“Could be worse,” I say. “Could be they turn the network back on, and when we arrive back at Earth, there’s a few hundred Lanky seed ships in orbit, and the atmosphere’s twenty percent carbon dioxide.”
Sergeant Fallon shrugs. “Then I’ll fight the urge to eat my own rifle, and join whatever part of humanity wants to go look for a new place to live. Humans are hardy, Andrew. They’ll do whatever they can to keep on living, no matter how shitty life gets. Just ask the poor bastards in the welfare clusters back home.”
“And I thought I caught a huge break when they sent me the acceptance letter,” I say. “One out of a hundred applicants, and all that.”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Could be worse. At least you have a rifle and some skills. Enough anyway to be able to tell our esteemed leadership you’re not playing anymore.”
The chirp of a priority comms signal interrupts our conversation.
“Tailpipe One, Indianapolis.”
“Go ahead, Indy,” I say.
“Be advised that Midway is launching Shrikes, without any drop ships to escort. Looks like half their wing. We can’t verify their exact loadouts, but it looks like they’re carrying external ordnance.”
“Copy that, Indy. Feed me the CIC plot, please.”
The tactical display shows the sensor feed from the Indianapolis’s ridiculously advanced main array. The Shrikes are pairing up and entering the atmosphere in short intervals, at a speed that suggests heavy loadouts.
“Got ’em. I don’t think that’s just a ferry flight, and they’re sure not escorting shit. I’d bet some non-soy steak that we’re looking at a strike package.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet, Tailpipe. You guys keep your heads low down there. We’ll track and update as far as our radar can follow.”
“Copy that, Indy. Tailpipe One out.”
I switch my comms suite to our local guard channel.
“All units, raid warning. Raid Two is three pairs of Shrikes entering atmo above the northern hemisphere. Warm up MANPAD seekers and stand by for threat vectors. Sound the civvie air-raid alert. Repeat: raid warning, raid warning.”
All around us, the air-raid sirens of the civilian warning system start sounding their harsh warble.
“Air raid, air raid. This is not a drill. All personnel, seek shelter.”
Next to me, Sergeant Fallon checks her rifle with the casual thoroughness of someone who has performed the action a million times before.
“Well, it was nice being all introspective, Andrew. Now let’s get back to shooting people.”
CHAPTER 20
The first pair of Shrikes come thundering in with no subtlety whatsoever. They overfly the town at high altitude, five thousand feet above the deck at full throttle. The lead ship has all its active transmitters turned off, but the trailing ship is putting out enough radio energy with its jamming pods to cook a soy patty from a klick away.
“Rogue flight and all ground units, hold your missile fire,” I warn over the guard channel. “It’s a Wild Weasel combo. They’re trying to get us to commit our MANPADs.”
The Shrikes stay at full throttle as they fly overhead. The booms from their supersonic pass roll through the streets and alleys like not-so-distant cannon fire. Both attack birds are spewing out ECM decoys, but no missiles rise in response. One of our Dragonflies raps out a burst of cannon fire as a statement, but the autocannon’s grenades can’t reach that high, and the tracers fall way short.
“I’m lodging a complaint with the fleet,” someone sends from the civilian ops center, and I recognize Chief Barnett’s voice. “Flagrant breach of air-traffic regs, going supersonic above the city like that.”
Someone else in the circuit laughs. “No kidding. That shit can cause hearing damage.”
“We have activity at Frostbite,” Rogue One warns. “Six—make that eight—Wasps, heading this way.”
I watch the plot as the gaggle of drop ships from Camp Frostbite splits up into four pairs. The Wild Weasel flight has disappeared to the south, but the other Shrikes from the Midway swoop down from the steel-gray clouds and take up escort positions beside the drop ships.
“Here we go. Four assault elements, two Wasps and a Shrike each. Designating Raid One through Four.”
“At least they’re not half-assing it this time,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Airfield team, they’ll hit you again. Don’t give ’em space for a foothold.”
“Copy that.” The commander of the TA company at the airfield sounds much more relaxed than I feel at the prospect of two SI assault platoons dropping on our heads in the next few minutes.
“Rogue flight, do not engage the drop ships yet. Use whatever missiles you have left on the Shrikes. You light up one of those drop ships, the Shrikes are going to tear you up.”