A Vow to Sophia

by John Bowers

  "I'm here, Johnny. This is one sweet airplane your daddy built!"

  "Don't let him hear you call it an airplane!"

  "I've got a fix, Johnny," Onja murmured, her voice almost sleepy. "Range nine hundred miles."

  "Input: call off ranges continuous. Execute."

  "Range nine hundred miles, range eight fifty, range eight hundred —"

  Johnny was startled to see blue light flash over his head, a streak of lightning as straight as a pencil line against the blackness of space.

  "Not yet!" he called. "They're too far away …"

  "That's one," she said softly, and the light blazed again, then again. Johnny stared at his HH in dismay. Three of the blips on that holo had fragmented, and as the blue light flashed again a fourth disintegrated like an aspirin under a hammer.

  "My god!" he breathed.

  The range was now six hundred miles, and Onja flipped her laser banks back to recharge as she wrapped a slender hand around the cannon grip.

  "Closer, Johnny!" she said, peering into her tracking holo. As the range hit two hundred miles she opened up. Inside the turret the recoil of the 29mm was much stronger than it seemed from the cockpit, but Onja's body was braced in its hydrocushion and as the turret shuddered under powerful recoils she hardly moved, only her legs vibrating as they rested on the turret's directional controls. For three long seconds she fired in short bursts, adjusting her aim three times, conserving ammunition as she sprayed three enemy fighters with deadly explosives. Her blue eyes stared unblinking into the target sights; her hand didn't so much as quiver as she made installments on an old debt that would never be paid in full.

  Johnny rolled to the left as the QF streaked through the enemy formation, and again had an afterimage of dying ships and blossoming flame. Onja's turret twisted around the longitudinal axis of the ship as he rolled and she hammered away toward the rear, ripping the star drive out of a fourth enemy fighter. She ceased fire just as Burgundy arrived to take his own toll of the Sirians.

  Johnny swallowed hard as he glanced at his HH, and felt his heart rate double as it dawned on him all at once that Onja had taken out eight of them on that pass!

  Eight!

  "Okay, Johnny, where do we go from here?" Onja's voice was as steady as if she were asking him what he wanted for dinner. He shook himself mentally. She was a born killer!

  "Looks like the next group is east of here," he replied, his own voice clinical and military. "Section 3, break left zero two three degrees. Another formation about a hundred miles below us. They're about to make penetration, so let's see if we can scare them a little. Not much time, so don't worry about formation. And don't hit the atmosphere! Here we go!"

  He'd already rolled to the left and over into a shallow dive. There were eighteen in the next group, and Johnny tensed as he screamed down on them. This close to the atmosphere, if he overshot by much…

  The blue light flashed again, and Johnny checked his HH. Only seventeen now, then sixteen as it flashed again, and then it flashed twice more and fourteen were left. Two torpedoes rattled from his wings, the autocannon shuddered, and Johnny felt very much like a spectator as he rushed into the enemy from above and behind.

  "Warning! Planetary atmosphere, distance fifty miles! Approach angle too steep. Pull up! Fifteen seconds to penetration! Pull up!"

  Johnny's hand sweated as he held the control grip steady for several more seconds, giving Onja time to finish her murderous work.

  "Section 3, pull out!" he shouted to the pilots behind him. "The atmosphere is too close! Break off!"

  They did, all three of them, pulling heavy G's as they turned away, but Johnny held his angle for what seemed a lifetime as the AI squawked accusingly at him.

  "DANGER! PULL OUT! PENETRATION IN SIX SECONDS! FIVE SECONDS! DANGER! PULL OUT NOW!!!"

  "Hang on!" he shouted then, and jerked the yoke back into his stomach with all his strength, kicking full forward thrust as the QuasarFighter rotated ninety degrees upward, placing its belly flat against the onrushing envelope of air, extending his wingtips to maximum.

  The resulting G force crushed him into his seat so hard he strangled in his own saliva for the next thirty seconds. The QF hit the atmosphere like a flat rock against the surface of a lake. The impact was bone jarring, and Onja sank into blackness as she bounced in her harness, her flight helmet slamming against the targeting console. Johnny tasted blood and for a terrible few seconds thought he'd overdone it…

  But the sleek Lincoln fighter, like a flat rock against the top of a lake, skipped back into space, still traveling at thirty miles per second.

