Fuller Solar Warden

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-5439-9996-9
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 412 Seiten

US Air Force combat pilot Colonel Steve Richardson suffers a severe head injury when his F-35 crashes in the mountains of northern Afghanistan. With help too far away, death appears imminent. When an unusual craft appears and rescues him, Richardson is convinced he's hallucinating. It conveys him to a massive spaceship in orbit, where he is treated for his wounds. Once he recovers from his injury, Richardson is introduced to a covert space force called 'Solar Warden.' This secret space program utilizes futuristic technology to defend earth against a paranormal alien threat intent on destroying earth's inhabitants. When Richardson joins the program, he learns that his new comrades are losing the conflict. Can he learn to operate technology half a century ahead of what he has been trained for in time to be an asset? Or will he become just another casualty in an interstellar war?

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fuller, Peter

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE

“Okay, this is not good …”

Colonel Steve “Scarecrow” Richardson was in the fight of his life. Plummeting to earth, his engine flamed-out and avionics de-energized, his F-35 Joint Strike Fighter had become nothing more than a meteor plunging to the desert floor. Following his wingman – he presumed now dead amid a fireball on the ground – and having failed to arrest his own descent or restart his engine, Scarecrow reached for his ejection seat handle. He hesitated. The thought of abandoning an 89 million dollar, state-of-the-art aircraft didn’t sit well with him, especially on its maiden mission. The thing still had its “new car” smell. With one hand on the control stick and the other clutching the ejection handle, he gritted his teeth and tensed as he released the stick and with both hands, pulled the black and yellow-striped loop located between his knees.

As the canopy blasted up and was swept behind the aircraft, Scarecrow shot vertical. The rush was disorienting, until he found the horizon, illuminated by the rising moon. Slamming into the airstream at still over 300 knots with less than 3,000 feet of altitude, the air hammered him as the parachute deployed with a crack, jerking his body and slowing his descent.

The impact and explosion of his own F-35 with the ground below and ahead of him played out in slow motion. Its fireball expanded and rose into the air, reaching hungrily towards him as he swayed under the nylon canopy. The shock wave knocked the wind out of him. On regaining his breath, he realized his trajectory, driven by his body’s momentum and the prevailing winds, was taking him right into the burning crash site. Attempting to avoid the flaming debris, he shifted his weight and adjusted his chute’s directional louvers.

Just a little more … just a little further …

Reflex caused Scarecrow to pull his knees to his chest as he drifted over the flames, hoping the few extra feet would be enough to keep him from catching fire. As he passed over the burning wreckage, a minor secondary explosion thrust flames upward and for an instant, they enveloped him. Clearing the plume, he was thankful neither he nor any of his gear had ignited.

In preparation for impact, he relaxed his body, went feet and knees together, then held his breath. Landing with a heavy thud in a tuck and roll, he sprang to his feet as the chute, caught by the early morning ground breeze, began to tug at him. He snapped the release and shook the harness off his body, then spun around to see how far he was from the wreckage of his fighter. He was barely a dozen yards away.

Too close.

At this distance, another explosion could be deadly, especially as the plane’s full fuel load and ordnance cooked off. Sprinting away from the burning F-35, he began a frantic search for a firebreak or outcropping that could shelter him from a blast. There was none. Dodging brush and rocks, he raced as fast as he could away from the crash site, despite being weighed down with his flight gear.

Just when he thought he might make it to safety, the feared explosion erupted, launching shrapnel-like debris in all directions. A smaller piece hit him in the back of his HMD, cracking it open and pitching him forward to bounce and flop across the hard desert ground like a rag doll in a gale. While his helmet kept him from being killed instantly, Scarecrow still suffered a massive concussion. He managed to stop rolling, and lay face up on the packed earth. Dazed, he fought to remain conscious as flaming debris landed all around him. Unable to move, he was convinced that if he was hit again, it would all be over.

This time providence smiled on him, and he remained unscathed. When the echo of the explosion subsided, Scarecrow’s ears were filled with a loud ringing, augmenting the pain now growing inside his wounded skull.

Struggling to stay conscious, Scarecrow stared up at the sky. As he lay on the cold ground, he knew Bagram Base would be scrambling a quick reaction force (QRF). Unless they arrived soon, he also knew they would find him dead, overwhelmed by the head injury now beckoning him down into a seductive oblivion, or shot by a roving Taliban patrol.

Either way, he could no longer move, even if he wanted to. For the first time in his life, his fate was in the hands of others.

