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Berkson's TB-33 stealth fighter with retractable wing design plunged into the boiling-over atmosphere of the planet. His insertion angle had been good, the friction minimal. The heat shield shut down automatically. Alien jet streams buffeted the ship, and he suddenly found himself fighting relentlessly with the stick as dense whiteness hugged the canopy. Columns of data scrolled down his HUD but he ignored them. He alternated his gaze between the digital gyrostabilizer screen and the LIDAR image.
"He calls this mild chop?" Waxman asked, his tone conveying that he wholeheartedly disagreed with Sergeant Steinberger's definition.
"Guess so," Berkson replied, hearing the strain in his own voice. "I'd hate to fly what he calls the 'kosher stuff."
"I got contacts," Waxman shouted. "One, two, three, four, five."
"Uh, make that six," Batra reported nervously.
The LIDAR beeped and presented the 3D bad news. The bogeys bore an uncanny resemblance to the alien craft they had discovered on Mars. "Confirm Red Leader. A-O-A 29 degrees---wait! Dispersing!"
As his fighter descended father, breaking into the troposphere, the dense clouds dissolved into a light-blue sky that could be mistaken for Earth's. An ocean of black velvet lay below, whitecaps speckling it like stars. Sunlight fired a dazzle off the nose of his ship, blinding him momentarily. When he looked again, an immense fighter passed over him; its hull fully eclipsed the sun and its white-hot triple thrusters dropped within 10 or 15 meters from his about-to-melt 2nd canopy.
"Dammit, Waxman! I got one that wants to land on me!"
"Get out of his wash," Laura advised.
Yet even as she finished her order, the nose of Berkson's fighter pitched up, sending him into an inverted flat spin. Blue, black, and dots of white wiped by, and there wasn't a single alarm in his cockpit that wasn't flashing or buzzing. Although he was out of control, somehow one of his target locks had found a bogey. Still a falling top, his G-suit pressurizing, bile threatening to escape from the back of his throat, Berkson squeezed the trigger of his laser cannon. Above the screaming protest of his thrusters, he heard the explosion overhead.
But there was little time to celebrate. His spin felt like it was increasing at a rate of ten to the millionth power. He reached for the autogyro toggle, battling against the centrifugal force that, like a 250-kilogram wrestler, wanted him pinned to his flight seat. A quarter meter out of reach----a tenth.....
"Drop your gear, Berkson!" Laura cried. "You'll slow up!"
"Reds 3, 4 and 5. Ready harpoons," Waxman ordered.
Berkson's hand slapped against his chest. He couldn't save himself. In a second, he knew he'd black out. At least he wouldn't feel his impact with the ocean.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
"I got the remote on his thrusters," Batra said. "Powering down."
He had a vague idea of what they were attempting but doubted it would work. As the thrusters behind him died, he was jerked forward, back, to the right, felt the jet roll and then all of his weight pressed on his straps. He saw the ocean directly below as if he were looking down from a chopper.
Three fighters in triangular formation hovered above him. Tow lines snaked to his ship from each of the planes, two of the taut cables magnetically locked to his wings, one bound to the fuselage. They had plucked him from the sky, flipped him right side up, and n ow, once he refired his thrusters, could let him go on his merry way. Amazing. Berkson chucked under his breath.
"All right!" Batra cheered. "Seals are good. We just save the IDF a whole lot of shekels!"
"Oh, don't worry about me," Berkson bantered. "Just save the expensive plane."
"You're a valuable asset, too," Laura assured him. "How do you feel?"
"Nauseous, disoriented....just like any other day," he told her.
Someone clapped loudly outside of his fighter. The vista of the ocean froze then faded into the simulator room.
"Aw, c'mon, Sarge. We still gotta finish off those contacts," Waxman complained.
"Fall in, soldiers," Steinberg said.
Berkson crawled out of his cockpit, wondering just how pale the rest of his complexion truly was. He lined up with the rest of the platoon.
"This will be your final day of Accelerated Flight Training," Steinberger said, looking up from his clipboard. "Thus far we're nine for nine, with Mr. Jonas Berkson at the top of his class. He can shoot. He just can't drive."
They laughed and clapped for him. He couldn't believe it. He was a tank getting applause. His cheeks warming, Berkson held formation but searched for a hiding place.
"You ain't a team leader yet, Berkson," Steinberger reminded. "I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but someday your sorry ass will be there."
"Sir, if I may, sir. You told us we were getting at least 10 days of AFT. Not seven," Batra said.
Steinberger grinned crookedly. "Wartime tends to change schedules. We got 3 new squads waiting for AFT. And your graduation ceremony has been postponed. The rest of today you'll spend on docking and launching procedures. You can't shoot anything unless you get off the boat."
Berkson slumped. He had hoped they were going to finish their atmospheric dogfight. Instead, they were being forced to practice parallel parking.
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The drudge work ended at 1700 hours. Berkson returned to the barracks, showered, shaved, then joined Abebaw, who was also on his way to the mess hall.
"You hear?" Abebaw asked excitedly.
"What?"
"Steinberger wants us at the hangar at 1830 hours."
