The Unlikely Defenders

by Scott Haworth

  The two walked slowly into Jeffery’s house. Bobby looked down at the ground and sniffled as he walked. Jeffery walked with his eyes fixed on Bobby.

  A few months after the incident, Jeffery sat staring straight ahead in a courtroom. He looked dirty and his hair was disheveled. The designer suits he had gotten used to wearing for his job had been replaced by an orange prison uniform.

  The public defender sitting next to him looked almost as distraught as Jeffery did, although he was much better dressed. Jeffery could have afforded a better attorney with the money he had saved. He had decided the court-appointed attorney, a young man right out of law school, would be sufficient.

  The lawyer was appalled to have Jeffery as a client but not because of the heinous crime of which he was accused. “Are you absolutely sure you want to take the plea deal?” he asked for the fifth time. He lowered his voice before continuing. “Their case is far from rock solid. I think you’ve got a serious chance to win this thing if it goes to trial.”

  “No,” Jeffery responded. His lawyer had needed an hour and a half just to convince him to take the plea deal. Jeffery had wanted to plead guilty and take the full punishment. “I won’t put him up on the stand. I’ve already put him through enough.”

  “I just don’t understand it,” the lawyer said while shaking his head dramatically. “We’re talking about ten years of your life here!”

  “I’m guilty!” Jeffery countered. He turned suddenly in order to look his attorney in the eyes. “I deserve to be punished. I deserve a lot more than ten years! So why don’t you just sit there and shut up until it’s time to enter my fucking plea!”

  The lawyer turned the palms of his hands towards Jeffery submissively. Jeffery had always spoken very calmly and softly during their consultations. He was startled to hear him use profanity.

  “Punishment is one thing,” the lawyer said softly. “I don’t think you really understand what they do to rich, white, kiddy rapists in maximum security prison.”

  “Maybe I deserve that too,” Jeffery responded, turning away.

  The two did not speak again before the judge entered the courtroom. After the normal courtroom pageantry, the lawyer announced that his client was accepting the plea deal. The judge stated that Jeffery would be going to prison for the next ten years of his life. He said the time behind bars would dissuade Jeffery from ever committing such a crime in the future.

  Jeffery would be let out in less than half the time he was sentenced to serve. However, the judge had been correct. He would never harm another child in his life. It was not prison rehabilitation that prevented his recidivism. It was the result of a decision he made of his own free will.

  Daniel Nelson relaxed a little as he watched his wingman fall into position behind him. Blythe was the last surviving member of his squadron. The other German and French planes had either been shot down or forced to retreat from the giant dogfight north of Dieppe. Like the two British planes, many had simply run out of ammunition.

  Daniel had shot down three Kessiam fighters with his Harrier’s cannons in addition to the four he had knocked out of the sky with missiles. This brought his total number of kills up to seven which was two more than was necessary to be considered an Ace. He had been too busy after his fifth kill to appreciate the milestone. Now that he was out of immediate danger he was reveling in the idea. He would have to celebrate later though. He and Blythe had another problem.

  “How are you on fuel Blythe?” Daniel asked while checking his own gauges. Word had come that the Ark Royal had been sunk although that did not really matter. Daniel knew he could not have made it back to the carrier even if it were still afloat. “You think you can make it back to Dieppe? We could try for the civilian airport there.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Blythe responded over the radio after a moment. “I’m running on fumes. I got a little overzealous during the dogfight.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” Daniel replied with pride in his voice. “Your performance today was smashing. If you’re comfortable you can set down in one of these fields. Otherwise nose her down and bailout since we’re not over any populated area.”

  “Thank you, sir. I should have no trouble putting down. Good luck, sir. Get back into the fight quickly for me.”

  “I’ll do that, Blythe. Good luck to you,” Daniel said. He watched sadly as his wingman began to fall back and descend. Daniel was out of visual range and did not actually get to observe whether or not Blythe landed safely. He suspected that everything went fine. He suddenly felt quite thankful for the old Harrier’s ability to land vertically.

  Daniel felt terribly nervous on his short trip to the French city of Dieppe. He was more anxious than he had been at any time during the dogfight. Now he was completely alone. If there was one thing that had been hammered into him since his first days of training it was that he never wanted to be in combat by himself. Completely out of ammunition and short on fuel, he knew he would stand little chance even against the surprisingly inept alien fighters. Luckily he faced no resistance as he made his way to the small port city of Dieppe.

  With a population of only around eighty thousand, Dieppe did not have the type of airport in which Daniel would have preferred to land. Instead he found a small landing strip on the outskirts of town. Normally it would be used by enthusiasts with small propeller planes. Today it would have to service something much more advanced. He landed his Harrier vertically at the end of the short runway without incident.

  Daniel opened the canopy of his jet and looked around the airfield. Much to his dismay, it was deserted. Daniel instantly felt foolish for thinking there would be anyone there. This was not a day for civilian aircraft to be roaming around the skies. He peered down at the ground apprehensively. He was getting on in years and the thought of exiting his Harrier without the aid of a step ladder was not pleasant. He knew he had no other choice. Reluctantly, he slid over the side of the plane and fell to the ground. He landed on his feet and was thankful that neither of his ankles shattered.

