In the Blink of an Eye

by Mark Dutkiewicz

  “Tungsten reported their transponder was legit. Regardless, that is a regulation distress beacon they’re transmitting.”

  “You know I’m getting tired of your by the book bullshit Sunshine,” Six-Pack cracked. “Should have had the drifter transferred to the Wildcats.”

  Without warning the razor’s threat board lit up. Multiple hostile contacts were quickly identified and targeting reticles began tracking across the HUD. His brain was still processing the information when Joanne cried, “Holy shit. That thing’s swarming with toads!”

  “Weapons free people,” Simmons called out. “A pack of toads couldn’t get this deep without some help. You wanted it Six-Pack. Take your flight in and hit the fur ball while Alpha flight breaks high. I want to see where their pig is hiding.”

  “You heard the man Drifter. Get your ass up here on my wing. Skid, Apple, take flanking positions and keep any trailers off us.”

  As Alpha flight broke off from the pack, Jeff got the distinct impression that Commander Simmons winked at him before saying, “Good luck Knight.” It was the last he’d hear from the commander for some time. Their prey was much larger. Not only responsible for the frenzy Jeff would soon find himself immersed in. But one that also promised to rain death upon them at a moment’s notice. Simmons’ last transmission was a fleeting call for reinforcements from Tungsten, along with telemetry from the carrier’s superior sensor range.

  Jeff paid the transmission little mind. Finding the Drac cruiser was Sunshine’s job. He had a date with a gaggle of toads. Goosing the razor up onto Six-Pack’s wing the two pilots led Gamma flight in a speedy charge of the melee. Jeff’s palms began to sweat as the distance steadily ticked down on the HUD. The Drac fighters seemed to be ignoring their rapid approach. Blue streaks danced about the freighter casting sheens of color on her hull. Bursts of light continued emanating from the Star Clipper’s hull signaling the impact of energy bolts. The lumbering vessels limited guns rotated wildly throwing a soundless fury at the swarm surrounding it.

  “Star Clipper cease fire,” Six-Pack called over the channel, “we’re coming in.”

  Jeff prayed the crew heard him as the fighters approached weapons range. Eyes darting across his instruments, Jeff focused on whatever targets the HUD was able to pick up in the traffic. His breath began coming quickly. His heart jumped in his throat as he nervously drummed his fingers along the throttle. Getting weapons locks on two of the Drac fighters he instinctively twitched the trigger unleashing a flurry off missiles.

  “Drifter, what the hell are you doing!” Six-Pack screamed. Jeff could only stare numbly watching his volley corkscrew their way into the swarm. The missiles answered the question for him. Three of the cylinders struck Drac targets the rest erupting in the resulting explosions and Jeff released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “You got lucky Drifter,” the gnarled vet admonished his voice heavy with irritation. “Next time wait until I give the go and for God’s sake announce your damned strike!”

  “Sorry Six-Pack, got a little nervous there.”

  “I’ve got a cure for that!” Six-Pack grated. “Now let’s get ’em!”

  Jeff rolled his razor to the left maintaining a covering position in Six-Pack’s wake, James and Joanne pairing up in kind broke off to engage other targets. In a flash, human and alien closed the distance to death’s delight. Before him, Six-Pack moved his plane in a silent dance. His guns flashed. Missiles jumped from his wings. The Drac were at his mercy. Quick turns and short weapons bursts, the man knew his business giving off a sense of clairvoyance. It was as if Six-Pack just knew where his target would be at any given time.

  Gritting his teeth, Jeff flung himself into the melee. Carefully tracking targets, he did his best to both cover his flight leader and mete out destruction of his own. Harrying a particularly elusive Drac ship, burst after burst from his cannons seemed to slip past the toad shaped craft. It pitched backward turning on its axis while somersaulting to rain blue death upon him. Jerking the stick and working the pedals feverishly Jeff managed to juke through the hail with only minor damage to his craft. The HUD spun widely across his visor as he attempted to reengage the target. James words from his training echoed through his mind. Target drones aren’t the real thing. Spotting the toad Jeff spun his razor skimming in a sideways arc. Pressing his guns, a flurry of rounds fell upon purplish craft tearing it to pieces.

