by JE Gurley
A wall of superheated air swept across the square and struck the church. LaBonner ducked into the corner beside the window to shield himself, but the blast sucked him from the corner and rolled him across the floor beneath the feet of the milling Wasps. He slammed into a wall, stunned, his flesh scorched by the intense heat. The heat felt as if it was sinking through his flesh to the very core of his being, cooking him from the inside. Now, I know how a microwaved burrito feels. The wall behind him cracked and fell away. He slid down the suddenly tilted floor; then, the floor disappeared beneath him, and he plunged into space. He remembered screaming, but little else, as oblivion struck.
The tower cracked at the base and fell into the square, but the church itself, though seared and shaken, endured. An uneasy quiet settled over Paris. Ten minutes later, the peal of hundreds of church bells rang out across the city. Paris would live, scorched but unbowed. However, the fate of the rest of Europe remained in question.
6
August 12, Area 51, Groom Lake, Utah –
Four hours after leaving Washington, Walker and Costas stood inside a cavernous hangar at Groom Lake, called Dreamland, Paradise Ranch, Homebase, and Watertown, but better known as Area 51. A hot wind blew in from the desert through the open hangar door, parching Walker’s skin. The moon perched just above the peaks of the Reveille Range casting his and Costas’s long shadows through the door and into the darkened hangar. The SR-80 Lances stood in neat rows, each in its own pool of light, as workers readied them for flight. He recognized the 45-foot-long fuselage as that of an F-35B Lightning, but the Groom Lake engineering team had transformed the former high-orbital fighter aircraft into a hybrid spacecraft. With the wingspan reduced, the Lance looked every bit as sleek and fast as it was capable of flying. A compact version of the alien gravity drive engine developed from the recovered communications pod on the moon allowed the Lance to reach speeds of 40,000 mph, placing the moon within six hours travel time. The alien base was a lot farther than the moon.
The enlarged cockpit allowed for a crew of two – a pilot and a copilot/weapons specialist. A Gau-22/A 25mm cannon mounted in the nose and four weapons pods slung beneath the fuselage made the modified aircraft a formidable weapons platform. The SR-80 carried eight AIM-120B missiles armed with conventional warheads in the wingtip weapons pods. The six European Meteor missiles in the outer weapons pods were fifth-generation laser-guided weapons capable of evading the Wasps and delivering modified B61-11 low-yield, ground-penetrating nuclear warheads. Unfortunately, there were too few Lances to be effective against the Kaiju. As Earth’s only offensive weapons, they were far too important to risk as Kaiju Killers.
Costas shook his head. “Man, I wouldn’t want to fly one of those things.”
Walker glanced over at Costas. In spite of the darkness, the sergeant wore his shades. He wore his cap pulled so low Walker could barely see his face. “Why not?”
“Could you imagine wearing a spacesuit for days on end?” He made a face of discomfort and rubbed his crotch. “I’d get diaper rash.”
“The crews will ride with us in the habitat modules for the outbound trip. They’ll board their Lances when we approach the alien base.”
He knew how Costas felt. The pilots would be entirely dependent on their aircraft for nutrition, water, and oxygen while wearing the necessary spacesuits. The cockpits were too small to allow freedom of movement. The pilots would remain confined in their seats the entire time they were aboard their aircraft.
“Can they make it back to Earth if something happens to our ride?”
Walker smiled. Costas was asking if his team could make it back to Earth. He had asked the commandant the same question. The answer had dismayed him. “They have oxygen for twenty-four hours plus another six from their suit tanks. The trip back in a Lance would take about 14 years.”
“That sucks.”
“A second ship will launch two days after us with a two-man crew with additional supplies. If anything happens to our ship, we’ll rendezvous with it for the return trip.”
“A taxi, huh? I hope the driver speaks good English.”
“What does it matter? You barely speak it right.”
Costas scowled at Walker. “Women understand me well enough.”
Costas might have said something more, but Walker didn’t hear him. A Sikorsky MH-60G Pave helicopter flew by low to the ground on one of its periodical security grounds sweeps. Walker clamped his hands over his ears to muffle the noise. The Pave was capable of whisper-mode flight if necessary, but Area 51 did not openly flaunt its technology, adding to its air of mystery.
