Fiction Week

By Bryan Williams

RAMONA, CALIFORNIA.
1416R hours. 25 MAY 2029.

Go figure, it all starts when he’s in the shower.

He’s standing there in the cold water washing off the stink when the lights quit. Ah, nothing unusual. Just a freak power outage. Someone probably crashed into a utility pole or something, right?

Right.

So, he continues, still trying to clear his mind when the ground shutters, then rumbles in succession. Earthquake? Maybe that explains the lights.

“What the hell?”

Since when did earthquakes feel like that?

There’s a shimmy. Then a jolt, a big one. Then another one, the repetition getting faster as the shampoo tumbles off the shower rack. No freakin’ way this is ‘normal,’ and if anything, his stepdad confirms it by banging on the bathroom door.

“Hey, Shawn!” Tom shouts. “SHAWN!”

“What’s going on?”

“I think we’re being bombed or something! Get out here!”

No one has to tell him twice. He’s dried and dressed in seconds, nearly falling down the moment a bright flash beams through the small window. Instinct has him hit the deck, waiting, and waiting, and waiting until an enormous thunderclap strikes the house, the overpressure wave nearly shattering the windows.

“Did they nuke us?”

“I don’t know.”

“You okay?”

“What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

Cellphone. It still works. No EMP equals no nuke, so his first thought is to call Nicole.

NO SERVICE.

Of course not. Then he tries the Maps app.

NO GPS SIGNAL. 

Internet? He tries the news.

NO INTERNET CONNECTION. 

Same problem on Tom’s phone. They hear slews of police sirens now as if every emergency vehicle in California was summoned simultaneously, but one grows close as the Sheriff neighbor pulls up, passenger door flung open, and not an ounce of hesitation to take Shawn to the burgeoning fight.

“Where we headed?” he asks. “Miramar?”

“No. Ramona Airport.” Shawn says, piecing it all together himself. “We finished moving stuff there yesterday morning.”

“Well, good thing. Radio says Miramar’s toast. San Diego International. North Island. The whole naval base is hit. Got every squad in San Diego headed down there.”

They’re stunned by the sight of the New Ramona Oil Refinery burning, itself a moment interrupted by the whine of a little jet engine overhead, Shawn looking up to instantly identify a cruise missile in its terminal phase, diving down to explode amid the new construction.

Emotions mix. Fear. Disbelief. Rage.

Emergency alerts flood the radio. Traffic gridlocks. People panic. No telling what’s going on nationwide, but at the very least, Ramona Airport is still running as they pull up to the gates.

“Do me a favor.” says Shawn as he opens the door.

“Yeah, anything.”

“Tell mom, Mitch, and Tom that I love them. Okay?” he extends his right hand, shaking the Sheriff’s firmly. “If I don’t make it back, please—”

“I’ll tell them! Don’t worry! Go get em’!”

Shawn nods, opening the door, savoring the very last moment he wasn’t at war.

________________________________________

 

There’s his jet, a leftover hand-me-down 40-year-old Legacy Hornet, flaky paint and all, but it’s armed and ready.

He’s up the ladder and in the cockpit, helmet fastened, strapped into the seat as the engines whine, their turbines spooling up as he runs through the startup sequence and closes the canopy. Then he gives a thumbs up to the ground crew, who either heroically or suicidally guide him out into the open, yelling for him to go as the AA guns in the distance open fire towards the west.

Shawn gets the point and rolls onto the taxiway just as another Hornet pulls up into the sky, both engines belching smoke as the canopy pops and out shoots its pilot.

“Holy shit.”

It crashes in the distance.

Finally on the right comms channel he hears the tower screaming, “FOD on the runway! FOD on the runway!”

He stops, watching in stupor as two pickup trucks ram away the wreckage.

Shawn judges the distance. Maybe a half mile. Maybe more.

Can I make that? Dammit, can I make it?!

Thirty minutes in and the taxiway is all we got? Shit.

Full flaps. He stands on the wheel brakes and says a prayer. This is it. Do or die. Two choices: get bombed on the tarmac, or die trying to fly. He’s no hero, but he’s going with option two.

Afterburners.

The F404s roar. He’s gaining speed, but that blown up hangar at the end of the run seems mighty close. Too close. So close in fact that Shawn debates whether ejecting is a better idea.