  “Ha-ha, take that you Drac bastard!” Jeff boasted to himself with a chortle turning his sights on more prey. Quickly getting the feel for how the spine covered alien ships moved his confidence grew. He captured the vigor pressing harder into the fray. Juking, dodging, energy bolts were answered with a hail of bullets. If a target came from below he spun the razor. From the side a quick twist did the trick. His preconceptions were thrown out the window in the frantic battle. Instinct ruled the day. You didn’t have time to think, couldn’t afford to second guess.

  Watching yet another craft crumble under the weight of his attack he scanned the HUD in anticipation of the next. No targets remained. The entire encounter lasted mere minutes but he felt as if he’d run a marathon. The adrenaline slowly ebbing he checked and rechecked the razor’s systems. Some minor damage was reported but the computer assured him it was mostly cosmetic. The tension in his shoulders relaxed and he blew out a low whistle through his teeth. “Whoa,” he breathed quietly.

  Chuckling answered him over the channel. “You did good kid,” Six-Pack said. “A little sloppy on your technique but you’ve got the reflexes of a combat pilot.” Following a brief pause, the hard-nosed pilot added, “Your old man would be proud.”

  Jeff sat his plane in silence, as did the rest of Gamma Flight. Joanne’s statement that Six-Pack never compliments anyone painfully on the minds of all who heard what he said. Looking for the right reply, Jeff ended up stammering out, “Thank you.”

  “Fuck Drifter! Don’t start blubbering. Every time you say something nice some retard starts foaming at the mouth and gets all teary eyed,” Six-Pack groaned. “Gamma Flight, form up. It’s time to go home. Knight. Why don’t you lead the way.”

  ***

  Months passed, and the memory of Jeff’s first combat assignment muddied into the ever growing jumble of engagements he’d found himself in. The Epsilon Eridani shipping corridor slowly became a hotbed of Drac activity. To be sure, the transformation wasn’t overnight. Commander Simmons’ flight had come up empty in their search for the Drac warship. The damned thing had circled around their flotilla outside of sensor range.

  The Star Clipper itself was more than a mere diversion. Unable to establish solid communication with the ship, a corvette was dispatched to tow her into the fleet while a landing party tried to gain access to her interior. It proved almost disastrous. The freighter was loaded with some type of alien explosives undetectable by humanities comparatively primitive scanners. By some miracle the charges detonated before the ship came within more than some two-hundred kilometers from the fleet. The resulting explosion destroyed the corvette and severely damaged several of the cruisers on the flotillas flank.

  The event was immediately followed by an onslaught from the Drac ship. Hundreds of fighters descended from the other side hitting the fleet hard before an effective counter attack could be mustered. The Drac seemed to care as little for their own lives as they did humanities. Wave after wave of their fighters raced into the crossfire of the fleet, no care whatsoever being given to their losses. They fought that day till the last, sorely outnumbered as they were.

  The activity quieted down for a few weeks after that. Again Jeff found himself flying endless patrols. Staring at grid patterns and checking on the occasional ship passing through. Then a Drac scouting party would show up in search of their missing ship. At least so far as anybody could guess. The Tungsten was harried about the entire sector, the battles becoming more pitched as time dragged by and the irregular encounters began taking their toll both physically and mentally.

>   Days would pass without a peep from the enemy, only to turn into a mad endurance test as the Drac would concentrate efforts on their position. What would begin as a small skirmish could easily escalate into hours of combat. Sometimes the Drac would press the fight. Sometimes they’d inexplicably back off. Sometimes the razors would push back the advancement soundly. Other times they’d route in a mad dash for the carrier and a quick SLD jump to safety that was never guaranteed. The Drac, so far as intelligence could tell, had a way of tracking their jumps. If true it had to be inexact as only three out of five times they’d follow renewing the attack. The whole mess left much of the crew jumpy to any abnormalities.

  Any thoughts Jeff may have had about glory in combat were quickly washed away by the fatigue and stress. At any time, the general-quarters alarm could sound, sending weary pilots once more into the unforgiving vacuum for yet another turn in the dance with death. One of the few ways of coping with the struggle was a tip Six-Pack bestowed upon him soon after his first sortie.

