Falkirk watched in dismay as at least a dozen technicians swarmed over the aircraft that he had left but two minutes ago. As he sipped water from a bottle generously offered by one of the technicians, Falkirk realized that flying this aircraft took physical effort. A human body was not designed to handle the stresses of ultrasonic flight, especially in an atmosphere where things like air resistance and gravity existed. His throat was still parched even though he had consumed the bottle of water in its entirety. Falkirk attempted to aid the technicians in any way possible.
“Give me those gold-coated wires,” one of the technicians said, pointing to a dolly atop which tools and wiring were stacked. Falkirk complied immediately. He knew that he had to get back in the air as quickly as possible to help Valmont. Falkirk climbed up into the cockpit, which seemed to be the only part of the plane not being worked on. From there, he could see out of the launching tunnel to the surface, catching fleeting glimpses of the battle going on outside.
Things were not going well at all. A status report showed Valmont’s plane to have a near compromised engine housing, as well as a loss of structural integrity in the left wing. Although Falkirk knew that it was not as bad as his own plane, the damage was clearly not insignificant. After taking back off, Falkirk thought to himself, he would order Valmont to land for repairs.
On Falkirk’s own plane, the major work required was removal and replacement of the fusion reactor. The plane was of a modular design, fortunately, so all that needed to be done was removal of the wings and the engine housing, and then the fusion reactor could be pulled with the help of an overhead crane running along the ceiling of the launch bay. Falkirk ran a diagnostic on his good reactor to make sure that it did not need replacement as well.
The 1.57 terrajoules of energy which the combined reactor output produced would be more than enough to power a large section of the city of New York. This plane required power beyond any singular previous creation of man kind. The tachyon energizing matrix, more than anything else, was responsible for this.
Sparks flew across the drab gray concrete floor as the thick wires leading from the fusion reactor were welded solidly back into place. Turning his attention back to the sky, Falkirk settled into the seat, sealing his helmet over his power armor and increasing the magnification to get a better look out of the tunnel. Falkirk saw Valmont’s plane flash across the sky, a pair of alien ships in pursuit. One continued the pursuit, but the other slowed, and then stopped, just at the edge of Falkirk’s vision.
“We’ve got to get out of here! The aliens know where we are!” Falkirk yelled over the dull roar of power tools being operated.
“Why? What’s happening?” One of the techs yelled back.
“They know exactly where to hit! Get me in the air, now!” Falkirk yelled back over the din of the work crews.
Falkirk watched, but could not hear, as the man began yelling something to the other technicians. As this was happening, a pronounced squeal of metal on metal rang out, and everything was silent for a single second. After that, chaos erupted. Red warning lights flashed across the bay and technicians scrambled madly to the safety of the door opposite the flight bay.
“Warning, tunnel collapse imminent,” a computer-generated feminine voice stated matter-of-factly over the loud speaker. Falkirk vaulted from the canopy to find that the repairs on his plane had been completed, except for a single wire hanging loose. There were, unfortunately, two open ports to which it could be connected.
Red on yellow. Yes. Or no. Falkirk couldn’t remember. His brain screamed at him to find the answer. Was it blue or yellow? Falkirk knew that incorrectly connecting the wires would, at best, simply electrocute him with the power of the fusion reactor, and, at worst, cause a major explosion. It would have to be a leap of faith.
Falkirk locked the alligator clamp of the yellow wire onto the blue connector, and sighed with relief as nothing happened. Falkirk climbed back up into the cockpit and sealed it. He then slowly, very slowly, pressed the button to start up the weapons reactor. The familiar hum of the fusion powerplant was there, but it sounded strained. Falkirk realized that he had not sealed the access compartment to the wires.
Desperately, Falkirk fumbled for the controls to open the cockpit, trying to get the canopy open. After a depressurization which seemed to take ages, the cockpit slid open. As it did, Falkirk heard the computerized voice chanting lightly.
“External pressure on tunnel now at four tons per square inch. Tunnel collapse imminent in twelve seconds. Eleven. Ten.” The cockpit was now open.
Falkirk leapt out of the cockpit, hitting the concrete hard. “Nine.”
Picking himself up, Falkirk moved under the plane, ducking down underneath the low-slung wings.
“Eight.”
Falkirk was almost through now. Emerging on the other side of the plane, he saw the open compartment. The plate to seal it shut, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“Seven.”
Falkirk checked quickly around the plane. He could not see the plate. “Six.”
Looking at the landing gear, Falkirk realized that the plate was lying next to one of the wheels, almost concealed in shadow.
“Five,” said the voice, growing louder and louder. Everything seemed to slow down as the warning klaxons whooped. Falkirk snagged the plate.
“Four.”
Falkirk pushed the plate into place. It pressure-locked onto the plane with a satisfying hiss.
“Three.”
Falkirk ran to the ladder of his plane and pulled himself up it, sliding back into the cockpit.
“Two.”
While sealing the hatch, Falkirk initiated the launch sequence. “One.”
