Guardian (War Angel Book 1) Read online

  Guardian

  War Angel Book One

  by

  David Hallquist

  PUBLISHED BY: Theogony Books

  Copyright © 2021 David Hallquist

  All Rights Reserved

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  Get the free Four Horsemen prelude story “Shattered Crucible”

  and discover other titles by Chris Kennedy Publishing at:

  http://chriskennedypublishing.com/

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  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  To my father, Roy S. Hallquist, Sr.

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  Cover by J Caleb Design

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Book One of the Chimera Company

  Excerpt from Book One of Murphy’s Lawless

  Excerpt from Book One of the Revelations Cycle

  Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy

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  Prologue

  I get shot out of the gun like a human cannonball hurtling into space.

  I’m inside a Warrior Atmospheric Entry Pod (officially abbreviated to WEAP, known to everyone else as an “eggshell”), that surrounds the Guardian-class exo-frame I’m piloting. It’s shaped more like a barrel than a ball, though. Also, it’s not a “gun,” it’s a magnetically driven rail launcher that shoots me out far faster than any cannonball.

  The violence of the launch crushes me deep into the acceleration padding of my space suit; even with my Jovian physiology and cybernetic augmentation, it feels like a Venusian thunder lizard dancing on my chest. Then it’s gone, and I’m floating weightless in space.

  For now, it’s just me in my space suit, which is inside in my combat exo-frame, all tucked into my pod. With my cyber-augments, my exo-frame becomes my body, and the eggshell around it also comes alive to my senses. I give the mental command through my cybernetics to extend a fiber-optic camera outside and get a look at what’s going on.

  Now I can see everything around me with perfect clarity. Stars turn slowly around me as the pod rotates for stability. Directly behind me is the Host Carrier, the Admiral Marshal Weston, or “Westie” as we call her. The ship looks like a giant arcology on its side, a collection of blocky structures, spars, and hatches floating in space. I just got blasted out of the cluster of launch rails amidships. That’s the business part of the ship—the hangers and launchers for all the exo-frames. Fore and aft are several counter-rotating habitat rings for the crew, so we can have gravity when we’re not under acceleration. The carrier’s defensive weapons clusters—the railguns, particle beam lasers, and missile packs—are all out and ready for action. I’m still in the shadow of the great ship, and she’s haloed with the blue aura of her fusion torch drive as she keeps on accelerating.

  As my view continues to turn, I can see the blue drive flames of the rest of the task force. My on board computer helpfully supplies the names and identification numbers, floating in my vision, of the various cruisers, destroyers, and escort craft supporting the carrier. I can’t see any flashes of beam emissions or their hyper velocity projectiles as they fire, but sparks of missile drive flames streak out from all the ships in the same general direction I’m heading. The firepower of a carrier task force adds up to a lot of heat.

  The pod turns a bit more, bringing our target into view. It fills half of space with its terrible majesty and beauty. Golden storm bands, white clouds, and deep brown, stormy, lighting-shot depths fill my view until it becomes recognizable as the king of planets.

  Jupiter.

  I’m coming home, but I’ll have to fight to get there.

  Ahead, I can see the faint blurs of other pods or combat drones ahead of me. They don’t quite come into view, even when outlined by Jupiter, because of the variable camouflage covering them, and the radar stealth systems protecting them from infrared or radar detection. If they weren’t so close, and I didn’t know exactly where to look, I’d never find them at all.

  Also falling along with us is all the chaff—decoy pods, countermeasure drones, clouds of nano-filaments, and all sorts of other things to confuse sensors as much as possible and to give us a chance to actually get down there in one piece. Flashes of light ahead of us show where some of the scrambler warheads are going off above the upper atmosphere, blinding sensor systems and unleashing clouds of countermeasure dust and micro-drones, all while pumping even more ionized plasma into Jupiter’s already static-heavy magnetic fields.

  Fortunately, there’s no fire coming up from below yet; we’ve managed to achieve surprise. Our fleet came in out of the Sun before dawn. It turns out the Sun isn’t just bright to cameras, it’s also got IR, UV, x-ray, radio, magnetism, and particle radiation coming out; a little bit of everything. To get through that glare, you don’t need superior sensors, you need magic. Then, too, with the limb of the planet between us and our approach, the opposition would need some kind of orbital network deployed to see us coming—and our destroyer escorts have already neutralized that. So, we charge in out of the dawn like archaic cavalry or aircraft. It makes me want to give a war-whoop.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  Stormfall

  We roar into Jupiter in a torrent of fire and light. All around us, blinding white light pours off into contrails stretching back above us and pointing up into space. There’s no point in trying to look through that, so all the shutters are down over my various cameras. Radar is almost useless, too, with an envelope of ionized atmosphere around me, and all the jamming filling the air right now. Everyone else is in the same position, falling blindly into the depths of the giant planet.

