Night had fallen, and the deafening roar of the fighters' engines tore the silence apart like a thunderclap. The sound awoke her with a start from a haunting nightmare, her body had broken out into a cold sweat. She kicked off the sheets and walked to the window, almost in a daze. Throwing open the sash, she leaned on the windowsill and looked into the sky. Explosions lit up the sky intermittently, allowing her to see the battle unfold before her very eyes.
The aircraft danced dizzying patterns of circles and spirals, turning and twisting like angry birds of prey, they loosed volley after volley of machine gun fire and rained missiles on one another, hoping for that kill. When one met its mark, the explosion dazzled the dark canopy, barking an immediate, earth-shaking rumble. Every so often, the target aircraft would spin out of control and impact the earth below, creating a plume of fire and subsequent thunderous explosion. She secretly hoped that one more pilot would meet their Maker, that way one side or the other would give up and leave. Just then, she saw a dark fighter let loose two missiles, the rockets crossing in midair just in front of the deadly valkyrie and destroying two enemy fighters at once. The enemy planes, awash in the blinding light of their destroyed comrade, carried a white base coat with a blood red symbol on their tail. They executed a 180-degree turn and lit their afterburners, as she had learned they were called. Finally, the defending force quieted their fierce machines and headed to the base. The sky over their quaint village had been a war zone for so long, it almost seemed common place. But she remembered when they first appeared.
The first one appeared two months ago, coming in at near rooftop level, flathatting like a true daredevil would. Belle was washing the week's laundry in the town square fountain when she heard a shrill whine accompanied by a faint rushing sound from over head. As she looked up curiously, she saw a dark shape far off in the distance, but getting closer and louder by the second. It passed over at breakneck speed, banking sharply up to the right, the roar of thunder following behind it. This scared the villagers at first, but Belle stood rooted at the spot, transfixed. She knew that the fighter's presence meant that the conflict was finally coming to her quiet part of the world. She knew that it would reach Molyneaux eventually, as it had reached all over the world.
Although the black fighter was a surprising sight to the majority of the village, Maurice had told Belle that it would be coming soon enough. The signs were there, he kept saying. Belle had noticed the convoys of military trucks bringing supplies by months before. They had been off in the distance, cutting through the hills on the far side of the river, behind her cottage. She had seen them rumbling through as she read books on the cliff overlooking the river. She had thought it strange, but didn't think that it would mean a base was going to appear anywhere near Molyneaux.
But then the night sky lit up on the horizon, southwest of the village. The hills hid the base from their view, but it made it seem like a miniature sun was on the rise over the hills. Some of the elder villagers seemed worried about the new base being built in such close proximity to the village. They feared that the soldiers, marines, and aviators would start making frequent trips to the village to enjoy themselves, wrecking the town in the process and ruining the quaint, quiet life they had. Even worse, it would mean that some of the able-bodied young men and women would be sought after and pressed into service if they were needed. More often than not, they were needed. Belle became alarmed at the prospect of becoming another pawn in the deadliest chess game the world had ever seen.
Belle gathered her things quickly and started off toward her home at a run. She arrived and called out for her father, worried that he wasn't home. Papa's an inventor; what if they took him? she thought. Frantic, she nearly tore the basement shutters off their hinges as she shouted again for her father.
"Papa! Papa!" she called. "Papa, where are you!"
"Belle?" her father called back from behind his workbench. "What's wrong, my dear?"
She rushed to him, wanting nothing more than to be embraced by her father, reverting to the childhood instincts, telling herself that she would be safe in her father's arms, that no harm could befall her. She held her head tight to his chest, taking in the comforting aroma that surrounded her father, smelling wooden dust, sweat, and the dull scent of age in his cotton tunic. Maurice smiled warmly, stroking his daughter's hair; God, she looked extraordinarily like her mother right now. She lifted her head to look into his eyes.
"Tell me it's going to be OK, Papa," she seemed to plead. "Tell me, and I'll believe you."
