Space: Above and Beyond 1 - Space: Above and Beyond

by Peter Telep

"Fifty-eighth, because of you we've caught a break. A major break. Within the wreckage of the alien recon vehicle recovered during your H.I.S.T. was an encoded transmission detailing the enemy's projected battle plans."

  "I thought the ship alone was a find," Shane whispered.

  "Subsequently, all enemy movements have been anticipated. Fearing the captured information may be deceptive, we have not shown our hand. Until now."

  Even though they had found the ship by accident, and even though they weren't the ones to discover the transmission, Nathan now felt like he was an intimate and vital part of the war effort. He wasn't some nameless pilot about to be blown away. He was Nathan West, proud member of the group whose find might turn the tide of the war. Everyone who had been on Mars already deserved a medal. His invigorated confidence made him want to immediately climb into his cockpit and, as Bougus had said, go "tear-assing across the cosmos, huntin' for heaven."

  He glanced at Shane, who wasn't focused on the lieutenant colonel. She furtively studied Hawkes. What was that interesting about the tank? Nathan looked for himself. Hawkes shook his head negatively, slapped his arms across his chest, then huffed.

  "What's wrong?" Shane asked him.

  "This ain't right," he replied curtly.

  Damphousse stuck her head between Shane and Hawkes to shush them.

  Standing behind a small holo projector, Fouts threw a switch, bringing to life a three-dimensional map of their sector of the Milky Way galaxy. Nathan had seen many holos as a colonist in training but none this detailed or elaborate. Instead of being tiny, nearly indistinguishable points of light, the planets in each system actually contained colored surface features, and, if one stared at them long enough, one could see that they spun on their axes and followed their orbits around the sun in real time.

  The lieutenant colonel stepped to the right side of the map, then pointed to an object in the far, lower portion. Nathan already knew what the object was. "The Earth is here," Fouts confirmed. He strode 11.6 light-years to the opposite end of the map. "In seventy-one hours, the enemy intends to attack with extreme intent, directing two-thirds of its forces to the Groombridge thirty-four star system naval base." He pointed to Groombridge thirty-four, a binary star system with four planets orbiting the smaller star, three orbiting the larger. A data bar below the system supplied the absolute magnitude, distance, spectral type, and apparent visual magnitude for each star as seen from Earth. "This is known as point G." Fouts shifted to the center of the holo. "The Earth forces—the greatest mobilization of military might since the twentieth century—will surprise attack from behind enemy positions at two points." He indicated a sector near Barnard's Star. "Point F, here, and,"—he singled out another, near Wolf 359—"point H, here. The Marines will participate with the Eighth Air Wing. This will be possible due to a fortuitous projected wormhole opening in the Galileo regions."

  Shane tilted her head toward Nathan and whispered "This will work."

  Indeed, Nathan had already bought ninety-nine percent of the plan. Yet there was a dangerous one percent that kept him tense, and the feeling was fueled by Hawkes. Every word out of the lieutenant colonel's mouth was met by the tank's disapproving stare and occasional snorts. What did Hawkes know that the world's military did not?

  "From captured information we have ascertained the following: their planes are faster, with a better rate of climb. But ours are more maneuverable and better armed. It evens out."

  Shane proffered her palm with a smile. Amidst murmurs of approval throughout the room, Nathan high-fived her. She tried the same with Hawkes, who ignored her.

  The energy in the room was infectious, finding its way into Fouts's voice. "Surprise has been their best weapon. Now... it is ours."

  "It's too easy," Hawkes blurted out, then fidgeted as every gaze found him.

  Nathan sighed. "Here we go..." But in truth he was anxious to hear why the tank had misgivings.

  "Sir, if the plans weren't planted, then they would at least assume that we have them. They'd change their objectives."

  "No doubt their intelligence reported that we would be unable to decipher the transmission, and, in fact, it has taken fifty Chamo Quantum computers interlinked on four continents to decode the enemy's complex language. And, as mentioned, their movements have since been in accord with the captured plans."

  Hawkes unfolded his arms and slid up in his seat. "What if they assumed we would eventually be able to decipher the transmission? And what if they didn't change their plans in an attempt to lure us away, then surround and finish us?"

