Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  “I’ll forgo that pleasure, thanks,” I say, popping open my locker door.

  The interior stares back at me, empty and accusing. Why did I give Bel my chocolate and coffee? This would be the perfect evening to break them out. Brew up a big pot and sit around talking about our coming trip home. Stuff our faces with candy. We could bring some out to Bel in his lonely vigil and sing Christmas carols.

  Then again, are all of us be going home for the goodwill tour or not? Maybe the orders concern only me. The radio message is maddeningly vague on that point. I’m fairly confident that Ket wants all of us to go, but maybe not. And even if she does, will she be able to arrange it? Higher ups in the Propaganda Ministry will have the final say.

  Another question: What should I do if the orders don’t include my squadron mates? Should I make a stand and insist that they be included? Orders are orders, and I’ll have to obey. But that doesn’t mean I can’t protest or try to alter them, besides ...

  Why am I always beating myself up? Ninety nine percent of the things I worry about never come to pass, so why get upset about this? Only one thing is certain – if I remain in the barracks much longer, I’ll spill the beans for sure. It is not yet time to share the joyous news.

  So, instead of hanging up my jacket, I close the locker door with authority.

  “Think I’ll get some more fresh air,” I say. “See you guys later.”

  ***

  This night is far more restless than the one before. The strain of keeping my mouth shut is wearing me out. I want to flick on the lights, jump atop my bunk and yell at the top of my lungs: “We’re going home!”

  I want to traipse over to HQ and camp by the radio so as to receive our orders the moment they come in. They’ll come tomorrow, right? They have to come tomorrow!

  And if this anxiety isn’t enough, nonstop thoughts of Ket torment me. I can almost see her face hovering above mine in the darkness, feel her passionate breath, inhale her subtle, maddening perfume. Ket has her mind fixed on one thing, and she’s determined to get it.

  How will I handle that situation?

  Sure, we all talk big, but none of us have ‘gone the distance.’ We’re just novices in the romance field. Katella tried to consummate things with his girlfriend before leaving home, but she flatly refused, shoving her bare left hand into his face and saying:

  “No ring, no fling.”

  Well, Ket is ready for a fling. Her incredible sexuality is like a time bomb, primed to go off the moment she sees me. Will it be too overwhelming – will I be a limp noodle at the crucial moment?

  And what about Gyn? How can I possibly square things with her?

  There I am, beating myself up again. We are nowhere near home, and I’m already embroiling myself in girl trouble. But maybe Ket has changed her mind by now, maybe another suitor has finally caught her interest. Then we could be just friends, sort of business associates. That would be for the best.

  No it wouldn’t!

  I toss the blankets aside. The sheets are hot and damp. Sleep won’t be coming tonight, so I may as well get up. I dress quickly, making minimum noise. Only once, when I bang my locker door too hard, does anybody stir in their cot. As a rule, we Raptor Aces are very sound sleepers.

  I pause halfway through buttoning my shirt. I’m starting to think of us as a unit again, I realize. Is the deep estrangement I’ve felt toward my squadron mates finally easing, will we rediscover our old affection for each other?

  Well ... I’ll just have to see about that.

  Two cigarettes remain from my once hefty stash. I fumble them out of my nightstand drawer along with a pack of matches, and head outside.

  Dawn can’t be far off now, though I haven’t bothered to consult my watch. Soon it will be time for the birds to begin their awful cacophony. But perhaps many of them have already migrated and the noise won’t be too bad.

  I walk a short distance from the barracks and light up a cigarette. Smoke curls against a backdrop of glowing stars. I’ve never seen such a starry sky before; it’s brilliant, crystalline, a heavenly host gazing down at our poor human affairs.

  I’ve heard people say that they feel ‘small’ under such a sky, but I don’t feel diminished. In all the universe’s vastness, there is nothing quite like me; the stars are casting their light upon a unique work of creation. Besides, the sky is my true home. I am not really one of the earthbound.

  Time drifts past. I finish my cigarette and light up the second one. A bitter note enters my musings – Stilikan. I’ll be leaving this area soon, and I’ve not been able to avenge his murder.

