Free Range Protocol- Tales of the Tschaaa Infestation

by Marshall Miller

  “This unworthy one asks for forgiveness, Sensei. I have failed to heed your instructions once again.”

  The two military school cadets stood up at this time, one smirking and whispering in what could only be a satisfied gloat at seeing Ichiro be punished. Uncle Takeo was on them in a flash.

  Ichiro dared to sneak a look from the corner of his eye, as his uncle rounded on the two cadets. The Shinai was a blur, going from one cadet to the other—then back again. Their cries of pain became blurred into one long yelping as Uncle Takeo seemed to strike every body part imaginable.

  “You dare to insult one of my blood?” Uncle Takeo’s voice roared. “You dared to gloat and smirk, after this boy here put you both on the ground?” He now had them both on the ground, crying as they tried to assume protective fetal positions.

  “Hear me. In old Japan I would call you out. Or maybe your fathers, uncles, brothers. Two of you attack a younger person, then dare to question his worth, his manhood? His honor?”Ichiro’s mouth dropped open as he looked straight at his Uncle. He had never seen him so angry.

  “Get out of my dojo! Be glad this is modern Japan. Be glad your intestines are not hanging out of your stomach, as you cry for your mothers.”

  “Colonel Takeo…,” one of the cadets began and was rewarded by a Shinai on his fingers. He screamed like a little child.

  “Get up! Leave!” The two were up and gone before it registered to Ichiro.

  Uncle Takeo looked at his nephew. Ichiro bowed his head again, sure he was to be struck for peeking at the display of controlled violence.

  “Get up, Ichiro,” his Uncle commanded in a rather calm voice. Ichiro stood, eyes still averted. “Look at me, young man.” Ichiro looked at his uncle. His uncle broke into a broad grin.

  “I should be angry at you for losing your temper and fighting. But sometimes – and I emphasize only sometimes, honor demands it. I know what they were saying about you. Did they then lay hands on you?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “And you bested both, unarmed in say, five seconds?”

  “Yes, uncle. Maybe closer to four.”

  His uncle had slapped him on his back. “Well done! Now, it is dinner time. Wash up and meet me at the house.”

  It was not just in martial arts that his uncle had trained him. One day early on, Uncle Takeo had shown up with some colored sheets of rice paper. He had sat cross legged in front of his nephew and began to fashion intricate origami figures as Ichiro watched, fascinated.

  “Those are fantastic, uncle.”

  “Here.” He handed Ichiro some of the paper and a couple of instruction sheets.

  “Uncle, I cannot…”

  “Yes, you can. It is quite calming, and helps you to forget the problems of the day, as well as concentrate your thoughts. Now, read the instructions, remember what I did, and begin. I will be back later.”

  Ichiro soon found that his uncle had been correct. His uncle was surprised at the speed in which his nephew picked up skill in this art form. One day he presented his uncle with a twelve inch tall origami figure of the Sensei, which broke down into twelve smaller versions, each representing Uncle Takeo in some activity in the dojo.

  “How did you do this, Ichiro-san?”

  He had shrugged. “I just did, uncle. It seemed to just come to me, I saw a pattern in my head and followed it.”

  Uncle Takeo realized, and not for the first time, the uniqueness of this special student.

  Ichiro was then schooled in the string musical instrument, the shamisen, with which he became quite good. Then poetry, calligraphy, and painting were added to his studies.

  “The classical Samurai was an educated and cultured man, not just some brute with a blade. As I have said before, my nephew, he used his brain more than his sword.”

  Ichiro grew and was taller than most Japanese, some five foot ten, around one hundred eighty-two centimeters tall. He was wiry, with great strength in his frame. As Uncle Takeo began to allow Ichiro compete in martial arts competitions, he saw abilities he had not originally believed existed. Ichiro was faster, more agile than everyone. He also seemed to be able to wrap himself around an opponent, when grappling like a constrictor snake. He was soon called “anaconda” behind his back.

  After one competition, when Ichiro defeated a very experienced older black belt, Uncle Takeo sat—contemplating the match. Ichiro had also competed against some older kendo practitioners and had beat them all in very straight order. He called his nephew over.

