SECTOR 64: Ambush (36 page)

No longer held in place by a drive system, the debris surrendered to Earth's gravity, raining down on the carrier group. It bounced harmlessly off their shields then accelerated toward the ocean two hundred Earth miles below.

"Have the rear battlecruisers take care of that," Admiral Feyhdyak ordered. "If those largest blobs make it to the ocean intact, we'll have massive waves devastating coastlines around the planet."

Concentrating on the biggest targets, the assigned battlecruisers fired their laser batteries into the falling debris.

The diverted laser attack impeded the destruction of the Zoxyth fleet.

"Damn it!" he yelled. Feeling the trap closing around his throat, he slammed his fist down.

The colonel looked up. "Do you want me to order a withdrawal, sir?"

Admiral Feyhdyak shook his head. "No." In a normal firefight, they could outmaneuver the Zoxyth ships—a tactical advantage the Galactic Defense Forces had exploited to turn back the enemy's early victories. Thoyd now realized their gene weapon nullified that advantage.

The Zoxyth advance into Sector Sixty-Four and their defensive posturing following his arrival was all designed to draw the GDF into this very position. Thoyd shook his head again. "And, I fell for it."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"No, hold position. We're faster than they are, but not enough to clear the weapon's range. A retreat will diminish our counter-fire and open an opportunity for them to deploy the damn thing. Our only hope is a massive, overwhelming counterattack."

An idea flashed into his mind. Activating his EON's communication link, he transmitted, "Captain Allison, I require your assistance."

"He's a sick bastard, Momma!" Sandy repeated. Tears of dread flowed down her cheeks.

In the hangar door, her mom stepped into view. Silhouetted in the opening, her tiny mother cut a long shadow across the hangar floor. Held across her body, the massive double-barrel shotgun had thin wisps of smoke wafting from its twin muzzles.

"He's a
dead
bastard, honey," she said from the door opening. Apparently unable to see in the relative darkness of the hangar's interior, she said, "Sandy?"

"Oh, momma. Thank god! I'm over here," Sandy said through clenched teeth. The pain in her side still burned intensely. However, probing the area tentatively, Sandy could feel the pellets just below the surface. She'd only caught a couple of them. Judging by their depth, they had been slowed enough by contact with the wall, and maybe even the floor, to stop them from cutting into her abdominal cavity.

Moving a hand to her belly, she found no other injuries. Fresh relief washed over her. She gently caressed it.
Someday, you and I are going to have a lot to talk about.

Turning to the sound of Sandy's voice, her mother stepped into the hangar and out of the bright pool of light spilling through the doorway. Seeing Sandy lying on the floor, she froze.

"Oh my god, Sandy!" Forgotten, the shotgun fell to the floor as both hands flew to her mouth. Fresh tears welled from her mother's bloodshot eyes as she tried and failed to stifle the sobs.

"Daddy? Did Daddy? Did he…" Sandy couldn't finish the question.

Her mother's red but still soft eyes shifted from horror to confusion then compassion as she knelt next to Sandy and placed a comforting hand on Sandy's right shoulder. "No, dear. He's awake." Tears streamed down her cheek. "But, what about you? You're hurt bad, hun."

Sandy shook her head. "It hurts like hell, mom, but it didn't go very deep." She lifted her blood-soaked right hand away from her side, exposing the area hit by Leroy's shot. "I'll survive."

Her mother gestured toward her flightsuit. "Then, where did all this stuff come from."

Wincing at the pain in her side, Sandy struggled to sit up. The effort had her sweating profusely in the hangar's hot smoky atmosphere. The sleeve wiped across the sweat pouring from her brow came away covered in gore. Looking down at her blood spattered uniform, Sandy realized what had freaked out her mom.

Sandy pointed at the blood and noodle-shaped gray bits of brain splattered across her flightsuit. "This isn't from me." She nodded at the lifeless body a few feet to her left. "It's from him."

Horror returned to her mother's eyes. "There was a second one?" She looked around nervously. "Are there any more?"

"No, just these two, and they're both dead, now." Grimacing, Sandy stood. "We need to get Daddy to a hospital." Holding her side, she limped through the door into the bright sunlight. Squinting against the brilliance, she looked down into Leroy's scarred and very dead face. Larger in the front than in the back, a gaping hole cut through his abdomen. The double blast of twelve gauge buckshot had nearly cut the man in half.

