SECTOR 64: Ambush (2 page)

"I wish he'd pull up front again. My gun camera can't slew that far to the side," Vic said.

Recognition smacked Jake. "Hey, it looks like they want an escort."

"You're right," Vic said, then shouted, "Jake! Do you have your iPhone?"

"Yeah!"

Concentrating on flying his fighter while keeping an eye on the strange ship, he dug blindly through the bag he'd tucked into the small map pouch next to his right leg.
There it is.
Yanking out the phone, he turned it on—a clear violation of Air Force regulations.
I think they'll forgive this one.

"Got it! I'll take a couple of quick shots, then drop back and see if I can capture it with my gun-camera."

"Sounds good, just get it on something."

Staring at the phone's glowing, white boot-up apple, he shook the phone and growled, "Come on!"

Outside, the ship slid closer. When it parked a few feet off Vic's right wing, his fighter lurched.

Jake dropped the phone. "What happened?"

"I don't know. It feels like my right wing is trying to stall—" Victor's voice cut out as the buffeting rocked his fighter left and right. Broken by turbulence-induced grunts, Victor's voice came over the radio. "The stick is … beating up … the inside of my thighs."

He banked left to give Victor space. "Get away from the ship."

"I don't know … if I can hold on," Victor said. His voice strained as he fought to control the fighter.

Jake threw his transponder into the emergency position, alerting Air Traffic Control. Ears ringing, his pulse raced in response to the adrenaline dumping into his system. "Get the hell out of there!"

A crescendo of static rose in Jake's helmet.

Chopped and modulated by the communication laser's failing efforts to maintain connection, Lieutenant Croft's panic-stricken voice broke through the cacophony, "… systems … going down … damn warning light … flashing … day, mayday, may—"

Jake switched back to their assigned radio frequency and keyed the mic. "Lima Two-Four …"

Static.

"Victor, come in …"

Louder static.

The faint glow from Victor's engines faded, then extinguished. His fighter started losing altitude.

Jake's mounting alarm ratcheted another notch. Slamming both throttles to idle, placing his fighter in a rapid descent, Jake tried to keep up with his plunging wingman.

The external position lights on both fighters began dimming. The static increased to an earsplitting level, and then it died. Jake's cockpit darkened as all its electronics faded to black. All electrical energy seemed to drain from both F-22s.

Switching radios to emergency, he toggled the mic. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Air Force Two-One-Five!"

No side-tone.

Shit, the radio isn't transmitting!

He switched back to the air-to-air frequency. "Lima Two-Four, this is Papa Two-One. Come in, Vic!"

Still no side-tone, he couldn't even hear his own voice. A quick check showed his helmet was still plugged into its socket.

Then, to Jake's horror, both fighters started drifting toward one another. "Oh shit," he whispered. He pulled against the stick, but the unresponsive electronic flight controls refused to budge.

Drifting toward Lieutenant Croft's fighter, Jake's ship started an uncommanded slow roll to the right. He yanked and jerked the stick left. Nothing. Without electricity, they couldn't respond. Jake reached for his ejection handles and froze. Already rolling through ninety degrees, his cockpit was aimed at his wingman's fighter. If he punched out now, he'd shoot into the top of Victor's airplane.

He watched helplessly as his ship rolled inverted. His F-22's dim shadow fell across Vic's fighter. For a surreal moment, the two stared face to face across the narrowing gap as both struggled with their unresponsive flight controls.

An unnatural glow caught Jake's attention. The mysterious ship's multicolored ring of rotating light brightened and then flared as it rocketed away—the only evidence of its departure direction lay in the fading image burned across his retina.

"What the hell?"

Instrument lights flared back to life, and his F-22 snap-rolled left as, power restored, the electronic flight controls responded to Jake's desperate tugging. As he rolled away, he saw the ship's blazing departure throw Victor's aircraft into a flat spin.

"Shit!" Jake screamed. He flipped his Raptor over, trying to keep his wingman in sight, but the night quickly swallowed the still blacked-out fighter.

He checked the radio. It was back online. "Come in, Victor!"

No reply.

"You're running out of time! Eject! Get the hell out of there, Lieutenant!" he ordered. As if trying to will the event into existence, Jake visualized his small-framed friend yanking on the jettison handle.