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Nephew, I have been watching with specific intensity your matches this day. Tell me, while you are fighting, what do you see?”

  “Well, uncle. I see my opponents, of course, as they ready themselves. Then…” He paused for a minute and closed his eyes. Uncle Takeo sat patiently, as his nephew examined his matches in his mind’s eye. Then he opened his eyes.

  “I see patterns, uncle. I can often see what my opponent will do several moves ahead, as they seem to move…slow.”

  Uncle Takeo face split into a broad grin. “I thought so. You are using your mind, your intellect to determine your opponent’s possible moves, as well as weaknesses. Then you create a counter set of patterns. All this is done in microseconds. Then your fantastic speed and reflexes take over.”

  His face now took on a serious look.

  “Nephew, you have been given skills and abilities that could easily be misused. You could be a very dangerous man, should you turn these abilities to the darker side of Japanese culture. You could be a Yakuza, a killer.”

  Ichiro had a puzzled look on his face. “Why would I do that, uncle? I would bring dishonor on our family. I have no desire to kill anyone or anything.”

  “Remember those feelings and beliefs, my nephew. They will guide you, even if you go into the military. Only psychotics look forward to killing.”

  Into the military he did go, following in his father’s and uncle’s footsteps. While they had been in the infantry, Ichiro’s excellent abilities were seen best used as a fighter pilot. He went through officer’s training in the Japanese Defense Force first, then to pilot training. A fear of Chinese and North Korean expanding capabilities and aggressiveness had prompted new funding for Japanese Air Defense.

  The Japanese instructor pilots soon discovered that Ichiro seemed to pull more Gs and still function as well as most pilots. But even more importantly, his reflexes were so quick that even onboard aircraft computers could not keep up with his motions. Whether fact or fiction, he was soon out maneuvering the most experienced instructor pilots.

  As completion of his initial pilot training was nearing, it happened.

  The rocks fell.

  American military bases on the main Japanese islands were all hit, as were the bases on Okinawa. Only smaller rocks were used, however, none of the larger, tractor trailer sized ones. But they were enough to limit the combined air forces to react when twelve hours later, the first enemy alien craft showed up.

  Many air assets were caught on the ground, partly due to the fact everyone believed at the initial outset that the rocks were a natural disaster. Then the Deltas, Falcons, and harvester arks showed up. Ichiro and his classmates, not being completely trained and certified combat pilots, were assigned combat support roles, to include response to reports of harvester ark landings.

  An odd and unique pattern, almost limited to Japan, emerged. After the first seventy-two hours, the harvester arks stopped coming. Even before that time, there were verified reports of arks landing, then taking off within the hour after limited activities. Of course, it did not take the Japanese people long to realize what those activities had involved. A small, tracked Type 60 106mm recoilless rifle anti-tank vehicle was able to respond within minutes of a harvester landing in a remote area of Kyushu Island and shot the craft down, as it was starting to rise again. After it crashed on its side, Japanese combat troops arrived and swarmed it, destroying the harvester robots and a handful of creatures later iden
tified as the alien grays. Intelligence personnel arrived and started going over the craft with a fine tooth comb. They soon discovered that the areas which looked like meat processing or butchering stations were just that. And the preferred meat was Homo sapiens.

  On day five, Ichiro was at forward field operations station, which consisted of a bunch of large tents and portable generators. As he and some of his fellows were reviewing aerial recon photos of the area in one of the tents, someone called the area to attention. In walked Uncle Takeo, in full combat uniform.

  “Colonel Yamamoto,” the senior Major in the area addressed him. “Is there some assistance I may provide you?”

  “I need to speak with my nephew, Lieutenant Yamamoto, immediately.”

  “Hai! Yes, Sir. Lieutenant…”

  Ichiro was already standing there, having seen his Uncle Takeo walk in with a stoic look on his face.