Sandy pulled her Baretta nine-millimeter pistol from where Leroy had tucked it into the top of his jeans.

Returning to the hangar entrance stoop, she tried to pick up the floor jack. Covered with dust and splattered with blood, it still sat where Sandy had dropped it when Buck and Leroy had ambushed her. She tried to lift it, but couldn't. It had been difficult enough when she only had a knee injury to deal with. Standing, she cast a worried look toward the patio. "Damn it!" Something squealed and rattled behind her. Sandy spun, pistol at the ready.

Pushing a wheelbarrow, her mother strode from behind the building. Transported across the rocky soil, the shotgun chattered in the cart's metal belly.

After casting a disdainful glance at Leroy's corpse, Sandy's mother turned and smiled. "I think this should help."

A few minutes later, having successfully lifted the beam and loaded her Daddy into the cart, they rolled back into the rear yard. The barrow's wheel squealed and groaned its protest. Sandy winced as it bounced over another obstacle. The backyard soil had always been rocky. Between shattered asteroid fragments and broken bits of building, it was practically impassable, now.

Her father's head lolled back. "Would it kill you to miss one of those?" Before Sandy could protest that she was doing her best, he winked. "Thanks for coming for us, Pumpkin."

Mom picked up where she'd left off earlier. "If you spent half the time working on this yard as you do on that stupid airplane, you'd be getting a smoother ride, mister."

Propped up in the wheelbarrow, her father raised his eyebrows. "Woman, quit your bellyaching. If I hadn't kept
ol' Betsy
in tiptop condition, we'd be driving to Nevada."

Sandy smiled. It was good to hear them return to their playful bickering.

"I never understood why your father still maintains that thing. The feds retired him and that plane years ago."

Sandy knew she was right. If it had been anybody else's airplane, she'd be concerned. However, her father, the ultimate perfectionist–at least with all things aviation–had maintained
ol' Betsy
impeccably.

"And," her mother continued undeterred. "They closed this field over ten years ago." Feigning indignation, she added, "Considering he lost his medical about the same time, I thought we'd finally get some quality time together."

Her father rolled his eyes and grinned at Sandy. "So, now you know why I spend so much time in the hangar." He chuckled, but it quickly morphed into another coughing fit.

The two women exchanged concerned glances. Her mom's hand went to his shoulder.

As the coughs passed, he took her hand in his. "Don't you worry, Firecracker. I told you, you're still stuck with me."

After lots of grunts, heaves, and more than a few yelps, they made it through the yard, over the collapsed block wall, and into the aircraft.

Sandy closed the plane's right door. From his position in the back right seat, her dad gave a weary thumbs-up. Sitting next to him, her mother smiled nervously and raised a tentative thumb, as well.

Walking around the front of the plane, Sandy scanned the airfield. Other than the still running Camaro, the scene was tranquil and quiet. Having already opened the left side of the hangar's main door, she swung the other wide open. Sandy hurried back to the plane and climbed into the front left pilot's seat. To her right, her father's splinted right leg rested on the back of the folded down front seat. The tourniquet, still held tight by mom's wooden spoon, seemed to be doing its job. Sandy knew the standard practice was to release it a couple of times per hour. However, considering the quantity of lost blood, she decided it wasn't worth the risk.

Through the airplane's automotive style rearview mirror, Sandy made eye contact. "Everybody ready?"

Side-by-side and holding hands, they nodded. Ghost-white, her Daddy looked on the verge of passing out, but he smiled and gave her another thumbs-up. "You have the controls, Pumpkin." Mom, usually the outspoken one of the two, simply smiled and nodded again.

Running through the start, taxi, and before takeoff checks by memory, Sandy soon had the plane out of the hangar and roaring down the remnants of Carmel Valley's aptly named Vintage Airfield. Closed more than 10 years, the runway was anything but ideal.

She steered the small single-engine plane down the smoothest available section of runway. However, an involuntary screech slipped between her father's clenched teeth each time the plane hopped and bounced across an unavoidable knot of grass or pothole.

"Sorry, Daddy."

Two yowls of pain later, his rigid posture went limp. In the rearview mirror, she saw his eyes roll back as the pain and blood loss overwhelmed him. He was unconscious. A few agonizing and bone-jarring seconds later,
ol' Betsy
finally clawed her way into the sky.

"Sandy."

"I know, Mom. We'll get him there."

