by Peter Telep
"What's it like to fly one of those jets?" John asked. "Barry at school told me it's exactly like the VR-cade, only they don't give you any bags in case you puke."
Nathan half-grinned. "I don't wanna let you down, but I've only been in the simulator. When I get back, I'll be flying my first SA-43."
"Damn..." Neil said. "I almost can't imagine you flying one of those. I mean, my brother at the controls. I remember when you smacked up Mom's car taking us to soccer practice."
Lifting an index finger, Nathan explained, "That was only because I didn't—"
"You were looking at that girl," John said. "And that fat lady whose car you hit was yelling at you like she would never run out of breath."
"Think you'll crash your jet?" Neil asked.
Nathan scowled. "What kind of a question is that? The only way I'll be crashing is if I get shot down. And even then, the Corps has a new track-and-harpoon program to save pilots and planes."
John pursed his lips. "They must've put you through boot camp, huh?"
"Was it as bad as everyone says it is?" Neil queried.
"Two things you don't do in boot camp: get your D.I. mad at you, and get your squadron mad at you. Do either one, or both, and you'll hate it a million times more."
They continued talking about the Corps, and then, slowly, the tide went out on their conversation. John and Neil had apparently run out of questions, or at least weren't voicing them. Nathan studied John, who held his fingers in front of the flashlight and formed the shadows of monsters on the fort wall. Then he shifted his gaze to Neil, who was idly picking splinters from the floor and rolling them between his fingers. Nathan's breath became staggered as he looked upon his brothers for what Sergeant Bougus had said might be the last time. He wanted the moment to be important, meaningful, but somehow it felt almost like any other night. It had been a while since he had recognized the need to be alone with his brothers, to bond with them, and that made the evening different. But something was supposed to wash over him, a revelation, something that would carve the moment indelibly into his memory. He simply sat in the tree-fort with his brothers, wanting to say things like: "If I die, you'll take care of Mom, won't you guys..." But whether he died or not, Mom was too independent to be taken care of. He repressed the grim impulse to ask his brothers how they would feel if he were to die. They would barely know how to answer that question. The most he would get out of them might be a word: sad. He already knew that they loved him; he was just permitting his insecurity to get the best of him.
"Let's get down," Neil suggested, seizing Nathan's wrist and checking his watch phone. "I'm supposed to be getting a call about now."
"I'm sorry for dragging you guys up here," Nathan said, then glanced at the watch himself to check for messages. There were none. He got to his feet, careful to duck beneath the low ceiling. "And thanks for coming.
John stood erect. "It's not good-bye yet, Nathan. We still have tomorrow."
He brightened. "Yeah. What do you guys want to do?"
"You really want to know?" John asked, then turned to Neil, who nodded his consent with a smile. "We wanna see Shane in a bikini."
Nathan allowed himself a second's smile, then rolled his eyes to make sure his brothers knew that he didn't approve of their lusting after Shane. Though his own hormones had leveled off to a point of saving him from embarrassment, Nathan could still vividly remember the days of following girls through clothing stores, tracking their scent like an unabashed hound faithful to the unrelenting urges.
He was last to descend the rope ladder, and, once on the ground with his brothers, he crossed from the forest to the south forty of his parents' farm.
John noticed the lights first. He stopped, pointed to the sky, and Nathan saw the boy's Adam's apple bulge in a deep swallow.
After a glance that told him all he needed to know, Nathan broke into a sprint. "Come on! Let's find out how we're doing."
Though he had a head start, both Neil and John beat him to the house. Out of breath, he entered through the back door and burst into the kitchen, the smell of dinner still lingering in the air. He heard the TV from the living room and hustled toward the sound.
Shane sat on the edge of the sofa, her chin in her palm, her gaze intent on the screen. Bolted to positions behind her were Mom and Dad; they clung to each other, both with ashen faces and glassy eyes. Neil and John had thrown themselves onto the floor and now leaned on their elbows. Nathan took a seat beside his friend.
