Posleen FanFic

by Leigh Kimmel

  "What is it, Mum?" asked Allie.

  "It looks like we've been diverted south a bit. Maybe there is some weather up ahead that they are squeezing us around it."

  * * *

  "I've got a bad feeling," said the captain, thinking. "Spike? Kill the internal ATC feed. I don't know how long this will take, but we should be in the landing pattern in about forty-five minutes. Let's not have a passenger riot on our hands."

  * * *

  The in-flight entertainment audio channel carrying the ATC chatter made an ominous click, and Kay was greeted by the sound of silence. The voice had cut off mid-phrase, so it was probably intentional. She noticed that the map on the seat-back video display also had shut off. So whatever it was -- and she recognized the 'if we don't let them know, maybe the passengers won't riot' syndrome when she saw it -- it was something that impacted all the flights in the air. It was obvious from the number of diversions that it wasn't just BA 952, enroute to SFO. Kay wondered how long it would be before the announcement, and wondered if they would claim some sort of mechanical fault. If this were United, they could probably get away with it.

  * * *

  "Captain? You need to listen to this," said the navigator, connecting the feed from one of his radios to the Captain's console. The captain nodded, showing that he now had the voice in his headphones.

  "So that's the status, ladies and gentlemen. Posleen ships have been engaged by our space going fighters and armed frigates, earth is now on a landing watch, and you all are being diverted to the nearest airfield or port with a runway long enough to handle your specific aircraft.

  Ladies and gentlemen? It's just like 9/11 all over again. We took care of you then, and we'll take care of you now. ATC-Manitoba, out."

  "Shite," said the Captain, finally.

  The navigator reset the main console to their current ATC channel. After a moment, a voice came on line. "So now you know. This is Thompson MAF. As I call the roll, please respond with flight time remaining in minutes, based on fuel first, crew fatigue second. We'll get you down, just hold on. Right, American Air eleven-fife-fife?"

  "American Air eleven-fife-fife, Roger, Thompson, MAF ... um, say eighteen-five, I say again one-eight-five minutes, over."

  "Roger, American eleven-fiver-fife, I copy one-eight-five. British Airways nine-fife-two?"

  "British Air nine-five-two, Roger, two hundred minutes, over."

  "Roger, Brit nine-fiver-two, I copy two-zero-zero. Canadian Air sixteen -three-eight? ... "

  * * *

  When the announcement finally came, they told the truth, and that simple fact scared her more than if she had received an expected lie. Then the realization hit and she learned what fear was.

  Tom.

  * * *

  The air pressure differential popped their ears as they came down fast towards the runway. The Airbus specification stated that the shortest runway that it could land on was a good thirty percent longer than the military airfield that they were coming down towards. The pilot knew this, but he assumed that the people who wrote the manual had increased the actual value by a third to ensure that anyone trying to land on a marginally short runway would not be able to sue them afterwards.

  The pilot touched down by eyeball on the outer rim road, just before the runway proper began and immediately went to full flaps, air breaks, thrust arrestors, foot breaks and if he had had a sea anchor and a kitchen sink, he would have had the co-pilot deploy them also. As it was, it still looked like he was going to end up with his nose in the bushes. "Brace for impact," he said, calmly, judging that it was going to be close.

  Both pilots fought hard against their yokes, fighting to maintain their straight path along the tarmac, as the plane skidded and bucked along the ice cracked surface. "I think," said Emma, the co-pilot, in her roll as the eternal pessimist, "we aren't going to make it ... "

  "It's going to be close," Richard agreed.

  * * *

  "Brace for impact."

  Caithness grabbed her knees tighter and looked to the side to ensure that the kids were braced also. Allison appeared aware of what was going on around her, as tears appeared to be near to overflowing through her squeezed-shut eyelids. Edward, on the other hand, appeared to be "eating this shit up" as her husband used to say.

  Some day, preferably sooner rather than later, she planned on asking him just what the hell that meant.

  "Are you holding on tight, Edward?"

  "Yes, mum! This is the greatest! It's like a roller coaster!"