  Why have I been such a fool? I should have sucked it up and gone with the Death Storm commando on the partisan hunt – tell them something, anything, to get into their good graces long enough to achieve my aim. But no, I had to put cowardly conditions on my involvement.

  Where did I think I was, at some goddam church picnic?

  I fling down the cigarette butt and grind it under my heel. My mood has turned savage. Even the sky appears to share my anger, judging by the fierce red sunrise glowing in the east.

  Hold on ... that’s no sunrise flickering on the horizon. It’s the herald of a gigantic artillery barrage!

  I observe, fascinated, as the display unfolds. It’s far more spectacular than all the heavenly glory shining above me. I can hear the muffled thunder of the guns now, and the current of war throbs beneath my feet.

  The horizon flames like the end of the world approaching. Chaos reaches out to embrace me, and I begin to respond. The experience is terrifying, sublime.

  Then a new sound intrudes, also from the east – the rumble of massed aircraft engines. I snap out of my reverie and run, shouting, into the barracks.

  “Air raid!”

  38. The Storm Breaks Loose

  Bedlam, fear, the thuds of bodies tumbling off cots.

  “What the hell?” someone cries.

  “Form up, on the double!” I yell over the mayhem.

  Somebody lurches toward the main light switch.

  “Don’t touch that!”

  My warning is too late. I hear the click of the switch. The fool is going to make us a perfect target!

  But nothing happens, all remains dark, swirling chaos. Then penlight beams pierce the blackness, lockers clang. I wrench the telephone from its hook. Totally dead. We’ve been cut off – partisans!

  Figures move toward the door now, clutching boots and clothing. I slam the receiver down hard enough to nearly rip the phone unit off the wall.

  “Wait here,” I say, “and turn off those damned lights!”

  I grope to my locker and pull out the little automatic pistol. It feels cold and impotent in my hand. If partisans or enemy troops are in the area, this gun will be poor defense. I make my way back to the huddled mass at the doorway.

  “All right, let’s go to the shelter.”

  They start to jam their way out en masse. I imagine an enemy machine gunner outside aiming at the door, just praying for an easy target.

  “One at a time,” I say, “keep low.”

  My voice sounds firm and strong, commanding instant obedience. I feel a brief thrill of authority, but this is quickly overshadowed by apprehension. I follow my boys outside, crouching low, ready to hit the dirt any moment.

  Thank God, nobody is waiting for us.

  The horizon flames with increasing violence, and the roar of approaching aircraft is louder. Toward the periphery of the base, I can see numerous small fires burning. Partisans must have lit them to guide the bombers in. I move to the head of the procession.

  “Give me a light.”

  Somebody thrusts a penlight into my hand. We move into the small wooded area where the air raid shelter is concealed.

  “Wait here.”

  I walk toward the shelter alone, trying to keep as silent as possible, grateful for the rising noise level to cover my approach. I’m almost there now, eyes fixed on the dark entrance. A single partisan hidden
inside with a submachine gun could kill us all without working up a sweat.

  I spread myself flat on the ground and crawl the last few meters, straining my eyes and ears for any sign of the enemy. The entrance gapes at me like the maw of a subterranean beast. I fling a stone at it – no reaction. I flick on the penlight and toss it aside, nothing. Either no enemy lurks within, or else he’s too shrewd to fall for my amateurish diversions.

  The roar of bomber engines is much louder now, sirens begin to wail. Soon we’ll be blown to bits if we don’t get under cover. Urged on by this idea, I retrieve the penlight and shine it into the depths of the shelter. A pair of eyes glistens back at me.

  “Ah!”

  I jerk the pistol trigger several times, but no shot fires. I’ve forgotten to chamber a round! Whatever night animal that owns those eyes does not wait for me to correct my error. It takes off like a rocket, brushing past me on its headlong flight. I roll away onto another hissing, scrambling creature of some kind.

  “Ugh!”

  Then I’m on my feet again.

