Radiation Angels: The Chimerium Gambit

By James Daniel Ross

They Say You need three things: Honor, integrity, & Courage.

What you really need is the nerve to fly half a billion light years, touch down on alien soil, and fight in a major land war...every other week.

Welcome to the world of The Radiation Angels. Follow this team of crack mercenaries as they are beset, beleaguered, and betrayed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Quest Books
• Release date: Feb 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452494746

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Radiation Angels:

The Chimerium

Gambit

James Daniel Ross

Radiation Angels: The Chimerium Gamble

PUBLISHED BY

Dark Quest, LLC

Neal Levin, Publisher

23 Alec Drive

Howell, New Jersey 07731

www.darkquestbooks.com

Copyright © 2006 James Daniel Ross

Radiation Angel icon © 2008 by James Daniel Ross

Revised edition Copyright © 2010 James Daniel Ross

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of

the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

locations, or persons is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may

be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—

except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review—without the express

written permission of Dark Quest, LLC.

Book One, Trial by Fire

Chapter 1 Timing

This planet’s life giving star had retreated an hour ago, taking with it light and warmth. Shadows moved amongst the trees, creeping up the mountains, and enveloping the nearby villages. The fortress, carved from the native rock, was cast in bronze for one beautiful instant before night swept in and claimed us all. Everything seemed to sleep tensely, or perhaps only waited, watching the sky for things to come.

Sudden flickers on the ground were mirrored in the sky, and the peaceful gloom was broken. White puffballs sparkled into life over rolling hills, illuminating lines of verdant green trees and exposing wondering eyes to a velvet midnight turned into harsh daylight. Blue flowers blossomed across the black blanket of the sky, opening with deceptive gentleness before being swallowed by the void. Seconds later, red and green starbursts joined in, shattering against the stars with bone-crushing force, bathing the audience with pulses of heat that seemed to race across the skin and then evaporate like memories of summer. Not to be left out, the nearby cities and towns let loose with shouts of their own, their words written in straight, chromatic streaks.

If this were a celebration, lovers would be sitting on blankets and stealing kisses between explosions. Children would run, laughing, in neatly tended parks, watched over by smiling parents. Even the elderly would be resting their bones in armchairs on lawns and in gardens, relishing the last gasp of summer warmth. Everyone would marvel at the power, the raw aggressive fire of humanity distilled into a display of pure beauty and joy – one of the few things that justify our existence. Perhaps signs would flutter in the winds: Happy Independence Day, Happy Colonization Day, or maybe Happy New Year 2660/2661. If this were a celebration…

It was not.

Columns of flame shot up out of the cities, silencing pulse cannons mid-sentence. Angry red hearts beat strung staccatos in the sky as anti-aircraft guns carpeted the clouds with flak, sometimes catching one of the AB-222 fighter/bombers and shattering it open like a fruit made of fire and shrapnel. The high-pitched screech of cruise missiles descending from orbit at hypersonic speeds crashed against ears and shattered glass as they followed their simplistic computer commands to drop payloads with emotionless precision. Up on the mountain, gattling laser defense guns swatted them from the sky with equal, robotic zeal. Air superheated in the wake of the high-intensity light and fluoresced, turning the area around ‘President’ Luc Kennedy’s fortress into an impossibly large, disembodied light. The harsh glow revealed the smoldering stumps of trees, the wrecked skeletons of cities, and thousands of advancing soldiers.

"Wouldn’t it have been easier to invest in some fragging night-vision sensors and software rather than lighting up the whole sky?" I glanced angrily over my shoulder at Reeves, then tongued the toggle switch for the helmet camera. LEDs shimmered, overlaying the visor of the helmet with what my camera saw rather than what I saw. I used the tongue-stick and managed to zoom in on the fortress. Even with the intense light, minefields, and air attack, dozens of small skirmish groups were already breaking through the tree line and making for the walls.

Fools.

Some months ago, the President of Ashley 9 decided the best way to make sure people were taken care of would be to tax the people into near oblivion, bringing on the worst recession anyone could remember. Once the people were bled dry, he could only fund his progressive social programs by cutting funding to the admittedly bloated navy. According to the briefing packet, Supreme Admiral Tomlinson had seen his people suffer long enough and began trying to oust and capture the sitting President. Fast forward to the here and now and you can bet the few diplomatic entreaties between the two sides had gone over as well as a paper-mâché spacecraft. War had come.

