Skies Over Tomorrow: Constellation (17 page)

“Why didn't he eject?” Chiera said, holding the Owl's position midair.

“The ejection seat may have malfunctioned.”

“There was enough time.”

“Malfunctions happen,” Sankofa said. “Perhaps attempting to communicate with the pilot—”

“No, whoever that was didn't want to defect. What's left of the Federation has decided to stick it out until support from Mars arrives. Unfortunately, it'll be too late by then.”

Chiera then felt her stomach go weak, and she looked at the heads-up display. The altitude markers on the right of the HUD screen moved upward, tick by tick.

“Sankofa, we're losing altitude.”

“Affirmative. Thrusters are failing.”

The Sentry once again dropped from the sky.

“I thought you stabilized the thrusters!”

“The program I downloaded into the computer system is caught in a loop. Compensating. Stand by.”

“I'm switching back over.”

“In this exercise, you're piloting Nzingha, which is not a variable fighter,” Sankofa said.

“But this isn't Nzingha, is it?” Chiera pushed a button on the right flight control lever, and the Sentry reconfigured itself, losing substantial altitude in the process. At seven kilometers, Chiera pulled back on the controls and leveled the plane.

“We must put out a distress call,” said Sankofa.

“If that's part of the test, then don't worry about that. Just get the thrusters back up.”

“Stand by.”

At three kilometers, the Owl's glide slope continued to decrease as Chiera struggled to keep it steady. Wind currents helped carry the variable fighter at times, but at other times, the airstream worked against it, as the air stopped or changed directions, causing the recon plane to drop a few kilometers. It was not until the Owl was below 1.6 kilometers that Chiera began to consider a distress call.

Sankofa continued to negotiate with the on-board computer to get a handle on the virus. The downloaded program was to self-terminate after three minutes, yet it loop-fed itself and persisted in interrupting the flight systems. Both pilots were quiet as they endeavored to remain airborne. Chiera became annoyed with the various beeps, pings, buzzes, and dings of the cockpit, and of the flickering of screens and lights. Then, one by one, systems fell quiet, as segments of the console that enveloped the pilots blacked out, and it appeared that the Owl died all together. A few seconds later, lights to various controls, monitors, and systems turned back on, and stayed on.

“Thrusters are back on line,” Sankofa said. “The virus has been purged.”

Chiera eased the throttle forward, while firing a couple of thruster stabilizers to force the nose up, and vectored the afterburners to propel the Owl skyward. “Good job,” she said, lifting up the visor of her helmet. “I owe you one.”

“I must apologize,” said Sankofa. “I created the virus with an exigent antiviral program designed to challenge me. It seems to have adapted to my methods of neutralizing it. Perhaps—”

“Zero Prime Central,” Chiera said, “this is VF27-double O-34. First exercise complete. Downed one Federation Phoenix. Returning home.”

“Roger,” the communications officer said. “You're cleared…”

“Man, that could be us down there.”

“Under the conditions, your performance prevented your demise,” said Sankofa.

Chiera twisted her face and rolled her eyes with her tongue stuck out, as she veered the Owl northward. She then settled for the flight back to base.

The Owl whined like a cat in heat as it crept into the hanger with its canopy opening. Its pilot and copilot saw crews standing a considerable distance away, watching and readying for the VF-27 to come to a complete stop as the guide led it to its designated lot. Chiera looked down to see Major Torres; he looked mean. The stubble of a beard that he grew appeared as harsh as a scouring pad. What a bastard, she thought. Only he stood close to the fighter and tolerated the heated aura it was putting off. She smiled and waved once, two fingers of the right hand in a saluting fashion; however, his typical rigid and somber look remained. His demeanor did not matter though because she had just completed the two-week training exercise with Sankofa. She was happy, not only because she may have earned the right to pilot Nzingha, but also because she could finally take her lover up for a test run—and by herself.

