Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  I nod dumbly, still unable to get a clear view of Ket. She is like some goddess hovering before me.

  “Dytran, I was so afraid ... you were missing and so many of the others were already killed. Then the radio message came from the commandos – it was like the sun came out again. I ...”

  She brushes a tear from her perfect face with the back of one hand. My heart is breaking on her behalf.

  “We’re leaving soon,” she says. “Can I talk to you alone?”

  “Yes, of course, Ket.”

  She leads the way to a group of News Service vehicles, including a large van into which men are loading equipment. I feel myself to be back on my trek, following her perfect image to salvation.

  Ket approaches one of the men – the same guy who operated the projector a hundred years ago, back before I’d left home for this horror exhibition.

  “Give me five minutes,” she says. “I’ll owe you one.”

  “Sure, Ket.” The guy looks toward me. “Nice to see you again, Commander.”

  His voice carries an undertone of admiration and, perhaps, a tinge of regret. Maybe he would have liked it better if the ‘homecoming hero’ hadn’t showed up after all.

  He and the others move away. Ket enters the vehicle’s back door.

  “Come on, Dytran,” she beckons.

  I step inside, and she shuts the door behind us. Instantly, she is upon me, her body pressing against me, her mouth seeking mine, her breath coming in hot gasps. My fatigue vanishes amid a raging torrent of desire.

  “Oh, God, Dytran, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  She crushes her mouth against mine again. After a blissful eternity, she withdraws it.

  “I wish you could take me right now.” Her voice is soft and husky, irresistible. “I want you to take me ... I love you so much.”

  Her face glows in the dimness like a beacon from heaven. Her body is magnificent perfection in my arms.

  “I love you too, Ket,” I manage to say. “You’re all that kept me going these last two days.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

  Moments drift by. I feel her deep breathing; her heart beats against my chest. We almost seem to be one life, here in the darkness. Then she injects a note of fearful urgency.

  “You have to get away from here before it’s too late, Dytran. So many are being killed now.”

  “What makes me so special?” I ask.

  “You’re a hero back home. Youth Answers the Call! is a huge success. Did you see the magazine article?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The readers loved it,” Ket says, “And the footage we got today – people will eat it up!”

  Right here in my arms, she is changing from a pliant, love-struck girl into a hard and calculating professional woman.

  “‘I never thought this airfield was so beautiful,’” she says, lowering her voice to imitate me. “What a fantastic line!”

  I could use another great line now, but can’t think of anything to say. Ket picks up the slack.

  “We have excellent connections with the Propaganda Ministry, Dytran. We can arrange for you to come home on a ‘good-will tour.’ And after that ...”

  A lightning flash goes off in my mind. I can see the way forward now – out of this hell hole and onto the bright highland of true service to our nation.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “And after that, I want fighters.”

  “Fighters?” Her voice has become small again.

  “Yes. We were promised fighter training if we did well in this assignment. I think we’ve all proved ourselves.”

  “You want to come back here ... as a fighter pilot?”

  “No, not here,” I say. “A home defense squadron, protecting the Fatherland from air raids.”

  “I ... uh ...”

  “Come on, Ket. People will really ‘eat it up,’ won’t they?”

  She draws back a little.

  “Why ... yes, I believe they would.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  A knocking comes at the door.

  “Sorry Ket,” a muffled voice says, “we have to get going.”

  “Just a minute, please,” she answers.

  She withdraws from my arms and begins straightening her clothes.

  “Very well, Dytran. I’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thanks, Ket. You’re ... the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.”

  Her smile fairly lights up the darkened surroundings.

  “What a sweet thing to say, Dytran.”

  She gives me a final peck on the lips. “Hold that thought until we meet again.”

  She opens the door just wide enough to slip herself through, then closes it behind her.

  34. Reports

  Again I am shell shocked by Ket’s abrupt departure, as I was after the showing of Youth Answers the Call! Her way of making an exit cannot help but impress; it leaves a vacuum behind her.

  I am alone in the semi-darkness with the cameras and other equipment. I get the strange impression that I am inside a weapons cache. In a way, these thing are weapons – coercing people psychologically rather than through brute force. The door opens wide, admitting late afternoon daylight and a male face.

  “Sorry, Commander,” the guy says, “time to go.”

  I like the sound of “Commander,” there is genuine respect behind it. I exit the van as if I am stepping into some lesser reality. Moving from a Ket space into the outside world is even more jarring than leaving my airplane for solid ground.

  Guys start throwing more equipment into the van. I see nothing of Ket, just a News Service car driving off toward the main gate. I watch it go for a while. Is Ket looking through the window back at me – or is she already absorbed with the latest calculations to advance her career?

  Bel’s voice intrudes: “So, what happened, Dye.”

  I turn toward him. He’s got hands on hips and a smirk on his face. How long has he been standing here?

  “I got shot down, that’s what,” I say.

  “Oh?” His eyes widen with mock surprise. “I thought she was happy to see you.”

  “I ...”

  The full meaning of Dye’s remark sinks in. I feel my face start to redden.

  “Dammit, Bel, why don’t you learn to mind your own business?”

