John Ringo - Von Neumann’s War

The producer had set up a shot with the Eiffel Tower in the background. The reporter was yammering about defense plans and evacuation plans, just to fill the dead air. But he paused and turned as dots came into view over his shoulder.

“There appears to be something happening…” Campbell said as a Mirage jet thundered overhead, distorting his voice again. The cameraman swiveled to catch the jet just as it fired an air-to-air missile. The jet followed the missile in and as it passed over the tower it seemed to be swarmed by dots. More were descending on the tower, and in the background there was a wash of dust as a large building appeared to collapse.

“I’m not sure what’s happening,” the reporter said nervously, then looked up and blanched. The screen suddenly went dark.

“We’re experiencing technical difficulties with our feed from France,” the anchorwoman in Atlanta said, looking up into the teleprompter. “We’ll try to get Bob Campbell back with his live report in a moment. We’ll go temporarily to our expert military analyst retired Colonel…”

“That was quick,” Roger said, frowning as he picked up the remote and lowered the sound. “And somehow I don’t think we’ll be hearing from Bob any time soon.”

“Were those things all over the Tower like it looked?” Cady asked. “And I never saw the missile impact.”

“No, I didn’t either,” Roger said. “We were recording so we’ll run it through some filters and tighten up the images as much as we can. But I’m not sure what we’ll get. They were all over that Mirage like stink on a hog, though.”

“There’s a Stryker brigade deploying out of Le Havre in a day or two,” Shane said musingly.

“You want to go have a close up look?” Roger asked, askance. “I mean, we don’t know if anybody in France is alive or dead at the moment. I don’t even know if we’re in contact with the Stryker brigade. And I definitely don’t know how long they’ll last.”

“Yeah, I want to go look,” Shane said. “If I can get a good look at what they’re doing, that’s going to help, right?”

“If you can get the word back ,” Roger pointed out. “We don’t know if these things are eating people or what. I mean, that one report is as good as it’s gotten. Nobody has gotten more word out than that.”

“I wouldn’t mind going, sir,” Cady said, setting down his beer. “But I’d like to get back, too. I don’t want to die in France if you know what I mean.”

“How high a priority can you get us?” Shane asked.

“For a Neighborhood Watch observer?” Roger replied. “Pretty damned high. Why?”

“I think we should go,” Shane said. “But I agree with the master sergeant. We definitely want to get back if there’s a chance.”

“I’ll make some calls,” Roger said.

United States Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Matthew “Bull” Ridley had only been assigned to the multinational NATO-Euro F-16 “Fighting Falcons” squadron as an instructor/observer. His main objective in soliciting the assignment had been to reach “full bull” colonel; the multinational position was a good resume builder. As an instructor, it also meant that he’d get plenty of cockpit time, which was a nice bennie. But promotion was the last thing on his mind at the moment; his present mission made survival a much higher priority.

When the alien threat entered European airspace the NATO “unified defense” protocols were automatically activated. NATO had been toying with a combined force ever since the failure of the “EU Deployment Group.” The EUDG had never really gotten beyond a very expensive headquarters and some garrison troops but the concept still remained. Accepting the inevitable, the European Union, virtually all of whose members were also members of NATO, revamped the concept as a NATO force. The division-sized “deployment force” was designed around the “pull-and-pick” scheme; when a mission was assigned it would pull available ground and support forces from the supporting countries.

However, the force intended to have some dedicated units, notably support and air forces. After an exhaustive testing program, the “EU” unit chose, of all things, the American F-16 as their primary strike and air-to-air fighter.

There were mutterings that the air forces should, by right, have come from a European country. However, since the “EU” force was composed primarily of American and British ground forces, had an American commander and was primarily funded by the United States, having an aircraft that could electronically interact with the American and British forces was paramount. The British Tornado was the only “European” system that met the requirements, European avionics being at least two generations behind the U.S. The F-16 was a far superior air-to-air fighter and a tad more capable at ground attack.

Thus the assignment of an American colonel to instruct and, in this case, command, a “European” squadron made perfect sense, at least to NATO.

As soon as the report came that the attack stream was headed for Europe, all the remaining seventy-two F-16s in the multinational fighter wing were called to action. The squadron of multilingual and multinational fighter pilots were to bring support from the northwest toward the alien tubule that looked as if it would encompass Paris.

Lieutenant Colonel Ridley decided that he couldn’t leave the one F-16 that he had been training and instructing from on the ground. That just would not do. And besides that, this might be the best chance to gather intel on the threat that the U.S. would have. Matt hoped he could live long enough to get the intel home.

Rumors were coming in that multiple French Mirage squadrons had been lost on the southeastern front and the Falcons were beyond nervous. Very few of the European air forces had been as blooded as the Americans and Brits. Americans and Brits had maintained the Iraqi No-Fly Zone in the face of Saddam’s ground-to-air missiles, had carried the brunt of the battle in Bosnia and had operated against the Iraqi air-defense in Operation Iraqi Freedom. Ridley, alone, had more total “combat stick” time than the entire French air force. And the Belgians and Germans on the mission totaled exactly zero combat stick. Matt had decided early on that his primary mission was to try to keep them calm. Sangfroid. Just another training exercise. Right.

“Okay boys, just like we been practicing. We’re a gonna go in low at high Mach, pull up through those alien bastards to slow us down to firing speeds and let loose hell on them.” Lieutenant Colonel Ridley nodded at his wingman and keyed in his weapons code.

Weapons cache online , the computer told him with a ding.

Ridley adjusted the radar controls and set the system on wide target search.

“That’s odd, there’s no AWACS data,” he muttered to himself.

“Bull, I’ve got multiple bogies in-bound on us from the south, Mach Three Dot Five, Angels fourteen!” Belgian Flight-Lieutenant Rene “Low-Boy” Lejeune said over the radio in very good English. Rene had done well in training on the plane and had the instincts of a good fighter pilot. He kept good wing, for that matter. But he got a tad excited over the radio. Belgians hadn’t figured out the “phlegmatic” approach. Ridley looked over and could see his wingman waving at him and pointing downward and to the south.

“Roger that, Rene,” Ridley replied laconically. “Let’s take it to ’em boys. Follow me through.”

Ridley eased his stick all the way forward and throttled up the F16. As the g-forces pushed him back into his seat his stomach tightened and the airbags around his thighs slightly inflated.

“Radar contact shows multiple bogie, vector one-one-seven, Angels fourteen. Careful, the system is showing them as vampires. Visual range…” the lieutenant colonel tried to keep both eyes on the radar and both eyes on the sky. That was a trick that most humans failed and at which fighter pilots excelled.