by John Bowers
Bastards!
The comm rang. Oliver ignored it for a moment, then saw the caller's identity and activated the display.
"Oliver Lincoln."
The man staring out at him was in uniform, a pinched look on his face.
"Mr. Lincoln, this is Colonel Conklin from North American Space Traffic Command. Have you been notified that a military space strike has been detected in the atmosphere?"
"Yes, Colonel, we picked it up on our radar. We already have our employees under cover and we've closed our facility to all traffic."
"Good. You are hereby directed to shut down your transmitters, your radars, and your VOR. Do that now, please, and take cover yourself."
Oliver stood motionless for an instant, then shook his head.
"Sorry, Colonel, I can't do that yet. I still have a fighter in the air. As soon as he lands …"
"This is a global emergency, Mr. Lincoln," Conklin said coldly. "You will comply immediately or face Federation charges. I am giving you a direct order to shut down your transmitters."
The speakers on the wall behind Oliver blurted to life.
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. You've got two strikes inbound your position. Do you copy?"
"Negative, Colonel," Oliver said irritably. "I told you, I have a fighter out there, and I'm not shutting down until he lands. The minute he's on the ground I will shut everything down."
Conklin's face turned ugly. "I don't have time for this, Lincoln!" he barked. "Your transmitters, and especially your VOR, are leading the Sirians directly toward you. Shut them down now, or face the consequences!"
"Trust me, Colonel, the Sirians don't need my VOR to find this place. They've known where it is for forty years."
Johnny Lincoln's exasperated voice blurted from the speakers again.
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. Do you copy?"
"This is your final warning, Lincoln!" Conklin said. "You are in violation of a direct Federation order!"
Oliver's temper flashed.
"Duly noted," he replied coldly. "So come and arrest me!"
He cut the link with Conklin and turned to answer Johnny's call. As he reached for the transmit button, the first cruise missile from the Sirian strike force streaked in from the southwest and detonated two hundred yards away. The blast ripped the windows out of the control tower and swept away the antennae on the roof. Oliver Lincoln III was hurled across the room in a red haze of concussion and flying glass.
Chapter 3
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo! Do you read me, goddammit!"
Johnny Lincoln pounded his knee with a fist as repeated calls to LincEnt went unanswered. He checked his radar again and saw the two strikes headed for LincEnt — they hadn't arrived yet, so why didn't the tower respond? He had no answer, but his imagination supplied a number of possibilities, none of them pleasant. He streaked southeast at over fifteen hundred knots, level at thirty thousand feet, well aware that his altitude and the resulting contrails made him a visible target. But he needed the speed — to go lower would mean increased drag and the danger of overheating in heavier air, which could damage sensitive components.
He scanned his instruments instinctively, but kept a close eye on the threat radar. The red VR symbols were falling behind to his right as he started across their path. Loveland was coming up on his left, and blue symbols were vectoring in his direction from there. His helmet radio still carried Loveland chatter. With any luck, he could get clear before they met the enemy…
"Attent!" his AI alerted, "detecting intercept course from friendlies at three five one relative, closure rate two thousand knots. Intercept in two minutes!"
One of the blue blips had turned toward him, and at that moment his passive radar squealed a warning — he was being painted!
Shit!
He hesitated for only an instant, then chinned his transmit mike.
"Loveland Control, Sierra Foxtrot 44 Echo! I am an experimental fighter out of Lincoln Enterprises; one of your squadrons is vectored in my direction. Call them off, please! I'm on your side, and I'm just trying to get home."
Silence filled the ether for the space of ten seconds before the controller responded. The blue blips were still closing.
"Forty-four Echo, Loveland Control. Squawk ident, please."
Johnny's tension eased — the transponder would identify him as a friendly and call off Loveland's dogs. He reached for the squawk button.
"Attent, we are under attack!"