  “Come on!” I call.

  The lads rush toward me. There is just enough light now to make out their wide and fearful eyes. We clamber into the shelter and hunker down. The place is big enough for a dozen occupants, so we have plenty of room to sprawl out if it is to serve us as a grave.

  The bombers arrive with their hellish cargo.

  Who knows how long the raid lasts? My squadron leader’s watch that I had been so proud of lies on my nightstand waiting to get blown to smithereens. Nothing in this world would compel me to go back for it. Uncounted time passes while the bombs dance above us.

  Most of them seem to be dropping a fair distance off – hitting the main base facilities, tearing up the runways, demolishing the hangars and the parked aircraft. I can’t see what’s happening, but my experience from the first bombing raid provides me with a general account.

  Then the explosions draw closer. A catastrophic blast sends a torrent of dirt and concrete fragments showering down on us from the ceiling. My head seems about to explode from the concussion.

  “There go the barracks!” somebody cries.

  I flick on my penlight, the beam cannot penetrate the choking dust. We are all coughing. Then another bomb goes off nearby, and half the ceiling caves in. Screams, sobs, voices calling out for their mothers. I want to scream along with them but control myself somehow.

  Be brave, Dytran, an urgent voice shouts in my head. You’re the leader!

  More explosions rock our shelter, more ceiling comes down upon our heads. I’m torn between hugging the ground and rushing outside. The fear of being buried alive nearly trumps the terror of being exposed to the blasts ...

  Then the war gods finally move off, leaving us shattered in their wake.

  “Help, I can’t move,” somebody moans.

  No one else speaks, but voiceless terror fills the shelter.

  “Everyone stay calm,” I say. “We’ll dig you out.”

  I’m not certain that I don’t need digging out myself. Somebody is pressed up against me – Katella.

  “Come on,” I say.

  Forcing a path through the dirt and rubble, we make our way out of the shelter and stretch ourselves out along the ground like corpses coming back to life. The air revives us a bit, although it is polluted with smoke and death.

  “You all right?” I say.

  Katella nods and tries to speak. Finally, a choked “Yes,” exits his mouth.

  I can scarcely hear it through the ringing in my ears.

  “Let’s get the others out,” I say.

  We slither back into the ruined shelter and begin digging with our bare hands, pulling out chunks of earth and concrete. From the far side of the cave in, other hands do the same. Finally, we break through to our trapped comrades.

  Albers, thinnest of the lot, is the first one we pull through the little tunnel we’ve dug, followed by Grushon and Sipren. All of them are battered and shaken but free of major injuries.

  We exit the bomb shelter tomb into a fresh nightmare. Dawn is in full swing now, its dim light augmented by numerous fires. Our barracks, or what’s left of it, flames nearby. A bomb crater occupies most of its former location. And through it all, the siren continues to wail.

  No bird song disturbs the ambiance. Small arms fire crackles around the base as infiltrators try to finish off what the bombers started. We can see a group of them nearby, creeping toward us.

  “Damned partisans!” Katella snarls.

  I cock my pathetic little pistol. It’s all that stands between us and the advancing enemy. I count seven of them now, all heavily armed. For the first time, I remember Bel.

  “We have to get to the far end of the base,” I say, “where they parked the armored vehicles.”

  “What for?” Katella says.

  “Bel is there,” I say. “He’s got an APC for us.”

  Under different circumstances the look of amazement on Katella’s face might be comical.

  “An APC?” he says. “Why, that ...”

  “Just shut up and get out there,” I snap.

  But getting there is a gigantic problem. The base must be swarming with partisan invaders now. And the ones nearest us have fanned out, obstructing every possible route.

  “Follow me,” I say.

  I begin moving though the tall grass toward the trees on our right. If we can just avoid detection, we might be able to –

  One of the partisans spots us and opens up with his submachine gun. We all hit the dirt.

  Harsh shouts in the slobe language. The scattered partisans reunite and begin walking toward our hiding place, crouching low, guns at the ready. My choices narrow to a grim pair – wait to be killed, or surrender and be tortured.

