Mars, The Bringer Of War

by George P. Saunders

  Wes Simpson had joined the troupe a year earlier, broke and drifting, struggling to build a new life after divorce and the tragic death of a baby boy. His wife had left him months before he ran into Tyrell’s humble family in Waxahachi, Texas. Adopted into the Tyrell Family Circus, Simpson rehabilitated himself and saddled up to renew a rodeo act of sorts, the kind of which he had achieved some notable recognition for many years earlier. Wonder Wes had been a top act in the rodeo circuits a long time ago, before a wife, before a dead child, before, before, before. It was a time of ten thousand dollar paychecks each month, good scotch and women who never said no. It was a time of unparalleled success. It was, on that night of the worst tornado to hit East Texas, a time never to be seen again by Wes Simpson.

  There had been two shows that day – Saturdays and Sundays, the matinees always ending somewhere around three sharp. One show to go, and then a day off; everyone was tired, the midgets had the flu, even the farting elephant looked (and sounded) uninspired. Tyrell had toured them for four straight weeks, bookings being on the rise after the Labor Day weekend. One more show remained that late afternoon on Sunday … a show that would never play, and would mark the end of the Tyrell Magic Circus forever.

  The twister came out of nowhere. Local meteorologists, and later a slew of experts from the National Weather Center, who would call the Force Five storm a “freak of nature, seen only once every hundred years”, failed to detect its almost supernatural origins. Twenty four hours earlier, a small hurricane, routine for this time of year, had moved through the Gulf of Mexico, kicking up wet air and driving it inland. Hurricane Lonnie had long since dwindled into a humid drizzle, but the aftermath of her precarious journey from the east had produced anomalous convection activity off the coast of Texas. The tornado formed in less than five minutes, and by the time it had funneled over the outskirts of Corpus Christi, it had a raging, frightening diameter of over a mile long.

  Simpson had been the only one to see the twister loom out of the eastern sky, a growling dust demon bigger than sin, and twice as black, plowing toward the Tyrell Circus basecamp. He had been cleaning his horse, named affectionately Pittsburgh for his steel determination to throw Wes each and every time for the show, when the ominous roar caused him to turn away from his horse caring and look east.

  One moment, there had been blue sky, barely a breeze in the air, the lazy lilt of a Mockingbird chiming in a tree overhead. The next second, hell on earth prevailed.

  Oh, Wes, he remembered thinking way back when as he stared at the churning monster of wind and dust, this is what you get for a life of sin, thank you, Jesus! He could almost hear his father, a rabid Babtist preacher who put a bullet into his brain and his mother’s brain when Wes was only ten years old (a sacrifice for the Lamb, so the suicide note maintained) roar to the invariably large and gyrating congregation before him. Ye, sinners, look to the Dark Angel. He will come like a Thief in the Night, and ye, verily, when he does, with him will come Death. Praise Jesus, the Power and Glory.

  Wes remembered those sermons, each and every one of them invariably scaring the shit out of him. In time, understanding – and remorse supplanted the fear. But that Sunday so long ago, facing a Force Five twisting bastard of wind, Wes again felt the holy fear of both the righteous and unrighteous alike.

  He remembered screaming to the others. Tyrell, the midgets, Grace and Lumar, along with Slim-Jane, The Fat Lady (go figure), and Simona, the Bearded Woman were all inside the Big Top Tent, fifty yards from where he was cleaning Pittsburgh in the ad hoc corral, furthest from the huge tent and the approaching twister. Mystic, the flatulent elephant, remained tied to a pole near the far end of the tent, the entrance closest, as the crow flew, to Wes Simpson’s position in his corral.

  The tornado suddenly shifted directions, bearing down directly on the Big Top. Simpson remembered the hallacious winds sucking at him, trying to draw him into the vortex. He thought quickly that day, realizing there was little to do to warn his companions. He mounted Pittsburgh and rode, hard and fast, for the highway fifty feet away, and more importantly, for the overpass where Interstate 14 criss-crossed with route 70. Pittsburgh rode as he had never ridden before, fast and without a buck. When Simpson and the horse were safely ensconced beneath the overpass, he turned to watch the relatively quick demise of the Tyrell Family Circus.

  Mystic had been torn from the Big Top pole, and was on the fringe of the huge rotating vortex of the twister. The elephant’s trunk whipped back and forth, as it struggled against the terrible force of the storm. Tyrell, the midgets, Slim-Jane and Simon were also airborne, holding hands, like cut-out paper dolls. It seemed to Wes that they were being manipulated on the air currents by unseen hands, tormented for uncertain seconds. At one point, their bizarre trek brought them face to face with Mystic, before both Tyrell’s party and the astonished elephant moved in opposite directions on the wind.

  The Big Top tent was sucked into oblivion, the tortured snapping of pine and plywood audible even the roar. Tyrell and company continued to do their air ballet for a few seconds more before they, too, disappeared into the giant maw of swirling death.

  And then … as quickly as it began … the tornado’s funnel retracted back into the cloud formation above, and there was silence once again. In the wake of the storm, the only damage to any structure was to Tyrell’s Magical Circus Tent. A trailer part half a mile away escaped unscathed.

