The Peacemaker

by Schuyler Thorpe

  Bart hastily apologized and quickly accessed the countermeasure screen from his.

  “Got it. Sorry.”

  Don’t be. I thought to myself. It’s a perfectly honest mistake.

  The screen in front of me was full of missiles and full of possibilities at the same time.

  Coming either to finish us both of or the start of something new and exciting.

  “Standby, Bart.” I added a little nervously. “Standby…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

  USS Goliath.

  “She’s slowed down.” One of the radar techs monitoring the screen reported. “Just above the Mach 3 thresh hold and holding steady.”

  “Where is she at?” Tillman wanted to know.

  “Somewhere over Newark.” The same officer said.

  “That fast, eh?” The commander mulled.

  “That jet and these drones represent a new age in aerial combat,” Conrad was saying over a ham sandwich and another mug of tea. “Where human reflexes and savvy tactics have been broken down from instinctive to an art. Where long minutes now represent pure seconds and everything now resides on not how fast one attacks, but how one outthinks his or her opponent.”

  “You’re saying that strategy and combat naval tactics have now been changed because of this demonstration?” Tillman wanted to know.

  Conrad nodded. “Look at how she slows down. She either knows she is beaten, or she’s attempting to master the situation towards her own personal advantage.”

  “Mach 3 is pretty damned fast.” Tillman remarked admirably. “How can she avoid all those missiles now—when she clearly had the advantage?”

  “In twenty or thirty years, Mach 3 will seem pretty damned slow when the next generation fighter emerges from years of patience, guesswork, and simple ideals. Just like it was when Mach 1 was broken and then Mach 2.” Conrad finished off his sandwich and stood up—taking in the telemetry from one of the drones. “My dear, commander, what you see before you is the next evolution in air combat. And it is never over just because one side won or lost. It is how the game is played—which makes all the difference.”

  “Seems like we won this round.” The commander boasted.

  Conrad laughed.

  “And that is where you are wrong. You haven’t won anything at all. In fact, you’re about to lose on an important lesson which should’ve been made clear to you earlier.”

  “And what’s that, Mr. Jones?”

  “Never…underestimate….your opponent.”

  ***

  Seconds was all that counted now.

  Seconds which spelled survival or oblivion. There was no second chance.

  “Ten seconds to impact.” I told Bart—whom had the finger hovering above the pad itself.

  “Roger. Ready as I will ever be.”

  The large, blue missiles ranged in on us from 50 miles out. Then 40...then 30...

  “Two seconds.” I quipped. “One…” Then when I didn’t think I could wait much longer, I said, “Now, Bart! Hit the button!”

  He did.

  The Peacemaker spasmed in flight, pausing for just a split second more and then started to shift like a desert mirage—fading in and out of focus—and then seized up right then and there; becoming transparent.

  The missiles bore in a second later—but there was nothing there to hit or lock on.

  They continued on for another few seconds.

  The center of the jet began to darken perceptively like an ink blot on paper—then grew larger and larger with each passing second before it finally stopped.

  Purple and black lightning exploded outwards in a sudden rush—touching everything in its path and then blowing outwards in waves of incandescent fire.

  The Hammerheads had no chance to do anything. Nor did the drones whom had launched them.

  Nearly all had been destroyed—the surviving few stragglers bouncing around like rubber balls.

  I slumped forward a bit from the experience, feeling nauseated, excited, and dazed.

  Wow…was all I could think. For the last few instances, I actually felt like I had been flying through space at Mach 3—only to slow down to a sudden stop and be suspended in time itself.

  For that moment, my fingers became the lightning, my arms and body became the fire and everything else was nothing but a blot which nobody could see through.

  Did the prince feel the same, or did we both share the same experience? I managed to think—as everything resumed at its normal, face-paced motion.

  With the skies around me littered with the falling remains of my adversaries.

  It was the first time I had used Shadow Fire and now I know why the military had to keep it under such tight restraints.

  “So…powerful…” Bart’s weak voice broke through the com-grid. “I never imagined…”

  “Neither did I, your Highness.” I said, making a motion with my left hand and finding out that everything still worked.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Neither did I.”

  A check of all systems revealed that things were operating at normal.

  Except for one thing.

  “Damn…” I moaned softly, seeing the blinking red lights on the forward screen.

  I was nearly out of gas with that stunt.

  Energy took fuel. And nothing in the Peacemaker’s arsenal came without a cost.

  I pulled back on the engine-thrust control lever and brought my ship down to Mach 1.2—the transition taking only fifteen seconds.

  But in that time…?

  I had crossed up the straits of the Hudson River—along the Connecticut coastline near Danbury.

  I engaged the internal reserve tanks—praying that it would carry me back to Vergennes.

  I also prayed that Bart was okay.

  “How…you holding up back there?” I asked—turning my attention back to my co-pilot’s seat.

  What I saw froze my blood.

  The prince had passed out—his head lolled forward.

  From here, I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

  “Oh gods…no…” I whispered. There was nothing that I could do from here.

  I checked my immediate surroundings and found that four of the drones had somehow managed to survive Shadow Fire, but were unable to attack.

