New Title 1 by Steven Lyle Jordan Page B

up here, and I suggest you be the same.”
    The two pilots were about a mile apart, in stationary position between Verdant and the ground. They were flying Wasp-class fighters, the standard offensive-slash-defensive craft used by three of the four satellites (Qing pilots flew Chinese-made “Battle of San Kwai”-class fighters, but they were essentially the same in design). The Wasp’s class-name fit the craft’s bulky, non-aerodynamic lines and extended maneuvering jet pods… they were designed to be orbital craft. They could fly atmospheric, but only by virtue of their brute-force Hammerhead rocket engines, which allowed even their ungainly shapes to successfully navigate in air and, theoretically, even in water; there was nothing even vaguely aerodynamic about them. Nonetheless, they were excellent orbital fighters that no atmospheric craft could match in their home element, open space.
    Under normal conditions, the Wasps would be more active, tracking and on-the-fly checking of incoming and outgoing freighters, and monitoring for any signs of local debris or other objects to be de-orbited or vaporized. But with the flight lockdown over North America, the only thing they were expecting to see were the only things that could reliably get through the ash layer—ballistic rockets. The ballistics were stupid, pilot-less and barely-automated… not much different than their predecessors from the beginning of the space age… but they were rugged enough to take a beating in bad atmo and still make deliveries. They were launched from the few facilities that still catered to ballistic systems, essentially thrown into orbit, to be caught by one of the Interception Point nets that maintained station beside Verdant.
    Not often, but occasionally, a ballistic came in off-course, or came in too hot, making them a danger to the nets, and to the satellites. That was why the satellite escorts had to monitor all incoming ballistics, and to be prepared to act in the event that one posed a hazard. It had been four years since the last such incident (an errant ballistic that had missed every mark due to an engine malfunction, and had ended up plowing into the Sun’s corona a year later), and the replacement of ballistics with crewed freighters over the last century seriously lessened the likelihood of another accident. But regulations were regulations, rotations were rotations, and Hunter and Goldie had pulled that morning’s short straw.
    Goldie was a good officer and pilot… as good a pilot as Hunter, and certainly less hard-nosed. Not that Hunter was a bad officer, or a bad person, but he was scrupulously by-the-book, he didn’t fool around with his job. Goldie could easily picture him right at home in the middle of an old-style war, flying jets over Europe or Asia or Venezuela, spewing orders while coolly locking onto his opponents and sending a brace of heat-seeking missiles up their asses. Then coming home, filling out his reports, and stopping on the way home to have a beer at the PX and give crap to the non-coms who still thought war was fun.
    Goldie, by contrast, was much more easy-going, and plenty satisfied with the more security-like aspects of the job, standing by to keep people safe. She had no desire to ever be in a war, and the sights below her unnerved her. Any minute now, she expected to see fleets of transports and passenger ships, carrying desperate refugees intent on getting aboard the satellites… and she didn’t want to be the person between them and their expected salvation.
    “Wasps three and four, this is CnC,”
came a voice over their coms.
“We’re getting reports from GAA that weather patterns are opening up a few small gaps in the ash cover. A few freighters have clearance to slip through, if they can hit the window. Hold onto your seats, and you may have some standard traffic to track soon.”
    “That’s nice to hear, CnC,” Goldie responded. “Keep us posted.” She keyed back to her partner.