Heavier Than Air Read online

  Pilot Fritz Kauf was too low, and it would cost him his life.

  The flight had started well. He had guided his silent fighter into several updrafts and managed to climb to just over 13,000 feet. That gave him the altitude to glide straight to the locations he had been assigned to photograph. Both locations looked similar from the air – ruins of ancient structures in the Big Valley. The ancients had built these factories to make electrical power from radiation, but from what Fritz could see the ruins now only provided a nesting ground for birds and small mammals.

  Fritz banked south towards home the moment he finished photographing the second mound. He was down 9300 feet of altitude and now faced a headwind. He pointed his fighter straight south towards his base, dropped the nose to pick up speed, and watched the altimeter unwind as he descended. He was 40 miles from friendly territory and on the wrong side of a mountain ridge. Things could not get a lot worse.

  Actually it could be worse. So far a Gengon fighter had not spotted him. Fritz pried his eyes off the altimeter and scanned for enemy planes. He looked at each 10-degree slice of sky individually, straining his eyes to focus on the distance. Nothing. Thank God for that. Looking back at the instruments the altimeter was reading 7500 feet. Not good.

  Fritz’s mind wandered as he scanned the horizon. How he envied the ancients who had engines in their aircraft. Imagine being able to simply use power to fly home instead of having to search out updrafts to gain altitude for long glides. The signs of the ancients were still visible as he scanned the area beneath the slender wings of his fighter. There were grid patterns in the soil that must have been cities of enormous size. Wide strips of unfertile soil marked lines that were once roads for vehicles with engines. Of course the larger damage the ancients had done was also visible. Pits from huge mines where any recoverable form of fuel had been extracted pitted the hills below him. These wounds to the earth’s surface were thousands of years old, yet slow to heal.

  Back to reality. Fritz had to get home. The headwind would form a strong downdraft on the lee side of the ridge that marked the edge of the Big Valley. He knew he had to avoid being dragged straight down by a huge wave of descending air. Fritz had two choices. He could turn south over the low, rounded foothills and hope he ran into lift before he ran out of altitude, or he could continue on a direct course home, straight towards the lowest point in the ridge. Fritz decided for the quick route home. Try for lift in a narrow valley this side of the ridge, and see if he could get over the ridge and on to safer ground.

  6200 feet. He was heading right up the side of a canyon, flying above the side facing the sun. The slopes were partly forested, with outcrops of granite forming the ridgeline. The outlines of farmer’s fields were visible along the banks of the stream that cut low through this valley. The fields looked fallow. These Gengon preferred to steal food rather than growing it.

  The air went from glassy smooth to small bumps that jostled the fighter. Fritz aimed at the crest of the ridge and watched its wooded outline grow larger in his canopy as he flew straight at the rocks. 5000 feet. 4900. 4850. He was getting dangerously close to the trees below him when he hit the first solid updraft. First he felt the bump, and then the audio instrumentation started beeping. What a sweet sound – he was climbing! He held off turning while he continued to rise, and then turned hard right as the rate of climb stabilized.

  Don’t loose it. Stay in the lift, circle as slowly as possible to keep the circle small, and for God’s sake don’t stall. Fritz was practiced at giving himself advice.

  5100 feet. He’d only gained about 200 feet, but it was a start. The pine trees he’d been practically rubbing against the belly of his fighter now looked a respectable distance away, and were getting smaller. Fritz checked the instruments. He was only averaging 200 feet per minute of climb. At this rate it would take 30 minutes to get to a safe altitude. He had to turn in tight circles to stay in the narrow column of lift, so he was flashing sunlight off his wings in all directions. His plane would be easy to spot if any Gengon fighters were flying locally, but what choice did he have?

  5500 feet. He needed at least 8000 to get across the ridge, but 9000 would be a lot better. Fritz did another careful scan, using three circles to scan each quadrant of sky. There was no sign of any bandits. Scanning had taken his attention off staying in the lift. The audio was silent. Where the hell did the lift go? He widened his circle, feeling for the invisible rising air. He found the updraft again on the next circle, and then had to re-center in the best lift. He could not afford these delays. He had to stay focussed.

