Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  “I was released and assigned to Major Collins’ unit under your direct command,” said Ritter.

  Darving rolled his eyes, but his irises veered up and to the right as his face brightened. “You know how to sling a spanner?”

  Ritter couldn’t suppress a grin. “I was a CF mechanic in the Black Reichswehr, and I’ve been tinkering with anything that has a motor since I was twelve.”

  “Perfect,” said Darving. “Six months’ experience is plenty to be my assistant.”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  “Just joking. You ever overhaul a jet engine?”

  Ritter approached one of the two oblong nacelles below the jet’s wings. “Not like this one.”

  “That’s not an engine.”

  “Is it a weapon pod?”

  Darving bit his lip. “Something like that. Let’s just say it’s for emergencies.”

  A long octagonal tube mounted under the plane’s nose caught Ritter’s eye. “What’s that—some kind of spy camera?”

  “That’s the Thor Prototype’s electrolaser.”

  Ritter gaped. “Electrolaser!?”

  Darving puffed out his chest. “It ionizes the air with a laser to project an artificial lightning bolt. It’ll annihilate anything that’s a better conductor than the ground. I call it Mjolnir.”

  “Max,” the tinny female voice called from the cockpit, “I’d appreciate you not sharing classified design details with strangers.”

  “Private Ritter’s not a stranger, honey. You heard him. He’s with the EGE now.”

  “I don’t see anyone in the aft seat,” said Ritter. “Who else is in there?”

  “That’s Marilyn, the Thor Prototype’s integrated A.I. She handles navigation, diagnostics, and even flight and fire control. I coded her myself.”

  “You’re a fighter pilot and a programmer?”

  Darving set down the screwdriver and wiped his oily hands with a rag. “I was the youngest engineering team lead in Seed Corp’s history. Wrote their flagship transport app. But the Socs and I developed irreconcilable differences, so I defected to the EGE and brought Marilyn along. Or more accurately, she brought me.”

  “I brought a combat frame,” said Ritter. “I’m even designing my own CF, but they didn’t make me a captain.”

  “Do you have advanced degrees in aeronautical and software engineering?”

  Ritter shook his head.

  “That’s why they made you a grunt,” said Darving. “But don’t sweat it. Command is a headache. I only took the job for the perks—like fielding my own custom equipment. Speaking of which, Marilyn took a hit from your Reichswehr friends. The damage they caused will be a bitch to fix. How about lending me a hand?”

  “I’d love to,” said Ritter, “but I came down here to work on my Grenzie. Can you tell me where they stowed it?”

  Darving bent down to fiddle with his jet’s control panel. “Sorry, kid. Collins ordered your CF scrapped to fix that Grento for Colonel Larson.”

  “He can’t chop my Grenzie like a stolen Mercedes! It’s my property.”

  “I bloody well can.” Ritter felt Collins’ hot breath on his neck. “And by international law, that Grenzie belongs to the EGE.”

  Darving climbed down to face Collins. “Give the kid a break, Major. You know how a pilot can bond with his machine.”

  “Not as well as you do, Captain. As for Private Ritter, the sooner he learns his place, the less likely he’ll be to get someone killed.”

  “Relax,” said Darving. “It’s not like we’re in combat.”

  “We may be tomorrow. General McCaskey has formed a new unit consisting of a combat frame team and air support. Colonel Larson and Private Ritter are the former. You and I are the latter. We’re scheduled to go wheels up at 0900 tomorrow.”

  “What’s the mission?”

  “It’s to do with the Socs’ Operation Oversight. Governor Troy, the Coalition’s man in Western Europe, is flexing his muscles against a Sardinian gangster called Carlos the Scorpion. Carlos plans on moving his not inconsiderable arms smuggling operation to Algiers.”

  “How is that our problem?” asked Darving.

  “The Scorpion couldn’t be arsed to ask Algeria’s warlord Kazid Zarai for permission.”

  “They say it’s easier asking forgiveness,” said Darving. “Let me guess. Our intel guys expect this neighborly spat to turn hot.”

  “The Scorpion has asked the EGE to ensure it doesn’t,” Collins said. “He and Zarai will be having a sit-down tomorrow in Algiers. McCaskey’s agreed to send a delegation to act as third party observers. That’s us.”

