Dark Star. Don Pendleton

wall. The red-hot ammunition in the dropped weapons of the dead guards ignited, generating a fusillade of ricochets as a river of elemental flame poured into the dining hall pushing back the sideways table, charring the thick wood.

      Racing away from the monstrous heat, guards sprinted for arms lockers, while scores of prisoners dropped to cover their heads and shout pleas for mercy.

      Extending four gridwork legs, the X-ship landed in the courtyard, the steel pads of the legs crushing numerous corpses with a sickening crunch.

      As the thundering engines decreased to a low bellow, the four prisoners darted out from behind the burning table, their clothing steaming from the awful heat. Dashing across the courtyard, they reached the landing legs, but a man appeared in the hatchway holding a strange angular weapon that looked like something out of an American science-fiction movie.

      “We’re here only for you, Chen-wa,” he stated in bad Mandarin, and the FN F2000 assault rifle hummed out a brief stream of 5.56 mm rounds, the Teflon-coated bullets tearing apart the astonished bodyguards.

      Even as his people fell, Chen-wa scrambled up the access ladder.

      “Hold!” a guard bellowed, working the pump-action on a 10-gauge shotgun.

      But the man only smiled and the big second barrel of the FN F2000 spoke. But in spite of the laser dot on the guard’s chest, the 20 mm round missed and exploded harmlessly on the ground, the concussion slamming the guard aside and knocking away the shotgun.

      As Chen-wa gained the top of the ladder, the stranger lowered the sleek rifle to point directly into his face. Chen-wa paused, uncertain, then the rifle moved aside and a helping hand was offered. Without hesitation, the terrorist took it and eagerly crawled through the hatch of the vehicle.

      Inside, the craft was cramped with thick pipes leading everywhere, some of them radiating heat, while others were frosty with ice. That badly confused Chen-wa. Ice? How could a ship use frozen fuel? he wondered.

      Slamming the hatch shut, the man twisted a lever, engaging a locking mechanism. “We’re in!” he bellowed, shouldering the rifle and grabbing a wall stanchion.

      Chen-wa barely had time to react when the pipes began to hum. The subdued roar of the engines increased in volume, then a rush of acceleration threw him to the perforated deck. The pressure was horrible.

      After a few moments the pressure eased to a more tolerable level.

      “Many thanks, my friend,” Chen-wa panted in Mandarin, rolling onto his side. Then he recalled how poorly the stranger had spoke the official language of China. “Thanks,” he said in English.

      “I’m just glad you made it safely,” the man replied, holding the FN F2000 through a hatch to the next level. Hands took the weapon. “Come on, we have a chair for you.”

      Following the man up a ladder, Chen-wa poked his head into a sort of control room with three chairs set along a complex panel that curved along the walls. There were no windows as he would have expected. How odd. There was only a series of video monitors, showing the blue sky above, the horizon to the west and south, and the smoky prison below. It was rapidly dwindling out of sight, the swirling clouds of smoke and exhaust fumes filling the central courtyard.

      “I am impressed by your vehicle,” Chen-wa said, climbing awkwardly to his feet. “Does it have a name?” He knew for a fact that there was not a sailor, or pilot, alive who did not have great pride in his craft. Asking for the name was a sure way to ingratiate himself to the crew. Secretly, he was badly frightened, but determined to show no fear to these people. That was how he had run a terrorist organization that operated for more than three decades before being caught, and how he had stayed alive in the brutal, inhuman hell of prison. Show no fear, stand your ground, kill without hesitation. It was the way of the world.

      “Of course, this is the Lady Colette, ” a burly man replied in perfect Mandarin, glancing over a shoulder. His hands were on a pair of joysticks and his shoes working levers on the floor. “I’m Captain Ivan Nicholi, and these are Overton and Sullivan.”

      Already sitting at control panels, the other men merely nodded at the introductions as they adjusted dials and threw endless rows of switches. Oddly, some of their actions seemed random, yet upon closer scrutiny, the control boards looked more complex than anything he had ever seen before. Suddenly Chen-wa was highly suspicious that some of the controls were dummies, installed to merely make the operation of the aircraft seem impossible to manage for any passenger or prisoner to forestall any attempts at a hijacking. Grudgingly, he approved of the tactic.

      “I am most pleased to meet you all,” Chen-wa said honestly, moving to the only empty chair. “When I received your message from the new inmate, I naturally assumed it was a joke, or at best, a trap by the Americans, but then when the ship descended in fire from the sky!” He broke into a gentle laugh, then stopped as there was no response from the others. “A pity about my men,” Chen-wa said experimentally.

      Both hands busy, the captain merely shrugged, dismissing the matter. The others ignored him.

      “I know you are not members of my organization,” Chen-wa said slowly, weighing each word carefully as if walking across a field full of land mines. “So clearly somebody has paid for my release. Who was it? Who arranged for my release?”

      Suddenly the radar began to emit a rapidly escalating tone, and lights flashed on the console near Sullivan.

      “We have company coming,” the thin man said calmly, adjusting the dials with fingertip pressure. “Five—no, six J-10 Chengdu-class interceptors. Okay, no danger there…aw, shit.” He looked up, his features pinched. “Sarge, there’s also a fucking Sky Dragon!”

      At the pronouncement, Chen-wa arched an eyebrow, but did not speak. Sarge? How could a man be a captain and a sergeant at the same time?

      “He’s jamming our radar,” Sullivan said. “Damn, he’s good. Didn’t know you bastards could do stuff like that.”

      “I hate my nation’s Communist leaders, but my people are excellent technicians,” Chen-wa replied, feeling oddly insulted by the slur.

      A light flashed on a side monitor.

      “Missile alert,” Overton muttered, stroking the controls like a concert pianist. “Activating jamming radar. Firing chaff and flares.”

      “Nitrogen is on,” Sullivan added as another missile flashed past the X-ship, much closer this time.

      “Nitrogen?” Chen-wa asked.

      “Shut up,” Nicholi growled.

      “Okay, playtime is over,” Nicholi said, shoving both joysticks savagely forward. “Give me full power. We’re heading for the black!”

      Tightening his grip on the armrest of the chair, Chen-wa silently prayed these men knew what they were doing. The Sky Dragon was the Chinese version of the American F-22 Raptor, built from stolen blueprints. It was the fastest jet fighter in the Red Army, and armed like a battleship.

      There was a surge of power, crushing the terrorist into the cushioned chair, and the soft tones of the radar screen got louder and louder, then abruptly stopped.

      “Clear,” Overton announced with a satisfied smirk.

      “Did we lose it?” Sullivan asked.

      “A side hatch tore off and the piece of shit broke apart from the wind sheer.” Sullivan laughed. “Excellent technicians, my ass. I told you guys that the Reds were a decade away from mastering that level of technology.”

      As the other chuckled assent, Chen-wa bristled but said nothing, marking the fool for death.

      Just then the noise of the engines faded and the blue sky changed into the starry black of space.

      Filling a central monitor was the slowly rotating blue-white ball of Earth. There were scattered clouds over the Pacific Ocean, and a storm was ravaging the west coast of North America. Chen-wa was astonished. They had only left