Falkirk didn’t have time to wait for the pressurization to occur. Without another through, he rammed the throttle to full power.
“Zero.”
Everything happened at once. The concrete tunnel caved in, showering chunks of concrete and raining a torrent of salt water down into the launch bay. The fighter, with its fusion reactor unleashed to its full potential, melted through a foot-thick layer of concrete before leaving the launch pad.
Falkirk’s aircraft screamed forwards, slicing thought the shower of water that had broken through the ruptured tunnel. Concrete chunks spanged off of the fuselage and wings, but they did little more than scratch the paint. Falkirk shot out of the tunnel, blasting forwards with fire trailing over his wings.
The alien craft, which continued to concentrate its sonic pulse on the remnants of the tunnel, was an easy target for Falkirk. In quick succession, three tachyon particles were fired from his cannon, spraying chunks of biological matter from the alien vessel across several square miles of ocean. Falkirk deftly avoided the shock waves from the three explosions caused by the tachyons, and proceeded to engage his aircraft’s satellite uplink.
While the uplink was being established, Falkirk found Valmont’s plane by using conventional radar. He appeared to be holding his own, but looked swamped by alien craft surrounding him. The rest of the alien ships, meanwhile, were wreaking havoc with the city.
Falkirk began to light his afterburners to intercept the aerial melee, when President Donley came on the line. With the satellite uplink, Falkirk had a direct communications link with the President. Unfortunately, he instantly wished that he hadn’t.
“Falkirk, we can’t hold out here! We are under heavy fire! I’ve got the football here with me, and I’m going to launch a nuclear strike. You have five minutes to get yourselves out of the area. Get going!” Donley yelled, the sound of carnage in the background.
“Sir, with all due respect, there are flights of planes inbound from bases all over the northern U.S. Give us ten minutes, and we can hold back those alien ships until they get here to back us up!” Falkirk replied aggressively.
“We don’t have any time, Falkirk, by then, the whole city is going to be gone. We can destroy them here and now, contain the damage that they’ve done!” Donley shot back.
“God damn it, sir, you’ll be killing millions. At least they’ll have a shot at living if we stick to conventional methods! Containment isn’t going to help us if the only thing left is irradiated craters instead of cities!” Falkirk yelled back, nearly in tears.
“Falkirk, that is not your decision to make. Analysis from the Joint Chiefs has indicated that this is the quickest, most efficient way to minimize our losses. You will follow my orders.” Donley replied loudly, angry at the question of his authority.
Instead of responding, Falkirk tried to get a trace signal on Donley’s location. He had clearly cracked under the stress, and was going to take millions of citizens in the Washington D.C. area with him.
He appeared to be located at the Capitol Building. Without another delay, Falkirk lit the afterburners and jetted towards the telltale dome.
“Falkirk, I’m pressing the button. Get your people out of here now!” Donley screamed.
Falkirk was nearing the Capitol Building. He had no more options. He couldn’t allow anyone to get away with the slaughter of millions, be they man or alien.
Falkirk shut his eyes, clenched his teeth, and pulled the trigger to fire a tachyon burst.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Falkirk said sadly.
The reddish-white beam blazed forwards, lancing into the Capitol. The building instantly lit into inferno, splitting open like a melon dropped on the ground. Debris splayed across the streets, and there was little more left than a smoldering crater. Although the price was high, Falkirk had at least saved millions from certain destruction.
“Warning, tracking nuclear missile launch.” The soft feminine voice of the onboard computer reported with certainty.
Automatically focusing into a map of the United States on his in-cockpit display, Falkirk saw that at least a dozen nuclear missiles had been launched towards his current position.
“Estimated time to impact, three minutes.” The computer stated with infuriating nonchalance.
Fuck, Falkirk thought. He had no time for this. And to add to his misery, the aircraft support from other bases in the U.S. had just began to arrive. He had to get out of there, and fast.
“This is Mustang Lead to all craft in the vicinity, abort, abort, abort. A nuclear strike has been ordered on the area.” Falkirk stated on a broadcast radio frequency.
“Sir, what about the civilians!” A pilot said over the radio chatter.
“Damn it, we can’t do anything. Turn around and get out of here, now!” Falkirk bellowed over the radio to the pilot. They were truly paying for this victory with their dearest blood.
Falkirk spun the plane around ninety degrees, turning towards the icy waters of the Antarctic. His blood, however, boiled with the heat of a million of the reactors that now powered his plane towards its final destination.
The roar of dozens of planes breaking the sound barrier in near unison could be heard, but it would not be nearly so loud as the incoming nuclear flight when it impacted. A computer readout appeared, revealing the path of the nuclear missiles launching towards his position. Some were from Nebraska, some Wyoming, and some Kansas. All were equally deadly.
As the eastern seaboard of the United States faded away, Falkirk took one last, dissolute look at the beautiful history which had created the freedom which Falkirk so much enjoyed. The aliens have hurt us, he thought, in an eerily detached silence, and now it’s time to hurt them back.