Blue light streaked past his cockpit and he felt something go bang. Without a thought he jerked his yoke to the left and rolled on his axis, kicking rudder at the same moment. Heavy G's crushed him into his seat as the fighter responded, leaving him breathless and speechless. Heavy thunderclaps hammered him as four Sirian fighters swept past.
Johnny rolled out of the turn and felt the G's fall away, sat breathing hard as he reviewed his radars again. How had he let the fuckers slip up on him like that? How had the software let it happen? He'd have to mention that to Hatley, when he got home again.
If he got home.
"Damage report!" he gasped.
"Surface damage only," the AI replied. "No degradation to flight integrity."
Johnny blinked away his double vision and tried to locate his attackers. It seemed unlikely they would let him —
"Attent —"
"Shit!"
Blue laser blinded him as one of the Sirians made a second pass, this one down the throat. Johnny took a retinal snapshot of the enemy fighter filling his windscreen as he rolled to the right in a panic turn. Again the sonic thunderclap rocked him, and the QF staggered in spite of its speed. Dimly, he was aware of three more Sirians turning in on him from the left, blue pulse-lasers smoking past his cockpit as they competed for the kill. Johnny kept spinning on his axis, somehow avoiding the lasers, well aware he was in over his head. Sweat poured into his eyes as the fighter spun like a bullet; he blinked insanely but couldn't wipe it away.
He stopped the spin and tried to catch his breath, but another look at his threat radar showed the bastards coming around again in a wide turn. His heart hammered wildly as he tried to think. He had no training for this! He could fly and he could shoot, but he knew nothing about tactics! What would a professional fighter pilot do now?
He had no idea. But if he was going to survive, he'd better do something — and right goddamned now!
He rolled left again and kicked his rockets. If nothing else, it would buy him time — a few seconds at least. Goddammit, why didn't they go find those fuckers from Loveland! He was no threat to them!
Or was he?
"Input!" he panted, "unlock turret! Activate gun switches." The guns were locked down, but fully armed. This morning's test had depended on the fighter being fully loaded and combat-ready, carrying the weight of a full munitions load. The only thing that wasn't armed was the turret laser, which was for use in outer space only.
His body hummed with nervous tension. Leaning forward against the heavy G-thrust of rocket acceleration, Johnny checked his HH again and saw the four Sirians falling back slightly, but still following. Fifty miles to the west, at least another dozen were still on course, but the fighters from Loveland had adjusted course and were burning directly toward them. In another minute, that situation was going to turn bloody.
"Info:" the AI said. "Gun turret ready for operation."
"Track enemy fighters!" Johnny said tersely. "Standard target profile, fire as necessary."
The four Sirians were still after him, but the range was opening. They hadn't gone to rocket power yet, so he adjusted his course toward LincEnt and let the rockets burn another thirty seconds. Suddenly the radio chatter from Loveland's fighters filled his ears and he realized the battle had been joined. Far to the northwest, flame and smoke smeared the pristine sky, and the four Sirians turned back to help their squadron.
Johnny watched to make sure they were really gone, then killed his rockets and sagged in his seat, blood slowly returning to
his head from the sudden loss of G's. His skin tingled and he felt drained. He wasn't safe yet, but at least nothing lay between him and home. He'd be there in another nine minutes.
* * *
Antonio Romero reached the Executive Tower three minutes after Angela's call, bringing the company medic with him. Elaine Waterbury was still conscious, panting weakly, her forehead knitted from the concentration of trying to breathe. Angela still knelt beside her, monitoring her pulse.
"Excuse me."
The medic set down a portable diagnostic machine and knelt beside the stricken woman. Angela scrambled out of his way. Her eyes fixed on Romero.
"What's happening outside?" she demanded. "You said something about an air raid?"
The security guard nodded.
"Probably nothing to worry about," he said. "It's just a precaution."
"What do you mean? Is it an air raid or not?"
"It is. Looks like the Sirians are coming. But they'll be after military installations. I doubt if they'll hit Denver."
Angela's dark eyes were wide with fear. "We're a defense plant!" she reminded him. "Are they coming this way?"
