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“Are you planning to go pick up as well the crew of the international lunar base?”
Asked James MacDonald, making Nancy look at him with shock and surprise.
“There are Humans alive on the Moon?”
‘’You didn’t know that a base existed on the Moon, miss? Asked Michael Stone, himself surprised by her ignorance. Nancy shook her head.
‘’As I said, the historical archives that survived to the 34th Century are very fragmentary. We thought that the base had been evacuated in advance of the war, as it was found deserted in the 28th Century.’’
‘’Then, you will have nine more people to save apart of us, miss.’’
That brought a smile on Nancy’s face.
‘’In that case, we certainly will make a side trip to the Moon after this.’’
15:06 (North America Central Time)
Wednesday, September 23, 3384 ‘A’
Landing pad of the New Lake City University campus
Great Lakes area, North America
Global Council
Keiko Miramoto, a small Japanese woman of 34 years of age and a doctor and bio-chemist of renown in 2052, was the third person to get out of the HERMES once the heavy shuttle had landed. Still weak from her long stay in low gravity on the Moon, she was like the eight other members of the lunar base sitting in a wheelchair being pushed by one of their saviors. Still under the shock of having been rescued from a certain death on the Moon base, she looked around her at the crowd of spectators, reporters and dignitaries waiting and watching on one side of the landing pad. Loud-speakers then started playing some kind of national hymn unknown to her as the ones who had rescued her and her comrades led her group towards a group of dignitaries. Nearly everybody in the crowd were bald giants standing over two meters in height. The main dignitary, a handsome bald giant man, said a few words in a language unknown to Keiko, then spoke in English in a solemn tone.
‘’I am Grand Administrator Boran Kern, head of the Global Council. I am happy to be able to greet you, survivors of the 2052 Nuclear Holocaust, to the year 3384 and to our society.’’
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Keiko, having lived through months of despair on the Moon, then broke and started crying. Kern, touched by her distress, stepped quickly to her and gently took her in his arms, whispering words of comfort in her ear.
‘’Do not worry anymore, miss: here, you will now know peace as a new citizen of the Global Council.’’
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CHAPTER 3 – NEW MEMBERS
19:53 (North Atlantic Time)
Sunday, February 28, 2021 ‘A’
Nuclear aircraft carrier USS RONALD REAGAN (CVN 76)
North Atlantic
Commander Bob Matheson, standing besides the electronic tactical plot display in the Combat Information Center, or C.I.C. in short, knew what Captain Peter Fowler was going to ask him even before he came close to him. The CAG (Commander of the Air Group) would want to know about that inbound F/A-18E SUPER HORNET that was now making him very worried. Matheson saw that Lieutenant Commander Derek Hamilton, the commander of the squadron to which the inbound aircraft belonged, was tagging along with Fowler. Both naval aviators examined the plot in silence for a moment before the CAG turned towards the operations officer.
“What’s
Sanchez’s
status?”
“Still on approach and maintaining a constant altitude of 5,000 feet. Her remaining engine is starting to overheat and she will be barely flying on fumes by the time she gets here, if she makes it.”
Hamilton shot a hard look at him.
“She’s my best pilot. She will make it.”
Matheson sighed quietly. His duty was to present facts, not hopes or assumptions.
“Will all due respect to your pilot’s abilities, mister, she will be about out of fuel and flying through this damn winter storm to try a carrier night landing on one overheating engine, while our deck is pitching wildly up and down. I advise that we get her close to one of our escort ships and have her bail out.”
“Do you know how long she will survive in this freezing water, with thirty foot waves lashing at her?” Replied Hamilton angrily. Fowler suddenly raised his hand, signaling Hamilton to calm down. The CAG then lowered his voice.
“Is Sanchez wearing a survival suit, Commander?”
Matheson shook his head sadly. Between a near-suicidal attempt at landing and a jump in the furious North Atlantic, Sanchez’s fate was nearly sealed in advance. He thought 60
about the last time he had met the young Latino beauty at the officer’s club in Norfolk.
She was a fantastic woman, apart from being a top-notch combat pilot. The CAG’s voice brought him back to reality.
“Commander, prepare for an emergency landing.”