  The IFF revealed they were out of missiles.

  I responded by taking over the weapons’ systems from Bart and selected a salvo of Mongoose smart missiles to deal with my attackers.

  “Suck on these.” I muttered darkly and pulled the trigger.

  From a hidden bay underneath both wings, a quintet of red darts launched themselves into the skies and charged after their prey with a secular vengeance.

  And exploded against their targets—adding a few fiery clouds to the otherwise blue sky.

  I banked left and headed home—praying that everything would be all right once I got home.

  ***

  Commander Tillman regarded the aftermath with a look border lining between astonishment and craven disbelief.

  “I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.” He said—watching a replay of the final moments when his attack drones were properly put out to pasture in the worst way imaginable.

  “Does our Air Force know anything about this jet? Or its capabilities?”

  Conrad shrugged nonchalantly. “One would assume—since it was your people whom came up with the initial design and then had it built by the Defense Department and the Pentagon.”

  “Now what?” The man asked. “We couldn’t get her to fire on the Essex again—because she was too busy dealing with my drones.”

  Conrad smiled. “Commander, the thing about a plan is that it is always in motion and always changing from one moment to the next. We may not have started your precious war now, but give it time…” He said confidently.

  “It will happen.”

  The man turned and snorted softly.

  “I wish I had you
r confidence.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

  Nearly two hours later, I spotted the all-too familiar features of my dad’s airstrip from a couple miles out.

  In a few seconds, I had Trixie Taylor on the line.

  “I need a crash-cart ASAP when I get there.” I told her. “And a med-kit with some oxygen.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it!” I said out of fear of the moment.

  “Roger.” Came the woman’s timid reply.

  I sighed heavily for a second and said, “Look, I’m not angry with you—I’m just a little bit scared right now.”

  “Sure. I understand.” Trixie radioed back. “But I have something else to tell you.”

  “What?” I said—lining the Peacemaker for the drop down towards the deck. I slowed my airspeed to about 300mph at the one-mile marker and then 200mph at the half-mile marker.

  “Your uncle is here and boy is he pissed.”

  As expected.

  “Tell him I’ll meet him as soon as I take care of this little emergency of mine.”

  “Is someone hurt?”

  “I dunno,” I answered truthfully. “But the prince is out cold and I need to make sure he’s okay. I can’t tell from where I’m presently sitting.”

  “Oh god! I heard you were taking on someone important, but a prince?”

  “Yeah…” I answered as I approached the first runway. I extended drive flaps and made sure everything was on the ball.

  “You’re so lucky, Kina.” Trixie murmured in my ears. “I’ll bet he’s cute.”

  My mind was fractured in two different directions for a second as I thought over my friend’s statement.

  I managed to land the jet without crashing on the first try.

  The tires chirped a few times and I retroed back on engine power, while flipping on the air-braking system to help smooth things along in my defense.

  Out of the corner of one eye, I could see my uncle standing right next to the hanger with an unhappy look on his face, while I steered my ship straight down the runway and waited until I slowed down, before I reversed engine thrust and began a slow turn around.

  “Yes.” I said after a second. “Look, Trixie: I’m put down, so I’ll sign off right here before the fireworks start—if you know what I mean.”

  “Okay. Good luck. Tower Two-Six out.”

  I urged the plane forward until I was near the hanger. I popped the canopy open—letting the hot and stuffy air out and the cool air in.

  Once I stopped fully and put the engines in neutral, I unbuckled myself and then reached over the other screen to lift Bart’s head and cradle it in my hands.

  “Bart? Bart?” I asked urgently. “Come on, sweetie. Answer me!”

  There was no response—even after I hit the emergency release for the co-pilot’s canopy. The thing rose on its own and locked silently into position.

  “Where’s that oxygen!!!” I yelled out and soon I had someone clanging a ladder against the armored nose section and someone peeking in.

  “You called?” One of my guys asked—bearing a medic’s tunic and a small med-kit.

  “Give me the oxygen, Daryl. I need to make sure his Highness is okay!” I said—hand out to him.

  A small emergency canister was slapped into it and I immediately raised the visor-shield and then unsnapped his neck collar so that I could fit the rubber mask over his face.

  My heart did somersaults as I waited for a response—as pure oxygen was fed into his body.

  Come on…! I pleaded silently—praying that nothing bad would happen to him.

  “Bart! If you can hear me…breathe!!!” I coerced fiercely. Placing a finger against his neck, I felt for a pulse and found one, but it was pretty weak.

  What the hell happened? I thought to myself. Did that transconfiguration to Shadow Fire do something to him that I wasn’t aware of???

  Sure it stressed out the human body to some degree, but everyone whom tested the system out reported feeling no ill effects from it afterwards.

  Very few of the test pilots reported passing out. But those that did, didn’t do it under live fire.

  They all came through, I thought to myself. So why has Bart suffered?

  “Shit.” I breathed out and backed up. “I’m not getting anywhere with him Daryl. I’m going to use the emergency eject system and have him come out through the bottom—okay?”

  “Gotcha, boss.” The raven-haired young man said.

