Trial by Fire - eARC

by Charles E Gannon

  Thandla smiled as Lemuel emerged from behind the too-narrow tree he had selected as cover. Hapless, brilliant Wasserman. Thandla had not expected his odd, awkward, and decidedly barbed fellowship. Upon going their separate ways after returning to Earth from the Convocation, Sanjay believed the American did not like, or even particularly trust him. But here, just a few kilometers south of Bakau Heni, on the southeast tip of Sumatra, Wasserman had become a puzzling and pugnacious fixture at all of Thandla’s activities and meals. He even forsook the company of his own countrymen, for the region was thick with tall, drawling Americans who were impatient to joint the fight on Java.

  They, and their European and Russian counterparts, had been gathering for the better part of three weeks. They arrived by truck or coastal barge, never in units larger than fifteen personnel and two vehicles, collecting here and in a dozen other coastal enclaves, well away from major towns or cities. Thandla and Wasserman had been assigned to go to Java in the second wave, with what the Americans incongruously called their “Air Cavalry.” Sanjay would have expected an ornate Pegasus as the unit symbol, but it was simply a black-rimmed gold shield which was adorned by (in the language of heraldry that he had learned during an early fascination with the age of chivalry) a bend sable and a chief sinister couped horse head, also sable. The other unit concealed here at the water’s edge, a German troop of high-speed VTOL drone controllers, was the first wave. How any of them were to survive getting airborne had not yet been explained.

  Lemuel had stopped to speak with one of the American pilots before he finished his journey back to Thandla. “They say it shouldn’t be long now. Maybe an hour, maybe half. Maybe less.”

  Thandla smiled, looked east across the water. He heard Wasserman’s feet shift in the sand: a noise that signified suppressed irritation. It was the greatest exertion of self-restraint that Wasserman seemed capable of. “Yes, Lemuel? What is it?”

  The foot-scuffling stopped. “Well, yeah. I just want to know why you’re smiling. I mean, what’s to smile about? In a few hours, we’ll be—”

  “We’ll be doing what we have trained to do, ever since returning from the Convocation. Once we are in Jarkarta, I will be trying to glean data from a hopefully intact Arat Kur computer. You will be searching for any files or technology which will better help us understand their shift and antimatter drives. Are you not eager to begin?”

  “Well, yeah—but no. I mean, look at this place.” Wasserman waved back at the vehicles of the second wave. They were low, wedge-shaped deltas with sleek turrets and menacing secondary weapon blisters. The intakes for their ducted-thrust engines were broad, thin slits, reminiscent of a shark’s mouth when cruising for prey. Two of the vehicles were larger, boxier vehicles bristling with sensor and communication pods and antennae. All were in an aqua-blue mottled camouflage scheme that would shift to green-grey when they finished their run across the Sunda Strait to Java. “You feel safe riding in those?” Wasserman asked.

  “Far safer than riding in those.” Thandla smiled, pointed at the lighter, more needlelike fuselages of the German VTOLs: built for linear speed rather than nap-of-earth combat support operations, the airframes of the European craft looked faster but infinitely more fragile. Not that that mattered: nothing could withstand a direct hit from any of the Arat Kur orbital interdiction batteries.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Wasserman pressed. “I’m talking about doing any of this. You know, being here.”

  Thandla did not understand. “You mean, in Indonesia?”

  “No, I mean in the middle of a war zone. Doesn’t that—bother you?”

  Ah. That was it, then. Thandla shook his head. “No, not really.”

  “But I thought— You’ve mentioned a wife. And kids. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re not scared of—of—?”

  Could he really not say the word? Was he no more prepared than this? “Scared of dying? I am scared, although perhaps not as you mean it.”

  “You mean there’s more than one version of ‘scared’?”

  Thandla ignored the facetious tone. “Yes. I am scared that I will not see my family—or this world—again.”

  “Yeah, there you go. That’s the kind of scared I’m talking about.”

  “I think it is not. For if I depart this world, this frame of existence, I only go to another that is closer to Nirvana, to a communion with and dissolution into all things.”

  Wasserman had leaned back. “You believe that stuff?”

  Thandla smiled at Wasserman’s crude and artless dismay, but also at the undeniable undercurrent of personal concern, as if the American were listening to a friend who had decided to go skydiving without checking his parachute. “Yes, Lemuel, I believe that stuff. I always have. Both in peace and, now, at war.”

  Lemuel was quiet for a long moment. An eternity, for him, Thandla reflected. “Does that belief make you feel better at a time like this?”

  “I do not know. Probably. It affects how I feel—and think—at all times.”

  Lemuel made a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a sigh. “Hunh.” Thandla looked at him; Wasserman was staring out over the water. “Hunh,” he said again.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m just thinking about today, and about Murphy’s Laws.”

  Thandla smiled. “Which one?”

  “The one which predicts that since you’re not particularly worried about death, you’ll probably get away without a scratch. And because I’m shit-scared about dying, I’ll probably get my guts blown out.”

  Wasserman’s projection was too juvenile and unreasonably cynical to warrant a response, but Thandla was struck by its subtext. That, for reasons unclear, Lemuel Wasserman was admitting to fears and cosmological misgivings and anxieties. To him.