20:08 (North Atlantic Time)
US Navy F/A-18E SUPER HORNET fighter-bomber
North Atlantic
Carmen Sanchez nearly had to gulp down her stomach when a fierce downdraft made her lose over 300 meters in seconds, only to be shaken madly by turbulences.
Fighting the controls of her F/A-18E, she could barely reestablish a roughly straight flight path. This was by far the meanest storm she had encountered in her career. A quick glance at her instruments panel did nothing to reassure her: she had only ten minutes of fuel remaining and her surviving engine was badly overheating and was in danger of catching fire. Looking through her aircraft’s canopy, she could see only a pitch-black night lit at intervals by blinding lightning bolts. Only her heads up display made it possible to avoid total spatial disorientation. She was by now drenched in sweat and more than a little apprehensive. Carmen inhaled deeply, trying to relax a bit, then activated her radio.
“Hen House, this is Blue Fox Five. I have ten minutes of fuel remaining and am at 4,000 feet. My last engine is iffy. I request instructions, over.”
The reception was barely comprehensible, being badly affected by the electrical storm she was flying through.
“…se, we have… on rad… cleared for land…”
“Blue Fox Five to Hen House, I acknowledge that I am cleared for landing.”
A loud horn suddenly erupted in the cockpit, accompanied by an insistent voice from the aircraft audio warning system.
“Warning, fire! Warning, fire! Warning…”
Carmen felt her hair rise on her head. Looking sharply to her left and rear, she saw flames shooting out of her remaining engine.
“Hen House, Hen House, this is Blue Fox Five. I’m on fire! I say again, I’m on fire! Ejecting now!”
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Pulling back her legs close to her seat, she pushed her head against the headrest before grabbing the ejection handle between her legs with both hands and pulling it with desperate strength. Her ejection seat’s rocket motor blasted her through the Plexiglas canopy and into the 400 knots relative speed air stream. That felt to her like being kicked hard in the bum before hitting a brick wall. Lashed both by cutting winds and hail, she felt rather than saw her seat separate from her and her parachute deploy. Only a few seconds later she hit the icy cold water, diving deeply feet first before she could unclip frantically her parachute harness and swim towards the surface. Breaking the surface, Carmen barely had time to gulp quickly two breaths before a huge wave came crashing on top of her.
20:14 (North Atlantic Time)
USS RONALD REAGAN
“Say again, Blue Fox Five. Blue Fox Five, this is Hen House, say again your last transmission.”
The shouts of the air operations chief in his radio microphone were suddenly covered by an alarmed report from the nearby air traffic controller to Commander Matheson.
“Sir, Blue Fox Five just disappeared from my radar screen.”
“Keep looking for it.”
Matheson then turned towards the duty officer of the watch.
“Alert the PORT ROYAL! Have it break formation and dash towards Blue Fox Five’s last known location. Air Ops Chief, scramble the plane guard OSPREY.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The chief picked up a telephone that connected him directly to the HV-122A OSPREY
aircraft on plane guard alert on the deck. A short set of orders quickly had the big vertical take-off search and rescue aircraft lift off and head towards Sanchez’s suspected crash spot.
20:15 (North Atlantic Time)
North Atlantic
Carmen reemerged again, her energy nearly spent and starting to suffer already from the onset of hypothermia. She realized that she was not going to live for very long.
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Tears of frustration and despair came to her eyes: she wanted so much to live. Another huge wave was gathering above her, ready to send her down to the abyss.
“NOOO!”
Right then, she forgot that she was an elite pilot with a distinguished service and combat record. She was now simply a young woman about to die. Something suddenly grabbed her left leg and pulled her down under the surface. A terrorized Carmen barely had time to think about sharks before something was placed over her mouth.
Recognizing the shape of a scuba air regulator, she avidly sucked in air, nearly suffocating by forgetting not to breathe through the nose at the same time. She was soon pulled inside an airlock of some sort, with its hatch sliding in place immediately afterwards. As pressurized air chased out the seawater, Carmen, shaking like a leaf and very close to passing out, looked at the one who had saved her. Her blurred vision could only make out a tall silhouette in some kind of diving suit. Two more people entered the airlock as soon as the water was evacuated, grabbing gently Carmen and carrying her in some kind of locker room before putting her down on the floor. A third person, a woman, then spoke to the two bearers in English.