They had seen a group of protestors gathered around a bonfire a few miles outside the base’s fences, a mixture of Judgment Dayers, alien enthusiasts, curious tourists, and people hoping for a sighting of one of the rumored new advanced aircraft. The soldier standing in the open door of the chopper manning an M134 GAU-17 Gatling gun indicated just how sacrosanct Area 51 considered its secrecy. He was certain any observers got the message.
“So we’re Fire Team Alpha now, huh?” Costas said when the chopper had passed.
“Yeah, I guess we got a promotion from Fire Team Bravo.”
Costas scratched his chin. “I always wondered who Alpha was. I was kind of jealous being the B-team.”
Walker, too, had been envious, but to Costas, he said, “We’re all on the same team.”
“Yeah, but the first-string players get all the cute chicks.” Costas plucked a fat, stubby Cameroon Nub Olivia cigar from his shirt pocket and jammed it in his mouth. As he reached for his lighter, Walker stopped him.
“You might want to reconsider lighting that,” he said, pointing to an ordinance crew securing a weapons pod to the underside of a Lance’s wing. “They’re arming the Lances.”
Costas replaced his lighter, but left the cigar in his mouth. “Maybe I’ll just suck on it for a while like a pacifier.”
“Good idea.”
“I won’t be able to smoke them on the Javelin anyway. One more thing I’ll have to give up for this mission. Hell, I could apply for sainthood when I get back.”
“I’ll see you get a Purple Heart for your sacrifice.”
Costas scowled. “Yeah, I’ll add it to my collection of baubles and trinkets in my keepsake drawer. Say, I just thought of something. How can you tell which direction Mecca is for your prayers?”
“I’ll face the rear of the ship and imagine Ka’aba, the holy mosque in Mecca. I’m sure Allah will understand.”
Costas smiled broadly. “You’ll be the first Muslim in space.”
Walker shook his head. “No, there have been quite a few. In fact, a National Fatwa Council in Malaysia determined rules for Muslim prayers in space, based on local time at the launch site. Because of the lack of water, a damp cloth will replace ritual bathing before prayers. See, Muslims aren’t so backward after all.”
“After so many years in the bombed-out ruins of Iraq and Syria, you couldn’t prove it by me.”
Walker ignored Costas’ crack, as he watched a man with Asian features stride across the hangar floor toward them, his back as straight as the crease of his pants. He wore a major’s insignia on his immaculate uniform. He stopped as if coming to parade rest when he reached them. He looked them both over before extending his hand.
“Colonel Hideo Sakiri, U.S. Air Force. You must be Major Aiden Walker.”
Walker extended his hand. “I am. This is Sergeant Costas.”
Sakiri’s grip was firm but not forced, as he were a man sure of himself and had no need to assert his authority. He turned his head slightly toward Costas. “Sergeant.” His gaze did not waver, as he looked Walker in the eye. “Major, although I outrank you, your team falls entirely under your authority.” A brief flicker of annoyance crossed his face. “As a matter of fact, I am to, I quote, ‘Utilize your expertise while making my decisions on deployment and mission targets.’ I am not pleased, but I will comply.”
Walker decided he needed to sm
ooth Sakiri’s ruffled feathers. Space was no place to carry grudges. “I understand your frustration, Colonel. Just get me and my team down on Haumea or whatever other ice ball the Nazir have occupied and I’ll stay out of your hair. I think this will be a steep learning curve for both of us.”
“I appreciate that, Major.” He glanced at Costas. “Perhaps you two would like to join me in my quarters for a nightcap before you turn in. Your sergeant looks thirsty.”
Costas smiled and smacked his lips. “It would be a pleasure, Colonel, sir; a bit of scotch to wash this damn sand out of my mouth.”
“The Lance’s are beautiful aircraft, Colonel,” Walker said, as he admired the sleek lines.
Sakiri beamed but did not smile. “Yes, they are exceptional ships,” he said, emphasizing the word ship to remind Walker they were not normal jets. “I feel they will do us proud on this mission. I understand you’ve been here before?”