After consulting his electronic notebook, a middle-aged reporter—who in Nathan's opinion could best be described in a word: scared—looked off-camera for a cue. Behind him, a passageway stretched straight away, and two Navy officers exited a hatch and ran for one on the other side. "We have it? Good," the reporter said, then faced the camera. "The following, we must warn, are scenes we regret having to show you."
Images apparently recorded from an attack jet's wing-mounted camera replaced the reporter and depicted a fierce firelight above, beneath, and around an immense gray space carrier.
Alien fighters strafed the hull of the ship with salvo after salvo of laser fire, and the few remaining Hammerhead jets that were trying to fend off the alien swarm were suddenly blasted to pieces or damaged to the point where their pilots had to eject. What was worse, the half-dozen or more floating Marines were picked off like clay targets before an expert skeet shooter.
Then, one of the carrier's main dishes took a triplet of alien bolts that cobwebbed it with energy and, after second, caused it to shatter.
A stray shot fired from an unseen plane came directly at the screen. Nathan jerked back as the image was ripped away into static.
Another signal broke in and revealed the receiving bay of a medivac shuttle. The place was a vast metallic lake bed of stretchers weighted with bleeding and burned pilots, most of whom were still unbandaged. Medics shouted and moved in clusters through the maze of wounded. The camera panned right to a row of uncovered corpses piled three-high. Two medics added a woman to the already obscene number of casualties. The reporter's voice strained over the horrific after-math. "The space carriers Nimitz and H.M.S. Montgomery have been destroyed."
Though the new image on the screen was very grainy, the contrast high, Nathan could see the Montgomery, adrift in space. What little was left of her bow was pinpricked by the tiny, residual glows of internal explosions and fires. Small clouds of debris took chaotic orbits and spiraled in the carrier's wake. Twenty or thirty alien fighters still circled and spat their venom upon her, doing so at a leisurely pace, for there wasn't a single Hammerhead present to stop them. The carrier began to list, and as it did, the signal began to break up.
The reporter's face returned. "From here on the U.S.S. Yorktown, the 127th airborne, known as 'The Angry Angels,' are engaging the enemy—and meeting heavy resistance."
Another wing-mounted camera took in the terrible yet captivating action as the pilot stole along the belly of the cruiser, trying to get a target lock on an alien fighter that was a mere jet's length ahead of her. Accompanying he image was her voice through the link:
"Copy you, Mac. Don't think my lock's working. I'm right on this bug and getting nothing!"
"They jammin' us or what?" the man speculated. Stunned over recognizing the female pilot's voice, Nathan turned to Shane. "That's Collins from the bar." Shane wouldn't look at him. "And I'm actually rooting for her now."
John's jaw hung slack. "You know her?"
Nathan nodded, then pointed to the screen.
Now, the same battle was seen from another angle, this one taken from the safer distance of a Japanese frigate, the nose of which was seen in the foreground. The Yorktown was a jogged metallic rectangle amid a haze of falling glitter. "The enemy have refused terms of surrender," the reporter voiced-over. Then he appeared, and the passageway was now clogged with smoke. "There are electric flashes"—behind him, artificial lightning erupted from behind a half-open hatch—"and you can hear the metal buckling in the b
ow of the carrier." He looked away as he pressed his index finger on the small receiver clipped to his ear. "Peter, are we still linked with the feed?"
Nathan could indeed hear the groaning protest of the hull, a sound that left him shaken and cold.
The smoke around the reporter became so thick that he was barely seen. Facing the audience, he assured, "I'll try to stay on as long—" A sudden flash behind the man made him look back as the picture wiped into snow.
Mom gasped.
A slightly disheveled news anchor was caught off guard as he suddenly realized he was on camera. He wheeled his chair closer to the desk, lifted and clapped papers to straighten them, then hemmed. "Uh, it seems we've temporarily lost our link with Mark Briggs aboard the Yorktown. We'll return to him as soon as possible. In the meantime, let's go to Mimi Levanto, who's standing by at Space Station Goddard, for her report on the efforts there."
