by Grover Young
The quantum engine converted F-35's and F-22's were hot birds to fly, but in the end, they were still aircraft. The one aborted fighter attack on that damn Tweetie ship up there had not ended well. Maybe it had to be tried, but it also proved a need for something built specifically to do the job.
It was expensive as hell, but they had learned their lesson. The science boys had worked out just how to make that stuff the Tweeties constructed all their stuff from. It was stronger and lighter than steel, titanium or anything Earth had, but the secret had been broken. The only drawbacks were how hideously difficult it was to produce, and they couldn't get pigments to stick to it. The coppery stuff had been nicknamed Orichalcum from the mythical, nearly impervious metal very popular in fantasy fiction.
The only name for the sleek delta winged ship that gleamed copper bright in the hanger was Copperhead, after the North American snake from the pit viper family. It had just enough wing area to fly if it really had to and a place to put all the weapons it carried. This was not an aircraft, so calling it a 'bird' wouldn't do for all that it was one hundred per percent pure predator.
Copperhead fighters not only carried enough Orichalcum armor to take a couple hits from a drone's plasma burners, but the fighter also carried enough plasma firepower of its own to take out a drone in one shot.
Everything pointed to the hardware he was riding as being a decisive weapon system. Now, all he and the rest of his squadron had to do was prove it. They weren't going alone either. Russia, China and the European Union had designed their own space-fighters, while others were still using converted aircraft.
As far as he was concerned, it was about time someone besides that crazy chick he'd 'released' that wintery night in North Carolina, came up with a good old fashioned Razzle Dazzle plan, fake out the bad guys and then hit them hard right where it hurt the most.
Arrowing his Copperhead upwards into space, he grinned. Payback was a bitch.
“Yippee Kay yay, mother ...”
Pacific Ocean
SSBN USS Maine
missile firing depth
Together with Commander Jimmy Wikes, his executive officer, Captain Louis Simms of the SSBN USS Maine turned his missile firing key. In a rapid fire maneuver only practiced in drills, the Ohio Class Ballistic Missile Nuclear submarine launched all her 24 modified Trident missiles. According to plan, so did their remaining sister boats the Wyoming and the Louisiana – seventy-two Tridents carrying their full load of eight Multiple Independently Targetable Reentry Vehicles, MIRV's, for a total of 576 warheads.
But these weren't nukes. They were something special just for the Tweeties. The specialized warheads had been intended for use on the ground, not in space. That was why they hadn't been used during Operation Nutcracker back in December. However, after some debate, the suggested use was inspired.
Again, if everything went to plan, the rest of the world was cleaning out its nuclear closets, too. Almost everyone had held back a little something or had reloaded their launchers. However now, with Hammer Hobbs in charge he'd worked miracles, kicking everyone's asses to get them to work together.
“We've fired dry!” Jimmy remarked as he ordered the missile doors shut.
“Take us deep and step on it,” Louis commanded, “Let's not count on the Tweeties being too busy to send something our way.”
“Now, it's Miller Time!” one of the chiefs joked softly.
“Just doing our part for nuclear disarmament,” Jimmy said, holding on as the deck slanted beneath their feet.
“Happy Valentine's,” despite himself, Louis allowed himself a smile, “hope you like the flowers.”
The Congo
German 1st Mountain Division
Hauptmann Schmidt 'buttoned' his panzer's hatch. Scores of the alien aerial robots were abandoning the field of battle. Their tremendous speeds were creating streaks in the African night sky.
“Das ist Gut!” he grinned a tiger's smile. It was proof that, at some level, the 'plan' was working. All around the world the Aliens would be recalling their robotic Luftwaffe to defend their mother-ship.
Ahead of his company, thunder roared as the offensive to take back both the Congo's capitals kicked off using the opportunity to its fullest. Without their air support, the Aliens would be more vulnerable. Already, the incredibly diverse mix of human combat aircraft were descending on the battlefield like the clouds of mosquitoes infamous in this region.