Make a choice! Make a choice! MAKE A CHOICE!

150 knots. Should be enough, right?

Rotate! ROTATE!

He pulls the joystick and the nose rises sharply, the wings buffeting, the fuselage pogoing as the wheels leave the ground, the damn stall warning beeping away.

Too hard on the stick! Shit!

Then, at maybe 50 feet of altitude, he ignores his instincts and lets the ole Hornet eat, nose back at high alpha just after the stick release as he pulls hard again. He crosses over a group of soldiers beneath him, all looking up at him as they run, the peak of that damaged hanger approaching in slow motion.

Oh, god, he’s not going to make it.

Not enough altitude. He tried, but it’s not enough!

All this, and he’s going to clip the roof!

Eject, or ride this out?

Now or never. Now or never, Shawn!

All he can do is close his eyes, just waiting for it all to end right here. He sees the obituary now: “First Pilot on Scene of World War III Dies During Takeoff.”

What a shameful way to go. Even for a subpar pilot like him.

But it isn’t the end, because with no more than 10 inches of clearance between the rear wheels and the hangar roof that they barely clear, Shawn opens his eyes surprised to be alive, looking back as he climbs away, just as a trio of cruise missiles open up their cluster munition warheads and pulverize the area he occupied just seconds ago.

He screams aloud, “Hooooooly shit!”

And at 2:36PM Pacific Standard Time, May 25th, 2029, Lieutenant Shawn Paxson, the ‘failed’ prodigal child of his soon-to-be Joint Chief father Admiral James Paxson, takes to the sky in his DoD surplus F/A-18C Hornet.

History is made here. He just doesn’t know it yet.

________________________________________

 

Gear up. Flaps retracted.

He settles at 390 knots.

Is that too fast? Or too slow?

Where’s my kneeboard?

What channel—HOLY F–!

Just like that, he’s pulled a last-second barrel roll atop a twin-engine airliner.

Quick sitrep: No Air Traffic Control. No ILS or MLS. No GPS. Nothing.

He sees at least six more flying blind through the airspace less than a mile apart, wings banked and noses hunting for somewhere to go.

Just don’t shoot one down!

He has to wait for orders and targets, but what if, considering the radio silence, he never gets any? He flies in circles, seeing Ramona Airport ablaze, the tower blown to bits as fires bloom, but he sees another Hornet in the mirror hot on his four-o-clock trail. It closes quickly, tipping side to side to wave its wings amidst the radio silence until the pilot briefly pops his visor up.

Ah, yes. That’s Jamie. Weird guy, but decent pilot. No better or worse than Shawn. He points and waves, but Shawn points west, trying to direct him that way.

Thirty minutes into World War III and they’re down to hand gestures, at least until he hears the first friendly voice through the static since Ramona Airport’s tower was hit.

“All players, all players on this emergency channel, this is MOP 1-0-0-5 on Guard for Emergency Combat Air Patrol! Any CAP-capable flights report to MOP 1-0-0-5 on Bravo-Six-Zuu! Say again—”

Don’t have to tell Shawn twice.

He switches to the Mission Operator’s channel, trying to hear through the clicking and beeping sounds, all evidence of enemy jamming from an unknown source.

“This is—” shit, what the hell is his callsign? Check the kneeboard, “—SPIFF 46-3 and 4, two Hornets up, flying north! Requesting, uh, Bogey Dope.”

A pause, then, “Thank god! SPIFF 46, be advised. Bandits! Bandits! LACMs (Land Attack Cruise Missiles) and PALMs (Precision Attack Loitering Munitions) inbound battlespace BRA 2-7-0 for, uh, wait. SPIFF 46, right?”

What the hell?

This guy sounds like he’s barely holding it together on the other end, “Yeah, SPIFF 46 to MOP 1-0-0-5. Bogey Dope on bandits. You said—”

“—SPIFF 46, I’m showing you merged!”

WHAT!?!

Shawn’s eyes hunt around, first to the radar, then left and right outside of the canopy. He sees nothing. Plus, how the hell isn’t Jamie on the comms yet? What the hell is he doing? He looks over at him, ready to gesture when his voice suddenly breaks in.

“3! Look down! LOOK DOWN! NINE-O-CLOCK LOW! LOW!”