"We'll return to the Yorktown?" Nathan asked sarcastically, then stood. "The carrier's gone!" He couldn't bear any more. He stomped out of the room and toward the front door.
It was a beautiful night, paid homage to by the croaking frogs who knew nothing of war and death. The sky that had recently been speckled with battle now denied the fact that Marines had lost their lives. He heard the screen door close, but didn't look back. He figured it was Shane.
"Nathan..."
Finding his blue star, Nathan fixed on it. He clenched his fists. "How did any of this happen? I'll tell you how. It started with senators and governors. Then again, it started with tanks. She wouldn't be there, and I wouldn't be about to die. Look at what's happened."
Shane seemed to consider what he had said for a long moment, then crossed in front of him. "When we go back, I want you to remember one thing. Cooper didn't take her away from you."
He bowed his head, ashamed that she now knew that he had more than one reason for hating the tank. In fact, she knew a lot more than he cared for her to know. But he had invited her and should have realized that it would all come out.
The screen door banged shut. Dad moved to the edge of the porch. "It's over."
Nathan lifted his gaze to Shane, who, like him, didn't know how to react. There was just shock, numbness.
His watch phone abruptly beeped simultaneously with Shane's. A tinny voice followed:
"Attention all pilots of the Marine Corps Aviators Cavalry. You are to report immediately to base for active duty."
Mom, who had come up next to Dad, put a hand over her mouth.
"Repeat... MCAC pilots are to be suited and ready to roll by 0600. Walk arounds must be complete by 0615, and launch lines will commence by 0630. Thumb your compliance codes now."
Nathan and Shane hit buttons on their phones that would send a signal back to the base stating that they were on their way.
The moment that he had been carefully folding away since coming home had now been dumped on him as though from a bloated, dark cloud. He was like a statue in front of his house, his family, his friend, wishing he could refuse the beckoning stars of war.
twenty-one
Nathan had not slept on the flight back to Loxley. He had closed his eyes and found himself behind the stick of Collins's fighter, struggling frantically like she had to get a lock on the alien craft. Then the ship had braked, causing him to fly over it. The sickening sound of his thrusters being ravaged by laser fire had made him jerk violently and open his eyes.
Once he and Shane had arrived at the base, they had gone to their barracks for showers, discovering they had been the last, save for Hawkes, to return. Nathan had taken a granola bar offered to him by Low, then had headed alone to the hangars.
Now he was in the dimly lit shelter for his Hammerhead. He strolled along her belly, running fingers over her gray, polymeric skin. "You were right, Neil. This definitely isn't Mom's car, and I almost can't imagine myself flying her."
Arriving beneath the nose of the plane, Nathan stepped out of its shadow and stared at the black lettering stenciled in heat-resistant paint below the canopy:
5TH AIR WING 58TH SQUADRON USMC
On the opposite side of the canopy:
LT. NATHAN WEST
The jet was his. And he would soon entrust his life to the strength of its hull, the calculations of its computer mind, and the response of its thruster-driven heart. He moved to the wing, ducked under it, and wandered to the rear of the craft. Then he walked back to the nose. He had completed four walkarounds already, but something still felt wrong. He inspected the canopy, then the nose of the plane. Then he knew.
Hunting around, Nathan found a service ladder and rolled it to his jet. He went to a wall of black metal cabinets, each labeled with its contents. Finding the one he wanted, he opened it and gathered his supplies. He mounted the ladder and sat on the second-to-last rung. Once the cans were open, he dipped his brush and began to paint.
It took him all of twenty minutes, and when he was done, he stood back to inspect his artwork.
A blue star composed of a simple circle and cross glimmered above the words: BEYOND AND BACK.
"Nathan!"
Shane had just come through the side door and was running toward him. Unsure of why she was present and fearing the worst, he braced himself.
"Nathan," she repeated, arriving out of breath below him. "Our orders are in. We have to report to the orientation room."