  "We can second-guess them and ourselves to death," Nathan told the tank. "What we have to do is respond to the facts."

  Fouts nodded. "I can assure you, Lieutenant"—he squinted at the tank's name patch—"Hawkes, that thousands of computer simulations have been run, every possible enemy move played out."

  "I hope you're right," Hawkes said gravely.

  By now, Nathan's patience was threadbare and had him tapping his foot in anticipation of their orders. He decided he wasn't going to wait for Fouts. "Sir, are we deploying to point F or H, sir?"

  The lieutenant colonel hesitated, and suddenly he looked a lot like Governor Overmeyer, the harbinger of doom.

  No, his news can't be that bad... or can it...

  "The fifty-eighth squadron will operate in a support capacity at point A."

  "Point A," Damphousse repeated enthusiastically, believing that point A was a position of extreme importance.

  Obviously she hadn't heard the words support capacity.

  Turning back to the map, Fouts singled out point A. "Here. Rear left flank."

  Rear left flank! Give. Give. Give. Take. Take. Take. You're ready, son. You're combat ready. We have a nice bunk for you to hide under, a nice bunk right here in the rear left flank!

  With his vision clouded by anger, Nathan failed to see a superior officer at the head of the room. Instead, he saw a governor, a senator, and a puppet all wrapped into one uniformed man. "Why bother telling us the plan if we weren't going to be a part of it?"

  Piqued by Nathan's tone, Fouts's retort was delivered in a voice equally acidic. "You are part of it: rear left flank."

  In the space of a heartbeat Nathan was on his feet.

  "Sir, request permission to transfer to Eighth Air Wing."

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Shane's expression of shock.

  Then she rose and it was plain that she hadn't been shocked over his insubordination but over the fact that his request was a good idea "Sir, request permission to transfer to Eighth Air Wing."

  "Requests denied."

  Cornered, Nathan figured he had better try the soft approach with Fouts. Arguing—he should have known—would get him nowhere. "Sir, with all due respect, we have a right to follow through—"

  "Sit down, Lieutenants!"

  Nathan bowed his head and shrank back in inevitable defeat. He wanted to throttle Damphousse for her misinformation. Who had told her they were going right to the line? Indeed, when he was done with Damphousse, he'd wring that person's neck.

  After giving himself a moment to settle, Fouts said, "The fifty-eighth squadron is to report to the naval space carrier Saratoga, across the Jupiter Line, by 0840 tomorrow. You'll meet Commodore Eichner on board. Dismissed."

  twenty-two

  Nine of the squadron's twenty SA-43 Hammerheads were perched on the apron outside a row of hangars. Suited and ready, Nathan shielded his eyes from the dazzles being fired off the open canopies as he approached his plane. He grimaced slightly over the stench of fuel that hung in the air.

  Sergeant Bougus was doing his own personal walk around of each plane, checking a laser cannon mount here, a wing seam there. His act was more ritual than necessity. "This ain't gonna be no pep talk," he said as everyone gathered. "And you may all no longer work for a livin', but I'm still givin' you orders. Fall in."

  Nathan assumed his position and locked his heels as he had many times before. But this ti
me he stood below one of the most powerful military aircraft ever designed, about to climb aboard the beast and rocket off to—

  A lousy support mission.

  He should be nervous and thrilled. Yes, he was awed by the presence of the planes and the mighty image that he and the rest of the squadron conveyed; however, he couldn't help gritting his teeth and swearing under his breath.

  "I'm looking at your faces and I'm seeing some pilots who look mighty pissed off," Bougus began. "Raise your hand if you're pissed."

  As Nathan indicated he was, he looked down the line. Yes, everyone was definitely inflamed over their orders. The sergeant gestured for hands down then began his routine pacing. He paused before Damphousse. "What does gung ho mean, lieutenant?"

  "Sir, it means working together, sir."

  "Does anybody know where this conversation is leading?"

  "Sir, yes, sir," Wang said. "You are going to tell us that even though we are rear left flank, we are still an important part of the war effort, sir."

  "No, I'm not, you shitbird!" He rushed to Wang. "You people got screwed! I recommended that they send you poor bastards to the line because you people are squared away. Other squadrons could learn from you people. But you got screwed."

