Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. (10 page)

***

“What’s holding up that analysis, Casey?” said Steven.

“I can’t get a detailed read on it, sir. There is too much interference emanating from the debris field of the alien fleet. It’s scrambling the scans.”

“Two hundred kilometers—mark!” said Mr. O’Brien. “Launching Intercepts!”

“Sir, I’ve got an enemy fighter exiting from the field!” said the radar operator.

“A fighter? Is he within laser range?” responded Steven.

“No, sir. He is moving away from us. Looks like he is altering course to provide cover for the missile,” was the operator’s reply.

“Casey, reprogram the first three Intercepts to target the fighter!”

***

“Yeehaw! Avenger has launched Intercepts!” Jackson ballyhooed in typical high-flying cowboy fashion. “Looks like we can take these puppies back to the pound. Parker, on your radar, ten o’clock! I have an enemy fighter. If he isn’t the luckiest son-of-an-alien bitch I’ve ever seen!”

“I see him. He’s changing vector to intercept the missile. Looks like he is planning to ride shotgun. He’ll pick-off Avenger’s Intercepts as they come in. Hate to say it, but we still have a job to do. Leaving laser protection grid in 30 seconds—mark,” said Ashlyn. “Prepare to follow my lead. Set the scoop to forward-wide. Laser to full power, 30-degree rotational spread, maximum firing rate. Avoid the big ones; let the laser take care of the small ones. We’ll clear-cut a path for ourselves.”

“Copy, scoop to forward-wide. Laser to full power, 30-degree rotational spread. Maximum firing rate. You do know that’s going to put a huge drain on our reserves!” he shot back.

“If we last long enough to drain our cores dry, I’ll be as happy as a dog with a belly full of beer at a hydrant factory!” said Ash as she finished flipping through the displays.

“Aye.” Now that she had made him aware of his own pressing needs, Jackson peed into his suit’s bio-bag.

From the nose-mounted lasers on their Sharkfins, they ran the gauntlet. In rapid-fire succession, each of their lasers blazed, cutting down the debris in front of them. It was impressive to say the least.

“Ok, Jackson. Here is where the ride gets exciting! Prepare for a sustained, heavy G climb. Have your med unit inject a B1 stimulant. I don’t need you blacking out on me.”

“Hey, Parker, 9 o’clock!”

Outside the grid, for as far as the eye could see, hundreds of meteors pelted the ocean. Massive sweeping rings of water raced away from each impact. Plumes of super-heated steam rose thousands of meters into the air, feathering the wildly churning clouds above. Within the clouds, an electrical storm raged.

“Prom time,” said Ashlyn. “When we enter the cloud cover, we’re going to lose ship to ship visual for a bit, so set your collision sensors to maintain a 40 meter minimum distance between us—and don’t forget to set your engine intake shielding to maximum.”

“Setting collision sensors to 40 meters, intake shielding to maximum,” he parroted while flipping toggles.

“Here we go, 3—2—1.” Ashlyn pulled on the yoke bringing her Sharkfin’s nose up sharply. With the Earth falling away behind them, Ashlyn bobbed and dipped, weaving her way through the massive onslaught of incoming debris. “Entering cloud cover, losing ship to ship visual.”

“I don’t know how you stay so calm, Ashlyn!” said Jackson as his ship jostled from another hit to the dampening field.

“It’s not about staying calm. It’s about staying in control.” Seconds later, they cleared the turbulent cloud layer. “Tighten the formation to 30 meters. The lasers will be more effective and the shields will stay cooler,” said Ashlyn.

“I’m already crapping in my pants over here—my shields are nearing the red line. Hull integrity has deteriorated by 67 percent. The internal pressure is just too much. When we hit zero g— Kaboom!”

“Stay with me, Jackson. In 40 seconds we’ll be within laser range.”

Without needing to glance at her readouts, Ashlyn knew that her own shields were also weakening. They had gone from their typical ultra-light blue to its present color of dirty gray as they cast a faint sheen upon her field of vision. It was a silent but ominous warning that only a few precious seconds remained.

