Falkirk still remembered that day. Graduating from high school threw his life head over heels, and he decided to pursue his dream of becoming a test pilot, living on the edge. Now, a Captain in the United States Air Force, Captain Falkirk quickly learned that being a test pilot had its ups and downs. Even in the year 2008, at the ripe old age of 25, Falkirk missed his old friends from high school. Of course, he had made new ones, but it was very difficult to keep contact, considering how often he was given transfer orders from one place to another.
Here I am, now, Falkirk thought, the hum of the fission reactor in the jet taking his mind off of what could have been, if life would have been different.
“Mustang Leader to Mustang Two, what is your status?” Falkirk said into the radio.
“Can’t complain, Mustang Leader, although that humming sound is driving me insane.” Captain Scott Valmont replied. Falkirk laughed at the joke; both had been subjected to it for years now.
Valmont and Falkirk were generally regarded as two of the best test-pilots in the Air Force, if not the world. While Falkirk started in test piloting, and stayed there, Valmont had joined the Air Force, and fought in the Israeli-Saudi conflict of 2004. After that stint, and a promotion from lieutenant to captain, Valmont met Falkirk while flying out of Cairo in the last week of the conflict. Valmont, seeing the X-41 that Falkirk flew, decided to dump his wings and his seemingly ancient F-22, and hopped into the seat of an X-43, a new fission powered model that came into service of test pilots in 2005. Valmont and Falkirk typically had competitions to see who the better pilot was. They quickly realized, however, that if they were ever in a real dogfight, they would run out of fuel before one of them was to win. Instead, they both spent time on the social scene in whichever country they were in. Valmont and Falkirk, both fluent German speakers, had actually become quite popular with a certain high school in Heidelberg, and received letters from students every month. It was nice to receive mail, as neither Valmont nor Falkirk had any sort of wife or girlfriend.
Falkirk quickly cleared his mind. Flying above the deserts of Egypt, complete attention was required. If Falkirk were distracted, a crash could easily occur, and in the deserts of Egypt, it would be nearly impossible to survive more than a day if he were forced to eject.
“Hey Allan, how much longer do we have to stay up in these planes? Shouldn’t our patrol be over by now?” Valmont asked.
“Take a look at your satellite uplink. We have about 15 more minutes at this speed, then we head back, which should take about 25 minutes, total of about forty five minutes, and as I see it…” Falkirk was cut off.
“Hey Captain, race you back to base!” Valmont yelled, with a twinge of excitement.
Falkirk watched as Valmont’s X-49 rocketed towards the ground, accelerating as it went. Falkirk’s heads-up display targeted Valmont’s plane as it came into view, the plane accelerating at almost half the speed of sound per second.
Alright, Valmont, just try and beat me, Falkirk thought, rising to the challenge. He slammed on the afterburners, and shot towards the ground at an angle just slightly steeper than Valmont’s.
The two planes screamed towards the ground at nearly a mile per second. Falkirk checked his satellite uplink, the satellite’s terrain mapping feature re-evaluating the contours of the desert floor every five seconds. The path that Valmont was taking was relatively flat. Due to his lead, Falkirk figured, he would never catch up, even though he was flying a superior aircraft. Falkirk noticed an area, however, that Valmont would have to wind around. This was the only weakness that Falkirk needed to see.
The two planes, side by side, streaked towards the golden Sahara. The ground rushing to meet him, Falkirk pulled out of his dive at about a thousand feet. Valmont, above him, was going slower than him by about 16 miles per hour, but was still far ahead of him. Then, as Falkirk expected, the canyon appeared.
The canyon, if you could call it that, was called the “Glass Bowl” in Cairo. Formed by a threatening nuclear missile from Israel, the short-life nuclear missile created a beautiful crater in the sand. The burned sand formed a rim of black glass around the inside, which was mostly in shade. The sand, tossed high in the air by the explosion, hardened in mid-air. It looked almost like a cresting wave, falling towards the desert floor.
Falkirk watched as Valmont turned away from the Bowl, but Falkirk continued straight ahead, the Bowl looming ever closer. Falkirk shot into it at the last possible second.
Covered in darkness, the Bowl looked almost surreal. Zipping through it at almost four times the speed of sound, Falkirk had exactly 2.4 seconds to enjoy its shade.