  And Mystic, the flatulent elephant, was standing on wobbly legs in the middle of a field a hundred yards from where Wes stood shaking beneath the underpass. The storm had miraculously set the elephant down, unharmed and unscratched. Snorting and howling a strange pachyderm language of terror, Mystic remained perfectly still until Wes, leading Pittsburgh by his reigns, approached him.

  They had survived the Angel of Death. Praise Jesus, the Power, the Glory, he could almost hear his father echo from some distant place. But he’ll be back, son, if you’re bad. He’ll be back for all sinners one day. Like a thief in the night. Come to take your soul. Praise Jesus.

  Years later, Wes Simpson became a millionaire from his rehabilitated rodeo act. He adopted Mystic, and the flying, farting elephant lived to be a ripe old age under Simpson’s protective care. But it would be a cold season in the nether regions, so help him Jesus, before he would forget what he saw that day outside of Corpus Christi. Tyrell’s Magical Circus left this earth true to form of its name … magically. Sucked in the center of a storm that had no place existing, out of a clear blue sky. Strange then …

  … and damn strange now, Wes thought, again trying to figure out what the source of the light show was outside of the plane.

  He turned, and noticed that Mars was approaching him, on his way back to the Flight Deck. Wes Simpson, if nothing else, was a good judge of human nature: the expression on the captain’s face belied nothing good.

  The man looks worried, Simpson thought. Worried … and scared.

  The Angel of Death, son. He’s back, just outside. Come back for you and Mystic. Wes buried the ghost of his father behind an affable smile.

  “Say, Captain,” he said, gracefully blocking Mars' way into the flight deck. “You taken a look outside lately?”

  John Mars looked blankly at Wes, then glanced out one of the nearest windows.

  “Lightning,” Mars said dully.

  “No clouds,” Simpson countered.

  “Excuse me,” Mars said, and moved into the Flight Deck.

  Simpson just nodded, and continued staring out at a clear sky filled with enough electricity to power the entire state of Texas.

  Confidence within the cockpit had suddenly plummeted from high to lower than a rat’s ass. Mars entered the flightdeck and all heads snapped to him.

  “I’ve got something on our tail. Radar --” Bob Peoples stopped mid-sentence, as if he was about to report something that couldn’t possibly be correct.

  “What is it?” Mars asked.

  “I -- I don’t know. It’s -- big. Big as
shit.”

  Mars turned his attention to the front bay windows. Tendrils of what appeared to be lightning still descended from a starlit sky, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Aurora borealis, maybe,” Jennifer said, trying to make heads or tails out of the extraordinary vision.

  “Polarized light can do this sometimes,” Peoples said, turning to glance out the front windows, the tone in his voice suggesting he really meant, no, sir, that’s Grade A, water-over-pork-gravy, bullshit. He continued to shake his head, bewildered.

  “But what I have on screen doesn’t make sense. John, take a look at your read-outs.”

  Mars hit a screen and transferred over the radar image that Bob Peoples was scanning. A single, malformed blip was passing through tree-circles of distance grid lines -- the center of the circle being Flight 399.

  “Diameter of the thing is off my scale,” Bob said grimly. “But that’s impossible. Has to be some kind of aircraft --”

  Jennifer interrupted. “It’s coming in from the southwest. 900 knots.”

  Chase Ravers peeked into the Flight Deck. Mars turned to him. Ravers just shook his head, searching for the right words. He looked shaken. Mars’ heart flipped in his chest. Freedom is dead, he thought. Anna, too.

  “Mission Control says that we’ve lost contact with Freedom. There was a momentary distress signal, but it was cut off before...” Ravers trailed off, then nodded to Mars. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Mars said.

  Jennifer turned, glanced at Ravers, then looked to Mars.

  “My old boss,” Mars said quickly. “Chase Ravers, meet everyone.”

  “Target is at 3,000 miles and closing. Air speed increased to 1,000 knots,” Jennifer said, ignoring the impromptu introduction to Ravers.

  “Bearing?” Mars asked.

  “462. Right on our butts,” Jennifer replied.

  “Bob, do we have Ground Control?” Mars asked.

  Bob Peoples snapped a few buttons, gazed at digital readouts and CRT grid scopes, then shook his head. “We don’t have fuck-all from ground, John. I’m being jammed on every band of frequency.”

  “Bearing, 397 and closing,” Jennifer continued to read out. “It’s not an airplane, that’s for sure. Too big, and moving non-ballistically.”

  “High Altitude Test Doggies, maybe?” Bob suggested. “One of those Air Force experimental do-dads?”

  “It’s at Mach 3, plus,” Jennifer said. “Nothing on Earth travels that fast.”

  "Fuck, it's big," Bob muttered.

  Mars finally spoke. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Barry was on his way up to the upper level, and running into Brenda, the business class section flight leader attendant when Jennifer’s voice boomed over the intercom:

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, at this time, I am going to ask everyone to return to their seats and fasten seatbelts. We are running into -- unexpected turbulence.”

  At Barry’s elbow, Dr. Maynard glanced at his daughter: “What turbulence?