"There's nothing to fear, my daughter," he said firmly. "These men won't come near our village; they have nothing of interest here."
"But what if they come for me? I'm able-bodied and youthful," her eyes threatened tears.
"You're safe with me ma petite," he soothed.
Maurice had been a smart man, full of imagination and wit. He knew the risks of raising a family in these turbulent times, but he accepted them happily, watching his daughter run and play carefree and happily, watching her grow into a beautiful young woman. He knew with all his heart that he would protect her; he would do so the best he could against any and all threats to her happiness and freedom. In this case, he knew the laws surrounding who could and could not be selected for military duty.
Winter is coming, he thought. Perhaps it'll be a bad enough winter for an old man to catch a little cold.
With the presence of the nearby base came the inevitable drawbacks in supplies for the people of Molyneaux. Food was rationed to bare minimums for each person to get through each month fairly well. In some cases, resources were pooled to provide jobs for those skilled in areas others weren't. Example being the baker, who would provide quality goods out of the meager supplies each villager was given. Since he could skillfully make a moderate loaf out of one set of rations, he offered his service for a nominal fee. This made it easier on everyone; instead of wasting the precious little they were given, people would let someone else do the dirty work (yet with skill) for a small fee. This way, money was always circulating within the village and kept people from falling into poverty. It was an impressive micro economy the villagers created, and was the model across the village. Maurice even sold several of his woodcutting machines – despite the stigma his family carried – and other inventions that would ease the hard labor people endured. By the time winter's frosty air approached, Maurice's woodcutter was a hot item, and for the price he was asking, who wouldn't be enticed by a machine that would cut wood for you?
Then winter came, and it was brutal. Temperatures dropped below freezing most of the time, snowdrifts piling up around houses and establishments to the point where it became impractical to leave one's house. Supplies continued to be brought in for the villagers, but this time with military aid. Some of the elder villagers saw through the ruse, claiming that the brass were only here to scope out the potential conscripts and draftees that lived within the village as they came to take their supplies. Belle and Maurice took their time taking their rations, not wanting to attract any attention as a full-bird colonel was talking to a strapping young lad by the name of Jean-Luc. Despite the increased rations for the inexplicably cold weather, Belle and Maurice barely had enough to keep themselves warm or fed. It wasn't that they couldn't afford it (Maurice's invention had seen to that) but they simply weren't rationed enough to made as comfortable as they could have been. However, Maurice insisted that Belle be made comfortable. He would often give up his food for his daughter if she were particularly hungry, slowly losing weight and girth. He often refused his blanket if he saw her shivering in the one she used, wrapping it around her shoulders.
"I'm old, I've lived my life, Belle," he would say over and over.
"Papa, you'll freeze," she protested through chattering teeth.
"I'll manage," he said, weakly but with a soft smile.
He started looking less himself and more skeletal. His jovial disposition never faded as his body did, but he didn't seem quite the same. His clothes hung limply from his now bony shoulders, as if a child had worn its father's clothes. He had almost made it through, but in the end, he caught pneumonia within weeks of spring. She had taken it hard, the one true person who actually cared for her, and loved her more than life itself and he was on the verge of knocking on Death's door. She vowed to bring him back to full health, and would not rest until she did so. She made him as comfortable as possible, despite his weak dismissals. She didn't understand why he had been so foolish, why he had chosen to die. Did he want to leave her all alone? What was it that possessed him to face Death during such a brutal winter?
Belle had come to feed Maurice his breakfast, but she seemed distant, almost as if she was contemplating something. She was somewhat absent-minded, and he had gentle reminders to indicate to her that she was either missing his mouth, or spilling the contents on the utensil on his chest. After he finished, she started to clean up, but dropped the tray on the floor. He wished to address it.
Maurice asked her, "What is it, Belle?"
She said, "How could you?"
"Do what?"
