Few aircraft appeared less aerodynamic than an Eagle shuttle. The front featured a pointy capsule with a thin window. To rear, a pair of engine baffles pushing hydrogen-generated thrust.
Like many of humanity's tools in the war, the Eagles came to Earth with one of the invaders and had been adapted for man's use thanks to the engineering genius of Omar Nehru.
Trevor occupied one of the two seats in the cockpit, the other manned by his personal pilot, Rick Hauser.
Hauser wore a pair of bulky goggles that tricked his eyes into thinking that he was the craft, not merely a passenger inside; a fusing of pilot and ship like nothing any human had experienced before.
While Hauser flew, Trevor stared out the cockpit window thinking about the coming battle now that The Cooperative had ignored his ultimatum.
Through that window he saw the ultimate example of confiscated alien equipment aiding the human cause. Thanks to the same anti-gravity technology that kept the Eagles aloft, the dreadnought Excalibur hung in the air two thousand feet above the blue waters of massive Walker Lake, Nevada just east of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
The Excalibur presented an aggressive profile. The rounded lip at the bow of the rectangular behemoth marked the start of a flat top. The ‘tower’ section dominated the rear third, one side a gigantic aircraft hangar, on the other-to stern-terraced levels peppered with launch pads, gun barrels, antenna, observation windows, and more. A squat dome on the tower housed the bridge, or the ship's "brain."
Hauser eased the Eagle to a landing pad with little noise from the smooth engines. The shuttle turned and lowered with so little fuss that Trevor could imagine he road an elevator.
After touching down, the pad descended and the morning sun disappeared as a protective bulkhead shut overhead. Bright white lights illuminated a hangar complete with fuel hoses, technicians in gray coveralls, and a greasy floor. Had it been full of Chevrolets, it could pass for a corner garage. Trevor unbuckled his safety harness and stood. Before leaving he said to Hauser, "You’re briefed, right?" "Yes sir," the pilot answered. "We’ll be on standby if you need us."
As Trevor exited the cockpit and walked through Eagle One’s passenger compartment, his eyes darted to the specialized equipment that had replaced one row of seating. That equipment included two lockers holding special combat suits rigged to a charging station. There was also a weapons rack stocked with plasma rifles stolen from Duass infantrymen, a human-made M-4 carbine, a Chaktaw rail gun, and several pistols. Each held special meaning to Trevor and each offered a different way to kill.
A ramp extended from the ship's sliding side door to the floor of the bay. Tyr, who had been sleeping at the rear of the shuttle, trotted ahead and down the ramp.
The smell of grease and the sounds of tools and chatter filled the hangar. A water hose extended to refuel the hydrogen-powered shuttle.
Trevor entered the standby room. Rows of chairs, a large television, and plentiful storage compartments of spare parts, uniforms, fire suits, and other emergency gear lined the walls. There he met Woody "Bear" Ross, a one-time professional linebacker turned artillery commander by Stonewall McAllister and now the Excalibur's first officer. Trevor asked, "Anything?" The black man with the bull dog jowls usually spoke in a booming voice. This time, however, his voice sounded soft and sorry. "No, sir. I think they’re resolved to fight."
Trevor closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, letting all the reluctance and doubt and questions dissipate. He opened his eyes and hardened his jaw. "Launch the invasion." — Trevor stood on the crescent-shaped bridge of the Excalibur. Ahead of him stretched a gray wall with rectangular windows offering a breathtaking view of thousands of feet of flight deck reaching toward the bow.
Under those windows and along the outer walls sat workstations with computer screens, microphones, and electronic displays. In front of each of those stations labored technicians in black and gray coveralls, most with communicator headsets.
Every one busied themselves with checks and re-checks, status updates and reports. Yet, despite the intensity of their work, those busy technicians served as redundant cogs in a system controlled by a solitary individual.
Jon Brewer acted as the Excalibur’s ‘brain’ that morning. His station dominated the center of the control room on a slightly raised platform surrounded by handrails with a Captain’s chair waiting behind for those moments that allowed for rest.
He stood in a cone of colorful touch screens hanging from the ceiling with angled keyboards mounted in arm’s reach. He wore a headset combining a microphone with a visor that worked similar to the Eagles' Nav goggles and he carried a small electronic device that acted one part pointer and one part computer mouse.
