Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  Ritter felt as if he’d slept off a long bender. The sensation of floating gave way to awareness of lying in a hospital bed. His shoulder was sore but no longer burned. His sensitive eyes adjusted, and he recognized the white-walled room as part of the Yamamoto’s infirmary.

  A young woman with light brown hair falling to the shoulders of her lavender scrubs stood by a bank of monitors at Ritter’s bedside. She glanced at him with a smile, tapped one of the screens, and said, “He’s awake.”

  Ritter had spent every waking off-duty hour not devoted to servicing his CFs getting to know the ship’s company. A brief stay in the infirmary after capturing the Mablung had acquainted him with most of the medical staff. Yet he didn’t recognize the woman at his bedside. “Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” His voice emerged from his dry throat as a raspy croak.

  The woman handed him a plastic cup of water, which he drank greedily. The cool liquid soothed his parched insides.

  “My name’s Dorothy. I came over on Jean-Claude’s ship and volunteered to help out here.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Ritter said less hoarsely. “Who’s Jean-Claude?”

  Dorothy pointed to the nightstand. “The man who gave you that.”

  Ritter turned his head and winced as dull pain radiated from his shoulder. Upon the particleboard tabletop sat a deep red velvet-lined case. Carefully positioned inside the case lay a medal shaped like a five-pointed star with silver rays over a green enamel wreath. A central bronze disc bore a stately woman’s head in profile. Age had darkened bronze and silver alike. The whole was suspended from a red silk ribbon.

  “What is it?” Ritter asked in wonderment.

  “The Legion of Honor,” said Max as he strode into the room in a gray flight suit. Li Wen followed in her Navy dress blues with her tablet tucked under one arm. The Captain and the Lieutenant both came to attention near the foot of Ritter’s bed and saluted.

  “Did I get promoted above you guys while I was out?” Ritter asked.

  “In your dreams, Private,” chuckled Max.

  “You’re a chevalier of the Legion of Honor,” explained Li. “All uniformed service personnel under Nouvelle French law are required to salute Legionnaires regardless of rank.”

  “I thought we were the EGE,” said Ritter, “not the French Army.”

  “It’s complicated,” said Li. “Jean-Claude du Lione is heir to the throne of Nouvelle-France. He’s also a founding member of the EGE and one of our biggest financial backers. Since his ship joined the Yamamoto’s group, we’re sailing under his flag.”

  The faint memory of a white cargo freighter emerged from Ritter’s mind. “I think I saw Jean-Claude’s ship on my way in. Everything between then and now is a blank. I just know I failed to bring back a Dolph. And I probably rammed the ship, so I’m not sure how I earned a knighthood.”

  “Traditionally,” said Max, “you get knighted for being famous and useless or stupid and lucky. I didn’t think you’d take it literally when I named our team the Suicide Kings.”

  “Over my objections,” said Ritter. “Now, are you gonna tell me or keep drawing out the suspense?”

  Max and Li exchanged a look. “Show him,” Darving said.

  “Nurse…” Li said to Dorothy.

  “You don’t have to ask twice.” Dorothy stepped briskly from the room. “It was nice meeting you, Ritter,” she called back.

  Li stepped over to Ritter’s bedside and held her tablet’s screen at his eye level. A tap of her slim finger started a video that had been shot from the Yamamoto’s island. A large blue object tore through the water below trailing a white wake. Seconds before the speeding object hit the ship, a black combat frame swooped down and plucked what turned out to be Ritter’s Mab from the sea.

  “That’s Dead Drop!” Ritter said. “Does that mean Zane is here?”

  “Because you invited him,” Max said wryly. “And let me tell you, he hasn’t been the best company.”

  “He did agree to let us examine Dead Drop in return for the parts he needs to repair it,” Li said as she returned to Max’s side. “As the template for the Dolph series, it’s an intelligence gold mine.”

  Ritter took the plush red case in his hands. “That’s why Jean-Claude gave me a medal?”

  “I may also have mentioned how you pulled my ass out of the fire back in Kisangani,” said Max.

  “Zimmer and the other guys in his flight bailed us both out,” Ritter said. “Remind me to buy them a round next time we’re in port.”

