Rise of a Valkyrie

Part 79

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Cara made her way to a forward compartment on the bottom deck of the Banshee, where two other suited PJs were examining their own holo-map display of the valley. Cara went over the flight path with them again, and, once they were comfortable, they signaled to a waiting petty officer, who began opening three large hatches in the hull.

Cara gathered her team in for a last huddle.

"We must anticipate being targeted by missiles on the way in—until we pass behind the ridgeline. Keep your eyes open and be prepared to react."

"Got it," the two others nodded.

The women sealed and locked their helmets, then huddled in close, arms around each other.

"These things we do," Cara said, reciting their unit's hallowed creed, "that others may live."

Then they broke apart, stepping up to the tubes and crawling inside to lay down on a long, body length board. As they clipped suit attachments into the contraption, a crew chief checked their equipment before sealing the tube doors behind them.

"Confirm when ready," Cara said, as she eyed the claustrophobic compartment around her.

"Two, set," came the response through the radio. "Three, set."

"Banshee launch control, Valkyrie is loaded and ready to fire," Cara finished.

Her body tensed as her heartbeat accelerated to a hum.

"Valkyrie standby," said the bridge controller's voice. "Attitude is adjusted to your flight path. Standby to launch in five...four...three...two...one... Launch!"

A giant's fist crushed Cara's body with twenty times the strength of gravity—the maximum any of the nanite enhanced soldiers could endure. The blackness of the launch tube vanished, replaced with the brilliant blue green of Caldera looming below them, and slowly growing larger.

For a moment, Cara was lost in the beauty of the spectacle; the precious globe hanging against the black void beyond. Edging around the planet's horizon, the warm glow of the retreating terminator framed the landscape in gold. Far below her, deep blue bodies of water glinted in the sunlight, and as they descended further, the vast pattern of wrinkles that made up Caldera's mountains passed at a terrifying speed.

Cara's Heads-Up Display showed her that both teammates were hundreds of yards away, following her in a loose formation. The viewscreen automatically brought up the track of their flight path, descending in a slope down to the distant cloud tops.

The glide-wing she was firmly strapped onto was a maneuverable heat shield, and as they fell into the upper atmosphere, she felt it begin to vibrate, gently at first, then more and more violently.

There was no human input to the wing's flight control, so Cara had to trust the suit's onboard computer to maintain her stability and course. She watched through her helmet visor as the air inches in front of her face began to glow streaky green; the ablative material on the heat shield burning away with the intense friction of atmospheric deceleration. The glow turned red, then a white as brilliant as the sun, and Cara felt the searing heat even through the protective layers of her suit.

Not for the first time, she hoped the women in the engineering department responsible for the glide-wing had been having a good day when they assembled it. Any fault or glitch in the control surfaces would send it tumbling out of control, instantly incinerating her alive.