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  He gave a thumbs-up to the crew chief and called over his communications system, “Clear for launch!” The flight crew immediately disconnected everything from the craft as the hatch directly in front of his ship irised open. The fighter was moved smoothly into the launch tube by small induction motors in the rails. The hatch slid silently shut behind him, the only light coming from indicators on his dashboard and helmet. At the far end of the launch tube, another portal opened to reveal the blackness of space and the distant light of the stars.

  As the engines of the fighter ignited, they began to thrum with power, making Mark feel as if the fighter had become a part of his own body. His senses were its senses, and his brain received direct input from the fighter’s vast array of sensing capability through his helmet. As power levels began to increase, Mark felt as if he could barely restrain the spacecraft, almost as if it wanted to burst free of its bonds and take flight.

  Performing a final communications check, Mark radioed the other nine fighters in his wing.

  “This is Wing Commander, prepare to launch!”

  “We’re ready, sir!” came the eager response.

  The radio crackled in his ear. “Wing Commander, this is Flight Control. You are cleared to launch. Good luck.”

  Mark felt the ship throbbing with unbridled power, waiting for a simple thought to streak toward the fight.

  “Roger, Control. All fighters…LAUNCH!”

  Ten simultaneous fountains of fire leapt from the rears of the TAC-WING spacecraft, filling the launch tubes with flame and hot exhaust gases. Each pilot was pressed against his seat with a force equivalent to eight times Earth’s gravity, gritting their teeth against the pressure. Each ship rocketed down the launch rails, picking up more and more speed until finally reaching launch velocity. Passing through the outer shield, the fighters vaulted from the launch rails into cold, dark space.

  Once clear of the launch area, the wing took up formation on Mark’s ship. Curving high in a graceful arc over the top of the Hercules, Mark saw that no real damage had been done by the Jerrollite attack—yet. Activating his proximity scanner, he began to search the surrounding area for the enemy ship.

  “All units, stand by. Target is approaching from twelve o’clock. TAC Two through Five, with me. TAC Six through Ten, fall back and maintain a defensive posture around the Hercules. If they get past us, you will exercise all means possible to prevent them from reaching the Hercules. Remember, there is no try on this mission! You must succeed! If you don’t, we all die,” he said.

  Each ship peeled off the formation, headed toward its assigned post. Mark’s group swung around, each pilot performing a tight spiral roll to bring the ships directly into an attack formation.

  “Bring weapon systems online,” Mark ordered.

  “Yes, sir. All systems are online and ready,” was the response.

  Sweeping in a wide arc to his left, Mark engaged his gravitational compensator, a device that allowed the TAC-WING to execute maneuvers that were normally beyond the physical capabilities of human pilots by generating a field that served as a cushion against the increased g-force experienced during violent combat.

  Bringing his forward sensors to bear, Mark instructed the computer to triangulate on the enemy ship and lock the coordinates into its memory. Selecting a Shrike antispacecraft missile, he removed the firing safety and prepared to launch. The targeting system had locked on to the Jerrollite ship, displaying crosshairs in his HUD as it tracked the enemy ship.

  “Begin jamming all communication channels!” Mark said.

  “Roger, leader. Jamming is in progress.”

  Knowing the Jerrollite would not be able to contact his ship removed some of the pressure and allowed Mark to concentrate on making the shot. He engaged his aft rockets, roaring after the enemy fighter and rapidly closing the gap between them. The Jerrollite pilot began swinging his ship violently from side to side in a vain attempt to shake the TAC-WING from his tail.

  “TAC Three and Four, swing around in front of me and cut him off!” Mark said.

  “Roger, TAC One!”

  Mark watched intently as the two fighters leapt from their positions, nosediving into a path that directly intersected that of the fleeing Jerrollite ship. Realizing that its only options were a kamikaze death by colliding with the oncoming TAC fighters or a fight with Mark, the Jerrollite pilot chose the latter. As the alien ship came about in a razor-sharp 180-degree turn, it kicked in its own boosters and began a high-speed attack run directly toward Mark. Dual energy beams leapt from the nose of the Jerrollite ship in an attempt to blast the TAC-WING from the sky.

