Black Ops (Expeditionary Force Book 4)

by Craig Alanson

  His immediate supervisor Soth recognize the danger, not to the compound, but to his career if the authorities learned his post had violated a standing security order. He could have flipped up a cover and pressed a green and yellow button that would have sent a surge of power into the shield emitters, forcing the outer shield back on and cutting the truck in half. The resulting violent reaction would have destroyed the truck, killed the driver and the idiotic Jax, and even injured Soth inside the bunker. Instead, Soth sprinted around the bunker door and frantically waved the truck driver forward. “Jax! You idiot! Both shields are down, get that truck in here.”

  Jax, stupidly, did not yield. “These trucks are carrying-”

  “They are carrying-” Soth never finished his thought.

  Two aircraft access points were open on the other side of the compound, as aircraft flew in formation toward the airfield. Two missiles followed closely behind the trailing aircraft in each formation, tucking their noses under the rear ramp in between the turbulence and heat signatures of the engines. All four missiles were running on turbine power only, their wings extended only a third of maximum length and swept back, and their polychromatic coating made them difficult to see even though the missiles did not have stealth fields. Regardless, sensors in the flight approach corridor detected something wrong and triggered an alarm. Even if the system detected a missile with absolute certainty, the air access security system could not fire maser cannons because the aircraft were broadcasting identification codes of senior clan leaders, indicating they or their immediate family members were aboard. A more clever system would have been skeptical that senior clan families would be flying aboard cargo transport aircraft, but that would not have mattered because the air access computers had been slowly and laboriously infiltrated by a very, very clever shiny beer can. Thus, the two aircraft and accompanying four missiles glided through the access port in the few seconds during which the air defense maser cannons could have fired. The aircraft were through the access point and the shield behind them reactivating before the air security duty officer was able to react to the warning alarm. The duty officer, confused, ordered the aircraft to veer away from the air field toward a designated holding area and scrambled drones to intercept and inspect the cargo transports, but by then his action were as useless as closing the henhouse door after the fox got in. All four missiles, responding to an order from an ancient alien beer can many kilometers away, shed their wings, shut off their turbine engines and ignited their rocket motors all within a microsecond. The four deadly darts turned and raced away in different directions, as the air security duty officer wondered what the hell had just happened.

  At the ground access point, the four missiles launched by the Chinese and SEALS teams had been loitering in slow lazy circles around a water tower, their polychromatic coatings blending in with the light gray of the water tower. With their miniature turbine engines operating on almost minimum power and their long, thin wings at maximum extension, they orbited the water tower no faster than a soaring bird, and made no more noise and had a lower sensor reflection than a bird. Even so, the motion sensors saturating the area should have sent an alarm to the central security computer, prompting at least a closer look at suspicious airborne activity around the water tower. The motion sensors did detect the four Zinger missiles, and repeatedly sent increasingly shrill alarms to the security system that something was odd in the vicinity of the water tower. What the central security received was nothing but soothingly happy ‘operating normally- all clear’ signals, for a crucial data relay had been infiltrated by a shiny beer can.

  The Zingers, if their tiny brains had been capable of talking to each other, probably would have said something like ‘Dude I am sooooo bored flying around this stupid water tower. I’m a missile, damn it, I want to KILL something’. Not being able to think on that level, the missiles quietly and mindlessly orbited the water tank, waiting eagerly for their moment of glory.

  Skippy had been planning a risky move to attempt flying the four Zingers through the ground security portal, during the brief moment when the outer and inner energy shields were not fully active. Even with him controlling their flight, he calculated no more than a fifty three percent of two missiles getting through, because of the signal lag between himself and the missiles, and the need for the missiles to fly through two partially-established energy barriers. Instead, due to the overzealous idiocy of a young and ambitious Kristang security guard, both inner and outer shields were simultaneously full deactivated. Not believing his incredible luck, Skippy instantly decided to carpe the hell out of that diem and sent revised instructions to the quartet of missiles, along with the ‘Go’ code to arm them.

  Instantly, the missiles ejected their wings and engaged their rocket motors at full thrust, leaving scorch marks on the light gray surface of the water tower. The missiles surged for the portal opening, aiming for the narrow gaps on either side of the stalled truck. By the time they passed the rear of the truck, they were moving at supersonic speeds, and the shock wave from the leading missile would have caused the other three missiles to crash, except that Skippy’s precise control had the Zingers flying parallel, as the lead missile’s nose was less than a millimeter ahead. The supersonic shockwaves never had time to catch the missiles, instead expending their energy on an overpressure inside the armored arc of the access station. Jax and Soth were slammed against the station walls, instantly shattering every bone in their tough bodies. The hapless truck driver fared little better, being first violently crushed back into his seat, then ripped free of his safety straps and sucked out the opening where the windshield had been.

  Moving at high speed and accelerating with full force, the missiles flashed through the access station in the blink of an eye. They still should not have gained entry to the compound, as a warning signal traveled to the inner shield much faster than the missiles could fly. The inner shield should have pulsed closed instantly, severing the truck passing through but forming an impenetrable barrier for the missiles to batter themselves against. Unfortunately for the ground access station, the reaction time of the inner barrier control computer was slowed by a well-timed momentary glitch, a glitch caused by a beer can whose semi-official crew rank was ‘Asshole First Class’.