Then a tiny phone-icon blinked twice in my peripheral vision before expanding into a small picture of our team’s liaison. "Radiation Angels, GPS readings indicate that you have not left your staging position. Please confirm."

I couldn’t stifle a sigh as I toggled the vox speaker on my integrated armband. Well, Mrs. White, I can patch you into my feed if you want, but the situation is pretty simple. It would appear that you are still bombing the objective quite thoroughly and advancing at this time is counter to my survival instincts.

She smiled, an act that made her tightly tamed hair and severe, quasi-military clothes blend into the very picture of someone’s unpleasant boss. Unfortunately, she was my unpleasant boss, Why, Captain Rook, I never thought you to be a timid type.

I did not reply.

You do know, of course, that Supreme Admiral Tomlinson has opened the President’s fortress as spoils? Behind me, the six bodies of my command staff shifted tensely. Second in command, First Lieutenant Reeves, picked up his weapon and equipment pack, casting his vote for leaving at this very moment. Lieutenant Toon, leader of Team 1, immediately followed suit.

Evidently, she had cued them into the conversation. Peer pressure at its finest. Frag peer pressure, and frag you, White.

Lieutenant Jamal Warner, leader of Team 2, sneered at Reeves, crossed his arms and leaned against the back wall of the bunker. Lieutenant Lakeisha Tanner, from Team 3, gathered her equipment at her feet, but stopped short of fully preparing to move out without an order. Lieutenant Ezekiel Cutter, Team 4, stood at military rest like a statue, expressing no desire whatever, so as to demonstrate his discipline to me. Master Sergeant Tom Logan remained motionless, but for a completely different reason. Little more than a brain encased in two tons of metal, the cyborg always took the long view toward everything. Until there was an order, any movement was a waste of effort.

They might all have their own opinions but they didn’t amount to a hill of grit. I was in charge, so I ignored White and I ignored them. Our liaison, however, decided to set the screws a little tighter. I would hate to see you lose out on any share of the loot because of a sudden overdose of caution.

I waited, arms crossed as I surveyed the battle. Machine guns, pulse rifles, and laser carbines unloaded their payloads into the dirt from firing ports in the walls. Those too eager for Kennedy’s gold were usually caught in the middle, cut in half, vaporized, or burned beyond recognition as they swept up into the killing fields on all sides of the mountain retreat. Lewis, our business manager, had been right; the Orange Party had hired anybody who showed up, even those minus the usual weight of gray matter. There were probably dozens of fringe-worlders out there; just backwater hunters, wanna-be’s, and weapon-enthusiasts who thought a quick foray as a soldier-for-hire would pull in some big bucks.

Captain Rook, are you there? One, lone space-to-ground cruise missile bucked and weaved through the ribbons of hot, electric light. The liquid streams of energy crossed back and forth, driven by AI that could no longer tell the difference between the thermal signature of an incoming threat, and those generated by it’s own weapons. It was literally aiming one set of lasers at the stream created by the other. Captain?

We saw the bright flare of light, then felt the tremor in the ground before the triple concussion shockwave reached us, rattling debris and unsecured crap all around the partially sunken bunker. The power plant for the automated defenses had been buried underneath a dozen feet of volcanic basalt, but it might have been in a well-lit field, sitting at the center of a giant bull’s-eye, with dozens of neon signs pointing to it. Even at a thousand to one odds, a single missile’s subpenetrator had cored the fortress like an apple.

When the eagle breaks the back of the hare, it is because of timing.

The only problem now was the vile, yellow-bone clouds that were erupting from the newly formed hole. I punched a few buttons on the armband. Within a second of hitting ‘XQT’ a tiny beam had shot out of the C² helmet next to the cam, a sensor had examined the readings, and the microcomputer had analyzed the data, spitting up on my screen a conga line of bright red letters. Mrs. White, I assume you are reading this?

It was as if someone had pulled out the cord supplying her smugness, Y-ye-, uh, it’s not quite clear, here Captain. I noticed the icon change – she had disconnected the rest of the team. That’s okay; I reconnected them. All of them, all at once saw the same thing I did: ‘Spectral analysis confirms probability 99.956% designated vapor is Demios 4. Initiate immediate safety protocols.’

Mrs. White, it would appear the earlier scattered intelligence was correct: Kennedy has stocked chemical weapons.

Well, Captain, he is a criminal, that’s why you are here-

It would also appear that clause 114c of our contract has just been invoked. You just doubled our pay.

