by Dean M. Cole
Before he could reply, night turned day in a brilliant explosion as Victor and his F-22 slammed into the desert floor.
"No!" Jake screamed.
***
Tires barked as his fighter touched down. Jake extended the airbrake. The fighter decelerated. Heavy hearted and in an anguished mental fog, he struggled through the after-landing checks.
"Air Force Two-One-Five, proceed to the end of Runway Two-One-Right, right on taxiway Alpha, left onto the ramp. A security police detail is waiting to pick you up."
Security police? They're not normally involved in crash investigations.
"Uh … roger, Nellis Tower, Runway Two-One-Right, right on Alpha, to the ramp," Jake repeated. His tone was flat, dutiful. Finishing his landing rollout, he saw the promised security detail's flashing lights ahead on the right.
He finished the after-landing checks. What happened to you, buddy? Why didn't you eject?
Hoping to spot his downed wingman, he had remained on scene. Jake had made multiple low passes, searching the small, speed-blurred patch of desert his landing lights illuminated. All the while, he'd monitored the frequency of Victor's portable emergency radio. In spite of numerous calls from Jake, it remained silent.
The post-crash fire had raged for thirty minutes, only faltering after it consumed the cache of jet fuel and combustible metals. When the rescue helicopter arrived, its crew performed an extensive search. After an additional thirty minutes, they reported: "No sign of ejection."
Out of fuel and hope, Captain Giard finally obeyed air traffic control's incessant orders and returned to base.
Now that he'd landed, Jake slowed his F-22. Reaching the end of the runway, he turned right onto taxiway alpha as instructed by air traffic control. Ahead, the swarm of security police vehicles generated a myriad of flashing lights. The strobing red, blue, and amber colors reflecting off every surface of his cockpit were an unwelcome reminder of the ship's strange lights.
Turning left onto the south end of the ramp, he nosed the fighter into the U-shaped formation of vehicles. Locking the parking brake, he finished the after-landing checks.
Ground support personnel, casting nervous looks at the assembled security police vehicles, hooked up the ground power unit. With the GPU connected and powering the aircraft, he received a thumbs-up from an airman that looked ready to bolt. Jake acknowledged the clearance and killed the fighter's engines. To his surprise, the airman did bolt.
As Jake's canopy rose, a security police squad, weapons drawn, stormed the plane. Jake was looking down the muzzles of eight M-16 automatic rifles.
"What the hell is this?" he shouted over the whine of the ground power unit's turbine exhaust.
"Out of the plane, sir!" screamed a large sergeant. The noncommissioned officer was pointing his Beretta nine-millimeter pistol at Jake's head.
Overwhelmed by the night's events, Jake stared incredulously at the armed squad. Shaking his head in resigned capitulation, he unbuckled his safety harness and unplugged his helmet. Climbing from the cockpit, he started backing down the boarding ladder. Halfway to the ground, he was ripped from the metal steps and thrown face-down onto the ramp. He could feel several muzzles pressed into his back.
"What the fuck!" Jake yelled. His breath lifted a small dust cloud from the tarmac, its asphalt surface warm against his face.
"Don't fucking move, Captain."
He continued to struggle. "I haven't done anything. This is bullshit!"
The cold steel muzzle of a large caliber pistol pressed against the back of his neck.
Jake stopped struggling.
The sergeant, now calm and inches from his ear, said, "Captain, I have my orders, and they don't come from any higher, and they don't get any more serious than this. I assure you, this is not bullshit."
The muzzle lifted from his neck.
"Now, are we done here?"
Panting, Jake nodded.
In less than five seconds, the sergeant cuffed him and dragged him to his feet. "Thank you, sir." Grabbing Jake's left elbow, he led him to a security police cruiser. The sergeant opened the door, stuffed him in the back, and slammed it.
Jake stared out in confused disbelief. "What the hell did we stumble into, Vic?"
CHAPTER TWO
Exhausted eyes stared back from the interrogation-room's one-way mirror.