Walker smiled. “Not here, exactly, but in the neighborhood.”
“Ah, yes. I have you to thank for saving my ships from Kaiju Nusku.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“Nevertheless.”
The pair followed Sakiri from the hangar through a side door. The hangar blocked the worst of the wind, but dust swirled around them. Costas made a show of coughing to prove he needed a drink to clear his mouth of dust. “Did you volunteer for this little space adventure?” he asked.
Sakiri raised an eyebrow at Costas. “Of course. Didn’t you?”
“I don’t volunteer for nothing that don’t involve women or booze. I go where they send me and bitch the whole time. It’s the army way.”
“What about you, Major?”
Sakiri was feeling him out, but Walker didn’t feel like playing the ‘whose balls are bigger’ game. “I go where they send me, Colonel.” He stared at Sakiri. “I don’t question orders, not when the world is at stake. As long as I’m fighting the Nazir, I’m satisfied.”
“True enough.” Sakiri paused. A slightly upturned corner of his lips could have been an attempt at a smile or a sneer. “Perhaps more than one drink is called for.”
“Amen to that,” Costas replied, tapping his chest. “A man after my own heart.”
As they crossed to the officer barracks, an airman raced up out of breath. He held out a note for Colonel Sakiri. Walker tensed, sensing ill tidings, as Sakiri read the note.
“Bad news, I’m afraid. They found no survivors of your Paris team.”
Walker shook his head. “Damn, that’s three teams down. Sergeant LaBonner was a good man. At least they completed their mission.” LaBonner had been one of the first men he had trained. He had shown great potential. As soon as he learned not to take every death personally, he would have made a good group leader. At the rate at which they were losing Kaiju Killer teams, none would remain to deal with the newly arriving creatures, and seven Kaiju yet remained in Europe. He glanced at Sakiri and noted the look of concern on his face. His gut tightened for the other boot to drop. “What else?”
“The mission launch has been moved up. We go in eight hours. They want us at a briefing ASAP.”
“What?” Costas growled. “Before a drink?”
“I’m afraid so, Sergeant.”
“Why the rush?” Walker asked.
“One of the incoming Kaiju pods has moved to intercept Javelin in orbit. If we don’t launch quickly, we might lose her.”
“Fucking Kaiju bastards,” Costas spat out. Walker didn’t know if he referred to moving up the launch date or missing his cocktail.
“I agree,” Sakiri said.
* * * *
August 11, Ellington Air Force Base, Houston, TX –
Between cursing the director and his own stupidity for allowing her to maneuver him into such a situation, Gate paid little attention to the scenery on the drive to Ellington AFB where four SR-80 Lances waited to transport him and three equally distraught NASA technicians joining him on the mission to the Javelin. The crew for the Assegai would launch from Russia on one of their new STK rockets two days later.
His fellow passengers looked as pleased as he was. He wondered what method the director had used on his companions to cajole them into cooperating. Any of them, including him, would be thrilled to venture into space, but in this particular case, the odds of returning were abysmally small. He did not want to calculate them for fear of forcing him to jump out of the car at the next traffic light and run like a frightened jackrabbit for the nearest church to seek sanctuary.
They had allowed him only his laptop as personal luggage. On it, he had downloaded his entire jazz collection, hoping it would keep him sane on the journey. The guard at the gate waved them through. The driver crossed the field and pulled up in front of a large hangar. His first view of an SR-80 Lance awed him; then, he remembered he would be riding it into space. A fast attack craft, yes, but as a spaceship, it looked too small and fragile for such a journey. A sergeant directed them to a room where technicians waited to fit them with excursion suits. He had expected to wear the bulky EMU Extravehicular Mobility Unit spacesuit he had worn into the vacuum chamber at Johnson. Instead, the modified Z-suit they offered him closely resembled the type worn by early Mercury astronauts. The cloth suits were lightweight and compact, less than half the weight and bulk of the ones worn by the ISS crew on spacewalks. Its thinness also meant less protection from the hazards of space – cosmic rays, UV, micrometeorites, extremes of heat and cold. One of the technicians stepped forward.
