SECTOR 64: Ambush (25 page)

The teddybear's lifeless doll-like eyes snapped wide-open. "Are you my mommy?"

That was several minutes ago. She couldn't remember leaving the bus. The next thing Sandy knew, she'd been running across the tarmac with tears flowing down her cheeks, an agonized wail streaming from her throat.

Further investigation wasn't necessary. The scene in the bus told her all she needed to know about what had happened to San Francisco. She didn't think a search of the terminal or the city beyond would reveal anything new. Besides, she had no desire to subject herself to more of that imagery.

The same scenes of sudden abandonment were evident in every direction. Here, a truck's rear end protruded from a ditch. On her right, a tug towed a train of baggage trailers in a large perpetual loop. She imagined the operator's empty shoe must be wedged in the accelerator pedal.

Sandy ran faster toward Gate Twenty-One. Focusing on the object drawing her in its direction helped stifle the shock. Winded in spite of her extensive cardio training, Captain Fitzpatrick finally arrived at her destination. Unable to hear anything over the scream of a nearby jet, Sandy placed a hand against the vehicle's thick metallic skin. She was relieved to feel rhythmic vibrations pulsing through its chassis. Left in park with all of its lights on and flashing, the large fuel truck was still running.

Only fifty feet away, a massive pile of shattered safety glass surrounded the large black tires of a Boeing 777 nose landing gear. Convulsing under the unrelenting thrust of its massive screaming turbofans, the wide-body jet was jammed into the expansive glass wall of Gate Twenty-One.

A windstorm blasted across Sandy as she opened the driver door of the fuel truck. Flowing across the cab from the open passenger window, air rushed to fill the void created at the turbine inlet only twenty feet behind her.

As Sandy climbed into the seat, a loose strand of blonde hair whipped across her eyes. She pinned it behind an ear and scanned the gauges. The tanker only had 600 gallons of Jet-A fuel.

"That will have to do."

The fighter's landing gear blow-down feature only works once. Afterward, the gear stays locked down until a mechanic resets the system, a process requiring tools and equipment not at Sandy's disposal. The resultant high drag and slow speed meant a flight to Nellis required more than 600 gallons. However, it was sufficient for the trip she had in mind. Sandy knew plenty of fuel waited at her next destination.

Depressing the truck's heavy clutch, she dropped its transmission into gear. Releasing the pedal caused the vehicle to lurch into motion. Running through the gears, Sandy coaxed the heavy truck up to speed, gradually pulling away from the noise of the Boeing's roaring jet engines. After a few moments, a new sound supplanted the turbine cacophony. Surreally, Barry Manilow's
Copacabana
blared from the truck's speakers. Following a cable extending from the radio's face, she found the music's source. The driver's iPod sat on the center console.

The sight reminded her about the phone in her flightsuit's leg pocket. Digging it out, she pressed the power button.

***

Returning to Western Maryland, the
Turtle
screamed past the raging inferno of the crashed airliner. Jake pointed through the view-wall. "Keep an eye out. We're nearing the area now."

After making their way back to the
Turtle
, they had departed DC, heading toward Western Maryland. Richard was at the controls. "I'm keeping it slow enough so we'll see if anything changes between here and the edge of the blast area. Hopefully, the weapon's effect drops off at a distance."

An unending panorama of carnage scrolled across the view-wall. Jake's horror mounted as every passing mile brought additional signs of sudden abandonment. Uncountable columns of smoke stretched to the horizon. Blazing pile-ups clogged corners and intersections. Homes burned as their untended heat sources found additional fuel. Shaking his head, Jake said, "It hasn't changed yet."

As they neared the Appalachians, dark shadows coalesced from the smoky haze to form the mountain range's foothills. Nestled amongst them, a small town materialized.

Pointing, Jake said, "That's the last place I remember seeing movement."

Richard slowed the ship. They crossed the town's eastern edge at a thousand feet above ground level. "You're right," he said, pointing to the community's far side. "From up here, I can see some activity on the town's west end."

Looking at the motionless urban scenery beneath the
Turtle
, Vic shook his head. "Yeah, but it's still dead on this side," he said somberly.

Jake gestured toward the grassy slope of an open-air park just east of the town center. "Let's land over there."

As Richard extended the landing gear, he said, "Good thing the locals haven't ventured over here yet, they'd take one look at this ship and assume we're the bad guys."