  6000 feet. He might just make it. The wind was pushing him north, away from home, but at least he was climbing. His peripheral vision picked up movement in the distance. Swinging around through another circle he took a long look north. A V-tailed fighter was flying towards him, about five miles away and at least a thousand feet higher. Its huge wingspan and narrow canopy made it look like an enormous white vulture diving towards him, gaining speed as it approached.

  Now what? Fritz could dive away, but the bandit had the speed and altitude advantage, and there was nowhere for Fritz to go. He was still on the wrong side of the ridge and needed another 2000 feet to get across. He could radio for help, but there were no Madrin fighters anywhere near him, and the radio signal would be like blood in the water to any other Gengon in the area. Time to stay and fight.

  A strange calm settled over Fritz. Battle was upon him. His ancestors had faced battle with weapons ranging from rocks to crossbows to warships. They had felt the same calm. They had survived. Now it was Fritz’s turn.

  He pushed the nose down and dove to increase his airspeed to 75 knots, and continued to bank steeply. G forces pushed him into his seat and bent his fighter’s long wings upward. No matter - he needed to collect as much energy as he could to reduce his disadvantage. The bandit was closing fast. One more turn was all the time he had.

  Fritz forced the stick full left and applied full left rudder. His long wings swung overhead just as the bandit came in range. He could hear the bandit’s machine gun fire, but did not hear sounds of bullets penetrating his aircraft. The bandit had been going much faster and could not adjust to Fritz’s new direction. The shots had gone wide.

  Fritz continued to circle left, half of his attention on the bandit, and the other half thinking that he had fallen out of the lift again. He saw the enemy plane pull up almost to vertical, and then drop one wing and fall back on the exact same path coming back. The bastard was gaining speed, heading right for him, and had more time to plan this pass.

  Fritz knew that repeating the same evasive maneuver would not work again. The bandit had his speed under control, and still had a height advantage. Fritz decided to face him head on. Head to head would be at least a fair fight, instead of playing pigeon to the bandit’s falcon. Come to me you bastard!

  The Gengon fighter did not take the bait. Instead of heading right at Fritz’s guns, he pulled up and converted his airspeed back into altitude. Fritz had far less airspeed and could not climb as far. He pulled the joystick back hard, trying to get his guns aimed at the other plane, to at least get one burst into its belly. The enemy swooped higher while Fritz’s plane hung in the air, then stalled and fell.

  Damn! Fritz pushed the joystick forward and recovered quickly, but he’d lost another 250 feet of precious altitude in the stall. The bandit was now directly over him. Fritz watched as his enemy rolled inverted and then dove straight down. Fritz dove to get enough airspeed to maneuver, and then turned as sharply as he could, trying to swing behind a rocky outcrop at the edge of the ravine. He was turning hard when he heard the machine guns start firing again. Cracking sounds filled Fritz’s cockpit, and the smell of fibergl
ass dust entered his nostrils. He could see that his right wing root had several ragged holes, and it sounded as if there were holes behind his head in the fuselage. Damn. Those holes would be huge sources of drag, making his disadvantage even greater. At least his controls still functioned.

  His plane was suddenly noisy, with air whistling in and out of the bullet holes. Fritz reversed his turn, and looked for the bandit. Where was he? Fritz tightened his bank, narrowly avoiding the rocks. Shit, the bastard was right behind him and closing. Fritz was running out of options fast. He aimed straight towards the cliffs, and started rolling randomly to be a more difficult target.

  Fritz need not have bothered. From the cockpit of the Gengon fighter Fritz’s battered plane was easy to target. The pilot sighted the front part of Fritz’s fuselage and fired a short burst. Blood and gray fragments immediately splattered the inside of Fritz’s canopy. The now-unguided plane gently banked right and spiraled into the ridge. It made a sound like the crushing of an enormous sheet of paper as the plane disintegrated into white dust against the rocks.

