SECTOR 64: Ambush (33 page)

"Take the flight controller," Richard said, stepping to the display.

Jake moved to the control panel. After evaluating the relative position of the enemy and Argonian ships, he said, "I'm going to park us south and well above the enemy formation. That'll keep us out of the way and out of their weapon's range."

"Sounds good," Richard said as he studied the holographic display. "Plus, that'll give us a good perspective on the battle."

"I'm sure one is coming," Victor said.

Jake nodded, wondering why it hadn't already started. Toggling the comm panel, he called, "Vampire Six, this is Turtle One, over."

Richard manipulated the display, positioning a hologram of the largest Argonian ship next to that of an enemy ship.

Jake marveled at its apparent size. It dwarfed the alien's city-sized asteroidal vessel.

"Oh my god," Vic said, his jaw hanging open in unbridled amazement. "They're beautiful … and
huge
!"

"It is," Richard agreed. A look of wonder temporarily displaced his ever-present sardonic smirk.

Colonel Newcastle's reply echoed through the ship. "Turtle One, this is Vampire Six. Got you loud and clear. My holographic display shows the enemy forming on a smaller ship. We're maneuvering to press the attack."

"Negative, Vampire Six. You need to stand-off," Jake said.

"No, Captain. Timing is of the essence. We need to attack before they can redeploy their weapons," Colonel Newcastle replied, misinterpreting Jake's concern. "With the speed of their attacks and subsequent movements, we've only managed to take out the one ship we killed over the Chesapeake. From the timing of their attacks, we've determined they have a forty-five minute recharge time."

"It's not the weapon, sir. Our display is showing a new fleet."

A long pause followed Jake's report. Finally, the colonel said, "I don't see it, but my hologram is a reverse engineered copy of yours. It doesn't have the range of the Argonian sensors. What is it displaying?" Newcastle asked, then added, "Please tell me they're green."

Colonel Newcastle's comments answered one question. Jake looked at Richard. "Reverse engineered? Guess we know where they came from, then."

Richard nodded, "Apparently, we weren't the lowest level in the hangar."

Jake keyed the mic. "Yessir, very green. It's an Argonian fleet."

"Hot damn! The cavalry is coming," replied the colonel, excitement breaking through his battle-weary tone.

"They're advancing on the alien fleet," Jake said. Watching Richard manipulate the hologram, he added, "And, you're right about the enemy ships, sir. They are regrouping around a smaller ship."

Jake refocused on the events unfolding outside. Something was raising alarms in his mind. "Hey, Richard, I'm guessing they've never brought a force of this size to Earth space."

"No, never. They have very strict noninterference rules." Pointing at the display, he added, "A fleet that size doesn't go unnoticed."

"That's what I thought. They must've received intel these aliens were coming. Right?"

"I'd say that's a safe assumption. I just wish they would have gotten here a few hours sooner."

"No shit," Victor said.

Jake nodded and pointed at the enemy formation. "So, the weapon these assholes attacked us with can't be new to them?"

"No. The Argonians are the most technologically advanced race in the galaxy."

Jake persisted. "By my count, that's two major assumptions we've made in the last sixty seconds. Normally, I don't like making
one
."

Richard raised his hands in surrender and returned to the console. "You're right. I'll try to raise them."

Activating a new section of the panel, he spoke in the Argonian tongue. "To the Galactic Defense Forces in Earth space, this is United States Air Force Captain Richard Allison, over."

They stared at the silent radio.

"Argonian fleet entering Earth space, this is Captain Allison of the US Air Force. Please come in, over."

Still no reply.

"GDF Fleet this is—"

"Captain Allison," interrupted an annoyed Argonian voice. "This is the Executive Officer of the
Galactic Guardian
. As you may have noticed, we are a little busy at the moment. Please clear this frequency."

"Roger, Galactic Guardian
.
I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the enemy's weapon—"

"Captain!" the snide officer said, cutting him off again. "I assure you, we are fully capable of dealing with these Zoxyth dreadnoughts. Now please clear this frequency."

Activating the radio transmitter, Richard growled through clenched teeth, "Roger. Captain Allison, out." Releasing the key, he added, "Asshole!"