Berkson furrowed his brow. "For what?"
They stepped into the mess hall and got in line. Abebaw got a tray. "For what? We must've received our orders. Maybe we're getting our planes!"
"Don't count on it," Berkson said, despite the fact that a chill was winding up his spine.
"Oh, why you got to sour this? They spent a lot of money on us. I'm telling you; we're going to be flying soon."
With their trays overloaded with fish sticks, French fries, cornbread and mint-leaf salad, they sat down at a long table already occupied by Waxman, Laura, Cross, and Batra."
"So, you guys hear?" Cross asked.
"We sure did," Abebaw answered.
Laura put down her fork. "We shouldn't get our hopes up."
Berkson nodded emphatically. "They'll put us on a coaster first, giving us planes then taking them away, then, finally, we might get 'em."
"The IDF shorted us on our training, that's for sure," Batra said.
"Let's forget about it until we get there," Waxman suggested.
They supped in silence. Their lives revolved around the IDF and if they weren't talking about it, well, it seemed they had nothing else to talk about, which---Berkson reminded himself-----was not true. The IDF just had a way of making one forget about all else. And with the war on all other topics seemed pale in comparison.
Save one.
He sneaked a look at Laura. She chewed, swallowed, and kept blowing her bangs out of her eyes. He studied her full lips, almost doubting the fact that he had kissed them. She'd been right about him: he didn't know how to deal with women.
She could teach him.
But if he forced himself on her, he'd get a beating just shy of paralyzing. If boxing were still a legal sport, she would be a featherweight champion.
Berkson had had many girlfriends and had lost them all. Even Ao Prime women found fault with him. He couldn't understand what was wrong. Either he moved too fast, too slow, said the right thing, the wrong thing, arrived too late, too early or---and this one had shocked him---had not worn matching socks. How could a woman dump him just for that?
After dinner, he caught Laura as she was replacing her tray and tossing away her trash. He asked if he could speak with her. She looked at him a little oddly but agreed. They ambled out of the mess hall and onto the tarmac, where Berkson paused and looked at her.
He figured it'd be a good idea to start with an apology for what had happened on the way to Mars. Though he'd heard and seen other people do it, he wasn't sure how to form the right expression or make the words sound right.
"What is it?' she asked, brushing her hair off her shoulder and likely growing somewhat impatient with him.
"I'm sorry?" Wrong. It wasn't supposed to come out like a question.
"You are?" she asked, raising her voice even higher than he had. "For what?"
"You know...." Across the tarmac, the heat haze made the shapes of the hangars fluctuate. He wished he could look at her.
"Berkson, if you're sorry, then you've got to be sure." If honey had a sound, that sound was Laura's voice.
"I am," he said. "I, uh, I need----a little help."
She whirled around to face him. "It's polite to look at a person when you're speaking to them."
"See.....that's....nobody really taught me...I mean the school they sent me to was crummy. they didn't wanna spent a lot of money on tanks back then."
"How do you want me to help you?"
"You know..."
"I don't know."
Blood rushed to his head, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his hips. He took a few steps away from here. "I know you and I will never.....but one day....I....I don't know how......"
"Are we talking about love? Sex? What?" she asked, shocking him with her frankness.
"I know all about the sex part," he admitted. "I'm not sterile like a lot of the others." He bit his lip and lifted his gaze to meet hers. "How do you fall in love? And how do you keep someone?"
At first, she looked embarrassed by his questions, but then she seemed to ponder them., squinting into the sky. Finally, she lowered her gaze and shrugged.
"You've never been in love?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"So, I guess you've never been with someone for a long time."
"I---I can't say."
"Why not?"
"It's very complicated, Berkson."
"Can you explain it to me?"
"Not really. It's hard."
He grinned. "I know. But at least I know one thing."
"What?"
"I'm not alone."213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjJcjSEUuEf
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Berkson and Laura joined Waxman and the rest of the recruits. The soldiers loitered on the vast field of tarmac outside the hangar, watching the silhouettes of planes draw 25-degree angles across the burnt orange tableau as they returned to the distant runway.
Most of the planes rolled in the direction of hangars on the other side of the base, but Berkson found his gaze glued to one that was apparently headed their way. Indeed, the jet drew closer, and Berkson identified it as a TB-54 End/Exo Atmospheric Attack plane, a Starbrute like the one he'd flown for the first time in the simulator. But the simulator had done little justice to the amazing piece of technology that gleamed before his eyes in the Negev sun. As the shadow of the plane swept over him, he heard Rudolph shout, "Assemble. Sergeant Steinberger is here!"
After moving into the cool shade of the hangar, Caleb came to attention with the others.
Steinberger strode in and assumed his usual position before them. "Today, you have been assigned your TB-54 Endo/Exo Atmospheric Attack jets. You are now members of the fifth air wing, 58th squadron."
It took all of Berkson's limited though intense training to keep him from jumping into the air and waving a fist. Steinberger would go thermonuclear were Berkson to exhibit that kind of behavior. Still, a few of the others reacted with half-stifled gasps. He heard Batra whisper, "Yes!"
