by John Bowers
"All military spacecraft should consider this a combat alert. All civilian aircraft should seek landing at the nearest available facility. This message will not be repeated. This is not a drill.
"NASTC out."
Ian felt his eyeballs itch as the blood drained out of them. His chest felt constricted. Bobby's face was ashen, his blue eyes slightly glazed as he stared out the front window.
"What's the nearest field capable of handling this bird?" Bobby asked in a husky voice.
"London," Ian said. "We just crossed the Azores two minutes back, but by the time we can get down we'll be at London anyway."
Bobby fixed troubled eyes on him, no doubt looking to Ian's years of experience for comfort.
"London may be a target," he pointed out.
"Too right," Ian admitted. "But we'll know that before we get there, and if need be we'll divert to Greenland. We can make it on the deck."
"Can they handle a bird this size?"
"Maybe not, but it won't be a bloody target, anyhow. We'll put the bitch down on a glacier if we have to. Start the descent now; I'll alert the crew. And don't notify London. Keep off the air, in case the bloody Sirians are listening."
Bobby went right to work talking to the AI. Ian touched his intercom button and glanced out at the deep blue stratosphere outside his window, half expecting to see a squadron of Sirian combat fighters making an attack run.
"Lydies and gent'men, this is your Kept'n speakin'," he said, putting on his best Aussie accent. "We are beginnin' our descent toward London now, so please put on your syfety harness and remyne seated. We'll be landin' in just about forty minutes from now, but we do expect a bit of turbulence before we do, so for your own syfety, we appreciyte your cooperytion."
The giant transport had already nosed over, beginning its long glide toward the planet below, and Ian took a deep breath, trying to still his racing heart. Hell, they might go straight in and never see an enemy fighter, so what was he worried about? It wasn't like they were under fire.
The door to the cockpit opened with a jerk, and Ian smiled inwardly. Thirteen seconds on the nose! He hadn't expected the crew to be fooled. He looked around into the dark brown eyes of his chief flight attendant, Christie Shaw. She was staring at him intensely, the question written in neon across her sharp British features.
"What is it, Ian?" she asked breathlessly.
"What is what, sweet?" he grinned.
"Don't shit me, Ian!" she flared. "What the hell was that about? Something's wrong, isn't it?"
"Sorry, sweet. Maybe nothin', but Nasty C just alerted all aircraft that something is breakin' through the atmosphere. It looks for all the world like a space strike. We're gonna try to make London, since we're nearly there anyway, but in case we meet up with one of the buggers, I don't want passengers flyin' horizontally around the plane if we have to maneuver."
The girl had gone pale, and gripped the handholds until her knuckles trembled.
"Sirians?"
"Sirians, Vegans, little green men — hell, sweet, I dunno, but Nasty C is worried enough to alert us, and we're not even in their space. I ain't takin' any chances. But keep it to yourself, right? Don't want a bloody stampede back there."
"Jesus!" she whispered, and crossed herself.
"I don't think it's Him, but I'd rather it was. Back to work now, sweet. Chin up."
Christie straightened up with an effort, swallowed, and went out the door. Ian felt sorry for her. Just twenty-four, with a new baby, she wasn't ready to die yet. Hell, who was? They just had to make London, that was all. Or, failing that, Greenland.
"How we doin', Bobby?"
"Eighty-four thousand. London is thirty-six minutes out."
"Good.
“Input: Adjust Ladar to include upper stratosphere and atmospheric penetration profiles. Notify all contacts, route to monitor seven."
"Ack."
The monitor in the center of the cockpit blinked to life and the Ladar sweep began to swing around the screen. Normally they monitored only traffic immediately above and below them, but this wasn't normal. Both men watched the center screen with something close to fascination for several seconds. The supersonic liner, traveling at Mach 3.2, bounced a little through a ripple of turbulence, continuing its long glide toward London. The center screen was clear, at least for the moment.
They were thirty-three minutes from London.
