Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Pale Horse, this is Red Horse. Over.”

“I read you, Red Horse. Over.”

“Are you guys seeing this?”

Miller heard a tinge of nervousness in the man’s voice. Red Horse, whose real name Miller never learned, struck him as the strong, silent type. Followed orders. Flew with precision. And was absolutely deadly behind the controls of the world’s most sophisticated fighter jet.

So what’s making him afraid? Miller wondered.

Tick.

The sound was barely audible.

But it repeated.

Tick.

Tick, tick, tick.

Miller looked out the window. The ground flew past in a blur of desert sand, trees, cacti, and boulders. They followed the twists and turns of a dry riverbed, allowing them to travel well under the radar. Everything was a blur, though.

Tick, tick, tick.

He looked up, wondering if he might see the F-22s, but saw nothing.

Or did he?

As his eyes adjusted to the distance, his view of the deep blue—almost purple—New Mexico sky appeared hazy.

Static-filled.

“Survivor,” came Vesely’s voice. “I think Huber’s prediction was off by a day.”

Tcktcktcktcktck.

Miller gaped in silence as his mind struggled to comprehend the unthinkable. The sky was filled with red flakes. Oxidized iron. The process of purging oxygen from the Earth’s lower atmosphere had begun. Their twenty-four-hour window had just been reduced to hours. It would take time for all of the oxygen to be used up, though many people would be poisoned beyond recovery long before that. If they didn’t find a way to stop the cosmic attack in the next few hours, it would already be too late.

The red flakes triggered several memories for Miller. Surfacing at the Aquarius life support buoy and taking his first breath of blood-flavored, oxygenless air. The tiger shark. The pink-covered streets of Key Largo. Miami. Arwen. The gang. It all felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened in the past few days.

Another memory came back, slapping him out of his reverie. He’d told the president, “If you haven’t heard from me, and red flakes start falling from the sky, track my phone’s location and drop a nuke on it.” That time had come.

Hopefully the president would realize that his current Mach 1 speed meant he was still fighting and would delay a strike for as long as possible, but he couldn’t bank on it. He’d tried calling the president several times already, but never found a signal. He wasn’t sure he’d find one in the middle of New Mexico, either, but had to try.

“Any cities ahead?” Miller asked Pale Horse.

“Passing by Santa Fe in a few minutes. We’ll reach the LZ ten minutes after that.”

“Are you there, Survivor?” Vesely asked.

Miller held the phone up, watching for a bar to appear. “Going to make a phone call. See if we can avoid being nuked for a few more hours.”

“Is good idea,” Vesely said.

A bar appeared. Then two. Then three. Miller knew they would leave the cell tower’s range just as quick as they’d entered it. He hit the Call button, heard just a single ring, and then— shit —voicemail.

Are you serious? Miller thought, but then realized the president was most likely already underground.

Beep.

“Bensson, it’s Miller. If you get this, hold off on that nuke for as long as you can. In case I don’t make it there, the target is Dulce Base in New Mexico. That’s the stronghold. That’s where I’m headed. If you can, get a message to Arwen for me. Tell her—”

Beep, beep, beep.

Signal lost.

Miller was about to let loose with a string of curses, but Red Horse interrupted.

“We have incoming. Six bandits—F-16 Falcons. Closing fast from the north. ETA five minutes.”

Five minutes. They would be intercepted before reaching Los Alamos. If they could survive the next ten, the plan might still work, but being shot down over the New Mexico desert would put a rather large wrinkle in things.

“Can we outrun them?” Miller asked.

“F-16 is light and fast. Our top speed is Mach one point eight. Falcon is Mach two.”

“Do we have any advantage?” Miller asked.

“Just one,” Pale Horse replied. “Better pilots.”

“Don’t forget us,” said Black Horse, the second F-22 Raptor pilot.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pale Horse said. “White Horse, stay on my six. Let’s cut the grass and hit the gas.”

“Copy that,” White Horse said.

The ease with which the four pilots coordinated made Miller relax. They had the element of surprise with two F-22s, and their goal was only seven minutes out now. All they had to do was make it there. What happened to the planes after that didn’t matter.

Miller felt the anti-G suit he wore expand on his body as the jet rocketed toward a violent encounter. Bladders within the suit expanded as the G-forces increased, keeping his blood from rushing away from his brain. Without it, he and the pilot would have fallen unconscious.

They were so close to the ground now that Miller felt sure they’d be leaving trails of kicked-up dust behind them.

“I have visual,” Black Horse said. “Coming your way. Over.”

“They’re not locking missiles?” Miller said.

“They’ll swing around behind us for a better lock. Head on, this close to the ground, it’s nearly impossible to get a— Holy shit!”

Miller’s world spun upside down and righted itself so quickly he wasn’t sure what had happened, but he’d swallowed his gum. He had a brief memory of seeing another plane, headed in the opposite direction, but nothing more.

“Sons a bitches tried to ram us!” Pale Horse said. “White Horse, you still with us? Over.”

“On your six,” White Horse said. “Black Horse, would you mind showing these kamikaze assholes how to fight? Over.”

“Shit!” It was Red Horse. “Bogey on our six! Black Horse is down! Black Horse is down! Missile lock! Deploying countermeasures!”

Static.

“How did they take down an F-22?” Miller asked, fighting his rising fears.

“Snuck up behind him.”

“What can sneak up on an F-22?”

“Another F-22.”

“White Horse, this is Pale Horse. Open it up. Let’s give ’em a run for their money.”

“Copy that,” White Horse said.

Miller’s anti-G suit grew tighter as Pale Horse pushed the F/A-18 to its top speed, just fifty feet from the ground.

“We’ll be there in four minutes,” Pale Horse said to Miller. “Be ready.”

A loud beeping filled the cabin.

“Missile lock,” Pale Horse said. “Here we go.”

Miller was expecting a rapid turn or ascent, but when Pale Horse pointed the plane down, just fifty feet from the ground, Miller knew he had half a second before being pancaked on the New Mexico desert.

A valley opened up in front of the Hornet and swallowed it whole. Stone walls flashed past on either side. Pale Horse guided the plane through the wide twists and turns at ridiculous speeds.

An explosion from behind shook the plane.

Vesely.

“You still with us, Cowboy?” Miller said.

Vesely’s reply was shouted, but not with fear, with excitement. “Is like Star Wars Death Star trench run!”

“The explosion was one of the bandits,” White Horse said, his voice cool and collected. “Clipped the top of the valley trying to follow us in.”

A sharp turn squeezed Miller’s body as the anti-G-suit bladders expanded. He looked to the left and saw the valley floor not far below. The plane righted and Miller’s head spun. Anti-G suit or not, this flight was taking a toll on his body. The military’s ground forces, including the SEALs, tended to give pilots a hard time. Had all sorts of unsavory names for them. The impression was that they flew above all the action, all the danger, but Miller realized that wasn’t necessarily true. This was intense on the body and mind in a way he hadn’t experienced before.