***

Casey stared into her monitor. “Our first missile is closing in on the fighter! 3—2—1—contact.” After a brief pause Casey said, “The fighter’s shields have weakened, but they’re still holding. Sir, their missile—it has weapons! They’ve just been activated.”

“Weapons? What type?” asked Commander Leslie Brooks, Steven’s First in Command.

“It appears to be two small laser turrets, one above, one below,” responded Casey.

They had not encountered that technology before. As it was, the use of eight valuable Intercepts had already seemed grossly excessive, even to stop a doomsday missile. Now, Steven’s assumption threatened to condemn his soul to eternal damnation.

“The fighter is firing lasers. Intercept 2 destroyed. Intercept 3 is locked on. Enemy fighter is executing evasive. She dodged the Intercept! Intercept has maintained a lock and is pursuing! The fighter is rotating—Intercept closing—yes! Fighter destroyed, sir.”

It was a victory without celebration as their attention turned to the Intercepts, which were closing in on the missile.

“Intercept 4 is locked on.” His pursed lips changed to a sullen frown. “Intercept 4 has been destroyed! Intercepts 5 and 6 are closing—Intercepts 5 and 6 have been destroyed!” said Casey.

“Those laser turrets are sure accurate!” said Brooks, voicing all their thoughts aloud.

“Our last two Intercepts are now arriving,” said Casey.

Steven’s eyes were wide, not daring to blink. His mouth was dry.

“Sir, all of our Intercepts have been destroyed. 39 seconds until the missile hits atmosphere,” said Casey with an eerily dead voice.

“Mr. O’Brien, you’ve got to hit it with the laser! You’ve got to!”

The lieutenant’s eyes were pinned to the targeting grid. Unable to achieve a solid lock at such an extreme distance, he took shot after shot. The seconds ticked away with alarming speed. The hope Steven held in his heart waned. If his wife and children were to die, he was sure the last thread to his sanity would be broken—and if Ashlyn died...

***

“Hot-diggity-dog—Avenger cleared the fox out of the hen house.” No sooner had Jackson uttered the enthusiastic words when, in the same voice he said, “I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit! Son-of-a-bitch! Shields super heating, 16 percent over critical and climbing. Cockpit integrity is at 4 percent and falling.”

“Turn back!” shouted Ashlyn. As she watched Jackson sheer away, a hefty, rocketing white-hot rock struck his left wing, snapping it in two and sending him into a high-g tumble.

“I’ve got no response—repeat, no response from stabilizers. Cockpit integrity is at 1 percent. Shields collapsing!” His voice cracked, resigned to his fate.

Her comm went silent as Jackson’s highly pressurized containment field collapsed and his ship exploded. Ashlyn’s steely eyes softened. “Godspeed, my friend. Godspeed.”

Ashlyn’s view of space suddenly sharpened into crystal clarity, revealing a spectacular sight of flickering stars. The real showpiece, though, belonged to the millions of chunks of Moon debris. Fragments of all sizes laid before her like a minefield, forcing her to wiggle her way around and between them. Most were inward bound, being slowly drawn into the atmosphere by Earth’s gravity. If it had not been for the dire situation, she would have actually enjoyed the thrill of racing around them.

A moment later, she was weightless. With the loss of gravity, Ashlyn’s silver necklace with its blue-stoned locket rose. Clutching it in the palm of her left-hand, she drew it to her heart.

Ashlyn’s Sharkfin jerked sharply to starboard as a baseball-sized meteor took a bite out of her right wing’s airfoil. As she tested the wing’s hydraulics, the computer announced that her cockpit integrity had fallen to 4 percent. The cast about her ship dissipated. Dust and pebbles impacted the canopy.

“Gena, isolate my laser targeting, helm, and weapon’s control. Divert all remaining power, including that of life-support and engine intake shielding to the cockpit containment shield.”

Whisper-quiet, as per her instructions, systems throughout her craft went dark until even the faint breeze of circulating air stilled.

