Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Alex didn’t have to tell Grayden what to do next. Valkyrie lurched forward, nudging Bushmaster just a bit and then following as the lead vehicles got under way. The trip to the creek was short, giving Alex just enough time to check his .45 and holster it.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Grayden asked while handling the controls and watching the road ahead.

  “I’m not sitting in here waiting for one of those mortars to fall on my head. I’ll take my chances out there,” Alex replied.

  Without arguing, Grayden reached under his seat and produced a holster of his own.

  Alex shouted to his junior officers again. “You all stay here. Give me the portable radio and keep me updated on anything you here from the Razorback column.”

  “What about radio security?” someone asked.

  “Screw radio silence. They know we’re here already. By the time they figure out what we’re doing, we’ll be knocking on their door,” Alex replied.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Grayden, who grabbed a World War Two-style backpack radio, trailing grounding wires and a long whip antenna.

  “Don’t happen to have a neon flag I could tie to the top of this thing, do you?” Grayden asked.

  Alex smiled at the needed calm in a moment of chaos.

  With limited difficulty from still-aching legs, he climbed out, then took a moment to steady himself. He noticed Grayden trying not to stare; Alex didn’t blame him for wondering. The last thing a soldier wanted was to have to look out for someone not able to function properly. But soon Alex’s joints had loosened enough and he was crouching and jogging at a steady pace towards the bank of the creek. More men were gathered around him, and finally they came to the place where Bear Run Bridge had once stood.

  “Okay, troopers,” Alex began, “we’re going to use the creek to get to directly east of the prison, then pivot and attack…what the—?” Alex stood in shock. Just to his left, something caught his eye. “Is that another bridge?” he asked no one in particular. He answered his own question. “That’s a railroad bridge.” He called up the maps in his head, remembering an abandoned railroad track running parallel to old Highway 41.

  “Grayden, check that bridge out. Find out if it will hold the Snappers.” Alex ordered. He turned to the assembled infantry, now about a hundred and fifty in total. “We’re not going to wait, we need to get to that prison and silence those mortars. We’ve got about a mile, a little longer with the route we’re taking. But if we take the short way, the easy way, I have a feeling there are some nasty surprises waiting for us.”

  In the dark, Alex could see some heads nod up and down. The mortars still fell behind them, and there were at least two burning vehicles lighting up the night. They needed to hurry before Vincy figured out what they were doing and began to adjust. “Let’s get going. Follow the creek until parallel with the prison, then hit it. Stay under cover as long as possible. Go now.”

  Grayden was back with the news Alex wanted. “It’ll hold. I don’t think it would hold Razorbacks any more, but it’ll hold our Snappers one at a time.”

  “Okay good. Get back to Valkyrie. Have the boys radio the Razorback column, tell them to hold in place. I want the Challengers to start shelling the prison, level it. Tell them the infantry is getting back on the Snappers and crossing the bridge,” Alex said.

  “But let me guess, you’re not really coming along.”

  “That’s right. The sun’s coming up. Radio the Air Wing. Give them the coordinates here and call OUTBREAK. Get every Raptor on top of the prison. This is big, we knock this door open and we’ve got a clear path into Vincennes. Hopkins doesn’t have enough resources to create multiple lines.” Alex stopped and nodded to himself, he was sure of this, he could view the battle in his mind…the way Hopkins would see the battle in his own mind. “I know Vincy has something waiting for our armor. Hopkins has been leading us along, making us react to his plans. Time to change the game.”

  *****

  Sam had been aloft an hour, impatiently waiting for daylight to give him the contrast he needed to differentiate between targets and civilians. He’d gotten impatient, heading south before the entire air group had gathered after takeoff. He wanted to scout ahead, get a sense for any lurking dangers.