"Captain, we're getting traffic from Barcelona," Bobby said tightly. "Sounds like they're under attack." He looked across the cockpit, and Ian saw lines in the younger man's face he'd never seen before. "Looks like Nasty C was right. It's the bloody Sirians."
"I never doubted it. Lay in a contingency vector to Greenland in case we can't get down at London. We have a few minutes yet, but we don't want to wait too long."
"Aye, sir."
Thirty-one minutes out. He would have to commit to landing or turning in the next eleven minutes. It wouldn't do to overfly London if it was under attack. All air traffic, military and civilian, would become targets if the enemy was there. He wanted time to get clear of Europe entirely if that turned out to be the case. He checked the center monitor again.…
He saw VR graphics on the edge of the screen, at extreme range. How far? Nine hundred miles? Ten? It was hard to tell, but —
"Attent! Ladar contact at three five four degrees relative, altitude nine five thousand, range eight nine zero, heading one nine three."
Ian frowned. It could be the Sirians, or it might be Space Force, or any number of nonmilitary spacecraft. It might even be another SST, but it was heading south and he was heading north. Not exactly a collision course, but not comforting.
"Input:" he said. "State number of craft."
"Number of craft uncertain due to extreme range; estimate eight to twelve."
Bugger! It was a squadron of some kind! Civilian craft didn't travel in clusters, so it was either good guys or bad guys, but it was almost certainly military.
"Input: report change in status."
"Ack."
Twenty-nine minutes from London. Nine minutes to decision time. They were at seventy-five thousand and still descending, rising and falling a little as the air thickened. If he did turn for Greenland, it would bring him across under the Ladar contact. If they hadn't seen him yet, or weren't interested in him, turning across their vector might change all that. He wished they would go in another direction.
"Captain, receiving distress calls from Hamburg, Dresden, and Geneva. Looks like the whole bloody continent is under attack."
Ian nodded. Twenty-eight minutes.
"Attent! Ladar contact has changed course. Range six four zero miles, now heading two seven three degrees, range opening."
"Bloody hell!" Ian exulted. "They've turned away! Headin' for New York!" He laughed out loud, then took a deep breath and exhaled in relief.
"Distress calls coming in now from Nice and Naples. Athens also reporting strikes."
"Anything from London?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Twenty-four minutes to touchdown, Bobby. If we go to Greenland, we have four minutes to decide."
"Maybe we should do it anyway, Captain. Then we don't have to guess about it."
Ian considered that. Maybe the copilot was right. Greenland was farther away, but it was an unlikely target for the Sirians, since there was nothing there worth hitting. On the other hand, once they made that turn, they couldn't very well go back to London, and if they ran into fighters…
Well, they could always go on to Toronto.
"Reports now from the other side, Captain. Boston, Philadelphia, Buffalo and Toronto under attack."
So much for Toronto. Twenty-two minutes.
"We're goin' for London, Bobby. Hell, it's war — no place is safe. If we have to overfly London we'll look for something in Scandinavia."
"Yeh, if we survive the overfly."
"Too right."
With eighteen minutes to go they passed through fifty-five thous
and, now descending at three thousand feet per minute. They were committed for London, come fire or flood, and the heavier air made itself felt over their control surfaces, the aircraft reacting more sluggishly. Another Ladar contact from eighty thousand feet came and went, and Ian felt more relaxed now. They would make it, as long as London wasn't under attack. Even if it was, they had a chance. Just twenty more minutes, and it would be over, one way or the other.
"Attent! Three spacecraft bearing three five zero relative, range seven five zero miles, altitude six zero zero, rate of descent five miles per minute."
Ian's blood turned cold as he turned his eyes to the nearly forgotten center screen. Three white dots burned brightly at the top center of the screen, heading straight for him. They must have been seen!
"Jesus, god!" Bobby choked. "They're coming right at us!"
"Maybe not," Ian said in a strained voice. "They could continue on down…"
The range rapidly closed to five hundred miles, then four hundred. The blips leveled off at forty thousand and came straight on, obviously on an intercept course, intending to meet the supersonic transport as it passed through forty thousand, which was about one minute away. They were fourteen minutes out of London, but it might as well be fourteen years.
