by John Bowers
"I will qualify."
He made a notation on the form.
"There is one other thing," he said slowly. "Perhaps I shouldn't mention it, but … if I don't say it, someone else will."
"Yes?"
He put down his stylus and stared at her appraisingly.
"Miss Ka-vorik, you are a remarkably beautiful young woman. There is another branch of the service that you may not be aware of."
"Does it involve killing Sirians?"
"Not directly —"
"Then I'm not interested."
"Still, it is a vital part of the Space Force. It is called the Domestic Service. It is an all-female unit …"
Onja was on her feet, blue eyes blazing.
"Are you talking about the Pink Ladies?"
Konrad flushed uncomfortably and nodded.
"The Pink Ladies are whores, Sergeant! They fuck the soldiers! Don't they?"
"Uh, well, that's putting it indelicately —"
Onja's hands were flat on the desk as she placed her nose an inch from his face.
"You may think I am beautiful, Sergeant, but I am not a whore! I am going to be a gunner!"
"Sooner or later," he said doggedly, "someone is going to pressure you to transfer to the Domestic Service. I just wanted to warn you."
He returned her gaze and she saw sincerity in his eyes. Her anger faded and she sat down, still breathing heavily.
"Thank you for the warning. Now please, I want to enlist before the war starts."
Chapter 2
North America, Terra
"Input: set input continuous, auto-execute; activate threat radar, range focus two-seven-zero, triple-zero degrees relative."
"Threat radar active." His threat screen lit up and began to sweep.
"Set filter for rocket craft or anything above Mach 1."
"Filter set."
Johnny glanced at his Heads-Up Holo (HH) and confirmed no air traffic at this altitude. He rolled forty degrees to port as he crossed into Wyoming from the west, angling northeast toward where he expected to intercept the cruise missile. Another glance at his instrument board showed everything green, jets turning smoothly, engine temperatures normal. He sucked oxygen and flexed his fingers, chewing his upper lip to bleed off his tension. The game was about to start.
* * *
Oliver Lincoln III stood with his eyes glued to the two radar sweeps that showed the action. Forty-four Echo was now a hundred fifty miles southwest of the cruise missile, which had reached eighty thousand and was approaching Mach 2 as it continued to accelerate. Johnny had turned northeast, but would soon have to turn again if he hoped to intercept the drone. Oliver felt an ache in his gut as the two objects — each one a VR graphic on the sweep display — gradually closed the distance between them.
"Fuck!" Brad muttered at his side.
Oliver nudged him with his elbow. The radar operator, if he noticed, ignored the exchange.
"Mother of God!"
Oliver turned toward the voice. Across the room, Bobbie Miller stood over a large display that showed the entirety of North American airspace. Forty-five, five-foot nothing, wearing Western jeans and cowboy boots, Miller's face had gone white, and her chest seemed to be heaving for air. Oliver stepped forward and peered down at the screen. His heart froze in his chest.
"What the hell is that!" he whispered.
"I don't know, sir. Unless —"
"Oh god, no! Don't tell me that!"
Bobbie Miller stabbed a pair of buttons on the console; her ATC voice turned professional as she began to speak, her eyes still on the sweep radar.
"Loveland Control, Lincoln Enterprises tower, this is Bobbie Miller. I need to speak to your shift supervisor, please."
The reply boomed from speakers around the room.
"LincEnt tower, Loveland Control, stand by." Oliver heard shouting in the background before the transmission ended. He stared at the radar screen with hammering heart, looked at Miller and saw a mixture of fear and disbelief in her eyes, which were wider than he'd ever seen them.
"LincEnt tower, this is Major Redwine."
"Major, we're echoing many spacecraft all over the North American continent, looks like they're about to break atmosphere. Are you getting the same thing or has our equipment gone south?"
"That's affirm, LincEnt. Your equipment is fine."
Miller turned her eyes to meet Oliver's, and she blinked hard.
"Anything else you can tell me?" she asked Loveland Control.
"Negat at this time. Nasty C is evaluating the data and will issue instructions shortly. In the meantime, I recommend you ground anything you have in the air. I would also get your employees under cover — this could be the big one."
