Vendetta Protocol Read online

  Vendetta Protocol

  Copyright © 2017 by Kevin Ikenberry All rights reserved.

  First Ebook Edition: August 2017

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  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  For my girls.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A formation of Marauder and Claymore tanks charged across the Martian soil toward a fortified enemy defensive line more than six kilometers long. God, I wish I was down there with them, I thought, instead of flying over it. The first thing I learned in flight school was to never be “behind the aircraft” and to always focus on flying, because aircraft tend to crash when pilots get distracted. The ground battle, exercise or not, was a huge distraction for me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

  A half dozen or so lifetimes ago, I would have been there, slinging metal toward far-off targets and racing into the heat of the ground battle. I remembered watching aircraft hit targets near me in Afghanistan and wishing that I had joined the Air Force instead. I didn’t have perfect vision then. The irony of finally being a pilot three hundred years and one death later was not lost on me.

  In my first lifetime, aircraft had played a vital role on the battlefield. The high-flying interceptors were one thing, but the first time I saw an A-10 Warthog firing on targets so close I could have spit on them, I knew what I would have flown given the chance. Now, as an exocraft pilot, I loved hitting targets on the ground.

  Close air support was only about 30 percent of the training I had to complete. This exercise was supposed to be about ground-combat coordination, but I knew better. The instructors would attack us before we could provide air support for the ground forces in our sector.

  This air-to-air combat shit is for the birds.

  One-on-one was a fair fight. When the instructors started piling on—and how they loved to do that—it went from constructive to stupid in one fell swoop.

  “Lead, Three. I’ve got six bandits at my nine on an intercept course. Northwest toward Pavonis Mons.” The call was meant for me, and I shook my head before my wingman stopped speaking.

  We can’t even get the terminology right, much less fight well enough to win.

  By definition, a bandit was an airborne contact that had demonstrated hostile intent. An unknown, presumably peaceful—until proven otherwise—aircraft was called a bogey. While we all knew who was coming and what their intention was, we couldn’t assume anything. Streaking over the Martian regolith at five hundred knots, I nudged the control stick to the right and brought my velocity-detection sensors online.

  “Roger, Three. Track the bogies, and give me a good range,” I replied.

  Correcting and coaching my people through the exercise was the right thing to do, even if it brought another ass chewing from the instructors. The exercise should have been easy, given what I knew. I’d done that sort of thing before. Simulation or not, the objective of a war game was to win.

  <>

  In combat situations, Lily, my guidance protocol, sounded too much like Mally, my first protocol. Mally had been cold and calculating right up until she tried to kill me. I hoped this time around would be different. Lily gave me a significant advantage over my peers, but ultimately, piloting an aircraft and coordinating a ground battle were up to me.

  Up against two-to-one odds, with a coordinated strategic missile strike inbound over two divisions of armored infantry, I was supposed to fight my aerial battle and monitor the one on the ground at the same time but not engage. I didn’t play by those rules. Hell, I’d been making shit up for the last two years.

  Thanks, Lily. Get the division cavalry unit on button three. I need to tell them when to cross the line of departure.

  <>

  I laughed but had to refuse. The evaluators three hundred kilometers away needed to hear my voice and run it through their processors to ensure I had control of the situation. Button three, please.

  <>

  “Lead, Three. Bandits are at twenty kilometers and have full active radar telemetry,” Jenkins reported.

  With a look to my left, I caught glints of sunlight on their wingtips in the distance. There was no doubt that Commander Bussot was among them and specifically targeting me. She’d been doing it for the last three months, and it was damned old.

  “Roger, Three. Active countermeasures on your port quadrants. Two, I want your countermeasures focused to starboard,” I said.

  Hirami, my other wingman, snapped in reply, “Lead, Two. That will leave Three with minimal sensor coverage. Over.”

  “I’m aware of that, Two. I don’t want someone sneaking up on the undefended side. Got it?” Splitting my sensors was like turning a partially blind eye to one half of the sky. Our aircraft traded sensor information every picosecond, and while I could focus our attention as necessary, it played hell with situational awareness.

  Hirami clicked his microphone twice. At least someone in my class understood how to accept an order.