All of the ship’s functions funneled through the 'brain.' Jon could control them directly or quickly delegate to any station on the bridge. To serve as the ‘brain’ of a dreadnought required quick reflexes and a thorough understanding of the ship's workings. Trevor fixed his eyes on the sky beyond the windows while the bridge crew shouted and discussed and hurried to war. "Alert five, Aardvarks and F-15s in the pipe." "Holding at angel two." "Grav-pult green, ready to smack." The chatter mixed and raised to a crescendo…and stopped. Trevor realized the crew waited for him. He turned to Jon. The brain removed his goggles and asked, "Go or no-go?" Humanity's Emperor shut his eyes.
After more than a year of preparation, months of negotiation, and hours of trepidation, the time had come. The decision rested on Trevor Stone’s shoulders. He could pull them away from the precipice if he chose. He could re-open negotiations. He could try to persuade.
Or he could continue the war he seemed cursed to fight. The war that served as his purpose, according to the Old Man.
Trevor saw the bodies of Chaktaw fighters dangling upside down from makeshift crosses on the wastelands outside the city of Thebes on a parallel Earth. He saw himself relishing the slaughter only to learn that he fought on the side of the invaders; that every victory he won there had furthered Voggoth’s cause.
Could he be so sure that striking at the California Cooperative served man’s interest?
Trevor did not find the truth behind his closed eyes, but he did find the answer. The only answer he knew. There had been a time when he had known that answer with surety. Now he spoke the answer because he did not know any other way.
"Attack."
The chatter returned twofold
Jon issued orders through key strokes and voice commands. Shouts around the bridge echoed those orders: "Condition Red. Battle stations. Battle stations."
"This is Air Boss; Brain says smack the fighters. Repeat, get my birds off the deck."
"Roger that, priority smack on the MiGCAP, two by two."
Far below, the flight deck exploded into organized chaos. Men in magnetic boots raced across the tarmac. Navigation lights flashed. Klaxons warned of an erupting storm.
At the rear of the flat top beneath the cover of the mammoth hangar, two horizontal bulkheads slid open, each at the end of a long strip of white runway lines.
Two F-15s rose from those holes and hovered a few feet above the deck in the grip of the ‘gravity catapult’. Painted on their tail fins was a feminine arm holding a bolt of lighting.
From his observation point high above, the Air Boss ordered, "Dasher One, Mother says smack your ass."
The first F-15 catapulted forward, thrown by a current of gravity ‘smacking’ it off the flight deck into the air ahead of the Excalibur. The stressful maneuver would not have been possible without substantial structural upgrades and a corresponding gravity ‘magnet’ situated inside the jet's fuselage.
As it cleared the deck, Dasher One banked hard to the left just as the Excalibur ‘smacked’ Dasher Two along a parallel runway.
Seconds later another pair of planes felt a smack from ‘Mother’ on their own asses. The process continued until six F-15s circled in a holding pattern around the dreadnought.
"Aardvarks, in the pipe."
The F-111 tactical fighter-bombers had received a new life in the post-Armageddon world after having been all but retired from the United States arsenal. Two of the green-painted flyers rose to the deck and then sprung forward, shaking and rattling from the intense g-forces until swooshing into the clouds overhead the Excalibur. Moments after, another pair of Aardvarks joined the fleet flying overhead. "Air Boss to Thunder and Lightning, you’re good to go, happy hunting." The escorts took point and led the bombers west toward California. — "Dasher One to Thunder and Lightning, snuggle up folks we’re hitting the dead zone, watch your scopes."
The formation of fighters and bombers flew through a perfectly blue sky high above the jagged, white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The steady drone of engines and the crackle of radio chatter presented the only distractions in a mission that began without a hitch.
As per Dasher One’s orders, the pilots tightened formation as they entered the estimated zone of effect for The Cooperative’s "Stealth Field" generated out of Beale.
"Dasher One, this is Dash Two, my scope is clear."
"That’s great, Billy."
"No, Dash-One, I mean it. Clear."
The female weapons officer on board the lead F-111 joined the conversation, "Dasher Two, this is Dash Seven, I read you, I got a cold nose. Nothing. Not even us."
The veteran pilot who went by the call-sign Dasher One understood.
"Christ, you’re right. Nothing. Hang on. Excalibur, this is Thunder and Lightning, we have total black out on our scopes. Nothing on radar. Not even each other."