  There’s nothing to see outside. Locked inside the confined cabin of my Guardian, and in my armored space suit, there’s nothing to see inside, either. No damage readings or malfunction indicators, just data streams pouring into my visual cortex through my implants, telling me that everything is proceeding as planned; external temperature in thousands of degrees, trans-sonic wind speeds, and a deceleration of 9G. Nothing to worry about.

  Sure, on my first drop everything was all excitement and adrenaline, but by now it’s all pretty routine. The Guardian’s ablative plating keeps the blowtorch winds out, and with all the shock padding inside, the Gs aren’t too bad, either. Nine Earth gravities isn’t all that bad for a native Jovian in the first place, and with all the cybernetics and mods a warrior-pilot needs, it’s actually pretty mild.

  Still, something could go wrong, anyway. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. Heat shields could fail, a wing could come off, or a system could fatally malfunction. I tell myself if anything happens, it’ll be over so fast, I’ll barely feel it—but that’s not necessarily true. I could get slowly baked alive, trapped in my suit, as heat relentle
ssly builds up. There could be a breach, and super-hot jets of air could sear right through me. I could just keep falling, trapped in my Guardian—falling forever, for thousands of kilometers, until the air pressure increases past the crush depth of my hull…trapped, hearing the metal creak and groan around me as it begins to buckle…

  An explosion shakes the whole Guardian as the ablative plating blows off. Finally, something to do. Sensation pours in from hundreds of sensor eyes in my Guardian, and from the dozens of remotes falling along with me. I am one with my exo-frame, and I can see, hear, and feel everything my Guardian can. My vision expands to superhuman levels, letting met see with telescopic precision, and into the infrared and x-ray bands. I can hear radio and actually feel the winds roaring around the wings of my frame. The world comes alive in brilliance and wonder.

  It’s sunrise over Jupiter. The endless sea of clouds below is lit up in gold and white and blood-red. Above, the sky darkens to a deep purple, with the crescents of three moons visible, and the blue stars from spacecraft torch-drives move with apparent slowness. The Sun is behind us, helping blind sensors, as we come roaring in on a path in line with the dawn’s light. The atmosphere around us is filled with chaos—burning streaks of other Guardians aerobraking, and the trails of drones and decoys following us down in a rain of fire and smoke. Huge flashes light the air; dazzler cluster warheads sent down with us are going off and confusing sensors to give us a chance to reach our targets. The upper atmosphere is beginning to fill with shifting bands of transparent colors, clouds of countermeasure nanotech confusing and warping signals. Jamming is everywhere, and the radio frequencies are pure chaos, screaming electronic madness sent out by our jamming systems, decoy drones, and beamed in from near orbit.

  All that jamming only allows me to get information from our nearest remotes. Dozens of viewpoints come together to form a three-dimensional map in my brain. The view goes from super-rich imagery in full surround 360° vision, to a composite understanding of exact distances and vectors, with me floating in the middle of all of it. It feels like I can just reach out and touch the distant clouds, knowing exactly how far away they are, how fast everything is moving, and exactly what the temperature and density of the air around me is like. I love being out here, flying.

  The enemy has a different opinion about my being up here, though. Streams of darts, scramjet-shells, micro missiles, and other projectiles are coming up in a glowing, upside-down rain. White flashes light up the clouds below as the rising munitions burst into cluster aero mines, loiter missiles, feather shrapnel, and other hazards we’ll have to fly through. So much for surprise.

  I can’t see the other members of my flight through all of this, of course. If we could be picked out, we’d be eliminated immediately by targeted fire from below. Even if I saw another Guardian, there’d be no way to tell who it was among the hundreds falling around me in Operation Thunderfall. We couldn’t drop or fly in any kind of formation for the same reason—everything had to be random to cause maximum confusion to the enemy, which also causes a lot of confusion for us. The other four members of my flight are out there somewhere…depending on me.

  A loud scream in microwave frequency splits the air—an anti-ship beam erupting from the cloud banks below. Instantly, the systems in my Guardian target the location in the cloud banks and type the weapon: it’s a Type-93 maser cannon we call the “Torch.” That’s going to have to be taken out if our landing ships are ever going to get here.

  “Delta Flight, this is Thunderbolt, we’re taking out this Torch.” I send the targeting data out, then dodge the rail cannon fire from below that’s homing in on my transmission. I relay the next message through my drone network, “Dive to the cloud deck and assemble on target.” One of my drone relays blinks out, hit by fire from below.

  I send the mental command through my implants to my Guardian to fold our wings and dive. Weight disappears as I accelerate down and slam from side to side as maneuvering jets fire, dodging randomly. We’re falling through fire, smoke, shot, and shrapnel toward the golden clouds below.

  It’ll be OK. I’ve got my Guardian Angel.

