by MK Clark
Tyson nodded slowly.
“Well, this isn’t it, but our fighters are a part of it as much as we are. No fighter, no mission. An’ right now, our fighters are sitting under a pile of wreckage. We’re the ranking specialists. At this time, no one else is authorized to fly them. We have to go get them before the turds do.”
“You heard the man,” Tyson shouted back at his platoon. “We’ve got a bird to rescue.” Tyson led the way out. They moved at a pace just short of a flat-out run. After a moment, Tyson called for Don to join him.
“I thought you said you was infantry now,” he said when Don had caught up.
“I am. Trust me, I don’t get it, either.”
His friend grunted his understanding. “That’s one important fighter.”
“Apparently so,” Don answered.
“You say that like this is a surprise.”
“Because it is,” he said bluntly. “I don’t think they told us everything about these fighters, although they led us to believe they did.”
Tyson skid around a corner, pulling Don with him. “Isn’t all this classified?”
“Cat’s a bit out of the bag now, don’t you think?” Don retorted.
Tyson didn’t have time to answer. They passed through a door, and Don found himself stopped in the middle of a huge room. SCARs were being jettisoned into receptacles with ident numbers appearing above them.
“Suit up!” Tyson shouted to the platoon. Don gripped the tablet in his hand and scanned the room for his number. He found it quickly and moved to obey the command. Not surprisingly, he was the slowest in the platoon. Tyson was already moving them out as Don attached his helmet.
“Sergeant, sir!”
Tyson’s suit moved toward him. “What is it, soldier?”
“I need to transfer some data to my SCAR. it will take a minute.”
“Is it on that tablet?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tyson waved him forward. “Good, then you can do it on the transport. It will take us part of the way. You will have approximately ten minutes.”
Don nodded and jogged past him. “Thank you, sir.”
Once on the transport, Don immediately transferred the data. It took less than thirty seconds. He began to read, concentrating completely on the letters that flashed across his helmet. It wasn’t until he reached the end that he realized his APRIL was inside the suit. Don checked the readings inside the transport before quickly removing his helmet and placing it between his feet. Don didn’t even have time to reach inside his suit before Tyson swooped down on him.
“What do you think you’re doing, soldier? Get that helmet back on immediately!”
“Sorry, sir,” Don mumbled and then ignored the order. His hand wouldn’t reach, so he ducked his chin, just barely managing to get the chain between his teeth.
Tyson swore and snatched up his helmet as Don plucked the chain from his mouth and pulled it from around his head. “You better have a damn good reason for taking those tags off, soldier.”
“I do,” Don answered, and looped the chain around his wrist, tightening it so it wouldn’t fall off. His APRIL hung at the bottom, swinging with his tags in rhythm to the transport. “If it’s all right, sir,” he said reaching for his helmet, “I’ll explain later.”
Tyson shoved the helmet toward him. “Don’t ever disobey an order from me again.”
Don hesitated and before pulling the helmet on, he looked up so Tyson could see the truth in his words. “I was only following orders higher than yours, sir.”
Tyson swore again but let it drop, stalking back to his seat. Don sat back miserably. He knew that so far, he’d caused nothing but trouble for Tyson. How long before it would begin to wear on their already fragile friendship?
The transport soon came to a jerking halt. Everyone moved at once, unstrapping themselves and piling towards the door. They unloaded with fluid efficiency, carrying Don along with them. He could hear Tyson spouting orders in his ear and found himself in the middle of one of Third Platoon’s squads. The other was already moving away.
A SCAR strode up to him. “Just like we talked about,” his friend said, all traces of earlier anger gone. “You’re going to stick with me. We’re going to follow second squad in a moment. We’re going to move swiftly and get you to the crash site. First squad, which is us, is going to avoid enemy contact at all costs. If fighting does break out, my fire team — that includes you — will break away.”
“Understood, sir,” Don answered. He checked the small compartment on his suit’s right leg, making sure the tablet and connecters were there. He dropped his APRIL in with them and closed it back up.
As the order to move out sounded, Don felt a tap on the shoulder of his suit. Tyson jogged by, and Don fell in step behind him. No one spoke, even though the enemy wouldn’t hear them if they did.
It was still slow going. The rocky terrain he had seen on the map turned out to be a maze of boulders and slabs more than twice his size. By the time they could see the ship’s wreckage, he was breathing hard.
Don scanned the area. Getting to the ship without being spotted wouldn’t be easy. The ship had sunk into the bottom of a valley. While the massive rocks around them would shield their progress a little bit, they also would be much easier to spot by anyone on the ridge.
“Great,” he mumbled. “One valley in the whole place, and you crash into it.”
“Mmm,” Tyson agreed. “You’d think the pilot aimed for it.”
“That’s the signal, sarge!”
At that, Tyson sprung forward, weaving his way down toward the broken ship.
Don followed a second later. Words and numbers began to flash before his eye. He felt, rather than heard, an explosion.
“Keep moving!” Tyson’s voice ordered. “Second squad is covering for us.”
Don sped up, sparing a single glance toward the action. The turds had spilled over the edge of the ridge. They’d brought more than soldiers. It took him a moment to recognize the machines as Crawlers.
