by Dean M. Cole
Evenly spaced, it was not a naturally occurring collection of asteroids. However, with the exception of their forward section, an asteroid, or more accurately a collection of asteroids, is exactly what each of the sixteen objects looked like.
It was this military-like spacing along with the visage sculpted into the forward section of each of the sixteen asteroidal ships that had governments around the globe spooling up their weapons of Armageddon.
During the emergency prelaunch briefing, Sandy learned that the aliens batted away every attempt to fend off their advance as easy as a horsetail swats a fly. Even nuclear weapons had not slowed them.
Perhaps the most disturbing and incomprehensible part of the crazy events lay in the mouth of the sculpted alien face. While its curved-back pointed ears, scaled skin, and razor-thin lips drawn back to reveal menacing fangs were obviously alien, the skulls clenched in their gnashing teeth were very terrestrial. Amongst the sixteen ships observers had spotted slight variations in the stony alien visages, much like the subtle difference from one human to the next. The faces each had apparently been modeled after specific individuals within the alien's race. However, the skulls occupying all sixteen mouths were unmistakably human.
Now, one headed toward San Francisco.
How could a race we've never met hate us that much?
Arriving at her assigned F-22, Sandy scrambled up the boarding ladder. Levering against the stand's top rail, she gracefully slid feet first into the cockpit. Having climbed up behind her, the crew chief helped with the harness, helmet, and oxygen mask.
Sandy rushed through the starting checks. All the systems were already online. The ground crews had each fighter hooked up to a ground power unit. The fighter's computers had completed all preflight built-in-tests. Having passed their BIT, each system displayed a green status. Finishing the few remaining pilot initiated tests, Sandy gave her crew chief a thumbs-up. "Ready to go, Sergeant Feroni."
The tech sergeant responded with his own thumbs-up signal. Even with much of his facial features obscured by the headset's mouth-covering mic cup, the sergeant looked as nervous and confused as Sandy felt. He extended his right index finger. "Engine one clear to start, Captain Fitzpatrick." His voice was uncharacteristically shaky. The senior noncommissioned officer, a veteran of many combat deployments, was the unit's rock. No matter the situation, Sergeant Feroni always kept those around him calm through his measured purposeful approach. His obvious shock at the current developments drove home the direness of their situation.
"Roger, Sergeant. Starting number one." In moments, she had the first engine started. She moved to the second engine. "Starting two."
"Clear on two!" Feroni said, his usual uninflected tone reasserting itself. Going through the regimented procedures had centered him.
The air rippled behind the rest of her unit's fighters as her fellow pilots fired up their fighters.
Sandy activated the second engine's starter.
Nothing happened.
"What the hell?" She toggled the switch several more times. Still no response.
"What happened, ma'am?"
"Nothing! It's not responding." Sandy had a sinking feeling. "Shit! Not now, please, not now!" Then, as she'd feared it would, the number two engine's BIT status shifted from green to red. "Damn it!"
"Let me guess, full FADEC failure?" the sergeant said.
Sandy nodded.
"Fuck!" the sergeant said, mirroring her frustration. "You know what to do ma'am."
Sandy did. After selecting the tactical radio, she toggled the mic. "Dragonfly Six, this is Five. Number two won't start, I'm going to have to go black." As she spoke, she ran through the shutdown checks. Her fingers flashed across the fighter's panels, toggling switches, depressing soft-keys, and turning dials.
This sporadic problem had manifested after installation of a new piece of avionics for flight-testing. Once the engine's computer latched the failure code, only a full reboot could reset it. Normally she'd be happy to discover this type of fault. It was part of the Testing Group's mission to find and identify system integration issues before they were widely distributed to the field. However, this was not the time for delays.
"So, the contractor's fix didn't fix a damn thing."
"No, sir."
Her fighter group, the Twenty-Eighth Test Squadron, was on a precise timeline. In thirty minutes, they were to link up with a vast offensive task force assembled from every combat-ready fighter and attack aircraft within a thousand miles of the West Coast. Intended to overwhelm the alien ship's defenses, the assault's planned timeline placed each asset on the target simultaneously.
