by Dean M. Cole
Victor said, "Those are fighters!"
Richard nodded with an enthusiastic grin. "First time I've seen them."
Jake knew he should be excited as well. However, something still gnawed at him. Something didn't add up.
Richard toggled the comm panel. After informing Newcastle of their conversation with the GDF executive officer, he added, "The Galactic Guardian just deployed its fighters. It looks like they're moving toward the Zoxyth dreadnoughts."
"Good copy, Turtle One. I can see part of their formation at the edge of my hologram. We just parked a couple hundred miles east. I have you on my display as well. Looks like you're in a good spot. Keep me updated. Vampire Six, out."
"Wilco, Six. Turtle One, out."
Jake watched the swarming fighters divide into individual groups. Pointing into the display, he said. "They're splitting into attack wings."
Richard and Vic nodded their agreement.
While the formations were recognizable, the choreography differed from anything Jake had seen. Not limited to an atmosphere nor tied to any sense of up or gravity, the fighters maneuvered in all three dimensions and sustained attitudes that would be impractical for an atmospheric fighter.
Simultaneously, the attack wings shot apart like an exploding Fourth of July missile, each group rocketing away from the center on a discrete vector. Reaching a predesignated initialization point, the wings turned inbound as one. In a matter of moments, they enveloped the Zoxyth fleet in a menacing and tightening sphere of fighters, each pointing toward the center of the enemy formation.
Jake refocused his attention on the larger ships. As they too neared the amassed enemy ships, the alarm ringing in his head raised another notch.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Holding hands, they stepped around the back corner of the house. Curtains billowed through the patio's blown-out sliding glass door. Blasted across the rear deck and into the backyard by the impact's pressure wave, shards of pebbled safety-glass sparkled in the morning sun.
Knocked down by the blast, some of the patio cover's rustic roof-timbers had fallen. Its far end propped up on the patio's back wall, the front of the ridge's massive central beam had fallen to the floor, its tilted end disappearing under the curtain.
Below that, Sandy spotted a dark puddle. It had flowed around some of the tiny cubes of safety glass. The light reflected off them took on a crimson hue. Sandy stopped. Pulling her mom back, she pointed. A gust flipped the curtains back to reveal her father's prone body.
"Daddy!"
At the same time, her mom screamed, "Johnny!"
They ran to his side. Laying on his back, his legs protruded through the opening. Draped across the empty threshold, it appeared the blast had blown him halfway through the sliding glass door. He had hundreds of small cuts from the exploding glass, but the blood she'd seen had come from his right leg. The patio cover's massive ridge timber had crashed down on his right thigh, pinning him to the floor.
Sobbing, her mother knelt, hands over her mouth. "Oh god, the blood … there's so much of it."
Stepping through the opening, also crying, Sandy dropped to her good knee by her father's right shoulder. She extended a hand, intending to check his neck for a pulse. She hesitated, afraid it would only confirm the worst. His usually tanned skin was ashen, not much darker than the old white tee-shirt under his blue denim overalls.
Sandy closed her eyes. "Daddy … Oh, god please, no."
"If you two hens don't stop clucking, I'm never gonna get any sleep."
Sandy's eyes flew open.
Her father's loving crow's-feet lined eyes, eyes that had a smile all their own, were shining at Sandy. Weakly, he said, "Hi, Pumpkin."
"Daddy!" Tears of joy sprang from her eyes. Throwing her arms around his shoulders, she hugged him. Sobbing into his neck, she said, "We … I … I thought we'd lost you."
Her father chuckled. "I told your momma a long time ago that she's stuck with me."
Pulling back, Sandy ran her fingers through his silver hair. Her mom put a trembling hand on his chest.
Turning to her, he said, "Hey there, Firecracker. You ain't gettin' rid of me that easy."
Smiling through her tears, her mother cast a nervous glance at his crushed leg. Then, she gestured toward his overalls. "I thought you were still in bed." In mock admonishment, she added, "You were heading out to tinker with that stupid airplane, weren't you."