He just nodded.
The A-G lift swished open and two men entered carrying a gurney. The medic gave them terse instructions and they lifted Mrs. Waterbury onto the stretcher. She was already wearing an oxygen mask.
"Is she going to be okay?" Angela asked.
"I think so. Looks like an angina attack. Problematic, but not life-threatening yet. She'll be fine once she reaches the hospital."
"Can I go with her?"
"No," Romero said. "I want you in the basement until this alert is over."
Angela swiveled on him to plead her case. At that moment something flashed and the building heaved under her feet. She heard flying glass from Mr. Lincoln's office. Everyone staggered and the gurney toppled against a desk, which prevented it from falling over.
"Okay!" Romero shouted, "everyone into the basement! Nobody leaves until this is over! Come on, let's move it! Take the stairwell!"
The five of them manhandled the gurney into the stairwell and started down. The stairs sparkled with shattered glass and a stiff morning breeze swirled through the empty windows. Romero went first, followed by the ambulance crew, the medic, and Angela. It was slow going and Angela had to wait. Fear surged through her body; she looked out the broken window with dread-filled eyes, saw a towering column of smoke on the other side of the complex, but couldn't tell exactly what had been hit.
They worked their way down to the fourth floor, made the turn on the landing, then came abreast of another shattered window. Angela looked out again, and frowned in puzzlement as she caught the sound of a rising shriek, unlike anything she'd ever heard. It seemed to be coming from the sky, but —
Two more cruise missiles impacted on the factory grounds — the blast slammed Angela into the starcrete wall, then she was tumbling head over heels down the stairwell toward the third floor landing.
* * *
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. Do you copy?"
Johnny Lincoln had dropped down to twenty thousand feet, high enough to give him plenty of clearance over the towering Rockies below, yet low enough to give him altitude options in either direction. He was still pulling contrails, but they hardly mattered now. He hadn't dropped his speed an inch. His skin temp was rising, but that no longer mattered, either. LincEnt wasn't answering his calls, and his radar sweep showed an enemy squadron almost on top of it; Fed fighters out of Colorado Springs had engaged the second strike force, so it wasn't an immediate threat.
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. Goddammit, do you copy?"
Nothing.
Johnny sucked a deep breath and talked quietly to his AI. He wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen next, but he was probably going to get his ass smoked. Well, c'est la vie.
He checked his radars again — nothing coming up behind him, nothing above or to the sides. Just that one squadron dead ahead, maybe two minutes from LincEnt. Nine ships, if he read the data correctly. Nine against one. This probably wouldn't take long.
He flexed the fingers on his left hand, then the right, rotating the wrist to relax it before gripping the yoke again.
"Record macro," he said to the AI.
"Recording."
"Execute auto defensive fire mode. Track and fire as needed, but conserve ammunition. End macro."
"Macro recorded and saved."
He reached for the master arming switch, then realized he'd never turned it off after the test. He toggled the switches for the remaining five warshots so they'd be ready when he needed them. They would fire in sequence, one at a time, each time he touched the firing button. He could also fire them by voice command, but at the moment felt more secure doing it manually.
It seemed he ought to be doing something else, but he couldn't imagine what. The AI had its instructions, his systems were already in combat mode. Nothing to do now but keep flying south.
Straight into the jaws of death.
Oslo, Norway. Terra
Onja Kvoorik rose as Sgt. Konrad entered the room. She'd been waiting a half-hour, unconsciously twining her fingers, a million thoughts passing through her head. What was taking so long? Had she failed the medical? Was her citizenship in question? Would they reject her? What would she do if they did?
But Konrad was smiling.
"Congratulations, Miss Ka-vorik!" he beamed. "Your medical exam was excellent and your documentation is all in order. Did you want to take the oath today, or do you need …"
"Yes," she said quickly. "Today. Right now."
His eyebrows arched, but his smile never faltered.
"Excellent. Will you require a Bible?"