  Max stared at the deck and sighed. “They didn’t make it.”

  A Shenlong trailing flame as it spun into the city came to Ritter’s mind. The case fell from his grasp and landed on the bed with a soft clack. “What? You, me, and Zane were outnumbered two to one, and we got out.”

  “Barely,” said Max. “The Shenlongs were outnumbered five to one. Some of them might’ve had a chance if the base’s anti-aircraft guns hadn’t come online. Now Kisangani’s doubling their defenses for Operation N.”

  “I guess bombing the spaceport’s out of the question,” said Ritter.

  Max scratched the back of his head. “Yeah…”

  Ritter detected an unspoken “but” in Max’s voice. “You two didn’t come down here just to congratulate me.”

  “The data we pulled from Dead Drop confirmed our worst fears,” said Li. “Two hundred shuttles are headed for Earth carrying a Soc invasion force. We don’t have the strength to fight them after they land or to take out the spaceport. But the shuttles will be vulnerable once they enter the atmosphere. The whole EGE fleet has assembled off the West African coast. In one hour we launch all twenty fighter wings to shoot down the shuttles.”

  Cold dread seeped into Ritter’s stomach. “This is it. We’re going to war with the Coalition.”

  “It’s gonna be an air battle,” said Max, “so technically you won’t be going to war with them unless I screw up. Collins wants you on standby, just in case.”

  “Taking on a whole army of Dolphs is a tall order, even for a knight,” said Ritter.

  “You won’t be alone,” said Max. “Zane’s made it his life’s work to wipe out the Dolphs and everyone who built them. Of course, we’ll all have our hands full if even one shuttle gets through.”

  “Can 120 fighters shoot down two hundred shuttles?” asked Ritter.

  “They may not have to,” said Li. “During atmospheric entry the shuttle pilots switch from manual control to an auto-nav system. My team will attempt to hack the Coalition’s data relay satellite net and throw the shuttles off course right before they hit the atmosphere. Best case scenario: They all burn up, and we don’t have to fight.”

  “Hacking a Soc satellite net sounds tough,” said Ritter. “Do you think you can pull it off?”

  “The SOC networking protocols we gleaned from Dead Drop will give us a chance,” Li said.

  Only because I convinced Zane to join us, thought Ritter. Can I live with 200,000 deaths on my conscience?

  “Don’t worry,” said Max. “If electronic warfare fails, my boys and I will do the job.”

  Li squeezed Max’s arm.

  “What if we contacted the Socs and told them we know about their plan?” Ritter asked. “They might call off the invasion if they think we’ll shoot down their shuttles.”

  “Operation N has already passed the point of no return,” said Li. “The closest place they could reroute the shuttles to is L1, and they’ve already burned too much fuel to get there. At this point, landing on Earth is their only option.”

  “Besides,” said Max, “Admiral Omaka already accused the Socs of planning an invasion, and they denied it. They still swear up and down that Operation N is an aid mission. The Socs can’t turn back, but if they follow through they might win.”

  Ritter stared at the silver and bronze medal lying beside him on the bed. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But what happens if the Socs lose?”

  21

  Max strappe
d himself in to his pilot seat and flexed his gloved fingers to steady his hands. The Thor Prototype sat idling on the flight deck ahead of the Yamamoto’s fourteen remaining Shenlongs. He’d be leading them in the EGE strike group’s attack on the Soc invasion force—unless Wen’s electronic warfare team took down all two hundred shuttles on reentry.

  The sun had just risen over Africa behind the assembled fleet of six carriers with their retinue of support craft. The western horizon beyond Max’s cockpit was colored pink-orange where the sky touched the glassy sea. A cluster of bright points shone far above like a new constellation. Max gripped his control stick and slowed his breathing to calm his racing heart. His mask magnified the sound. Here they come.

  The Socs labeled Operation N a humanitarian mission to aid victims of the North African conflict. Naval intelligence had data that convinced them the aid mission was a front for a full-scale invasion. Max pushed his lingering doubts aside. The General Staff had decided those shuttles couldn’t be allowed to land. He and the other EGE aviators would execute that decision. Thinking of anything else would just distract him.