"Damn it, Captain, what were you doing in that area?" The voice echoed off the tiled floors and walls. With only a four-legged rectangular table and two metal chairs occupying its center, the room offered little sound absorption.
Turning from his reflection, Jake locked eyes with the major. For what felt like the hundredth time, he said, "Sir, as I've been telling you for the last twelve hours, Range Control assigned us that training area."
For the hundredth time, the major stared back, unblinking and unbelieving.
Knuckles rasped against the room's single door.
With a disgusted sigh, the major shook his head and turned toward it. "Come!"
The door creaked open. A nervous Air Force airman stuck his head into the room.
Major Tinsdale glared at him. "Damn it! I left clear instructions that I was not to be disturbed."
"Sorry, sir. You have a call from a General Tannehill. I tried to tell him you were busy—"
"No, no, no, I'll take it," the major said standing, all annoyance evaporating. "Just sit there, Captain, I'll be back." Grabbing his notepad, he strode angrily from the room.
The airman nodded at Captain Giard and followed the major out.
Hearing the door lock, Jake turned back to his image in the mirror. A steady dripping sound emanated from a floor drain at the room's center. The ticking second hand of an old government issue wall-clock, hanging over the door, added its maddening rhythm to the staccato dripping noise.
Studying his weary face in the one-way interrogation room mirror, Jake tried to make sense of the situation. It was obvious they knew the two of them had encountered the ship. However, every time he tried to bring it up, the major redirected him. Tinsdale kept returning to the subject of airspace and timelines. It's as if he thinks we conspired to be there at that particular time.
Given nothing to eat and only enough fluids to keep him awake, Jake didn't think they'd let him free anytime soon, if ever.
Jake heard the major shouting unintelligible commands as he came down the hall.
The door flew open, and in a storm, Major Tinsdale erupted into the interrogation-room. Throwing a stack of papers on the desk in front of Jake, Tinsdale paused, took a deep breath, and sat across from him, head hanging down.
To Jake's surprise, the major looked up with a contrite expression.
"Captain, I owe you an apology."
Stunned, Jake sat back, trying to understand the rapid reversal. Was this some kind of interrogation technique? Was the major propping Jake up, just so he could knock him back down?
Reading the distrust, the major raised his hands, palms facing Jake. "It's ok, Captain. I give you my word, this is not a trick."
"Then what the hell is going on?" he asked. Belatedly, he added, "Sir."
"Apparently, you have friends in high places."
His confusion doubled. "What?"
The major shook his head. "You'll be briefed later." He pointed to the stack of papers. "But, before you can leave, you have to sign these."
***
Lying in bed, gazing at the ceiling, Captain Jake Giard ran fingers through his short dark hair. His entire body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion. He hadn't slept in the eighteen hours since the disastrous encounter.
Jake knew sleep wouldn't be the restful reprieve from reality he needed. Only a dark prison waited—a place where he would relive the freakish encounter and the loss of his young friend, ad nauseam.
Shifting, he propped another pillow under his head and looked outside. The city's uncountable sodium-vapor streetlights set his bedroom walls awash with an orange glow. The drawn curtains of his window reveale
d a beautiful panorama. Viewed from his east Las Vegas apartment on the side of Sunrise Mountain, the city lights painted across the valley below twinkled like a sea of chipped orange glass beads. From Jake's remote vantage point, the buildings and lights of the Vegas Strip constituted a small portion of the scintillating mural painted across his bedroom window.
The cool, crisp springtime breeze ruffled the curtains, creating a welcome distraction. Jake felt his body relaxing as a coyote's howl drifted down from the desert mountainside. A lonely sound, it matched the darkness of his mood.
His body jerked with a waking spasm as a jet engine's distant roar drowned out the coyote's wail, claiming dominance over the night air. Muffled by distance, the airplane's din rolled like thunder off the surrounding mountains.
"Great," he muttered.
