"You damn well better keep your I-told-you-sos to yourself!" Mr. Hotshot said as they hurried through the corridor.

It was convenient that Lt.Gen. Lewitsky was far enough ahead to be out of earshot, but even if he weren't, Berkson's reply would have been the same.  "This war's bein' run by a buncha brainwipes."

"They probably did their best," Laura said. "And I guess we've got to do ours."

Berkson didn't look at her as he retorted.  "There's a sucker born every minute----and the IDF sure found one in you!"

"Shuddup, Berkson," Mr. Badshot grunted.

"Sir, yes, sir," he spat back.

The dawning argument fell into the rhythmic pounding of their boots.  Berkson wanted to say more; he wanted to ram the fact that he was right down each pilot's throat, then go back to the base and do the same to Lieutenant Colonel Ostrovsky.  The Israeli top brass simply had no feel for war.  Berkson had been on Mars.  He'd seen an alien recon ship.  He'd seen one of the things in action. And that experience had given him a vibe. Barely able to explain it himself, he just knew that the aliens had been baiting them.

So, he'd been right. And everyone was doomed. And he didn't even have to be present.

Why did he have to meet that damned biker?  Why did Counter have to help in the first place?  Berkson could have dropped out of the Army and served the rest of the term in jail.   He'd made the decision not to go AWOL after his 48 hours of leave, had even rushed back to the base when summoned on his watch phone.  Had he known then that the odds would be this stacked against him, he would have surely run.

Lewitsky left them at the orientation room door and hurried off, saying he'd come back in a few minutes.  Berkson followed the rest into the cramped quarters.  The place was bathed in an eerie red light and had enough chairs to accommodate 30 to 40 pilots.  In the middle of the room sat a long table weighted down with steel and plastic equipment crates that would prevent the back half of the room from seeing anything.  Berkson wandered to the right, slid under a chair and slid his helmet under it.  He glanced up absently into a clear LCD board that reflected computer-generated images of the Galaxi in Jovian orbit and the approaching alien armada.  He groaned disgustedly, then looked around.

Laura had found a small desk in the corner.  She sat with her head bowed, the back of her hand over her mouth.  Was she praying?  Crying?  Berkson wanted to go to her, tell her he hadn't meant what he'd said, and somehow comfort her.  But he couldn't.  The words, the damned words....as usual, they were beyond him, and even if he had them, the tone, well, that wasn't possible.  Why was anger so easy to communicate, and other feelings so hard.

He looked to Waxman---and there was his answer.  Mr. Hotshot sat holding his photo tags, dreaming of Ms. Tammuz.  Didn't the idiot know she was probably dead?  A mean though, yeah, but it was wartime.  Berkson thought he should go remind Waxman of the fact.  The soldier looked to have suddenly forgotten everything that was going on around them, and if Waxman's head wasn't in the right place, then Berkson didn't want to be flying anywhere near him.   One grazing had been enough to make him wonder if Waxman should've taken the risky shot if it'd been Laura's fighter on the alien's tail.  It'd probably been easy for Waxman to put a tank's life in jeopardy. Waxman was cocky and stupid.

"I don't wanna listen to that," Cross said softly, referring to the clipped comlink transmissions between the advanced scout ships and the Galaxi's bridge.  She took a seat beside him.  "It's scaring me."

Berkson glanced back to Laura, who hadn't moved.  "You a praying lady?" he asked Cross.

"I do now," she said in a shivering voice.

"I mean all the time....daily."

"Not daily.  Maybe weekly, I guess. It's not like I've got a schedule or anything."

"Why?"

"Why don't I have a....."

"No," he said, then faced her.  "Why do you pray?"

She seemed startled.  "I guess for two reasons.  Maybe to ask God for something or to thank Him for what I have."

"I don't pray," he told her.  "God is for Jews and Christians, not tanks.  My god is some geneticist."

"You never tried?"

He snook his head.

"Close your eyes."

"You're not gonna say anything, are you?  I don't want you to."

"I won't.  You think about what you want; what will help you now.  And about all you have, about giving thanks for it.  Just reach out, reach out into space.  Let go..."

Berkson closed his eyes and tried to see God.  A speckled darkness cloaked him, then he broke free from it and floated towards a sun so hot that it had burned away all of its color.  In the shimmering whiteness, he strained to hear a voice but there was stillness.  He called to God and tried to think of a way to say what he wanted, what he needed.  How would he thank the supreme being?

He opened his eyes and shuddered free of the vision.  Cross's eyes were still closed.  "I can't do it," he confessed. "I just.....I can't."

She came out of her prayer and studied him as if she understood---if she could.  "It's all right.  It just takes time...."

