Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) Read online

  Mako

  By: Ian J. Malone

  Kindle edition

  Copyright © 2009 Sharkflight Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  www.sharkflightmedia.com

  Table of Contents

  Dedications

  Mako

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1: New Beginnings

  Chapter 2: Echoes

  Chapter 3: Game Changer

  Chapter 4: Mac

  Chapter 5: Virtual Reunions

  Chapter 6: Infiltration

  Chapter 7: Best-Laid Plans

  Chapter 8: Boost

  Part Two

  Chapter 9: Visitor

  Chapter 10: The Band

  Chapter 11: Spoils

  Chapter 12: Table Talk

  Chapter 13: Revelations

  Chapter 14: Decisions

  Chapter 15: Exodus

  Chapter 16: History Lessons

  Chapter 17: Arrival

  Chapter 18: Hard Knocks

  Chapter 19: Range Hot

  Chapter 20: Identity Crisis

  Chapter 21: Taking Flight

  Chapter 22: Confessions

  Chapter 23: Showdown

  Chapter 24: Crossroads

  Chapter 25: Training Day

  Part Three

  Chapter 26: Awakening

  Chapter 27: Wheels Up

  Chapter 28: Stealth

  Chapter 29: Prison Break

  Chapter 30: Rain of Fire

  Chapter 31: Incoming

  Chapter 32: War of Ages

  Chapter 33: All In

  Chapter 34: Shindig

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedications

  This story is dedicated to the two most incredible women I have ever known: my “kid” sister, who urged me to take this journey and my adoring wife, who pushed me to finish it. Mine is a world of imagination divine… mostly because you were just you.

  Mako

  Prologue

  Expeditionary Log: Day 203

  ASC Senior Science Advisor

  Supplemental Entry: P-2 (Personal)

  I watched as another 16 squadrons fell today. Add those to the growing list of MIAs and that brings this week’s total to 49, and it’s only Wednesday. I shudder to think what the annual numbers look like already.

  We were supposed to have something by now, anything… a single shred of a lead, for god’s sake. It’s been nearly seven months since we arrived and despite the thousands of man hours that my staff and I have poured into this project, we still have nothing to show for it. All the while, our people are dying by the score back home, holding out hope that by some miracle, we find the answers we seek here.

  Being completely truthful, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe the sergeant major isn’t right… maybe our lack of results to date is my fault. Granted, I could never admit that to the rest of the crew, but ultimately I was responsible for designing the software. I wrote the protocols, I set the OS parameters, I laid the traps… hell, I decrypted the data that brought us here in the first place, and for what? To see just how many subjects I could use up and wash out of the program in a half a year’s time?

  Maybe I did make it too difficult. Maybe I did use too much detail, but there was just no other way. To do anything less would’ve radically diminished the significance of our findings, which goes against everything that this project stands for. That’s assuming of course that we have somewhere to report back to once this is all over.

  Honestly, I don’t know anymore. I only know that our entire way of life could inevitably hinge on this program’s success, and as of right now, we don’t have a single, viable candidate, much less the collective pilot sample we require.

  Still, there may be one possibility, a new group based on the East Coast. True, they only enlisted a month ago so they’re still predominately untested, but they have shown flashes of promise thus far. Commitment, resilience, innovative thinking; they’re a bit unorthodox, to be sure, but they’re getting results. Mind you, some of that has been blind luck, but the raw potential is very much present in this bunch. Their squad leader has shown some real strategic creativity—far more than the average Top. Precision, execution, the ability to adapt; it’s all there. Furthermore, his skills behind the stick are growing by the day, though from the looks of things, his Com-Spec isn’t far behind. Again, they’re most definitely green, and if history is any indication, they’ll wash out in the next few missions. But for lack of anything else, I’ve flagged them for further observation anyway.

  Less than six months remain on the clock for this project. After that, we’ll have no choice but to pack up and return home. The only question then is: will there be anything left when we do? If our last communication with command was any indication, the war is not going well, and while the admiral remains adamant that the lines are holding, I’ve known him entirely too long to not know when he’s holding something back. He looked exhausted in yesterday’s briefing—absolutely exhausted—and his body language alone told me all I needed to know. We’re losing, badly.

  In closing, I myself am no stranger to exhaustion these days. I honestly can’t remember the last time I managed more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep, plus my knee is killing me. To her credit, Dr. Reynolds has done everything she can to keep the replacement functioning, but she lacks the components necessary for an actual repair. That means until we get home, all she can do is manage the pain, not that this is of any real importance in the grand scheme of things.

  Alas, the war rages on and as the enemy draws ever closer to our shores, our time, both as a project and a people, may soon be at an end.

