms, so each aircraft will be carrying two M-240s. In order to maintain the maximum lift capability for the customer, the firing systems have been slaved forward to the pilot’s control panel on the collective head. You’ll be using the head down display, but your three hundred and sixty degree forward looking infrared will give you ample warning of anyone approaching your helicopter. Please make sure that you don’t shoot our customers,” he added dryly, and then paused for long enough that it was clear people were supposed to laugh at this terrible joke.

  Lele’s estimation of the major’s capabilities slid further and further downward as the briefing went on. He spent far too much time on inconsequential minutia and not nearly enough on the important stuff, like contingencies and detailed communications plans. Something in the back of her mind started to pull at her, but she tiredly pushed it away. It wasn’t as if she had a choice in the matter, after all. This was the mission, she would have to go. No matter how much of a clusterfuck it seemed destined to become.

  When Alcasar finally finished up and dismissed them, they filed out into the morning light. Some headed for the DFAC, but most of the crews veered for the CHUs. As usual, Jack fell into step beside her, shortening his long stride to do so.

  “Well,” he said softly. “That was interesting.”

  “Mmmhmm,” she replied, unwilling to speak openly while they were in the midst of all the other crews. Most of them were good people, but it wouldn’t do to put them in a position of having to choose between informing on her and Jack or not. Besides, she was certain most of them shared her thoughts about Major Alcasar’s briefing. It had all the hallmarks of something dictated from above by someone who had no idea what they were doing . . . and naturally, Alcasar hadn’t had the balls to say no.

  “You okay?” Jack asked her, apropos of nothing, as they entered the maze of CHUs.

  “Hmm? Oh. Yeah,” she said. “Just thinking.”

  “Okay, well . . . I’m here,” he said, sounding tentative. She gave him a tiny smile.

  “I’m fine, Jack. Get some rest. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Even the weather seemed to think this mission was a bad idea.

  Lele swore as the first fat drops of rain started to patter down onto the tarmac beside her bird. The clouds were low and thick, but not low enough or thick enough to scrub the mission. Rain would reduce their visibility too, but again, likely not enough to cancel. It was her least favorite kind of situation: shitty weather blocking any moon- or starlight, making it dark as the devil’s armpit, but not quite dark or shitty enough to keep them from flying.

  Perfect. That ground-based navigation beacon better be working . . . not that it’ll do any good once we get into the mountain valleys. Fuck.

  With a last scowling shrug, she pulled herself into the right seat of the Duey and strapped in. Jack was already in place, helmet on, running the startup sequence. Lele pulled her own helmet on and toggled the intercom switch on her cyclic.

  “Pilot’s up,” she said.

  “Loud and clear,” Jack replied. “Before starting engines checklist completed. Starting engines checklist. Engine One.”

  “Engaged,” Lele said, and pressed the switch to make it so. The first of the Duey’s two turboshaft engines started to turn, letting out a low rumble and whine as the drive train engaged the main rotor and the blades started to spin.

  “Engine started,” she reported, as the Duey gave a shudder and began to vibrate in its usual way.

  “Oil pressures?”

  “Within limits.”

  “Generator.”

  “On.”

  “Second Engine.”

  “Engaged,” Lele said, and repeated the process with Engine Number Two. Within a few moments, they had the bird completely spun up and ready to go. She glanced down at her dimly green-lit gauges for one last check just as the major’s voice came through her headset on the interplane frequency.

  “KILGOR Flight Check, Interplane.”

  “Two,” Lele answered, then listened as the other aircraft checked in with their respective callsigns in order. Somehow, she’d ended up as Maj
or Alcasar’s wingman for the mission. She’d have preferred to lead her own element, of course, though the truth was that she was far less likely to come to bodily harm by following Alcasar. He wasn’t known for being in the thick of things, command notwithstanding. She was actually a little surprised that he’d chosen to fly this mission himself. He must expect it to be fairly visible by someone with clout. He’d probably get a medal out of it.

  “KILGOR Flight, This is Lead. Pitch pull in Five. Proceed as briefed. Let’s go get ’em, boys and girls!”

  Lele fixed her eyes on the lead bird’s tailboom and counted slowly backwards from five. When she reached zero, she saw the tell-tale tail wag through her night vision goggles as Alcasar pulled in collective. She followed suit and their skids lifted off the ground near simultaneously. The rain on her windscreen intensified, and Jack toggled on the windshield wipers without being asked. Because of the high humidity, all of the light sources at their base carried blooming halos of green in the goggles.

  “Keep an eye underneath your goggles,” she said on the intercom. “Let’s not let get dragged into the weather.”

  “Amen,” Jack replied. “Safe altitude around here is Eleven-Two. Thirteen-Five in the mountains.”

  “Got it,” she said, and silently hoped that they didn’t have to go that route. But if Alcasar dragged them into the clouds, the only way to ensure that they didn’t hit the rising terrain would be to climb that high. It would be intensely cold, there was the risk of ice accumulation on their rotor blades, and they didn’t have supplemental oxygen, so hypoxia could be a factor. Bad day all around. Better to stay under it, even if it meant not staying in super tight formation.

  I may not have a hell of a lot to live for, but I’ll be damned if I let Alcasar kill me, she thought, her lips curving at her own dark humor.

  Per the major’s brief, the various formation elements flew several thousand feet above the terrain during the enroute portion. About forty-five minutes into the flight, they reached the ridge that abutted the lake, and Alcasar gave the radio command to ingress into the low-level environment. Lele dropped her collective and fed in forward cyclic, and the Duey’s fully articulated rotor system sliced down through the air as they dropped to a few feet above the treetops. Lele felt the lightness in her stomach and ass as the aircraft “went negative.”