Switching back to the emergency radio, he transmitted, "Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Air Force Two-One-Five!"

"Air Force Two-One-Five, this is Nellis Radio. Please state the nature of your emergency," replied the air traffic controller, her voice maddeningly calm.

Before he could reply, night turned day in a brilliant explosion as Victor and his F-22 slammed into the desert floor.

"No!" Jake screamed.

***

Tires barked as his fighter touched down. Jake extended the airbrake. The fighter decelerated. Heavy hearted and in an anguished mental fog, he struggled through the after-landing checks.

"Air Force Two-One-Five, proceed to the end of Runway Two-One-Right, right on taxiway Alpha, left onto the ramp. A security police detail is waiting to pick you up."

Security police? They're not normally involved in crash investigations.

"Uh … roger, Nellis Tower, Runway Two-One-Right, right on Alpha, to the ramp," Jake repeated. His tone was flat, dutiful. Finishing his landing rollout, he saw the promised security detail's flashing lights ahead on the right.

He finished the after-landing checks.
What happened to you, buddy? Why didn't you eject?

Hoping to spot his downed wingman, he had remained on scene. Jake had made multiple low passes, searching the small, speed-blurred patch of desert his landing lights illuminated. All the while, he'd monitored the frequency of Victor's portable emergency radio. In spite of numerous calls from Jake, it remained silent.

The post-crash fire had raged for thirty minutes, only faltering after it consumed the cache of jet fuel and combustible metals. When the rescue helicopter arrived, its crew performed an extensive search. After an additional thirty minutes, they reported: "No sign of ejection."

Out of fuel and hope, Captain Giard finally obeyed air traffic control's incessant orders and returned to base.

Now that he'd landed, Jake slowed his F-22. Reaching the end of the runway, he turned right onto taxiway alpha as instructed by air traffic control. Ahead, the swarm of security police vehicles generated a myriad of flashing lights. The strobing red, blue, and amber colors reflecting off every surface of his cockpit were an unwelcome reminder of the ship's strange lights.

Turning left onto the south end of the ramp, he nosed the fighter into the U-shaped formation of vehicles. Locking the parking brake, he finished the after-landing checks.

Ground support personnel, casting nervous looks at the assembled security police vehicles, hooked up the ground power unit. With the GPU connected and powering the aircraft, he received a thumbs-up from an airman that looked ready to bolt. Jake acknowledged the clearance and killed the fighter's engines. To his surprise, the airman did bolt.

As Jake's canopy rose, a security police squad, weapons drawn, stormed the plane. Jake was looking down the muzzles of eight M-16 automatic rifles.

"What the hell is this?" he shouted over the whine of the ground power unit's turbine exhaust.

"Out of the plane, sir!" screamed a large sergeant. The noncommissioned officer was pointing his Beretta nine-millimeter pistol at Jake's head.

Overwhelmed by the night's events, Jake stared incredulously at the armed squad. Shaking his head in resigned capitulation, he unbuckled his safety harness and unplugged his helmet. Climbing from the cockpit, he started backing down the boarding ladder. Halfway to the ground, he was ripped from the metal steps and thrown face-down onto the ramp. He could feel several muzzles pressed into his back.

"What the fuck!" Jake yelled. His breath lifted a small dust cloud from the tarmac, its asphalt surface warm against his face.

"Don't fucking move, Captain."

He continued to struggle. "I haven't done anything. This is bullshit!"

The cold steel muzzle of a large caliber pistol pressed against the back of his neck.

Jake stopped struggling.

The sergeant, now calm and inches from his ear, said, "Captain, I have my orders, and they don't come from any higher, and they don't get any more serious than this. I assure you, this is not
bullshit
."

The muzzle lifted from his neck.

"Now, are we done here?"

Panting, Jake nodded.

In less than five seconds, the sergeant cuffed him and dragged him to his feet. "Thank you, sir." Grabbing Jake's left elbow, he led him to a security police cruiser. The sergeant opened the door, stuffed him in the back, and slammed it.

Jake stared out in confused disbelief. "What the hell did we stumble into, Vic?"

Exhausted eyes stared back from the interrogation-room's one-way mirror.

