by Dean M. Cole
"Look, by the entrance. Are those bodies?" Vic asked. He started jogging toward the north end of the courtyard.
Exchanging confused glances, Jake and Richard followed.
With mounting unease, Jake studied the dark shapes scattered about the stairs. "Something doesn't look right."
They arrived to find small piles of clothes, each grouping arranged as if the person wearing it had vaporized. The garments had dropped in place, socks still in shoes, ties still wrapped around collars.
In a surreal moment of disconnected reality, a new tune, an orchestral waltz, blared from the overhead speaker as Victor searched through a pile at the top of the stairs. He stood up, holding a ring.
Jake saw the single-star rank insignia of a US Army brigadier general on the uniform's epaulets.
After studying the ring for a moment, Vic handed it to him. "It's a West Point class ring."
Jake turned it over in his hands. "Class of 1986."
Richard stood from his investigation of a separate pile. "There's nothing. They're just … gone."
Like an icy snake seeking a warm shelter, a shudder slithered up Jake's spine and wrapped around his heart. Turning from the two, he walked to the main doors of the north courtyard entrance. "Let's get down to Command."
They passed into the foyer. As they moved beyond the range of the courtyard's surreal melodic cacophony and into the silent interior, their footfalls echoed off the walls.
Walking down the long corridor, they checked each office. Collections of uniforms, dresses, and suits congregated below every exterior window.
Jake nodded at a particularly large pile in front of a wide briefing room's window. "They must have been watching the ship hovering overhead."
The other two nodded in reverent silence.
Turning from the room, they continued the emotionally onerous search. Jake felt overwhelming despair tugging at his chilled heart. What happened to everyone, where did their bodies go?
Victor slipped, arms flailing as he fought to catch his balance. Water sprayed from his surging feet. Grabbing a door jam, he arrested the fall.
Over his panting, Jake heard the sound of splashing water coming through the doorway Victor was clutching.
Seeking the source of the sound, all three peered into the room. It had vending machines along one wall and a kitchenette along the other. It was a break room. Half-eaten meals sat on the room's two dining tables. The same mixed groups of clothes lay in crumpled piles in front of the exterior window. Although, these sat in a pool of water.
Turning to the source of the noise, Jake saw a blouse draped over the edge of the kitchenette's sink, its arm hanging over the faucet's lever. A skirt, undergarments, and heels sat beneath the miniature waterfall cascading over the sink's front. Having flooded the entire break room, the water now flowed into the hallway. Victor walked to the sink and shut it off, staunching the flow. He stood there, unmoving, head down studying the blouse.
Standing in the doorway, Richard gave Jake a meaningful look.
Jake nodded. Walking up to Lieutenant Croft, he placed an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, buddy, we have to get—"
"They're all gone," Victor said, crumpling to his knees on the flooded floor. "They're all dead!" he screamed through his hands, voice cracking with the weight of it.
Knowing Victor was thinking of his mom, Jake squatted next to him. "We don't know that, buddy. Who knows, maybe they've just been … moved … or transported away. Hell, maybe your mom wasn't even here. For all you know, she got sick and headed home early."
"I don't think so," Victor said through his hands. "She never got sick."
In spite of Vic's words, Jake heard a slight change in his tone as he appeared to consider it. "Honestly, I don't know either. But we have to get some answers," Jake said. Standing, he placed a hand under his wingman's elbow. "Come on, Vic. Let's go find out what we can."
Wiping a sleeve across his face, Victor nodded and stood. Again, Jake glimpsed a fleeting sardonic grin on the young lieutenant's face. Appearing to collect himself, he cast a contrite glance at the two of them. "Sorry."
"It's ok, we understand," Richard said, not quite hiding his impatience.
Jake turned to him. "How much farther to your wing?"
Richard pointed back into the hallway. "Just around the next bend."
***
"Nellis Actual, this is Dragonfly Five. SitRep, over."
Nellis Air Force Base commander, General Pearson, returned her radio call. "Dragonfly five, send your situation report."
"I intercepted Blackjack Two-Two."
