I Am Krait

By W.J. Cherf

Krait is my call sign.
If you don’t know what that is, then you're doomed.

In the twenty-fourth century, for better or worse, global government is a fact, intra-stellar trade a reality, alien contact and conflict a known liability, and brokered certified mercenaries fill the societal role of “extraordinary facilitators.” Don’t like the look of that? Well, tough.

I, Kathleen “Krait” Kramer, am a former United Earth Force Air & Space Command, First-Class Navigator. On my honorable discharge, I took a chance on a corporate outfit and succeeded hugely. First, I got a gene splice, gained the ability to mind speak, and then my employer uploaded me with the specs of their new intra-stellar interceptor prototype—the Praying Mantis. My job as test nav was to push that sucker to the stops, and did, several times. I’ve even flown missions against hostile aliens. And what did I get for it? A cultural outreach post on Sagittarius 43. I sure didn’t see that one coming.

This volume is the third book of a new sci-fi fiction series. For those not familiar with my others, peek inside and find others that include time travel, paranormal archaeology, and age-old rivalries between occult societies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.J. Cherf
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215075746

W.J. Cherf

W.J. Cherf has always wanted to write a book without footnotes, to tell a fascinating tale that is so real that his avid readers are left puzzled over what was real and what was Memorex. To craft such a tale takes wit, a love of science fiction, and above all a deep reverence for ancient history and archaeology. All of these qualities are stitched together beautifully in his books, because Cherf has been there, dug that. He’s even seen the sun rise from atop the Great Pyramid.Reviews have been generous:“Bow Tie: Two Thumbs Up”“Imagine a dinner party thrown by Tom Clancy, where he sits EE “Doc” Smith next to HG Wells”“Amazing story, fascinating detail, a fabulous read”“Cherf has done a wonderful job combining facts from Egyptian history and a fictional story to create a compelling trilogy of intrigue and espionage”“What an enjoyable experience reading this series!”With a BA in Anthropology, MA in Egyptian Archaeology, and Ph.D. in Ancient History, Cherf remains current as an elected officer of Denver’s Egyptian Studies Society and is a member of a national service organization called SERTOMA, SERvice TO MANkind, that is devoted to hearing disabilities. Living with his beloved wife Sue, they keep Foxbat 1 out in the garage. They enjoy golf, road racing (that’s where Foxbat comes in), and cheering for the Cubs and Chicago Bears.

Book preview

Dear Sweet Sue:

"Yet, another one,

just like the other ones!"

I’m on a roll.

As always, this one is for you.

CHAPTER ONE

I have been always a red haired dare-devil. I lived for the thrills, the danger, but best of all, showing off. As a youth I was invincible. I took this attitude too far at times. It got me into trouble, but I didn’t care. Instead of worrying about it, I just chalked it up to my education and upbringing. Then, at the old age of eighteen, I got drafted into the United Earth Force or UEF, where I discovered what real thrills, dangers, and challenges truly meant, and the potential costs associated with them.

Being slender and tiny, I could fit into any armored vehicle or aircraft. Learning how to run them was just a matter of downloading their specs via the UEF-installed neural port behind my left ear. Then, after some hands-on training, I was good to go, and always made it a point to surprise my superiors with some unexpected, wild-ass maneuver that I had dreamed up.

When asked just what the hell I was doing, my standard response was, Sorry, sir. I was just curious to see how, fill in the blank, would handle it. Sir, you can never know in combat, when you might need to do it.

That answer usually stunned the training instructor into silence. Usually quickly followed by some choice words about my twisted sense of reality or state of mind. But down deep, I could see in their eyes their wonder and awe that a woman had thought of it, then, did it—for the first frickin’ time.

After my latest maneuver tortured the hell out of the frame of an armored sled, I got transferred to the Air & Space Command side of the UEF, as someone finally figured out that I was too much of a wild child for terrestrial vehicles.

In UEF flight school, I finally met my match. No longer was I the exception, but rather the norm. I thrived upon the extreme competition and found within myself a grounding that I had never before possessed. Then one day the major and head of the school took me aside.

You’re Candidate Katherine Kramer. Is that correct?

Yes, sir. I crisply replied, while wondering what this attention was all about.

Candidate Kramer, you came to us on a recommendation that you could ‘do some real damage’ in the air or space arenas. Candidate, was that an accurate assessment? Be careful with your reply.

I gulped at that, but then recklessly pulled the trigger.

Yes, sir. I am a one-woman wreaking crew. Just get me in the air or space, and allow me do my thing, sir.

Interesting. So, you think that flying a transport would not be your ‘thing’?

I stiffened my back another several degrees and declared, Don’t waste a deadly resource, Major Griffin.

"Thank you, candidate, for that frank piece of advice. I’ll keep it in mind.

Dismissed.

As I returned to my flight training class, I wondered whether I had screwed the proverbial pooch on that surprise, snap interview. So, I put it aside and focused on the here and now.

While hardly a picnic, flight school taught me more about myself than anything else. And yet, there was always this nagging question in the back of my mind. Was there more to this, somewhere?

Through all the flight training, one individual always seemed to be in the background, watching. At first, I just thought it was my imagination. But I came to recognize this warm itching sensation on the back of my head, which would cause me to turn and stare back. It was always the same tall, lean and mean guy with a rigid set of eyes. His gray-green flight suit hung on his frame. Oddly, he wore no rank insignias or flight patches, but all the officers always touched their cap brims in his direction as their form of a non-regulation salute. He would just smile and nod back in acknowledgment.

Just who was this guy?

All I had was a name patch that said in white block letters: JONATHAN. Little did I know that this man was responsible for all things military at a certain Indonesian corporation.