  Three seconds passed before Jenkins was all over my private frequency. “You’re leaving me out here to die, Roark! Doctrine says we focus all sensors on the enemy!”

  I glanced to my left and saw him giving me the middle finger as we held the patrol route. Full sensor sweeps or not, the converging aircraft had done nothing to display hostile intent. We could not attack their aircraft or ground forces without provocation. The rules of engagement were clear, and breaking them was a serious offense, even in an exercise. I could have spent time explaining that to Jenkins, again, or I could act.

  “Ten kilometers. Intercept in ten seconds,” Jenkins called. “They’ve got missile lock.”

  <>

  Fuck it.

  “Jenkins, break left. Now!” I called. “Hirami, on me. Up we go!” I pulled back on the control stick, and the Falcon shot toward the stars.

  Hirami was on my right wing as we turned over the top of the intercepting aircraft. The twin-tailed exocraft and its blue-gray camouflage pattern stood out against the butterscotch-colored terrain. Jenkins honored the threat and activated his weapons. He got off three solid shots before they took him out. Not bad at all.

  “Two, go low. I’ve got the high side. Let’s clean house.” I snapped the exocraft into a tight left-hand climbing turn while Hirami went the opposite direction and descende
d toward the clouds. With any luck, I could sneak him under the remaining three fighters and get at least one to follow him.

  <>

  “Dammit.” I chinned the frequencies on the rim of my helmet. “Victory Six, get your ass moving! Now!” The longer the cavalry waited to advance from their assembly area to the objective, the more time the Greys had to fortify their defensive position. That I’d forgotten to give the ground forces their command would be a point against me. As long as some colonel didn’t make me write a simulated letter to a dead soldier’s family as a teaching point again, I was fine with any other outcome.

  I didn’t stay on the frequency long enough to hear a response. Getting mad was useless. In this future, there was no such thing as initiative. People did only what they were told and nothing more. I tried to generate initiative nonetheless. Opportunities in a combat situation were fleeting. If the right person could take advantage of a seemingly minor development, it could change the course of an entire war.

  “Hirami, break off and go lower. Make them follow you. I’ll stay up top and pick off the stragglers.” I knew the confidence in my voice, and my plan, would be lost on the young pilot.

  “Doctrine says we stay together, Lead.”

  “I know what doctrine says! Trust me!”

  Hirami broke away.

  I glanced over my shoulder and watched him arc down into the simulated cloud deck. Mars terrain and Earth clouds. Next thing you know, it will be raining frogs. Sure enough, one of the closing Intimidators dropped low enough that its gigantic two-tailed shadow played along the cloud tops. “Bring it around, and get that guy before he punches the clouds.”

  “Two, roger,” Hirami called. He had a grasp of the plan, and that left the other two to me.

  Where are the cavalry?

  <>

  I snapped the Falcon around and brought my sensors to bear on the mountain valley identified as the objective for the ground force’s mission. If they could defeat the Grey armored brigade and take the valley, the TDF would close off a major attack corridor and stand a chance of prolonging the campaign. With about five seconds of data, I had all the answers I needed. According to Fleet doctrine, I was supposed to direct everything straight at that objective without regard for life or limb.

  Fuck that, too. Lily, relay to the cavalry to take route Charlie to the objective, and tell them to expect heavy resistance.

  <>

  I laughed. Because I can.

  “Splash one!” Hirami screamed over the radio. On my display, the icon for an Intimidator disappeared. He’d shot one down, and it was out of the computer simulation.

  “Roger, Two,” I called in response. I wanted to whoop and scream for him. The instructors had been as hard on him as they’d been on me.

  <>

  “Two, check your six. I’m on the way.” I swung the Intimidator’s nose back to the south.

  Hirami clicked his microphone button twice. For a moment, I looked inside the cockpit. On my radar, his icon faded out.

  Son of a bitch!

  <>

  “Plot course to route Charlie,” I said. With a shake of my head, I queued the radar for a full perimeter sweep and realized that I was between the two remaining enemy aircraft. One sat behind me at my six o’clock, and the other was diametrically opposite at my twelve—like a hound chasing prey toward the hunter.

  I’m not coming out of this alive.