Jake's iPhone started ringing. Digging into his leg pocket, he said, "I forgot I had this." Pulling it out, he saw Sandy's picture on the screen.

A swipe of his finger connected the video call. For a moment, Jake couldn't tell what he was seeing. Then, a light illuminated, and he saw Sandy's beautiful face. It looked like she was in the cab of a truck. Barry Manilow's nasal crooning erupted from the phone's speaker.

Copacabana?
"Sandy?"

"Jake? Oh, thank god!" Sandy yelled over the crazy music. "Shit! Hang on." Barry's voice died mid-Copa. Then Jake heard her grunt as he saw her throwing something through the truck's open window. "Enough of that shit."

"Baby? Are you okay?" he said.

She looked into the phone's camera. "I'm a long fucking way from okay, but I'll live. What about you? Where are you?"

"I'm … okay, so far. I'm with Richard and Vic." Turning to his wingmen, he mouthed, "Let's go."

With a final look at the panorama of carnage visible through the ship's view-wall, Jake turned and walked toward the airlock. "I won't be able to talk much longer, baby."

"Where are you?" she asked again.

After a quick glance at the alien ship's strange interior, Jake shrugged. Considering the day's events, the program's secret status was a moot point. "I'm in Western Maryland … in a spaceship."

On the screen, Sandy's face froze as she stared unblinkingly back at him. After a few seconds, her eyebrows raised in a go-on gesture.

"A galactic government loaned it to us." She still didn't respond, so he continued. "It's part of what I've been doing since the … uh, accident. Anyway, we're assisting the fighters that destroyed the enemy ship over Chesapeake Bay."

From across the continent, Sandy stared through the phone's screen as the news left her speechless. A diesel engine droned over the speaker. A moment later, she found her voice. "Oh no … oh my god. One hit the East Coast too?" Then, apparently registering his last words, she raised sanguine eyes. "We killed one?"

"Yeah … wait. Where are you?"

"I'm in San Francisco."

Joining the other two in the airlock, it was Jake's turn to freeze as fear gripped his soul. "Get out of there, Sandy!"

Richard and Victor swapped concerned glances. All three of them had seen one of the alien ships peel off the main formation and head toward the West Coast.

When Sandy's voice returned, Jake heard tremendous emotions straining her words. "It already hit here." She paused, looking down. When she looked up, Jake heard and saw the tears. "Everybody's gone."

Over the next couple of minutes, they exchanged stories. Sandy relayed a brief synopsis of her experiences, both in the air and on the ground. Jake told her what they'd seen over Maryland and inside the Pentagon.

The news that they'd also lost a huge swath of the West Coast hit Jake hard. On the video, he watched the same gut-wrenching emotions march across Sandy's face.

Then, her expression morphed into anger. "What Galactic Government? Is that who is attacking us? Is this—"

"No," Jake interrupted. "I promise, these aren't the same aliens."

"But…" She paused, apparently searching for the right words. "Why are they attacking us? What could we have done to them?"

"We can't figure that out either, baby. But, thank god you had that engine problem. As far as we can tell, their weapon has some effect out to about a hundred miles. If you'd been any closer, I probably would've lost you too."

Holding the phone with one hand, she grabbed the fuel truck's single-point refueling nozzle. "Hang on." Sandy set the phone on the tarmac under her F-22's wing.

Looking up from the camera's grounded point of view, Jake watched as she wrestled the heavy fuel hose to the fighter's refueling socket. Grabbing the nozzle's two handles, she slammed it home. Throwing her whole body into the movement, Sandy wrenched it ninety degrees to the right, locking it into place.

Watching the nozzle, she picked up the phone and pointed at the tanker behind her. "There's enough fuel in this truck to get me to Monterey Regional." Sandy's gaze turned from her aircraft to stare into Jake's eyes with a meaningful look. "That's about a hundred miles south of here. I gotta check on my parents."

"Oh shit," Jake whispered.

"Yeah, they live a few miles southeast of the city." A tear ran down her face.

Jake stared into her beautiful eyes. Picturing the desolation spanning the hundred miles between D.C. and his current location, he looked into the iPhone's camera and lied to the love of his life. "I'm sure they're okay, baby."

