Hangar Queens: A Modern Military Mecha Satire

There's a light at the end of the tunnel, but it's in the wrong direction.


PUTIN'S TURN TO INVITE ABE TO "BANYA SUMMIT"

In a long-awaited follow-up to last year's infamous "onsen summit", Russian President Vladimir Putin has invited Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe to his hometown of St Petersburg, where it is believed the two men will visit a local steam bath together.

The "banya summit" is the latest in a string of negotiations between Russia and Japan to resolve their ongoing dispute over the sovereignty of the southern Kuril Islands. It is going ahead at a time of mixed signals from both countries; while both leaders walked away from the onsen summit with an optimistic tone, relations were recently strained by sightings of both Russian and Japanese mechas in and around the disputed area.

An anonymous JMSDF spokesman subsequently stated that its mechas were performing "community outreach" in the nearby subprefecture of Nemuro, while Putin claimed that any mechas sighted were merely "local fishermen using novel methods to cultivate their trade".

This is not the first occasion that Russia's leader has invited his foreign counterparts to bathe together, but it will be the first in over a decade. During Putin's first presidential term, he visited a bathhouse with then-German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder; only for the bathhouse to catch fire and burn to the ground, leading Putin to swear off repeating the experience.

It is unclear what implications this might have for the upcoming summit.


"Hm?" Clarke blinks. It's the first time you've ever seen her looking surprised. "Me?"

"That's right, Lieutenant," Tanner confirms. "I know your mecha's been cleared flight-worthy again, but with our current supply situation I'd rather not risk it in combat again so soon. But don't worry, you'll get your turn soon enough."

"Hmm." She seems to ponder this information for a few seconds; with no change in her outward body language, it's impossible for you to tell what she's really thinking. "Well, okay then."

"Don't get the impression that sitting this mission out means you're taking a vacation," Taylor scolds her. "I've seen your maintenance logs, and I'm fully aware of the state of your cockpit. When we return, I expect to see your machine as polished and effective as the day it came off the production line. Do you understand me, Clarke?"

"I understand." Her voice has that distinct lilt to it again, the one that hints at even more going on beneath her lounging exterior than you really want to know.

Buck snickers a little, though he at least has the good sense not to say anything when Taylor shoots him a disapproving officer's scowl. His endless rambles must be rubbing off on you more than you realized, because you're pretty sure you know what he wanted to say: Not very hard to be that polished and effective. And honestly, you don't really disagree with him.

Hansen's wearing an incredibly villainous smirk in the face of this news. You'd resolve to avoid him, if you weren't already doing your best to avoid him as much as possible. There's only so much denigrating of engineers you can stomach in the hangar, after all.

The rest of the briefing goes as normal, with your two squadron leaders – mostly Taylor – explaining the structure of the operation in Deir ez-Zor, and the tactics you expect to employ against the enemy. They'll be rather different to those you used during previous sorties, which took place against tanks in a desert and light infantry in a small town, so you make sure to pay close attention.

It's surprising how easy that is to do. While the teachings of college professors passed through your brain in the same way that neutrinos might pass through a G-type main-sequence star, there's something oddly resonant about your assistant squadron leader's voice that leaves you hanging onto her every word.

Soon enough, the briefing comes to its close, and Tanner orders everyone to suit up and report to their mechas to prepare for the deployment.


As you're disrobing in order to change into your pilot suit, you feel something tiny and hard in one of your pockets.

You already know what it is, but curiosity demands you dig it out and see for yourself.

It's a steel nut, the matching half of the bolt from earlier in the briefing room.

You have absolutely no idea how it got there.


As with most other problems in your life, you decide the best way to deal with this is to ignore it and hope a better solution presents itself eventually. Submerging yourself deep in the icy pool of mecha operation allows you to put the whole issue of Antonia Clarke out of your mind, even though it's still up there somewhere, lounging on an ice floe and just waiting to ambush you again.

You're thankfully granted something else to focus on when several contacts suddenly ping on your radar. It takes you a long moment to recognize them, because you've never actually seen them outside of training simulations: unknown mechas.

"Queen One, Queen Six; I have six bogeys on my scope," you report in the most level and professional voice you can muster. You've been in the USAF long enough to know that running into fellow pilots on the battlefield is a big deal. Particularly since there are so few of them out there these days. "They look like they're close to our landing zone, over."

"Eagle Buster, I see your data," Tanner responds. "There's no need to make any course adjustments. Proceed as planned, over."

"Roger."

As newly-liberated al-Sukhnah comes into view, so does the true nature of your radar's findings. Firing your rocket thrusters to bring you down gently onto a street that's been lovingly cleared of rubble by a displeased-looking ground crew, it becomes evident that your side isn't the only one using this town as a forward airfield.