"Guilty as charged," he whispered. His weak laugh morphed into coughs. Reaching for the timber crushing his right leg, he screamed in pain between each hack, the spasms generating fresh waves of agony.
Sandy saw the tourniquet he'd fashioned from his overall's denim belt. The jolting coughs had loosened it. Fresh arterial blood spurted from the point where the end of the massive beam sat on her father's right thigh. By the shape of the upper leg, Sandy could tell his femur was broken. She grabbed the tourniquet, giving the large pocketknife he'd used another twist to tighten the belt. Considering how long he'd been pinned here, Sandy knew he would almost certainly lose the leg. However, if she couldn't keep him from losing more blood, that would be the least of their worries.
"Momma," Sandy said. "Get me one of your big wooden spoons."
Wordlessly, her mom jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen.
Studying his leg, Sandy asked, "Daddy, how long have you had this tourniquet on?"
No answer.
She looked up. Her father's eyes had closed. A check of his neck revealed a weak pulse. His massive chest rose and fell with each raspy breath.
Her mother ran back into the room. Seeing her husband's deteriorating condition, she froze. "Is he…"
"No, but he's lost a lot of blood, Mama." Sandy held out her free hand. It was soaked in her father's vital fluid. "Spoon!"
Her mom popped it into her hand. Sandy pushed the pocketknife out of the tourniquet and dropped it into one of her flightsuit's leg pockets. Sliding the wooden spoon into the empty loop, she retightened the tourniquet. Significantly longer than the pocket knife, the utensil allowed greater leverage. She gave it a couple of extra turns, completely staunching the flow of blood.
"Hold this."
Her mother took a position beside her. Grabbing her mom's hand, she placed it on the twisted knot of denim belt wrapped around the spoon. "Keep pressure right here, and don't let it spin!"
With both hands free, Sandy tucked the spoon's handle under the edge of the tourniquet. "This should hold it in place."
Her mother nodded. "What are we gonna do now?"
Sandy looked at the beam. The far end still rested against the top of the patio's partially collapsed back wall. Milled from a massive tree trunk, the twenty-foot long rough-cut timber was almost two feet thick from top to bottom and more than a foot wide. Almost all of the log's massive weight dug into her father's leg.
As she loosened the straps around her makeshift splint, she said, "I have an idea." Positioning herself under the timber and bending at the waist, Sandy pressed her lower back against its bottom. Legs bent, she slid sideways toward her father, the gap between the beam and the floor narrowed. When it closed enough to afford optimum leverage, Sandy pushed her lower back hard into the bottom of the beam. She held a hand against her injured knee. Under her boots, the patio's wooden deck creaked, but the log didn't budge. With her legs shaking under the strain, she gave a primal roar and tried harder. The floorboards groaned, but the log still refused to move.
The grunt devolved into a scream as she surrendered. "Fuck!" Breathing heavily, she stepped back and studied the angle.
"It's too heavy, honey," her mother said.
"Hang on. I have another idea."
Still under the beam, Sandy rolled onto her back and placed both feet against its bottom. "When it lifts, pull his leg out."
Her mother nodded.
Sandy took a few quick breaths and then shoved with all of her might. She could feel the boards bowing under her back. The timber shuddered. Sandy took anothe
r quick breath and redoubled her efforts. A scream of agony burst from her lips as her injured leg erupted in pain. Clutching the left knee, Sandy rolled onto her right side. Curled up in a ball, she pounded the floor with her right fist. "I can't move it!"
Her mother's soft sobs banished Sandy's self-pity. She squeezed her eyes shut. Come on Fitzpatrick, pull it together! Think, think! With a sudden realization, she opened her eyes. "I know what to do!"
Her mother's cries stopped as she looked at Sandy through tear-filled bloodshot eyes. She'd never seen her mom look so frail and vulnerable.
"I'll be right back, Momma. I have to get something out of Daddy's hangar."
