The Tetra War_Fractured Peace

by Michael Ryan

  “Green-ten, you have a smoker.”

  “I see it.”

  “Anyone see the game yesterday?”

  “Dammit, somebody pick up that…shit, Viper Pilot, Viper Pilot.”

  “Victor Paul Actual here. Go.”

  “I’ve got a problem, my–”

  “Six is done.”

  “Tighten up the formation.”

  “Dammit, I’m never going to get paid.”

  “Quit gambling on the Rockets.”

  “They just signed Vol Moolertz. I think they have a chance for the All-world Cup.”

  “Cover my loop left, I’m going to try to shove a missile up the ass of that second dragon.”

  “You’re too high. Go into a stall, you idiot.”

  “Idiot? I’m not the one who bets on the Porpoise.”

  “What self-respecting owner names his team after a fucking fish?”

  “It’s a mammal.”

  “It’s like naming your club the cows.”

  “I think Vosling wanted to change the name when he bought the team. But the fans were outraged. So he left it.”

  “I never cared for that league. Too many prima donnas.”

  “Veezertam, are you still alive?”

  “Roger that. I’ve got money on the Pussycats. I can’t die. At least until the bracket is finished.”

  “Now that’s a name.”

  “Got one! Golvin! Those damn dragons are hard to hit. I’ve got four ejections. Victor Charlie Actual? Are you monitoring?”

  Balestain keyed his mic live. “This is Viper Command Actual. Go.”

  “Sir, did you want us to engage floaters this far out?”

  “Negative,” Balestain said. “Conserve fuel and ammo. We’re already pushing the line.”

  “Roger that. Major, can I ask who’s your team?”

  “The Sharbeels.”

  “The cats from Golvin!” another pilot shouted.

  A heli-jet squadron wasn’t typically used for pounding fixed ground targets. There were more efficient ways to drop high explosives on them. The major’s use of unconventional methods was more for deniability than for any other reason. He also enjoyed the aircraft, which unlike a high-altitude bomber, allowed a view of the terrain below.

  Even though no formal war had been declared between the new Ted government and the Gurts, Balestain’s faction had engaged them numerous times in deniable venues in what the Gurts were calling police actions and the Teds euphemistically told their people was peacekeeping.

  His years of commanding troops on Earth had been a primer in political maneuverings, and on Talamz, the complexity had grown extensively. In his opinion, the fragile connection the Teds had forged with the Errus was worth fighting to keep intact. Multiple rumors had circulated about trade talks between the Guritains and the Errusiakos. A pact between them would naturally bring the Rhanskads into their fold, bolstering the Gurts’ forces and posing an ongoing threat to Balestain’s group.

  Back on Earth, it was only a matter of time before the small pockets of Prostosi were either wiped out or recruited into Tedesconian units. The humans were good for a few things; dying in frontline skirmishes being the most obvious.

  “Sir,” the pilot said, interrupting his strategic thinking.

  “Go,” he barked.

  “I have a dozen KJs requesting orders, Major. Shall I patch them through?”

  “Roger.”

  “Delta-Shark, I have Viper Command Actual. Go,” the pilot said. The comm showed green for the KJ bomber squadron’s leader. The indicator for the heli pilot went dark.

  “Major Balestain, sir. It’s good to see you up in the sky again,” a voice familiar to him boomed through the private channel.

  “Captain Hooling! I thought you’d retired,” Balestain said. “Or crash-landed in the Gulf of Mexico trying to run HE-77s over to CDX.”

  “Goddamn, Major. I swear the gossip gets better every time I hear it. I’m still alive. I’m putting off retirement until the week of my death.”

  “If you’re still a captain, you must be doing something right,” Balestain said.

  “Roger that. I was offered a desk…told them to shove it up their cowardly asses, and if they insisted on being that stupid, I was going to volunteer to fly for the Gurts.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t demote you to lieutenant.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not in politics, Balestain. What brings you out here this fine day?”

