Black Ops (Expeditionary Force Book 4)

by Craig Alanson

  “Well, heh heh, you are not going to like this-”

  From their rooftop, the SEALS team could not see the pyramid at the center of the city, so their first inkling that something had gone off plan was a pair of air transports suddenly slowing and climbing, then turning away from the established air corridor. “Skippy, we just saw a-”

  “Yeah, I know about it,” the AI responded dismissively. “I had to move up the schedule and now the Kristang are on full alert. The good news is, all the Zingers hit their targets.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Williams asked anxiously. They had just been about to walk to the center of the roof to inflate their tether balloons.

  “Nothing for right now. I have been forced to divert Major Smythe’s dropship away from the city, but since your dropship is already in a designated air traffic corridor, it is still inbound. Your dropship had to reduce speed and climb, it will be within the length of your tether. Probably. You will have a longer ride on the tether, that could, um, get rough. You SEALS guys will probably enjoy it. Stand by, I will give you the signal to launch balloons; you will want to minimize the time those balloons are hanging up there. Military aircraft have been scrambled over the city and I cannot predict whether they will interfere with the tethers.”

  Williams appreciated the honesty. He wondered what an AI who could warp spacetime considered to be ‘rough’. “Understood, standing by for your signal.”

  “Don’t worry, Lt. Williams,” Skippy said in a confident voice. “Everything is under control.”

  Skippy was not wrong about everything being under control, because of course, Skippy the Magnificent was never wrong about anything. He may have overestimated his scope of control over the entire city, but that was merely a matter of degree. Minor details. He had limited control over the air traffic system, and to a lesser extent military communications. What he could not control at all was the nature of Kristang, or most biological beings, in the fog of war.

  As soon as the city-wide alert went out, rumors began flying much faster than the official communications. In one district of the city near the SEALS team, a defense controller had just come on duty when he was startled by an alert signal: the leadership compound had been attacked. On the console of the junior officer in front of him, the controller saw two aircraft had just strayed from the designated civilian air traffic corridor. The transports were accelerating, climbing, and turning toward the compound! Reacting immediately, the controller pressed a button to order a missile launch, just before the junior officer shouted that those aircraft had been ordered to turn 180 degrees and exit the city.

  It was too late to stop the missile; it streaked out of its launch tube near the top of a building that soared one hundred meters above its flying target. The transport’s portside engine exploded and sheared off when struck by the missile, causing the aircraft to stagger in the air, flip over and fall. The other transport frantically veered away, pulling hard to the right to miss both burning debris and the buildings around it. Its turn to the right took it toward restricted airspace, and a maser cannon on another building fired, slicing off one wing. That doomed aircraft also began to fall, and hearing reports of hostile aircraft and defensive fire caused military defense controllers in other districts around the city to seek likely targets. Fearful of allowing another attack, many of the controllers instinctively decided to eliminate any possible threats, and aircraft above the city began to fall victim to missiles and maser cannons. Military aircraft flying patrols over the city saw the explosions below, and, in the utter confusion, went into power dives and sought targets.

  “Pull up! Pull up!” Skippy shouted, and Flight Captain Windsor responded immediately, increasing power automatically to maintain airspeed in the climb. He reminded himself to fly the Dragon dropship as he would a civilian airliner. Whatever the problem was, he could only make it worse if the Kristang suspected the true nature of the ship he was flying. Ahead and below, Windsor could see streaks of light and something spiraling down, on fire. On the grid of the cockpit display, it looked like the problem was near the building where the SEALS waiting for retrieval. “What happened?”

  “Shit happened,” Skippy snapped. “Abort the pickup, turn to two four nine degrees and climb, you need to get clear of the area. There is a whole lot of friendly fire going on ahead of you. Worry about yourself, I’ll take care of the SEALS team.”

  Knowing Skippy, Windsor shared a worried look with his copilot. “How do you plan to get the SEALS out of there?”

