The Peacemaker

by Schuyler Thorpe

  This was all part of an ongoing project—given to me by my uncle—to help the military update and improve their combat simulation software. This was so that future trainees could continue to train in perfect, real-time environments and not endanger anyone in the process.

  Granted, the military had the good stuff when it came to photo-recognition and recording equipment, but I had the best.

  Nor was I doing this for free either. It was a $300,000 a year job which had been in an ongoing state of completion for the past three years running.

  You would think that with all the money I’ve been making, I’d be rich. But I am far from my own pad of personal wealth and opulence.

  Far, far, far. So very far.

  “Comfy back there?” I asked out of habit.

  “I’m doing okay, I suppose. But is there anything I could listen to while I’m back here? I’m hesitant to ask if there’s any peanuts on this flight too.”

  I smiled as I touched a control on my dashboard panel and cycled through a few music channels on my Sirius Radio Network setup and found one that the prince might enjoy.

  “Rock and roll sound okay?” I ventured.

  “Perfect!” Came the jubilant response. “It’s been awhile since I’ve heard the Beatles.”

  Beatles? I guess Styx, Rush, or even Cinderella is out of the question. I thought, before continuing.

  “On the side panel,” I said—sounding like a flight attendant on a commercial flight—“you’ll see a small compartment cooler. Flip that up, and you’ll find a soda, a couple of sandwiches and a bag of chips. There’s an apple there if you feel up to it. I stocked us both for the trip down before we left.”

  “Got it,” the teenager said with unchecked enthusiasm. “Thanks.”

  I turned up the volume gain on the right side of my helmet—just by tapping the small button on it—and listened for anything else.

  But nothing came.

  Not that I was truly expecting anything.

  The Peacemaker continued on for the next hour and a half, cruising blissfully at Mach 1.7. Below her, the lush mountains of Vermont eventually gave way to the rolling hills of New York—where I passed on by the great city of Albany; steering clear of the congested civilian air traffic lanes and bearing down along Highway 87.

  Looking at a couple of displays, I easily spotted the mid-morning traffic, and quickly discovered that it was pretty bad (with the digital clock face now reading just past 9:04 AM).

  I was going to be late as hell. But hopefully—? No one would mind the small delay.

  I engaged the optical and topographical camera units, and even thought to tie in the Starlight Vision Camera as well.

  “Hmm…” I mulled over the open channel.

  “Problem?” Bart asked, concerned all of a sudden.

  “Huh? No. Nothing’s wrong here. Just seeing some accidents along this two-mile stretch of this particular highway. No one said that getting in and out was going to be easy.”

  “Can we go down and check it out?” Came the hopeful reply.

  “No. I’m sorry. But that won’t be possible. One, we’re cruising at a pretty high altitude as it is, and second? We’d be burning unnecessary fuel having to climb back up to this point afterwards—if we even made the attempt. And the third thing I‘d have to worry about is airline traffic in this part of the Northeast. It‘s pretty heavy here as it is, and I don‘t want to run into anyone purely by accident. Nor do I want anyone spotting us visually and claiming they saw a UFO.”

  “Oh.” Bart said with clear disappointment in his voice.

  “Maybe on the way back.” I hinted placidly. “And only if we have the fuel to spare for one quick look-see.”

  “I don’t want to endanger you—purely for my own selfish desires.” The prince countered strongly. “Forget that I ever brought up the suggestion.”

  “It’s okay. No harm done.” I said, then turned my attention back to flying. Since everything was computer-controlled, and had an extremely low chance at failure—there was no chance of an accident occurring while in flight. Plus, the plane itself was specially shielded against the pulse of a nuclear blast or even an EMP. (A couple of perks on the side.)

  On top of that, I had been on auto-pilot for the last several hundred miles—giving me the exclusive chance to stretch me legs a little.

  But not much else.

  Thirty-five minutes following that, I found ourselves over the backside of Staten Island—touching the Hudson—before crossing over a small portion of the Atlantic towards Newark, New Jersey.

  Beach-time! I thought, excitement welling up inside of me.

  I always did like this part of the leg of my journey, because it gave me such a splendid view of the sparkling blue waters.

  Wonder if it would be possible to…um…come back with Bart in tow and go do some swimming together?

  Okay, so that was some dangerous thinking. But I never lived my life without taking some unadulterated risks these days.

  I did bring my black two-piece along for the ride after all—hoping to impress a certain someone.

  The displays blinked and changed—following a pre-programmed course along the Eastern Seaboard—with the Peacemaker keeping just under a mile off shore.

  I nosed the stick over to the right again—gently—bringing the plane just a few hundred feet over the beach front of Atlantic City.

  Judging by the number of beach combers, I‘d say today was a perfect day to go out and enjoy the surf.

  With summer being only six weeks off.

  Logging onto the open circuit, I said, “Go ahead and touch the panel in front of you, your Highness. You’ll be able to get a bird’s eye view of the beach below us.”

  Bart did so and he was impressed to say the least. A picture-perfect view of the people and the beaches—along with the crashing surf.

  “A most excellent visage, my lady. I mean…Kina.” The prince hastily corrected.