  Bel laughs. “Oh, you meant shot down by the enemy fighter – the lesser of two evils, don’t you think?”

  “That’s very clever, Bel. You should try getting downed yourself sometime.”

  “Not on my agenda, sorry.”

  Bel takes my arm and begins walking with me.

  “You know, everybody else believed that you’d bought it,” he says, “but something told me you were all right.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Bel says, “it was the strangest feeling. ‘You just wait,’ I told the others, ‘Dye’s humping his way back to us right now.’”

  I give him a doubtful look.

  “It’s true, go ask anybody,” Bel says. “They’ll tell you.”

  It’s impossible to read Dye’s intent. Is he being sincere, sarcastic, affectionate, hostile? I think probably some mixture of them all. Everything between us has always been a mixture.

  “Thanks for your confidence,” I say.

  “Sure thing. They can’t kill us off so easily!”

  Bel’s lighthearted manner tones down a few notches.

  “Too bad about the courier,” he says. “The guy seemed like a decent sort.”

  I stiffen.

  “Something wrong?” Bel asks.

  “Uh ... just some aftershock, I’m afraid.”

  Bel nods sympathetically. We walk in silence toward the HQ building. Yes, the courier was a decent sort, but the message dangling from his wrist like a poisonous snake certainly wasn’t.

  I feel a strong urge to tell him about it. Bel’s reaction is impossible to predict, though. I’m certain th
at he would not report my treasonous act of reading the message, but what would he think of its contents? He might not be upset at all; he might even approve of the extermination order. I don’t want to find out.

  We reach the HQ building.

  “I’ll just leave you here,” Bel says. “Hot food and a shower will be waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, Bel.”

  ***

  My report to the wing commander does not take long. I locate the suspected partisan lair as accurately as I can on the reconnaissance photos and offer to accompany a raid against it – provided that it is not conducted by the Death Storm anti-partisan unit.

  “And why this exception?” the wing commander asks.

  “I disagreed with ... some of their methods,” I say. “Their leader indicated it would be unwise for me to encounter them again.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes sir. I have no reason to doubt his word.”

  The wing commander lets the matter drop, thankfully. He indicates ZOD on the recon photo he is holding.

  “Can you tell me anything more about this ‘camouflaged entryway’ you saw?” he asks.

  “No, sir, only that I’ve caught glimpses of it from the air as well. None of my other pilots can verify the sighting, however.”

  “There’s no indication of it in this photo,” the wing commander says, “nor in any of the others.”

  “Yes sir, but I am certain that it exists just the same.”

  He nods, rather unconvinced, in my opinion.

  “And what is your interest in all this?” he asks.

  “My brother, sir. I believe this partisan group was responsible for his murder.”

  The wing commander’s brow furrows. Again, the weary look comes over his face.

  “It’s not my place to set conditions,” I say, “but it would be best if I accompanied the raid. From all indications, I am the only one who can find the entryway.”

  “Very well,” the wing commander says, “I’ll pass your information on.”

  Suddenly, a tremendous racket comes thundering through the closed door. Shouts, whoops, gunfire. Are we under attack? The phone on the wing commander’s desk jangles, and he snatches it up.

  “That’ll be all, Dytran,” he says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I salute and leave the office.

  In the hallway extreme agitation reigns, and outside the HQ building is pandemonium. Everyone not presently flying seems to be converging on the parade ground, yelling, cheering, and firing guns into the air. Men tumble on the ground in playful wrestling matches.

  A man runs past me, heading toward the mayhem. I grab his sleeve.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The second front, boy!” he shouts. “It’s finally started!”

  He breaks away and runs to join the others.

  “We’re going home!” somebody yells.

  Others take up the chant: “WE’RE GOING HOME – HEY HEY! WE’RE GOING HOME!”

  Every fiber of my being wants to believe this. I want to rush off and join the celebration. But I’ve covered such hysterical ground before, and where has it gotten me? If the news is true, it will keep.

  I walk off toward the barracks.

  35. Becalmed

  The reports are true, no inflated rumors this time. Full scale war is raging on the distant borders of the slobe empire. Their eastern enemies have taken their measure and are looking to settle old territorial disputes.

  Our world becomes eerily quiet during the next week as both sides suspend military operations. The whole front is like a ship becalmed on the ocean. Even the partisan attacks cease. Best of all, the bombing raids on the Homeland have stopped.

  Many civilians have died in these raids, including Sipren’s mother and little sister who perished during a horrific fire bombing that erased their entire city. And this on the day before the de facto truce started. It seems the enemy wanted to send us a final message.

  Sipren is something of a white crow himself now, quiet and distant. He, too, has aged ten years very quickly. The rest of us offer what sympathy we can, while inwardly rejoicing that our own families have been spared.

  We fly only occasional reconnaissance missions now, with observers in our rear cockpits snapping photos. Their reports confirm a rosy scenario – the enemy is pulling back.

  High-winged monoplanes are preferred for this work. We only fly reconnaissance when none are available. Our technique is to go into a steep bank so as to get the wing out of the way. While this is amusing for us, the observers are unappreciative.

