by John Bowers
Dershowicz had told him they would cover Europe next, then Asia and Africa. That made him a little anxious — when would he ever get into a boot camp, and how long before he'd be a real Space Force pilot? Historically, the lion's share of fleet fighter pilots had been drawn from North America, Britain, Germany, Australia, and Japan. Few other regions had much tradition in that area, or much interest. Why not just hit those countries and be done with it?
He would try talking sense to Dershowicz, but he still had five days to finish the current tour. San Francisco was next, then Sacramento, Fresno, Los Angeles, and San Diego.
It was early December. As they headed south from Portland, torrential rains were soaking Oregon, but the two fighters and the transport carrying the rest of the entourage were flying at sixty thousand feet, miles above the weather. As they left the weather behind, Johnny sat relaxed and content, flying by instinct, enjoying an unrestricted view of the Pacific below and to his right. It was hard to believe a war was in progress.
They crossed into California and Walters contacted Travis Control. Johnny listened to the instructions, then made a slight course correction and began shedding altitude, a shallow glide that would end as he arrived at the traffic pattern for Travis SFB. Walters clung to his wing, and two hundred yards to their left, the transport matched their moves. He scanned his instruments and sighed. Touchdown in sixteen minutes.
Fairfield, CA, Terra — Travis Space Force Base
Onja jogged steadily around the perimeter of the base, keeping inside the forcefence, Maria Santana at her side. Most trainees used the approved jogging route, but Onja wanted to get as close to the runways as possible. Fighters took off and landed throughout the day, and she never tired of watching them, even though she'd not yet been allowed near the hangars or parking apron. Maria seemed equally obsessed.
Their route led them past the main gate, which was normally all but deserted. Today it was jammed with vehicles, and Star Police were directing traffic onto the frontage road that paralleled the fence. Thousands of cars had already parked, and crowds of people were milling about, some setting up lawn chairs, many with holocams. It looked like a holiday picnic crowd, except that the majority were people her own age.
"What the hell is going on?" she asked Maria. "Where did all these civilians come from?"
"Didn't you hear?"
"I didn't hear anything."
"That recruiting tour is coming in tonight. You know, the test pilot? Johnny Lincoln?"
"He's coming here?"
"Yes. He's going to hold a recruiting rally at Alameda tomorrow morning."
Onja stared in amazement at the growing crowd. "Do you think he's really that good?"
"Everyone seems to think so. They're still running his commercials on the holo."
Onja snorted.
"Luck," she said. "He wasn't even carrying a gunner!"
"That's the whole point. He had to fight with nothing but AI, and he wasn't even trained for combat. That has to tell you something."
"Propaganda. Nobody is that good."
* * *
Nine minutes out from Travis, the transport and two fighters were down to twenty thousand feet, still on glide path. Local time was a few minutes after 1500. Everything was routine; Johnny was barely awake. He talked to his AI just to concentrate on something.
The radio blared in his headset.
"All military spacecraft, Travis Control! This is a military emergency! Repeat, this is a military emergency!"
Johnny's eyes popped open, adrenaline coursed through him, and he found himself almost panting.
"North American Space Traffic Command has issued an alert: many unidentified spacecraft have broken atmosphere over the north-central Pacific. Pearl Harbor is under attack, and enemy squadrons are inbound for the West Coast, ETA unknown. All noncombatant craft are ordered to land at the nearest facility of any kind. All combat spacecraft, check your fuel status. If you need to land and refuel, do it now! Otherwise, remain alert and engage targets of opportunity.
"Travis Control is launching squadrons, so approach with caution.
"Travis Control, out."
Jesus Christ!
Johnny swiveled to look back at Walters, but the captain was no longer there. He'd pulled ahead and Johnny found him fifty yards in front, easing into the lead. Johnny sucked oxygen and felt himself relax just a fraction.
Walters was talking to the transport pilot, then switched to the fighter frequency.
"Just like we talked about, Lincoln. I'll take the lead, you bring up the rear. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Our number one priority is getting that transport down safely. You fall in behind him, cover his six."
