by A J Marshall
“You have a flight suit and a helmet for me?”
“Yes, sir, in the locker room.” He pointed.
“Okay, I’m getting changed, send them in.”
Richard pulled off his coat as he strode into the locker room and then threw it onto a bench. His spare flying suit, helmet and boots had been brought over by the Swiftsure pilot. The suit was hanging on a rail and the other items were on the bench. He kicked his shoes off and climbed into the suit. Suddenly the door opened and Yannick Vuylsteke, Andromeda Wing’s youngest subaltern, walked in; he was fully kitted.
“I’m ready, sir,” he said.
“Not this time, Yannick, I need you here.”
“But, sir! It’s a ‘T’ bird. I can sit behind you and work the radar – cover the six o’clock position.”
Richard shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t want you with me, Yannick – I do, but not this time.”
“But . . . !”
“No buts . . . sorry! I need you here as Andromeda Wing’s Liaison Officer. It’s vital that I have someone on the ground.”
Yannick nodded; he knew his boss only too well – there was no changing his mind. But it was clear to Richard that the young pilot was bitterly disappointed. Moments later, Richard heard the familiar whine of motivators from outside. The noise stopped abruptly and the door opened a little further. There was a moment’s silence and an air of indecision. Seconds later, Thomas walked in. His face screen morphed into an expression of expectancy.
“No, forget it!” Richard barked. He turned to Yannick. “Go and do an external inspection for me, and pay particular attention to the weapon pods.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Thomas stood and watched Richard pull on his boots. Richard ignored him as he laced each in turn and secured the ejection seat flaps.
“I can help,” Thomas said eventually.
“I don’t want you with me,” responded Richard, without looking up. “You’re a bloody liability,”
“But Commander Reece, my sensors would be indispensible. My eyesight is twice as good as yours. I will see things coming well before you, and I can directly interface the radar and weapons system – relieving you of the task. Targeting will be semi-automatic, leaving you to concentrate on flying the ship.”
Richard stood tall. He made final adjustment to his suit and then zipped it up. He tucked the helmet under his arm and made to leave. There was good sense in what Thomas had said, he thought. Thomas looked gingerly at Richard, who pondered matters for a moment longer and then nodded. “Okay. You’re on. Follow me!”
Impressively parked with their nose wheels on a single white line on the dispersal, Richard focused on the Swiftsure and the five fully armed Delta Class fighters. They looked potent in a livery which was principally matt black but with dark red markings. In addition, the Swiftsure had a thick silver-coloured stripe across the top of the port winglet. Richard was met by Chris Quarrie and four other pilots – two of them had French insignia on their flight suits.
“I’ve met you before, haven’t I?” Richard enquired of one of the Frenchmen.
“Oui, Monsieur Reece. But then you went by the name of Monsieur Jones.” They shook hands. “My name is Captain Phillip Borghine. I was with zee Presidential Wing; I flew you once to Mauritius, a few years ago.” Richard recalled the flight and nodded. “This is my colleague Captain Pat Tardier. We are based here at Strasbourg Spaceport as part of zee Air Defence Net.” Tardier clicked his heels and saluted smartly. He was tall with black floppy hair that was unquestionably outside the regulations. “Also, zis is Squadron Leader John Mayard of zee Royal Air Force,” continued Borghine. “Unfortunately, some things in life are difficult to bear – but we help where possible.” The group laughed and Richard could sense the friendly rivalry, and the comradeship. “And zis is Major José Canales of zee Iberian Air Force. We are all on secondment to zee Federation,” Captain Borghine concluded. He was a man of medium height and build, with dark hair and a relaxed Provencal manner, like a man with the sun on his back.
Richard shook the hand of Major Canales, who was next in line. He was of a similar height to Richard but leaner and with a Spanish look, having dark eyes, hair that curled at the back and a concentrated stare. “Where are you from, Major, if I might enquire?” asked Richard.
“Malaga, Commander.”
Major Canales accompanied his answer with a respectful but barely perceptible bow of his head. Richard assessed him as a man of few words but unquestionable ability. Richard nodded, smiled briefly and then turned towards the line of fighters, eyeing the various armament pods that were secured below the winglets. Tall lampposts situated around the apron cast columns of dreary light onto the machines through which drizzle could be seen. Richard turned back to the group. “Have you had a brief of any sorts, gentlemen?” he enquired.