  Albers seems ready to cry out and beg for mercy. The fool!

  Or I can go out like a man. The decision isn’t hard to make. It seems to be the most natural thing in the world, as if I’m deciding for somebody else. I prepare to leap to my feet, gun blazing. Can I take down one of them before they cut me to pieces?

  But then the blast of a heavy machine gun adds to the mayhem. The partisans tumble over like human bowling pins, their cries brief and horrific.

  A voice calls to us from the trees: “Get over here!”

  It’s Bel.

  We scramble to our feet and run toward him like a troop of orphaned puppies.

  39. Flight

  Bel glowers down at us like some death god from behind the armored personnel carrier’s machine gun.

  “Somebody take over this gun position,” he commands. “The rest of you get in and keep low.”

  The others hesitate, awed by the sight of the massive APC. It must seem like a visitor from another planet to them. It does not surprise me, though, neither does the fact that Bel has survived the bombing raid. He seems the very image of confidence perched atop his armored steed.

  I’m about to urge the lads forward when a blast of gunfire nearby provides the necessary motivation. We hurl ourselves up the side of the roofless vehicle. Nobody bothers trying to open the rear doors.

  Bel watches us scramble. His face displays pride and assurance, mixed with a bit of contempt, I think. He knows that he was right and all of us were wrong. He knows that we owe him our lives.

  My own emotions are a seething cauldron. Moments ago, I was prepared to leap into the arms of eternity, now I’m back among the living. I don’t feel at home in my body, as if I’d already left it and am enduring a forced reunion.

  I was the undisputed leader then, now I’m just one of the pack. Gratitude wells up in my heart, along with a burst of love for Beltran. But beneath it all, the sour taste of envy resides. I grasp for a shred of power.

  “I’ll take the gun,” I say.

  “Go ahead,” Bel says.

  Is that a tiny smirk creasing his face?

  He drops down into the driver’s seat and fires up the engine. The beast roars into life. With a grind
ing of gears, we lurch forward. Underbrush and small trees give way; soon we are out of the woods and heading for the border of the airbase.

  I look down at Bel sitting almost directly below me. He’s got a submachine gun across his lap, and he handles the big steering wheel with authority as he gazes out a portal in the armor plate ahead of him.

  “Where’re we going?” I ask.

  “West,” Bel replies. “Like everybody else.”

  I twist around in the little gun turret. Behind me, the lads are sprawled out on the floor and benches, heads below the armored gunnels of our rescue ship. Cans of diesel fuel share the space with them along with some knapsacks. Two more submachine guns dangle from the metal walls.

  “Hang on to those knapsacks, in case we have to get out quick,” Bel shouts. “And don’t shoot yourselves with those machine pistols!”

  Katella hands me up a knapsack. It’s surprisingly heavy. As I shoulder it on, I feel the impression of hand grenades against my back. Where did Bel get all this stuff?

  A more important consideration, how do I operate this machine gun? My only experience with such weapons came in a training film we’d seen back home, flashed through the same projector that had shown Youth Answers the Call!

  What fun it had seemed at the time – just pull the trigger and blast the hell out of everything. I try to remember the correct procedures from the movie.

  “You know how to work that thing, Eagle-eye?” Bel calls up to me.

  “Y-yes ...”

  “Shoot anything that moves. They won’t be our guys.”

  A diabolical racket fills the world – explosions rock the airbase, gunfire rattles an accompaniment. But the siren abruptly halts like a choked scream. We’re approaching one of the auxiliary gates now. Shadowy figures move about the guard shack.

  “Shoot!” Bel commands.

  My hands remain frozen.

  “Shoot!”

  Then the machine gun explodes, throwing shock waves through my body. I feel a mad exultation amid the chaos. Pieces of the guard shack fly about, the shadowy figures disappear. Time seems suspended.

  Then I stop firing as a training film admonition enters my brain – Do not overheat the barrel.

  “Damn!” Bel cries. “That’s showing them.”

  Something bounces off the APC – grenade!