  Darving winced. “Great. What kind of firepower can we expect if the talks go south?”

  “Zarai has five hundred militiamen armed with Kalashnikovs and RPGs. Plus he’s got around fifty technicals.”

  “Battlewagons,” Darving said with a grimace. “I hate those bargain bin tanks!”

  “Then you’ll be glad to learn that The Scorpion has a used Zeklov tank, along with two dozen technicals of his own and two hundred men equipped with stolen CSC rifles.”

  “And McCaskey thinks our unit can handle that cluster if the shit hits the fan?”

  “The Yamamoto will of course be offshore on full alert,” said Collins. “But our objective is to prevent violence breaking out.”

  “Why even bring our hardware?” asked Darving.

  “These warlords respect strength,” said Collins. “We’re only to make a show of force.”

  Ritter wheeled on Collins, who stood with his arms crossed over his ribbon-bedecked khaki shirt. “How can I make a show of force if my Grenzie’s scrap?”

  “To be frank, Private,” Collins said, “Colonel Larson objected to your assignment with this unit, and I agree with him. He’s placed you under my supervision for the entirety of the mission.”

  “You mean I’m supposed to sit there in your chopper and keep quiet like a civilian?”

  Collins’ face became a rigid mask. “I pilot a helicopter. It is not a toy for giving tourists joyrides. It is a sophisticated death machine that’s worth a hundred useless gits like you. Now drop and give me thirty. And the next time you call a helicopter a chopper, you’ll give me sixty.”

  Ritter barely contained the obscenities that strove to burst from his mouth as he fell prone and repeatedly pushed himself up from the deck with angry pumping motions.

  “See that he finishes,” Collins told Darving as he turned to leave. “And I’ll see you on the flight deck at 0900.”

  “He’s gone,” Darving said a moment later. “You can get up.”

  Ritter stood and shook his sore arms. “Collins needs to lighten up.”

  “Yeah, so you’d better be a model passenger tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Ritter. “If I fix the Grento, I can pilot my Grenzie tomorrow.”

  “There’s a couple problems with that,” said Darving. “First of all, the EGE’s always short on parts. Unlike your former associates, we don’t steal from civilians.”

  “No, you steal from me.”

  Darving sucked air through his teeth. “Fair enough, but even if your Grenzie’s operational tomorrow, unlike the Grento it’s not capable of sustained flight. Besides, Larson will never let you pilot it solo.”

  “What if I repair his Grento’s cockpit on my own?”

  “You might get on Griff’s less prickly side,” said Darving, “but that brings us right back to the problem of where to get the parts.”

  “He can strip the cockpit from my Grenzie,” said Sieg.

  Ritter and Darving turned to the right, where Sieg stood beside a stack of cardboard drums in his red and black jacket.

  “Geez, man,” said Darving. “My girlfriend’s a Navy spook, and even she doesn’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “Is anybody else spying on us?” asked Ritter.

  “Sorry,” said Sieg. He removed his sunglasses and ran a hand through his blond hair. “I was looking for Collins
, and I overheard your problem. I might be able to help.”

  “Fantastic,” said Darving. “Who are you?”

  “If your girlfriend works for Admiral Omaka, there’s no point keeping my real name secret. I’m Sieg Friedlander.”

  Darving’s eyes widened. “The son of L3’s prime minister? I heard you and Collins’ radio banter, but I didn’t believe a VIP like you would be slumming with us.”

  “Is it less likely than a Seed Corp team lead defecting to the EGE?”

  “Touché,” said Darving.

  “Thanks for the offer,” Ritter told Sieg, “but what will you pilot?”

  “I’ve been reassigned,” Sieg said. “I won’t need my Grenzie where I’m going.”

  Ritter approached Sieg. By an unspoken understanding, both men extended their hands and shared a firm handshake. “It’s been an honor fighting beside you,” said Ritter.

  A smile cracked Sieg’s stony face. “Likewise. This era’s drawing to a close, but I have a feeling we’ll fight together again before the end.” He replaced his mirrored shades. “I look forward to seeing how much your skills improve.”

