Outside Context Problem: Book 01 - Outside Context Problem

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Check the systems,” he ordered, quietly. There was no need to whisper, but somehow he couldn’t help it. “Get ready to bring them all up as soon as we get the alert.”

  The problem with radar, as all operators were warned on their first day of training, was that it had a limited range. The signal would be fired from the antenna, hit the target and bounce back, yet if the target was too far away, the signal would fade away before it reached the sender. Worse, any passive receptor could pick up a radar signal, ensuring that the target would know that it had been targeted. If a given radar range was written as X, the distance in which a radar system could be detected was 2X, allowing an enemy a chance to skirt his way around the radar or, alternatively, target it before the defenders knew that they were under attack. The USAF deployed HARM missiles to track down and destroy any enemy radar system and the aliens seemed to have their own version, a strange weapon that somehow surpressed radar systems across the United States. They'd also brought down several AWACS aircraft, forcing the USAF to add additional aircraft to their escorts, or pull them completely out of the targeted area. The USAF was slowly being worn down to a nub.

  “Ready, sir,” the operator said.

  Andrew nodded. Now, all they could do was wait.

  ***

  “Incoming enemy fighters,” the AWACS said. “Stand by to repel attack.”

  Captain Will Jacob braced himself as the alien fighters materialised on his HUB, shedding speed as they prepared to engage the Dark Shadows, such as they were. The squadron had absorbed survivors from other squadrons and lost several experienced officers to command other units. The smoothly-functioning machine he'd built up over the years was being ground away by the aliens, although he'd been lucky enough to keep the squadron as Raptors only. He’d seen other squadrons that were a crazed mixture of Raptors, Super Hornets, Falcons and Tomcats; the latter pulled out of the junkyard and refurbished. The pilot shortage was affecting everyone. He’d heard that every reservist had been called back into service, along with people who’d last flown an aircraft during Vietnam. It sounded insane to him, but the entire world had gone insane. In the last ten days, he’d flown more than he'd ever flown in his life, seen friends – almost family – get blown out of the air and he’d come closer to dying than he'd ever thought possible.

  Langley Air Force Base no longer existed. The aliens had systematically overflown the base and hammered it into the ground. Their weapons had breached the massive fuel bunkers under the airbase and sent most of the base up in a massive fireball. The remainder had been wrecked beyond repair. They’d even destroyed the B-52G Stratofortress that had been on display, an aircraft well beyond refurbishment, just because they could. The melted wreckage of the plane had been strewn across the entire airbase. A handful of MANPAD teams waited in case the aliens intended to have another go at the base, even though it would be pointless, but the remaining survivors had been redeployed to other bases. Their services were required elsewhere.

  The aliens had learned and adapted their tactics as well. The USAF had learned not to fire missiles at them from long range – the aliens had time to accelerate and simply outrun the missiles – but the aliens had been pressing them hard. Will still remembered the four Raptors that had fired off all their missiles and had tried to return to their base…and had been hunted down and destroyed by the aliens, who had known that the Raptors were defenceless. Now, every aircraft had to retain at least one missile for personal defence and any aircraft returning to base had to be escorted, which put yet another strain on the defences. Will hadn’t had enough sleep since the war began and knew that others had been far less lucky. The CO had seriously considered booking them hotel rooms so they could sleep safely well away from the base.

  “Fire at will,” he ordered, as seventeen alien craft swooped into view. “Fox-three.”

  There were no jokes now, no suggestions that surely he didn’t mean they were to fire at him, just grim determination. The battles were wearing away at the squadron’s morale as much as their aircraft – the number of aircraft going unserviceable was rising sharply – and their humour was gone. The Raptor jerked as he launched a missile right towards the lead alien craft and had the satisfaction of seeing the bastard twisting, trying to run, before a hail of flickering colour flashed past his cockpit. The alien shooting hadn’t improved, thank God, but they hardly needed to improve. Their weapons filled the air with lethal bolts of plasma. Back in Iraq, soldiers had joked that the safest man in the platoon was the man the enemy were shooting at, but the joke wasn't so funny now. He’d seen several pilots die because they’d flown right into an alien plasma bolt, their aircraft blown apart before they could eject. Only a handful of pilots had survived losing their aircraft in this war. The remainder had gone down with their planes.