  <>

  Well, shit. I laughed. “What’s the eight-percent chance of survival?”

  <>

  The warning display blinked. A targeting cursor appeared. I clenched my jaw. “I can’t fire head-on, Lily. That’s against ROE.” Speaking out loud helped get my thoughts together. The rules of engagement governed every single decision a pilot faced in a combat situation. Things like escalation and force application were supposed to be the touchstones of ROE. More often, common sense and safety took over, and people responded appropriately. In training, though, it was a lot easier to manipulate the rules.

  <>

  I wanted to argue, but she was right. I was headed for another ass chewing from a commander who believed she knew everything. All thanks to an unrealistic training environment created by those who had no idea what a real operational environment looked like.

  “Target the aircraft at twelve o’clock. Full combat spread, three missiles. Confirm solution.”

  <>

  “Fire.” Off my starboard wing, three Tracker air-to-air missiles streaked from their rails and accelerated to Mach 3 in less than a second. I watched their contrails streak toward the first Intimidator. The displayed plume of engine exhaust looked real enough to touch. To someone who’d played a lot of 8-bit video games, it was incredible technology.

  <>

  “Full rear deflectors and combat countermeasures.” I retarded the throttle by 20 percent. The chasing aircraft would overshoot if they did not slow down. Time to make my move. “Throttles to zero. Target the aircraft and fire when you’re ready.”

  <> Lily sounded like a movie star, though not one from my own time. The lilt in her voice reminded me of Mally. My first protocol had been my friend, and even after all that had happened, I missed her.

  <>

  Bullshit.

  <>

  Training environments meant that everyone survived by the skin of their teeth and took the opportunity to explain why their actions were right. I wanted to vomit, but I’d had enough of the instructors’ bullshit once and for all.

  Set me up on a collision course with the remaining bandit, Lily.

  <>

  I’m sick of unrealistic training, Lily. Lock in the course. The aircraft is yours.

  Ten seconds later, my guidance protocol took over the aircraft and executed a turn that even with inertial dampeners would have knocked me out in a real-life situation. I felt the thrust from the engines through my back and saw the chasing exocraft in my screen before the screens and flight controls went black. The simulated fight was over. Displays powered down, and the realization that I sat alone, in the cockpit of an immense video game, washed over me.

  <>

  We won.

  <>

  Disengage, Lily. We’ll discuss surviving real engagements another time. Look up the term “seeing the elephant.”

  <>

  The cockpit simulator swung open, and I took off my flight helmet to rub my eyes for a long m
oment. When I heard Commander Bussot screaming as she moved down the row of cockpits toward mine, I knew it was going to be a bad day.

  The commandant’s office looked out across the Elysium Planitia. It made staring over his head easier to do, and without a wall displaying awards and diplomas, the room was almost pleasant. To the northwest, the escarpment of Olympus Mons dominated the horizon. I’d been to the summit twice over the last six months, and taking Berkeley there was high on my to-do list for when she arrived in four months.

  I’d managed to visit the commandant’s office only three times, but that was twice more than most of my classmates. I took a deep breath and refocused on Commander Bussot’s voice to my right. The male lieutenants in my class likened the attractive instructor to a predator in their stories about the officers’ club and what happened on weekend nights. Those who claimed to have bedded her disappeared from the class, transferred out of the flight program for performance issues. Still, my classmates hit the bars, and a few of them went after the “Black Widow.” Despite her opinion of me, I wasn’t that stupid. But that didn’t stop her from trying.

  “Furthermore…” She took a breath, and I felt her eyes on me. “Trainee Roark completely disengaged combat protocols and rammed my aircraft during Simulation Vectra.”

  Admiral LeConté glanced up from his files. He was older than General Crawley but only wore a single star. From his curled and clearly out-of-regulation mustache, I gathered he was a bit of a hellion, too. I hoped it would be enough to save my ass. Again.

  “Rammed your aircraft?” He squinted at me. “Stand at ease, Roark. I’d rather you watch me than the sunset.”

  I shuffled out of the position of attention. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Did you ram Commander Bussot’s aircraft?”

  I nodded. “I did, sir.”

  The commandant studied me. “And I’m to assume you were out of available weapons?” There was a hint of a smile on his face.