After narrowly avoiding the mountain, she had leveled off at 20,000 feet. Now, heading west over California's Central Valley, she set her fighter's altitude preselect for 5000 feet and programmed the F-22's autopilot to descend. "The pilot, Major Gregory Stillson, was … gone." Sandy paused, struggling with what to say.
Before she could continue, the general interrupted. "Gone? Was he dead?"
"No, sir. Gone, as in, no longer in the cockpit."
"So, he ejected," the general stated as a matter of fact.
Sandy grew frustrated with the direction of the conversation. "Negative, sir. The cockpit was intact. The canopy was still in place." Not wanting to allow time for more questions, she continued. "His flightsuit and G-suit were still there too. They were still in the shape of the pilot, but empty, and Major Stillson's helmet was sitting on the ejection seat. Hell, sir, his oxygen mask was still attached. I even saw inside it for a second before I … it …" Sandy paused.
Apparently digesting her words, Pearson didn't interrupt.
After all she'd been through, Sandy didn't care to mince words. Far beyond worrying if she would anger the general, she didn't pull her punches. "Anyway, there was nothing left of him, nothing! From what I could tell, his clothes weren't even wet. For Christ's sake, there wasn't even any blood." Stress cracked her words. Mercifully, the general didn't interrupt. She batted away another tear and took a deep breath. Calmer, she keyed the mic again. "I know it sounds crazy, sir, but I think those fuckers may have vaporized every human in the Bay Area."
A long silence greeted her report. To her surprise, when his voice returned, Sandy heard a shade of sympathy.
"I understand. I can't imagine what you've been through and seen. Thank you for your report … and your candor. Good work, Captain Fitzpatrick. There's nothing else you can do there. Return to base. Nellis Actual, out."
"Negative, sir," Sandy said. "I don't have enough fuel to make Nellis. I'm heading to San Francisco airport."
After a brief pause, the general returned. "Roger, Captain." He sounded exhausted, as if Sandy's report had taken a physical toll. "I'll instruct Omaha Four-Four to coordinate your arrival with SFO air-traffic control." The general took a deep breath. "Hopefully, there'll be someone there to answer."
"From your lips to God's ears," Sandy said without transmitting.
"In the meantime, I see you're already descending into the Bay Area. Give me a report before you land." After a brief pause, he added, "Once you're safely on the ground, let us know what you're seeing there too."
"Will do, sir. Dragonfly Five, out."
Studying the hundreds of ships scattered across her tactical display, Sandy shook her head. Some were heading out to sea. Many symbols had already drifted off screen. Ahead, illuminated from below, a cloudbank glowed with the orange radiance of a city's worth of sodium-vapor street lamps. As she descended through 10,000 feet, the first fingers of the wispy cloud tops reached for Sandy's F-22.
Passing in and out of their amber diaphanous obscuration and still east of Oakland, Sandy thought about her parents. To her survivor's guilt, she added remorse for worrying about them when so many millions may lie dead beneath her. A haunting epiphany sent a chill slithering down her spine. Considering what she'd seen, or not seen, in Major Stillson's cockpit, there were likely no bodies below her. Only a vast ghost town awaited.
Turning her head right, she glanced dow
n, casting a forlorn look at the intermittent glimpses of countryside. "Mom, Dad, Chuck, Major Donaldson … damn it!" She wanted to cry. She wanted Jake. Sandy struggled not to cry. "Where are you, baby?" Returning to the tactical display, she studied its myriad symbols. Please don't be one of those.
In spite of her determination not to shed another one, Sandy felt a tear trickle down her right cheek. Angered at feeling so hopeless, she brusquely batted it away and snapped her oxygen mask back in place. Sandy selected the radio frequency for Omaha Four-Four. Popularly called AWACS, the Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft was easily recognizable with the black and white disc-shaped radome rotating over its fuselage. Having been in a high altitude holding pattern between Nellis and SFO, it should be safe and operational.
"Omaha Four-Four, Dragonfly Five, over."
Apparently waiting for her call, the military air traffic controller answered immediately. "Dragonfly Five, this is Four-Four. Go ahead."
"Roger Four-Four, Dragonfly Five requesting clearance to SFO or handoff to San Fran Center."
