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Chapter Nine: Grudge

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"ATC Hogosha, ATC Hogosha, this is Long Jump Four, now passing five-zero degrees south latitude. ETA one hour, thirty minutes. Requesting updated projection of fleet location to compute flight path. Over."

"Roger, Long Jump Four, this is Hogosa ATC. Stand by to receive coordinates."

On the V-22's computer screen, the map view shifted, showing the aircraft's current location, then a flashing green dot showing where the carrier fleet would be in an hour. A dashed yellow line appeared between the two, illustrating the path the Osprey would take to get there.

Arthur Boothby nodded as he watched the computer chart their course. Like most of the ADF's aging pool of V-22 tilt-rotors, the aircraft he commanded now had been in service since the mid-2000's, first as a transport for United States Marine Corps, then "donated" to the United Nations Air Defense Force once the Morshower Resolution had allowed the UN to maintain a standing military. Unlike the American military, which tended to phase out older aircraft to make room for newer, more expensive designs every two decades or so, the ADF was much more frugal. Thanks to several upgrades to her electronics package and regular refurbishment of her engines, Long Jump Four – also known as Big Bella – was still hail and hearty, an active and functional transport even at the ripe old age of fifty years.

"Long Jump Four to Hogosha, coordinates received. Finalizing flight plan to rendevous with you at six-five degrees south latitude, one-five-seven degrees east longitude. Confirm passenger list: two civilians, Rei Fukai and Jack Bukhar."

"Confirmed, two civilians. We'll have a fuel tanker prepped and ready for you."

"Roger that. See you in an hour, Hogosha."

"Roger. Hogosha out."

With that, the radio went quiet. Art turned to his young copilot, Will Hanson. "How's the flying tonight?" he asked.

"Reasonably good, thanks. Now that we're past the polar front, the air's nice and calm."

"Yeah. Good thing we won't have to get too close to land; the winds over the ice cap can be dangerous."

"Yeah, good thing we're just making a carrier landing. Another quick, easy transport flight, eh?"

"You said it, lad," Art replied. "Easy as they come."

As if brought on by some sort of jinx, the radar screen abruptly filled with static.

Art stared at the display for a moment, then cursed loudly. "Damn it, Bella, can't you go one blasted flight without something going on the blink? Is that really so much to ask? Will, check the radar and see what's wrong with it, will ya?"

"Running diagnostic … no faults detected. Must be some kind of external interference. Maybe from the magnetic pole?"

"Nah, we'd have to be right on top of it for the jamming to get this bad, and we're nowhere near that far south. Call up Hogosha and see if they're having the same problem."

"Roger, Cap. Hogosha ATC, this is—"

Without warning, the airmen's headphones began screaming. Instinctively, both men grabbed their heads, yanking the offending gadgets from their throbbing ears. Even the din of Big Bella's turboprops was more bearable than the high-pitched shrieking coming from their communications gear.

"AAAHHHH!! What the bloody hell?" Will cried, still clutching the sides of his head.

SATCOM TRANS DATA

COMMENCING

Art pointed at the screen. "What the hell's it doing?"

BLACK BOX DATA

UPLOADING

In seconds, the computer screen was filled with data – maps indicating Long Jump Four's course and progress, airspeed, weather conditions.

COMM LOG REPLAY

"This is Hogosha ATC—"

Art felt his heart leap up into his throat as Bella's computer began to play back their communications. It was as though someone were scanning the communication logs at incredibly high speed; long stretches of dialogue squealed by, merging with the weird, high-frequency wail from the headphones, then slowing to almost normal speed for brief stretches before speeding up again.

"ETA one hour, thirty minutes."

"Six-five degrees south latitude, one-five-seven degrees east longitude."

"Two civilians, Rei Fukai—"

"Rei Fukai—"

"Rei Fukai—"

As Art and his copilot watched, a window appeared on the interface console.

REQUEST ADF MILNET ACCESS

USER: ***********

PASS:************

Jesus Christ, Art realized, we're being hacked! They're using our own satcom link to access the military network! Then, more calmly, No way they'll ever get access to the milnet. Every hacker on the planet has been trying to crack that code for decades, and none of them's ever actually done it.

**ACCESS GRANTED**

Right before Arthur Boothby's horrorstruck eyes, the most advanced computer security on Earth gave way, and Big Bella's interface screen filled with dozens of windows, each loaded with classified information. Much of the text looked like Japanese, though from the accompanying images, Arthur could see photos of a massive carrier ship scrolling by, as well as similar pictures of smaller escort ships and aircraft of various types.

