The Last Holidays

by Grover Young

  The only way to assure a kill was with a panzer's main gun. Even then, the robots' computers and weapons could sometimes destroy the shell, but usually not. The Griffin's plasma cannon was even better. It had almost the range of the Leopard's 120 mm main gun, but did not require reloading. The recycle time was significantly less than the time it took to reload the Leopard's main gun. The problem was that with the robots' small size, you still had to have a good gunner.

  That was much better than having to trust to luck! It was even better to have luck and a good gunner along with a good crew, which he had.

  He took a moment to tuck away the photograph of his family in his breast pocket of his battle tunic. Eric knew what he was fighting for.

  “Macht schnell!” the Hauptmann ordered. It was time.

  LA Defense Zone Seventh Infantry Division

  Private First Class Jimmy Thorpe looked up as the word was passed to his fighting position. It was time for their final checks.

  Hefting his phased, pulse plasma gun his hands performed all the checks with the sureness that came from endless drills. This was the first time they would be used in combat, and everyone had warned them again and again that what works in the lab, isn't the same as working when you really needed it on the field of battle.

  The heavy power-cell belt he wore to power his weapon was the same way. The damn things could and did just blow the hell up. With the power-charge it packed, super-soldier or not, nobody would ever be able to find all the pieces. Still, the whole package was lighter than the .50 cal Barretts they had in basic training and had a much improved chance of killing a Tweety 'bot.

  He'd joined as soon as he'd turned eighteen instead of waiting to be drafted. Hell, just about his whole family was in the military now, from his grandfather to his kissing cousin, Beth.

  Being 'Captain American'ed' had been great. Always a good athlete, now he was like his personal hero he'd been named for, Jim Thorpe. Based on pre-war performance, he could participate in almost every Olympic event and expect to walk away with a medal. He'd put on a good twenty pounds of solid muscle and grown a few inches to boot.

  Their Drill Sergeants then ran each and every one of them panting and huffing into the ground.

  “You're not going to be fighting flesh and blood, you maggots!” they yelled at their charges, “They're alien steel and soul-less killing machines that will grind you green boots up into hamburger with rail-guns and barbeque what is left with plasma.”

  “To smash those things, you have to be more than just some character out of the comic books,” the Drill had growled, “You'll have to push yourself with a will of iron until you're harder than steel to win this fight. Otherwise, all you know and cherish will be turned to dust by their nanites.”

  Now the Tweeties were advancing on one of America's largest cities, after taking down San Diego. So many had died already, and more were going to join them. It was unavoidable. He hoped the new weapons would make a difference. They certainly seemed to in training.

  Checking his buddy Jared's gear, everything looked good. Taking a deep breath, he touched the locket Beth had given him. Somewhere in this mess, she was here too, wearing his high school ring as a necklace. He prayed that both of them would make it, but Thorpe’s knew their duty. There were things bigger than just the two of them.

  Sergeant Biehn hand signaled them to move out. The waiting was over.

  The Farm

  We heard Tamara and Dean getting ready to leave. Both of us had our own preparations to make. Both our Skins shifted to their snow camouflage modes as we set the decoys that matched our body heat into operation.

  I really hoped all of this was gross overkill, but my paranoia was in full swing. I'd warned everyone with access to our intelligence that all we've gathered from that Sha'leian library could be a scam. After all, our own nations had pulled just as outrageous counter-intelligence programs. I'd also pointed out that my Skins had been upgraded by Tash. That made the point that the Sha'leians could, at will, access all of the Skins our elite forces depended on.

  That led to a frenzy of activity among the developers of the Skin’s controllers to come up with protection. Strange as it maybe, the suits we received as gifts appeared more secure than what everyone else was using. The last I heard, they had fixed the problem. I certainly hope so or our mission was going to be very, very short. Floating in space without a spacesuit would be a bad thing.

  My paranoia had also modified part of our original deception plan. After giving our guests the impression Sheila and I were staying the night, I would then slip away. After thinking about everything that could go wrong, I had the thought that just maybe it would be too good an opportunity for the bad guys to pass up if they knew where the cause of so much of their troubles was going to be.

  I might be able to take on 'bots, drones and tanks, but orbital strikes were a whole other magnitude of grief. Additionally, I wasn't going to be here, but Sheila was supposed to be here, making it look like I was.

  Nope, change of plans!

  We would do what we could to carry on the deception, but Sheila was 'not' staying here at potential ground zero. It simply wasn't that important on the offhand chance we were being watched by them.

  With the decoys warmed up, we sealed our Skins so that there would just be only two heat signatures in the house. Then, we had a nice invigorating five mile run in the ice and snow. Well, really I was flying just inches above the snow carrying Sheila.

  Pressed hard against me, she was feeling some of the 'weightlessness' that I did while in flight. Our practicing this was one of the few pleasant things about all the preparation for Operation Artemisium. It'd taken a try or two as she figured out where to put her arms and legs, as well for me to trust that she could hold on as she rode on my back. Really, it felt like 'spooning' and wasn't a problem at all.

  “Whee!” she breathed into my ear as the wind whipped past us, “Promise me we'll do this again!