  Unaffected by the energy shield which finally pulsed closed just behind them, the two pairs of missiles flew into the open air of the compound, climbed desperately and then flipped end over end to decelerate. At their Mach three speed, they could not make the abrupt climb before impacting the armored physical barrier in front of them, so their rocket motors briefly fired backward to slow their forward progress, then the Zingers flipped end over end again to fly upward nose first, clearing the armored barrier with a comfortable meter to spare.

  Once clear of the crash barrier, the missiles were free to roam inside the compound. For hostile enemy weapons, being inside the Fire Dragon compound was a forbidden experience, so the Zingers might be forgiven if they wanted to gawk at the sights and savor the moment. Under Skippy’s preprogrammed instructions, all four missiles sent signals to any other Zingers in the compound, and almost instantly the eight missiles learned to their collective surprise they all had successfully penetrated the compound’s multiple layers of security. For the attack to be successful required only four of the eight missiles, so with all eight available, the plan shifted to what Skippy had considered the least likely scenario. Each missile knew what it was supposed to do and there was no hesitation about their suicide mission.

  The two Zingers launched by the Chinese team split up after coming through the ground access point, one going right and one straight head. All eight missiles were headed for the same structure; the giant, thick pyramid at the very heart of the compound. The pyramid had been constructed on top of the original hill in the center of the city, like an iceberg most of the structure extended far below the surface. Below ground were the high-security facilities, including safe spaces for the senior Fire Dragon clan lead
ers and their families. What soared above the surface, over three hundred meters tall, was mostly offices and, importantly, the urban palaces of the senior leadership. Clan security officers had pleaded with the senior leadership to live in the security of the underground areas rather than exposing themselves to danger, however slight. Originally, vast palaces had been constructed underground, complete with highly convincing displays in place of windows. Over time, one senior leader after another moved up into the open air, creating a rush to grab real estate near the top of the pyramid. What good was their hard work to seize and maintain power, if they could not enjoy and flaunt that wealth and power? A senior leader needed an estate with real windows, and open-air balconies complete with swimming pools and landing pads for their personal aircraft. Views facing east or west, to view the sun rising or setting, were highly sought after, as were areas where there was less of the visual distortion created by the energy shields, providing a more clear view of the city they ruled over. When a senior clan leader walked out onto his extensive balcony and saw with his naked eye the soaring towers and glittering lights of the city, he felt his power in a way no display screen could provide. Security officers warned that the senior leaders were needlessly exposing themselves to danger for the sake of vanity, but those security officer were ignored. Did not the clan provide huge resources to ensure the utterly impenetrable security of the compound? After a while, those security officers who continued to protest found themselves replaced with those less alarmist, for what danger could possibly touch the Fire Dragon leadership inside their own compound? That is why the eight missiles found the clan’s senior leaders in their apartments in the middle of the night; with those leaders either soundly asleep or engaged in various pleasures, alone or with companions.

  The first missile to find its designated target had been launched by the SAS team, although all eight missiles struck their targets within seconds of each other. That first missile slowed as it approached its target, hugging the slope of the pyramid as it climbed and turning only at the last moment onto the balcony outside that clan leader’s own personal and private balcony. The estate had its own energy shield that was intended only to deflect bullets fired by assassins, it was not capable of stopping a Zinger. Expecting an energy shield, the Zinger was prepared by activating an energy projector in its nose, creating a path through the shield just large enough for the missile to slip through.

  Once through the shield, the missile smashed through composite laminated ‘glass’ and several lightly-armored walls in the interior of the apartment until the Zinger’s guidance system was confident it had reached its destination. Then, without regret, the missile detonated its enhanced warhead.

  Any Kristang on the ground below, working late at the airfield or any other outside area with a clear view of the central pyramid, were startled by seeing fountains of flame and debris erupting at multiple locations around the pyramid. Jets of fire burst outward, vividly and angrily orange in the relative stillness of the night, turning dull red as any combustible material quickly burned itself out. As abruptly as it happened, the explosions flashed into darkness, leaving only glowing embers and gaping holes in the faces of the pyramid, and low rolling thunder echoing within the dome of the compound’s energy shield. For a brief moment, all was still. Then sirens began to wail, the compound automatically plunged into darkness, and security guards, soldiers and pilots all raced for their emergency posts.

  The unthinkable had happened. Senior Fire Dragon leaders had been attacked, killed, inside their ultra-secure compound. Later, there would be time for shock and recriminations and assigning blame. The harsh discipline and constant training of the Kristang warrior caste served them well that night, as every single warrior reacted as they had been ordered to.