“A basic intelligence brief, Commander, but no tactics as yet,” answered Mayard. He had a middle England accent.
“Presumably your ships are fully prepared?”
“As requested, Commander, and with maximum fuel load.” Mayard replied.
Trying to gauge his experience level, Richard quizzed: “What types have you flown prior to the Delta, John?”
“Typhoon, Hawk and Predator . . . total seven thousand hours.”
“Very good!” Richard ran his eyes around the group, focusing on each man for the briefest moment. When looking at Borghine, he paused. “You’re all ready for a scrap then?” he asked.
“Une lutte? Oui . . . naturellement, Capitaine!”
Richard smiled faintly. “Then Gentlemen, I’ll be frank.” His smile faded. “The odds are heavily against us. You will need all of your experience against the Humatrons and no guarantee of an outcome. Our initial attack run will be from the south-west. The terrain will funnel us into a killing zone with high ground on both sides. The only way to survive is to go in very low and very fast, by that I mean fifty feet and one hundred lutens . . .” There were gasps from the pilots. Richard acknowledged their shock by raising a hand. “We will kick-up a lot of dust at that altitude; it should help to conceal us.” The pilots did not appear convinced. Richard continued matter-of-factly. “Half of the Humatron army – we think around one hundred and fifty machines – will be moving north-eastwards in the Rima Hadley valley. Initially, they will have their backs towards us and so I’m banking on an element of surprise – but that will be short lived. You are to drop all the air-to-ground munitions you can on the first pass. Lighten up, but make them count – you’re going to need the extra manoeuvrability. After that, we break formation; three of us left and three to the right. But stay low and keep a good look-out overhead; Red Wing from Cape Canaveral will be providing top cover. Then it’s a free-for-all.” Richard looked at Borghine. “Are you happy to be my Number Two – take command if something happens to me?”
Borghine’s eyes rolled, as if he didn’t need to be asked. A faint smile played on his lips. “S’il vous plaît Capitaine,” he said. “Here you have zee best Number Two.” He put a hand on Tardier’s shoulder. “And zee best Number Three in zee Armée de l’Air. Sometimes in life, low and fast is good; at other times, it is not. We will stay with you, you will see.”
Richard looked at Chris Quarrie. “You okay in a Delta Class?”
Quarrie nodded hesitantly. “My last squadron, but that was almost three years ago. I’ll be a bit rusty, but I’ll settle in quick enough.”
Richard nodded. “Good . . . Number Four then Chris. Number Five is John and Number Six, Major Canales. We position in echelon port and starboard; keep it tight. Attack formation is line abreast; otherwise we will be in one another’s dust. Spread out evenly across the valley.” Richard paused thoughtfully. “Now, the Swiftsure is not quite as fast as the Delta, but it’s more manoeuvrable, so I’ll hold back a bit on the roll rate. Also, it’s fitted with only two sonic mortars and an old ballistic cannon; no pulse torpedoes or magma ejectors, as on the Deltas. Therefore I’ll be on s
trafing duties only as I lead you in for the initial run. You select your targets, allocate the munitions, and use an arc of thirty-five degrees each side of the nose – that way we will achieve some overlap. There will be more than enough targets for everyone.” Richard paused again. “Now, a point on defensive tactics,” he said. “We cannot afford to be targeted from the high ground on the initial run and so I want the two outside ships to be ready with a blanket of chaff, if need be. Major Canales and John . . . set your dispensers forty-two degrees from the vertical. If you detect a threat, then you fire everything you have – I want it raining aluminium oxide pellets. Let’s confuse the hell out of their sensors. You all okay with that?”
“Oui, Capitaine,” said Borghine.
Pat Tardier nodded and clicked his heals again. “Oui,” he said and smiled confidently.
“Understood, Commander,” said Chris Quarrie, “but I’ll need a couple of minutes to familiarise myself with the cockpit again.”
“You’ve got five, Chris; make the time up on the way.”
“Up to speed, I’d say, sir,” said Mayard.