"Excuse me?"
"The oath is administered on a holy book. Which one do you prefer? Are you Christian?"
She shook her head in confusion.
"Perhaps the Qur'an?"
"No," she said. "I mean, I don't care. Whatever you have is fine."
"The Bible then?"
"Yes, fine."
Konrad reached into a desk, withdrew a beautifully bound Bible, and pressed the intercom. "I need witnesses in here," he said.
Another door opened and two young uniformed women entered the room. Onja barely glanced at them as they smiled at her. Konrad stood before her and held the book in his left hand.
"Raise your right hand," he said, "and place your left on the book."
Onja did so, her heart thumping. It was the culmination of a goal, the first of many she'd set for herself. Her breath came a little faster.
"Repeat after me. 'I, Onja Ka-vorik, do solemnly swear'…"
Onja repeated the oath word for word.
"I, Onja Kvoorik, do solemnly swear …
"that I will faithfully defend the Constitution of the United Solar Federation against all enemies, foreign and domestic …
"that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same …
"that I take this obligation freely, without mental reservation or purpose of evasion …
"and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter."
"'So help me God.'"
"So help me god."
Konrad reached for her right hand and shook it.
"Congratulations, Recruit. Welcome to the Space Force."
The two young women also shook her hand, and Onja felt her face flush with pleasure. At that moment, the door from an inner office burst open, and another officer stood there looking flushed.
"Achtung!" he shouted. "Das Sirians sind Bombardierung Nordamerika! Der Krieg hat begonnen!"
"Gott im Himmel! " Konrad turned pale, his mouth dropping open. He spun to look at the girls, who looked just as stricken. Onja seized him by the arm.
"What is it?" she demanded. "I don't speak German — what did he say?"
Konrad blinked at her as if he didn't recognize her.
"War!" he gasped. "The Sirians are bombing North America!"
Denver, CO, Terra
Johnny dove down to fifteen thousand, barely enough to clear the highest peaks, and turned a few degrees to port. His course would take him right over the Lincoln family mansion, a few miles northwest of the LincEnt complex. Once he was clear of the mountains he dove again, down to a thousand feet above the deck, hoping to occult his radar image if the Sirians had picked him up. He shut down his own radar sweep after one last check, making himself even harder to find. He adjusted to 180 degrees and nudged his throttles back, letting his speed drop until he was barely above Mach 1; this was going to happen awfully fast, and he needed as much time as possible to eyeball the situation as it developed.
Directly ahead he saw LincEnt sprawling in the morning sun. Thick clouds of black smoke rolled heavenward, and he felt an icy hand clutch his heart.
Was he too late?
But most of the plant was still intact, he realized as he swept over it. The enemy must have fired cruise missiles, but the bombers themselves hadn't arrived yet.
Then he saw them.
They were about fifty degrees to his right, maybe twenty miles out, just sparkles in the sun. He felt the blood drain out of his face. He rolled to the right, pulling a medium-G turn as he lined them up. Nine of them.
Dead ahead.
At fifteen thousand feet.
He felt a stab of fear as he realized his mistake — whoever holds the high ground has the advantage, and that applied to aerial combat as well. Damn it!
He tugged back on the yoke and began to climb, well aware that the closure rate was too high for him to reach altitude in time. He had bare seconds before he would be on them — or they would be on him.
"Input," he said with a constricted throat, "execute macro!"
He heard the turret whining behind him, but nothing happened immediately. The Sirians were growing larger by the second, looking like fat wedges as they flashed sunlight back at him. They were in pair formation, four sections, with a leader out in front. Johnny had reached twelve thousand when his turret spewed flame and he heard the rapid stutter of 29mm cannon shells ripping through the rotating barrels behind him. To his utter astonishment, the lead Sirian began to disintegrate before his eyes as explosions flowered along its fuselage. Flame erupted, smoke billowed, and just that quickly the lead ship rolled away to the left in a fatal dive.