  “When we have more privacy,” Sheila added, before closing her helmet's full face visor against the bone chilling cold.

  Soon enough, we met up with the 'Lookout' guys coming out of the woods. Recon troops, they'd sent out the signal that kicked off this show. We didn't greet them, just in case they were being watched. Instead, we slipped aboard, hopefully unnoticed when their ride picked them up.

  The stubby winged Quantum powered variant of the ever dependable C-130 Hercules was vertical takeoff and landing capable, as well being able to reach orbit. This particular model had been modified to be very stealthy for Special Ops work.

  The crew hurriedly pulled us in and strapped us down as the pilots did little more than a touch and go. Then, we were off as fast as we dared for Cape Canaveral.

  While the recon guys tried to thaw themselves out, Sheila and my medic, Cpl. Morgan helped me. I immediately changed back to Kingfisher. My cool-down times had gotten shorter, but I wanted to bank all the Halcyon time I could. However, there was another reason.

  Together they got me into the Chair. Considerable care had been taken so I could be 'treated' while in flight. As the current flowed into me, I forced myself to relax so I could concentrate on making this work. It'd been important for Tash and Ralt to have seen for themselves that I was still hurt. This 'treatment' should be the last I needed to heal the rest of the way up. Yes, it was pushing things.

  On a strict time table as we raced across Florida to the east coast, the second the chair's timer 'dinged' I was up. My Skins reconfigured to a design much like the MIT Space Bio-Suit. A form fitting spacesuit, it was based on other older designs such as the Space Activity Suit. With the improvements Tash had given as gifts, all that was needed was a helmet and oxygen pack.

  A compromise had been reached between packing as much gear into the helmet as possible, visibility and of course protection. It looked more like a full face motorcycle helmet than a spacesuit. They were the same helmets we wore leaving Dean's farmhouse. The other difference was that our Ski
ns would flow over it, providing a perfect seal, but still letting us move freely and see out.

  Of course, being a spacesuit, we needed oxygen packs. These were more SCUBA style re-breathers than air-tanks, but they worked great and took up very little room. They were between the size of a conformal hydration pack and a compact parachute.

  That was what I needed her help with.

  Putting on the oxygen pack and making all the connections to the helmet had to be done by someone else. Plus, she made sure my Skins did as they were supposed to do and seal over it all. Then, she double and then triple checked it all.

  Maybe Halcyon didn't need air all that much, but Kingfisher sure as hell did. As a test, I transformed back and forth to test everything before she gave me the high sign. I was ready, or in reality, as ready as I was going to get.

  “I don't like that these things have never been tested,” Sheila looked as if she wanted to check everything over again.

  “You've had the same instructors I've had,” Smiling, I tried to ease her worries, “The theory is sound and the idea an old one. NASA just never had the right materials to get it to work. Besides, I used this in the training pool, and these are what the Sha'leians use as well, so in a way, they have been tested.”

  “Not while boarding a hostile alien space-craft in orbit while under fire!” she replied, hotly.

  “Well, no,” I shrugged, “however, it'll make for one heck of a product endorsement after this is over.”

  She held my hand tight since it's just a little difficult for us to do the hugging thing. I knew what was on her mind.

  Contorting, I placed her hand over my wrist where the bracelet I'd given her was covered by my Skins.

  “I promised,” looking into her eyes, I smiled, “remember?”

  Touching her bracelet, and then her face, I bought her hand to my lips. That was the best I could do for a kiss with the helmet on.

  Then my stomach dropped as the pilots had us descending in one of those 'We're going to die!' combat landings. Think of the most terrifying roller-coaster ride ever and double it.

  “I love you,” was all I had time for, as we hit ground and the crew practically threw me off the plane into the clutches of the Spartan launch crew. As rehearsed, I was hustled to the elevator leading to the top of the gantry where the rest of my team waited. On the very short trip, the techs checked my suit and seals again. Fortunately, Skins were much more 'wash and wear' than the old spacesuits the astronauts from my childhood wore. There was no need for the small environmental 'suitcase' units they carried. However, just the same I was traveling up a rocket gantry to climb into a real live rocket, a spacecraft. I challenge anyone from my generation who watched the first man on the moon make that historic step, not to feel something.

  The space 'capsule' in this case was a very modified Dragonrider, code named Sparta since, for this mission, we were Spartans. It was a crewed variant of the Dragon cargo pod that used to take cargo to the International Space Station. Of course, I had the seat nearest the door. While I was being strapped in and hooked up, the rest of my team members were getting their own last inspections.

  Unlike the exhaustive countdowns from watching the Apollo Moon Shots, this one was going to be short. Most of their checklists had already been done having begun when Tash and Ralt had landed at the barn. It'd been on hold waiting for me. Hopefully, all our subterfuge wasn't wasted and would help us gain the priceless advantage of surprise.

  The Falcon Q, well it was still sorta kinda a rocket even if it did have a quantum engine now, had a massive payload. There were a couple reasons for using it. One, it was already designed for space and only needed to be updated. NASA warned all of us with powers that changed the laws of physics to leave things well enough alone and stick with things as they were. Everything was programmed into the flight systems and mucking up weight or mass would screw up, well, everything.