With the Owl at a standstill, crews, shouting, rushed in to evaluate and secure it, as a stepladder descended from its fuselage. Chiera was the first to climb from the cockpit; the major walked over with his arms across his chest. When both lieutenants were down on the concrete floor, they snapped to attention and presented arms. They assumed a relaxed position after Torres returned their salutes. He jerked his head to the side, indicating they should head for The Deck. He did not want to compete with the ever-whining, yet sleepy engines of the Owl, which drowned out all the noise of the bay. They walked from the shade of the hangar bay out into a bright, windy, late afternoon, to the edge of the outdoor platform. There, Torres leaned on its railing, as Chiera stood to his right. Her right arm rested at the small of her back, and the other bent around her helmet, holding it snug against her side. Sankofa stood to the right of her.

“The last modifications on Nzingha have been completed,” Torres said, looking out at the swaying sea of grassland. “You probably know this, but Command Central has selected you to pilot Nzingha, so congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Listen Williams, we're out of time. The Federation is back.”

“What?”

“A Federation armada just jumped out of hyperspace and are positioned out near Khoa,” he said.

“How long do we have?”

“Less than six months,” said Sankofa.

“You know about this?” Chiera said to Sankofa.

“That's irrelevant, Lieutenant,” Torres said. “What is important is that we take advantage of this opportunity to test Nzingha.”

“I'll agree with that,” said Chiera.

“Good. Understand though, that this is it. Any problems that arise, you'll have to work out in combat.”

“Why aren't you taking Nzingha into battle?”

Torres looked at the lieutenant.

“I mean you are the best qualified, sir,” she said. “Among the most experienced pilots we have.”

“There you go,” he said, turning his attention back to the lowland. “You've just answered your own question. I and others of my status are experienced, valued pilots the Alliance can't afford to lose—not right now anyway.”

“I think you're hiding behind presumptuous arrogance.”

Torres smiled. “It may seem like that, but I've earned the right,” he said. “My skills, and the skills of those like myself, have been refined to such a point that combat has become more than just engaging the enemy and scoring a kill. It has become a ritual of confronting and overcoming the fear of death and avoiding death itself.”

“That's crazy.”

“I don't expect you to understand,” he said, “but I must say you do have the potential to be one of the best pilots in the Alliance. You proved that over the last two weeks, having downed a Federation VF squadron and five fixed-winged fighters. You just need refinement, though.”

“And be like you, sir? I don't know if Command Central can stand having two big heads.”

Torres smiled again, but never turned to look at Chiera. Then he said, “You're not quite the layman, Lieutenant, but tomorrow you'll still end up dead on those mountains.”

“Wait a minute—tomorrow?” Chiera said. “Are you challenging me?”

“Our big heads keeping butting into each other,” he said. “One of us will have to give.”

Chiera was quiet.

“I am exercising my right to challenge you in live flight. Do you accept?”

Chiera swallowed and turned and looked at Sankofa. The emotionless face looked back at her. She looked back to Torres and paused, releasing a deep breath through her nostrils as he continued to lean on the railing and look out to the range. She realized she was not ready; she could not take him on, yet how could she decline, knowing he was testing her courage, thus evaluating her worth to the Alliance as well as with piloting Nzingha. “Yes, I accept,” she said.

“Good. Tomorrow, at 1300 hours, fly or die, Lieutenant.” He stood, looked at Chiera, and then walked off.

Chiera's blood ran cold and chilled her limbs. Her heart pounded, and her hands twitched.

“Lieutenant Williams, are you okay?” Sankofa said once and then again when she received no response.

Chiera sighed as her bangs fell to the wind. She closed her eyes. Sankofa faded from her awareness as she moved to sit on a quadruped stool, placing her helmet on the adjacent table. She bent forward, her elbows resting on her knee guards, and looked to her worn boots. She began to think about life. She then looked up and observed the visual tranquility of the range. Every so often she saw a fighter flash by with its rolling sonic boom in pursuit. “He's right. One of us will have to give,” she said.

Off in the distance, Chiera noticed the silhouettes of two fighters engaged in aerial combat, and it appeared to be a mock ceremonial dance. Man and technology, pushing the limits to what end? Then there was a blaze of smoky light streaking for an intercept, and the hit was good. The missile sheared the twin rudders of its target in a chainsaw, ripping explosion. She looked on, wide-eyed as ever with her heart in her throat and her mouth dry, wondering, watching, and waiting. The downed craft twirled from the sky, leaving behind a trail of thick black smoke and debris.