  "Sir, we feel bad enough already, sir," Bartley said. "Maybe we do need a pep talk."

  Bougus paused, either considering Bartley's suggestion or ticking off mental seconds until he would detonate. "What you need is a swift kick into reality. This war gets bad enough, your candyass support position will be front line. Stuff that in your skivvies while you're feeling sorry for yourself."

  "Sir. We trained, we got planes. Why won't they let us fight, sir?" Stone asked.

  "Look at me. What do you see?"

  "Sir?"

  "WHAT DO YOU SEE?"

  "Sir, a senior drill instructor, sir."

  "BULLSHIT. I'm a broken down old man who's forced to turn thumb-suckers into ass-kickers. I ain't ever going to no front line. I might as well be tongue-cleaning toilets!"

  "Sir, that's not true, sir," Nathan said, then realized he had just called the sergeant a liar.

  But the expected chide didn't come. On the contrary, the sergeant nodded. "'Course that ain't true! I woulda swallowed laser fire a long time ago." He came to attention. "Let me tell who you're lookin' at. I am the fifth generation of Marine Corps drill instructors in my family.

  One of my ancestors was training grunts to be sent to Vietnam. I am part of a proud tradition. I am past, present, and future, alive before your eyes. Look at each other. You are the same."

  Nathan loosened his jaw, feeling his anger beginning to evaporate. Now he felt stupid for being upset in the first place. Every person did, indeed, have a job to do, and it was his job to support the attack, just as it was Bougus's job to make him feel like an idiot for being angry...

  "Sir, would you like to hear our war cry?" Shane asked, then smiled at Nathan.

  Bougus put a hand to his ear. "Whattaya got?"

  Nine pilots screamed at the top of their lungs, producing an ear-splitting, bestial chorus that stunned and caught the attention of a line of new recruits marching by.

  "Hoo-yah! That is a war cry! Now. Mount your horses."

  The takeoff crews were already swarming around their planes as Nathan put on his padded skullcap, then helmet. A crewman slapped the hook-on ladder to his jet and Nathan ascended it. At the top, he took in the view of Hawkes's jet parked two down from his. The tank had painted snarling shark's teeth and the words: PAGS'S PAYBACK on the nose of his Hammerhead.

  With the cockpit fitting Nathan like a second skin, he ran through his pre-flight check list: lap and shoulder belt; leg restraints; O2, computer, and comlink cables plugged to his suit; pre-flight thruster sequence engaged; canopy toggle flipped to lower. Since he was at the end of the apron, Nathan would be first to take off. He flashed the plane captain a thumbs-up and the tall man waved him out toward a service road that led to the runway. Nathan eased back the thruster control. His engines whined in response and the jet lurched forward. He looked down to Sergeant Bougus. Nathan and the rest were finally leaving the nest, and that fact was reflected in Bougus's wistful expression. Nathan proudly returned the mart's salute then started off.

  Reaching the runway, he braked and called the tower for clearance to launch. Permission was granted, and he opened up the thrusters. The simulator had done a poor job of re-creating the engines' incredible muscular bellows. The tarmac, hangars, and perimeter fences were soon long streaks of color, and, with a pulse that threatened to break into near light-speed, Nathan eased back his stick and left the ground. Multiple sonic booms reverberated in his thruster wash as he soared into a sky as blue as the Tellusian sun.

  See ya! And don't worry, Neil. I'll keep an eye on the cars ahead of me.

  He thumbed on the NAV system, which already had his course preprogrammed, then eased back and flipped a toggle to let the autopilot steer him toward the ionosphere.

  Wipe that stupid grin off your face, Nathan, you have a job to do.

  But look at me! I'm flying. I'm, a Marine.

  Skipchatter between the pilots and the tower confirmed that all twenty birds of the fifty-eighth were off the ground. Nathan fixed his gaze ahead, and was glad he did, for at that moment his Hammerhead passed from day into starry night. The NAV system console beeped, signaling the crossover. With Earth curving back away from him, Nathan disengaged the autopilot and banked right until he was locked into the formation course. He engaged the HUD and saw the other four Hammerheads of his wing; they were closing in on him, ready to form a deadly arrow with Nathan as its laser-sighted tip. All four wings of the squadron would assume a formation that put Nathan's wing next to Shane's in the front, with Mordock's and Crispan's wings in the left and right flanks, respectively.