  My face warmed a bit. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  USS Goliath.

  “She’s closing in.” The radar tech reported to Conrad Jones.

  The man stood up and said, “Excellent. Begin the operation and remember: Harassment only. Not outright destruction. Instruct the Essex’s air arm to remember that.”

  The man nodded and sent out the orders for the captain to confirm and execute.

  Ten minutes later—and without warning—a couple of shrill beeps riveted my attention; causing me to pull up the stick sharply and increase engine power more so—climbing another 5,000 feet in just a few seconds flat!

  The sudden and unexpected jostling had my co-pilot asking questions.

  “What’s going on?” Bart fired off—as his displays starting beeping as well. “My board back here is lighting up like my dad’s Christmas tree!”

  “I don’t know,” I responded quickly, before having the computer run a IFF scan while I was performing a couple of evasive maneuvers at the same time—to keep whatever was climbing up our ass off for another minute or so.

  The twists and turns were nothing terribly special, but just enough to throw off our immediate pursuers.

  On top of that, I never gave it much thought to engage the optical stealth system either.

  What the fuck! Am I just stuck on stupid again? Or am I just too distracted by my own surge of hormones these days??? I cried out to the world in general, then reduced engine power a little.

  I checked the displays to the right and left of me, but nothing was showing up just yet.

  But the flashing red ALERT light at the bottom display screen gave me the chills.

  “Something just grabbed the computer’s attention and now I’m seeing if—” and broke off as the computer was finally going through its massive database of friend/enemies. A plethora of images sped across both screens at a clipped pace, before settling on—

  What the hell??? I thought in complete shock—as the computer flashed the diagram to the left, right, and directly in fro
nt of me. Then it spooled out identical sidebars of tactical information on top of that.

  SHIT! SHIT! FUCKING SHIT!!!

  “What is it?” Bart hammered me insistently.

  I fought down the urge to smack him soundly for fracturing my concentration in so many damned directions, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and answered him by flipping up my visor.

  “IFF says it’s a single pair of British F-15C’s! I don’t see any land-bases here which are run by your government though! So that only leaves me with one thing left: Are there any carriers in this region that I should be made aware of here?”

  “I heard that the Essex is on holiday leave in New York—along with her escort group.” Bart told me. “Since they arrived last month, it’s very probable that they just may be on special maneuvers and nothing more.”

  Fat chance of that. I thought.

  Calling up a digital keyboard with a free hand, I started requesting information on the subject in question. It didn’t take long for the micro-mini to give me what I wanted.

  What I found had me rattled.

  “Eagle-class carrier, variant of the Nimitz class—measuring some 1,200 feet in length and carrying 120 aircraft. 40 F-15D’s, 45 F-16E’s, 15 AWACs, and 25 updated AV-8F Harrier jump jets. Crew complement is 3,500 and its armed with 6 Harpoon missile tubes, six Phalanx close-in gun weapon systems, and four, 30mm anti-aircraft batteries; two fore, two aft.”

  “That’s a lot of firepower for a single carrier.” Bart said with both surprise and worry in his voice.

  “Too much if you ask me.” I agreed wholeheartedly. “But I think with the war in the Middle East raging on in both Iraq and Afghanistan—I don’t think the Brits are taking any chances with their homeland security—if you’ll excuse the badly placed idiom.”

  “I’m not the least bit offended, Kina. I can see that you’re very concerned by what’s happening. This is much a surprise to you as it is to me.”

  With one hand on the stick, I kept punching in more data as time went on, the worry in my face becoming more and more pronounced.

  “No kidding, your Highness! This doesn’t happen, unless—” and broke off.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless we’re about to be attacked.” Came my chilling response.

  CHAPTER TWELVE.

  The prince both laughed and scoffed at the idea.

  “S-s-say what?!” He gasped, before recovering “That’s ludicrous! Why would they do that?”

  I didn’t know and even said so. “I’m not taking any chances here.” I told him—nosing the Peacemaker over another four degrees port; thus changing our flight plan to give the approaching fighters a wide berth.

  The plane’s new course took it over Delaware Bay as a result.

  Kina watched her displays very closely and then nodded once the readings changed in a way she was half-expecting.

  And didn’t like.

  “Yep. They’re changing course to keep pace with us. Speed is now Mach 1.3.” I reported tersely—then watched the indicators some more. “Funny how they aren’t closing at that speed. They are at long range at 450 miles on vectored course 117, and paralleling us at 43,000 feet.”

  “Where are we positioned presently?”

  “46,000 on the same heading.”

  “So their just below us,” the prince mused. “So why do you think they are going to attack?”

  “Just a feeling I have. I don’t like this one bit.” Pushing the stick down a bit, the plane dropped down a good ten thousand feet in just a few minutes flat.

  “875 mph and now at 34,000 feet.” I said rather calmly—keeping an eye on the displays in front of me. If things changed—?

  They did.

  “Shit!” I screamed out loud, before finding my center of calm and nosing the fighter hard over and jamming on the air brakes at the same time.

  “Hang on!”

