by WADE, T I
Joseph Jones was never so proud of his son as when, holding his granddaughter’s hand, they watched the first launch from the apron together.
“I will be in command of a shuttle launch soon,” said Saturn to her grandfather once the noise had dissipated. “Mars Noble, Lunar Richmond and I will start training on our flight back to the red planet. Uncle Ryan promised us.”
As SB-I left the ground for the last time, Jonesy and Maggie were already coming over the U.S. on their first pass at 320,000 feet, staying low for the next dozen or so orbits. Allen and Kathy Saunders were 5,000 miles ahead of Jonesy and heading over the eastern horizon 5,000 miles behind America One, which was decreasing altitude to 350,000 feet.
Two hours before SB-III’s takeoff, all the other craft in space, making as large a signature as possible to be seen from Earth, left the blue shield around the mother ship. The idea was to fan out around the globe, making a continuous line of spacecraft, always having two radar images above the American continent at any one time. With the departure of the shuttles, which Ryan had known the U.S. Air Force could do nothing about as they had no aircraft in the vicinity that could catch them, he now had the mother ship, all three shuttles, the two mining craft, and Commander Joot’s Matt craft being seen by Washington, and anybody else who wanted to view the nonstop line of spacecraft orbiting as low as they could.
The three remaining aircraft on base, with the entire base watching, headed eastwards one by one as the sun climbed. The C-5 was first, fully fuelled and close to maximum takeoff weight. To Bob Mathews at the controls of his favorite aircraft, the Dead Chicken felt like a real dead chicken for the first time in his many hours of flying her.
Using as little fuel as possible, and with far more runway than the giant bird ever needed before, he lumbered off the end of the runway with only 500 feet to spare. The crowd on the ground could see the dust rising from the thrust of the jets, as the engines screamed for height over the perimeter fence while flying directly into the sun.
It was a different sight watching the Gulfstreams several minutes later, when the C-5 was just a black speck directly in the sun and still low over the eastern horizon. Even though both aircraft had full fuel tanks and were overloaded by a few percent, they sprang off the runway halfway down, and Martin, who was first, sped away to catch the aircraft in front of him.
Ryan was not in a rush. He could easily catch up to the C-5. Even fully loaded, his Gulfstream could make its way at high altitude across the U.S. and most of the Atlantic. If he throttled back to a slow cruise, he could even make Lisbon, Portugal. The Gulfstream crews had agreed to stay together and set up a refueling stop in Bermuda if they were forced to fly north, then the Azores if anything went wrong on an even more northerly route.
It was first Caracas then the Cape Verde Islands as organized points for refueling if the Dead Chicken were forced onto a more southerly route.
Ryan, once his final takeoff checks were complete, spent a minute at the western edge of the runway. It could be the last time he ever saw his base, the place which had allowed his whole dream to come to fruition. For him, it was a poignant moment. The base still looked beautiful, although changed in many ways from what he had first constructed, but it was an end of an era, and as he pushed the throttles forward, he felt sad and happy at the same time, knowing that all this had been worthwhile.
One of the reasons for all the fuel markers was that Bob Mathews wasn’t in control of the direction his aircraft would fly. It was all up to the U.S. Air Force and the positioning of their refueling tanker.
As far as the Air Force and Washington were concerned, the Dead Chicken couldn’t make Bermuda. A fully loaded C-5 had a 2,400 mile range. Bermuda was 2,800 miles from Las Vegas, and the government’s ace, they thought, was that the C-5 didn’t know its route yet. If they wanted the aircraft to run out of fuel they certainly wouldn’t let it fly over any islands once it left the U.S. East Coast. Ryan had hoped that Washington had forgotten that he only employed the best in the business, and they had long ago given him some of their best pilots.
The whole crew nodded at each other an hour later when their route was finally laid out by control at Andrews Air Force Base. Jonesy won the $1.00 pot. His suggestion about the heading the Air Force would give Bob Mathews was only 2 degrees off.