  Lisa glanced out of her window. The sky was filled with an astonishing display of lights and color. But there was no turbulence to speak of. She glanced over across the aisle at Wes Simpson, who was staring out of his window, too.

  “Odd thing, don’t you agree, Mr. Simpson?” she ventured.

  Wes Simpson turned to her and nodded, his familiar smile gone. “Damn strange, doctor. I wonder if it’s another plane right on top of us. I know on boats they have running lights and such.”

  “Running lights?” Rupert Maynard turned toward his daughter, then to Simpson. “What are you all talking about?”

  Lisa reached over and opened the flap to Rupert’s window, which he had shut for napping purposes. “Look, dad.”

  Rupert leaned into the glass and stared out into the night. The light show continued to sparkle around the plane. Rupert Maynard snorted diffidently.

  “What the hell is it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, sir,” Simpson offered, turning back to his own window. A few feet behind Simpson, Brenda touched Barry’s shoulder. “Back downstairs, young man. Tour of the Flight Deck is for the time being ... postponed.”

  “Bummer,” Barry capitulated, then turned to go back the way he came down the stairs. A thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned on himself, and glanced back at the Flight Deck. He watched Brenda continue forward, advising passengers to buckle up. Barry decided he would not head downstairs just yet. Perhaps the turbulence would only last a few minutes. Heck, every chance a pilot had to turn on the Fasten Seat-Belt sign, he took it. Barry knew these things, just as he knew about airline fatality statistics, because of a fascination for flying in general.

  He sneaked into a lavatory and decided to buy some time.

  The Sel ship burned through the sky at thousands of miles per hour, in pursuit of Flight 399. The flying machine of John Mars had been acquired and targeted. Within a short time, the Warrior Mars would be within Sel possession.

  There was a mildly problematic issue: that being of extracting John Mars with minimal damage. The 747 was moving far too fast for a probe, the likes of which boarded Freedom and was able to accomplish a multitude of tasks. Freedom was comparatively stationary compared to the speeding airplane.

  No, the problem of getting John Mars on board, alive, was a challenge at best. Timing would be critical; much of the aircraft would have to be destroyed in the extraction process.

  The Sels readied themselves for the task at hand.

  The order given, a single flaming plasma projectile jettisoned from the Sel ship’s forward weapons launch. It was the size of a basketball. Hardly a thing of menace, so would say the human eye. Like a large, shiny marble that twinkled. Yet the projectile held within itself enough power to destroy a world, if Sel programming so directed.

  That kind of power would not be needed today.

  Today, only a fraction of that power would be enough to take down the 747 ahead.

  The Sels waited for impact.

  Jennifer leaned forward in her seat, studying her control panel.

  “Oh, god,” she whispered.

  “Talk to me, Jen,” Mars said.

  “Second bogie. Mach 8. A missile, is my guess. Heading our way.”

  Mars realized that a 747 was not designed for evasive action. In the span of seconds, he might be able to try a trick or two, and this he did now with minimal warning to his flight crew.

  “Hang on!”

  He reached for the rudder control. Virtually all yaws result from movements of the rudder, the vertical panel in the tail, but pilots of commercial jets eschew the use of the rudder out of consideration for their passengers. A severe yaw creates lateral acceleration, which can throw standing passengers to the floor, spill food and drinks, interrupt Mile High sexual activity in a lavatory, and induce a general state of alarm.

  The 747 suddenly swung sharply to port, as a result of the starboard wing moving faster through the air, giving the plane some lift. During the next several seconds, the banking angle grew to one hundred forty degrees, while the nose-down pitch reached eighty degrees and some change.

  In that incredibly short span of time, the 747 went from earth-parallel flight to a deadly roll while virtually standing on end. The flight crew screamed, but did not voice anything remotely sounding like objection to the maneuvers Mars was currently executing. The passengers, on the other hand, were one and all in a state of disoriented panic, and various states of imbalance or noses to the floor. That’s a pity, Mars thought in a light-second of despair, but it can’t be helped.

  The roll steepened.

  Mars knew, even in this kind of roll, before it became an inevitable plunge, he could have turned the control wheel hard to the right and use the ailerons to bring the 747 back to level flight.

  But then there was still one itsy-bitsy problem.

  The missile still on his ass.

  Two thousand yards behind i
t, the Sel torpedo sped through space.

  Mars watched the radar console, and could see the missile descending on his plane. “Impact in three seconds, two --”

  “-- One,” Jennifer said.

  “Aw, fuck me,” Bob Peoples said. His last words.

  The Sel warhead slammed into the tail of the plane. A glancing blow, but at that speed and angle, it produced devastating results. The huge 747 careened in the sky, doing a strange, side to side shimmy that out-yawed any yaw in aviation history, ripping at the superstructure’s strongest foundation. Within a second of impact, the rear of the airplane began to slowly disintegrate, beginning with the tail fin elevator stabilizers. Hydraulic lines shredded and disintegrated in microseconds. Plating, cargo, and passengers were immediately sucked out into the blackness, their screams unheard by anyone or anything five miles above the earth.