They weren't the only ones who could fly. His Griffin rose into the air along with the rest of his company's panzers. The 1st Mountain Division was on the move. No, not just his unit, but the whole world. Armies across Earth were advancing to crush these invaders. These Aliens would learn to cross Earthlings at their peril.
Scanning for targets, he spotted a burning T-55 tank. Looking sharp, he found their killer.
“Gunner!” he barked, “target ten o'clock, short burst!”
The Griffin's turret smoothly rotated into position as its plasma cannon turned its robotic target into slag.
Ah, the first kill of the day!
Cape Canaveral Florida
“Spartans!” Mission Control announced, “we are go for launch.”
A rumble reached even inside the Dragonrider capsule. It wasn't us, but our escorts. Space centers worldwide were launching a great mixture of all kinds of special hardware that was intended not only to hide us, but to give confusion to our enemy.
As great as quantum drives' advantages were over rockets, their energy signatures could be tracked. We learned that from them reacting so violently to the Prometheus engine being used. That was why, although the launch vehicles used 'Q' engines, all the final stage orbital maneuvering vehicles used old fashioned gas thrusters. There were no energy trails to be tracked from the cold gas powered units.
Outside of Hollywood, nothing like this had ever been attempted. One rocket after another was fired into orbit as fast as mission control could ensure one launch wouldn't interfere with another.
Our place in line was in the middle of the pack. Nine rockets from the Cape and yet more from Vandenberg, Wallop's Island including the other two Pantheon teams that were a part of this assault. That was just the United States’ share. Anyplace that had the facilities put up as many gantries as they could handle. Any and all nations capable of putting something up were throwing something into the pot.
“I hate to disturb you, but we're preparing to launch,” Talos dryly told our team, “and would one of you please wake Bes?”
Nott and Artemis were discussing something, but Weyland had somehow smuggled a paperback book on board and was reading. The metal-smith nudged the compact powerhouse's elvish alter-ego awake, while he marked his place and put his book away.
It was more than a little ironic that Bes, who looked so much like a dwarf from the fantasy movies, looked so elf like in his 'secret' identity. At least, I thought it was 'he' and not she. I could be wrong, but Bes never corrected us on the point.
Some part of me wondered how they could be so calm, but another pointed out this was much better than my New Year's Eve ride in an F-35's weapon's bay. This time, I even had equipment that had just might keep up with me. Of course, riding a rocket on Valentine's Day to board an invading ship full of aliens could be even more crazy. Perhaps, instead it was only pure desperation.
“Five” “Four” “Three” “Two” “One” “Launch!”
Just like in testing, our Skins acted like g-suits, squeezing and contracted where needed to maintain good blood flow. Everyone was doing that g-strain maneuver that helps you stay conscious during high gravity events like this one.
Unlike me and Bes, they were all in their most survivable forms. Unlike me, they had spent more time using their Prometheus gifted powers. So although I had my gift the longest, I hadn't used it. The powers were like exercising any muscle. You had to use it to get any additional benefits.
On the other hand, I was, thanks to that last 'therapy' session on that C-130Q, healed a
nd experiencing some of the residual benefits of 'drinking' energy. However, we were also blasting off a lot harder than the space-shuttle's three G's.
In order to keep the deception that this was an unmanned flight, we had to boost fast enough so that our uninvited guests wouldn't suspect anything suspicious was up. Due to our gifts, Skins, and having trained for this none of us passed out from G-LOC, Gravity Loss Of Consciousness. Well, at least no one admitted to it.
Bes had woken from his 'nap' and was chattering away about this bar in Bristol, doing his best to act as if he was unaffected by weighing many times more than normal.
“Best place for a pint, I've ever been.” He jovially ignored that we were being mashed flat.