"Oh, Papa! You're sick as I've ever seen you, you almost died! How could you be so foolish? How could you sacrifice yourself to this extent just to keep me warm? Do you not love me, do you want to die and leave me here alone?"
Maurice smiled, "No, that's not it at all."
"Then what?"
"I did it because I didn't want to see you get taken away from me. I knew that if I told you why I was doing it, you would protest and join up just so you could stop me from doing it. I didn't want you to worry about me, and stop me from doing this. That's why I didn't say anything."
"I don't understand."
"We have two members of our family. I am ill, and cannot take care of myself, so you must be here to do that. They can't take you to the service if you are caring for a sick member of the family."
Belle didn't know how to react. She was touched, but at the same time, she was infuriated that her father took a lethal risk to keep her out of the military. She stood up, taking the tray to leave the room.
"Get some sleep, Papa," she said.
She closed the door, walking briskly down the stairs to clean up the kitchen and tray. She scrubbed harder then usual, furious that her father would do something so stupid to keep her out of the military's reach. She gave up cleaning, instead walking toward the front door to grab her cloak and walk into town.
As she walked through the town, the people began to cast glances in her direction. The fact that she seemed to be worse off than before was something of a concern. It seemed as if the spirit and fire had been sapped out of her. She didn't play with her illusions anymore; she spent most of her time finding things to do, not only to keep her mind busy, but to provide enough money for mere survival of her family. However, Gaston seemed to be following her around a lot, a permanent scowl on his face. He blocked her path one day as she wandered aimlessly. She looked up into his ice blue eyes.
"Well hello, Witch."
"Just leave me be, Gaston," she said as she sidestepped around him.
"Just where do you think you're going?" Gaston pressed, reaching out to catch her arm.
"Gaston, I'm not in the mood to deal with you," she replied, a hint of ferocity edging her tone.
He leaned in closer as he said, "You'd better get used to it. I may just want a private chat with you one of these days, to make sure you aren't cursing the village."
Furious, she rounded on him and planted a tiny fist on his cleft chin, knocking him clear off his feet and onto the thawing ground, "How dare you!"
She stormed off, fists as tight as wound up watch springs. Gaston was shocked at her reaction, clearly not expecting such rage from such a small girl. She really was different these days. He wrote it off as that time of the month for her, and decided to leave her be for the time being. His chin and lower jaw throbbed painfully; uppercuts truly are the most powerful punch, and she connected beautifully. He rolled his jaw a couple times to rid himself of the pain, and looked around to make sure no one saw that. He could only imagine the gossip that would spark from that; after all, he had a reputation to uphold.
At the tavern, he bragged about how he would best that witch one day, shoving a wooden stake through her heart would do it. The village men laughed when Gaston did, thinking nothing funny of putting a wooden stake through anyone's heart, despite the accusations.
He just doesn't take the hint! she thought angrily.
Belle conceded defeat, there was just no getting through that thick ego. But it just sounded worse coming from Gaston, because that meant the entire town would agree with him. The town hero, the center of attention and admiration. As if he needed any other reason to inflate his already enlarged ego.
So the days passed thusly as Belle cared for her father, doing the best she could to keep him comfortable. She still couldn't believe he had done this to prevent her from becoming another anonymous conscript. One more cog in the wheel that ran the leviathan war effort. Why couldn't they take Gaston? He was plenty strong and capable for a military outfit. Of course, she knew the answer to that one. Knowing Gaston, he would offer to stay behind to defend the town from invaders, seeing as how he was the best. And of course, the town council would vouch for him, laying down their law to the military that there had to be some defense force left behind to take care of the town.