  “Delivering packages,” he answered. “The usual message. I need you to run a cover sweep for me.”

  “You’re using heli-jets for bombing missions? You’re as insane as ever.”

  “You’re the one that married that Errusiakos bitch, not me.”

  “Golvin, you remember her?”

  “Who’s going to forget a part Russian Erru who could put her ankles to her ears?”

  “Ballet…what a discipline, right?”

  “You still happily married?”

  “Not a chance. Work gets in the way. She ran off with a human, if you can believe that.”

  “I’d believe just about anything when it comes to humans.”

  “Major,” Hooling said, his tone changing to businesslike, “I’ve got two hours and fourteen minutes of flight time. I can probably get you any support you need, but if you don’t get me an Alpha-1908, there’s gonna be some sand-pounder pulling rank on you.”

  “Roger that,” Balestain said. “Hold two.” The major typed a command into the heli’s interface, and an Alpha-1908 form appeared on his screen. “Golvin,” he whispered to himself, filling in the bubbles as fast as he could type. He hit transmit less than two minutes later and keyed the private comm to Hooling. “You got that?” he asked. “I swear the next session of the joints is gonna result in a form to request permission every time we need to take a piss.”

  “Alpha received,” the captain said a moment later. “Major, I’ve got to run. We just picked up a squadron of high-alt attack fighters. I’ve got to say the Errus are building some really top-shelf craft.”

  “It’s as if they want to win a war or something,” the major said. “Send out a burst if you’re unable to meet my requirements.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Balestain switched back over to the internal comm. “We should have the diversion we need on time, gentlemen. For now, bring us into FOB Yukikaze. I’m requesting hangar clearance now. Have the squadron disembark and check into Yuki’s system. Nobody checks out, got that?”

  “Sir,” the pilot said, “you want the heli-jets to show up as locked down?”

  “Mix it up. Put a couple into the maintenance cycle. We’ll be off the deck in twenty or thirty minutes, so let the men burn off some steam if they want; but it’s five-minute call-back status. Make that clear or I’ll be busting some flight monkey back down to mechanic.”

  “Roger that, sir,” the pilot said.

  Once back on the ground, Balestain found the officer’s VIP lounge. He marched to the restroom and removed his helmet, but didn’t install his cosmetic faceplate, and then endured the annoyance of removing several plastakstel armor pieces so he could relieve himself. He washed his hands and ran his fingers through his dark hair while studying the image that stared back at him in the mirror. The scars no longer hurt physically, but the memory associated with them caused a deep psychic pain that was only relieved when he was eliminating humans. A mission to kill Rhans, or any other talarrstan – the Common English name for inhabitants – wasn’t nearly as satisfying.

  Doing so was a politically expedient task, however. Balestain didn’t reflect on his complete absence of feelings associated with his daily slaughter; his lack of remorse or horror gave him no cause for concern. He considered the death of the civilians he routinely eradicated no more important than the bacteria he was sloughing off as he scrubbed his hands under the scalding water. Rhans could always make more Rhans, he thought. Everyone dies eventually – the way he looked at it, all he was doing
was hastening the inevitable. In the end, his operations weren’t the genocide they’d been labeled; what others viewed as horrific slaughter he saw as a timing issue, nothing more.

  “Lieutenant Colonel,” someone behind him said, “I had no idea you were scheduled to be here. Someone’s going to be scrubbing latrines for a month.”

  “It’s major,” Balestain said, smiling at Colonel Woolund. They’d been in officer training together decades ago and had passed each other in hallways in the years since. “I’m not on any schedule, sir. Not even officially here.”

  “I see,” the colonel said. “What the Golvin brings you to Yukikaze? Because it sure as shit isn’t the food or the company.”

  “I’m on a dark run,” he answered. “My men will be checked into your system until we’re back. If I have any casualties, I’ll need you to work up some bullshit paperwork. Normal crap.”

