Breaking Through Read online

  “Of course it is, Sir.” Masters replied.

  “I take it you have another theory, Lieutenant?”

  “Oh, well, Sir, I just think it’s funny that we military types are always called in to protect the assets of corporations that could give two shits about us. Hell, I’ve never even met anyone from Colonial before. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of their bankroll, too.”

  “A very patriotic sentiment, Lieutenant Masters.”

  Masters snickered. “Sir, patriotic doesn’t put food on the table.”

  John knew what was coming next and whispered to Mark, “Great, here comes the Kind-and-Country speech.”

  “Indeed,” the CAG said before pursing his lips. “However, the distinction of serving this great Union is about more than simply putting food on the table.” The map and mission briefing vanished from the holo-display, replaced by the spread dragon wings and shield crest of the 354 Air Battle Group. The emblem rotated slowly in the center of the room as the Colonel spoke.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, you are sworn to protect and defend the Constitution of the North Atlantic Union and to follow the orders of the Commander-in-Chief. Sometimes those orders require us to do things that we don’t necessarily agree with, but we must do them all the same. The people of the Union expect our unit to be the Tip-of-the-Sword and expect the best out of each and every one of you. We are a part of the best and most capable and effective combat force in the world and I expect all of you to start acting like it. If any of you,” he starred directly at Masters, “have issue with that, I expect to see your transfer papers on my desk in the morning.”

  Mark burped and John gave him an “are-you-kidding” look. John thought he might be looking worse now than he had in the latrine. Mark gave an apologetic shrug and put a hand on his stomach, sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Salinger, who hadn’t noticed, said, “Now, the mission profile is as follows…”

  John sat back and only half-listened. Masters had been right, the military operated solely at the beck and call of the mighty corporations that ran the planet. The on-going conflict between the Union and the European Alliance, over ownership and mining rights throughout the solar system, had plunged the world in to a state of constant conflict. It was a war for profit, not of principles, and what good did any of the fighting do him or any of the other regular citizens caught in the middle?

  None. None at all.

  Sixty-six days and a wake up, then he’d be done with it all for good. Maybe he could talk his dad into only taking half.

  Thirty minutes later, Bravo Flight was airborne, and according to the Mission Clock on John’s heads-up-display, they were fifteen minutes from Contact One. Data scrolled across his Optic, showing him status indicators for the rest of the Flight. The mission profile called for their flight of eight Falcons to split into groups of four, Bravo-1 and Bravo-2, then approach the main engagement area from separate directions to provide air support for the battalion of NAU Marines moving in from the North.

  All things being equal, the Vulture Class fighters were nowhere near the same league as the Falcons of Bravo Flight, but one thing John had learned over the years was things were not always equal. Not to mention the highly motivated Quardief forces weren’t known for their polite tactics. Winning was winning, and it didn’t matter to them how they did it.

  Inside the cramped cockpit of the Falcon, John felt at ease, as if the fighter wrapped around him like a security blanket. Too bad, it wasn’t comfortable as well. The freedom the Falcon provided him was almost overshadowed by the fact that that its cockpit verged on claustrophobic. The most advanced fighter on the planet didn’t even have a cup-holder.

  As they passed waypoint 3 an alert flashed on the left side of his Optic, they were on schedule. He silently cursed as the faint twinge in his eyes returned. It had taken almost six weeks for John’s eyes to adjust to the Neural-Optic Display Lenses, almost three times longer than normal and only because he constantly had to apply the soothing gel. He’d had to adjust his prescription three times since, and had a feeling that he’d be adjusting again soon. He pulled the small dropper from a pouch on his tac-vest and squeezed two drops in each eye.

  The tiny combud in his right ear gave a quiet beep and Mark’s name appeared on his Optic, blurry in his gel-soaked vision. A green dot blinked lazily as his friend’s voice came over the private channel, “Goddamn, man, my stomach is killing me.” His voice was hoarse and scratchy.

  John tossed the gel into the small compartment beside him and twisted around to look at Mark’s fighter. His black flight-helmet bumped against the headrest and he had to twist his neck awkwardly to see his wingman’s Falcon. “You doing all right back there?”

  Through a haze of holographic images, Mark’s fighter held position twenty meters behind John’s; it’s sleek matte-black stealth-skin a stark contrast to the bright blue sky around them. The Falcon’s distinct forward-swept wing design and the computer assisted controls made the craft extremely maneuverable and agile.

  “That dramashit ain’t working. Should have just taken the shit Doc gave me.”

  John laughed, “Dramamine. And that trust me, that stuff Doc gives out is worthless. My Dad used to live off Dramamine.”

  “Whatever, man, my stomach feels like its twisting inside out again. I—” A gut wrenching heave cut him off, followed by an onslaught of several shorter dry heaves and groaning.

  “Damn, dude,” John’s stomach turned at the sound of his friend’s retching. “I wouldn’t be alone with any of the maintenance guys when we get back.”

  “Aww, man, it’s in my suit.”

  “Or the dry cleaners…” Another status light flashed on his Optics, their time to contact was now under fifteen minutes. “You need to RTS, man.”

