Turkey Shoot

by David Stier

“Hey TK. You ever had to scrag trees before?” Ortega, one of my rookie pilots asked as we prepped for mission-drop off the Terran fleet carrier, A. P. Hill.

“They’re not trees,” said Nelson my second rookie pilot. “They’re ferns that’re supposed to help our allies fight a botanic plague of some kind.”

“Whatever you say professor, but I asked the LT, so shut your hole,” Ortega said.

For someone hot to get into her drawers, Nelson sure screwed the pooch on that little gambit.

“The answer to your question, rookies, is no,” I said. “But there’s a first time for everything. Now stick a cork in it and finish your pre-drop checks.”

At least Lee, my third rookie stayed focused. He loved playing the inscrutable Korean type. My credits were on him to score first on Ortega.

I looked to port and starboard down the line of interceptors. In a way they seemed more lethal now than they would after drop—all that potential for mayhem just waiting to be unleashed. As dual-purpose fighters, Valk 68F’s were atmosphere and vacuum capable. That meant a sleek swept-wing configuration, with the fuselage curved downward toward the nose, reminiscent of a cavalry trooper’s saber. Looking down the line, the canopies—located midpoint between the wing’s leading edge and fuselage nose cone—resembled red predator eyes from the internal cockpit lighting.

“All Reapers, prepare for drop,” CAG’s voice grated over com. “And I say again, watch out for bogies once we hit atmo—and don’t forget about triple-A over the objective.”

In her briefing, Elaine Sims, Commander Air Group Reaper, had warned repeatedly that Fern Forest One-Seven Alpha was a lock to be heavily defended.

Maybe I’d heard it before, but these three rookies hadn’t.

I toggled the private frequency. “That goes double for you three. Remember your training. When a Colonial slides into your sights, scrag it and toggle the next target. If you hesitate you’re dead meat. Nelson, you’re Ortega’s wingman and that means you cover her tail—her fighter’s tail, I mean.” I waited for the obligatory snickers. “The same goes for you, Lee. Watch mine as though it were your own. Understood?”

After all three complied, I toggled back to the main frequency.

“Initiate BA sequence,” CAG ordered.

I toggled on the bubble avionics and my helmet’s faceplate filter kicked in, making it safe for intermittent BA visual acquisition. Unprotected eyes that looked at the shimmering BA wing surfaces would incur what had been officially termed “bubble avionic disorder.”

We called it vomit till you drop.

BA affected the optic nerves and short-circuited the brain, causing a vertigo that the strongest stomach couldn’t take. You puked everything up and then dry-heaved, like coming off a three-day drunk without meds.

“And Lieutanant Hagland,” Commander Sims’s voice skewered my ears with a ripped steal rasp. “Try to stay in formation. Just this once, copy?”

Since my ship was portside to CAG’s, I gave her a thumb’s-up which she acknowledged with one of her own. Pilots and superstition went together like beer and salted pretzels. Before every drop we ran this drill. Why I always forgot about it until Sims spoke those eleven magic words was probably part of the superstition too.

“Copy, Reaper Leader.”

“And TK,” CAG continued. “If we run into any armor planet-side, please—just, this, once—try to restrain yourself."

“Roger CAG,” my smile morphed into a grin. “I’ll try.”

My handle didn’t stand for “The Kid.”

In my seven years of combat I’d been tempted to change the routine. Maybe it had something to do with testosterone overload and male aggression—but probably not. CAG was worse. A 200 proof fire-eating killer. Maybe that had something to do with estrogen overload and female aggression.

“Reaper Leader to all Reapers,” CAG’s voice was sharp enough to slice hardened titanium now. “Ten seconds to drop.”

The launch bay doors cycled open. Aldebaran 6’s topography and atmosphere clarified into varied shades of blue, turquoise and brown. White patches of clouds obscured the surface in places. Only a few degrees of the planet’s curvature were visible. A risky drop, this. As were all low orbit insertions. Bogies sometimes hid in those pretty fluffy clouds.

At the count of three, I concluded with: “Hagland to all Reapers. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

So much for superstition.

The change from gravity to null G was a lot like sex: anticipation, gut-sinking-rubber-kneed pleasure, then blam, Mr. Johnson firing off his salvo.

I scanned the sector, throttled up, engaged stealth and ECM. Allied intelligence ranked the Aldebaran Colonial threat factor as low—flying outdated fusion powered interceptors. If true, the dogfights should be more like turkey shoots.