His head cranes left as the jet rolls, his eyes hunting around until he sees one little glint. Then three. Then seven. Holy hell. It’s a swarm of them flying by, slinking around the hills below as he peers up and gauges the surroundings before he commits.

It’s different with the overhead view, his eyes panning to the horizon out west, seeing the billowing smoke from San Diego and the port, the contrails of surface-to-air missiles rising from the air defense batteries and the ships still stuck in the San Diego Bay.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

Master Arm switch toggled.

Radar in BORESIGHT mode.

The Hornet flips inverted, its nose aiming square for the ground, Shawn squeezing his legs to keep the blood going to his head. He’s got the armament for this. Sure, months and years ago it seemed pretty dumb to be relegated to a shitty old jet for drone swarm and cruise missile killing, but off the Hornet’s wings hang a set of four LAU-61 rocket pods, each one packing a jerry-rigged kit of AGR/AAR-30s, little mini-rockets repurposed to lower interception costs in these predicted situations. 76 in total, all laser-guided from an empennage fixed to the leading edge of the pod, these little makeshift air-to-air missiles are among the only things able to push back against Southern California’s overwhelmed air defenses.

“SPIFF 46,” Shawn’s got the JHMCS visor ready to roll, “we got a group of uh, unknown TOIs heading 0-9-2. They look like small drones or cruise missiles. Request—”

“SPIFF 46, you are cleared to engage! Engage any and all hostiles in battlespace!”

Well, that clears it up.

The Hornet rolls left, then right around the hillside, the smoke rising from Ramona ahead as he lines up the jet, nose filling in behind the group of little black planforms.

Radar slews to them, cueing the lasers. He can lock up to eight at once, but they’re varying their headings, acting much like a flock of migrating birds versus the hapless duds he’s seen in training ops, but he isn’t surprised that cruise missiles, drone warfare and loitering munitions have come a long way since Ukraine, Israel, and Yemen.

“Ramona, you’ve got incoming! Another group of bandits inbound 0-2-2!”

What was once eight cruise missiles is now two groups of four, and then three groups now, two in one, three in another, two diving into the ridgeline behind the hills, and wait, is that last one climbing towards him?!

What the—?

 There’s no time for shock. He hears the blinking acquisition tone, waiting for it to ring solidly until he hears Betty,

SHOOT! SHOOT!

He hits the uncage button like God almighty possessed him to do so. Eight times in quick succession, rockets spew from beneath the Hornet’s wings, alternating left and right, each little missile popping out its fins and streaming to the target like hyenas heavy for a meal as Shawn holds his breath to watch.

The first five AAR-30s detonate dead center of their targets, igniting the cruise missile warheads in spectacular fashion. He pulls up instinctively, hearing debris pelting the jet’s belly, praying he doesn’t FOD an engine or two, but he’s okay, nosing down to reassess.

Five kills, but three misses. That’s a failing score since he was in grade school, but it’s surely better than nothing.

“SPIFF 46-3, splash five!”

The combat cameras are rolling, recording every move he makes. They’ll have all his data. They’ll tell him what he’s doing wrong, but until then, he sends five more rockets to finish the last three with overkill.

God, rookie shooting over here. Clean it up, man!

 “Splash three!”

Then he hears Jamie, “—SPIFF 46-4, engaging bandits 2-9-1, inbound Ramona from the east. Group of twelve!”

The EAST!?! What the hell?

Shawn looks in that direction, his JHMCS highlighting his wingman just three miles away as he follows the little enemy missiles, all slinking away at a two-story home’s height above the ground.

Could it be? Are people launching missiles and drones from inside the United States? Or maybe they’re flying pre planned routes? Maybe, in the logic of their AI hivemind, they’re adjusting to avoid air defenses, but that doesn’t matter right now. He has just has to kill them.

“SPIFF 46-3 to MOP,” he says, “I’m still tracking six more bandits headed north off my nose, following Interstate 15. FOUR, do you see them?”

Then Jamie says, “Got em! Just passed Costco!”

“SPIFF 46-4, is that the—what road?”

“Scripps Parkway!” Jamie yells. “Fox Three! Fox Three times five! Splash!”

“Okay,” Shawn rolls the Hornet left, right above a parking lot filled with onlookers, his altitude so low that he swears he can see their individual faces, “I’m taking three more! They’re terminal! Hold on—Fox Three! Shit!”