"Will they even let us land, sir?"
"As soon as their squadrons launch, the runway should be clear for a few minutes. Should be open by the time we get there. You and I don't land, we just fly cover. Once he's down, we'll come around and you'll land next."
"Bullshit, sir! I'm not landing until you do!"
"Don't fuck with me, kid. That was an order. You're the star of this show and my orders are to bring you home in one piece. We can debate the details later. Got it?"
Johnny mumbled an acknowledgement.
"You okay?" Walters asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Don't worry, you'll get plenty of combat. But today is not your day."
"Yes, sir."
I ran, Dad!
* * *
Onja was approaching the hangar area — still a hundred yards away — and eyeballing the tourists when the air raid sirens began their strident whooping. The very air seemed to vibrate under the sound, and for an instant she didn't realize what it was. But one look at Maria's blanched expression confirmed her worst fears.
They stopped running and stood in confusion, not sure where they were supposed to go. Vehicles suddenly appeared from every direction, racing about the base. Fighter crews boiled out of a flight ops building and began running for their ships. In less than two minutes, GalaxyFighters were streaking down the runway, two and four at a time, lifting off under heavy thrust, flame pouring out their jets, black smoke trailing away on the chill breeze. The crowds along the frontage road looked suddenly lost, heads swiveling in all directions. Onja heard shrill voices, and hovercars began lifting off, heading back toward the main highway.
"Is it a space strike?" Maria asked breathlessly.
"It must be." Onja watched another pair of GalaxyFighters racing down the runway, then broke into a run. "Come on!"
Maria followed without question as Onja ran toward the hangars. More fighters were being rolled out as they arrived, and crews were climbing into them. People milled about in frantic activity, yelling, giving hand signals. Onja stopped just short of the parking apron and stood watching, wanting to be involved, hopelessly confused how to go about it. She spotted a pilot standing alone on the wing of his fighter. Boldly, she ran toward him.
"Excuse me!" she said, and he looked down at her. "Do you have a gunner? If you don't —"
At that moment a woman in combat gear raced out of the hangar, flight helmet under her arm. She clambered onto the wing and the pilot helped with her helmet, then secured the hatch after she crawled into the turret. He looked back at Onja, amusement in his eyes.
"I sure do, honey, but look me up after the fight. I'll buy you a beer!" He crawled into his cockpit and secured it.
"Fuck!" Onja snarled, backing away in humiliation.
"Onja, I don't think we should be here!" Maria said, taking her arm. "We could get in big trouble!"
Onja knew she was right, but she'd hoped, irrationally, that one of the pilots might need a gunner. She could do it — she hadn't finished training, but she knew she could do the job!
Jet exhaust rolled over her as more fighters streaked down the runway and into the air. She and Maria fell back against one of the buildings and watched as the last ship taxied quickly toward the runway, made its takeoff run, and di
sappeared toward the west.
The sirens continued to whoop.
* * *
"Travis Control, Sierra Tango 6," Walters said in Johnny's headset. "Request emergency landing."
"Roger, Tango 6. Turn left to heading niner zero and descend to one thousand. Be advised we may be under attack momentarily."
"Roger, Travis; we just want to get this transport down."
Johnny felt his blood pressure mount as they completed downwind and turned onto base leg. His skin crawled as he imagined Sirians appearing out of the sky behind him, but he was committed to the transport and had no choice.
"Tango 6, Travis Control — you are cleared to land."
Johnny saw Walters bank to the right and glide toward the runway, the transport two hundred yards behind him. He dropped flaps and throttled back to keep from running over the big plane. As he passed through five hundred feet something flashed ahead and to the right, then a mushroom of flame and smoke rolled into the sky. Cruise missile!
A sudden feeling of helplessness washed over him.
* * *
Concussion battered Onja and Maria when the cruise missile erupted a few hundred yards north of them. Both girls hit the ground and stayed there, hearts pounding. Where there was one cruise there would be more, and only Sophia knew what would come next. Onja suddenly realized she had no idea where the nearest bomb shelter was located.
