by John Bowers
God damn!
A sharp tone in his headset indicated missile lock on another Sirian, so he thumbed the firing button. A missile dropped out of his portside wing tube and fell away behind, then blazed forward like a Roman candle. The targeting system immediately picked up a second target, indicated missile lock, and he fired again.
But already the Sirians were scattering. Four broke away to the left and four more to the right. Johnny's missiles twisted to follow those that had broken left, so he rolled on his own axis to follow the other four. He no longer had surprise on his side, but if his luck held …
Missile lock! He fired a third time, but the four ships ahead of him were splitting up again, two left and two right. His missile followed two, he went after the other pair. Behind him the sky erupted brilliantly. His autocannon was spitting flame again, and one of the Sirians ahead began to shed pieces of metal; but its pilot dived out of the line of fire and kept flying, trailing streams of smoke. Johnny had one more directly ahead, but it was twisting madly to get out of his way.
The sky erupted again, and then a third time. He heard the WHAAM! behind him, and knew at least that his missiles had gone off — what damage they'd done remained to be seen.
The Sirian ahead twisted left, right, left again. Johnny followed him easily. Flying came as natural as walking. He was about to fire his fourth missile — only two were left — when the AI sprayed the Sirian with cannon fire. Once again Johnny saw pieces flying into the Sirian's slipstream, so he relaxed his trigger finger. But he stayed on the enemy's tail to give his AI time to finish the job.
"Attent! We are under fire!"
The turret whined as it spun to meet the new threat; something hit the QuasarFighter like a sledgehammer and red lights erupted across his instrument panel.
Fuck!
He rolled hard left and kicked rudder as adrenaline flooded his system. Sweat rolled into his eyes and his breathing became labored as the G's built up; the fighter was no longer flying smoothly, but seemed to resist him as he held it in a tight, high-G turn.
"Damage report!" he grunted as he manhandled the yoke.
The AI rapidly rattled off the details — the main fuselage behind the turret had been ripped by laser fire and two control surfaces had buckled.
His speed was dropping, he realized, because the surface damage had increased his drag. He nudged the throttles forward to compensate and rolled out of his turn, heading due east now. The QF tried to roll on him but he held it with an effort, fighting the yoke against the supersonic air pressure screaming over his ragged control surfaces. A glance at his threat screen showed two Sirians directly behind him, barely two miles away, and it looked like they were closing. Johnny gulped down his fear and nudged his throttles again, wondering how he'd get out of this one.
* * *
Oliver Lincoln III found his feet and stood swaying. Blood streamed into his eyes from cuts on his scalp, but no bones appeared to be broken, and by some miracle, the flying glass had missed his eyes. How long had he been unconscious? He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand and surveyed the damage in the control tower
The equipment glittered in the sunlight, covered by glass shards, but the radar sweeps were still active, so the power hadn't been cut. Still blinking against streaming blood, he peered out the gaping windows at three towering columns of smoke rising from fires about the complex. For just an instant he was surprised the damage wasn't worse, then realized the main strike hadn't arrived yet. How long had it been? Maybe he'd better evacuate.
He leaned over the comm console and keyed the transmitter.
"Forty-four Echo, LincEnt Control. John, where are you?"
No answer. He tried again, then again. Nothing. Fear stabbed him — was Johnny unable to answer, or —
A familiar rising shriek approached from the north and the tower suddenly rocked under a sonic boom. Oliver ducked reflexively, then saw the QF briefly as it receded again toward Denver, its jets trailing black exhaust. He felt a wave of relief, then consternation as he saw it turn hard toward the west and begin climbing above the mountains. What the hell …?
"Forty-four Echo, LincEnt Control. John, do you copy?"
He picked up a pair of binoculars and located the QF again, now a distant black speck in the west. It was still climbing, and as Oliver worked the glasses to keep it in his field of vision, his heart froze in his chest. Directly ahead of the QF, and several thousand feet higher, nine more ships were approaching. Sirians!
Oliver lowered the glasses.
