by Dean M. Cole
Sandy ran a hand across her abdomen. "General, whatever that weapon was, it almost killed me too, and I was still over a hundred miles away."
"Dragonfly Five, I said the data had flat-lined, not died. I'm still getting feeds. They're just not doing anything. Everybody hasn't been blown from the sky. I don't know what you think you saw, but I still have a few hundred aircraft out there, and I need to talk to them!" He shouted the last part, the staccato sound of a hand slapping a desk accompanying each word.
General Pearson had touched on the oddity that had tugged at her subconscious. "Sir, when our aircraft lose all pilot input, they default to straight and level flight. If you check your data stream, you'll see that all of them are now doing just that."
After a pregnant pause, the general said, "Oh my god."
The enemy ship was gaining speed. Even at this distance, she could see it shrinking in apparent size. "Nellis Actual, the alien ship is moving north."
Falling behind at Mach two, Sandy cut the fighter's afterburners. Retarding the throttle, she set the autopilot to maintain 250 knots. Looking northwest, she watched in horrified amazement as it plowed through the atmosphere. A supersonic shockwave haloed the massive ship. A few seconds later, the monstrous vessel disappeared over the horizon.
A computerized voice snapped Sandy out of her trance. "Traffic, traffic!" On the tactical display, a blue symbol was dead-ahead. The target's six hundred knot airspeed combined with her own generated a closing speed in excess of eight hundred knots. Sandy had a split-second to avoid a head-on mid-air collision.
A flick of the wrist sent her fighter into a ninety-degree right bank. A metallic flash followed by a shockwave marked just how close the plane had passed.
A quick scan of the tactical display showed the other aircraft was a navy F-18 single-seat fighter. Clicking on its icon, she discovered its call sign, Blackjack Twenty-Two. Switching to guard—a frequency monitored by all military aircraft—Sandy transmitted. "Blackjack Two-Two, this is Dragonfly Five on guard."
Nothing.
"Blackjack Two-Two, this is Dragonfly Five." Sandy's voice took on a desperate tone. "Come in, please."
Nothing, only deafening silence.
Banking hard to reverse course, she checked the display. Blackjack Twenty-Two still headed east, its altitude and heading apparently unperturbed by the near-miss. While working to close the gap between the two fighters, she returned to the TacCom frequency. "Nellis Actual, this is Dragonfly Five. Still no contact on all frequencies, but be advised, the enemy ship disappeared over the northern horizon." Not waiting for a reply, she continued to transmit. "I just had a near-miss with a naval F-18, Blackjack Two-Two. He's not responding on guard. I've turned to intercept. I'll try to visually verify the pilot's condition."
"Roger, Five. We monitored the ship's departure. That's a good plan. I need to know what the hell happened to our people. Check out the F-18 and report back. Nellis Actual, out."
"Roger, sir. Five out."
She was already closing on Blackjack 22. In tactical mode, it was running dark with position and anti-collision lights off. However, her forward-looking infrared scope had no problem picking out the small twin-engine aircraft. Locking onto its IR signature, she programmed in an intercept vector. Taking over, the autopilot guided her fighter into gun range. Designed to keep the fighter's nose oriented on a potential foe, the system commanded the autopilot. Using fire control computer data, coupled with the target's infrared signature, and fine-tuned with laser ranging and predictive algorithms, the system only required an F-22 pilot pull the trigger to engage a tracked object. While the auto-lock feature wouldn't bring her into formation with the F-18, it was bringing the navy fighter into gun range. She had no intention to fire on the fighter. However, the resultant position would expedite the night link-up.
Indicating target in range, the symbols bracketing the F-18 changed from red dashed lines to solid green. Silhouetted against the snowcapped Sierra Nevada mountains, the fighter glowed in the monochromatic light of the half-moon. Sandy turned on her landing lights. The beams were invisible in the arid desert atmosphere. However, the sleek gray twin-engined fighter looked white in their brilliance. Hoping to get the pilot's attention, Sandy toggled the lights on and off several times.
"Blackjack Two-Two, this is Dragonfly Five. Please come in, over."
Nothing.
