Free War of the Sun by Mack Maloney Page B

superstitions.
    The money he would receive from selling the rare creature was more important.
    It was Krotchoki’s grandson who spotted the three jets.
    They were way off in the distance, hugging the waves, probably fifteen miles off their bow to the east.
    He called out excitedly to his grandfather, who saw them at once. He knew the airplanes did not belong to the Cult air force—they were missing the distinctive three-red-balls emblem worn by all Cult aircraft. These strange airplanes carried no markings on their wings or fuselage. Plus, it appeared that they were three different types of airplanes, and not the standard sweptback jets flown by the Cult Defense air forces.
    They watched as the three jets roared past them, not more than a mile and a half off their starboard side. No sooner had they disappeared over the western horizon than Krotchoki spotted three more mystery planes rocketing in from the same direction.
    “It is an attack!” the old man cried. “We must get word to the military…”
    Krotchoki’s grandson had already climbed up the mast and attached the long-range UHF antenna—it was important that they radio back to the Cult coastal patrol station that unidentified airplanes had been spotted. Krotchoki’s shaking hands worked the radio dials, trying to raise the Cult naval base while at the same time keeping an eye on the second trio of airplanes as they flashed by. If this was in fact an enemy attack, he would be rewarded heavily for spotting the airplanes.
    “More!” his grandson was screaming from the mast. “Three more! And three more!”
    Krotchoki’s fingers could barely turn the radio’s tuner now. It usually took a minute or so to raise the naval base; he prayed that someone would answer sooner this time.
    “Grandfather! Quick!”
    Krotchoki looked up from the radio to see an expression of absolute horror spread across his grandson’s face. He was pointing right off their bow. Three more of the strange airplanes were no more than a mile away, not twenty feet off the surface of the water—and heading right for them.
    It was at that instant that Krotchoki finally got a reply from the nearest Cult naval base. But it was too late now. The jets were suddenly right on them.
    The first one went directly overhead, the roar from its engine bursting his grandson’s left eardrum. The second one was right on its tail. Krotchoki felt the skin on his face almost melt as this plane’s jet exhaust bathed the fishing boat with searing hot smoke.
    But it was the third airplane which struck the most fear into Krotchoki’s suddenly feeble heart. This strange airplane actually seemed to slow down as it approached their boat. How could that be? he wondered, even as his grandson lay on the deck, his ear bleeding profusely, screams of pain coming from his dried, burned lips.
    Just as the third airplane seemed to come to a complete halt, it started up again, and was now bearing down on the small fishing boat at an extremely high speed. Krotchoki could no longer hear his grandson’s screams, his ears were filled with the roar of pure mechanical horror. He was certain the airplane was going to crash right into the boat. He immediately dived for the cover of a nearby net spool.
    Then, just like that, the strange airplane streaked overhead, neatly clipping the top of the boat’s mast and destroying the UHF antenna.
    Then it was gone.
    Krotchoki looked up and found the sky empty. His grandson was an arm’s length away, still screaming from the pain in his ear. This was the only sound Krotchoki could hear—that, and the gentle lapping of water against the sides of the boat.
    Krotchoki crawled along the deck on his hands and knees, his head shaking involuntarily. Reaching into a chum bucket near the hold lock, he took out the warrior crab and with all his strength threw it overboard.
    His grandson stopped screaming soon afterward.
    The pilots of the Tornados were both volunteers from the Texas Air Force. As