"Christ, kid, get out of there!" he muttered. "What the hell are you thinking?"
A brilliant flash lit the western sky, and Oliver flinched. He put the glasses to his eyes again, but now the enemy fighters were all over the sky, spreading out in several directions. He tried to pick out the QF, but it was impossible. Could that explosion have been Johnny?
Another flash blinded him, and then a third. Oliver dropped the glasses and clawed at his eyes. The sound of the first explosion arrived, and as he blinked to recover his sight, two more hollow echoes rolled over him. Squinting, he peered out the window again, without the glasses, but could see nothing. No more flashes appeared. He sat down heavily, wondering if he'd ever see his son again.
What would he tell Rosemary? Johnny was her only child.
* * *
Angela Martinez sat in the basement while one of the ambulance men splinted her left wrist. She'd broken it when she hit the third-floor landing after the cruise missiles had exploded. It hurt like crazy, but right now it was the least of her worries. She'd heard what sounded like a fourth explosion, and was certain that more would follow. What would happen if the Executive Tower was bombed and collapsed into a heap of burning rubble? Could those in the basement survive?
Mrs. Waterbury was resting easily, unconscious now thanks to a sedative the medic had given her, but the other employees cowering in the basement shivered with fear. Even Romero's dark eyes looked wide and frightened.
Angela had the distinct impression that she was about to die, and it wasn't going to be pleasant.
* * *
Johnny Lincoln rolled to starboard as cannon fire smoked past his cockpit, then to port as the Sirians adjusted. He no longer had any illusions about being a fighter pilot — knowing how to fly was one thing, but when people were shooting at you …
He felt a sudden urge to go to the bathroom.
He wasn't sure how many were behind him — they looked like a single blip on his threat screen. He thought he'd taken out three with his missiles, and the cannon had got at least one more, possibly two. That left four at least, and they were not happy with him.
The autocannon in the turret began firing again, and Johnny rolled left and right, trying to be elusive, while he ran for — home? Even if he got there, he couldn't possibly land with these bastards chasing him.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is LincEnt experimental Sierra Foxtrot 44 Echo! I am under attack by Sirian spacecraft somewhere west of Denver, position uncertain. Any Fed fighter squadrons, acknowledge!"
He wasn't sure of the exact radio protocol, but that would have to do. He rolled left again to dodge a mountain peak directly ahead, then banked right to put it between him and the Sirians. Anything for a momentary advantage.
Now he had another problem. Denver lay directly ahead, and he didn't want to lead these fuckers over the city. LincEnt was out, because that was their target anyway. Panting against his adrenaline, he banked hard right and headed south, not sure where that would lead him, but determined to outrun his pursuers.
God! What had he got himself into?
He repeated the mayday call.
"Forty-four Echo, Wolverine 6. This is Major Bustamante of ZF-107. We are forty miles southwest of Denver. Can you head south? We'll try to intercept."
Relief washed over Johnny at the mature, confident voice in his headset. He chinned his transmitter.
"Wolverine 6, 44 Echo. I am on heading one eight zero, within
visual sight of Denver, Mach one point two, angels niner."
"Roger, 44 Echo. Climb to fifteen, give us a clear shot. Squawk ident when you reach twelve."
Johnny felt his breathing stabilize. Here was a plan, something positive to be doing, and it calmed him more than a little. He immediately eased back on the yoke, still weaving, and began a gentle climb. The Sirians stayed with him, still pursuing, but holding their fire. As he passed through ten thousand he heard a sharp tone in his headset, indicating the enemy had missile lock on him.
"Attent!" the AI warned, but Johnny had already banked hard to starboard and the tone stopped. Don't get complacent, he reminded himself. Help is coming, but it ain't here yet!
He kept climbing, aggressively evading left and right. Twenty seconds crawled by. A stream of cannon fire winked past his left wing, and he rolled to starboard again.
WHAM!