  “Right now, I have no freakin’ idea,” Skippy admitted. “Give me a minute, I’m busy trying to keep you alive. The Kristang down there are shooting at anything that flies; I’m messing with the targeting systems in your area.”

  Windsor mouthed a silent prayer and looked back at ‘Curly’, the dead Kristang in the seat behind him. If his Dragon were shot down over the city, the Kristang examining the wreckage might wonder why human remains were scattered around, but they would also find Curly in his broken armored suit, and hopefully decide the incident was not worth investigating during a civil war. That would be cold comfort for Windsor and his crew.

  Williams and Jones had just received Skippy’s signal to launch their balloons, when it seemed like the sky exploded around them. The first thing they saw was a missile streaking in to strike a transport aircraft that had turned away from the normal air traffic corridor. The impact and loss of engine caused the aircraft to roll over and veer toward their building, descending rapidly. Somehow, the pilots were able to recover and the aircraft staggered along, losing altitude and trailing smoke and fire but giving a semblance of control.

  Then, seeing an aircraft deviate from the authorized flight path and evidence of hostile action in the city below, a fighter above the city opened fire on the transport, ripping it apart with maser bolts. The transport tore itself apart, burning chunks of wreckage falling over the city. That was enough for the already-panicked controllers of the city’s defense system. Without bothering to coordinate or even check with the civilians air traffic control system, the defenders authorized their autocannons and missiles to act against any aircraft that had deviated from the established civilian air traffic corridors. Since the air traffic system had ordered most civilian traffic to deviate from their normal flightpaths, the city’s defense system found a target-rich environment when it was unleashed. Missile exploded from launch tubes, and maser autocannons crackled, scorching the air and searing into unprotected civilian aircraft. Seeing gunfire below, military fighters flying cover above added their own weapons to the fray, and in moments, the air above the city was a freeform swirling chaos of exploding aircraft and buildings impacted by burning debris.

  “Oh, shit, boss!” Jones shouted and pushed Williams aside just before a flying piece of something impacted the roof right where the SEALS team leader had been standing. Williams staggered, the suit’s stabilizer mechanism keeping him upright. He regained his footing just in time to see a large fiery chunk of something descending toward the roof. As he spun to leap out of the way, his mind recognized the object as the forward section of a Kristang civilian transport aircraft. Then the nose of what used to be an aircraft slammed into the roof, and the two SEALS were flung through the air.

  Williams came down hard, bouncing on the roof and smacking up against a metal box that contained some type of mechanical equipment. Stunned, he got on hands and knees, shaking his head to clear the spots from his eyes. The display in his visor indicated the armored suit had not sustained any significant damage. “Jones? Jones?” He looked around in alarm, trying to eyeclick the visor to check on the status of his fellow SEALS, but his unsteady vision was unable to control the display through eye movements alone. Pulling himself upright, he just got to his feet when a line of maser light struck the roof; an overeager fighter pilot high above making sure the piece of aircraft on the roof would not represent a threat. The roof buckled partly and Williams staggered again, spots still swimming in his vision.
He was knocked to his knees when the roof below him sagged, and he toppled to the side to crash on top of Jones.

  “Jones! Jones?” Williams used his suit’s super-powered Kung Fu grip to bend the metal of the mechanical box next to him, providing a do-it-yourself handhold to steady himself. Jones was not responding and the man didn’t look good. The right side of his suit’s torso was bent inward from below the armpit to the hip. There was not a hole or crack, but inside the suit, parts of the material had to be sticking into Jones. Williams bent to get a better look in the man’s visor, and Jones coughed, sending a spray of red droplets onto the inner surface of the faceplate. The droplets ran down and were sucked away automatically. “Jones? Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, boss. I, I’m not doing so good.”

  Williams looked around, fearing something else would hit the roof soon. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so. Need to, to catch my breath is all.”

  They didn’t have time for Jones to catch his breath. “I’ll help you,” Williams offered and put a hand under the man’s left armpit, using his powered suit to lift. Jones staggered, grunted, and his eyes rolled back. “Can you stand?”