An hour before, the Colonel sat in the briefing room with the team chosen to support the squadron’s first combat mission, including his wingman, Captain Mark “Retro” Lewis.

As Group Commander, Scarecrow had already been briefed, approved the mission and selected his team. While the Squadron Weapons Officer and Targeteer (WEPS) would brief the mission to the squadron, as CO, Scarecrow was still in charge. When he sat down, the Director of Ops (DO) said, “Seats,” and those in the room took their seats as the Targeteer stepped up to the podium to begin the brief.

“Good morning, Sir. Today’s mission is a bombing strike against a recently verified Taliban weapons depot and munitions cache.”

After the details of the strike were laid out and the support team’s roles were defined, WEPS asked if there were any questions.

“How solid is your intel?” Scarecrow asked.

WEPS looked nervously to the side of the briefing room at a non-descript, middle-aged man lurking in the shadows along the wall. It was obvious he had chosen not to sit with the squadron. All eyes followed WEPS gaze.

Mr. Kaplan, the resident CIA Officer, was an enigma. Never engaging with anyone, he was always seen skulking around the base, keeping to himself. It was he who had initiated the request for the target package. “Very reliable Human Intelligence (HUMINT) – repeat source, on-ground, on-site. Backed up with fresh Satellite Intelligence (SATINT) – this morning.”

Almost imperceptible, the edge of Scarecrow’s mouth turned down as his face tightened. “Thank you. It’s useful to know what we’re basing the mission on.”

“Certainly,” came the acerbic, monotone reply. Neither attempted to conceal the mutual disdain and lack of trust they felt for each other.

“One more thing,” Kaplan said. “This is critical – the sector’s Taliban operations depend on this cache. Our intel indicates they’re massing for an offensive. This was the depot responsible for producing those two IEDs that took out Sergeant Jamison and his boys last week and Major Donaldson two weeks ago.”

“Roger that,” Scarecrow said as he nodded.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” WEPS moved on, “next we’ll review the call signs. Bagram Air Base Air Operations Center – Hardrock. Colonel Richardson – Lightning One. Captain Lewis – Lightning Two. Aircraft Early Warning Control System (AWACS) – Darkstar. QRF – Iron Man.

“Initial approach – Angels 23. Any additional questions, alibis or saved rounds?” Silence. “Very well. That concludes today’s briefing. Debrief, 30 minutes after return. Good luck.”

As the room rose, Retro caught a derisive look in Scarecrow’s eye. “Problem, Sir?”

“Kaplan,” Scarecrow huffed. “You’re new here, so I’ll read you in. The only part of this job I don’t like – having to work with the CIA.” He lowered his voice as he cast a wary glance at Kaplan, who pretended to ignore the pilots and their furtive glances as he stuffed his notes into a worn briefcase. “I don’t like spooks. And I don’t like the secrets they keep. I don’t like secrets at all – especially the kind the Langley bunch traffic in. These guys have plans within plans. We never have enough ‘need to know’ to get to the truth. What they don’t or won’t tell you can often get you killed. Remember that.

“Kaplan and his ilk have been wrong before. And another thing – I don’t like taking direction from the CIA. They never take a hit for being wrong. We’re the ones who pay for their mistakes, not to mention the innocent civilians they put in our gunsights.”

“Roger that, Sir. Looks like today though, they get their way.”

“Yeah. Today looks straightforward enough. I’m just saying that with the boys and girls from Langley, you never really know.”

Fifteen minutes later the two pilots slid out of their Hummer, its brakes squealing as the vehicle came to a halt on the tarmac between a pair of pristine F-35s. The birds were newly arrived from Hill Air Force Base, their sleek outlines illuminated by massive flood lights that rimmed the flight line. The tang of jet fuel, raw and burned, hung heavy in the air.

Scarecrow removed a glove as he walked up to his airframe and lightly caressed her skin, feeling the metal’s warmth in the desert’s hot, pre-dawn air. His eye followed her lines aft. “How’s my new bird, chief?”

“Ready to go, Colonel,” replied the crew chief.

“Good.” Scarecrow stepped over to the Portable Maintenance Aid (PMA) to review the plane’s data. “Hey, how’s that little girl of yours? What’s her name? Brittany?” Scarecrow asked as he and the chief did their pre-flight walk-around of the jet.

“That’s right, Sir. She took her first steps yesterday.”

“Please tell me your wife video-taped that for you?”

“Nope.” The disappointment on the chief’s face was telling. “It happened without any...