  “Coalition shuttles approaching atmospheric entry threshold,” Marilyn told Max in her synthesized voice. “Five minutes to comm blackout.”

  Wen’s pleasantly accented English followed the A.I. “My team is attempting to commandeer the enemy’s data relay satellites.”

  “Roger,” said Colonel Larson, who was serving as Air Group Commander. “If you can pluck those birds from the sky without us firing a shot, you’ll never pay for a drink again.”

  The comm went silent. Max’s guts twisted as the seconds ticked by.

  “Two minutes to atmospheric entry threshold,” said Marilyn.

  “What’s the word on those satellites, Lieutenant?” Larson asked.

  “We’ve hit a complication, sir,” said Wen. “The Coalition’s TDRSS net is a few security updates ahead of Dead Drop. We need a little time to gain access.”

  “A little time is all we have,” said Larson.

  “One minute to atmospheric entry threshold.” Marilyn’s grim announcement drowned out the rush of blood in Max’s ears.

  “We’re in!” Wen said. “Altering nav data now.”

  Max fixed his eyes on the distant points growing steadily brighter in the morning sky. “Atmospheric entry threshold crossed,” Marilyn said as the artificial constellation flared to dazzling brilliance. “Estimated comm blackout duration: three minutes.”

  A cascade of blinding flashes burst across the sky like high altitude missile detonations. But Max knew there’d been no shots fired. The sobering realization of what those vivid flashes meant tempered his relief as cheers went up from the deck.

  The brightest lights died, but a smaller constellation remained. Is that burning debris, wondered Max, or…?

  “One hundred confirmed radar contacts,” declared Major Collins, Larson’s acting deputy. “They’re still on course for Kisangani.”

  “Give me a sitrep, Lieutenant,” Larson said.

  “We confirm Collins’ readings, sir,” said Wen. “Half the shuttles received correct guidance data before we could crack the nav satellites. The other half burned up, but we’ve still got a hundred enemy craft inbound.”

  “There’s no free lunch, Lieutenant,” said Larson. “Collins, it’s your show now.”

  Max took a deep breath of recycled air and awaited the inevitable order.

  Collins’ accented voice sent a jolt up Max’s spine. “All fighters, engage and shoot down those shuttles!”

  The Thor Prototype was first in line for takeoff. Max spared a quick glance to port, where Dead Drop’s sleek black form stood next to Ritter’s stout blue Mablung. Both standing by in case I fail, thought Max, so I’d better succeed. Both CFs had gone unrepaired so the techs could get every aircraft combat ready. The Mab raised its giant hand to its domed head in a serviceable salute.

  “Factoring in the shuttles’ speed and our time to intercept,” Marilyn said, “we will have two minutes to shoot them down before they pass out of range.”

  “Then let’s not keep them waiting, honey.” Max aimed his thrusters at the deck and opened the throttle. The Thor Prototype leapt into the air. He smoothly angled the thrust nozzles to aft and pulled back on the stick, pushing himself into his chair as he accelerated into a steep climb.

  Max’s tension eased as the other members of his squadron called in. His rearview monitor showed the Yamamoto’s fourteen Shenlongs climbing in formation behind him. Contrails rising from the fleet’s five other carriers confirmed that the whole strike group was in the air and racing to engage the enemy. Thunder filled the clear sky as over a hundred fighters broke the sound barrier.

  Collins had direct operational command, but as the leader of the foremost squadron, Max was effectively leading the strike group in the field. Just pretend it’s an airshow, he told himself. The pretense rang hollow. In terms of relative mass and speed, Max may as well have been riding a motorcycle playing chicken with a bullet train white trying to derail it with a handgun.

  “The lead shuttle is in effective weapons range,” Marilyn said.

  “Are you sure?” asked Max. The shuttle’s bow looked like a glowing quarter-inch bolt head stuck to his canopy.

  “You calibrated my sensors yourself,” said Marilyn, “so I assume that question is rhetorical. We have ninety seconds to complete the mission as of the end of this sentence.”

  Max eased back on the throttle and brought Mjolnir online. Marilyn handled the targeting, and the reticle centered on the growing luminous hexagon turned red.

