“No, Colonel. You will not ‘take care of them later’,” General Reed commanded. “Do you think you are the only one here who speaks Russian? As I said, this is my base. Now, go to your quarters. Immediately.”
Colonel Antonov stomped off.
“Captain.”
“Sir!”
“Escort these personnel to the hangar. We need to get this show on the road.”
“Yes, Sir.” Ichiro and the female officers came to attention, saluted the General, about faced and fell in behind Torbin. With near practiced precision, the five officers marched in step to the main hangar. Colonel Tanaka gave a short crisp bow to General Reed. “General, I do not wish to intrude, but there is a matter of honor...”
“Colonel, with all due respect, after the Squids leave, you can have all the duels over honor you want. Hell, I’ll probably volunteer to be your second. But right now, I’ve been tasked to form an alliance out of very limited resources, and since we here in the U.S.A. have a civilian government in control, I do what I’m told. So, sorry, everything else is on hold.”
Tanaka took a deep breath then let it out slowly. “I understand, General. Please accept my apologies if Lt. Yamamoto has caused you any difficulties.”
“Colonel, Lt. Yamamoto reacted the way any young man with a sense of decency would react. Yes, I saw the black eye. As the ‘old fart in charge’, I have to keep the men from fighting each other so that they may fight the real enemy. Agreed?”
“Yes, General. I will explain this to Lt. Yamamoto.”
“Thank you kindly, Colonel. Now, I think you will find what is in that hangar very interesting…”
When Torbin and his little formation reached the hangar, they found that the rest of the personnel from the previous briefings were already in attendance, their attention focused on what was in the main hangar. No one else had seen the outside action, and Torbin was not about to share the situation with any of the others, including the three Butterbars.
The center of everyone’s attention was a tall man hosing down a Tschaaa delta that was propped up and supported by a series of large jack stands. A large drainage tank set up around the aircraft was catching the run off. This was a different craft than the delta in the photos from the briefing the day before. Torbin told the Russians and Ichiro to find some seats in the small set of bleachers that had been set up, and he approached the tall man with the hose.
“Good afternoon, Pappy.”
Without taking his eyes from the task at hand, Pappy responded, “Hello, Captain. Looks like a fairly large audience today. I hope everyone is ready to pay attention.”
“As prepared as can be expected, Pappy. Are you just about ready to begin the dog and pony show?”
“Just as soon as I wash this thing off one more time. Despite all of our decontamination procedures, I keep getting fluctuating readings of high radiation. I can only surmise that the organically grown skin has pieces of radioactive dust and crap imbedded in the odd spot here and there, and that one more wash down will free up the crap causing the readings. As it is, I would limit direct contact with this bird to about five minutes. I have radiation detectors for everyone to attach to their pockets so we can keep track of their exposure.”
“Thanks, Pappy. Let me get them handed out, and I’ll introduce you.”
Five minutes later, exposure strips handed out, Torbin began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. The tall man with the hose and salt and pepper hair is Peter ‘Pappy’ Gunn. Gunn is a former Army Chief Warrant Officer, who told our elected officials that he would not be re-drafted into the military when they tried to about five years ago. However, he hinted me might be able to convince him to work as a civilian consultant, as long as we keep him supplied with enough cigars to chew on and enough cold beer to drink.” There was some light laughter. “Wisely, Madam President agreed, and he is here with us today, all six foot six of him.”
“Oh, and for you history buffs out there, our ‘Pappy’ is related to another famous ‘Pappy’ Gunn of World War Two fame. That Pappy became famous for cobbling together various weapon systems to use on our aircraft in the Southwest Pacific, back when Japan and the U.S. were at war. I bet you that if we had known the Squids were nearing our neighborhood, the war would have ended real quick.”
Torbin continued. “Be that as it may, our Pappy Gunn is carrying on a proud tradition of figuring out all things weapon related. He will therefore be able to go into much more detail concerning the threats and weapons I mentioned yesterday. Please pay attention. Pappy has a wealth of information to pass on in a limited amount of time. Pappy.”