“I look forward to flying with you, Commander,” said Major Canales. “We will send these things to hell, where they belong.” He bowed slightly out of respect, always looking Richard in the eye. Then he stood straight and nodded coolly; a gesture that reinforced their intentions.
“Very well, gentlemen, welcome aboard – it’s a privilege and an honour.” Richard checked his chronometer. “Take-off is in nine minutes – don’t want to be there before the top cover,” he explained, and he glanced up at the overcast sky. There was an edge of sunrise above the horizon to the east.
With that, and focused on the task ahead, Richard turned towards his spacecraft. Thomas, who was standing some distance away, caught his eye. Richard stared at him for a moment, unconsciously narrowing his eyes. He gestured to the biomachine to follow him and then he strode off purposefully. Thomas had not been invited to the briefing and had sensed a degree of contempt from the group; consequently he had stood well back. He followed Richard to the Swiftsure now with his head down as the other pilots eyed him suspiciously. He looked like an outcast; he felt like an alien.
In a loose ‘V’-shaped formation, the six spacecraft were almost invisible in the vast blackness of Space; only a pale red glow from each tailpipe indicated their presence. In front of them the Moon shone with its familiar brightness. It looked serene and inviting and also fortuitous with its place in the sun; but such tranquillity – like the renowned ‘sea’ where man had first stepped onto its surface some eighty years earlier – Richard knew to be an illusion. With his visor down, Richard scanned constantly for enemy fighters. Little was known of the spacecraft that the Humatrons were flying and so he had no idea of their range. All the same, he hoped to avoid a skirmish in Space, as they would need every last sonic pulse, magma shell and armour-piercing sublet to stop the Humatron army.
Occasional pilot chat over the coded combat frequency reminded him of the presence of Red Wing – they were a few thousand miles behind and closing rapidly. Thomas had a finger plugged into the Swiftsure’s avionics system and he monitored the radar screen, briefing Richard from time to time on every object detected within one hundred and fifty miles.
In Space, the top speed of the Delta fighter was 200 lutens. However, the exponential ‘planet effect’ – an atmospheric and gravity bias – reduced that considerably. Even in the highly rarefied atmosphere and the reduced gravity of the Moon, it was, by necessity, much less. And each pilot would need to be aware of the exhaust efflux of other fighters, as propulsion was achieved by ejecting a high velocity stream of atomic particles rearwards. Such a matter stream would simply cut a spacecraft in two, like a hot knife through butter.
The cockpit of the Swiftsure was long and narrow. Compared to the Delta, Richard felt it a little tight, but, for a pilot, it was a masterpiece of ergonomics. Involuntarily, but reassuringly, Richard tapped the cowling above the instrument panel with his gloved hand – as a cavalryman would pat his horse in order to steady it before a headlong charge. There was some melody to the arrangement, Thomas thought, but apprehension clearly slurred the rhythm.
The Swiftsure was an ageing model – in fact it was one of the first interplanetary fighters to enter service. Its time, however, had been cut short by the arrival of the Delta Class, which was superior in all quarters, including range, speed, endurance and weapon capacity. Nevertheless, it was a very capable craft and in the right hands it could out-turn the Delta in a one-to-one. Richard felt confident enough, although he was conscious of his raised heart rate and moist palms.
As he neared the Moon, Richard reduced his speed to 150 lutens and then further still to 110, allowing Red Wing the opportunity to take up station in formation slightly behind his. He checked left and right over his shoulders, sighting his Number Two and Three. They both held accurate positions. Rock solid, not a murmur did he hear from his team.
“Sitrep, Thomas!” Richard barked, breaking a period of silence.
“Oceanus Procellarum is on the nose, Commander. Range seventeen thousand kilometres. Descent point in five minutes. I’ll call you to turn right onto one seven zero degrees in another few minutes.”
“Copied. Are you receiving any transmissions from the Humatron forces?”
“I should say! The ether is buzzing – ultra-high-frequency range. It’s like hundreds of facsimile machines trying to connect simultaneously.”
“Can you see Red Wing?”
Thomas twisted his mechanical head through 180 degrees and looked behind. “Yes, Commander; they are in position.”
