The Fighter Queen

by John Bowers

  "Understood, Timberwolf. Shut down your onboard AI. You are cleared for manual approach …"

  Johnny gulped oxygen and punched the toggles that took the AI completely down. If it wasn't working right, it could be more hindrance than help, and he didn't need anything added to his burden.

  "AI is offline," he reported to the controller. "Starboard rocket still firing. I can't shut it down."

  "Roger, Timberwolf. What is your fuel status now?"

  "Starboard tank is at forty percent," he said anxiously. "Portside tank seventy percent."

  "All right, Timberwolf, suggest you eject portside fuel tank now."

  Sweating, Johnny lifted the cover on the red toggles that would eject the tank and flipped two of the switches. The fighter shuddered slightly as the fuel tank on the left broke free and drifted away.

  "Portside tank ejected," he replied.

  "Can you do the same with the starboard tank?" the controller asked.

  "I might," he said, "but if anything fractures while it's lit we're goners." He punched the steering jets harder to keep the nose lined up — the flight deck was now only forty‑five seconds away.

  "Have you tried shutting down your starboard LOX?"

  "Affirm. Tried and failed. The mechanism is jammed and the LOX is still flowing."

  "All right, Lincoln. All armaments locked down and switched off?"

  "Affirm."

  "Very good. All the barriers and force fields are in place; your approach is still good. Recovery in twenty seconds. When you stop, remain in place until we give you the word."

  Johnny blew air out of his lungs to bleed off excess adrenaline.

  "Roger. Here we come!"

  The landing tunnel loomed like an open mouth and Johnny held his breath as it yawned toward him at incredible speed. At the last possible second he fired retros from the forward rockets to reduce his speed as much as possible, fully aware of the danger they represented in the enclosed tunnel.

  The PF hit the landing tunnel at six hundred knots, retros still blazing, and then Johnny had no more control of the ship as it hit, bounced, and ricocheted wildly from side to side of the tunnel. He ducked his head between his knees and kept it there as the ship slammed into barrier after barrier, over a hundred of them along the quarter mile of flight tunnel, hitting each one with the impact of a traffic accident.

  Only the incredibly sturdy design of LincEnt's finest spacecraft kept the ship from being crushed.

  When it finally skidded to a halt four hundred yards later, it was jammed tightly nose‑first into the accumulated wreckage of the last twenty barriers, wedged at a thirty-degree angle to the left, the portside wing sheared completely off. The starboard rocket still fired like a roaring, gaseous beast, flame washing upward against the top of the tunnel and back toward the stern of the carrier, melting cables and ductwork and computer terminals and other metal protuberances as it continued to burn with all the consistency of hell.

  Heaving for air, Johnny raised his head and looked back at the inferno that raged twenty feet behind him; he quickly began shutting down everything in the cockpit. Moments later all electronic switches had been thrown, yet the rocket still fired, its circuits shorted by the GAM that had caused this whole thing.

  The fighter trembled in agony, still trying to fly, and Johnny thought it still might break loose. If it did, jammed at this angle, it would break apart; the resulting explosion would kill everyone on the flight deck.

  He could already see six men in orange space suits crawling out of spiderholes in the deck, moving cautiously toward the stricken fighter. He looked back to see if the flame was moving forward — he feared the exhaust jets might melt under the infernal heat, and if that happened…

  Shit, if anything happened, they were history!

  The men in orange suits were crawling around the nose of his fighter now, three on each side, working their way toward the rear. He could see some of their eyes through their faceplates, and they looked as terrified as he felt. He waited, cursing his helplessness, feeling the fighter tremble under him, wondering how long it could continue to do this without exploding.

  One of the men in orange picked his way to within six feet of the screaming rocket engine, careful of jagged edges that might rip his suit. Underneath the heaving fighter, he delicately twisted an inset cover latch and pulled open an access panel that had somehow remained intact. Reaching inside with a simple pair of wire cutters, the technician isolated a single red filoptic strand —

  — and snipped it.

