Linda checked her ammo feed chute, the roar of the turbines in her ears. It wouldn't do for the Valkyrie to have a hull-loss incident, just because of fucking bird-strike. Not today.
That was why Samson Two-One was on shuttle escort, flying lazy circuits at five thousand feet.
Kim's voice came over the com channel. "Shuttle incoming at eleven o'clock." There was a slight pause, when she added in a lazy voice, "Valkyrie Zero-Six, this is Samson Two-One. I have you on visual."
A drawling Texan replied, "Y'all sound right purty, Two-One. I'll formate on your starboard side in one mike."
"Affirmative, Zero-Six," replied Kim. "The air is fucking lumpy today. We'll maintain position at two hundred feet off your wing." That was double the usual separation for shuttle escort.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Two-One," replied the shuttle pilot. "What about wild-life?"
Kim replied, "Almost none about. We're not expecting trouble."
"Holy crap!" swore the co-pilot as the port wing dropped like a stone. He pushed the two lift engine throttles through to the stops. "She wasn't fucking wrong about the turbulence."
"Ease off," ordered the pilot, as the shuttle regained attitude. He took a quick glance at the escort chopper out the side window. He could see it bouncing up and down like a yo-yo. The chopper pilot might have been cautious, but by God she was good. If there had been this much turbulence back home in Texas, he would be checking the weather radar for twisters. "Did you see..." he started, and shook his head in denial.
"See what?"
The pilot scowled. It was hard to tell with smurfs in fatigues, but he could have sworn the door gunner was both female and pregnant. "Nothing. Configure the lift engines for maximum lift." There was no point in taking chances, not when the air was this rough.
"Got it, boss," replied the co-pilot.
"Smooth landing, Zero-Six," advised Kim.
"Thanks for the assist," replied the pilot.
As the chopper slid across to the chopper flightline, Linda keyed her comms unit to vox. "Fat, dumb and stupid," she commented.
"Shut up," snapped Kim, as she planted Samson Two-One back on the ground. You'll hex the op."
"Sorry," said Linda. She was just too keyed up, and was jealous of Sharon's role in the op. It had gone swimmingly so far, but her small part was over. Linda touched the growing bulge in her belly and smiled. Perhaps her child would have a future.
Fingers ran in to the Valkyrie nose wheel while the engines were still running, flipped open a panel inside the wheel well and plugged in his comms unit. "Welcome to Hell's Gate Interstellar Space Port, Zero-Six," he announced. "My name is Jason, and I'll be your crew-chief today."
"Where is McKettrick?" asked the pilot. "I thought he was the usual crew chief."
Fingers laughed, "He's getting married today." It was more or less true – Sergeant McKettrick had disappeared into the forest yesterday with a female from the Omaticaya. Another Avatar had bit the dust. "You're all clear. Shut your engines down, switch to local comms and open your golden gate. The Colonel is anxious to unload the cargo."
The co-pilot commented, "I thought there was a no fraternisation rule."
"I heard that it had been relaxed," replied the pilot, as his colleague powered down the Valkyrie. He pressed a button on the softscreen monitor in front of him, announcing, "Switching to local comms. Tower, do you read?"
"Hell's Gate Tower reads you five by five on local comms, Zero-Six. Welcome to Pandora," responded the Tower ATC. The pilot recalled the voice from one of his prior missions – some dude called Foster, he thought.
"Engines spooling down and lowering cargo door," advised the co-pilot.
Sharon stepped off the cargo carrier with Renshaw and one of the Spetznatz guys as the shuttle's rear door dropped down. It was almost like boarding one of the many trash-haulers she had flown over her career, with the exception that she was holding a pistol behind her back. The heavy can screwed onto the barrel wasn't there as a silencer. It was there to reduce the pistol performance to subsonic rounds, and in concert with the soft-nosed rounds, there shouldn't be any damage to the bird – as long as she didn't miss.