“Mike, Sean, could you leave for a while? We will have to strip her of those wet clothes.”
The two big men quickly left, leaving Carmen alone with the woman and her rescuer.
The Puerto-Rican pilot was quickly stripped of her soggy flight suit and underwear before she was dried with towels and wrapped in an electric blanket. The person in the diving suit then presented a small glass full of an amber liquid to Carmen.
“Drink this: it’s a shot of cognac.”
The voice was clearly that of a woman. Carmen thankfully downed the alcohol, the explosion of warmth in her stomach feeling to her like a revival. A steaming cup of coffee was put next in her hands. By now, Carmen’s vision had returned to normal and she could finally look in detail at the two women providing her comfort. The one in the diving suit, her mask now removed, was a tall woman apparently in her early thirties, with medium-length black hair, green eyes and soft Caucasian features. The other woman, dressed in a dark gray uniform covered with large pockets, was a teenager of great beauty with reddish-brown hair and big blue eyes. Carmen felt better just by looking at her: she looked like the type of person you could get to like instantly. The taller woman grabbed Carmen under one arm.
“Let’s move you to a seat. Ingrid, please help me.”
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The tall one had a very slight accent that Carmen could not trace. Once she was installed on a padded bench, Carmen looked up and smiled at the two women, her cup of hot coffee still in her hands.
“Thank you very much for saving me. I was damn close to sinking for good.”
The tall stranger nodded, smiling back at her.
“It was a close call alright, Lieutenant Sanchez.”
Carmen then looked around her with curiosity.
“Which submarine is this? I didn’t know that there were women submariners in the Navy.”
The tall one laughed with good humor.
“Submarines! The last bastion of male chauvinism. Actually, Lieutenant, you are not aboard a submarine. This is the Time Patrol scout ship WALKUREN. My name is Nancy Laplante, Chief of Operations of the Time Patrol, and my friend here is my stepdaughter, Ingrid Weiss.”
A rush of blood to her brain nearly made Carmen pass out.
“The…the Time Patrol?”
“Correct, Lieutenant. You were predestined to disappear at sea today. Learning of your fate from future hindsight, I planned this rescue and jumped to this time. I am afraid that, from now on, you will be reported officially as missing and presumed dead at sea. I can however offer you an exciting second life in the future, as an agent of my organization. I already saved many others who were destined to officially die. In fact, one of those people directly requested that you be saved today, along with another aircraft crew now searching for you.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, Laplante looked towards a nearby steel door and shouted.
“Commander Hamilton, you may come in now.”
“Commander Hamilton?” Said Carmen, stunned, while the door slid open and her squadron leader walked in, wearing the same kind of gray uniform as Ingrid Weiss.
Hamilton, walking slowly and laboriously, went to her and kissed her on the forehead.
Carmen then noticed that his hair had some gray strands.
“Carmen, you can’t know how happy I am to see you safe and sound.”
“But, you are supposed to be on the RONALD REAGAN. What are you doing here? And you look much older than just yesterday.”
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“Another me is presently on our carrier, Carmen. I was saved by Nancy Laplante in the year 2053, while I and eight other astronauts were stranded on the Moon. I then told her about you and she agreed to save you, on the condition that you disappeared from this time period.”
Carmen looked suspiciously at him.
“This is somewhat hard to believe, sir. What happened to you anyway? You look very weak, apart from being older.”
Hamilton smiled down to her.
“A normal consequence of spending over a year in low gravity on the Moon. I and the others have had only two weeks since our rescue to recuperate. In fact, the others are still back in the future, under medical care. I came so that you and the others would know that you are not being captured by hostile persons.”
“Others? What others?”
“The crew of the search and rescue OSPREY that is now searching for you.
They crashed and disappeared tonight, like you.”
20:34 (North Atlantic Time)
HV-122A OSPREY search and rescue VTOL aircraft
North Atlantic
The OSPREY combat search and rescue aircraft slowed down while its two wingtip engines pivoted to near vertical, letting it fly low and slow over the furious sea, its crew frantically searching in the dark for any trace of Sanchez or of her aircraft. The copilot, Sub-Lieutenant Angie Wells, suddenly yelled over the din of the two giant propellers.