Wondering what horror awaited, Sandy shuddered as a chill ran down her spine.
The landing lights didn't work as a searchlight. She wouldn't be able to slew them sideways to inspect the fighter's cockpit. To preserve her night vision, she killed the lights.
Moving her fighter forward, Sandy narrowed the gap. Approaching the naval F-18 from the left rear, she studied the airplane's moonlit surface. Its iconic slanted twin tail-fins emerged from the darkness. Stenciled on the nearest vertical stabilizer, an uppercase S sat above an uppercase D. As she drew alongside, the wing and the rest of the gray fuselage came into view. Just forward of the cockpit, 22 was stenciled on the left side of the F-18 nose. In a flowing font, the pilot's name adorned the area below the canopy's bottom edge: "Major Gregory Stillson."
Studying the fighter's transparent bulbous canopy, she shook her head. "What the hell?"
The moonlit far horizon glowed clearly through the transparent enclosure. Nothing occupied the space between the ejection seat and the instrument panel. Held up by seat belts and shoulder harnesses, even an incapacitated pilot should be visible.
She keyed the mic. "Blackjack Two-Two, Major Stillson, this is Dragonfly Five. Come in, over."
Still nothing.
"Shit!" From this angle, there wasn't anything to see. No helmet, body, blood, gore, grinning skeleton, or any of the myriad encounters she'd feared greeted her. It was clear she'd have to find another way to inspect the fighter's cockpit.
After a moment's consideration, she pulled a flashlight from its bracket by her right leg and switched it on. Pulling off her oxygen mask, she stuck the back end of the flashlight in her mouth. To ensure she had all the light possible, she pre-positioned the map-lights that sat over each shoulder.
With a final glance at the moonlit F-18, Sandy grabbed the F-22's throttles with her left hand, and the stick with her right. Making sure not to disturb the navy fighter, she flipped her airplane over. A quick snap of her wrist accompanied by an appropriate power adjustment rolled her fighter on its back. Maneuvering cautiously, she positioned her jet over the F-18.
Sandy's heart pounded. She'd never been this close to another aircraft. This is crazy. Panting around the flashlight, she stole a quick overhead glance. Crap! Still too far.
Partially obscuring the moonlight, her F-22 cast a wedge-shaped shadow across the gray fighter. The exposed portion of the F-18's wings glowed in stark contrast to the darkened fuselage.
Concentrating on keeping her hands steady, she eased her fighter closer.
Sandy glanced overhead again. The map lights only illuminated the top of the other fighter's instrument panel.
She was too forward.
Palms sweating through her flight gloves, drool running down the flashlight clamped in her teeth, and hanging inverted from her ejection seat's restraints, Sandy struggled to rein in her body's physiological responses. She took in a deep breath. After holding it for a moment, she slowly released it as a long sigh.
Retarding the throttles a shade while applying enough forward stick pressure to maintain their separation, she allowed the F-22 to drift aft.
Finally, the ejection seat came into view. With the light still in her mouth, Sandy tilted her head back.
"Oh my god!" she gasped around the metal cylinder clamped in her teeth, almost dropping it.
Its lower half still encased in a G-suit, the pilot's empty flightsuit sat on the seat. His upside down helmet and oxygen mask rested on top of the piled garments. The helmet's inner liner, visible in the wan light, showed no sign of damage. Sandy saw nothing of Major Stillson. The garments an
d equipment formed the rough outline of the pilot. However, nothing else remained, no body or any part of it.
Shattering her shocked trance, a computerized voice shouted with programmed urgency. "Terrain! Terrain! Pull up! Pull up!"
This time, Sandy did drop the flashlight. Wide-eyed, she looked forward. An upside down snow-covered mountain was dead ahead. Still inverted, she jammed the stick forward, sending her fighter rocketing up. A split-second later, a blinding explosion illuminated her cockpit as the F-18 slammed into the Sierra Nevada mountain range.