“Nah, if you really want to get a beer that hits the spot,” Weyland disagreed, also struggling to keep from showing the stress that was pushing us down, “there's this little bar in Chicago.”
Thump!
Even Bes was silent as the first of the stages separated. From our mission briefing, I knew it was not falling away, but deploying one hell of a set of powerful electronic warfare jammers very similar to ones we'd used to great effect on the ground to jam their 'bots.
Then a second, thump! struck as the next stage activated. This was the one that was placing our ride in the right orbit and where it got tricky. If the Sha'leians played this the same way they have before, every drone they owned was racing back to help protect their ship.
The jammers should start after they were on their way, but before the drones could receive detailed instructions, but the topping for the cake was coming soon. Our Dragonrider capsule spun around heading onto a new trajectory as the cold gas thrusters kicked us away. The second stage then continued with its next mission as it accelerated towards our objective. Spinning, it released a flurry of good old fashioned metallic coated strips, chaff, to confuse them and their drones' sensors.
Hopefully, our capsule was invisible due to the stealthy design and the near zero power consumption. Whatever was left to be detected would be covered by the jamming and chaff. Then too, we weren't headed right at the ship anymore. Nope, no danger or targets here!
“Men,” Artemis snorted, rolling her eyes, “your preoccupation with beer. If you really want to relax, a nice mug of freshly brewed coffee wins every time.
“There's this cafe' in New York, Sacred Grounds,” her eyes got a faraway look, “Their coffee is so good, and their cinnamon rolls are to die for.”
“I don't know about that fancy coffee you Americans rave about,” Weyland spoke up, “but I'm rather fond of Tim Horton's. They're hard to beat on a cold morning when you need to get moving.”
“I've never been to NYC, but there is this diner in Edmonton, Mavericks,” Nott smiled, “It might not look like much from the outside, but it's run by the best sort of people. They make these cinnamon rolls that I'd put up against anyone's,” she looked Artemis in the eyes.
“That good?” she asked, as Nott nodded in reply.
“Those are always the best places to eat when you can find them,” Bes agreed sagely, “They're not cooking to a template, but to real recipes by people who care about what they're cooking.”
I was about to say something in agreement when Talos gave the word. He'd been peering though this periscope like gizmo, wearing his jump-master's 'hat'. All I knew was it used optics to somehow determine when was the optimal time for us to take our leap into the dark.
“Prepare to disembark!” he ordered.
The air was carefully vented out so not to be visible. Meanwhile, we'd prepared for our egress. We'd practiced this so many times in the pool, on the mockups, that it was really anticlimactic which, of course was the whole point of the exercises.
What couldn't be simulated was the awe of actually seeing Mother Earth there before us. I'd seen the pictures, movies and super realistic computer graphics of the world seen from space, but it was not the same as seeing it with my own eyes.
However, there was no time to sight-see. Timing was everything and while I did stare, I kept moving. Changing into Halcyon once outside, I did my own little version of the warm up dance to see how my flight power worked way up here. As far as I could tell, there weren't any huge differences.
Meanwhile, the others were gathering and clipping on equipment, fastening our harnesses together. Nott engaged her 'darkness' and I set us to moving. Gliding in the void, I tried not to think about the death that was just that close.
'Stay on target'. I grimly set my mind.
Operation Artimisma
Second Space Battle for Earth
Streaking up out of the atmosphere, the USS Maine's 'flowers' blossomed as the modified Tridents deployed their MIRV's. The main booster, being quantum powered, continued to accelerate as its optical sensor locked onto the Sha'leian starship.
It and its ocean launched sisters, rushed past the Falcons and other rockets that'd lifted off from space centers from around the world as they were beginning to deploy their loads of electronic warfare goodies. That was why all the MIRVs could be devoted to their primary payloads. All the penetration aids that would confuse the defenders allowing the warheads to strike were carried by the rockets in greater numbers and with expanded capabilities.