A GalaxyFighter screamed down the runway from the east, fifty feet up, flaps down, jets streaming fire. Seconds later a large aircraft hit the tarplast with a shriek of rubber and blue smoke, its jets immediately bellowing with reverse thrust. Onja watched it hurtle down the runway and wondered why the hell a transport was landing here during a strike. Before the question fully registered, a second fighter split the atmosphere, passing fifty feet above the transport and pouring on thrust. Immediately it began to climb, and Onja felt sonic waves from its jets as it dwindled into the distance.
Suddenly it was quiet, the base seemingly deserted.
Except for the distant cries of civilians beyond the forcefence.
* * *
The very second Johnny saw the transport hit the runway he reduced flaps and hit his throttles. Walters was already a speck in the distance, and his radar sweep was picking up…something; they didn't look like spacecraft, but he saw at least twenty of them.
"Input, ident radar sigs. Execute."
"Radar sigs appear to be cruise missiles, manufacture unknown."
Jesus!
They didn't look like cruise missiles either, but they were a foreign design, after all. They were still several thousand feet up, coming at close to Mach 1, maybe eighty miles out. They would arrive in a matter of minutes. Johnny closed flaps completely, hit the burners, and began to climb, issuing orders to the AI as he went. He was carrying six air-to-air missiles and three thousand rounds of autocannon. Not nearly enough to handle twenty cruise missiles, and certainly not enough time to take them out. But maybe he could get a few.
Only…he'd never tried to shoot down a cruise coming toward him. The target window would be impossibly narrow.
Over his radio he was aware of a battle somewhere over the Pacific, the Travis squadrons slugging it out with the enemy. The Sirians must have launched their missiles before the shooting started.
Where the hell was Walters?
"Tango 2, Tango 6, where the hell are you?"
There he was.
Johnny flinched at the accusation in the voice, but didn't alter course.
"Right here, Captain. Can't talk right now."
"Where the hell are you going?" Walters had located him on radar. "You're supposed to be with me!"
"Cruise missiles, sir! Inbound from two seven zero. I'm gonna get as many as I can. Tango 2 out."
Walters said something rude but Johnny ignored him, still climbing toward the west. Below and to his left lay San Francisco and Oakland; somewhere just ahead was the new Golden Gate Bridge, but he saw none of that. He toggled the master-arming switch, then each missile in turn.
"Input: set input continuous, auto-execute."
"Ack."
"Unlock turret, charge autocannon."
"Ack."
"Set missile selection to target individual bogeys. Fire at optimum."
"Ack."
Almost immediately the first pair of missiles dropped out of his wing tubes, followed at two-second intervals by the next two, then the last two. Just like that, he was out of missiles.
He banked left, still climbing, to avoid the blast radius. The enemy weapons were almost on top of him.
WHAA-AM!
WHAM! WHAM! WH-WH-WHAAAM!
Six hits, so close together they almost sounded like a single explosion. The sky flashed a blinding white and in spite of his evasion, concussive blast hammered Johnny's fighter. For a moment he rolled out of control.
WHAM!
What the hell?
WHAM-WHAAAM!
Nine hits? He'd only fired six missiles!
The first explosions must have set off sympathetic detonations of other nearby weapons. He regained control of his fighter and rolled into a sweeping left turn that would point him back toward Travis.
WHAM!
* * *
"Hey! You two!"
Onja looked up to see an angry Star Policeman striding toward her and Maria. She pushed up from the ground and settled onto one knee, not anxious to expose her entire body by standing up. The SP stopped in front of the girls and glared at them.
"What the fuck you doin' out here! Didn't you hear the sirens? You're supposed to be under cover!"
Onja glanced at his sleeve and saw chevrons.
"Sorry, Sergeant. We were just —"
The sky flashed white several times in rapid succession. The SP ducked and turned to look; the hollow roar of distant explosions rattled the hangar beside them.
"Come on, goddammit!" the SP growled. "We're standing right at target ground zero if those bastards get through. Follow me!"