"Uh … Five." The male controller sounded confused. "We haven't been able to reach anyone at San Fran Center, Approach Control, or even the tower. Hell, ma'am, I can't even get the flight service station guy to pick up. I tried them on everything. Nobody's answering."
Sandy felt a knot form in her throat. It matched the one taking up residence in her stomach. Her thoughts returned to her parents in Carmel Valley. "Have you tried Monterey Approach?" The last word came out as a squeak.
After a long silence, Sandy was about to ask again when the controller returned sounding more confused. "No joy on Monterey either, Captain."
Her heart sank. Mom? Daddy? Another tear threatened to spill down her cheek. Sandy had been just over a hundred miles out and had survived. She tried to picture how far Monterey was south of San Francisco. She thought it was about that far. However, she had no idea where the exact line fell.
Sandy loved her mother, but she had always been a daddy's girl. She had grown up hanging around his hangar. Back then, he ran a small flight school at Carmel Valley Vintage Airfield south of Monterey. All of her best childhood memories centered around that hangar. She'd grown up there. As an eight-year-old, she'd held an airplane yoke for the first time. That first flight had hooked her for life. Many an afternoon, she had hovered over her daddy as he overhauled an airplane engine. Remembering how he used to dab black grease on her button nose, she unconsciously raised a hand to touch it. As it landed on the oxygen mask, she could hear his laugh. It was a sound that always made her smile, but now it only served to deepen her dread.
Looking at the F-22's moving-map display, she focused on the coastline south of SFO. Even though the airport had closed just as her daddy retired—about the same time Sandy had left for Stanford—they still lived on its abandoned perimeter.
Not portrayed on her military map, the old airport fell within the represented area. She knew it was somewhere under the myriad symbols covering the area just south of Monterey.
Please let them be okay.
"Dragonfly Five, we do have contact with Fresno Approach. Would you like radar vectors?"
Sandy cast a wary glance at her fuel gauge. "Negative, Four-Four. I barely have enough fuel to make SFO." Between her afterburner assisted sprint to catch up with her flight and intercepting a 600 knot Blackjack 22, she was already well into her emergency fuel reserve.
Finally breaking through the bottom of the clouds blanketing the Bay Area, Sandy gasped. Interspersed with the city lights, a spattering of fires littered the landscape. Descending through 6000 feet, she looked down on a crowded interstate as it streamed through her line of sight. While the inbound lanes were lightly populated, the outbound easterly lanes were full. However, no traffic moved.
Pileups marked each bend in the highway.
Is everybody dead?
She looked at the cityscape. The unending scenes of calamity scrolling beneath her fighter fit only one possibility. Simultaneously, everyone had either been killed or incapacitated … or vaporized. With no one left to control the vehicles, they had crashed at the next turn or intersection. She'd been holding out hope that the aliens had only vaporized the attacking pilots, but now even that self-delusion faded.
Sandy jumped as her radio blared to life.
"Dragonfly Five, this is Omaha Four-Four. Turn to heading two-seven-zero. This will be vectors for ILS Runway One-Nine-Left."
Then an anxious computer animated voice demanded her attention. "Check Fuel!"
Keenly aware that, one way or another, her flight would end in ten minutes, Sandy punched a button, canceling the alert.
Knowing the instrument landing system's extended approach path would take her too far off the direct route to the airport, Sandra keyed the radio transmit mic. "Negative, Omaha Four-Four. I need to proceed direct to the approach end of the runway. I don't have enough fuel to fly the entire procedure."
"Dragonfly Five … I still don't have contact with San Fran Approach," the controller said, with evident frustration.
"I understand, Four-Four." After a calming breath, Sandy continued. "Listen, I'm clear of the clouds, and it looks like I will be all the way into SFO. I'll maintain visual separation with any and all traffic."
Consulting her display, she didn't think that would be a problem. In the twenty minutes since the enemy ship had disappeared, the Bay Area's once full skies now seemed devoid of all traffic. Not that her display was empty. Hundreds of icons still populated its screen. However, maddeningly, they continued toward what she now believed would be their ultimate demise. Having cleared the local airspace, all persisted straight and level. Half were heading out to sea. Scanning east, she saw another icon blink out of existence as it too met the tightly grouped contour lines of the Sierra Nevada's western slope.