The atmospheric shockwave generated by the enemy's arrival had decimated most of southern California. Sandy also imagined the injuries she'd seen on the north side of Carmel Valley Village extended along the entire periphery of the weapon's effect. Every operational emergency medical facility this side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range would be overwhelmed. Her father's best chance lay farther east, in the capable hands of Nellis Air Force Base's emergency medical staff, many of them freshly returned from combat tours in Afghanistan.

Thanks to strong tailwinds and her father's powerplant modifications, the plane made the trip faster than she dared hope.

"Roger, Nellis Tower, Seven-Zero-One Mike Delta, clear to land Runway Zero-Three," Sandy transmitted.

"Be advised, the ambulance you requested is standing by in front of Base Ops."

"Thanks, Tower."

Sandy turned the small plane onto the final approach course. Vacated of all aircraft, the usually crowded expansive ramp running parallel to Nellis Air Force Base's main runway was a concrete desert. At its north end, in front of the Base Operations terminal, she saw an emergency vehicle's flashing lights.

The empty ramp gave Sandy an idea. "Nellis Tower, Seven-Zero-Three requests permission to land directly to taxiway Foxtrot." Over eight thousand feet long, the eastern edge of the tarmac, designated as taxiway F, was longer than many runways, easily four times longer than what she needed right now.

"Uh, I'm not sure I can approve that, Seven-Zero-Three."

Casting a nervous look at her still unconscious father, Sandy shook her head. She shifted the plane's track left, toward Foxtrot.

"Sorry, Tower. You're coming in broken and unreadable. I think this old plane's radio is going Tango Uniform. If you can read this, I'm shifting to land on Foxtrot abeam Ops. Over."

"Uh … roger, Seven-Zero-Three," he replied in a resigned tone.

Landing as close as feasible to Base Operations, Sandy set the plane down on Foxtrot's north end. Keeping her taxi speed as fast as she dared, she sped toward the waiting ambulance. Many other vehicles sat parked around it. Sliding to a stop in front of the group, Sandy killed the engine. Setting the parking brake, she jumped out.

Gesturing to the two corpsmen standing on either end of a rolling litter, she ran to the plane's right side. Throwing open the door, she waved them in. Unmoving, the medics stared opened mouth at her blood-covered flightsuit. "Hurry, goddamn it! He's lost a lot of blood."

Snapped out of their trance, the medics scrambled to comply. "Sorry ma'am," the lead one said. He pointed to her especially bloody right side. "What about you?"

She shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Sergeant. Just take care of my father, please."

"Yes ma'am. We'll do our best."

The other medic had already climbed into the seat vacated by her mom. The sergeant said, "How's that I.V. coming?"

The airman nodded. "Just about there."

"Good." The sergeant produced a unit of blood from the large red bag hanging on his right shoulder. Handing it to the medic, he turned back to Sandy. "Captain Fitzpatrick, you're certain he's O-positive, right?"

Sandy nodded.

The sergeant nodded too. "Good, we'll pump as much into him as we can." He opened his bag to her.

Sandy was relieved to see several I.V. bags of blood nestled in its confines.

Five eternal minutes later, the first unit of blood was half depleted. With the help of several waiting security police, they extricated him from the plane's cramped quarters onto a backboard and finally onto the waiting litter.

As they rolled her dad into the back of the ambulance, a voice came from behind her. "Captain Fitzpatrick?"

Sandy turned. A female in full dress uniform stood alone. Twenty feet behind the major sat a Hummer with the markings of an Air Force two-star general. Sandy saluted General Pearson's aide. "Yes ma'am, I'm Captain Fitzpatrick."

Seeing Sandy's condition, the major's arm wavered mid-salute. "Holy shit, Captain. Are you okay?"

Sandy held up a finger. "Hang on, I'll be right with you, ma'am." Not answering the question nor waiting for the major's reply, she turned to her mother. "You ride with Daddy."

Her mom watched the medics work on her husband in the back of the ambulance. "Thanks for coming for us, hun. I would've lost him."

"You saved me too, Mom."

The slight woman shuddered as a sour look crossed her face. "Those A-holes deserved a lot more than that." Pulling her eyes from the ambulance, she looked at Sandy with burning intensity. "Don't you worry about us." Her mother nodded toward the general's Hummer. "I know you have work to do." Then she pointed a middle-finger at the sky. "Now, go give those other A-holes hell."