  “Colonel. Lieutenant Yamamoto reporting…”

  “Come with me, nephew. Excuse us, Major.” Ichiro followed his uncle out of the tent. They walked in silence away from the tents for a few moments. Then, Uncle Takeo stopped and turned to his nephew. His face looked ashen in the subdued lighting of the camp.

  “Ichiro, my beloved nephew, there is no way to do this in an easy manner.” For the first time in his life, he heard his uncle’s voice crack with emotion.

  “Your father—my brother—and your mother are dead. They were killed by a harvester ark. We just confirmed it today. My heart breaks with sorrow, but remember I am here for you.”

  Ichiro’s body filled with ice. He felt numb, in a surreal world. He stood silent, unable to move. Then came the rage. Before his uncle could say anything, Ichiro walked over to a sapling tree nearby and tore it from the ground. He threw it like a javelin into the darkness outside the camp. He screamed in rage and sorrow, his voice echoing around the camp like the wounded beast he was at that moment in time.

  The senior Major and some of Ichiro’s fellow officers approached, and Uncle Takeo motioned them away. Ichiro gained control of his emotions, and turned to his uncle.

  “Sir, I am sorry for that lack of control I just displayed.”

  “Ichiro, I am here as your uncle, your blood. Not as a senior officer.”

  The older man took a deep breath, then let it out. “I have already let out my hot rage. Now, I am filled with cold, icy rage. I know you will feel the same. So I bring you something that may help focus that rage into an instrument of revenge.” With that, Uncle Takeo handed him the katana he had been carrying.

  “This is a Masamune blade, from our ancestor, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto’s private collection. It is now yours. Carry it with you in the hope that you may use it personally against the Tako invaders. May it bite and rend the flesh of these monsters, in fitting memory of your parents.”

  Ichiro took it from his uncle and bowed low, touching the sword in respect to his forehead. “I will strive to be worthy of this, my uncle.”

  “You are already worthy, my nephew. Remember that.”

  In the weeks and months to come, Ichiro did not have the chance to exact revenge with the katana. He did finally become fully certified as a combat fighter pilot, sufficient aircraft and fuel being located to finish training Ichiro and his fellows. It was almost a year after the first rock strike.

  A former U.S. Air Force veteran fighter pilot was brought by Ichiro’s squadron commander Koji Chiba to brief them just prior to the young warrior’s first air mission. Colonel Mike Lynch was one of the just over two thousand former U.S. military personnel and dependents who had stayed behind in Japan, as things began to fall apart. The rest of the American survivors had obtained as many transport aircraft and sea craft as possible for attempts at reaching Alaska, which had received only minimal attention from the raiding aliens. Some of the fleeing Americans were successful in reaching Alaska, many were not. The only other American officials and personnel who had stayed behind were the ambassador and staff at the U.S. Embassy, including the Marine protection detail.

  At the former Misawa Air Base, in addition to helping the Free Japan Armed Forces to operate the large radar and satellite tracking facilities, Colonel Lynch was trying to assemble two former U.S. jet fighters from the wreckage of several aircraft, plus spare parts. Free Japan provided a few aircraft technicians and engineers to help, but that was it. They were having enough problems keeping their own resources operational, since all outside imported assistance was gone.

  Background information on the Colonel provided by Major Chiba indicated that he was an experienced air combat veteran, with two aerial kills from the various Persian Gulf conflicts. Colonel Lynch had also survived two separate interceptions of Delta fighters and scored two missile strikes on a Falcon aerial battle cruiser. He had survived the encounters and even watched the damaged Falcon flee the area, which made him one of the more successful fighter pilots still alive.

  “Afternoon, Gentlemen. I appreciate Major Chiba inviting me here, as I think I may have some information that could help in your efforts to intercept and shoot down the Deltas. Since the remaining former American forces in Japan have very limited capabilities, we spend time collecting as much usable intelligence information as we can find. Including some information about one of the first recorded successful interceptions of Squid, what you call Tako, aerial craft during the initial Invasion.”

  The Colonel continued. “I’ll keep this as short and sweet as possible, because I know you have lots of preparations to complete. So, let’s go over what we know about the enemy.”