  JR

 

  Part One

  Chapter 1: New Beginnings

  Savoring every last sizzling degree of the warm North Florida sun on his shoulders, Lee Summerston sliced his way through yet another pass of the choppy Atlantic surf—his body awash in its cool, salty mist as his secondhand short-board chattered, unimpeded, over the emerald waters at his feet. Granted, the surfing on Jacksonville Beach had never been known for the types of towering curls and mammoth shoots like those found on the West Coast, but they still served to feed the adrenaline rush he’d always craved, in addition to being a quality means of keeping him physically fit and off the couch—something he’d desperately needed for a while now. On a more practical note, it had barely been a year since he’d picked up the sport and the area’s three- to five-foot waves were about all he could handle at such an early stage of his surfing career. Still, in that time he’d become proficient enough that he no longer looked like a total scrub when he hopped on his board, and given the number of bruises he’d sustained in those early weeks—to both his body and his pride—he was pretty happy about that.

  As the hands on his silver dive watch ticked carelessly by, Lee continued his tranquil cruise up and down the shoreline, soaking up every last second of the peaceful serenity that had always brought him back here. He loved it on the coast—always had. No matter how stressful or chaotic his life had become in recent years, there had always just been something about the sun, the sand, and the surf that had put him at ease, and if for no other reason, he’d have happily taken up surfing—or fishing, for that matter—as an excuse to spend more time on the water. Sadly though, surfing wasn’t nearly the only thing on today’s itinerary, and as the hour crept past 7:15, the real world began to beckon. Lee dreaded it too, but that was life for a barely employed history professor at the less-than-prestigious Layne State College.

  Stopping past the pier-side shower for a quick rinse of his hair, skin, and swimsui
t, Lee gathered his belongings and cut through the parking lot toward his arguably most prized possession: a mint-condition Jeep CJ-7, classically restored in its original Mist Silver Met and toplessly slumbered at the far end of the gravel. Cutting a quick swath through the clutter of textbooks, file folders, and paper coffee cups that littered the back seat, he slid the surfboard to rest there and fastened it down with a bungee cord before retrieving the tattered, olive duffel containing his clothes for the day. In line with his usual wardrobe, they consisted of a faded pair of jeans (which he shimmied into under his towel), a navy blue t-shirt, and a beige overshirt that was already rolled up at the sleeves. Were it up to him, he’d have opted to skip the latter article. However, school policy was very clear about exposed body art and piercings when it came to faculty members, and given the rather sizable tattoo that now covered the bulk of his upper right arm, a short-sleeved tee alone simply wouldn’t do the job.

  Slipping his hands through the wrinkled tan fabric, Lee used the Jeep’s rear tire to beat the last of the sand from his flip-flops and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Day one of fall semester already,” he frowned, with a quick check of his stubbly reflection in the rearview mirror. “Ain’t that just grand.” Then, running a set of fingers through his damp, disheveled hair, he dug his shades from the center console and heaved a deep, soulful sigh as the rebuilt, four-cylinder engine sputtered to life for another sanity-testing experience in the A1A morning traffic.

  Following a quick pit stop at Bella’s Corner Coffee Bean, a locally owned coffeehouse which he’d recently discovered had a fantastic cinnamon-spice breakfast blend, Lee hung a left toward campus and lamented the fact that he’d been stuck with 8 a.m. classes every day of the week this semester—as if this job didn’t suck enough as it was. True, he loved the content, particularly as it pertained to military history, where he’d focused the bulk of his grad studies; but the goal had always been to work as a field researcher, not a third-tier college instructor whose nights and weekends were spent buried under mountains of Christmas-treed exams, mindless essays, and half-baked term papers.

  On the other hand, as much as Lee hated the job, he couldn’t not give it his all, in part because he’d been brought up believing that you always gave your employer your best, though mostly because, for every three snot-nosed punks who wobbled into his classroom, there was always that one who actually showed up to learn something, and far be it from him to shortchange that.

  “Damned if you care, dammed if you don’t,” he thought miserably.

  That was the way of things when one was the new man on the faculty totem pole, and a lowly adjunct at that. But in this economy, a paycheck was a paycheck, scheduling preferences or not, even if it was barely enough to pay the rent—though of late, mounting issues with the Jeep and an impromptu trip to the ER after a nasty run-in with a reef off of Cedar Point had made even that a stretch. Then, of course, there was also the powerful need to eat.

  Still, looking through the Jeep’s roll cage at the breathtaking coastal scene surrounding him—its tall, arching palm trees and lush green shrubs swaying in the breeze beneath a brilliant Florida sky—Lee fought hard to swallow his chagrin and count his blessings. Never mind that he’d mortgaged his entire future—professionally, personally, and financially—on a Ph.D. which apparently wasn’t worth spit in an anemic job market… or that his career as a legitimate researcher was headed straight down the toilet without so much as a whiff of publication since his dissertation. At least he had his beloved ocean, and given that he could’ve just as easily landed at a frozen junior college in Syracuse, New York; that, to him, was definitely something.

  Hearing the Jeep’s radio crackle out of its latest commercial break—ironically enough with an ad for a local debt counselor—Lee reached for the volume dial just in time to hear the opening acappella bars of Kansas’ “Carry On Wayward Son.” Amused, he labored a crooked smile, cranked it, and turned left onto San Pablo for the Layne campus, and what he hoped would be a halfway bearable semester.

