by Peter Telep
CHARGE COMPLETE.
"MARK!"
Nathan maxed his thrusters. The Hammerhead rocked him into his seat and screamed toward the alien craft at what felt like a runaway velocity. His HUD showed his and Shane's wings veering away from Blue and White Wings.
Then, framed by his long canopy, he glimpsed the alien ship as it rolled into an inverted dive in an attempt to evade Gold and Red Wings.
"He jinked!" Shane cried. "SCRAM! SCRAM!"
Both wings broke formation, and suddenly there were nine Hammerheads crisscrossing from multiple angles above and below Nathan. He saw Shane release a volley of bolts that the alien miraculously corkscrewed through unscathed.
Though he hated to admit it, the time had come for a crack shot. "Hawkes! Get in the fight!"
"Tracking! Can't get a lock!" the tank complained nervously.
"Eyeball it! Take the shot!" Nathan ordered, then turned his Hammerhead on a wing and streaked toward the fleeing alien.
"Negative! R-Four and G-Three in my fire line."
"R-Four, G-Three, break off pursuit!" Shane commanded angrily.
As the two Hammerheads that were blocking Hawkes's fighter peeled right and left, Nathan saw one of his own target locks float over the image of the alien and freeze. "I gotta lock! Firing!"
He thumbed the trigger. A pair of bolts erupted from his cannons followed by a repercussive tremor that passed through the craft. One of his bolts grazed Hawkes's right wing and was thrown off target while the alien nosedived to avoid the other.
"Coop! Damage report," Shane requested.
"Thanks a lot, West! I had the shot! Why'd you have to—"
"Damage report!" Shane repeated.
"Right wing scorched. Systems still nominal," the tank said, sounding a little calmer. "My HUD's blank. Contact gone."
"It must be jamming our LIDAR. Went below us like a fish on a line," Nathan said.
"Then, hey, Shane. Let's go fishin'," Hawkes suggested. "You can stay on shore, West. Maybe take in some target practice."
Nathan tensed. "I had target, lock. I didn't—"
"No time to argue," Shane cut him off. "And no time to fish. We don't have the fuel. Return to designated course. I'll call Spacecom and report ACM with the enemy."
The four wings regrouped and the squadron resumed its original formation.
It took another five minutes for Nathan to fully catch his breath. Finally, he was calm enough to notice the view. Despite the fact that it was still 200 million kilometers away, Jupiter loomed in the distance. Knowing the planet was ten times the size of Earth was one thing, but seeing that truth up-close was going to be something extraordinary.
With a long ride ahead, and trying to wrest off the lingering frustration of losing the fighter and guilt of nearly hitting Hawkes, Nathan thought about getting a little shut-eye. But why did he have to be on board a jet every time he wanted to sleep? The thin mattress of his bunk back in the barracks was looking better and better. He activated the autopilot, closed his eyes, and listened to the hum of his thrusters and the hiss of his oxygen.
It was a lovely wake-up call consisting of the demonic little buzzing of his proximity beacon followed by someone whose voice—and especially humor—he could do without.
"Thar she blows," Hawkes announced.
The supercarrier Saratoga was a floating polymeric metropolis reminiscent of the old naval aircraft carriers Nathan had seen on history discs. The vessel contained a sixty-thousand-square-meter flight deck that was heavily trafficked, and Nathan estimated the girth of the carrier at a hundred meters. Blue, red, and white flashes came randomly from along the flanks of the ship, and the tiny running lights of fighters and transports illuminated their comings and goings. It was unnerving to know that somewhere down on that flight deck Nathan was supposed to find a parking space. He'd have better luck at a shopping mall during the holidays.
They were contacted by the carrier's tower and their NAV systems were, thankfully, fed coordinates for their approach. As Nathan hovered a moment before beginning his vertical descent, he passed into a strange and beautiful glow. Below him was the metallic deck, but now to his left and above were the swirling orange, white, and black gasses of Jupiter. He was disappointed that the great red spot was presently on the far side of the planet, but the Saratoga's orbit would eventually take it over the storm.