Was that something on scan? My, my. A fast-approaching squadron, using a weather front as cover. Others had tried this trick before—hiding in high atmospheric clouds until some unsuspecting chump got caught between vacuum and air. I set passive scan on the nearest enemy ship. Stubby swept-back wings located well aft the cockpit on a cigar-shaped fuselage. Spectro-analysis confirmed the power source as tritium powered fusion.

“TK to Reapers, incoming, bearing 180° nadir. Set avionics on VAC-AT.” Vacuum-atmospheric avionics wasn’t the most maneuverable configuration, but we’d still be able to out fly these gobblers. I vectored the Colonial, angled up on forward thrusters, maxed throttle, and activated weapons. “Okay Lee, watch my back.” I glanced at scan. My rookies were primed—rung up, wound up, and ready to tempt the mother of all reapers.

“Once more into the breach, dear friends!” I screamed over com, and set my target comp to missile-intercept projection mode.

Stealth measures were holding. The enemy, fifteen ships in a single vee formation, held course within the massive cloud. The lead ship grew in my heads-up display as our range decreased. At 43 k-m, my HUD reticle flashed. I launched a missile. On my control panel’s area display, a red line shot out toward the enemy ship. The missile’s camera caught the Colonial’s desperate dive, then hit the underside of the fuselage at the left wing root. On my HUD, the craft’s signature changed from a triangular symbol to a fuzzy expanding blob.

Lee’s missile took out the leader’s starboard wingman, while Otrega and Nelson scragged the two ships to port. Four-point-zero on the beam so far, but now the Colonials were breaking formation and forming into fighting pairs of their own.

“Damn good, but stay hard, people,” I said over com. “No more easy kills today.”

At 19 k-m, I launched another missile. This one climbed right up the Colonial’s plasma ejector, hitting the reactor with a mini-mushroom cloud explosion and an expanding sphere of radiation that registered as a red oval on my HUD. The shock wave threw me forward and to the side. The harness compensated for the rough treatment by loosening and tightening as dictated by my body’s force.

The neutron exposure alarm briefly clanged. Then I was through the turbulence and inside the Colonial formation. I toggled over to mass drivers.

The seconds blurred together. Instincts took over. A Colonial began to close on my tail. Lee’s mass driver cut him in two. I maxed the port thrusters, sliding to starboard for several meters. A line of slugs appeared where I’d been just milliseconds earlier. I minimized forward thrust. A ship shot by my port side. I closed and fired. Over a hundred depleted titanium flechettes riddled the cockpit and forward section of fuselage, which disappeared with a brief flash of igniting oxygen. The decapitated interceptor began tumbling toward atmosphere, gravity its only master now.

They were good. But their ships weren’t good enough. That meant we were better.

“CAG to all Reapers,” Sims said over com. “Break off and form up. Assume Formation One-Delta.”

“Okay people,” I said, “you heard the boss. Form up on me.”

I scanned the area. Lee was back tight on my tail, but where were Ortega and Nelson? I toggled their ship icons to pulse mode. Both registered at the extreme edge of my scope, well into atmosphere.

“Hagland to Reapers Three-Three and Three-Four,” I said. “Get your sorry asses back in vacuum right now.”

“In point six mikes, sir,” Ortega’s said over com. “I want to finish this—”

Their ship icons began to fade from scan.

“Break-off! Break-off! Break-off!” I screamed, as they both disappeared. Dumb, dumber, dumbest. I should have planned better for this—first-kill psych out often resulted in a hefty dose from the stupid-pill dispenser. I vectored their direction, and hoped they both survived to face my royal rookie ass chewing.

“Got a slight problem with two of my rookies, CAG,” I said. “Be back in two-point-zero mikes. Lee, stay with the group and follow CAG’s instructions.”

“Make it fast, TK,” CAG said over com. “We don’t have all day.”

“Roger and out.” From the sound of her voice, I knew I was in for some gluteal mastication of my own.

At atmosphere, I deployed the bubble avionics. Millions of polymer bubbles, nanoprocessor controlled, transformed my space fighter into one of the deadliest atmospheric interceptors yet developed. The minutely fluctuating contours adjusted the wing surface with every change in air turbulence. The result was an airfoil that molded perfectly with its surrounding atmosphere. Bubble avionics allowed us to make near impossible maneuvers without passing out from excess Gee. Our accelerations and velocities were unmatched.

I located Ortega and Nelson on scan. They’d been suckered into an ambush and were outnumbered two-to-one. I maxed throttle and targeted one of the four Colonials with my mass driver. Flechettes ripped a line of destruction from aft stabilizer to cockpit before the ship exploded.