Sandy knew what was coming next.
"Dragonfly flight, this is Dragonfly Six," Major Donaldson called to his remaining fighters. "Five is gonna be delayed. Four, you'll move to my wing. One, Two, and Three form up as briefed. Captain Fitzpatrick, get that piece of shit restarted and catchup as fast as you can."
"Yes, sir. Sorry."
"No, Captain. It's my fault. I knew the contractor was full of shit, but I wanted them to figure it out. Anyway, I know you'll be right behind us."
While the major and his remaining four fighters maneuvered for takeoff, Sandy finished the shutdown procedures and turned off the battery. All instrument lights extinguished as the cockpit went black. Working with modern aircraft was not unlike working with a glitchy personal computer. When control-alt-delete didn't work, you had to reboot.
Outside, Sergeant Feroni disconnected the external power. This particular glitch seemed to happen less frequently during self-starts, when energized by the onboard auxiliary power unit. While the glitch was rare, it had only happened when the GPU supplied aircraft power.
Unfortunately, the APU consumed the aircraft's onboard fuel supply. Normally it was considered negligible, however, for this rapid deployment, they had wanted to save every drop possible for the battle.
Having completed the pre-start checks, Sandy had the APU online and all systems ready for engine start. "Clear two?"
"Two clear!" shouted Sergeant Feroni.
Skipping straight to the problematic engine, she hit the start switch for number two and smiled at the high-pitch whine of its engagement. The engine rapidly accelerated to idle.
Sandy and Feroni both cheered, pumping their fists in the air. "Yes!"
The other engine started without incident. Sandy completed her before-takeoff checks and received her taxi clearance. Arriving at the approach end of the active, Sandy taxied her fighter onto the runway.
"Dragonfly Five, this is Nellis Tower." The controller's voice quivered with nervous excitement. "Clear for takeoff from Runway Zero-Three." After a short pause, he added, "Good luck, ma'am."
CHAPTER TWENTY
As he guided his space fighter from the lowest level of the Area Fifty-One underground hangar, Colonel Zach Newcastle finished his preflight checklist. The large elevator lifted the last four of his squadron to the surface. Zach twisted his head against the spacesuit helmet liner in a vain attempt to smooth a bunched-up tuft of his closely trimmed salt and pepper hair. Damn cowlick.
Because of their distinctive flight characteristics and the fiendish bat emblazoned across the unit's logo, the few who knew of the squadron's existence had taken to calling it Vampire Attack. The nickname stuck.
Manned around the clock for multiple contingencies, including the current one, the Vampires occupied the lowest, most secret level of Groom Lake's underground hangar.
As the four ships joined the twelve already above ground, Zach opened a private channel to General Tannehill at Space Control. "Space Control Actual, this is Vampire Six. First Space Fighter Squadron is ready for departure. Talk to me Brice."
"Vampire Six," General Tannehill said, relief evident in his voice. "Your squadron may be our only hope. The lead ship is heading straight for DC."
"Roger, Space Control," Colonel Zach Newcastle replied, his East Texas drawl stretching out the words.
Damn it
Brice, I wish you would've launched us sooner. Those lost minutes may cost us DC.
Apparently reading his thoughts, General Tannehill said, "Sorry we didn't release you sooner, Zach. The president didn't want to risk triggering an attack, and once the nukes were launched … well, you know."
"Brice, I think the human skull pretty much said it all," Colonel Newcastle replied. His weathered face leered through his spacesuit's visor. "Hell, we could have hit them long before they got within missile range." Anxious to get underway, he shook his head. "But, I know your hands were tied. We'll make the best of it. Just hang in there, amigo. The cavalry is on the way."
"God's speed, friend," General Tannehill wished him.
The rest of the Vampire ships signaled their readiness.
"Commander Yaakov," Zach said to the Russian commander of Bravo Wing's eight ships. "Take your flight, and attack the ships approaching Europe and Asia. I'll take Alpha Wing, and we'll deal with the ships approaching this hemisphere."