"Okay, let's see if they're serious!" Ian said, setting his jaw with a determination he didn't feel. "Input: release to manual control!"
"Manual control, ack."
The AI released the aircraft to him, and Ian began to fly the plane himself, something he rarely ever did.
"Captain, d'you think —"
"I think we'd better get the hell out of their way in a hurry, myte," Ian replied grimly. "Notify the passengers to expect turbulence."
He began a wide left turn, tipping the transport on its port wing, but the oncoming blips also turned, still on an intercept course. He pushed throttle and began to climb, weaving back to the right. The oncoming spacecraft followed. The range was down to three hundred miles. Ian began to sweat.
"Attent! Unidentified spacecraft at one eight zero, heading zero zero zero, range nine zero miles, altitude five zero thousand."
Ian turned stricken eyes on the monitor. The blips ahead of him were closing fast, and now another was approaching from the rear, coming at something close to Mach 5. Only a fighter could push that hard. The bastards had him bracketed!
He was trapped!
There was no escape. His ship was big and it was fast, but it couldn't handle those kinds of speeds. And it was unarmed. When the fighters arrived, probably in less than a minute, it would be over very quickly. All he could do now was try to make them work for it. He turned the big transport on its side and began a screaming turn to the left, in the direction of Boston. In the body of the plane, nine hundred sixty-six passengers and crew screamed in panic as the big bird strained to the limits of its endurance.
"Bobby, put out a Mayday," Ian said tersely.
"Captain —"
"Do it now, Bobby!"
"Aye, sir. Mayday! Mayday! Any station, any aircraft, this is BritishAfrica SST Flight 99. We are under attack by unknown spacecraft at altitude forty-six thousand feet, coordinates …"
Ian glanced at his Ladar screen as the ocean beneath him spun in a circle. The three blips were at one hundred thirty miles now, still adjusting to intercept him. The one from the south was closing even faster, now down to twenty miles and coming like a rocket, dropping down to his altitude to make its attack run. But it wasn’t adjusting to intercept.
He frowned, his heart racing, and on impulse threw the SST back to the right, turning in a wide arc toward the oncoming trio, watching their images adjust once again to intercept him. The blip from the rear was coming on, but still didn't adjust. He peered at the screen as the Ladar images converged on him, sweat trickling into his collar. At his side, Bobby was muttering a prayer.
He continued his turn to the right, crossing the path of the oncoming fighters, now only ninety miles away. From his right, the fourth blip was nearly on him, and suddenly he saw it — something — gleaming in the sunlight, blazing in from the south. Not coming at him, but climbing just a fraction, and then…
It passed directly in front, just meters above his altitude, going like hell, and all he had was a snapshot image as it blasted across his nose; an image of a sleek black fighter, battle-scarred and pitted by cosmic dust, its streamlined top turret barely visible above the fuselage, cannon pointed forward, and fire blazing from the muzzles.
Not at him, but at the other fighters!
And one more thing — a faded flag painted on the stubby vertical tail, the Stars and Stripes of North America with the Maple Leaf emblazoned on a field of blue.
"Bobby!" Ian shouted in disbelief. "It's one of ours! That fourth fighter, the one from the south — it's ours!"
He hit the rocket wash then, and for long seconds had his hands full to keep the big SST from breaking apart. As he leveled out and turned back toward London, he saw a smear of smoke and flame tracing a long dirty finger down toward the sea. One of the blips on his screen had disappeared, and as he watched out the forward windscreen he saw, miles in the distance, another blossom of flame and another trail of smoke begin its long drop toward the Atlantic. A second blip was gone from his screen, but the third was turning toward him again, and again he jerked the SST into a left turn, this time diving as steeply as he dared.
As the SST plunged earthward Ian watched the Ladar screen in desperation. The UFF fighter had taken out two of the enemy ships, and was now trying to overtake the third, but was miles behind. Ian's lungs constricted as he realized there was no way in hell it could do so in time. The enemy fighter was diving toward the transport at full thrust, and either cannons or missiles would do their work before the Fed fighter could intervene. His only hope was to outmaneuver the Sirian, but that was impossible.