Another voice joined the air waves from an F-15 pilot on the far side of the formation: "Dash One, this is Dash Six, look twelve o’clock, is that a contrail?"
"Easy bubba, let’s see…" A flash broke the formation as Dash Six exploded in a ball of metal and fire. The concussion rocked the planes. "Charlie Foxtrot! All planes, activate ECM! TACAN this is Dasher One we’ve got incoming!" "Dash One, this is Two, more coming at twelve. Christ! There’s nothing on my scopes!"
" Excalibur, this is flights Thunder and Lightning, we have incoming missiles but nothing on our scopes. Taking evasive action." The planes broke formation. Electronic counter measures tried to fool incoming missiles fired from unseen assailants. "Dasher One this is Dasher Four, executing Yo-Yo…" "Dash Two-Billy, punch it and do a barrel roll, maybe we can get ‘em to over shoot."
The planes split and raced up, down, and off. Afterburners glowed hot; thrust plastered pilots into cockpit seats and strained both men and machine.
One then two of the enemy shots missed, a third clipped off the wing of Dasher Ten, an F-111. As the bird spiraled toward the spiked mountains below, the cockpit assembly separated with the pilot and weapons officer inside. A chute deployed and it descended into the unknown. Dasher One and Two completed their maneuvers and re-aligned. The other F-15s and F-111s found formation again. "Bogey! Bogey!" "Electric Jets at twelve o’clock coming in fast!" "Hit the burners!"
The Imperial planes followed Dasher One’s orders and created maximum thrust on their afterburners. The sudden jolt of speed surprised the enemy flight of four black F-16s, once known as ‘electric jets’ to old school aviators.
The opposing fighters roared by in a blur. Streams of jet wash rocked the passing planes like boats caught in wakes.
"Dash Two, take Thunder flight and hit your primary target. Dash three, take my wing, four and five you two are married. Swing around, it’s time to bump heads."
"Dash One, that’s a negative, you’ve got no scopes."
"Follow orders, Billy, I don’t need a scope to splash these pricks. You got your orders."
Dasher One executed a high-g turn about and ordered, "Find their tailpipes and use the heaters. Thunder, get your asses in gear. Every one else, snuggle up to these bandits we want a knife fight in a phone booth here."
The F-16s held a huge advantage not only in radar but also in maneuverability. Their only chance was to use heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles at close range. "Dasher One this is Dash Seven, roger that, tallyho." Four of the F-15s closed ranks and sought targets. The three remaining F-111s followed Dasher Two’s fighter to the west. — Trevor shifted uneasily aboard the bridge of the Excalibur as the radio chatter echoed through the control room.
The first question of the day had been answered: the California Cooperative’s stealth field worked as advertised. Imperial jets in the zone lost their radar, rendering radar-locking munitions ineffective and blinding them to the enemy. The fight played over the radio. "Dash One, Fox Two." "Dash Four, you’ve got one on you six." "Heater found its mark! Sierra Hotel! Splash one bandit!" "Roger that Dash One, Bravo Zulu." "Dash Four, turn to your…" "Dash Four is down. Mother send a Helo, I’ve got one of my boys in trouble." "Dash One, this is Dash Five, negative, I didn’t see a chute. He didn’t get out, man." "Dash Three, Fox Two, missile away." "Christ. This is one fucked up fur ball. I can’t see shit on my scopes! How the Hell we supposed to fight these guys?" "I’m hit! This is Dash Three, I got-" Static. "Three? Three? What’s your status?" "Dasher One this is Dasher Five, three is gone away, no chute." "Flight leader, Dash Five here, bandits bugging east, tell Mother company's coming." "Dasher one, Fox Two! Missile track…shit…missed."
" Excalibur to Lightning Flight, disengage." "Lightning lead to Mother, you got bad guys heading your way." —
Dasher Two led the three Aardvarks low and fast over the sharp peaks of the Sierra Nevadas. Those peaks became less pronounced and more green than white as the target approached.
Billy-the F-15 pilot-knew the target zone from photographs and computer mock-ups salvaged from Pentagon records and maps. The older pilots in his group-guys like Dasher One who had been flying before 'all this'-told stories of mission planning that involved detailed satellite imagery and real-time Intel.
Must be nice.
