Kennedy Space Center

"T minus twenty and resuming countdown," intoned a metallic voice through the loudspeakers on the third floor of the Launch Control Center. "Proceed with fuel cell purge."
        Twelve hours prior to this event, the Endeavour had been loaded onto the one hundred and thirty foot long, three thousand ton Shuttle Transport vehicles - the crawler - and had been piggybacked to Launch Pad 39A. Resembling a flat turtle on eight tracks, the crawler, moving at only one mile per hour, negotiated the five degree angle leading to the top of Pad 39. There, huge cranes hoisted the orbiter into position on the hardstand, ready for launch.
        "T minus sixteen minutes. Backup flight system uplink." The whole procedure was carried out on automatic, checked nevertheless by a team of experts and engineers. Every detail was watched with hawk eyes, every aspect minutely controlled, on every mission. But this one was especially tense, the watch particularly alert and fully aware of the importance of the mission. Nothing could go wrong.
        The atmosphere about Launch Control was incredibly taut, much more so than on a ‘normal’ launch, if the word could ever be used in the context. One hundred highly trained NASA technicians sat in front of near-identical terminals: a phone, a couple of displays, a printer and banks of lights occupied each position.
        "Fuel cell purge complete," the room speakers said.
        "OK. T minus nine minutes and holding. Countdown will resume in four minutes," said the Launch Director. The planned hold for the thorough readiness poll and final check on Cape weather forecast, would be cut to a bare minimum.

        Australia

        "Knight one-oh-four. On glidepath, three quarter mile. Call the ball."
        "One-of-four. Tomcat ball."
        Lieutenant Colonel "Boots" Orbison felt his palms start to sweat slightly and a hollow sensation invade his stomach. Night carrier landings always did that to him, no matter how many hours he logged. Dumping a 30,000 pound fighter at over 200 knots on the 300 foot rolling deck of a ship. In a crosswind. At night. Enough to make you want to go commercial. Nah. Not in a million years.
        His radio cackled as the Landing Signal Officer came on-line.
        "Roger ball, one-oh-four. You’re drifting to the left and below the slope."
        Boots corrected slightly moving the stick to the left and checked his descent. The problem was concentrating on three things: the meatball, the line-up and the angle-of-attack. Keep that descent rate in bounds and the angle of attack at the correct settings, he thought. He spotted the meatball, a red light that informed him he was flying below the correct altitude.
        The bitch was modifying one parameter without upsetting the rest. Increase the attack angle and your glide slope goes to hell.
        "One-oh-four, you’re good," called the LIO. "Keep it coming." The LIO onboard an aircraft carrier is probably one of the most experienced combat pilots of the ship, his job guiding the aircraft in and then rating the landings one of the most important.
        Boots glanced at his instruments and then forward again. Black all around, except for a small row of lights below him.
        "One thousand yards," called the LIO. Damn, already! Things were starting to happen fast. He made a few last second corrections. The deck rose to meet him fast, somewhat off-center, shit, he’d overcorrected the previous maneuver, no time to adjust.
        And then, slam, against the deck, pushing the throttle of the Tomcat to full military power in case he’d missed the wires. His brain seemed to smack against his eyeballs as the hook caught number three wire and the plane went from one hundred and fifty knots to zero in nothing.
        For the past two days, Carrier Group CV-62, headed by USS Independence, raced south from its previous western Pacific location. FLASH traffic had arrived two days previously ordering them to proceed towards Australia at best possible speed. Currently, sailing more than five hundred miles north of Guinea, they wouldn’t arrive for another two days.
        Against time, the nine ships of the Seventh Fleet raced south.