  “No, I’m fin—” another dry heave came over the com and John winced.

  “Fine?” John countered, “You just lost your shit all over yourself. You barely made it off the flight deck, man. I should have stopped you then.”

  “What are you now, all of the sudden, some kind of killjoy?”

  “No, I’d just rather not send you home in a box today, brother.”

  Mark coughed hard, then cleared his throat, “John, I—“

  “No arguing this time, you’re going back. That’s an order.” As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it. As Flight Lead, it gave him the authority to make such a call, but somehow it still made him feel like an ass.

  The radio was quiet for a few moments then Mark said, “We’re going to have a talk about this when you get back.”

  John winced and twisted back to look at his partner. A second later Mark’s voice came over the regular channel, “Bravo-Control, this is Bravo-One-Two, I am experiencing some technically difficulties with my aircraft and am requesting an RTS, copy?”

  “Bravo-One-Two, Control, copy that. Are you declaring an emergency, over?”

  “Negative, Control, I am not declaring an emergency. I am experiencing intermittent communication signals with the rest of Bravo flight and my sensor suite appears to be glitching.”

  “Very well, Bravo-One-Two Return to Station granted, approach on Bay Three and declare on the Outer Beacon.”

  “Roger that, Bay Three. Bravo-One-Two, out.”

  John keyed the private channel, “Mark, I—”

  Without another word, Mark’s Falcon pulled up, then banked away in a tight arc. The thrusters fired hard and the Advanced Ariel Fighter accelerated back along their course at close to 900 kilometers an hour.

  The Ops Channel crackled again, “Bravo-One-One, Command, declare your status, over.”

  John sighed and switch to the tactical channel, “Bravo-One-One, status is green. Will stay on mission.”

  “Confirmed, Bravo-One-One. Continue with mission as profiled.”

  “Roger that,” he said and closed the connection. He was not looking forward dealing with Mark after the mission was finished.

  Oliver’s icon appeared and
her voice came through on a private channel, “What’s up?”

  As Lead-Two, Laurie Oliver was in command of the Bravo Flight’s second element. Her flight of four was coming around from the North and would meet up with John and his two remaining fighters at Contact Point One. Curving blue lines showed John the positions of both teams near the top of his Optic.

  “Oh, nothing, probably just a bit of food poisoning, he shouldn’t have been up here in the first place.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sick before.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure he just chucked all over his dash. I sure am glad I had the meatloaf, holy shit, talk about lucky.”

  “No kidding, I wonder what the hell?”

  John shrugged, and then felt stupid, she couldn’t see him so the gesture was useless, “Don’t know. All I know is I’m going to do my best to avoid him for a couple days.”

  “Pissed off, huh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself. If he didn’t need to be up here, he didn’t need to be up here. Better he be pissed than be a liability.”

  “True,” John said.

  Oliver added, “Besides, this shit’s going to go down the same way the last assault went down. They’ll get within a few kilometers and realize they aren’t quite ready to go head-to-head with the Marines and call it a day.”

  The mission clocked flashed to amber in his Optic as the timer dropped under ten minutes.

  “I hope your right.”

  Oliver’s tone was that of a mother talking to her children. “Of course I’m right, aren’t I always?”

  “Well…” John briefly considered arguing the point, but only briefly. Debating anything with Oliver was about as fun as stubbing your pinky toe on the couch.

  “Exactly. I’m always right. So, let’s kick the shit out of these rejects and get back in time to see Keen’s reaction when CAG puts him on the inactive list for blowing chunks all over his fighter.”

  John laughed. “That’s about the best advice since my dad told me not to sign up for this shit duty.”

  “Shit is right. See ya in a few.”

  “Copy that.” The channel closed and Oliver’s icon vanished.

  John tapped a key on the console in front of him. Immediately information from the tactical computer was shunted to the left side of his Optic. Status readouts from his onboard weapon systems scrolled down his vision. The two 20mm auto-cannons mounted in the nose, armed with 5,000 rounds of explosive tipped ammunition, began their warm up cycles. Mark VII Phantom Air to Air missiles shifted their targeting computers to stand-by and the racking arm moved in to position.

  There had been a time when strapping into the cockpit of such an advanced fighter was the ultimate adrenaline rush, now it seemed old-hat. That, and adrenaline wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Not to mention the fact that dog fighting in real-life was nothing like what it was depicted as in the holos. Something else his father insisted on reminding him of every time he called home.

  Most air battles were won or lost before the enemy was even in visual range. Out of the eight pilots of Bravo flight, only two had actually seen combat and after hearing multiple versions of the same stories several times over, John had decided that most of their “heroic adventures in aerial combat” were bullshit. What some pilots called “knife fights in a phone booth” very rarely ever happened.

  Dog fights in the modern age played out on computers and optical displays, miles apart from each other. John could control almost every system the Falcon employed through his Optics. While the on-board computer controlled some aspects of flight, piloting the aircraft was left in the hands of the people that sat behind the controls. Flight controls and fire control were the only things the engineers—and more importantly—the pilots, refused to trust to the Optics. To his knowledge, there hadn’t been an Optic system failure yet, outside of controlled testing, but given enough time the odds were always stacked against you.