Missile lock warning. I banked left. Then right. Then a stalled flutter. The missile slashed by my right wing. Followed by the Colonial who’d fired it. I launched a heat seeker. Slag city. Another glance at scan. Ortega’s ship exploded in an expanding smear of yellow fire and black smoke. Low threat-factor my brass bootie. These guys were serious killers.

For a second I lost concentration, imagined the Deban pilot who’d just flamed my rookie strung up over a low fire and me turning the crank. With effort, I regained that clinical edge.

Nelson, the third rookie, had the remaining two bogies on his tail.

“Bank left and climb, Nelson!” I yelled over com. “Your angle’s too low!”

His ship exploded.

Screaming in rage, I fired the mass driver—one more dead rat bastard alien. A loud clang aft followed by a force that slammed me sideways. I checked the board while looping the remaining bogey. In the green. The piece of Deban crap was in my sights. At this range it was more like murder, but they’d murdered my two rookies, right? I launched my last missile. Started to grab altitude. Then the Colonial interceptor did something I’d never seen before. With a series of random loops, turns, and dives, it avoided the missile.

With another series of gyrations, over, under, and inside my banking roll, the Colonial reversed our positions. He unleashed a burst of mini-cannon fire that could never miss. Not in a million light years.

I dove toward planetary surface. The slugs slammed into my aft port quarter and the force threw me forward. My vector became a death dive.

Through pain, jumbled synapses, and an ozone stench, I checked scan. He was following me down. Good. I continued the dive. Maybe I could decoy him into thinking me already dead and use the BA wing surfaces to my advantage. I prayed the sucker ploy worked and that the millions of shimmering BA bubbles short-circuited Deban brains too.

I yanked back the stick and my ship’s dive angle decreased. The Colonial peeled off, his ship out of control, and slammed into a nearby mountain.

I gave the dead alien the finger, wishing I was dirtside so I could kick its lifeless corpse, then eased back on the stick after leveling off. Like flying through molasses. I kicked the rudder to port. Started to yaw. Eased off. Time to cry for help. A smoke filled cockpit made everything difficult. I grabbed the emergency transponder handle. Yanked hard. The high-pitched whine sounded like heaven.

The board didn’t look too bad. Maybe make it back to the Hill? I eased back the stick and applied half throttle. Another yaw to port.

Facts was facts, and physics was physics. I was going down.

What about that valley to starboard? Looked like lush grassland, which was good, and some kind of forest on its edge, which wasn’t. Must be Forest One-Seven-Alpha. I began the descent. The ground rushed by in a greenish blur.

Memory as a kid back on Mars: looking out the window of my parent’s flyer as we approached the runway. This looked about the same. I grit my teeth. The ship pancaked several times off the soft carpet. Lumps of dirt, grass, and pieces of my ship flew past the canopy. Part of my mind tried to identify the different objects by the sound they made when hitting the plas-steel transparency. Some gouged jagged lines, which I supposed were caused by metal. Others splattered in greenish brown blobs, which I took to be damp turf. Through the debris and billowing dust, a fast approaching shadow. A loud crash . . .

By the still settling dust, I hadn’t been out for long. So far the area was clear, but that could change fast. Numerous briefings had assured us of a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere—one plus, that. I unbuckled, grabbed the survival kit, cycled open the hatch, started the destruct sequence that fried the electronics, avionics, and comp. Then I climbed outside to the port wing, peered over the fuselage to get a better view of my surroundings.

The mountains were about five klicks aft. A black ribbon of smoke spiraled skyward, marking my last victim’s impact. Except for the snap-crackle-pop sounds of cooling metal, a strange quiet encompassed the area, as though I were alone in a sound proofed room. The wind changed and a wisp of smoke slapped me in the face. I coughed at the smell of burned electronics and a tangy ammonia scent I took for Deban 6 atmosphere.

The topography was a weird study in Terran similarities and stark alien contrast. Emerald fern trees swayed in a gentle breeze and an unbroken expanse of dark turquoise grass carpeted the surface, except where my ship had gouged out a crooked brown line of lumpy dirt and jagged rocks. The exposed earth appeared rich and fertile. The musty aroma reminded me of fresh plowed soil from my parent’s farm back on Mars. In the distance, several dark specks I took for hawks—or at least Deban 6’s hawk analogs—swooped and circled in a deep blue sky. The fast approaching shadow I’d glimpsed during the crash had been one of the fern trees at the forest’s edge, now twisted and broken.