        Kennedy Space Center

        "We have a red on the MPS gimbal check!" came a voice from one of the stations. Goddamn, thought the Launch Director. Not now. He raced down.
        "What’ve we got?" he asked the operator.
        "Negative on gimballing indicator. Uh, checking visual and it seems to be OK." The orbiter’s engines gimballed, that is, the nozzles on the boosters swiveled a few degrees to either side in order to provide the Shuttle with directional control. A negative on the main booster would spell disaster for the mission, cancellation unavoidable.
        "Visual is confirmed but we still have a red light. MS engines are moving to start position. Should we hold?" asked the operator. The Launch Director took a deep breath. The window was extremely tight, necessitated by the fact that the shuttle had to reach the satellite on the first orbital pass. A hold could ruin the day. On a normal launch, he would have stopped the countdown.
        But the pad cameras were picking up the movement of the nozzles. Shit, shit, shit.
        "Jerry," he said leaning close to the tech. "You got one minute to tell me that light is a malfunction here." He rose and glanced up at the glassed-in VIP lounge. Six or seven uniforms, high ranking military staff, stood hands clasped behind their backs in almost identical fashion.
        "T minus two minutes," said the loudspeaker. "LH2 replenishment terminated." During the previous hours, liquid hydrogen had vaporized and escaped from the shuttle’s main engine, so that it became necessary to top the tanks.
        Things were moving very quickly, conversations filling the room with a steady buzz. Phones rang at every station as operators called in and green-lighted their profile checks. Curiously, for the astronauts the last two minutes of a launch seem to drag on for years. For the people inside the LCC, they fly by.
        "T minus one-forty five. LH2 prepressurization."
        He thought about the gimball warning. Come on damn it, turn green.
        "Mr. Anderson," said the tech. "System’s check says we have a short in pad computer bay. Gimballing is correct but we’re not going to get a green light."
        "Good enough," said the Director. His mouth felt dry and the weird in his stomach increased. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him but he had taken a decision and history would judge him one way or another.
        "T minus thirty seconds. Arm cut off." The arms connecting the shuttle to the pad rotated to their locked positions.
        "T minus twenty eight. Initiate SRB startup sequence." The SRBs - the Solid Rocket Boosters - were referred to as ‘light’em and ride’em boosters’, due to the fact that once they ignited there was no turning them off. Like roman candles. Hopefully, not like a stick of dynamite. A shot of electricity ran through the Director as launch approached. So many things could go wrong, dozens of glitches could crop up at any moment. He had been there that tragic day when the Challenger had exploded and the image still haunted every launch he attended. Don’t let it happen, he pleaded.
        "T minus sixteen seconds. Activate SSS." The Sound Suppression System is used to protect the launch structure from the intense sound pressure of liftoff, drawing from a water tank 290 feet high with a capacity of 300,000 gallons.
        "T minus thirteen seconds. SRB aft MDMS lockout. LH2 bleed valve is verified on closed. All systems are go," intoned the voice.
        "T minus ten seconds," said the loudspeaker.
        Here we go, though the Director, raising his eyes towards the large digital readout above the main screens.
        "Ten. H2 burn system is go," said a rapid-fire voice.
        "Go for main engine start," said another. Inside the shuttle, valves opened and closed, routing the liquid hydrogen and oxygen into the appropriate combustion chambers and pressure locks, ready for ignition. "Nine ... eight ... seven ... main engine three start ... five ... engines two and one start ... three ... two ... one ... SRB ignition. All systems nominal. SRBs are go."
        The Director felt his skin crawl as he watched the pad through the monitors, white smoke blasting and being diverted by the flame trench and deflector. Rise, baby, rise, he willed.
        "We have liftoff!" cried the loudspeaker. Slowly, the Shuttle clawed its way into the sky.

        Kakadu National Park - Ranger Flight - January 4th

        Lieutenant Pat Mitchell felt his heart pounding in his chest like a bad omen. He was afraid and the sweat that trickled down his chest showed it. His hands gripped the yoke with strength and he had to make an effort to relax.
        His Hornet roared in tight formation less than a hundred feet from the ground. Eight aircraft hurtling towards an uncertain destination. He spotted the South Alligator River as it flashed underneath at nearly four hundred knots, a dark smudge in the early morning haze.
        It was raining lightly and drops formed briefly and just as quickly slid off his canopy.
        To the south and north, flights of F-111s from RAAF Brisbane’s 1st and 6th squadrons, codenamed Buckshot and Bear, converged simultaneously on the alien base.
        The F-18 rocked gently in the heavy thunderstorm air, and Mitchell had to constantly correct his heading and altitude. To the south a further eight F/A-18s, the remainder of his squadron, converged from a fourth angle.
        He was entering combat for the first time, real combat against a very real and exceedingly tough enemy. He was one of the best the Australian Air Force had, he knew this, and it lifted his spirits somewhat. A mixture of excitement, challenge and fear invaded him.
        Timing was critical in this mission, all attacking units striking at precisely the same moment. Intelligence had warned them that catching the enemy with their guard down was improbable, considering the effectiveness of their early warning systems. Maybe, however, they wouldn’t be expecting such a massive attack.
        He checked his instruments briefly and thought of his wife. Corine, I love you.