All of the landing practice in the simulator was put to good use. He hit the deck gently and silently, cut retros, then was directed by two members of the deck crew to a platform that would drop him into the lower deck. Once in position, he powered down, felt a jerk, then was swallowed by the carrier.
In the cavernous lower deck, the arm of a jet crane swung in front of him and locked into place. Nathan fingered the DETACH button on his cockpit control panel. His pit was lifted away from the rest of his jet and placed on a flatbed. Soon, five other pilots joined him, two beside, three facing. Wang, Damphousse, and Shane all beamed.
The flatbed was guided automatically past a string of flashing red lights, mounted to the ceiling and into an air lock. While waiting for pressurization, Nathan finished shutting down his remaining systems, detached his suit cables and removed his helmet. The lock's opposite doors slid apart. Nathan opened his canopy with the others and jumped down. He moved out of the lock and into an immense tunnel, the ceiling of which was ribbed with clusters of many-sized duct work. Halls intersected the tunnel at five or six points, and the twenty or thirty members of the ship's support crew assigned to the area were in a state of frenzy, darting down halls and reaching for wall links to shout orders. Flight mechanics and pilots also double-timed toward prep bays.
As the rest of the squadron assembled behind him, Nathan turned to Shane. "What's going on here? They seem pretty hairy."
"We probably landed in the middle of a drill," she hazarded.
Hawkes seized a passing mechanic by the arm. "Hey, what's going—"
The woman glared at him and tore herself away.
"AHHH-TEN-TION," Wang shouted.
Commodore Eichner had just come from around a corner. He strode toward Nathan and the other pilots, stopped and brought a hand up to his graying temple in salute. "Five-eight. Follow me to the orientation room."
"Sir, what's going on?" Shane asked.
"Spacecom checked out your report of the enemy recon vehicle. Radio telescopes have since found not only no trace of enemy troops in the Groombridge system, but rather a force amassing outside our solar system."
Hawkes beat his fist loudly into his palm. "The enemy plans were a setup." Then he leered at Nathan.
The commodore pursed his lips and swallowed. "At this point, no one needs their plans to know which direction they're heading."
twenty-three
"We don't wanna hear any I-told-you-so's outta you," Mr. Hotshot said as they hurried through the corridor.
It was convenient that Commodore Eichner was far enough ahead to be out of earshot, but even if he weren't, Hawkes's reply would have been the same. "This war's bein' run by a buncha brainwipes."
I can assure you, Lieutenant Hawkes, that thousands of computer simulations have been run, every possible enemy move played out.
And they call tanks stupid...
'They probably did their best," Shane said. "And I guess we have to do ours."
Hawkes didn't look at her as he retorted, "The Marines are looking for a few good suckers. And they've found one."
"Shuddup, Hawkes," Mr. Badshot grunted.
"Sir, yes, sir," he spat back.
The dawning argument fell off into the rhythmic pounding of their boots. Hawkes wanted to say more; he wanted to ram the fact that he was right down each pilot's throat, then go back to the base and do the same to Lieutenant Colonel Fouts. Pentagon desk drones had no feel for war. Hawkes had been on Mars. He'd seen an alien recon ship. He'd seen one of the things in action. And that experience had given him a vibe. Barely able to explain it himself, he just knew that the aliens had bee
n baiting them.
So he had been right. And everyone was doomed. And he didn't even have to be present.
Why did he have to meet that damned biker? Why did Pags have to help him in the first place? Hawkes could have dropped out of the Corps and served the rest of his term in jail. He'd made the decision not to go AWOL after his forty-eight hours of leave, had even rushed back to the base when summoned on his watch phone. Had he known then that the odds would be this stacked against him, he would have surely run.
Eichner left them at the orientation room door and hurried off, saying he'd return in a few minutes. Hawkes followed the rest into the cramped quarters. The place was bathed in an eerie red light and had enough chairs to accommodate thirty or forty pilots. In the middle of the room sat a long table weighted down with steel and plastic equipment crates that would prevent the back half of the room from seeing anything. Hawkes wandered to the right, slumped into a chair and slid his helmet under it. He glanced up absently into a clear LCD board that reflected computer-generated images of the Saratoga in Jovian orbit and the approaching alien armada. He groaned disgustedly, then looked around.