At 19,000 feet, with everyone inside the cargo hold bundled up and using oxygen masks, and still climbing over northern New Mexico, they were ordered to head directly over Jacksonville, Florida. Jonesy had bet that they would be directed over the South Carolina-Georgia border, straight out to sea where there was nothing but water in front of them. On this heading, they would pass slightly further south of a point directly between Bermuda and the Bahamas, limiting the airstrips possible to be used as an emergency runway.
“Dead Chicken to Gulfstreams. Passing through 21,000 feet, conserving as much fuel as possible. She is flying better now. I hope that tanker is on time. I‘m going to need fuel 200 miles out into the Atlantic, over,” said Bob Mathews so the whole world could hear, as planned.
“Roger that,” said Michael Pitt from SB-I above them, replying as if he were one of the Gulfstream pilots. Penny Pitt next to her husband acknowledged the communication as the second Gulfstream’s pilot. Ryan kept radio silence. So did Martin, as they didn’t want to let on where Ryan was, nor did he want to let anyone know that Martin Brusk was flying the other aircraft. Nobody had seen the crew enter the two smaller aircraft back on base behind closed hangar doors.
Many of the Air Force personnel on base had been told that Ryan was sick in bed and still on the base with a stomach bug.
On the second channel, in about two hours’ time, Bob Mathews could light up the Aussie crews far ahead of them if need be. But for now he had to conserve fuel, slowly climb the aircraft higher as the fuel was used up, and hope that somebody would find him.
Two hours later, over the western area of Georgia, everyone saw a radar shadow take off from somewhere close to Jacksonville, Florida in front of them and begin to head out over the Atlantic, gaining altitude. The C-5 was at 32,000 feet when the tanker called them up.
“Charlie 5, this is Kilo Charlie 46 Tango out of Jacksonville, have you on radar. Climbing up to the following coordinates and will meet you to give you a top-up at 33,000 feet, over.” Bob confirmed the coordinates.
“Two shadows taking off, same airfield, and fighters by the look of it,” said Captain Pete 30 minutes later on the second frequency.
“They are refueling us 100 miles from the edge of my range and it will take at least ten minutes to hook up and begin delivery. That will be 30 miles or less from edge of range, and it could be dark when they begin to refuel us. They are certainly making it tight,” replied Bob. “Not normal protocol.”
“Agreed,” said Jonesy, coming over the horizon for his stint. Bob got on the radio to his Aussie friends who were ready to leave the runway in Caracas, a second tanker was ready in Bermuda and both aircraft had very faintly heard the U.S. messages over their radios.
They maintained radio silence until Bob Mathews could see the tanker about twenty miles ahead of him. By this time, he and the two Gulfstreams were 200 miles from the nearest land, and his range the same. The tanker was behaving perfectly and he still hoped the crew aboard wouldn’t let him down.
“Charlie 5 to Kilo Charlie 46 Tango, 465 knots, have you visual. Charlie 5 ready to hook up, over.”
“Roger that Charlie 5, seven minutes to hook up, we are ready for you, extended and ready at 435 knots, over.”
Everything happened as planned. Bob was only yards away from the hose and about to hook up when a voice came over the radio. “Kilo Charlie 46 Tango, this is Jacksonville, we have orders to abort the refueling, increase speed, bank left once clear and head back to base, over.”
“Kilo Charlie 46 Tango, the Charlie 5 needs fuel desperately, they might not make it back to the coast, request immediate refueling to commence, over.”
“Negative, i
ncrease speed, bank left once clear and return to base. You have your orders, out.”
Unbelievingly, Bob listened as the KC-46’s pilots relayed their honest regrets to him, and following orders the tanker increased its distance and slowly banked away to disappear across his left side cockpit windows as the darkness of night began to close in.
“Charlie 5 to Jacksonville, Charlie 5, are we supposed to fly up here on fumes, or a wing and a prayer?”
“Unidentified aircraft, you are out of U.S. airspace. I would suggest the wing and prayer bit. Do not contact us again, out.” As Bob received this, two shadows, F-35 fighters, passed close in front of his aircraft, waggled their wings and sped away. He watched them descend steeply down back toward the U.S. coast now 270 miles behind him.