Rocky outcroppings, followed by streaks of snow-covered surfaces, flashed past her inverted canopy. Under the extreme negative G-forces, every beat of Sandy's racing heart pumped more blood and pressure into her upper extremities. Threatening to rob her of consciousness, blood pooled in her head. There was no time to maneuver. It was all she could do to keep her fighter off the rocks. Unable to flip the plane, Sandy pushed the stick harder as a cliff came into view. Pinned to the canopy's underside, the dropped Maglite danced like a trapped bumblebee. Grunting against the pain building in her head, she watched as the rocky surface passed a few short feet beyond the vibrating flashlight.
Then the mountain was gone. Her fighter rocketed straight up, the whizzing rocks replaced by a disorientingly motionless backdrop of stars, the half-moon filling the front of her canopy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Space Control, this is Turtle One, over."
No reply.
"Come in, Space Control," Victor repeated, stress cracking his voice.
Exchanging glances with Richard, Jake shared Lieutenant Croft's despair. Whatever it turned out to be, he was sure the alien energy sphere portended a dark evil.
Wanting a closer view, Jake repositioned the Turtle. Swinging in well behind the mysterious squadron, he brought it to a stationary hover five hundred miles above central North America.
On the hologram, he watched Colonel Newcastle's squadron bare down on the alien ship. Having wreaked its havoc over DC, it now moved northeast. As Jake watched it slide over Chesapeake Bay, a crushing realization hit him. "Oh my god. It's heading to New York!"
"Shit!" Richard and Vic replied, both as pale as Jake felt.
He placed his right hand back into the flight controller. "We need to find out what that ship did." Seeing a protest forming on Vic's lips, Jake held up a hand. "I want to know what they plan for New York."
Nodding, Richard panned the hologram, centering it on their current location. He brought his hands together in a macro zoom-out gesture. The ground fell away, and the enemy ship shrank. All of North America entered the field of view. The red pulsing holographic renderings of two additional enemy ships slid into view. One glided over Central America. Over California, the other accelerated northbound, a trail of destruction and the San Francisco Bay Area in its wake.
With a grim face, Richard pointed at the other two ships. "And, the rest of the world, for that matter."
Jake barely registered the comment. The image of the West Coast destruction and the apparent attack of the San Francisco area hit him like a freight train. All this time, he'd been too engrossed in the events over the East Coast to consider what Sandy might be doing. Now, she was all he could think of. Had she and her squadron been thrown at that ship? No fighters had attacked the first ship, but that might have been a timing issue. He looked to the west. Was she still alive?
Victor's anxious voice snapped Jake from his thoughts. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Victor asked. "There could be radiation and god knows what else waiting for us down there."
Jake's patience evaporated. "Damn it Vic! That's a chance we'll have to take! Millions, fuck that, billions of lives are at stake! Unless we know what we're dealing with, we don't stand a chance!" Jake paused, casting a forlorn look at the ship plowing through the atmosphere over Chesapeake Bay. "Hell, even that probably won't be enough." He faced Victor, again. "But, dammit, we have to try."
Looking like a scolded dog, Vic backed off. "Sorry."
"Jake is right. We need to get in there and find out what happened," Richard said.
Not waiting for Vic's reply, Jake actuated the controls. The ship rocketed toward DC. In less than a minute, they were blazing through the atmosphere over Western Maryland.
"Look, there's still traffic moving in this area," Richard said, pointing at an ant-like line of vehicles streaming along an unknown Interstate.
Jake slowed their approach. Progressing east, they continued to descend. In the course of a few miles, the traffic along the Interstate tapered off, finally dropping to zero.
"There are no cars here, moving or not," Richard said.
Victor pointed farther up the highway. "Look up there,"
To the east, a huge traffic jam capped off the long expanse of an empty roadway. Smoke billowed from several points. Ominously, beyond that, all activity ceased: cars, buses, trucks, everything sat dead-still.
"Whatever it was, it ended there," Jake said pointing at the leading edge of smoking cars. "Everyone outside of its influence kept driving."
"That would explain the long stretch of empty interstate we're passing over," Richard said.
Mute, Victor stared east through the view-wall.
Passing over the smoldering vehicles, Jake brought the ship to a high hover. Studying the orientation of them, he saw a pattern. The pileups congregated at curves and intersections while straight-line sections of the road were relatively clear.
