Outside Context Problem: Book 01 - Outside Context Problem

by Christopher Nuttall

  “What the hell are they carrying?” Someone asked. “Antimatter?”

  “Rubbish,” another pilot said. “Antimatter would have swatted us all out of the air.”

  “Can the chatter,” Will snapped. The entire battle had devolved into a high-tech dogfight, something that was supposed to be impossible. No one had told the aliens that. Their weapons were designed for dog-fighting at close range. “Cover each other and take them all down!”

  An alien craft swept into view and he depressed the trigger for the Raptor’s cannon, but the shells went wide, streaking past the target. The alien craft seemed to twist suddenly in the air and then it was coming right at him in a high-speed game of chicken. Will pulled his aircraft to one side as more energy bursts flashed past him, leaving the disappointed alien fighter to swoop around and try to fly right up his tail. Will was almost impressed. He considered himself the greatest fighter pilot in existence – a fairly common belief among fighter pilots – and the alien pilot had made him, coming within inches of blowing him out of the sky. He couldn’t even think about returning fire or even aiming at another target. The moment he took his mind off escape, he’d die.

  “I’ll cover you,” another pilot said. “Hang on…”

  Will saw what he had in mind and dived for the ocean. A moment later, the alien craft twisted, too late. The shockwave struck Will’s aircraft and for a terrifying moment he thought he was going to be slammed right into the water before he regained control to discover that he was flying on his own. The aliens were still pressing the offensive, but they hadn’t sent another of their craft after him. He pulled the Raptor up and used the moment to gain an overall picture of the battle. His situational awareness had been shot to hell by the alien craft.

  It wasn't good. Radar-guided missiles seemed to be the only advantage the human race had. Eleven alien craft had been destroyed, but seven Raptors had been blown out of the air…and only one pilot had managed to eject. Perhaps he’d be picked up by a SAR helicopter or the Coast Guard, yet if the aliens chose to engage non-military aircraft he might drown in the ocean before any rescuers could find him. The Dark Shadows had considered themselves the hottest pilots in the sky and yet they could barely hold their own.

  “Cannons are ineffective,” one of the pilots snapped. He sounded badly shaken. All pilots had bad moments in their careers, yet no one had faced such a battle since the Second World War. “I repeat; cannons are ineffective! I just shot my wad and the bastard didn’t even blink!”

  “I’m out of missiles,” another pilot snapped. He sounded on the verge of panic. “I need to return to base!”

  “Stay where you are,” Will ordered sharply. The F-22 Raptor had multiple modes, but they’d all been configured for air combat and carried the full complement of eight missiles, along with their cannons. If the aliens could evade the missiles – and it was clear that they’d been able to break the locks and escape – they might continue to harass the pilots until they’d used all of their missiles, and then moved in for the kill. “Cover your buddies!”

  An alien craft loomed up in front of him and he snapped a Sidewinder away on instinct. The alien craft twisted desperately, throwing itself through a series of flips that should have torn the craft apart, but it was too late. The Sidewinder struck the alien craft’s drive field – this time, Will saw the bubble clearly – and the alien craft exploded.

  “Shadow-Lead, this is Watchman,” the AWACS said. “We assess that you have additional enemy craft on approach vector.”

  Will swore as the data blinked up on his HUD. There were another twenty-five alien fighters bearing down on them. The Dark Shadows could fire off their remaining missiles and strike a target with each one without wiping out the alien force. The aliens would turn the battle into a turkey shoot, with the humans as the turkeys.

  “All right, it looks like we’re not welcome here any longer,” he said, lightly. There were other human squadrons closer in to possible targets. They’d be able to find help unless the aliens accelerated and caught up with them. The remaining alien craft in the first wave seemed to be backing off slightly, waiting for their comrades to catch up and finish the humans off. “Prepare to…”

  The skies were suddenly clear. “Sir, they’re gone!”