  The Gengon pilot pulled up, looked for other aircraft and found that he was alone. He took two photos of the wreckage to document the kill, and then decided that it was time to head back to base. First he needed to gain some altitude. Remembering the location where Fritz had been circling, the pilot adjusted course. The weak updraft was still there. The Gengon pilot spent about 15 minutes climbing in Fritz’s last thermal, and then set course for home.

  John Young had not been sleeping well. Without looking at his watch he knew it was the middle of the night, too early to get out of bed, too late for any chance of a good night’s sleep. He lay there in the musty darkness, smelling the dankness of the underground air, fading in and out of consciousness. His mind drifted to earlier days…

  John had not understood the world until the moment of the birth of his first child. A man can go about his life without the world making sense, and not notice the gap. He was busy. Learning to be a combat pilot consumed every moment of consciousness. He’d had just enough time to find Amy, his common law wife, but never had enough time to spend with her. He was focussed. His life depended on becoming very skilled as a pilot very fast. Survival set his priorities.

  John had not wanted children, but Amy had. Amy had her own ideas about children and life in general. As time went on the longing for children built in Amy, and then unexpectedly in John. He felt the change, but could not yet put it into words.

  The words came the day Eric was born. John was at the head of the birth table, doing his best to comfort Amy and watch the midwife going about her rituals. Eric came quickly, too quickly for Amy’s narrow body to withstand without damage, but the baby was determined to be born. John got a flash of the tiny child as the midwife quickly appraised its health. In a practiced motion the midwife wrapped the child in a blanket hand handed the infant Eric to his father.

  The affect was instantaneous. John felt a wave of emotion crash upon his body and mind as he held, felt and smelled his first son. The impact was so strong that he felt himself stagger. He hugged the child tightly against his chest and breathed deeply. John knew from the center of his being that this child WAS HIS. He would protect this child at any cost. He would do anything it took to make sure that HIS CHILD was safe.

  Glancing back at Amy he saw a faint smile cross her face, and she then faded from consciousness to recover from the ordeal. His eyes met that of the midwife, whose knowing glance meant that she understood his emotions, but did not dismiss them. As the midwife recovered the child from his arms the rational portion of John’s mind started working again. Of course these feelings were raw instinct, bread through billions of years of evolution. Probably the tiniest male mouse felt the same sensations when his litter was born. It did not matter. Instinct or not, it was real, more real than anything else in the universe.

  John would feel the same crash of emotions with the birth of his daughter Sara. He had been expecting it, but the power of the emotional wave was the same. That first embrace, the tiny infant warm against his body. The sounds and smells of a new person undeniably part of him. His emotions turned to resolve. I am a father, a teacher, a protector. This is why I am here. I will not fail them.

  * * *

  John awoke again before the alarm sounded. Swinging his feet over the side of the bed he had a fleeting sensation that he had been dreaming, but no details remained. Consciousness spread through his body. He felt sore along his spine. “Too damn old for this” he thought, knowing that this was all too true. At 38 John was by far the oldest pilot in Outpost Base. Somehow he had managed to survive, through both luck and skill, while others died or rotted in Gengon prisons after bailing into the wrong field. The years gave him experience, but took away the quickness and audacity of his earlier years. The years also took away his comfort. He was perpetually stiff.

  Flipping on the glow bulb, John went through the morning ritual of shaving and dressing. The sleeping cell had just enough room for his bed and a sink, plus a small cooking area. The walls showed the markings of the excavating machine that had carved this hole out of the rock many centuries ago. The cave complex was originally meant to store grain, but now served as the eating and sleeping quarters of his entire squadron. The yeasty smell of the grain could sometimes still be detected in a few rooms – a sensual memory of much better days.