Exploding out of the tunnel, Falkirk turned to see Valmont far behind him. Falkirk had won the day.
“Man, you are insane!” Valmont screamed over the radio. “You could’ve killed yourself!”
“Yeah, but what a rush, huh? We should go again!” Falkirk replied, the two laughing with glee. The truth was, nothing made Falkirk feel freer than flying to the limit. Falkirk and Valmont finished the rest of their patrol quickly, a cramped but uneventful trip. The two planes landed on the two-mile long paved runway, Valmont first, then Falkirk. They went through the shut down process together.
“Flaps in locked position?” Falkirk questioned. “Check.”
“Engine off?” “Check.”
“Satellite receiving system?”
“Set to zero meters scan, and no receiving of updates, check.” “Uranium fuel supply?”
“Jacketing procedure initiated, check.” “Fission reactor?”
“Check, and let’s get the hell out of these planes.”
Falkirk and Valmont didn’t wait for the ladders to be brought out to them, they simply jumped from the sides of their respective aircraft to the ground, working out the inevitable kinks in their backs and legs.
“Geez,” Valmont commented. “The F-22 fit like a glove around its pilot. This plane fits more like a coffin.”
“Yeah, but you sure wouldn’t be in one if you took it to the Palestinians in this plane. Or the Chinese for that matter. Did you hear the latest update on the armistice talks?” Falkirk asked.
“I caught it on satellite.” Valmont said as the two walked towards the commander’s office. “Looks like the Communists have the south almost entirely back under control. The USS Ronald Reagan is supposed to be headed for dry dock, and you already heard that the Kennedy was sunk retreating. President Donley said it was a minor setback. 2 nuclear carriers and something like 10,000 American lives so far.”
“Figures that the Communists would win. They had odds 2-to-1 on them in Cairo, should’ve taken them up on that.” Falkirk mumbled, opening the office door for Valmont. Falkirk thought back to the beginning of the war. There had been so much hope, so much idealism. When Hong Kong finally declared its independence from China after the Chinese attempted to place a dramatic excise tax, nobody thought that the Chinese would actually enforce their territorial claims. When they did, scores of smaller cities and villages around the Kowloon Peninsula pledged their support to Hong Kong, having benefited from the free-market practices engaged there.
With the first wave of Chinese troops into Kowloon, the Americans pledged their support to the South. Unfortunately, while Hong Kong was extremely good at generating wealth and prosperity, its climate made fighting another matter. American troops were not prepared for the monsoon season and fighting in such urban conditions. Often, the fighting was in urban Kowloon, battles from building to building, or, as the case was, skyscraper to skyscraper.
Eventually, support for the war simply ran out. Popular American sentiment was that if they had to pay taxes, than the South Chinese should have to pay them too, never mind that the tax was eighty-five percent of their wage. The nail in the coffin was when the U.S.S. Kennedy, a nuclear carrier, was sunk in Hong Kong harbor while trying to gather South Chinese refugees that wanted asylum. A combined use of aircraft and artillery wound up destroying the ship, and rendering all of Hong Kong radioactive. Once considered the shining jewel of the east, Hong Kong now lay uninhabitable for the next
500 years. News companies shot images of Hong Kong from their satellites, the hundred- story tall buildings empty, grungy, and pock-marked from rocket and mortar fire. Falkirk turned his thoughts away from the waste that was the Chinese War.
A wave of cool engulfed the sweating pilots as they entered the office. Each saluted the commander, and then took a seat. The commander looked up from the papers on his desk briefly, voicing a faint hello to the two men.
“Good flight gentlemen, good flight,” Harrisman mumbled, barely looking up. “The only thing that I have to inform you of is that your next flight has been rescheduled. You will be flying at 1300 hours, instead of 1800. There have been some odd weather patterns over Kenya, and you two need to go and check them out. Get yourselves some lunch, and a little sleep, because you’re back up in less than three hours.”
Falkirk and Valmont walked out of the office, grumbling about weathermen and test pilot priorities. The two headed quickly to the mess hall, Falkirk grabbing a chicken sandwich and Valmont a cheeseburger. The two ate together, discussing their plans for the next few hours.
“I’ve got to e-mail Melody. She’s supposed to be on the USS Nimitz. I wonder if they’re pulling out too.” Falkirk said.