  Anticipating the Jerrollite’s tactics, Mark had already begun to move his ship out of harm’s way. The beams lanced across the bow of Mark’s ship, harmlessly fading into the distance. As the enemy vessel passed directly in front, onboard tracking systems sounded a shrill alarm, indicating that the Shrike missile had locked on to the alien ship and was ready to fire. Enabling the missile’s shields, Mark mentally ordered the computer to launch. The TAC-WING shuddered as the missile blasted free of its mounting under the nose of the ship, racing after the target.

  The Jerrollite began firing frantically from its rear-facing weapons in the direction of the missile to detonate the warhead but was unable to obtain a lock on it quickly enough. Once the missile had obtained a positive lock, the Jerrollite could only sit, watch, and die.

  The missile impacted the alien ship just below the cockpit area, shattering glass and spraying fragments of metal in several directions. Mark could see the pilot’s pale-blue face contort in terror as the missile penetrated the hull of its spacecraft, venting the internal atmosphere. The Jerrollite locked eyes with Mark, impending death evident in its expression, surprised that it had been beaten.

  The spacecraft was vaporized, followed by a blinding flash. Automatic systems on the TAC-WING darkened the canopy to lessen the impact of the flash on its human occupant. Outboard sensors indicated that the hull temperature increased momentarily to over seven thousand degrees. The flash faded, leaving nothing except a faintly glowing cloud of ionized gas to tell passersby what had occurred. As the cloud began to dissipate, Mark swung his ship around, ordering the wing to fall in on his position.

  “Nice shootin’, Tex!” one of his pilots commented.

  “Thanks,” Mark said.

  As they headed back to the Hercules, Mark continued scanning the area for additional enemy ships just to make sure that the single alien fighter had not been able to get off a message. He instructed the other pilots to do likewise.

  Finally satisfied that they were at least momentarily safe from enemy attack, Mark radioed the ship.

  “Hercules, this is Wing Commander. The area is secure.”

  The response came almost instantly. “We were watching. Great shot, sir! You are clear for landing in Bay Two. Bring ’em home, boys!”

  Mark smiled in response to the exuberance in the controller’s voice. Looking over his left shoulder, he was impressed by the precision of the formation off his wing. The pilot in the nearest ship was looking at him, grinning like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning. Mark smiled back but wondered what this kid would feel like when this mess was over.

  The Hercules came into view, starkly visible against the black backdrop of a large asteroid. It sure didn’t seem like much, all alone, to be humanity’s last hope. Starting braking maneuvers, the wing began its descent into the landing bay.

  As their ships touched down, the pilots were greeted by cheers from every hand on deck. Mark knew how they felt. Any victory, no matter how small, was a morale booster. As he taxied his fighter into its holding area, Mark opened his canopy and raised his hand in a thumbs-up to let them know he was unhurt. This action was promptly greeted by another chorus of yells and shouts. He removed his BWI helmet and climbed down onto the deck of the battleship. As each member of the wing emerged from his ship, Mark saluted him.

  The deck chief walked up to Mark as he w
as removing his gloves and emergency air supply. The chief was dressed in a standard-issue, white flight deck coverall, covered head to toe with grease.

  “The general wants you to report to the bridge as soon as you hit the deck,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bridge.

  Mark acknowledged his message with a curt nod, placing his gloves and backpack into the chief’s hands. “Take care of this for me, will you?” he asked.

  “No problem, sir. Good shootin’ today!”

  Mark smiled and nodded, walking off to find the general.

  Stepping onto the bridge, he was greeted again by a cheering crew. Mark acknowledged their praise with a small smile and made his way to the center platform where General Matheson was standing. Mark could see the twinkle in his eye as he approached.

  “You really blew that son of a bitch right out of the sky!” he exclaimed.

  “Yeah, piece of cake,” Mark replied shakily.

