World War 97 Part 1 Read online

  “You’ll have an opportunity to recover in the undercity. Your issues aren’t improving here.” Darius nodded toward the tomato plants on the floor and the whiskey bottle on the bed.

  “This?” I picked up the whiskey. “This means nothing to me. It just helps me forget what happened. It temporarily fills the void left by seeing my colleagues continue to fly, leaving me cooped up here all day. Give me back the sky, and I’ll stop with this in an instant.”

  Darius stepped away and palmed open the door. “It’s done. The orders are signed. You will be on a shuttle back this afternoon. Take a break from everything. Go on a delayed honeymoon with your new bride. Staying here isn’t helping you.”

  I let the bottle fall down to my side. My throat felt dry. “Darius, I’m begging you. You can’t do this to me. My flight status will never be restored if this happens. My career as a pilot will be over.”

  “Think on what I’ve told you today. Maybe you’ll find another path. A better path.” He swiveled, turning his back on me.

  “I live for flying, Darius. You are killing me by doing this.”

  Darius squared his shoulders, walked out the door, and marched down the corridor. The two mibs fell in behind him.

  I angrily twisted the bottle cap. This time, the cap came off, and I poured the liquid down my throat, relishing the burning sensation of the hard liquor. The emptiness inside me needed to be filled.

  Chapter 2

  The Latino Territories’ flagship devastator, the Bolivar, was a speck in the distance. Standing in a passageway, looking through one of the portholes, I glimpsed the ship through a gap in the clouds. Seeing the sky, even such a narrow vista through dirty glass, felt bittersweet, reminding me of how exhilarating it was to be in a V-Tip fighter diving deep into the clouds then ascending to a sparkling blue that stretched all the way up to the heavens. I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, remembering. Despite everything, I knew I was one of the lucky ones. Most lived all their lives in the undercities, seeing the land above only through monitors, and of the rest, the vast majority saw only small windows into the real world through the dirty portholes of devastators. I shut my eyes tight, imagining nudging the control stick forward until the V-Tip angled downward and breaking through the clouds to see the sea swallowing the sun in a supernova of reds and oranges that expanded across the horizon.

  Then the colors of the sunset swirled until they were burning flames stretching out toward me and licking my face. I was back inside the wreckage of the cockpit, and the heat was a furnace.

  I jerked backward, opening my eyes. Taking deep breaths, I glanced around, but no one in the corridor had seen me. Hell, I had thought that the visions were contained to when I was sleeping. I growled under my breath, angry at myself, then continued toward the Top Gun bar. Since Darius had left the day before, I’d avoided my room and most haunts where my commanding officer would look to find me. I didn’t intend to disobey any direct orders, and I couldn’t avoid Colonel Gleeson forever, of course, but I didn’t have to make it easy on her.

  So going to the bar was a risk. Colonel Gleeson wasn’t the type to be out drinking with the lower-ranked men, but someone else might be waiting there with instructions to give me my orders. I took a final glance out the porthole—the Bolivar was no longer in view—then continued down the corridor. A shiver ran up my left hand, and I gripped it with my right, massaging the shake out of it. Darius’s visit must have triggered something. I checked again that no one was paying me any attention, flexed the fingers in both hands to make sure everything was normal with them, then palmed open the door to the Top Gun bar.

  The smell of masculine sweat and half-fermented whiskey greeted me. My kind of place, I thought to myself, though anywhere that served alcohol was my kind of place. I pushed myself through the crowd. Most of the patrons knew me, but no one offered gestures of recognition. A year ago, I’d been one of them, an airman killing time between shifts, and I would have high-fived and back-slapped my way across the room. For a few months after my recovery, a hush of silence and sympathetic nods had greeted me. I had worn out my welcome, though; I no longer belonged.