Don was almost to the ship when a second explosion hit. He heard it this time and looked up to see the boulders around him shifting. Don scrambled to avoid being crushed. He felt a yank on his SCAR and was flung backward into waiting hands.
“Jump!” someone ordered, and Don obeyed. The three of them just barely avoiding the slab that smashed down where they had stood moments before.
“Now go, quickly.”
Don sprinted, jumping obstacles and slithering through holes faster than he thought he could. Even so, Tyson was already firing out orders by the time he arrived. Don guessed he must have missed most of them. “—cover till we get back. O’Hara, are you ready?”
Don did a quick check to make sure he still carried all the required items before giving the affirmative, “Yes, sir!”
“Then follow me,” Tyson ordered and slipped through a garish hole in the ship’s side.
Don did as he was told and stepped in behind Tyson. The walls were charred black, evidence of a devastating fire that must have blown through the ship on impact. The farther they walked, the more agitated Don grew.
When Tyson stopped to consult his map, he could hold his tongue no longer. “Sir, time being of the essence, I suggest we double back twenty meters and pry open the door there. It should lead to the interior of the ship and, from there, the cargo hold.”
Tyson stopped and turned. “You’re positive about that, soldier?”
“I’m fairly certain, sir. Most ships follow the same basic blueprint, with some variations thrown in, depending on size.”
“Right. About face, gentlemen,” he ordered. “Do as Specialist O’Hara said.”
In a few minutes, they were through the door. A different kind of destruction awaited them there. Instead of a fine layer of blackened dust, they were surrounded by corpses, most having suffocated in the methane-rich atmosphere.
Don kept his eyes raised; he’d seen enough. He directed the group on where to go next, and i
n a short time, they reached the hold. The Wasp sat in the middle, surrounded by debris. Getting her out would not be easy. He glanced toward the back of the ship. At some point, he’d have to figure out how to get the cargo hold’s door open.
“Okay, what are we looking for?”
Don looked at his friend in surprise, then at the others, who were turning their heads, searching for the fighter. Don almost laughed. He had forgotten how little the Wasp resembled other fighters. It had been so easy for him to see. He pointed it out to them and turned his attention back to the hold. He scanned it one more time, searching for any signs of activity.
“It looks pretty well wedged in there, sarge.”
“Then we’d better get started.”
Don stopped them before they could continue. “I can handle that,” he told them. “You should go now.”
Three SCARS turned toward him. He didn’t need to see their faces to know the looks they were giving him.
“We stick together until that thing’s activated. We’re going with you,” Tyson informed him.
“All due respect, sir,” Don answered, “but I will not be returning with you. Nor do I have the ability to take you with me, so please go. If I can’t get this activated, you don’t want yourself or your men within three hundred meters of this ship. Do you understand, sir?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Tyson swore quietly. “You better get that thing activated.”
“Yes, sir,” Don answered and stepped forward, grabbing the sides of the ladder. “One more thing, sir,” he added. “Think your boys could get that door open for me?”
Tyson’s SCAR shifted to look at the door and then gave a small nod. “Done.”
Don gave the three a crisp salute, turned, and slid quickly down the rails. He scrambled toward the Wasp without a backward glance, avoiding mangled bodies where he could.
A piece of the ship’s deck was pulled up from the floor. Don climbed up on it and could just reach the Wasp’s hatch. He tumbled inside. The interior seemed to tilt more than what he had observed from outside. He had to jump to grip the elevated platform and grunted from effort as he pulled himself up. The Wasp had been outfitted just like the control units they had practiced in, almost as if the creators had expected them to be flown from within, after all.
Don crawled awkwardly into the chair and almost fell out before he managed to brace his feet against the controls. He quickly strapped himself in and then let his body hang, pulling the connectors and tablet from the SCAR’s leg compartment as he went to work. He’d already memorized many of the steps, but he allowed the instructions to float past his eyes as his hands raced across the controls.
Suddenly, all the lights inside the craft came on. Don snatched up his APRIL and plugged it into the console in front of him.
“Wasp system activated. Authorization required.”
“Specialist O’Hara, Don, authorization code Whiskey Delta Romeo Echo Zulu,” Don answered, praying it would work.
“Authorization accepted, Specialist O’Hara. System check commencing.”
Don grit his teeth impatiently as he waited.
“All systems operational. Minor damage to the exterior hull detected. Remote signal unconfirmed.”
“That’s okay,” Don replied. “Answer only to verbal and electronic commands, establish neural link with the SCAR, and keep interruptions to a minimum,” he instructed as he snatched the connectors back, shoving them and the tablet into the compartment on his leg.
He glanced around the Wasp. The controls had all lit up, but he could see only walls. “APRIL, I need to see what’s outside.”
“Remote viewing capabilities are currently offline.”
He scowled, biting back a frustrated answer. “Understood. I need viewing capabilities from within the craft.”
Immediately, the walls around him seemed to disappear.
“Much better,” he mumbled, taking a moment to verify what he’d seen from the outside. He was wedged beneath a fallen scaffold. Perhaps if he could rotate the craft just a few degrees, maybe then he could tip it onto the floor.