As the enemy fighter closed to fifty miles, Ian pulled out of his dive and began a climbing turn to the right. Passengers, crew and cargo would be flying in the back, but it was too late to worry about that. In the right-hand seat, Bobby Doyle was sitting frozen, now only a spectator to his own destiny. Nothing he could do, nothing any of them could do.
The Sirian adjusted and came on, down to thirty miles. The Fed fighter was ninety miles back, coming hard under rocket thrust, but there was no more time. Ian twisted left, turning the transport on its side, the Atlantic now a vertical horizon in his windscreen. The Sirian was in sight now, twisting to match his move, a dark speck, growing larger by the second. Lights blinked along the Sirian's wing and cannon shells flashed past like fire arrows, missing the starboard wing by mere feet. Ian's hands were like claws, gripping the yoke so hard he thought it might break.
The Sirian filled his windscreen, and he knew it was over. He held his breath —
A streak of blue light.
The Sirian flashed into a fireball.
The transport swept past the explosion, fragments hammering the fuselage like hail, and then the sky was clear.
Ian slowly rotated the transport back to level flight, releasing his breath in a quiver of paralyzed lungs. Sweat poured into his eyes and he slumped back, unable to believe it was over.
"Laser! My God, Bobby! The Fed fighter fried the bloody Sirian with laser fire! Holy shit!"
Bobby looked at him in bewilderment.
"I thought they weren't allowed to use lasers in the atmosphere," he said.
"Hell, man, who cares? They saved our arse, didn't they? It was a bloody miracle!'
Bobby grinned, as if it were just sinking in, then giggled.
"Yeh. A miracle!"
Suddenly Ian became aware of something out his left window. Turning, he saw the Federation fighter riding alongside, twenty meters off his port wing, drag flaps fully extended. The pilot, clearly seen through the cockpit canopy, was looking at him. Ian switched his radio to universal channel.
"…ishAfrica SST, do you read?"
"Hello!" Ian said, rather unprofessionall
y. "This is BritishAfrica Flight 99. Good to see ya, myte!"
The fighter pilot grinned.
"Is everyone all right over there?"
"Tell the truth, myte, I haven't checked with me crew and passengers, but we're still flyin', thanks to you. One minute later and you could'a written our epitaph!"
"Sorry we cut it so close. We were quite a ways back when we spotted you. What's your destination?"
"We were tryin' to make London, if it's still there."
"As far as we know, London isn't under attack yet. If you like, we'll escort you the rest of the way."
"Bloody glad to have you along. An' I want to say, that laser shot was a bloody spectacle. Damn fine shootin'."
"It was the only chance we had to get him. Don't tell anyone, okay?"
"Too right, myte! Anything you ask. Say, who are you blokes anyway?"
"I'm Second Lieutenant Johnny Lincoln. My gunner is First Lieutenant Onja Kvoorik."
"Lincoln? Kvoorik? I heard of you! You're the top aces of the whole bloody Fighter Service!"
The fighter pilot saluted.
"If you want to head on to London, we'll escort you in, then we’ve got to get back looking for targets."
"Right, myte. Just follow me!"
Chapter 26
Thursday, 22 November, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 9, Luna
Johnny Lincoln was exhausted when he returned to quarters that night. It had been a long day, beginning with a "routine" patrol that had suddenly gone to shit when another Sirian strike force appeared. He was no longer as frightened in combat as he'd been the first couple of times, but even in the QuasarFighter you never knew if you would still be alive the next minute. They'd lost two ships today — Stevenson and Gaede were dead, along with their gunners — and Johnny knew it could happen to him, too, even with Onja in the back seat.
Onja had added sixteen kills to her record today, running her string to sixty, and when they returned to quarters she was ravenous for him. Tired or not, he had little choice in the matter, and wouldn't have refused her in any case. Onja was a thrilling lover under any circumstances, but after a day of killing she was like an animal. It was an experience he didn't want to miss.