  Another alien craft appeared in front of him and he launched a Sidewinder at it, hitting the alien craft before it could escape. The explosion shook the Raptor badly, saving his life as another alien craft poured fire towards his tail. He yanked the Raptor back, trying to evade before his luck finally ran out, and breathed a sigh of relief as one of his wingmates put a missile into his tormentor. It didn’t seem fair, somehow. Even when the alien craft were destroyed they were still hazardous. He launched another missile at an alien craft and saw it twist away, the missile going wide and harmlessly flying off without reacquiring the target. He bit off a curse. That had been happening more and more lately and the best theory anyone had been able to come up with was that the aliens had been improving their countermeasures to evade the missiles.

  He broke through into clear space and took a moment to survey the battle. Like so many encounters with the aliens, it had devolved into a high-tech dogfight, with both sides taking roughly equal losses. It was a game of attrition that the aliens played to win. Their weapons simply gave them more staying power than the Americans, who had to fall back when they ran low on ammunition, often pressured by the aliens, who were intent on cutting down American numbers as much as possible. Their attacks just kept coming and coming. For the first time in his life, Will felt a certain measure of sympathy for the Iraqis and everyone else who had faced the USAF. The experience of facing a vastly superior foe was humbling.

  “Ah, Shadow-Lead,” the AWACS said. “We assess that you have another twenty contacts bearing down on you.”

  Will smiled. The alien tactical manual seemed to allow them to lure the USAF into a dogfight and then swamp the American aircraft with their reserves. It had cost hundreds of lives in the opening days of the war, but now perhaps it could be turned against them. The aliens wouldn’t hesitate to give chase if they felt there was a chance to take down the remainder of the Dark Shadows.

  He launched a missile at an imprudent alien craft that had swooped up to challenge him, had the satisfaction of seeing it explode, then keyed his radio. “All Shadows, run,” he ordered. He’d tried to put a hint of panic into his voice, but he’d failed. Hopefully the aliens wouldn’t know the difference between a panicking human and a human pretending to panic. “Run for your lives!

  The Raptors twisted, triggered their afterburners, and fled. Will scowled at the thought of being the first USAF Squadron Leader to lead a headlong flight, even though he knew it was only meant to look like cowardliness in the face of the enemy; he’d never live it down. The USAF would never let him forget it, ruse of war or no.

  “Flee, flee,” another pilot called. Will thought that he was hamming it up too much, but the aliens probably wouldn’t notice. “They’re coming!”

  The aliens didn’t hesitate. They wheeled around and gave chase at supersonic speed.

  ***

  “They’re coming,” Andrew said. The timing had to be just right. The alien craft were catching up with the fleeing Raptors, yet if they had even a moment’s warning they could put hundreds of kilometres between them and the trap. “Get ready to deploy on my command.”

  The live feed from the AWACS gave them all the targeting dat
a they needed. The aliens probably intended to go after the AWACS next, even though it was protected by thirty jet fighters and orbiting an area covered with surface-to-air missile launchers. They might have been alien, but their tactics were understandable. Their craft were battering down the United States and its ability to coordinate its defences. If all of the radars were taken down, the aliens would be able to roam at will and land wherever they pleased. And, when the mothership arrived, they would be able to begin colonisation.

  He watched as two of the alien craft broke off, leaving over thirty in hot pursuit. There was no reason why the alien craft seemed to have departed, but it hardly mattered. If they’d scented the trap, they would have all scattered, or fled at high speed. Instead, they were coming right into the trap, fat and happy. He wondered, vaguely, if the aliens had the concept of aces and if the pilots flying those craft intended to win their spurs. They were taking a hellish risk to take down the Raptors, even though it did make sense. They thought that the Raptors were no longer armed and therefore could be wiped out without risk.