  For the next half hour, using a few photos and a bunch of diagrams, the Colonel detailed the enemy’s capabilities.

  “As you know from your intercepts, the Delta’s electromagnetic cannons are still deadly out to some two kilometers, due to their extreme velocity and their thirty two millimeter size. The shells’ ability to make inflight course corrections—thanks to a small artificial intelligence, A.I., as part of the warhead—adds to their deadliness. Then, of course, there are their three inch missiles, also with A.I. capability. Because the Deltas usually only carry one of these, it limits their combat capability. The energy pulse weapon the Delta carries in the front can punch holes into a main battle tank at about two thousand meters and fry electronics at twice that range in our atmosphere—although only once or twice per fight. Indications are that all weapons work better in outer space, outside our atmosphere. The Falcons carry heavier energy weapons and more missiles, not to mention their size and toughness are a class above our interceptors.”

  The Colonel paused for a minute, then continued.

  “We have a copy of an intelligence report, which is supported by a news video that we have been unable to obtain. Two U.S. Air Force F-22s intercepted a harvester ark east of San Diego, California. Here is a still photo of the downed ark.” The photo showed the huge vessel embedded in the ground on its right side, with smoke all around.

  “A young Captain William Bender hit that thing with two missiles, as it was coming in for a landing. As he and his wingman started to circle back, a Delta fighter hit them. Captain Bender’s wingman was hit by one of the cannon shells, which damaged his fighter’s rudders. As the Delta turned around, apparently looking for the other aircraft, Captain Bender was able to perform a modified hammerhead maneuver and come down on top of the Delta. His wingman saw him score a missile hit on the Delta just behind the cockpit area, causing it to dive into the ground at high speed. Captain Bender contacted his wingman and told him he would escort him back to Base. About five seconds later, the Falcon showed up.”

  The Colonel displayed a fuzzy photo of a Falcon that had bellied in, with pieces of something protruding from its body.

  “This is the only other photograph we have from the area. Like I said, somewhere a video is still floating around, as some people reported to have seen it on a local television broadcast. Then it disappeared. But the wingman made it back to the base and reported the Falcon tried to latch onto Captain Bender’s
F-22 with some kind of tractor beam, and one of those mechanical tentacles the Squids like to use. The wingman said Captain Bender rammed the Falcon, causing it to belly in. That is the last we heard of Captain Bender. He was the closest thing to an ‘ace’ that we had from those thirty one days, before all control went to hell.”

  Everyone was silent for a few moments. Then Ichiro stood up.

  “So, Colonel, what can you suggest from this incident you have described? How should we fight the Takos—Squids, as you call them—in the air?”

  Colonel Lynch chuckled. “Knife fight in a telephone booth.”

  When he was met with confused looks, the Colonel explained.

  “The Deltas, piloted by the Squids, or Tschaaa as they call themselves, can pull some fifteen Gs in a turn. So they have the advantage at high speed horizontal combat. And of course, they have the high ground, as they can attack from low orbit, at Mach five or so. Those huge eyes they have in their heads we call Eagle Eyes, because like an eagle, they can see objects way off in the distance, especially if you are a fast mover.”

  “So what do we do? We do not fight their fight.”

  Like thousands of fighter pilots before him, he used his hands as two opposing aircraft to illustrate as he explained. “The Squid comes in fast from above, you get in the weeds down low and go into lower speed tight turns. Because even if you can pull more Gs, the aerodynamics of an aircraft limits just how tight an aircraft can turn before it stalls, especially a high speed stall. Even with the two injector scramjets being able to shift a few degrees to help with maneuvering, their delta wings do not supply the same lift capability as our airfoils and flap systems do. Most importantly, they have not developed the aerial tactics of mutual support like we have. Many of their attacks are single ship attacks. If you have four on one, you will almost certainly lose one aircraft to knock down the Delta, unless you can hit them with a high velocity missile before they catch on to what you are doing. So you suck them into a knife fight in a telephone booth, where their lessor speed capabilities and rather poor all around cockpit visibility, compared to our bubble canopies, negates some of their advantages.”