  He surveyed the airfield for a second time. This time though, he saw a lone man in a mechanic’s outfit walking towards him. He ran in order to close the distance between them.

  “Parlez vous anglais?” Daniel asked the mechanic with a heavy accent. He hoped the man would answer affirmatively as it was the only French phrase he knew how to say.

  The French mechanic did not seem surprised to see a British pilot and his military plane appear at the airfield. He had, of course, seen his fair share of odd things happen recently. Despite all this he still showed his strong distaste for having to speak English, which he spoke fluently. He felt that it was a travesty that no one learned French anymore.

  “Yes, I speak English,” the mechanic replied irritably.

  “Smashing,” Daniel replied, ignoring the Frenchman’s attitude. It was not the first snobby French person he had met, and he had bigger concerns. “I don’t suppose you happen to have any jet fuel at this facility?”

  The Frenchman’s face transformed into a look of absolute horror. For a moment Daniel tried to figure out what could be so terrifying about his request for jet fuel. He soon realized that the man was not looking at him but rather past him. Turning around Daniel immediately saw the low flying Kessiam fighter approaching the airfield. He was powerless to stop it. When he turned back the Frenchman was already on the ground. He decided that it was not such a bad idea and joined the mechanic in the dirt.

  The Kessiam fighter pilot was not after the two humans. In fact, he did not even see them. He had learned quite quickly that individual humans were not the most pressing targets. He had been drawn to the small airfield after detecting one of the horrible primates’ aircraft. He had gone up against the natives and their planes in the air and barely survived. Destroying one on the ground seemed like a much safer way to engage the enemy.

  The Kessiam fighter discharged two volleys into Daniel’s plane once it was in range. With little fuel and no ammun
ition, the plane did not explode into an impressive fireball. It was cut into pieces that crumpled onto the runway. Small fires started up in the debris which had been a Harrier jet.

  The Frenchman was the first to stand up after the Kessiam fighter passed over head and out of range. He extended his right hand to Daniel and helped the older man to his feet. “No, we do not have any jet aviation fuel,” he said calmly, as if the question had just been asked.

  Daniel looked sadly at the remains of his fighter before turning to the Frenchman and narrowing his eyes. “No matter,” he said angrily. “Could I trouble you for the use of your radio?”

  The Frenchman nodded and motioned for Daniel to follow him. The small airfield had no control tower. Instead the two men walked to a one story building in which the radio was housed. The mechanic led Daniel to the radio room and motioned towards the equipment with a wide sweep of his hand. Assuming his job was done, he exited without saying another word to Daniel.

  Daniel ignored the Frenchman and went straight to work on the radio. It took him a full ten minutes before he made contact with anyone from the Royal Navy. Even then the contact he made was not particularly helpful.

  “This is Lieutenant Morrison, sir,” a voice said over the radio.

  Lieutenant? Daniel thought to himself unhappily. He was attempting to receive new orders. This would be unlikely from talking to a subordinate. “Lieutenant, I requested to speak with Admiral Chesney. Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry the admiral is quite busy, sir. There is a war on you know,” the lieutenant responded.

  “I’m in a pissant French town and my plane has been destroyed. Now put me on with someone who actually has the authority to order someone out here to rescue me.”

  “I’m afraid it wouldn’t do any good, sir. The aliens are sinking every boat that goes into the channel. Thousands of their ships all over the area. It’s much too risky for a helicopter too,” the lieutenant answered.

  “Well then what do you suggest I do?” Daniel asked condescendingly.

  “Perhaps you could ask the French for a plane?” the lieutenant responded smugly. Normally he would have chosen his words and tone more carefully. Today though he knew he could risk it. Daniel Nelson had other things to worry about. Even if he did not, what was he going to do about it? He was stuck in France after all.

  “Somehow I don’t think they’ll be willing to part with any,” Daniel grunted.

  “Well the Illustrious has put into port in Marseilles. She was caught out in the Mediterranean when the war started.”

  “She hasn’t been sunk yet?”

  “I wouldn’t have bothered to mention it if she had been would I, sir?” the lieutenant scoffed. “Our ships are quite a lot less vulnerable in port than at sea. Last time I checked she was undamaged and still running aerial operations.”

  Daniel thought about the length of the trip to Marseilles. It would have taken some time even without an alien army running around France. He considered finding some element of the French Army and joining with them or perhaps even the local police force in Dieppe. Ultimately he decided against it. He was a fighter pilot not a soldier. If there was any chance to get airborne again he knew he had to take it.

  “Very well, lieutenant. If you could be so kind as to inform the Admiral that I am heading for the Illustrious.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll pass it along.”

  Daniel turned off the radio while making a mental note to file a complaint with the lieutenant’s superior officer once everything had calmed down. However, he had already forgotten the man’s name five minutes later. He exited the tiny airfield and began his trip to the Mediterranean coast of France.

  Daniel tried desperately to put his key in the door of the house without making any noise. Given the amount of alcohol he had consumed over the last four hours, it proved quite difficult. If his father caught him coming home this late there would be hell to pay. After missing several more times Daniel finally managed to get the key in the lock. He let out a sigh of relief as he slowly pushed the door open.