“Probably,” Valmont said, in between bites of the luscious beef. “You never know, though. They may be staying to oversee the reinstatement of the Communist government for the United Nations or something. I have to go check out my plane though. Something felt out of place on that last flight, and I want to make sure that everything’s okay.”
The two continued to eat and talk, about the flight later that afternoon, the
Chinese War, and things that they both had to get done. The two finished eating and went their separate ways, Valmont out to the tarmac, and Falkirk to his quarters.
Falkirk unlocked his door and sat down in a chair. Turning on his computer, he looked around his sparse quarters. More and more, he was getting used to sleeping in his plane, and not here. He began to wonder if he should’ve chosen a different path in life.
The computer chimed, waking Falkirk from his daydream. Falkirk adjusted his web cam, and began to record a message.
“Hi Melody, it’s Allan. I heard about the Reagan and the Kennedy, and I just wanted to know what’s going on aboard the Nimitz. I guess I understand if you can’t tell me, I just hate that you can’t tell me about what’s going on most of the time, with it being classified and all. I hope that all is going well for the rest of the SEALS. I do miss you,” Falkirk trailed off, then got louder again. “Anyway, e-mail me as soon as you get a chance. I’m flying for the next couple of hours, but I hope to talk to you later.” Falkirk finished the recording, and then clicked the ‘send’ icon.
A message popped up, indicating success. Falkirk relaxed, and then went back to his computer, checking the weather patterns over northern Kenya.
Falkirk looked at the picture with surprise. The entire northern part of Kenya was totally devoid of weather. While that in itself was odd, even more odd was the fact that there seemed to be no wind currents or humidity either, except in a small spot, which seemed to be the center of the distortion. Falkirk attempted to find a positioning satellite that had the ability to scan for radioactivity, but the closest one would not be in a position to scan for another two hours, not quickly enough. Falkirk wondered for a moment what the strange phenomenon was. He checked his watch. 1240. He quickly turned off his laptop computer and took it with him. He wanted to upload the data into the computer of the aircraft for reference.
Falkirk, jogging out to the tarmac, met Valmont. The two continued out towards the planes, and took turns feeding the data from Falkirk’s computer into their respective aircraft.
“What are you going to do with your laptop now?” Valmont asked.
“I’m just going to stow it behind the seat.” Falkirk said. “There’s no time to put it back now.”
“Sounds good.” Valmont replied. “Let’s go check out these weather patterns. Or maybe it’s just an early April Fools gig.” He continued, his grin getting wider.
Well, Falkirk thought, since April was a week away, it wasn’t likely to be a joke at all.
The two climbed into their planes, helmets on. The canopy sealing shut around him, Falkirk taxied his plane out to the runway. Valmont was just behind him.
“OK,” Falkirk said into the radio, laughing audibly. “Let’s see how these weather patterns like this!”
Falkirk slammed on full afterburners, taking off at a 90 degree angle. Valmont followed suit, proceeding into the clouds with Falkirk. The two planes leveled out at about 15,000 feet, heading towards the center of the anomaly.
After about ten minutes of flight, Falkirk broke the silence. “Scott, have you seen the weather satellite reports on this area?”
“Yeah,” Valmont replied. “Looks really odd. Some sort of a weather dead zone in about a ten mile circular area, with a highly concentrated center. Are the satellites on the fritz again?”
“I hope so, because I’m honestly not sure what else it could be.” Falkirk said. The two continued their low altitude flight. At three times the speed of sound, it would take them twenty more minutes to get to the center, Falkirk calculated. He went back to his satellite uplink, checking to see if the satellite to scan for radiation was available.
The report would be available in ten minutes. Good, Falkirk thought to himself. I need to know what’s going on.
The radio crackled to life with an incoming transmission. It was highly distorted, Falkirk could barely make it out at all.
“Captain…reports…dead zone…no radiation…dangerous…proceed.” The transmission was cut off. Someone, or something, was jamming the transmission.
Falkirk thought to himself, and realized that he could still get a message through his satellite uplink. He attempted to refresh the connection, but he was unable to acquire a satellite. He repeated his attempt, with no luck.
“Not good.” Falkirk said unconsciously into the radio. “Hey boss, I hear you loud and clear.” Valmont replied. Well, at least that works, Falkirk thought.