Pappy Gunn walked to the front of the bleachers, all six feet, six inches of him. Tall and lanky, he had a reputation of somehow twisting and wrapping his frame into and around the piece of equipment he was examining. Perhaps that was part of the secret way he always managed to figure out to some degree or another how something worked.
“Afternoon. I know the good Captain gave you some information on who–or what– we are facing in this conflict. Here, in this hangar, I hope to pass on some more details on weapons and threats of the Squids. Hopefully you will also share some information with me. Every little bit helps, and even after six years of fighting with an enemy that has little concept of information security, there is still a lot to learn.”
He turned and walked back toward the delta.“We obtained this little gem just two weeks ago. A survivalist from Idaho walked all the way from near the Washington-Idaho border to tell us about it. He is in the hospital being treated for radiation exposure, as he was in and around this delta prior to decontamination, as well as the Hanford mega explosion.”
Pappy pointed to the starboard side. “This delta was apparently in the air when Hanford blew, and all this area here took some blast energy that fried the right ramjet and singed that area forward.”
“The Squid pilot must have been a hotshot as he found a long stretch of highway in southwest Idaho and landed this bird.” He pointed to the three large wheels, one in the nose, and one projecting from each wing. “This landing gear–and I use that term loosely–is basically wheels that were added as an apparent afterthought. They only have large coil springs to absorb landing shock, and the brakes are comparable to a 1955 Chevy sedan. The Squid must have been good to keep from bouncing off the road into the ditch. This craft was clearly designed to operate from space and return to a low orbit station.”
Pappy continued. “The Squid was nowhere to be found, so we assume a Falcon picked him up. How much radiation the body absorbed is hard to say, but since the geiger counters were having fits when we found the delta, there is a good chance he is buried in a lead box somewhere, if the Squids even bury their dead.”
“The radioactivity is the reason, we believe, no one tried to salvage it. We know the Squids are sensitive about all types of contamination and poisoning, as they are afraid their young will be affected. The original plague that killed off much of their meat supply, their primary food, must have been devastating.”
“The Squids left everything behind. We found in the craft the following.”
Pappy motioned to an airman in a decontamination suit to wheel a cart close enough to the bleachers for the personnel to see. Pappy used a laser pointer to help in the examination of the equipment mounted on display boards.
“This medieval-looking thing is their equivalent of a crescent shaped sword or ax. See the thin wire or cable strung between the ends of the crescent? That is a monofilament, a monomolecular strand of condensed material that has the capability of slicing through all known metals when enough force is applied to it. We have one good report of a robocop using one to slice off the barrel of an Abrams main tank gun. The curved blade on the other end of the four foot shaft has a point on it made from a tungsten alloy. Makes a dandy can opener on soft skinned vehicles.”
Ichiro raised his hand. “Mr. Gunn. I have seen a cruder version of that, with a sharp blade suspended in
place of the cutting strand.”
Pappy shot him a quizzical look. “Oh really? What was the situation?”
“Young Tschaaa warriors are raiding our shores, coming from the sea, looking for individual combat.”
“That’s very interesting. I would like some more details when you get a chance.”
“Hai! Of course, sir.”
Pappy continued. “A large multi-charge pulse rifle. We usually see these in the hands of robocops, but, at least in the early days of the Invasion, the Squids seemed to have carried them also. They can penetrate the side armor of a tank at close range.”
He then pointed out a long projectile, just under two meters long. “The three inch missile, launched from the delta, although some multiple ground mounts were seen at the end of organized resistance. The missile is guided by an organic based artificial intelligence seeker, which bore sights on anything moving. Once it gets locked on, the Rube Goldberg-looking mass of little holes–actually maneuver rockets openings–twists and turns that thing around like it was fluid. The warhead is equivalent to our old three-inch explosive shell, overkill on a jet fighter, somewhat effective on ground targets. Usually only one or two mounted per delta.”