  Bart did so—holding onto his seat as best he could—as the jet did an abrupt course change right in mid-air.

  Any other aircraft would’ve stalled or possibly suffered some kind of structural failure at the speed Kina was presently at—but the elongated diamond-shaped aircraft was built specifically to outmaneuver its opponents at any rate of speed.

  The Peacemaker expertly flipped itself around and high-tailed it in another—completely new—direction.

  The threat indicator chirped twice in succession—turning the red ALERT light to read a WARNING yellow bar on the front console panel instead—as the IFF revealed another pair of fighters close by—with this pair coming from the west and closing in at 110 miles.

  “Hold it! I am now reading four—I say again…four new fighters! Both on course and now bearing 065 and closing in!”

  “What?! That’s getting ridiculous!” Bart screamed out loud. “Why four?! And where did they just come?!”

  “I don’t know!” I exclaimed—then hit a small button on my panel. “But they’re closing—95 miles now…85!!”

  “Shouldn’t they be launching missiles at us?”

  “They aren‘t in range yet. But they don‘t have a weapons lock on us either.” I answered with a little more calming restraint—once the adrenaline wore off just a little—allowing me to think again.

  “I don’t get it. Maybe it’s the population centers or something. Or perhaps they don’t know whom they are dealing with.”

  “Fat chance in this day and age.” Bart commented. “I’ve read that the Royal Navy has just as an updated IFF system as you apparently do.”

  “That may be so, but I don’t think they can get a clear reading on us. I just engaged my latent stealth capabilities, and that may have them confused for a bit. But don‘t count on that lasting forever.”

  “I’m not. I’m just surprised that we still haven’t been fired on us yet.”

  “We‘re ten miles outside their target range.” I answered for him—looking at the graphics. “At present, they are 55 miles out and closing. Same course, but bearing aft of us. I think they mean to come up from behind. Speed has increased to nearly Mach 1.8. Group One be on top of us in less than forty-five seconds.”

  “Why not just bugger on out and not chance things?”

  “Because that would be wrong. I don’t want to give these jocks a clear shot at my ass if I can help it. Four against one isn‘t exactly the odds I was hoping for—even with a fighter like this. But—” I broke off when the threat board lit up again.

  My Light Directional-Amplified Radar (or Lidar) pickup now showed eight fighters—where four where there from before. But with one difference: This group was 300 miles out and wouldn’t come in time to assist their brethren—should a fight erupt.

  I relayed this new data to the prince in the co-pilot seat.

  “Now we have eight?” Bart echoed with shock in his voice. “What in bloody hell is going on over on the Essex anyways?”

  “I have no idea. But Group One is going to be on top of us in less than eight seconds.” I reported worriedly.

  Bart looked back of him and saw four dots quickly fill the void where empty skies had been before.

  It didn’t take long for them to catch up—even with the Triton-12 Peacemaker traveling at a far lesser rate of speed.

  The dots quickly became real-defined shapes which Bart could easily discern as F-15’s and they were picking up more speed as they went.

  “Mach 1.9...” I rattled off—thinking: Somebody must have a collective burr up their tail pipe!

  The prince wondered if they hadn’t been somehow modified for the trip—even as they closed in rapidly.

  “Here they come!” He shouted—ducking a bit as the first two blazed by—rocking my plane a bit with their first pass. The other pair came in thirty seconds behind them—rattling them even more with their second clean pass.

  Bart held onto his seat with a steely grip as he expected some kind of wild maneuver from me myself.

  But instead, he found me looking straight ahead and never flinching. />
  “Wow…” he said out of turn. “That’s some flying you’re doing, Kina.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. We still got to get our collective butts out of here in one piece. The first pair is turning as we speak—10 miles out. The second pair is continuing on unchecked.”

  “How about we zip on by the capital of your great nation? Maybe those guys won’t follow us?” Bart suggested.

  I thought it was a great idea, but then again, I would also have to contend with that capital’s restricted airspace defenses.

  Even state of the art and ground-breaking, but there was no way my jet could outmaneuver everything in one fell swoop and expect to come out of it smelling like roses.

  “Doubtful. These guys look like they mean business.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  “W-wait?” Bart blurted out. “Why?”

  “If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s never a good idea to fire first. On that note, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Anything!”

  “Check your display panel and hit the button pad at the top-right of your screen which says, ‘countermeasures’. I’ll need you on the defensive if things decide to get crazy.”

  Bart studied each of the displays and found the one I had asked for.

  “Got it!” He said and then hit the button.

  From behind the canopy, two pairs of doors slid sideways and locked into place. Just aft of them and below the engine manifolds, another door on each side did the same.

  And in the tail sections—? Two panels slid open just between the first and second engine.

  A whole new display configuration blossomed in front of the teen prince and the number of options available astounded him.

  “Twelve? It says here, ‘Scorpion’, ‘Starburst’, ‘Hammerhead’, and so on.”

  “Focus on giving me the Starburst first. They’ll disperse on contact and explode like miniature supernovas—lighting up the target path for ten meters in either direction. It’ll create a liquid veil which should intercept and then detonate any incoming ordinance.”

  “And the others?”