  “God, you did get all political,” the colonel said. “I’d heard rumors. Let me buy you a drink?”

  “Let me drink it, sir.”

  Ten minutes later, the two officers were talking quietly in a private booth. The officers’ lounge was usually a safe place to discuss politics and troop movements, but it was always better to err on the side of caution. Major Balestain sipped his drink and reminded himself to enforce a limit of two. He didn’t require physical dexterity while flying, but the command position needed clear thinking.

  “So, tell me how things are back home,” the colonel said.

  “Same as always, only more expensive. I don’t really consider it home anymore. I sold my last house seventeen years ago.”

  “It’s been a long time for me as well. I started referring to Hong Kong as home and realized I’d lost myself.”

  “I’ve heard good things about Rhanskad food. I mean authentic Rhan. True?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what they can do with paradeez sweetbreads,” Colonel Woolund said. “To die for.”

  “When things cool down, I’ll come out. I’ve got enough time stacked I could take terminal leave tomorrow and have a year left after I died of old age.”

  “You and me both,” the colonel said. “So what’s this rumor going around about the Gurts getting into bed with the Rhans and Errus and trying to build an alliance with the Federation of Thirty-Seven Talamz?”

  “Probably bullshit as usual.”

  “And if it’s not?” the colonel asked.

  “Have you heard the term Dreki-Nakahi?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I saw the video captures. I read the reports. You know as well as I do what it implies.”

  “Exactly why I’m here.” Balestain ordered another drink. “You know, there’s a supreme irony in how things turned out between us and the Gurts. I don’t regret the things I’ve done. Killing a few million humans seems like the most evil thing you could do in a war, and I’ve taken my share of abuse for how I prosecuted the enemy, but what did the Gurts do? They killed hundreds of millions. And in another irony, they used our own weapon against us. Their justification, of course, was saving lives in the long run. Funny how they don’t apply that same standard to me. But it doesn’t matter. I know what I’ve done and why I’ve done it. The Dreki pose a threat to billions; so what if I have to kill a few million to ensure all of our long-term survival?”

  “You won’t get an argument from me.”

  Balestain quietly accepted his new drink. He sipped and asked, “How long?”

  “Anyone’s guess, Abast.”

  He hadn’t heard his first name in many months, and it took him a moment to realize the colonel had been addressing him. He knew it was impossible to know precisely when the Dreki – the name his superiors had given the mysterious species of alien – were coming to make claims on the weaker planets they’d discovered, but they were coming.

  Of that he was confident.

  Predators never ignored available prey, especially when it was weak.

  “Colonel, this is going to sound strange coming from me,” Balestain said. “But we need to pursue a quick campaign, with the final aim to be an alliance between us all.”

  “Us being…?” the colonel asked.

  “Us being purvasts, humans, and talarrstans. It’s the unlikeliest of alliances – I realize that. But a united council is the only way we’ll survive. Without a cooperative effort, we’ll all be consumed by the Dreki-Nakahi. It’s as certain as a sisalikalaur eating fish.”

  “Not all fish get eaten.” The colonel smiled and drank slowly from his mug of dark beer. “I’m going to eat pecoraz steak tonight. A Rhan delicacy. Served bloody, and with a relish of a local vegetable I can’t pronounce. Tell me – do you know how many pecoraz are on this planet?”

  “Millions?”

  “Try hundreds of millions. I think our worst case isn’t being slaughtered to extinction; it’s the Dreki coming to poach us like we’re preserve animals.”

  “They can’t enslave us if they don’t conquer us, Colonel,” the major said. “I’d rather not let that happen.”

  “Nor would I. But I’m being pragmatic. Why not pull our forces from Earth? Let the planet be a test case.”

  Balestain waved the idea away. “Too many wealthy purvasts have retired there. Guritain industry on Earth now produces more Belkinotic drives, more TCI-Armor, more heli-jets…you’re talking the impossible. There’s simply too much value there.”

  Woolund grinned. “And cheap labor.”