  His relief was premature. He shut the door very slowly, wincing as it creaked slightly. He tiptoed a few feet to the stairs and began to climb the steps. He was on the second one when his dad began to speak.

  “I would have respected you more if you had walked in proudly,” he said from the living room. He spoke at a normal volume, but his voice seemed to tear through the quiet house. “Instead of trying to sneak in. Get over here,” he said. He motioned for Daniel to come into the living room.

  Daniel moved slowly as he tried to avoid stumbling or giving any other indication that he was drunk. Surprisingly, he made it to a chair in front of his father without a major embarrassment.

  “Do you think I enjoy staying up and waiting for my fifteen-year-old son to come home from God knows where?” he asked. He paused and sniffed the air dramatically. “Drunk, no less,” he added.

  Damn, I forgot about my breath, Daniel thought. He lowered his eyes before responding. “No,”

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir.”

  Daniel’s father let out a dramatic sigh. “The rules are in place for a reason,” he began. “You don’t know it now but you need structure and order. Chamberlain let Hitler run around in the thirties without any consequences. Do you know what happened after that?”

  Daniel did not feel that Hitler’s acquisition of territory and his getting drunk with his friends were analogous. If his father was given long enough he would always find a way to tie whatever was going on to what happened during the war. Daniel did not dare point out that fact. “He killed fifty million people… sir.”

  “Sixty million!” his father replied immediately.

  Despite his best efforts Daniel could not help but smile. Every time the statistic was mentioned his father insisted that Hitler had killed an additional ten million people.

  “You think that’s funny?” his father demanded.

  “No, sir!” Daniel replied, the smile instantly leaving his face. It was replaced with a look of fear. He knew exactly what was coming next.

  “You know what we had to do once Hitler had his way and the war started?” he asked. He did not pause long enough to give Daniel time to answer. “We had to scold him and all of Germany. We had to bomb her cities to a cinder in order to teach her a valuable less,” he continued. He stood up and removed the belt from his pants. “Don’t do it again.”

  Daniel did not smile at the second of his father’s less than apt analogies of the night. Instead he crumpled into a ball as his father brought the belt down into his face.

  Jennifer crouched down as soon as she stepped off the last stair and into the lobby of the police headquarters. A quick peak of the lobby revealed nothing exciting. The officers manning the perimeter seemed somewhat relaxed, and there were no more alien corpses than there had been when she left to scrounge ammunition. She still kept low to the ground as she shuffled her way towards John McLeary’s position. She sat down against an overturned table and put the desk drawer she had been carrying on her lap.

  “Eight boxes of nine-millimeter,” she said, handing one of the boxes to John. “And four boxes of shotgun shells,” she added. She turned towards the officer who was sitting five feet to her right. She was about to toss him one of the boxes when she realized that he was no longer holding a shotgun.

  “No thanks, I’ve upgraded to a ray gun,” he said, waving the Kessiam pistol he had in his right hand.

  John looked around in disgust at the officers who were manning the perimeter. Nearly half had abandoned their guns and adopted the alien weaponry. He turned back towards the officer who had just spoken. “That’s an untested weapon. You don’t know how much ammunition it has, you can’t tell if it’s overheating…”

  “It’s a better gun and it ain’t rocket science,” the officer replied smugly. “Don’t fear change.”

  “I’ll be sure they put that on your tombstone,” John replied. “Hand me your sh
otgun if you aren’t going to use it.”

  The officer passed his shotgun to Jennifer who passed it along to John. She shot John an amused smile as she handed over a box of shotgun shells.

  “You remind me of what my grandfather sounded like,” she said, knowing the comparison would strike a nerve with John.

  John forced a half grin at the implication of his old age. “Maybe I am starting to become a crotchety old sonvabitch,” he said while feeding a few shells into his newly acquired shotgun. “But I plan on being alive long enough to become a full fledged crotchety old sonvabitch. And do you know how I plan on surviving that long?”

  “By sticking with a gun you’re familiar with?” Jennifer guessed.

  “Bingo,” he said, pumping the shotgun. The reassuring clicking noise told him a shell had just been loaded into the chamber of the gun.

  Jennifer smiled and felt at ease for the first time since the invasion had started. “I miss anything while I was gone?”

  “Nah, it’s been quiet,” he said. He paused and lowered his voice before continuing. “A little too quiet… dun, dun, dun!”

  “I don’t suppose they’ve given up and gone home?” Jennifer asked.

  “No, I think they just stopped being so stupid and attacking with only a handful at a time. They’ll be back, and if they’ve got any sort of sense they’ll be back in force.”

  Jennifer and John sat in silence for a moment. The anticipation of the attack was nerve-racking. Jennifer wished that the aliens would just get it over with and assault the station. There was nothing more any of the officers could do to prepare. The Army and the National Guard had their hands full. There were no reinforcements coming.

  She watched John who looked odd sitting cross-legged like a child behind the overturned table. He was slowly shifting his eyes back and forth across the entrance of the lobby as he scanned for potential targets. He had holstered his pistol and had one hand lightly grasping the shotgun that was sitting on his lap.