Miller's eyes closed. "Roger that, Major. Thank you. LincEnt out."
She flipped the button and turned to Oliver. "Mr. Lincoln, this looks like an emergency…"
"Do your job, Miller. Tell me, don't ask me."
For a bare instant, a smile of gratitude, then she spun and began issuing orders.
"Abort the live-fire test! Contact Security! Evacuate the plant immediately. Get as many people as possible into basements —"
"The fuck's going on?" Brad stood at his father's elbow and stared down at the radar screen, a frown of incomprehension on his face. "What the hell is that?"
Oliver glanced at him in annoyance — a little slow on the uptake there, he thought. But that wasn't unusual, was it?
"Brad, take my car and get up to the house. Tell your mother to get everyone into the basement. You stay with them, in case they need you. All right?"
Brad frowned. "Why? What's happening?"
Oliver nodded toward the radar screen, which was now peppered with flashing red VR symbols.
"I'm not absolutely sure," he said, "but I think that's a Sirian strike force."
* * *
"Attent: possible contact, bearing three-five-four relative, speed two point three Mach, range one-one-zero miles, angels niner-two; target heading two-six-eight degrees true."
"Ack." AI shorthand for "acknowledged".
Johnny Lincoln's attention zoned as he saw the VR graphic on his HH — only a military target would be traveling at that speed. He rolled left another thirty degrees and dropped his nose, shedding altitude as he angled to intercept. He eased his throttle back, letting his airspeed drop to Mach 3.3; he didn't want to overtake too quickly and overshoot.
Johnny reached for the master-arming switch and toggled it, then touched the switch for his starboard launch tube. One missile, that's all he would need. The warning light flashed amber, then green; the warhead was ready to fire.
"Acquire target and lock in. Call range continuous, by tens."
"Ack."
Now the VR on his HH was haloed in red as he continued to track it. When he was within firing range, it would begin to flash.
Approaching Idaho, the target held steady at Mach 2.3, still at ninety-two thousand. The range was down to eighty miles, and Johnny rolled left another twenty degrees, making his heading true north. He should be within visual range when the target crossed his nose, and he'd swing in behind to take the shot. His superior speed should prevent him having to chase the target.
"Target range seven-zero miles, bearing zero-zero-five relative."
"Ack."
Johnny took shallow breaths, completely zoned in, his attention on the target.
"Target range five-zero miles, bearing triple-zero relative, mark!"
"Ack."
Johnny looked out his windscreen and saw it, gleaming in the early morning sun — a tiny metallic dot pulling a long pencil streak of white contrail. Johnny began a gentle left turn to drop in behind it. "Starboard wing tube, stand by," he said.
It was a perfect setup, one of the best he'd ever seen; he couldn't have asked for a better one if he'd sacrificed a virgin to the gods of war.
"Range four-zero miles, bearing three-five-seven relative."
Johnny nudged his thr
ottles back again, letting his airspeed drop to Mach 2.5. The red halo began to flash green — it was time. Here we go, baby! Hallelujah!
"Starboard wing tube," he breathed, "fire!"
Instantly, the rear missile tube door slid open and the warhead dropped out into the QF's slipstream. Supersonic wind resistance killed much of its forward momentum and gravity jerked it earthward like a bomb, but five seconds later it fired, the target already locked into its software. With the brilliance of burning magnesium, it streaked forward under thirty G's of thrust, quickly reaching Mach 6.
"Foxtrot 44 Echo, LincEnt Control! Abort! Abort! Abort!"
Johnny jerked as if he'd been shot. The voice in his headset was practically screaming.
"Say again?" he demanded.
"Abort the test! Return to base immediately!"
For a microsecond Johnny sat frozen with confusion. What the hell! Then his eyes focused on the warhead that was streaking after the cruise missile… It was a cruise missile, wasn't it? Had he somehow acquired the wrong target? His body went numb at the implications.
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo — negat on the abort. I already fired!"
The sky ahead of him flashed brilliantly, and the target's VR disappeared off his HH. "Target destroyed," he said woodenly. Jesus God! What, exactly, had he destroyed?