  I paused behind a group of airmen who were gathered around a screen to the left of the bar. The screen showed the flight deck where a transport stood waiting, with a row of brightly uniformed soldiers forming a V leading up to its doors. One of them held the red-and-blue flag of the American Conference. No matter how often I saw the leaves and stripes, the sight of the flag always caused my chest to puff out with pride. The camera panned across to where my brother stood with several aides, plus four guards. He was protected by ACM guards this time, not mibs. Did Darius win that political battle over his choice of guards or were soldiers with him just because he was about to board a military transport? The stillness of the scene was broken as Darius began to walk forward, his entourage following. He raised his arm toward the camera and flashed his toothy fake smile.

  A lull in the surrounding chatter in the bar allowed me to hear the commentator. “President Darius Roberts is now ready to leave for this quickly arranged summit with President Naves. The Latino Territories are facing increasing pressure on their eastern border from the Russian Federation and need additional support.”

  Darius climbed the steps and disappeared inside the transport. His four bodyguards followed, though none of his aides went with him. How is he going to negotiate a new deal without a big entourage of bureaucrats to write the treaties? I often speculated that the people behind the scenes did most of the work, and the presidents were just the pretty faces to smile in front of the cameras and read the fancy speeches. Perhaps others would follow on a later plane; or more likely, diplomats had already traveled earlier to set up the groundwork. The V of soldiers merged into a double line and marched away, then the transport began to taxi toward one of the launch tubes—Tube A34, I realized, without being close enough to read the lettering. My dreams often started in the flight deck, so I was still familiar with the layout even though I hadn’t actually been inside for a year.

  I wanted to be angry with Darius, but I couldn’t. Seeing him again after all that time had felt good. It wasn’t his fault I was grounded and would be forced off the Eisenhower. He believed the reports that the psychs had written. Psychs had a rubber stamp on their desks with the letters PTSD on it, along with garish red ink, and they just imprinted those big letters on the file of every pilot that passed their desk—or so it seemed. Post-traumatic stress disorder was their diagnosis for everything a soldier suffered—from a bout of the sniffles to sudden death syndrome. No matter how many times I told them I was fine, they just wanted to know about the drinking and the nightmares and to dredge up feelings about my lack of a father figure or my controlling mother. They always asked whether I felt overshadowed by my brother. No, I don’t feel eclipsed by my brother’s status, but I surely will if it gets brought up a hundred times. Dumbasses.

  I nodded to the barman to attract his attention. He saw me and looked hastily away. Had I caused trouble the last time I was here? Or had I become such a pariah that my money was no longer good? Coming to this bar had been a mistake; I should have just gone to one of the small shitty bars I’d been frequenting lately—some place where the barman didn’t look at customers’ faces, just at the color of their banknotes. But I had wanted to come here one last time for old time’s sake.

  I was about to leave when I spotted Will Saunders. He was a big man, so I was surprised I hadn’t noticed him as soon as I walked in. I had no idea what he was doing there—he didn’t drink alcohol—but if Will wouldn’t buy me a drink, no one would. I jostled through a group of airmen and clapped Will on the back. He turned and punched me in the shoulder, sending me stumbling backward.

  “You don’t know your own strength,” I said.

  He smiled, showing a row of crooked white teeth. “I do. I need to toughen you up.” He punched me again.

  This time, I braced against the blow, but my arm was still sore, and
I had to ignore the urge to rub it. I grinned through gritted teeth.

  “I thought I might see you here,” he said.

  “You are out of touch, big fellow. I hardly ever come here anymore. Still, this works out. Pretty sure that I deserve to be bought a drink by my old squadron leader.”

  “Phil.” Will raised his hand toward the barman. “A big glass of Invernes Red for Jordi here, and a tomato juice for me.”

  Phil threw me a sidelong glance, but he poured the drinks.

  “Tomato juice.” I shook my head in disgust. “How did they ever let you out of flight school? Surviving a hard night’s drinking was one of the qualifying finals.”

  “I skipped that one. I believe you skipped the other parts of flight school. That’s why we make a good team.” He hesitated. “Why we made a good team.”