  Will stared down at his HUD. One moment, the alien fighters had been wiping the floor with the human defenders; the next, they’d broken off the engagement and vanished. It made sense a moment later. The aliens hadn’t headed out of the atmosphere, but west, heading towards the mainland. There were other fighter squadrons on defence duty closer in, but there was no reason to believe that they would fare any better than the Dark Shadows. The aliens were splitting up into smaller units now, curving their flight paths towards their targets, daring the human race to stop them. The Raptor had an impressive top speed even in horizontal flight, yet it wouldn’t be fast enough to catch up with the alien craft.

  He felt sweat pooling inside his helmet and cursed under his breath. They’d fought a bitter running battle against an unknown foe, and the best they had been able to do was hold their own. He twisted the Raptor around and the remaining pilots followed him, heading back to Langley. They might arrive in time to save something of their home base.

  ***

  “They just broke through the air defence fighters,” Lieutenant Rogers said. “They’re coming right at the mainland!”

  “I saw,” Colonel Mandell said. The alien paths were predictable now. They were targeting USAF bases all along the east coast. Washington DC was in their path and it looked as if the aliens were going to fly over the city. They wouldn’t enjoy the experience. The defenders had ringed the White House and the other government buildings with antiaircraft weapons. “Pass on a warning to their targets.”

  He checked the scopes, but it seemed as if they'd been lucky; the aliens weren’t coming for the AWACS. It was an odd oversight, one that puzzled him, yet maybe the aliens hadn’t recognised and understood the AWACS. It should have been easy to deduce from the radar and radio signals alone, but perhaps the aliens didn’t think that it was important. It wouldn’t last. Without the orbiting satellites, the USAF would be falling back on its communications aircraft and they’d become vital targets.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Rogers said, suddenly. “They’re heading right towards the Ford!

  “Shit,” Mandell said. The USN had stationed a carrier near Washington and the aliens had definitely recognised her for what she was. The Gerald R. Ford was one of the most powerful ships in the world, yet she had never truly been tested. The aliens were about to give her a baptism by fire. “Warn the Navy pukes that they’re about to have company.”

  He hesitated, looking down at the air defence aircraft scrambling to counter multiple inbound alien attacks. “And tell them that they’re on their own,” he added. “There’s nothing left to send.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  USS Gerald R. Ford, Atlantic Ocean

  Day 38

  “All hands, we have inbound multiple hostile aircraft. I repeat, we have inbound hostile aircraft!”

  Joe Buckley braced himself as the words echoed through the mighty carrier. He’d never expected to be onboard when the carrier came under attack and had been looking forward to going ashore and returning to his old haunts when the alien mothership had been detected. The thirty-seven year old reporter had been embedding with the United States Navy for years and had never seen an attack on his ship. By now, he was practically one of the crew, knowing the officers and men intimately and sharing their stories with the world.

  The Ford had been on a fireman deployment in the Mediterranean Sea and had been returning to its homeport in Virginia when the alien mothership had been detected. It had been a routine cruise – North African despots knew better than to challenge the United States and its mastery of the seas – and very little had happened of note, apart from a handful of exercises with the Israeli Air Force. Joe had covered the exercises from his position on the
carrier and debunked hundreds of myths spread by various governments that were unrelentingly hostile to both America and Israel. The World News Network had been pleased and he had been promised a more sedate posting next year, before the alien mothership had cast even the existence of next year into doubt. WNN had asked him to remain on the carrier even after it had been rapidly reassigned to defence duties and he’d accepted. Surely, he’d reasoned, the aliens hadn’t come so far to start a fight. Looking down at the display, he was starting to suspect that he’d been catastrophically wrong.

  He looked over at the CAG, who was talking quietly to Admiral Morrigan. Morrigan had been the commander of the Ford’s task force – outside movies, no American carrier went anywhere without a heavy escort of smaller ships and submarines – for as long as Joe had been embedded on the ship. A sixty-year-old veteran of Iraq and several near-skirmishes with the Chinese, Morrigan seemed permanently calm, as if he’d seen it all before. The Ford had been ‘sunk’ in several exercises after the point defence had been overwhelmed and Morrigan, instead of tearing the offender a new asshole, had calmly dissected the problem and ordered fixes. The most serious threat the carrier faced - an attack by Chinese or Russian-built cruise missiles, some of which might carry a nuclear warhead – could be countered, if the defences all worked together. Morrigan had pioneered cooperative exercises that had prepared the carrier’s task force for war. They’d planned for Chinese aircraft, Russian submarines and Iranian suicide boats. Joe doubted that any of them had prepared for alien attack.

