* * *
The Sophia was closing, but still some distance away when it released its fighters and heavies. Two of her three battle groups of fighters, totaling one-hundred twenty-eight, and four squadrons of heavies, sixty-six in all, had taken four long hours to reach MueoPoros. Then they were stalled another hour in a traffic pattern because of the congested space over the landing sites. It was four in the morning, Palace Time, a little after six on MueoPoros, when Sophia’s combat ships were given their targets and a ‘go’.
Terey’s voice sounded in Sirion’s headset. “Take the deck and cover our birds. I’ll keep the vultures away.”
“Copy... On deck.” Sirion cheerfully replied. “It’s pigeon time.”
Captain Tzuf, Terey’s second in command piped in. “Those pigeons can shoot, too. Don’t be a hero! We want our chicks all back in the nest today.”
Tzuf’s words were kind but stern. They helped rein in Sirion’s growing excitement. This was her first real combat in such a long time. It was easy to forget it might well be her last, especially if the girl were careless. “Copy, Captain…eyes all around! Got it!” Sirion ordered her two flights of TKR-14’s into the boiling clouds, leading in several dozen heavies that were going to attempt a ground attack on enemy positions.
In only minutes, Sirion’s command broke out from the bottom of the clouds. The panoramic vision stretching out beneath the tortured sky left her breathless, in awe. Smoke lay trapped within a vaulted ceiling of angry lightnings flashing in disgust upon the violence far below. Hiding the newborn sun, storms created an eternal gloom that chilled the bones. Hundreds of fires burned across the darkened horizon, while thousands upon thousands of flames shot into and through the air, making little blinding puffs on the violated and torn landscape when they fell back to the ground. Every now and then a giant fireball of white and crimson would erupt, sending thick, roiling mountains of burning ash heavenward.
To add to all this tumult were the seemingly endless masses of transports and escort vessels descending toward the smoldering terrain below and the noticeably smaller number ascending, now filled with wounded and dying. Sirion fought back tears and rising anger. Long ago she held an infantry line above Ashdod while her brothers and sisters fell around her to just such flames. She, too, had been carried from the field, burned and broken.
Ordering her two flights to break up into four teams of two, Sirion moved in to clear a path for the heavies. She and her wing plane dropped away and were soon releasing missiles into a series of mobile artillery batteries strung out along a winding river some miles west of the landing zone. When their missiles ran low, they switched to laser and solid projectile cannons.
The confusion the fighters wrought gave the heavies an advantage. They spread out into two wide V’s, releasing their deadly cargo of guided bombs and anti-tank missiles across the dense forest and newly cut roadways packed with the advancing enemy.
Sirion glanced back over her shoulder just before disappearing into the clouds. She shook her head. “Just too many of ‘em! Just too many of ‘em!”
It was when her covey of birds would break into the clear skies that Sirion expected the real challenge to begin. She was not disappointed. No sooner were the heavies free of the clouds than the enemy struck. The heavies, again flying in close formation, sent out torrents of green, blue, and red sheets of iron toward the intruders. Only the most determined of enemy fighters continued the attack against them. Others veered off for Sirion’s fighters.
“Take your wingman and mix it up!” Sirion shouted into her headset. “Draw ‘em into the clouds!”
Wingtip to wingtip, Sirion and her wing plane banked hard right and corkscrewed into a nearby thunderhead. Spiraling downward at increasing speed, the fighters passed through the heart of the convulsing storm. Blinding snow, giant hail and a torrential downpour rattled the ships, but it did shake the enemy off their tails. Arching upward, the two fighters just cleared the treetops, their exhausts snapping limbs off nearby stately old trees.
“Back through the ceiling!” Sirion shouted. “Put it right back through the ceiling!” Moments later, two ancient TKR-14’s, moving at well past the speed of sound, exploded out of the mist high above the thunderhead’s anvil top.
Enemy fighters were swarming the heavies, intent on preventing their escape into space. Sirion pushed her fighter into a steep left bank while pulling hard on the controls. With throttle full, she raced toward the enemy fighters, working the steering with one hand while setting the torpedo lock with the other.
“Missiles away!” Sirion shouted. In seconds, her fighter was passing just above the heavies, doing well over mach two, her wing ship only feet away on her left.
Sirion saw an orange flash in her rearview screen. One missile had hit its mark. The disintegrating enemy fighter spun wildly out of control toward the clouds below. Forcing her ship to its limits, Sirion’s 14 shot straight up, ascending thousands of feet before plunging upon the enemy. The captain lined up on another target and set the missile lock.
Just then the wing pilot shouted, “Bandits! Four o’clock! Bandits!”
Sirion craned her head to see. Coming in from her right and behind, three 49’s were closing fast, little sparks of fire coming out from under their wings.
“Split the barrel!” Sirion cried, at the same instant pushing forward and right to escape.
Sirion’s wing pilot rolled away to the left and up in a tight loop, while Sirion’s fighter turned upside down and plummeted several hundred feet before circling upward. This was one of Sirion’s own practiced maneuvers, intended to confuse her opponents and possibly allow her fighters to get behind the enemy. It did at least confuse the enemy. The extra seconds purchased Sirion time to get off a few rapid-fire rounds, but the 49’s were much too fast for her to establish a torpedo lock. In little more time than it took for her to blink, two of them had turned, securely locked on her tail.
The 14 was still arching upward. Sirion pressed the throttle while pulling out from the roll, pointing the nose of the fighter straight for space. The 49s needed outside oxygen to run their engines. Their working ceiling was about sixty-five thousand feet. They were currently at about forty thousand. Maybe she could out-run them.
As the fighters climbed, the 49s gradually gained on the 14, all the while firing short bursts from their machineguns. As blue streaks of metallic tracers zipped past the canopy, Sirion couldn’t help but wonder why no rockets were being fired, finally concluding they must be out. Still, at their rate of gain, it would be only a matter of seconds before they would be within killing range with their guns.
Sirion was counting the moments until her ship would be turned into a flaming cauldron of agony and death. There was little to do but continue to reach for the stars. If she tried to dive, she would be cut to ribbons as she arched into it. In desperation, she dead-dropped her two remaining missiles to decrease the fighter’s weight, but it did no noticeable good. Anytime now and it would be over.
A blinding light flashed across Sirion’s cockpit, but the shudder of disintegrating metal did not accompany it. In surprise and shock, the woman watched in a rearview flight screen while the lead 49’s wing separated and fell away. A second explosion ripped out its belly, sending shrapnel in every direction. As the remains of the fighter slowly drifted astern, the other 49 veered away and began circling the ruined fighter as it tumbled toward the planet’s surface.
Sirion blinked in total disbelief. Only seconds before she was waiting her own destruction. Now she was alone in the sky, streaking for safety. What had happened? There was no evidence of any rescuer. Had the 49 eaten its own bullets, flying into the dying projectiles? Or had a falling missile struck it, possibly ingesting it into the engine’s air intake? This was important news and needed to be presented to Fighter Command immediately.
Sirion made for the rendezvous point and impatiently wa
ited until orders were given to return to the Sophia, which was within two hours’ distance and closing. Losses to the fighter battle groups were light, only four out of one-hundred twenty-eight. The heavies lost a total of six, but two of them had managed a safe harbor and were later returned to the carrier. The majority of pilots and crews of all ships involved were rescued. All in all, it had been a very successful mission, but it was just the first of many. In days to come, success wasn’t to be measured in the number of returning ships.