Pappy moved a bit closer to the aircraft itself. He used the laser pointer to outline the salient features of the craft. “That long thin nose contains a high energy plasma pulse weapon, the science of which we are just now figuring out. It can blast through a tank’s armor at a thousand meters, no sweat. At longer ranges, even though the pulse or beam dissipates in atmosphere, it still contains enough oomph to fry electronic guidance and radio systems. Humans in the open are dead. The only good thing about this for us is that the amount of energy or charge for this weapon seems to be limited. We have reports of deltas using it at full power twice in one mission, no more.”
“These two barrel-shaped protrusions near each side of the cockpit are just that, barrels. These are the downsized version of electromagnetic rail guns, which fire 32mm long dart-like projectiles at two thousand meters a second. The kinetic energy is sufficient to blast most of what it hits. They also have an organic-based AI system that tracks motion, and small retractable maneuver fins that allow them to twist and turn after the target. When the velocity drops at very long ranges, there is still a small explosive charge in the warhead that goes off a second after impact. It’s rather anemic, but can blow the head off an unprotected human, hole a thin vehicle body, and shatter cockpit glass.”
“They are fired in pairs, with only ten in a drum per gun. No spray and pray for
Squids, everything is based on guidance.”
Pappy then pointed to openings near the cockpit. “As was mentioned before, two scramjet type engines that can propel the delta to at least Mach 3.5 by our radar track, but examination of the engines show a potential of Mach 5 or more. The rear nozzles can be tilted five degrees in any direction, aiding in maneuvering. The large center engine is a type of gravity or magnetic pulse engine, which is used to kick the delta into outer space, or accelerate from zero to five hundred knots in a second from a standing start. We are still trying to figure it out. The cockpit is a self-contained unit that is filled with heated water when a Squid flies, so the cushioning effect plus Squid body design means high-G, instantaneous maneuvers have little effect on them. The cockpit is the G suit. A small crude oxygen tank is used to keep the water oxygenated for the Squids. Their gills work well enough that they do not need a separate pressurized air system.”
Pappy Gunn faced his audience.
“The delta, like most Squid machines, is some ninety percent organic in nature. This means, the outer shell is grown like a crustacean’s mantle. This system makes for a very tough piece of equipment, like metal armor in its capabilities. We shape metal and ceramics to make our equipment, the Squids can grow theirs, then have metal and ceramic add-ons as needed. Small low orbit maneuver rockets are embedded in the organic body after the delta is grown. All of these characteristics result in an air and limited spacecraft built for hit and run strikes from low orbit. They land on Earth only rarely, or in this case, because the Squid flew too close to a nuclear blast.”
“We have yet to recover a Falcon. We do have some jim dandy news film of one being rammed by one of our fighters and going in.”
Not again, Torbin thought. He tried to steel himself for watching the news footage once more. He should be used to it by now. But when a large television monitor was wheeled in front of the assembled personnel, and the footage began to play, Torbin stood up abruptly and walked to the latrine. He splashed his face with cold water, and stood by the sink, waiting. He had seen a lot of people die. But he would not watch his brother William die, over and over again on film. Not for anything or anyone. He waited while Pappy finished covering what was shown on the news footage, knowing it was over when one of the Japanese officers entered the latrine. He started to exit and almost ran over Ichiro.
“Torbin-San. Are you well?”
“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.”
He continued walking outside the hangar. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face, while taking slow, deep breaths. He felt a touch on his arm, and opened his eyes to see Aleksandra Smirnov, blackened eye and all, standing near him.
“You knew the pilot in that news footage, the one that rammed the Falcon.”