Shane had found a small desk in the corner. She sat with her head bowed, the back of her hand over her mouth. Was she praying? Crying? Hawkes wanted to go to her, tell her he hadn't meant what he had said, and somehow comfort her. But he couldn't. The words, the damned words... as always, they were beyond him, and even if he had them, the tone, well, that was impossible. Why was anger so easy to communicate, and other feelings so difficult?
He looked to West... and there was his answer. Mr. Hotshot sat holding his photo tags, dreaming of Ms. Tellus. Didn't the idiot know she was probably dead? A mean thought, yes, but it was wartime. Hawkes thought he should go remind West of the fact. The Marine looked to have suddenly forgotten everything that was going on around them, and if West's head wasn't in the right place then Hawkes didn't want to be flying anywhere near him. One grazing had already been enough, enough to make him wonder if West would have taken the risky shot if it had been Shane's fighter on the alien's tail. It had probably been easy for West to put a tank's life in jeopardy. West was cocky. And stupid.
Yeah, as stupid as I am for coming back.
You know why you're here. You made the decision.
"I don't wanna listen to that," Damphousse said softly, referring to the clipped comlink transmissions between the advanced scout ships and the Saratoga's bridge. She took a seat beside him. "It's getting me jittery."
Hawkes glanced back to Shane, who hadn't moved. "Do you pray?" he asked Damphousse.
"I do now," she said in a shivering voice.
"I mean all the time... daily."
"Not daily. Maybe weekly, I guess. It's not like I have a schedule or anything."
"Why?"
"Why don't I have a—"
"No," he said, then faced her. "Why do you pray?"
She seemed startled. "Uh, I guess for two reasons. Maybe to ask God for something or to thank Him for what I have."
"I don't pray," he told her. "I'm not sure if God is a god for tanks. Maybe he's just for everyone else. I mean, who is my God, right? Some geneticist?"
"Have you ever tried?"
He shook his head.
She took his hands in hers. "Close your eyes."
"You're not gonna say anything, are you? I don't want you to."
"I won't. You think about what you want, what will help you most now. And about all you have, about giving thanks for it. Just reach out, reach out into space. Let go... "
Hawkes closed his eyes and tried to see God. A speckled darkness cloaked him, then he broke free from it and floated toward a sun so hot that it had burned away all of its color. In the shimmering whiteness, he strained to hear a voice but there was stillness. He called to God and tried to think of a way to say what he wanted, what he needed. How would he thank the supreme being?
He opened his eyes and shuddered free of the vision. Damphousse's eyes were still closed. "I can't do it," he confessed. "I just... I can't."
She came out of her prayer and studied him as though she understood. Could she really? "It's all right. It just takes time..."
During the next fifteen minutes, Hawkes and the rest of the pilots sat in the grip of the comlink transmissions. No one spoke. The voices they heard were often frantic, often astonished, wholly depressing.
Finally, the door opened and Eichner entered. Everyone else snapped to attention, but Hawkes took his time. The commodore crossed in front of the group, his face about as long as an astronomical unit. Perhaps he was going to cry... He paused, and Hawkes shot a look to Shane: what's he doing?
The door swung open once more. McQueen hobbled inside. The burns on his face only made his intense eyes flare brighter. He struggled to the center of the room, where he reached under the table and, strangely enraged, dumped it over onto its side, sending crates crashing to the floor and Marines jumping back to clear the way. He winced as he lowered himself into a chair, then waved everyone around him. "I want to be able to look in your eyes."
McQueen was hard-core, taking none and giving his all. Hawkes just wished he knew why. What inspired the tank to fight? If Hawkes knew that, it might help him understand. Hawkes had only one reason for coming back. Maybe it was enough. But he needed to be sure.
Once surrounded by the pilots, McQueen took a moment to gather his thoughts, then began. "Courage. Honor. Dedication. Sacrifice." He voiced each word slowly, in a tone that was fiercely honest. "Those are the words they used to get ya here. But now, the only word that means a damn to you is life. Yours. Your buddy's." Hawkes wasn't the only one nodding.
