SECTOR 64: Ambush (3 page)

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 already 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."

"That's two less Surface-to-Air Missile launchers to dodge. I wish the Pakistani's would stop this crap from crossing the—" Captain Allison's radio transmission cut out mid-sentence as a stream of tracers sliced through the darkness directly in front of the two aircraft.

"Break left!" Jake screamed.

With the bright orange tracers slicing between the two fighters, Jake banked his fighter hard right, narrowly avoiding the wall of lead.

"Crap! That was close," Jake said. "Must have been a Zeus." It was the common nickname for Russia's deadly four-barreled ZSU 23-4 anti-aircraft gun.
Good thing he missed. That rate of fire with high explosive shells…
The thought sent an involuntary shudder down Jake's spine.

"I'm hit, I'm hit!" Richard screamed over the radio.

"Oh shit!" Jake said. He toggled his radio. "Gunslinger Two-Six, how bad are you hit? Is it flyable, over?"

No reply.

"Gunslinger Two-Six, Richard, what is your situa—" a bright explosion flashed from the direction Richard had turned. To his relief, Jake saw the silhouette of a parachute canopy briefly outlined by the light of the exploding fighter jet.

Rolling his aircraft to bring weapons on the ZSU, Jake jumped into the job of protecting his wingman.

Another burst of fire shredded the night. Like flaming orange basketballs, a new volley of explosive twenty-three millimeter shells rose from the desert floor, blindly seeking out his aircraft. Apparently, the weapon's operator knew not to turn on his radar. That mistake would attract Jake's HARM radar seeking missile. Still, his initial success against Richard's aircraft had made the enemy gunner overconfident. His odds of repeating the original feat were nil. Firing again into the screaming darkness merely supplied Jake with a bright orange dotted line pointing to the source of his friend's demise.

His last Maverick missile locked onto the anti-aircraft gun's infrared silhouette. Lifting the guard, Jake fingered the missile launch trigger. "Bye, bye." With a pull, he launched the missile. It rapidly accelerated toward, and then destroyed the ZSU in a brilliant explosion, briefly bringing daylight to another small patch of desert.

"Good shooting, Gunslinger One-Three," Jake heard over the emergency frequency.

He breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his downed wingman's voice. "Keep your transmissions to a minimum, Two-Six. After all my hard work, I don't want a load of artillery raining down on you. What's your condition?"

"I'll live, but this is Indian country, so hurry with the cavalry already," Richard said. Apprehension seeped through his humorous façade.

***

Jake heard an electronic click as the inane hold music ended. "How the hell are you, buddy?" Richard asked.

Leaning against the bar top separating the apartment's kitchen from its dining room, Jake looked at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I've been better. Sorry I haven't called, things have been … crazy here. How's the leg?"

"It's better. As a matter of fact, I just returned to flight status."

"Listen, Richard, I've got—"

Not pausing to let Jake finish, Richard kept speaking. "In the meantime, I've been assigned to a special unit in the Pentagon. Actually, that's why I'm calling."

"I'm sorry, Richard, I have something going on here. As much as I'd love to catch up—"

"I understand," he interrupted again. "I've been watching your situation develop. We need to talk."

"Richard … wait, what do you mean? What do you know?" Jake asked, confused.

"I'd rather not discuss it over the—"

Jake's frustration boiled over. "Damn it, Richard, nobody wants to discuss this thing. Every time I try to bring up details, they cut me off. I haven't been able to tell anyone what really happened!" Lowering his voice, he looked toward the bedroom. "I haven't even told Sandy."

Richard ignored Jake's rant. "You're meeting me in DC tonight."

What the hell? How can Richard be involved in this?
After an extended pause, Jake said, "Okay."

"I'll tell you more tonight. You're booked on a noon flight out of McCarran. An e-ticket is waiting for you at the United counter."

"Okay, Richard," Jake said. His mind reeled. "I'll … see you tonight."

"Good, tell the lovely and talented Captain Fitzpatrick hello for me. And, tell her she's still the second best fighter pilot I know."

"You bet," Jake said. He grinned in spite of the confusion. "It's quite chivalrous of you to place yourself third."

"In your dreams, buddy," Richard said through a laugh.

Sandy woke to the sound of Jake's voice in the living room. Heard from across the apartment and spoken in subdued tones, the words were indecipherable. Near the end, his voice rose, and she even heard laughter. The conversation had ended before she deduced Richard, their flight school classmate, had been on the other end of the line.

Jake was so distracted when he returned to the room, he didn't notice she was awake.

Sandy studied his face. Gone were last night's uncharacteristic stress-lines and baggy eyes. Either a night's rest or news from Richard had washed it away. However, she saw something new in his face, an underlying look of confusion.

He climbed back under the covers.

"Who was that?" she asked.