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Ahead of Schedule Ch. 1: Unexpected Surprise
Posted By: Nick Kang<digitai430@yahoo.com>
Date: 5 August 2004, 3:31 AM
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Author's Note: I'm taking a small break from Beckoning of Doom and Operation: Stingray for a small bit while I write this three or four piece series. This may have been done before, I'm not really sure. But please tell me if it has.
Ahead of Schedule
Chapter 1:
Unexpected Surprise
1254 HOURS, JUNE 5TH, 1944
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS ALLIED EXPEDITIONARY FORCE (SHAEF)
DAY BEFORE OPERATION: OVERLORD (D-DAY)
SHAEF, LONDON
Sergeant Peter Connors was cold. Sergeant Peter Connors was wet. But Sergeant Peter Connors stood at attention near the main gate of SHAEF no matter what the weather. On this particular day, the weather gave no hint as to the events that would take place within the next twenty-four hours. Dark clouds had overcast the sky, and had practically dumped rain onto London. Connors stood rigid against the cold stone wall as the rain pinged and clinked off his helmet and saturated his army uniform down to his skin. He could not have been more miserable.
Yet, even with the rain and overcast skies, Connors somehow managed to stay at his post with his Thompson sub-machine gun hanging from his left shoulder by its leather strap. He had been there for three hours while the most highly ranked Allied Generals and Admirals discussed the important matter of the invasion of Europe. Connors knew that what they were discussing and planning was very important for the victory of the war, but he thought that they could have provided better conditions for the guards.
Nevertheless, he remained at his post, unconsciously fingering the safety of the Thompson on and off, while his partner, Corporal Steve Wikson lit up a cigarette and shielded it from the crusading rain. Thin tendrils of smoke from the cigarette reached into the downpour and dissipated. Wikson carried his M1 Garrand as if it were light as a feather, having held it close to his chest at a forty-degree angle for the entire time they had been standing there guarding the gate.
Connors looked away from the young Corporal and took in his surroundings for the umpteenth time. Most of the large, monolithic buildings were dark, but several were pockmarked by lit windows and porch lights. Connors sighed and wished that he was in one of those lit rooms, protected from the rain by a roof over his head, heated by the stove, and bathed in artificial light.
It was several minutes before five limousines, guarded by a legion of Military Jeeps, pulled up to the sidewalk near the gate and sat, their engines purring loudly, on the side of the city street. The three men from one of the jeeps hopped out of the vehicle and quickly walked up to Connors, handing him their identification.
"We're here to pick up the senior officers," one of them, brandishing a Captain's insignia, said loudly, "we expect them soon."
"Yes, their meeting should be just finishing up. You might have to wait for a couple of minutes." Connors replied, checking over the ID and handing it back to them. His heavy British accent carried across to the three men in front of him. The Captain nodded, mumbled something quietly, and turned back to the Jeep, which he deftly walked to, followed by the two other Privates.
Connors glanced over at Wikson, who was tossing away his cigarette stub, and returned his gaze to the armada of Jeeps filled with armed personnel guarding the limos. It seemed more firepower than needed, but he supposed that it was something only the senior officers would understand.
Connors tilted his head back so it was resting against the rock wall and closed his eyes, oblivious to the small teardrop-shaped object that had just broken through the clouds overhead.
1301 HOURS, JUNE 5TH, 1944
SHAEF LOOKOUT TOWER BRAVO-9
SHAEF, LONDON
Major Walter Underwood sipped at the bitter coffee in his disposable Styrofoam cup. He felt the warm liquid course down into his stomach and flood his body with comfort, despite the horrible taste of the drink. He sat back against the command chair; it creaked as it moved to support his back. The radar screen eight inches from his face beeped continuously every ten seconds as the arm of the radar swept the circular monitor in a complete arc. He sighed and looked out the window, where streaks of water had lined the glass with trails of liquid. The endless sound of the rain beating on the roof of the lookout tower was a melody to him; a lullaby, which he had almost fallen asleep twice listening to.
Nevertheless, he continued with his boring, dreary job, which was endlessly and uselessly watching the radar monitor for signs of German attack. He didn't even see the use for it; the chances of German forces breaking through England's defenses were slim to none, and even if they did, then SHAEF would have received a communiqué from forces at the frontline long before the Nazis entered radar range.
Underwood leaned back in his chair even more and closed his eyes, his ears tuning out the monotonous ping of the radar. All the sound in the world there was the rain, and he let that sound coax his body to shut down for sleep...until a shrill alarm jolted him out of near-unconsciousness. A red light began swiveling, casting malignant shadows across Underwood's face. He was upright instantly, placing the communications headset over his ears. He turned a number of dials on the control board and checked over the radar screen, where a strange shape had appeared. It was roughly teardrop-shaped, and very smooth, judging by the radar scan. He opened up a cabinet and yanked out a report detailing the shapes and altitudes of German planes. He unfolded the long piece of paper and looked over the Nazi planes quickly, mentally comparing them to the shape on the radar. None of them fit. Underwood tore open another cabinet and pulled out another piece of paper, this one smaller than the last. He quickly ran down the list of Italian planes and, after none of them matched, threw the report on the metal floor. He opened up the last list, this one of Japanese planes, and none of them matched. His mouth dropped open.