During the next 15 minutes, Berkson and the rest of the pilots stood in the grip of the comlink transmissions.  Nobody spoke.  The voices they heard were often frantic, astonished and wholly depressing.

At last, the door opened and Lewitsky entered. Everyone else snapped to attention, but Berkson took his time.  The Lt. Gen. crossed in front of the group, his face about as long as an astronomical unit.  Maybe he was going to cry....He paused, and Berkson shot a look to Laura:  what does he think he's doing?"

The door swung open once again.  Krantz hobbled inside.  His misshapen face only made his intense eyes flare brighter.  He struggled to the center of the room, where he reached under the table and, strangely enraged, dumped it over onto its side, sending crates crashing to the floor and soldiers jumping back to clear the way.  He winced as he lowered himself into a chair, then waved everyone around him.  "I want to be able to look in your eyes."

Krantz was hardcore, taking none and giving his all.  Berkson just wished he knew why. What inspired the tank to fight?  If Berkson knew that it might help him to understand.  Berkson had only one reason for coming back.  Maybe it was enough.  But he needed to be sure.

Once surrounded by the pilots, Krantz took a moment to gather his thoughts, then began.  "Courage.  Honor.  Dedication. Sacrifice."  He voiced each word slowly, in a tone that was fiercely honest.  "Those are the words they used to get ya here.  But now, the only word that means a damn to you is life. Yours. Your buddy's."

Berkson wasn't the only one nodding.  

"The one certainty in war is that in an hour or two you'll either be alive or dead!"

"For the next hour, here's your best chance of staying alive." Krantz's lip twisted, and his head shook subtly as if he were battling off a seizure.  "The Trojan asteroid belt trails Jupiter's orbit.  Our objective is to hide in the debris.  This may be as tough as engaging the enemy.  You're gonna have to react to the pitch and yaw of the asteroids in order to stay out of sight and shielded from whatever kind of LIDAR the aliens are using.  The Mossad believes they'll fly right by."

"Sir, I don't understand, sir.  We're just going to hide from them?" Ramin asked.

"Israeli soldiers hide?  No way.  Once they're by you, ambush 'em."

"Sir, I don't know how many places they have, but I'm positive---as I'm sure you are---that it's a helluva lot more than we do, sir," Laura said grimly.  "I don't know how to put this, but---do we stand any kind of a chance?"

Krantz leaned forward, resting an elbow on a knee.  "Nobody's asking you to wax their tails.  Your goal is to stall 'em.  Our forces at Chorix have doubled back and are right now passing through the Rama wormhole.  If we successfully delay the enemy we'll have reinforcements appearing from behind them and out of the sun---and that's when we teach 'em something every human knows: payback's a bitch."

Berkson tossed a look at the door.  If he didn't leave soon, jump in his cockpit and get out there, he might stay behind.  During Accelerated Flight Training, he'd been subjected to over twelve injections and their accompanying freefalls.  And always, during the seconds before blowing the canopy, he'd panicked and considered not doing it.  Then he played a game with himself, counting the number one over and over through the remaining ten seconds, as if they were all the number one and there was no time to be scared in a second.  Click, he'd throw the switch and be airborne.

Now he had to get out there, blanket his thoughts with one long second, forget about being a tank, about whether he might die for something or nothing.   He had to do his job remembering he was not alone.

"I know you're all anxious to get prepped. Just gimme another minute. I guess I'm here 'cause I've been in a knife fight with 'em.  Listen up.  they come at you in groups.  Check your six.  And they've got a low angle of attack, so keep your nose level.  That could be tough.  The planes you've been issued here have an upgripe in the retro thrusters."

"Sir, the NAV system tends to compensate for that if you pull up three degrees and hit the brakes at 85%, sir," Laura said.

Krantz nodded. "And that 3:85 ratio can be adjusted accordingly, but you're gonna have to do it manually.   There's just no time to play with the control chips.  Like I said, it's gonna be tough."

A few of the soldiers started for the door.

"Oh, and hey....."

The pilots stopped.

"It's okay to be scared.  See you in one hour."

Berkson stayed in the orientation rom until everyone was gone.  He proffered a hand to Krantz.

"I don't need anybody's help," said the veteran.

"This ain't help," Berkson answered.

"What is it, then?"

Berkson shrugged.  "Hell, I don't know."

Krantz began to rise, his face contorting in pain.  Then he resignedly took Berkson's hand.  "Thought you were never gonna fly."

"I had a change of heart."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I'm stupid."

Reaching the doorway, Krantz paused. "Going out there in a hunk of metal, outnumbered and inexperienced, I guess you gotta be stupid...or brave.  It's always hard to say." He tottered into the corridor.

Berkson regarded the LCD board.  The alien armada had grown and advanced significantly.  In the middle of the screen, 3 tiny scout ships fled towards the Galaxi under the heavy fire of twelve pursuing alien planes.