  Ritter watched Sieg cross the busy deck to the lift. The steel doors slid closed, and he was gone.

  “He’s a cool customer for someone who’s had it so rough,” Darving said.

  “I heard his dad was assassinated,” said Ritter.

  “That’s just the last bite of the shit sandwich. Before that, his mom and little sister were kidnapped. Sanzen held them hostage to silence L3’s opposition to the Socs. Folks who’re paid to know this stuff say they were killed when rescue plans went south.”

  “Sieg asked if I’d ever failed someone important to me,” Ritter thought aloud. “Losing his family must’ve been the mistake he meant. He’ll stop at nothing to correct it.”

  Darving threw his arm around Ritter’s shoulders, interrupting the Private’s train of thought. “We’ve both got our work cut out for us,” said Max. “So tell you what: If you help me fix Marilyn, I’ll help you switch out the Grento’s cockpit for Sieg’s.”

  “Deal!” Ritter said.

  8

  Ritter squinted as the main port side elevator carried him from the Yamamoto’s hangar to the sun-drenched flight deck. The good ache of a night spent at honest labor suffused his body, but the warm sea breeze got his blood pumping. Darving stood with him. Thanks to Max’s help, Larson’s Grento and the Thor Prototype both sat fully repaired behind them.

  Larson strode toward the elevator from Collins’ gunship. A gray flight suit covered his muscular frame, and his silver hair poked out from under his helmet’s raised visor. His voice carried over the whine of the helo’s rotors. “I was about to send the MPs after you.”

  “Sorry we’re late, sir” said Max. “Your Grento needed more work than we thought, but Ritter and I got it running.”

  Larson gave Max a slight nod and climbed up to the CF’s cockpit. “Darving, you and your waifu take point. Collins will follow. I’ll bring up the rear.”

  “What about me?” asked Ritter.

  The Colonel lowered his visor and frowned at Max. “Captain, did your helper monkey just talk to me?”

  “Hear him out, sir,” said Max. “Your CF wouldn’t be combat-ready without him.”

  Larson sighed. “Permission granted to speak freely, Private. So spill it, and make it good.”

  “As a trained pilot, I should be manning a combat frame, sir!”

  “I don’t repeat myself,” said Larson, “so shut up and listen hard. I decide where you should be, when you eat, sleep, and shit, and what you think. If I decide you’d be more useful nailed to the bow, you’d better grab a hammer. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ritter, “but—”

  Larson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Apparently not. I’ll spell it out for you, with big block letters in crayon. For the duration of this mission, you will be warming a seat on Collins’ helo. You are not a pilot. You do not get your own command. You are one step above a bush bandit, and if it were up to me, there’d be a tiny rock out there with a population of crabs, bird shit, and you, in descending order of social status.”

  “Sir,” said Max, “I advise you to reconsider. The MOA is highly unstable, and a second combat frame would be a significant force multiplier.”

  “Darving, how’d you get to be a whiz kid programmer when you can’t even count? There’s only one CF on deck. What’s Ritter supposed to do, sit on my lap?”

  “Not to contradict you, sir, but we have two operational CFs.” Max pointed aft to the secondary elevator, which had just arrived on deck with Ritter’s Grenzie. Its freshly polished olive drab armor glinted in the sun.

  Larson looked from Darving to Ritter. “If it will shut you two up, fine. Report to your Grenzie, Private. And you’d better haul ass. I’d like to start this op before Christmas.”

  Ritter couldn’t keep from smiling as he saluted. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.”

  “Belay the ass-kissing,” said Larson. “You’re basically acting as a decoy. Now get ready for takeoff, or get left behind.”

  “Private Ritter’s Grenzie is not flight capable, sir,” said Max.

  “I’m aware of that, Captain.” Larson spoke into his helmet mic. “Collins, attach a tow cable to that Grenzmark C on the elevator. Ritter’s riding bitch.”

  The deck crew coordinated with Collins and Ritter to tether his Grenzie to the helo. Within minutes, Darving’s jet blasted off from the carrier, followed by Collins’ gunship. A thrill surged up Ritter’s spine as his monitor showed the Yamamoto shrinking below his CF’s stumpy feet. True to his word, Larson took the rearguard position in his Grento.