Besides, it was such a small village that the military probably wouldn't even bother. And Gaston was not known for his selflessness anyway. Sure, he made seemingly generous offers to the villagers every once in a while, but each one was a front. He either came across too much of something and "gave it away" or would water down the kegs in the tavern after a night of drinks on the house. It was all about image with Gaston.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two men stood over a table in a dark room with a single halo light lit above the table. Both wore differing shades of the same Battle Dress Utility uniforms. The two men were three-star ranks in the Navy and Marine Corps. They murmured quietly over the mounds of data that had been collected by a Marine Sergeant Matthew Davis, USMC. Davis spent the past several months incognito within the village, scouting out possible new additions to the ranks of sailors and marines already present on the base. His data consisted of photographs, written reports and scribbled journal entries that detailed the most promising prospects. Currently, they were sifting through the background information.
"What do they call it?"
"Molyneaux, a small hunter's village mostly but it has its charm."
"Do they have anyone that can be an asset?"
"You mean is there anyone worth pressing?"
"Of course, what else did you think I meant?"
The general scratched his bald pate as he ran through the numerous photographs his Marines had taken of the villagers during the winter's supply off-loading. There wasn't much, but they could make due with what they found. There was an impressively built man by the name of Gaston that seemed very intriguing to their purposes. The general – Lt. Gen. Thomas Langdon Gates, USMC – had spoken with the gentleman on the occasion in which these photos were taken.
"You sir," Gates called out to Gaston.
"You address me, General?" Gaston said with panache.
"What's your name?"
Gaston chuckled haughtily, "Why, you mean to tell me you've never heard of me?"
Gates smiled as Gaston introduced himself, "I am Gaston Avenant, the greatest hunter you'll find in these parts!"
"You think a man like you could put his fine skills to work in a military profession?"
Gaston laughed, "There is no man like me!"
Gates was getting more intrigued by the second, "How would you like to be paid to be a hunter of men?"
Gaston pondered the offer for some time before he answered, "No. What would this poor, defenseless village do without me in a time of need? Why, without me to fend off the dangerous creatures of the forest, they would be too afraid to come out of their homes."
Gates looked put-off, but it was only a ruse, "Are you sure? We could take your already proficient rifle expertise and make it..." he paused dramatically, "...perfect!"
Gaston scowled at that, "I already am a perfect shot! You should have seen the kill I brought in today; sixteen points on the rack, from nearly one-hundred yards out!"
Gates went in for the kill, "Could you hit a target from a thousand yards? We can teach you, and you'd be the best shot in the world! Then everyone will know the name of Gaston Avenant."
Gaston's eyes lit up; world recognition! Now that was something worth considering. Gaston promised Gates he would mull it over during the winter. Gates shook hands with the man and boarded the now empty supply truck heading back to base.
"Admiral, I figure if we can get this one and a few more of the men from this village, we'll have the paramilitary squad we need for these parts. As it stands, there's not a lot of potential with the other villagers...save one."
The photo of Maurice with his woodcutting machine was picked up, eyebrows rising at once. The admiral – Vice Admiral Dennis "Nutso" Shorte, USN – scanned the photo with interest.
"Who is he?"
"LeRoeux, Maurice," Gates read off from a full intelligence fill. "Age fifty-seven. Grew up near the outskirts of Paris, was the fifth child in a rather large family. Started innovating at the age of twelve, came up with a new suspension system for the family horse cart out of old shock absorbers. First successful invention was a simple pneumatic pressure water faucet."
"What did he make that out of?" Shorte wondered incredulously.
"A couple of fire bellows as a foot pedal and a water reservoir."
Shorte pursed his lips in amazement, "Genius."
An inventor would be just the thing they needed, but how much did he know about electronics? Could he be trained? Could they afford to train him, and if so, how much time would it take? Could they get the man started on important innovations sooner rather than later? These thoughts ran through the admiral's head, ruminating on one after the other.
Finally, he looked at Gates, "How do we get him?"
"Through her."
He picked up a picture of Belle, as she was stooping to pick up the supplies. He knew what Gates was thinking; use her to get to the old man. It could almost work, but it wasn't how this outfit was used to operating. At least, not the admiral's side of things. He couldn't be sure how Gates would handle it, though. Gates was not an easy man to figure out.