  The general grinned and let out a genuine laugh. The entire bridge crew joined in, allowing the mood of the moment to carry them away. Regaining his professional demeanor, the general pulled Mark to one side, speaking in a subdued voice so none could overhear.

  “Mark, you did a good job, but now we have to decide what to do next. Meet me in the briefing room.”

  Mark nodded curtly and left the bridge.

  “Helm, plot a course to take us out of the system. Keep that asteroid between us and the Jerrollite base at all times. I don’t want this ship detected while we try to get the hell out of here.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged the ensign at the helm console.

  After confirming that his orders were being carried out, Matheson turned over control of the ship to his first officer.

  “You have the bridge, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir! I have the bridge,” he replied.

  Mark was sitting alone in the briefing room thinking about the events of the last few hours when General Matheson entered. Before Mark could come to attention, the general waved him off.

  “At ease, at ease,” said Matheson, smiling. Removing a cigar from his pocket, he began to chew on it while eyeing Mark. In a move that belied his stress, Matheson withdrew a small lighter and allowed the flame to dance over the tobacco, causing it to glow as he pulled on the cigar. Mark watched in silence, knowing that the general actually lighting up was a prime indicator of the amount of stress he was under. Mark waited for the general to continue. Finally coming to a decision, he lowered the cigar, took a deep breath, and began.

  “Mark, desperate times call for desperate measures. As far as we know, we represent the only military forces left from Earth. And since we are currently in a state of war, I am implementing two priorities. The first will be to guarantee our survival. We can accomplish that by moving the Hercules into a safer position. I have already implemented this phase. The second, and perhaps the more difficult, will be to begin planning and implementing a counterattack, the ultimate goal of which is the liberation of Earth from Jerrollite control.” He paused, taking a long drag from his cigar and slowly exhaling a large cloud of smoke before continuing.

  “The first phase of the counterattack will be up to you, along with a team of specialists I will assign to you. Your primary objective will be to retrieve several experimental weapons that have been under development for the past few years, along with any scientific personnel you may find along the way, specifically those who developed the weapons, and return them here, to the ship.” Matheson looked carefully into Mark’s eyes, searching for any hint of fear or self-doubt. Finding none, he continued.

  “I am granting you a field promotion to the rank of colonel. You will be second in command only to me,” he said, tossing a set of silver eagles onto the table. “Any questions?”

  Mark swallowed convulsively, picking up the eagles and looking at them in the palm of his hand. “Just one, sir. When do I meet my team?”

  “Right now,” Matheson said, stepping around the table and opening the door. The bright light from the hallway kept Mark from seeing the face of the individual who walked in the door, but the hairdo could only belong to one person.

  “Johann! It’s good to have you on this mission!” Mark said, standing and pounding him on the back.

  “Easy, boy, easy! You’re gonna kill me before we get there.”

  Embarrassed, Mark stopped his exuberant display. Johann gestured to the insignia in Mark’s hand. “Say, those be some beautiful birds you got there, mon. Put ‘em on!”

  Glancing at the eagles, Mark looked back to General Matheson.

  “I would be honored, sir, if you would do this for me.” The general smiled, taking the eagles from Mark’s hand and pinning them on his uniform. When he was finished, he stepped back and saluted. Mark returned the salute and shook his hand.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure, Colonel Hunter. Let’s go meet the rest of your team,” he said. The three men left the briefing room together, heading for the men’s quarters below decks.

  CHAPTER 5

  Back on Earth

  Stepping out of the shower, Bill Johnson decided he had better get a move on or he was going to be late for the morning briefing at the Pentagon. Ever since the Jerrollite presence had been detected in the asteroid belt, the military had been in the highest state of alert possible without actually going to war. Part of that readiness was morning briefings, which had grown to be such a necessary, if somewhat inconvenient, part of Bill’s life. Grabbing his suit from the closet, he dressed quickly and made his way downstairs.