A new voice came over his headset.
"Forty-four Echo —" It was his dad, Oliver Lincoln III; Johnny heard stress in his voice, but he sounded calmer than the controller had been. "Johnny, check your radar. We just got confirmation from NASTC that an enemy strike force has broken through the atmosphere. Hundreds of ships, all over North America. You're flying right into about six squadrons."
Holy shit!
"Return to base immediately," his dad said. "Get the hell out of there!"
"Roger, LincEnt Control. Forty-four Echo."
Johnny felt his stomach churn as he rolled on his axis and began a tight, high-G turn to the south. His hands trembled with adrenaline overload and his skin seemed too tight for his face. He'd never been so scared in his life.
"Input:" he gasped. "Activate combat mode. Authorization code Juliet Lima. Execute."
Fuck!
"Juliet Lima, ack," the AI responded smoothly. "Combat mode active."
"Activate combat radar, continuous sweep, radius one triple-zero miles. Filter-eliminate Federation transponders. Report any unknown or unauthorized spacecraft. Execute."
Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!
His radar sweep instantly lit up with angry red VR blips — scores of them, maybe hundreds — on every compass point around him. The sight turned his blood to ice, and he sucked oxygen to try to still his pounding heart.
"Jesus Christ!" he whispered. "The fuckers are really doing it! We're at war!"
The possibility of an attack had been on the holonews for weeks, ever since the unopposed invasion of Alpha Centauri 2, but Johnny hadn't really believed it would happen. Sirian and Federation diplomats had sat down a month ago to discuss options, but nothing had come of it. And then yesterday — last night? — the Sirians had walked out.
But this? Christ, they must have been planning it all along!
He dropped his nose and began a shallow glide toward Colorado.
His mind was swirling. What were their targets? Population centers? Military bases? LincEnt? Were they landing troops?
Where was the Space Force?
"Input: display Loveland and LincEnt coordinates on radar sweep."
"Ack."
Two green dots appeared on the sweep; the nearest was Loveland Space Force Base, which would almost certainly be a target. The second was LincEnt, roughly halfway between Loveland and Denver.
At least five clusters of ships were approaching Loveland from the west, two more from the east. Johnny's course would take him west of Loveland, right into the path of those incoming strikes…
The radar screen refreshed itself steadily, the VR symbols moving inexorably closer. Each symbol represented a cluster of ships; tiny numerals adjacent to each one indicated how many.
Two more VR blips were approaching LincEnt, one from the southwest, another from the west. Would anyone be there to intercept those squadrons?
"Input: monitor Loveland combat channel, execute."
"Ack."
Instantly his ears were filled with military radio traffic. He heard excited voices and confusing orders, not at all what he'd expected. Those guys were trained to fight; they should have sounded more professional. He wasn't sure whom he was listening to, but blue VR symbols were now emerging from the vicinity of Loveland as the Space Force scrambled its fighters. Still panting from stress, he scanned the sky around him as if he might see a battle in progress, but saw only empty blue sky, the morning sun still hanging low in the east.
He chinned his radio mike.
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. You've got two strikes inbound your position. Do you copy?"
He waited, fully expecting either his dad or Bobbie Miller to respond. Five seconds crawled by.
"LincEnt Control, 44 Echo. Do you copy?"
Sweating, he jammed his throttle forward, edging back up toward Mach 2. Denver was nearly seven hundred miles away; even at Mach 2 it would take him twenty minutes to get there.
* * *
Lincoln Enterprises had no air-raid shelters as such, but most of the buildings had been constructed with basements. Plant security opened the gates for anyone who wanted to leave, and a stream of hovercars headed out, but time was critical and the majority of employees were herded into whichever basement was nearest.
Oliver Lincoln III stood in the control tower and watched as the staff went into action. It was a rare moment in his life, being a spectator instead of running things. Bobbie Miller was a marvel, barking orders and radio transmissions as she cleared the traffic pattern and brought two experimental craft in for emergency landings. After broadcasting a message diverting all traffic away from LincEnt, she sent the tower staff for cover and within six minutes of detecting the enemy strike, only she and Oliver remained in the tower. She looked at him expectantly.
