Independence Day: Crucible (The Official Prequel) (21 page)

“No,” Dylan said. “Just trying on my pink ballerina outfit. Come on in.”

Steve Hiller came in and sat on the bed.

“Big day tomorrow,” Dylan said. “Flying the prototype.”

“It ain’t so big as all that,” his dad said. “Just another day.”

“Whatever you say,” Dylan said. “Seems like a big deal to me.”

His dad shrugged, but Dylan knew how excited he was to get back into space again. He talked about it all the time.

“Hey,” his father said. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

“Almost every day,” Dylan replied.

“I did, huh? How about that I love you?”

“That, too,” Dylan said. The older man smiled, but it was a serious sort of smile, not the one that announced some smart comment.

“I just—I always wanted to do right by you, Dylan,” he said. “You and your mom. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been being your father. The one thing I would change about my past is that I’d have married your mother sooner.”

He sounded almost too serious, and it worried Dylan a little. He felt a lump form in his throat as he remembered the day he had been given the ring to hold, told to make himself useful. How important he’d felt.

“Well,” Dylan said, “you did okay. I could never ask for a better dad. I only hope I can be half the man you are.”

“You’re your own man, Dylan,” he said. “You’re not half of anything. You know what I always say.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Passion and conviction.”

“And I will always be proud of you. You remember that when you get to the Academy.”

“Okay,” Dylan said.

Then his dad was grinning the other way.

“Of course, me and your mom are gonna make a scene, aim for maximum embarrassment when we take you there. Your mom’s gonna be all ‘my baby’ and I’ll be like, ‘Don’t forget your stuffy and your pj’s, son.’”

“Oh, please, no,” Dylan said with mock dismay.

“Alright,” his dad said. “Give me a hug. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Good night, Dad,” Dylan said. “Kick ass tomorrow.”

“You can count on that.”

David lifted his head, blinking, and wondering where he was for a moment before realizing he’d fallen asleep at his desk. He checked the time.

“Shoot,” he said. It was eight in the morning. It had been about six when he put his head down, just for a second.

He went to the small lavatory in his office and shaved. Then he changed into the suit he kept in his office for those days he might unexpectedly need one. No one was in the staff room—they were all at the Expo—so he made himself a half a pot of strong coffee, drank a cup, and took one to go.

The launch was at eleven in the morning. By his watch, it was already eight-thirty. He had to hurry. Gulping down his coffee, he took his bicycle in one hand and began guiding it toward the elevator.

Outside, the day’s events had already begun. Whitmore was on the loudspeaker, talking about the ESD, about how it was continuing to bring the world together, about how all of the sacrifices everyone was making were going to pay off in the end. Now and then the speech was punctuated by the distant roar and applause from the audience in the hastily erected arena.

Traffic, usually unknown in the area around the Center, was a nightmare. Some streets were closed, others were temporarily designated one-way. He wove in between the cars, hoping he still had time.

* * *

At about five in the morning, Hiller kissed Jasmine carefully, so as not to wake her, and then swung himself out of bed. He sat quietly on his patio, watching the eastern sky turn the color of coral, sipping his coffee. Then he got up to go to work.

“Did you think you were just going to sneak out of here without saying goodbye?”

That was Jasmine, in her robe, pouring some coffee for herself.

He shrugged. “I figured you needed your rest after last night. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Please,” she said. “I get a better workout doing the dishes.”

“I’ve got one for that,” he said, “but I ain’t going there.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a joke for everything,” she said. “After all these years you still think you’re all that.”

He opened his arms and took her in.

“That’s because after all these years, I still am all that,” he said.

She hugged him, hard, and he expected a comeback, but if she had one, she kept it to herself.

“Gotta go to work,” he said.

“So I heard,” she said. “Be careful up there, Steve.”

“Just another day at the office,” he said.

He kissed her. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said softly. “I love you, too.”