  Even as the remaining senior clan leaders recovered from the shock of surviving merely by luck of not having been targeted by the eight missiles, speculation raged about who could have conducted such a sophisticated attack. The surviving clan leadership, having been whisked to safe sections deep below ground, were gripped with fear as the initial reports reached them. There was no question that advanced technology had been required for such an attack to succeed; technology able to subvert Kristang computers specifically designed to resist and report on outside attempts to infiltrate their systems. The minds of the clan leadership all had the same two thoughts. The Thuranin were interfering in Kristang clan politics, for some as yet unknown reason. As quickly as that thought came to mind, it was dismissed. The Thuranin, reeling from their recent multiple and stinging military setbacks, were unlikely to have the time or desire to punish their clients. Which brought up a second and more frightening possibility; that another clan had acquired advanced technology. If that were true, the Fire Dragons were vulnerable, and needed to strike back hard while they still could.

  Which clan or clans were behind the attack? The Black Trees were the obvious suspects, perhaps too obvious. Lesser clans might wish a fight between the two strongest clans in Kristang society, bleeding both Fire Dragons and Black Trees dry and leaving them vulnerable to a rested and prepared third party. The surviving leadership reached out to the Black Trees, demanding answers and assurances while bringing their own military forces to full alertness.

  Not one of the warriors inside the compound had even a moment’s thought that the attack might have been conducted by lowly humans and a shiny beer can.

  “Abort abort abort!” Skippy’s voice shouted from the Dragon’s console. “Abort approach, turn right to zero one nine degrees.”

  “Zero one niner, got it,” Lt. Reed acknowledged as she gently turned the Dragon to follow the air traffic system’s revised instructions. All around her, she could see aircraft being diverted away from the city. “What happened? Who is going to pick up the SAS team?”

  “Busy. Working on it,” Skippy responded tersely. “Proceed to Hold Point Whiskey and await instructions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  From outside the compound’s energy shield, Major Smythe could not hear the explosions of the eight Zinger missiles. He was also not looking in the direction of the central compound, his attention was focused on monitoring civilian air traffic around his location while they waited for a dropship to pluck them off the rooftop. The dropship was only thirty kilometers away, about to make a turn toward the city’s local inner marker; once the Dragon was twenty kilometers away, Smythe would receive the signal to deploy their tether balloons. He kept his gaze switching between the air traffic lanes and the door that provided access to the roof. After the SEALS team had been surprised by Kristang sneaking onto the roof they were landing on, Smythe was not taking for granted that Skippy had perfect awareness of every possible Kristang in the buildings where the ground teams were concealed. Once they stepped out from cover to deploy the tether balloons, Smythe and Robertson would be exposed and vulnerable for uncomfortable seconds until they were magically whisked away by a tether cable thinner than a human hair.

  While Smythe scanned the air traffic corridor toward the south and east, Robertson was monitoring the north and west, scanning back and forth with the passive sensors of his suit, and through the composite images Skippy was feeding to his visor from the local sensor network. He happened to have just swept his gaze past the compound at the center of the city when he caught a flash of light with the corner of his eye. Instantly, his attention focused on the thin slice of the pyramid that was visible between towering buildings. With his view of the pyramid partly obscured by the distortion of the compound’s intense energy shield, Robertson was not immediately certain what he was seeing. Had it been merely a reflection? Could it have- The hot orange flares of a second, then third explosion confirmed his original thought. “Major, something’s happened in the compound.” Already, the flares were fading into a dull red glow.

  “What?” Smythe turned, the knees of his armored suit scraping on the rough material of the rooftop. “Bloody hell,” he swore as he watched the replay images
Robertson sent directly to Smythe’s visor. “Skippy! Did you jump the gun?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Basically, a very nice Kristang was holding the door open for us, and I had to act before we lost the opportunity. Sorry there wasn’t time to inform you.”

  “A very nice Kristang?” Smythe was taken aback by that unlikely concept.

  “Uh huh, I would give him a fruit basket as a thank you, except he got splattered by a Mach three shock wave. I do feel bad about that, but, what the hell, right? Anywho, what you need to know is events are proceeding rather more quickly than I anticipated. The Kristang are going to full alert all over the planet, not just in Fire Dragon territory. The Fire Dragons are shutting down air traffic in the city and I have ordered your dropship to divert. Sorry about that.”

  The alarm Smythe saw on Robertson’s face matched his own feelings. “We can’t stay up here indefinitely, Skippy,” Smythe stated the obvious.

  “I know, I have a plan. Well, more of a concept than a plan, truthfully. Ok, fine, I’m making shit up as I go, but that’s the best I’ve got right now. Destroy your stealth generators and tethers and get inside the building, head for the elevator doors to the left.”

  “We’re riding a lift to the ground?” Smythe asked, incredulous. He could not imagine standing inside an elevator car with Robertson, the two of them in powered armor suits and carrying rifles. What would happen if a Kristang, a civilian lizard, came into the elevator? Were the SAS men supposed to make small talk? Did Kristang ever make small talk?

  “Ride the lift down? Ha!” Skippy chuckled. “You should be so lucky. No, the building security staff is in the process of evacuating the few occupants, then they will bring the elevator cars to the basement and lock them there.”

  “Then why should we go to the elevator door?” Smythe asked as he stuffed the balloon and tether into his backpack and pulled the handle to activate nanomachines that would turn everything inside the pack into mush.