"Mr. Lincoln, don't you think it's time —"
"Not until John gets here," he replied simply. "Why don't you head for cover; I can take it from here."
"You have no ATC experience, do you?"
He shrugged. "How much do I need? John knows how to land a fighter. I can give him wind information as well as you can."
Miller looked around at the crowded electronics in the tower room, clearly undecided.
"You've done your job, Miller," Oliver said gently. "Go find a hole and crawl in it. Do it now."
She blinked at his bluntness, then nodded reluctantly.
"Yes, sir. Don't you hang around too long."
He forced a grin. "Trust me, I won't. I've been bombed before — I didn't enjoy it."
With a final nod, Bobbie Miller stepped into the A-G lift and was gone. Oliver sucked a deep breath and let it explode out of him, to settle his nerves. It didn't help. He looked at the radar sweep that showed Johnny's fighter, saw the ETA and shook his head slowly. The kid would never make it.
* * *
Five hundred yards north of the control tower stood another building of equal height. Known as the Executive Tower, it housed the offices that kept LincEnt running, including those of Oliver Lincoln III. When the alarm sounded to evacuate the plant, Angela Martinez was on the phone with a supplier in Belgium, arranging a holo-conference for the following day. For just an instant she was confused by the unaccustomed blaring of the security alarm, then her face blanched as she saw the executive secretary, Mrs. Waterbury, stagger to her feet and clutch at her chest with one hand. Angela quickly cut off her call as fear and confusion overwhelmed her.
"Are you all right?" Angela cried as she scrambled out of her chair toward the elderly woman. She grabbed Mrs. Waterbury by the shoulders to steady her, then settled her back into her chair. The woman was pale and sweating, gasping for breath. Angela star
ed into her eyes for a moment, repeating her question.
"Can't — breathe!" Mrs. Waterbury gasped. "What — what's happening? What is it?"
Angela glanced up at the alarm in the ceiling, which still shrieked a warning to take cover. She shook her head in confusion.
"I don't know. But we have to get out of here! Can you make it?"
The gasping woman shook her head weakly, closed her eyes, and concentrated on breathing. "My chest!" she panted. "I think — it's my heart!"
Oh, God! O ¡Dios mio!
Angela reached for the desk comm and slapped the security button.
"Security, Romero."
"Romero, this is Angie Martinez in the Tower! We need help up here! Mrs. Waterbury — I think she's having a heart attack!"
"Oh, fuck!" Romero was gone for a second, then came back with urgency in his voice. "Can you get her into the basement? There's an air raid heading this way!"
Air raid? Oh, Jesus! Angela's blood ran cold.
"I don't know!" she practically sobbed. "She looks really bad! Can't you send someone up here?"
"Okay, take it easy. I'm on my way. Put her on the floor with her feet up. Try to keep her quiet. Do you know CPR?"
"Yes." Cardio-pulmonary resuscitation was a standard part of every employee's training.
"Don't use it unless she stops breathing. I'm on my way!"
Panting from fear and exertion, Angela dragged Mrs. Waterbury off the chair and onto the floor, sliding a hassock under her heels to elevate them. Then she began timing the woman's pulse, noting the thready unevenness. For just a moment she considered running, saving herself, but quickly suppressed that urge. She'd never be able to live with herself if she did that and the other woman died.
Where the hell was her boss, anyway? He'd know what to do!
* * *
In spite of his best efforts, Oliver Lincoln III felt his body quiver with adrenaline. It had been a quarter century since he'd stood in harm's way, but the feeling was very familiar. The difference this time was that he had nothing in his hands with which to fight back.
He debated calling Johnny for an update, but forced himself to wait. The kid probably had his hands full and didn't need the distraction. He glanced at his watch — had it only been ten minutes? He looked at the radar sweeps again, and saw two VR blips approaching his location, one from the west, another from the southwest. How far out were they? He wasn't an expert at reading the display, but they were probably only minutes away. How ironic — thirty years ago LincEnt had built the backbone of the Sirian fighter fleet; now the Sirian fleet was coming to destroy LincEnt.