* * *

Flight school graduation came and went. I passed as a second-class navigator, which meant that I was now fully qualified to fly…something for the UEF. Tradition stated that after graduation a list would be posted with names and flight assignments. Just getting near enough to that damn list was nearly impossible with thirty-nine other eager bodies all pushing and shoving to get a look, so I hung back, crossed my arms, and waited for the area to clear. And then, I felt that now long familiar warm tingling on the back of my head. I turned, and sure enough, there he was.

Congratulations, Navigator. He said with a well-modulated voice that hinted of a friendly welcome to a fraternity.

Thank you, sir. But I’m only a second-class navigator.

Not in my eyes. When I’m finished with you, you will be the best navigator on the planet.

What!?!

Yes, Navigator, Second-Class, Katherine Kramer. He now lifted his chin toward the wall and its posted list. You were right not to bother with that assignment list, because your name’s not on it.

Wwwhat?

I pulled your ticket, navigator, second-class. Henceforth, you are on loan from the UEF to first train in, and eventually navigate, our planet’s latest interceptor prototype.

Wwwhat!

"You heard me right, nav. My new interceptor sorely needs a maverick test navigator to push it to the absolute limits, and just like with the UEF Army, its Air Command is not for you. I watched you repeatedly push the inertial dampers on the sim trainers to the max, that is until one actually failed. And then there is that latent telepathic element of yours. In the UEF that would be totally wasted, much less augmented. No, navigator, second-class, you need to be somewhere where you can be you.

Now, how’s that for a recruitment pitch? You in, nav?

Yes, sir! I said perhaps a bit too quickly.

CHAPTER TWO

Yes, I was a young, foolish, red head of twenty years and for me Bandung City, Indonesia, was a far-away place in a story-book land that I was not quite ready for.

But first things first.

Before I became an employee of that corporation in Bandung City called GENEMEDCO, I asked for a break, and took on a wild-assed lark, a brief stint as a mercenary. The broker wanted my dad, but he pawned me off instead as a better fit. Yes, I disappeared for four months, and went A.W.O.L. from the UEF Air & Space Command, but was really on loan during that period to the above corporation. Murky, I know. But then again, at that time I was a wild child.

My first and only contract came from an unexpected source, my dad’s own mercenary broker, Mr. Putnam, and not a private party. Apparently, some character named von Hunz had crossed my broker bigtime. For reasons of his own, Putnam provided me with five sets of audio surveillance units, which I now had to somehow install throughout the target’s corporate offices.

That was it.

At face value, pretty vanilla. But I was not that naive to think it was, for Putnam’s specific request for me to perform this task strongly hinted at the potential complexities. His generous fee also told me of the equally potential dangers involved. The greater the prize, the greater the challenge.

Contrary to common belief, mercenaries come in all sizes and shapes, with all sorts of obvious and arcane skills. In my case, for this contract, I was to rely upon my tech savvy and the fact that I was a licensed plumber and once my dad’s assistant. This is why Mr. Putnam selected me from his second-class list. The fact is, I know I was the only plumber on that list, or for that matter, his first-class list as well. I won’t even lower myself to imagine what he has on his third-class list. So, yes, mercenaries do come in three flavors. More about that later.

Back to the contract. So, what was I getting myself into?

When I laid these expensive items out on my workbench to make sense of their setup, I initially discovered five sets of ten, tiny, and thin audio detection wafers. These cute little do-dads were passive sound wave detectors. Each had an adhesion coating on their backside in addition to five petite prongs, which were meant to be embedded into a wall’s backing. They worked with the wall, by detecting the sound waves that hit it, much like a drum skin. But what made these wafers really cool was they had adaptive camouflage. Just moments after I had placed them on my workbench, I had trouble just finding them!

Moving on, the instructions told me that every set of wafers communicated with their dedicated junction transmitters, which functioned as data repositories. All data uploads were to be preset to occur afterhours and transmitted in the form of an extremely compressed, but short ranged, data squirt. These daily data squirts were then packaged as a coherent message by the external receiver transmitter, which finally sent the message to a nearby microwave tower for its ultimate distribution. Important to all this chicanery was the data transmissions were sent via an encrypted and shielded signal.

To make all of this work, however, I first had to find a suitable location outside of the target’s facility to set up the external transmitter, keeping in mind that it had to be nearby the facility and a microwave communication’s tower. At first, I considered a tree. But I am again getting ahead of myself.

* * *

The target’s corporate building was a spectacular feat of human engineering placed within the urban boundaries of Zurich, Switzerland, now known in the twenty-fourth century known as United Cantons of Switzerland, or UCS. Nick-named the golf ball, this modern edifice was a black steel and gray transparent aluminum geodesic sphere precariously perched upon a single foundation that stood twenty-five meters in the air. To gain access to the sphere where the corporation’s offices were located, the visitor had to enter via an elevator in the base of the towering concrete footing. As one might imagine, security within this unique arrangement was unprecedented. And that’s just how the paranoid owner liked it; a man named Germain von Hunz. And that’s why the greater the prize, the greater the challenge.

As von Hunz’s city of choice had precious little in the way of development space for his corporate headquarters, coupled with the city’s many zoning hurdles, GvHunz GmBh instead bought lock, stock, and barrel the grounds and lakeside docks of a sailing club. From this uncluttered coastal location, the golf ball, was visible from the entire city and both sides of Lake Zurich and its island. This location clearly fed von Hunz’s ego. Grudgingly accepted as a cultural icon by the city fathers, the golf ball has become a mecca for photographers, tourists, architectural students, and even had an anachronistic postage stamp issued with its image.

Unfortunately for me, the building’s owner was so infatuated with it, that no trees were allowed to block its silhouette. Instead, it was