  “No,” Jones barely was able to say the word, the pain was so bad. He had cracked, possibly broken ribs. If he could pause to run a diagnostic, the suit would tell him where and how badly he was hurt. They did not have time for that. With Williams doing most of the work, the two made their way across the cracked and buckled surface of the roof to an access door, which was on a reinforced part of the roof. The door frame had warped, Williams punched through with his free glove and the door open. Staggering down the stairs that were too tall for human comfort, he mostly carried Jones down two flights of stairs then stopped, as the stairway below that level was missing. Something had hit that side of the building and tore a section loose. Williams went back up a few stairs and cautiously pulled open a door into a dark and empty hallway. He allowed Jones to slump down against a wall and used his own suit to check the other man’s condition. Broken ribs, punctured lung, bruised spleen and other less important internal injuries. Jones was not getting out of the building on his own.

  “Skippy,” Williams could hear booming and banging sounds coming from above. Either the damaged roof was settling, or more weapons fire was uselessly bouncing the debris around. Or, worse, Kristang soldiers had landed on the roof to investigate the incident. “You got any ideas to get us out of here?” He subconsciously ran a hand on the back of his neck where the suicide patch rested, but his armored gloves merely scraped against the back of his helmet.

  “Climb down the maintenance access shaft for the ventilation system,” Skippy responded, as if that were the simplest thing in the world to do. “You don’t have time for witty banter so, no, I was not joking, Lieutenant.”

  “An access shaft? How about you use your super powers to commandeer an elevator for us?”

  “No can do. I thought of that, but the building security personnel have already brought the elevators to the bottom level and engaged the manual locking bolts. I have control of several bots that could remove the bolts, however that would require the three security people to leave their posts so the bots have time to work. They are unlikely to do that. Thus, because Jones is injured, your best bet is the access shaft.”

  Williams took a moment to consider. Skippy was an incredible intelligent AI, but he was not a being with biological limits. He did not know whether plans he made were practical for real humans, even highly capable SEALS. “Fine, let’s do it,” he said, having quickly considered their limited options. His helmet faceplate lit up with an arrow pointing to a barely-visible door near the end of the corridor, and the visor drew a blinking yellow box around the outline of the door. “I see the door.”

  “Good, go there now. Now.” Skippy urged.

  Williams picked up the inert Jones, hearing his suit’s internal motors whining with the strain. Bent over, he shuffled his feet along the corridor toward the door, which clicked softly and slid aside. The door led to an alcove, really a large closet, and the door slid silently closed behind him. “We’re here.”

  “I know,” Skippy said in a matter-of-fact manner, not taking time for jokes. “You have to manually remove the hatch, it’s just a wheel.”

  “I see it,” Williams set Jones down gently, and spun the wheel. He stuck his head in an opening barely large enough for his suited bulk. The helmet lights came on automatically, illuminating a smooth if somewhat dusty rectangular shaft. Handholds were recessed farther apart than they would be on Earth, and there were more access hatches at what he estimated were every five floors. “That’s thirty stories down,” he observed skeptically. Since Kristang were taller than humans, their buildings had taller ceilings, making each floor in the building twenty or more feet apart. “That is a long way to climb. I can barely fit in there, not sure how I can carry Jones. Can you remotely control his suit?”

  “Not with the precision required to climb down that shaft, no. Remove him from his suit, and hide the suit in the closet to your right. There are cleaning and maintenance bots in there now, I have deactivated them.”

  Working quickly and as quietly as he could, Williams pulled a half dozen bots from the closet. Some small, some taller than himself. Some bland and as prosaic in appearance as a toaster, some scary with tentacles for grasping a variety of implements. With the closet cleared out, he remotely commanded Jones’ suit to open. Seals at the neck, across the torso, at the waist, wrists and ankles broke open, allowing Williams to carefully take the armor off. Jones was barely conscious, trying to help and only getting in Williams’ way. “Jones, relax, I got this. You seeing this, Skippy?” He looked at the wound that had Jones’ right side covered with blood from the bottom half of his ribcage to below the man’s hipbone.