  “We’re shifting the CAP to intercept the incoming alien craft,” Lieutenant Ho said. Ho was young enough to be Joe’s son – or at least he looked young enough to be Joe’s son – and was his official minder. Joe had had some bad minders in his early days, before President Chalk had encouraged the military to cultivate good reporters and discourage bad ones – although the training period did tend to discourage those without the stamina to sit it out – and Ho wasn't such a bad type. It helped that Joe had a generally good reputation. Men and women talked to him. There were reporters who couldn’t have gotten a friendly reception even if they were buying the booze. “You did read the warning papers?”

  Joe almost laughed at Ho’s expression. The young Vietnamese-American looked as if he was out of his depth, terrified of getting even a single thing wrong. The incoming alien attack, after having skirmished with the Raptors and inflicted heavy losses, had concentrated more than a few minds. The operators sitting at their consoles had something to focus on, but Ho had nothing, apart from Joe. The warning papers had been read and signed long ago – basically, Joe had agreed to publish nothing without the Admiral’s consent and the Admiral had agreed not to be too harsh about deciding what was public interest and what was a dangerous piece of news – and besides, Joe’s ass was on the line too. The Ford not only held thousands of men and women, but a single reporter as well…and the aliens might not recognise his neutrality. Actually, he wasn't neutral at all. The United States had its flaws – Joe wasn't blind to them – yet he knew the enemies of his country and how even the ‘good’ ones were barbarians. He would have taken an American soldier over a hundred enemies any day.

  “Of course,” he said, seriously considering telling Ho to sit down. His career in public information had hardly prepared him for enemy attack. “Besides, what am I going to send back today?”

  He ignored his minder’s answer and concentrated on the big display. It changed so fast that he could barely follow it, even after watching the exercises against simulated cruise missiles. The cruise missiles had bored in towards the carrier without flinching, moving in a straight line; the alien craft seemed to be manoeuvring towards the carrier, as if they expected to be intercepted by a formidable layer of point defence. They weren't far wrong. The USN had assembled thirty-one of its most modern ships to defend the carrier and its brood – any alien craft intent on challenging the Ford would have to blow through a point defence network that was the most advanced in the world. The defences around Washington itself, Joe had been told, were less capable than a USN defence network.

  “They’re engaging the CAP aircraft,” one of the operators snapped. “They’re inflicting heavy losses.”

  Joe winced. The carrier’s massive air wing included both F-35 Lightning II Joint Strike Fighters and F/A-18E/F Super Hornets, among the most powerful and deadly fighter aircraft in the world. The carrier had also deployed its entire complement of tankers and AWACS aircraft, linking the latter into NORAD’s massive electronic fence surrounding the continental United States. It had fascinated him when he’d first boarded the carrier and learned that the President, in a bunker under the White House or at an undisclosed location, could see through the carrier’s systems, even though he had understood that some Presidents had used it to micromanage even basic military operations. Joe himself had written several articles critical of the last President’s habit of micromanaging and prided himself on the thought that he might have swung a few votes. He should have been writing demands for more air defence aircraft instead. The exact figures were heavily restricted and classified, but it didn’t take a genius to guess that however many aircraft America was deploying, there wouldn’t be any replacements in the time between engaging the alien craft and the mothership entering orbit.

  “This is Eagle-Lead,” a voice said, suddenly. Joe recognised the voice, a blonde female pilot leggy enough to be a supermodel. She’d been aggressive as hell when he’d interviewed her, claiming that it was an advantage for a fighter pilot – and a woman on a carrier mainly staffed with horny men. “The bandits are breaking through. I say again, the bandits are breaking through! They’ve shot down nineteen of our aircraft and….”

