Reconnaissance (2)
Three days vanished in the blink of an eye. Honestly, what had I done during those three days? Nothing, really—aside from the administrative grind of managing an Ark whose population had now surpassed twenty-seven thousand. The improvement projects fell to the maintenance crews, and restoring military discipline was the army’s responsibility. All I could do was cycle through the camera feeds and watch to see if things were progressing as they should. In a democracy, oversight was essential, of course. Yet the very fact that a Controller’s term was for life already gutted the democratic ideal.
—Ark outer wall opening.—
—Gunship units, prepare for takeoff.—
A low hum filled the air as the outer wall parted. The gunships waiting inside rose toward the sky. Someone might argue that opening the wall left us vulnerable to external attack. They would be right. Still, the wall opened and closed with remarkable speed.
—Take off. Squadron leaders, report.—
—Squadron One, reporting. All aircraft nominal. Beginning mission.—
—Squadron Two. All systems green.—
—Squadron Three. Weapons systems online. Rocket fuses primed.—
—Squadron Four. No issues.—
Through the Ark’s radar, four squadrons fanned out toward the cardinal directions. Soon the external cameras lost sight of them, but the flickering blips on the radar confirmed they were still alive.
“This is the Controller. I trust you all know your objectives. Rescue as many survivors as possible, but if the risk becomes unacceptable, abort without hesitation.”
—Understood, sir.—
Rescuing survivors mattered, yet losing pilots and gunships—assets that could not be replaced quickly—was a far greater cost. Population could grow naturally, but two gunships parked on a helipad did not magically produce a third. The Ark’s production capacity was finite; building even one new gunship meant sacrificing a week’s worth of food for a hundred people.
—Hostiles spotted. Engaging.—
—Copy. Recon units, you are cleared to engage.—
—Weapons systems active.—
The moment the transmission ended, the blips representing the gunships flashed purple. Purple meant combat was underway at that location. The number of purple markers rose, then fell, then rose again—sporadic firefights with the monsters. So far, no gunships had been shot down. When the squadrons reached the city proper, they split into smaller elements while maintaining distances that still allowed mutual support, then began searching for survivors and eliminating threats.
—This is the rescue team from Ark 17. Survivors, proceed immediately to the high ground. I repeat: this is the rescue team from Ark 17. Survivors, proceed immediately to the high ground. Once this window closes, indiscriminate incineration of the entire district will begin. This is your final chance. After the burn operation, we cannot guarantee your extraction.—
Indiscriminate incineration. The brutal battle in the western district had been something I never wanted to repeat. There was only one way to avoid the catastrophic attrition of urban combat: burn the entire city to the ground. If the streets themselves no longer existed, no one could fight over them. Shelters would suffer damage, of course, but that was precisely what shelters were built to withstand. Even if a few collapsed, I refused to throw Ark soldiers back into another meat grinder.
—Command, survivors located. Beginning extraction.—
—Squadron Four here. Large group of survivors spotted.—
—Squadron Three reporting. Survivors on the rooftop of a high-rise.—
Roughly an hour after the broadcasts began, survivors who had somehow stayed alive clambered onto rooftops and frantically signaled for rescue. Most signals came from the southern district—exactly as I had predicted. The western sector yielded the fewest, likely because the earlier operation had already cleared most of the remaining population.
If anyone was still alive out there, this was their last lifeline.
—Extraction complete. Returning to the Ark.—
—Copy. All squadrons, watch your ammunition.—
Even while ferrying survivors back, the gunships poured continuous fire into the streets. No matter how many monsters they killed, the apex predators of the surface kept flooding the roads and buildings, their rage fixed on the aircraft above.
—Anti-air monsters!—
—All units, scatter!—
At last the anti-air variants revealed themselves. They began hurling volcanic rounds skyward without coordination. The gunships, still moving toward the survivors, answered with every anti-tank rocket they carried.
—This is Aircraft 34! Taking fire! Hydraulic failure! Switching to emergency power!—
A frantic call cut through the net. Even I knew that losing hydraulics on an aircraft was catastrophic. The emergency system kept the controls responsive, but a direct hit to a critical component meant Aircraft 34 was effectively out of the mission.
—Aircraft 34, return immediately. What is your status?—
—Emergency power is online… the wiring junctions are unstable, but if I don’t push the speed I should make it back to the Ark—
The transmission dissolved into a piercing burst of static. The operators at the comms station immediately tried to reestablish contact.
—Aircraft 34? Aircraft 34?! Respond!—
Before they could get an answer, a call came from Aircraft 36, which had been flying alongside.
—Command! This is Aircraft 36! 34 has been hit again! Fire on the fuselage—tail fin is gone!—
A slowed aircraft became easy prey. The proof was immediate and brutal. The operators tried once more to reach 34.
—Aircraft 34, report your situation!—
This time the link held.
—Controls unresponsive! I can’t control the aircraft! Losing altitude! Ejection seat is dead! Emergency! Emer—
It was not enough. Stripped of every powered system, the gunship’s ejection seat failed with the rest. Aircraft 34 slammed into a high-rise at a forty-degree angle and disintegrated across the surrounding streets.
—Oh God… Aircraft 36 here. 34 is down. No recovery possible. I repeat: Aircraft 34 has crashed. No recovery possible…—
The despair in that transmission marked a turning point. Bad luck, or had the blast-resistant coating finally proven useless? Only time would tell.
“All pilots currently on mission, be advised: Aircraft 34 of Squadron Three has crashed. Pilot deceased. I repeat: Aircraft 34 of Squadron Three has crashed. Pilot deceased. Continue the mission.”
The previously chaotic net fell silent at my words. Perhaps this was the power that came with rank and title. I swallowed the bitter taste and issued the order to press on. Statistically, only one aircraft and one pilot out of sixty had been lost. Sixty had become fifty-nine. That was all it was.
—…Rescue request confirmed. Beginning recovery operation.—
After a long stretch of silence, the net grew busy again. Operators fed radar data to the pilots; gunships tore through monsters while extracting survivors; anti-air creatures continued to hurl fire skyward. Six hours later, with no further losses acceptable, the forced reconnaissance operation over the city was terminated.
Total losses: three aircraft and three pilots out of sixty gunships and sixty pilots. Twenty-one wounded by shrapnel. The rest returned unharmed. That day, exactly 5,500 survivors were rescued. The operation achieved its objective at minimal cost. Contrary to expectations, the blast-resistant coating performed well; unless a volcanic round severed the tail or power lines in a single hit—as happened to the three lost aircraft—it provided roughly thirty-five percent better protection than before. Three lives and three machines had bought 5,500 survivors. The mission was an unequivocal success.