  It took nearly a minute for Johnny's head to clear, and when it did he began checking his ship for structural damage, calling on the AI for a report. Somehow, in spite of the collision with the upper atmosphere, they'd come out of it without even bending the wings.

  "Input: retract wings," he panted, and took a deep breath to steady himself. "Lieutenant, you okay?"

  "I guess so," Onja said heavily, and he could tell she was recovering from G stress, too. "What happened?"

  "We bumped into some air, but we glanced off. How you doing?"

  "I think I blacked out, but — I'm okay."

  "Good. How'd we do back there?"

  "I got nine of them."

  Jesus!

  "You done for today?" he asked.

  "Have the Sirians left yet?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Then I'm not done. Where do we go from here?"

  North America, Terra

  They punched into the atmosphere somewhere over central Canada and, keeping to the upper stratosphere, cruised generally south at about Mach 9, looking for targets. The Ladar holos showed bogies to the west, but they were a thousand miles distant. Johnny monitored military and civilian SpectraWav traffic, trying to make sense of the wild hysteria that babbled from every channel.

  To the west, Vancouver, Seattle, and San Francisco were under attack, but interceptor wings out of Travis and Tacoma were engaging them. Farther to the southwest, Los Angeles and Burbank were also under attack, but another interceptor wing was fighting that one off. The big spacecraft factories near Tucson had already been hit, and a bloody gunfight was in progress over Baja California as two squadrons out of Yuma dogged the attackers.

  To the southeast were St. Louis, Little Rock, and New Orleans, all defense cities, all under attack, or about to be, but once again scores of fighters were moving to their defense. Johnny swore under his breath, unable to believe that now, after tangling with dozens of Sirians only minutes earlier, he was in a dead zone with no enemy in sight.

  "Johnny!" Onja sounded urgent, and his pulse quickened. "Something's happening south of us, eight hundred miles out."

  "I don't see it!" he protested, checking his HH.

  "I'm getting a signal from DefSat 39," she said. "I'll relay it to you."

  Seconds later he got the same picture, and saw the images of conflicts in progress, most of them already covered by Federation spacecraft. But there, in the center of the Continental Divide, were two clusters of VR graphics depicting enemy formations. No defenders were visible.

  "You see them? Right over the mountains."

  "Affirm." Johnny studied the clusters for two seconds, and then his blood ran cold. "Shit!"

  He kicked rocket power and the QF blasted ahead, dumping Onja deep into her hydrocushion. He nosed over and began to burn for deeper atmosphere.

  "Hey! How about a warning when you do that!"

  "Lieutenant," he said breathlessly, "load up everything you've got. That's Denver. The bastards are going after LincEnt again!"

  "Oh, my god! The QF factory!"

  "We've got to stop them. How's our ammo holding out?"

  "We're at sixty percent on 29mm, and I reloaded with atmosphere missiles. We can still punch some holes."

  "Section 3, Railsplitter. Close it up, wedge formation! Keep visual on me and don't get lost."

  As they bit into thicker
air, the four QuasarFighters bucked against the currents, cruelly jolting their crews, but Johnny maintained his speed and pushed on down to thirty thousand feet, wingtips fully retracted. He isolated SpectraWav frequencies until he was tuned to the one used by the LincEnt tower facility.

  "LincEnt Control, Railsplitter. Are you under enemy attack?"

  "This is LincEnt Control. Last traffic identify."

  "LincEnt Control, this is Johnny Lincoln, ZF 213. Bobbie Miller, is that you?"

  The distinctly feminine voice came back calm and professional.

  "That's affirm, Johnny. Where are you?"

  "Somewhere over northern Wyoming. Listen, if you haven't already done it, sound your air raid sirens. You've got a strike inbound. They'll be hitting you any minute."

  "We know that. We sounded the alarm ten minutes ago. How soon can you g …"

  The transmission ended abruptly in a burst of static, and Johnny knew it was too late.