Gates was about Marine as one could get. In the Navy, they would have referred to him as a mustang – a man who started his career as an enlisted private and worked his way up to the officer ranks. Standing a medium height of 5' 8" with a stocky frame, Gates could command respect by simply entering the room. His hard features were a product of decades of sleepless nights, multi-hour firefights, and loss of several comrades in the face of battle. His blue eyes shone with intensity that sent a small shiver down the spines of even the most stoic of men. His crisp gait and smart salutes were a testament to his dedication to upholding the highest sense of the Corps values and military presentation.
Garnering his already impressive career were several tours in each of the regions: Middle East, Northern and Eastern Europe, Grenada, Gitmo (Guantanamo Bay, Cuba Naval Base), Asia, North Africa, and finally here in Western Europe. He was quick to ascend the enlisted ranks and became a platoon sergeant with the rank of Gunnery Sergeant at age 27. He led the offensive on a fortified enemy position in such a courageous and effective manner that not one Marine in his platoon lost their lives. The enemy was shocked at the ability of the offending force and gave up the fight after more than 75 of their side took fatal casualties. It was because of his actions that day that Gates was given an immediate battlefield commission, ascending to the officer ranks.
As a platoon leader with the previous experience of a platoon sergeant, he had shown time and again how effective he was at managing the battle against the enemy with speed, accuracy, and precision. He seemed to have this sixth sense that would allow him to predict what the enemy would do in a given situation. He always assumed the role of the enemy, thinking what he would do to an opposing force arranged as he was. The upper echelons of the Marine Corps recognized this talented officer for what he was, and put him through Force Recon school. He made it through the intense training, to be put in charge of the elite 1st Reconnaissance Battalion/1st Platoon. With his time in Recon, Gates went from platoon leader to battalion commander in a matter of five years. He was tapped for colonel five years later after returning from an exhausting and arduous campaign in the Indonesian Islands while fighting off factions of al Qaeda copycats. He'd spent the remainder of his time heading up campaigns all over the globe, directing Marine forces in every conceivable fashion. Gates was soon reassigned to head up forces specifically in Europe, particularly in the Force Recon sector. He was charged with finding a battle-altering edge in the Western European region while being supplemented by an elite Navy Fighter/Attack Squadron.
That's where Shorte came in. Shorte had spent an exciting career in the naval aviation field after graduating from the Naval Academy. As a midshipman, Shorte was about as bad as it got when it came to pulling pranks, but upon graduation, he became so moved during the commissioning ceremony that he straightened up his act upon getting to Pensacola. He flew tightly and smartly, quickly becoming the top ranking student pilot. Initially, he had chosen to fly the Navy's newest maritime patrol aircraft, the P-7 Scorpio – a throwback to the old P-3 Orion – but his proficiency and skill in fighter tactics and formation flight was his own undoing. He was "voluntold" to go fighters. Fortunately for him, however, his charm and personality made him very easy to get along with and he soon found himself forming a tight-knit group within the fighter squadron he'd been assigned in San Diego, California.
Shorte's call sign is a testament to his tall, trim frame. Standing 6' 4" even in old age, Shorte was no stranger to heights. His soft green eyes laughed with mirth underneath his thick, dark hair, especially when Shorte smiled his sheepish grin. Shorte seemed more the respected but well-liked older sibling than the officer he really was, but that didn't bother his humble soul one bit. He seemed to light a room on fire just by entering it, quickly becoming the life of the party, regaling anyone who would listen with tales of his days at sea. These salty anecdotes mostly involved misfortunate and humorous circumstances aboard the large, flat-deck vessels he sailed on. One such story involved a helmsman who lost his last meal all over the conning officer's back while rolling violently on typhoon-tossed seas. Shorte was a crowd pleaser, but a good man and a model officer.