  A series of lights on the ground caught his attention. Any kind of artificial illumination was rare these days, but especially so outside of populated areas. They were several miles outside of Vincennes, plus these lights had an odd arrangement. Green and blue sparkled up at him, two parallel lines stretching for at least a half a mile…

  Airfield? he thought with sudden confusion. Julia Ruff had made several trips back and forth to Vincennes along with a Republic entourage well trained in subtle surveillance. None had ever mentioned Hopkins having aircraft. Creating even the smallest air wing took years in the making, it wasn’t an undertaking well accomplished in secret. Only recently had the lines of communications been completely cut off between the two nations. For a moment he thought the facility might just be for airships, ARK probably had sold some to Vincennes for their attack against Evansville. But airships didn’t need a long straight runway, open fields sufficed.

  He keyed his mic, then thought better. He wasn’t sure how far back the rest of the squadron was, and Stinson was a perfect wingman. She would take his lead without orders. He needed to get a better look, confirm what in his gut he knew to be true.

  Sam put his Raptor into a steep dive, for once wishing that he hadn’t insisted that each Republic plane be installed with a shriek whistle. The noise was unnerving to anyone being attacked on the ground, but now his element of surprise was about to be totally blown. Couldn’t be helped, he was committed. Shapes began to fill his windscreen, beautiful sleek shapes that were clearly recognizable to anyone who loved aircraft.

  These were smaller planes, likely a deadly answer to the Republic’s air superiority. His Raptors weren’t meant for air-to-air combat, just ground attack. The 20-mm cannons could be used to bring down another plane; they had been the primary weapon on many fighter aircraft in the past century. But more important than equipment, his pilots had always trained looking down at ground based targets. Likely, Vincennes meant to surprise the Red Hawks with a squadron of fast-moving pursuit fighters, manned by pilots ready to blast the slower Raptors out of the sky.

  At least a dozen planes sat neatly along the edge of the runway. They were close to one another, not exactly wingtip-to-wingtip, but close. He pulled up a hundred feet off the deck, gunning the engine and pulling for altitude. He went out as far he could stand and pitched the Raptor into a sharp bank. Lined up with the runway once more, he nosed the plane over, throttled back and lined up the manual gun site onto the group of planes on the ground.

  Bright streaks reached up from the ground below, a stream of angry fireflies one after another announcing enemy fire. Sam ignored the tracers, no weapon he knew of could fire for very long without overheating. He took his chances, kept his eyes locked on, waiting past any level of comfort before toggling the rocket switches and pulling the lever with his left hand.

  The gloom of dawn turned to midday sun with fire, nearly blinding his eyes. His Raptor lurched violently; for a moment he thought he’d been hit. Instead he watched with relief as all eight rockets flew away. Two veered off, pulled by an invisible string to the left. Destabilized by all eight launching at once. She warned me…

  He should have pulled straight up and throttled away, but he needed to see what would happen next. He wasn’t disappointed as the surviving six rockets hit near simultaneously on and around the clustered planes. Like little toys in the wind, they flipped and spun, coming apart and consumed in fiery explosions. Too close now to engage with cannon; the distance had closed too much and he had to pull up.

  He gave the engine full rich again, gaining altitude and preparing for a final pass to let his cannon finish anything he missed. Then he’d decide if Stinson would take a run or save her rockets for another target. A
s he reached his desired altitude, the radio receiver warbled in his ear.

  He keyed his mic. “Go ahead, Stinson, you can talk. I think they know we’re here. The surprise is over,” he said.

  “Boss, I’m hit,” she replied nervously.

  Sam’s heart sank. He tried to remain calm. “You or your Raptor?”

  Static crackled. “Both.”

  “Okay, we’ll head back. Form up on me, and give me your sit-rep.”

  While he waited for her reply, Sam banked his plane to get a good look at the carnage below. In the ever-increasing light, aided by the huge blaze of aviation fuel, he could see miniature trucks already driving on the runway towards the wreckage. Then something caught his eye…one, no, two planes were being towed away by separate vehicles. The heat must have been intense for the men on the ground, but sure enough he watched as the distance grew between the two surviving planes and the raging fire.