  "Fuck!"

  The fighter's skin was heating up, for he was well over Mach 6, the highest speed he could safely fly at that altitude. In spite of his admonition to keep a tight formation, he pulled steadily away from his section, none of whom dared to push their ships that hard. Johnny knew he'd have to throttle back soon if he was to go any lower, but first he had miles to cover.

  "I'm ready, Johnny," Onja said softly, and the sound of her voice settled him more than he would have expected.

  "I think we just heard the control tower die," he said, his voice shaking.

  "I know. Get me in close, Johnny."

  The nearer cluster of Sirians turned north to intercept, and he met them over southern Wyoming, nine enemy fighters burning toward him in three sections.

  "Goddammit! I don't have time for this shit!" Johnny was almost in tears. "Section 3, take these fuckers out for me! I've got to get to Denver!"

  "Attent: enemy missiles inbound, bearing zero one zero relative, range —"

  "Input:" Onja barked, "deploy countermeasures! Execute!"

  "Countermeasures away!"

  Johnny killed his rockets and dove for the mountain peaks below, letting the enemy missiles sort out the electronic garbage that suddenly filled the sky above him. At thirteen thousand feet he leveled off and began dodging among the jagged peaks of the Rockies, using them for cover as he passed underneath the enemy formation. Behind him he heard his section chatter as they engaged, and hit the rockets again, climbing to sixteen thousand as he streaked south.

  He crossed northern Colorado and shut down the rockets, letting the wind resistance break his speed as he picked up his targets on Ladar and began a straight attack run, diving under ten thousand and heading for the deck. Thirty seconds later — déjà vu — he could see smoke and flame towering into the afternoon sky above Lincoln Enterprises, and flashed over the snow-capped mountain where the Lincoln mansion stood, his sonic boom rattling its windows as he passed.

  The 29mms opened up, pumping streams of death as Onja sprayed three Sirian fighters that were making an approach on the factory complex. Two of them staggered under cannon hits and one exploded; the third lost a wing and began to spin just as it released a pair of heavy gravity bombs. The Sirian arrowed into the ground alongside a twenty-four lane highway and exploded.

  Johnny crossed the factory complex far too quickly to make out any detail, but as he soared upward and tried to brake Onja picked out two Sirians who'd already released their bombs and were climbing out. She scored hits, but both kept flying, heading for the stratosphere.

  "Get us back, Johnny!" she shouted. "I saw at least ten more of the fuckers!"

  Johnny was trying; he threw them into a steep left turn that squeezed the blood out of their brains with crushing G force. Their flight suits automatically compensated, but no G-suit could completely nullify the effects of fifteen G's, and before the software pulled the fighter out of the turn Johnny was unconscious, Onja pinned against the side of her turret, blind and helpless.

  The software took out the next Sirian, which had just begun its approach and was about to reach its drop point. By then Onja had come unstuck from the side of the turret and groggily blinked away her double vision. She began lining up her targets.

  Nine Sirians remained, strung out over six miles in attack formation, and she took out three in a row as Johnny, back in control, flew right down their throats. She released four atmosphere missiles at the next few Sirians and they all took evasive action, kicking rocket power to escape. They made it, but were now out of position for bombing; just that quickly —

  "Watch it! Watch it, watch it!"

  "I see 'em. Hold on!"

  The last two Sirians in line had aborted their approach and now their cannon blazed as they closed on the Fed fighter. Johnny barrel-rolled and somehow squirted through the converging streams of tracer, feeling hits along the portside wing root. Lights flashed red on his control panel, but he was still flying.

  "They're turning with us!" Onja shouted, watching them on her target holo. "Climb, Johnny! Climb!"

  He jerked into a hard right turn and stabbed his rockets, then twisted left again. Behind him the Sirians tried to follow, swinging wide in the attempt; Onja opened fire, leading the nearest fighter until he flew right into her tracers. Explosions blossomed down the length of his fuselage until he rolled over and stalled, flame pouring into his slipstream.

  "Got you, you fuck!" she snarled.

  But the second Sirian was good, and as she tried four times to lead him he anticipated and jinked out of her way, his own rockets keeping him hot on their trail.

