Drone Strike

“We’re good for another half hour or so,” he told the controller, looking at Old Girl’s gauges. The instruments were still old-school clock-style readouts. “Add twenty to that in reserve. You know. Give or take.”

“Give it another ten minutes, then plan to land. The Hydras will be low on fuel by then.”

“Gotcha.” Turk clicked off the mike, then remembered the admiral. “Roger that, Control. Copy and understood,” he added in his most official voice.

“We’re landing?” asked the admiral.

“Affirmative, sir. The swarm is just about out of fuel. Sir.”

“You knock off all the sirs, Captain.” Blackheart’s voice sounded just a hint less gruff.

“Thanks, Admiral.”

Turk took a few more lazy turns, circling and finally lining up on the runway for his final approach. Emergency vehicles were waiting a respectful distance—nearby, but not so close as to imply they didn’t think he’d make it.

BREANNA FOLDED HER ARMS, WATCHING THE LARGE screen as the Phantom made its way toward the long stretch of cement. They had switched the video feed to a ground camera mounted in an observation tower near the runway. From a distance, the F-4 seemed to have a black shroud above its body.

“They should be staying at altitude, shouldn’t they?” Brea

“I’m not sure. They may not think it’s the right altitude.”

“You still can’t get them back, Sara?”

“I keep trying,” Rheingold said. “Short of sending another shock through the range, I don’t know what else to try.”

“Bree—Dreamland Control wants us to keep Old Girl in the air,” said Paul Smith, turning from his console. He was practically yelling. “They want to recover their tankers first. They’re worried the nano-UAVs will attack them.”

“For crap sake? Why didn’t they tell us that five minutes ago?”

“Ma’am—”

“Bob?”

“On it,” said the controller.

TURK EYEBALLED HIS INSTRUMENTS QUICKLY AS HE continued on course for the emergency runway, then unfurled his landing gear. He tensed, then felt his breath catch—he’d been worried the UAVs would object somehow. But they seemed content to let him land, adjusting their own speed as he slowed.

“Tech Observer, abort landing,” said Stevenson, the controller. “Go around.”

“I have to ask why,” he said tersely.

“Dreamland has a couple of tankers they want to get down first,” said Brea

“Well, in theory, they’ll land with me, right?”

“We agree, Whiplash,” said Brea

“Negative, negative, I’m good. Going around.” Turk tamped down his frustration as he clicked into the interphone. “Admiral—”

“I heard. Do what you have to do, son.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

Turk pushed his throttle and cleaned his gear, restoring his wheels to their bays. The aircraft’s speed picked up immediately. The UAVs started to scatter, momentarily left behind.

In the next moment, he heard a faint clicking noise on his right. It was an odd sound, something like the click a phone made over a dead circuit. He filed the noise away, too busy to puzzle it out.

Two seconds later a much louder sound on the right got his attention—a violent pop shocked the aircraft, seeming to push it backward.

And down.

Turk struggled to control the plane, hands and feet and eyes, lungs and heart, working together, moving ahead of his brain. By the time his mind comprehended what had happened, his body had already moved to deal with it, trimming the plane to concentrate.

“Captain, is there trouble?” asked his passenger.

“Slight complication, Admiral. We’re good.” Turk’s mouth was suddenly dry. His chest pushed against the seat restraints—his heart was pounding like crazy.

He was at 1,500 feet, 1,300. The nano-UAVs were still around him, though at least part of one was in the left engine, or what remained of it.

Like a bird strike, he thought. Deal with it.

“Whiplash Observer?” asked the control tower.

“I’m landing.”

“You’re on fire, Whiplash,” said the controller.

Ordinarily, that would have been the cue to pull the ejection handle. But Turk worried that his passenger wouldn’t fare well—they were low, there wasn’t much margin for error, and it was doubtful the admiral had ever parachuted from a plane.

And besides, he could land the damn plane with his eyes closed.

Come on, Old Girl, he thought. Let’s take this easy now. You’ve seen harder challenges than this.

He took the plane into a turn, realigning himself for a landing as quickly as he dared. Just as he straightened his wings, something popped on the right side. A shudder ran through his body, the rattle of a metal spike being driven into a bed of shale. He began moving his feet, pedaling, pedaling—he was three years old, trying to get control of a runaway tricycle plummeting down the hill of his parents’ backyard. The dog was barking in the distance. The world was closing in. Rocks loomed on either side; ahead, a stone wall.

“Stand by. Landing,” he said tersely.

Landing gear deployed, Turk felt his way to the strip, steadying the plane as she began drifting to the right. His nose started coming up; he fought the impulse to react too strongly, easing the Phantom down. The seconds flew by, then moved slowly, excruciatingly—the wheels should have touched down by now, he thought.

The nano-UAVs dispersed just as the rear wheels hit the smooth surface of the runway. He was fast, and little far along the runway, but that was all right—he had another 10,000 feet of marked runway to stop, and miles of salt flat to steer through if necessary. The emergency vehicles were speeding up from behind . . .

Turk’s relief vanished as a flame shot up from under the right side of the plane. The first nano-UAV had hit the belly, rupturing the tank there and starting a small fire.

He popped the canopies as the F-4 braked to a stop. Undoing his restraints, he pushed himself up from the ejection seat, helmet still on and oxygen still attached. He ripped off the gear and hopped onto the wing, leaning back to grab Admiral Blackheart. Black smoke curled around them.

“Out of here, Admiral, let’s go,” said Turk, grabbing the admiral under his left arm and lifting him out of the plane. He took a step back but slipped, falling backward onto the wing. The admiral fell onto his chest.

A cloud surrounded them, enveloping the two men in a toxic blackness.

“Almost home,” Turk told the admiral, struggling to get up. He reached his knees but the smoke was so thick he couldn’t see the tips of his fingers as he fished for a grip. He finally hooked his fingers into the admiral’s soft biceps. Turk pulled him to the edge of the wing, then tumbled with him to the ground. Blackheart’s head hit his chest as they landed, knocking the wind from him. Struggling to breathe, Turk turned to his belly and pulled up his knee, levering himself up and pulling the admiral with him.

The smoke drenched them both in inky soot, covering their mouths and poking at their eyes, a caustic acid. Turk pushed and pulled and pushed, finally getting his balance and then his breath. He had the admiral under him like a messenger bag, moving forward until finally the sky cleared and it was bright again, the sky a faultless blue.

There were trucks. A jet streaked overhead.

Someone grabbed him. Someone else took the admiral from him.

“I’m all right,” protested Turk.

“Move back,” said the airman who’d grabbed him. He was a parajumper, an Air Force special operations soldier trained as a medic. “Come on now. Get in the ambulance.”

“I’m OK,” said Turk. He turned back to look at Old Girl. As he did, one of the fuel tanks exploded, sending a fireball nearly straight up into the sky. Flames erupted from the fuselage, and two more fireballs shot from the sides.