“I have something on the FLIR2! Looks like fuel and debris on the water at two O’clock, distance 600 yards.”
“Good work, Angie!” Replied the pilot, Lieutenant Richard Berkowitz. The OSPREY II was soon over the spot designated by Wells, all its lights on and with four pairs of eyes scanning the surface of the water. Berkowitz sent a short message to the RONALD REAGAN to announce their find, then started an area search pattern. After 2 FLIR: Forward Looking Infra-Red
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five tense minutes, a scream from the loadmaster, Warrant Mack Turner, made their hearts accelerate.
“Parachute on the surface at nine O’clock!”
“I see it!” Replied the pilot on the intercom. “We may yet get Lieutenant Sanchez out of this cold soup. Petty Officer Crawford, be ready to jump in.”
“Aye, sir!” Responded the S.E.A.L. combat diver, who then quickly put on his scuba gear as Berkowitz maneuvered his aircraft over the white parachute floating on the surface of the stormy sea. Mack Turner looked down at the giant waves and shook his head at Jack Crawford.
“The sea is too strong. Jumping in would be nearly suicidal.”
“So? You want us to turn tail and let Sanchez in there? If I have to jump, I’ll go.”
Berkowitz’s voice cut short the argument.
“There is no sign of Sanchez around. She may be trapped under the parachute.
Petty Officer Crawford, I’ll have to ask you to go and check it out.”
“I’m ready, sir. Just get a bit lower, so that I can jump.”
“Alright! By the way, we will soon get some help: the cruiser PORT ROYAL will be here in ten minutes.”
“Super! We certainly can use some backup.”
Crawford, after another look down at the sea, yelled again in his intercom.
“Hold it right there, sir. Warrant, be ready with that hoist. I…”
Concentrating their attention on the parachute in the water, the crew of the OSPREY did not see a monstrous wave rise nearby. It crashed down over the right wing and engine nacelle, pulling down the aircraft and shearing away the propeller blades off the left engine. The blades became deadly missiles, with one cutting through the fuselage and cockpit. Jack Crawford, holding on desperately to a structural frame, saw with horror the blade cut Warrant Turner in half before beheading Lieutenant Berkowitz. The OSPREY
then hit the water hard and started sinking immediately. Jack, half stunned by the crash, rushed towards the cockpit as water started filling the cabin. He found Angie Wells unconscious, collapsed over her controls and with blood coming from a head wound.
Pushing the quick release knob of her seat harness, he dragged her out of the cockpit as quickly as he could. He barely had time to exit the fuselage, still pulling her limp body, before the aircraft sank out of sight. His next move was to inflate her flotation vest, his hands already starting to feel cold despite of his neoprene gloves: Angie was not going to survive more than ten minutes maximum in that icy water. To make matters worse, a 66
wave came crashing on top of them, separating Jack from Angie. Resurfacing quickly, a desperate Jack searched around for the copilot, without success. Another wave sent him down again. Only the combined buoyancy of his diving suit and of his flotation vest made him resurface again. The furious sea was sapping his energy quickly.
“ANGIE!”
The anguished S.E.A.L. then realized that a large, dark shape now floated overhead in the sky, hiding the stars.
20:55 (North Atlantic Time)
TICONDEROGA Class cruiser USS PORT ROYAL
Captain Purnell had to hold tight to the tactical plot table in order not to be thrown on the deck of his bridge. The ride in this stormy sea was bone jarring, with the whole of the 9,466 tons cruiser shaking as it pounded its way through the waves at the maximum speed possible. He could not see how anybody could survive more than a few minutes in this sea. He however had been ordered to the crash site and would do his best to find the lost pilot. Purnell’s executive officer, in constant intercom contact with the ship’s C.I.C., suddenly raised his head from the radar scope he was watching.
“We just lost contact with the OSPREY, sir. It is no longer on the radar screen.”
Before Purnell could get to the radar scope, the operator manning the forward FLIR
sensor yelled in alarm.
“Contact dead ahead! I have a large flying object 4,500 yards away. It is hovering just above the waves, sir.”
“How large is it?” Asked Purnell. The operator hesitated slightly before answering.
“Much larger than our OSPREY, sir. It also has a weird shape to it.”
