“Target acquired,” called out Major Booker. “Range six-seven, crossing in front of us. We’re only gonna get one chance at this. Don’t miss.”
“Miss or not, this isn’t my duty. The EDF guys should be shooting down any JAM that make it to Earth.”
Flying on the deck, Yukikaze initiated a ninety-degree beam attack sequence. Arcing up into a power climb, she fired four high-velocity missiles simultaneously and then went into a high-G turn, breaking away at maximum power. Major Booker blacked out momentarily, in G-induced loss of consciousness.
The JAM aircraft was shot down three seconds from impact with Admiral 56. There was a flash, followed by a large explosion. Sixty kilometers away, the carrier was rocked by the shock wave but otherwise unharmed. The crew rushed to begin the nuclear decontamination procedure, washing the ship down with large quantities of seawater.
“Looks like it wasn’t carrying a nuke, thank god. Had me in a cold sweat there for a sec.”
“Jack, we’re almost bingo on fuel. It’s not like we can call for a tanker. And don’t tell me you expect me to ditch.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got a place to land,” Booker said. “A place with plenty of fuel.”
“On the carrier? No way. You think they’d roll out the red carpet for us?”
“I’m not expecting them to, but they can’t refuse a request from the FAF. They’re obliged to obey international Earth Defense law. I’m contacting them now.”
Aboard the ship, Admiral Nagumo listened to Yukikaze’s request for fuel with a surge of irritation. The fighter’s crew had some balls to make that request right after they’d drawn a JAM to his ship. True, they’d shot the thing down, but it was their duty to do so. And thanks to them, he’d lost eight planes, which would be a major blot on his service record.
“You’re going to give them clearance to land, right, Admiral?” He looked down to see the journalist Lynn Jackson standing right next to him. “If I’m not mistaken, you have to grant any reasonable requests from the FAF. And I’d like to meet them—to meet Major Booker, I mean.”
I knew this woman was going to be trouble when I took her aboard, the admiral thought. As long as she was here, he’d have to watch how he handled himself.
“Grant them landing clearance,” he ordered.
Two fighters were launched to guide Yukikaze in. Or, more accurately, to keep an eye on her.
Admiral 56 came into Yukikaze’s visual range. The two planes from the ship closed in, settling high and to the rear.
“Their landing guidance system is different from what we use,” Booker observed. “Sure you can do it?”
“I can handle it. I’m an active-duty pilot, Jack.”
Booker smiled and shook his head. “Brat.”
Rei switched Yukikaze’s downlook radar to sea mode and jacked up the output to full power, scrambling Admiral 56’s guidance beam. The high output goofed the ship’s radar, filling the display screens with snow and cutting off communication with the chase planes.
Admiral Nagumo glanced around at all the operations specialists frantically trying to restore their systems and exhaled heavily, willing himself to stay calm. “What is that thing? That’s a mainline FAF fighter? It’s like—”
“That’s a Sylphid, Admiral. A Super Sylph. I doubt there are any weapons on Earth that could fight her. That alone should tell us, sir, how formidable an enemy the JAM are. They’re not just phantoms…”
Yukikaze passed through Admiral 56’s airspace at supersonic speed. The chase planes couldn’t keep up with her. She turned, unloading Gs, and overflew Admiral 56’s landing deck at a lower airspeed. She turned once again, banking into her final approach. Landing gear, down and locked. Flaps, down. Arresting hook, down.
Rei guided Yukikaze in on manual approach. I won’t let you land without me, he thought with a hint of amusement. These aren’t Faery skies.
Auto-throttle, off. Anti-skid brake controller, off. Speed brake, extended.
“I’m bringing her down.”
The landing signal officer aboard Admiral 56 kept his eyes glued to this strange plane that had never before been seen on Earth. She was a monstrous bird, the size of a fighter-bomber, but she held level easily and landed in an almost delicate manner. She increased her engine output to vent, then throttled back through idle to cutoff.
The canopy rose, revealing two figures in black helmet visors and masks.
They look like spacemen, thought Admiral Nagumo.
Checking to see that everything she’d need for an interview was stowed in her favorite shoulder bag, Lynn Jackson hurried down from the bridge.
I WATCH THEM hauling Yukikaze with a spotting dolly toward the fueling station on the flight deck, the operation carefully supervised by six aircraft directors. The fuels personnel look up at Yukikaze wordlessly. Not long ago had been the first time any of them had witnessed an FAF plane battle a JAM. Now this is their first time seeing a Super Sylph, the FAF’s mightiest fighter, in real life.
On the outward-facing surfaces of its twin vertical stabilizers is a boomerang insignia, the blades as sharp as a grim reaper’s scythe. On the interior-facing surfaces is a depiction of a voluptuous, winged fairy, a creature of a far sexier sort than Tinkerbell but painted in curiously neutral colors. Beneath the cockpit canopy sill are small, white Japanese characters that spell out the plane’s name: Yukikaze. Following the characters is the stenciled information of the pilot’s name and the unit the plane is attached to. And that’s all. Recently, FAF planes have stopped carrying the FAF insignia. Visual identification is enabled by electroluminescent lights, while all other identification is handled by electronic systems. The fighter bears no insignia of any nation of Earth. It’s impossible to tell by sight if it is friend or foe. The implicit message is that everything outside of the FAF is an enemy.
As I approach Yukikaze I am stopped by a safety control officer. I ask him to tell Major Booker that I’m here. He refuses. I raise my arm and wave broadly at Yukikaze. The major recognizes me. He must know what I look like or else has deduced who I am; in my fur coat I must stand out in the swarm of colorful uniform shirts. Slipping off his oxygen mask and raising his helmet visor, he climbs down Yukikaze’s ladder and steps onto the flight deck. The pilot stays in the cockpit, presumably to see to the plane, but I catch a glance of an air force-issue automatic pistol in his hand: he’s protecting the safety of his plane and of the major.
The soldiers of Boomerang Squadron trust only each other and their planes. If they didn’t, they couldn’t survive on Faery.
“You’re Lynn Jackson?” says Major Booker, propping his helmet under his arm. “Why’re you here?”
“I came to gather material on Earth’s response to the FAF’s message,” I reply. “But I never dreamed I’d get to see you here. Or that I would witness a battle with the JAM. It’s an honor to meet you.”
I offer him my hand. It’s enveloped by his large, strong one.
“The JAM are tough. That one got through by sticking to Yukikaze’s belly like a remora. Never expected it. I’m Major Booker, by the way.”
“Yes, I know. I received your letter.”
“So it did get through to you. Didn’t think you’d read it… Anyway, there’s no place to get coffee around here, is there?”
“I’m afraid not. I doubt they’d let you into the ship.”
“Huh. We’re ghosts here. Yukikaze, too.”
Major Booker regards me with a bit of awkwardness and embarrassment. He speaks with a slight British accent, but the language is that of the FAF. It’s essentially English, but stripped of adjectives and any extraneous words. What can be omitted is omitted, detail sacrificed for brevity. It’s logical, but impersonal. Listening to it is like hearing a machine speak.