  “What you want to do kid is zero yourself out. Find something calming to you. A memory, a favorite place or hobby. Take deep breaths and concentrate on that one thing that brings you peace so you can focus on the job. Don’t think about the screams. There’s nothing you can do to help that guy. He’s dead, move on. Push it out. Listen to your orders and trust in your gut. Otherwise you’ll be so preoccupied thinking you could be next that you will be.”

  It was sound advice and Jeff put it to immediate use. He envisioned one of the happiest and calming memories from his childhood. It was a warm July day some fourteen years ago. He recalled running with other children across the rolling fields near his home. A lazy breeze carried the smell of wildflowers and the entire world seemed to shut down to celebrate the anniversary of the Unification War’s end. Some sixty years had passed since the Western Coalition, with the help of what remained of Russia, under the rebranded United Nations flag had established the United Earth Commonwealth, finally putting an end to nearly one-hundred years of hostilities. It had become the Earth’s premier holiday, overshadowing even that of the United States old Independence Day. Games, food and cheer filled the air. In fact, Jeff couldn’t remember seeing a single frown that day. Put simply, it was magical. Though the routine helped with the stress of racing into battle, it did nothing for the fatigue and anxiety that followed.

  The increasingly harsh encounters were taking a heavy toll. Mounting losses and barely adequate reinforcements pushed Jeff into command of the Diamondbacks Delta Flight. News spread that fleet command seemed to feel that however close to shipping lanes this rouge Drac force was operating. It was arguably isolated and required no more than small presence to keep the enemy in check. Most of the crew didn’t share the higher ups opinion of the situation. As the weeks dragged on scuttle turned ever more so to the Tungsten’s flotilla being laid out as bait. Jeff was quick to support his superiors in quashing the rumors. It was unbecoming of a sailor to question the decisions of those above his rate. As time stretched on however, even he began to feel as if their motley crew had been hung out to dry. The dour feeling was galvanized one day as he found himself racing into a routine sortie that turned out to be anything but.

  Sensor information streamed across his visor, roughly thirty craft registered on the HUD. Reticles tracked the nearest targets attempting to acquire weapons lock. Easing the safety off, his eyes scanned the display. “Okay guys, stick close to me and maintain formation,” he told the two new pilots trailing him. Slightly nervous replies answered him. They were still kids. The thought made him smirk. Briefly recalling his first mission not so long ago he was already referring to the new guys as kids.

  “Sunshine to all flights,” Commander Simmons announced over the channel, “line up your targets and give ’em hell!”

  “Copy that,” Jeff echoed James and Joanne. Adjusting his pitch, he signaled his flight, “Okay boys, you heard the man. Go hot and hit ’em hard.” The two rookies throttled up taking position on either side of him to augment the missile strike. Concentrating on the HUD Jeff’s heart thumped in his chest. The small boxes floating in space before him one by one began snapping to a solid red as the computer found his prey. “Knight four zero one. Good tone. Six toads lit,” he chirped before calling, “Fox three!” A plethora of missiles launched from his wings followed by his subordinates announcing strikes of their own. A few brief minutes passed as the missile swarm disappeared from his vision. The HUD followed their flight path inching along towards the threat. In short order a glimpse of Drac energy bolts illuminating the space ahead before the spherical silent blasts erupted.

  Wasting no time Jeff scanned his readouts. “Delta flight, assume crescent pattern and split on contact,” he ordered as their pack advanced on the horde of fighters screaming towards them. Juking the razor when the spiny craft came into range Jeff spun about lining up his first victim. Firing a few quick bursts, the toad shaped craft blew apart. His subordinates broke to the sides sweeping wide around the flock. Streaks of gun fire danced from their ships and the melee had begun. Swooping and turning, the razors mercilessly pounded upon the encroaching enemy, each pilot being pushed to the brink of their skills.

  Space’s perpetual night was illuminated by spherical explosions. Corkscrewing around a pair of toads Jeff gunned down a third before releasing another hail of missiles at a fresh pack rushing in from the not too distant Drac warships. A bright beam energy lanced passed the dogfight briefly casting a blue sheen on his console. Tungsten’s escort ships were laying down fire on the enemy cruisers. Answering blasts cascaded from the purplish hulls of the alien ships, though no apparent attention was shown by them to avoid the dog fight. They simply continued to push forward through the melee, killing anything in their path friend or foe.