  "Make it stop, mummy?" said Allison, confirming Kay's original, almost instinctual call of the eight-year-olds probable reaction to the rough and bumpy landing.

  Looking the other way, Kay could see very little out the windows, but what she could see didn't look inviting. Straight out the window, across the taxi areas of the airfield, she could see several hardened hangers, of the kind she affiliated with fighter aircraft, and towards the front she could make out the occasional glimpse of pine tree forest.

  The forest, however, appeared to be getting closer quickly. Reflexively, her mind shied away from that fact, even as her arms clamped even more tightly around her legs. To her side, Allison started whimpering.

  As a passenger in a plane that looked like it was about to have a bad day, she needed to stay braced. As a mum, she wanted to reach over and hug her daughter and tell her it was going to be all right. She compromised by reaching out with one arm and patting Allison on the back. "It'll be okay, dear. Just hold on ... "

  She looked back out the window, and the forest, while still approaching, didn't appear to be approaching as inexorably as before. But the plane was still moving forward.

  Just then, the airframe jerked mightily as several of the tires blew underneath the weight of the plane. Coupled with the skidding and rough surfaces that they were being dragged over, the front gear finally gave in and snapped off, causing the plane to nose down onto the tarmac. No longer able to effectively steer the plane, the pilots braced their feet onto their consoles and held on as the combined friction of the nose against the runway and then the taxi way, along with all the other devices designed to stop the plane when on the ground, succeeded in bringing the plane to a halt as the nose cone passed beyond the airfield proper and ended up against the first couple of trees in the pine forest.

  "I think they've bent the plane, mum," said Edward, as loud cheering broke out amongst the passengers.

  * * *

  "I think you've bent the plane, boss," Emma said, up in the cockpit as she looked around, her eyes as big as dinner plates. She carefully reached down and started picking up the larger shards of Plexiglas off her lap. A six inch diameter pine branch had punched through the front canopy and between the pilot and the co-pilot, and would have decapitated the navigator had he not taken the foresight to pop the quick release on his five point harness and duck.

  Wild-eyes, Richard looked around also, the adrenaline still mostly in control of his actions. Finally, he unfroze and nodded, saying "Silly place to put a forest, if you ask me."

  "I don't mind the forest," said the navigator, picking himself up off the floor, "but I could do without one or two of the trees."

  "British Air nine-five-two heavy! Status, over!". The voice was a bit panicky, but understandable.

  "Roger, ground control. I believe we're going to need a tow truck." Behind them, the doors on the aircraft slammed open, and all the slide ramps were deploying as per specification. Warning tones and overhead idiot lights came on as the cabin crew began the mostly orderly evacuation of the plane. Looking up at the sound and seeing the blinking lights added "And maybe a few busses, too."

  "Roger, Bah-nine-five-two, glad to hear you are ok. Emergency Services are on the way. Be advised, Alaska one-oh-five-seven is landing behind you in approximately ninety seconds. Should I wave him off?"

  "How much of the runway does he need?"

  "Not as much. Certainly not the bit you are sitting on. But we're going to get
a couple dozers out there and a crew. We're going to need to drag you out of the way, since there are a couple more that'll probably need that space your sitting in. The crew will be cutting down the trees and extending the runway down at that end. Meanwhile, we've got a combat repair crew heading out to the touchdown end, too, and they're going to crash extend the runway another couple hundred or so meters in that direction!"

  "We certainly could have used it, control ... this is Bah-nine-five-two, we are off the air." Richard ripped off his earphones. "Right, crew. Everybody healthy? Speak up if not, else let's get out of here."

  * * *

  Caithness looked out at Churchill, Manitoba, as they approached it in the military supplied bus. They'd spent several hours at the military airfield while they waited for transport to the nearest town with a rail connection. Now that the landings had started, they couldn't risk putting a plane up to fly them anywhere, and so had to wait for the busses to arrive from Churchill to carry them back. The Canadian air force personnel had used the lifeboat drill, women-and-children-first, which meant that Kay and the kids were one of the first ones to board for the trip up to Churchill. Even then, they still had to wait for several busloads, as there were other women with even younger children than Edward.