  The rocket shut down.

  Just like that.

  Johnny felt the sudden silence. The tremendous vibration of the rocket engine had been as loud as anything he'd ever heard, and when it stopped he felt as if his hearing had gone with it. He sat perfectly still for three or four seconds, then dared look behind him. Molten metal dripped from the top of the flight tunnel, but the great gout of flame was gone. Johnny closed his eyes and swallowed hard, silently giving thanks.

  "Timberwolf!" The voice in his headset made him jump. "Leave your spacecraft immediately."

  "My gunner —"

  "Leave your spacecraft immediately! Rescue personnel will free your gunner."

  Johnny quickly released his cockpit harness and stood up, climbing over the side of his cockpit to stand on the starboard wing root. But he went no farther until the first rescue team clambered up beside him and went to work on the gun turret. It took only thirty seconds to cut through the hatch, then they were crawling inside to get to Onja. Johnny let himself down to the flight deck and picked his way through the twisted, tangled wreckage toward the airlock that two space‑suited figures were holding open. He reached it and waited until they brought Onja out, feet first, and lowered her to a nearby hoverstretcher. Only then did he duck into the airlock and stumble into the arms of a waiting pharmacist's mate.

  * * *

  Onja wasn't seriously injured. The warhead had crushed her turret, trapping her in the wreckage, and she'd suffered a few fragment wounds in the legs. Her suit had self-sealed to prevent decompression, and she'd lain helpless, encased in twisted steel and broken glass, while Johnny wrestled the fighter back to the ship. Though unable to communicate, Onja had heard everything that was said. Helpless, she'd remained a spectator to the entire affair.

  By the time she was released from sickbay an hour after the landing, the Wing Commander had already summoned her and Johnny to his office.

  Johnny stood at attention before Col. Michelini's desk. Onja sat in a hoverchair, both legs encased in dressings. Whether Johnny realized it or not, she knew he was potentially in serious trouble.

  Michelini was a mild mannered man, a good officer, and very direct. He wasted no time with informalities.

  "Lieutenant Lincoln, do you understand why you are here?"

  "Yes, sir." Johnny stared at the wall above the colonel's head, his lips compressed as he anticipated what was coming.

  "You directly disobeyed an order from the space traffic controller."

  "Yes, sir. If it please the Colonel, I can save you some time here. I fucked up out there. I did it deliberately. I accept responsibility for my actions."

  Michelini eyed him narrowly.

  "I could give you a star‑court for what you pulled today. I could get you a dishonorable discharge. I could lock you away in the brig for a year, and I could ground you forever. I have all those options, and more. Would you like to hear the rest of them?"

  "No, sir."

  "Would you like to present a defense for your actions?"

  "No, sir. As I said, Colonel, I accept your judgment."

  Toying with his stylus, Michelini looked at Onja. She stared back at him with wide blue eyes, silently imploring for mercy.

  "For my own personal amusement, Lincoln, I'd like to know what was in your head out there."

  "Yes, sir." Johnny swallowed and took a deep breath. "I suspected that Major Kvoorik was wounded. I wasn't willing to risk her life by orbiting
until the fuel ran out."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all, sir."

  "You don't think you risked her life by crash-landing like that?"

  "Yes, sir, but it was a calculated risk. I was willing to take that risk if it would increase her chances of survival."

  "And if your calculated risk had failed?"

  "I had to try, Colonel. I couldn't just let her die without doing something."

  Michelini got up and paced across his office, troubled. He stared out his observation port at Menachim Begin, cruising sixty miles away, then turned back.

  "I admire your loyalty to your commanding officer. But surely you realize that the safety of this carrier transcends the safety of any one individual? What if a less capable pilot tried what you just did to save his gunner? We could lose the ship!"