She only nodded. Sitting with her husband's limp hand grasped in one hand and the other firmly clamped over the tourniquet knot, her mother looked on the verge of giving up all hope.
Sandy gave a reassuring smile. "He's going to be okay, Momma. I promise. I know what to do now. We'll have him out of there in no time."
"Okay, hun," she said. She gave a wan smile, doing her best to put on a brave front. The quiet desperation lurking in her eyes made Sandy's heart ache.
She pointed toward the closed airfield behind their backyard. "Does Daddy still keep the hangar key in the same spot?"
Her mother nodded.
"Okay." Sandy held up a finger. "I'll be right back."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Watching the last of his dreadnoughts slide into position, Salyth swiped at the blood dribbling from his lower jaw. With great anticipation, he savored the developments. His fangs dripped in expectation of the coming victory. The Argonians will see his fleet's formation as a desperate ploy to guard their damaged command ship. Watching for one wrong move, they'll come in nice and close.
"It's critical we maintain this altitude. Do not allow their ships to draw us higher. Let them approach. No one is to fire!" he growled to his subordinate.
"Yes, Commodore Salyth," the officer replied. Hunching over his console, he forwarded the reminder to the fleet.
Outside, the small Argonian Firebirds encircled his formation. Employing their standard box-in maneuver, the fighters trained their deadly weapons on his ships. Focusing on the larger vessels of the carrier group, Salyth barely noticed. The GDF battlecruisers and their central carrier ship drew closer.
His black tongue flickered, lapping the dripping saliva. Through his bloody maw, he grinned menacingly and growled, "That's right, come into my cave."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jake's dread mounted. The Argonians were getting too close. However, their biggest ships still hovered outside the range of the Zox weapon.
He keyed the mic. "Vampire Six, how much time before one of the enemy ships can fire that weapon?"
"I was just calculating that. All of the ship's fired their primary weapon at least once … several twice." The colonel's voice cracked, the gravity of the news the words conveyed apparently weighing on him. After a brief pause, he continued. "The ship with the longest time since weapon activation is the one that took out Moscow. That was thirty minutes ago. So, we have fifteen minutes." Colonel Newcastle finished.
Jake's blood ran cold, More than sixteen of our biggest cities gone. We've lost so much today.
"Look!" Richard said, pointing at the large ships. They had been outside of the enemy's weapon range. Now, the fleet maneuvered to take up a defensive position between the planet and the alien formation.
A crushing realization hit Jake. He checked his watch. "Oh, shit!"
Richard and Victor looked at him.
Jake slammed his hand down on the comm panel and screamed, "Vampire Six, it's been more than an hour since the ship over DC deployed its main weapon! It's an ambush, a coup de main! We have to warn them!"
Jake saw comprehension on Richard's face as his combat wingman leapt to the GDF section of the comm panel. Vic looked confused. Turning to him, Jake said, "These aliens attacked us to lure the Argonians into a trap. It's the only thing that makes sense."
Richard activated the GDF radio. He started shouting into it in the Argonian tongue.
Jake continued. "The unprovoked attack, no demands, just their systematic elimination of city after city, it's all been designed to draw the Galactic Defense Forces. This must be a new weapon. If the Argonians knew of its capabilities, they wouldn't be positioning themselves this close to their fleet."
"Surely they have shields," Vic said.
"Maybe, but if hundreds of feet of earth and rock didn't protect Space Control, I doubt shields will do any better."
Behind him, Jake heard the Galactic Guardian's executive officer berate Richard.
Lieutenant Croft's face turned ashen as a powerful shudder racked his body. "If they destroy the Argonians, we'll—"
"We're not going to let that happen!" Richard interrupted. Turning back to the radio, he continued transmitting. "I don't care what you think. I need to talk to your commander! It's imperative. I believe the Zoxyth are drawing you into a trap!"
"Captain Allison," replied a very authoritative voice. "This is Admiral Thoyd Feyhdyak. Let me assure you, there is nothing these Zoxyth have that our weapons and shielding cannot defeat."