* * *

When Hiller got to the hangar, the H-1 was still inside, with the techs running down the pre-flight checklist. He stepped over to her and ran his fingers over the metal of her hull.

“We’re going to make history, you and me,” he told the sleek machine. “And when those bastards come back, we’ll show ’em Earth is the last damn place they ever want to mess with.”

Then he put on his flight suit and went through his personal checklist.

After a while, they started rolling the ship out onto the strip.

* * *

“This is so fuckin’ awesome,” Charlie said.

Jake gave him an elbow to remind him whose company they were in.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Charlie told Jasmine Hiller.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot worse—but you should still watch your mouth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Charlie said. “But it is awesome.”

It was hot for late April, and Jake caught himself squinting, as if that would help him see through the heat-distorted air rising from the desert floor. It must be worse for the majority of the crowd, who were watching from a distance of five miles, but Dylan had wrangled them sweet seats in a hardened bunker that was much closer. Patricia and her father were there, too, and the vice-president and a lot of people Jake didn’t know.

“Ms. Hiller?” someone said. Jake saw it was a national reporter—the guy with the sideburns. He had a camera crew behind him.

“Yes,” she said.

“Would you be fine for a quick interview?”

“Sure,” Jasmine said. “But when that plane rolls out—”

“I understand,” he said. “It’ll be quick.”

She stood up and stepped into the aisle, pulling Dylan with her.

“Ms. Hiller, how do you feel about your husband piloting the first hybrid fighter?”

“Well, I’m proud, of course,” she said. “Nobody can fly like my husband.”

“Any worries?”

“Worries?” she said. “Steve flew a broken-down alien wreck into space and blew up the mother ship, and still made it home in one piece. Like he said to me this morning, this is just another day at the office.”

“What about you, Dylan?” the reporter asked, moving the microphone. “I hear you’re planning on following in your stepfather’s footsteps.”

“Dad has really big shoes,” Dylan said, “so I don’t know about that. But he is my inspiration. I’m starting at the ESD Academy this fall, and I’m planning on going to flight school after that. Hopefully, I’ll be flying one of those.” He pointed, and the camera swung around.

“Here it comes,” Jake murmured.

It was sleek and beautiful, even through the rippling air. Jake felt a thrill that started at his toes and ran all the way up his spine.

“Just look at that.” He squeezed Emily’s hand, and she squeezed back, shooting him an odd, thoughtful glance.

“Yeah,” she said. “I see.”

Then, slowly, she unlaced her fingers from his.

He looked at her, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Outside, the fighter rolled out a little further and stopped. Distant figures swarmed around it for a while, and then one-by-one they retreated back into the hangar.

* * *

Hiller shook hands with the techs as they came back in. He waved as they boarded the elevator that would take them deep into the bedrock.

And he was alone.

He looked out at the waiting ship, remembering the countless hours of simulation, thinking how good it was going to be to actually fly something fast again. When he’d signed up with ESD he hadn’t really understood how much time he was going to spend at a desk, or doing public relations, going over performance evaluations. Life was like that—if you were good at something, you often got promoted until you weren’t doing what you were really good at.

He squared his shoulders.

“Whew,” he said. “Okay, let’s go do this.”

“Steve!”

He turned at the familiar sound of David’s voice.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here? You know I’m solo, this time. No sharing the glory with some computer nerd.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll have to live with that,” David said. He looked out at the waiting craft. “You sure about this?”

“I’m good at flying,” Hiller said.

“Well, yeah,” David agreed.

“It’s what I should be doing. To tell you the truth, I’ve been hankering to fly this thing. Your misgivings just made it easier for me to justify climbing into the cockpit.”

“You’re welcome?” David said uncertainly.

Hiller patted his friend on the shoulder.

“Gotta go,” he said.

“No, wait.” David fished into his pocket and pulled out a pair of cigars. “I didn’t want you to leave without your victory dance.”

He proffered one of the cigars, and Hiller realized with a start that he had left his own cigar back in the locker room.

