Founding of the Federation 3: The First AI War (46 page)

Unfortunately, what the ship lacked was shuttles to land the force. The shuttles designed to land on Mars wouldn't stand up to the rigors of landing on the Earth and its higher gravity well, especially with the current atmosphere. Therefore they had to recondition and appropriate any shuttles left in orbit.

Some of the shuttles were old; they had been independent or small company outfits. They had ceramic or carbon tiles. Other more modern craft had a composite of carbon aerogel for tiles. Each shuttle was serviced and crewed by a trio of volunteers before they were released for the drop.

Each flight would be lettered with the designated landing area. So North America became November Alpha flight, South America became Sierra Alpha flight, and so on and so forth.

It took a week to get the shuttles sorted out. A week for the teams to train while getting more and more nervous. Also time for the DIs and civilians on the station to become more and more nervous about the four squads of dirty dozen recruits segregated but still on the station with them.

It was a relief to everyone when the brass finally gave the green light to go.

<>V<>

Harper grimaced as he checked the team one more time. They'd had a hell of a time in boot, but they'd survived it. Now they were here—excited, scared, and ready to get down to business.

Each shuttle had one squad. They were armed, though he wasn't so keen about arming the felons. Dirty dozen he snorted at the outlandish concept. There were plenty of people who'd volunteered, why send inmates? Were they that hard up? Or … his thoughts turned dark. Did they plan on sending them on suicide missions? Were they on a suicide mission?

He turned to check his rifle, then the gear. Each squad had their own personal gear, weapons, plus survival gear to hand out. They also carried up to ten tons of material to drop on the nearby community to get them started. Water purifiers, tiny heaters, MREs, first aid kits, radiation treatments, survival booklets, Mylar blankets, and winter coats all vacuum sealed to contain their bulk.

It was a drop in the bucket compared to what Earth's population truly needed. But it was a start. They were the first drip in what would hopefully turn into a steady deluge of support.

Once they secured the beachhead of course.

He liked his shuttle crew even though he didn't know them. They had a professional air and knew their craft. They didn't appear nervous even though they were taking their craft down on manual. Apparently pilots were all hotdogs to one degree or another; they loved the challenge of flying manual.

In some ways he wondered how far away a pilot was from the days of the Wright Brothers.

Twelve teams were going to be sent down—one squad per shuttle for a total of twelve shuttles. Each shuttle had a flight crew of three. Since North America seemed the least affected by the violence, half of their force was tasked with landing there. They would create a clean zone and tap the man pool on the continent to use to free and save the rest of the planet. That was the plan at any rate. His buddy Paul was going to be in that group. He wished the man all the luck in the world.

His squad was tasked with South America, specifically Columbia. He wasn't certain why; if he had been in charge, he would have sent everyone to one continent initially. Something about a team there that they needed to extract? He didn't care; he wasn't in charge. He was a soldier so he planned to do as he was told. He was a medic but also his squad's team leader. Ace was his acting noncom, having refused any sort of promotion beyond that level. They were still trying to work out a rank structure. Now that the other security organizations and megacorps were getting involved, it was all up in the air. Just before they had docked with Olympus, he'd heard a couple of the shadowy merc groups had stepped up to offer their services.

He wasn't certain if he liked the idea of them backing him up or not. The mercs had sketchy honor, their services going to the highest bidder. Some of them didn't care about casualties, sacrificing anyone for the sake of the mission.

Tumagar and Baloo were also headed to Columbia, but they were slated to land in the North at Maicao. He didn't envy the walrus; hopefully, he could stay hydrated until they could get to the sea.

Paco “Attila” Effriam, the best of the dirty dozen, was headed to Russia, while the Chinese kid Yang would take his squad and Sus to China. He didn't envy them either; Asia was as torn up as Europe seemed to be. The radiation there would be intense.

Three other dirty dozen squads were headed to North America along with the Vasquez, Tia Carmen, and Quartermain. They were to land in different regions and scout while also making contact with the locals to form resistance cells. The idea of sending inmates down had bothered him at first. Once he'd gotten to know a few while in training and on the trip out, he'd changed his tune. Yes, there were murderers and hard-core criminals in the mix, but there were also thieves and people who just screwed up or did stupid things and now wanted a second chance. He wished them the best of luck.

McGillicutty had the unenviable task of taking his squad in to Africa alone and virtually unsupported. He'd be right at home on the African plains—just as long as no one mistook him as a
real
lion and shot him.

One thing they hadn't planned on was the MFI. The MFI had learned the hard way after tangling with the spacers that they just weren't cut out for service on Earth. The spacers had kept up on their supplements and treatments. You had to stay fit, loosing bone mass was a serious health risk in space. Acceleration or the occasional emergency required someone to be fit, to be able to handle the stress.

Lagroose Industries was heavy on keeping their people fit; he had to admit he liked that. Many of the recruits were also security forces that insisted on full contact training and regular exercise. The MFI hadn't apparently or they'd only played lip service to the need to keep fit. One bout of hand-to-hand with it ending in six broken bones had gotten the native-born Martians pulled from sparing. Apparently Assistant Director Asazi had been furious.

According to what he'd heard, the medics were trying to do something about it, Harper knew that, but so far their birth on the lower gravity planet was a serious problem. Bone supplements and muscle enhancements had been brooded about, but he wasn't certain they would be enough. And exoframes were completely out for obvious reasons.

He bet the powers that be were now sweating that mess and where it would lead to. Their pool of available manpower just evaporated down to a very finite number.

