PART 8
The battle changed instantly.
Ten fighters against one cargo plane had been murder.
Eight fighters against a cargo plane and two angry F-35s became a bad career decision.
But the enemy commander was stubborn.
I’ll give him that.
He stayed on me.
His aircraft slid behind us through broken cloud, smooth and patient.
Not arrogant anymore.
Focused.
This one wasn’t playing.
He locked on.
The missile warning returned, shrill and vicious.
“Captain,” Parker said, “he’s got us cold.”
I checked the display.
No room.
No speed.
No altitude to trade.
Flares low.
One engine wounded.
Another running hot.
The Hercules had given me everything she had.
Now she had one trick left.
The generator in the cargo bay.
The one everyone thought was just paperwork with bolts.
It wasn’t.
It powered a mobile emergency communications package meant for a remote allied base.
Shielded.
Overbuilt.
Full of enough electronic muscle to punch through disaster-zone interference.
It was not designed to jam missile guidance.
But then again, the Hercules was not designed to dogfight.
“Rodriguez,” I said, “route emergency power from the generator to the comm crate.”
A pause.
“Ma’am, that system is not cleared for flight operation.”
“Neither am I, apparently.”
“Right. Doing illegal science.”
Parker stared at me.
“Addison.”
“I know.”
“If that overloads, we lose half our avionics.”
“If that missile hits, we lose all of us.”
She swallowed.
Then nodded.
“Do it.”
In the back, Rodriguez and Airman Kell fought with cables, straps, and a generator that weighed more than my first apartment.
Sparks snapped over the intercom.
The comm panel flickered.
May you like
Then Viper Lead warned us.
“Cargo 72, missile launch.”