He can’t fire. The little cruise missiles are already in their final dives, risking collateral damage if one of the AGR/AAR-30s either misses or hits its mark too late.

Still, he’s got an idea, a bold one like he’s John-freakin’ Wayne. Shawn flips to GUN, kicks the rudder and with a deep breath he squeezes the trigger and holy hell, he’s splashed one! Add a little nose up pitch at the last minute, a quick 7.5g pull and he’s taken down another. It’s spiraling now, exploding into a trail of flames as he tail-slides back towards the ground below, helplessly watching as the other enemy missiles hit their marks straight into a handful of buildings.

“MOP we got buildings hit! Buildings hit!”

“Did they bomb the fucking Costco?!”

Later reports will clarify that these are corporate offices and laboratories belonging to General Atomics filled with employees that are just going about their daily routines. Just another Friday until it isn’t. . . aka when a Chinese Tomahawk equivalent detonates its warhead dead center of the structure.

And what does he do? Watch in horror as ole’ Betty bitches at him.

ALTITUDE! ALTITUDE!

PULL UP! PULL UP!

Shit. He’s going to nosedive into the fucking ground, so he’s straining against the g-limiter override, hearing the fuselage creaking around him as his vision fades for a moment, joystick pulled to a point where it could castrate him.

This is the beauty of the Hornet, the ancient, ‘unsexy,’ busted and tired old jet that it is. It forgives so well, saving even the most moronic of pilots like Shawn Paxson by pulling such a high alpha that the vapor clouds later find their way on local television when they cover him as a hero.

On a normal day, nearly flying his jet into a goddamn Costco car wash would be a guaranteed grounding, but today? Shawn’s the hero as he somehow pulls out of it like he’s leading the Blue Angels in a local airshow, forming up right next to Jamie who’s peering over out of his canopy like he’s seen a ghost.

To those on the ground either dumb enough, or bold enough to whip their phones out and record what they’re seeing, he’s the man. He’s the soon-to-be legendary fighter pilot that faced overwhelming odds and opened up the M61 cannon as a last-ditch effort to save lives, and mostly succeeded.

They’ll never forget him. They’ll never chastise him.

Because even in the opening hours of America’s darkest day, he represents something that until now had faded away into a distant memory.

The fight. The perseverance. The coming rebuke of defeat from a country so bitterly divided that its newly sworn enemies played their hand in a decapitation strike and seriously thought it would work.

And for a few minutes it did, but to Shawn’s pleasant surprise, Miramar’s not entirely gone. He hears the status call of SHADOW 77, a flight of four Legacy Hornets rushing to engage a new line of bandits inbound from the ocean, each hauling their own set LAU-61s all the while. Blasting towards the Pacific, he passes by Miramar’s giant smoke plumes, spotting his new Hornet friends, talking with them and Jamie as they watch the US Navy’s surviving vessels unleash their air defense ordnance on the second onslaught.   

The sight alone gives him a new wind, a hopeful contrast versus the sight of San Diego burning below as a voice breaks in, more frantic than ever,

“MOP to SPIFF 46, attack warning! Attack Warning! Bandits! Bandits! Group of one hundred forty-five plus inbound B-R-A 2-2-5 for—uh—57.”

Did he say 145?! One?! Hundred?! Forty?! Five?!

Yep. Sure did, but he’s not alone. Not anymore.

After all, he’s nothing to write home about, eh?

Just a run-of-the-mill Marine fighter pilot, eh?

Proudly, and with great emotion, he looks side to side, filling into formation with the other Hornets, banking left until the blue abyss of the Pacific covers the span of his view.

“SPIFF 46, SHADOW 77,” he directs, “turn 2-2-5 for CAP! SPIFF 46 will take the southern targets, SHADOW 77, you take north! Copy?”

“Copy!”

“Okay.” Shawn takes a deep breath. “Let’s go!”

Afterburners. . . .

Bryan Williams is a mechanical engineer who previously worked in the automotive industry before moving to upstream materials and packaging development as a senior scientist. He is an aviation and combat aviation fan, still chasing his dream of becoming a successful novelist. He is the author of The Underground Kings, and has recently finished two novels, including the military thriller Bandit that includes the full story of what is depicted in this excerpt.

Featured Image: Art created with Midjourney AI.