        Sentry Three - an AWACS in the Arafura Sea - North Australia

        "OK, I have Buckshot, Bear, Ranger and Stalker flights converging on Target One." The radar operator twiddled a dial on his console to adjust the picture in front of him. "Eight minutes out."
        "Anything else on the scope?" asked the senior officer.
        "Nope. All clear. Romeo is holding at Point Delta."
        The largest air strike force Australia had ever assembled since World War II was in the air, hurtling at full speed towards the alien base. The plan was good, and the pilots were motivated but, the senior officer reminded himself, things did always evolve as planned. Flexibility, top-notch information and a little luck counted as much as preparation.
        "Keep an eye on Pulau Kepu." Over the past days the ghost contacts north of their position had cropped up more frequently. A secondary threat axis was feared in this direction. Did the aliens have a base there?

        Ranger Flight

        Mitchell did a quick once over his instruments. To the left, the CRT showing RPMs, engine temperature and Fuel Flow. On his HUD, speed and altitude. Radar on standby to reduce tell-tale emissions and weapons selector on IR. All parameters correct. Forty miles to target. The ground beneath him was a blur in the darkness and he concentrated on keeping his Hornet on station.
        This was getting real serious.
        He smiled darkly. Time to give a little back.

        Sentry Three

        "Sir, I show contacts on the scope." The senior radar office hurried backwards, spilling some coffee on the floor.
        "Two, no four, contacts bearing three-four-zero, range three-five-zero. On heading towards us."
        "Evaluate contacts," ordered the officer.
        "Negative IFF. Negative known cross section. Even for a UFO. Coming straight from Palau Kepu."
        "Negative UFO?" asked the officer.
        "Yessir, and the signal is strong. This ain’t in the database. It’s a new bird, sir. Speed is Mach four." The officer hesitated only for a brief second. Ground Recon had advised of a new type of fighter at the alien compound, and now they had another batch to deal with.
        "ETA?" he asked.
        "Eight minutes at present course and speed, sir."
        The officer turned and reached for the radio.

        Ranger Flight

        Mitchell watched as four of the flight’s aircraft reversed direction and headed for the new threat. He concentrated on tightening up the formation and keeping his Hornet in line. Damn, all of a sudden fighter cover for the northern attack axis was down to four aircraft. He knew that another full squadron was on standby over Darwin and probably would be called in, but he didn’t like the new turn of events.

        USS Independence

        The Air Warfare Officer cocked his head against the mike and tightened his lips. He turned to the ship’s commander, Captain Charles DeWitt, simultaneously clicking on the overhead speakers.
        "Skipper, Owl is reporting a contact." A solitary E-2C Hawkeye, patrolling hundreds of miles in front of the formation, had picked several contacts on its powerful AN/APS-125 radar mounted on the trademark ‘pancake’ dome antenna atop the aircraft. The Captain opened his eyes and waited silently for the explanation.
        "Owl One for Charlie One," said a slightly distorted voice over the box. "Positive evaluation of contacts as bandits. Say again, bandits. On bearing towards strike point one."
        The AWO clicked the mike. "How many contacts?"
        "Eight contacts, Charlie One. Speed is two-six-zero-zero knots. Coordinates from departure point follow." An operator grabbed a pencil quickly. With the demise of the transmission satellites, Sentry aircraft were unable to uplink information with the carrier. Back to the good old days of paper and pen.

        Ranger Flight

        Up ahead. There! He caught sight of the double exhausts of the F-111’s Pratt & Whitney TF30-P103 turbofans in front of him, already on final approach towards the target.
        So far so good.
        All quiet on the western front.
        No problemo.
        Shit, his mind was already in overdrive, thinking at a million knots, phrases popping in and out randomly.
        Things got worse.
        He watched the fighter-bombers initiate an attack climb, quickly gaining altitude in order to allow the GBU-24 Paveway laser guided bombs to ‘see’ the targets, when the sky lit up with the familiar plasma plumes, red streaks drawing thick straight lines against the velvet of the night. He correctly judged them to be plasma batteries, pretty nasty but not with the highest of fire rates. A nimble aircraft could thread its way through the beams, if it got lucky. He began to jink his Hornet up and down.
        "All Rangers," came the voice from Ranger Lead. "Heads up! Watch for the fighters."
        Mitchell tightened his jaw and kept his aircraft on course.
        "Ranger Flight from Sentry Four. Airborne weasels on vector zero, angels zero. Engage." The squadron’s Sentry Flight had picked up a flight of defending UFOs and was notifying them of their presence. Time to rock.
        "Rangers three and four go wide and..."
        Ahead of them an F-111 fireballed spectacularly, lighting the night sky, the rest of the attack squadron breaking formation and closing on the target independently.
        Finally the Ion Batteries open up, fast firing and with thinner beams, doubling the intensity of the barrage. Beyond them, the alien fighters roared on, their menacing shapes appearing suddenly as ghosts, banshees from another world.