Don stretched his fingers and took a deep breath. “Engines on full,” he ordered and heard the Wasp hum to life. He could feel the craft shift beneath him.
“ETA to maximum takeoff power, two minutes and counting.”
He growled at this report. There was no way he was waiting two minutes. It was time to see what this fighter could do. His fingers went to work.
“Warning: continued operation of vehicle deemed hazardous. Pilot is advised to exit the craft.”
Don swore. This was taking too long. He quickly tapped out instructions on the keyboard before him.
“Manual override accepted.”
Once again, he concentrated on moving the fighter. The Wasp jerked in response and then stopped. “C’mon,” he whispered, “got to do better than that.”
Slowly, the fighter began to move, scaffold scraping against the outside in a near-deafening screech. Then, the whole structure tumbled to the side as smoke and dust billowed inside the hold.
“Time to go!” he informed his APRIL, bringing the Wasp to hover twenty feet above the floor. A thick cloud hung where the door used to be. Third Platoon had come through.
“Infrared optics,” he ordered. The scene around him changed instantly. Soldiers came into view. Instead of a cloud, he could see a giant hole leading out from the ship. Don aimed for it, and the Wasp shot forward, throwing him back against the seat. He barely managed to pull the fighter up in time to avoid crashing into the valley walls.
“Stop!” he sputtered out, fighting against the crushing pressure on his body. Abruptly the Wasp halted. Don was flung forward, cursing between gulping breaths, as he hovered high above the ground.
Before his brain could catch up, the APRIL directed him to the enemy forces. Their full attention was now on him. Don reacted without thought, sending the Wasp rocketing backward while he targeted the approaching missiles. A red line began to creep in from the outside edges of his eyes. He let out a yell as he fought against the pull of the gees, but waited till he was sure the missiles were destroyed before slowing the fighter down.
“APRIL,” he said shakily, “find the rendezvous point.” He turned the Wasp carefully in the general direction of the base. He managed to move his arms only with great effort, as if they had suddenly become full of lead. Fast does not even begin to describe this, he thought, realizing how easy it would be to get himself killed in one of these.
“Rendezvous point located.”
Don turned his attention to the point that had shown up in front of him. As much as he wanted to check on Tyson’s men, he had already left them far behind. Reluctantly, he headed for the base.
Despite reducing the speed, he could still feel strain on his body. He pushed it from his mind and concentrated on the approaching base. Thankfully, he had developed a much lighter and more controlled touch than when he had taken off. By the time he shut the engines down, he was fairly confident that at least his landing looked as if he knew what he was doing, even if his takeoff hadn’t.
When he crawled out a short time later, it was to wobbly legs and a sudden case of vertigo. He very quickly developed an appreciation for the support his SCAR gave him. Still, he kept a hand on the Wasp’s outer shell for balance, and he ignored the questions directed his way. The deck had been cleared for him, but it quickly became apparent the crews had been told nothing.
“Stay away,” he told the growing crowd. His words had no effect on the grease monkeys. “Back!” he ordered, a bit louder.
Some of the bodies departed, but most ignored him once more. Don walked around to the opposite side. A few of the workers were running their hands along the metal surface, discussing what they saw in excited tones.
Don pulled his sidearm from its holster. “I said get back!” he snarled.
Silence fell. Slowly, the crew raised their hands and stepped away.
Confident he now had
their attention, he stepped to the front of the Wasp. “No one is permitted near this craft. I will shoot anyone who tries.”
The deck officer reacted first. He scattered the crew to their respective jobs. Once he was certain he was being obeyed, he moved toward Don, who shifted to face him.
“Sir,” Don said to the approaching man, “that includes you, sir.”
The officer nodded but didn’t stop. “I’m not going to touch your fighter, soldier. I just want to talk.”
Don raised the tip of his pistol as the officer continued forward. The readings on his helmet put him at seven meters. “Understood, sir, but please step back.”
The man slowed but still did not stop. Any longer, and they would be in hand-to-hand combat range.
Don’s pulse quickened, and he cocked the gun, effectively halting the officer. “I said step back, sir!” he shouted. The officer took a step back, folding his arms across his chest uncooperatively.
“Soldier, stand down!”
Both Don and the officer shifted to take in the intruder. It was the master sergeant with an entourage of others.
“It’s about time,” Don muttered, holstering his handgun.
“Soldier, follow Specialist Kijek.”
Don saluted and did as he was told, leaving the master sergeant to deal with the deck officer. He was led to a room where he was instructed to leave his SCAR. Then he was ushered along to a debriefing room, where his three comrades awaited him. Their reunion was short. None of them particularly seemed to care. They were all exhausted. Once dismissed, they were each escorted back to their platoon’s quarters. It was a long trek. By the time Don arrived, Tyson’s men were already there.
“Yo, flyboy,” someone called. “Sarge is waiting for you.”
Don acknowledged him with a wave of his hand and moved toward his room.
Tyson pounced the moment the door opened. “I want an explanation.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before his face transformed. He studied Don with some sort of cross between frustration and worry. “What is wrong with you?”
“Sir?”