After hurriedly gathering up the paint and brushes, then stowing them and the ladder, he went back to Shane, who had been staring at his blue star. "Ready?" he said.
It took a moment for his question to register, then she nodded.
Sunrise over the base was nothing to be admired; it was simply a clock marking the minutes until launch. They loped across the tarmac, headed for the main complex, and it dawned on Nathan that he'd forgotten something. He'd been so excited to get orders—any orders—that he'd never asked Shane about the details. Then again, he hoped they weren't going to repair another tracking drone. "Any idea where we're headed?"
"Damphousse heard we're going right to the line."
Sirens blared behind them and grew louder. Suddenly, an olive-drab van cut in front of them.
"Dammit! He missed me by a molecule," Shane screamed.
"Hey, you ass—" Nathan backed off his epithet as he noted the red cross painted over a square white field on the back of the van. Another van roared past them, and both pulled up to the base hospital that adjoined the main complex.
They sprinted up to the vans and paused to see what was happening. The hospital's doors slid automatically open and eight or nine medics hastened to the now-open rear doors of each of the vans. Survivors on stretchers were hauled out along with the dead, who were in black body bags.
Nathan recognized a uniform.
So did Shane. "The 127th," she uttered weakly.
The elite force, some burned, some comatose, some with shattered limbs, were carried into the hospital. Nathan counted more dead than living.
Out of breath, Shane placed her palm over her heart. "Ohmygod. They were the best..."
The moment was like a crystal ball that conjured up too vivid a picture. Nathan found himself shooting a look to the sentry gate. How much would they question him if he were to attempt to leave? He shuttered the thought away. "Come on."
Shane grabbed his arm. A last pilot was being unloaded from one of the vans. She led Nathan closer. Though bubbling bums covered one side of the Marine's face and neck, he was still conscious. It was the Angel they had noticed their first day on the base, the one who had sat alone in the bar. They were near enough to see his patch: T. C. MCQUEEN.
A shadow appeared next to Nathan's. Hawkes now stood next to him. The tank's slicked-back hair and sweaty face could be attributed to the morning heat, but the feature that betrayed him was the pallid hue of his complexion. Then a look floated between Hawkes and McQueen, a look that Nathan could not interpret. The Angel disappeared into the hospital. The tank muttered something unintelligible before he started off for t
he complex.
"Have you figured out what's going on between them?" Shane asked.
Nathan's face tightened in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
"McQueen's an In Vitro."
Nathan looked to Hawkes. "I guess he just saw his future, too."
They entered the orientation room to find the other eighteen pilots of the fifty-eighth squadron already slouching in their seats and chatting nervously with each other. Shane steered them to the chairs next to Hawkes. Why did she have to put them practically on top of the tank, Nathan wondered.
"Hey, Nathan," Damphousse called. "You ready for the line?"
He looked back to flash her a wink and a thumbs-up.
"I still won't be ready," Wang complained. "Even when we're in the middle of the furball."
"You'd better be ready if you're gonna be my wing man," Carter threatened.
Lieutenant Colonel Fouts appeared from a side door. He paused a moment to exchange a few words with Sergeant Bougus, then crossed to front and center.
The sergeant cleared his throat. "AAAH-TEN-TION!"
Nathan and the rest sprang to their feet.
The lieutenant colonel quickly waved them down. "Be seated."
Despite the large number of human beings in the room, beings who breathed, blinked, scratched, swallowed, fidgeted, and occasionally coughed, the room was remarkably silent. Nathan sat attentively, ready to hang on the colonel's every word.
"The information you are about to receive is classified level red."
Shane drew back in her chair, and Nathan found his brow lifting in surprise as the others stirred, but for the most part, repressed their reactions.
The lieutenant colonel narrowed his gaze. "I need not remind you of the consequences of divulging class red information."
Nathan threw Hawkes a sidelong stare that said: "You hear that? He's talking to you!" But before Hawkes noticed the look, Shane gently touched Nathan's chin and directed his attention forward.