  John scraped away the gray stubble with a razor. His face was lined from years in the harsh sunlight that passed unfiltered through his canopy. His short gray-white hair outlined a tall forehead. His mother’s side of the gene pool had contributed the gray eyes and narrow frame of his body. His Russian father had made a genetic contribution too, but it was more evident in his mind than his body. His father had taught him chess from his early childhood, an interest he had in turn passed along to his daughter Sara.

  Washing the soap off his face, John began planning the day. With the amount of activity in the disputed territory the last two days, he knew they would be flying unless the weather was impossible. He packed his flight bag and headed down to the mess hall.

  The lighting in the underground passageway was so dim that he had to be careful not to walk into the numerous rocks and potholes that littered the earthen floor. John passed the rusted remains of ancient boring machine with an enormous cutting wheel at one end. The machine’s claw marks were visible along the sides of the passage, and throughout the complex. The newer portions showed finer scratches from hand tools. With fuel worth more than gold, mining equipment had gone the way of the powered wagon. Pick axes and shovels had returned as the tools of choice for creating new rooms in the soft volcanic rock of this mountain outpost.

  John’s mechanic JP was already eating breakfast as John walked into the mess hall. Most of the other pilots ate together in a group, but John preferred JP’s company. JP was the same age as John, but built much more solidly. JP had been an excellent pilot until a random cannon shell fired from a anti-aircraft position had struck his plane. JP took shrapnel to his right knee, but was able to glide the damaged ship back to friendly territory before bailing. The damage to his leg caused JP to walk with a pronounced limp, but he was otherwise intact.

  “Morning John. ‘Picked up the forecast on the way in. Looks like a boomer. ‘Wish I could be up flying with you today – ‘cept for all those damn Gengon bastards messing things up.”

  John fetched a few items from the cafeteria counter and set his tray down facing JP. JP had the weather chart on the table between them. A cold front had moved through the area during the night, leaving a layer of cold air on the ground. Forecast temperatures were expected to climb during the day to 16 degrees C, which would mean lots of thermal energy to cause updrafts. It was going to be a great day.

  “The forecast does look good. Were you able to get the ship back together last night, JP?”

  “Not a problem John. Just a bit of fiberglass and glue. You can hardly see the holes that 30 caliber made. No damage to anything s
tructural. No hits to the fuselage at all – you must be fighting amateurs.”

  John smiled softly and took a swig of coffee. JP knew him well enough not to expect a response to JP’s comments.

  “Got 12 aircraft flyable now, and two nearing readiness. Supply says two new airframes are headed our way – new Y class machines. Probably take a few days to get them instrumented, but suspect you will have something new and shiny to fly in a week or so.”

  John was looking forward to the new planes. Testing new aircraft was always challenging, but they needed more performance right now to stay even with the Gengon planes that kept improving. John wondered how many men they had lost just due to minor performance differences in the planes that kept his side slightly behind the enemy. Who could tell? Probably the northern pilots thought the same thing. Pilot skill was the primary factor, not the plane.

  The oatmeal tasted as bland as ever, but he was not that hungry. Glancing over his shoulder he saw another pilot Lawson coming up with something in his hand. “Mail call for you Captain” and handed over an Air Corps envelope. John was not expecting mail, and he opened it suspiciously. It took him a moment to realize that it was not an official Air Corps memorandum. It was a letter from Erik, his oldest son.

  Dad,

  I finished flight training two months early and have been assigned to Outpost Base to start combat training. I should be there 4/24 pm, based on our hiking timetable. Hope to be flying with you soon.

  Sara is already working in the Station 12. Always was a math wiz., but now she’ll be doing it for a living.. Both of us went to Mom’s grave last week. We miss her a lot.

  See you soon,

  Eric

  John had to read the letter twice. The thought of Amy’s grave made tears well in his eyes, which he could barely control. He glanced aside to recover his composure and then looked at the paper again. On the second reading he connected with the message. Outpost Base. Eric would be here in two days. Eric was going to be a combat pilot. My God, Eric had a damn good chance of being killed here.