  Her voice vanished in a sudden burst of static. “Eagle-Lead is down,” a voice said. He sounded rather shocked. Joe realised that the aircraft had been destroyed and there wouldn’t have been time to eject. Eagle-Lead – who’d been called Barbie when she’d been off-duty – was dead. No one had believed that she could die. “Eagle-Lead is down.”

  “All hands, prepare for imminent air attack,” the Captain’s voice said. Joe felt his chest clench, feeling as useless as Lieutenant Ho. All around him, men and women were responding to the crisis facing their ship, but he could do nothing, apart from observe. He couldn’t even record the battle for posterity. He’d intended to file a story without actually becoming the story. “Incoming hostile targets.”

  “Clear all ships to open fire in accordance with the firing plans,” Admiral Morrison said. If he mourned the loss of Eagle-Lead and twenty other pilots, he didn’t show it. Joe looked up at the display and felt a chill running down his spine. The alien craft had left the remainder of the first CAP flight eating their dust and were rocketing towards the second flight – and the carrier below. “They may engage at will.”

  Joe watched grimly as the battle unfolded. The alien craft were losing height rapidly, practically skimming the surface of the sea as they closed in on their targets. The escorts were rapidly redeploying themselves to face the incoming threat, but everyone knew that the carrier itself wasn't an easy target to move. The ship was vast – it was larger than many towns – and altering course wasn't easy. The aliens could hardy fail to hit it if they closed to weapons range – whatever their weapons range actually was – and opened fire.

  “Lake Erie is engaging the enemy,” an operator said. “The remaining escorts are opening fire now.”

  The alien craft ducked and weaved, concentrating desperately on evading the missiles launched by the cruisers, while returning fire with their own weapons. Whatever they were shooting hardly showed up on the systems, apart from damage inflicted on the escorts as the aliens punched their way through. It didn’t look to Joe’s inexperienced eye if they were firing missiles, yet there was no way to know what they were firing. The babble from the operators as they struggled desperately to defend their ship – the carrier’s own point defence weapons, including a laser system designed to s
erve as the last line of defence, were engaging the enemy now – rose and fell, but none of it was informative. He looked over towards a live feed from a camera mounted on the carrier’s superstructure and saw a handful of weirdly shaped aircraft dancing around one of the Ford’s smaller escorts. The escort was clearly ablaze, but still fighting…

  The USS Winston S. Churchill blew up.

  Joe stared at it in numb disbelief. The USN hadn’t lost a ship since…he couldn’t remember, but it had been decades ago. The USN’s modern wars had all been against enemies who lacked real maritime forces – unlike the British, who’d waged war against Argentina over the Falklands and lost several ships – and more ships had been lost to the breakers than enemy action. Ships had struck mines in the first Gulf War, yet none of them had actually been lost…the camera moved to another ship, still desperately fighting as the aliens pounded her with their strange weapons. It was a battle that could only have one ending. He saw a Super Hornet duck into view, launching a missile towards an alien craft and blowing it out of the air, seconds before a hail of alien fire destroyed both the aircraft and the escort it was trying to save.

  “Eagle-Eye is down,” another operator said. Joe barely comprehended his words. Eagle-Eye was – had been - one of the advanced E-2 Hawkeye AWACS aircraft. He'd flown in them several times to see how the crew reacted to different situations, yet he’d always believed that they were kept safely out of enemy range. The entire situation was so horrific that it was almost surreal. He would have pinched himself if he hadn’t had Lieutenant Ho watching him with admiring eyes. Joe wanted to snap at him – what was he doing that was so heroic? He was just watching disaster unfolding in front of him. “They’re closing in…”

  “All hands, brace for impact,” the Captain’s voice snapped. “Brace for…”

  A series of dull thumps echoed through the ship. It seemed comparatively minor at first, until a second series seemed to shake the entire hull. Joe felt the deck shift under his feet, sending him crashing to the deck. Alarms were ringing everywhere, warning him that the carrier was in dire trouble, yet somehow his mind refused to believe it. The carrier had laughed with scorn at waves and enemy attack. It couldn’t be damaged by a handful of alien aircraft.