He smiled. “Why would you ever think Washington would betray us,” he said to his girls, one sitting in the right seat and the other already setting up the transfer of fuel into their tanks from the four bladders in the hold. “I hope Ryan gives the order to Pete up there to blow the Pentagon and the White House to smithereens.”
Ryan was fuming in the Gulfstream, 19,000 feet higher and twenty miles ahead of the lumbering C-5. The rest of the crew were also mad as hell, but Ryan was not ready to fire just yet.
At the exact time the order had been given, Captain Pete had given the order for Ryan’s faithful staff to leave in a bus waiting for them at the front gate and the security guards to hunker down in the Nevada base. They were to go to ground. The Air Force personnel were first herded into the medical center, the door locked, and the men disappeared inside the empty hangars. As the last man entered, he thought he could faintly hear something approaching from Las Vegas.
There were several U-Haul trucks still on base, as well as several vehicles including Wall’s old Wrangler Jeep. They had more than enough transportation to get out. Ryan had made sure that all his crew would get away safely.
“This is the commander of America One to anybody listening in, in Washington,” said Captain Pete, as angry as the others. It could be heard in his tone to all listening around the world on that frequency. “I have given orders to fire on any aircraft or land vehicles entering Astermine’s Nevada base’s 20-mile perimeter. I suggest you stay out, or I have no option but to kill your pilots, and I don’t want to do that.”
“Unidentified caller. This is the Chief of the Air Force. If you fire on any of our aircraft we will have no choice but to destroy your base. Your base is on American soil, and if you attack our aircraft, you will be at war with The United States of America.”
“This is Ryan Richmond,” injected Ryan. “I thought we were already at war. Were you on vacation and missed your attack on me and my spaceship when we arrived back into Earth’s orbit? Remember, you attacked us first, whoever you are; we have a truce, and you have ten seconds before we rain all hell down on you.”
There was no response. He continued on the same frequency. “All United States Air Force pilots, grab your ejector seats, you have five seconds. Captain Pete, Jonesy, what do you have on screens?”
“Eight fighter aircraft, F-22s or 35s, already within our 20 mile barrier, Ryan,” said Captain Pete from above, nobody caring anymore who was listening.
“All Astermine spacecraft over the United States, you have my permission to take them out. Hit the wings or tails. I don’t want any pilots killed.”
Jonesy and Captain Pete, the two lasers above the States, fired from low altitude, and all the U.S. pilots ejected safely seconds later as their aircraft broke up around them.
“Captain, the dome on Capitol Hill. Destroy it. Chief Astronaut, destroy every fighter that gets within 20 miles of our base,” added Ryan, and twenty seconds later Washington’s population began to see the famous dome smoke, begin to break apart and slowly collapse.
Suddenly a vivid blue beam of laser light rose up from Andrews Air Force Base aimed into space. There was nothing Captain Pete could do as it hit his shield within seconds, and the whole shield absorbed the laser energy and began to glow even brighter than ever before. He quickly thanked Maggie Jones in his thoughts for her advice on removing the oxygen.
“Ryan, we have been hit by a massive laser beam, very powerful but causing no damage.”
“Roger, I saw it and got the exact coordinates,” said Jonesy.
The three remaining aircraft heading toward the base broke away, and only the ground transporters kept closing in on the base still several miles away.
“Destroy that area of Andrews Air Force Base, Sierra Bravo III,” said Ryan, and Jonesy got to work.
A second beam of vivid blue light glanced past SB-III less than 100 yards off his starboard bow. The computer got its coordinates a mile south of the first location and Jonesy beat both the areas to pancake level.
Then the Pentagon began to feel the most powerful laser: America One’s firepower. Top floors of the nation’s Defense Headquarters began to take hits and shatter, bricks and mortar shooting out in all directions.
Within ten minutes the firing ceased. The dome atop Capitol Hill was gone. The area directly outside the Oval Office, brick walls, trees and rose bushes were nothing more than smoking wood or rubble. Part of the top floor area of one section of the Pentagon, about twenty offices, was a mess. Eleven fighters were strewn across the desert, seven Abrams tanks still on trailers had holes burnt in them, and the President of the United States of America was cowering behind a secretarial desk screaming for help.