Through clenched teeth, Richard said, "Admiral, they've already wiped out several of our cities, totally vaporizing every man woman and child within a hundred miles of their ships!"
"Vaporized?" the admiral responded.
Jake heard the first hint of concern in the Argonian's voice.
Not waiting for a response, the admiral continued. "Aside from a reading over North America's East Coast, we've detected no sign of fission reactions."
Maddeningly, the Argonians continued to mass their forces between the Zoxyth and the planet.
"No, no!" Richard said, pounding the control panel. "No nuclear weapons were used on us. They're using a weapon that only affects humans."
"They've attacked you with chemical or biological weapons?"
"No, sir! Some kind of energy wave bursts from their ship!" Richard said, still pounding on the control panel to emphasize his words. "It vaporizes every human within a hundred miles! It doesn't affect structures or plants or animals. It only kills humans! In case you don't understand a hundred miles, that's millions of us vaporized every fucking time they've fired that goddamned weapon!"
After a brief pause, the admiral returned, a tone of pure horror supplanting his condescension. "You're describing a gene disruptor weapon. They've been banned for millennia, the technology is a closely guarded secret. I'll explain more in a moment. Standby."
Space beyond the view-wall burst into brilliant fire. Jake threw a panicked arm over his eyes. For a terrifying moment, he thought the Zoxyth had deployed their weapon.
The Turtle's view-wall auto-dimmed, damping the brilliance down to a bearable level.
"Holy shit!" Victor whispered.
Outside, the Zoxyth shields glowed like miniature suns under a tremendous onslaught of brilliant laser beams. The forcefields overlapped like a collection of luminescent soap bubbles, completely obscuring the ships within.
In the face of so much violence, the silence within the Turtle was surreal.
The Argonian radio crackled to life. "For now, we need to keep them under attack. A gene disruptor weapon will penetrate a shield, but it cannot be fired by a shielded ship," Admiral Feyhdyak finished.
"Gene disruptor?" Richard asked.
"Yes, it's a focused quantum phase disruptor. They target a single species. Designed to shift all material within their sphere of influence to a higher energy state, they are tuned to a specific DNA strand's sympathetic frequency. Essentially, the targeted bodies are moved into a dimension incompatible with life."
"It's a genocide weapon," Richard replied.
"That's why it's banned technology," Admiral Feyhdyak said.
A pulse caught Jake's attention.
"Look, one of their shields is failing," Vic said.
"Turtle One, this is Vampire Six. What the hell is going on?"
The strobing shield flashed then failed. A barrage of lasers converged on the unprotected ship. It exploded like a scene from a movie, a radiant shock wave signaling its demise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Launching through the patio's blown-out rear wall, Sandy hobbled across the backyard. Even limping, she traversed the freshly mown lawn at a respectable pace. Reaching the rear property line, she stepped onto prone cinderblocks. Knocked over by the shockwave, the eight-foot block wall laid on its side. Now only eight inches high, it barely slowed her. Emerging onto the closed airfield, Sandy angled left, heading straight to the old T-shaped hangar.
Seeing the structure elicited a flood of childhood memories. This was where Sandy had grown up, where she'd spent her summer breaks and school holidays. She had loved the sights and sounds, even the smells. Sandy could almost see Tom Flannery's old LTD next to the hangar and smell the ever-present cigar smoke that followed her father's friend and fellow instructor pilot. As if rooted in the man's bushy mustache, a thin stogie always hung from Tom's lips. He, along with a cadre of polyester-clad fellow pilots, had been permanent fixtures at that hangar.
Over the years, her father, with help from the self-proclaimed Lounge Lizards, taught her everything from how to change a spark plug to how to recover a spinning airplane. The seed of her love of all things aviation germinated grew and flowered in this very spot.
Carmel Valley Vintage Airport closed over ten years ago. After a decade of neglect, soil and sod partially obscured the derelict runway, though long sections of pavement still spanned the gaps. However, in her mind's eye, Sandy could still see all of it as it had appeared in her childhood.