  Even minus one flight member, John’s team of Falcon’s completely outmatched the aging Vultures. Each one of their fighters could track up to ten independent targets and feed that information directly into the targeting computer with zero input from the pilot. He could sleep through the engagement and still come out on top. It was entirely likely that the enemy wouldn’t even detect him until his Air-to-Air’s were screaming up their tailpipes. Hell, if he wanted to, he could get within visual range and open up with the auto-cannon. It would make things a little more interesting anyway.

  A single alert tone sounded, and a red status light blinked to life in the center of John’s Optic. He immediately checked the clock, and frowned, still over five minutes until they reached the engagement area. He tapped a button on the console in front of him and was puzzled at the computer’s response.

  The comms channel opened, “Bravo-One-One, Bravo-Command, status check, over.”

  John thought there was a hint of concern in the female controller’s voice. “Bravo-Command, One-One, my status is green. I think my sensor suite may have just hiccupped.”

  The Falcon’s Navigation and Identification Display screen next to his left hand flickered and several random indication signals flashed on and off. “The Nav-ID seems to be experiencing some kind of interference from something. Can you confirm?”

  There was a moment of silence and John imagined all the sensor techs, back in Command and Control, tossing papers aside and spilling coffee on their khakis. The computer systems on board were state-of-the-art, and short of direct contact with the most advanced electronic countermeasures in use, nothing should have been able to cause that kind of interference.

  “Bravo-One-One, negative. Internal systems are showing green here. We’re connecting to—Stand by.”

  Something at the back of John’s throat tightened, when someone says, “stand by,” the information that follows is not generally pleasant. He flipped a switch on his flight controls and combat systems began to initialize. Going “fangs out,” in his opinion, was the only way to “stand by.”

  Another alert tone sounded and several amber diamonds flashed on his Optics. The Falcon’s computer identified the new contacts as Vulture Class Fighters, closing in on John’s flight at maximum velocity. He immediately ordered the computer to prioritize targets and the diamonds flashed to red as the computer locked on.

  “Bravo-One-One to Bravo Flight, I have identified 5 enemy contacts, confirm.” A chorus of affirmatives came back over the group channel.

  Oliver’s acknowledgment came over last, “One-One, Two-One, I confirm. Be advised I’m still approximately eight minutes out.”

  John pushed the targeting solutions to his secondary display, focusing instead on the approach angles of the two Flights. Five versus three weren’t terrible odds, considering the difference in firepower, but going into a fight under-strength wasn’t ideal. “Copy that, Two-One.”

  His Nav-ID screen flickered again, and this time his Optics faded as well. “Whoa.” He brought up a diagnostic panel and halfway through the quick scan his instruments flickered again, causing the diagnostic to fail.

  “Bravo-One-One, I’m experiencing multiple system glitches up here.”

  “One-One, we are picking up some kind of directed electrical interference in the area.”

  John’s private channel beeped and Mark’s icon appeared, “John, are you okay? What’s going on back there?”

  John started the diagnostic again and frowned, “Hold on, Mark. Command, you can’t give me anything more than directed electrical interference? Are we talking about an ECM attack or what?”

  “Unknown, One-One, we are bringing additional relays on-line to assess.”

  “No offense, Command, but this is a pretty shitty time to be assessing. If this is some kind of attack we are out matched already.”

  Oliver’s voice came over the com, “John, what the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know, Laurie. Your guess is as good as mi
ne. Something is causing my systems to interrupt. Mark, are your systems being affected?”

  “No, I’m showing green across the board.”

  “Bravo-One-One, our relays are picking up localized electromagnetic disruptions in your quadrant, are you sure there isn’t anything else out there?”

  The red diamonds at the top of his Optic were the only contacts the computer was tracking on passive sensors. “The only contacts on passive are the Vultures, still four hundred miles and closing.”

  “Bravo-One-One, please switch to Active and confirm.”

  He let out a slow breath, letting his frustration abate before answering. No doubt, Salinger would be listening to the com-traffic and was not in the mood to hear one of the CAG’s radio discipline lectures again. Unknown situation or not, the CAG was not above reprimanding someone even if they had just been in a fight for their life.

  “Bravo-Two-Three, did you copy last?” the female voice repeated.

  “Roger, One-One copies.”

  Reluctantly, John switched his sensors suite over to Active and watched the readout on the Optic display. Standard procedure during flight ops was to operate with passive sensors only, they weren’t as accurate as active sensors but they didn’t light you up like a Christmas tree on your enemies RADAR systems either. After all, what good was flying an ultra-stealth, $137 million dollar aircraft if you’re going to broadcast your exact location to the entire world?

  It took several seconds to complete a full scan of the area, and when the computer finished processing the data the results were displayed in the center of his Optic. John keyed the com channel and said, “Bravo-One-One, Command, active sensors detect no—whoa.” The Nav-ID display flickered again then went completely blank. Green lines streamed across his Optic and random letters and numbers began to scroll at random. His targeting computer hiccupped again and all five contacts flashed then disappeared.