  Miscalculating the last step, Bill went sprawling into the kitchen. He slid across the tile floor and stubbed his toe on the far wall, causing a reaction that made him lose his balance and fall toward onto the table. With a loud crash, he ended up facedown in his two-year-old daughter’s bowl of cereal. As he raised his head and wiped the milk from his eyes, he saw his daughter staring at him with her spoon held above her head in what appeared to be a defensive posture, a wild look of disbelief on her face. His wife, Marilyn, was almost in tears from hysterical laughter.

  “Way to go, graceful!” she said, chuckling, as she picked up his breakfast from the stove and brought it to the table. “Here you go—try not to fall in it!” she said as her fit of laughter started again. By this time, his daughter had picked up on her mother’s cue and had begun laughing and squealing in delight. Bill couldn’t help but smile at her as he wiped his face with a napkin.

  “Agent Smart, reporting for duty,” he said, making a face at his daughter. This brought a renewed burst of laughter. Born to amuse the masses, I guess, he thought as he sipped his coffee. He had never been the most graceful person on the planet, but fortunately in his chosen career, grace was not a requirement for success.

  Bill was a physicist who had recently developed a new theory that described a process for the creation of a singularity, more commonly referred to as a black hole, in a laboratory environment. As there was currently no reliable technology available that would ensure the containment of one of nature’s most dangerous objects, originally his work was mostly theoretical. However, his team had taken his theory, pushing it to the limits, and had come up with an actual working generator. They had successfully created black holes for a billionth of a second in the lab, but there was no way to really test it safely on a larger scale. The prototype generator had become the object of discussion by weapons designers as a possible superweapon that could be used against the Jerrollites. If they could get everything working, it would be a most fearsome weapon. Because planners were not leaving any option on the table, Bill was required to attend design sessions with the weapons team and to participate in the daily morning briefings at the Pentagon for military personnel to keep them appraised of his team’s progress.

  “Thanks for breakfast, sweetheart,” he said to his wife, Marilyn. Standing up and taking one last sip of coffee, he wiped his mouth and walked toward the door. Marilyn was wait
ing for him.

  “Bye, honey. Be careful not to attack any more walls with your big toe!” she chided. He smiled as he took her into his arms for a passionate kiss. As the moment ended, he held her at arm’s length, looking at her intently. She and their daughter were Bill’s entire reason for living. He shuddered to think of life without his family. Giving her a last embrace, he headed out the door toward his car. It was a beautiful day outside, and the sun felt warm on his skin. As he fumbled to retrieve his keys from his pocket, Bill heard an ominous, low rumble coming out of the east, growing louder and louder as he listened. The intensity of the noise increased until it was almost deafening. The ground began to tremble underneath his feet, vibrating with the roar in the air. He clapped his hands over his ears, grimacing in pain as he searched the sky for the source of the sound.

  At that moment the world as he knew it came to an end. The street was rocked by a loud explosion, and he fell to the ground. The peaceful scene of only moments before was now pandemonium and chaos. Bill looked up at the horizon to see a scene straight from Dante’s Inferno. The skyline was on fire. Sirens began wailing somewhere close by. Standing in confusion, still looking skyward, Bill saw a large group of airborne vehicles making sweeps across the city, raking the streets with concentrated beams of energy. Every place the beams touched burst into flames, rapidly followed by secondary explosions. While he watched, horrified, several people fell into the line of fire and were vaporized instantly. Only a black smudge was left behind where once a living, breathing human being had stood. Heavy antiaircraft fire was coming from the military bases around the city, but it was bouncing harmlessly off the shields of the attacking craft.

  With a sudden realization of horror, Bill recognized the shape of the attacking ships. Jerrollites! He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The military had just assured the president yesterday that this could not possibly happen anytime soon. A cold fear swept over him as he realized that if they had so badly underestimated the timelines, it was quite possible that they had also underestimated everything else. His heart broke as he watched building after building go up in flames. Watching the futile attempts of the military to counter the attack, Bill realized that Earth didn’t stand a chance.