Running to the FLIR station, Purnell looked at the video screen for a moment, then contacted the C.I.C. via the intercom.
“Ops, this is the captain! We have a large, unidentified aircraft hovering over the crash site. Transmit the picture from our forward FLIR to the RONALD REAGAN via data link and record everything from now on.”
Purnell then turned towards his executive officer.
“Commander Mitchell, sound battle stations. We have lost two aircraft already over that spot. Also, challenge that contact by radio and order him to identify himself.”
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After two nerve-wracking minutes, the signals officer reported via the intercom.
“Nothing, Captain! They either are not listening, which would be very surprising, or they are clamming up.”
“Very well! Advise the RONALD REAGAN that the unknown contact is refusing to identify itself. Radar, how come we don’t see that thing on our radar screens?”
“I don’t know, sir! It must be using highly effective stealth technology, sir.”
Mitchell, having looked at the FLIR screen, approached Purnell.
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Captain. I advise extreme caution.”
“I agree! This customer has no obvious business here and is sitting over the grave of two of our aircraft. Lock all weapons on this contact, but wait for my command to fire.”
The signals officer then reported again.
“Captain, Admiral Curtiss is ordering the task force to go to ‘Weapons Free’
status. We are to fire warning shots to force the contact to identify itself, then shoot it down if we don’t get an answer.”
Purnell jumped on the intercom right away.
“Ops, fire a warning shot on the unknown contact with the forward five inch gun.”
Seconds later, a bright flash and a loud detonation announced the first shot of the encounter. The reaction of the unknown contact was swift.
“Sir, we are being jammed on all radar and radio frequencies. We can’t get through it but it is coming from the contact.”
Purnell digested that report for a few seconds, then nodded his head.
“Alright, they leave us no choice. Link the forward five-inch gun to the FLIR
director and fire at will. Fire two SM-3 missiles from the aft magazine on home-on-jam mode.”
21:06 (North Atlantic Time)
Crash site, North Atlantic
Jack Crawford, his hands and face now numb, was still being trashed around on the surface of the sea when a flash and a loud explosion nearby caught him by surprise.
Similar explosions soon followed every three seconds, telling him that the unknown craft above him was being shot at by a five-inch gun. However, the shells were detonating just short of the craft, as if stopped by an invisible wall. A blinding blue-green beam of 68
light suddenly sizzled from the craft, followed closely by a second beam. Two distant explosions were then heard. Jack gulped down hard as he stared at the massive craft above him.
“Damn, these buggers have high power lasers.”
His attention was suddenly attracted to a light approaching from above. Somebody was coming for him.
“HERE! I’M HERE!”
Someone splashed in the water besides him, then started fitting some kind of harness on him. A female voice came from the now visible shape in a diving suit glued to him.
“Just let yourself go, sailor. I will drag you up to safety as soon as this harness is in place.”
“Who are you? What is that craft above?”
“I’ll explain later. Your female shipmate is already on board of my ship and is being treated. She will make it. We also saved Lieutenant Sanchez.”
Jack felt immense relief at those words.
“Thank you, whoever you are.”
“Don’t thank me yet, sailor.” Was the woman’s curt reply. Jack suddenly felt himself lifting out of the water, his rescuer still glued to his back.
21:08 (North Atlantic Time)
USS PORT ROYAL
“These bastards have high power lasers!” Exclaimed Commander Mitchell.
“They were able to shoot down our missiles.”
Purnell, now very uneasy, turned towards the FLIR operator.
“Is our gunfire having any effect?”
“No, sir! Our shells are exploding short of the target, as if they are hitting an invisible wall.”
“Damn! Are we fighting off the fucking Starship ENTERPRISE or what? Is all of this being recorded?”
“Yes
sir!”
“Keep it on! Commander Mitchell, I want saturation missile fire on that thing.”
“Aye,
sir!”
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More missiles soon erupted from the aft magazine, but at a rate of one missile every three seconds this time. Purnell and the rest of the bridge crew clearly saw straight rods of blue-green light stab repeatedly the night sky, intercepting and detonating the STANDARD SM-3 surface-to-air missiles of the PORT ROYAL. Fired at a dizzying cadence, the laser beams got closer and closer to the cruiser, with the exploding mi