"Roger, comrade," replied the Russian commander with his thickly accented voice. "Good hunting, my friend."
A moment later, Bravo Wing shot explosively westward, a quick blur the only clue to their departure vector.
Alpha Wing's eight fighters followed suit, launching east, into almost certain death, Colonel Newcastle reckoned. But, not before we take a few of the bastards with us.
***
"Is the weapon charged and ready?" Salyth growled.
"Yes, Commodore, on your order," replied the weapons officer.
Ahead, the abhorrent city rose into sight. Its green expanses, geometric white structures, and unnatural layout sickened him.
The Argonians had forced the Forbearers into the same organized culture, a societal grain that abraded Zoxyth nature. A nomadic culture, they rose to the top of their galactic neighborhood by imposing their own organized disorganization upon their conquered foes.
The organization and social equality espoused by the hated Argonians was the fodder of the peasant working class. In Zoxyth culture, societal hierarchy reigned supreme. Just as genetic superiority had lofted him to this station, so should it lift Zoxia to the seat of galactic power.
He raised a heavily muscled arm and extended a gleaming steel-clad talon toward the weapons officer. "Activate the main weapon as soon as we reach the assigned coordinates and altitude."
***
"What the hell is that?" Victor asked.
Jake tore his eyes from the lead ship's meteoric atmospheric entry.
Lieutenant Croft was pointing at several green holograms rising from the Nevada desert.
Utilizing one of his macro-zoom gestures, Richard magnified the formation.
The hologram resolved into sixteen small ships. Eight headed west while the rest blazed east at an incredible rate of acceleration.
The hologram's green color brought a glimmer of hope. Manipulating the display, Jake magnified the lead ship until it was the size of a basketball.
Stunned silence filled the Turtle.
As he had with the enemy ship, Richard made a twisting gesture. He added a nudge, and the holographic rendering continued a slow rotation. After studying the full three hundred sixty degrees, they exchanged confused glances.
"That looks like—" Vic started.
"Yep," Jake interrupted.
"Please, God, let them be armed," Richard prayed.
***
Groom Lake blurred as Alpha Wing lifted above the Nevada desert. Continuing their extreme acceleration, the ships climbed through the ever-thinning atmosphere.
Like a time lapsed sunrise, the rapid ascension changed the sky from black to violet and then orange and yellow to white. The transition from night to day passed in mere seconds.
As Newcastle's fighters cleared the atmosphere, his ship's holographic display showed the alien vessel closing on DC.
"OK, gentlemen, implement attack scenario three. We've been through it a million times in the simulator. Now, we'll find out if these things work as advertised."
From the edge of space, somewhere over Colorado, he activated his comm panel. "Space Control, this is Vampire Six. ETA your location sixty seconds."
Washington DC came into view. Zach no longer needed the hologram. Like a new mountain thrust from Earth's core, the alien ship hung over the city.
Turning to investigate a line of smoke, he gasped. "Oh my god!" A burning trail of charred earth ran south, disappearing over the horizon.
"Space Control, it looks like they've already attacked."
"Negative," replied General Tannehill. "That's the trail their atmospheric entry left. The blast wave caused catastrophic damage. We've lost contact with a huge swath of the Eastern seaboard. We're estimating casualties in the millions."
Colonel Newcastle's morale plummeted. Casualty was a military euphemism for deaths.
"They've settled over the city," General Tannehill reported. "The damn thing is only a few hundred feet over the Washington Monument, and it still won't respond to any of our calls." General Tannehill paused. When he spoke again, it was across Space Control's general frequency. His voice cracked with strain. "First Space Fighter Squadron, the president has authorized full weapon utilization. You are cleared to engage with nuclear bunker busters."
The weight of the order slammed home. His weapons were never intended for use in the atmosphere, certainly not this close to the surface, much less over their capitol. "Understood," Colonel Newcastle replied grimly.