Shifting abruptly away, Berkson fetched his helmet and rushed out of the room for the preparation bays.  After taking 1 turn, then another, he realized he was lost.  He stopped a passing medic and asked her for directions.  She told him to head down the hall, make a left, then another.

When he reached the central tunnel of the lower flight deck, he ran right into a spotlight.  A young news reporter seized his sleeve at the elbow and jerked him beside her.  "And here is Lieutenant Berkson," she said, regarding his name patch, then looking back up at the cameraman.  "The lieutenant has been gracious enough to speak with us during this dire hour." She thrust her microphone into his face.  "What are our plans to defeat the enemy, lieutenant?"

Berkson squinted and choked up.  The lens of her camera was like the muzzle of a large gun.

"C'mon, lieutenant. It's doubtful the enemy is monitoring this feed.  The whole world wants to know what's happening.  What can you tell them?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to the press."

"But think about the billions hanging on your every move.  If you were one of them, wouldn't you want to know?"

"I'm not saying it again...."

"Don't you think your family back home deserves to know what's happening to you?"

Berkson stepped forward, reaching to...

"Hey, don't touch the lens!" the cameraman shouted.

Suddenly, two soldiers charged up and strong-armed the reporter and cameraman.  "Didn't you read your visitor's pass.  This is area is a NO MEDIA ZONE!" the taller soldier barked.

The other MP flashed an apologetic look at Berkson.  "Sorry, lieutenant," she said.

As the reporter and her accomplice were ushered away, Berkson smoothed out his sleeve, then resumed his course.

Weaving into the prep bays, he found himself elbowed and shouldered by the scores of flight crew personnel readying the many cockpits. Charging lines were already being removed from the first dozen pits, and Bue and White Wings were seated and strapping in.  A small, one-person rover rolled by with a replacement canopy. Another rover tailed it, carrying twelve long cylindrical laser cannon batteries.  the driver of the rover wore an EVA suit and steered her vehicle into the airlock.

Berkson stepped deeper into the chaos, searching for the mobile bed that contained his cockpit.  He spotted Cross, Batra and Ramin, who were below their bed and double-checking on-another's suits and helmets.  He moved on before they saw him, wanting to avoid the good lucks and other words of encouragement that would, at the moment, make him feel awkward.  Besides, he was trying to count that single second over and over.  He caught sight of his cockpit two beds down on the right.  he marched towards it.

Ahead, two mechanics finished a conversation, and as they left, Waxman appeared from behind them.  He was headed straight for Berkson.

He didn't look at Waxman as they passed, and maybe Mr. Hotshot had done likewise.  Berkson took the ladder up to his bed, noting that he was the first pilot to arrive, then paused to don his helmet.228Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFJN2DRR3mX

"Berkson?"

Recognizing the voice, he stiffened as he looked back.  Waxman was the only person in the ready room not moving.  What was that expression on his face?  Mr. Hotshot was serious, maybe a little sad.  Berkson wanted to believe that when they got into the belly of the beast, Waxman would be there.  Was that what the soldier wanted to tell him?  Maybe, but it didn't seem as if he would say anything else.

Berkson slowly nodded.  Waxman left.

"Sir," a wiry crewman called, popping up from the other side of his pit.  "You're all set, but I noticed you've got a piece of unauthorized equipment aboard.  Regulation 638 section C---I know it 'cause I had to look it up---states that any officer...."

Do you always obey your superior officers?"

"Sir, without question, sir."

"Good.  I order you not to report your find."

"But..."

"Scram!"

The boy departed in a huff, head shaking.  If nothing else, it'd be interesting to see if Berkson had turned the kid into a rule-breaker like himself.  All the kid had to do was obey his order of silence.  If questioned, he could just state he'd been ordered not to speak. And it wasn't as if Berkson's unauthorized equipment was a thermonuclear device.  The crewman had just been too nosy.

Helmet sealed, he lowered himself into his seat.  The other pilots arrived and slid into their cockpits.  As the canopy servos hummed, lowering the shield, Berkson tossed a glance to the bed ahead of his.

Laura was strapped in, her face all duty as she eyed her instrument panels.  Then she looked at the pilot across from her, who had to be Waxman, and lifted a thumbs-up.

A Klaxon signaled the opening of the airlock.  Laura's bed rumbled forward and soon was gone.  Berkson continued to count his eternal second, and then it was his turn.  Beyond the lock, his cockpit was reattached to his Starbrute, then the jet was lifted onto the flight deck.  While the wing leaders waited for signals from the plane captain and bridge, Berkson stared toward the edge of the solar system where a vast band of darkness eclipsed the stars.