A moment later, one window opened in the center of the screen. It looked like a dossier file, with various photos of a tall, pale-skinned Japanese man.

"Rei Fukai—"

More images flashed by: grainy photos captured from a night-vision camera. They showed a young man in a white-and-gray flight suit being carried off a sealift helicopter, on what looked an aircraft carrier's flight deck.

"Yukikaze says it's an enemy—"

"What's … fire control just switched itself on … B-3 …? B-3's calling for backup! All units, fire all missiles! Hand off control to B-3!"

More images: Technical readouts for a fantastically sleek, streamlined fighter jet, aggressive yet beautiful at the same time. A grainy night-vision shot of that same fighter jet, now battered and torn, being lowered onto a carrier deck by a heavy-lift Chinook helicopter.

"Hand off control to B-3!"

"Rei Fukai—"

"B-3—"

"Rei Fukai—"

REI FUKAI/

B-503 YUKIKAZE

DETECTED

65ºS 157ºE

TIME TO TARGET

1 HR 30 MIN

Will stared at the screen in astonishment. "Time to target …?"

"Jesus Christ! They're going after the Antarctic fleet – and we just gave them the coordinates!"

Abruptly, the monitor flickered and went out. The cockpit was silent. Then, in one awful moment, it occurred to Art just why it was so quiet.

"My God! The engines—!"

Like an enormous stone, Big Bella dropped from the sky.

Despite the terror pumping through both airmen's veins, they had both trained for catastrophic engine failure. After several attempts to reactivate Bella's turboshafts, and just as many unsuccessful attempts to control her flight path without them, there was only one option available. Art ran for the pilot's side hatch, jerking the emergency release handle as hard as he could. Explosive bolts fired, and the cockpit was filled with roaring, icy Antarctic wind. Bracing themselves against the bitter wind chill, the Australian flight crew bailed out of their intact but powerless Osprey, opening their parachutes as soon as they had put enough distance between themselves and its tumbling bulk.

In the cold and dark, Big Bella dropped out of sight, lost against the black ocean waves. From their height, not even the colossal splash of her impact reached her crew's ears.

Art shivered as frigid Antarctic gusts buffeted him about, the cold penetrating even through his insulated flight suit. Then he hit the water, and realized what cold really meant. Hypothermia, he thought. Somehow, the realization wasn't quite as terrible as he might have expected. Impaired emotional response. Shock. That's not good.

Art tried to find his copilot again, but in the pitch blackness, he knew he wouldn't have seen an iceberg if it were three feet from his nose. He could just barely make out a flashing white light from somewhere to his left: Will's emergency beacon, lighting up his location and transmitting an electronic SOS. With that thought, Art pulled a cord on his own flight suit, activating his own beacon. They're probably still jamming us, he thought sadly. This has been an awful bloody day.

As it turned out, hypothermia was the least of Arthur Boothby's worries.

Even as his shivers became full-body spasms, he heard the sound of engines.

The sound was like nothing Art had ever heard. He was familiar with helicopters, jets and propeller aircraft. He had heard the sounds of outboard motors and heavy ship turbines. The high-pitched, shuddering wail coming toward them was something completely different. To Art's ears, it sounded harmonic, a shrill noise between a drawn-out bat's squeal and nails on a chalkboard, with a dull roar somehow mixed in. It was a weird, unearthly sound.

Without warning, the water to his left erupted in a series of small geysers. Will's beacon did not flash again.

From someplace deep inside his rapidly-freezing body, a tiny ember of rage flickered. "Y-y-y-you," Art sputtered, "y-you killed Will! You killed Will, you bastards!" With numbed fingers, Art reached for the .45 pistol at his waist.

For Arthur Boothby, the end was almost mercifully swift. Two rows of splashes suddenly appeared, tracking toward him. In a split-second, a crystal projectile roughly 25mm in diameter hit his emergency beacon, shattering its transmitter.

It also blew a hole six inches wide in Art's torso, right where his heart had been.

For a few moments, the corpses of Arthur Boothby and William Hanson floated on the water. Had either still been alive, they might have heard the bone-chilling scream of strange engines approaching. They might have glimpsed a dark, crystal-armored shape swoop by, the sharp tip of its vertical rudder passing just inches above the water, sending up a spray of seawater in its wake. They might even have noticed the radio jamming miraculously cease. No doubt they would have called for rescue, or to warn the carrier fleet of approaching danger.

Within minutes, the Australian airmen and their downed aircraft were gone, deep beneath the frigid waters of the Southern Ocean.

The Antarctic fleet would never know what hit them ….

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