  “They will enter engagement range in thirty seconds,” the operator said. “All systems are ready to go.”

  Andrew smiled. “Trigger the engagement sequence,” he ordered. “Fire at will.”

  He glanced out towards one of the haystacks, in time to see it rotate and reveal four heavy missile boxes mounted on a truck. A moment later, there was a flash of fire and the first missile was launched upward, right into the teeth of the alien craft. There was no longer any point in hiding and every launcher was spitting missiles upwards, striking the alien craft before they had a chance to either respond or escape. A thunderous explosion echoed out over the noise of the missiles being launched, revealing that at least one of the missiles had struck its target. He looked back down at the display from the AWACS and saw that at least a dozen alien craft had vanished. Two more were clearly falling out of the sky, heading down for a crash-landing; the remainder seemed confused, almost hesitant. The missile launchers kept firing, emptying themselves even as the aliens started to return fire.

  “Sir, run,” the operator snapped. Andrew dived out of the command post and ran, seconds before a hail of alien plasma bolts blew it to pieces. It had either been a lucky shot or the aliens had some kind of advanced detection system, for the command post hadn’t been emitting anything to mark its nature. The ground shook violently as one of the alien craft came down hard, exploding on the ground and sending a massive fireball rising up into the sky. The remaining alien craft were pounding the ground, tracking down all the puny humans who had dared to challenge them…

  “Stay down,” he snapped, as the operator made to sneak away. Their only hope now was to stay down and hope that the aliens continued to ignore them, even though they acted pissed. They had already destroyed all the launchers and their crews, unless they’d managed to get to safety as well. “Stay…”

  An instant later, a green-blue bolt of light blew them both to atoms.

  ***

  “Turn around,” Will ordered. The Raptor seemed to quail under the strain, but the aircraft managed to come around in the tightest turn it could, aiming right at the remaining alien craft. They’d shed their speed completely as they destroyed the ground-based missile launchers, their fury marking the ground perfectly. They'd taken heavy losses as well. The ground-based launchers had shot down over twenty-four craft after they flew right into the trap. No matter how inhuman they were, that had to sting. “Fire at will.”

  He launched a Sidewinder towards the nearest alien craft, which vanished. A moment later, the skies were clear of anything but human aircraft. His HUD, showing the feed from the AWACS, revealed that the aliens had taken off at speeds of over Mach Nine, despite the risks of flying so fast over human territory. For the first time in the war, they’d suffered a very definite defeat. Their humiliation might even convince them that humanity was too dangerous to fight. They might even come to terms. Will and the remainder of the USAF would quite happily have traded the Middle East and Africa for alien technology. Let the aliens worry about the population. There was very little sympathy left in America for the inhabitants of the Middle East.

  “I think we got them,” one of the pilots observed.

  “No shit,” another agreed. “How mad do you think they’ll be after that?”

  “Mad enough to nuke us,” another said, sourly. Will winced at the mixture of bitterness and tiredness in his tone. They all needed hours of sleep and they weren't going to get it. There just weren't enough pilots, or planes, or airbases. “There’s no reason why those damn flying saucers can’t carry nukes. What happens if they blow up a city or two?”

  “They wouldn’t do that,” a fourth pilot said. Will was vaguely amused to note that no one had protested on the grounds that nukes were evil. The USAF fighter pilots knew better. Besides, the aliens might not share the human taboo on using nukes. “We’d nuke them back, surely.”

  “Nuke where,” the third asked. “We can’t hit their homeworld from here, can we?”

  There was a long pause, broken finally by the first pilot. “How many did we lose?”