  ****

  “Mornin’ everybody,” Lee began, eyeing the steady stream of latecomers now scurrying through the door of his classroom, each one pausing in search of a familiar face before proceeding as inconspicuously as possible to the back row of stadium seats. “My name is Dr. Lee Summerston, and let me be the first to welcome you to HIS-2321, Intro to Warfare History. Now I know it’s early—”

  “Ya don’t say,” a voice muttered through a mild chorus of groans.

  Lee cocked an eyebrow and the room fell silent again. “Like I was sayin’… I know it’s early, for all of us, but in the interest of keepin’ things simple on day one, today’s class is pretty much a straight-up orientation to prep you for what we’ll cover in here this semester. So just bear with me, hold your questions ‘til the end, and I’ll have you outta here in plenty of time for another hit of espresso before your next class. Fair deal?”

  They nodded.

  “Excellent,” he went on. “Now, since most of you are history majors, you’re obviously required to be here because it’s a mandated part of your curriculum. However, some of you are taking this class as an elective and I’m glad you chose to do so. No matter the reason why you’re here, I honestly hope this class turns out to be a good experience for you in the end.”

  “Are we gonna get extra credit for attendance?” someone yawned from up top, and Lee smirked again.

  “You mean, am I gonna give you free points for not being a complete and total slack-ass?” he thought before responding. “No,” he said bluntly. “That’s because, after today, I don’t take attendance again until the final, and even then it’s only because I have to. The way I see it, you’re here on your own dime, or student loan, or scholarship, or whatever. If you wanna be here, you will be. If you don’t, then you won’t. Either way, your grade will only be what you make it. With that said, I will toss you the occasional pop quiz.”

  Another collection of groans.

  “I know, I know, just relax. All quizzes are for extra credit, and none of ‘em count against your grade. So, if you’re the type of person who can sit at home in your jammies and slippers and learn everything from the textbook, then by all means, knock yourself out. But if you think you might be in need of a few extra points come the end of the semester, then it behooves you to come to class.”

  “What kind of questions will we get on the quizzes?” asked a young woman down front.

  Lee tilted his head and smiled. “Let’s just say it also behooves you to know that I’m a pretty avid college football fan, so a quick scoreboard check before class might not be a bad idea. Understand?”

  She nodded and grinned.

  Satisfied with his opening, Lee grabbed the stack of course syllabi from the podium and started toward the first row of students to begin handing them out. Slowly ascending up the steps, distributing the stapled forms to each row as he went, he glanced up to spot a young man at the far end, slouched down in his seat and completely oblivious to the world around him. Dressed in a faded Layne basketball t-shirt and a ratty brown ballcap, his eyes were fixated on, of all things, the course textbook.

  “Gamer-Prime Magazine, huh?” Lee chirped over the young man’s shoulder at the concealed booklet.

  Startled, the boy lunged forward to corral the piping hot cup of coffee on the edge of his desk as the young woman seated directly in front of him jerked away from the would-be spill.

  “Oh, um, no sir—I mean, yes sir,” he stuttered, tightening his sweaty clasp around the cup while the girl scowled back at him.

  “Somethin’ tells me that ain’t gonna be on the final,” Lee noted, hearing the room snicker around them.

  “No, I guess not, sir,” the boy said, blushing.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t take it from you,” Lee conceded, seizing on the chance to make a point. “Trust me, you’ll need that tip on page 36 when you touch down on E-14.”

  “Sir?” the boy asked, sitti
ng up straight and shooting his instructor a look of bewilderment.

  “That’s the Mako Assault article, right?” Lee asked, starting back toward the front of the room.

  “Ahhhh, yeah?”

  “And I’m assumin’ your clan is stuck on one of the earlier environments? I’m guessin’… E-10, maybe E-11?”

  “E-9, actually,” the boy fumbled, visibly astonished that his college professor even knew what video gaming was, much less how to use terminology like “clan” and “environment.”

  “E-9,” Lee recalled—eyes turned reflectively to the ceiling. “Oh yeah, 9. Have ya made it to the bunker yet?”

  “Yes sir. We hacked the core and got the files, but the intel said—”

  “Let me guess,” Lee interrupted. “The intel specified that security’s response time would be somewhere in the neighborhood of 160-180 seconds, but you’re still gettin’ pinned down outside the main complex every time you bolt for your escape?”

  “That’s pretty much it, yeah,” the boy said. “CIB’s intel told us—”

  “There’s your first mistake,” Lee corrected. “Always take CIB’s projections with a grain of salt. In their defense, they’re usually pretty accurate, but they’re never without a hole or two when you actually hit the ground.”

  Stepping back behind the podium, Lee glanced at his watch, mindful of his self-imposed deadline to end class early.

  “Tell ya what,” he concluded, “in the interest of time, I’ll give you a quick way to get through 9 and then we’ve gotta move on. Granted… it ain’t the strategy that my team used to beat it, but it’ll get the job done. Now, how good is your Com-Spec?”

  “You kidding me?” the boy grunted, seemingly offended. “Zeus full-on mastered Alystierian code via beta site training before we even started the game. The guy’s like, untouchable! He’s the best MA hacker on the net!”