In front of the crash site, the lush grass carpet swept gently downhill. Nestled in the farthest corner of the valley lay a small town. I flexed my left arm and shoulder—sore, but functional—then slid off my wrecked ship.

First priority: avoid capture. Fleet Rescue & Retrieval should already be on their way. I checked the transponder—in the green—then scanned the town with my binoculars. Something wasn’t right. I toggled on vid-mode and swept the town again, figuring it would be safe to linger a couple of minutes before finding some cover.

From outward appearances, hostilities hadn’t begun. Colonial civs strolled the sidewalks, and Colonial vehicles traveled the streets, all with that self-absorbed sentient life purpose. Hairless aqua skin, holes on both sides of the head for ears, and obsidian orbs for eyes. Bipedal, with recognizable legs and feet, though their arms ended in multi-length tentacles instead of hands. An image of those writhing appendages wrapped around my neck did little to reassure me.

I wondered at their apparent lack of interest. Hadn’t they seen or heard anything? Only deaf, blind idiots could remain so oblivious. Shouldn’t there be at least a passing interest in the air battle and subsequent crash landing?

My mind flashed back to the last dogfight. That Colonial had laid on some extraordinary moves. I’d been more than outclassed. I stilled a rising sense of panic. Only one ship had maneuvered like that—maybe a prototype? Had they developed chaos avionics? CA was still in the realm of dreamland fantasy back home.

Disturbing clanking noises from the town intruded upon these cheery thoughts. Was that a turret behind a false fronted building? Yes. Tanks within the town. A setup? The cold lump in my gut did another backflip.

“Hagland to Terran forces.” I hoped someone heard the plea. “Lock onto my signal. Target the town east of One-Seven-Alpha.” I repeated the message, warning about triple-A and possible chaos avionics.

Then I hoofed it, away from my wrecked ship and the town.

Less than a minute later I heard the unmistakable rumble of approaching Terran air power. I scanned the western horizon and was rewarded with the sight of two squadrons. Guess they’d believed my warning.

“TK from Reaper Group,” the speaker on my portable transmitter hissed. “Hope that ugly mug’s still in one piece.”

Good ol’ Sims. “Same back to you, CAG. Why the delay?”

“Orders, TK. Sorry. What about your rookies?”

She had to ask, and I hated the answer. “Both bought the farm. And CAG,” I said, “the Colonials have advanced avionics. Could be chaos. Stay hard. Over?”

“Roger that, TK. You warned your rookies, and so did I. Take a good look, people, and learn from Ortega’s and Nelson’s mistake,” she said to the other rookies of Reaper Group. “Fleet R & R’s on its way, TK. Estimate five mikes to pick-up. Condor Leader,” she spoke to her counterpart. “Hit the town while we provide cover.”

Condor Group vectored the town. Reaper Group patrolled overhead. Everything went to hell at light speed from there. Three Condors got scragged by triple-A from the town in less than 30 seconds, missiles bypassing our stealth and ECM. Then fighters hit them from above. It reminded me of a sick parody of Reaper’s earlier attack, but this time we were the turkeys.

The Colonials definitely had chaos avionics. Worse yet, they operated in pairs, using tandem CA maneuvers that made our Valks look like wallowing tubs. Half of Condor Group was gone before Reaper Group’s interdiction.

“Use your bubble surfaces to freak ‘em out,” I screamed into the transmitter.

The next ten minutes were the worst of my life. Condor Group slagged the town, but lost all but one ship in doing so. My squadron scragged several Colonials, but lost four Valks in aerial combat and two more to ground fire. Not counting my two rookies and me, we’d lost eighteen ships and pilots in exchange for a blasted town and about five Colonial fighters.

Then the remaining Colonials began vectoring the Reaper and Condor survivors, looking for a clean sweep. I raged and cursed and shook my fists.

The lead Colonial exploded.

“Reaper and Condor Groups,” a new voice said over my portable transmitter. “Return to the A. P. Hill. We’ll take it from here.”

The surviving Debans fled, more than satisfied with the tally. On their way back to base—and no doubt to some serious celebrating—they scragged the approaching R & R lander in a final up yours gesture. The new group pursued the retreating Debans until certain they had no intention of returning, then began orbiting Forest One Seven Alpha, waiting for our “ally’s” harvester ships.

“TK, this is Nhu,” a female voice said as the Reaper and Condor survivors passed above my position on their way back to the Hill. “Another lander’s on the way.”