Alas, military satellites were unreliable and rarely accessible. No more GPS-guided munitions, at least for the time being. Throw in the interference of the Stealth Field and that meant laser-guided and even gravity-'dumb'-bombs. Of course, the whole point of Thunder flight was to take out that Stealth Field. The target should be easy enough to hit: a big three-sided building resembling a 1970's stereo speaker.
"Thunder, we need altitude. Let's grab some sky."
Each plane gained altitude. While this made them easier marks for the defenses at Beale, it also allowed the gunners on the Aardvarks to better target their quarry.
"Dash Two this is Dash Seven, we're locked and loaded just get us to the party."
"Roger that," he answered her voice. "Make it count."
The old PAVE-PAWS facility sat three miles east of an airport. It came in to view as the mountains faded away, replaced by trench-like mounds of rolling earth.
Billy spied the three-sided structure on the far side of a group of featureless, rectangular buildings which, he knew from his briefings, had stood for decades. However, he also saw that The Cooperative had made some changes.
A tower with dark-tinted windows and an array of sensors on top rose from the center of the compound. A pair of mushroom-shaped objects protruded from the sides of the tower. No one in the briefing knew their function.
On the south side of the complex the Witiko had constructed a square, open-roofed building that intelligence labeled the 'pen' but that was all they shared on that subject.
Next, Billy spotted three horizontal boxes atop short bases, what intelligence guessed to be anti-air batteries.
To the north of the three main buildings sat a cluster of fuel tanks. Billy thought how confident the Witiko must be in their defenses to locate such explosive materials close to their facility. "I'm painting the target now," the female weapons officer aboard Dash Seven reported. Billy saw a flash, then another, from the base. Despite a clear scope, he understood. "INCOMING!" "One more second…" He saw-literally saw-the weld marks and bolts on the surface of an anti-air missile as it streaked by his cockpit.
The three bombers stayed on course even as the missiles closed. The first two missed but the third hit Dasher Eight. The plane disintegrated into a cloud of fast-flying debris. Thrusting engines-no longer attached to an airframe-flew off aimlessly like rogue fireworks.
Nonetheless, the remaining two Aardvarks dropped clusters of ordnance following laser beams toward the PAVE PAWS building.
That's when the mushroom-shaped devices revealed their nature.
Metal covers on each slid away revealing honeycombs. From those holes fired a veil of shells in a dense storm creating a bubble of safety overhead of the base, hitting and destroying the incoming payloads.
Some of the laser-guided bombs exploded in the air, others smashed off-course and landed inside the chain link fence surrounding the Stealth generator, causing damage to secondary buildings.
Another anti-air missile scored a hit, tearing apart Dash Seven and sending lifeless pieces-mechanical and otherwise-tumbling from the sky.
With their strike thoroughly defeated and more missiles aiming their way, the remaining Aardvark and Billy's F-15 retreated as fast as their engines allowed.
– Jon Brewer-the Brain of the Excalibur — darted his eyes from display to display. Voices and tones played through his earpiece. His right hand rolled a track ball fixed in a side rail that in turn moved a pointer on the Air Counter-Measures screen to the Heat-Defeat option.
At the same time, on the right eyeglass of his goggles he saw the image of approaching F-16 jets. Beyond those goggles he could see-on another of the mounted screens-a radar image that offered no warning of the approaching threat. His left fingers found the buttons he wanted not by looking, but by training. The voices in his ear piece echoed his orders. "Sparrow tubes loaded and ready." "Securing flight deck; closing hangar doors." "Close Support Batteries ready to fire."
He waited. The F-16s closed. Soon enough, The Cooperative's fighters would have to leave the safety of their Stealth Field if they wanted to engage the Excalibur.
And when they did…
First one, then three flashed on the radar.
I see you now.
Jon's fingers tapped a warning.
"Incoming enemy fire. Brace for impact."
Three more faster-moving blips painted on the radar screen. Missiles. His missiles.
"Sparrows away."
Rockets raced from the Excalibur and passed more rockets heading in for the massive ship, fired by the F-16s. A bank of radar-controlled Gatling guns on swiveling turrets along the bow of the Excalibur fired in tandem, managing to knock out the first of the inbound projectiles.
The second missile skipped across the flight deck and exploded near the closed hangar bulkhead. The third flew over the flight deck and hit the superstructure square-on. A tremble vibrated across the bridge.