“Gentlemen, these are your second skin. When not wearing them, you will keep them close by at all times. In the event of a severe hull breach, you will have less than one minute to crawl inside, seal it, and secure yourself to something to avoid being blown into space.” He paused to let that sink in. “Now, first, you will don jumpsuits. Then we will teach you how to safely insert yourself into your suits.”
“They look flimsy,” Worthen, one of the NASA technicians, remarked.
“They are durable and lightweight, not flimsy. Instead of the old LCVG – Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment – this model utilizes micro-pore tubing built into the suit material to maintain an optimum temperature zone. If you need to venture outside for any length of time, lightweight ceramic plates attach to the chest, legs and arms like armor for more protection. Believe me, if you wear one of these for long, you will appreciate the flexibility.”
Thirty minutes later, on his third attempt, by lying on the floor as instructed, forcing his feet and legs into the lower half of the suit, and then contorting his body into the upper half, Gate managed to wriggle into his suit without help in less than five minutes, a far cry from the one-minute threshold. The effort exhausted him. Few of the others did any better.
“Now,” he said, “let’s try adding the PLSS.”
Gate picked up his Primary Life Support Subsystem, a white, rectangular box that contained his oxygen supply, a carbon dioxide removal system, and air conditioning and heating system. It weighed forty pounds.
“Don’t worry,” the technician said, noting their worried expressions. “In space, it will weigh nothing.”
Gate attached his to his suit, almost falling over in the process. One of the NASA techs tripped over his feet and landed face down on the floor, grunting in pain.
“Don’t feel too badly,” the training technician said with a grin, as he helped the man to his feet. “Astronauts and our Lance crews undergo hours of rigorous training for this. You will be in the hands of a professional. Trust them. Under any circumstances, do not panic. Aboard the Lance, your suit will hook into the plane’s internal systems. The short hop to the airlock will take a minute at most. In the event of a complete oxygen failure, your suit contains sufficient air for that length of time.”
The same NASA technician who had complained about the flimsiness tugged at the loose sleeve of his suit. “What if the suit rips?”
“Slap on a patch from the repair kit on your belt.”
“What if I can�
��t reach it?”
In a deadpan voice, the technician replied, “In that case, you’ll die.”
Four more airmen entered. The Ellington technician nodded to them.
“These men will escort you to your assigned ships. Good luck and good hunting.”
Gate waddled across the hangar to the waiting Lance. It took two men to help him up the ladder and seat him in the copilot’s seat. He was out of breath by the time they strapped him in.
“My name is Peters, Dr. Rutherford,” the pilot announced over his com link. “Sit back and enjoy the ride.”
The Lance rolled out of the hangar to the middle of the runway. Gate waited for it to taxi down the runway for takeoff. Instead, it lifted straight up. The only sense of motion he experienced was a brief bout of vertigo watching the hangar disappear below them, as if he was falling, but it passed quickly. The take-off was much smoother than any airline flight he had ever taken. He regretted he had forgotten his camera. The Lance climbed over Texas. By the time they reached the West Coast, they were at 120,000 feet. When the first stars appeared outside the canopy, Gate realized he had not looked at the sky except on computer screens for over a year. Knowing that aliens were out there determined to wipe out humans took away some of the novelty.
As they approached the Javelin, two other Lances were in the process of docking. Peters waited his turn. Gate watched one of the pilots glide gracefully from his Lance to the airlock, while his passenger tumbled like an out of control boomerang. He vowed to do better when his turn came. A Russian Soyuz-MS orbiter floated a few meters away off the starboard side of the Javelin. A silver umbilical ran from a tank attached to it one of the Javelin’s two oxygen tanks just aft of the habitat modules. A third contained water. Peters docked his craft gently. The two clamps thudding against the side startled Gate. Peters exited first, lifted the canopy, unhooked Gate from the plane’s umbilical, and gently pushed him across the open space toward the airlock. Gate focused on the airlock door, forgetting to breathe until his gloved hand gripped the metal rail.