Now, wait a minute, Rook-

I’ll send my readings to our lawyer for confirmation. We have to suit up and move out, Mrs. White so we will reestablish link when we need you. I shut down the comm and turned to face my crew.

They were already breaking out the nuclear/biological/chemical gear, calling outside the bunker to the other Angels so that they could do the same. Only Logan remained still, as was his habit. Made of two tons of titanium, ceramic, and polymers; his Templar model cybernetic body had no more need of an NBC suit than he did of air, food, or shelter. With a sub harmonic hum, he shifted his featureless face toward me. Two aerials – positioned almost like the decorative wings of a knight’s helm, fluttered slightly. I heard his cold, steely voice over the comm., Well done, Captain. How did you guess? The reports of chemical agents I saw were pretty sketchy.

I shrugged, accepting an NBC suit from a thoroughly abashed Reeves. I never trust anyone who puts in a clause in the contract to cut the pay of anyone who dies on the job.

Good advice. Somewhere deep inside the anthropomorphic hunk of technology, a preserved human brain shook the heavily reinforced head slowly, almost gently, At least there wasn’t a Leningrad rider.

"The Radiation Angels do not sign contracts with Leningrad riders." I pulled my multi-optic C² helmet off and gathered my dreadlocks into a tight ponytail with a few plastic zip-ties. There was little need for camouflage paint while fully armored and in NBCs. I hated the stinky grease pencils; in my opinion my deep brown skin blended into most backgrounds just fine on its own. I buckled on light armor, like a suit of hyper-technology knight’s plate over the airtight NBC. I attached an oxygen recycler to the back of Reeves’ suit, and he did the same to mine before I put the helmet back on, sealed the suit, and activated all systems.

All around me, the company was going about its business with brisk efficiency. They tugged on equipment straps, making sure nothing would be lost, tested gadgets, and checked to see that their weapons were loaded, primed, or charged. The picture made my heart leap, purifying those under my command of their flaws and quirks, purging them of the dirt and grit of this world. They transcended their own flesh and became ageless warriors, preparing for battle the same as any roman legionnaire sharpening his gladius in the times before Christ. Tomlinson, White, and the political garbage of Ashley 9 mattered very little to us. We were mercenaries and this is what we got paid to do.

Within five minutes, I reconnected to Mrs. White and we began a march toward the Kennedy fortress.

Chapter 2 The Fog of War

The breeching charges exploded in their preset order, setting up an ultra-harmonic vibration inside the wall, each detonator detecting the pulse from the previous explosive and going off at just the right time to add its resonance to the next in line. Faster than the human mind could process, the section of unguarded wall cracked, shattered, and nearly atomized under the combination of force and finesse. Enough of the bonded armor and hardened basalt wall had been moved to drive a truck through. We didn’t have a truck, but we did have Logan.

Flat motors, servos, and linkages whined, creaked, and roared as he leapt out of the cover of the crater lip ten meters down slope. His footsteps rumbled against the ground as he hefted his twin, heavy gauss cannons. He didn’t notice the two hundred kilogram weapons, nor did he mind the half-ton of snap-on armor plating that reinforced his titanium-laminate skin. The coffin-shaped stasis tube on his back didn’t even cause him to slow by a hair’s breadth. Starlight played across his brushed satin finish until the moment before he disappeared into the billowing, dusty cloud choking the opening.

I pressed the command and control pad on my right forearm, sending a two word code group to the visors on the rest of the team. Kappa Excelsior: advance and destroy. Without a word, the team left cover as the four heavy weapon officers trained their deadly children upward, sweeping the gun-holes and ramparts of Kennedy’s Fortress. The loudest sounds were the falls of our feet and the plastic whisk, whisk, whisk of our legs clad in the NBCs rubbing against each other. We made it into the complex without a shot fired, having chosen a difficult approach near a stable section of perimeter. I had gambled that the soldiers in this area would have been pulled off to reinforce the main gates, where the most intense fighting was now going on. Apparently, I had chosen wisely.

Passive holo-sonar units in our helmets pulled reflected sound from the ratcheting of our guns, the clanking of our belts and boots, as well as the distant hum of the florescent lights. It measured reflection and refraction, noise density and origin to build a map along the lower left side of the visor’s HUD. We were in a barracks, of sorts, but Logan had moved out into the wide hallway, one of his massive rotary cannons pointed in each direction. My helmet spectrometer was reading no trace of the Demios 4, which was not surprising since the stuff is made to be toxic for only a scant amount of time before degrading into harmless components. Still, I decided the team would leave NBC gear on; there could be puddles of the material still evaporating into deadly gas further inside.