Renshaw had pinged her about her colours, so she was wearing a baseball cap to shade her face, as well as fatigues. She had tried to put boots on, but they were just too damn uncomfortable – even her most worn in boots. It seemed her feet had spread more than a little since she had last worn them.
When the ramp touched down, Sharon looked up, seeing the loadmaster wave in greeting. She lifted her pistol smoothly to a two-handed firing position and fired. The pistol coughed quietly – a perfect headshot. She couldn't take the chance that the cunts were wearing Ned Kelly pajamas – they would keep out the subsonic rounds she was using, so head shots were the order of the day.
The poor bastard standing behind the load master didn't have time to register the brains splashed over his exo-pack mask. His corpse was slumping to the floor less than a second after the loadmaster. Sharon didn't bother shifting her aim to the other side. The Spetznatz fonc had already taken out the opposition on that side.
She ran up the ramp and forward to the bulkhead, where she met the Spetznatz fonc. He nodded at her, indicating that his side was clear. Sharon touched her throat-mike and subvocalised, "Cargo struck down."
Ninat had insisted on spotting for Na'dia, even though it had only been days since she had delivered her daughter to the world. Na'dia had not objected – it was important that the spotter was familiar with how she worked, and it would have taken too long for one of the Avatars to adjust to Na'dia. It was much more efficient this way.
The soft sound of her voice calling out the target and wind velocity was almost soothing, when Na'dia heard the go command. "Cargo struck down."
Na'dia flicked on the laser rangefinder, targeting the forehead of the pilot through the cockpit window. She said quietly, "Co-pilot. Open airlock doors or pilot dies." Her words were transmitted to the flight crew via the crew chief's receiver, minimising any chance of the starship intercepting her narrowcast.
The co-pilot yelled, "It's a trap! Get out of here!"
Her finger stroked the trigger. Na'dia pictured in her mind's eye the ignition of the primer on the cartridge, followed by the long slow burn of the propellant, expanding into a hot gas and pushing the cannon shell down the barrel of the BFG. She felt the beginning of the recoil, slamming the butt into her shoulder, as the rifling engaged the shell, spinning it to impart gyroscopic stability to the lethal projectile.
When the shell exploded from the barrel, the enclosing sabot fell away, exposing the depleted uranium needle that was the real payload. Although the needle left the barrel travelling at almost Mach 3, the dense air hardly heated the projectile, although it had slowed to just under Mach 1.5 by the time it impacted on the armoured glass of the cockpit window.
The energy it spent penetrating the armoured glass dropped the speed of the needle below the speed of sound, so by the time it penetrated into the cockpit the round was subsonic. In the intervening three feet between the window and the head of the pilot, the needle had yawed to the right, so that it was travelling almost entirely sideways when it impacted on the bridge of the pilot's nose. Still, the energy of the round was immense, exploding the top of the skull and the brain it protected into a pink spray that stained the rear of the cockpit.
Na'dia had already shifted her aim, when she ordered, "Co-pilot. Open airlock doors or co-pilot dies."
Sharon heard a faint wet sound from the cockpit, almost like an over-ripe mango falling out the fridge door and hitting the kitchen lino. It seemed palulukan girl had taken a shot. So what if Na'dia was better at long range than her. Sharon flicked off her baseball cap and holstered her pistol, knowing she was still the queen of the doorkickers.
Seconds later, the airlock door slid open and Renshaw pushed past. Everything was ticketty-boo, even when the co-pilot's screaming body was flung back out the airlock door. Sharon grabbed the struggling human by the shirtfront and slammed him against the bulkhead.
The co-pilot could see nothing but a snarling alien face inches in front of him, its natural blue skin hidden by savage war-paint, and long canine teeth reminiscent of one of the extinct big cats rather than anything human. He had never been so terrified in his life.
"Is there a safe code?" it hissed, its heavily beaded hair clicking softly.
He looked dumbly into its strange golden eyes, and could not say anything.