  Eventually, however, they got their bags onto the accompanying pickup trucks and themselves into seats and now sat impatiently, waiting for them to get where they were going. They were still an hour out, and Kay wondered what they were going to do once they got there. So far, the Canadians had been well generous in getting them sorted and on their way. Kay wondered morosely if that was out of good heartedness, or simply because the sooner they got the damned foreigners out of their hair, the less they would have to feed them and otherwise put up with them.

  For the most part of the people they encountered, she assumed it was the first. For the occasional other, however, she was positive they fell in the second group.

  They had been promised transport on a passenger train heading south through The Pas to Winnipeg. From there, it was a little less certain, but they said that they could reasonably expect to find them a train heading west through Saskatoon to Edmonton. At that point, however, they would have to see.

  It would take them over a week to reach the US/Canada border, they would even have to walk several miles of the distance several times. The main routes were covered using trains or busses supplied by various governments, but getting from one mode of conveyance to another usually meant a trip across some town or other. And the towns were full of refugees who thought 'Someplace else' was better than wherever they'd been beforehand.

  With the town full of refugees, the locals were none to happy to be using their own soon-to-be rationed fuel to move them around. So rather than wait for the one or two electric powered vehicles to move them from the bus station to the train station in Churchill, Kay had just sold or traded what gear they no longer needed for stuff that the did, or for fresh vegetables and fruit, and walked. They saved a lot of time, and it would get them to the border that much quicker. What they were going to do once they got there, however, was still unknown.

  * * *

  Tom sat at the S3 NCOICs desk, reviewing plans with his AID, when Private Go stuck her head around the corner. At his enquiring look, she said "I'm back from the motor pool Sergeant Weaver. I've brought your set of keys back."

  Tom reached across the desk and grabbed the ring from the Private. "Thanks," he said, just as his AID gave a warning tone.

  "Priority Message from Brigade pending, Sergeant Weaver." Weaver looked at Go, who nodded and disappeared. He dropped the keys into his pocket, he'd lock them in the key case later.

  "Let's hear it, AID."

  "Five Posleen globes have just exited hyperspace in near-Earth orbit. TERDEF analysis calls for landings in approximately three hours."

  Tom stared at the AID as it sat, innocuously, on the desk. "Oh, shi ... " he muttered. "Anything else? Any idea where the landings will be?"

  "Negative info this time," replied the toneless voice.

  "Right." Tom stared around for a moment, then nodded. The curtain was going up, no time to stand around dally diddling yourself. He strode over to the doorway and stuck his head out into the common area.

  "This is it, folks. Landings warning coming in over the secure channel, expected landings in three hours. It's showtime. We should be rawhide in an hour. Sergeant Tkachenko, track down Birch, she's probably the only one who knows where the Three is." 'Rawhide' was the code word for pulling up tent stakes and getting out of dodge--it was the same word that the S3 section in Baumholder used. Who knew how many S3 sections in the world used that same word. All it took was one English speaking opfor commo interceptor, who had grown up watching TV westerns from the '50s and '60s to understand what the code word indicated.

  Luckily, Tom thought, the Posleen probably were not Clint Eastwood fans.

  "Can do, Sergeant Weaver" said Alla Tkachenko from her desk. "She's supposed to be up at the motor pool replacing the tires on the hum-vee. So I'll go look in her quarters, first. Winters, you head straight to the motor pool and get your hum-vee down here."

  Specialist Winters, the S3 NCOICs driver, jumped up saying "Roger that!" and headed out the door.

  "You do so know your people, Sergeant. Let me know if you have any trouble. If she's done have her bring the hum-vee down here, also. And the rest of you, consider this your deployment orders. All of you with your kit in the quarters, go get it and bring it back here. Let's get hot, ladies and gentlemen, let's get ever so effing hot!"

  "Do we know where, yet?" asked Captain Rundle, the assistant S3, coming through the doorway and sidestepping the rush of non-coms and specialists heading out to their quarters to pick up their kits.

