Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. by Glenn van Dyke, Renee van Dyke Page A
Authors: Glenn van Dyke, Renee van Dyke
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ship-to-ship channel. “Gena, retract robotic arms. Run a check of all systems in preparation for air-flight. Executive priority one status to be given to maintaining full atmospheric pressure and cockpit hull integrity at their current levels.”
Her Sharkfin’s robotic arms retracted and the ship’s folded wings lowered in preparation for take-off. Outside, her Sharkfin’s flaps waved as Gena ran a quick diagnostic of the flight systems, calibrating them for optimal performance.
“Parker, the shields aren’t designed to deflect large debris. Stratton’s right, it is suicide!” said Jackson sitting in the Sharkfin fifteen meters to Ashlyn’s right.
“It’s true that they aren’t designed for it, but the simulator runs I’ve made show that they will hold for a few minutes. I just have to avoid the big ones. It’ll be enough! It has to be!”
With her ship’s systems flashing readiness, Ash toggled on the external floods. The curious menagerie of strange creatures that were swimming lazily about her craft darted away into the darkness. Flipping the green, yellow, and red toggles to her left, she began the energy buildup to ignite the three main fusion reactors. “Gena, bring the secondaries on line. Maintain monitoring and sync flow for maximum output.” With a gentle pull on the yoke, her Sharkfin lifted without a sound off the bottom. As her craft spun around, turning its backside to the laser, a heavy cloud of silt roiled off the ocean floor.
Seconds passed. “Laser safety perimeter cleared,” announced Gena.
“Bring the mains on line.” The mains ignited and with a light push on the throttle Ashlyn’s fighter darted ahead, away from the shimmering, orange water and into a blackness that was deeper than the darkest night.
“Gena, at full throttle, what’s our time to maximum targeting range?”
“Approximately four minutes and thirty-five seconds,” came the instant reply.
“Time until the missile enters the atmosphere?” Ashlyn asked.
“Five minutes and forty seconds.”
“Sea Base, this is Jackson. I’m going with Foxy Lady. She needs a wing-man!” he said while punching his Sharkfin’s thrusters.
Overhearing his call, Ash eased up on the throttle. A glance at her radar screen told her that he was coming up fast on her port side. Pulling alongside, he flashed his port-floods.
“Guess I’m not the smartest monkey in the zoo,” said Jackson over the ship-to-ship comm.
“Maybe, but I think Darwin would be awfully proud of his little primate right now,” said Ashlyn, just as a series of strong jolts jostled both their craft. “Thanks, Jackson. Glad to have the company. Hold onto your hat. Topside readouts show the wind shears are topping 830 knots. It’s going to be gut-wrenching. Prepare for air-flight in 4—3—2—1—,” said Ashlyn.
The two fighters burst from the ocean into a world of charcoal gray plumage and thickly churning clouds of tornadic waterspouts, hail, and lightning. The sight was dark and foreboding.
In bold contrast, the lasers below were giving them a spectacular sendoff, pulverizing red, orange, yellow, and sometimes blue-green meteors far above them. It was a fireworks display befitting Zeus.
The lasers garnered their energy from a set of massive cold-fusion thermal reactors, which sat atop nearly thirteen square kilometers of deeply cored thermal vents, twenty-six kilometers south of Sea Base. Originally, each of the three quad-laser units had been attached to a Claw, a giant computerized mobile tractor and self-contained refinery. The automated platforms wandered the ocean floor in search of raw minerals to be used in the building, construction, and continued maintenance of the underwater colony.
For the last fourteen years, however, they had sat in silence waiting for the day when they would protect the Challenger Deep Sea Base from the after-effects of Project Terminus.
“You were right. Average wind velocity is 450 knots up here, and
Her Sharkfin’s robotic arms retracted and the ship’s folded wings lowered in preparation for take-off. Outside, her Sharkfin’s flaps waved as Gena ran a quick diagnostic of the flight systems, calibrating them for optimal performance.
“Parker, the shields aren’t designed to deflect large debris. Stratton’s right, it is suicide!” said Jackson sitting in the Sharkfin fifteen meters to Ashlyn’s right.
“It’s true that they aren’t designed for it, but the simulator runs I’ve made show that they will hold for a few minutes. I just have to avoid the big ones. It’ll be enough! It has to be!”
With her ship’s systems flashing readiness, Ash toggled on the external floods. The curious menagerie of strange creatures that were swimming lazily about her craft darted away into the darkness. Flipping the green, yellow, and red toggles to her left, she began the energy buildup to ignite the three main fusion reactors. “Gena, bring the secondaries on line. Maintain monitoring and sync flow for maximum output.” With a gentle pull on the yoke, her Sharkfin lifted without a sound off the bottom. As her craft spun around, turning its backside to the laser, a heavy cloud of silt roiled off the ocean floor.
Seconds passed. “Laser safety perimeter cleared,” announced Gena.
“Bring the mains on line.” The mains ignited and with a light push on the throttle Ashlyn’s fighter darted ahead, away from the shimmering, orange water and into a blackness that was deeper than the darkest night.
“Gena, at full throttle, what’s our time to maximum targeting range?”
“Approximately four minutes and thirty-five seconds,” came the instant reply.
“Time until the missile enters the atmosphere?” Ashlyn asked.
“Five minutes and forty seconds.”
“Sea Base, this is Jackson. I’m going with Foxy Lady. She needs a wing-man!” he said while punching his Sharkfin’s thrusters.
Overhearing his call, Ash eased up on the throttle. A glance at her radar screen told her that he was coming up fast on her port side. Pulling alongside, he flashed his port-floods.
“Guess I’m not the smartest monkey in the zoo,” said Jackson over the ship-to-ship comm.
“Maybe, but I think Darwin would be awfully proud of his little primate right now,” said Ashlyn, just as a series of strong jolts jostled both their craft. “Thanks, Jackson. Glad to have the company. Hold onto your hat. Topside readouts show the wind shears are topping 830 knots. It’s going to be gut-wrenching. Prepare for air-flight in 4—3—2—1—,” said Ashlyn.
The two fighters burst from the ocean into a world of charcoal gray plumage and thickly churning clouds of tornadic waterspouts, hail, and lightning. The sight was dark and foreboding.
In bold contrast, the lasers below were giving them a spectacular sendoff, pulverizing red, orange, yellow, and sometimes blue-green meteors far above them. It was a fireworks display befitting Zeus.
The lasers garnered their energy from a set of massive cold-fusion thermal reactors, which sat atop nearly thirteen square kilometers of deeply cored thermal vents, twenty-six kilometers south of Sea Base. Originally, each of the three quad-laser units had been attached to a Claw, a giant computerized mobile tractor and self-contained refinery. The automated platforms wandered the ocean floor in search of raw minerals to be used in the building, construction, and continued maintenance of the underwater colony.
For the last fourteen years, however, they had sat in silence waiting for the day when they would protect the Challenger Deep Sea Base from the after-effects of Project Terminus.
“You were right. Average wind velocity is 450 knots up here, and
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