Free A Time to Die by Mark Wandrey

glanced at the two lines securing it to the dock to make her thoughts apparent. “I want to get the fuck out of here, fast, if need be.” He nodded in clear understanding and had a big meaty hand on his own sidearm.
    The sounds of the elevator slowed and stopped. Safeties came off in a series of rapid clicks as the doors slid open with mechanical efficiency and a young black woman stepped out.
    “I’m Doctor Lisha Breda,” she said, a relieved look on her face, “and we’re very glad you’ve come!”
     
    * * *
     
    The F/A-18D streaked across the Mexican sky at just over a thousand miles per hour. At nearly 45,000 feet up, the computers struggled to balance the controls against the power flying at the very edge of the planes operational envelope. Andrew was breathing twice as fast as he should, partly from excitement and partly in fear. He was breaking international law and violating at least a dozen operational regulations.
    The fact that his CO had ordered him up here and provided aerial refueling was beside the point. An officer was obligated to follow both his commanding officers’ orders, and not violate his oath as well to not break civilian laws. The civilian chain of command had forbidden a recon run over the Mexican capital. Technically he was just ferrying a recon equipped fighter and taking a very long leisurely turn before coming into land at Fort Hood. A five hundred mile turn.
    His navigational system had told him an hour ago that he’d passed over into Mexican air space. The channels were dead, no one challenged him. The Mexican air force was hardly the envy of any other industrialized nation, though they did at least watch their borders. This was the first sign that the old man’s instincts, and those of his fellow co-conspirators, were good.
    According to the computer, he was passing within fifty miles of one of their military bases. Though it wasn’t on the itinerary, he activated the camera pod and programmed a run. Under the starboard wing, powerful cameras aligned and began taking digital images. A minute later, he was out of range.
    Another hour and he angled to the north. Still not a word from either military or civilian air traffic control. “What the hell is going on down there,” he wondered.
    His scrambled communication board came alive with a text message through tac-net. “Tightend-Switchblade. TOT?”
    Andrew consulted the computer and replied in kind. “Switchblade-Tightend, TOT forty.”
    “AK,” was the simple reply. He’d told the old man he would be over Mexico City in 40 minutes. Anyone monitoring the text channel would have no idea what was going on.
    The final minutes passed and the computer told him he was approaching target. He triggered the preprogrammed recon run, verified his position though the GPS transponders, and waited. Right on time, the cameras began to roll.
    This time he decided to watch. He knew there wouldn’t be much to garner from a small military base that was many dozens of miles to one side. This time he was flying directly over on one of the largest cities in the world. The images were wide angle, and unbelievable. “Oh my god,” he whispered.
    Vast areas of the suburbs were ablaze or shrouded in smoke. The first high-rise he saw looked like a matchstick blazing away, at least half its height completely engulfed in flames. And as his fighter raced north, it got worse. Huge tracts of the city were burned to cinders. Crisped buildings and toppled towers were everywhere along with the famous wide avenues clogged with crumpled and burning cars. It looked like pictures of Berlin after WWII.
    He passed downtown and continued north, and there saw some first signs of what was transpiring. Lines of tanks and APCs were firing madly as they withdrew… before a human tide. “I can’t believe it.”
    Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe a million people moved like a slow-moving amoeba, continually trying to overwhelm the retreating force. He