Amazed at the Argonian's response, Jake shook his head. "Some things never change."

"Guess there are assholes in the future too," Vic said, shaking his head.

"Well, now we know the name of those fuckers," Jake said as he pointed at the enemy fleet.

"Speaking of," Richard said, walking back to the display. "Let's see what these
Zoxyth
are up to." He magnified the enemy formation. The small ship at its center grew to fill the display. They all took a shocked backward step. In spite of the extensive blast damage, the evil visage was easily recognizable. Now twisted and partially melted, the human skull still sat in the alien's clenched teeth.

Jake snapped from his shocked trance, quickly toggling the radio. "Vampire Six, it looks like part of the ship you attacked over the Chesapeake survived."

"Part of it?" the colonel asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir. It's the section we've been calling the bridge. The part carved into an alien head somehow survived, and now, it's back in space."

After a brief pause, Newcastle said, "Son of a bitch! All right, Captain Giard. Thanks for the info. General Tannehill and I thought it was the bridge too, and considering it attacked the US capitol, I believe that was their command ship."

"Roger, sir," Jake said. "The way the ships are circling the wagons, it looks like they're trying to protect it."

"So, what's the cavalry up to?" Colonel Newcastle asked.

Richard zoomed out the display. "Look at that!"

A swarm of small ships streamed from the largest of the Argonian ships, their maneuvering patterns unmistakable.

Victor said, "Those are fighters!"

Richard nodded with an enthusiastic grin. "First time I've seen them."

Jake knew he should be excited as well. However, something still gnawed at him. Something didn't add up.

Richard toggled the comm panel. After informing Newcastle of their conversation with the GDF executive officer, he added, "The
Galactic Guardian
just deployed its fighters. It looks like they're moving toward the Zoxyth dreadnoughts."

"Good copy, Turtle One. I can see part of their formation at the edge of my hologram. We just parked a couple hundred miles east. I have you on my display as well. Looks like you're in a good spot. Keep me updated. Vampire Six, out."

"Wilco, Six. Turtle One, out."

Jake watched the swarming fighters divide into individual groups. Pointing into the display, he said. "They're splitting into attack wings."

Richard and Vic nodded their agreement.

While the formations were recognizable, the choreography differed from anything Jake had seen. Not limited to an atmosphere nor tied to any sense of up or gravity, the fighters maneuvered in all three dimensions and sustained attitudes that would be impractical for an atmospheric fighter.

Simultaneously, the attack wings shot apart like an exploding Fourth of July missile, each group rocketing away from the center on a discrete vector. Reaching a predesignated initialization point, the wings turned inbound as one. In a matter of moments, they enveloped the Zoxyth fleet in a menacing and tightening sphere of fighters, each pointing toward the center of the enemy formation.

Jake refocused his attention on the larger ships. As they too neared the amassed enemy ships, the alarm ringing in his head raised another notch.

Holding hands, they stepped around the back corner of the house. Curtains billowed through the patio's blown-out sliding glass door. Blasted across the rear deck and into the backyard by the impact's pressure wave, shards of pebbled safety-glass sparkled in the morning sun.

Knocked down by the blast, some of the patio cover's rustic roof-timbers had fallen. Its far end propped up on the patio's back wall, the front of the ridge's massive central beam had fallen to the floor, its tilted end disappearing under the curtain.

Below that, Sandy spotted a dark puddle. It had flowed around some of the tiny cubes of safety glass. The light reflected off them took on a crimson hue. Sandy stopped. Pulling her mom back, she pointed. A gust flipped the curtains back to reveal her father's prone body.

"Daddy!"

At the same time, her mom screamed, "Johnny!"

They ran to his side. Laying on his back, his legs protruded through the opening. Draped across the empty threshold, it appeared the blast had blown him halfway through the sliding glass door. He had hundreds of small cuts from the exploding glass, but the blood she'd seen had come from his right leg. The patio cover's massive ridge timber had crashed down on his right thigh, pinning him to the floor.

Sobbing, her mother knelt, hands over her mouth. "Oh god, the blood … there's so much of it."

Stepping through the opening, also crying, Sandy dropped to her good knee by her father's right shoulder. She extended a hand, intending to check his neck for a pulse. She hesitated, afraid it would only confirm the worst. His usually tanned skin was ashen, not much darker than the old white tee-shirt under his blue denim overalls.