"I can't lose them, Jake." She paused shaking her head, then her lower lip trembled. "I can't lose my Daddy." Before Jake could say anything, Sandy's expression hardened, banishing the scared little girl that had momentarily cracked through her brash façade.

She cast a look at the fuel truck. "All right, Captain Giard, this thing is almost done. I have to get back in the air and report to General Pearson."

"Yeah, we have to get going too. Colonel Newcastle is waiting for our report."

Sandy brusquely swiped a tear from her cheek, then she pointed at him. "Come back to me in one piece, Captain Giard."

"You too, Captain Fitzpatrick."

As her finger approached the screen, she mouthed, "I love you."

Jake mouthed, "I love you, more." The call ended. He stared at the blank screen for a moment then nodded to his wingmen. They proceeded through the airlock, emerging into Western Maryland's cool crisp air. Standing outside the
Turtle
, they studied the surreal scene of rising smoke columns littering the eastern horizon.

"We've seen this, let's keep moving," Jake said. Turning to head toward downtown, he found himself staring into the cavernous muzzle of a very large double-barreled shotgun.

"Freeze you sons-a-bitches!"

Angered by her displayed weakness, Sandy batted away another tear.
I can't believe I let Jake see that!
Wrenching the empty fuel truck's nozzle free, she resisted the temptation to toss it on the ground. Sandy rolled it back into the truck and turned off the pump. Climbing into the vehicle, she stared at the western hills. Retrieving her phone and selecting her parent's home number, Sandy placed the call. After the fifth ring, it went to voicemail. Turning a desperate glance south, in the direction of Monterey, Sandy ended the call and closed her eyes. "Please, be okay."

After a moment, she punched in the general's number, took a deep breath and placed the call.

General Pearson answered on the first ring. "Talk to me, Captain Fitzpatrick."

Taken aback, Sandy hesitated. Finally, she said, "It's bad, sir. Really bad."

She described the scene in the bus, leaving out the teddybear. Also, she told him about her conversation with Jake. None of the news seemed to surprise him, including the downing of an enemy ship. After a brief pause, she told him of her Monterey plans.

"Okay, Captain. Go there and let me know what you see on the ground, but continue on to Nellis as soon as you get refueled."

Expecting this, Sandy countered. "Sir, on the ground, I can travel to the weapon's boundary and find out what's happening there."

"No, Captain." His tone brooked no compromise. "Colonel Newcastle is forwarding Captain Giard's reports. I won't discuss our plans on a nonsecure phone line, but I need you and your aircraft back here."

Sandy's heart sank. Stunned, she was speechless.

Taking her silence as consent, the general continued. "Thanks for your report, Captain. Come see me when you get back to Nellis."

"Yes, sir," she said weakly.

The call disconnected, and Sandy mutely stared at the phone. After a moment, she dialed her parents again. This time, she tried each of their mobile phones, as well. Maddeningly, each went to voicemail. With their cell phones, she'd expected as much. At night, they always turned them off. Hoping they might wake and receive them while she was airborne, Sandy left messages on each.

She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Okay, Captain. Time to get to work."

After looking at the two jets still sitting nose to nose, Sandy dropped the truck into gear. Intending to inch it forward until the front grill contacted the leading edge of the Lear's left wing, she tried to slip the clutch. However, it refused to cooperate. The truck lunged forward. Sandy winced at the sound of metal scraping metal. Fortunately, the jet's brakes weren't set. Bouncing off the front of the truck, the aircraft rolled back a few feet. She nudged the Learjet a few more times, cringing and saying sorry after each impact. Several crunches later, Sandy finally cleared enough space to maneuver her F-22.

Hopping out of the truck, she sprinted to her waiting F-22. Without a boarding ladder, she used the fighter's built in steps and hidden handholds to scramble into the cockpit.

In clear violation of regulations, Sandy left her phone turned-on and clipped it to her approach-plate chart holder. The position would allow her to see the screen should her parents call while she was en route. Sandy planned to stay at an altitude low enough to permit cell phone reception.

Finally buckled into the ejection seat, she ran through the start checks. A couple of minutes later, both engines were running, and all systems were online. Ready to taxi, Sandy pressed the F-22's right toe brake and eased the left throttle forward. Responding to the asymmetrical forces of differential thrust and braking, the fighter pivoted about its right main landing gear.