  A radio message arrives from Ket:

  We’re working on it. Will let you know soon.

  Hope flares in my breast. Is it really possible that I will see her again?

  Peace negotiations must be taking place, everyone reasons. The slobes can’t handle major wars on two widely separated fronts, and they’ll want a quick settlement with us. Sure, we’ll probably have to give back much of the land we’ve conquered, but so what? We’re going home!

  Discipline on the base relaxes. Officers walk with a new bounce in their step, their customary scowls brighten. Uniforms have less formality now – caps askew, ties loosened. An armored infantry unit parks their vehicles on one end of our base while its men go off on R&R.

  About the only military operation that occurs on these quiet days involves the Death Storm anti-terrorist commando. They went tearing off to liquidate the partisan band I’d reported without waiting for army backup. They apparently did not want to miss the fun before an armistice comes into effect.

  They would have had trouble convincing higher command to assign more troops for the raid, anyhow. Everyone, from the top leadership to the lowliest rifleman, has ‘second-front fever.’ Any excuse to avoid combat is good enough.

  Besides, the commando considered the guerillas to be only a small freelance bandit group operating outside the well-organized partisan effort. Destroying them would be a simple matter.

  But underestimating the slobes seems to be a flaw in our national character. The enemy ambushed the commando and inflicted heavy casualties. In return, the commando managed to kill some partisans, but none of the enemy casualties fit the description of the leader.

  I saw the official account; the wing commander had obtained it for me somehow. In the thick of the fighting, the partisans simply vanished, “as if into thin air,” the report said. But I know where they went.

  I am deeply disturbed by this account, though not because of the loss of our men. To my discredit, perhaps, I find myself hoping that the one called ‘Eagle-eye’ is among the slain.

  What bothers me is that the beast of a partisan leader still walks the earth, and my opportunity to settle accounts with him is slipping away. How can I face Mama, knowing that Stilikan’s remains will lay in their urn forever unavenged?

  On one level, I know my desire for retribution to be futile, self-destructive even. In this roiling cesspool of violence, what is one more occurrence of inhumanity? Just let it go.

  But I can’t let it go. The world, my world, is out of balance and needs to be set right, whatever the cost.

  ***

  Beltran is the naysayer among us. He will have none of the optimism that infects everyone else. True to form, he chooses a moment when we are all in a particularly good mood – kicked back in our chairs relaxing on the barracks porch – to express his misgivings.

  Or maybe we aren’t so jolly. With the strain of constant flying removed from us, the old knives are starting to come out. Anyway, Bel pulls his nose out of his book on racial theory and asks no one in particular:

  “Do you really think we’ll get off so easily?”

  A pause, then I take the bait. I’m sitting right next to him, after all.

  “Well, it makes sense the slobes will have to make peace with us,” I reply. “They can’t handle full scale wars on two fronts.”

  “Sure, they’ll have to make peace, eventu
ally,” Bel says, “but what’s the big rush?”

  “What do you mean by that?” I say.

  “Look at the map, Dytran,” Bel says. “They can afford to lose a lot of territory in the East before they have to transfer their main forces there.”

  The front feet of Katella’s chair bang down onto the wooden planks.

  “So, what’s your point, Bel?” he says.

  “The point is, they’ll want to improve their negotiating position,” Bel says. “Before they talk serious peace, they’ll hit us with everything they’ve got.”

  He smacks a fist into his palm hard enough to make me flinch.

  “If we had any sense, we’d strike first!”

  Katella waves a dismissive hand.

  “We can always count on you to look on the bright side, Bel. I think you were born with a thundercloud over your cradle.”

  The rest of us shift uncomfortably. Bel is an orphan, illegitimate most likely, and jokes about his birth seem very out of place.

  “Whatever,” Bel says. “But we need to think about getting out of this mess once the fireworks start.”

  “What fireworks?” Katella snaps. “All reconnaissance shows the enemy pulling out.”

  “Believe that if you want, but I say it’s all deception,” Bel replies. “You never were too bright, Katella, judging by that girlfriend you picked.”

  Now the line has definitely been crossed. Katella is on his feet.

  “Maybe it’s time we settled our unfinished business,” he says.

  Bel remains seated, chair leaned back against the wall. He looks up at Katella innocently.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “I think you know.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bel says. “You were going to ‘kick my ass,’ as I recall.”

  Katella moves in, fists clenched.

  “Here’s a man with serious intentions,” Bel taunts. “Can I get out of my chair, or are you going to sucker punch me first? Maybe you could actually win that way.”

  I watch, fascinated, along with everybody else. Which one would triumph in such an evenly matched battle? After so much enforced inactivity, this is a chance to see some real violence!

  Katella steps back. “All right, Bel, stand up.”

  Beltran drops his chair to all four legs and begins to rise. We gape at the spectacle like a row of baboons, an almost electric thrill runs through us. Then I come to my senses.

  “Knock it off!” I stand up and thrust myself between the combatants. “Save it for the enemy!”

  The two glower at each other. Katella with hot anger and Bel with a cold, empty stare that chills me to the core.