The attack depressed Ryan, now 400 miles out over the Atlantic. He had hit Washington so hard that the U.S. Air Force had forgotten about the three departing aircraft. That was until three fighters took off from the closest base in Florida five minutes later. Immediately, they headed east out over the Atlantic at full throttle. Allen Saunders followed them and spoke to them 100 miles out from the East Coast.
“Unidentified U.S. fighters. As soon as you leave U.S. airspace I will destroy all three of your aircraft, over.”
“General Allen Saunders, Nellis, formerly of the U.S. Air Force, I recognize your voice,” said somebody he didn’t recognize. “You wouldn’t shoot down your own men, would you?”
“Whoever you are, I am no longer a citizen of the United States, as your President informed me. Therefore, as an alien I might as well do what an alien does best. You have ten seconds to turn back or, as my boss so eloquently put it, either hang on to your junk, pilots, or your ejector buttons, or both. I don’t give a shit anymore, and your current politicians and leaders of the armed forces are the worst my old country has ever had to put up with. No wonder the rest of the world hates you guys. And this feed is open, so I hope millions are listening in. You, Mr. President, and you, the heads of the armed forces, you make me sick to my stomach. You guys have three seconds.”
They were ordered not to turn back.
Within a minute, parachutes opened and floated below Allen Saunders, and the radar image of what looked like a helicopter was seen taking off from Jacksonville several minutes later.
“I have 27 minutes of fuel remaining,” said Bob Mathews.
“Hi, Bob. I liked your colleague’s description of the good old political U.S. of A. A bunch of patsies, if you ask us, mate,” said an Australian voice. “We have 70,000 kilos of the best Aussie grade-A jet fuel for you. We also have fighter escort if you Yanks west of us want to tango. Just to remind you, we are over international waters, so beware. Bob, heading in on full throttles, five minutes to hookup, and preparing to extend hose and will be turning in front of you in 90 seconds, over.”
“G’day, mates,” replied Bob. “I have you on radar, currently 490 knots at 33,000 feet.”
An hour later the Aussie tanker turned away from the Dead Chicken. The second tanker, heading southeast from Bermuda, was already 500 miles ahead of Bob, and was ready to top him up for his flight straight into the Sahara.
The United States was now 800 miles behind them. Ryan’s security detail had all left in their chosen vehicles, and the Air F
orce personnel were still locked up until they got up the courage to escape. So far, Ryan’s plan had worked. The Air Force staff on the airfield had about three hours before they were attacked by their own troops. Several jeeps and Bradleys had just left Creech and were on the way to deliver the base into U.S. hands once again.
“Doug to Bob, do you copy, over?”
“Bob to Doug, a little scratchy but I can hear you, over.”
“Hi Bob, I am at your new site in the Sahara Desert. The U.S., we have been told by locals, left 24 hours ago, and your new base is not nearly complete. They did leave a hangar full of equipment though. It seems they received an order to leave and couldn’t take their supplies. It looks like somebody changed their mind about helping you guys around here late yesterday. The tarmac is about a quarter complete, running directly east to west as you ordered. There are three half-completed hangars, a partially built accommodation area, and I have 500 guys and three aircraft already on the ground working to ready your new base for you. The completed runway is about 2,700 feet long in your language, under 1,000 meters in mine, and 20 feet wide. Fine for your Gulfstreams, but a little short and narrow for your deceased chicken, mate. We managed to squeeze down our heavy C-17s onto the blacktop without a problem. I’m sure a pilot of your caliber can get a bleeding chicken down in the same space?”
“We might not be Americans anymore Doug, but the old USA made these birds mighty tough,” laughed Bob. “I used the entire runway for takeoff back in Nevada to conserve fuel, and I can get this baby down on that short tarmac with room to spare, even though we are fully loaded. Tell your tanker crew I will need 48,000 kilos on the next fill up. I hope they take Amex, and I’ll bring her in with zero fuel weight. I reckon I can stop her in 1,800 feet without blowing the tires. Pilots have landed and taken off C-5s with 500 yard runways since the early days, although those were almost empty of fuel with no cargo.”