"The one certainty in war is that in an hour, maybe two, you'll either be alive... or dead."
Tell me why! Tell me why I should buy into your certainty!
"For the next hour, here's your best chance of staying alive." McQueen's lip twisted and his head shook subtly as if he were battling off a seizure. "The Trojan Asteroid belt trails Jupiter's orbit. Our objective is to hide in the debris. This may be as difficult as engaging the enemy. You're gonna have to react to the pitch and yaw of the asteroids in order to keep out of sight and shielded from whatever kind of LIDAR the aliens are using. Intelligence says they'll fly right by."
"Sir, I don't understand, sir. We're just going to hide from them?" Low asked.
"Marines hide? I don't think so. Once they're by you, ambush 'em."
"Sir, I don't know how many planes they have, but I'm positive—as I'm sure you are—that it's a helluva lot more than we do, sir," Shane said grimly. "I don't know how to put this, but... do we stand any kind of a chance?"
McQueen leaned forward, resting an elbow on a knee. "No one's asking you to wax their tails. Your goal is to stall them. Our forces at Groombridge have doubled back and are right now passing through the Kali wormhole. If we successfully delay the enemy we'll have reinforcements appearing from behind them and out of the sun—and that's when we teach 'em something every human knows: payback's a bitch."
Hawkes tossed a look at the door. If he didn't leave soon, jump in his cockpit and get out there, he might stay behind. During Accelerated Flight Training, he'd been subjected to over a dozen ejections and their accompanying freefalls. And always, during the seconds before blowing the canopy, he had panicked and considered not doing it. Then he had played a game with himself, counting the number one over and over through the remaining ten seconds, as though they were all the number one and there was no time to be scared in a second. Click, he'd throw the switch and be airborne.
Now he had to get out there, blanket his thoughts with one long second, forget about being a tank, about whether he might die for something or nothing. He had to do his job remembering he was not alone.
"I know you're all anxious to get prepped. Just give me another minute. I guess I'm here 'cause I've been in a knife fight with 'em. Listen up. They come at you in groups. Check your six. And they have a low angle of attack, so keep your nose level.
That could be tough. The planes you've been issued have an upgripe in the retro thrusters."
"Sir, the NAV system tends to compensate for that if you pull up three degrees and hit the brakes at eighty-five percent, sir," Shane said.
McQueen nodded. "And that three to eighty-five ratio can be adjusted accordingly, but you're gonna have to do it manually. There's just no time to play with the control chips. Like I said, it's gonna be tough."
A few of the Marines started for the door.
"And one more thing—"
The pilots stopped.
"It's okay to be scared. See you in an hour."
Hawkes stayed in the orientation room until everyone was gone. He proffered a hand to McQueen.
"I don't need any help," the veteran said.
"This ain't help," Hawkes answered.
"What is it then?"
Hawkes shrugged. "I don't know."
McQueen began to rise, his face contorting in pain. Then he resignedly took Hawkes's hand. "Thought you were never gonna fly."
"Changed my mind."
"How come?"
"Guess I'm stupid."
Reaching the doorway, McQueen paused. "Going out there in a hunk of metal, outnumbered and inexperienced, I guess you are stupid... or brave. It's always hard to tell." He tottered into the corridor.
Hawkes regarded the LCD board. The alien armada had both grown and advanced significantly. In the center of the screen, three tiny scout ships fled toward the Saratoga under the heavy fire of a dozen pursuing alien planes.
Shifting abruptly away, Hawkes fetched his helmet and rushed out of the room for the preparation bays. After taking one turn, then another, he realized he was lost. He stopped a passing medic and asked her for directions. She told him to head down the hall, make a left, then another.
When he reached the main tunnel of the lower flight deck, he ran right into a spotlight. A young news reporter seized his sleeve at the elbow and jerked him beside her. "And here is Lieutenant Hawkes," she said, reading his name patch, then looking back up at the cameraman. "The lieutenant has been gracious enough to speak with us during this dire hour." She thrust her microphone into his face. "What are our plans to defeat the enemy, lieutenant?"