The QF jerked like a shotgunned crow and he felt his speed drop dramatically. Instantly he realized he'd been sucker-punched — the Sirians had been mapping him, noting his defensive moves; they'd used a one-two move that forced him directly into their fire.
Stupid!
"… board engine on fire!" the AI reported. "Recommend shutdown!"
Fresh fear coursed through him. This was hardly the time to be shutting down an engine, yet the fire would finish him if he didn't. He barely had enough presence of mind to realize he was at twelve thousand. He hit the transponder button to squawk his identity.
"Input: execute automatic fire suppression!" he shouted. "Shut down starboard engine!"
"Ack."
"Forty-four Echo, Wolverine 6 — we've got you, buddy. Maintain present heading, and on my mark, break left. Copy?"
"Forty-four Echo, copy!" Johnny panted, wondering if the Sirians would give him that much time. His speed was down to .9 Mach now, and struggling. They had to be overtaking him.
He heard the missile-lock tone again. He had one or two seconds, max. Out his right window, above the jagged peaks of the Rockies, he saw the Wolverines approaching from thirty degrees.
"Forty-four Echo, mark!" Wolverine 6 shouted, and Johnny broke left as hard as he dared, six G's crushing him into his seat.
Too late.
"Attent! Missile inbound! Evade! Evade!"
Thirteen fighters from Federation squadron ZF-107 streaked in from the southwest and opened fire on the remaining Sirians. Johnny was hardly aware of them — his threat screen showed the missile closing at thirty G's, almost on top of him. He increased his turn and felt his own G's build up.
"Deploy countermeasures!" he grunted. "Execute!"
The AI fired radar-blinding chaff into his slipstream, but the missile was close — too close?
The sky flashed white as the missile detonated less than a quarter-mile behind him. The blast wave hit the QF like the fist of god, but he heard nothing. The little ship lurched cruelly, flinging him against the side of the cockpit. For a few seconds he sat stunned, ears ringing; he tasted blood.
Dimly, he shook his head to clear it, uncertain if he was flying or falling. Gradually his vision cleared and he scanned his instruments. He was at eight thousand now, his speed down to .78 Mach.
Still flying.
But it was rough. The fighter bucked worse than ever, its aerodynamics shot to hell.
"Damage report."
He barely heard the AI's report. He was passing over Denver now, and concentrated on holding altitude. The city's skytowers reached toward him and he veered to starboard to avoid them. Structural damage, the AI was saying, time to land at the nearest facility. No problem, the nearest facility was only twenty miles away. But what about the Sirians?
"Wolverine 6, 44 Echo."
The other pilot's voice came back triumphantly, loud and clear.
"You're clear, 44 Echo. We got them all! Thanks for the kills!"
Johnny closed his eyes in blessed relief.
"You're more than welcome to them, Wolverine 6. Thanks for saving my ass."
"How you doing there, 44 Echo? Looks like you were throwing a lot of smoke. You gonna make it home?"
"I will now. I've got the runway on visual. Stop by for a drink some time. I'll roll out a keg for you and your men."
He heard laughter. "It's a deal, 44 Echo. Wolverine 6 out."
"Forty-four Echo."
Johnny left Denver behind and manhandled his wounded fighter a few degrees to the east. He could see the smoke from LincEnt on his port quarter. He wondered how badly the facility had been damaged.
* * *
Oliver Lincoln III stood alone in the shattered control tower and wondered what to do next. It had been six minutes since he witnessed what could only have been a battle over the mountains. Since then it had appeared quiet, and he foundered in a rare moment of indecision. Without communications he couldn't issue orders, and almost all the plant personnel were either under cover or had evacuated. He was basically alone with his thoughts. He didn't even know what was happening elsewhere with the Sirian attack, and had no immediate means of finding out.
A flash to the south, well beyond Denver, caught his attention and made him squint. He picked up the binoculars again and tried to focus in that direction. It was barely 9:00 in the morning and the sky was clear. He spotted a smoke cloud through the glasses, but couldn't make out further detail. Then he saw more flashes slightly farther west, and managed to pick out what looked like a squadron of specks in the sky. Several more quick flashes followed, and then nothing more. The specks continued on north, leaving the smoke trails behind.