"A safe code," it repeated. "Is there any code to tell the Dog Star you are still in control of the Valkyrie? I'll rip off your mask if you don't give me the truth."
Strangely enough, the alien was speaking English with a strong Australian accent, but he had no doubt it meant what it said. The co-pilot shook his head, as warmth flowed down his left leg.
"Fuck!" swore the alien, dropping the co-pilot to the floor, twisting its face in a terrible snarl. "You fucking little prick. You fucking pissed on me!" It turned to another alien, this one without any paint on its face, and ordered, "Yuri, get this piece of shit out of here, before I tear his fucking head off. He fucking pissed on me!"
The co-pilot's awareness thankfully faded to black as the other alien picked him up and carried him out of the shuttle.
Sharon stripped off her soiled clothing, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the ammonia stench. She was never going to wear fucking tawtute clothes ever again.
"Sharon, what the hell are you doing?" demanded Renshaw, looking out of the cockpit. "You're supposed to be supervising unloading of the gene-splicing chamber, instead of playing striptease."
She was about to start complaining that she had been pissed on, when she clamped her mouth shut. Renshaw wouldn't be interested in excuses, no matter how good they were. She would just have to suck up her distaste. At the moment, she wasn't the Tsahik of the Ikranaru. Instead, she was a lowly grunt trooper, stabbed to unload this fucking huge piece of kit and get it stowed away. What was worse, the fucking clock was ticking and she wasn't getting paid by the hour. "Yes, Boss," she replied. "I'm on it."
Sharon would just have to do the job starkers. If she was lucky, she would have time to hose herself down and change back into proper clothes.
As it turned out, Sharon did have time to wash and put on new clothing. Yuri had told Alìmtaw about her misfortune, and the darling man had brought a bucket of water together with a fresh loincloth and breast ornament. She had to be content with a quick whore's bath – not for the first time.
While she was cleaning up, she overheard Na'dia arguing with her mates Ninat and Txep'ean about why they couldn't go on the next phase of the mission. Actually, it was more like Na'dia telling them how it was going to be, and her mates arguing.
She pointed her chin at the domestic and asked Alìmtaw, "Why aren't you insisting on coming up, like those two."
Alìmtaw half-shrugged, answering, "I have seen you 'doorkicking' in the playhouse. This is not a skill I have, so I will not take a place in this war-party. I would be in the way. If, on the other hand, such a party was hunting enemies in the forest, then I would come."
Sharon felt a smile twist her face. "You are much wiser than I, my love," she said. "I would be like Ninat, insisting on sharing the danger."
His eyes twinkled as Alìmtaw replied, "You are right. I am much wiser than you."
He stopped any clever retort by closing her mouth with a long, lingering kiss. Sharon quite forgot where she was, her eyes shut and arms flung around her mate's neck.
"Spoons!" yelled an impatient voice. "Spoons! Stop fucking snogging and pull the lead out. We've got an op to run."
The kiss dissolved oh so reluctantly. Alìmtaw murmured, "You had best go as they ask, my beloved."
Sharon bit her lower lip. When it came down to it, she did not want to leave her mate. She only hesitated for a moment, and nodded. "Eywa ngahu," she whispered.
"Eywa ngahu," echoed Alìmtaw.
Once on board, she turned to look through the closing cargo door and caught a last fleeting glimpse of her mate. An ache filled her soul, wishing...Sharon refused to even think the words. There was a mission to undertake, and targets to service. No fucking distractions.
Sharon sat down and pulled the harness tight, accepting an exo-pack from the grunt next to her. After she donned it and activated the seal, she checked the carbon dioxide and hydrogen sulphide levels. Both gas reservoirs were full, Sharon was good to go.
The cargo door did not shut like a knell of doom. Instead, it closed with a hiss and a clunk as the locking lugs engaged. As far as Sharon was concerned, the noise might as well have been the bells announcing Armageddon. She might never see her loved ones again.