Steinberger, surely expecting excitement, let the minor outbursts go unpunished. "Your current orders are to take 48 hours' leave."
And that brought a collective groan from the recruits.
"Sir, two days, sir?" Cross asked.
Waxman stepped forward. "Sir, ship us out, sir!"
Laura cleared her throat. "Sir, why have we been on accelerated training if we're not going to be used, sir?"
The sergeant was three seconds away from detonation as he locked on and crossed to his target: Laura. But then his face softened, and the countdown ceased. "Other than what you found last week; we have no idea what lies ahead. We still know basically nothing of the enemy. Numbers. Tactics. Weapons. We've got some hardware, but nothing's been assimilated. That is why we have been losing---and losing badly---in every battle of this war." He paused to make eye contact with each member of the squadron. "Don't be in such a hurry. Trust me. The war'll wait for you."
"Sir, what are we supposed to do for two days, sir---besides worry?" Abebaw asked.
"My advice? See your families. It could be for the last time. Go." He clicked his heels and executed a perfect salute.
Berkson and the rest returned the sergeant's salute.
"Dis-missed!"
As Steinberger marched off, Berkson abruptly found himself with no place to go. He crossed the doorway of the hangar and leaned against a warm metal support strut. He listened to Waxman and Laura, who'd paused behind him.
"Are you gonna visit your sisters?" he asked.
"They probably don't want to see me."
"I never told my folks I was joining the military. I don't know if I wanna be there for their reaction."
"They'll want to see you."
"You wanna be witness to that?"
She must've agreed, for they left together, and as they did so, Berkson realized that he envied Waxman. Yes, the guy had a few elements of Mr. Big Stuff in him, but for the past week he had walked instead of sneering. What Waxman had that Berkson lacked was the ability to talk comfortably with Laura. Berkson wasn't sure if the guy was making his move on her, since Waxman seemed preoccupied by the face on his photo tag. Then again, that woman might just be dead. Waxman was probably coming to terms with her loss. Now he and Laura were going to his house. Someone had once told Berkson that you don't bring a girl home to meet your parents unless you're truly serious about her. He could never make that connection.
A TB-54 rolled slowly out of the hangar next door. The pilot appeared from the shadows, his helmet in the crook of his arm. Lettering painted below the soldier's cockpit identified him as Lt. U. D. Krantz, and Berkson recognized the man as the Shark who'd sat by himself at Asteroids. There was something else about him that Berkson suspected. He started towards plane and pilot, playing out his hunch.
Krantz was doing his walkaround, checking seals and tire pressure, opening up compartments to read the gauges within. The soldier did not acknowledge Berkson. The pilot wasn't rude, just busy.
He watched Krantz, and as he did, he was reminded of the stark truth that from here on out the battle would be real, not simulated. If he made a mistake, he'd die. Simple math.
Then, wanting to bang his dumb head against the hull of Krantz's plane, he thought about his death, about who he'd die for. He would die for a country that had treated him with hostility and prejudice all his life, for a country that had created the horrible Ao Prime program in the first place. He would die for people like Khol, Abe, Shulman, and Bomberg, the animals who had tried to hang him.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPmk7hTj9eY
In the lingering light of twilight, Berkson felt cold. Somewhere along the line he'd gone wrong. He had decided not to get himself booted out of the IDF and had gone along with their program. He even loved the flying. But he wasn't supposed to love any of it! All of it had been a sentence handed down by a judge who had had an aversion to the truth. Heroes wound up like Counter.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡit13KaVhy8
Once abandoned, the old feeling of rebellion was back with a vengeance. He'd find a way to get out of going. He would. "I'll never get in one of those," he told Krantz.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcAatLgqx2z
Without looking at him, the pilot said, "Ten of us tanks were with the Tammuz colony."213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiuyioGEufa
I knew it. He hadn't sat alone at the bar for nothing. The other Sharks hadn't wanted him around. Yet he's a fool, about to join them and risk his life.....for what? Nothing.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBWlD5di1Si
"Ten tanks, huh? Only makes the aliens just as bad." Berkson put a hand on Krantz's shoulder and pulled the pilot away from his plane. He fixed the guy with a penetrating stare. "I'm not gonna die for them."213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZThrmLcyvv
Krantz nodded as if he understood everything. Maybe getting the soldier to see the light was easier than Berkson had thought.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnP9EjLEaII
Then the pilot removed Berkson's hand from his shoulder. "Then who would you die for?"213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGtKBC0a7Bl
The question jarred him. He already knew who he wouldn't die for, but was there anyone---anything---so vital to him that that person, that concept, was worth his life? He'd had nobody, had always been alone in the world. Friends had come and gone. He could weigh the question all day. Maybe it didn't have an answer. Shaking, torn, he spun on his heel and stormed off.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡByS1lK2s3Q
By nightfall, the flat desert of tarmac was a fading memory. He retreated down a dark road paralleled on both sides by clusters of oaks, pines, and palms. Crickets conversed about the heat of the past day, and above their din, the mighty rush of jet engines intermittently struck a painful chord. By morning, the war, the IDF, all of it, would be out of his life forever.213Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuLylLHnmKn
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