  "Gold Leader, this is G-Four," Wang identified. "Systems nominal. Formation looking good. Link good."

  "G-Three in," Damphousse said. "Cool, clean, and very mean."

  "G-Two's a go," Carter added.

  "G-One, on my mark." Low said.

  "Gold Wing. Gold Leader reporting links and locks one hundred percent. Steady as we go," Nathan said. "Red Leader, wing report?"

  "Bartley's having trouble with her link," Shane informed him. "She's breaking up but she thinks she knows why. Other than that, we're right and tight. White and Blue wings report no problems."

  Nathan adjusted his heads-up display to zoom in on their destination. A distorted video image of the carrier Saratoga appeared, but the signal wasn't any better than some of the footage of the news reports he had watched back home. A zillion-dollar system gave him a thirty-cent picture.

  "Red Leader, have target destination IDed in display," Nathan said.

  "Gold Leader, confirm Saratoga position at 32.5 megastatute kilometers."

  Nathan was about to reply when his heads-up display flickered, then vanished into a shower of static. He turned a dial, trying to boost the system's signal. "Just a mick, I'm getting interference on the LIDAR."

  It was ridiculous to do so, but Nathan made a visual scan of the space around him and his wing. The void looked innocent enough; there wasn't anything present that might cause the interference. Solar flares? Maybe. More likely his equipment wasn't living up to its engineer's expectations.

  With a great charge of interference that made him cower, the heads-up display abruptly locked onto a UFO zooming past at close range. Nathan shot a look over his shoulder. Nothing. "Check six ... I had a contact on the HUD." Switching to another LIDAR frequency, he added, "Musta been an asteroid or—"

  Bang. There it was.

  And an asteroid it wasn't.

  An alien reconnaissance craft cruised through local space; it was exactly like the one he had encountered on Mars save for the fact that this one was ready to do business. The heads-up now did a fine job of reproducing the wings and dorsal fin of the ominous-looking ship.

  Bougus hadn't been kidding about the line comin
g to rear left flank.

  Nathan tried to keep the hysteria out of his voice. And failed. "Red Leader. Confirm bandit—a recon vehicle—on the LIDAR."

  He could only imagine the look on Shane's face and the faces of the rest of the squadron.

  After letting his gloved finger trace the recon ship's trajectory, he checked a data bar. "Ten o'clock, thirty-five degrees south, ninety-six megameters. "

  "I can't see 'em! I can't see 'em," Wang shouted. "LIDAR's blank."

  "Wrong freq, Wang."

  "I'm picking up something," Damphousse sang darkly.

  "Confirm! Confirm!" Hawkes cried. LIDAR channel four! Contact, ten o'clock."

  We should engage. Now.

  No, wait. What's our strategy? Assume diamond formations and surround?

  Nathan took a deep breath and called for Shane. "Red Leader, we're—"

  "Gold Leader," Shane interrupted, "alter intercept angle thirty degrees. Blue Wing, White Wing, watch six. HACK!"

  He banked left then dropped into a full-throttle dive, watching as his wing followed, their movements a little sloppy but generally mirroring his. Once the NAV system indicated that he'd reached the new angle, he cut speed by one quarter and leveled off to probe his HUD. Nothing. Nothing.

  Patience... there you are.

  "Got 'em. Red Leader," he informed. "Twelve o'clock high."

  "I don't think he's picked us up," Hawkes said.

  "We got him, is all that matters," Carter opined.

  "Confirm at twelve high." Shane's voice was steady but had a definite edge. "Let's light the pipes and head downtown."

  "Copy, Red Leader. Blue and White Wings going high and we're coming under and up to surround. Gold Wing... ready?"

  "On your mark," Damphousse said.

  Nathan checked what was at the moment his favorite digital readout:

  WEAPONS SYSTEMS: UNARMED

  He tapped one, two, three, and the fourth button.

  PROXIMITY GUNS: ARMED AND READY.

  But they weren't what he really needed.

  LASER CANNONS PRIMING ... PLEASE WAIT.

  Come on, come on, come on...