Sandy closed her eyes. "Daddy … Oh, god please, no."

"If you two hens don't stop clucking, I'm never gonna get any sleep."

Sandy's eyes flew open.

Her father's loving crow's-feet lined eyes, eyes that had a smile all their own, were shining at Sandy. Weakly, he said, "Hi, Pumpkin."

"Daddy!" Tears of joy sprang from her eyes. Throwing her arms around his shoulders, she hugged him. Sobbing into his neck, she said, "We … I … I thought we'd lost you."

Her father chuckled. "I told your momma a long time ago that she's stuck with me."

Pulling back, Sandy ran her fingers through his silver hair. Her mom put a trembling hand on his chest.

Turning to her, he said, "Hey there, Firecracker. You ain't gettin' rid of me that easy."

Smiling through her tears, her mother cast a nervous glance at his crushed leg. Then, she gestured toward his overalls. "I thought you were still in bed." In mock admonishment, she added, "You were heading out to tinker with that stupid airplane, weren't you."

"Guilty as charged," he whispered. His weak laugh morphed into coughs. Reaching for the timber crushing his right leg, he screamed in pain between each hack, the spasms generating fresh waves of agony.

Sandy saw the tourniquet he'd fashioned from his overall's denim belt. The jolting coughs had loosened it. Fresh arterial blood spurted from the point where the end of the massive beam sat on her father's right thigh. By the shape of the upper leg, Sandy could tell his femur was broken. She grabbed the tourniquet, giving the large pocketknife he'd used another twist to tighten the belt. Considering how long he'd been pinned here, Sandy knew he would almost certainly lose the leg. However, if she couldn't keep him from losing more blood, that would be the least of their worries.

"Momma," Sandy said. "Get me one of your big wooden spoons."

Wordlessly, her mom jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen.

Studying his leg, Sandy asked, "Daddy, how long have you had this tourniquet on?"

No answer.

She looked up. Her father's eyes had closed. A check of his neck revealed a weak pulse. His massive chest rose and fell with each raspy breath.

Her mother ran back into the room. Seeing her husband's deteriorating condition, she froze. "Is he…"

"No, but he's lost a lot of blood, Mama." Sandy held out her free hand. It was soaked in her father's vital fluid. "Spoon!"

Her mom popped it into her hand. Sandy pushed the pocketknife out of the tourniquet and dropped it into one of her flightsuit's leg pockets. Sliding the wooden spoon into the empty loop, she retightened the tourniquet. Significantly longer than the pocket knife, the utensil allowed greater leverage. She gave it a couple of extra turns, completely staunching the flow of blood.

"Hold this."

Her mother took a position beside her. Grabbing her mom's hand, she placed it on the twisted knot of denim belt wrapped around the spoon. "Keep pressure right here, and don't let it spin!"

With both hands free, Sandy tucked the spoon's handle under the edge of the tourniquet. "This should hold it in place."

Her mother nodded. "What are we gonna do now?"

Sandy looked at the beam. The far end still rested against the top of the patio's partially collapsed back wall. Milled from a massive tree trunk, the twenty-foot long rough-cut timber was almost two feet thick from top to bottom and more than a foot wide. Almost all of the log's massive weight dug into her father's leg.

As she loosened the straps around her makeshift splint, she said, "I have an idea." Positioning herself under the timber and bending at the waist, Sandy pressed her lower back against its bottom. Legs bent, she slid sideways toward her father, the gap between the beam and the floor narrowed. When it closed enough to afford optimum leverage, Sandy pushed her lower back hard into the bottom of the beam. She held a hand against her injured knee. Under her boots, the patio's wooden deck creaked, but the log didn't budge. With her legs shaking under the strain, she gave a primal roar and tried harder. The floorboards groaned, but the log still refused to move.

The grunt devolved into a scream as she surrendered. "Fuck!" Breathing heavily, she stepped back and studied the angle.

"It's too heavy, honey," her mother said.

"Hang on. I have another idea."

Still under the beam, Sandy rolled onto her back and placed both feet against its bottom. "When it lifts, pull his leg out."