        Sentry Three

        "Sir! I’m now reading eight weasels."
        The senior officer blanched.
        "What! Inform Ranger Five." He paused a moment and made a quick decision. "Tell them to divert the attack and to hook up with Romeo." Romeo was the backup Hornet squadron over Darwin. "Get Romeo over there, fast!"

        Romeo squadron, consisting of a further thirty two Hornets, half of Australia’s F-18 fighting force, collectively slammed their throttles forward, turning their craft on the appropriate heading.

        At the same time, the four aircraft that had been dispatched to intercept the enemy from Palau Kepu turned hard to the left, air brakes full on. But it was slightly late. One exploded as a anti-matter torp caught it in the belly and another bucked violently as a plasma fire ripped through its starboard rudder. The pilot ejected. The other two ran for cover.

        Ranger Flight

        Mitchell reefed his aircraft in a high-G turn, up and away from the oncoming fighters. Suddenly, planes were everywhere, mixing it up with the alien vessels, missiles crisscrossing the sky. The net combat channel became full of anxious voices.
        "Weasel on my six," cried Ranger Two. "Can’t shake the bug."
        Mitchell reversed the direction of his turn. Ranger Two, the Lead’s wingman, was somewhere to the north, or at least that had been his last position. As he turned, his radar picked the moving crafts.
        "Two, I got you up ahead. Vector two-zero-zero and I’ll assist."
        "Three. Weasels to the south, high."
        Damn, thought Mitchell. "Take care of them, Pete. I’ll clear Two."
        "Roger." He glanced quickly in the direction of the new threat and then snapped his head back. An alien fighter flashed in front of him, so close his plane buffeted from the turbulence. Great, two or three fighters behind him, the alien batteries to the right and a whole new threat approaching from the north.
        "Bear Flight on target, bombs away! Two aircraft down, egressing."
        "Buckshot One, we’ve got fighters all over! Where’s our cover?"
        "Buck, this is Ranger One inbound."
        Up ahead he picked up the flashes of plasma streaking after Ranger Two and Mitchell selected the HEAT option on his weapons display.
        "Break hard right, Two," he said. The Hornet in front of him turned viciously and for a brief second he had a clear shot. "Fox One and Two," he called into his mike." Two Sidewinders streaked towards the UFO just as a hail of red light blasted by his canopy. He remembered the menace behind him.
        "Pete, talk to me!" A flash of light to his right, another Aadvark down.
        "Got one on my tail, mate. Scored a couple of hits on one but it didn’t go down."
        Mitchell turned quickly to the right, reversed the turn just as quickly and heard a low warble from the Sidewinder Acquisition Radar. A small diamond appeared on his HUD, no IFF, an enemy, mash the trigger, call the shot and pull the yoke. Fly straight for more than a few seconds and you’re gator food.
        By now the attack was a mess. The F-111s had failed to destroy the compound, scoring but a few hits on ground installations, effectively producing little damage due to the strength of the defending shields. Most of the fighter-bombers had been repelled and were now returning to their bases, armament spent, a job finished with unsatisfactory results.
        "Ranger Flight from Sentry Three. All units abandon mission. Return to base. Be advised there are four weasels approaching from the north."
        The backup squadron from Darwin had been either destroyed or had retreated out of missiles, with only four UFOs downed. A bad result.
        "Yeah, mate," breathed Mitchell. Easier said than done. He dropped his right wing and slammed on the brakes, hoping to throw his tail away. His turn took him straight over the alien compound, batteries pounding the air around him, a squat building looming in front of him.
        "Damn," he cursed and pulled the yoke back, climbing over the obstacle, clearing it by scant feet. He roared into the night, the UFO tenaciously stuck to his six.