  "Sir, with respect, Major Kvoorik is not just 'any' gunner. She's a war hero. She's the Fighter Queen. She's very special to me, sir. She was my dad's gunner, and he gave his life to save hers. I couldn't live with myself if I risked any less."

  "Jesus Christ!" Michelini ran a hand over his face, then looked at Onja with a sigh. She stared back silently.

  "God damn it, Lincoln! I understand everything you're saying. I appreciate your feelings here. I really do. I hate like hell to bust you, but you give me no choice. Operationally, there isn't a way in hell I can condone what you did. You've shut down flight operations for at least twenty‑four hours, maybe more! We can't launch or recover until we repair the damage your rocket did to the flight deck."

  "I understand, sir."

  Michelini nodded wearily. "All right, Lincoln. Remain in quarters until further notice. I want to talk to the Major. Dismissed."

  Johnny saluted stiffly, spun on his heel, and left.

  * * *

  When he finally reached his quarters and dropped into a chair, exhausted, Johnny glanced at his desk terminal and saw the Message Waiting light. He stared at it for a long time, but made no move to read the message. Nothing seemed very important right now except that he and Onja had made it back in one piece, and that Onja was okay.

  He sat there for twenty minutes, not moving, just letting his mind and body rediscover each other. It was the first time since joining the Space Force that he'd felt the need to just sit and feel the action of his lungs at work. He'd faced death before, and had several close calls, but nothing like this.

  The door slid open and Onja's hoverchair glided inside. Johnny stood up automatically and stared at her. Her expression was unreadable.

  "Grounded for a week," she said solemnly. "And busted back to Third Lieutenant."

  He blinked. "That's all?"

  "You were damned lucky. If it had been anyone but Michelini …"

  "Jesus!"

  He sat down again, burying his face in his hands with relief. He'd really thought his career was over.

  "I warned you the day you reported aboard. Didn't I?"

  He nodded.

  "Do you believe me now?"

  He lifted his head and nodded again.

  "You're a damned fool, Johnny!"

  He lowered his head again. "I thought you were dead," he whispered. "God! If you died in my ship I'd kill myself!"

  The words choked off and he looked at her again, biting his lip until the emotion faded.

  "I had to do everything I could. My dad saved you, and I had to try."

  "Johnny, he would have done the same thing you did. You're just like him." She moved the hoverchair close to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're every bit as good a pilot as he was." She kissed his forehead, ran her fingers through his hair. "I feel very safe flying with you. I'm going to log you in as my pilot permanently. Your lifetime dream is now a reality. You're the Fighter Queen's official pilot."

  He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then wiped away the tears and grinned. Since he didn't know what else to say, he said nothing.

  Instead, he walked over to the display terminal and punched the retrieval code for his messages. There was only one, and to his surprise it was from Tonja Simonian. He quickly pulled it up and displayed the contents.

  United Solar Federation Space Force

  Communications Dispatch

  From: Tonja Simonian, DP Camp 94, Glenville TA

  To: 2/Lt Johnny Lincoln II, ZF‑111, UFF Geo Bush

  Date: 20 Oct, 0242

  Text: I'm sorry. Please come back.

  Chapter 27

  Sunday, 23 October, 0242 (PCC) — Displaced Persons Compound, Glenville, Texiana, Sirius 1

  Numb with cold, Missie Simonian stood in the lee of her barracks as the snow drifted down around her in the darkness, watching her breath freeze in the frigid winter air. Visiting hours were over, but she'd been called and told to expect a Lt. Lincoln momentarily. Too anxious to wait, she stepped outside and started for the gatehouse, then stopped — she didn't want to appear too eager to see him.

  She waited several minutes, and was about to return to her room when the gatehouse door opened and a shaft of light fell across the snow. She recognized the silhouette as a man made his way down the walk through ankle‑deep snow toward her. Her heart leaped and she hurried toward him.

  They met halfway between the two buildings, and Missie stopped as he reached her, heart racing. Even in the darkness she could see his expression in the reflection of distant light towers; he looked hesitant.