“Scott, we are supposed to proceed. I received a message just outside of this zone.” Falkirk said.
“Sounds good boss, though I’d just as soon be out of here.” Valmont replied, with an air of worry.
The two continued, arriving at the center of the anomaly just 5 minutes later. What they saw astonished the two.
The dark grey clouds that covered most of their trip to the area appeared to be sucked into a strange funnel shape. The clouds twisted into a point that was ruby red, and shone like the sun.
“What is that thing?” Falkirk asked no one in particular.
“Oh God!” Valmont shouted, suction from the point grabbing a hold of his plane and pulling it towards the center.
Valmont kicked on full afterburners, enough for his plane to break free. Barely. The two planes circled the point, at a distance, avoiding the powerful vacuum.
Finally, the point grew and morphed, growing larger and larger, until it was finally the size of a small building. The red light seemed to fly outwards, and what was at the center was revealed.
The red light had shaped itself into a smooth, pyramid-like shape. After the uncovering, the craft was a drab brown sort of color, with various places covered with a light, yellowish colored metal. The craft was quite large, Falkirk’s scanners reported dimensions of 120 meters high by 50 meters across at the widest point. The ship rotated, and began to move towards the two aircraft, accelerating quickly.
“Arm weapons!” Falkirk shouted into the radio.
The two planes dodged the oncoming craft. Its bulky size was no match for the maneuverability of the two tiny fighters.
Valmont screamed out over the radio. An invisible force flung his plane towards the ground, as if hit by an enormous invisible hand.
Falkirk locked missiles, firing off a GB-16 Pagan air-to-air missile. The Pagan was designed to destroy larger aircraft such as cargo and surveillance planes, many times bigger than a fighter. Falkirk figured that the ¼ kiloton yield would easily destroy the craft. Falkirk pulled a split-S, trying to get away from the coming blast.
The missile slammed into the craft, the blast causing the brown covering to ripple and tear loose from the ship. An enormous crater existed of what used to be a good third of the craft. Falkirk smiled smugly.
That smile, however, soon turned to horror, as Falkirk watched the alien ship seemingly knit itself back together. The ship appeared to be made out of living flesh, and was regrowing itself at an alarming rate.
“Scott, we’ve got to haul ass out of here, buddy!” Falkirk yelled into the radio. “Couldn’t agree with you more, man. Let’s keep it low!” Valmont responded. The two planes blasted towards the ground, afterburners lit hot white. The alien craft, nearly entirely repaired, turned to follow the two planes.
Falkirk looked at his speed, steadily rising, passing three times the speed of sound. With a smug smile, Falkirk looked back, expecting to see the alien craft far behind. A wave of terror swept over him.
His plane had reached its top possible speed, and the alien craft was not only keeping pace with him, but was accelerating.
Falkirk, fighting his fear, hatched a plan. He yelled to Valmont over the radio. “Scott, keep going, I’m going to try to buy us some time!”
Before Valmont could respond, Falkirk nosed his plane up a fraction of a degree, cut his engine, and deployed his drag chute. These, in combination, achieved what Falkirk wanted.
His plane whipped around in a flip from his drag chute, tucking him neatly behind the alien craft. Falkirk got back on the afterburners, and managed to keep within a fair distance of the craft. He toggled his internal weapons rack, and triggered off all available missiles, twelve AAMRAM-A130 air-to-air interceptor missiles. The twelve, light, powerful missiles streaked forwards.
All twelve hit, but one managed to strike a small patch of the strange yellow metal. The craft quickly decelerated, missing Falkirk by only a couple dozen feet. He recovered from the turbulence, and continued his escape.
“Hey Falkirk, nice trick, buddy!” Valmont laughed.
“Well, those bug-eyed bastards had to be taught a lesson, huh?” Falkirk replied. The two flew on, the craft pursuing, but following much more slowly.
“Mustang Leader to base, come in, base.” Falkirk said into the radio. “What’s going on, Mustang Lead?”
“No time to explain, just have a strike force of aircraft up and flying in twenty minutes. Get them up now!” Falkirk said.
“OK, Mustang Lead, but what…”
“An alien vessel.” Falkirk said. “This may be the greatest threat man has ever known.”