  “You heard?”

  Will nodded. “Colonel Gleeson signed the papers. You aren’t supposed to be still on the ship. Which is why I suspected I might find you here.”

  Phil placed the drinks in front of us. I lifted a glass and swigged back a mouthful of whiskey. It burned the back of my throat, then a warmth spread across my insides. The first drink of the day always felt special. My eyes closed as I savored the feeling.

  Will was watching me. “I owe you that drink and much more,” he said. “I let you down. This last year, I haven’t been there to help you as much as I should have.”

  “That’s fuckin’ rubbish. You are the last one to blame for anything. You helped put out the fire and pull me from the wreckage. It’s the psychs and bureaucrats who are fucking me up. They don’t know what it’s like.” I gripped the edge of Will’s jacket sleeve. “I never said thank you, because words don’t mean much to men like us. I wanted to get back into battle so I could thank you by returning the favor.” I released Will’s jacket, and my arm dropped down to my side. “I guess that won’t happen now.”

  Will jabbed me in the shoulder several times with his knuckles. “Probably be good for you to get off this old rust bucket for a while. Might get rid of the memories, and you’ll be cleared for flying again before you know it. You’ll get to see your girl. Adriana, right?”

  A pang hit me in the gut. Thinking about her still had an effect on me after all this time. “You’re thinking of Arianne. I was with her before, but she... well, she wasn’t who I married.”

  “Shit, of course, you’re a married man now.” Will’s laugh boomed. “Brain glitch. You must have talked my ear off about the other one once, and I got mixed up. You married your nurse, right? What was her name?”

  “Christina.”

  “Christina, right, of course. I met her once. A pretty blond girl.” He gave me a wink. “Fast mover. Your skin must have been barely grown back when you whisked her off her feet. You must be looking forward to getting back to her.”

  “Of course.” I wasn’t. “Just means going back underground. I don’t know when I’ll see the sky again.”

  Will nodded. “Listen, I might be following you off this ship before long.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s nothing bad. Just there’s a promotion possibility which might involve me moving back to Under Nyork. I’ll send you my address. We should meet up.”

  “But you’d be giving it up. All this.” I spread my arms wide, gesturing as if the open skies were above us. How could someone who had experienced flying choose an assignment in the undercities? It made no sense.

  “Life moves on.”

  Just then, a hush spread through the bar, and someone turned up the volume on the news. We turned toward the picture, which showed the president’s transport flying through the clouds. Something wasn’t right, though. The plane was veering back and forth.

  “An attack has been launched on Transport One.” The news commentator’s agitated voice came from the tinny speakers of the screen. “I repeat, Transport One is under attack.”

  I felt unsteady on my feet, and my breath came in choked gasps. Will gripped my arm.

  “I’m hearing reports that the Bolivar has launched all its fighter squadrons. The president’s ship is heading back toward the Eisenhower.”

  “What the fuck?” The words came out of their own accord. Thoughts whizzed through my head: The Territories have been our allies longer than I’d been alive. There aren’t any issues between us. There must be some mistake. My eyes were glued to the screen, where Darius’s plane continued to make evasive maneuvers. Keep going, keep going, I ordered the plane. The maneuvers would make it hard for the missiles to lock on, and once the transport got closer to the Eisenhower, our fighters could provide protection. Transports were not particularly fast ships.

  “Possible missiles launched,” the commentator’s voice blared. The screen changed from the view of the transport to a familiar dark radar display. Green blips dotted the area, and it took me a moment to decipher the action. The central blip was Transport One, and it was headed toward the smaller shapes of the rescuing fighters. But behind was...

  “Three missiles in the air.” The pitch of the commentator’s voice sharpened further. “No, more, a dozen at least.” The screen cut back to the live view of Darius’s ship.

  My fists curled into tight balls, and the nails cut into my palms. They are our allies. No, this can’t be happening. Darius was just going across for a friendly meeting.

