Trevor saw the bodies of Chaktaw fighters dangling upside down from makeshift crosses on the wastelands outside the city of Thebes on a parallel Earth. He saw himself relishing the slaughter only to learn that he fought on the side of the invaders; that every victory he won there had furthered Voggoth’s cause.
Could he be so sure that striking at the California Cooperative served man’s interest?
Trevor did not find the truth behind his closed eyes, but he did find the answer. The only answer he knew. There had been a time when he had known that answer with surety. Now he spoke the answer because he did not know any other way.
"Attack."
The chatter returned twofold
Jon issued orders through key strokes and voice commands. Shouts around the bridge echoed those orders: "Condition Red. Battle stations. Battle stations."
"This is Air Boss; Brain says smack the fighters. Repeat, get my birds off the deck."
"Roger that, priority smack on the MiGCAP, two by two."
Far below, the flight deck exploded into organized chaos. Men in magnetic boots raced across the tarmac. Navigation lights flashed. Klaxons warned of an erupting storm.
At the rear of the flat top beneath the cover of the mammoth hangar, two horizontal bulkheads slid open, each at the end of a long strip of white runway lines.
Two F-15s rose from those holes and hovered a few feet above the deck in the grip of the ‘gravity catapult’. Painted on their tail fins was a feminine arm holding a bolt of lighting.
From his observation point high above, the Air Boss ordered, "Dasher One, Mother says smack your ass."
The first F-15 catapulted forward, thrown by a current of gravity ‘smacking’ it off the flight deck into the air ahead of the Excalibur. The stressful maneuver would not have been possible without substantial structural upgrades and a corresponding gravity ‘magnet’ situated inside the jet's fuselage.
As it cleared the deck, Dasher One banked hard to the left just as the Excalibur ‘smacked’ Dasher Two along a parallel runway.
Seconds later another pair of planes felt a smack from ‘Mother’ on their own asses. The process continued until six F-15s circled in a holding pattern around the dreadnought.
"Aardvarks, in the pipe."
The F-111 tactical fighter-bombers had received a new life in the post-Armageddon world after having been all but retired from the United States arsenal. Two of the green-painted flyers rose to the deck and then sprung forward, shaking and rattling from the intense g-forces until swooshing into the clouds overhead the Excalibur. Moments after, another pair of Aardvarks joined the fleet flying overhead. "Air Boss to Thunder and Lightning, you’re good to go, happy hunting." The escorts took point and led the bombers west toward California. — "Dasher One to Thunder and Lightning, snuggle up folks we’re hitting the dead zone, watch your scopes."
The formation of fighters and bombers flew through a perfectly blue sky high above the jagged, white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The steady drone of engines and the crackle of radio chatter presented the only distractions in a mission that began without a hitch.
As per Dasher One’s orders, the pilots tightened formation as they entered the estimated zone of effect for The Cooperative’s "Stealth Field" generated out of Beale.
"Dasher One, this is Dash Two, my scope is clear."
"That’s great, Billy."
"No, Dash-One, I mean it. Clear."
The female weapons officer on board the lead F-111 joined the conversation, "Dasher Two, this is Dash Seven, I read you, I got a cold nose. Nothing. Not even us."
The veteran pilot who went by the call-sign Dasher One understood.
"Christ, you’re right. Nothing. Hang on. Excalibur, this is Thunder and Lightning, we have total black out on our scopes. Nothing on radar. Not even each other."
Another voice joined the air waves from an F-15 pilot on the far side of the formation: "Dash One, this is Dash Six, look twelve o’clock, is that a contrail?"
"Easy bubba, let’s see…" A flash broke the formation as Dash Six exploded in a ball of metal and fire. The concussion rocked the planes. "Charlie Foxtrot! All planes, activate ECM! TACAN this is Dasher One we’ve got incoming!" "Dash One, this is Two, more coming at twelve. Christ! There’s nothing on my scopes!"
" Excalibur, this is flights Thunder and Lightning, we have incoming missiles but nothing on our scopes. Taking evasive action." The planes broke formation. Electronic counter measures tried to fool incoming missiles fired from unseen assailants. "Dasher One this is Dasher Four, executing Yo-Yo…" "Dash Two-Billy, punch it and do a barrel roll, maybe we can get ‘em to over shoot."
The planes split and raced up, down, and off. Afterburners glowed hot; thrust plastered pilots into cockpit seats and strained both men and machine.
One then two of the enemy shots missed, a third clipped off the wing of Dasher Ten, an F-111. As the bird spiraled toward the spiked mountains below, the cockpit assembly separated with the pilot and weapons officer inside. A chute deployed and it descended into the unknown. Dasher One and Two completed their maneuvers and re-aligned. The other F-15s and F-111s found formation again. "Bogey! Bogey!" "Electric Jets at twelve o’clock coming in fast!" "Hit the burners!"
The Imperial planes followed Dasher One’s orders and created maximum thrust on their afterburners. The sudden jolt of speed surprised the enemy flight of four black F-16s, once known as ‘electric jets’ to old school aviators.
The opposing fighters roared by in a blur. Streams of jet wash rocked the passing planes like boats caught in wakes.
"Dash Two, take Thunder flight and hit your primary target. Dash three, take my wing, four and five you two are married. Swing around, it’s time to bump heads."
"Dash One, that’s a negative, you’ve got no scopes."
"Follow orders, Billy, I don’t need a scope to splash these pricks. You got your orders."
Dasher One executed a high-g turn about and ordered, "Find their tailpipes and use the heaters. Thunder, get your asses in gear. Every one else, snuggle up to these bandits we want a knife fight in a phone booth here."
The F-16s held a huge advantage not only in radar but also in maneuverability. Their only chance was to use heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles at close range. "Dasher One this is Dash Seven, roger that, tallyho." Four of the F-15s closed ranks and sought targets. The three remaining F-111s followed Dasher Two’s fighter to the west. — Trevor shifted uneasily aboard the bridge of the Excalibur as the radio chatter echoed through the control room.
The first question of the day had been answered: the California Cooperative’s stealth field worked as advertised. Imperial jets in the zone lost their radar, rendering radar-locking munitions ineffective and blinding them to the enemy. The fight played over the radio. "Dash One, Fox Two." "Dash Four, you’ve got one on you six." "Heater found its mark! Sierra Hotel! Splash one bandit!" "Roger that Dash One, Bravo Zulu." "Dash Four, turn to your…" "Dash Four is down. Mother send a Helo, I’ve got one of my boys in trouble." "Dash One, this is Dash Five, negative, I didn’t see a chute. He didn’t get out, man." "Dash Three, Fox Two, missile away." "Christ. This is one fucked up fur ball. I can’t see shit on my scopes! How the Hell we supposed to fight these guys?" "I’m hit! This is Dash Three, I got-" Static. "Three? Three? What’s your status?" "Dasher One this is Dasher Five, three is gone away, no chute." "Flight leader, Dash Five here, bandits bugging east, tell Mother company's coming." "Dasher one, Fox Two! Missile track…shit…missed."
" Excalibur to Lightning Flight, disengage." "Lightning lead to Mother, you got bad guys heading your way." —
Dasher Two led the three Aardvarks low and fast over the sharp peaks of the Sierra Nevadas. Those peaks became less pronounced and more green than white as the target approached.