  "Negative, Sir. Initial landing warning only."

  "Check. Keep us informed, will you? I'm off to the arms' room to check out the Three Shop's weapon case." The weapons' cases, sealed boxes that held up to ten assault rifles and as many handguns, as well as cleaning kits, holsters, magazines and other assorted related equipment, were stored ready to be moved to save time. Because they weighed over a hundred pounds, however, it took several people to move them when they were packed. "Send one of the hum-vees around and enough bodies to lift it once they're here."

  "I'm on that, Sir. Do you know where Major McKinney is?"

  "Negative, Sergeant. That information is on the strictly need-to-know list, and right now I don't think we need to know that."

  "You're three kinds of all right, Sir," said Tom. "Why are you still here, Private Go?"

  "My stuff's under this desk, Sergeant Weaver."

  "Check. Go with Captain Rundle, stand guard on the weapons once he's got them checked out. You okay with that, Sir?"

  "Check. The horses are here and it's time to dance, Private, so let's go, Go. I need to stop by the BOQ first to get my own kit, so let's shake a leg."

  "Yes, Sir. That joke's old, Sir," Go said as she moved to the doorway to follow the Captain out.

  Captain Rundle turned and looked at the private momentarily. "What joke, Private?"

  "Sorry, Sir, I thought your were making a joke about my name."

  "I never joke about people's names, Private. Weaver, have the team assemble in the yard with their equipment for a quick shakedown. And check on the busses."

  "Roger that, Sir," responded Tom, and once he was sure that the Captain was well and truly gone, he turned back to his desk. "AID? Status on transport to Objective Charon?"

  "Armor has priority on transport, Sergeant Weaver. The first busses should be arriving in fifteen minutes. Note, insufficient space for crew, staff and personal equipment in a single run. The S4 is working on prioritization."

  "And we'll let them. Let me know if the situation changes." Tom pulled his dog tags up over his head and grabbed the key that was with them. The key unlocked the side drawers, and then he quickly reached under the desk and pulled a lever to one side. When he pulled the middl
e drawer out, the entire drawer came out instead of the just the top three-quarters and the full front. He lifted out the junk and dropped it onto his desk, then lifted the false bottom out and grabbed the holstered M1911A1 Colt .45 ACP found therein. He strapped on the shoulder holster, then quickly verified that the weapon was loaded and that so were the several spare magazines.

  It would be awhile before the weapons' case got here. And besides, he always carried a backup.

  * * *

  "Sergeant Weaver? There is a situation developing at the arms' room."

  "A situation, AID? How so?"

  "Specialist Birch is trying to check out the Three Shop's weapons' case, using the authority of Major McKinney. I understand that Captain Rundle has not yet arrived there, and won't be there for at least another ten minutes."

  "That's odd. She's not normally on the access list. Can you access your sensors and find out where Tkachenko and Winters are?"

  "Tkachenko and Winters are on there way to the motor pool. They did not find Specialist Birch in her quarters."

  "Obviously, as she's now down in the basement of the headquarters barracks, trying to sign out a case load of assault rifles and handguns."

  "Sergeant Weaver? There is a tag on Birch's record, recorded by 1st SG Audobon. It says that she is a flight risk. She is also known to have consorted with organized gangs in Stockton, where she grew up, before joining the military. Based on that and other comments and records, I would recommend that she not be allowed access to the weapons."

  "Cor- effing- rect, AID. Warn the armory to not release the weapons. I'm heading down there."

  "Done, Sergeant."

  Tom grabbed his field jacket and put it on as he ran out the door, reviewing what he knew about Specialist Birch. She had been originally assigned to Delta company on arrival, had received two company grade article 15s for insubordination and was suspect in a rash of barracks rat robberies that they had unfortunately been unable to pin on her. Since moving to the S3 Shop to be the Three's driver, most of the problems had stopped. Tom had his suspicions as to why that was, but since what she was doing with the Three, it at least kept both of them out of his hair.