  “Yes.”

  “And here?” Colonel Woolund asked.

  “The talarrstans have barely tapped the surface of their planet’s wealth. Which is why the Errus were so quick to get here and set up factories. We’re a year behind, Colonel. We have to find a way to join forces without giving too many concessions.”

  Woolund nodded. “And that’s why you’re here,” he said, lifting his mug.

  “And that’s why I’m here. To do my part in tipping the upcoming treaty negotiations in our favor.”

  “You’re supremely wicked, Abast.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  The heli squadron left FOB Yukikaze in a classic Ted formation, minus the unit they’d lost earlier. Balestain wasn’t willing to bring in an unknown pilot, even with the colonel’s endorsement. He was a prisoner to his own retentive qualities in that he didn’t like last-minute changes. The loss of a single heli wouldn’t affect the mission – they were carrying enough HE to level a city block. Their targets weren’t fortified, and the strategic value was in the shock and terror caused by the attack more than the number of casualties.

  An hour and ten minutes after they left the FOB, a barrage of antiaircraft missiles was launched from defense installations on the ground.

  <>

  <>

  <>

  The major watched the action on his monitor and marveled at the skill of the squadron pilots. The copilot released a series of countermeasures as the pilot took them into a dive. Being in free fall was one thing, but this time the craft was under full throttle. Balestain began to regret his third beer. He enlarged the window that displayed the forward camera. A small counter displayed their altitude in kilometers.

  <<1.60934>>

  <<1.60672>>

  <<1.59072>>

  He switched his view to the rear camera. While it was impossible to see the missile pursuing them, the monitor showed a small red icon that blinked with the regularity of a metronome. A counter displayed the distance between the aircraft and the missile.

  He toggled between each view and watched the numbers decrease. When the heli-jet was barely a quarter click above the ground, he changed the monitor to split-screen mode and rocked his head slightly to allow his eye to focus back and forth between views.

  <<0.24703>>

  <>

  <>

  <<0.18702>>

  The heli-jet’s dive accelerated into the bottom o
f an imaginary curve as the pilot altered the course from a head-on collision with the ground to a dizzying climb into the sky. Balestain clenched his teeth, and his muscles instinctively tightened. He felt a momentary light-headedness as the aircraft began to ascend, but it passed, and he looked at the rear camera image. The missile was no longer tracking them.

  <>

  “You still with us, Major?” the pilot asked.

  “Roger,” he answered. “Nice flying, Cap. Is that a heli-jet firing on us?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said with childlike enthusiasm. “We’ll be in an old-school dogfight if he gets any closer. I can probably outrun him, sir.”

  “I have missile lock,” the copilot said. “Major?”

  “We’ve got a few minutes, Captain. Knock yourself out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The heli-jet banked hard and dove again. Balestain set the monitor to four-quadrant view; with barrel rolls and corkscrews likely coming, he didn’t want to miss the action. The enemy heli-jet followed them into a dive, and its nose-mounted twins fired a steady stream of Gauss rounds. The ammo was more harassment than real threat. Unless the enemy pilot was skilled enough to keep it concentrated on one spot, the heli’s armament would prevent any catastrophic damage.

  It was the expectation of a well-fired missile that made the aerobatics exciting.

  It was always possible to die in the intense heat of a secondary explosion, which wasn’t uncommon with a standard ammo load. When your payload was explosive rounds designed to be fired from rail-guns by ground artillery crews, an unfortunate strike would create insta-death and a blinding burst that would mimic a sun exploding.

  The pilot took them through a series of barrel rolls and corkscrews. He looped the heli-jet up and then stalled the craft.

  They began a true free fall.

  <>

  “Give it an extra second,” the pilot ordered. “Let him think he’s got us.”

  “I’m preparing an Eagle-twin,” the copilot said. “Are you banking left or right out of this dive?”

  “Major?” the captain asked.

  “Go left,” Balestain answered.

  “Roger.”