***
The Apache attack helicopter moved steadily eastward, speeding through the tree-lined canyons of the Beartooth Mountains. Captain Stuart Harper scanned the rugged terrain below, looking for the objective of this morning’s deep reconnaissance mission. He and his co-pilot, First Lieutenant Chet Green were the crew of what might be the last flightworthy Apache on earth. They had gotten their orders straight from NORAD during the middle of the night, relayed by a series of ground units and detailed to them by their commander, who had called them out of their bunks at 2:30 am. They had lifted off before dawn from Boise Air Terminal—what was left of it—with extra fuel tanks on the copter’s stub wings. Without global positioning satellites they had flown non-stop into Montana, through the Absaroka Mountains, and into the Beartooth range using dead reckoning and highway road maps. They were tasked to obtain visual contact with alien gliders reported down in the area and then transmit their location to ground units deployed nearby. As he probed the foothills of the Beartooths, Stu Harper maneuvered the copter on the ragged edge of disaster, flying at high speed right above the ground. He wanted to avoid detection and give himself the element of surprise when he found the enemy.
The copter vaulted a low ridge and flew out over a high prairie between two mountains and Stu’s jaw dropped. He was right on top of his targets. Below and to one side lay a giant silver glider that had plowed into the prairie, tearing a streak across it and coming to rest against the base of a low hill. Nearby were a second and third huge landing craft, stationary at the end of their own long skid-marks. Stu began a tight roll to the right that would bring them in a circle above the bogeys. Nothing moved on the prairie except some cattle. No immediate sign of the enemy. That was a relief.
Chet’s voice came over the headphones in Stu’s flight helmet. “There’s something on the mountain at ten o’clock.”
Stu glanced at the triangular tan mountain rising on the far side of the prairie. At the mountain’s base were two piles of freshly dumped rock-rubble. Immediately above each pile, an opening the size of a train tunnel went straight into the mountain. It looked like an underground fortification of some kind was under construction.
“Better relay our coordinates pronto,” Chet reminded him, but Stu was already into the drill. He punched the control buttons of the data transfer module and its red LED display blinked to signify that it was broadcasting their geographic location via high-speed radio modem. Whether anybody was listening out there was unknown but Stu had his assignment to complete. His orders were to remain in the area and re-transmit until acknowledged, whatever that meant.
Stu got a bad feeling in the pit of his gut. Until now it had been “movement to contact,” the search-and-identify phase of the mission. Now, slowing the chopper to survey the area, he felt vulnerable. If the former occupants of the bogeys were still around they might be targeting him right now with whatever ordnance they used. He could feel hairs on the back of his neck rising. Anything could happen from here on, but for the moment the radar screens and optical displays in his cockpit were clear of trouble signs.
With the data transfer module repeating its message, Stu thought it best to make himself a moving target. He steered the Apache up the face of the mountain and flew directly over its top. At the summit he saw more fresh construction. The mountain’s rocky surface was penetrated by a group of three vents like low-profile smokestacks. From two of them clear air rose up shimmering with heat, while the larger central one billowed out a hot gas with a distinct greenish tinge. Stu steered clear of the unhealthy looking emission and started a second sweep around the prairie. He took another look at the bogeys and typed some details of their appearance into his keyboard, adding to the digital report the radio unit was repeating. So far there was no response, verbal or digital, from the receiving team.
“Maybe we’re too low,” he said over the intercom. “We might need some altitude to get the transmission through.”
“Roger,” Chet replied. Stu could see his co-pilot’s helmeted head nodding in the gunner’s cockpit in front of him.
“I’ll take her up a couple thousand feet,” he said. Just as he pulled back on the stick, a white flash streaked past him on the left and Chet shouted into the intercom, “Contacts at the tunnel opening. Two of ’em.”
Stu forced the joystick forward and right, throwing the Apache into a tight spin and initiating an evasive dive. He shouted, “Arm your Hellfires!”
Chet responded with a terse, “Arming missiles.”
Stu swung the Apache around to an attack orientation, figuring the best defense was a good offense. He flipped the heads-up targeting monocle of his helmet into position over his right eye and pushed the chain gun ready-button. When the nose of the copter swept around to line up on the mountain he got a look at the enemy. Two of the strangest fighting machines he’d ever seen stood in the tunnel openings. They were two-armed, two-legged metal contraptions with sleek fuselage-like bodies.
One of them raised its right arm and fired a shot of white-hot laser light that ripped past the copter on the right. Stu had no more time for conscious thought. He sighted through his monocle, aligned the chain-gun crosshairs on the machine that had just fired, and squeezed the trigger on his joystick. In response the chain gun under the copter’s belly swiveled to his aim-point and released a burst of 30mm superspeed rounds. A furious hail of armor-piercing slugs arced to the target in less than a second and impacted on its metal skin before it could fire another laser bolt. The machine reeled back, its dark glass canopy shattering and its legs crumpling. As it tumbled to the ground in a ball of flame Stu shouted, “Scratch one!”
Simultaneously Chet called out, “Hellfire locked on target two… fire!”
The missile leaped off the left stub-wing pylon and streaked toward its target, guided by an optical tracking camera in its nose. Stu kept up a steady rain of 30mm rounds, kicking up dust and sparks all around the second target. The enemy machine responded agilely, dodging most of Stu’s incoming heat but the Hellfire’s targeting computer was not to be denied. The missile’s smoke trail zigzagged twice compensating for the machine’s motion and then went in right on target. The warhead exploded with a flash that completely demolished the enemy. Pieces of what had been a formidable adversary scattered a hundred yards around.
“Yee-haw!” Chet’s rebel yell rattled Stu’s ears.
Stu hollered back, “This is a turkey shoot!” Then he noticed two more machines walking out of the second tunnel opening. One of these lifted its right arm and fired before Stu could bring his chain gun to bear. The shaft of white light tore through the undercarriage of the helicopter and came up between Stu’s legs, passing through his instrument panel and out through the glass of his side window. Bits of white hot metal and shards of glass flew everywhere, ricocheting off Stu’s visor and tearing into his cheeks.
Screaming in agony he tugged on the joystick but the Apache didn’t respond. Instead, it began a paralyzed roll over to the right, out of control.
Another white-hot beam ripped into the copter, tearing through the forward cabin. Chet wailed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” sounding more like a hurt child than the professional soldier who had coolly fired his missile seconds before. A huge vibration arose in the copter and Stu guessed a rotor had been shorn off by the shot. He yanked the joystick left, right, but the Apache turned completely over in the air and headed for the dirt. A third laser shot impacted the missile carrier out Stu’s right window and a massive explosion enveloped him in a flash of bright—nothingness…