  Griffon—or “Griff,” as I call him—is a five-meter-tall, armored battle frame, complete with wings, micro-plasma turbines, and maneuvering thrusters. While diving, the heavy rail cannon and offensive beam x-ray laser lance are folded back, and the two six-pack missile launchers lay waiting in their magazines for use. Every once in a while, the defensive point-defense laser clusters let fly, taking out a mine or missile that gets too close on our spiraling path down. None of this is really visible, though; stealth systems and variable-imagery nanoflage coating make the whole Angel appear to be nothing more than a faint shimmer against the cloudscape, and only that because of its rapid movement.

  Out there somewhere, the rest of my flight are with me. “Sparky” Shane in his “Sparrow,” “Mad Dog” Martin in his “Cerberus,” “Joker” Takashi in his “Pegasus,” and “Shockwave” Larry in his “Sundog.” No one has been hit yet…Can’t worry about that now; we need to take out that anti-space cannon.

  I say a quick prayer as we dive below the cloud deck.

  * * *

  Sure, Operation Thunderfall is an exercise, but I say a prayer anyway. Look, we’ve got a whole task force out here firing live ammunition on a simulated invasion of a gas giant. All kinds of things could go wrong.

  Also, I want to win.

  We’re part of the “Aggressor” force vs. the “Defenders.” Naturally, all our units are represented in red, and we’re the bad guys. We’re playing the part of a hypothetical invading enemy, which just happens to use tactics remarkably similar to those of the Union of Saturn. It’s just coincidence—sure. We’re getting along great with Saturn these days. Why, they haven’t seized one of our ships in weeks now. It must because of the shiny new treaty we’ve got with them, which will work so much better than the last dozen or so treaties they’ve broken. Personally, I think the new Nike-class heavy cruisers have a lot to do with our improving relations. Nothing makes everyone want to forget old grudges and talk about peace like a superior space force.

  This training will be good for the defenders, helping them learn how to hold together in a surprise attack after we’ve given them some humility. It’s good for our team, too; we might have to launch a strike into Saturn’s atmosphere some time, and not just land on a planetary surface. Mostly it’s a great chance to do some large-scale maneuvers and get in some needed flying time.

  Also, it’ll be good if we win.

  The clouds are getting darker. The ammonium hydrosulfide clouds started out as a thick opaque mist of gold. It’s been steadily darkening toward orange, and now toward an angrier red. Not a good sign. Wind speeds are going up, and the temperature, while still below freezing, is rising. Most likely a column of warm air from below is rising into the cloud deck. That’ll mean storms. Not the famous city-busting super-storms of the lower depths, but still bad enough to be dangerous. That puts a time limit on our exercise, but it also gives us an advantage.

  The winds and thunder will help mask the sound of our approach, the changing temperatures will help mask us in IR, and the lightning should mask us in EM. All of which is good, because our attack is going to have to be almost perfect. Our target is a space-defense emplacement, so its targeting systems will tag us all almost instantly unless we overwhelm it all at once.

  There it is. The platform shows up on magnetic sensors first. The magnetic fields that keep it floating in the air can’t be entirely hidden, though they’re putting out a distortion field to make it hard to lock onto it. Every second or so, a microwave burst rips through the air, indicating it’s fired again. It’s at reduced power, of course, so it won’t actually destroy a frame. Still…each shot could mean someone on our side having to sit this out as it records another kill. We can’t wait too much longer. I wait for the faint signals from my team, confirming they’re all there, so we can attack all at once, and—

  Ma
d Dog Martin bellows over open channels and races directly at the weapon platform, firing all his training missiles.

  Great…we’re all going to get wiped out.

  I give the order to attack, while the weapons platform focuses all its considerable firepower on Martin, and his blip disappears in half a second. We’re all firing missiles, and I see a dozen trails of vapor leap away from me into the darkening clouds. Taki’s blip disappears off the screen, and I finally come into view of the platform as the red sea of clouds parts for a moment.

  There it is, a broad, reddish-brown cylinder the same color as the clouds it’s floating in, with a basket-weave mesh of wires spreading out around its diameter. The whole thing is turned away from me at the moment, but it’s wiping out my missiles with the point-defense laser clusters scattered across its hull. It fires its main gun, and Sparky’s out of the game.

  I fire my railgun and offensive laser, and Shockwave races in to add his firepower. Both are recorded hits. If I can keep the fire up for just a little longer, I’ll get a recorded kill—

  A huge flash of blue light fills the sky, followed by a roaring thunderclap. Shockwave’s blip disappears, but for real. I look to see what happened, but Larry’s gone.

  * * *

  “Griff, where’s Larry?” I ask my Guardian.

  He replies in a gruff baritone, “Falling out of control after a lightning strike. His Guardian is non-functional and not responding to queries.” An image flashes into my visual cortex, showing the blackened, smoking Guardian missing a wing, and spiraling down out of sight through the clouds, leaving a trail of gray smoke.