* * *
Johnny checked his radar and saw that only nine or ten cruise missiles had survived, but they had got past him and were now approaching Travis. Nerves humming, he lit his burners to catch up.
"Attent! Jet fuel now ten percent."
Shit! He'd forgot to check his fuel. The flight from Portland had used over half his load, and he'd been drinking it hard since the attack started.
"Guns only," he told the AI. "Target nearest bogeys at maximum range, fire when ready."
"Ack."
He heard the gun turret whining behind him. He zoned on the cruise missiles and raced to catch up.
* * *
Onja and Maria hurried after the Star Policeman, but had only made thirty yards when two more flashes lit the sky from the west. The sound of the explosions reached them almost immediately. Onja turned wide blue eyes in that direction, her heart hammering with sudden fear.
"That was pretty damn close!" the SP shouted. "Let's go!"
He broke into a run, the girls on his heels.
Onja heard an ear-splitting shriek approaching from behind, and instinctively knew what it was.
"Get down!" she screamed, and dived hard onto the tarplast, skinning elbows and knees. The ground heaved beneath her and concussion almost blew her eardrums out. She heard a scream that was drowned as two more explosions blossomed among the hangars along the runway.
Suddenly it was silent. Onja's lungs ached for air, but she couldn't get any. She tasted blood, and for a moment couldn't see. Fighting panic, she rolled onto her back, her body heaving for oxygen. Smoke billowed above her and she was dimly aware of towering flames. For a few seconds she thought she might be dead, then her lungs took hold and she sucked air, choking instantly on acrid smoke.
Coughing painfully, she dared sit up and look around, marveling that she was still alive. Several of the hangars were gone, and smoke poured from an admin building across the runway. Twisting her head to the right, she froze. Maria and the SP were s
prawled grotesquely, their bodies ripped by shrapnel. Blood pooled the tarplast around them.
* * *
The autocannon made a ripping sound and a cruise missile exploded, followed a moment later by another, this one much closer. Johnny ducked instinctively as shrapnel hammered his fighter. A red light appeared on his console, but he manhandled the yoke and stayed on course, emerging from the smoke cloud in pursuit of the half-dozen still ahead. To his dismay, they were accelerating, flame pouring from their jets as they prepared to dive on their target.
Travis was now dead ahead, visible through his windscreen, and as he added more power to close the range, three cruise missiles impacted on the base.
"Fire, goddammit!" he shouted to the AI. "Fire! Fire!"
The AI obeyed, pouring streams of tracer at the last four or five missiles. One exploded, another was hit and veered off in a twisting trajectory to the right. Again he flew through shrapnel, feeling the impacts. A fire warning blinked on his console, but he ignored it, his adrenaline pumping like water.
He could see two more cruise missiles ahead, less than a mile away, already crossing over the perimeter of the base. He had only seconds to get them, and even then it might be too late.
* * *
Onja crawled toward Maria, tears in her eyes, but dropped again when another explosion hit the perimeter of the base. She pushed herself up again, her sweatshirt soaked in Maria's blood. She pulled the shirt over her head and threw it aside, leaving only a thin T-shirt that did nothing to dispel the December chill. Her head hurt, her body ached, and she felt sluggish. She should be doing something, she thought, but had no idea what. Her brain felt scrambled by all the concussion.
She heard another approaching shriek and, dumbly, turned her head to look. She actually saw the missile pass overhead as it dived toward a spot to the east of where she sat. Before it impacted, she saw another one, only a hundred feet up, and for one dazed moment sat watching as if it posed no threat.
A GalaxyFighter streaked out of the smoke behind her and Onja heard its autocannon chattering. The cruise it was following began to lose pieces, then began to tumble. The sky flashed again as the first missile hit the ground almost a mile away, and that shocked her back to awareness of her own peril. She dived back to the ground and covered her head. Almost instantly the nearest cruise — with the GF on its tail — flashed and roared; pieces of metal smoked past her and skittered along the tarplast.