  "Damn it!" Onja cried. "I can't hit this one, Johnny, and I'm wasting ammo!"

  "Hold your fire a minute. Let's see if I can lose him."

  The city of Denver spun below them as Johnny twisted and tracked across the frigid sky, the enemy fighter keeping pace. Sweat trickled into his collar as he realized four Sirians were still out there carrying bombs. This wasn't helping LincEnt.

  A sharp tone pierced his headset —

  "Missile lock! He's got missile lock!"

  Johnny shoved his nose down and dove for the ground.

  "Input-deploy-countermeasures-execute!" Onja chattered.

  The shrill tone abruptly died as the decoys fired, but the Sirian was still up there, diving with them, less than a mile back. Johnny chewed his upper lip as he watched the HH and the up-rushing ground at the same time. He pulled out at five hundred feet and began weaving, turning hard right, then hard left, then right again. His course carried him right over the middle of Denver, and he absently wondered what damage his shock wave would cause in the city below. The Sirian stayed with him.

  Where were the ASC gunners? he wondered. Surely the Space Force, or the Fed Infantry — someone — would have set up ASC laser batteries? Denver was a defense city; it needed anti-spacecraft protection.

  He dodged between two skytowers and twisted left again, heading toward the mountains. Ten more seconds carried him clear of the city and he dove lower still, pulling out barely fifty feet above the ground. The QF shuddered as the ground effect hammered back at him.

  "He's still there, Johnny."

  "Can you take him?"

  "If I miss, I might hit the city."

  "Forget it."

  The mountains were dead ahead, and Johnny climbed to clear the lower ridges. He knew this terrain well — he'd learned to fly here. He turned north, blazing down valleys and threading between sharp, towering peaks. His shock wave cracked across the heavy snow pack and triggered a string of avalanches. His tongue traced his upper lip as he twisted right, left, right again, and did it faster than the Sirian could follow.

  Two minutes later, the Sirian climbed to fifteen thousand and turned back.

  * * *

  Johnny had no time to gloat. He dodged a couple more mountain peaks and turned southeast again, heading straight for Lincoln Enterprises.

  "I'm showing four bogies in attack profile," Onja said, her voice thick with tension. "They've r
eformed, range ninety miles. Get me closer!"

  Passing from the mountains onto the plateau, Johnny dropped to the deck again and streaked straight for the enemy, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  "Range sixty miles," she chanted. "Fifty, forty, thirty …"

  "Do your stuff, Lieutenant," he said.

  The Sirians had reformed to the east of Denver, and now approached the manufacturing complex from that direction. No ASC fire reached for them; the target lay wide open. The attackers approached at four hundred knots, keeping a one-mile separation.

  The first had just released his bombs when an atmosphere missile streaked out of the northwest and caught him in the nose. The second Sirian climbed sharply to avoid the wreckage of the first and never had a chance as the QuasarFighter, locked in a tight left turn, shot down his left wing just fifty feet away, going the opposite direction. Onja's turret cannon fired a single burst and the enemy fighter exploded. Two seconds later she fired into the cockpit of the third Sirian, and then only one was left.

  The last enemy fighter twisted right and kicked rockets, dumping his bombs in the process. Johnny rolled left and skidded after him, but saw the gap opening.

  "Get him, Onja! Get that fucker!"

  "I've got him …"

  WHAAAAA-AMMMM!

  The explosion shredded the top of her turret and wrenched the autocannon out of their mounts. Onja was hammered downward into her hydrocushion, which barely saved her from being splattered against the deck. Before he even realized what had happened, Johnny instinctively threw the QF into a hard right spiral that took them out of the line of fire, just as the Sirian that had overtaken them from the rear blasted past and twisted left.

  "Where the hell did he come from?" was Johnny's first thought, but immediately he knew. The fighter he'd lost in the mountains had returned to the scene of the crime. Johnny had forgotten him.

  Stupid!

  Shaking with adrenaline, Johnny kicked the QF around as hard as he dared…which wasn't very hard; the AI was rattling off damage estimates that suggested structural problems.