"Watchtower Bravo-9 to Air Command. We have a UFO in air sector twelve. It is directly above SHAEF and the altitude is approximately—" Underwood's blood ran cold. The altitude was thirty thousand feet. Much higher than any modern plane could fly at. He bent the mouthpiece closer to his mouth, and, after a three-second pause, said, "Scratch that, Air Command. We have a possible extraterrestrial aircraft on our scopes. It is flying at a height of thirty thousand feet. Requesting investigation. Over." The reply came quickly.
"Roger that, Bravo-9. An alien ship? Shit...we're sending over an investigation team. Watch for our boys. Over."
"Roger, Air Command. Use caution. Over and out." Underwood cut of the communications uplink with Air Command and sighed. He looked back at the radar, and realized that the craft had lowered considerably.
The cockpit window of the P-51 Mustang slid back as Lieutenant Michael Frekks lowered himself into the control seat. He slid the window back over his head once he had become comfortable in the chair. Radio chatter echoed from his speaker as the other pilots geared up to investigate the enigmatic UFO.
"Blue team Eagle, report." An Air Command controller's voice broke through the choir of voices on the radio. The other voices suddenly became silent.
"Blue leader, Eagle one. Check that." Blue leader's voice came over the communicator. Then the rest of Blue Squadron's voices sounded in numerical order.
"Eagle two, check that."
"Eagle three, check that."
"Eagle four, check that."
Frekks joined in when his number came. "Eagle five, check that.
"Eagle six, check that."
"Roger," Air Command's voice appeared, "All of Blue Squadron accounted for. Good luck, gentlemen."
One by one, the plane engines started up, and the propellers began spinning. Blue team took off from the runway, heading towards air sector twelve, where the UFO awaited. Frekks flew for several minutes, followed closely by Eagle three and six. The rest of the squadron was up several meters ahead. The endless hum of the engines mixed with the choppy klop klop klop of the propeller. He considered it calming.
After about five minutes, a patch of clouds cleared to reveal air sector twelve, and the secrets it hid. Frekks's blood drained out of his face. Only two hundred yards ahead of the squadron, was a ship. Not just a ship, but an alien ship. It was roughly teardrop-shaped, and relatively flat. The smooth metal hull was tinted a dark, shiny purple, and energy pulses ran along the lateral fins on its sides. Most notable, however, were the twin guns mounted on its top. They looked extremely high-tech, with glowing green lights pulsing through them every few seconds.
"Hold on, I'll try to establish contact. It might be friendly." Eagle two's voice sounded frightened.
Frekks waited for several seconds as Eagle two's Mustang flew ahead of the pack toward the ship. It was at that moment that Frekks realized how big it was. The thing was huge, easily bigger than a B-29 Super-fortress. Anyone could fit ten Mustangs on its hull and still have enough room to walk around with a three-foot berth. What's more, Frekks saw no wings or propellers. It must have operated with some kind of jet engine that they talked about in the movies.
Another few seconds passed as Eagle-two used a private frequency to raze the vessel on a comm. channel. Suddenly, without warning, the craft swiveled around and the guns on its back lit up. Eagle two screamed something into the radio before a pair of brilliant blue bolts of light shot from the barrels of the cannons on the ship and impacted his Mustang. The entire plane flew apart in a brilliant orange and yellow explosion. Chunks of Eagle two's plane bounced off the fuselage of the alien craft. Comm. chatter immediately exploded out of the radio.
"What the hell was th—?"
"Eagle two is dow—!"
"We gotta take that thing out!"
"Eagle squadron, swing around for another pass and align facing out in a wedge formation! Blow the bastard to hell as soon as you have your sights steadied!" Blue leader's voice sounded heroic at this particular moment. Eagles three and six tightly pulled out of Frekks's wake and flew to rejoin the rest of the squadron. Frekks pulled up and followed them as the destructive balls of light traced his Mustang, just barely missing him with every shot. Eagle six intercepted one of the bolts and briefly stayed intact before shuddering and detonating. More debris rained down onto the ground.
Frekks barrel-rolled into formation between Blue Leader and Eagle three and checked to make sure the rest of the squadron had fallen into the V-layout.
"Go! Go! Go! Fire at will!" Blue Leader yelled into his radio. Frekks squeezed down the firing stud and watched as the other pilots did the same. The yellow bursts of light shot through the air and impacted the craft's hull. Gunshots echoed through the air, bullets pounded the ship, and Eagle three exploded...but the craft stayed intact, leaving a silvery shimmer around its fuselage.
"That sonofa—"
"Something blocked the attack! Where the h—"
"It must have some kind of protective barrier!"
"Eagles two, three, and six are down! Eagle squadron, hit 'em again! Pull out of formation and aim all attacks on the rear hull, where the engines are!"
Frekks pulled out of the formation and flew along the huge ships upper hull, his Mustang spitting out hot metal as it went. The powerful bullets simply ricocheted off the shield, leaving only ripples to signal that they were ever there. Frekks heard a whistling swoosh, and his left wing tore off from the rest of the plane. His own bullets must have bounced off the shield and sliced the wing clean off...not good.
Frekks had just enough time to scream over his radio before his Mustang sank down to the ground in a lazy spiral and exploded in a brilliant rush of orange flames.
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