  With the Sha'leians magical touch with computers, there couldn't be any open links or communications with the launch vehicles. It was all pre-set, although there had been some talk about including a pilot just so changes could be made on the fly. That was decided against for the simple reason that our ride was supposed to look just like all the others that would be launched along with us. That would spoil our entire deception plan and simply get us targeted by every damn weapon our Visitors had at their disposal.

  So, what they did was double and triple check every damn square inch of this Dragonrider and Falcon Q vehicle. Then, they checked it again. That was our fail safe. We had to trust that the engineers and scientists did their jobs right.

  When this was being explained to us, Bes gave them a glare.

  “If this bloody thing blows up out from under us, I'll be coming to see you about it.” The all of four foot five strong man from the United Kingdom promised.

  If Halcyon had any rival in the toughness department, it was the UK Prometheus soldier code named, Bes after the Egyptian god who was the protector of households as well as of women and children. So, it was very possible that he very well would make his displeasure known.

  It was then it was pointed out to him that he would have to 'ride' in his normal form since they didn't make seats for someone of his stature. To say he wasn't happy would be the biggest understatement of the century.

  After a moment, he glared back at the official briefing us. Then in a flash, he transformed into his normal form, a nondescript slim and androgynous young adult. A flash later, Bes was back, but gone again replaced by the other again.

  I at least had my mouth hanging open. It took me one hell of a lot of effort to initialize a transformation. Bes did it as fast as an eye blink, back and forth without resorting to the Q-Box button even once.

  Finishing his dizzying rapid changes as Bes, he smirked, folding his arms. He'd made his point. Unless he was killed immediately, he had a good chance of being able to change fast enough to survive.

  “Sealing the hatch,” the launch crew reported.

  “Standby Spartans,” Mission Control told us, “We're sending our 'ready' code now.”

  For now, my part was done. My team and I were only passengers waiting for our turn in the next phase of the plan. Now we wait.

  Atlantic Ocean Navy Research Station Zulu

  The cracking ice heralded the conning tower of the first submarine surfacing up through the frozen ocean. Then another and yet a third busted their way past the icebound surface of the North Atlantic. His job had been to monitor the radio waves and send on the message via the hydrophone that he and his fellow sailors had drilled though to the ocean below.

  He panned his camera, making sure the shot got all the other conning towers that were also appearing as they rose from their hiding place beneath the ice covered North Atlantic Ocean. Trying not to rush and botch the shot, he panned back to the first surfaced sub. However, it had not just stopped at merely rising from the sea. Shattered slabs of ice rolled off its deck as it rose into the air. Icy spray flew in the gusty winds as the plug ended vessels' quantum drives lifted them, impossibly, into the stormy winter skies.

  Still shooting, he moved his camera to the next broaching sub. He'd chosen his location as well as he could to catch this scene. Based on the best guesses of his and the rest of his mates, he'd marked out this place and had rushed here once the signal had been given.

  Even he was amazed by the sight, and he'd had some idea of what to expect. Dozens of subs were at different stages of breaking through the ice and heading skyward. Carefully working the zoom, he saw the markings for not only the US Navy, but the Royal Navy, France's La Royale and more than a few Russian Navy vessels. Speaking of which, he zoomed out to catch the unmistakable leviathan form of a Russian Typhoon SSBN, the ice sliding off as it freed itself from the icepack.

  A fresh geyser of freezing sea water shot upwards from the first, already vacated hole in the icepack. More loud cracks echoed as something even bigger than a nuclear attack sub cheated by using the smaller subm
arine's breakout point.

  A tapered wedge shape, it was as about the same size as the massive Typhoon that was still climbing in the background. Instead of the big ugly propulsion 'can' welded to its stern, the quantum drive looked to be part of the design.

  He kept the vessel in focus as it turned to follow the others into the sky. It only made sense that, after that first disastrous battle using the converted submarines, the Navy would build a 'designed from the ground up' space-warship.

  That first international 'fleet' of twenty modified submarines had been annihilated by the Tweeties. This time, there was at least several times that number heading into battle. Then, that ship's name became visible.

  He damn near dropped his camera. Numbly, he reasoned, it did make sense. The active Navy ship previously bearing that name had been decommissioned, which meant it'd been available. At least this time, they hadn't given the name to a non-launch-able atmospheric glide test dummy. This was a real deal, a spaceship. Somehow, he kept it in focus at it disappeared into the dark clouds above.

  The United States Spaceship, Enterprise was going to war.

  US Air Force Secure Facility 'The Snake Pit'

  Captain Doug, 'Da Bus', Ingebretson, US Air Force moved his Copperhead's throttles forward as the fighter smoothly leaped forward out of its hidden hanger carved deep into the protective rock of the mountain.

  Purpose built from wing tip to wing tip to fight in the harshness of space, the Copperhead was heavily armored and armed. Like the infamous F-4 Phantoms of the Vietnam War era, they were brute power machines, but from every sim and test they could devise it should do the job.