  Will nodded, silently. Seven more Raptors had been lost, with three more unarmed and needing escort back to Andrews Air Force Base. If the aliens jumped them again, the results would not be pleasant. The President’s tacit admittance that the United States might face a ground invasion was worrying. He knew what it meant. No matter how many alien craft they brought down, the USAF was coming to the end of its tether. USN and Marine Air had been pressed into service, along with the Air National Guard, but it might not be enough. The meaning was all too clear.

  The United States was losing the war.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Schriever Air Force Base, USA

  Day 50

  Master Sergeant George Grosskopf braced himself as the klaxons sounded, warning of yet another incoming alien raid. Schriever Air Force Base had come under attack repeatedly since the war had begun, with alien craft blasting through the defending jets and strafing the ground, reducing several buildings to rubble. A handful of dummy aircraft had drawn fire and blown up with satisfactory explosions, but the aliens had returned time and time again, steadily wearing down the defenders. Nearby Peterson Air Force Base had come under attack as well – it had been rapidly opened for defence duties and played host to several squadrons of fighters – but Schriever seemed to have been targeted for particular malice. The daily briefing claimed that it was because of Schriever’s vital role in monitoring near-space and tracking alien attacks, but George suspected – and knew that others shared the same suspicion – that the real reason was because the alien craft had crash-landed near the base. If the aliens believed that it had been shot down, they might be out for revenge.

  He watched, his face expressionless, as a line of soldiers carrying MANPAD weapons took up positions around the base, followed by a pair of mobile missile launchers. Schriever might have had an important role to play, but it wasn't as important as the fighter bases and units that had been rapidly reassigned to cover those bases. The USAF had managed to hurt the aliens – the daily briefings were constantly updated with known alien losses – yet the aliens just kept coming. Nothing seemed to deter them for long. The more damage they did to the USAF and its ability to defend America, the more they widened their targeting list. George had heard from his sister and her husband in Alabama and she’d told him that they’d had repeated power outages as alien attacks took out transformers and power stations. They didn’t go after nuclear plants – thank God – but everything else seemed to be fair game. That had occurred to others as well and there’d been a mass exodus from anywhere under a dam. An alien attack that took out a dam could cause thousands of civilian deaths.

  The alien craft made no noise as they swooped down, but he heard the sonic booms from fighter jets fighting a running battle over Colorado. Their presence increased the risk of a friendly fire incident, with the ground-based missil
es locking onto American fighters instead of alien craft, but the senior officers believed that allowing the aliens a chance to attack unmolested increased the chances of them learning to shoot straight. It was humiliating to admit that the only reason hundreds of bases hadn’t suffered worse damage was that the aliens had lousy targeting, yet George had to admit that it didn’t seem to matter. The aliens could spray and pray all they liked. They had practically unlimited firepower to expend on their targets. The American fighters were limited to as many missiles as they could pack on their wings.

  He winced as the missile launchers starting firing, throwing a hail of guided and unguided rockets into the air. One of the brighter sparks in the USAF had come up with the idea of using unguided rockets for both ground and air-based defences, fitting out the older fighters with missile pods that were normally designed for hitting targets on the ground. It had given the aliens some unpleasant surprises until they’d figured out that the rockets weren't actually guided and could be evaded easily, yet they still risked losing craft to the aerial version of Close Quarter Battle. George hoped that the idea of falling to such a primitive weapon annoyed them. They were pounding the USAF into the ground.

  The base shook as explosions billowed up at the other side of the complex. The aliens were bombarding almost at random, yet there was a method to their madness. Even a hole in the ground in the wrong place could disrupt repair work and make putting the base back online difficult. Worse, Schriever wasn't a fighter base with massive runways that could easily be filled in, but a base equipped with billions of dollars worth of advanced radars and sensor systems. A single hit in the wrong place could cripple the base. It was ironic, but the aliens had actually reduced Schriever’s workload when they’d taken out the satellites, although after they’d devastated Antarctica the USAF had gained access to foreign satellites. George didn’t expect that to last for long – when the aliens caught on, they’d take down all human satellites – but for the moment it was a lifesaver. The USAF could use the satellites to coordinate its defences.