“What about CAG?” I said.

“Lee’s okay,” she said after a pause. “I’m putting him in for a citation. See me when you get back.”

I swallowed rising bile while surveying the carnage. Plumes of greasy smoke from downed fighters—some theirs, most ours—rose and swayed in the breeze like writhing black snakes, dancing to a charmer’s tune. The town smoked and smoldered, a seething morass of imploded buildings and twisted steel. Still figures dotted the partially blocked streets. The hawks had long since disappeared. I wondered if Deban 6 had vulture analogs too. The thought of picked alien bones lent a sense of welcome satisfaction.

My binoculars picked up movement near the edge of town. Two creatures, the larger dragging the smaller away from the ruins.

Maybe reap a little payback for the ambush? Hoping some sorry assed survivor would try to take my bait, I headed down to the destroyed town.

Destruction everywhere. I passed several wrecked Republic and Colonial ships. One look inside a ruined cockpit and its gory contents was enough; I hoped my buddies had died quick, and prayed the Colonials had died slow. After I recognized CAG’s serial number on a twisted, charred fuselage, I stopped looking at everything but the pair of crawling civs, rage mounting with every step.

CAG’s wrecked ship stayed with me, like a fire you’d like to quench but can’t. I stopped in mid-step. My call had brought them here. A wave of nausea doubled me over. I puked. Walked on.

The merciless assault of burned carbo-steel, fried silicon, charred flesh, and smoldering vegetation enveloped my senses. The rising smoke from the destroyed town outlined the two survivors in a charcoal shroud. Ammonia-tinged air burned in my eyes. I rubbed them with the back of my hand. Walked on.

I stopped a meter from a young adult female cradling a child in one arm. Her progress could be traced by the bronze blood trail that had oozed from her shattered leg, the bones protruding like slick ivory matchsticks. Copper-colored blood seeped from her ear holes, nose, and the corner of her mouth. Her face was devoid of expression, as Deban faces always were, since their skin was more like cartilage than human flesh. Despite her lack of expression, her jet black eyes seemed to look right through me.

I unholstered my slug thrower, flicked off the safety, aimed it at a spot between her eyes. Payback time bitch. The faces of CAG and my dead rookies faded in and out inside my head.

The female continued to regard me in silence. What sounded like a collapsing wall echoed in the distance. I resisted the urge to look that way, kept my eyes on the civs instead.

Since Debans can’t show emotions, I wondered, did they have feelings? Maybe they can’t feel pain? Maybe they can’t know what it’s like to lose friends and lovers, or even family? Maybe a mercy, putting them down like a pair dying animals.

But if they can’t feel, my conscience—or maybe CAG—argued, then why did this female drag this child from that blasted town?

I lowered the weapon, knelt down, peered at the child, now clasped around the waist by one of the female’s tentacle-like hands. The child’s face was not so rigid. As air seeped from its mouth with each pain-wracked breath, the eyes seemed to regard me with a number of unasked questions, like what did I do to deserve this fate? Then its eyes glazed over, and she exhaled, shuddered, and died.

Writhing tentacles. Aqua skin. Copper hued blood. I holstered the slug thrower, gently rolled the adult onto her back. Still clutching the child, she gasped once then lowered her head onto my lap, xenophobia ignored, perhaps, from pain and approaching death.

I unfastened my canteen, raised her head and helped her take a drink. The water revived her somewhat. Her expressionless face continued to regard me, but now her eyes seemed to plumb the depths of my soul. A hesitant tentacle touched my face and traced the outline of my jaw. I tried to smile, while resisting the urge to lunge away from her touch. She tried to speak, but failed. She coughed, a bubbling sound, which caused more blood to seep from the corner of her mouth. Her vision slowly faded. A final tortured breath. I closed her lifeless eyes and lowered her head to the earth.

I checked my watch. Only an hour had passed since the pre-drop briefing. Reaper Group’s superstitious tradition echoed dirge-like in my ears: It had to get better than this. Didn’t it?

I felt a sense of loss, like I’d been set adrift in a lifeboat on the ocean. But I also felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Whether that was good or bad, I didn’t know. Combat flying was my life. Uneasy questions, like buried booby traps, pulled at my thoughts. Questions in need of answers and before the next mission.

I stood, surveyed the entire valley, and tried not to think about anything at all.

The R & R lander appeared over the horizon.

One thing was certain. I’d have trouble sleeping.

Tonight, and maybe for good.