  “Yes. The injury is no different from what the suit reported. Jones will recover fully, if we can get him here so I can stabilize him, then aboard the ship for treatment. Put his suit in the closet along with your thermal grenades; active your grenades and his. I will need to destroy the suit later. Once you are in the access shaft, I will activate one of the bots and use it to clean up the human blood on the floor. Hurry, please.”

  It had been a struggle to get Jones securely onto Williams’ back while in the confines of the access shaft. After several failed attempts, they had relied on assistance from a bot controlled by Skippy. With Jones strapped to his back, Williams had climbed down twelve stories of the building. So far, so good; Skippy reported a military aircraft had been sent to investigate the wreckage on the roof, but with friendly fire incidents abounding around the city, the pilots were hesitant to approach the building. “Friendly fire?” Williams asked. “You wouldn’t be involved in any of that, would you?”

  Skippy chuckled. “Ok, not maybe it is not-so-friendly fire. Although I didn’t start it, that was all lizards. Now that the retrieval op got all screwed up, I figure that lizards shooting at each other provides good cover for your escape. How are you doing, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m good, Skippy, the suit is doing most of the work. Jones? You with me?” Williams asked, nudging the injured man’s head gently with his helmet.

  “Nnnnuh,” Jones, responded. “Yuh.”

  “Good. Need to keep you awake, so I’m going to tell you a joke, Ok?”

  “Your, jokes, terr-ble.” Jones breathed.

  “Ha! Listen, this guy walks into a bar, with a shopping bag, right? He sits down, puts the bag on the bar. Something in the bag is moving, and the bartender says ‘Hey, buddy, no animals in here’. You with me, Jones?”

  “Yah.”

  “The guy is looking real unhappy, totally down in the dumps, he reaches in the bag. He pulls out a brass lantern, then a small piano, a little stool, and finally a little guy in a tuxedo, about a foot tall. The little guy sits on the stool and starts playing the piano. Playing the piano, right?”

  “Yah. Got, it.”

  “Bartender says,” Williams�
�� grasp on a handhold slipped for a heart-stopping moment before the suit gloves restored their sticky grip. He could see the problem was some sort of fluid leaking from the access hatch above had coated the handhold. He moved his hand to the left to avoid the slippery fluid, and continued climbing down. “Bartender says, ‘That’s amazing, where’d you get him?’ Guy points to the lamp. ‘Magic genie granted me a wish, But he don’t hear so well-’ Before the guy can stop him, the bartender grabs the lamp, rubs it and shouts ‘I want a million bucks!’. POOF! The bar is filled with ducks! Ducks everywhere, under the tables, in the street outside, feathers flying all over the place. The bartender says ‘What the hell?’ So the guy says ‘I told you the genie don’t hear so well. You really think I asked for a twelve inch pianist?’”

  “Huh-ha. Ha!” Jones laughed with a cough. “Oh, that hurt.”

  “Ha! Yeah, that’s a good one. You Ok back there?”

  “Fine,” Jones’ breathing was labored. “Thanks, that woke me up.”

  “Outstanding. Now it’s your turn to tell me a joke,” Williams ordered. He thought that, even if Jones could not manage to tell a joke, trying to think of one would keep the injured man awake.

  “I got a joke.” Jones announced after a minute. He knew keeping himself alert was important, until he could truly rest. “Two guys in an English pub, one says ‘From your accent I guess you are Irish’. Second guy says, ‘Yes, from Dublin’. ‘Me too!’ first guy says. ‘I was raised in Drimnagh, went to St. Mary’s school’. ‘Drimnagh? St. Mary’s?’ Second guy can’t believe it. ‘I graduated from St. Mary’s in 1982’. First guy slaps his forehead. ‘Faith and begorah. I graduated from St. Mary’s in 1982 also!’ Bartender says,” Jones paused for breath, “he says to himself ‘This is going to be a long night. The Murphy twins are drunk again’.”