“Copied.” Richard pressed the radio transmit button on his control column. “Andromeda Operations, this is Black One on combat frequency. How do you read?” Richard glanced at an instrument that gave him a 3D representation of his entry manoeuvre profile. He reached forward and, making a number of selections, manually deleted the orbital phase. Nor would he be adhering to the profiles stepped descent. This would be a dive into hell.
The radio crackled for a few moments and then a voice was heard. “Black One . . . are we glad to hear you. Things are desperate here. We are barely holding out.”
“Give me some specifics, Andromeda. Red Leader is also on frequency.”
“Okay, Commander. The 1 Regiment is holding a line forty Ks north of here – close to the Rima Fresnel escarpment; basic coordinates twenty-eight degrees north, four degrees east. They are under extreme pressure and taking heavy casualties – maybe an hour and it will be all over for them. The 2 Regiment have been pushed aside west of the Santos Dumont impact crater. They reported a force of approximately forty robots – horrendous injuries to our people. The Humatrons are not taking prisoners. Our force is in disarray; Colonel Randle is trying to gather who he can and make it back to Andromeda for a final defensive ring.”
From his voice, Richard knew who was on the radio, and conversely, Herbie Smith knew who was coming to their aid. “Give me the space picture!” ordered Richard.
“They have total aerial supremacy, Commander.” As he spoke those words, Smith’s anxiety was clearly apparent. “All our fighters are down and two S2s destroyed on the ground. Two other S2s remaining, but HQ is holding them back for humanitarian evacuation. The Humatrons are using a small agile fighter that we haven’t seen before. The Intelligence Department is trying to calculate some performance criteria from video traces . . . the most we have seen is forty lutens but incredibly high manoeuvrability; no human could stand the g-forces involved.”
“Copied! How many?”
“Difficult to say, Commander – maybe fifty of them. We have downed a few, maybe four or five. Aside from their extreme manoeuvrability, they don’t appear to have a lot of protection. Weaponry appears to be air-to-ground biased rather than air-to-air. Also, they don’t seem to carry a lot of fuel, as we have measured the average theatre time at thirty minutes. We know they have a landing strip to the north, Sector One One N
ine; it’s definitely a refuelling facility. HQ is suggesting it as a priority target. Over . . .”
“Understood,” Richard said, and at the same time he acknowledged Thomas’s prompt and pushed the nose of his craft down to initiate a steep dive. Black Formation followed him in a tight, precise, formation. “You still have the 3 Regiment, Andromeda – what about the Third?”
“Half of the 3 Regiment is tracking a platoon of robots who are making hit and run attacks on our eastern boundary – all the sensors are down in that area. The other half are trying to face off a surge from the south-west along the Rima Hadley. We think there is upwards of a hundred and fifty Humatrons – they will burst through for sure. I say again . . . they are not taking prisoners, Commander. They are pulling us apart . . . literally!”
“Listen carefully to this, Andromeda . . . You are to get the Third out of the Rima Hadley Rille. We will strike there first . . . less than twelve minutes from now. I want that valley clear of our forces – do you copy?”
“Yes. The message is being passed on. Command is listening. Over . . .”
“I say again that Red Leader is on air,” Richard continued. “He will coordinate the attacks to the north. Black Formation is now suborbital. Andromeda, we are coming in . . . hang on. Break! Break! Red One from Black One, we are initiating the attack profile. Once we are down there, we will not fly above three hundred feet – you have the airspace above four hundred feet. Over and out.”
“Thomas!” Richard said over the intercom. “Select transponder code Alpha six six four and scramble it, and ensure the general combat frequency remains open at all times.”
“Combat channel prioritised, Commander.”
“Very good.”
From behind, Richard’s head appeared to roll on his shoulders as he continued his search for enemy spacecraft. Thomas busied himself by monitoring the various sensor displays. Although extremely reliable, training sorties had proved that the electronic sensors of the Swiftsure and Delta Class fighters were not infallible and clever pilots could occasionally penetrate their defensive screen undetected. With this in mind, Richard had no intention of being caught unawares. During a regular instrument scan he confirmed his passing altitude as 100,000 feet, his speed at 120 lutens and his heading as being due south. In response, he eased back on the thrust levers and then commenced a gentle left turn.