“The chute,” she said. “Where's the chute?”

The event may have happened so fast that she did not see the pilot eject. Her brown eyes scanned the sky, but no chute. The burning wreckage slammed into a mountain with a booming explosion, fire skidding along the rocky face in napalm fashion. Still, no chute, and the chilling consequence of live flight revealed itself. Yet for the victor, she felt some sense of elation as she watched the pilot perform a triumphant display of acrobatic maneuvers.

Though it seemed illogical to risk manpower and waste, repair, or replace hardware and provisions, Command Central wanted pilots of the Morrillian Civil Defense Force to have real-time combat experience. This meant that at the end of every training period, pilots gained a sense of actual warfare through genuine dogfights with live munitions. The pyramid system designed by Command Central pitted novice pilots against veteran pilots and veterans against aces. This system gave all pilots the opportunity to earn recognition as an elite pilot. Command Central knew the value of squadrons of first-rate pilots, which posed as a formidable force.

The Alliance was small in comparison to the Federation, and it was their philosophy that they did not need every pilot they could muster, only the best. Those that were not up to par fell to statistics. Oddly enough, the Alliance felt fortunate that one out of every fifteen pilots died during a flight challenge. Losing less than ten percent of their pilots at the end of a nine-month training cycle proved to them the program was a success. This success ratio led Command Central to think in terms of natural selection with the loss of a pilot, especially one killed by a fellow pilot. It was only natural for the best to survive.

Moreover, this prerequisite of training allowed for Morrillian pilots to achieve the same level of combat readiness as—if not higher than—their Federation counterparts, which outnumbered them seven to one. Training with and against each other made Alliance pilots better fighters. They learned to be comfortable in handling and getting out of grave situations. A flight challenge was the ultimate training exercise—a test for all that a pilot has learned.

There were two ways to pass the challenge. The simplest way was not to be shot down. The other came if downed. There awaited the endeavor of avoiding capture in a cat-and-mouse game with their own MCDF ground units, Federation snipers, mine fields, and the elements of nature while hiking back to base. If a pilot made it back, then he or she returned to find in waiting the junk remains of a fighter or gunsuit. The pilot and a team of technicians and mechanics were given two months in which to repair or rebuild the aircraft or mech—if it was considered salvageable.

The discipline of rebuilding their craft compelled pilots to familiarize themselves with the in's and out's of machinery and technology that was also used by the Federation. With such knowledge, Alliance pilots knew their strengths and weaknesses as well as those of their enemy. In addition, because the UNE inundated Morrilla with all the equipment and supplies it could spare, repairing and sometimes even rebuilding a fighter was made easier.

In the end, Morrillian pilots learned to use what was available in order to survive and to keep flying and to keep fighting.

“Fly or die,” Chiera said. Rising to attention, she saluted the ill-fated pilot. Dropping her arm, she picked up her helmet and disappeared back under the shadow of the hangar bay.

The sun glared upon the infringing storm clouds approaching from the southeast. The control tower warned of the forty-five plus kilometers per hour tempest entering the combat area. It was a severe system in labor, readying for the birth of a tornado. Considering the odds of flying against Major Torres, the raging system of charcoal fury seemed more appealing to Chiera. Of course, going head-to-head with him was not what she had in mind with returning with her lover to the sky to dance.

She looked out to see the erratic flashes of lightning. When it thundered, she felt her battered craft quake as it cruised Morrilla's hemisphere. An incoming transmission from the control tower called her attention away from the storm. She, with aid from the onboard computer, resumed rechecking damages inflicted after half an hour of fighting with the major. She scanned the immediate area with her eyes, and then looked to the radar. She decided not to respond to any transmissions, including those of the control tower. Silence was her choice of intimidation. Being quiet helped her concentrate. Torres, on the other hand, talked too much. The receiver picked up encouragement and chastisement from the major every other minute. He often relayed that she was a remarkably good pilot, or complemented her on evading his attacks. He even praised her fighter, for its repairs holding up. What a trickster. She was not going to get a big head until he was out of the sky.