Jon's eyepiece found the appropriate camera. His inspection of the damage saw it as superficial. It would take much more to penetrate the thick hide of a dreadnought.
The cluster of six missiles he had rapid-fired from Sparrow tubes Bow 1 and Bow 2 chased after The Cooperative's F-16s. Those planes banked hard and flew fast for the safety of their Stealth Field.
Jon watched on both radar and telescope.
The missiles closed. The planes ran like antelope from lions.
C'mon, c'mon…
The three blips disappeared from radar. Then the six tracking blips of the Sparrows also disappeared. Through his view finder, Jon saw the F-16s slow and change altitude. Now inside the dead zone, the Sparrows lost their radar track and flew off without guidance.
He announced for Trevor to hear, "Damn, they made it back to their side before the missiles hit. They got away. I think…wait a second…"
From his position at the command station Jon monitored everything; a continual flow of information and images. One of those images came from a camera on the belly of the ship.
He saw them two miles out moving through crevices between mountain peaks, hugging the ground nearly hidden from view while their self-generating Stealth Fields hid them from electronic surveillance.
"INBOUND! Two Witiko Stingrays, starboard side contact in five seconds!"
The weapons officer repeated an order that the Brain sent electronically: "Close support batteries to manual control. Gun crews, man your stations."
With their stealth capability hiding the Stingrays from his scopes, Jon attempted to grab an infrared lock on the warships' rear thrusters.
The black and silver attack craft swooped up from the mountains like frenzied sharks swimming for the kill. The speed and agility of the Stingrays stood in stark contrast to the stationery bulk of the Excalibur.
High powered cannons fired in defense at the rate of thousands of rounds per minute, but without radar locks they could not do to the ships what they had done to the missiles.
In contrast, the Stingrays could not fail to hit. They raced toward the undercarriage of the dreadnought, pushed by twin rockets.
Once in the dreadnought's shadow, the attackers fired thick gold energy beams. As the ships moved so did their beams, cutting a path across the belly of the mechanical beast and penetrating the tough hide of Steel Plus. Sparks exploded from the slice, bursts of flames and smoke erupted from the lacerations carved in the hull.
The Stingrays turned off their weapons momentarily, stayed in parallel formation, adjusted their flight, and swung up and around the stern of the Excalibur.
They then flew sideways and cut two more slices into the rear of The Empire's flagship. This time the weapons pealed open the bulkhead on one of the Eagle landing pads and also tore a gash in an engine baffle.
In response, a bank of aft-mounted turrets sprayed rapid rounds across the first Stingray's port side, rupturing the ship's skin and causing a small explosion. Flakes of its metal skeleton blew off and the attacker rocked side to side like a boxer taken by a surprise upper cut.
The Stingrays nearly clipped the tower as they dove toward the flight deck. Their lasers blasted streaks in the runway causing smoke to rise from twin lines of seared steel.
Jon finally found his infrared lock. The Witiko must have received warning, for the two cruisers rocketed away at full power, dipping toward the mountains just as two heat-seekers streaked away from launch tubes.
One smacked into the rear of an enemy ship. An explosion tore away chunks of hull and knocked an engine off-line. The cruiser wobbled and, for a short moment, looked as if it might tumble from the sky. Instead, the Witiko craft righted itself and continued on, albeit at less velocity. The second heat seeker fell sucker to flares and exploded far away from its target as the Witiko attackers disappeared from sight. Around the bridge, alarm klaxons rung and technicians spoke in rushed voices as damage control parties and medics reported in. Jon-the Brain-re-opened the flight deck to gather his flock of wounded fighters. With the Air Boss in control of that operation, Jon removed his head set and turned to Trevor. "Thunder flight reports bombing run ineffective. They say the base is well-defended against air attack." Trevor kept his eyes staring forward. The first salvo in the war against California had ended in embarrassment.
Jon questioned, "I suppose we should take in the dreadnoughts directly. Pound Beale with the boppers until they're nothing but dust."
This time Stone did speak, first with a slow shake of his head then whispered words, "No. That's exactly what the Witiko would expect. It's what they want. Two of those Stingrays cut us up pretty good and were on us before we knew it. We go into their space while the Stealth Field is still up and they'll mob us with jet plans, SAMS, and cruisers."
"So then what?"
Trevor told Jon, "Plan B."