        On the ground

        "Well," whistled Scott. "Catch a load of that!"
        Above them, a Hornet streaked by, thunder belching from the engines as it sought to shake off a pursuing UFO.
        A scant hour ago they had received warning of the attack and had taken position a mile away from the alien compound.
        Explosions rocked the alien base as the two thousand pound bombs slammed against the shields or ground, their rumble carrying clearly in the heavy air.
        "Call from base," said his radio man, reaching the mike over.
        "Snake One," he said. He was lying in the tall grass.
        "This is Den. Evaluate."
        "We’re far away, Den, but I don’t see much destruction," he said peering through the thermal sights of his rifle, magnification set on maximum. "Counted eleven, repeat eleven, explosions in and around the compound. Smoke from the far right, possibly a building or a robot. Sky is clear now, but I still hear jet noise."
        The radio crackled.
        "Sit tight, Snake. We’re probably going to want you to take a closer look."
        "Roger, Den."

        Sentry Three

        The senior radar officer looked at the screen with a blank expression. Goddammit, what a mess! Fifty two F-18s and eighteen F-111s had participated in the raid, of which only twenty Hornets and ten Aadvarks had returned unscathed. Australia’s Air Force had been dealt a terrible blow in but a few hours.
        But it was worse. The alien fleet had positioned itself above the continent and was now heavily bombarding the southern cities, Melbourne and Sydney as well as Darwin. Anti-mater torpedoes had wrecked havoc in these areas and were now being replaced with much less powerful Orbital Ion Batteries, which provoked terror more than destruction. Terror, nonetheless, was a fearful weapon.

        Area 51

        "OK. I’m just guessing but could it be that the transmission protocol is, like, embedded in the hardware?"
        Cole, his feet up on the table, squirted a blob of ketchup on the burger and flipped the bun back on.
        "Watcha mean?" he asked, slurping from a giant soda container.
        The video conference window on his computer showed the eager face of Gandalf in his New York bedroom. Crappy frame rate and not the best of resolution but considering the traffic Internet was generating these days, no wonder.
        "Well, look at the OS. It’s pathetic, right? I mean, a ship interface, some hardware codes and not much more. You would’ve thought they’d have," the screen showed Gandalf flapping his hands, "cooler stuff." Gandalf grimaced. Not the best of explanations. But Cole started to understand.
        "Like, maybe, information about us?"
        "Yeah! Like some module that could access a data base, or file, with information about us. Radar signatures of our planes. Whatever."
        Cole grew excited. "Hell, an ordinary map would be useful."
        The alien OS translation was nearly complete. Cole was sure that only small details remained to be discovered and so far he had felt somewhat let down. It was too simple. Or maybe that was the beauty of it. "Cole," said Gandalf suddenly. "The Net is the Computer."
        Holy Moses. Sun Microsystem’s motto. Cole let his burger fall away from his half open mouth.
        "Meaning that this could be an interface to a central machine," said Cole slowly.
        The video screen depicted Gandalf shrugging.
        "Whoa. Gandalf, my man, I need to run some tests. I’ll get back to you."

        The Nova

        The SubCommander sighed as a 3D screen popped up in his desk, a bright blue image of his visitor.
        "Come," he ordered loudly. "What is it?"
        His second-in-command looked like hell, probably hadn’t slept since the attack.
        "Commander, remote sensors have detected an orbital terran launch."
        "An orbital launch?"
        "Yes, Commander. Remote Five, currently terra-stationary on the opposite side of the planet, picked up a large ship entering orbit just now. We don’t have much information yet, but it isn’t consistent with a terran satellite. I’ve given orders for the video feed to be patched directly here once it arrives."
        "At once, yes. We don’t need a repeat performance of the kinetic weapon."
        "Should we dispatch a gunship to deal with it?"
        "Not until we know what it is. I don’t want any further losses."
        "Yes, Commander."
        A second image appeared from thin air.
        "Come," he said again.
        "Commander." It was the Weapons Officer, carrying himself with an unmistakable air of achievement. "All aft AMT Batteries are working and one of the forward ones is fully operational."
        "Which isn’t very useful considering the amount of torpedoes we have left, no?"
        "Yes Commander, that is most unfortunate. But I’ve managed," the second-in-command noted how the young officer already used the ‘I’ pronoun, "to salvage one of the Ion Batteries coupling the power from the other seven. Even with the structural and quantum limitations, effective energy levels on the battery have been quadrupled."
        "Meaning?"
        "The energy degradation through the terran atmosphere will be minimum." The SubCommander leaned back in his chair allowing himself a rare gesture of pleasure. A wicked grimace played over his jaws as he gave the officer an appraising stare.
        "Well done, WO. I can assure you that this action will not go unnoticed by High Command."

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X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.