  The dilemma weighed on him. He really needed to wreck those planes, keep them from getting up in the air. Those things had an evil look about them, like they were designed solely to kill his Raptors. It was impossible to tell how many Red Hawk pilots might suffer today if he let those birds survive. He’d have to take another quick run at the airfield. Sam was getting ready to let Stinson know his intentions, but the static crackled again.

  “I caught a piece of something through the leg. Hurts like the devil…ah…it’s bleeding pretty good. Gauges are fluctuating, fuel and oil both flipping back and forth. Never seen…ouch! Sorry, boss, never seen gauges doing this before,” she replied.

  Her best efforts couldn’t hide the pain in her voice, or her fear. I’ve got to stay with her, or she’ll never make it back he assured himself. Just have to hope those Vincy planes can’t get in the air.

  “Okay, Stinson. Stay with me, we’re going to take our time. These are tough birds, it’ll hold together for the trip back to Terre Haute. Just stay calm and keep pressure on that leg. Clear? Lieutenant Stinson?”

  She summoned her courage and answered firmly. “Clear, boss. I’m on your tail. Lead me home.”

  The two flew in silence for the next fifteen minutes, creeping ever closer to the safety of Terre Haute’s 9,000-foot-long runway. Plenty of space for a wounded pilot with a battered plane to safely set down.

  “Okay, Stinson, time for approach. You got this, just take your time, line it up, plenty of space.”

  The radio remained silent. Sam keyed the mic again. “Stinson! Respond!” The silence ached in his ears. He looked over his shoulder to locate Stinson’s Raptor. She still flew just off his tail, at about 8 o’clock. He throttled back and lifted his plane up and over hers to get a look at her. She sat statue-still in the cockpit. Even though her face was hidden by her mask and goggles, Sam could tell Stinson was unconscious.

  He went through the possible scenarios. He had trained everyone for nearly every possible emergency, but he had never considered this. Crazy thoughts went through his head. He could line up the wings and jump over to her plane. He could somehow…no… He screamed into the mic, a guttural sound to wake even the soundest sleeper. Still she didn’t move. There was nothing logical he could do for her.

  His heart jumped when he heard his radio crackle to life, then sank again when he heard the voice come through.

  “OUTBREAK! All squadrons, attention. OUTBREAK! This a call for all squadrons. OUTBREAK! Stand by for coordinates.”

  Sam was furious. The call for every plane in the area broke radio silence, a necessary evil to locate a Red Hawk unit that needed immediate assistance. His Raptors were spread out all over, most had probably just begun to attack, and now they were being called back, wasting precious fuel and time. Then he got worried. Outbreak this soon meant that the original plan had gone pear-shaped, maybe the ground-pounders were in big trouble already and they needed air support immediately.

  Great plans never survive contact with the enemy.

  The coordinates for the Outbreak call crackled over the radio. Without looking down he scribbled them with a grease pen on his plastic covered map attached to the leg of his flight suit. His mind raced a million miles a minute. He took a moment to hope for the best. Maybe the Outbreak call meant Alex had already broken through the city’s defenses. He had Hopkins on the run and he was ready to finish this war once and for good.

  Confusion fought for control of his mind. He had an unconscious wingman flying into oblivion and a brother on the ground counting on Sam to help keep him alive. He had just about made his decision when streaks flashed past his canopy, then a violent vibration shook him to the bone. A silver shape tore through the air over his Raptor, then climbed straight up and rolled over to bank into a turn. Every pilot in the world would have recognized the sleek nose and graceful wings as one of the most famous planes in history.

  “P-51 Mustang…” he muttered to himself.

  It had to be a hundred years old, nearly extinct even before the Reset. Each one had been worth millions, lovingly restored by those with means who wished to possess what most considered to be the best propeller-driven plane ever created. Admiration quickly gave way to concern; the P-51 wasn’t there for an airshow, it was there to kill him and Stinson. Sam took a quick assessment of his plane’s damage. Slight vibration in the stick, fuel pressure dropping slowly, no fire, responsiveness okay.