It's the first time you've ever seen mechas built by another country in real life. They're as fascinating in their differences to yours as they are in their similarities; they retain all the same anatomy and proportions, but where the Q-35A embodies the mighty colossus that bestrides the world, the six Cy-57s before you now evoke the titans that fell from grace.

The Russian machine is fractionally taller and broader than yours: its limbs are thicker, and its radar cross-section is wider. Most prominent of all is the double skirt of solid-fuel rockets wrapped around its waist, imbuing it with a thrust-to-weight ratio that could potentially outshine even yours.

"Wow," Buck marvels. "So they do exist. And here I thought they were gonna be stuck in development hell until the permafrost melted."

"I guess climate change must be real after all, then," you can't resist commenting.

"Finally!" Hansen exclaims loudly, causing you to wince at the audio feedback in your ears. "You have any idea how fucking long I've been waiting for this? About time we had some actual challenge around here."

"Queen Four, you are not authorized to engage Russian forces," Taylor states tersely. "Over."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Haven't got the right ammo loaded anyway."

Your radar warning receiver, sadly neglected throughout your time in the Middle East, reports that several radar waves are washing over your Q-35A's frame. Then, as one, all six Cy-57s rotate their head and torso sections to face you, their ruby optics glimmering wickedly as they catch the sunlight. One of them takes their left hand off their anti-tank sniper rifle and makes an 'I see you' motion.

"Hey Buster, check it out," Buck snickers, responding by giving the Russian mechas the finger. "I think they like you or something."

"I didn't do anything," you protest, feeling the urge to duck and cover away from their collective stares. Which is silly, because it's not like the Russian pilots can actually see you through your cockpit armour. Can they?

"Well, if Buster wants to draw their fire, that's fine by me," Hansen remarks with barely concealed glee. It's frankly a little disturbing.

"Let's stay focused on the mission at hand, shall we?" Tanner reminds everyone. "Now, the sooner we refuel and arm up, the sooner we can provide our allies the support they need to make a difference. So get to it, pilots."

"Roger."

Nothing else happens for the remainder of the downtime. The process of refuelling and arming your Q-35A goes without incident. Nobody mishandles live 120mm ammunition or spills rocket fuel all over the street. Even Buck and Hansen manage to behave enough to avoid the attention of your squadron leaders.

The Cy-57s of the Russian Ground Forces continue to stand there, staring implacably at you.

It reminds you uncomfortably of a certain wingman's behaviour.

Even after specifically excluding her from the mission, you can't escape from Antonia Clarke.

They're still staring when you boost-jump away.


In several ways, the city of Deir ez-Zor reminds you a little bit of home.

Both cities have a roughly equivalent population, although the numbers get complicated when you start considering their surrounding statistical areas. Both cities have a major river running through them, accoutred with a nice bridge to let citizens cross from one side to the other, constructed during simpler times. Both cities have built-up urban cores with lots of apartment buildings and expansive suburbs on the outskirts.

In every other way, the two cities are nothing alike.

An indeterminate percentage of the population has since fled the city to be classified as internally displaced persons. The bridge was shelled during the initial battles between the Syrian Arab Army and the Free Syrian Army back in 2013, and now lies in pieces at the bottom of the Euphrates River. Many of the apartment buildings are skeletons of their former selves, and clouds of smoke rise from the ruins of suburban houses used as cover and subsequently blasted apart with explosives.

Even the dirt is a different colour here: from a rich brown destined to host pretty grass lawns, to a barren russet that verges on pink in the desert sun.

Despite its recent depredations, certain people still think this place is important enough to fight over. You wonder if anyone would ever feel the same way about your home.

By the time your squadron soars over the battlefield atop the flaming chariots of rocket thrusters, the SDF's offensive against ISIS is already in full swing. Light infantry armed with Soviet-era equipment clashes with light infantry armed with Soviet-era equipment. You can tell which group is meant to be the good guys by seeing which one has women fighting in its ranks.

Your targets are given to you by some nameless Green Berets, operating amongst the SDF as liaisons and forward observers on behalf of the international US-led coalition against ISIS – Trump's recent orders to withdraw notwithstanding. Anticipating that the forces of Western hegemony would one day arrive to return history to its end state, ISIS has spent the last two years constructing an elaborate network of trench lines, bunkers, and minefields to guard its north-eastern flank. In the interests of preventing this from turning into a WW1-style slugfest – which wouldn't look very good on CNN – your squadron has been given orders to take them out.

So that's what your squadron does.

Hansen flies in first to scout out the target location, evading numerous RPG attacks with a combination of his own agility and the latter's general inaccuracy. Accompanying him is Buck, who responds in kind with a rain of equally inaccurate but no less spectacular rocket fire. As the sudden presence of American war machines renders the ISIS fighters cowering in their foxholes – or so Tanner reports from a central position, where he can coordinate the attack – you and Taylor set down on a nearby hill, brace yourselves, and casually destroy them from two kilometres away.