  Almost too quickly to react, one of the escort ships broke apart exploding in a blinding flash. The other at the vanguard of the attack followed shortly. The Drac ships pushed into the swarm of fighters throwing wave after wave of death towards the Tungsten and her rapidly dwindling escort. The radio was awash in screams; orders practically being drowned out from the cacophony. Fiery balls of gas erupted in every direction threatening to wash out the surrounding star field. Adding to the confusion a new wave of Drac warships emerged from superluminal. The putrid craft wasted no time, pounding the small fleet from all sides. To say the odds were stacked against Earth’s forces would be an understatement.

  Jeff was vaguely aware of a general call to retreat as he rolled and weaved through the slaughter. “All flights rally on Tungsten,” Simmons voice, strained from the effort of the engagement, crackled over the channel. The razors were too heavily engaged in the battle to break away, much less make a run for the carrier, as seemingly every Drac ship ever made joined the scrum.

  “I’d love to Sunshine,” Jeff seethed as one of his wingmen erupted in a shower of debris, “but I’m having a hard enough time keeping my own tail intact!”

  Simmons screamed something in reply, whatever it was being drowned out as klaxon’s alerted him of damage to his number two engine. Juking the craft attempting to clear the heavy traffic Jeff looped through the rapidly growing field of debris. “Say again Sunshine, last transmission was garbled.”

  “I said…” static ate into Simmons voice, “rally…Tungsten…pattern and sortie att…craft!”

  Scanning the scene Jeff soon realized just what the commander was screaming about. The battle had degraded into an all-out free for all. Far, far worse than a typical heavy skirmish. In the distance, he found to his dismay, that almost the entire flotilla of escort ships had been severely damaged or destroyed, and that the Tungsten herself was being repeatedly beaten by Drac energy bolts. His heart skipped a beat, a lump choked off his gasp. A series of brilliant flashes followed illuminating the inky vacuum. Fearing the worst he mowed down two more toads coaxing as much speed as he dared from the fighter in an effort to defend his home.

  Forced to break off his trajectory he
spied several UECN frigates. The large ships had moved into a flanking position throwing blast after blast into the garish purple Drac warships. Excited chatter filled the airwaves. Human craft continued emerging from superluminal adding their own recipe of death to the pitched battle. The cavalry at last had arrived. The added firepower allowed the razors a chance to break free and Simmons relayed a general retreat order. The feeling of relief was short lived.

  Twisting his craft Jeff again made an effort to reach the Tungsten. No sooner did he have the carrier in sight when the old girl began succumbing to her wounds. A series of explosions rattled down the length of the carrier’s hull culminating in a soundless ball of expanding super bright gas. Shielding his eyes from the incredible blast Jeff whipped his fighter about in search of an escape. Blindly following a group of razors he pushed his craft hard on their tails making for the safety of the closest carriers landing tunnel. Wicked Drac energy beams randomly cut through the mass of fleeing ships, only the painful sounds of death answering them. Extending his landing skids, he tightly hugged the group crowding the approach pattern. The confusion over the radio made it impossible to know where he was going. In the moment he didn’t care. The tunnel was close now, tantalizing. With the fighters last breath of life, it hurled itself at the deck, slamming down hard and grinding to a halt amidst a shower of sparks.

  CHAPTER 9:

  REUNION

  The familiar queasiness of superluminal speed washed over Jeff as his fighter was ferried into the carriers landing bay. Fumbling off his helmet he slipped from the cockpit dropping to the deck below. His knees almost gave out at the sight of his razors smoking fuselage. It was a wonder, no, a miracle that he managed to pilot, much less land, the battered hulk. Grabbing two fistfuls of hair he unconsciously took a few steps back bumping into someone rushing about the chaotic flight deck.

  "Who the hell are you?” a raspy voice yelled as Jeff turned to see what hit him. A gnarled angry face glared up at him. Grease covered with a wild mop of greying hair the man belligerently pressed an oversized wrench into Jeff’s chest. “You deaf or stupid flyboy? Where the fuck did you come—” the grizzled man stopped his attention being drawn across the hold. “Goddamnit Washbern!” he screamed slamming the wrench into the deck, "How many times have I…” his tirade was lost in the confusion surrounding them as he rushed off.