  He made a difficult decision. There was literally nothing he could do for Stinson, but he could save his plane, get it fixed and get back in the fight. That was his only option. Sam pushed the stick forward and made for the airfield full throttle, feeling the seconds tick away and waiting for another burst to come ripping through the cockpit and him. The most dangerous time for any warplane is landing, staying perfectly stationary in a slow descent. Today’s landing wouldn’t be one for the training manual; he came down quicker than he ever had, bouncing the landing gear hard enough to knock his breath out, then zigzagging as much as he could as he taxied towards the hangars. Two Snapping Turtles assigned to defend the airfield had their 50-caliber top-mount machine guns elevated and firing at something. But Sam didn’t turn around to look at what their target was, he just kept praying he could get this plane off the runway and out of it before bullets ripped them both to shreds.

  The Raptor came to a stop about forty yards from two service trucks racing towards him at top speed. He was unbuckled and opening the cockpit without waiting for the plane to roll to a complete stop. For the first time in his life, he wanted out of the plane and onto the ground. He fought down panic, embarrassed for thinking of his own survival. He should have turned to fight, even if the Mustang had every advantage over his modified crop duster.

  Sam was on the asphalt and jogging towards the service truck, not stopping to look at the damage or to speak with the ground crew. He just wanted to be left alone for a moment, to get his bearings, get a grasp on what had happened. Crouched over and grabbing his knees, feeling nauseous, his head was spinning as he fell back against the hard metal side of the truck.

  A familiar voice and touch raised his head. Celeste was there, out of breath after running from the hangar. She’d heard the planes flying overhead, seen a Raptor crash…and felt guilt for being relieved it wasn’t her husband’s. The look on her face was a mix of compassion and sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

  Sorry for what? he thought bitterly. Sorry I almost died? That I was a sitting duck and there was nothing I could do but wait for a bullet to the back of the head…

  Horrified, he stood up and circled around the truck to the landing strip. Every member of the ground crew was standing and staring. Several hundred yards north of the airfield was a rising pillar of black smoke, a billowing tombstone marking the final resting place of Stinson’s Raptor. He didn’t need to be told what had happened. The Mustang chose the easy target to kill, the one that flew straight and true, never moving while guns ripped it to shreds and sent it into the earth in fiery pieces.

  Sam’s horror turned to agony, then sorrow, then rage.


  “Get my plane fixed, or get me another one!” he shouted to the ground crew. “Now!”

  Celeste wanted to argue with him, to talk him out of going back up. But that was beyond pointless. All she could do now was try to get him the best weapon available to fight an impossible fight with a vastly superior enemy—if that enemy could be found before killing any more Raptors.

  Chapter Eight

  Wabash Valley Correctional Facility

  Outside Carlisle – Territory of Vincennes

  Alex was exhausted, though he tried desperately not to show his men. They were all hunkered down in tall grass and thick brush. A narrow gray strip lay in between the group, split into two columns on either side of a county road. Just ahead lay the remains of an electrical substation, long ago fried by the solar storms and stripped of any remaining useful pieces. Just south of that stood the tattered walls of a large maintenance shed, one which should have collapsed long ago. But the walls were upright, though skewed at odd angles. In the dim light of dawn, overgrown plants engulfing everything most of the surrounding landscape were trampled down around the walls. An odd clearing provided line of sight from the north side of the building all the way down old highway 41 nearly to the Bear Run bridge.

  Large explosions flared behind a tree line just past the shed. The Challengers of the armored column were shelling the prison, trying to take out the mortars lobbing shells back at them. Alex wasn’t confident they’d silence all the Vincennes troops; he didn’t know the size of the garrison or how deep they were dug in. If they were the former Marines that made up the heart of Hopkins’ army, they’d hunker down and wait for the shelling to stop. He hoped they weren’t; with luck they were just local militia who had never faced real battle before.