I checked in with Mrs. White and was advised some of the teams were encountering little resistance; while others had been ambushed and quickly wiped out. Considering the disparity in the relative skill levels of the mercenaries the Orange Party had hired, none of this was unexpected. We cut communications so that we would not be tracked by the carrier signal and I made sure the teams were grouped then sent Reeves, Toon, and Team 1 and Jamal with Team 2 East while the rest of us went West along the bottom level. The electronic signature from our equipment – let alone Logan – would have been a massive beacon to anyone paying attention to an electro-spectrometer so we couldn’t really hide, but there was no use in giving them too many chances to beat our commlink encryption until there was no other choice. Again, hand signals moved Cutter and 4 ahead while I stayed with Tanner and Team 3; Logan played backup in the center. The map on the visor scrolled and grew, giving ghostly images of rooms beyond closed doors as we raced for the heart of the fortress and our main objective: Kennedy himself. The Electronic Warfare Officers in each team swept back and forth with shovel-sized and shaped detectors; looking for weapons fire, activated defenses, and the heartbeats of anyone in the vicinity. So far, we were disturbingly alone.

Battle was always like this: stumbling upon holes in the action that would leave you dazed and confused as your body shook and burned, desperately wanting to evacuate your bowels even as you knew that you had to stay sharp to survive. There are people who say man is a beast, prone to violence at his core. The ‘intellectual’ idiots who say so are usually the same ones who haven’t even had a fistfight since grade school. Trust me, there’s nothing natural about this. Maybe I’d feel less like throwing up in combat if we went back to using sticks and stones. Maybe not.

We made it into yet another empty hallway when Ortega, the point man for Team 4, held up his hand. He backed up a few steps to reveal a small triangle of plastic lying innocently on the floor. It wasn’t until he held up his sensor staff I realized that it was a corner off of the plastic casing of his tool. Quietly, he took a palm-sized blowtorch from his belt and traced the outline of the hallway several times, moving forward with every turn. Small scratches appeared on one wall, accompanied by a tiny sound, like mice screaming. Ortega threw a thumb’s up over his shoulder.

Monofilament line was little more than simple wire one molecule thick, but in this simplicity was its deadliness. It used no power, reflected only under laser light, was only visible normally using an electronic microscope, and while it was difficult to use and even more difficult to set up, it would cut through anything short of the heaviest composite armor as if it wasn’t there. Considering the sharpness of a knife is decided by the smoothness and thinness of the edge, and monofilament wire was the thinnest and thus sharpest edge that could be had, it created one of the most reliable and lethal traps devised by man. Thankfully, Ortega had seen it cut effortlessly through the corner of his sensor and disabled it the only way we knew how: burning the ends and letting it fall to the floor. We moved on even more cautiously.

We had reached a door at the end of the hall when Ortega signaled a halt. Everyone stopped and pressed against the walls on either side. I began to move up when he threw up four rapid hand-signs while watching his detector.

Enemy Seen or Suspected.

Advancing on Our Position.

Enemy Strength High.

.

That was all he had time for before the doors at the end opened, and a platoon of the enemy stood there, looking at us with stupefied disbelief. I hate to say it, but we weren’t any less flatfooted.

Logan broke the silence first. 2.5mm iron slugs left the barrels of his weapons at three times the speed of sound. The tiny sonic boom of each round blended with the one before it, creating a continuous, whizzing crack. The doors, the doorframes, the enemy soldiers in their blue and green uniforms, everything was erased under the assault of 2400 rounds per minute of fire that sizzled and tore at the air just above our heads. Men and pieces of men became airborne particles, splashing the walls, ceiling and floor.

We scrambled to open doors on either side, sometimes crashing through them, in order to find cover. Logan continued his onslaught as a few, scattered energy bolts came up the hall. Then the cyborg stopped firing, his guns wound to a halt, and he ejected one empty ammunition drum so he could reload. I peeked out to see the pools of blood and hunks of flesh.

All clear, report in. Each team-member called off his unit and name, signifying they were all here, and all ok. Logan was last, and he simply gave me a thumbs up. Hey, Ortega! How about a little more warning next time?

The EWO shrugged helplessly. "They’re wearing some new type of NBC gear, Captain. It muffled their life-signs. I’d be