  The transport jerked and twisted to the left. The missile hadn’t been visible, but I could sense where it had just passed. The pilot was good. Now, if he could just...

  Transport One exploded in a massive fireball. The world went silent. The yellow-and-black explosion burst across the entire screen. I stared, waiting for a miracle escape that would never come. The picture changed back to a view of the commentator, but I still saw that fiery glow emanating from the screen.

  Chapter 3

  A jolt knocked me from my stupor. The bubble of silence popped, and my awareness returned with a roar of sound. Sirens blared, and lights pulsed. Red alert.

  “All personnel report to battle stations. All personnel report to battle stations.” The command was on a loop, timed with the sirens and the strobing lights.

  The Top Gun was deserted already, with the last of the pilots streaming out the door. I raced after them. I didn’t have any station to report to, but grounded or not, there was no way I wasn’t going out there to help my brother. I shouldered two people aside as I forced my way through the crowd. Through passing porthole windows, I got a glimpse of enemy V-Tip fighters approaching. The Eisenhower would have had several patrolling fighters in the sky and several more in reserve, but not enough to hold off a full-force attack for long. We needed to get our planes into the air.

  Over the bobbing heads of the jogging pilots, I spotted Will, who was taller than everyone else around him. I pushed on harder, ignoring the complaints of those I shoved past.

  “I’m sorry,” Will said when he saw me. “You never talked about him much, but I know it was your brother in that plane.”

  I panted as I ran alongside Will. “I’m sure he got out in time. Darius probably...” Words got stuck in my throat. “I have to get out there to help.”

  “You’re still grounded.”

  “It’s my brother who was... we are under attack, and you’ll need every pilot you can get.”

  He just shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  I knew Will well enough to know he wouldn’t change his mind.

  The passageway opened out to the flight deck, the cavernous heart of the ship. It was in chaos. Thousands of plane techs were scrambling about among the hundreds of V-Tips and other planes scattered across the deck. Several fighters were taxiing through the mayhem, making for the launch tubes.

  “I may be grounded, but I’m still an airman,” I told Will. “Can I at least help out with assigning pilots to planes, giving out uniforms? I need to be doing—”

  A sudden shift took the floor out from under us, throwing me against a wall. The lights blacked out, and the howl of nois
e and hot air from an unseen explosion rushed over us. I braced myself against the wall. Dim emergency lighting flickered on, then the air reversed direction, and it began to grab at me, pulling stronger and stronger as air was sucked out through a breach somewhere on the ship. I went from using the wall for support to clawing at it, trying to gain purchase. The flight deck itself was intact, but a hurricane raged inside it. Spanners, screwdrivers, and other tools flew through the air, shooting back down the corridor I had just come from.

  There was another lurch, and the ship tilted sideways. Everything not tied down was moving, even some of the planes. I lost my grip on the wall and skidded across the floor. My fingers scrabbled against everything I passed, finally getting a grip on an open hatch in the floor. I pulled myself back and curled an arm around a metal handle. I could barely hear the emergency sirens over the roaring of the wind. The blast doors were inching downward. A loose escape pod turned end over end as it careened across the deck, crushing several techs.

  Everyone was hanging on desperately, and no one could do anything as a pilot skidded across the floor then disappeared down the passageway with a long scream. On the opposite side of the blast doors, Will took shelter against a railing. His arm was stretched out in front of him, straining to hold on to the back of a woman’s overalls. The woman was on her back, fighting desperately to get a grip on something solid. Someone behind me screamed, and I turned to see that another tech had lost his grip and was tumbling down the deck. I reached out, but he was past me in an instant. The blast doors were nearly down by then, and the hurtling tech managed to grab hold of edge of the door before the air pressure pulled him through. The doors continued to descend, though, and threatened to cut the man in half. He pulled his legs back just in time then rolled out of the way. I released a breath.