“Gena, initiate eye-synchronous targeting grid.” A black, background holo-screen came to life with a luminous green grid. The computer read the movement in her eyes and zoomed in upon grid 3B. “Magnify and enhance target 01M, level 32 zoom, and lock focus.” Instantly, the computer homed in on the missile, enhancing it across the full spectrum of humanly seeable light. To Ashlyn it appeared as a three-dimensional object that seemingly sat within arm’s reach. Only her sim training kept her from thinking she could reach out and touch it.

Already second nature to her, Ashlyn quickly thumbed through the targeting selections. Her chosen settings: eye-synchronous targeting—pinpoint beam—maximum power. Her eyes narrowed. “Hope you’re watching, Jackson.”

Pressing the red fire-button on the yoke, a half-inch wide, sizzling, white-orange laser beam shot outwards from her Sharkfin’s nose mounted cannon. The beam sliced through a million particles of dust. With the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, it struck to the heart, piercing the missile’s casing and striking the energy core. The missile’s incendiary payload exploded, lighting up the stratosphere like an exploding sun.

Though her helmet’s light
filter tried to compensate, the pure white-light blinded her instantly. Ashlyn gasped, nearly fainting, as the shock to the optic nerve sent stabbing pains shooting through her skull. “Gena, inject a level 2 pain inhibitor.”

The pinprick to the back of her neck was lost amid the jarring jolts and jostles racking her fighter. As she fought through the subsiding pain, her right hand gripping the yoke, Ashlyn simulated the feel of a 180-degree turn and began the descent into the unseen void beneath her. It was then that her unshielded engine sucked in a piece of Moon debris and exploded, an ironically pleasant chime heralding the engine’s loss.

Another explosion rocked her craft and again another chime accompanied the explosion.

Unbeknownst to her, amid the jostles, a chunk of rock had struck her Sharkfin’s tail fin, snapping off its upper section and cutting its internally-hidden comm antenna in half. With shreds of frayed steel and carbon-fiberglass resin flailing behind her, Ash re-entered the upper atmosphere. Though her hand was steady, her badly damaged Sharkfin was handling like a newborn giraffe trying to find its legs on a sheet of ice.

***

Seeing the missile explode, the bridge crew of Avenger jumped out of their seats, giving a hearty round of cheers and whistles.

“The missile was destroyed 14 seconds before atmospheric entry,” Casey called out.

Steven collapsed in his chair as the release of stress whisked away the energy from his legs. His white-knuckled fingers flexed as he felt the tingle of returning blood. “Good shot, Mr. O’Brien!”

“I didn't do it!” he said, bewildered.

With questioning eyes, Steven spun to look at the lieutenant.

“It wasn’t me, sir!”

“The shot came from a Sharkfin,” said Casey, her face buried in the viewfinder on her monitor. “It was probably one of the units assigned to the ground-side laser detail. Somehow, the pilot must have made it through the debris.”

Within his mind, the face of Ashlyn came to the fore. Though she was a new pilot and had done little more than simulator training, he was certain she had shot the missile.

***

Stratton threw his fist into the air, cheering along with those beside him as Ashlyn nailed the missile and held his breath as a weak, static-filled call came in from her.

“Dog—se, thi—is Lady Fox—I’m pretty badly banged u—Gena’s systems are disabl—, I’ve got—heavy vibration. Flight controls are bare—resp—ding—guess this dog is going—need a new set—paws. I can’t read—altimete—or radar—been blinded,” she said with the unbelievable coolness that typically only a veteran fighter pilot was capable of displaying. “—in a slow descen—lower altitu-”

“Foxy Lady,” Stratton said with a proud yet controlled concern, “I’ll scramble Briggs and Hanks to tow you in.”

“No need, Dog House! The Watchdogs have sprouted wings.”

“We have you on radar, Foxy Lady! ETA is 3 minutes and 10 seconds. Ease your descent down 5 degrees and slowly swing her 25-degrees to port. It’ll bring you back inside the protective grid,” said Briggs.

“—ger that. Thanks, guys,” she said, as a residual shockwave from the missile jostled her Sharkfin.

“Good job, Foxy Lady—good job!” said Stratton.

Stratton’s well-intentioned words were lost to the sadness that welled in her heart, for she had lost a faithful friend who had believed in her.