  Grant me victory, Max prayed. And grant me forgiveness. He squeezed the trigger. Blue-white radiance flashed under his jet’s nose. The enormous transport kept hurtling toward him.

  “Target undamaged,” Marilyn said. “The shuttle’s shock layer bent the laser by 0.85 degrees. I’ll compensate on the next shot.”

  “We might not get one!” Max agonized over whether to take another shot at his first target and narrow his already short window for engaging the others.

  Violet light burned through the shuttle’s cockpit. Its six-sided hull tumbled and exploded. Dead Drop pulled up on Max’s right. A heat haze surrounded its arm-mounted plasma cannon.

  A pebble fell from the millstone on Max’s shoulders. “Who gave you launch clearance?” he teased Zane.

  “I do what I want,” Dellister said with deadpan gravity.

  Trails of fire streaked past them on every side, driving the Shenlongs’ missiles into the onrushing shuttles’ cockpits.

  Zane’s agitated voice cut through the jubilant shouts filling the comm channel. “Something’s not right.”

  “One minute warning,” said Marilyn.

  Missiles filled the sky like a swarm of monster hornets. Shuttles broke up and burned by the dozens.

  “MTA shuttle forty-seven to EGE fighters!” a frantic male voice called over the comm. “We are on a humanitarian mission. Hold your fire!”

  Panic seized Max’s heart. He radioed Collins. “I’m feeling some bad juju, sir. What if the Soc’s telling the truth?”

  “He’d say the same if he were lying,” said Collins. “Dellister, keep quiet or leave the battlefield. Lieutenant, jam the enemy’s transmissions.”

  The Soc’s pleading, which had continued throughout Max’s call to the Yamamoto, abruptly ceased.

  “Thirty seconds,” said Marilyn.

  The remaining shuttles’ hexagonal bows had grown to the size of silver dollars. Max counted over fifty at a glance. If even one gets through, we’ll have a thousand pissed off Socs rolling up on us in Dolphs. He targeted the nearest shuttle’s cockpit and fired. The electrolaser blew out the slim window strip, and the shuttle joined two dozen others in fiery oblivion.

  Only twenty targets remained. We’re going to make it. Max swallowed the lump in his throat, but Zane’s wordless scream nearly made him choke. As the Shenlongs fired, a bright trail of rocket exhaust arced away from the Tho
r’s starboard side and toward the coast.

  “What the hell was that?” Larson demanded from his command station in the carrier’s island.

  “Dellister, sir,” Max radioed back. “He got a wild hair up his ass and took off.”

  Alarms blared. “Impact imminent,” Marilyn warned, her placid voice unchanged.

  Max’s attention snapped back to the sky in front of him. A shuttle’s blunt, off-white nose filled the right side of his canopy. He rolled left, and the gigantic transport’s hundred meter-long hull roared through the air beneath him close enough to touch. Which he did, deploying his right manipulator arm and letting his heat sword shred the shuttle’s starboard rocket nozzle. A deafening blast shook Max’s cockpit and sent his jet spinning sideways into the open sky.

  “Right manipulator severed,” said Marilyn. “Structural integrity at seventy percent.”

  “Darving, wake up!” Collins shouted over the comm. “The last shuttle is still on course. All the Shenlongs have overshot it. Only you can intercept in time.”

  Max fought through his vertigo and reached for the thrust vectoring controls. The Thor Prototype’s hinged afterburners swung down and fired. He lunged forward as the jet shuddered to a halt. The shuttle was a bright dot over the African coast. Max shifted all thrusters to aft, aimed his nose at the receding target, and blasted off. The g’s crashed into him like a wave as the sound barrier shattered.

  “The shuttle’s lead is widening,” Marilyn said. Max flogged the engines till he hit Mach 2. He kept accelerating despite feeling like the air around him had turned to smothering mud. A black circle closed in on his field of vision.

  Marilyn’s voice was faint in Max’s throbbing ears. “Structural integrity fifty percent. Number two engine failure imminent.”

  The speed indicator on Max’s HUD was riding the edge of Mach 3 when the tiny glowing dot grew into a less tiny dot. His hand moved through air like drying cement to center Mjolnir’s reticle on the still-distant shuttle.