He had served in many fighter squadrons, first as another wingman and working his way up the ladder to become a squadron XO (executive officer) – the most loathsome yet crucial position on the way to becoming a CO. Shorte had been such a success at each squadron, that he received stunning accolades and stellar recommendations on his way to becoming a squadron CO at age 36. Young as he may have been at the time, he was very acutely aware of the responsibilities associated with being a CO. He had such a grand time commanding his very own squadron, that in less than five years, he ascended to CAG – Commander of the Air Wing aboard a carrier.
The crowning achievement of his career was the proposal to create and maintain a strictly human fighter squadron. This squadron would be an elite group of young aviators, such that they could defeat any foe, anytime, anywhere, period. This, he argued, was a necessity in the conflict because the human element was a crucial factor in the waging of war on the enemy. Besides – he would often counter with this point – what better way to scare the enemy air effort than to have a bunch of meat bags kill each and every UAV without taking a single casualty? The admirals in charge of aviation granted Shorte total control over recruiting, training, platform development and redesign, and choice of Carrier Strike Groups. Shorte didn't need to be told twice. On 13 October 2150, the VFX-256 Black Demons took the skies in the black-painted FX-18Z Stinger Hornets and F-45C Talons.
Shorte returned the photo to Gates, "I think you better move with caution on this one, General. If we don't play this right, we'll have a handful of very angry people on our hands." He picked up the photo of Gaston again. "And if this one's as cocky as you say, then he may be able to coordinate a mob out of these farmers and peasants."
"Trust me, Admiral," Gates smiled. "That one won't be much of a threat. He's charismatic, but he's not bright. Those idiot peasants may side with him and become a mob, but there's no way my Marines would let him get the upperhand in a potentially threatening situation."
"What about the girl? Once we have her father, what do we do with her?" Shorte asked. "Do we just throw her back once she's served her purpose as bait? I think we need to recon this guy a little more closely, at least for another month."
"Gut reactions?" Gates looked up.
"Call it a sixth sense," Shorte sighed heavily with fatigue. "It's almost as if I can feel the guy's pain after we toss out his daughter. That'll hurt his effectiveness for sure, making him utterly useless."
Gates smirked confidently, "I'll work on that after the month is out." He gathered up his files and left the room with Shorte. "It'll be a piece of cake, after all."
Gates marched off toward his office as they entered the whitewashed corridors of the admin building on the base. Shorte headed off toward his own office to ascertain the status of the training evolution his Demons were going through. As if on cue, Gates turned and called out to Shorte.
"Oh, and Admiral?"
"Yes?"
"See if you can't keep a leash on that rogue pilot of yours," Gates said with an air of finality. "His performance as of late has been atrocious. If you can't find some way to handle him, I'll gladly take care of him for you."
"Which one?" Shorte grinned, but inside he knew the answer.
"That hothead J-G, Stone. If he doesn't start acting like a professional military officer, I'll see to it that he gets what's appropriate," Gates threatened.
"You just take care of your Marines, General," Shorte replied. "I'll handle Stone."
Gates didn't look mollified by that, but he didn't press it any further. Instead, he stalked off with a scowl on his face as Shorte breathed a sigh of defeat. So, the situation had finally gotten on Gates' last nerve. He couldn't admit that he didn't see this coming, however.
But still, he had to admit he still didn't understand why things had gotten out of hand with Stone. Six months ago, he was about as sharp as Shorte had been coming out of flight school; Stone was a star pilot, an up-and-coming prodigy. He had been an enthusiastic and jovial young man with the world on a platter.
But things changed suddenly those six long months ago, as if the light switch had been turned off in his eyes replacing his warm emerald green glance with a hard and angry glare. On more than five occasions, Stone had beaten the living daylights out of anyone who set him off, sending two Marines to the infirmary and three fellow pilots to the hospital. Stone had almost ended five careers with his fits of rage. He hadn't been recommended to see the Admiral yet (the squadron CO wished to handle it within ranks), but he knew it was only a matter of time. Shorte heaved a sigh as he walked back to his office overlooking the runways on the base as the Demons came back...early.
Oh God, what happened now?