  Sliding back into the front seat, I accessed the EMERGENCY PROTOCOL system and punched the EMERGENCY EJECT—CO-PILOT, button pad and watched as a panel slid open on the forward screen and the seat assembly was lowered down gently—until it hissed to a stop.

  Suspending him only a few inches off the ground.

  “Get him out! Get him out!” I yelled. “But do it gently! I still don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

  The guys below got the crash-cart they had on standby and unbuckled him out of his seat—raising him carefully onto the cart.

  “Vitals are weak!” One of them said. “We’re going to take him to the ER clinic on the other side of the airfield!”

  I rubbed the side of my face and then my hair in visible frustration.

  “Damn it!” I swore, then ran up to them. “I’m coming with you!”

  Glancing over at my uncle, I said, “Follow me as soon as you can.”

  His facial expressions changed from unhappiness one minute and outright concern the next.

  He nodded without saying a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

  Two hours later.

  The clock above my head pushed towards ten at night on its own—without my help of course—but it didn’t stop the flood of worry and outright fear I felt at the bottom of my stomach.

  Would he live or would he die? I kept thinking—pacing back and forth in the tiny waiting room of the ER wing.

  The place was my uncle’s idea—a crash unit/medical facility for the air service almost 15 years ago; and had seen its fair share of patients and other accident victims over the years.

  I remembered breaking my leg upon landing once—and had to be rushed to this place to get it set and taken care of. But that was when I had just turned twenty and nearly wrecked the Beech Starship because of a sudden engine failure in the right turboprop.

  My prized plane spent weeks in The Shop—getting fixed and repaired; while I hobbled around with a crutch—pestering my dad on when I could take her back up.

  Or if I could fly up with him.

  I didn’t say anything to my uncle for most of the time he was here—the last hour anyways—waiting for me in a soft-cushioned chair and reading a month-old Newsweek magazine.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Uncle Gary. But it wasn’t my fault. I had to end the conflict before we really got hammered.”

  “I’m not here to berate you on your performance, Kee. But as one of the ranking officials on PROJECT PEACEMAKER, I’ve been asked to ask you just what the hell happened up there. The prince is in serious condition with shrapnel wounds to his back and one of his legs. He’s also suffered a hairline fracture to his left arm and he has a mild concussion. Now tell me: That didn’t come from using Shadow Fire—right?”

  That’s what had me panicked for the past 45 minutes—when the surgeons told me that they were going to have to operate to get most of the metal crap from out of him.

  But where had it come from? And why did it hit him and not me? I kept thinking over and over.

  “I used Shadow Fire, Uncle. But only because someone had sent a plethora of attack drones against me. Ones that used second-gen Hammerheads.” I said up front. “But my guess is that during the transconfiguration…one of the missiles must’ve been taken out close-range and sent shrapnel into Bart during our partial phase-in process.”

  My uncle went back to his Newsweek magazine for a second—kept reading for another minute or so and then put it down for a moment on his lap.

  “Th
at’s what the data recorders show. But do you know who sent the drones against you?”

  I stopped pacing for that second and thought that one over.

  “It wasn’t the Essex, that much I do know.” I said firmly. “These drones had a unique engine signature. And I don‘t think that a 40-year-old modified Nimitz-class variant super carrier could’ve sent them against me.”

  My uncle agreed with me on that. “Given what I saw on the telemetry in the last hour…it could’ve only come from one of our ships. Not the Brits.”

  “That’s what had me wondering too, uncle!” I exclaimed. “Those drones came from a spot 600 miles off the coast of Nova Scotia, but I wasn’t able to pin it down.”

  “And you wouldn’t,: My uncle answered. “Not if the ship was using a form of advanced stealth technology on itself—masking it from normal radar and infrared pickups.”

  “Even from the Peacemaker?”

  “The Peacemaker’s technology—though experimental—doesn’t have the ability to pierce through stealth…yet.”

  “That’s what makes this whole thing so fucking frustrating, Uncle. I—in no way—declared myself open season for whatever nut job or crackpot came my way. I made damned sure that I was out of civilian airspace for most of the trip and only dipped to about 40,000 or so feet on my last intercept.”

  “That’s what we heard from some civilian spotters on the ground. Some people claimed to see some explosions high up in the atmosphere—above their heads—and some thunderous concussions; like someone had broken through the sound barrier with a freight train riding on their back.”

  “Hmmm…” I muttered—then glanced in my uncle’s direction. “You’re not here to take the Peacemaker away from me—are you?”

  My uncle shook his head. “Far from it. In fact, we should be the ones thanking you for delivering unto the Homeland Security people a rare prize.”

  “Better than Osama Been Forgotten?” I quipped jokingly—knowing how raw a subject it was for one of the world’s foremost military to take a black eye in not nabbing one of the world’s most wanted terrorist.

  Oh, the Army and Air Force had managed to capture or kill much of its membership ranks and a minor leader here and there over the past twelve years—on top of pushing and containing Al-Qaeda in the mountains of Pakistan—but the terrorist movement still thrived and still attracted new members on a daily basis.