Oliver lowered the glasses and pulled in a deep breath. That had looked like a battle, but where the hell was Johnny?
Another minute passed, then he saw what looked like a contrail approaching from Denver. It was heading in a northeasterly direction, and it wasn't a contrail — it was black, like a streamer of smoke. Jet exhaust? No, too thick. He put the glasses to his eyes.
"Good god!"
He keyed the transmitter again, then released it. His own transmitter was out, he realized. Whoever it was wouldn't hear him. He watched through the glasses as the fighter, struggling to stay in the air, banked left and turned on final toward the LincEnt runway. It had to be Johnny, didn't it? It had to! Who else would attempt a landing here?
He dropped the glasses as the smoking fighter sailed rapidly toward the runway, wings open and flaps down. Thick black smoke roiled from the starboard engine, but no flames were visible. Oliver gripped the broken edge of a window and held his breath as the fighter — it was definitely the QF — hurtled toward him at two hundred knots. It slammed the runway hard and blue smoke rolled off the tires. Immediately the nose nacelles began firing as reverse thrust kicked in, then the fighter streaked by just fifty yards away and disappeared down the runway, completely occluded by black smoke. Oliver watched for another heartbeat, then leapt for the stairwell.
The minute he reached the ground he set out running.
Chapter 4
Thursday, 10 August, 0220 (PCC) — Hannover, Germany, Terra
The last few hours had been a whirlwind of activity for Space Force Recruit Onja Kvoorik. Barely an hour after taking the oath of induction and learning of the Sirian attack on North America, she'd boarded an air shuttle with a half-dozen other girls for the trip to Hannover, Germany, northern Europe's primary boot camp for female recruits. There she'd joined a motley collection of girls from all across Europe, more than fifty in all. Before she had time to catch her breath, the girls were formed into ranks and told to stand at attention. Onja gave it her best approximation, but really didn't know how. Neither did anyone else.
"Listen up, you stupid cows!"
The drill instructor was the ugliest woman Onja had ever seen. Built like a nitro-cooler, chopped brown hair, and eyes that looked like prunes, her voice masculine and gravelly. Two male corporals stood flanking her, both in their thirties. They stared at the collection of youthful females with studied disdain.
"My name is Serg
eant Kerrigan. You will address me as 'Ma'am'. You will not speak unless spoken to, and when I speak to you, you will answer immediately! When you answer me, you will end every sentence with 'Ma'am'! Is that clear?"
"Yes, Ma'am," a few replied in a choked whisper.
"What was that? I didn't hear you!"
"Yes, Ma'am!"
"I can't hear you!"
"Yes, Ma'am!"
Kerrigan hardly looked impressed, but continued.
"As of this minute you are no longer civilians. What that means is that we own you, body and soul. You are now property of the Federation Space Force, so you will no longer do what you want to do, you will no longer go where you want to go, you will no longer think what you want to think. From today forward you will do what I want you to do! I am your mama, your papa, your best friend and lover. I will teach you how to stand at attention, how to salute, how to march. I will teach you how to wipe your mouth and how to wipe your butt. I will tell you when to speak, when to laugh, and when to cry."
She waved a hand to indicate the corporals.
"These handsome gentlemen are my assistants. They are Corporals Webber and Tkach. You probably think they are sexy. You probably want to fuck them. Well, forget it! They would never touch diseased cows like you! They are the finest in the Space Force, which is why they have been chosen to try to make soldiers out of you. Their orders are my orders, so you will obey them without question or face severe punishment."
Kerrigan scanned the ragged ranks again with scorn in her eyes.
"All right. The first thing we are going to do is get you to the beauty shop. Right now you look like the rejects from a Sirian whorehouse. Not even a Sirian would want to touch any of you, so we are going to get you prettied up. We don't need any whorehouse rejects in the Space Force. Right face!"
