by Evan Currie
A sense of peace entered the cockpit of the resurrected craft then, a simple knowledge of the inevitable.
“Understood,” Beakman said. “So let’s nuke that fucker.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Brolin replied as he pushed the throttle forward as far as it would go.
They were slammed hard back into their seats, the nose of the black bird aiming for orbit and the target that was trying desperately to run. Everything shook around them as they accelerated that last bit more, and then… suddenly… it all went quiet.
They felt the engines sputter out, the vibrations stopped, and their stomachs twisted as the entire craft entered freefall.
“Just a little more,” Brolin said into the silence as he haloed the target. “Just a little more…”
Something fell past them, flashing past in a blur that lifted the hairs on their necks, knowing that they’d damn near collided with something and that would not have ended well for them in the least.
“A little more… come on… give me a lock!”
The computer beeped insistently, but refused to give him the tone he was seeking.
“Get me a lock on,” Brolin called over his shoulder. “We’re losing speed here, fast!”
Beakman struggled with the computer, trying not to lose his lunch as he felt the sensation of freefall work through him. Normally he enjoyed the feeling actually, but just then the thought of failure wasn’t mixing well with it at all.
“I’m working! I’m working!”
The heat signature was too low, and the radar cross section was damn near as bad. Beakman crossed his fingers and changed a line of code in his system.
“Try it now!”
“I’ve got tone!” Brolin called as the system responded. “Striker One! Fox One!”
The two watched the missile scream away as they felt their fighter slowly succumb to the force of gravity from the planet so far below them.
“Heh,” Beakman chuckled, “Angels One thirty, boss. We just broke the Russian’s record.”
Brolin chuckled, eyes on the fading plume of the missile he’d fired.
“They might want us to actually land before we can claim that,” He said.
“Fuck em then,” Beakman responded.
“Yeah…” Brolin said as a flash of white light filled the sky above him. “Fuck em.”
The SR-71 was then hammered by a blow like the fists of an angry god, and thrown into a spin that made everything go black in a few instants.
*****
USSOCOM Bunker, Virginia
“Did they get it?” Pierson demanded, leaning over the NRO analyst’s shoulder.
“We’re tasking satellites to scan the region now,” the man said, working furiously. “We lost at least a couple birds in the area to the EMP, there’s reports of blackouts in eastern Europe already…”
“We have reports coming in from the ground of the blast,” The NSA man responded from the next desk over. “blinding ball of light in the sky confirms that the nuke detonated.”
“We knew that,” Pierson growled. “Did they get it!?”
The feed from the blackbird had gone dead just after they were hit by the shockwave, leaving the entire world waiting to find out just what happened.
No one more than the people in the bunker, however.
“I have a keyhole swinging into position,” The NRO man said, “Imagery is coming up now.”
They all looked up to the main screen, which flickered to show the curve of the earth.
“I don’t see anything,” Isaacs said softly.
“Wait,” Pierson said, “there!”
On the screen a flare of light showed something burning up as it plummeted through the atmosphere.
“Analyze it,” She ordered. “What is that?”
“Working on it,” The NRO man said quickly. “We’re getting mass readings… it’s too big to be the blackbird… I… I think they got it!”
A roar went up in the room, but Pierson ignored them as he grabbed the NRO man by the shoulder.
“Where is coming down?”
He nodded, quickly getting back to work. It only took a few moments to calculate that, however. “Looks like… Northern Poland maybe?”
“Ok, now find me Striker and Captain Hale,” Pierson ordered before turning to the CIA desk. “Call whoever you can in Poland, tell them what’s coming down on their heads. Offer NATO support, cause I guarantee you the Russians are going to want a piece of that thing.”
He nodded and quickly got to work, leaving her to look around.
“Gentlemen, it looks like we’ve won the battle, but the cleanup is going to be just as important. Get the cheering out of your system,” She advised, “because Striker and Hale just did their job, but ours is just beginning.”
*****
Epilogue
USS John Fitzgerald Kennedy CVN-79, Mediterranean Sea
Captain Jerome Dallon strode onto Big John’s Island command center amid the blaring of alarms, eyes seeking out the cause of the alert even as he stepped over to his XO.
The JFK was winding up for a fight, as were every ship in the task group, and he wanted to know what the hell was the cause. They were along the north eastern coast of Italy, almost to Venice, which should be as safe a section of water as they were likely to find in the region.
Possibly an attack might come from Croatia, he supposed, but it wasn’t too likely at the moment. Everyone seemed to be too busy with the events to the North for those sorts of shenanigans, but he supposed someone was taking advantage.
“Talk to me.”
“Contact from the North, Sir, coming in low and slow.” Commander Gregory Chathom answered instantly. “We’ve tried warning them off, no response. We’re scrambling fighter intercept now.”
Jerome nodded, eyes falling to the radar to check the numbers.
Low and slow is right, he noted. Whatever it was seemed to barely be moving, but it was coming right at them.
“Fighters are closing,” Gregory said, “Hold on.”
He grabbed a headset and handed it to Jerome, who put it on, putting him on the channel with the pilots.
“Tell me what you see,” He ordered simply.
The answer he got was not what he expected.
“Say again.”
The answer didn’t change.
“Get a camera on it.”
A few moments later, he was staring at what they’d told him he’d seen.
Jerome took a breath, then made the call.
“Clear the deck! Emergency response to the flight deck!”
“Aye sir! Clearing the deck! Responders to the flight deck!”
*****
Dozens, if not hundreds, of men were gathered anywhere they could squeeze in with a view of the deck of the carrier. Similarly men were lining the decks of every ship in the JFK’s task group.
All of them had eyes glued on the strange sight of a barely moving SR-71 Blackbird drifting slowly and erratically through the air as it made its way to the deck of the Kennedy. Once there it dropped the remaining few feet, crunching slightly as it tilted and scraped a wing along the surface of the deck, then flopping down hard on the deck.
Silence filled the air as a man in burned and tattered fatigues stumbled out from under the craft, coughing and staggering with each step. He paused, looking up at the people staring at him, then saluted.
“Semper fi,” He rasped out, just before he fell to the deck, out cold.
“Responders!” Jerome roared. “Get that man to the infirmary! Someone cut open the blackbird! Get those men out!”
The men and women of the emergency responders shook off their shock and rushed forward.
*****
The world had changed.
Colonel Pierson didn’t know if it were a change for the better, or for the worse, but either way she knew that they had no choice but to rise up to meet it.
That they were not alone had been proven, conclusively.
&nb
sp; There was still conjecture over what exactly the intent behind the events of the past months was, exactly, but only the most naïve thought it was anything but hostile in effect. To her mind, even if the intent wasn’t hostile, the effect mattered far more. Whoever was behind that damned drone, or whatever the hell it was, they were the only enemy she cared to fight at the moment.
Luckily, she wasn’t alone.
Pierson once more looked at her transfer papers. They’d taken weeks to make their decision. Weeks in which the Marine was still in a coma, no one knew why though considering everything he’d been put through it was practically dealers choice.
United Nations Space Command
She looked up to the skies.
You hit first, let’s see who hits last.
END