"We're … hang on…" Still depressing the transmit button, General Tannehill paused. Zach heard shouting in the background. After a moment, Brice continued. "We're detecting an unusual energy signature coming from—"
A brilliant flash of light exploded from the strange ship.
Zach keyed the mic. "My god, are you seeing this, General?"
Only the static of a dead radio answered.
With the alien ship at its center, a perfect sphere of light charged across the surface, its boundary racing inexorably across cityscape and countryside.
As the bubble reached for his fighter, Newcastle doubled over, racked by a powerful wave of nausea. It wasn't an emotional reaction. Somehow, the light was affecting him.
Through his grimace, he saw the other fighters waver as each pilot succumbed to the same effect.
"Keep your spacing," Colonel Newcastle ordered through the torment.
Then the brilliant sphere vaporized, its afterglow fading like a camera flash, taking the nausea with it.
A powerful foreboding washed over him.
"Space Control, this is Vampire Six, over."
Nothing.
"Space Control, come in," he tried again.
Nothing.
A new voice bleated into his helmet. "Vampire Six, this is Turtle One, over."
The Turtle? What the hell are they doing up here?
Newcastle checked his holographic display. "Turtle One, I don't see your location. Who is this, and where are you?"
"This is Captain Richard Allison. Space Control has us parked about fifty thousand miles out." He paused. "Do you know what that light was?"
"Captain Allison, I know of you. Listen, I think we've lost DC and then some. I know you haven't been briefed about my squadron, but I obviously don't have time to go over it right now. Just stay where you are, and stay clear of those ships."
"Roger, we'll stay out of your way. Good luck, Six."
Returning to the squadron frequency, Newcastle addressed his team. "The enemy ship is moving off to the northeast. We'll hit it while it's over Chesapeake Bay. That should minimize ground casualties." He released the transmit key. "If there's anybody left to save."
A few seconds later, they reached the computer designated release point. "Proceed to your individual initialization points. Once at the IP, engage your tactical autopilots. The computer will control your ingress. Just concentrate on getting your weapons on target. Good luck, gentlemen."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Glowin
g under the night's brilliant half-moon, the last of the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountains glided serenely past Captain Fitzpatrick's right wing. With escalating impatience, Sandy watched the last peak's maddeningly slow passage. Having departed late due to engine difficulties, she pushed her fighter to its limit. Even on full afterburner, her progress felt glacial.
From the radio traffic, she knew squadrons from all over the West Coast were already harrying the massive alien ship that hovered over San Francisco. The combat communication net was on fire. She heard squadron commanders screaming reports and receiving orders.
In the two minutes since it parked over the city, the enemy ship had remained motionless and silent.
However, all hope for alien benevolence had evaporated when their meteoric atmospheric entry and its resultant shockwave had lain waste to a vast swath of the West Coast. Cities and countryside from Tijuana, Mexico, to just south of Monterey, California, were reportedly blasted and burned. As she departed Nellis, one of the air traffic controllers told her that large super-heated chunks of rock had spalled off of the asteroids that formed the massive ship. Extending the destruction beyond the area devastated by the giant ship's atmospheric shockwave, the trail of impact craters and fires left by the red-hot falling debris led all the way to its location over San Francisco.
The news hit Sandy especially hard. Her parents lived south of Monterey, near the boundary where the devastation of the atmospheric shockwave gave way to that of raining debris. The knowledge that they and millions of others might lie dead or dying in the hellish aftermath of the ship's passage crushed Sandy.
Struggling to focus on her duties, she studied her tactical display. The external viewpoint generated by its three-dimensional exocentric image combined lateral and vertical tactical information into a single presentation. The computer rendered Sandy's fighter near the bottom of the image as it would appear from the perspective of a camera looking down on her from behind and overhead. The display's over-the-shoulder point of view afforded F-22 pilots incredible situational awareness. The addition of pan and zoom functionality allowed her to see the position of every friendly asset within the theater of operations in realtime. Each represented aircraft had a unique symbol or code. Units like fighter squadrons or bomber groups had discrete colors.