A glint of movement caught his eye. Scanning for its source, Jake made a shocked double take. "Hey, look there!" he screamed, pointing off to their left. Flying much lower than the Turtle, a large passenger jet was skimming across the ground at tree top level. It was north of them. Moving opposite their approach, it headed west.
Vic followed his line of sight and froze. "Oh my god." Then, he smiled. "It looks like some people made it through. That had to have come from DC."
Jake saw little puffs of smoke coming off the fuselage and wings as it started clipping treetops.
"Oh no," Richard whispered.
Vic's smile collapsed. "Why aren't they pulling up?" he screamed.
The impacts accelerated its descent, slamming the passenger jet into the ground. The plane burst into a racing ball of flame. The conflagration consumed everything for the next half of a mile.
They all stood in quiet shock.
After a few moments, Richard broke the silence. "I don't think there was anyone still alive or conscious to control the plane."
"Me neither," Jake said.
"That can't be," Vic protested.
Richard pointed through the view-wall. "Vic! Look at the cars and trucks. I don't see one person moving. Not a single car, truck, bus, or van is trying to get through the streets."
Lieutenant Croft studied the surreal scene in silence and then dropped his head in capitulation.
Jake realized his junior wingman was trembling.
"That's why I didn't want to come here," he whispered. When Vic looked up, tears fell from his eyes. "My mom was visiting DC this week. I didn't want to know this. I didn't want to lose hope."
Jake and Richard stood in shocked silence. Richard's face looked like Jake felt.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry—" Richard started.
"Don't worry about it," Vic snapped, shaking his head. As he stared through the view-wall, a range of emotions paraded across the lieutenant's face. Jake was shocked to see a sardonic smile in the mix. After a moment, Victor seemed to collect himself. His voice took on a steadier tone. "Let's just go find out what the hell happened."
Nodding, Jake turned back to the view-wall. Seeing DC on the eastern horizon, he guided the Turtle toward it. "We need to talk with Space Control. They'll have a better idea of what's going on. Hundreds of feet of earth and stone protected them. The weapon must've fried their aboveground radios. Since we can't reach them that way, we'll just have to go visit them."
Moments later, they were on final approach to the Pentagon. Jake a
ctivated the landing gear and brought the ship to a high hover. As they descended vertically toward its expansive central courtyard, he had a flare of hope and optimism. He halted the Turtle's descent and pointed northeast. "Look!"
Across the river from them, over the lake in front of the Jefferson Memorial, flocks of birds were coming in to land.
As he scanned the surrounding area from their high hover, Jake's hopes faltered. No one walked within the marina to the northeast. The repeated lift and drop of a security gate was the only movement in the northwest parking lot. Hitting the hood of a stalled car, the gate lifted. A moment later, it dropped onto the hood again, repeating the cycle.
Aside from the pattern of crashes he'd noticed earlier, there was no rhyme or reason to the placement of the various vehicles left strewn throughout the city streets. Some were in the middle of intersections, others had run up on the curb.
Jake rotated the Turtle. Just south of the Pentagon, a huge collection of smoldering vehicles filled a curving section of I-395. Piled up on the outside corner of the turn, it appeared the drivers had forgotten to follow the curving white lines.
He and Richard exchanged worried looks.
"Let's go find out what the hell is going on," Jake said. Rotating the Turtle to face north, he lowered it into the Pentagon's center courtyard. A moment later, they landed in a clearing between the Ground Zero Café and the northern courtyard entrance.
Shutting down the ship, Richard secured all of its systems. Each lost in thought, they wordlessly proceeded to the airlock and exited the ship.
Passing through the outer door, an unexpected air of normalcy struck Jake.
"Do you hear that?" Richard asked. "I don't know what I expected to hear, but it wasn't this."
Jake nodded. To his surprise, everything sounded and looked perfectly normal. Over the ever-present sound of urban machinery, he could hear birds chirping, the sound periodically dampened by rustling leaves as a light southerly breeze blew through the trees. Somewhere, elevator music droned from a loudspeaker.