Seeing the Tridents main boosters arrowing right at them, the alien ship's defenses destroyed them before they could pose a threat. However, the aliens found their view of the incoming Earthling attack hopelessly concealed behind the mass of chaff, jammers and every other means of generating confusion to their enemies Earth could throw into the fight.
Unsurprised, the Sha'leians directed their drones into the fray. It was expected that the primitives would hide behind an electronic 'smoke screen' so they could get close enough to hurtle their 'sticks and stones' at the 'conquistadors' galleon.
Even when they lost contact with their robotic minions, the aliens weren't concerned. Their drones would act as programmed and eliminate their enemies. Advancing on the incoming MIRV's, the drones' priorities changed as each warhead began releasing thousands of submunition 'ball bearings' made from the scrap of the many alien machines Earth had destroyed, each Orichalcum projectile had a much higher melting temperature than steel. The first group of drones was shredded by the barrage, while the ones following them were conflicted by their programming. Some drove into the metal storm, striving to protect their mother-ship, while others avoided it, attempting to target the metal 'hail' storm.
All they accomplished was changing the flavor from 'Rocky Road' to 'Hot Fudge Sundae'. The now molten Orichalcum still had the same insane velocity as before built up by constant boosting all the way from underneath the sea. Like hollow pointed bullets their impact area was larger as they 'splashed' causing yet more damage. What didn't penetrate 'spread' across the drones' surface covering sensors and sealing over moving parts as the Orichalcum cooled in the vacuum of space.
Not realizing that the attack wasn't directed against their masters but the drones themselves, the third phase of Earth's plan unfolded.
Second Space Battle for Earth
Copperhead Squadron
'Da Bus's flight of Copperheads passed the modified sub as it crossed the boundary between sky and space as fast as it could - not that it could come anywhere close to a Copperhead's speed. A quantum drive only passed on some of the experienced g-forces to the craft it powered, but he still needed his g-suit and fitted flight couch. His fighter could kick some serious G's that 'ship' could never match and forced its pilots to their limits.
Zooming by the rest of the Fleet's modified subs and even a handful of purpose built vessels, his squadron formed up with the other fighters from all over the world joining this party. From the copper bright, purpose designed space-fighters like his, to nearly every camouflage scheme under the sun for the converted 'air-breathers' they were a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors.
It was the salvo of ballistic missiles and rockets that overtook and passed even their sleek machines that was the signal. Knowi
ng how impossible it would be to try and coordinate this whole complicated plan, the Brass instead tried to schedule the events so one added to the other without one depending on another.
Arming his guns, he and the legions of Earth fighters followed as close behind the wave that'd thundered past them as possible. Da' Bus had a great seat to watch the missiles and rockets' stages separate, as well as the MIRV's deploy. He'd known it was going to happen, but rather thought they would look like giant fireworks. After all, ballistic missiles were giant rockets, right?
Instead, it was almost stately as they blossomed out very flower like, at least at first. Then, it turned into a confused mass of light as the clouds of sensor reflective strips of chaff and submuntions from the MIRV warheads were released.
He couldn't keep a fierce smile as the horde of Drones swooped through the glittering and twisting strips right into the path of the man-made meteoroid storm. Some were just outright torn to shreds, while others were battered into wrecks. Very few of them could fight after that encounter.
It took the hard discipline of learning to survive thus far in this War not to go after the maimed and crippled Tweety drones. As per his squadron's battle plan, that was for the much more numerous modified 'aircraft'. Watching them swarm the wounded drones, he kept his eyes out for the next wave of enemies.
It went without saying that the 'shotgun' blast of projectiles would become less effective the further it traveled. His squadron's targets were those who were less affected and went after the 'air-breathers'. In a way, it was using those allied pilots as bait, but they were also covering those more vulnerable fighters as well.
That was War.
His commander gave the hand signal to roll right. It took a lot of work to get by without radios after being trained to depend on them. However, since it was learn or die, he learned and lived.