  Ritter kept his 110mm machine gun at the ready and constantly scanned his surroundings. He wanted to earn his keep. And besides, if the gunship went down over deep water, he’d be buried at sea in a Grenzie-shaped coffin.

  A sheer, sunbaked coastline rose from the clear blue waters up ahead. Collins followed the shore. Ruined hotels watched over the golden beaches to Ritter’s right. The mostly overgrown buildings blurred into a green and silver wall as the helo sped past. Larson’s Grento seemed to hover like a parade balloon behind them. Max’s far faster jet had long since flown out of sight.

  “We’re two hundred klicks from Algiers,” Collins told Ritter over the radio. “Should be smooth flying, but keep your head.”

  “This is Darving,” Max cut in. “Marilyn says someone’s transmitting a radar signal from the coast.”

  “Is it the control tower at Algiers Airport?” asked Collins.

  “Negative,” said Max. “The source is about a hundred klicks too close. It’s a good bet whoever’s running that transmitter saw me.”

  “Looks like someone’s rolled up the welcome mat,” said Larson, “Everybody stay sharp.”

  Ritter strained to see over the horizon. Darving hadn’t reported any hostile contact, but enemies lying in ambush often let the point man through and surrounded the next in line—which in this case was Collins’ gunship and him.

  “I’m picking up a transmission on multiple channels,” said Zimmer. “There’s a lot of power behind the signal.”

  “Put it through,” said Larson.

  “…unauthorized aircraft: This is the Coalition Ministry of Terrestrial Affairs. North Africa has been declared an SOC protectorate. You are to leave our airspace immediately. Repeat: You are violating Coalition airspace. Withdraw to at least one hundred kilometers offshore immediately, or you will be designated enemy combatants.”

  “Bloody Socs,” muttered Collins.

  “Your comm’s better than mine, Major,” said Larson. “Patch me through to General McCaskey on a secure channel.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Collins. “We’re connecting you now.”

  A heavy silence fell. Ritter’s grip tightened on his control sticks.

  “The EGE brass can’t reach the Ministry of Terrestrial Affairs office in Rome,” the Colonel said after a few minutes t
hat had felt like hours. “They conferred with Zarai and the Scorpion. Both deny cutting deals with the Socs. We’re to stay on course. The Yamamoto is prepping a Shen squad to back us up just in case, but watch the skies.”

  Ritter swiveled his Grenzie’s head for a 360 degree view of his surroundings. Puffy clouds scudded across the blue sky, but he saw no signs of incoming aircraft or missiles. His radar screen was clear. But trouble could break out before even Shenlong fighters could reach them.

  “Could Zarai or the Scorpion have issued the warning as a ruse?” asked Collins.

  “It’s possible,” said Larson. “Maybe one warlord figures he’s got the upper hand in a turf war. Better to duke it out and take it all than make concessions for a peace deal.”

  “If someone’s dealing in bad faith,” said Collins, “these negotiations will likely be short.”

  Three blue-white streaks zipped across Ritter’s screen. Fire blossomed beneath the gunship’s wings, and Ritter’s stomach leap into his throat as his Grenzie entered freefall. The severed tow cable whipped past the combat frame’s face as the heavy machine plummeted toward the ocean. Ritter’s brain went numb. He worked the control stick to no effect as alarms trilled.

  “I’m hit,” Collins reported.

  “The shots came from seven o’clock below us,” said Zimmer.

  “Damage to both wings,” said Collins, “but I’m not losing lift. The cable must’ve snapped.”

  Ritter’s bones rattled as his Grenzie hit the water. An infinite blue vista filled his main screen. His chest heaved as if the water was pressing down on him. Sweat loosened his hold on the controls. “I’m sinking fast,” he shouted over the comm.

  “Ritter, heads up!” Zimmer said. “I’ve got three CFs converging on you from behind.”

  Ritter took a deep breath to focus his thoughts and turned the grilled opening in the Grenzie’s sensor dome to face behind him. Three bulky humanoid shapes that blended in almost perfectly with the water were shooting toward him. Aside from their blue paint scheme and the strategic application of fins and hydrojets, they resembled his own CF.

  “I see them,” he reported. “They look like Grenzmarks.”