  "Hi," she said, speaking first.

  "I got your message," he said noncommittally.

  "I was afraid you wouldn't come."

  "I'm here."

  Trembling with cold, she stared at him, uncertain what else to say. Why, oh why, did she have so much trouble communicating her feelings? She hoped he'd say something, but he didn't. Taking her heart in her hand, she took one step forward and put her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. Her full, lush lips found his mouth and she kissed him with all the passion in her soul, holding him for almost a minute. His arms slowly encircled her and pulled her tightly against him.

  "I'm sorry about the last time," she murmured into his collar. "I had no right to say those things to you."

  "I guess you were being honest."

  "No. It was inexcusable."

  He slid his hand down the back of her head, caressing her smooth, silky hair.

  "Shall we get out of the snow?" he asked finally.

  "Yes."

  "Can we go to your room?"

  "My mother and grandmother are there," she said. "I don't want to share you."

  "Well … they assigned me quarters for the night; that's why you had to wait for me. Shall we go there?"

  She nodded, and he led her to a building fifty yards from the main entrance. The hallway they entered was dim and warm, almost hot after the freezing temperatures outside. Johnny led the way up a flight of stairs and touched his hand to a door sensor on the second floor, which admitted them to a cozy apartment. He secured the door and helped Missie with her coat, brushing off the snow before hanging it in a closet.

  "Why did you come so late at night?" she asked as he shed his own topcoat.

  "I had to take a shuttle. Shuttles get lowest priority in combat zones."

  "Why didn't you bring your fighter?"

  "Aunt Onja and I took a missile two days ago," he said. "We barely made it back to the carrier."

  "Oh! You weren't hurt?" She looked horrified.

  "I'm okay. Onja took fragments in both legs."

  "Is she …"

  "She'll be okay."

  "Thank god!"

  Johnny tilted his head. "I thought you hated her."

  She looked startled, as if he'd caught her stealing. For a moment she only stared at him, then tears filled her eyes.

  "You must think …" She stopped, took a step back, and turned in a half circle, feeling trapped. She lowered her head, burying her face in both hands; her shoulders shook with sobs. She wanted to run, but there was no way out; she'd invited him here, and to walk out now would make thi
ngs even worse than they already were.

  "Hey." He took an uncertain step toward her. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

  But she shook her head, keeping her back to him. She wiped her cheeks with her wrists.

  "It's not your fault," she managed. "It's mine."

  She risked a glance at him; his face mirrored concern. He clearly didn't understand what was happening, didn't know what to say. Neither did she, but someone had to say something. Normally reticent, she had no option but to try to explain things.

  "I don't blame you," she said, her voice strained. "You have every right to hate me."

  "Hate you? Why would I hate you?"

  She dared meet his eyes again, ready to accept his judgment.

  "Johnny, the first time we met I tried to kill you. Then I clawed holes in your face. The last time you were here I insulted you, your father, and Aunt Onja. You have to be thinking I'm a terrible person. You have to!"

  He shook his head slowly. "You were scared. Your home was destroyed, people were trying to kill your brother — your whole world was falling apart."

  Her lips parted as she stared at him. He looked so sincere.

  "You … you don't hate me?"

  "I wouldn't be here if I did."

  Her lip trembled and fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

  "Christ, what did I say now?" He looked distressed.

  She took two steps forward and wrapped her arms around him, burying her cheek in his chest. She struggled against her emotion, but a couple of sobs managed to escape. His arms closed around her and he kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him.

  "I'm so sorry for everything. I swear I'll never do anything to hurt you again."

  He wiped moisture from her cheeks. "Is that what this is about? Confession?"

  She nodded. "That's part of it."

  "What's the other part?"

  "To thank you for saving my brother. Those Star Marines would have killed him."

  "Aunt Onja would've stopped them."

  "So would you." She searched his face. "Wouldn't you?"

  Johnny's eyes glazed for a moment, and he shook his head.