"Roger, Dragonfly Five. Turn to heading two-four-six. That should set you up nicely for a left base into Runway One-Nine-Left."
"Thanks, Four-Four. I'll take it from here."
Swapping frequencies she tried to call the airport directly. "San Francisco Tower, this is Air Force Seven-Niner-Zero-Papa, over." She tried several more times, but utilizing her aircraft's FAA registration number yielded no better results than had her tactical call sign.
The little voice of dread that she had, thus far, managed to keep tamped down blossomed into full horror. Crossing Oakland and approaching the east side of the bay, the same scenes of carnage played out in every direction.
The thought reminded her about the general's last instructions. Selecting the tactical radio, she keyed the mic. "Nellis Actual, this is Dragonfly Five, over."
Sounding worried, the general's gruff voice came back instantly. "Talk to me Five, what are you seeing out there?"
Sandy described the unending scenes of abandonment and destruction scrolling outside her canopy. "Also sir, I'm bingo fuel. I'm only a couple of minutes outside of SFO. I'll try to contact you once I'm on the ground."
The general relayed his personal mobile number. "Recon the ground situation and give me a call. Good luck Captain Fitzpatrick." Still transmitting, he paused. "Don't take any chances. If you can't assure a safe landing on a damned clear runway, then point that fighter toward the bay and eject over the airport. I don't want to lose anybody else today."
"Yes, sir. Dragonfly Five, out."
Like a black void, the inky waters of San Francisco Bay passed beneath her F-22 fighter. Brilliant light flared over her right shoulder. Snapping her head in that direction, she watched a fireball rise into the night sky from behind Mount Diablo. An apparent firestorm raged on its far side, illuminating the atmosphere and silhouetting the dark mountain with an eerie orange glow while the city lights beneath it reflected off the bay waters with surreal tranquility.
Sandy dragged her eyes from the scene. "San Francisco Tower, this is Air Force Seven-Niner-Zero-Papa calling in the blind." Using the standard radio procedure for suspected loss of communication, she continued
the advisory call. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! Air Force Seven-Niner-Zero-Papa is declaring a fuel emergency. Any traffic in the vicinity of San Francisco Airport, I am five miles to the east, on a left base for landing to the south on Runway One-Nine-Left." Her voice cracked as she eyed her nearly depleted fuel level. "Any traffic, please advise."
Scanning the skies over the rapidly nearing airport, Sandy saw no aircraft lights. Nothing moved against the stationary backdrop of nocturnal cityscape. Blindingly bright and peppered with fires, the city beyond the airport perimeter contrasted starkly against the relative darkness of the airport's maneuvering area. The night-vision preserving dim lights of the runways and taxiways made the field only slightly brighter than the surrounding bay waters. Ahead, the ocean of twinkling city lights crashed against the peninsula's night-darkened central ridge line, their steep sides only sporadically interrupted by errant lights.
Turning her attention back inside, Sandy felt her stress ratchet another notch as the last sliver of yellow on the number one engine's fuel gauge faded to black. A moment later, the other engine's fuel gauge also tripped empty.
Outside, the airport's runway started to come into alignment. Being careful not to slosh the tanks and risk an early flame out, she started a smooth left turn. "San Francisco Tower and any traffic in the area, Air Force Seven-Niner-Zero-Papa is turning left base to final for Runway One-Nine-Left, over."
Suddenly her fighter's engine noise halved as blossoming red and yellow lights and screaming horns announced the obvious. Her number one engine had flamed-out.
"Oh crap!"
Looking at her last engine's empty fuel gauge, she was reminded of an ancient aviation axiom: An airplane can fly over gross, it'll even fly out of center of gravity limits, but it can't fly without fuel.
Not for long, anyway.
As the bay waters scrolled under her fighter, the runway slid into alignment. Sandy breathed a sigh of relief. From this position and altitude, she could glide to a landing if needed. She eyed the landing gear lever. Dropping the gear would decrease that glide distance. With so little margin for error, she was loath to extend them just yet. With one engine running, she could still lower them with the utility hydraulics. However, if the second engine flamed out, she would have to activate the emergency blow-down lever.