Frustrated and exhausted, Jake slid out of bed and stepped across the cool tiles. Pushing the billowing curtain out of the way, he walked to the center of the wide window, intending to close it. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Two miles to the north, on Nellis Air Force Base Runway Three-Left, two hundred feet from where he'd been accosted by the Base's Security Police, Jake could just make out the twin, fiery-blue jet-plumes of an F-22 Raptor on a takeoff roll.
The solo fighter was a poignant reminder.
"Damn it! What happened to you, Vic?"
He slammed the glass pane shut. Snapping the curtains closed, he turned and walked back to the bed. Collapsing backward onto its soft surface, Jake stared through the ceiling.
What the hell was that thing?
"I can't even tell anybody about your death," he said to the empty room. He shook his head sardonically. Great! The UFO contactee is talking to his dead friend. "Wonderful."
The day spent in the interrogation room had left Jake confused and questioning his decision to reveal the appearance of the strange ship. Not that Major Tinsdale had allowed any elaboration on the subject.
He was under strict orders not to mention the event to anyone. He knew it was standard protocol not to discuss aspects of a mishap during an investigation, but these orders encompassed everything: personnel, equipment, aircraft, and timelines—before and after the accident.
Ordered to act as if the flight had been cancelled, he was not to discuss the night's events, nor mention Lieutenant Croft's status. Since when did a man's death become a status?
Not that he'd had the opportunity to talk with anyone. Under virtual house arrest, Jake had been instructed not to leave his home. Relieved from duty, he was to spend the remainder of the day and subsequent night resting. Major Tinsdale told him to expect additional instructions the following morning. However, he wasn't sure how that information would arrive. Perfectly functional the previous day, neither his iPhone nor his home phone worked now. Even his Internet was down. Also, a nondescript Government-Issue sedan sat parked out front, its occupant hidden in shadow.
The mortgage-like stack of documents he'd signed promised forfeiture of his left nut and first born should he ever discuss any aspect of the night's events.
A metallic chime yanked Jake from his thoughts. It was the doorbell. He checked his watch: 10 p.m.
Rocked by a sudden epiphany, he sat bolt upright on the mattress. "Sandy!"
He jumped out of bed and scrambled to the closet, searching blindly for his robe. Can't believe I forgot.
The doorbell rang again.
"I'm coming!" he yelled. Sliding to a stop on the tiled foyer, he opened the door.
His girlfriend, Captain Sandra Fitzpatrick, pointed an admonishing finger. "You'd better not be starting without me—" Seeing his face, she stopped. "Oh my god, baby. What happened?"
Looking into her deep blue eyes, he felt the day's tumultuous stress drain from his body. "I love you."
Eyes softening and stepping through the door, she enveloped him in her sensuous arms. "That's not an answer, but I'll accept it for now."
"Thank you." He nodded toward her embrace. "By the way, that's my job."
Ever the competitor, she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm allowed to comfort you."
Jake gave her a meaningful look. After a moment she capitulated, allowing him to wrap her up in his strong arms. Fiercely independent since their first meeting in Air Force flight school, Sandy was loath to let anyone do anything for her. As an Air Force fighter pilot, it was a character trait that had served her well. It was only during their private moments that she lowered the ever-present shield and exposed her soft feminine side to Jake.
Melting into him, she snuggled her cheek into his chest. Her limpid blue eyes stared deeply into his. "I've missed you."
"I missed you too, baby," he reassured her.
She leaned back in his arms. "So, what happened to you this morning? You didn't call or text me after your flight."
"My phone went on the fritz," he said, only half-lying.
"Your home phone too? Both of your phones are going straight to voicemail. I didn't know your home number had voicemail."
"It does now." Apparently.
"How was your flight?"
Unwilling to lie outright, he changed the subject, guiding her toward the bedroom. "I thought you were coming here so I could help you relax."
The previous night—only a few hours before his and Vic's fateful flight—Sandy had complained that the next day's schedule included a grueling twelve-hour battery of tests on a new F-22 avionics configuration.