  Thandla felt his smile widen, saw Lemuel glance over—but his eyes did not make it all the way to Thandla’s. His gaze froze on something he had seen over Sanjay’s shoulder.

  “Dr. Thandla.”

  Sanjay turned. Two command pilots, one American, one German, had come to stand behind him. They both had their hands behind their backs. The American, a major, was looking down. “Dr. Thandla,” he repeated, “I’m afraid we’ve got a change of plans.”

  “I do not understand.”

  The German captain spoke with a directness that was jarring after the American’s soft Missouri drawl. “Herr Doctor, our lead encryption and decoding specialist has been afflicted with gastroenteritis for two days. Treatments have not been effective. He is quite incapacitated.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  The American looked up. “Dr. Thandla, Kapitan Dortmuller’s C4I specialist was to coordinate jamming and counterjamming for the bow wave of our operations from Sumatra. Without his crash-training in what little we know about Arat Kur systems, machine language, and programming habits, the kapitan’s mission could be over almost before it begins. We cannot lose control of the jamming and image-making drones that will be deployed in advance of his unit. We have to stay one electronic step ahead of the Arat Kur attempts to see through them.”

  “To cover an attack by your vehicles in the second wave?”

  The American looked away. “Well, yeah, that too. But there’s more at stake. There are units out there”—he nodded toward the surf without looking away—“that need those seconds even more than my attack wave does.” He held Thandla with his eyes. “Much more. ’Course, I’m also aware that we need to keep you ready in the rear, so that you can pick apart any of their computers that we might get our hands on. So maybe I’m talking to the wrong person.” He looked over at Lemuel. “As I understand it, Dr. Wasserman, you’re just about as competent as Dr. Thandla when it comes to what little we know about Arat Kur hard- and software.”

  Lemuel blinked once. He swallowed. Thandla suspected he was about to turn around and run straight into the jungle that he usually refused to enter. But instead, his voice tremoring sligh
tly, Lemuel lifted his chin resolutely and answered. “That’s true. I can do the job.”

  Thandla felt a sudden urge to hug the brash, irascible, impossible American. But instead, he merely smiled again. “No, Major. That will not do. Dr. Wasserman’s specialization cannot be replaced. He does know more about computers than I know about drives, but that is exactly why he must not go. His expertise is fundamentally unique and irreplaceable. Mine is merely very rare. I will replace Kapitan Dortmuller’s Arat Kur software specialist.”

  The officers nodded, the American holding the visor of his cap for a moment, before they swung off toward their separate commands. Thandla watched them go, smiling, and felt that—despite the line of clouds on the horizon—this was a very good day after all. He turned back to Wasserman.

  Whose face was red, almost distended. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell are you doing, Sanjay? What the fuck have you gotten yourself—?”

  Thandla put a hand on Lemuel’s arm; he would have liked to place it against his cheek. “Lemuel. Stop. Think. There is no other choice. And you were ready to take the same risk. Today we cannot afford to protect ourselves, cannot afford to lose precious seconds or even one small advantage.”

  Wasserman shook his head. “But it’s not safe. Have you looked at the first wave’s mission specs—I mean, really looked at them?”

  “I have. Possibly more than you. And there is no alternative. The first wave cannot be comprised solely of remote operated vehicles, because if the comm links are broken or disrupted, that would be the end of them.”

  Wasserman shook his head even harder. “Look. The live control vehicles don’t need to be in the first wave, Sanjay. They could stay behind it, control it by lascom.”

  “On the contrary. You know what lascom control links mean in terms of degraded reaction time. The drone sends us data, we send it reactive orders—and lose a fraction of a second every time we do. And in that microsecond, the drone is extremely vulnerable. No. Our crewed control vehicles must be so close that there is no measurable delay. Otherwise, we cannot be sure that our manned air forces will arrive in Java, let alone in sufficient numbers to attain battlespace parity.”

  “Sanjay, listen to what you’re saying. You’re talking about flying into a shooting gallery.” Wasserman seemed ready to reach out and shake some sense into his friend, then blushed and threw his hands up in the air instead. “Don’t do it. It’s not safe.”

  “Today, Lemuel, personal safety must be set aside. Our survival as a planet and a species depends on our acceptance of that, my friend.”

  Wasserman hesitated. And Thandla knew why: because Sanjay Thandla had called him “My friend.” What could Lemuel Wasserman say in response to that?

  Lemuel swallowed—it seemed hard for him to do, as if he had a sore throat—and looked out to sea. “Yeah, well—you’re going to be fine. You optimistic son of a bitch. I’ll be way back in the second wave, and they’ll still find a way to kill me. And when I’m dead, you’ll still be smiling that stupid smile of yours. You son of a bitch. I’m going to die and you’re going to be fine.”

  Thandla smiled, put an arm around Lemuel’s shoulder, looked out to sea with him. “Of course I am.”

  Thandla watched the low waves run—inexhaustible but futile—toward their feet, and, failing, retract and gather to rush at them once more. And no matter what happens, that will be true. I’m going to be fine.