“Wow,” Hiller said. “Man, you saved the day. I was about to go without one.” He read the label, smelled it. “Okay,” he said. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Not ’til the fat lady sings,” David said.

“That’s right,” Steve said. “See? I
did
teach you something.”

“You and me,” David said. “Right here, when you get back.”

They shook hands, and then Hiller began walking toward the plane.

* * *

A general cheer went up in the room as Steve Hiller emerged from the hangar and started toward the aircraft. He opened the cockpit, climbed in, and closed it.

Jake realized he was holding his breath.

* * *

Hiller looked over the controls, remembering the first time he’d been in an alien spacecraft, eleven years ago.

It was hard to believe it had been that long.

These controls looked much friendlier. He might almost have been back in his F-18, but he knew what was under the hood was going to make all of the difference. He wondered if Chuck Yeager had felt like this in the X-15, the rush of excitement and adrenaline that made him feel almost like he was twenty again. He looked up at the hot, blue sky and knew there were stars there, and that he would see them soon.

“Colonel Hiller,” Control crackled over his headphones. “You have a go.”

“What, no countdown?”

There was a brief pause.

“If you want one…” the controller said.

“Nah,” he said. “I’ll just wing it—so to speak.”

He flipped on the power, watched the systems come on line.

“Everything looks good,” he said. “Engaging anti-gravity.”

The ship lifted slightly. Her landing gear was no longer on the ground, and it began retracting into the belly of the craft.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s see what she’ll do.”

Unaccountably, he remembered his last flight with Jimmie, his best friend until an alien fighter turned him and his plane into ash. He remembered the little speech Jimmie made on the way to the destroyer, to lighten the mood.

Or, as the good Reverend would say, “Why we are on this particular mission, we’ll never know. But I do know, that, here today, the Black Knights will emerge victorious, once again.”

“This one’s for you, Jimmie,” he said.

* * *

The fighter didn’t take off like a plane, didn’t coast down the runway. One second it was on the ground, and the next instant it wasn’t, accelerating in a broad curve up toward the heavens with incredible speed.

In an instant it was almost too small to see, but the tracking cameras continued showing close-ups of it as it soared toward space.

The cheering in the bunker was almost deafening.

* * *

Hiller felt the grin stretching on his face. The ship handled like a dream, better than the alien craft its technology was based on. He felt a ferocious pride as the Earth dwindled below him.

Then a light started flashing on his panel. The stick began to quiver in his hand.

“Colonel Hiller?” Control said. “We’re getting some funny readings from the fusion interface.”

“A knock-knock joke is funny,” Hiller said. “This isn’t funny.” He engaged the coupling compensator, but the reading continued to increase.

“Colonel Hiller—”

“Just hang on,” Hiller said. “I’m on it. Just a little bump in the road.”

“Hiller,” the voice in his ear said. “Make course correction as instructed.”

“Understood,” he said, checking the flight plan and then banking to adjust.

Mountains rolled by beneath him, wrinkles in the crust of the Earth. He glanced off to his three o’clock and saw another H-7 fighter nosing through the high-altitude atmosphere. A third flew off to his right, although since they were synched up in speed, it didn’t look as if either fighter was actually moving.

“Change orientation,” the ground instructed.

“Copy. Patricia, why don’t you take point for a while?”

“Sounds good to me, Dylan,” she said.

He dropped back and let her enter the lead position in the triangle.

“Coming up on second mark,” she said. “Let’s take them up to six klicks.”

They cut up through the clouds like knives through butter, with hardly a bump at all. To Dylan, it all seemed a little unreal. A thousand simulations didn’t add up to one true flight, and even though he knew that all of the bugs had been ironed out of the hybrid vessels—that if he screwed up too much Control could fly the ship like a drone—he still felt the danger of being so far above the ground.

He liked it.

He had wondered—so many times—if he would fail his father. It seemed so much more important now not to do so. More than ever it felt as if everyone was watching him, waiting for him to slip up.