Sweeping her up, he carried her the remaining distance to the bedroom.
Sandy wrapped her arms around his neck.
Jake smiled. In a French accent, he whispered, "Mon amour, your velocity-induced accelerated stall has firewalled my adiabatic lapse rate."
"Oh, I love it when you whisper dirty pilot talk to me."
Laying her gently on the bed, Jake grasped the top of her flightsuit's full body-length central zipper. Drawing it down, he slowly exposed her heaving breasts, then her dimpled abs, and finally the top of her lace panties. With a devilish grin, he said, "There's my favorite landing strip."
"It better be your only landing strip, Captain," Sandy said. She playfully reached between his legs. Looking into his eyes with a mischievous smile, she said, "I have the ball, the hook is down."
"Ease up on the navy crap, or the hook might retract."
"Yeah right," she said, laughing. Still holding his member, she pulled him into bed.
***
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
The sound drilled into Jake's brain. Again, he reached for the fighter's instrument panel, pressing and then punching the cancel button in a futile effort to reset the incessant alert blaring from the flashing master-caution panel.
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
Frustration mounted as the fighter's computer still wouldn't accept his inputs.
My friend is dead, and now my fighter is dying too.
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
Even the alert sounds wrong … oh shit.
Dragging himself from the nightmare, his arm rose from the sheets and fell on the alarm clock.
The noise continued.
With a start, Jake realized it was his home phone that was ringing. He'd left the handset in the living room. "Guess it's working now."
Sandy stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and went back to sleep.
After a quick kiss to the top of her head, he leapt from the bed. Sprinting through the living room and sliding to a stop in front of the phone, he checked the number.
No name displayed, but he recognized the area code: 202. From his many calls to the area's Air Force offices, he knew it very well. Washington D.C. This should be it.
After a hesitation, he answered. "Hello."
"Is this Captain Jake Giard?" asked a feminine voice.
"Uh … yes. Who's calling?"
"This is the Pentagon's office of Air Force Tactical Operations, Planning, and Development. Please hold for Captain Allison."
Before he could protest, inane elevator music told him she'd al
ready placed him on hold. He was usually happy to hear from his old combat wingman. However, this morning he worried the line would be tied up when the real call came. Hurry up, Richard.
While waiting, Jake thought about the last time he'd seen his and Sandy's old flight school buddy, Richard Allison. He'd been in a hospital bed, only five hours after a near brush with death.
In spite of his impatience, he found himself wondering how Richard was handling ground duty. If only that bullet hadn't found its way into his engine.
***
— Twelve Months Earlier —
"Target is fifteen kilometers at two-seven-niner degrees. Estimate entry into Maverick missile range in thirty seconds," Jake said to his wingman.
"Roger, Gunslinger One-Three. Gunslinger Two-Six has visual on the target, now at heading: two-seven-eight, range: eleven kilometers. Target acquisition complete, missile armed," said Captain Richard Allison.
As Richard called out his target data, Jake, from his position off of the right wing of Richard's ground-attack configured fighter jet, was completing the same process for his target.
"I have lock-on, launching now," Richard said.
The Maverick missile roared as it left the FA-16, rapidly accelerating toward an ill-fated anti-aircraft missile launcher.
A shudder passed through Jake's fighter as his missile also ripped into the night sky. "Second missile is on the way."
The Mavericks bore down on the two anti-aircraft weapons. A brilliant flash illuminated the desert as the missiles struck their targets, detonating the warheads and rocket fuel on both launchers. The fireballs incinerated everything within two hundred meters.
"That should do the trick," Richard said.
"Roger, Gunslinger Two-Six. Let's do a quick BDA and head home."
"Roger, keep in tight," Richard replied as he turned inbound.
Beginning his post attack Battle Damage Assessment, Jake scanned the infrared display. After a few seconds, he smiled. "Scratch two more SA sixes."