  Wholenest flagship Greatvein, Earth orbit

  “The situation becomes more difficult, Esteemed Fleetmaster R’sudkaat.”

  R’sudkaat’s response to Tuxae was flat-toned. “Report.”

  “The human missile barrage has begun to drop off rapidly.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Yes, Fleetmaster, but the damage reports are alarming. We have lost thirty percent of our PDF targeting arrays. Almost all grounded aircraft took some measure of damage from shrapnel or other debris. Readiness ratings for half of them are uncertain. Communications are being switched through a dangerously small number of antenna: many of the masts have been damaged or destroyed. Fatalities have been low, but the wounded are numerous, and—due to communication losses—we have lost touch with many of the firebases in the countryside.”

  “All recoverable losses.”

  “I harmonize, Fleetmaster, all recoverable—if we are given the time to recover. Unfortunately, the human operations show no sign of diminishing. Close-range ground engagement began at each of our compounds just over three minutes ago.”

  “So they are starting to mount a ground offensive.”

  “No, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, they are not ‘starting’ it. It is in process, and all their actions commenced within the same five-second interval.”

  “What? Across the entirety of Java?”

  “Yes.”

  “So they have found a means of communication we cannot jam. Inconsequential. Our tactical air will crush them. Instruct—”

  Did R’sudkaat not know how to listen? “Fleetmaster, I repeat: our tactical air assets are at less than seventy percent due to damage. Those remaining are returning to refuel and rearm, but this will take three times as long as usual.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Enough of the humans’ large, ship-launched rockets survived to hit half of our air-support facilities with cluster bomblet munitions. Runways, landing pads, service vehicles have all been compromised. Fuel and ordnance, according to protocol, was moved into protective bunkers and so is not in immediate readiness. Surabaja is particularly affected. It is down to twenty percent function.”

  “Why did you not tell me of this earlier?”

  “Esteemed Fleetmaster, I am receiving these updates as we speak. Surabaja is having to divert craft to Jakarta for refueling and refit. But in consequence, almost all relief pilots and all the munitions are being drawn from one cache.”

  “Consumables for our air assets may run dry, but before then—”

  “Before then, they may be shot down, Fleetmaster. Because so many aircraft are now depending upon Jakarta’s various airports, the wait-time there for landing and service has tripled. In consequence, although we are maximizing dispersal, our aircraft are nonetheless stacked in multilayered holding patterns above Jakarta—”

  “—and so are perfect targets for surface-to-air missiles. Even small ones with short range.” R’sudkaat’s mandibles clacked urgently. “I harmonize. Quickly, alert the combat air traffic controllers in Jakarta. Despite our orbital interdiction, the humans might hope to use this moment to bring their own air assets into the battle—”

  Over the Sunda Strait, off Sumatra, Earth

  Behind Thandla’s mid-seat position in the German VTOL, the roughly purring engines—both the vertical lifters and the aft thrusters—suddenly yowled as if enraged. The flat, blue expanse of shallows leapt at, and then unrolled under and behind, them in what seemed like a single long second. Thandla was pushed back in the seat—hard. On either side, five Deutsche AeroFabrik VTOLs, identical to his own save for the tail numbers, were spread in the forward arms of a vee, for which his craft was the vertex.

  “Jamming on,” called the electronic warfare specialist in the back seat.

  “Very good.” Dortmund, the craft’s commander, turned back toward Thandla. “Soon, you will become quite busy. Their computers will analyze our signals, decode how we are amplifying, distorting, or creating false signatures, and interrupting their communications.”

  “And so I will have to adjust our signals.”

  “Just so. At first, you should be able to follow the guidelines that we preprogrammed into the computer.”

  Thandla smiled. “But if you had such complete faith in those new modulation and propagation protocols, you would have not have needed my services so urgently.”

  For the first time since Thandla had met him, Dortmund allowed himself a small smile. “Die Wahrheit. If my guess is correct, within the first ten minutes, the Arat Kur will begin to s
ee the programming patterns common to all our settings. There will be need for you to improvise.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “Then we die. Naturally.”

  “But we do want them to be shooting at us, do we not?”

  “Yes. We want them to realize that they must shoot us down, that if they eliminate us, they can eliminate the jamming and image-making drones covering the general air assault into Java.”

  “Which begins when?”

  “Look behind you.”

  Thandla turned, looked out the rear of the long cockpit blister. Above the dwindling green-grey Sumatran coast, specks were airborne, rising, gathering.

  Sanjay stared at the wide blue heavens above them—above which an enemy fleet hovered. “I am unconvinced that we shall last more than a few seconds, anyway. The Arat Kur’s look-down visual sensors seem quite acute, and their laser targeting is most impressive.”

  “True, but first they will try to eliminate us with their more numerous rail guns. But the flight time of the projectiles makes hitting a fast, maneuverable craft problematic. Ultimately, they may have to use lasers. But they have far fewer of them, and atmospheric diffusion makes them energy-expensive to use. We project that they will only commit their lasers once they determine that they must act swiftly and decisively against the manned vehicles of the controller flights if they are to eliminate the numerous countermeasure drones we are directing.”

  “So the way for them to kill the many-headed hydra of our interference is to hit us: its heart and brain.”