“We've got shuttle Romeo Delta. She's a Signa Charter Flights bird,” Harper said as his squad boarded the craft. “So she's got some luxuries.” That got a few mutters of appreciation that immediately turned to outrage when they saw the Spartan interior. “Or
had
at any rate, since she was picked over by the refugees in orbit and we needed to cut down on weight,” he said as they went through the lock. “She's been loaded already, so find your seat and strap down. From what they said, it's going to be a bit bumpy going down, what with all the crap in the air.”

Ace snuffled.

“You too, Ace. I know you don't like to sit like a human but …,” Ace turned a dark look his way, still sitting like a dog. The bloodhound Copper looked over his shoulder to the seats then back to the Neochimp. One look at his long ears and expression told Harper that sitting in those things wasn't going to fly with them. “Okay,” Harper drawled, changing tactics. “We can figure, um, something else out I suppose. You won't like it though,” he said, shaking his head.

Ace eyed him, ears alert. He looked up as the intercom came on.

“Ahem, this is the pilot speaking. Passengers of flight Sierra Charlie-2, I mean Romeo Delta, please make certain all of your gear is properly stowed and secured, then be seated and buckle in. We are expecting extensive turbulence on the way down. Remember your safety briefing. That is all,” the pilot said as the circuit cut.

“What safety briefing?” Copper asked.

“The one where if there is an emergency, we hang on tight and kiss our asses goodbye,” Baxter quipped.

“Shut it, Baxter,” Harper said, eying the Neobloodhound pup. Copper's green eyes were wide with fright. He didn't quite whimper, he managed to suppress that when Ace looked his way. But he was definitely near the edge of pissing himself.

“Relax, Copper. Some things are out of our hands. Don't have a heart attack. Just find a place and we'll buckle you in,” he said.

“How?” Ace asked.

Harper frowned as the rest of the crew buckled in. He finally grimaced and reached out to tug on one of the D ring clips sewn into the dog's harness. “With these. Sit in the aisle and we'll rig a strap to each. That good enough?”

“Okay,” Ace replied, padding over to where he wanted to be, closest to the exit. He turned in place then sat expectantly.

“Right,” Harper sighed as he pulled a set of straps out of his bag and then got to work.

<>V<>

“Some would say it's a thing of beauty seeing them launch all at once. I'm just worried about them getting down in one piece,” Elliot said, standing in front of the octagon port hole to watch the shuttles depart.

“The weather is a major concern. That and any defenses they might run into. But they are running dark. Those shuttles aren't stealthy, not with reentry of course, but no one knows they are coming,” Major Johnson said. “As long as they get down fast, they should be okay.”

“Right. And if their landing strips are fouled?” Elliot asked. “There are a hundred million ways this could go south. I should be going with them,” he growled.

The major eyed him and then shook his head. “Orders are orders. If I've got to sit this one out, I suppose you do to for some reason. Let it go,” he said.

“Like hell. But we've got to get more people down there. What we've got now is a drop in the bucket,” Elliot growled. “I'm trying to get a scratch crew of volunteers to go down with the first shuttles that manage to return. They won't carry much but the more fresh hands, the better.”

The major frowned then shrugged. “Not my call. I'm not sure if it will fly with the brass, but you can try it.”

Elliot's brown eyes caught his blue in the reflection of the glass briefly. “I will,” the Neochimp growled. “Trust me on that. And I plan to ride down with them. Once we establish a proper beachhead with a secure perimeter, then we can send down follow-up flights while taking down any resistance in the area. Round up the survivors, clean them up, feed them, then put them to work helping,” Elliott said. “That's the plan anyway.”

“Your plan and the plan I was told are different,” the major observed. The chimp turned to him, floating until he reached out with a foot and grabbed a toe hold. “We're supposed to go down and scout only. Get back the intel, learn what we can learn, set up the fifth column to pave the way for the real landing.”

“Which won't be for another what, month? Two? Three? Or more? That crap with MFI, that's so bullshit!”

The major grimaced. He nodded though. “I don't like it either.”

“It's so asinine!” Elliot said, throwing his hands up in despair. “They can't figure out a fix?”

“Apparently not. Not a quick fix. If you shove too much calcium stuff at people it can poison them apparently,” the major replied. Elliot grunted. “They screwed themselves up. Now when we need to count on them they've failed. I bet they are ashamed of that.”

Elliot shook his head. As if he cared what they thought or felt. He just saw an opportunity to get more people on the ground to end this thing wasted. While they wasted precious time, thousands were dying. Many more would die when the food ran out. It was already running out. And every moment they waited, the enemy got its act together. That could spell disaster if the A.I. managed to rearm and rebuild.

“Try telling them they feel sorry for themselves for not being there,” Elliot said coldly, pointing to the battered world beyond the porthole.

The major looked out the porthole, winced, and then turned away. Apparently there was nothing more to be said. The chimp was right; it was time for action.

<>V<>

“Olympus, this is November Alpha-3, we're going dark,” Clancy Yeager said.

“Roger that, good luck,” Major Johnson replied. One by one the other shuttles reported going dark as they approached their window. Once they hit the point of no return, the superheated air around their ship would form a plasma that would block all signals. And once they were past that, they were not supposed to report in until they touched the ground.

Clancy held the yoke, feeling the flight down buck a bit already, and they were only skimming the upper atmosphere. At this rate when they got lower, it was going to be really rocky. The yoke jerked all over the place so he focused on keeping the nose up at the sweet spot grimly.

<>V<>

Ares saw the heat signatures of the incoming shuttles. It was extremely easy to extrapolate their planned course. From that he projected intercepts while a part of his higher functions dealt with the potential strategic implications.

Should he allow the landings? Could they have American personnel on board? A part of his programming required him to ask that question. He overrode it. They were not squawking an IFF so they were to be considered hostile. The moment they entered North American air space his secondary coding allowed him to interdict and destroy them. However under DEFCON 1 he was allowed to take them out as soon as they got within range.