"Damn it, Captain, what were you doing in that area?" The voice echoed off the tiled floors and walls. With only a four-legged rectangular table and two metal chairs occupying its center, the room offered little sound absorption.

Turning from his reflection, Jake locked eyes with the major. For what felt like the hundredth time, he said, "Sir, as I've been telling you for the last twelve hours, Range Control assigned us that training area."

For the hundredth time, the major stared back, unblinking and unbelieving.

Knuckles rasped against the room's single door.

With a disgusted sigh, the major shook his head and turned toward it. "Come!"

The door creaked open. A nervous Air Force airman stuck his head into the room.

Major Tinsdale glared at him. "Damn it! I left clear instructions that I was not to be disturbed."

"Sorry, sir. You have a call from a General Tannehill. I tried to tell him you were busy—"

"No, no, no, I'll take it," the major said standing, all annoyance evaporating. "Just sit there, Captain, I'll be back." Grabbing his notepad, he strode angrily from the room.

The airman nodded at Captain Giard and followed the major out.

Hearing the door lock, Jake turned back to his image in the mirror. A steady dripping sound emanated from a floor drain at the room's center. The ticking second hand of an old government issue wall-clock, hanging over the door, added its maddening rhythm to the staccato dripping noise.

Studying his weary face in the one-way interrogation room mirror, Jake tried to make sense of the situation. It was obvious they knew the two of them had encountered the ship. However, every time he tried to bring it up, the major redirected him. Tinsdale kept returning to the subject of airspace and timelines.
It's as if he thinks we conspired to be there at that particular time.

Given nothing to eat and only enough fluids to keep him awake, Jake didn't think they'd let him free anytime soon, if ever.

Jake heard the major shouting unintelligible commands as he came down the hall.

The door flew open, and in a storm, Major Tinsdale erupted into the interrogation-room. Throwing a stack of papers on the desk in front of Jake, Tinsdale paused, took a deep breath, and sat across from him, head hanging down.

To Jake's surprise, the major looked up with a contrite expression.

"Captain, I owe you an apology."

Stunned, Jake sat back, trying to understand the rapid reversal. Was this some kind of interrogation technique? Was the major propping Jake up, just so he could knock him back down?

Reading the distrust, the major raised his hands, palms facing Jake. "It's ok, Captain. I give you my word, this is not a trick."

"Then what the hell is going on?" he asked. Belatedly, he added, "Sir."

"Apparently, you have friends in high places."

His confusion doubled. "What?"

The major shook his head. "You'll be briefed later." He pointed to the stack of papers. "But, before you can leave, you have to sign these."

***

Lying in bed, gazing at the ceiling, Captain Jake Giard ran fingers through his short dark hair. His entire body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion. He hadn't slept in the eighteen hours since the disastrous encounter.

Jake knew sleep wouldn't be the restful reprieve from reality he needed. Only a dark prison waited—a place where he would relive the freakish encounter and the loss of his young friend, ad nauseam.

Shifting, he propped another pillow under his head and looked outside. The city's uncountable sodium-vapor streetlights set his bedroom walls awash with an orange glow. The drawn curtains of his window revealed a beautiful panorama. Viewed from his east Las Vegas apartment on the side of Sunrise Mountain, the city lights painted across the valley below twinkled like a sea of chipped orange glass beads. From Jake's remote vantage point, the buildings and lights of the Vegas Strip constituted a small portion of the scintillating mural painted across his bedroom window.

The cool, crisp springtime breeze ruffled the curtains, creating a welcome distraction. Jake felt his body relaxing as a coyote's howl drifted down from the desert mountainside. A lonely sound, it matched the darkness of his mood.

His body jerked with a waking spasm as a jet engine's distant roar drowned out the coyote's wail, claiming dominance over the night air. Muffled by distance, the airplane's din rolled like thunder off the surrounding mountains.

"Great," he muttered.

Frustrated and exhausted, Jake slid out of bed and stepped across the cool tiles. Pushing the billowing curtain out of the way, he walked to the center of the wide window, intending to close it. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Two miles to the north, on Nellis Air Force Base Runway Three-Left, two hundred feet from where he'd been accosted by the Base's Security Police, Jake could just make out the twin, fiery-blue jet-plumes of an F-22 Raptor on a takeoff roll.