“I say, we haven’t seen Screamers since Richmond,” Stonewall took note of the enemy air power. “I thought we hit all their air bases.”
The two enemy ‘planes’ climbed into the twilight sky and banked in a u-turn, aiming to swing about and hit the advancing column on the open pavement of I-95 yet again.
Most of that column abandoned the highway, but several bodies covered in third degree burns lay dead as a result of the first run.
“Sir, this could mean that they are aware of our intentions.”
“Hmmm. A distinct possibility, Captain Ross,” Stonewall considered. His eyes suddenly widened and he yelled, “Princess!”
Kristy Kaufman-on horseback-approached. She and her mount remained on the Interstate, looming above Garrett McAllister and Woody Ross huddled in the ditch below.
“Yes, General?” Kristy acted unconcerned about the two slender, single-seat aircraft circling around toward her position.
Stonewall glanced at her, then at Ross, and said in a voice with the slightest waver, “I believe it would be prudent for us to contact Tactical Air Control. What do you think of my suggestion?”
The Screamers descended in earnest. Their wings glimmered in the sunlight, as did the two intimidating, scimitar-shaped appendages at the front of each craft. As they dove, the flying machines emitted a siren: a horrifying scream.
Kristy answered Stonewall’s suggestion, “I suppose that would be a good idea, Sir.”
Stonewall looked at Kristy, then to the approaching planes, then at her again. “Yes, um,” he staggered. “These Hivvan machines are no match for our boys, um, so one call should take care of this problem…um…”
The screams grew louder.
Yet Kristy did not move.
Stonewall tried to sound unfazed. He said, “Yes, well, I am inclined to agree with intelligence’s theory that the Hivvans are accustomed to using aircraft only in support of a ground-attack. These, um…” he glanced at the closing fighters. “…these lizards are not much for air combat.”
Ross added, “Haven’t seen them for a while. Thought we hit all of their forward air bases.”
A shrieking filled the air as the Screamers made their run on the human army along Interstate 95.
“Princess, if I may suggest-”
“You know, General, I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I’m entirely fond of that nickname.”
“What? My dear, I do not think that now is the time to worry about such trivial matters.”
She said, “It does not convey the, well, oh what is the word I’m looking for?”
A whistle in the air suggested bombs falling toward Earth. Soldiers shouted in anticipation of the pending destruction.
“Respect. Yes, that is the word. Respect.”
“Captain Kaufman,” Stonewall conceded without a trace of his usual charming accent. “I suggest you get the Hell down here now!”
Kaufman managed a smile of satisfaction and then spurred her horse to cover. The bombs sizzled on the road above. This time claiming no casualties, but only by the thinnest of margins.
She dismounted and shuffled through a pack in search of a radio transmitter. As she did, Stonewall stood, dusted dirt from his Civil War era uniform, coughed, and said to her in a voice quite contrite, “Ms. Kaufman, please do me the favor of never doing that again. I am quite sure I would be lost without you.”
“Why General!” She spoke as she assembled the gear. “You are certainly the charmer, aren’t you?”
“I endeavor to be so, this is true. However, I would find this situation much more agreeable if a few of our fine fellows would-oh how to put this? — saunter on by and shoot our noisy friends from the heavens. Could you possibly arrange that, Captain?”
“Dasher One this is T-A-C do you copy?” the radio crackled in the veteran pilot’s ear.
“Uh, Roger that, TAC this is Dasher One. Go ahead.”
“You should have bandits painted on your screens,” the TAC officer radioed.
“Roger that, TAC. We’ll be hitting Gomer in thirty seconds,” the Veteran pilot ended his conversation with the Tactical Air Control station operating with the 2 ^ nd Mechanized Division.
“Hey Billy, you good over there?” he asked his wingman as they flew a pair of F-15s.
“Yeah-I mean, roger that.”
The veteran pilot had been in the New Jersey Air National Guard before the world went to Hell. He had served in the Persian Gulf region and flown CAP missions over New York City the month after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on America.
On the other hand, Billy was a rookie. Before ‘all this’, Billy trained to fly Learjets for private corporations. The Apocalypse claimed his young wife and the rest of his relatives. Now the twenty-seven year old ‘kid’ attacked alien aircraft in the North Carolina sky.
Of course, Billy’s scant experience was far more than most of the guys learning to fly in The Empire’s tiny air force. Planes were not a problem; pilots were. More specifically, pilots surviving flight school.
“Just relax,” Dasher One told Billy. “These things are sitting ducks. We’re going to make them go away before they even know we’re coming.”
“I’m frosty,” Billy said once and then nervously repeated, “I’m frosty.”
“Yeah, well don’t shit your bag. Just do like we did in training. We’ve got stand-off missiles and they don’t have any shit like that. They won’t even see us. You copy?”
“I copy, um, I mean solid copy.”
The veteran told his wingman, “Hey Dash-Two, you know who called us in?”
“No man, who?”
“That’s Stonewall down there. These Screamers have been taking pot shots at him.”
“Stonewall? Really? Holy shit.”
“So what you say we make these things go away?”
Dasher Two answered enthusiastically, “Hell, yeah.”
Dasher One radioed Tactical Air Control to let them know that he and his wingman were close enough to take control of the combat situation: “Judy. I repeat, Judy.”
The Screamers-distant specks silhouetted by sunset-entered firing range.
“I’ve got a heat-lock on Alpha Bandit,” Dasher One transmitted.
“Um, yeah, a roger that. I think-I mean I got a lock on Bravo Bandit.”
“Then let’s do it. Dasher One, Fox Two.”
Dasher One launched a heat-seeking air-to-air Sidewinder missile. It blew out from under his wing and raced across the sky with a vengeance.
Billy spoke, “Ahhh…oh yeah, Dasher Two, Fox Two.”
Another sidewinder roared through the blue sky.
The two pilots watched their scopes. The bandits-first one, then the other-flickered and disappeared.
“Tactical Air Control this is Dasher One. Ah, read bandits one and two gone away. We’re bingo here, RTB.”
“Dasher One, General Stonewall McAllister sends his thanks,” came the radio reply.
The veteran pilot said, “See Billy, you’re getting the hang of this after all.”
Nina sent word to Wrightsville via a supply truck driver that Denise Cannon was safe and spending the evening with the Hunter-Killer team.
Nina did not know why she let Denise hang around. She told herself that with a Shadow haunting the area it was safer for the girl not to travel. Besides, Denise dropped a number of hints that she wanted to stay, although she would not openly admit it.
In any case, Denise and Nina shared a supper of beef jerky (from the crates in the back of the Humvee) and apples in an old conference room at City Hall.
Eventually, Nina asked Denise about her past.
The daughter of a middle class family, Denise was six when the end-of-the-world came. Instead of