Textbook attack.

"Whoa, check it out!" Buck looks back at his handiwork as he exits the danger zone. "I think I actually hit something back there!"

"Well, what do you know, Skywalker," Hansen chuckles, "you finally became one with the Force. How's it feel to be a real Jedi now?"

"Feels like something real coarse and rough and irritating's gotten all up in my asshole. No, wait, I think that's the feedback."

"That was good work," Tanner acknowledges. "But this is only the beginning. Queens Two and Six, move to the flanks and provide overwatch."

"Roger." The two of you unbrace and run down the hill, using the short gain in velocity to take off with slightly less fuel than a pure standing hop. You're on the left flank, and she's on the right.

From a hundred metres up in the sky, you refocus your view of the battlefield. Currently the bulk of the combat is taking place in the suburban outskirts of Deir ez-Zor, east of the Euphrates River. The SDF is making good progress thanks to your fire support, and ISIS is being pushed back across the river. As it should be.

Your Raytheon-supplied sensors provide enough resolution at this distance to observe a male SDF fighter stopping behind a berm to pick his nose. You find yourself reflexively reaching up, only for your black bubble flight helmet to stop you. Now you really wish you hadn't done that, because your face is seriously itchy all of a sudden and it's getting on your nerves in the middle of combat.

It's always the little things.

A female SDF fighter slaps the man on the back, causing him to start. They appear to exchange a few words, and then round the side of the berm. Then they duck back behind it an instant later, as they're shot at from somewhere they can't see.

That is, their primitive human eyeballs can't see it. Your computer-assisted forward-looking infrared cameras can make it out just fine.

Target in the centre, pull the switch.

The ISIS foxhole goes up in a plume of fire and dust.

The two fighters glance up at you, first in surprise, then in gratitude. The woman waves, and before you can stop yourself, you wave back.

This must be another of those non-death, non-destruction benefits of piloting that Taylor talked about a while back.

Your radar suddenly warns of multiple unknown mechas approaching fast, just in time for you to look up and see the fiery contrails of their rocket thruster assemblies blotting out the sun. The QM chips filter out their roar as irrelevant battlefield noise, but you can somehow feel it all the same.

You automatically raise your sniper rifle, and– plan to do what with it, exactly? Engage the unknown mechas? Why? Just because they're there?

In your moment of hesitation, a quartet of Cy-57s marked with the cross-swords roundel of the Russian Ground Forces touchdown a few hundred metres away, practically on top of you.

Then they open fire.

Bursts of 30mm rip apart the ground in front of them. Unguided rockets blast huts and sand berms to smithereens. Anti-tank guided missiles lance out and obliterate technicals in a gross display of overkill.

The two SDF fighters you just aided are among those who disappear within the burning maelstrom, never to reappear.

You ought to be horrified, and yet, there's something strangely captivating about how the Cy-57s move. They're even bulkier than your Q-35As, but their motions possess an uncanny fluidity and grace that just doesn't belong to something so big. Machines only walk and turn like that in movies, where puppets and CGI can evade the harsh mistress of the square-cube law; never in real life.

Is this what it's like to be on the other side of such incredible firepower?

Then all six RGF mechas perform standing reverse boost-jumps, exiting your part of the battlefield just as rapidly as they entered.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Buck shouts at their retreating forms over his loudspeaker. "You can't just do that! Those are our proxies!"

"We can't just sit here and let them cuck us like this," Hansen declares. "Coach, request permission to pursue the Russian mechas."

"Queen Four, do I need to remind you what the rules of engagement are, over?"

"Listen, Drop Mom, those sneaky Russkie fucks attacked us. That means whatever we do to them is self-defense!"

"Technically, they attacked our proxies," Buck helpfully corrects him. "That's not really the same thing."

"They attacked our allies," Tanner corrects him in turn. "We're obligated to respond, if only to make sure they don't pull a stunt like that again. That means we'll –"


RGF mechas have attacked your SDF allies (and ISIS), inflicting notable casualties. Whether this was intentional or accidental, nobody knows.

The SDF has demanded that you protect its fighters from any further attacks. How should you and your squadron go about this?

[] Move closer to the SDF formations to shield them.
Your physical proximity should deter any further attacks, but constraining your range of movement has its own disadvantages.

[] Switch to a more aggressive posture; focus on defeating ISIS quickly.
The sooner the battle ends, the fewer opportunities the RGF will have to "accidentally" attack your SDF allies.

[] Retaliate by attacking the nearby SAA positions.
Turnabout is fair play… right?

[] Write in a method.
The situation is too politically sensitive to allow write-ins.