Torbin took another breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, Captain, I knew him. Hell, Ma’am, I grew up with him! That was my brother, William.” Aleksandra silently stood by his side. “He went the officer’s route and joined the Air Force, I guess to show his Jarhead year older brother that he was better at something. And after all the shit I went through, the action I saw before he even got his wings, he goes and gets himself killed as a hero.”
He then noticed Ichiro was also standing nearby. “Torbin-san, all Japanese pilots have heard about the American who took down the three alien craft from stories told by surviving American servicemen in Japan. But, we have never seen the recording before. Some believed maybe it was an exaggeration. Now, we know it was not.”
“No, Ichiro, it happened. A day doesn’t go by that I wish it was a myth, an exaggeration, and William will magically appear so that I can buy him a drink. But that’s not going to happen.”
Torbin took one more breath, and then turned to walk back into the hangar to complete the briefings. “Well, like my Grandpa used to say, daylight’s a-wastin’. Shall we finish this?”
As they re-entered the hangar, Ichiro said a little prayer to himself, and thought what an honor it was to have met Torbin Bender. He prayed that his ancestors would help keep his new friend safe. He tightly gripped his family sword, the hard reality of the cold metal giving him a measure of comfort in an uncertain world.
It had been long day for the General. Another in a line of long days. He sat at his desk, wondering if he would ever have a “normal” day again. Then he realized he was having trouble remembering what a normal day was like. Master Sergeant Johansson, late of the Minnesota National Guard, knocked on his door jam, stuck his head in and announced, “Captain Bender here as requested, Sir.”
“Good. Send him in, please.”
Torbin marched in, saluted at attention. “Reporting as ordered, Sir.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat, Captain.”
“Sergeant Johansson,” the General called out. “Go ahead and take off. Please shut the door when you leave.”
“Sir, I could stay, I have...”
“Sergeant, did I stutter?”
“No Sir. Have a nice night, Sir.” After he heard the outer door shut, General Reed addressed Torbin.
“Relax, dammit. That’s an order.” He reached into his desk, and pulled out an unopened bottle of twelve year old scotch. He then stood up, glared at Torbin when he started to stand, and walked over to his small refrigerator.
“I guess that jerry-rigging the Sergeant did was good. It’s making ice again.” General Reed put ice cubes into
two glasses, and walked back to his desk, setting one glass in front of Torbin. With practiced ease, he opened the bottle of scotch, and poured a good two ounces in each glass.
“This is single malt scotch. I never thought I would be pouring it for and sharing it with a mustang Jarhead Captain, but here we are.”
“I never thought I’d be sharing twelve year old scotch with an Air Force Puke General. No offense meant, Sir.”
General Reed chuckled. “None taken, Torbin.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping and enjoying the scotch.
General Reed reached into the left hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a double picture frame. He set it on the desk so Torbin could see it.
“Torbin, how long have we known each other?
“Almost five years, General.”
“Ever seen these photos before?”
“No, Sir, I haven’t.”
“That is my wife, Ivana. Those are my two boys, Matt and Mark. She’s the reason I speak Russian.”
Torbin looked at the photo. The woman was a knockout with dark hair, a model’s body and smoldering eyes. “You wife is beautiful, and your sons are handsome boys.”
“Yes, they are. They were. I assume they are dead, as she was visiting relatives in Russia, outside Moscow, when the Squids hit us.”
He took a large slug of his scotch, then refilled both glasses.
“I met her when I was an Air Force attaché at the embassy in Moscow. I was a young Light Colonel, never married, fast burner. I had been an A-10 driver, then a Special Ops pilot when I wrangled the Moscow assignment as part of an intelligence gathering effort. I wanted some career broadening and I wanted General’s stars.”
General Reed took another drink. “I met Ivana at some embassy function and fell madly in love. She was an interpreter, spoke better English than I did, and taught me Russian. I was told that marrying a Russian national, thanks to Putin and company, was probably not a good career move. But she was literally, no bullshit, my first and only great love.”
The Gathering Storm Page 13
